by Tad Williams
"And only he returned to tell the tale…" Barrick thought. That's how it ended.
Remembering that famous tale of a lonely escape brought another thought. "Wait," he said. "Where are they? The others who came with e…!"
His slender guide stopped and gave him a mild but disapproving look. "No. You were alone."
"I mean they came through Crooked's Gate with me. From the city of Sleep. A man named… named Beck-and a black bird." For a moment he hadn't been able to remember the merchant's name: the last moments in Sleep seemed far away not just in distance but in time.
"I'm afraid I cannot help you," the hairless one said. "You must ask the Son of the First Stone."
"Who?"
The disapproval became a shade less mild. "The king."
They continued through the empty halls. Barrick was finding it hard to keep up with his guide's deceptively rapid pace, but was determined not to complain.
It was perhaps the strangest hour of his life, he would think later-this first time in Qul-na-Qar, this last time of seeing it with his old eyes, his old way of looking and understanding. The shapes of the place were like nothing he had experienced: the building was clearly orderly and logical, but it was a logic he had never encountered before, with walls abruptly bending inward or ending in the middle of a room for no clear reason, and stairs that led up to the high ceilings and then back down again on the other side of the room, as though built solely on the chance that someone might wish to walk high above the room. Some doors opened onto apparent nothingness or flickering light, others stood in isolation with no wall on either side of them, disconnected portals in the middle of chambers. Even the building materials seemed bizarre to Barrick's eyes: in many places dark, heavy stone was coupled with living wood that seemed to grow within the substance of the walls, complete with roots and branches. The builders also seemed to have exchanged random sections of wall for colorful streaks of gemlike, brilliantly glowing stuff as clear as glass but thick as slabs of granite, allowing views of what was outside but never clearly enough for him to make out more than a blur of shapes and shadows. And everywhere they went seemed deserted.
"Why isn't anyone here?" he asked Harsar.
"This part of the People's House belongs to the king and queen," the servant answered, giving his little pack of straying followers a stern glance until they trotted back to him. "The king himself has few servitors and the queen is… elsewhere."
"Elsewhere? "
Harsar began walking again. "Come. We still have far to go."
The empty halls and the chambers they traversed to get from one hallway to another were furnished, some of it quite ordinary to his eyes, some almost incomprehensible, but Barrick could detect a similarity between every piece, from the simplest to the most complex, a unifying vision behind them all that he could not fail to notice because it was so different from anything he had known, as if cats had made clothes for themselves or snakes had choreographed an intricate dance. Chairs, tables, chests, reliquaries-no matter how simple or ornate the pieces, they all had an obvious similarity he could not quite grasp, a disturbing shared subtlety. From a distance the carpets on the dark, polished floors and the tapestries hung on the walls seemed familiar enough objects, but when he looked more closely their dense, complex designs made him dizzy and reminded him uncomfortably of the living lawn that had guarded Crooked's Hall. And though some chambers had tall windows opening onto the twilight sky, and some were windowless, though some sparkled with a thousand candles and others had no candles or lamps at all, the light was much the same in all of them-that muted, watery, inconstant glow. Traveling through Qul-na-Qar was a little like swimming, Barrick thought.
No, he decided a moment later, it was more like dreaming. Like dreaming with his eyes wide open.
But of all the unusual feelings that swept through him as he walked this first time in the House of the People, the strangest was that Barrick Eddon felt as if he had at last, after a lifetime of exile, come home.
At last, just when he was beginning to stumble from weariness, his guide showed him into a small, dark room that was built to a more human scale than many of the others, a sort of retiring chamber with polished wooden chairs of smooth and simple (but still undeniably alien) shape. Its walls were filled with niches like a beehive. Each of these small compartments held what looked like a single statue carved from shiny stone or cast in metal, but Barrick saw nothing familiar in any of their shapes; he thought they looked chance-made, like slops left over from the construction of more sensible objects, lovingly collected from the forge floor and displayed here.
Harsar pointed to a bed, a simple thing in a simple wooden frame. "You may rest. The king will see you when he is ready. I will bring you food and drink."
Before Barrick could ask any questions, his guide had turned and walked out the door, his strange little troop leaping and capering around him.
At another time he might have explored the room, so homey and yet so strange, but he did not have the strength to stay upright another moment. He stretched himself on the bed and sank into its welcome softness like a shivering man climbing into a hot bath. Within a few moments sleep came and claimed him.
When he woke Barrick at first lay quietly, trying to remember where he was. His dreams had been subdued and sweetly peaceful, like distant music. He rolled over and sat up before he realized he was not alone in the room.
A man sat in a tall-backed chair a short distance away-at least he looked like a man, but of course he was not, Barrick realized, not in this place. The stranger's long, lank white hair was pulled close to his head by the blindfold over his eyes. He wore no other emblems, no crown or scepter or medallion of state on his breast-in fact his gray clothes were as tattered as Raemon Beck's patchwork had been-but something in his posture and solemnity told Barrick who this was.
Have you rested? The blind king's words sounded in Barrick's head, tuneful as water splashing in a pool. Here, Harsar has left food for you.
Barrick had already smelled the enticing scent of the bread and was scrambling off the bed. A plate filled with many lovely things was waiting on a small table-a round loaf, a pot of honey, fat purple grapes and other small fruits he did not recognize, as well as a wedge of pale, creamy cheese. He had already begun stuffing himself-everything tasted glorious after a diet of mostly roots and sour berries-when he suddenly wondered if it had been meant to share.
No, the king said when Barrick began to ask. I scarcely eat at all these days-it would be like throwing an entire pine trunk onto a few dying coals and expecting it to burn. The king let out a small laugh that Barrick actually heard with his ears, a gust wintery as snow tossed by a breeze, then did not speak again until Barrick had gobbled even the rind of the cheese and was wiping the plate with the last bit of bread.
So, he said. I am Ynnir din'at sen-Qin. Welcome to the House of the People, Barrick Eddon.
Barrick realized that he had never bowed or made any kind of obeisance to this strange, impressive figure, but instead had thought only of filling his stomach. Wiping his sticky fingers on his clothing, he lowered himself to his knees. "Thank you. I saw you in my dreams, your Majesty."
Such titles are not for me. And those my own people use would not be appropriate to you. Call me Ynnir.
"I… I couldn't." And it was true. It would be like calling his own father by his first name, to his face.
The king smiled again, a ghost of amusement. Then you may call me "Lord," I suppose, as Harsar does. You have slept and eaten. One thing remains before our duties as hosts are complete.
"What do you mean?"
If you step into the next chamber, you will find hot water and a tub. It does not take any great power of observation to know you have not bathed in some time. The king lifted his slender fingers, gesturing. Go. I will wait here. I am still weary and we have far to walk.
Barrick found the door set in the far wall and was just about to open it when he remembered something.
"By the gods, I almost forgot!" He hesitated, wondering if he had blasphemed by mentioning the gods in this place, but the king seemed not to notice. "I have brought something for you, Lord, a gift from Gyir Storm Lantern-something very important…!"
Ynnir raised his hand again. I know. And you will complete your task, child of men-but not this moment. We have waited so long that another hour will mean nothing. Go and wash the dust of the road from yourself.
The chamber beyond the door was not like anything Barrick had seen before, steamy and windowless but lit by glowing amber stones set into the wall. A stone tub full of water sat in the center of a floor of dark tile, and when he tested the water with his hand it was gloriously hot. He shucked off his ancient, tattered clothes for the first time in longer than he could remember and almost leaped in.
When he climbed out again some time later even his bones and blood seemed to glow with renewed warmth. He was startled to discover that his ruined clothes were gone and that other garments had been left in their place. How had that happened? Barrick was certain no one had come in or out of the room while he had bathed. He held up the new clothing to inspect it before putting it on-breeches and a long shirt of some silky pale material and slippers of soft leather, all beautiful but simply made.
As he left the bathing room he realized that if such fine things were freely available for strangers, the king's own tattered raiment was even more inexplicable.
Ynnir still waited in the same place, his chin on his chest as if he slept. It was doubtless a trick of the place's strange lights, but Barrick thought he saw a lavender glow flickering above the king's head, faint as foxfire.
As Barrick approached Ynnir stirred and the glow vanished, if it had been there at all.
Come with me now, the king told Barrick, turning his blind face toward him. It is time to set our feet to the narrowing way, as my people say.
Ynnir rose from his chair. He was taller than Barrick had expected, taller than most men, but his obvious natural grace was inhibited by what Barrick realized after a moment must be age or weariness, because he swayed for a moment and had to reach out and steady himself on the back of his chair.
Somehow blind Ynnir knew what Barrick was seeing and what he was thinking. Yes, I am weary. I thought I had lost you in the Between, and I expended much strength helping you find your way here-strength I could ill afford. But none of that matters now. We have waited long enough. Now we must go to the Deathwatch Chamber.
As he walked with the tall king Barrick finally began to see some of the great castle's other inhabitants. It was hard to make out anything for certain in the dark, dreamy halls-the figures moved too quickly, or were visible only for instants before fading back into obscurity again, and what little of them he saw was often more confusing than if he had seen only shadows-but it was clear now that the castle was occupied.
"How many of your people live here, Lord?" he asked.
Ynnir walked a few more slow paces before answering. He lifted a hand and brought fingers and thumbs together as though holding something small. Most have gone with Yasammez, but we were already far fewer than once lived here. A few stayed to serve me and to serve Qul-na-Qar itself, and some like the tenders of the Deep Library would never leave-could never leave. There are others like that, too-you saw Harsar's sons…
"Sons? " For a moment Barrick didn't know what the blind king meant. Then he thought of the grotesque little monstrosities that had scampered around the servant's feet. "Those things?"
The First Gift does not always yield helpful changes, said the king, explaining nothing. But all the children of the Gift are nurtured. He made another gesture that had the resignation of a sigh. All together I would suppose there are fewer than two thousand of my people left in all these many, many rooms…
Barrick was distracted by the view from the hallway's high windows-his first clear view of what lay outside the halls. Qul-na-Qar stretched across the visible distance, a forest of towers in dozens of shades of shiny black stone that seemed to stretched on and on toward the horizon until the edges disappeared in mist. The spires themselves were a hundred different shapes and heights, but all seemed built to the same idea, simple shapes repeated over and over again until in aggregate they became somber starbursts of complex black and dark gray.
"Only a thousand or two… in all this?" Barrick was astonished-Tessis or Hierosol alone must be able to count a hundred times that number.
Most of them have gone to war, Ynnir told him. Against your people, to be precise. I doubt any of those will return. The bitterness of Yasammez is too old, too deep…
The name, and the sudden memory of the frightening, awesome woman in black, made Barrick stop and fumble in his shirt. "I have it…!" he said, trying to pull it free. "The mirror…"
Ynnir held up a thin hand. I know. I can feel it like a burning brand. And that is what we are going to do-use it to restore the heat of the Fireflower. But do not give it to me yet.
Thoughts were cascading through Barrick's mind, the newest dislodging the previous ones before he had a chance to examine them. "Why are we… why are you…?" He paused, confused: for a moment, he had forgotten who he was-even what he was. "Why are the Qar at war with Southmarch? "
Because your family destroyed my family, the king answered with no discernible malice. Although it could also be said that our family is destroying itself. Now please be silent, child. We have reached the antechamber.
Before Barrick could even begin to make sense of what the tattered king had just said, he found himself stepping out of the dim but almost ordinary light of the passage and into a room that seemed carved from raw stone, with long streamers of pale rock stretching between ceiling and floor like cobwebs-this despite the fact that they were in the midst of the great palace. "What is this place?" he asked.
The king raised a hand. No questions for now, child of men. I must go ahead of you and tend to the rituals alone-the Celebrants especially do not much like mortals. In any case, you are not yet ready to see such things-not with your own eyes and thoughts. Stay here and I will come back for you.
The king stepped into a dark place along the wall and was gone. Barrick took a few steps forward to examine the spot Ynnir had disappeared. Was it a doorway? It looked like nothing but a shadow.
He waited in the stony chamber for what seemed like a terribly long time, listening to the quiet, empty voices that were everywhere in this place. The king had all but called him a murderer, or at least called his family murderers, yet he had treated Barrick like a welcome guest. How could that be? And the mirror that he had carried so far and through so many dangers-why hadn't the king simply taken it from him? If humans were Ynnir's enemies, why did he continue to trust Barrick with a prize for which the warrior Gyir had sacrificed his life?
Confusion and boredom at last overcame patience. Barrick went back to the place the king had disappeared and stood, listening, but heard nothing: if it was an open doorway then only silence was on the other side. He put out his arm and felt it go chill for a moment, but nothing impeded it, so he stepped forward himself into the cold shadow.
For an instant-just an instant-it was like falling into the doorway at Crooked's Hall again and he was terrified that he had done something fatally stupid. Then the light warmed to swirling gray and he could make out a white shape, fluttering and ragged, surrounded by a whirl of shadows like a man beset by angry birds. The white figure was Ynnir, who had his hands raised in the air and his mouth open, as though he were calling for help, or… or singing. The black shapes whirled and darted. Barrick caught a snatch of the wailing, otherworldly melody before he realized some of the flitting shadows had left the king and were moving toward him instead. Heart hammering, he stepped back into the cold darkness once more, retreating into the empty stone chamber; by the time he had reached it he was shivering and covered with clammy sweat.
You must bow to Zsan-san-sis, Ynnir told him when he returned. If he had noticed Barrick's intrusio
n he had not mentioned it. He is much older than me, at least in one sense, and his loyalty to the Fireflower is unquestioned. The king laid a cold hand on Barrick's shoulder and guided him toward the dark door.
The room on the far side seemed different this time, not a confusion of grays but a shadowy depth, the only source of light a yellow-green glow on the far side of the chamber. As the king led him forward Barrick realized with a shock that the glow came from inside the hood of a dark, robed figure waiting there like a statue. Then the hooded head lifted and for a moment Barrick caught a glimpse of stark, silvery features-a mask, Barrick thought, it must be some kind of mask-that leaked green light from nostrils, eyes, and mouth. The thing raised its arm toward them as if in greeting, and for a moment a six-pointed green star of light bloomed at the end of its sleeve.
"This is Zsan-san-sis," said Ynnir, needlessly.
Barrick bowed as low as he could. It was much preferable to having to look again into that weird, sickly gleam.
Words were spoken, or at least Barrick thought he heard whispers, not words but hisses and quiet bubblings. Then the glowing, hooded thing seemed to fold up into itself and disappear. The walls dissolved around them, then the king led him forward once more into a place whose walls and floor and ceiling were covered with faint but constantly moving specks of colored light, so that the darkness seemed lit by a thousand minute candles.
Despite the dazzle of it all, Barrick's eye was drawn immediately to the figure at the center of the small, low-ceilinged room, a woman stretched on an oval bed as if asleep. At first he thought by her paleness and stillness that she was a statue, but as the king led him nearer Barrick's heart grew heavy and cold. She must be dead, this dark-haired woman with her strangely angular features, and his own arrival too late after all. The figure was a corpse, a beautiful, stern corpse, a queen lying in state.
