by Jaine Fenn
Kerin waited for them to be dismissed, but then the Cariad spoke again. ‘I wish a private audience with the guardian from Dangwern.’
Despite the clarity of the Cariad’s speech, Kerin was not sure she had heard correctly - and she was not the only one, to judge from the reactions around the square.
When no one acknowledged her request, the Cariad said, ‘Fychan am Dangwern, you will come to me now. All others, go with my blessing.’
Fychan did not move. ‘You must go,’ whispered Kerin, ‘you cannot refuse her.’
Fychan nodded and stumbled forward. The priests, in some disarray, parted to let him through.
The light on the balcony faded and the Cariad disappeared into darkness. The skyfools left the square to the beat of solemnly banging drums.
As soon as they entered the tent and the flap was lowered, Kerin turned to Rhidian. ‘Gwas, please, what just happened?’
He looked as stunned as anyone, but replied quickly, ‘The Cariad has the right to invoke Gras Cenadol.’
‘You mean she wants to—’ Kerin paused, searching for an appropriate word and settled on, ‘she wants to have congress with Fychan?’
Rhidian nodded, surprise stealing his dignity. ‘Her Divinity has not taken this right since before I came to the Tyr.’
‘And what will happen?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What will happen to Fychan?’ Kerin could not imagine what it must be like for a mere man to take pleasure with a goddess.
‘I do not know.’
So much for priestly wisdom. ‘What happened last time? Surely you have records?’
‘Aye, aye we do, though this is not a matter of official record. The last time this happened, the man was never seen again.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
If only he had come up with a reason to deny Sais’s request, this might never have happened - whatever ‘this’ was. Einon had gone over the trance session repeatedly, but he still had no idea why asking about someone called Nual should have provoked such an extreme reaction. Einon looked at the unconscious man. If not for him, Einon would be dead: he must do everything in his power to ensure Sais recovered.
Perhaps someone in the Tyr might know better what ailed him - not that he could ask them . . . He had visited some of the establishments that serviced the priesthood, but though rumours about Idwal’s disappearance abounded, no one knew anything. He had taken a chance and asked about the recent exile of a certain Einon am Plas Rhydau, third-tier priest of Frythil. A porter at the Papermakers’ Guild had heard that a priest of that name had committed some sort of offence and a clerk at the dairy that provided the Tyr’s butter said he’d heard the priest in question had badly beaten an acolyte; ‘They say he has quite a temper on him,’ the man whispered. It was true Einon’s temper had got him into trouble before, but he had better things to do than beat - or even teach - acolytes. Such tittle-tattle left him no wiser.
He consoled himself by spending his evenings working on his numbers, investing money he could ill afford in writing materials and paper.
The original idea that had begun his intellectual investigations was elegantly simple: what if one were to replace the holding dot in large numbers with a symbol? He had been working on the Tyr’s accounts and had looked by chance into a goblet on his desk that had held water, and was now empty: lacking content, but not substance - and suddenly he saw that it was possible to represent nothing!
What if this ‘empty’ symbol were used instead of the holding dot in a large number, such as three hundreds, five single? Rather than representing it as 3♦5, what if he wrote it as 3O5? That felt like a different sort of number. He had worked through the night, transforming the accounts by use of this new symbol, which he called heb - ‘without’.
The final revelation had come a few days later: using the heb symbol, it was possible, in theory, to count downwards from one, to have numbers that were a mirror image of normal ones. It was a fascinating idea - and an alarming one, recalling as it did the relationship between Heaven and the Abyss. When he went to Urien, fearful of such potentially heretical investigations, far from warning him that this strange concept went against the will of the Mothers, his Escori was delighted with Einon’s discovery. As well as its potential use in ciphers, Urien said this knowledge made sense of certain symbols found in the Sanctaith Glan, the inner sanctum of the Tyr, which only the Cariad and her Escorai could enter freely. Two days later, he had asked to see Einon’s notes, and Einon had handed them over.
Three days after that, the rumours about Idwal’s disappearance had begun.
And the very next week Einon had been sent away. He had no idea what had become of his notes.
Some part of him still wondered if, despite what his Escori had said, heb went against the will of the Mothers. But he could not unlearn what he had discovered. And it had such potential—
He jumped at the sound of a knock on the front door. It was probably just some delivery for Ebrilla, but he peered cautiously out of the window, ready to run at the sight of monitors. A single figure waited below, a skinny youth in tattered clothes: an odd choice for an assassin. Besides, assassins rarely knocked.
However, such a beggar-boy would make a good anonymous messenger - and with everyone at the presentation, this was the ideal time for Urien to get word to him.
He called out, ‘What do you want?’ The boy looked up. Old scars, white and pale pink, marked the bottom of the boy’s grubby face. He held up a folded piece of paper and pointed to Einon.
‘I will be right down,’ said Einon, nearly tripping on the stairs in his haste. When he accepted the paper the boy bowed, then turned and left without a word.
Rather than the Tyr’s tower, the letter had the quill and flower-bud motif of Frythil on the seal. Einon returned to his room and shut the door before opening the letter. He recognised the handwriting covering the paper, and was not surprised to find neither salutation nor signature. At first sight the note was gibberish, random words strung together, but Einon soon realised that Urien had employed the code that Einon had already worked out at Plas Aethnen, though the first line indicated that in this case he should use every third, rather than every ninth, letter to decipher the true message. He had just managed to get the first line:
You were driven out by a plausible lie
- when he heard the front door open. He froze, then relaxed, as Ebrilla started to fuss downstairs. More arrivals were announced by slamming doors and voices. He turned his attention back to the note:
Your safe return brings joy to me.
It was as he hoped, as he feared: his Escori had not forsaken him, but had tried to save him from danger because he had an important role to play.
Remain hidden for now. Continue your work. Seek allies without the Tyr. When I call, be ready to obey without question.
From his reaction, Rhidian was as disconcerted by the Cariad’s behaviour as Kerin was - as everyone was: on the walk back the reverent looks Damaru got were tinged with unease.
When they returned Ebrilla was already preparing the evening meal. Einon did not come down. Damaru was restless, so Kerin asked Ebrilla for a pot of uncooked rice and another of dried peas and tipped both out on the table, stirring the two piles together. Then she brought Damaru in and sat him down and asked if he would separate the patterns for her, an old trick she had used since he was a child.
Thinking of the upcoming tests, she considered asking him to move the rice and peas without touching them, but he was upset enough already.
She wondered what would happen if Fychan did not return from the Tyr. Would she be the one to take Damaru to his testing?
She left Damaru teasing the grains apart with one finger, a look of happy concentration on his face. Ebrilla brought Kerin a herbal tea and made her sit down.
‘Well, tis a turn-up and no mistake,’ she started.
Kerin did not have to ask what she meant. ‘The priest who accompanied us has never witnesse
d the Cariad make such a request.’
‘No. Tis her right, of course, but even so—’
‘He told me that the last time she invoked Gras Cenadol the man she chose disappeared.’ When Ebrilla shrugged, Kerin said, ‘And I counted only four Escorai. Surely there should be five, one for each Mother?’
‘Ah, of course, you not being of the City, you would not know!’ Ebrilla said importantly. ‘The rumours started a while back - now let me see: I first heard tell that the Escori of Carunwyd had disappeared, oh, way back in late winter. Then people started saying he was ill, though he is a young man, not like the other Escorai. I did hear there had been an accident, and the priests were covering it up. Mind, that came from a woman whose cousin delivers meat to the Tyr, and he is a rough sort so I would not credit his word too much. One of the other housekeepers here has a nephew who works at the quillmakers, so he is likely to be more reliable. He reckoned the Escori had eloped with one of the Putain Glan, of all things!’
When Einon did not come down for the evening meal, Kerin took some bread and cheese up to him. The priest sounded nervous when he answered her knock. Kerin put the tray on the floor just inside the door rather than disturb his papers.
‘Is there any change, Gwas?’ she asked.
Einon looked confused for a moment, until his gaze fell on Sais. ‘No. As you see, he, ah, he remains as he was. For now, all we can do is pray.’ When Kerin did not leave Einon added, ‘Was there something else?’
Kerin turned and closed the door. ‘Gwas, I am worried.’
‘About what, Chilwar?’
‘I want nothing more than for my son to take his place as a Consort, and I accept that he will soon go into the Tyr and not return. Yet - forgive me, Gwas - I see that things are not right in the Tyr, and I fear for him.’
‘What do you mean, ah, about things being amiss in the Tyr? What have you heard?’ asked Einon.
‘After the presentation, the Cariad invoked Gras Cenadol. With Fychan.’
‘She did what?’ Einon looked stricken.
‘She called him up, in front of everyone. And there were only four Escorai there. I have heard that the Escori of Carunwyd has been missing for some time. Is this true?’
‘Aye, it is,’ whispered the priest.
‘Forgive me, I know I have no right to question what goes on in the Tyr, but I must know, for Damaru’s sake: Is something wrong?’
Einon stared at nothing for a while, then he whispered, ‘Aye. I believe something is most grievously wrong. I have, ah, been praying the Mothers may show me what.’
‘So that is why you have not been to the Tyr yourself?’
He nodded, then remembered his dignity and said, ‘But, ah, whatever is happening is priestly business, and has nothing to do with you, Chilwar.’
‘Aye, Gwas, you are right, it has not - but it has everything to do with my son.’
For a while the only sounds were the background noises of the City: voices in the street and the distant clatter of carts. Then Einon said, ‘I do not know for certain what the problem is, but I may, ah, need help from those I can trust.’
A priest asking her for help? Mothers forefend! She squashed her pride and whispered, ‘Of course, Gwas - whatever I can do.’ As her mother used to say, Hard times make strange allies.
Run! Ignore the pounding in my head and run . . . Got to get back to my ship before they find I’m free - before my mind unravels totally . . .
Through the ’lock, off their ship, onto mine. Bang the door close panel with my palm. Nothing. Try again, tears flowing, hand stinging. Close, damn you, close!
Was the ship attacked? It’s powered down, but I can’t see any damage. Hell and damnation: why can’t I remember?
Every moment counts: every second more of me goes and soon there’ll be nothing left. Wish I could forget the eyes, but they’re still clear as a penitent’s soul, watching me, mocking.
Perhaps this is all a trick, one of their illusions—What if this isn’t real, what if the mute only let me out on their orders? Or maybe she didn’t let me go at all and I’m still in the cell? What if all this is only happening in my head?
I spin away from the door, down the familiar corridor. My home, my ship: I have to believe this is real. I have to believe I’ll survive, take what’s left of my mind and get as far away as possible, and . . . and warn them. I have to warn them - Elarn, Nual . . . Except I can’t remember who they are. I’m not sure who I am any more . . .
Onto the bridge; my command couch, something familiar. Yes, I know this place: the controls - need to unlock them, but I can’t remember how. It’s a sequence, a goddamn simple sequence. Ah, got it.
Nothing.
Is something broken? Or have they locked the controls so my codes don’t work any more? My random twiddling starts something: an upside-down window on the universe opens up in front of me. Below is a dark planet. Wonder if I should know its name - maybe I did once, but not now. I know less every second.
The planet’s not entirely dark. Faint lights appear, a scattering near the equator: lights mean people - people, as opposed to the monsters who captured me.
Some other systems are working. I recognise one of the lit telltales: the evac-pod. The lights below are sliding past. Got to hurry.
Down off the bridge, through the rec-room, into the cargo-hold. One of these service-panels isn’t really a panel. Which one? Here. Lift the flap, press the button.
The panel opens to reveal a tiny red-lit cave. I climb in.
I have to turn my back on the hold to sit down. My shoulder blades prickle. This is where they pull me out and make me walk back to my cell, laughing as I dance like a puppet for them . . .
I hit the door-panel: no complicated instructions or security codes here, everything simple as possible for emergency use, thank Christos. Behind my head, the door hisses shut.
Space Recovery or Planetfall? I’m as sure as I can be, which isn’t very, that the only ships in orbit are mine and theirs, currently docked. I select Planetfall.
And Go.
I’m slammed back into the seat as the pod bursts free of the ship. On the instrument panel in front of me a blue light winks comfortingly. The text beside it says Transponder activated.
Oh no. No, no, no. We don’t want that. I reach out, fighting the gees from the pod’s ejection. I hold one elbow locked with my other hand. My outstretched fingers brush the light. Is it just an indicator or a switch? Let it be a switch, please let it be a switch. I press the light, my fingertip numb, my arm twitching from holding out against the pod’s thrust. My straight arm folds, flies back to bounce off the wall behind me. My other hand hits me in the mouth and I feel a burst of pain as my lip splits against a tooth.
The blue light is gone.
Then the acceleration’s gone too, and I’m lifting off the seat, in freefall. A larger impossible-to-miss sign lights up, flashing red. Gel imminent: Brace and exhale
Gel? I should know what that means.
Then I find out.
Everything goes white and I’m engulfed in freezing goo. I remember, almost too late, to breathe out. The gel presses on my eyes, forces itself down my nose and throat, into my lungs.
I’m drowning, oh God I’m drowning—
No I’m not. Relax, let it in. No need to breathe. Just stay still and let it happen.
Not breathing, not moving, not panicking. In limbo. I feel movement again, in the distance. The pod lurches. Suspended in the gel, I don’t panic at first. Another lurch - an impact? Have I landed already? Too soon, surely. Or have they come after me, caught me and reeled me in? I’m in their cargo-bay now, and soon they’ll crack the pod and I’ll be back where I started . . . Except my gut tells me I’m still in zero-gee.
A third lurch. Now my body tells me I’m falling.
The pressure on my ears and eyes increases. The gel’s not cold any more. It’s warm, getting hot. I’m in atmosphere, but I’m not slowing down. Air too thin? No, people live here. Anyway
, the ’chute should compensate. Something’s gone wrong—
Darkness presses on me, rises up inside me. Cold, comforting, safe darkness—No! Got to stay conscious, not give into the darkness. If I pass out now, then I’ll lose everything, the last of my memories, the last of me. Perhaps I won’t even—
—wake up.
Wooden beams, lit by a guttering flame. He was lying in a hard bed, under a ceiling made of wood, in a room where the only light came from an oil-lamp.
His name was Jarek Reen, but everyone here called him Sais. He was in a lodging house in the City of Light, and he had walked here from where his evac-pod had crash-landed.
His head hurt, though not so much that he couldn’t move it. He looked around the room. Someone was asleep in the other bed - Einon, the priest.
The last thing he remembered was Einon putting him under, hypnotising him to get his memory back - and it had worked, sort of. His past - Jarek Reen’s past - was all there. He had access to everything, though it didn’t feel quite real, not in the same way Kerin and Damaru and all the other people he’d met here felt real. He viewed his old life as if from a distance - hardly surprising, given how the memories of that life had been wrenched from him.
He knew now why he had come to this system, and what had happened to him when he got here. He knew how he had come to be on this planet.
Far from reassuring him, the knowledge terrified him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Kerin was in the kitchen, kneading bread for Ebrilla, when Einon came in and announced that Sais had woken up and needed a drink. She wiped her hands and said, ‘I will take it to him, Gwas.’ Without waiting for a reply, she poured a mug of water from the jug.
‘He is still weak,’ said Einon anxiously, ‘and I believe his spirit is troubled. Do not vex him, woman!’
Kerin ignored him and ran up the stairs to find Sais sitting up in bed, staring into space.
‘I brought you a drink,’ she said redundantly.
