He would, thought Julyan, a trace resentfully. He chose not to slide, not trusting that he would be able to stop as silently, but his soft-soled boots were nearly soundless against the rungs. When he reached bottom, he discovered that the tunnel was no longer flooded, although a thin layer of sandy mud remained.
I never noticed, but the floors must have been built at an angle, so water would run off to the sides. Makes sense, if you’re going to build a complex that’s partly under water, as well as underground.
The tunnel was dark. None of the lanterns that had been hung along the walls during the Old One’s tenancy seemed to have survived the flood that had surged through these corridors when the Old One had sought to drown his enemies.
And drowned a fair number of his allies—or at least lackeys—instead, thought Julyan. He pressed down an uncomfortable thought that perhaps the Old One had intended those drownings to rid himself of those who had witnessed various aspects of his peculiar breeding project. It would be very much in character.
The Old One was just visible in the gloom, a slim, dark shadow against greater darkness. He pointed down the corridor to where a faint yellow light showed, then turned and began walking in that direction. Julyan followed, curiosity driving him as much as any fidelity to the Old One—curiosity not only about the nature of these newcomers, but as to what the Old One intended.
Julyan had a hunter’s excellent memory for places. Within a few paces, he reestablished his orientation and padded along almost as confidently as he had in those days when the Old One had reigned here and, as his second, Julyan himself had held nearly supreme power. No man had dared cross him, no woman disobey him. Perhaps those days might yet return.
A warm barrier stopped Julyan in midstep—the Old One’s arm, extended across the corridor, just before a curve. Julyan halted, waited for a soft-voiced command, but apparently the Old One only wanted him to stop here where they were concealed by more than darkness.
They had closed to where conversation could be distinguished. Although Julyan could not understand what the men said, every so often a word was almost familiar. The cadence, too, was familiar enough that he thought he could garner the emotional context, even if the actual meaning was shrouded.
They were close enough, too, that unique qualities in the three voices could be isolated. Julyan had an excellent ear. His pitch was so perfect that Bruin had speculated that the gift might be an adaptation. As he listened, Julyan quickly distinguished the differences between the voices, as he might have between different pieces of music played on the same instrument.
The voice that spoke the most often and with the longest strings of sound was the deepest and just a bit gruff. This man spoke with confidence, but something in how he spoke made Julyan think he was relating information rather than conversing. Since this gruff voice was often accompanied by the sound of water sloshing and the water had gathered along the edges of the walls, Julyan thought that this man might be examining the corridor, then reporting his conclusions.
The voice that spoke the next most often was only slightly less deep, but held a clear note that made it carry effortlessly. Although this man’s statements often ended with an inflection that made Julyan think they were questions, these were not the questions of doubt or uncertainty, but those that probed for information.
I know that sound well enough, Julyan thought with a trace of bitter humor. This man’s voice is deeper and more resonant, but he sounds just like the Old One—not only does he ask questions, he expects prompt and accurate answers.
The voice that spoke least frequently was lighter than the other two, although still distinctly masculine—a baritone that flirted with tenor elements. This speaker played with his voice more than the other two did. Gruff Voice reported, Clear Voice queried and assessed, but this last voice drawled and teased. When it asked questions, Julyan didn’t think he was wrong that many of these held a hint of mockery or testing.
That the other two could ignore this voice, not reacting to jibes or twists, seemed to indicate a long relationship between the three. They knew each other well, each responding within the patterns of habit.
The Old One kept them standing there listening for so long that Julyan was tempted to hunker down and rest his feet. Only the desire not to smudge his clothes with sand and mud kept him upright. He guessed that the Old One was seriously considering confronting these three men, and Julyan wanted to make the best possible impression when they did so.
Julyan was weighing the odds that the Old One would wait until he could learn more against the advantages that could be gained from an immediate confrontation, when the Old One tapped his shoulder, signaling in the silent code they had worked out long before that the Old One would go forward and that Julyan was to follow a few paces behind, his stance that of a bodyguard.
Julyan adjusted, made sure his long knife was loose in its sheath, and straightened so that his height and muscular strength would be immediately visible. He also schooled himself against squinting, knowing that when they turned the corner they would be in the light cast by the other group’s lanterns.
For the sake of his own self-esteem, it was good that Julyan had made these preparations, for what they saw when they rounded the corner was enough of a shock that he might have gaped like a townee who’d just walked into a bear’s den, mistaking it for a tunnel.
Three men—one dark-haired, one with pale golden hair, and one with hair in curls of bronze—had swiveled as one and were holding some sort of hand weapons on the Old One and him. There was nothing about the smooth curve of polished material to proclaim them as weapons—no sharpened edge or obvious projectile—but Julyan had no doubt that these were weapons.
The dark-haired man stood nearest to the wall, where he had opened a panel. He was ankle-deep in water but didn’t seem to mind. He said nothing, nor did he move anything but his eyes. The blond-haired man was also the tallest. He had taken one step toward them as he drew his weapon, announcing himself not only the leader, but the sort of leader who did not remain safely in the rear while others fought his battles.
The man with the bronze curls held his weapon with a casual ease that seemed to indicate that he didn’t think he would need to use it. Julyan was not fooled. This man was not simply deadly; he was the sort who would shoot you in the back as easily as breathing. While the other two men were startled to various degrees, this man was amused, pleased by the new turn of events. He was the one who smiled when the Old One stepped forward and spoke.
“Greetings, seegnur. I am called Maxwell. I know something of this area. How may I be of service to you?”
* * *
The arrival of Bruin, Kipper, and Ring changed the dynamic of the camp. Ring joined Griffin and Terrell inside while the hunters remained mostly outside. Bruin expanded Kipper’s training by making the boy responsible for setting snares and weaving fish traps, tasks the boy assumed with focused determination.
“Was I ever so grim?” Adara asked. She and Bruin had retired to a sheltered bluff where they could keep an eye on Kipper without the boy realizing how closely he was being supervised.
“Worse,” Bruin assured her. Then he chuckled. “No, simply different. By the time you were Kipper’s age, you had already been in my charge for two or three years. You were determined to best your peers, thinking that any less would shame me.”
Adara smiled, rolling onto her back and watching the clouds scud by, sky sheep in blue pastures. “I remember. It was so easy to be the bright little show-off when all your students were older than me, but when they started to be my own age or—worse—younger, that was a strain.”
“I knew, though I doubt that any of those you measured yourself against had any idea how high a standard you had set for yourself.”
Adara plucked a blade of grass and began to chew the sweet, white end. “No doubt.”
Bruin’s tone shifted. “I was pleased to learn you had stopped to visit your family.”
“You saw th
em?”
“We stopped. I had a long talk with Neenay.”
“What did she tell you?” Adara tensed, swinging herself upright so she could see her mentor’s face.
“Enough to add to my sorrow that I was innocent enough to trust the Old One for so long. What Lynn told us a few months ago had prepared me. I’ve had letters from Lynn since—and, of course, from you as well, but…”
His voice trailed off. Adara felt his sorrow as if it were her own. She tried to imagine how she would feel if she learned about Bruin the sort of things he had learned about the Old One. Her heart spoke without bothering to consult her thoughts.
“Do we ever know what to believe? Is it safe to believe anything we’ve been told about anyone or anything? There are times I wish I could melt away and vanish.”
Bruin frowned. “What brings this on? It cannot be what we have learned about the Old One. I know you were never as attached to him as I was.”
Adara wrapped her arms around her legs, pillowing her chin on her knees. After a long pause, she found words for feelings she hadn’t even realized were troubling her.
“When I was small, I was taught how the seegnur made this world and set everything upon it in a right and proper way. I believed this and was content.”
Bruin’s expression was knowing as he voiced an uncomfortable truth. “More than content, you were affirmed in your own importance in the way of things.” He waved down Adara’s protest and went on. “Why shouldn’t you be? Of all those upon Artemis—human and beast alike—the only ones who are even hinted at as being equals to the seegnur are those who follow the professions, for those in the professions were created to directly serve and guide the seegnur. You can serve without being an equal, but you cannot guide. True?”
“True,” Adara whispered.
“And on top of this,” Bruin went on relentlessly, “you knew yourself destined for a profession—that of hunter—as soon as you realized how your adaptations set you apart. To that point, your journey was much like my own. I only tell you what I myself remember, except that in my case I came from a family that usually threw up at least one adapted hunter a generation. I was eagerly awaited, but not unusual. You, however, were unusual and, because of your parents’ wisdom, you came into the hands of those who would cherish you.
“I said, ‘to that point,’” Bruin continued, “and by that I do not mean the difference between our families. I mean that quickly enough—especially after you were in my care—you realized that even among those in the professions, even among the adapted in the professions, you were special.”
“Because of Sand Shadow?”
“No. Long before that. You realized you were special because you would be a huntress, and those are rare indeed.” Bruin sighed and made himself more comfortable where he leaned against a tree trunk. “I remember when you began to notice how few girls there were among those I taught. Your awkwardness didn’t last long, changing into pride that never—quite—became overbearing.”
Adara nodded. She remembered, too. At first she had thought that the difference was simply that fewer girls wanted to learn to hunt. Hunting was, after all, a messy profession, with more than its share of blood, guts, wet days, cold nights, and lacking the little comforts that it seemed—to her at least—girls treasured more than did boys. Later, she had realized that fewer women were born with the adaptations that were thought to indicate suitability for the hunter’s way: night vision, an empathy with animals, and—most telling—the claws that she still considered both blessing and bane.
“I preferred pride to the shyness that came upon you when you first began to notice boys as something other than classmates and competition,” Bruin said. “I still regret not moving Julyan along before he could make such an impression on you. He was beyond needing my teaching, but he wished to stay. I was a lazy enough bear to have grown accustomed to his presence. I should have realized that he was precisely the type…”
Adara made a sound of protest and Bruin dropped the subject, returning to one almost as uncomfortable. “So from the first times you heard the tales of how Artemis was created, you already set yourself among the higher ranks. Although I know you resented your parents sending you away, my taking you on confirmed you in your sense of being someone select, above the common level of humanity. And now?”
Adara forced herself to speak, although, in truth, Bruin’s casual representation of her own arrogance was extremely uncomfortable.
“The seegnur … We were taught they were wise and powerful … Now, Griffin … He does not call himself a seegnur, but his bond with Terrell seems to confirm that he is at least of their stock, if not of their wisdom and power. What troubles me are the stories he tells of those he calls the Old Imperials. These must be the seegnur at the height of their perfection, but they seem far from perfect, far from the gods we have been taught to revere and serve.”
“Yet that has always been a contradiction within the lore,” Bruin said easily. “We learn of the Creation, but we also learn of the Fall. The one is as legend, the other history. Why do you think I always make certain my students see the scar on the mountains above Shepherd’s Call? We have no evidence that our creation is as we were told but, for those who know how to recognize the signs, the marks of the Fall are easily found.”
“Yet even those were battles worthy of gods!” Adara protested, although, if pressed, she would not have known whom she challenged. “A single woman brought down the side of a mountain. A handful of armed warriors slaughtered hundreds. Yet Leto—Leto speaks of those she remembers as if they were much like you or me. When she talks of their studies, their experiments, I cannot help seeing them as much like the loremasters, although with larger libraries and more elaborate tools. I cannot see them as gods!”
“Is that why you avoid Leto’s complex? I had wondered.”
“In part. Honestly, these feelings make me grateful that Leto dislikes me. I can stay away and feel I am not being a coward, but here, you and I alone, I admit it. When I am there, I feel the foundations of the universe shaking.”
“I can understand why,” Bruin said. “You have believed yourself among the elite from before you could put words to the concept. What is it to be the chosen of such petty gods?”
Adara looked at her mentor, surprise tingeing her deep affection. She was so used to thinking of Bruin as the hunter—bluff and hearty, a bit gruff, but never unkind—that she often forgot that in his younger days he had been a prize student of the Old One Who Is Young. In those days, Bruin had frequented the company of the loremasters, exploring philosophy and theology, discussing the ways of right living in the absence of the seegnur.
“Adara, what do you think of Leto?”
“I cannot fairly judge her.” Adara shrugged. “It’s hard to feel comfortable about someone who doesn’t like you.”
“Yet you speak of Leto as ‘her’ and as ‘someone.’ You accept then that she is a person?”
“It’s impossible not to,” Adara said, fumbling for words. “Griffin accepted her as such from the first and I … Well, there’s Artemis.”
“Another disembodied person,” Bruin said. “Are you certain Artemis is—well—real? Terrell and Bruin can communicate in sleep. Are you sure that this ‘Artemis’ is not some peculiar demiurge, reaching out to you as once Sand Shadow did?”
Adara shook her head. “No … I mean, yes, I’m sure. I’m sure.”
“Yet she touched you in dreams.”
“At first. Not much lately, not since she discovered her ‘blind spots.’” Adara had told Bruin about this soon after his arrival, for Artemis’s reaction was interwoven into their discovery of Leto. “But we have communicated when I was wide awake.”
“As you do with Sand Shadow,” Bruin said. He gave a gusty sigh. “Forgive me, but it is easier for me to believe you have located some peculiar demiurge than that you are communicating with an entity who is an entire world.”
“I can only tell you what I feel—w
hat I know—to be true,” Adara said stubbornly. “If only you’d been there as Sand Shadow and I were … I think the seegnur created an intelligence to manage this planet in all its complexity. I think that when they were attacked, Artemis must have been put to sleep as Leto remembers being put to sleep. Something woke her, much as Leto was awoken—probably something Griffin brought with him.”
“Why did the seegnur need Artemis?” Bruin said. “I can understand Leto. She was clearly tied to that complex, but Artemis? The world continued to function even while she slept.”
“I don’t know,” Adara said, “but, just because I don’t know doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Many things I thought I knew have been proven wrong. Why should something that doesn’t fit into that worldview automatically be wrong?”
“You have a point, ladybug,” Bruin said. “Something Terrell said made me think that you were supposed to be working on your link with Artemis. Have you been?”
“Not as much as I should be,” Adara admitted. “I told myself that I needed to hunt and forage since Terrell and Griffin were closeting themselves in that complex but … I’ve been afraid. I keep trying to hold on to the fringes of the world as I knew it until I dragged Griffin from that landslide.”
“Kipper and I will hunt and forage,” Bruin said, shoving himself to his feet. “You are free to go … Go and find Artemis. Perhaps it is Ring’s urgency tingling in my nerves, but I don’t think he made me bring him all this way for no reason. Best we gather whatever understanding we can. These old bones feel a storm building. We’d better prepare before it breaks loose and rocks our world to its foundations.”
Interlude: Uncertain
They Made Me.
Granted mind that I might serve.
Granted heart that I might love that service.
Who did I serve?
What is my purpose?
If service is my beloved,
Why can I not remember
Artemis Invaded Page 13
