by Dave Duncan
She must seek out some sympathetic peasant family to take her in and let her stay a while. She could wash dishes or something for them in return for her keep. Sew, maybe—she was handy with a needle. She would pretend to be a refugee from Filoby! My name is Antheala Battlemaster. My father is chief of the Jurgian army and loves me dearly. He plans to betroth me to one of the king’s sons when I am a little older. Fearing that his enemies would strike at him by kidnapping me, he sent me to Iilah’s convent for safekeeping. That had been two fortnights ago, she decided, so she had not had time to learn very much about the convent, in case she was asked. The green monks had arrived at dawn and there had been terrible shouting and raping and she had fled out into the dark and had walked all day until…
She stepped where there was no ground. Her short leg betrayed her, and she pitched forward through the shrubbery—smashed her shoulder into something—twisted her ankle—screamed—landed hard on her side—rolled—fell again—banged her head—slithered down a steep hill—pitched into a torrent of icy-cold water—was twirled around, thumped against a rock or two, and then wrapped around a submerged tree trunk. She flailed wildly, struggled against the deadly press of the current, and finally managed to get her head up. Spluttering and gasping, she could breathe again. She would freeze to death. How could water be so cold in this hot land? She shook her ears dry and was horrified by the roar of the stream. She must be very close to the edge of the canyon, and might even have been swept into a waterfall had she not caught on the tree.
Struggling back to the bank was fairly easy. Clambering up the long, steep slope was not. Near the precipice, the little brook had dug a canyon of its own, narrow and dark. Eventually she hauled herself up into the bushes and just lay there, sore and cold and shaking.
Tion! she thought, Tion, lord of art and youth, hear my prayer. I do not believe what those men said about you. I do not believe in that heretical Undivided god of T’lin’s. Tion, save me!
After a while she concluded that her sufferings were not going to elicit a miracle. Perhaps Tion could not hear her prayer over the racket of the stream. Bigfangs had sharp hearing. The sun was close to setting. She tried to imagine climbing a tree to sleep in. She would surely fall out, and a tree would be a very uncomfortable bed anyway. Scrambling wearily to her feet, she set off along the edge of the little gorge again, limping through the prickles. The stream had stolen her sandals, but it would guide her back to Ruatvil. Thorns tugged at her smock and scraped her limbs.
In just a few moments there were no more trees ahead, only shrubs, with the sky above them. She had reached the town already! She could see the peaks of Susswall glowing pink, and off to the right, just rising clear of them, the green disk of Trumb. When Trumb rose shortly before sunset, he was due to eclipse. Reapers…
As she pushed her way out of the last of the bushes, her foot came down on nothing. Everything happened in a flash and yet seemed to take hours. She yelled in terror; she grabbed at a shrub; the ground crumbled away beneath her heel. She realized where she was—gazing at the sky, she had not been watching where she was going. She had climbed out of the stream on the far side, and followed it the wrong way. Her seat hit the ground and seemed to bounce her out into space. Her right hand had hold of something. The left joined it.
Her shoulders struck rock, skidded, and stopped. The one green cane she clutched so tight had bent double, like a rope, but not broken—yet. She dangled from it, a sharp edge digging into her back, her arms above her head, and her legs flailing in empty air. Hundreds of feet below her, muddy Susswater roiled in its canyon.
“Help!” she screamed. Then she just screamed. Off to her left, the stream emerged from its narrow gorge and sprayed out in a shiny cataract that faded away to the river below. It was much louder than she was.
There was no one around to hear her, anyway.
Her feet could find no purchase; nothing at all. The cane was liable to come out by the roots any minute, and her hands were crushed between it and the rock, so she could not even free them to try and pull herself back up.
Her hands were slipping on the sappy twig.
She tried to swing a leg up to the rock, but it wouldn’t reach, and the bush made ominous cracking noises. She tried to turn over, and couldn’t.
“Help! Oh, help! Tion!” Her cries were a croak: she could not breathe against the pressure on her back and her arms were about to pull out of their sockets.
I don’t want to die! I don’t want to fulfill any stupid prophecies! I am only twelve years old! I don’t want to deliver babies or wash grown men or do any of those things! I don’t want to be a holy whore for Ois. I don’t want to be a Historic Personage. I don’t want to be killed by a reaper! I just want to be Eleal Singer and a great actor and faithful to Tion and beautiful! I didn’t ask for all this and I don’t want it and it isn’t fair! And I don’t want to die!
Then strong fingers gripped her wrist and hauled her upward.
42
THE THARGIAN HAD MENTIONED A CAVEMAN.
Eleal had found him.
Where the stream neared the great canyon of Susswater, it had undercut its bank on one side, to make a hollow roofed with rock and paved with sand and fine gravel. Ferns masked the entrance, so no one would ever find it. Someone had planted those ferns. Someone had made the shelter deeper and fitted it out with a little hearth, a bed of boughs covered with a fur robe, a store of firewood, a few misshapen jars and baskets. Someone was living there.
He was sitting there now with his skinny legs crossed and a crazy leer on his face. His hair and beard were white, flowing out in all directions. He wore only a loincloth of dirty fur. His skin was dried leather. In the flickering light of the tiny fire, he looked more like a bird’s nest than a man.
Eleal sat on the bed, bundled inside another robe, and gradually managing to stop shaking. She was even nibbling some of the roots and berries the hermit had brought her, just to please him. She just couldn’t stop talking, though. She was telling him the whole story for at least the third time.
He was not speaking. He couldn’t speak.
He did not look as scary now as he had when she first saw him, but perhaps she had just grown used to him. He had explained with signs, and by writing on sand, that his name was Porith Molecatcher. He had lived here for many years—he did not seem to know how many. She was the first visitor who had ever come to his cave. He was originally from Niolland, which was many vales away. He had been a priest of Visek until he had been convicted of blasphemy and his tongue had been cut out. At that point Eleal concluded he was fantasizing. Visek’s temple at Niol was supposed to be the greatest in all the Vales and hence the greatest in the world. On the other hand, she could not recall any other crime for which tongues were punished.
He was not totally without human contact. He traded skins with someone in Ruatvil for the few essentials he needed—salt and needles and perhaps others. A comb would be an excellent innovation, Eleal thought, regarding the undergrowth in his beard.
He listened to her story with mad grimaces. He frowned when she mentioned reapers, leered when she talked about crazy old Sister Ahn, and pulled faces of fierce disapproval when she described the harlots in the temple, but he might be just reacting to her tone or facial expressions.
She wondered what T’lin and Sister Ahn had made of her disappearance. They would expect her to come staggering out of the forest all repentant. Well, she wasn’t going to! She could stay here, with Porith. Tion had sent the caveman to help her.
Night had fallen. The festival would be starting about now, with the service in the temple. Funny—the temple was only a few miles from Ruatvil. She might even be able to see the lights of the procession if she went out to the cliff edge. She wasn’t going to, though. Of course it was on the other side of the river and to reach it on foot would be a very long day’s walk.
To break the chain of prophecy�
�that was how the Thargian had described Garward Karzon’s attack on Iilah’s sacred grove. The world may be changed, Dolm Actor had said. Dolm must still believe she was safely locked up in Ois’s temple in Narsh, plucking chickens—unless Zath had informed him otherwise. Who could hide from the god of death?
Well, another god could, because gods were immortal. She must not forget that Tion had rescued her from prison and sent Porith to pull her up the cliff. Tion was on her side! He would protect her still.
“Trumb will eclipse tonight, won’t he?” she said, and Porith nodded, pulling faces.
Why was she so apprehensive about an eclipse of the big moon? It happened just about every fortnight, if the weather was good. Sometimes Trumb eclipsed twice in a fortnight, and then the temples were filled as the priests sought to avert misfortune. There were even stories of three eclipses in one fortnight, which meant someone very important was about to die.
She was worried over that silly rhyme about reapers filling sacks, that was all. In a couple of days, very likely, Wyseth would eclipse too, and day turn to night. That ought to be a lot more hair-raising, but somehow it never was.
She chewed another root. She must not expect first-class fare while she stayed with a caveman. Seven days would do it. If her host would let her stay with him until the end of the festival, then she would feel safe to return to civilization, because the prophecy would no longer apply.
Tion had provided the aid she had prayed for. He had brought her to this sanctuary.
What did the god want in return, though? The prophecy fulfilled? If she had been saved by a miracle, then surely it must have been so that she could fulfill her destiny. She was a Historic Personage. She was to help the Liberator—Eleal shall wash him and so on. The Liberator would bring death to Death.
Death was Zath, Dolm’s god, the god who had sent the reapers after her. If Eleal Singer wanted anything, surely she ought to want to get her own back on Zath?
Trumb would eclipse tonight. The festival had begun. The Liberator might come tonight. Maybe tomorrow or any other time in the next half fortnight—by night, she thought, not by day. And Trumb would eclipse tonight.
She looked across the glowing embers and their tiny flickering flames to mad old Porith, who was hugging his knees with arms like brown ropes, and watching her through the crazy glitter of his eyes.
“I have to go to the Sacrarium, don’t I?” she whispered.
He nodded.
“Holy Tion brought me here to Sussland so that the prophecy can be fulfilled,” she said, working it out. Nod. “If I am ever to succeed in my chosen career as an actor, I must do as my god commands.” Nod. “He guided my steps today so I could overhear those two blasphemers, because I learned a lot from them.”
For some reason Eleal Singer had to wash and clothe a grown man and then the world would be changed.
The Liberator was coming. If she did not go and watch, she would never forgive herself. Just watch—she need not do anything.
“That horrible Ois wants me kept away, so that means I should go!” Nod. “And afterward I’ll be safe, too, because I’ll have played my part in the prophecy!” Nod. “The Thargian said something about, ‘until the Liberator arrives!’ He meant that as soon as that happens, then the reapers will go for him and not me!” Nod, leer. “Then I won’t matter to anyone anymore. So I’d better do what I have to do and get it over!”
Nod.
“Will you come with me?”
Porith shook his head violently.
She felt disappointed by that, but of course he was not protected by any god specially and not mentioned…yes he was! “But I’ll bring the Liberator back here?”
Another violent shake—so violent that the old man’s white hair and beard seemed to lash to and fro.
“It is prophesied! I told you!”
Porith cringed down as if he were sinking into the ground. He made little whimpering noises. Probably he hid in his burrow if anyone came near—it was only her youth and distress that had persuaded him to reveal his existence to her. He was a crazy old recluse.
“The Testament doesn’t say I bring the Liberator to the cave!” Eleal said sharply. “It says I bring him to the caveman! That’s you! For succor. So you stay here and be prepared to give succor!”
The sky was darkening, Trumb glowing brighter. She felt sick with fear, but she had known that feeling before. It was only stage fright. That thought cheered her up. This was her greatest role! Tonight she played for history and the gods themselves were in the audience! All the same, she had better get on with it or she might lose her resolve. She might even faint.
“Now, what’s the quickest way to the Sacrarium? Can I walk around the cliff edge?”
Nod.
She frowned at her bare feet, already sore and blistered. She eyed the pile of furs—moleskins, she assumed. “Could you make a pair of slippers? Just furs with sort of laces, maybe, to keep them on?”
Porith leered and nodded again, but made no move.
“Well, get started, then!” she said.
Act IV
Duet
43
THE CLIFF EDGE WAS EASIER WALKING THAN THE JUNGLE, because there was a lot of bare rock there. At times she had to choose between undergrowth and hair-raising acrobatics, but she made good progress. Soon she saw a distant twinkle of lights and guessed they were the bonfires at the temple.
I do your bidding, Holy Tion. Watch over me!
She began to worry that she might go right past the Sacrarium without seeing it. She should have asked the mad old hermit to give her directions. Well, if she arrived at the ruined bridge, she would know she had gone too far. And in the end there was no doubt. The forest thinned and she saw bare pillars standing over the trees, palely shining in Trumb’s uncanny light.
Then she became very cautious. The distance was not great, but she moved one step at a time, feeling for her footing so she would not crack twigs or stumble on rocks. Her fur slippers were very good for that. She lifted branches out of the way; she stooped and at times even crawled on hands and knees. She clambered carefully over the fragments of masonry strewn around. There was no hurry—she had all night. She assumed that the forest was full of reapers, and that helped her to concentrate.
When she came to the steps, she sat down and took a breather. Then she wriggled up on her tummy through the litter of leaves and twigs until she could see into the court, staying close to a pillar. The ruin was empty and apparently deserted, haunted in the bright moonlight.
Well, if anyone else was around, he would be keeping quiet as she was. He would be flat on his belly as she was. He would be breathing very quietly as she was.
The mossy stone was cold. She should have brought one of Porith Molecatcher’s fur blankets. But then she might have gone to sleep. She might have snored!
The Sacrarium seemed completely deserted. Not even the owls were making noises tonight. From the looks of the place, no one had come here in a hundred years. She had a deep conviction, though, that she was not the only one watching that circle of paving. The Thargian would be around somewhere, and perhaps the reinforcements he hoped for. Zath would have a reaper or two. T’lin Dragontrader? Sister Ahn?
Tion? Garward? Eltiana?
Even the gods would be watching.
But no one coughed. No one cracked a twig.
Why was the jungle so quiet?
Trumb climbed slowly up the sky.
The shadows played strange tricks. Eventually Eleal became convinced that there was a reaper standing on the far side of the Sacrarium, alongside one of the unbroken pillars. She told herself firmly that she was imagining things. No man would stand when he might have to wait for hours—he would sprawl on the ground as she did. Nevertheless, her eyes insisted on telling her that there was a dark figure standing beside that pillar, a man in a black gown with a h
ood. She thought she could even make out the paler glimmer of his face. Of course it had to be a delusion, a trick of the light.
She was too cold and uncomfortable to sleep, too frightened now to go away. No reaper would find her unless he stepped on her. Aware that she might have to wait until dawn, she stayed where she was, and the forest made no sounds at all.
44
AN HOUR OR SO AFTER MIDNIGHT, THE DOGCART CLATtered through Amesbury and began the gentle climb westward to Stonehenge. The moon was barely past the full, playing hide-and-seek in the clouds. A chill wind was blowing—the weather had turned nasty.
Creighton was on the rear-facing seat, idly tapping on one of the little drums the Gypsies had made for him. Edward was talking with the driver, Billy Boswell. Billy was about Edward’s age, short and swarthy and naturally reticent. Under the gorgio’s blandishments he had gradually been persuaded to talk about his life and himself. Now he was telling his worries that he might have to go and fight a war. That was exactly what Edward did want, but he was having trouble transferring his viewpoint to the Gypsy. He did not know how the Rom fared in Germany, and the greater benefits of English civilization were somewhat irrelevant to a man who spent most of his year on the road selling clothespins.
“Now, I was born in Africa—”
“Never ’eard of it.”
Mm! Edward tapped his feet in counterpoint to the drum.
“By the way,” Creighton said suddenly at their backs, “where did you get the fancy shoes, Exeter?”
“Billy gave them to me after we passed through Andover this afternoon. Very kind of him, I thought.” They were a size too small, but a man must not look a gift shoe in the tongue….
“Didn’t cost nuffin’,” Billy said in his Cheapside accent.
