by neetha Napew
'You've slain the C'Sarr, Akhanaba... everything... everything...' He could scarcely hear what the ancipital was saying, for Milua Tal was holding his hand and screaming at the top of her voice. 'My moth, my moth, my poor mother!'
'Hrrm-Bhhrd Ydohk once ancient place of ancipital kind. Not give to Sons of Freyr.'
He failed to understand. He pushed against her spear, then drew his own sword. 'Let me through, Major Chzarn, or I shall kill you.'
He knew how useless threats were. Chzarn merely said, without emotion, 'Not go through, sir.'
'You're the fire god, Jan - command it die!' As she parrot-screamed, she raked his flesh, but he did not move. Chzarn was intent on explaining something and wrestled with words before managing to say, 'Ancient Hrrm-Bhhrd Ydohk good place, sir. Air-octaves make a song. Before Sons of Freyr any on Hrl-Ichor Yhar. In ancient time of T'Sehn-Hrr.'
'It's the present, the present! We live and die in present time, gillot!' He tried to wind himself up to strike but was unable to do so, despite the screaming girl at his side. His will failed. The flames burned in the pupils of his narrowed eyes.
The phagor obstinately continued her explanation, as if she were an automaton.
'Ancipitals here, sir, before Sons of Freyr. Before Freyr make bad light. Before T'Sehn-Hrr goance, sir. Old sins, sir.'
Or perhaps she just said 'old things'. In the fury of the blaze, it was impossible to hear. With a roar, part of the palace roof collapsed and a column of fire rolled up into the night sky. Pillars crashed forward into the square.
The crowd cried in unison and stumbled back. Among the watchers was AbathVasidol; she clung to the arm of a gentleman from the Sibornalese embassy as everyone shrank from the heat.
The Holy C'Sarr... all destroyed,' cried JandolAnganol in pain. Milua Tal hid her face in JandolAnganol's side and wept. 'All destroyed... all destroyed.'
He made no attempt to comfort the girl or to push her away. She was nothing to him. The flames devoured his spirit. In that holocaust were consumed his ambitions -the very ambitions the fire would fulfil. He could be master of Oldorando as well as Borlien, but in that ceaseless changing of things into their opposites, that chastising enantiodromia which made a god into a phagor, he no longer wished for that mastery.
His phagors had brought him a triumph, in which he saw clearly his defeat. His thoughts flew to MyrdemInggala:
but his and her summer was over, and this great bonfire of his enemies was his autumn beacon.
'All destroyed,' he said aloud.
But a figure approached them, moving elegantly through the ranks of the First Phagorian, arriving almost at a saunter in time to remark, 'Not quite all, I'm glad to say.'
Despite his attempt at customary nonchalance, Esomberr's face was pale and he trembled visibly.
'Since I've never worshipped the All-Powerful with any great degree of fervour, whether he's man or phagor, I thought I would excuse myself from the C'Sarr's lecture on the subject. Terribly fortunate as it proved. Let this be a lesson to you, Your Majesty, to go to church less frequently in future.'
Milua Tal looked up angrily to say, 'Why don't you run away? Both my parents are in there.'
Esomberr wagged a finger at her. 'You must learn to ride with circumstances as your new husband claims to do. If your parents are perished - and there I suspect you have hit upon a profound truth - then may I be the first to congratulate you on becoming Queen of both Borlien and Oldorando.
'I hope for some advancement from you, as the chief instrument in your clandestine marriage. I may never make C'Sarr, but you both know my council is good. I'm cheerful, even in times of adversity like the present.'
JandolAnganol shook his head. He took Milua Tal by the shoulders and began to coax her away from the conflagration.
'We can do nothing. Slaying a phagor or two will solve nothing. We will wait for morning. In Esomberr's cynicism there is some truth.'
'Cynicism?' asked Esomberr quietly. 'Are not your brutes merely imitating what you did to the Myrdolators? Is there no cynicism in your taking advantage of that? Your brutes have crowned you King of Oldorando.'
Written in the king's face was something Esomberr could not bear to see. 'If the entire court is wiped out, then what is there for me but to stay, to do my duty, to see that the succession is legally continued in Milua Tal's name? Will I find joy in that task, Esomberr?'
'You will go with the circumstances, I expect. As I would. What's joy?'
They walked on, the princess shambling and needing support.
At length the king said, 'Otherwise there will be anarchy - or Pannoval will step in. Whether it calls for rejoicing or weeping, it seems that we do indeed have a chance to make our two kingdoms one, strong against enemies.'
'Always enemies!' wailed Milua Tal to her failed god.
JandolAnganol turned to Esomberr, his expression one of blank disbelief. 'The C'Sarr himself will have perished. The C'Sarr...'
'Failing divine intervention, yes. But one piece of better news for you. King Sayren Stund may not go down in history as its wisest monarch, but he experienced a generous impulse before he perished. He was probably prompted by your new queen's mother. His majesty could not quite stomach hanging his new son-in-law's son, and had him released an hour or so ago. Perhaps as a sort of wedding gift...'
'He released Robayday?' His frown left him momentarily.
Another section of the palace collapsed. The tall wooden columns burned like candles. More and more of the inhabitants of Oldorando crept forth silently to stare at the blaze, knowing they would never look on such a night again. Many, in their superstitious hearts, saw this as the long-prophesied end of the world.
'I saw the lad go free. Wild as ever. Wilder. An arrow from a bow would be a fair comparison.'
A groan escaped JandolAnganol's lips. 'Poor boy, why did he not come to me? I hoped that at last he had lost his hatred of me...'
'By now he's probably in the queue to kiss the wounds of the dead SartoriIrvrash - an unhygienic form of amusement if ever I saw one.'
'Why did Rob not come to me... ?'
There was no answer, but JandolAnganol could guess it: he had been hidden in the pavilion with Milua Tal. It would take many a tenner before the consequences of this day's work were fully borne out, and he would have to live them through.
As if echoing his thoughts, Alam Esomberr said, 'And may I enquire what you intend to do with your famous Phagorian Guard, who have committed this atrocity?'
The king threw him a hard glance and continued to walk away from the blaze.
'Perhaps you will tell me how mankind is ever to solve its phagor problem,' he said.
Envoi
The soldiery from the Good Hope and the Union landed on the Borlienese coast and marched westwards on Gravabagalinien under the leadership of Io Pasharatid.
As the force progressed, Pasharatid gleaned news of the turmoil about to overwhelm Matrassyl. The conscience of the people had been slowly roused as they digested the news of the massacre of the Myrdolators; the king would be unwelcome when he returned.
In Pasharatid's harneys a scheme burned with such conviction that it already seemed actual. He would take the queen of queens; Gravabagalinien would fall to him, and she also. Matrassyl would willingly accept her as queen. He would rule as consort; politically he was not ambitious, not greatly. His past, its evasions, disappointments, disgraces, would be over. One minor military engagement, and all he desired would be his.
His advance scouts reported breastworks about the wooden palace. He attacked at Batalix-dawn, when haze stretched across the land. His gunners advanced two-by-two, wheel locks at the ready, protected by pikemen.
A white flag waved from behind the defences. A stocky figure cautiously emerged into the open. Pasharatid signalled to his soldiery to halt, and walked forward alone. He was conscious of how brave he was, how upright. He felt every inch the conqueror.
The stocky man approached. They halted when no more than
a pike's length apart.
Bardol CaraBansity spoke. He asked why soldiers were advancing on an almost undefended palace.
To which Io Pasharatid responded haughtily that he was an honourable man. He required only the surrender of Queen MyrdemInggala, after which he would leave the palace in peace.
CaraBansity made the sacred circle on his forehead and sniffed a resounding sniff. Alas, he said, the queen of queens was dead, slain by an arrow fired by an agent of her ex-husband, King JandolAnganol.
Pasharatid responded with angry disbelief.
'Look for yourself,' said CaraBansity.
He gestured towards the sea, lacklustre in the dawn light. Men were launching a funeral barque upon the waters.
In truth, Pasharatid could see it for himself. He left his force and ran to the beach. Four men with heads bowed were carrying a bier on which a body lay beneath layers of white muslin. The hem of the muslin fluttered in a growing breeze. A wreath of flowers lay on top of the body. An old woman with hair growing from a mole in her cheek stood weeping at the water's edge.
The four men carried the bier reverently aboard the white caravel, the Vajabhar Prayer; the ship's battered sides had been repaired well enough for a voyage which did not involve the living. They laid the bier under the mast and retired.
ScufBar, the queen's old majordomo dressed in black, stepped aboard the ship carrying a lighted torch. He bowed deeply to the shrouded body. Then he set light to the brushwood piled high on the deck.
As fire took the ship, it began with the favouring wind to sail slowly out from the bay. The smoke billowed out across the water like lank hair.
Pasharatid cast down his helmet into the sand, crying wildly to his men.
'On your knees, you hrattocks! Down and pray to the Azoiaxic for this beautiful lady's soul. The queen is dead, oh, the queen of queens is dead!'
CaraBansity smiled occasionally as he rode a brown hoxney back to his wife in Ottassol. He was a clever fellow and his ruse had succeeded; Pasharatid's pursuit had been deflected. On the little finger of his right hand, he wore the queen's gift to him, a ring with a sea-blue stone.
The queen had left Gravabagalinien only a few hours before Pasharatid's arrival. With her went her general, his sister, the princess Tatro, and a handful of followers. They made their way northwards, across the fertile lands of Borlien, towards Matrassyl.
Wherever they went, peasants came from their huts, men, women, and children, and called blessing upon MyrdemInggala. The poorest of people ran to feed her party and help her in any way possible.
The queen's heart was full. But it was not the heart it had been; the heat had gone from her affections. Perhaps she would accept TolramKetinet in time. That remained to be seen. She needed to find her son first and solace him. Then the future could be determined.
Pasharatid remained on the shore for a long while. A herd of deer came down onto the beach and foraged at the high-tide line, ignoring his presence.
The funeral ship drifted out to sea, bearing the corpse of the servant who had died following injuries from a falling gunpowder keg. Flames rose straight up, smoke sank across the waves. A crackle of timber came to Pasharatid's ears.
He wept and tore his tunic and thought of all that would never happen. He fell to his knees on the sand, weeping for a death that had yet to occur.
The animals of the sea circled about the blazing hulk before leaving. They abandoned coastal waters and headed far out towards the deeps. Moving in well-organized legions, they swam where no man yet had sailed, to merge with the liquid wildernesses of Helliconia.
The years passed. That tumultuous generation faded one by one... Long after the queen was lost to mortal sight, much that was immortal of her travelled across the immeasurable gulfs of space and was received on Earth. There, those lineaments and that face lived again. Her sufferings, joys, failings, virtues - all were called up once more for the peoples of Earth.
On Helliconia itself, all memories of the queen were soon lost, as waves are lost on the beach.
T'Sehn-Hrr shone overhead. The moonlight was blue. Even by day, when Batalix shone through the cool mists, the daylight was blue.
Everything perfectly suited the ancipital kind. Temperatures were low. They held horns high and saw no need to hurry. They lived among the tropical mountains and forests of the Pegovin Peninsula of Hespagorat. They were at peace with one another.
As the runts grew slowly to creighthood and then full adulthood, their coats became dense and black. Under that shapeless pelage, they were immensely strong. They threw roughly shaped spears which could kill at a hundred yards. With those weapons they slayed members of other components who infringed their territory.
They had other arts. Fire was their chained and domesticated pet. They travelled with their hearths on their shoulders, and groups of them were to be seen, climbing down to the coast on occasions, where they would trap fish, with flames borne on stone slabs upon their broad shoulders.
Bronze accoutrements were not beyond their understanding. With that metal they decorated themselves; the warm gleam of bronze might be caught about the smoking firesides of their mountain caves. They mastered pottery sufficiently to make coil pots, often of intricate design, shaped to resemble the pods of the fruits they ate. Coarse body coverings were woven from reeds and creepers. They had the gift of language. Stalluns and gillots went out to hunt together, or cultivated their scanty vegetables together in cleared patches. There was no quarrel between male and female.
The ancipital components kept animals as pets. Asokins lived commensally with them, and served as hunting dogs when they went out to hunt. Their Others were of less practical use; the naughty thieving tricks of Others were tolerated for the amusement their antics gave.
When Batalix set and light drained from the cool world, the ancipitals sank indifferently to sleep. They slept humbly as cattle, lying where they had stood. They switched off. No dreams haunted their long skulls during the silent hours of night.
Only when the moon T'Sehn-Hrr was full, they mated and hunted instead of sleeping. That was their great time. They killed any animal they came across, any bird, any other ancipital. There was no reason in the killing; they killed because it was their way.
By daylight, some of the components, those who lived to the south, hunted flambreg. That vast continent, the southern polar continent of Hespagorat, was populated by millions of head of flambreg. With the flambreg went clouds of flies. With the clouds of flies went the yellow fly. So the phagors killed the flambreg, massacred them separately or by the scores, killed the heads of herds, killed does, gravid or otherwise, killed the young, tried to fill the world with their carcasses.
The flambreg were never deterred from charging northwards across the lowlands of the Pegovin Peninsula. The ancipitals never wearied of killing them. The years came and went, and the centuries, and still the great herds plunged towards the untiring spears. There was no history among the components, except the history of this constant killing.
Mating took place at full moon: a year later, parturition occurred at full moon. The runts slowly became adult. Everything was slow, as if heartbeats themselves took their time, and the leisurely pace at which a tree grew was a standard for all things. When the great white disc of moon sank into the mists of the horizon, all was much as it had been when it rose from those same mists. Being one with this sluggish peace, the phagors were governed by its tempo; time did not enter into their pale harneys.
Their pets died. When an Other died, its body was casually cast aside, or thrown outside the area of the camp for vultures to eat. The great black phagors did not know death: death was no more to them than time. As they grew older, their movements slowed. Though they remained within the shelter of their vaguely demarcated families, they became apart. Year by year, their abilities grew more circumscribed. Language was early lost. Eventually movement itself was lost.
Then the tribe showed a sense of caring. They cared not for individual
s. They ministered to their infants, but otherwise only to those who succumbed to age. These superannuated phagors were stored safely away, revered, brought out on any ceremonial occasion, as for instance when an attack was intended on a nearby component.
Like embodiments of sluggish time, the elderly phagors passed without perceptible change beyond the shadowy division which distinguished life from other conditions. Time congealed in their eddre. They shrank, to become over many years nothing more than small keratinous images of their former selves. Even then, the flickerings of existence were not entirely spent. They were consulted. They still played a part in the life of the component. Only when they disintegrated could it be said that they were visited with finality: and many were so gently handled that they survived for centuries.
This crepuscular life-style continued long. Summer and winter spelt little change in the club-shaped peninsula, extending almost to the equator. Elsewhere, in the winters, the seas might freeze; in the peninsula, up in the mountains, down in the afforested valleys, a lethargic paradise was maintained unaltered over many, many moons, many moons and many eons.
The ancipital kind was not readily responsive to change. The unknown star - the unheralded and unprecedented star - was a brilliant point long before it entered the calculations of the components.
The first white-coated phagors which appeared were treated with indifference. More of them grew to maturity. They produced white off-spring. Only then were they driven out. The outcasts lived along the doleful shores of the Kowass Sea, feeding on iguana. Their tame Others rode on their backs, occasionally throwing twigs of dried seaweed into the portable hearths.
In the gloaming, phagors and Others could be seen, strung out along the shore, flame and smoke at their shoulder, moving disconsolately towards the east. As year succeeded year, white phagors became more numerous, the exodus to the east more steady. They marked their way with stone pillars, perhaps in the hope that some day they could return home. That return was never to be.
