She joined her gaze to the fire. Fertile silence fell over her mind; heat and light gusted into receptive emptiness. She was gently borne up, though as ever it was a troublesome ascent. Then she eased into the shadow-world where all humanness dissolved away. She had no thoughts, only qualities; she might have been golden honey spilling from a table or starlight shed on leaves. Like a hawk finding a draft of air, she drifted for a while in contentment, dipping and rising with the will of the winds.
After a time she sensed some disturbance in this otherworld. Even the flames seemed agitated—she imagined guardian fire became guard dog, spasming in soundless barks, scenting a far traveler at the gate. Suddenly she was uncomfortably aware of the well of darkness at her back. Then she became alert with a jerk.
Someone was standing behind her. And it was not a being of flesh and bone.
She took a shallow breath, fearful even the subtle movements of her breathing might provoke it. A light sweat sprang to her forehead. She felt earthy dampness pressing close, as if she entered a bog ground.
Fria, Mother of the Gods, what has come for me?
She smelled strongly the autumn herbs sacrificing priestesses gathered to weave crowns for their victims. And she felt warmth behind her as though another fire had been kindled at her back. Gradually fear eased away. Could it be? She whispered, her voice a cautiously probing hand—“Ramis?”
She felt a cool pressure at her temple as if a palm were placed there; then it seemed the sorceress’s mind wrapped itself around hers in a motherly embrace. Auriane was still and rapt. And then she discerned words that seemed to be in her mind but not of it, words not so much spoken as strongly thought—
Auriane, be at rest. I am she who attends your birth….
“Ramis?” Auriane whispered. “What is this witchery?” Vigorously she shook her head, trying to expel that deft, strong voice from her mind.
This is madness. She is sky-traveling. Or else I’ve taken a dangerous fever.
Witchery, you say? the airy, rustling voice replied. No more so than the flight of a common sparrow. I know no distance, nor do you. Quell your fears. The Fire Ritual joins us, star to star….
Auriane realized then she was suffused with that sense of being warm and settled in the world that Ramis’ presence always brought. She thought the question—what do you will of me?
I come to help you light the hall.
A sound like wind rattling down a warren of caverns rendered the next words inaudible; Auriane imagined the vast spirit of the Veleda battling stormwinds and mountains until Ramis found her mind once more. And then she heard—
Ah, you are not the same as when last I saw you on this smoking isle…. A spirit callused and hard has grown more supple—you’ve flowered without knowing. The next time of turning has come, and so I am required to ask again…I would have you follow me.
Auriane was unsettled to find herself not strenuously protesting. This time, the thought of that life exerted a delicate but irresistible pull, like a gently outflowing tide.
Baldemar, Auriane thought, you were wise to warn me she would ask again. At the time I believed a warning unnecessary. Who could guess she would wait so long or strike from so far…or trap me at a time such as this, when I feel helpless against her—for now, some part of me rejoices.
Auriane answered silently—I will never be what you are… I beg you, go from me.
Odd. When you say “go” it sounds like “stay.”
I am set on a course—Auriane began.
—of vengeance, Ramis’ thought-words flooded over her own. Come. You know I know. You think the world can be scrubbed clean. It’s not dirty. You want evil destroyed. Can you show me where evil is? Point it out. I am curious. I’ve not been able to find it in all these years. You think you are freeing your father from the stain of dishonorable death. But dishonor is empty calamity. It exists only where men capriciously decide it exists. You think to save your people—but vengeance, my poor, wise fool, does not exist.
“Away from me,” Auriane said aloud, conscious suddenly of her own roughened breathing. “I am not ready, as I love my mother and father, and I cannot abide this!”
You are full of unintended answers today. “Not ready” is not “No.” I’ll say no more then, except that the mirror-maze wants to be quit of you. Before you are two paths. One slopes down into shadowland where you will await rebirth. The other is the wide avenue to the moon….
Auriane felt a frantic joy spiced with terror. To walk the avenue to the moon meant to be granted the highest gift of Fria—to dwell in Eastre’s place-of-no-sorrowing, to be one who brings light down from the mountain, to be as great-souled as Ramis herself. Was this why, during her time in Ramis’ sanctuary, she was summoned at night?
Auriane silently objected—but I took an oath, long ago, at midsummer.
Your warrior’s oath? came the mute reply. Do the gods listen when children swear, knowing not what words they speak? I would have you oathed to something far older. You slake your thirst with new mead when you could drink from the Well of Urdr. But you’ll not live long enough to know it if you do not at once cast off this notion of your own evil. You’ve no more time. You cannot prevail in single battle with a mortal enemy in your own blood. Do this thing or die in the task you set yourself.
“You speak as though it were as simple as taking off a cloak. I cannot…”
You can. Look at the years. Has not your stubborn shame only brought you more shame? You have performed many dark, difficult and terrifying tasks…and yet you say you cannot do this.
“I have no words for you,” Auriane whispered. “I beg you …let me rest.” For long moments she sensed from Ramis only a compassionate silence.
Then a thought-question burst from her of its own accord. Tell me of Avenahar.
Ah, as ever, came the sighing reply, you fret over what least needs fretting over. She is safe as the pearl in the oyster. The whole world is her nest.
Does my mother live? Auriane asked eagerly, then tensed, not really ready for the reply.
As you understand it, yes. As I understand it, no. All this concern over who dies…. If you knew what death truly was, you would care less. Earthly life, you see, is a multistoried house. The high floor is thought. The cellar is the life of dreams, the well of ancestral yearnings. Death is the walls. Do you think if you lived in all existence, you would fear the walls of your old, worn, outgrown house?
To Auriane’s alarm, the words abruptly grew more difficult to discern. Frantically she groped for the Veleda’s voice, forming the question: Why did you once say I would be a queen in death?
But now she felt only cool silence. The fire crackled indifferently, a common cookfire once more. Auriane whirled around. Behind her was no evidence of the Veleda’s presence, not so much as a telltale crushed leaf. She shivered, even though that hallowed warmth was still wrapped round her like gauze.
She is a remorseless hunter of souls. And now I am confused beyond measure. I’ve no notion of what path to take. But it might not be necessary to choose, for she’s as much as told me I’ll be slain—for I can no more shed shame than I can shed my skin.
But as Auriane departed the kitchens accompanied by two guards, she felt as though the night air held her like some nurturing sea. And she realized that in that god-touched moment, the shame was gone. The torches set along the drafty passage seemed to whirl and vault with joy. She felt light as a wraith. The thought of Sunia, and of Baldemar, brought only sorrow and pity, both for them and for herself. The sense did not last long; the next day all seemed much as usual. She cursed its elusiveness; it was a glint of light on a river, flashing, then gone. But she remembered the distinct taste of it. This, then, is what comes, she thought, if I can summon the mettle to claim it as my own.
On the eve of the games all who were to do battle, no matter how humble, were given a banquet of roast pig and lamb. The doors of the school were thrown open so the curious public could wander in and watch. Auria
ne sat among her tribesmen at a row of rough tables set up in the First Hall.
“And look at this,” Thorgild was exclaiming to the table at large, eyes alight with manic joviality. “All kinds of regular food, heaps and heaps of it, handed round just when no one has any appetite for it! True, you must die for these people to bring out their hospitality, but they do manage decently at the last, do they not?” Disgustedly he pushed away a joint of lamb and drained his wine cup in one greedy gulp. Coniaric knocked it out of his hand.
“Fool. Don’t get drunk. Do you see those veterans over there lifting a cup? Do you want to be devoured tomorrow by a mob that hates you already just because you’re not Aristos?”
Thorgild shoved Coniaric in reply, retrieved the wine cup and refilled it. “Leave me be. They don’t need drink, they’re drunk on their own madness. Look at those mooncalves! Playing dice. They won’t live to collect their winnings.”
This time Auriane seized Thorgild’s cup and tilted it so that its contents spilled on the stone floor.
“Thorgild, let us see we live to collect our debts.”
Thorgild regarded her with wounded surprise, then gave a short, gleeful laugh not his own. But this time he slammed down the cup and did not refill it.
Coniaric and Thorgild were to take part in one of the mass spectacles—a re-creation of the Chattian war’s final battle, the taking of Five Wells. They would do battle with novices from the Claudian School, who would reenact the Roman assault; for this show the Great School’s architect-engineers had constructed a fort with walls twelve feet high, which would be assembled in the center of the arena. From what Auriane had managed to learn of such things, the mob’s thirst for blood would not be slaked unless at least half the combatants fell to an “enemy” sword. She judged Coniaric and Thorgild had a fair chance of survival if they did not slip in blood or fall to treachery.
“How is Sunia?” Coniaric asked Auriane.
“Complaining of everything—which is to say, well.”
“That took great courage, Auriane.”
She looked swiftly away, eyes somber, saying nothing.
“Auriane, if I live, I’ll be in a single bout next time, as Celadon is.”
She started, saddened by the hopeful tone in Coniaric’s voice, thinking, how quickly he embraces what these people honor. But she only replied, “You will live, Coniaric.”
“The people of this city will know my name. I’ll rise to the Second Hall. It heats the blood to think of it!”
“You have already made a good name for yourself, Coniaric. At home you are celebrated.” But Coniaric did not hear her.
Just then Auriane caught sight of a flaxen-haired youth who seemed too well cared for to belong to this place. He threaded his way through the milling spectators, approaching her with the arrogant step of one who serves a man highly placed. Then he halted behind her and announced in a tone of challenge, “Harpocras bids you come.”
“Harpocras?” she whispered. He had no reason to see her, unless he acted on some order from Marcus Julianus. She rose up, fearful, expectant.
“Go quickly, and follow the passage that leads past the latrina,” the boy said crisply. “When you can see the line of guards across the entranceway, halt there. Harpocras will be among them, standing even with the equestrian statue of Domitian. Wait in the shadows opposite the armory door and keep an eye on him. If you see him make this sign”—he rubbed an ear with two fingers of his left hand—“return to your place at once.”
The boy wheeled about, vanishing among a rank of swift-striding slaves bearing platters of spicy pork sausages and lamb shanks roasted in honey.
“If Acco sees I’m gone,” Auriane said to Coniaric, “tell him I got sick from this fool’s feast and ran to the latrina.”
As Auriane crossed the flower-decked hall, she was scarcely aware of the odd juxtapositions of celebration and anguish on every hand. At one table a net-fighter and a veteran Samnite swordsman toasted each other with loud, comradely belligerence; at the same board was a novice stricken with grief, surrounded by a tearful family come to bid him farewell. She passed a man laboring over a hasty will, anxious that a relative or friend should retrieve his meager possessions after he met his fate. At his feet was a man entwined with one of the prostitutes, their cursory lovemaking covered only by the darkness. Then she entered the vaulted passage that ran round the whole square of the massive school, and halted when she smelled the insistent stench of the latrina. There she saw Harpocras with the guards, fifty paces off; he gave her the barest nod. Visiting citizens were streaming in between the double cordon of guards; beyond was the soaring side of the Colosseum and a small patch of ultramarine sky. Carters’ curses echoed down the Stygian canyons that were the city’s streets. From everywhere came the creak of relentlessly turning wheels as carts crawled into the city with foodstuffs and supplies. This strange city was more alive by night than by day, she observed; in darkness it replenished itself. She moved into the well of shadow opposite the armory door, feeling hollow and cold before the vast indifference of this world.
Two sure hands seized her from behind and turned her around.
“Marcus?” she whispered, facing a tall man in a hooded cloak. Within, she saw eyes that burned too brightly, revealing feelings ruthlessly reined in.
“Yes, it is I,” came a reassuring voice.
She held to him for long moments, languishing in rich, warm silence. The comfort she took from him dismayed her, for it was a reminder of how comfortless she was at most times, and she did not want to know it.
“Listen to me,” he said, his cheek still fervently pressed to hers. “It’s madness for me to be here, but I’ve been given more vile news. Auriane, you must give this up! They conspire against you. You cannot win.”
She listened tensely, body braced to object. He looked swiftly round once to see if they were watched, then went on.
“I have here a poison compound. It induces vomiting and will make you ill for a day and a half—long enough for you to escape the morrow. No physician will be certain of the cause of your sudden sickness. Take it now, with this meal, and if fortune is with us, the school’s physicians will conclude it’s the unaccustomed richness of the food given you this night.” He pressed a terra-cotta pot into her hand. “Take it and live!”
“Marcus, no. I still am bound—”
“You must. Aristos’ ruffians mean to tamper with your equipment. They’ll see you dead before you ever get near him. Erato cannot control them very well—Aristos has too many confederates among Palace officials. Do this for now, and I’ll have another escape plan readied before you’re made to fight again.”
Auriane broke her gaze away once to look at Harpocras. He still stood unmoving.
“Marcus, I cannot be saved. You must let the Fates have their will of me, and trust this thing to my wits. Be at rest. There is nothing god or man can do.” She put the poison back into his hand and said hoarsely, “Do not think I am not grateful!” She looked away, eyes moist with suffering.
He caught up her hand and cradled it in his own. “It is fiendish how clever the gods are at putting us into the very circumstances most impossible for us. I do not know what to do with a person who spurns all aid. You’ve managed to render me more helpless than I’ve ever felt.”
He turned her face to his and said with resignation, “If you will not do this thing, then guard well your life. Erato means to let you select your own sword right before your time. You’ll go into the armory yourself. After that, do not take your eyes off your sword, not even for a moment. The bearers will be walking before you as you enter, so this should not be difficult. Not even for the time it takes to take a breath, do you understand? Exchanging a sword is an old, tried trick, and they are very good at it. And I do not have to tell you that if your sword breaks in your hand, that’s just your foul luck. You’ll get no pity from the crowd, and you’ll be given no quarter by your opponent.”
Numbly she nodded, ensnared in
his look—so like her own—of a proud creature determined not to be too hurt by the world. In spite of his words she felt slightly drugged by the sound of his voice; it gathered her up and securely held her.
“Erato claims you’re astonishingly skilled. I am not much surprised, you are ever a source of wonderment. You’ve a good chance, I believe, if you’re kept safe from treachery. Now, when you stand before the Emperor’s box, do not look at me. Domitian is strangely jealous of all that I love. And do not look at the Emperor—don’t provoke him in any way. Try to look overwhelmed and…chastened, if you have it in you.” He smiled, softly stroking her cheek. “I have trouble imagining that look on your face. But you must do it.”
“I know his nature well. Have no fear, I will not provoke him.”
“Auriane! This could be the last time we look upon one another.”
“I will not die, Marcus.”
“It is uncanny…. When you speak those words, I believe them. I wish I could hold to this. But for me, belief is such a fragile thing…. It does not survive dusk, much less the long night.”
“It is because your people keep your gods locked up in stone houses,” she said, with the beginnings of a smile. “If you allowed them out among the people once in a while—”
But he drew her to him and cut her words short with a disconsolate kiss, finding himself suddenly overcome; as he held her, he marveled that her body had that same curious mixture of vulnerability and strength, of softness and firmness, as did her whole nature.
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