“So, how’s it been? Transcended this mortal existence yet?” the old man said when he appeared some time later, tugging his cloak tight around his shoulders.
Dante closed the book and looked up. “Who wrote the Cycle?”
“Many people,” Cally said, fixing him with a look. “The first part was assembled, according to the few scholars who’ve done credible research on the time, in something like a half dozen sources over a span of sixty-odd years. The second part is actually much older. Some of them go back as far as we have records. A Gaskan scholar named Nettigen once claimed to have found a tablet in the ice north of Narashtovik with an Arawn story dated at 9,000 years ago by its description of the locations of the stars.”
“No one was alive back then!”
“How do you know that? Were you there?”
“No doubt you were.” Dante cocked his head. “If it’s got so many authors, how do we know we can trust it?”
“It’s not like it’s the word of the gods themselves,” Cally scoffed. He tugged his fingers through his beard. “I think the many authors are a stroke of its genius. They’re all collected under the umbrella of authority that is the Cycle, yet it’s possible, if you read closely, to read the writings of men with distinctly opposed states of mind. Who’s right, then? Neither? Both? Maybe the answer lies not in the words of the men but in what emerges from their implied dialogue.” He stuck out his lower lip, conceding. “Or maybe one of them is just wrong. This is dangerous, in a sense, since his inclusion in the Cycle would seem to make his words infallible, yet a learned man will know they’re clearly false. Is this intentional on the part of whoever finalized its structure? Is it a deliberate maze meant to guide us not so much to a certain set of facts as to an enlightened flexibility of mind? Well? Is it?”
Dante started. “I didn’t realize those questions were anything but rhetorical.”
“They weren’t, but let’s pretend.”
“We can’t know the answers to any of your questions without digging up the authors and shouting interrogatives at their bones,” Dante said, not entirely meaning to make fun with his aping of Cally’s mode of speech.
“But—”
“Yeah, yeah, that doesn’t mean they’re not worth asking. But it does mean there’s no way to know for sure. Besides, wouldn’t a much simpler explanation be there was no plan, they just scooped up all the legends and poured them between two covers?”
“I suppose,” Cally said. He huffed. “It’s possible they didn’t write the Cycle with the express purpose of refining our mode of thought. But I don’t see how else we’re supposed to reconcile all the disconnects.”
“I don’t know about that. When I read the stories of Jack Hand, I see justice in his vengeance. I admire his courage, that he can just seize things and reorder them how he sees right. Isn’t that a truth that’s always true? It’s the story of every age, isn’t it?”
“Ah. The time-honored absolutism of youth.”
“I’m young, so that means I’m wrong?”
“No,” Cally said. He sighed. “Age muddles things, that’s all. You’ll see what I mean if you thwart all decency and live another couple decades.”
“Ah,” Dante said. “The time-honored condescension of age.”
“Mind yourself,” the old man warned, but his voice was warm. “I suppose you’d even try to make sense of all those numbers the Cycle is so fond of repeating. Anyway. I didn’t come here for sophistry. Frankly, it bores me.” He scratched his ear, face clouded with thought. “What’s the name of your reprobate friend?”
Dante looked up. “Blays.”
“I’ve found a way to contact him.”
“When can I see him?”
“You can’t,” Cally said, silencing him with a look. “What I can do is pass him a message.”
“Tell him I’m coming,” Dante said, pressing his hands together. “Tell him not to worry. I won’t let them get away with it.”
Cally smiled beneath the thatch of his beard. “That’ll show em.”
“What? Then tell him to start figuring out how he’s going to repay me. Is that better?”
“Much.” Cally yawned and went for the door.
“That’s it? Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me things?”
“You’ve already got too much to digest and not enough time to do it in. Practice. Think on what you’ve learned. Read the damn book. I’ve got better things to do than mope around a graveyard like a widow pining for her husband’s yard.”
“Fine.” Dante turned away. “Go lecture at someone else for a while.”
“Choke on your ingratitude,” Cally spat. He flipped his hands. “Bah.”
Wind gusted through the open door. Dante watched him go, then turned his eyes to the walls, to the drawers full of corpses. Like Jack Hand and the bones of the rats in his prison. He’d been one man against a keep full of defenders—and he’d taken it and made it his.
When Dante’d first settled into the tomb he’d found other things dead than men: the leathery bodies and dry skeletons of rats and rabbits that had found their way in but not out, pigeons and crows that had taken shelter from the weather and battered themselves dead at the cracks of daylight in the walls. Seven or eight tidy piles of bones. Maybe the Cycle was a past meant to be borrowed by the ages to come after. Was that why its authors had written it, however many hundreds of years ago? To let later men stand on their shoulders? To preserve themselves through the actions of people they could never hope to meet?
Something rustled in the shadows of the vault. He doubted that, whoever’d written the book, whatever they’d had in mind, they could have seen what he had planned. He hoped it would be enough.
7
A holy day, a joyous day, the midpoint between autumnal equinox and winter solstice when Lia left the land and Mennok reluctantly took up its reign. The day, by coincidence, of the execution.
Dante watched the sun spark up over the roofs of the east. He’d loved this day when he was younger. The night before was Falmac’s Eve, the Night of Fire, the night Carvahal flew down from exile to take arms against white-bearded Taim who’d thrown him out for bringing the fire to man; the night when head-high stacks of wood were burnt in the squares and boys wore masks and “robbed” men of apples and tin pennies in the street, “slaying” any man who bore a beard. The theater dressed in yellows and reds and bright-burning gems and played out Carvahal’s original betrayal, how he lit a torch from the Millstar of the northern heavens and descended with it from the skies to the earth. Taim saw the blaze of its fall and gathered his children and his children’s children to destroy whoever’d defied him, but Carvahal brought the torch to Eric the Draconat, he who ate dragons’ hearts, and Eric climbed the ladder of the heavens to duel winged, scale-backed Daris and so win his northern army to face the forces of Taim. They met on the snowfields of the north and the snow churned and boiled under the heat of their blood. There Taim slew Daris, and confusion shouted across the land. Eric’s rebellion of men and the half-gods and Daris’ drakes were smashed, but in the final moment when Eric struck deep at Taim’s heart with Anzode—the sword tempered in the hearts of 108 dragons—he actually spilled the god’s blood upon the ground, forcing the father of the skies to retreat to his seat in their heights.
Carvahal fled then too, bearing Eric’s unconscious body to the hole in the north sky where Mallius’ bow had punctured it long ago, and every year on Falmac’s Eve Carvahal seduced the blackbirds of Mennok to bear him down to earth and drag the punishing fires of Barrod’s sun away so he could wreak his rebellion by cover of dark and the earth could rest and heal. The next morning the farmers set down their scythes and plows and flails and drank to the cycle of the gods. They toasted Lia for her faithful bounty, praised Simm for making their wheat and oats and barley grow tall, thanked Barrod for the life of his yellow rays; they gave a cry for Carvahal’s daring that would keep them warm through the winter, for the saturnine locking of the time of Mennok
that would make the return of the gods of light and life all the sweeter. Many of them ended up passed out before the sun had gone down. Dante thought he could already hear the earliest revelers singing out in the city. The watchmen would partake too, he knew. There would be few better days for the confusion he meant to sow.
“All set?” Cally said when he showed up twenty minutes later.
“Yes.”
“Good. Overconfidence is a strong ally. People are always surprised when you try to do things you can’t.” He started at the soft skitterings in the dark corners of the tomb, then snorted. “You’ve been reading too much.”
Dante flushed despite the cold. “I haven’t had anyone around to teach me different.”
“It’ll probably make them think they’re crazy. That should be fun.” Cally wiped his nose. His ears and cheeks were pink. “Auspicious day.”
“Does the nether run stronger on Falmac’s Day?”
“Don’t be daft,” Cally said, rolling his eyes. “As if the forces of nature change because a kingdom throws a party.”
“I just thought—”
“Ridiculous.”
“I walked out to their tree a couple days ago,” Dante said after some silence. “It’s in a clearing south of town. Not much in the way of cover.”
“I’m sure there’ll be plenty of meatshields,” Cally shrugged.
“When do you think we should leave?”
“Sometime before they hang him, I imagine.”
Dante pursed his lips. “I want to be there an hour early. I haven’t exactly been able to find out how many guards they’ll have, or how they’ll bring him in. I won’t know what I’m doing till I see that.”
“Fine.”
“Are you coming with me?” Dante said, heart jumping up a tick.
“I’ll be there,” Cally allowed after a moment of hemming. “You realize I can’t just wave my hand and bring peace unto the world.”
“Why not? What can they do to you? We can be so quick they won’t know what’s going on.”
“I haven’t lived as long as I have,” the old man said, tossing back his chin, “through vulgar displays of power.”
Dante glared at him through the dawn. “Why have it if you won’t use it? What can you possibly be afraid of?”
“There’s a difference between fear and prudence. And even if there isn’t,” Cally said, sticking his finger at Dante, “fear’s a good thing to have. You might live longer if you had more.”
“Sounds like a pretty crummy life to me.” Cally looked away from him, like the matter were too stupid to discuss. Dante folded his arms. “Just do what you can, then. I won’t be holding back.”
“That’s the spirit.” The old man rubbed his jaw. “It’s probably best if you hone your plans under the assumption I’ll give no help at all. That way if I drop dead between then and now you won’t be left in the lurch.”
They killed time speaking of the meaning of the figures in the Cycle and then about where they might meet when the two boys escaped. Cally suggested running (or riding, if circumstances allowed stealing a horse) into the southern woods, saying he could find Dante easily enough; he’d found him in the first place, hadn’t he? The old man bitched for a while about the weather, made threats about sailing for the islands of the south. They watched the sun shed clouds and fog, resolving from red to orange to yellow, and then Cally once more took his leave.
Dante couldn’t quite understand how the day had come so quickly when the last week had dragged like a broken leg. He paced away the morning in the tomb, trying a couple times to sit down and meditate on the nether, but every time he tried he’d get five seconds of clear thought followed by five minutes of noodly worries about what if the watch carried bows which they probably would and what if the innkeep was there and recognized him before he made his move and what if he made it there and they were just too fast and turned Blays off before Dante could wade his way through. What would Cally tell him? Some paradox about allowing his worries but rising with them like an eagle on a storm. In other words, something useless under any practical circumstances.
He took up the pen and ink he used to make his notes on the Cycle (though never within the book itself) and sat down in that late autumn daylight that always looked to him like the pure light of nostalgia: fuzzy, faintly yellow, hardly warm but not quite cold. He didn’t care if no one would ever find his letter, or if it was only read when they tore down this tomb to build something living people could use. He didn’t care if it had as little impact as if he’d written it in water, he just wanted something to leave behind. He had no kids, no lands, no books written by or about him, and if he failed his only notable friend would be every bit as dead. He spent an hour alternately scribbling on and shredding up his dwindling supply of paper. He tried to elevate his speech with the grand aphorisms of the men in plays, but that just sounded dumb. He tried to match the happy irony of the Cycle, but it sounded hollow. He tried to tell his story, at least the part where Blays had been unfairly condemned, but that ended up sounding whiny. He should have thought about this yesterday, let himself sleep on it. Now it was too late.
He listened to the crows jabbering at each other and found them no help. The sporadic bells and shouts from the city weren’t any better. He listened to the light wind whistling in the bare branches. No dice.
At last, exasperated with himself, doublet damp under the arms, worn down by the jitters he’d had since waking, he set his pen going:
If this note is found, it will mean my uncertain fate has been clarified, and to my detriment. I leave now to fight. I’d like to think the cause is just, but don’t all men do what they think right? Let’s leave the issue for once. Know only I laid my life at the door of a cause I felt worth it. I hope, if there is some final judge of these things, he will look on me with more mercy than he’s shown so far.
He signed his name and closed his eyes a while. At least it was less foolish than his other tries. He tucked it under an urn. Who knew, maybe he’d be able to come back and rip it up before anyone could see it. If not, he’d have far more pressing worries than what some idiot thought of his final words.
The bells of Whetton’s many temples and pair of proper cathedrals tolled across the damp air. Two hours till that time. The walk to the Crooked Tree wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. He meant to arrive an hour early, size things up. He figured the minimal chance of being recognized in that span would be outweighed by having the time to conceive a more detailed plan than “show up and start killing everyone.”
Where was Blays? Still clapped in his cell? On his way? Eating his final bread? Swearing at everyone within range? He’d forgotten to ask Cally whether he’d passed along his message, and now that too was too late. At once he felt himself on the brink of tears. Deeper than the chance he might never speak to Blays again, he felt ruptured by the knowledge that even if they survived this day, one would come when they didn’t. Dante was sixteen years old. He quite possibly wouldn’t live to twice that. At the outside, he had four times as long to go. What he’d lived so far felt like no more than a blink. He could barely remember anything beyond the last three years. Was that all life was? A brief bubble of memory that slid through the years until the sudden stop? If Blays died and he didn’t, would he still think of Blays when he was twenty? Thirty? If he died and Blays didn’t and Blays forgot him, would Dante then be gone for all time?
Dante opened the Cycle of Arawn and flipped through from beginning to end. After about 600 pages his blood went cold. He stopped, pawed back through the pages one at a time. Narashtovik. The final third was written entirely in the dead language of Narashtovik. How had he missed that? How had he dragged it around for a month without knowing he had no way of reading over 250 pages of it? He’d glanced at the last page or two before, but he’d assumed they were an appendix or a glossary, and since he couldn’t read any of it he’d just put it out of mind. Foreign words always drove him mad. Besides, he’d been a little
preoccupied with running for his life to spare much curiosity for what the next section would hold. This was, in no small terms, a disaster.
In all of Bressel he’d found no works that would offer any significant inroads into deciphering the dead language. Were there any translations of the Cycle? Supposedly the fires of the books they’d burnt in the Third Scour rivaled the rising sun—well, that’s what the priests of Taim and Gashen and all the others said, and he’d certainly never seen any evidence to prove them wrong. Most of the references he’d found to the old texts came in the form of warnings that owning them would result in your beheading, or after the initial post-Scour excitement had wound down, behanding. The Cycle wasn’t strictly linear, which muddied the matter of the importance of the part he wouldn’t be able to read, but surely there was something of value in the last hundreds of pages. Nobody would just throw together a pile of nonsense and build a faith around it. Cally would have something to help him, perhaps. At least point him in the right direction.
The half-hour bell rang out and he remembered this was one more worry he could delay for now. Dante laughed nervously, feeling light as a gnat. Perhaps he should risk his life every day.
Departing places without leaving anything behind was getting to be a habit. He double-checked the nooks and corners, then cycled down the list. The book in his bag on his back. His sword at his belt under his cloak. A knife on his other side. Bread and meat and waterskin in his bag along with the couple of candles and the tools of writing. Torchstone in his pocket, of course, and a few other necessities, his silver and flint and needles and salt and a couple neat rocks and those small objects he’d found in the tomb. Why was everyone else so eager to tie themselves down with things? They were idiots, that was why. A man should own no more than he can carry.
Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Page 70
