by E. J. Godwin
He noticed the direction of her glance, then bowed his head. “Of course. Forgive me for implying otherwise.”
“One of the Underseers will meet with you soon to make your transition as smooth as possible,” she said. “You are an Adaian now, and I wish you well, whatever you think of me. You may go.”
♦
There was comfort in the long, gloomy passage after the unforgiving brilliance of Larientur. Telai took Caleb’s arm, while Warren, oblivious to the watershed moment his father had survived, skipped along at his side.
“Are you free for the rest of the day?” Caleb asked.
Her face brightened. “I think I can manage it. In fact, there’s a play at the theater this evening. You might enjoy the change of pace.”
“Sounds wonderful. Besides, I could use the company.”
Telai’s expression sobered a little at the flat tone of his voice. “One of the judges told me it was difficult for you.”
“I can’t deny that. She’s a formidable woman.”
The challenging glint he had seen earlier flashed in her eyes again. “And you’re not the first man to discover that.”
5
The Voiceless Dance
We speak, we listen, we sing.
Yet the greatest truths often come to us in silence.
- Kinlené, 15th Overseer of Ada
BY THE TIME Telai returned to escort her guests to the play, shadows were deepening in the streets. Her steps were light and her heart untroubled; her obligations as teacher were over, and she was a Loremaster again.
Caleb Stenger and Warren were waiting outside, sitting beneath the trees on a bench across the street from the inn. “Beautiful evening,” said her former student, rising at her approach.
“Almost makes me wish the play was another night,” she replied. “Nothing better than a summer night’s walk.”
He shrugged. “Plenty of time afterward.”
“That depends. Eké gets cranky if I’m late for supper.”
“Eké?”
“My cook,” she answered.
He chuckled. “Well if that happens, I’ll take the blame.”
“You won’t have to. I told her to set three places at the table.”
She fought down a grin as he stood blinking at her. “I’m honored,” he mumbled at last.
They started up the main thoroughfare, north toward Wsaytchen. The evening breeze, rich with the scent of flowers and the deep green of early summer, mingled with the voices of folk wending their way through the park or along the road. Two teenagers sat in the shadows beneath the trees, their lips locked and their hands busy; Caleb Stenger threw Telai a glance, blushing.
A few awkward minutes passed before he broke the silence. “Just how many servants do you have?”
“Two. I’m not some strutting peacock, you know.”
He scrunched his face in a knot. “There I go again. I’m sorry. It’s going to take me a while to learn the subtleties of your culture. Yesterday the cook at the inn asked me how I liked my breakfast, and I did this.” He held his fist out, thumb extended upward. Telai’s jaw dropped. “He nearly punched me in the nose,” he added. “Dare I ask what it means?”
She squirmed a little. “Not in front of Warren.” The boy perked up at his name; Telai smiled and clasped his hand.
“But Telai—he doesn’t know your language.”
She sighed. “Remember, you asked! Your gesture was a statement about the length of his … um … proudest monument.”
“Oops. I’m building quite the reputation, aren’t I?”
They turned left at Wsaytchen and up the High Loop, a well-paved street that ran along the perimeter of the city opposite the dam. The theater, its polished marble walls and slanting, silver-beamed roof gleaming in the last rays of the sun, stood a few blocks beyond the palace gardens. The bronze likeness of a woman towered on the roof of the canopy over the doors, dressed in robes and holding forth a shallow bowl filled with flames wavering in the breeze.
Several people had gathered about the entrance. Among them were Féitseg, the Fifth Underseer, who always managed to find a kind word no matter who the recipient; Tenra, a heavy, intimidating woman nearly as fiery and stubborn as the Overseer; and Werten, the Ninth Underseer, a hesitant young man from Telené still finding his way among the political elite.
Telai kept a firm grip on Warren’s hand as she led them through the crowd. Well-dressed attendants at the doors handed out tightly-rolled scrolls of parchment. She politely refused, but nodded at Caleb Stenger to accept one.
“This is what the audience chants during the performance. I’ll explain once we get settled.”
She threaded a path through the chattering crowd in the foyer and down the center aisle of the theater. Rows and rows of cushioned benches faced a lantern-lit stage in a wide arc. The beamed ceiling slanted upward from the foyer until it peaked high over the stage, with both floor and walls angling outward in the same fashion, all decorated with painted murals trimmed in silver. The illusion of depth was so effective that it often caught newcomers unawares; Warren, gaping as usual, stumbled over his feet and almost dragged Telai to the floor.
“Warren!” his father hissed, adding a few words in his native tongue. Telai frowned, and not because of his tone. The sound of his strange language always unsettled her, like a solitary voice out of tune with the rest of the chorus.
They sat near the end of a row fairly close to the stage. “Here, Warren, sit between us,” said Telai, patting the cushion at her side. She smirked at the flash of disappointment in his father’s face.
Caleb Stenger undid the scroll, his brow furrowing as he scanned it. “Telai—I can’t read this. It’s in Urmanayan.”
“Don’t worry, no one will notice. I thought you might like it for a souvenir.”
“The chanting is part of the play?”
“More like a recognition of it,” she answered. “The dancers are members of the Olahurali, which means silent singers in the old tongue. They act out historical events using only acrobatics and costumes. The audience chants lines at certain points to honor both the performers and the ancestors they represent.”
Most of the crowd had found their seats by now. The attendants walked the perimeter, dousing the lanterns along the walls, and the hubbub of voices faded.
“What historical event will they be performing?” Caleb Stenger asked.
A few heads turned; Telai leaned in to whisper. “The tale of our ancestors, the oldest we know. It opens with Urman’s journey across the sea and ends with the victory of Grondolos over Heradnora.”
“You’ve given away the ending,” he whispered back, grinning.
She wasn’t about to surrender the advantage in their little game of revenge. “Well, you’re the only one here who doesn’t know it.”
“Really? So much for your intuitive powers,” he shot back, and pointed at Warren’s head. She wrinkled her nose in a playful sneer.
A quick hush fell. A man dressed in black, close-fitting shirt and breeches walked out onto the stage. He stood teetering on the forward edge, arms folded. Then he shot his hands high and wide, revealing a starred symbol on his chest with a gold rune at its center. Telai chanted as one with the audience, her voice flowing from years of practice:
Adru a yentré at kwali homel. Otu kali fronyé kwali hegré!
A thrill ran down her spine—the same rush of excitement she experienced whenever she found some ancient artifact or faded document. She resisted the temptation to whisper the translation to her guest: Reveal the past to your descendants. Let us honor your sacrifice. Why was his understanding so important to her? Why had she been so adamant about showing him La’hegré, the Adan symbol of sacrifice? It was a little unfair to expect him to appreciate its significance in so short a time. Yet here she was, parading the same theme in front of him again.
A deep blue line billowed and flowed out of the shadows to the left: robed dancers painted from head to toe, flinging their l
ong white hair out and back like the wind-torn crests of a tumultuous sea. Telai studied her guest out of the corner of her eye and smiled at the inevitable awe of recognition. Another chant arose from the audience, words she knew he couldn’t understand. Yet he no longer seemed to care.
His son was equally spellbound, squatting on the bench and craning his neck for a better view. As the blue waves flowed across the stage another group appeared, each dancer stacked upon the other or dangling precariously out at various angles. They wore several different colors, from brown and gold near the bottom to gleaming white at the top. A man with wild red hair and beard stood forward, his arm extended to point the way across the sea.
Warren bounced on his heels. “Boat!”
Telai stared at the child, then at his father. Caleb Stenger was too mesmerized to notice that his son had spoken in Adan—to her knowledge for the very first time on his own. Warren repeated the word, nearly shouting in his enthusiasm; Telai leaned in, covered her mouth with her hand, and he nodded.
The ship sailed over the waves until it rammed into a wall of dancers, all clothed in gray and curled up like rocks stacked upon one another. Hull and sails alike collapsed, and arms thrashed through the blue—not wreckage but actors dressed as peasants, swimming for their lives. They climbed onto the shore and sat recovering, some with chests heaving in exhaustion, others mourning over loved ones twisted among the rocks.
Several more scenes followed, but Warren gradually lost interest and slumped in his seat, yawning and rubbing his eyes. After a quick glance at his father, Telai draped an arm over the boy’s shoulders and let him snuggle against her. He drooped down inch by inch, until he finally wriggled around and rested his head on her lap. She lost all interest in the play, captured by the blissful vision of a sleeping child. Warren was such an affectionate boy, always ready with a smile or a hug. Yet something about him went deeper—the same, unfathomable bond she had sensed that fateful day on the plains of central Ada.
Her gift of clairvoyance worked best when in prolonged physical contact; now he lay sleeping warm and content on her lap. Telai longed to break through his wall of silence. A part of her resisted this impulse, a faint note of discord or warning; but the opportunity was too precious to let slip by.
She closed her eyes. The subtle sounds of the audience faded, leaving no trace beyond the occasional chant, dull and distant in her ears. Blurry, half-formed memories flashed through her mind, dreamlike glimpses of an existence far removed from anything she had ever seen or imagined. Crowds walked by in cheerless, monochromatic clothing: a thousand, ten thousand, a sea of humanity. Strange shapes roamed the sky, passing between towering monoliths of glass and metal gleaming harshly in the sun. Other visions came and went, too quickly for her to latch on to, much less understand. Yet the last one lingered as a ghostly afterimage: Warren lying across a padded table wearing a strange, helmet-like device affixed to his head.
A chill ran through her veins, mingled with pity. Caleb Stenger had told her about his home, and how it lay beyond the stars, and she had never quite understood it. Now she did. No ship of the sea would ever reach the land of his birth, an existence bereft of all warmth and compassion except for the bond he shared with his son.
Telai emerged from her trance in time for the closing scene: hordes of blood-stained soldiers struggling to reach Heradnora as she struck them down a score at a time. A young man ran forward, grappled with her as if wresting something away from her hands, then leaped up with fists raised in victory as Heradnora collapsed in a heap.
“Is that Grondolos?” Caleb Stenger whispered, leaning in, and she nodded. Then he noticed Warren sleeping on her lap.
His eyes locked onto hers, an intense longing she had never seen in him before. It stripped away all her defenses. She blushed and faced the stage again, feeling much more exposed than when she stood shirtless on Sonién for all to see.
The dancers lifted their hero onto their shoulders, and marched in triumph into the shadows to the right. The man who first appeared emerged with his fists held high, just as Grondolos had done. The audience rose to a stand. Telai remained seated, unwilling to wake the child. Yet she joined in the final chant, her voice ringing as one with the others:
Feru a yentré gidas ksatré kya!
The attendants rekindled the lamps along the wall, and the crowd filtered out of their seats. Caleb Stenger reached over to jiggle his son awake, and Warren sat blinking in the light before struggling to his feet.
Telai followed, only to drop to her seat again with a groan. Her leg had fallen asleep. She rubbed her thighs, then lifted a hand at a dark blotch on her trousers.
Caleb Stenger wiped the lingering drool from Warren’s mouth. “Twice in one day,” he said, winking at her.
6
Firefly
Too often are we blind to the path of contentment;
too often do we let the promise of our lives slip away.
- from Besir Orand’iteé
CALEB FOLLOWED, Warren at his side, as Telai led the way at a relaxed pace along the cobblestone streets. The fine summer evening had already erased the lingering effects of his Judgment, and now the prospect of what was sure to be a delightful meal with an equally delightful hostess consumed his every thought.
After a few confusing turns and branching side streets they reached a long, single-story building of reddish stone and tall windows on the left, which Telai identified as Gerentesk. She lived two houses farther on, an exquisitely crafted place, with a second-story balcony overshadowed by towering oaks.
They followed Telai up the short stone path to the porch, where she opened the engraved wooden doors without preamble. Lamps hanging by fine silver chains softly illuminated the small foyer beyond.
“I need to take care of something,” she said, and gestured toward the middle of three archways. “You can wait in the atrium if you like.” She disappeared through the arch to the left.
Caleb stepped into the large, square room dominating the center of the house, drawn by his curiosity. Warren followed, scanning the decor. A balcony similar to the one outside ran along the perimeter; banners, rich with the scenes of what he assumed were historical events, hung from a railing engraved with ancient verse. Larger versions of the lamps in the foyer warmed the paneled walls.
Such obvious evidence of Telai’s prestige was starting to bewilder him when he heard the approach of soft footsteps.
She stood near the archway wearing a short-sleeved, aquamarine gown, and a pale emerald on a silver necklace. He gaped at her like a schoolboy, spellbound by her transformation from cultural guide to stunning beauty. Why she hadn’t captured another man’s heart by now was beyond his comprehension.
“Thank you for your company, Caleb Stenger and Warren,” she said, as if greeting them for the first time.
Her polite manner was no less charming than her beauty, and Caleb readily assumed the role of honored guest. “Pleased to be here. I must say you look—well, your dress—um,” he stammered, his face burning. “Anyway, it’s pretty,” he finally managed.
Telai beamed, and stepped forward to offer Warren her hand. “I’ve got something for you. Interested?”
The boy nodded eagerly, and Telai led him over to a long, narrow table against the left-hand wall. Caleb followed, wondering how Warren could possibly understand her, until the artifacts on the table caught his interest. There was an old, tattered book, an ancient dagger with half the jewels missing from its hilt, and what looked remarkably like an astrolabe he had once seen in a museum. Telai ignored all these and led Warren to the center, where a little wooden box sat alone as if occupying a place of honor.
She undid the metal clasp, opened the box, and lifted out a small ivory carving on a plaited leather necklace. Facing Warren, she draped it over his head and around his neck. Warren turned it over in his hands for a moment, then showed the necklace to his father.
Caleb recognized it at once: its back arching in a slow curve, a wide flute
d tail ready to churn the waves with its fury, and a long, upside-down feral grin running nearly all the way to its tiny flippers and eyes. It was almost identical to the sculpture of a bowhead whale Karla had once received from her Inuit grandmother, the last surviving remnant of a forgotten way of life. Caleb still remembered the day at his father’s house when he had opened the door to see a tousled, eleven-year-old girl out of breath and bursting with pride. Now she wore that little whale in eternal darkness, countless stars away on a planet he would never see again.
“Thank her, Warren,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. The boy gave her a quick hug. “Where did you get this?” Caleb asked.
“It’s one of several copied down through the years from the original. Legend says it was worn by a close friend of Urman as he led his people across the sea.”
“A fitting gift, thank you.”
An elderly woman entered to announce the meal was ready. They followed her back to the foyer, and through the right-hand arch into a smaller room, where a round table laden with food occupied the center. Though Caleb needed no further evidence of how rich the culture was in Ekendoré, he never expected anything like this: young pheasants roasted a golden brown, baked apples stuffed with walnuts, and a pale, exquisitely perfumed raspberry wine that without the meal would have gone straight to his head. Warren ignored most of his food, and kept sneaking delicate pastries onto his plate, but Telai’s glance of delight eased Caleb’s initial embarrassment.
The little things she did fascinated him—never taking two successive bites of the same thing, holding her glass with the stem between her fingers, even the way her nose wrinkled when she scratched it. He valued the attachment she shared with his son, and not just because it filled some small part of Warren’s longing for his mother. There was little doubt in Caleb’s mind how Warren might take to Telai as a new member of the family; his own feelings were more complicated. But he knew his grief could easily outlast its day and turn into a betrayal all its own, ruining what few years of happiness fate had allowed for his son.
