by Diane Duane
Out in the Waste? Well, it would make sense to put them there, away from casual access, if they’re time-gates. At least the Dragons would think so—they won’t let anyone but Marchwarders near the Eorlhowe Door, and the human Marchwarders won’t go near it themselves for fear of changing the past.
Herewiss sighed. From the time he first heard of the concept, he would have given almost anything to go through a time-door, or just look through one, to find out if things really happened as the histories said they had. Or to see the great days of the past happen again—to see Earn and Héalhra take the Power upon Themselves at Bluepeak, to see the terrible Gnorn come tottering over the mountains and go up in a blaze of the blue Fire as the Lion and Eagle gave Themselves for the destruction of that last menace. Or to see the founding of the Brightwood, or of Prydon city, or Darthis. To watch the last stone being set into the paving of the Great Road, and watch the Oath of Lion and Eagle being sworn for the first time by Earn’s and Héalhra’s grandchildren. Maybe even to see what no man had seen, the Worldwinning, as the Dragons dropped out of the darkness and the Messenger in Her glory drove the Dark away—
I’m getting carried away with this, he told himself severely.
And you’re enjoying it, another part of him answered back.
Well, why not? Dreaming was free. Consider this: how about going back to the day Freelorn’s father died, and finding out where old Hergótha had been hidden? That would certainly make Freelorn happy. True, Freelorn had Súthan now, and that was not exactly a sword without lineage—the princes of Arlen had been carrying it since the time that Ánmod had used it to kill the Coldwyrm lairing in the fords of Arlid. But it was just that, a prince’s sword, and Freelorn was king, if not in name, at least by right. Herewiss didn’t need his underhearing to detect Freelorn’s dissatisfaction with Súthan. Lorn wanted Hergótha, which was the proper sword of the Arlene kings and queens; he lusted after it the way some people lust after others’ bodies and desire to possess them.
Hergótha, though, had gone missing after Ferrant’s death. He had not been wearing it on the day his heart stopped, and it had never been found in the palace. Perhaps he had taken the sword with him past the Door into Starlight, and walked the shore of the final Sea with it slung over his back, the kingliest of the shadows that dwelt there. Or perhaps the Lion had taken it back into His keeping again, possibly to return it to the rightful wielder one day, if one of the Line ever came back to claim the throne. Herewiss doubted that Freelorn would have the patience.
To find Hergótha, bring it back to Freelorn—
This is ridiculous, Herewiss thought. I don’t know for sure that this place has time-doors in it—or any doors, for that matter. And even if it does, there’s no guarantee that I’ll be able to get through them. Or even make them serve my purpose.
Yet he sighed. It was still nice to think about. To look back in time. To see his mother. To see Herelaf—
Or to look forward in time, perhaps, and see how he would finally forge the sword that would work for him… then do it.
Yes. And if those doors look out into other worlds, mightn’t there be one world somewhere much like this one, except that both men and women have the Flame? Or maybe there would be a door into that long-past time before the Catastrophe, when everyone could use the Power—
Dapple stopped abruptly, and Herewiss looked up in confusion. About a hundred yards away, at the foot of a little hill that rose suddenly from the grassland, stood a small building.
It was built of logs stood up on end and bound together. The roof was thatched, and there was one door, and a window on the side that faced him. It wasn’t a house—there was no sign of a garden, or even a cow. A shrine, perhaps?
His curiosity nudged him, and he pulled on Dapple’s
reins and rode up to the place. He dismounted before the open doorway. “Hello—?” he called. No one answered.
There was a wooden plaque fastened next to the door, and though it was weathered, the runes were deeply scratched and easy to read: OF OUR LADY OF LIBERATIONS—USE, CLEAN, BLESS, AND GO SAFELY.
Herewiss stepped in and looked around. The inner walls were plastered, and there were scenes painted on them in a primitive and vigorous style, the colors bright, the figures stylized, stark and clean. In the middle of the room was a rough wooden offering table. Dead leaves and bits of grass were scattered about on the table and floor. Something twittered in irritation, and Herewiss looked up to see a sparrow’s next high in the corner, where the plaster had fallen away and left an opening to the outside.
He smiled at the appropriateness of the place, for there was one aspect of his personality sorely in need of liberation. The few minutes it would take to clean and reconsecrate the shrine wouldn’t be wasted. Besides, if the Goddess were to come to his house when he wasn’t there, and if it were full of leaves and such, She would certainly clean it up.
For a moment he grinned at the image of the Tripartite Lady busy in the Woodward with a broom. But the Goddess had never been known for standing on ceremony. On Her travels through the world She tended to leave home Her Cloak which is the night sky, and the Robe glorious as Moonlight, in favor of plainer and more utilitarian clothes. Even at that most sublime and beautiful of times, when She comes to share Herself in love—as She comes to every man and woman born—even then She rarely appears in any of the forms or manifestations attributed to Her by legend. Once in a lifetime, a person will know the joy of being held in the Goddess’s arms. She comes as just another person, with human quirks and wrinkles; sometimes She comes in the form of someone you know—perhaps even your own loved, by way of an affectionate joke. But She never comes when or where you expect Her. As the proverb says, “The Goddess is as likely to come in the window as through the door.”
Herewiss found a broom in one corner, not much more than a mildewed bunch of birch twigs, and did his best to sweep up the detritus on the floor. As he swept, he looked at the figures painted on the plaster. One wall depicted the Triad in its first form—Maiden, Mother and Wise Woman, Their hands joined to show that They were One: and then underneath that, the Maiden with Her hands full of stars, busy with creation. But her back was turned to the other Two, illustrating the Error. Behind the Three of Them hung the symbol for the great Death, the down-pointing Arrow, and only the Eldest of the Three saw it. Her hand was outstretched to Her younger self, but the Maiden ignored the Eldest and went on creating as if her works would last forever.
In the next panel the Maiden stood in Her sorrow, Her hands covering Her face, as She realized the nature of Her error. She had forgotten about Death…and now that She had spoken the final Word that set the Universe on its way, Death was trapped inside it. This whole Universe would have to run down and die itself before She could make it perfect. The Mother and the Wise Woman stood beside the Maiden, trying to console Her; but for some things there is no consolation.
The following panel showed the Maiden’s solution for Her own grief and guilt. She knew Her other selves in the manner of woman with woman, and became with child. Now She sat on the birthing-stool, and was no more Maiden, but Mother. The children She bore were twin sons, and She suckled Them one at each breast with a smile of maternal joy. The panel below showed the Twins grown already, beautiful young men, Her Lovers, and She stood between Them and They all three embraced one another. Then came the New Love, and the Lovers knew Each Other and found yet another joy. In the painting, Their mouths touched with almost ritual solemnity, even as Their strong arms strained about each other and They strove to be one.
But then the great Death entered in, casting the Shadow over the Lovers, filling Them with jealousy, each desiring to alone know the other Lover to the Mother’s exclusion. The Lovers’ hands went about each other’s throats, and They choked the lives out of each other. The Triad stood above them in sorrow, and together They lifted up the dead, and with Them entered into that Sea of which the Starlight is a faint intimation, therein to be renewed and reborn,
to close the circle and make all things whole again.
The last panel, near the door, showed why the shrine had been built. There was a sorrowing mother with her four dead children in her arms, three little girls and a boy; and the inscription, My Children. The Plague Came in the Night. Having Pronounced, She Sets Free. May I Meet Them on the Shore.
Herewiss stopped there, leaning on the broom, saddened. He thought how it must have been for that poor mother, building this place with her own two hands, most likely, hard by that little hill which probably housed her children’s bodies; painting those scenes, slowly and with care, and trying to find some sense in the deaths of her little ones. Possibly there wasn’t any. But at least she had left something beautiful behind in their memory, and it may have been that having something to do had brought her at least partway through her grief.
He swept the last of the leaves out the door. The sparrow chittered faintly in its nest, and Herewiss looked at it with affection — another mother, and her children, safe and comfortable. The nameless lady who built this place would probably be pleased.
He went out to where Dapple stood grazing, and rummaged around in the left-hand saddlebag until he found what he wanted, his lovers’-cup. Herelaf had made it for him, long ago. It was of white oak, simply carved and stained, with a border of leaves running around the outside just under the lip, and Herewiss’s name scratched under the foot. He remembered watching Herelaf carve it. “When it’s finished,” his brother had said, “take good care of it and it’ll last you a long time—”
It certainly had. Fourteen years. Herelaf had been dead for twelve of them.
Herewiss took a waterbag out of the pannier, and filled the cup with it. Carefully, so as not to spill any, he carried the old brown cup into the shrine, and set it on the altar.
“Mother of Days,” he said softly, looking for the right words, “Mother of Stars—bless the lady who built this place, and her children, whether they’re reborn or not—may she find love again, and may they too. Take care of the people who pass here; keep the Fyrd off them, and the terrors of night, and save them from loneliness. And take care of Freelorn for me, until I get there, and afterwards too.” He paused, swallowed the lump that was filling his throat. The hurt was twelve years gone, it was silly to be still crying about it. “And take care of Herelaf—let him come out of the Sea and find joy—”
He picked up the cup, drank quickly. It was harder to cry with his head tilted back and his eyes squeezed shut. By the time he had drained the cup, he was back in control again.
“—and help me find my Power when I get back home,” he said. “In Your name, Who are our beginnings and our endings—”
He went out of there in a hurry. Dapple had stopped grazing, and was looking at him inquisitively. It had begun to rain. “Let’s go,” Herewiss said. “Freelorn’s waiting.” He undid his rolled-up cloak from the back of his saddle and swung it around him. The rain began in earnest then, pelting down hard. Herewiss made as
if to mount, and to his utter surprise Dapple reared up and danced away from him, whickering.
“What?” he said. “What’s the matter?”
The horse’s eyes were calm, but when Herewiss reached for the reins, Dapple backed away again. “What, then?” said Herewiss. “Am I supposed to stay here?”
Dapple took a step backward and gazed at him.
“Dammitall, when Dareth made your family smart, I wish she’d made you more verbal! All right, let’s see what I can find—”
Herewiss pulled his cloak more tightly around him and slipped the hood over his head, then leaned up against the wall of the shrine and closed his eyes. He tried to put his underhearing out around him like a net. It was a fickle talent, one which often refused to manifest itself when it was needed, and for a moment or so he couldn’t find it at all. He concentrated, and tried to listen—
—tried—
Warmth?
—he listened harder—
Very faint warmth. A banked fire. No, more like a
fire being rained on, going out gradually. The first drops splattering into the flames, and the fire in panic, seeing its own destruction.
What in the world is that? Not a human reading — no one I ever read felt anything like this. It feels so dry, and I can hear the heat—
Fire in the rain. The fire in terror, the flames being beaten down, steam rising—
Somewhere over to the west—
— coming this way—
Herewiss opened his eyes and looked westward. The rain made it difficult to see clearly. It was coming down hard, a silver-white rushing wall, the typical spring cloudburst that seemed to beat the air right into the ground. If there was something out there, it would have to come a lot closer before he would be able to see it.
Fire, dwindling, dying out— Whatever it was, the source of the feeling was coming closer: the image had intruded on Herewiss’s underhearing that time without his having to listen for it—
Herewiss pulled his hood further down over his face and took a few steps into the rain, following the feeling. It wavered, grew stronger. Possibly it was sensing him too. Herewiss squished along for several minutes, shivering as the rain soaked through his cloak.
A shadow loomed suddenly behind the gray rain curtain, and Herewiss slowed down. It was bigger than he was—
(—fire in the rain—)
He went closer to it.
A horse?
It staggered toward him. A horse indeed; but a miserable sickly-looking thing, wobbling along on spindly legs. Its mane and tail were plastered to it, skin scalloped deep between its ribs, drawn drum-tight over its sunken belly. The horse’s eyes bulged out of their sockets, staring horribly. It looked as if it had been starved and abused by a whole town full of people, one after another. It looked ready to die.
Herewiss reached out with his underhearing again, to make certain. He got the same feeling: a fire, going out, almost too tired and weak now to be afraid any more. Steam rising, flames dying—and indeed there was steam wavering about the horse’s hide, as if it had been ridden hard on a cold day.
He went over to the poor stumbling thing, took its head and stopped it. It regarded him dully from glazed eyes, taking a long time to realize what he was. And a feeling stirred in his head. The horse was bespeaking him.
(Help…) it said. (Dry…)
It collapsed to its knees.
Herewiss was utterly amazed. No one had ever bespoken him but his mother, who had had the talent as a result of her training in the Fire; they had used it so commonly between them while she was alive that some of his more remote relatives in the Ward used to accuse him of disliking her, since when together they rarely spoke aloud. But after her death he had hardly ever used the talent again. There were no others in the Wood who had it, not even Herelaf; and after numerous disagreements with the Wardresses of the Forest Altars, Herewiss had little to say to them.
But a horse?
Then again, something in a horse’s shape could very well have the bespeaking ability. Rodmistresses sometimes took beast-shapes. If that was the case, though, why the distress—and why that strange underheard reading like none he had ever experienced?
(Dry!) the horse-thing said again, more weakly.
Herewiss bent over and grabbed the horse by the nose. Had it been in any better shape, it would certainly have bitten him. But now as he pulled at it the horse only moaned pitifully and struggled to its feet again. Herewiss pulled it, step by trembling step, back toward the shrine.
(It hurts,) the creature said, bespeaking him piteously. (It hurts! )
“I know. Come on.”
This close to it, touching it, Herewiss’s underhearing was coming much more fiercely alive. He could feel the creature’s terror as if it were his own, and moreover he could feel its agony, for with every drop of rain that touched it the horse was seared as if by hot iron. Abruptly it collapsed in front of him, and then screamed, both out loud and within, trying to flinch a
way from the wet ground on which it had fallen.
Herewiss was shaken to the heart by the sound of its terror. I can’t carry it or drag it— It screamed again, thrashing helplessly on the ground.
Oh, damn, damn, dammit to Darkness! Herewiss thought. He bent down, put his arms around the barrel of its ribs just behind the forelegs, and began to pull. It was terribly heavy, but nowhere near as heavy as a real horse would have been, even one as emaciated as this creature seemed to be. It was wheezing with pain as he got its forequarters just clear of the wet grass and dragged it along.
Herewiss wanted desperately to drop the horse, just for a moment’s rest, but he was also deadly afraid of hearing that terrible lost scream again. He kept pulling, pulling, cast a look over his shoulder. The shrine was a dark shadow through the rain, not too far away. And another shadow was approaching with a sound of wet squishing footfalls. Dapple came up through the rain, looked at Herewiss, and then turned sideways to him, facing him with the saddlebag in which the rope was coiled.
“Thanks!” Herewiss said, reaching up with one arm to get the rope out. He uncoiled it, wound a bight around the strange horse’s chest behind the legs, knotted it, and tied the other end to Dapple’s saddlehorn. Dapple began backing steadily toward the shrine, and with Herewiss holding the horse partly clear of the ground, they got it to the door of the shrine quickly. There was a slight problem getting the horse through the door—Herewiss had to drop the poor creature on the floor halfway in and go around to push its hind legs inside. When he had managed that, he undid the rope, coiled it, stowed it, and went back into the shrine. He dropped to his knees beside the horse’s head, gasping for breath and rubbing at his outraged abdominal muscles.
“Well,” he said. “Now what?”
The horse lay there with its sides still heaving, its breath rasping in and out, harsh with pain, as if it had been ridden to the point of foundering. Herewiss looked at it through the odd detachment that sometimes accompanies great exertion. In color the horse was a brilliant bay, almost blood-color, and its stringy, wet mane and tail were pale enough to be golden when they were dry. Under the taut-drawn skin, it had a beautiful head, fine-boned like that of a racehorse.
