by Dave Duncan
"Cavemen, sir?"
"One of my favorite verses: Many mighty shall go humbly, even as Eleal took him to the caveman for succor, then they are going mightily again. That's about average for clarity."
"It doesn't mention the Liberator."
"No, it may have nothing to do with him at all. Or it may refer to events years from now, because there's lots of unrelated stuff about him: The-Liberator-comes-into-Joal-crying-Repent! sort of thing. But Eleal is only mentioned four times and that sounds like she is still helping the Liberator, so it may be relevant to what's about to happen this fortnight. Just wondered."
"No cavemen,” T'lin growled. “I wouldn't like anything to happen to the kid, sir."
"Nor I,” the Thargian said, rising. He was very tall and skinny. “But you could put the whole Joalian army around her and it couldn't protect her from the Chamber. Until the Liberator himself arrives, she's the obvious weak link in the chain. If Zath's reapers find her, she's dead. Nobody in the world could do anything for her then."
T'lin rose also. “The saints, sir?"
The younger man cleared his throat harshly. “Ah, yes. Well, of course we must pray to the saints to intercede with the Undivided. Come over to the tent and..."
The two men strolled away across the bare stone floor of the ruined temple. Eleal heard no more.
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41
ELEAL STUMBLED DOWN THE STEPS AND PUSHED OFF INTO the bush.
The enormity of what she had overheard stunned her. She had trusted T'lin Dragontrader! Gim was only a boy, Sister Ahn a senile maniac, but she had thought that T'lin was a strong man and reliable and a friend. Now she knew that he bore no loyalty to her at all, except some vague idea of one day enlisting her to work for his diabolical “Service,” whatever that was. Her last protector had failed her.
T'lin had taken orders from the Thargian. He had not spoken out against the blasphemy. He was probably a Thargian spy himself! Eleal had never pondered her own political convictions very deeply. Had she been forced to declare her loyalties, she would probably have claimed to be a Jurgian, because she spent more time in Jurg than anywhere else and she liked the king, who clapped when she sang for him. She approved of the Joalians’ artistic principles and the concept of Joaldom, which gave peace to the lands she knew, and she had always heard bad things about the Thargians and their harsh military ways. Spying for them seemed like betrayal.
Her religious loyalties were in no doubt at all. Tion was lord of art and beauty. Ember'l, the goddess of drama, was an avatar of Tion. So was Yaela, the goddess of singing.
The Thargian had done one good thing, though—he had unwittingly told Eleal a lot about the Filoby Testament. She would not be required to deliver any messy baby. A grown man was going to arrive—young and handsome, undoubtedly—either here or somewhere ... how? Nobody had said how he would arrive, she decided. And when the Liberator arrived, Eleal Singer was going to help him. Wash him and clothe him, T'lin had said that morning. She could do with a good wash again herself, to get rid of all the mud and perspiration. The flies had reappeared. Her smock was ripped and filthy. Her legs were so weary they would hardly hold her up.
She staggered and lurched through the thickets, stumbling over hidden blocks of stone. If she kept the sun on her right, she would come to the city.
What she would do when she arrived was another problem altogether. To return to the hostelry would be to put herself back in the hands of the despicable dragon trader and his Thargian overlord, but she had no money and no other friends. Gim would jump at the chance of going to the festival and would probably be gone before she returned anyway.
She must seek out some sympathetic peasant family to take her in and let her stay a while. She could wash dishes or something for them in return for her keep. Sew, maybe—she was handy with a needle. She would pretend to be a refugee from Filoby! My name is Antheala Battlemaster. My father is chief of the Jurgian army and loves me dearly. He plans to betroth me to one of the king's sons when I am a little older. Fearing that his enemies would strike at him by kidnapping me, he sent me to Iilah's convent for safekeeping. That had been two fortnights ago, she decided, so she had not had time to learn very much about the convent, in case she was asked. The green monks had arrived at dawn and there had been terrible shouting and raping and she had fled out into the dark and had walked all day until...
She stepped where there was no ground. Her short leg betrayed her, and she pitched forward through the shrubbery—smashed her shoulder into something—twisted her ankle—screamed—landed hard on her side—rolled—fell again—banged her head—slithered down a steep hill—pitched into a torrent of icy-cold water—was twirled around, thumped against a rock or two, and then wrapped around a submerged tree trunk. She flailed wildly, struggled against the deadly press of the current, and finally managed to get her head up. Spluttering and gasping, she could breathe again. She would freeze to death. How could water be so cold in this hot land? She shook her ears dry and was horrified by the roar of the stream. She must be very close to the edge of the canyon, and might even have been swept into a waterfall had she not caught on the tree.
Struggling back to the bank was fairly easy. Clambering up the long, steep slope was not. Near the precipice, the little brook had dug a canyon of its own, narrow and dark. Eventually she hauled herself up into the bushes and just lay there, sore and cold and shaking.
Tion! she thought, Tion, lord of art and youth, hear my prayer. I do not believe what those men said about you. I do not believe in that heretical Undivided god of T'lin's. Tion, save me!
After a while she concluded that her sufferings were not going to elicit a miracle. Perhaps Tion could not hear her prayer over the racket of the stream. Bigfangs had sharp hearing. The sun was close to setting. She tried to imagine climbing a tree to sleep in. She would surely fall out, and a tree would be a very uncomfortable bed anyway. Scrambling wearily to her feet, she set off along the edge of the little gorge again, limping through the prickles. The stream had stolen her sandals, but it would guide her back to Ruatvil. Thorns tugged at her smock and scraped her limbs.
In just a few moments there were no more trees ahead, only shrubs, with the sky above them. She had reached the town already! She could see the peaks of Susswall glowing pink, and off to the right, just rising clear of them, the green disk of Trumb. When Trumb rose shortly before sunset, he was due to eclipse. Reapers...
As she pushed her way out of the last of the bushes, her foot came down on nothing. Everything happened in a flash and yet seemed to take hours. She yelled in terror; she grabbed at a shrub; the ground crumbled away beneath her heel. She realized where she was—gazing at the sky, she had not been watching where she was going. She had climbed out of the stream on the far side, and followed it the wrong way. Her seat hit the ground and seemed to bounce her out into space. Her right hand had hold of something. The left joined it.
Her shoulders struck rock, skidded, and stopped. The one green cane she clutched so tight had bent double, like a rope, but not broken—yet. She dangled from it, a sharp edge digging into her back, her arms above her head, and her legs flailing in empty air. Hundreds of feet below her, muddy Susswater roiled in its canyon.
"Help!” she screamed. Then she just screamed. Off to her left, the stream emerged from its narrow gorge and sprayed out in a shiny cataract that faded away to the river below. It was much louder than she was.
There was no one around to hear her, anyway.
Her feet could find no purchase; nothing at all. The cane was liable to come out by the roots any minute, and her hands were crushed between it and the rock, so she could not even free them to try and pull herself back up.
Her hands were slipping on the sappy twig.
She tried to swing a leg up to the rock, but it wouldn't reach, and the bush made ominous cracking noises. She tried to turn over, and couldn't.
"Help! Oh, help! Tion!” Her cries were a croak: s
he could not breathe against the pressure on her back and her arms were about to pull out of their sockets.
I don't want to die! I don't want to fulfill any stupid prophecies! I am only twelve years old! I don't want to deliver babies or wash grown men or do any of those things! I don't want to be a holy whore for Ois. I don't want to be a Historic Personage. I don't want to be killed by a reaper! I just want to be Eleal Singer and a great actor and faithful to Tion and beautiful! I didn't ask for all this and I don't want it and it isn't fair! And I don't want to die!
Then strong fingers gripped her wrist and hauled her upward.
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42
THE THARGIAN HAD MENTIONED A CAVEMAN.
Eleal had found him.
Where the stream neared the great canyon of Susswater, it had undercut its bank on one side, to make a hollow roofed with rock and paved with sand and fine gravel. Ferns masked the entrance, so no one would ever find it. Someone had planted those ferns. Someone had made the shelter deeper and fitted it out with a little hearth, a bed of boughs covered with a fur robe, a store of firewood, a few misshapen jars and baskets. Someone was living there.
He was sitting there now with his skinny legs crossed and a crazy leer on his face. His hair and beard were white, flowing out in all directions. He wore only a loincloth of dirty fur. His skin was dried leather. In the flickering light of the tiny fire, he looked more like a bird's nest than a man.
Eleal sat on the bed, bundled inside another robe, and gradually managing to stop shaking. She was even nibbling some of the roots and berries the hermit had brought her, just to please him. She just couldn't stop talking, though. She was telling him the whole story for at least the third time.
He was not speaking. He couldn't speak.
He did not look as scary now as he had when she first saw him, but perhaps she had just grown used to him. He had explained with signs, and by writing on sand, that his name was Porith Molecatcher. He had lived here for many years—he did not seem to know how many. She was the first visitor who had ever come to his cave. He was originally from Niolland, which was many vales away. He had been a priest of Visek until he had been convicted of blasphemy and his tongue had been cut out. At that point Eleal concluded he was fantasizing. Visek's temple at Niol was supposed to be the greatest in all the Vales and hence the greatest in the world. On the other hand, she could not recall any other crime for which tongues were punished.
He was not totally without human contact. He traded skins with someone in Ruatvil for the few essentials he needed—salt and needles and perhaps others. A comb would be an excellent innovation, Eleal thought, regarding the undergrowth in his beard.
He listened to her story with mad grimaces. He frowned when she mentioned reapers, leered when she talked about crazy old Sister Ahn, and pulled faces of fierce disapproval when she described the harlots in the temple, but he might be just reacting to her tone or facial expressions.
She wondered what T'lin and Sister Ahn had made of her disappearance. They would expect her to come staggering out of the forest all repentant. Well, she wasn't going to! She could stay here, with Porith. Tion had sent the caveman to help her.
Night had fallen. The festival would be starting about now, with the service in the temple. Funny—the temple was only a few miles from Ruatvil. She might even be able to see the lights of the procession if she went out to the cliff edge. She wasn't going to, though. Of course it was on the other side of the river and to reach it on foot would be a very long day's walk.
To break the chain of prophecy—that was how the Thargian had described Garward Karzon's attack on Iilah's sacred grove. The world may be changed, Dolm Actor had said. Dolm must still believe she was safely locked up in Ois's temple in Narsh, plucking chickens—unless Zath had informed him otherwise. Who could hide from the god of death?
Well, another god could, because gods were immortal. She must not forget that Tion had rescued her from prison and sent Porith to pull her up the cliff. Tion was on her side! He would protect her still.
"Trumb will eclipse tonight, won't he?” she said, and Porith nodded, pulling faces.
Why was she so apprehensive about an eclipse of the big moon? It happened just about every fortnight, if the weather was good. Sometimes Trumb eclipsed twice in a fortnight, and then the temples were filled as the priests sought to avert misfortune. There were even stories of three eclipses in one fortnight, which meant someone very important was about to die.
She was worried over that silly rhyme about reapers filling sacks, that was all. In a couple of days, very likely, Wyseth would eclipse too, and day turn to night. That ought to be a lot more hair-raising, but somehow it never was.
She chewed another root. She must not expect first-class fare while she stayed with a caveman. Seven days would do it. If her host would let her stay with him until the end of the festival, then she would feel safe to return to civilization, because the prophecy would no longer apply.
Tion had provided the aid she had prayed for. He had brought her to this sanctuary.
What did the god want in return, though? The prophecy fulfilled? If she had been saved by a miracle, then surely it must have been so that she could fulfill her destiny. She was a Historic Personage. She was to help the Liberator—Eleal shall wash him and so on. The Liberator would bring death to Death.
Death was Zath, Dolm's god, the god who had sent the reapers after her. If Eleal Singer wanted anything, surely she ought to want to get her own back on Zath?
Trumb would eclipse tonight. The festival had begun. The Liberator might come tonight. Maybe tomorrow or any other time in the next half fortnight—by night, she thought, not by day. And Trumb would eclipse tonight.
She looked across the glowing embers and their tiny flickering flames to mad old Porith, who was hugging his knees with arms like brown ropes, and watching her through the crazy glitter of his eyes.
"I have to go to the Sacrarium, don't I?” she whispered.
He nodded.
"Holy Tion brought me here to Sussland so that the prophecy can be fulfilled,” she said, working it out. Nod. “If I am ever to succeed in my chosen career as an actor, I must do as my god commands.” Nod. “He guided my steps today so I could overhear those two blasphemers, because I learned a lot from them."
For some reason Eleal Singer had to wash and clothe a grown man and then the world would be changed.
The Liberator was coming. If she did not go and watch, she would never forgive herself. Just watch—she need not do anything.
"That horrible Ois wants me kept away, so that means I should go!” Nod. “And afterward I'll be safe, too, because I'll have played my part in the prophecy!” Nod. “The Thargian said something about, ‘until the Liberator arrives!’ He meant that as soon as that happens, then the reapers will go for him and not me!” Nod, leer. “Then I won't matter to anyone anymore. So I'd better do what I have to do and get it over!"
Nod.
"Will you come with me?"
Porith shook his head violently.
She felt disappointed by that, but of course he was not protected by any god specially and not mentioned ... yes he was! “But I'll bring the Liberator back here?"
Another violent shake—so violent that the old man's white hair and beard seemed to lash to and fro.
"It is prophesied! I told you!"
Porith cringed down as if he were sinking into the ground. He made little whimpering noises. Probably he hid in his burrow if anyone came near—it was only her youth and distress that had persuaded him to reveal his existence to her. He was a crazy old recluse.
"The Testament doesn't say I bring the Liberator to the cave!” Eleal said sharply. “It says I bring him to the caveman! That's you! For succor. So you stay here and be prepared to give succor!"
The sky was darkening, Trumb glowing brighter. She felt sick with fear, but she had known that feeling before. It was only stage fright. That thought cheered her up. Th
is was her greatest role! Tonight she played for history and the gods themselves were in the audience! All the same, she had better get on with it or she might lose her resolve. She might even faint.
"Now, what's the quickest way to the Sacrarium? Can I walk around the cliff edge?"
Nod.
She frowned at her bare feet, already sore and blistered. She eyed the pile of furs—moleskins, she assumed. “Could you make a pair of slippers? Just furs with sort of laces, maybe, to keep them on?"
Porith leered and nodded again, but made no move.
"Well, get started, then!” she said.
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ACT IV
DUET
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43
THE CLIFF EDGE WAS EASIER WALKING THAN THE JUNGLE, because there was a lot of bare rock there. At times she had to choose between undergrowth and hair-raising acrobatics, but she made good progress. Soon she saw a distant twinkle of lights and guessed they were the bonfires at the temple.
I do your bidding, Holy Tion. Watch over me!
She began to worry that she might go right past the Sacrarium without seeing it. She should have asked the mad old hermit to give her directions. Well, if she arrived at the ruined bridge, she would know she had gone too far. And in the end there was no doubt. The forest thinned and she saw bare pillars standing over the trees, palely shining in Trumb's uncanny light.
Then she became very cautious. The distance was not great, but she moved one step at a time, feeling for her footing so she would not crack twigs or stumble on rocks. Her fur slippers were very good for that. She lifted branches out of the way; she stooped and at times even crawled on hands and knees. She clambered carefully over the fragments of masonry strewn around. There was no hurry—she had all night. She assumed that the forest was full of reapers, and that helped her to concentrate.
When she came to the steps, she sat down and took a breather. Then she wriggled up on her tummy through the litter of leaves and twigs until she could see into the court, staying close to a pillar. The ruin was empty and apparently deserted, haunted in the bright moonlight.
