Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra

by Stephen Lawhead

  Treet left the courtyard quietly and made his way to Calin’s second-floor room, knocked once, and went in.

  SIXTY-THREE

  The room was dark, the woven draperies drawn, letting in little light from the open balcony beyond. The muted plashing of water mumbled like liquid voices, and the lake breeze soughing through the drapes made the room breathe as if alive. Calin lay on a low platform bed on her side with her knees drawn up to her chest. She did not move when Treet came in, and at first he thought her asleep. As he came to stand over the bed, he saw that her eyes were open, staring into the dimness of her room.

  “Calin,” he ventured. No response. “It’s me, Treet. I came to see how you’re doing. Mind if I sit down?”

  He sat on the edge of the bed, stretching his legs in front of him and leaning on his elbow. “You know,” he said, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice, “you’ve got our hosts climbing the walls. They can’t figure out what’s wrong with you. If there’s anything you want to tell me, I’d like to listen.”

  Treet waited, heard the faint ruffle of her shallow breath. “I know you can hear me, Calin. And I was hoping you’d talk to me. If anyone has a right to hear from you, I guess it’s me. After all we’ve been through together, if you can’t trust me, you really are out of luck.”

  He grimaced at that last part, but Calin gave no indication that she’d heard him at all. He blustered ahead. “I was hoping you would at least talk to me … I, uh—I’ve got something to tell you.”

  The Dome magician might have been in some kind of cataleptic trance for all the interest she showed in his news. Treet had heard of people who could simply will themselves to die, and wondered whether Calin had the knack.

  “Anyway,” he told her matter-of-factly, “Crocker and I have decided to go back to Dome. There’s unfinished business back there, and it’s important we go as soon as possible. I don’t know how we’re going to get there yet, but…” He paused, then added impulsively, “I was wondering if you wanted to go back with us?”

  Treet surprised himself with the question. When he entered the room he had no idea of asking her, and even as his lips formed the words he did not seriously consider that she would be able to respond to it.

  But to Treet’s amazement, Calin rolled over and looked at him. She blinked her eyes, and Treet saw her presence drifting back as if from far, far away. Her hand made a motion in the air, and Treet followed the gesture and saw a low table at the foot of the bed. A carafe of water and a cup sat on a tray. He poured water and lifted her head while she drank.

  When she had sipped some water, Calin said in a creaky whisper, “Please … take me with you. I want to go back … back home.”

  He stared at her for a moment, considering what he’d done. “Well, uh—I…”

  “Please.” She clutched at his sleeve pathetically. “I will die here.”

  What she said was likely true. One way or another she would die here. So, on impulse, he agreed. “Good. I want you to go with us. I need you, Calin—you’re my guide, remember?”

  The mention of her old function brought a sad, lost smile to the young woman’s lips. “Your guide,” she said. “I will be your guide again.”

  “Yes, but before we go anywhere you’re going to have to pull yourself together. Okay?” He went to the draperies and yanked them open. Bright sunlight streamed in. “First, let’s get some fresh air in here.” The breeze floated in, balmy and inviting. “There, that’s better.” He came back to the bed. “Let’s see if we can get you on your feet.”

  She pushed herself up slowly from the bed. Treet put an arm around her and lifted her effortlessly. She was nearly as weightless as a shadow. This shocked him more than seeing her in her cataleptic state. “We’ve got to get some food into your stomach. You’re withering away to nothing, and it’s a long trek back to Dome.”

  Calin moved easily enough once she got going, and Treet knew that she had snapped out of whatever self-induced spell she’d been under. The simple mention of going home had done it. Though he could in no way imagine such an attachment, for Calin the twisted, teeming warrens of Dome were home, and she missed it.

  In the smaller dining hall they found food laid out. Treet broke the magician’s fast with good bread and soft fruit, then offered her some cold, sliced meat which she gobbled down. Treet ate too, chewing thoughtfully, watching Calin and pondering about all that had happened in the last twelve hours or so:

  He had somehow volunteered for a kamikaze mission behind enemy lines, alienated the one person in the entire universe who loved him, antagonized a very useful comrade, become nursemaid to a hothouse flower that couldn’t live in the real world … not to mention loosing the fear of war among the most amiable, peace-loving people that ever lived.

  And all this without meaning to, which, for a man who never put on his underwear in the morning without a strong conviction, was highly uncharacteristic of him to say the least. What could I have accomplished if I’d set my mind to it, he wondered.

  He heard the low vibration of Talus’ voice somewhere close by and got up, saying, “Stay here and finish eating. I’m going to talk to Talus. I’ll be right back.”

  Talus was standing with two other Mentors: Bohm and Mathiax. The three formed some sort of triumvirate of Fierran leadership which Treet hadn’t figured out yet. They looked up as Treet came toward them. Talus stroked his beard, and the others crossed their arms over their chests and studied him coolly.

  “I guess I stirred things up here last night,” he said. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

  “If you are right about what you said,” replied Talus slowly, “you need have no concern for my feelings.”

  Mathiax said, “As a matter of fact, we have been talking about how to aid you.”

  “I thought the Preceptor made it quite clear that I could expect no help from the Fieri.” Treet glanced quickly at the three grim faces.

  “That is so,” answered Talus. “We have no wish to violate a precept, but Mathiax here has suggested that perhaps a greater precept claims authority in this special case.”

  “What might that be?”

  Mathiax answered, “The most fundamental precept of our people requires that we extend ourselves to the aid of another whenever and wherever and in whatever way required.”

  “You have no obligation to me,” said Treet.

  “Oh, but we do,” said Bohm. “We do because we choose to, and will always choose to. To refuse aid when aid could be offered would be a greater error than breaking the vow. Our precepts make us Fieri, not our vows. Even so, we need abandon neither.”

  “What Bohm is saying,” explained Mathiax, “is that there might be a way of helping you, while at the same time observing our vow of peace.”

  Treet frowned. “I’d be grateful for whatever you could do, but,” he shrugged, “going back is something I’ve chosen. You don’t have to feel obligated.”

  Talus and Mathiax shook their heads sadly. “You still don’t understand,” said Mathiax. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. We have decided to offer you transportation. One of our balon routes lies just north of Dome. Ordinarily our navigators avoid flying within sight of Dome, but if one of them happened to let his balon wander a few hundred kilometers to the south, no harm would be done.”

  “I see. Yes, and if I happened to be on that balon, it might even touch down momentarily. No harm in that certainly.”

  The three Mentors shared sly smiles between themselves and nodded. “Thanks,” said Treet. “You’ve helped me more than you know.”

  Talus put a large hand on his shoulder. “It was a difficult decision. But the truth was in you last night, and that we cannot ignore. May the Protector go with you.”

  “I have a feeling I’m going to give your multifaceted Deity a workout before this is over,” said Treet lightly. “I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Events spun past Treet with dizzying rapidity. Plan
s were laid and provisions secured for the return to Dome. Despite their vow of nonaggression, the Fieri willingly involved themselves in all phases of Treet’s preparations. Bohm provided detailed maps of the balon route and the area where the travelers would be dropped off: along the river about twenty kilometers to the north of Dome.

  “It’s very simple,” explained Bohm, stabbing a finger at the map. “The route lies between Dome and the Blue Forest. You will land here—where the river ends its slow curve around Dome’s plateau. Then you can either move southwest away from the river, or follow it to here and turn in westward. It’s roughly the same distance either way.”

  “You’re sure it’ll be all right? What if Dome sees the balon? I don’t want to endanger your crew.”

  “They have been informed of the risks, and they all want to help. But to tell you the truth, we’ve never had any indication that Dome has ever seen one of our balons. At least not in the last five hundred years—as long as the airships have been flying.”

  “Is that so? How did you travel before that?” wondered Treet, suddenly interested.

  Bohm smiled and laughed. “Oh, I thought you knew. You used them yourself, I understand.”

  “The sand skimmers?” Why did that seem so odd?

  “Of course. In the very early days we traveled overland to the crystal mines. But that is tedious—despite the speed of skimmer blades.”

  Treet nodded. “Then the skimmers we found in Dome belonged to you, to Fieri I mean. They were yours.”

  Bohm looked surprised. “Yes! Certainly they were. Who else would have made them?”

  What a lump I’ve been, thought Treet. A cheese-headed lump! Dome had no use for sand skimmers. Why would they develop vehicles to traverse a desert they never entered? That brought up an obvious next question: “How did the skimmers get there, Bohm?”

  The old man frowned and said, “They were captured—must have been. Though I can’t recall ever hearing about anything like that.”

  “It’s at least five hundred years ago, as you said, maybe longer.”

  “Yes.” Bohm nodded thoughtfully. “Still, if you are interested, there would be a record of any such event in the Annals. As Clerk, Mathiax would be able to find it. Shall I have him look?”

  “No, it’s not important. I can guess what happened. It was an interesting fact, that’s all.”

  Mathiax had a slightly different interpretation of that fact when Bohm told him about it later. The Clerk had joined them at Bohm’s house near the airfield, and Treet confirmed the story by describing the skimmers in detail from shining blade tip to trailing solar panel. Mathiax listened, eyes half closed, nodding and grunting agreement.

  “It is strange how the Provider works, is it not?” he said when Treet and Bohm had finished. “I had not stopped to consider it before, but now that you bring it up, I see the hand of the Infinite in this.”

  “Oh?” Treet didn’t see it himself, but as a scholar he respected the Fieri’s beliefs about their Deity.

  “Yes, it’s obvious. Don’t you see?”

  Treet gazed blankly back at his friend and said, “Frankly, no. But I’m not used to looking for such things.”

  “You should get used to it, Orion Treet. The Infinite Presence has chosen you for a task. When He chooses someone, He makes it possible for His agent to carry out the task for which he was chosen. You see?”

  “You mean to tell me,” replied Treet skeptically, “that five hundred years ago your Infinite Father arranged to have sand skimmers captured just so I’d have transportation when I needed it?”

  Mathiax considered this for a moment and then agreed. “It amounts to that, yes.”

  “But what happened to those who were riding the skimmers at the time? They would have been imprisoned—killed, more likely. I’d call that a heavy price to pay just so I could have a ready getaway.”

  “We do not presume to fathom the ways of the Provider. It could be that those who were captured had their own tasks to complete. But we recognize that the Creator works in all times and places, turning even the very worst of circumstances to His purpose.”

  “It is so,” agreed Bohm. “All praise!”

  Two days later, they were ready to leave. Treet awoke on the morning of their departure heartsick. He had not see Yarden since the night of their argument. He had looked for her, expecting to find her at Talus’, and was told that she had returned to Ianni’s house. He sent messages to her which she ignored. When, on the night before the balon was to leave, he had Jaire take him to Ianni’s, they found the place empty. Yarden was not there.

  Treet was forced to conclude that she was avoiding him, refusing to see him or speak to him. He considered delaying the trip another day or two on the off chance that he might find a way to see her and talk to her again, but what was the use? She doesn’t want to see me, he told himself. If I stayed another month she’d find excuses not to speak to me. It’s over for us. I blew it. I might as well go now; there’s no reason to stay.

  And there was at least one very good reason to leave as scheduled: fear. Treet was afraid that if he didn’t go now, he’d lose his nerve. The thought of actually returning to Dome and finding a way to do what he had to do there had become almost overwhelming.

  He couldn’t think of it all at once, only in small chunks—hiking to the colony, making contact with Tvrdy, losing himself in the colony underground … the rest became fuzzy. But vagueness at this point he considered a blessing.

  As the hour of departure neared, Treet grew more anxious. He wanted just to be gone, or at least moving. He couldn’t stand the waiting any more. Each moment brought something that reminded him it was not a holiday vacation he was undertaking. He looked upon every Fierran vista as the last. See that? he told himself. You’ll never see it again. He did not add that if his quest failed no one would ever see it again, but knew it just the same.

  Crocker’s mood could not be guessed. Treet checked with him several times prior to departure, and each time Crocker appeared preoccupied and busy with his own preparations, though what those might be, Treet could not guess and Crocker didn’t say. Treet left the pilot to himself, thinking, There’ll be plenty of time for catching up later.

  Now Treet stood next to a gleaming pylon on the edge of the airfield, the rising sun stretching his shadow across the expanse of close-cropped green lawn where the enormous red sphere of the balon, the Fieri airship that would take them to Dome, glowed against the pale blue sky. The oversized beachball shapes of balons tethered to the ground formed a bulbous, multicolored mushroom hedge around the field. Beneath the yoke-shaped gondola, the ground crew moved with unhurried efficiency. The wide loading ramp was down, but Treet didn’t feel like climbing aboard just yet. He waited.

  In a little while he heard Talus’ resonant tones rolling across the field and turned to see Crocker and Talus striding toward him. Crocker had his kit slung over his shoulder and a grim, determined look in his eye. “Morning, Treet,” he said, glancing toward the balon. “Good weather for flying.”

  Talus clapped Treet on the back and said, “This day has come too soon.”

  “You’re right, Talus. I feel like I’m turning my back on the treasure of a lifetime. I’m going to miss you all very much.”

  “You won’t change your mind and stay with us?” the Mentor asked earnestly. Crocker’s head swiveled sharply to note Treet’s reply.

  “Thanks, Talus, but no.” Treet shook his head wistfully. “I can’t stay.”

  The-big man regarded Treet with utmost compassion. “Follow the light that is in you. Traveler Treet. The Protector will watch over you, the Sustainer will keep you, the Comforter will give you rest. Go in peace and in peace return.”

  Treet didn’t know what to say. No one had ever given him a benediction like that before. “Uh—ah, thanks, Talus. That’s really nice.”

  Crocker made a sound in his throat, turned, and walked toward the balon. Talus watched him for a moment and, lowering his voice
, said, “I wonder about that one. He is too much involved with himself.”

  “Crocker? He’s okay—just a little nervous maybe. This isn’t a joyride we’re going on, you know.” Treet spoke lightly, but his heart felt the implied foreboding of Talus’ words. “What about Calin? I thought she was coming with you.”

  “Jaire will bring her.” He gave Treet a knowing look.

  “Maybe I should go—”

  “It will be all right. We have a little time yet, and Mathiax has something for you.”

  As if on cue, an evee approached and came to a halt on the grass a few meters away. Mathiax climbed out and joined them. “I see all is ready …” He hesitated, then added, “I wish we could do more.”

  “You’re doing enough,” Treet reassured him. “You said yourself this is my task. I’ll be all right.”

  “You may depend on it,” the Clerk said solemnly.

  An awkward silence grew between them, so Treet spoke up. “Talus said you had something for me.”

  “Oh, yes!” He pulled a folded card from his purple vest and handed it to Treet. “The Preceptor asked me to give you this. You are to read it after departure—alone.”

  Treet tucked the card into the pocket of his brown Fieri jacket. “Thanks. I will.” Silence overtook them again. “I—uh, guess this is good-bye.” The two men extended their hands to him in the Fieri manner, and Treet gripped them tightly. “Good-bye,” he said, his throat tightening inexplicably.

  “The Infinite Presence goes with you,” said Mathiax. “Trust in Him to lead you.”

  “I’ll try.” Reluctant to take his eyes from their faces, Treet stepped backward from them and collided with someone standing a few paces away. “Sorry!” He turned, his hand frozen in midair. “Yarden, I—”

  She was dressed in a white sleeveless jacket with white trousers and boots. Her black hair hung loose, gleaming with blue highlights, feathered by the breeze. His heart lurched in his chest. She said nothing but drew him aside with her. When Treet looked back, Talus and Mathiax were climbing into the evee to leave. They continued walking.