by Anne Perry
“I was not prepared for this,” he said quietly. “But I am wiser and richer because I knew him, and for that I thank the God who made us both.”
Vartreth looked at him anxiously, puzzled by such strange words.
Ishrafeli was last. Tathea was a woman, so she did not count.
He bent forward and touched Kolliko’s brow. “My friend has gone his way well and kept his first estate. I shall miss him.” And he stepped back again.
Vartreth signaled, and the men lifted Kolliko and carried him to the water. They laid him on its bitter surface and let him go. Vartreth faced the last of the light and spoke.
“The days of the sun are short. The summer flowers abide only a little time. We make life what we can. These men lived with courage and honor. They never took what was not theirs nor turned aside from the path of duty. They did not quail before the enemy. They shared the good and the bad with us. We shall be together in the sleep of eternity when the world ends.”
“So be it,” the men answered in unison.
“So be it,” Vartreth finished.
They stood in silence. The sun streaked across the shadowed snow. The sky above was far and blue, a hollow cavern whose gate was the fast closing furnace of the west. The lake’s face, unrippled by breath of air, was flat as a copper shield. Vartreth, with his back to the sun, was a black outline.
“We have a short time to sleep, only until the new light,” he said. “Then we must move. Tascarebus will strike again.”
They continued northwards, crossing the trail of Tascarebus more often. Now they were fearful not only of attack, but of the hazards of the land: ice bridges that gave way and plunged into crevasses, loose snow that moved in small avalanches. There were blizzards which would bury a man standing outside a shelter, flying snow and ice which tore the skin and blinded the eyes. And always there was cold, hunger, and exhaustion. Each man’s life was in his neighbor’s hands. They shared food and labor with utter honesty, even the warmth of one another’s bodies in the bitterness of the lengthening nights. Weariness, pain, and hunger were constant companions. No one complained. No one spoke of turning back. Tascarebus must be fought and beaten. Sophia must be freed.
At night they watched in pairs, safeguarding the company. Sometimes Tathea watched with Salymbrion. They spoke little. In the bitterness of the polar night they crouched back to back, to see both ways, and kept all but their eyes covered against the wind and the ice.
She wondered if he thought often of Malgard and what he had left behind, the life in which the word “pain” had no meaning. If he did, or if he regretted his decision, he did not speak of it. She looked at his eyes but could read nothing in the glimmering, snow-reflected half-light. They discussed the men around them and what manner of woman Sophia must be that these men of the Land of the Great White Bear were willing to travel through hardships such as these in order to find and rescue her. There was no certainty of success, and yet they journeyed without question or complaint.
Salymbrion did not remark that this was a nobility beyond all others, because the others had not heard Ishrafeli sing. They knew of no unimaginable glory at the end of their seeking. But one day when Tathea stood a little apart, he spoke to her quietly.
“Even if they endure all things with a spirit made bright and wise, gentle and clean of all malice and selfishness, what sublime courage is asked of them when they do it without hope!” There was wonder in his voice, and awe. “They believe there is nothing at the end of all this ... except an eternal sleep in the all-conquering ice ... a world returned to the ultimate death.”
She asked Ishrafeli why he did not sing for these men. “They know there is hell,” she said. “Why do you not let them see for a moment that there is heaven also?”
“This is not hell,” he said. “This is a land without life and without mercy. It is like the spirit of the Great Enemy, but it is not hell.”
“That is not an answer!” she protested angrily.
His eyes smiled. “Heaven and hell are of the soul,” he answered. “Regions far beyond this. They will find their own path upward. You cannot find it for them, nor do you need to.”
“I don’t want to find it for them, just to let them know it is there!” she argued. “As Salymbrion does. As I do!”
Ishrafeli turned away towards the horizon and did not reply, and she was left alone, not understanding.
When Tascarebus struck again, it was as sudden and violent as before, but instead of swords, this time he used the land. Vartreth had misjudged how close they were, and the weight of the snow on the slopes above them. First there was a sudden shout which echoed across the valley.
Vartreth froze. Then he whirled round and cried out for everybody to go back. For a second, a hanging, trembling instant, no one understood. Then obedience took over and they turned and plowed back the way they had come, Vartreth at the rear.
But the last few were too late. The snow came like a wave breaking from the sea, higher than ten men and roaring like a great ocean in torment. It caught them and buried them as if they had never existed.
The rest stood huddled together, stunned for loss. Far above on the crest, Tascarebus waved his arms, then disappeared beyond the ridge.
“The ice has them in the last sleep,” Shaki said so quietly his voice was barely audible. “We will each cut a notch from our swords for the fallen, and one for Vartreth. He was a good man.”
The others looked at Shaki, but he turned his face towards Ishrafeli. “It is yours to lead. Tascarebus is ahead of us. Which way do we go?”
Ishrafeli looked surprised. His eyes widened. It was the first time Tathea had seen him faced with something he had not foreseen.
“Which way?” Shaki repeated.
Tathea stared at Ishrafeli. For a moment there was indecision in his eyes. Then he lifted his chin. “Forward,” he said quietly.
It was noon of the third day after Vartreth’s death that they caught up with Tascarebus again. The sun was midway up the southern sky, and before them lay a wild and dreadful valley hemmed in by mountains which cast strange, depthless gray shadows that distorted distance.
The attack came totally without warning. This time Salymbrion fought too, wielding a borrowed sword with a fury he had never experienced before, slashing, piercing, stabbing, heedless of his own safety. He seemed suddenly to understand that all he loved was threatened and he must kill to protect it or it would perish here in this terrible wilderness.
Ishrafeli fought solemnly and with loathing for what he did, but he did not flinch. He was filled with anger at the men who came at them again and again out of the snow, as if the great white world around them was of no importance and all that mattered was to slay. He did not hesitate to drive the fatal wound, and perhaps in this unforgiving land this was a mercy. Only the slightest of scratches failed to kill in the end.
Shaki sustained a deep wound to the shoulder, and it took all Tathea’s skill to bind it till it stopped bleeding. Two others were injured, five lay dead.
Fourteen of Tascarebus’s men were killed, leaving his band a tattered and miserable few, happy to escape towards the high pass ahead and the fast approaching storm.
No one had even glimpsed Sophia.
The men stood close together. The wind was keening with a high-pitched whine and already snow flurries were being whipped up off the ground. The snow would bury the dead, but they looked to Ishrafeli to speak for them.
He looked down, his face solemn, full of grief. He said nothing to the survivors, offered no explanation or comfort, but his bowed head acknowledged responsibility for the deaths.
“You fought well for a just cause which will not die,” he said in the half-light. Ahead to the north the sky was so dark it threw eerie shadows, making the ground seem almost luminescent in contrast. “When the glory comes, it will be yours as well as ours, and we shall meet again at the last. Until then, abide well.”
Tathea wondered what he meant, but there was no time to a
sk. Leadership had set him a little apart, and she could no longer walk with him as before. Now the men were all waiting for him to make his decision.
“Forward,” he said, turning to the north where Tascarebus had disappeared, and obediently each man leaned into the wind and began the hard journey. Within moments the sun vanished and the world was opaque, directionless. Before and behind, above and below, everywhere was a screaming whirl of gray-white ice, buffeting, bruising the skin.
Like animals fleeing before the wrath of God, they tore at the snow and hollowed out a shelter for themselves. Others carved the boulders of ice to form walls and a domed roof. Then at last, exhausted, almost paralyzed with cold, they crawled in, spreading their extra furs on the floor and keeping their bodies as close as possible. There was little food left, and little oil, but not to use it would be to die.
Tathea lay next to Salymbrion, acutely aware of him although even turning sideways she could see only the outline of his head and the profile of his nose and brow. He did not often meet her eyes. Perhaps he was afraid she would read in them regret for his decision, the enormity of what he had done. The reality was so much more than he could have imagined. Ikthari had warned him, but his words were shallow compared with this. Salymbrion had never complained. He had not once spoken sharply to Ishrafeli or murmured against him or questioned his leadership, as well he might have done when he considered the laughter and peace of Malgard compared with this icy despair.
Tathea moved her aching body a fraction and looked across at Shaki, his lips pinched with the pain of his wound, his blue eyes tired but calm. This was what he expected of life.
Ishrafeli was beside him, the light of the oil lamp yellow on the planes of his face. He had lowered his mask of furs and his mouth and chin were visible. He was deep in thought, and Tathea could see that the sorrow in him was different from that which he had felt for the people of Parfyrion or Bal-Eeya. He looked up at her once, and she saw his pain. It was raw with doubt and grief. The shadow of a smile crossed his face and then vanished. It was self-mockery, a knowledge that he too was learning something he had not imagined before.
She wanted to move closer to him, to touch him, but she could not. Apart from the physical difficulty of climbing out of the spot where she was wedged and disturbing everyone else, it would have been inappropriate. There was no dignity in it, and dignity was perhaps all they had left. So she lay and thought about him, wondering what journey of the soul he was making, how much like her he might be or how different. It mattered. In all this painful learning he was the one constant hope. He was far more than the one whose belief had made him a voyager who would climb the stars and make the joy and the glory real. There was a secret core to him that she had never touched. Was he ever truly and wholly afraid, sick with the misery of despair? Or did that bright vision heal all his darkness? She did not know, and there was nothing in his eyes or his lips to tell. But she remembered the passion of his song and believed his hell was as wide and as deep as everybody else’s.
The storm raged through the night. There was no morning, only a lessening of the gloom while the blizzard continued to howl. They remained in the shelter, each alone with their thoughts. If any man tasted terror or despair, he hid it and presented only the face of blind courage. Tathea looked at them one by one and loved each of them. Every one had taken blows meant for her, or shared his food or his oil with her. Each one had at some time cried out a warning, lent her an arm when she slipped or was weary.
She caught Ishrafeli’s eyes for a moment and saw reflected in them the same tenderness. He smiled at her briefly, uncertainly. She ached to say something, find a word that would tell him how she felt, but there was none, and they were not alone.
Another night passed before the storm eased. Then Ishrafeli dug his way out of the shelter and motioned the others to follow. Crawling out, muscles shot with the pain of cramp and cold, they beheld a world utterly changed. The sky was heavy gray, clouds obscuring the mountains so they could have lain in any direction. All the landmarks were unfamiliar. Ridges and promontories of ice had disappeared. Drifts had covered old monoliths, and valleys were scoured out where there had been plains before.
Which way should they go? How could anyone follow Tascarebus in this new land? They waited for Ishrafeli to speak.
Without thinking, Tathea moved forward to stand beside him. If there were any fault, any blame, she would share it with him. The wind still blew, flicking snow and ice into her face, and the sky was so dark she could only guess which way was south or north.
She looked at Ishrafeli’s face and saw for the first time fear in him. He knew no more than she did. Suddenly, overwhelmingly, they were equal. Tascarebus was leading them on until either he or the land killed them all; then he would return south, leaving their bodies to the ice. The Great Enemy would have won. Heaven was only a dream, a song sung in another world which they had forfeited forever.
She put up her hand and tucked her arm in his and felt an answering pressure as he squeezed it. He took a few steps forward. He must be seeking the cromlech which had been there before the storm. Surely it had been too huge for any blast of the elements to have moved it. It should be there ... or perhaps a few yards further on ... to the left a little? The mountain pass was beyond that, on its right shoulder mark.
Ishrafeli loosed his arm from hers and went forward alone. As she stood and watched, he disappeared through the scurrying snow.
“He should not have gone alone!” Shaki said urgently, eyes straining to follow Ishrafeli. The whine of the wind rose a note. The storm was not over.
Panic rose inside Tathea. Sweat broke out on her skin and instantly froze. Ishrafeli had made a mistake. He had gone alone to look for the cromlech which marked direction, and he was lost. She swung round to Shaki, despair choking her.
There was no direction. In the gray, ice-leaden air, light diffused until everything gleamed and reflected back from glistening surfaces. The wind was rising again, but it seemed to come from everywhere, one minute one way, and the next another.
He moved forward, head down, a little lopsided from his wounded shoulder, and in an instant the gloom swallowed him too.
She stood unmoving, eyes straining to see Shaki, oblivious to the cold, aware only of the terror inside her. Was this the end? Was she to die alone in the ice, separated from Ishrafeli by an error of judgment? Ishrafeli, who had promised heaven, had in the end failed. His joy was an illusion. Salymbrion had forfeited his innocence for nothing. Not all her passion or prayers could protect either of them from this last, dreadful truth.
She saw something move in the restless gloom ahead, a figure bent over, supporting another, coming towards her. Hope rose inside her like a winged bird. She lurched forward, calling “Ishrafeli!” uselessly as the wind tore the words from her mouth and the tears of relief froze on her cheeks.
Shaki staggered out of the whirling snow, half supporting Ishrafeli’s weight.
Instantly others surged forward also. A dozen hands stretched to help, lifting each man, carrying them into the shelter and rubbing limbs, breathing on lips, on eyes. Tathea held Ishrafeli in her arms, surprised how slender he was, how easily she could clasp him. She let the breath of her mouth unfreeze his eyes and his lips. His eyelids flickered open and recognition lit them, and knowledge of his fault.
She found herself smiling, relief like light after a great darkness.
He struggled to sit up. “Shaki!” he whispered, trying to turn to look for him.
Tathea could see him, and even before she took in the wax-like skin and the scarlet seeping through the bandages on his shoulder, the peace in Shaki’s face told her he was beyond the reach of life.
Ishrafeli stared at him and his grief and despair clouded his eyes. He tasted the bitterness not only of sorrow and failure, but of guilt as well. Shaki had rescued him from his error and it had cost him his life.
Outside, the wind roared. Inside, the oil lamps flickered, the precious liquid
burning lower and lower. They were lost. There was no food left and little fuel. Over half the men had been killed. Tascarebus was still somewhere ahead of them, but no one knew where. And no one knew if Sophia was even any longer alive.
Tathea ached to help Ishrafeli, but lies were useless, and there was no word of truth that was any comfort at all. There was no light ahead, nothing that redeemed the total loss. All she could do was sit beside him in silence, her shoulder next to his, touching him lightly, and love him in silence while he walked alone through the dark, inner night of his soul.
Perhaps it was a change in the wind which at last broke his trance. There was no hope, nowhere to go, but he rose to his knees and faced them, his eyes soft with grief.
“It is time we moved forward,” he said clearly. “Maybe there is nothing left to gain, but at least death will find us still seeking, not sitting here.” It was a ridiculous speech, full of courage without hope and purpose without reason. He took out his sword and prised the jewel out of its hilt. He laid it on Shaki’s body, inside the breast of his coat, where the blood had stained the fur. Then he turned and left the shelter. One by one they crept out of the shelter after him, sealed it over with ice, and began on a journey towards they knew not where, nor why, except that it was better to be beaten than to surrender. To travel without hope but still without fail was the last and ultimate courage.
They walked until the sun reached its height and began to sink again. Tathea knew Ishrafeli had no idea where they were nor what lay ahead. She could see it in the blind grief in his eyes and in the line of his shoulders, the way he faced the light. Again there was nothing she could say, only meet his gaze without blame or question, smile when he looked at her, hide from him her own fear and despair. And curiously, her own loss of heaven hurt far less than her pain for him. It was his wound that gouged out the soul-deep scars in her.
The light was fading when Tathea became aware that they were not alone. At first she thought it was an illusion of the snow a denser wall of white. It was moments before she realized it was a living creature, huge, thick-furred, with the power to defy even this terrible land. Its head was sleek, its muzzle a single blade as it wove through the murk ... a great white bear, bigger than ten men.
