The Mountain of Kept Memory

by Rachel Neumeier

  Gulien looked up, trying to parse this peculiar suggestion. Then he looked across the room at the Kieba’s empty chair. It was a heavy thing, carved with bold, smooth strokes and no flourishes whatsoever. Except, he saw now, the finials of its arms, where your hands would rest if you sat in the chair, were carved with thin grooves and glittered as though dusted with tiny jewels. Other than that, the chair was completely unornamented. That it was a thing of the gods was highly probable, though Gulien had never heard of so large an unbroken artifact. That it was part of the Kieba’s power seemed likely. That it might be dangerous to dare take her place in that chair also seemed likely.

  But, apparently, he had the kephalos’s permission. And a key. Gulien lifted a hand and curled his fingers around the smooth, warm crystal falcon set into his pendant. Its familiar warmth reassured him.

  The kephalos said he might see what was happening in Caras if he sat in that chair. He thought that was what it had meant. The Kieba might not know what the kephalos had proposed. Probably she didn’t. If she did, she would probably be angry. But the Kieba was not here. Though he waited another moment, and another after that, she did not come.

  At last Gulien made his way across the room and laid a cautious hand on the back of the chair. The crystal’s faint, familiar warmth was reassuring. Like his own crystal, the chair felt to him like something alive, like something he knew.

  Turning, he sat down in the chair, not permitting himself to think more about it. Though made of a kind of stone, the chair was surprisingly comfortable. It had looked small from across the room, sized to the Kieba, but now it seemed made to fit Gulien’s height and length of limb. When he stretched his arms along the arms of the chair, his hands fell exactly on the finials.

  But as soon as his hands touched the finials, needles grew out of the arms of the chair and pierced his hands and wrists. Some of the needles were black, some white, and some clear as water, and all of them were fine and sharp enough that Gulien barely felt their bite. But he would have jerked away, only he couldn’t. From the first instant, a sharp cold radiated outward from where each needle pierced his skin. Somehow the cold pinned him in place. He blinked. Even that tiny motion felt slow and strange, and he wasn’t sure afterward whether he’d opened his eyes again or not. His vision dissolved, not to blackness, but to a broken storm of images and memories that sleeted through his mind, sharp and glittering as shards of crystal.

  He glimpsed patchwork fields amid the drylands far below, and Caras like a jewel beside the sea, and ships running over the waves and docked in the harbor. Above the ships flew banners showing an eagle with serpents in its talons. He recognized the device: It was the sigil of the Garamanaji, the royal family of Tamarist. And those ships were docked already in the harbor; the harbor defenses must have failed already—the defenses must have failed almost at once.

  Gulien slid down the wind, his wings tilting . . . all his wings; his vision multiplied, dizzyingly, so that suddenly he saw the countryside from a hundred different angles and heights. He was flying, but it wasn’t him. Only in a way it was. He could feel the wind rushing through the feathers of his wings. He knew it wasn’t real, couldn’t be real, but it felt real.

  There were Tamaristan soldiers outside the city gates, too, and not only outside: He saw a great plume of black smoke and red dust hanging in the air, slowly shredding away inland because of the sea breeze. The gates were strong and heavy and had not been breached. He saw that. But the wall beside the gates had shattered, broken stone like gravel scattered out into the city streets. And he could see the Tamaristan soldiers moving, in an advance that seemed slow, but he knew they were actually rushing into Caras and he could see that the narrow line of defenders would not be able to stop them.

  He groaned and did not know if he made a sound at all, and then he suddenly he saw the whole city from far above: He saw a rain of fire and everywhere homes burning and a tide of blood rolling into the harbor. Horror struck him, yet he saw then that the city was both afire and peaceful; that men both fought and did not fight; that the harbor was both stained with blood and clean. He didn’t understand what he saw, except it came to him after a shaken instant that the fire and blood were nothing that was happening right now: That was memory, only not his memory. The anguish that shook him with sudden violence wasn’t his, either; he knew that, but it felt like his. He wanted to weep for the grief of it, but he didn’t understand what he grieved for. But someone knew. He almost remembered.

  A falcon banner flew over the gates of Caras, but the banner was burning. Fragments of ash and charred cloth whirled away on a hot wind. A voice he almost recognized said, in grief and rage, “The falcon cannot outfly the fire,” and Gulien knew that someone had once stood under a banner like that, high up on a balcony of golden stone, as he stood now. . . . It wasn’t him. Yet he could almost feel the balustrade under his palms. Someone had turned, his heart breaking, to see . . . to see . . . He didn’t know. Someone or something that was lost, or would be lost, or had been lost, far in the past. The vision shattered before he could grasp it, shards of memories scattering out of his grasp.

  Through the discordant fragments of vision, he caught a sudden glimpse of an unfamiliar city, all white stone and red brick, sprawling in the midst of amazingly green pastures and thick woodlands—a countryside that had nothing at all in common with the drylands and desert around the Kieba’s mountain. He flew through the cold air high above, watching the folk of this city barricade their homes against the creeping violet-black mist that spread outward from the heart of the city. The sound of drums came to him distantly, and the tolling of great bells, and above both a high-pitched wailing of women’s voices. He knew the city. . . . He didn’t, but a voice out of memory said, “Elaru. Elaru is burning.”

  Horrified, he flinched away from the creeping mist and the lamenting women, and vision shattered and re-formed around him once more, but he could not find Caras again. So he looked for himself, for the Kieba’s mountain, for the place he remembered he was, but he couldn’t find the mountain or himself, either. He tried to remember his name, but the names that sleeted through his memory weren’t his—he didn’t know his name; he couldn’t pick one out from among the rest—

  “Gulien Madalin,” said the kephalos. “Gulien Madalin.”

  Gulien jumped up, staggered, lost his balance, recoiled, took a fast step to catch himself, and nearly fell anyway. His hands were shaking. He didn’t even care. There were tiny pinpricks of blood on his palms and wrists, and a residual cold that seemed to have spread right through his whole body. He wanted to sit down, but not in that black crystal chair. He collapsed on the floor instead, like a child. He couldn’t begin to frame what he’d seen. Or thought he’d seen. Or felt. Or remembered. He didn’t know whose memories those had been. They were still in him. He could see Elaru dying in his mind’s eye. He could see Caras burning, even though it hadn’t happened yet—hadn’t happened again. It was in the past, but it felt like yesterday, like today, like it was happening right now. The memory of black smoke choked him. But it was memory, and not his memory.

  “Manian Semai,” the kephalos stated, its flat voice making him twitch as it seemed to read his thoughts. “That was his memory. You seem inclined toward Manian Semai for your secondary identity. That will do. Your overall predisposition seems clear and strong.”

  “I don’t—you didn’t—it wasn’t—” Gulien pressed his hands over his mouth. He was shaking. Memories that weren’t his crowded his mind’s eye. “What is this predisposition?”

  “Close dealing with living crystal often yields a strong predisposition. This is generally stronger in the scions of lines that have long possessed a potent artifact.”

  Gulien shook his head, not understanding any of this. But he remembered ships flying the eagle banner, and the soldiers on the road, and the falcon banner above the closed gates of his own city. That part was real. That part was now. He remembered standing on a balcony of golden stone, feelin
g afraid—no. Not afraid. Guilty. He didn’t have any idea why he should feel guilty. He couldn’t remember. But that memory wasn’t his, hadn’t been his. Shattered bits of disconnected visions and memories and that terrible feeling of guilt . . . fire in the sky and the sea turned to blood . . . Nothing he seemed to remember made sense. He couldn’t stop shaking.

  “Ancillary memory is generally perceived as disturbing,” said the kephalos. “Your predisposition is well established, however. Do not be concerned.”

  “Concerned!” said Gulien, and laughed, but it was half a sob, and he cut it off, pressing his hands over his mouth again. He tried to think only of what was most important. Tamaristan aggression. Prince Gajdosik. He would first take Caras and then conquer the rest of Carastind, and there was nothing Gulien could do about it. The Kieba meant to let it happen.

  Gulien could still hardly believe it.

  Although he understood it. His skin tightened with horror when he thought of the city of Elaru, of that violet-black mist creeping among the brick buildings, and the high, thin voices of the women wailing. If his father had sent that terrible plague to Elaru . . . No wonder the Kieba was so angry. That was a terrible thing to do. Gulien wondered whether his father had known that he was sending the plague away to another city rather than destroying it. If he had . . . if he had, then the Kieba was right to be angry. Gulien discovered that he was furious with his father himself. And furious with the Kieba. He shook with anger at them both. He said, not letting himself think too much, “Kephalos!”

  “Yes, Gulien Madalin?” answered the calm, inhuman voice.

  “The Kieba is not here. Is that so? She is gone to Elaru?”

  “That information is restricted,” said the kephalos without emphasis. Then it added, “However, the Kieba is now unavailable.”

  Gulien took a deep breath. “But she can’t spare time or attention for minor problems here in Carastind. Not right now. Isn’t that so?” He knew it was.

  “That is so,” agreed the kephalos.

  Gulien nodded. He said cautiously, “I need an artifact, so that I can protect Carastind against our enemies. Since I . . . I have an affiliation to the Kieba, and an established secondary identity, and an ancillary position—” Or was it supposed to be an established identity and a secondary position? He hardly remembered and hoped he had gotten it right. He said, trying to sound firm and confident, “I have the right to take—to borrow—an artifact. Is there something—what do you have that I could take with me back to Caras and use to drive out the Tamaristan invaders and protect my city and my country?”

  There was a moment of silence. Then the answer came, flat and level and uninflected: “A war golem would effectively answer your need as you have defined it.”

  A war golem. Gulien hesitated, glancing down at the hare. That was a golem. It did not look like an ordinary animal. But it hardly seemed adequate to drive away an invading army. He said cautiously, “A golem? Like that hare?”

  “It is not a hare. It is a golem. An accessory of mine.”

  Gulien nodded, though he wasn’t certain what the kephalos meant by “an accessory of mine.” The creature looked like a hare. “An accessory?”

  “An appendage. The golems are my eyes and hands. Also the eyes and hands of the Kieba.”

  Gulien studied the hare. Its fur ruffled when it moved; it tilted its ears and turned its head like a real animal. “They say—” He stopped, wondering whether it was wise to ask. But he wanted to know, and went on at last. “I’ve read accounts that claim the Kieba turns trespassers into foxes or cats or crows or owls. Or hares. That’s not—that isn’t—that isn’t how golems are made?” He’d read worse than that, but he wasn’t certain he wished to ask if the Kieba really fed trespassers to her creatures, or if she really flayed people alive and used their skins to give her servants human shape.

  “No. A golem is not a creature.”

  The hare tipped its ears back, dropped to all fours, and shook itself.

  Gulien jerked back. Then he leaned forward, staring. The hare had come apart into two halves, which was appalling, but it was not at all like an animal on the inside. It was solid all the way through, soft like putty, a gray-blue color flecked with silver and black. “What is it?”

  “A golem,” repeated the kephalos.

  Gulien shook his head, not in denial or disbelief, but in a kind of wonder.

  The front half of the hare stood up again, and so did the back half, and the two halves came back together and sealed, leaving only a faint ripple in the fur to show where it had divided itself in two. Then it shook itself again and folded inward and opened out, and it was a falcon.

  It looked exactly like a real falcon: a large one, nearly the size of an eagle, but with a falcon’s buff chest and narrow copper-colored wings. The falcon drew itself up to its full height, opened its wings, and leaped into the air. It flew exactly like a real falcon: fierce and sudden and neat in the air, turning on a wingtip and flying in a swift circle before dropping to perch on the back of the Kieba’s chair.

  Or, thought Gulien, it didn’t move exactly like a real falcon. The difference was subtle. But he thought the falcon moved just a little more sharply, a little more jerkily than a real bird.

  “My eyes in the world,” said the kephalos.

  Gulien stared at the falcon. “You have many such golems, then? You see through the eyes of all the golems at once? And so you see everything.” He could hardly imagine. A thought struck him and he asked, “Do the golems—do you—see through the Kieba’s eyes as well?”

  “Sometimes,” said the kephalos. “And sometimes the Kieba sees through my eyes.”

  Gulien nodded and took a breath. “And if falcons are your eyes, what is a war golem, may I ask, kephalos?”

  An image flashed into the crystal behind the Kieba’s chair, an image of an unfamiliar city, and stalking through the streets, a great spidery shape made of steel and glass, which had assuredly never been anything so harmless or small as a hare or a falcon.

  Gulien took a step back involuntarily before he caught himself. He put a hand out for balance, though there was nothing to take hold of except the Kieba’s chair, and he would not touch that. But he wished he had something to cling to. He felt as though the mountain had shifted under his feet, as though if he moved he might fall from a great height. But that wasn’t real. The stone under his feet might be made of layers upon layers of crystallized memory, but it was solid. No matter what he did, he could not really fall.

  There were tales of those golems, from the beginning of the age, from the time when the Kieba had first established her authority and taught the kingdoms of men that she would enforce her decrees. Sketches had survived, though they did not agree one with another. Gulien asked, half dreading the answer because he could already imagine coming too late—too late for his city, too late for his sister—“But how fast could that kind of golem get to Caras?”

  “If the golem passed through Berakalan’s door,” stated the kephalos, “it would require four and a half minutes to achieve that destination.”

  Four and a half minutes! There was a door to Caras, right from the Kieba’s mountain. Of course there was. Gulien shut his eyes and tried to think. You need do so little, he had pleaded with the Kieba. Only let Gajdosik see that your hand is between him and the people of Carastind. A war golem would be clear proof to everyone that her hand was set between the people of Carastind and all their enemies. “But if she finds out . . . ,” he whispered. “When she finds out, what will she do? And would I be able to use a golem, anyway? I’m not the Kieba!”

  He had said it only to himself. But the kephalos answered. “When the Kieba’s attention returns from Elaru, she will be able to countermand any measures you requested and recall any golem you have deployed. But if you agree to consolidate your ancillary position and establish your secondary identity within the mountain, I will construe your position as permitting you to direct the resources of the mountain within reason
able limits, until such countermanding instructions should be issued. The use of a single war golem would be well within those limits.”

  Gulien turned this over in his mind. He had not understood before that the kephalos might have its own design, that it might not be strictly the Kieba’s servitor. But he thought so now. He thought it intended to use his appearance at the mountain—with his own key, and apparently his own position, whatever that meant—to pursue some goal of its own. He didn’t know whether he should find that frightening, but he could see that it could be useful. The Kieba would find out he’d taken one of these war golems. She would be furious. But . . . perhaps that would not matter. After all, it would be done. The Tamaristan soldiers would have been thrown out of Caras, and everyone would have been shown that the Kieba still favored Carastind. What happened to Gulien himself after that hardly seemed to matter.

  He said to the kephalos, “Yes. Yes, I want a golem. I will agree to all you say.” He looked again at the great spider reflected in the crystal. One would be enough. He had read Malke’s account of these creatures, when the Kieba used them in Markand, to tear down the court of Sedmenam during the third Taran Dynasty. He was sure that one would be enough.

  And the kephalos said tonelessly, “I will send the golem to Berakalan’s door.”

  Berakalan turned out to look almost like a human man, only with eyes that were too big and slit-pupiled, and with short, blunt tusks set obliquely in his lower jaw. His door, on which one of his stone hands rested, was a huge arch of glittering pinkish gray stone. Gulien, resting his hand cautiously on the arch, found the center of the arch dissolving, so that he looked down toward Caras from a gritty, barren drylands slope. The city was small in the distance, but the black smoke streaking the air above it was plainly visible. Gulien turned grimly to look for the promised golem.