The Mountain of Kept Memory

by Rachel Neumeier

  Nevertheless, when they came to the end, at first she didn’t realize it. The rise of each stair was simply a little less than the one before until the stairs melted almost imperceptibly into a narrow hallway of green-shot black stone. Then, almost before they started forward again, the hallway ended at a blank stone wall. Green and white crystals glittered randomly in the polished black stone, but there was no sign of any kind of door or lock or anything that might ordinarily secure a vault.

  Djerkest reached out to run his fingertips across the black stone. “Hmm.”

  One of the soldiers started to mutter something, but Laasat touched his arm and he stopped. No one else made a sound. Oressa glanced at Gajdosik and away, then watched the magister with open interest.

  Magister Djerkest touched the wall a second time, frowning. He glanced at Oressa, frowned more deeply, began to say something or ask a question, but then shook his head and said nothing. He got out his small piece of crystal instead, holding it angled so that it reflected the wall of the vault. “The door . . . ,” he murmured, speaking to himself rather than to any of them. “The lock . . . Hmm.” He tapped the mirror he held with a fingernail, which made no sound at all. Then he reached out and tapped the black wall.

  The wall tolled like a great iron bell.

  Oressa flinched. Everyone did, even Prince Gajdosik. Reverberations rose around them, echo building upon echo, so that they seemed to stand within a huge bell, its voice surrounding them and filling them until all their bones vibrated in sympathy.

  Djerkest put his hand against the wall, but before he could do anything, the dispassionate voice of the kephalos said, “Attempted breach of vault.” There was a slight pause, and then the kephalos added, its tone unchanged, “Kieba unavailable.” A second pause and then, “Presumption of hostile breach. All positions below superior interdicted. All gods and mortals present presumed hostile. Limitations of response—” A very slight hesitation and then, “Limitations disallowed.”

  Magister Djerkest hissed under his breath, a sound of disbelief but not fear. Oressa was terrified enough for them both. She took a step back and sideways, away from the vault wall, which had gone suddenly translucent. All the walls were translucent. Shadows moved within the walls, slowly and far away, then suddenly fast and much closer.

  Prince Gajdosik closed a hand on Djerkest’s arm and hauled him away from the walls, back toward the stairs. He had a knife in his other hand—he had no sword. The soldiers closed ranks in front of their prince. Their swords were out, for what good that would do—none at all, Oressa was certain. She was already darting back toward the stairs.

  The walls that had all seemed to be black stone rapidly became transparent as water. The surfaces of the walls rippled, and suddenly the hallway was filled with golems. They were many legged and crystal eyed like the huge war golems, but smaller, no larger than large dogs. They moved with swift aggression, and Oressa saw the stairway wasn’t there; it was gone. The hallway ended now in a blank wall, exactly like the wall of the vault. She turned back toward the others, then stopped again, not knowing what she should do. There didn’t seem anything she could do, not now, and suddenly this all seemed like a terrible idea—

  Magister Djerkest stepped between Gajdosik and the golems, his crystal in his hand. One of the golems flung a silver needle at him. He blocked it with the crystal, but the golem’s weapon only flashed once, brilliantly, as it hit the crystal, and then went straight through and struck the magister in the throat. The crimson blood was shocking in the black and silver hallway. The magister looked surprised. He put out a hand toward Gajdosik, lifting the other to touch his throat. He half turned, opening his mouth. But blood came out of his mouth. He made an awful choking sound and crumpled slowly to his knees. The crystal fell out of his hand and rolled away across the floor.

  Two of the soldiers crowded around to get in front of their prince and were instantly torn apart, their swords useless as broomstraws against steel-and-glass golems with crystalline weapons and deadly aim.

  Laasat efficiently hit Gajdosik’s wrist to make him drop his knife, kicked the prince’s legs out from under him, and flung himself down on top of him. The only remaining soldier threw away his sword and dropped to cover them both. Oressa dropped to her knees and cried, “Kephalos, kephalos, we surrender! I’m Oressa Madalin. I’m Gulien Madalin’s sister. Kephalos, stop. We surrender!”

  There was no answer, but Oressa knelt where she was, panting, and nothing killed her. There was a long horrible moment when all she heard was the light, quick tapping of steel and glass on stone: the sound made by small war golems moving near at hand. But nothing else happened, and after a moment she started to believe that maybe the kephalos had accepted their surrender after all.

  CHAPTER 10

  Gulien was much relieved to have Magister Baramis’s challenge behind him.

  He had expected that Baramis, or someone, would make an attempt to set Gulien himself back and restore his father to power. He had anticipated that attempt, predicted with reasonable accuracy who might take part in the challenge, guessed that it would be a public contest but carefully out of the way of Gulien’s own partisans. Having correctly predicted all of that, he had taken steps to counter his opponents, and won. He was cautiously proud to have done it on his own, without depending on the Kieba’s support—he was almost certain he had carried the issue before her falcon had blazed out of the sky and made her will clear. He was grateful for her support, yet at the same time he almost wished she had not sent her falcon at all, so that he could have been sure of his own mastery of the situation.

  Today Magister Baramis and his allies had been very quiet. Two of the magisters had retired to their guildhall, in fact, staying clear of the palace, until Gulien had sent for them and ruthlessly set them to assisting with the continuing efforts to brace and repair the damaged wing of the palace. He was not entirely happy with his own satisfaction in their discomfort, but it was satisfying. He could hardly imagine that Baramis—or anyone, once word of the falcon ran through the city, as likely had already happened—would dare challenge him again, and that was also satisfying.

  But he was also aware that meeting this one early, predictable test was hardly proof that he would master the next. The thought of a second Tamaristan invasion woke him early; anxiety about how Estenda might take advantage of Carastind’s situation prevented him from falling back to sleep; awareness of the endless tasks necessary to restore and strengthen the city drove him to his feet and kept him upright through one long day and then half of another, and always in the back of his mind, he waited for the men he had sent east to return with news of Oressa, assurances that she was well and smug with her successful adventure. He waited for that every moment, even though he knew it would be at least another couple of days before his couriers could possibly return.

  He would have welcomed the piercing talons of the falcon, if it had stooped down to light on his hand again. He was sure Oressa was well, but he would have been glad of the chance to ask after his sister. But though he glanced up at every pigeon that whirred overhead, hoping for a crystal-eyed falcon, he saw no birds that seemed to be anything other than natural birds.

  On this day, just past noon, he stepped out of doors to cross to the storeroom that had been converted for the care and comfort of the few injured men who had not yet either died or recovered enough to leave the care of the physicians. A round dozen Tamaristan soldiers still lived, and one of the physicians, Magistra Ilia, had brought him news that one, a karanat—a rank roughly equivalent to a Carastindin lieutenant—was now deemed well enough to be questioned. Though the man would not admit to speaking any Esse at all, it was her opinion he understood at least a little.

  Gulien wished again for his sister, who was far more fluent in Tamaj than he was. Still, he could manage, more or less, and knew he had better question the man himself. He was determined not to be tempted to any base cruelty, which in any case would severely offend the physicians. But h
e wanted very badly to know what Prince Gajdosik might have decided to do after being forced to withdraw from Caras. Even if the karanat would not speak of his own prince, he might be able to explain more about the current political situation in Tamarist. Gulien also wanted to know what the clutter of other Garamanaji princes might be up to, whether any of them might follow Prince Gajdosik across the Narrow Sea, whether any of them might already have done so.

  But he had not quite reached the storeroom when Lord Paulin called out.

  Gulien turned, concerned but not alarmed. But Paulin was so obviously upset that Gulien took a step toward him before remembering his proper dignity—he half thought he heard his father’s acerbic voice: If a prince would not be mistaken for a farmer’s son, he had best behave like a prince. So he checked himself, waiting instead for the older man to come up to him. It was a ridiculous game, but he knew the steps of it did matter and made himself remember to follow them.

  He knew Paulin’s first loyalty was to his own house and family; he knew the man was playing his own game. But Gulien was confident Lord Paulin did not desire an abrupt return of Osir Madalin to power: Gulien’s father had many advisers but hardly listened to any of them. Gulien, on the other hand . . . Paulin had been at some pains to make certain that he, of all men in Caras, was Gulien’s friend. But he truly was a friend. Gulien did not doubt that.

  Of course Paulin did not yet know that Gulien had promised the Kieba he would abdicate in favor of his sister’s eventual husband. So for the moment, at least, Paulin was an ally, very possibly Gulien’s most important ally in Caras. He was wealthy, influential with the court and the guilds, intelligent, and perceptive. Oressa thought he was a flatterer. It wasn’t that this was precisely untrue, but Gulien believed Paulin’s studiedly offered friendship was sincere, even if he had also deliberately used his own interests in history and rare books to court Gulien’s favor. Anyway, Gulien trusted that the older man’s interest in a strong, secure, and prosperous Carastind was likewise sincere. And the man did have good sense.

  So the urgency in his tone, and the speed with which he was making his way across the courtyard, was worrisome. Especially as Lord Paulin was not ordinarily a man who hurried. He moved rather like a ship under sail, in fact—not a sleek warship but a round-bellied galley. Not that Gulien would have dared express the idea in quite those terms, even to his sister.

  Then Paulin came close enough to speak and began before he had even caught his breath, so urgently that Gulien immediately lost any impulse to smile: “Word from the north, Your Highness—a man of mine, with news. It’s Gajdosik again. Reports are that it’s the sea-eagle come to harbor up near Addas—”

  “Gods dead and forgotten,” Gulien said, but though he was immediately furious, he realized almost at once that he was not actually surprised. He said, and heard the grimness in his own tone, “I told the man I would destroy him if he touched Carastindin lands a second time. Does he think I didn’t mean it?”

  “He’s desperate, Your Highness—or despite your demonstration, he thinks he’s found a way to defy the Kieba as well as you. Whatever he means to do, likely he’s had time to set it in motion. My man rode hard, but at best it’s three days’ ride from Addas—”

  “Yes.” This was obvious. Gulien turned decisively toward the repurposed storerooms, beckoning for Lord Paulin to accompany him. That he would have to do something was plain. That it would be far better to know first just what that cursed Tamaristan prince was actually about was also plain.

  Half a dozen men and several women looked up in startlement as the door flung open, Magistra Ilia straightening from beside one of the pallets with a frown for the violence of this entrance.

  The wounded Tamaristans, clean and tended, clad in the plain linen shifts the physicians provided for indigent patients, rested on pallets, the most ill at the rear of the storeroom where it was coolest and those more nearly recovered closer to the door. Two physician’s attendants, both women, had been moving quietly about to tend the wounded, though because these men were Tamaristan, two guardsmen also stood by the door—now at attention in respect of their prince’s presence, but still watchful.

  The windowless, thick-walled storeroom, pleasantly cool even during the heat of the day, was lit by oil lamps that swayed overhead on chains. The floor was stone, but with rush mats laid across it on which the attendants might kneel while tending their patients. The ordinary smells of a sickroom were not absent, but the dominant scents were of lamp oil and astringent herbal unguents.

  The karanat, nearest the door, had jerked up onto an elbow in alarm. He was a young man, surely no older than Gulien. Though he could not know precisely who Gulien was, he could hardly mistake him for a physician or servant, and he had surely expected an officer to come with questions. One of his legs was splinted, and his opposite arm as well, but he met Gulien’s eyes with commendable composure, his mouth tight with what Gulien feared was stubbornness as well as pain.

  Some few of the other Tamaristan soldiers also seemed certain to mend; several were sitting up and alert, looking now from Gulien to their officer and back in understandable anxiety. The others, some half dozen who had hardly stirred, must still be fevered or were worse injured.

  At Gulien’s sharp gesture, the attendants backed away toward the far wall; the guardsmen laid their hands to their weapons, and Magistra Ilia said in rebuke, “Your Highness, moderation, if you please!”

  Gulien ignored her. He said to the nearest guardsman, speaking clearly but not too loudly, “Those six in the back don’t look likely to recover, so why are we wasting effort on them? Dispose of the lot of them and then we’ll see what we can do with these others.”

  The karanat, horrified, exclaimed, “No! Your Highness, please!” even before Magistra Ilia could explode.

  Gulien held up a hand to check the guardsman, who had hesitated in disbelief anyway. Giving the magistra an apologetic nod, he turned to the karanat and observed, “You do speak Esse. Let’s have no more pretense of that kind. I have questions, which I can put to you in civilized fashion here, under Magistra Ilia’s eye, or elsewhere, under no concerned gaze. Not only your own well-being depends on your answer, but that of all these men. Don’t tell me you don’t understand.”

  The karanat was pale but steady. His good hand was clenched, white-knuckled, on the linen shift he wore—undoubtedly he was wishing for proper clothing and boots and to be facing the Carastindin prince on his feet. In his place Gulien would have been wishing for all that. But he said steadily, his Esse accented but clear, “I understand.”

  “I’ve word the sea-eagle came to shore three days ago, in the north, to the harbor by Addas. What does your prince hope to gain by this? He cannot possibly hope to take Carastind now; not without first taking Caras. What ally does he expect? Has he made common cause with Estenda against us? Or does he expect another of your Garamanaji princes to attack Caras from the sea while he comes down from the north? What does he intend?”

  At his back Gulien was aware of Lord Paulin letting out what seemed a breath of protest, and at once realized he should not have provided plausible answers to the Tamaristan officer—now if the karanat said, Oh yes, Prince Gajdosik has made alliance with Estenda, how would Gulien know whether it was true or whether the man had simply seized on his own suggestion? But it was too late to catch back his words. He glared at the karanat.

  Flinching from Gulien’s anger, the Tamaristan officer lowered his gaze. He was shaking, fine tremors that at first Gulien had taken for the swaying of the lamps. A young man, injured and surely still in pain, Magistra Ilia’s efforts notwithstanding, caught out in attempted deception by a trick that any child might have expected, explicitly responsible now for all his companions, helpless in the hands of enemies . . . Gulien might very easily have pitied him, except that he could not afford pity. He said, refusing to let himself feel ill and most certainly refusing the karanat time to think, “Well? Answer at once!”

  “I . . .” Th
e young officer looked aside, faltering.

  Bending, Gulien seized his chin and forced his face up. He made his voice quiet, speaking only for the karanat to hear. “I’ve no intention of repeating any threats.”

  The karanat made a halfhearted effort to pull away, breath shuddering, then yielded to Gulien’s grip and met his eyes again. “You say three days, yes? Then it does not matter what you do. You will be too late—”

  Gulien didn’t hit him, but the karanat flinched, evidently just from the look in his eyes. He said grudgingly, “My prince will take what remains of the Kieba’s power. Then he will need no alliance, not with Estenda and not with his brothers.”

  Releasing him, Gulien straightened.

  Behind him Lord Paulin said, “The young man is lying—or mistaken. Gajdosik can’t do anything of the kind. It’s not possible.”

  Thinking of the Kieba he’d met, Gulien decided he agreed. He asked the young Tamaristan officer in his sternest tone, “Is that the truth? Your prince thinks he can defeat the Kieba and steal her power. He actually believes that?” When he saw the karanat gather himself to refuse to answer, he added scornfully, “I don’t think so. You are lying.”

  “It is not a lie! It was said. It was something he thought he might try. If he had no other choice. They said. It was said. I don’t know! He would not say such things to me! But it has been three days, and it will be more before you could get there—four, five—so if my prince would do it, it will be done, and you cannot prevent it.” The karanat drew a hard breath and straightened his shoulders, gathering the remnants of his pride.

  Gulien frowned, because that much was certainly true—if Gajdosik had come to shore three days ago, then depending on how long it had taken him to gather the resources he’d need for a swift plunge inward toward the Kieba’s mountain, he would surely have been there at least a day before anyone from Caras could possibly arrive. Maybe two. Maybe more.