by Phil Tucker
The very air throbbed around her. There was no color this close to the Gate. The steps were gray, the walls were pale; even the gold that edged the soldiers' uniforms had lightened to polished steel. Kethe felt as if she need never breathe again. She felt light, her flesh turned insubstantial. Old legends came back to her, tales of heroes and Ascendants, the most pure of the Perfecti and the most honored of the Empire being granted the right to walk through the White Gate and attain instant Ascension without having to wait for their natural deaths. The most hallowed of honors, the highest reward, to pass directly into the arms of eternity, to circumvent all the remaining cycles in one's journey and simple Ascend. Was that what she was about to do?
The palanquin was set down. Kethe arose by herself, feeling almost as if she could float. Then Dalitha stepped up beside her and took hold of her arm. Her voice sounded as if it were coming from the far side of the hall, hollow and thin and almost inaudible.
"Approach the Gate. If you have the strength, reach out and touch its light, and then return to us."
Kethe fought to focus, to understand. "Return? What if I can't?"
Gray Wind was standing at her other side, his face raw with wonder, his eyes wide as he gazed up at the dizzying heights of the White Gate. Kethe could barely hear his response. "Then it shall burn you, hollow you out with cleansing fire, and we will take your remains and bury them with all honors in the Temple."
Kethe shook. The white light was not a static thing, she saw; it pulsed as if in flux, pushing through the latticework of silver, seeming to reach for her, calling to her, yearning for her presence.
She should ask more questions. She should be feeling fear. Instead, she stepped forward, leaving the other two behind.
Oh, glory. Her hands fumbled together and formed the Triangle. She faltered forward, craning her head back as she sought to keep the entirety of the Gate in view. The light was bleeding out around her. She could barely make out her own limbs; the latticework itself had grown diffuse, had been consumed.
Voices rose in song.
Her body was dross, was filled with impurities, and the light of the Gate seared right through her, burning away the darkness. She sensed images, heard voices. The doors to her oldest memories swung open, and she was swamped with recollections of her childhood, of Asho, of the first time she had ridden Lady, of her fear of her father and her desire for his love, the time she had first touched herself in the silence of their private chapel, the heft of her blade, the boredom of feasts, the loneliness of her station, the terror of Tiron's attack. The fear and exultation of her first bleeding, regret at eating too many sugared apples, the laughter, the joy, the beauty of the world.
Her memories grew simpler. No people. Sunlight pouring through the shifting leaves of a forest, dappling the ground and setting dancing motes of dust aflame. The cold and furious pressure of a stream rushing over her hand. The feel and smell of rich loam as she dug her fingers into it looking for worms. Hunger. Thirst. Warmth. Love. Her mother. Arms holding her. Security. Red light. Comforting heat. Life.
With a cry, a gasp that was torn from her soul by the roots, she fell back, stumbled, the world spinning around her. Her mind, too, reeled. A pang of loss echoed through her. Then a sense of oneness, of wholeness. She reached for it, sought to return, but hands held her, took her by the arms, pulled her back.
The light receded. Forms emerged, and the roaring in her ears began to lessen. Her sense of her own body coalesced. Her breath, rapid pants, burned her throat. Tears burned her cheeks. She was sobbing, wracked with sorrow, torn by loss.
She was lifted up. Placed on something soft. The world shifted, tilted, and she began to descend. Through tear-webbed lashes, she gazed up at the White Gate as it slowly receded. She reached out for it, her hand a dark shadow before its immaculate glory, and with a spasm of useless rage she clenched her hand into a fist, seeking to capture that light, to hold on to it.
Another hand took her own, then a second. She looked to one side, then the other. Dalitha, Gray Wind. There was in their expressions an understanding, a commiseration, a wealth of loss and sympathy that was too much to bear. Kethe turned her face away from them and buried it in the pillows of palanquin, fighting as hard she could to retain those flickering images and memories, that sensation of awe.
But it slipped from her mind like sand through her fingers, and was gone.
CHAPTER SIX
Audsley carefully lowered himself onto the flat cushion and winced as he tucked his feet in so that he was sitting cross-legged. Curse the Sigeans and their ascetic tendencies, he thought, and then forced himself to beam as if delighted at Iarenna and her clutch of attendants.
They had returned to the Miliaka estate and there had been informed that Lord Miliaka had chosen to remain at his ancestral home in Sigea, and would not be in attendance for at least another week – much to Audsley's delight. He wasn't particularly eager to confront a dour and skeptical lord when his daughter had already proved to be far more willing to talk.
The room in which they were sitting was minimalist and yet replete with subtle accents here and there that hinted at wealth. There was nothing so gauche for a Sigean as to flaunt material success; instead, Audsley saw there a series of intricately stitched curtains, here a low table of subtly carved Zoeian heartwood, and over on a small shelf a collection of jade and ivory carvings. Nothing ostentatious, but cumulatively worth more than all the contents of Kyferin Castle.
Vachlava knelt and poured steaming tea from a black lacquered pot into the two lotus cups set on a small tray which in turn was placed on the Zoeian table. She then proffered the cup to Audsley with both hands, and he quickly wiped the grin off his face and adopted a look of mock severity as he took the cup, bowing his head low, much to Vachlava's approval. At least she didn't scowl at him.
The lotus cup was of the finest porcelain and consequently very hot to touch. Audsley inhaled the fragrant, grassy scent, found it completely unappealing, and managed to resist asking for honey before pretending to take a sip and setting it down. Vachlava retired to the back of the austere room and knelt beside the other three ladies, all of whom were watching him with their customary disapproval.
"You have rendered our family a great service, Magister Audsley," said Iarenna. She had changed from her many robes into a new set of three: a form-hugging ivory robe, a goldenrod outer robe, and a flowing cloak of the palest jade.
The colors have import, said the Aletheian demon.
How helpful. Audsley smiled. "It is my deepest delight to render service to Lady Iskra's family in every way that I can. I only hope that we were able to deliver Kethe in time."
Iarenna bowed her head in agreement. "Her life is in the hands of the Ascendant. We have done our part, to the best of our ability."
The ivory indicates a desire to be honest, worn close to the body and thus without pretense. The soft gold indicates a hope that this meeting will be the beginning of a relationship worthy of all honors, and the outer green an undercutting of the last, in that she still has reserve, and hides from you like a maiden peering out through the boughs of a forest.
"Ah," said Audsley, then snapped his mouth shut. Fascinating! And do all robes and styles of clothing speak in such volume?
Yes. The greater the number of layers, the more complex the statement, and the more refined the feeling. Dependent, of course, on the degree of privacy; fewer robes may be worn in private while still directing a powerful message, whereas a similar outfit would indicate an overly simple and unrefined personage in public. Such is the Aletheian way.
"Ah," said Audsley again, and as Iarenna raised an eyebrow he snatched up his tea to disguise his embarrassment and took a sip, scalding the roof of his mouth. "Ooh. Oh, yes. Delicious. Tangy. Like straw." He set his cup down, almost spilling the tea. "Not that I've had cause to eat much, of course."
He could feel the ladies-in-waiting's disapproval thicken.
Iarenna gave no sign of noticing his maladr
oitness. "Will you be staying in Aletheia long, Magister, or will you rush to return to my sister's side?"
"Well, that all depends. It's hard to say. I must return soon, but first, a few questions, if I may?"
Iarenna nodded.
Audsley coughed. "The, ah, Minister of the Moon. What a delightful title, coincidentally. Could you, um, elucidate, as it were, his primary responsibilities?"
Iarenna inclined her head once more. "But of course. He is a most illustrious personage: esteemed, august, and an Aletheian of the highest order. All matters that deal with divination, weather reading, prophecies, magic, and relations with the Temple of the Virtues fall under his purview."
"I see, I see." What a wide array of duties.
Ask her which family he belongs to.
"Um. If it's not rude, do you know which family he belongs to?"
Iarenna covered her mouth as if resisting the urge to smile. " He is a member of the Fujiwara clan, first cousin to the Ascendant's Consort."
I do not know of this family. Ask them when it was raised to Aletheian status.
Bossy, aren't you? And why should you know every Aletheian family of repute? You sound almost aggrieved.
I lost much time in Starkadr.
Fair enough. "And, ah, this Fujiwara clan. An old Aletheian family?"
"Not as old as most, no." Iarenna sipped her tea. "They were elevated to Aletheian status some two centuries ago."
"Ah. So, not one of the original thirty families, then." Audsley felt a brief flash of pride. "Did they rise to replace one of the thirty?"
Iarenna nodded once more. "Precisely. They were given heavenly status in exchange for services rendered to the Ascendant himself. Since then, they have grown into the most powerful family in Aletheia. The Minister of Perfection himself is the head of the clan, while the Ascendant's Consort is his granddaughter. The family is large and claims the honor of having a multitude of minor ministers, consulates, advisors and attendants in their number. They are truly without parallel."
"Fascinating." Audsley forgot himself and sipped the tea. He turned his wince into a pained smile. It sounds like much has changed since last you visited Aletheia.
Yes, said the demon, moving forward in Audsley's mind as if making himself more comfortable. It is startling that this clan should have come to dominate the other twenty-nine families; it speaks to an unheard-of political prowess that has been passed through the generations.
"And this revered Minister of the Moon." Audsley tried for a serious look. "Has he ever been rumored to act... strangely? Have you seen him do anything that aroused your suspicions?"
The ladies-in-waiting fanned themselves in outrage, and Iarenna gave him a puzzled smile. "Magister, the Minister is of the First Rank. My family is of the Seventh. Other than seeing him at the grandest of festivals in which all members of Aletheia take part, there is no occasion at which I might encounter him."
"Oh! Excuse me. I didn't know." I should have spent more time studying Aletheian politics than mythical stoneclouds, it would appear. Who would have thought something so boring would suddenly prove so vital? "So, there is no way to get close to him? None at all?"
Iarenna watched him carefully. "I'm afraid not. We simply don't have enough rank."
Audsley frowned. Do you know of a way?
A highly ranked lover could theoretically bring you to a private event as her consort.
Audsley had assumed a benign expression as he raised the teacup to his lips, but immediately coughed and almost dropped the cup. Green liquid splashed onto his trousers and across his fingers; he cried out in pain and set the cup clumsily down on the tray.
The sound of the fans became almost aggressive.
"I'm all right. Just a little, ah, clumsy." He went to dry his fingers on the green traveling robe and caught himself at the last moment. What?
If you evinced enough style, grace, wit and culture, you could impress a highly ranked widow to take you on as a lover. She in turn might then be persuaded to flaunt you at court so as to titillate those who had thought her passé.
Well, as you have made abundantly clear, I am none of things. Perhaps witty, but otherwise I doubt I could impress a jaded Aletheian widow.
"Magister? Are you all right? You look displeased."
I could guide you in the forms. Assist you in a manner that would impress even the most close-minded of Aletheians. All you need do is ask how badly you desire to root out this evil.
"Well, ha-ha, I am quite fine, of course. I was just thinking, evil needs rooting out, doesn't it?" A ridiculous plan! Look at me – I am hardly a dashing knight like Ser Wyland, capable of wooing a powerful lady. Even if you did help me, she would take one look at my ample form and laugh in disbelief!
You know so little of Aletheian values. It is not to be wondered at. They care nothing for physical appearance, and in fact consider the naked body alarming and uncouth. It is the refinement of the spirit that they admire, the sign that one is at the peak of the cycle of rebirth.
"Evil does need rooting out," Iarenna said slowly, clearly confused. "It is an admirable impulse for all to harbor." For the first time she betrayed a moment of hesitation. "Is there any evil in particular that concerns you?"
"Me? All evil. But my, Aletheia is wonderful, isn't it?" Audsley fanned himself with his hand. "Your open-mindedness is refreshing. To think, you care more for the quality of a man's soul than the vigor with which he can wave a sword!"
Poetry, calligraphy, fashion, musical style, dance, the ability to create the most intoxicating of perfumes – all these betray the superior soul. With my guidance, you can masquerade as such and snare the heart of one who can bring you close to the Minister of the Moon.
"Well, I am a Sigean, of course, but I do admire Aletheian virtues." Iarenna's bewilderment barely showed. "As do we all, for they are the apex of refinement, and although anything we do can be only a pale and inferior imitation, it is fine practice for our next and final life."
"Yes, yes, a wonderful ambition. I've always thought so." Audsley had no idea what he was saying. His mind was swirling. Proof. I'm making a complete fool of myself. Rescue me from this situation, and I shall believe you.
Very well. Say these words exactly: Perhaps nine-fold mists cut me off from the splendor of the moon, for I find myself yearning for the clear night skies of my youth.
Iarenna was clearly searching for some way to respond. She hid her confusion by raising her cup of tea to her lips.
Audsley leaned forward and, in a careless manner, recited the demon's words.
Vachlava, Stoika, Chynica and Elacha went very still, and Iarenna paused in lowering her cup, eyebrows rising, before inclining her head gracefully. "That very moon that shone in spring yet radiates in autumn, despite the cruel mists that so cruelly obscure its glow. "
"Ah, yes," said Audsley, nodding wisely. He rolled his eyes knowingly at Vachlava. What is going on?
You must prepare to depart. Rise, and then say: Living in obscurity is a burden while it lasts, but when the light of heaven dims, one may feel grateful for the gracious eleu-drop.
Audsley rose to his feet, his knees aching, and Iarenna did the same, though with infinitely more grace. Taking a step toward the door, Audsley smiled at her. "Living in obscurity is a burden while it lasts, but, um, when the light of heaven dims, one may feel grateful for the, ah, gracious eleu-drop."
From her sleeve Iarenna withdrew a fan, which she opened smoothly and placed before her face.
Only seven folds to the fan, said the demon. Take note.
"Neglected beside the mountain path, even the humble eleu-drop may glimmer when clothed in the loveliness of a light silver dew."
"Hmm," said Audsley, nodding as if he were chewing a particularly succulent piece of tenderloin. "Yes. Very much so."
Be silent! You ruin the moment! Bow and depart!
Audsley quickly bowed from the waist and blundered backward into the curtains hanging in front of the door. He thru
st them aside as if they were attacking him, and then stumbled out into the veranda. The curtains closed behind him, and he immediately heard the fierce whisperings of the ladies-in-waiting as they descended upon Iarenna.
Pryimak was standing to one side, arms crossed, and at the sight of Audsley he stepped forth, eyebrow raised.
"Yes, I was just leaving," said Audsley. "That way?"
"There is only one way," said Pryimak, and he led Audsley out through the servant's gate so that he emerged once more onto the Honeysuckle Causeway.
Now, thought Audsley, what, by the Ascendant, was all that about?
In his mind's eye, he saw the demon lean back as if he were sitting in a comfortable chair, a pleased smile on his ancient face. I rescued the situation, just as you requested.
Audsley began to walk down the causeway toward Aletheia. Yes, yes, but what did I actually say to her?
There were many subtleties that I shall not spell out in full, but in short, you succeeded in convincing Iarenna that you are, if not a potential romantic suitor, then at least a gracious one who recognizes her worth.
Audsley staggered as his knees suddenly went weak. He lunged for the railing, startling two servants who glared at him first in horror then in anger before hurrying on.
What? I what? How? Audsley's entire body flashed from cold to hot, and he suddenly very much needed a cup of Sigean soulfire. Me?
The pride in the demon's voice was obvious. The allusions were as refined as they were subtle. To be honest, I am impressed that Iarenna caught most of them. She must have had an excellent education.
"But what did I say!" Audsley clamped his mouth shut and scowled at another servant, who shook his head and strode away.
You referenced three ancient poems most subtly, combining a yearning for spiritual purity with the sadness of no longer being able to appreciate true beauty. When Iarenna gave you a slight opening, you pivoted delightfully by acknowledging her as an eleu-flower, a rare bloom native only to Sigea, with two opposing petals shaped like hearts and thus a symbol for love, fidelity, beauty. It was an understated and exceedingly refined way of appreciating her heritage and alluding to her beauty, even amidst the splendor of Aletheia.
