She sat cross-legged upon the ground, a flat piece of stone upon her knees, skinning and gutting a fur-mouse for the pot. Half-a-dozen more lay in a nearby basket awaiting her attention, and several ikulas lolled nearby, waiting to be thrown scraps. Marap had found a tree whose nuts looked very much like the ones for which the Nalzindar had once traded. Boiled, they made a bitter black brew, but combined with shotor-urine, they could render a scraped hide as soft as cloth, and the Nalzindar had used this liquid to cure those skins which they did not wish simply to peg out to dry in the sun. Marap said that adding salt to the liquid would make the hides even softer, but Shaiara was not yet ready to risk a journey to the salt-flats. Let the evil that Bisochim brewed within his heart distill itself yet further before any Nalzindar risked the open desert again. Perhaps the rest of the Isvaieni would waken from their poisonous dream.
Had Rausi but known these wonders lay here, and woven them into the Song of Rausi, Shaiara’s heart would have lain lighter in her breast at the beginning of their journey, and perhaps those of her people who had chosen to lay their bones upon the sand would have drawn strength from the knowledge and been able to follow the path to journey’s end. She shook her head, banishing such foolishness. Had Rausi known of these things and made them a part of his tale, they would have become known to all who lived between Sand and Star, for the Song of Rausi was a thing not known to the Nalzindar alone. Many would have quickly come to partake of Abi’Abadshar’s bounty, and it would not have been a place of safety and secret at the time of the Nalzindar’s great need.
As so often these days, Shaiara’s mind turned to the future. Were they to live out all their days here? How might they know that it was safe to venture back into the Isvai once more? Would that day even come?
Today is in your hand, and tomorrow is upon your lips. That is all, she said to herself sternly. It was a thing her mother and father had both said to her—often—when she had asked after the future with a young child’s impatience. No one could truly know what the future might bring, and to think upon it took the mind from the task of survival.
She worked carefully at her task—leader of her people she might be, but none among the Nalzindar expected to spend their days in idleness; it was as unthinkable as leaving the Isvai itself. Yet so many new things had happened in so short a time—and Shaiara knew that all her people looked to her to know best how to make sense of them—that she welcomed a chore that set hands to work and left mind free to rove. At day’s end, the people would gather around—the hunters returning from their pursuit of game and their careful numbering of the herds and the flocks; the explorers from their travels deep within the secret hidden vastness of Abi’Abadshar—and all would share their knowledge together. Then they would eat, and sleep, and rise when the light came again to begin a new day. But if there were questions, then Shaiara must have answers—if not at once, then soon.
As Shaiara turned over in her mind what the new day—what many new days—would bring, here in a world where food fell into the hand and water was only a short walk away, she heard the muffled sound of running footsteps. She glanced up from her task to see Ciniran running across the grass, her bare feet green-stained.
The bag upon Ciniran’s hip jounced and clattered with the sound of the bells that the foolish Isvaieni of other tribes hung upon the bridles of their shotors, and in her hands she carried an object of a familiar shape—round like a clay jug, but of a strange material, pale and glistening like water.
The ikulas all rose to their feet at her approach—all save Israf, who had lived at Shaiara’s side long enough to be certain that whatever occurred, he would not be stepped on—and Ciniran slid to her knees beside Shaiara, holding out the strange jug.
Shaiara dropped the half-cleaned fur-mouse back into the basket—the ikulas knew better than to take that which they were not given—and set aside the skinning-stone. She took the jug onto her knees, running her fingers questingly over its surface. It was hard like stone, yet smoother than any stone she had ever touched. And it was as transparent as the gauhars which the Kadyastar took from a place in the desert they would reveal to no one and set into ornaments of gold prized even in the Iteru-cities. Yet it was clear instead of colored.
“It is glass,” she said slowly. Yet she had never seen an object of glass so large and so clear.
“In a chamber three descents below, there are many objects,” Ciniran said, her voice troubled. She opened her hunter’s bag and began emptying it onto the mat upon which she knelt.
A cup of yellow gold, with a bowl as large as Shaiara’s two hands. It had a long straight stem and a disk-shaped base. There was another of white silver whose shape matched it exactly. Shaiara picked up the silver cup. The metal was chill in her fingers. The bowl of the cup was covered with a raised design of creatures that she did not believe had ever walked the earth: bird-winged cats; and creatures that were half adder and half something for which she had no name; and men and women with the heads of unknown beasts. The inside of the cup was studded with gems: not merely the red gauhar of the Kadyastar, but green and yellow and blue and purple stones as well.
When she looked up from contemplating the cup, Ciniran had finished emptying her bag. Small bowls of gold, and flat plates, and circlets for arm and head. All were ornamented—some with designs meant to depict creatures, however impossible, some merely with patterns.
Gold was prized by many of the tribes of the Isvai, and even more greatly—so Shaiara had heard—by the dwellers in the Iteru-cities. The Nalzindar had little use for it: it was soft, and heavy, and did not bring game to the pot or water to the waterskin. They did not accept it in trade when it was offered, preferring things which were of real use between Sand and Star. Here, Shaiara suspected, was enough gold to purchase a score of the finest shotors to be had among the Isvaieni, or perhaps six pairs of matched ikulas of proven lineage, or four fully trained falcons ready for the hunt. A frightening amount of wealth, for in a world where there was war, Shaiara did not doubt that the Isvaieni would soon be taught to kill for gold as well.
“How many?” Shaiara asked.
“I could fill the pack of every shotor of the tribe with what is there, and more would remain,” Ciniran said. “And there are these. Many.”
Ciniran reached into a fold of her headscarf and held out her hand. On her palm lay a small disk of gold. Shaiara took it from her and studied it curiously. Both sides were covered with elaborate designs, but she could not deduce its purpose.
Ciniran watched her, and Shaiara knew she was awaiting her decision. Shaiara thought carefully. Gold, yes, and the Nalzindar had heard many tales at the Gatherings of how gold stole men’s wits. But both gold and Nalzindar were safe within Abi’Abadshar, and should that change—well, Shaiara would meet that day when it dawned.
“Tomorrow you and I shall return to this chamber,” she decided. “I shall see if there is anything there that is useful.” She dropped the disk onto the mat and reached for the skinning-stone again. “Now come. There is work to be done if we are to eat.”
UPON THE DAY that followed, Shaiara and Ciniran returned to the chamber which Ciniran had discovered. The two of them went alone, for Shaiara wished to see this place before she made a present of the knowledge of it to all the tribe. She had tucked the contents of Ciniran’s hunting bag away in a basket in a far corner of the tent, and Ciniran, seeing that, had not spoken of what she had found.
Shaiara was certain that Ciniran would be only the first to discover objects belonging to those who had lived here before—not the last—and she wished time to consider carefully before laying her thoughts before the people. It was only truth that the world was filled with magic, and—as the Nalzindar now knew to their sorrow—the ancient Dark magic of long ago had merely slept, and not been sent from the world completely. While it was true that the spirits of men did not linger in the world after their bodies had been laid beneath the sand, Shaiara did not know if the same could be said for the Enda
rkened and those who had served them in the long-ago time, and there was no Wildmage now dwelling among the Nalzindar who could—perhaps—answer such a question.
IT WAS FORTUNATE that the hunting had been good and the Nalzindar were careful and provident. The lamps and lanterns possessed by a people who worked and hunted by the sun and the moon were few, retained upon the journey across the Barahileth more for the heat they might give than for the light, for the depths of a desert night were cold, and it would be foolhardy indeed to arrive at their destination unable to make fire, or light, or warm themselves. As it was, they had arrived at Abi’Abadshar with the wells and reservoirs nearly dry, for oil was food for people as well as lanterns, and until they had discovered the rich treasures that lay beneath the surface of the sands, there had been no fuel to bring life to their lamps and lanterns once more. It was fortunate that they had kept them, for the torches they could craft burned quickly, and the place Ciniran had discovered lay so deep beneath the ground that Shaiara did not think that the light from the sky above could have reached it by any means at all, even if all the stone ceilings that lay between it and the free air were broken. It was a great wonder indeed that the air itself was so sweet, here in a place where the absence of the lantern’s small flame would mean suffocating blackness, yet it was so.
The Nalzindar were a people who used whatever came to their hand to make the path they must walk between Sand and Star as smooth as it could be rendered, and so it had not been long before they turned all the unfamiliar bounty of Abi’Abadshar to their advantage. The strange pale stone-fruits that grew in abundance in the damp darkness of the tunnels were not safe to eat: the goats shunned them, and the ikulas-puppy who had eaten some had died a lingering and painful death, her illness beyond the skill of any of the tribe’s healers to ease. But the stone-fruit was not entirely useless. Some of the larger growths gave off a faint pale light, and Merab had learned how to use them to make a paste that—mixed with fat and white ash—could be used to mark one’s way in the passages whether one had light or not, for the marks made with this paste would shine against the rock even in complete darkness, and the white ash made them highly visible even in the dimmest light. Each Nalzindar who ventured into the Descents made his or her own personal mark upon the walls with the paste upon each journey, in much the same way as such a one might scratch hunt-sign into the hard-baked desert clay, for should one who explored fail to return in time for the evening meal, those who went in search must be able to trace the steps of the missing one. Upon returning, each hunter wiped away the marks he or she had made upon going, and after a few days, the faint gleaming smears left behind by their fingers vanished from the rock entirely.
Shaiara and Ciniran’s descent was accomplished by means of sets of broad terraces—if Shaiara did not have great experience of these curious things by now, they would surely have tripped her, for the ones leading from one level to the next were wide and shallow—one must walk two or three steps between the edge of one and the next, and descend only a narrow handspan, and then walk again. Indeed, any shotor might have made such a descent in perfect comfort, could the stubborn beasts have been persuaded to venture into near-darkness, for the terraces were as broad as the passageway from which they led.
As Shaiara knew, the Descent below the first also held gardens, and water, and sunlight, though the growth was less abundant than upon the level above. There was more damage to the Second Descent, as the roots of plants and trees that flourished on the level above had worked their way through any tiny crack in the rock they could find, levering it wide over the centuries. In the Second Descent, no barrier remained in place across an entrance—if, in fact, any had ever existed. Those hunters who wished a greater challenge than their days now held came to the Second Descent to hunt, for the creatures lurking here were difficult to track and more difficult to capture, and the Nalzindar had come to believe that this was the Descent upon which most of the predators who lived within Abi’Abadshar made their homes.
Shaiara and Ciniran made their way carefully along the length of the great corridor. Their way was not unencumbered, for though it was as broad and as high as the one above, uncounted years had filled it with dung and debris and crumbled stone. With the weaving of many more baskets and the labor of moonturns, the passage could be cleared—just as the passage above was being cleared of wet sand and poisonous stone-fruit—but the material must be put somewhere, and they could not simply dump it on the sand outside. To do so would be to attract unwanted attention—and any attention at all would be unwanted. Though some of the rooms in the passage above were empty, and might be filled, Shaiara hesitated before ordering any action that would so disrupt the Balance of this place. For the moment, the Nalzindar were but guests. Bad enough that their necessity required them to hunt the fenec, the desert cat, and the wild pakh—not even for skins (for the pakh was a useless creature whose flesh was inedible even by the starving and whose skin could not be tanned), but because the Nalzindar now needed their prey to feed their own hunger. It was true that game was abundant here, but it was also true that the weight measured out by the Eternal Light into each pan of the Great Balance must tally exactly. When new predators arrived in a hunting ground, old predators must go, lest the prey be hunted to destruction. And the Nalzindar were predators.
They reached the end of the corridor, and the shallow terraces that marked the next Descent. Ciniran paused to light the second lamp, and Shaiara blew out the first, tucking it into her pouch to let it cool before refilling it. She and Ciniran continued on, following the marks left upon the walls—first those that many Nalzindar had left in the course of going forth for a day’s hunting and harvesting, but as they went on, the marks became fewer.
THE THIRD DESCENT held little sign of life, though there was evidence here that the beasts that made Abi’Abadshar their home had occasionally ventured down here, most so long ago that their bones—all that remained—crumbled away to dust at the touch. For the first time, Shaiara’s touch discerned ornament upon the walls, though the illumination she and Ciniran carried was not enough to show her the whole of the design. She held the lamp close to the walls, hoping to see.
Wide bands of something that might almost be carved letters—were it not for the fact that it held no shapes that Shaiara recognized—alternated with what might be more pictures like those upon the cups. But the carvings were too vast, and her lamp was too dim. There was not enough light.
Perhaps—if they discovered a way to make proper torches, and if the smoke did not suffocate them—Shaiara would be able to return, and see more clearly what stories these walls told. At last they reached the terraces that led to the Fourth Descent, the limit—so far—of the Nalzindar’s explorations.
“Narkil did not wish to continue so far,” Ciniran said quietly. “I went on alone.”
Silently, Shaiara blessed Narkil’s hesitation, little though she cared for the fact that it had led to Ciniran’s continuing to explore by herself. “Not twice,” was all she said, and Ciniran nodded. Shaiara made fresh marks against the carved stone, indicating clearly that two young female Nalzindar had come this way early in the day. Then she lifted the lamp high, and they continued.
SHE HAD TAKEN care to wear her heaviest cloak when they set out, for experience had taught her that the deeper one went into Abi’Abadshar, the colder it became, but they descended now into a bone-deep chill such as Shaiara had never experienced, and Ciniran, who had warned her of it, was just as uncomfortable.
“There is another Descent below this one,” Ciniran said, and Shaiara understood the unvoiced question: is it possible that they grow colder and colder until water could become ice? Both of them knew that such a thing was possible, for at certain times of the year, ice could be harvested even in the deep desert, by leaving water out in a shallow metal pan overnight. It was a game played by the children of the Isvaieni at the Gatherings of the tribes, for the desertfolk had no need of ice.
And it was a qu
estion Shaiara could not answer.
The walls of the shallow terrace-passage leading to the Fourth Descent were carved as well, and Shaiara felt frustration at not being able to see what her hands discerned so clearly. In the distance, she could see the faint smears of Ciniran’s marks upon the wall, angling down and away as the passage descended. While it was true that it would be hard to lose one’s way upon the terraces—no passages led off from them, and one must go either up or down—Ciniran had marked the wall, with a true hunter’s prudence, against the possibility that she might lose her lamp and have nothing but the small glow-marks of the stone-fruit paint to guide her. Such marks as those, simple arrows indicating that a passage had been explored—no more—were not erased when the explorer retraced his or her steps, but left to stand.
To finally reach the bottom of the terraces was a relief, for the careful counting of steps in the darkness was a great strain. Here in the Fourth Descent there was no sign of life at all, nor any sign that any creature between the city’s desertion and the Nalzindar’s arrival had ever ventured so deep. When Shaiara stooped down and ran her hand over the stone beneath her feet, it was as smooth and clean as if it were a fresh-scrubbed skinning-stone. Even the eternal dust—fine as the finest flour—which worked its way into every corner of the passages above had not made its way to this depth.
The barriers here were of a different kind than those Shaiara had seen above. There, all were the same. Here, each one was different. All were of the same shape, but each was elaborately decorated, no two alike: some inlaid with ivory or bone or metal, others carved. Here, too, the metal upon the barriers was different—not rings, but crescent shapes like a hunter’s bow, or round balls, or only a flat disk. Holding her lamp up close by one of the barriers, Shaiara could see that it had once been painted, for flecks of color still clung to the deep furrows in the design.
The Phoenix Endangered Page 6
