by Ian Irvine
Even on the impassive faces of the Syndics their horror and contempt was evident. Even to Emmant. Selial spoke with cold formality and her words cut through his self-delusion like a blade through a veil.
“Say no more! You are stripped of all duties and responsibilities to the Aachim. You may go or remain, as you wish, but you are worth nothing to us now.”
Emmant let out a tortured wail. He had expected to be praised and rewarded, not the loss of all he had ever striven for. He was shattered, shaking so much that he had to be led from the hall. At the door he turned and looked back at Karan, his face in torment, his eyes just the surface expression of a malignancy with its roots in his soul. Llian felt a twisted pity for him then, pity mixed with a terrible dread of this driven man. But Emmant opened his mouth and vomited forth a torrent of abuse so vile that Llian, who was no stranger to uncouthness, was almost sick. Then as suddenly the flow was cut off and he allowed the Aachim to lead him away.
“Hold,” said Selial, as Tensor turned to go. “There is yet another matter.”
Tensor turned back to her.
“Do you still wish to charge the chronicler?”
Tensor was silent for a long time. Finally, “I will hold that in abeyance until the other issue is resolved.”
“Then, Llian of Chanthed, you are free to do as you wish, save that you may not yet leave Shazmak.”
As they spoke Karan limped down the spiral stair. Near the bottom she stumbled, slipped and cracked her cast against the iron. Screwing her eyes shut she stood still as death, supporting her arm. Then she threw her shoulders back and, head in the air, walked across to where Llian sat. But once there she could keep it up no longer, and slumped on the chair as though the marrow had been withdrawn from her bones.
Llian had never hated anyone more than he hated Tensor at that moment. The urge to strike back, though he knew it was foolhardy, was overwhelming. “In that case I have a question of my own, if the Syndics will allow it,” he said.
Tensor jerked upright. The audience murmured.
‘Truly a presumptuous chronicler!” said Selial. “You have no right to examine any of us, unless you have been charged.”
“You said I was free to do as I wished. I wish to have an answer to one question at this Syndic.”
“Very well. If I must err it will be on the side of courtesy,” Selial replied. “Who would you question, and what would you ask?”
“My question is to Tensor, and it is this—”
Karan looked up at Llian in amazement. Surely he didn’t have the temerity?
Llian did. ‘Tell me what happened at Huling’s Tower after Shuthdar destroyed the golden flute and the Forbidding was made.”
Tensor’s head jerked around. His eyes glowed golden, his whole body gone rigid in his shame and fury.
“Insolent dog of a Zain, I will crucify you for this! You shall be tried right now. Charge him!”
Selial stood up. She was small for an Aachim. She bent before Tensor’s fury, then snapped back.
“Do not! Would you bring the Syndic into disrepute to cover up your own failings?” She looked to each of her fellows, nodded, then spoke again.
“In the circumstances the Zain has a right. We do not see the relevance of this question, but since it is the only one he asks, we allow it. You must answer Llian, and be sure that we will judge the truth of it. To the dock, if you will.”
Tensor’s flesh seemed to run before the white heat of his fury, but he climbed the stairs and stood in the iron dock. He gripped the rail so hard that Llian expected the marble to crumble in his fingers.
Llian felt Karan’s hand slip into his. She was shivering.
Tensor shook his head, forcing himself to calmness. If he must confess his shame, he would do it with dignity.
Then he looked Llian in the eye. “The destruction of the flute,” he said softly. “Why did it unman us so?
“It was not the very air glowing red, yellow, blue and violet, battering past us like a solid rainbow, a painted cyclone. It was not the waves that rolled head-high through the ground, throwing men, women, horses and even wagons, up in the air. Not the unseen force that flattened every tree outwards for a league, nor the lightnings that streamed from sword and chain mail and helmet, nor the birds that fell dead with brains boiling out their beaks. It was none of those, nor the hundred other strangenesses not seen before or since.
“What made me run like a craven? I’ll tell you, chronicler. I’ll tell you, and pray that you never see it, lest your entrails liquify and dribble out your backside.”
Selial stiffened at the vulgarity, then coldly motioned for Tensor to go on.
He nodded an apology to the Syndics. “The flute struck down every creature save us Aachim. Death or unconsciousness spared them what we saw, chronicler!
“The flute opened the Way between the Worlds, and for an instant we saw right into the void. Know you what dwells there, chronicler? Not even a teller such as you could imagine it
“In the void, life is more desperate, more brutal, more fleeting than anywhere. Every race and every creature is armored, toothed, clawed, and deadly cunning. Every weapon, every protection, every unearthly power and talent must be bettered daily, as, in the desperation required for survival there, every other race and creature does the same. To fail once is to be extinguished. To stay the same is to be extinguished. In the void none but the fittest survive, and only by remaking themselves constantly.
“The Charon were cast into the void in their millions, chronicler, and fled from it reduced to hundreds, on the precipice of extinction. The void was too violent, too brutal, too clever even for the Charon. That is what we saw, and that is why we fled, but then the Forbidding came down and could not be undone. Have I satisfied you?”
Llian’s skin crawled. The answer raised a dozen other questions, but he would not get them answered here. “You have not. I asked what happened at the tower after the Forbidding.”
“I do not understand.”
“There was a lame girl in the tower. She was murdered shortly after Shuthdar’s death. I would know who killed her, and why.”
“You think that someone entered in secret?” Something glowed in his golden eyes, as though he saw a new hope, or a new fear.
“Yes,” said Llian.
“I cannot say. I was… not there.”
“Then who can I ask? Where can I look?” cried Llian, despairing again.
“I have answered your question. I will say nothing more, save this. Who was the first to enter the tower? I always thought that it was a Charon, perhaps Rulke, but the whole history of that time is bound up with deceit. Only three Charon ever came to Santhenar. If Rulke, go to Alcifer. If Yalkara, to Havissard, far to the east. If Kandor, who once had the fabulous Empire of Perion, before the sea went dry, seek the lost city of Katazza, in the center of the Dry Sea. That trek will test you, chronicler, to the last sinew of your feeble bag of bones. Had I the Mirror, I might find a better answer. Without it, I can tell you no more. I did not see.” His resolve broke, bis shame overflowed. “I way not there.”
Selial rose. “That is the key to the mystery, chronicler. No one knows who got in, or what they found there, and mat is all we can tell you. We have heard the evidence of this witness, and it is truth, as he knows it. This trial is ended.”
Tensor, despite his bulk, came down the steps like a panther. His yellow eyes were fixed on Llian.
“You will pay for this a hundredfold,” he said, then turned his back and strode away.
“Thank you for standing up for me,” said Karan, holding onto Llian’s arm, “though I would rather you hadn’t You have made yourself an enemy who will never forget, or for give.”
Rael escorted Karan and Llian back to their chambers. Karan’s aftersickness was worse than it had ever been. She could do no more than lie on the couch with her eyes closed. Llian was restless, exhilarated in spite of her peril and his own, and Tensor’s unsatisfactory response.
&nbs
p; “What are they doing now?” he asked, as he paced back and forth.
“Arguing about me,” she replied weakly. “We have had a victory, but not enough. Tensor will never give in. He will convince them, if it goes long enough. But the Syndics have judged and they do not change their mind easily. Go away now.”
He went into the other room and sat in the gloom, thinking about what he had learned. That the first person into the tower was probably a Charon. That the Mirror might hold the answer. That if it was a Charon, the answer could lie somewhere in one of their great cities, each a long trek away; each abandoned long ago.
Tempting, if he knew where the Mirror was, to make a bargain with Tensor. The Mirror in exchange for whatever secret it held about the Forbidding. He might have done it too, a few weeks ago, but not now. Not even for a Great Tale.
The debate had been going back and forth for a long time now, and even Tensor was weary, but at last he began to sway them.
“I do not ask you to betray the honor of the Aachim,” he said softly, “only to relax the rigidity of our code, this once. The time has come when we must go forward and grow, or disappear. An opportunity has come that we did not even hope for; may we not reach out for it?” He looked eagerly at each of the Syndics, in the long silence that followed.
Finally Selial spoke, sadly and with prescience. “We have followed you, Tensor, through all the emptiness since the Clysm. You have served us faithfully and with honor all that interminable time, thinking only of the glory of the Aachim, never of yourself. Were it not for you we might have dwindled to nothing. We owe you this chance, and will not deny it—though not without dread. And we give you this warning: beware your pride. Do not let yourself be led into folly. You are given leave to present us your arguments one final time.”
Then Rael, alone of the Syndics, rose and drew apart from the others. “All this evening I have kept silent, but I can sit here no longer. Do not do this thing, I beg you. Remember Piths. Your folly is our damnation, and this time it will be beyond redemption.”
Tensor spoke kindly to him. “Your honor is great, Rael, but you are so close to her that you cannot see the other side. This choice must be made without passion.”
“Or pride,” said Rael. “Then let me go from this Syndic. I will not be a party to our wrack.”
“Then go with our blessing. Do not violate our trust”
Rael stood for a moment, a tortured look on his young face, then he bowed and turned away from the Aachim. Before he had left the room Tensor began the final presentation of his arguments.
It was after midnight and Llian was dozing, when he heard the knock. Rael had a lumpy sack in one hand and a pack in the other.
“I must speak with Karan at once,” he said urgently, dropping his pack at the door. “The resolve of the Syndics is wavering. Take me to her.”
“She is exhausted and sleeping. Must it be now?”
“It must,” said Rael. “The choice has come down to one—flee or die.”
Karan proved difficult to wake. Once roused she was confused and fractious.
“Go away!” she snapped. “Let me sleep.”
“Get up!” said Rael, pulling her bodily out of her bed. ‘Tensor has prevailed against the Syndics. Soon they will agree to let him read you. When that happens you are done.”
“This is monstrous; a travesty,” said Karan angrily. “None can lie to the Syndics.”
“Tensor says that you have lied, that you used some magic or trickery.”
“I have no capacity for the Secret Art—all know that.”
“That defense will not avail you, Karan, though it be true. I know you better than any.”
“Then you must help me, Rael.”
“I cannot, yet I must,” said Rael, twisting the sack in his hands. “If I aid you, I betray the Aachim and my treason is even greater than yours. If I do not, I betray family, friendship and…”
“Rael, you must choose. Choose wisely. Betray me and you aid the Aachim in their revenge, but if you give Tensor the Mirror the downfall of the Aachim will be beyond recovery. Aid me and you betray your people, but you also offer them hope.”
“Do you swear to me, on the honor of your family and our own long… friendship, that you do not act against us?”
She grasped his hand in hers and looked him in the eye. “I swear it, Rael, by everything we ever felt for each other.”
“Very well, I will aid you. I feared it would come to this, when first Llian spoke of the Mirror. Alas! You have your other house and your unspoken purpose to comfort you. For me there will be no return.” Rael sank his head against the wall where he was standing. “Karan. Answer me truly. Have you deceived the Syndics?”
“I have.”
“And what happened to the Mirror?”
“I have it with me. Do you wish to see it?”
“No. Not now or ever.”
“That is as well,” said Karan. “And now, if we are to go, let us go at once.”
27
* * *
FLIGHT
While they were talking, Llian had packed their few be longings and as much food from the kitchen as he could carry, and now he was standing by the doorway listening. Karan looked quickly around the room, heaved the pack awkwardly onto her shoulder and they went out. At the door Llian turned and looked back. Tales of the Aachim still lay beneath a chair where it had fallen the previous day.
“Leave it,” she said, catching his arm. “We’ve committed crimes enough.”
Still he looked toward the book, longing for it.
“You are still Aachimning,” she said quietly, and Llian turned away.
“You said before that there was no way of escape,” he began, as they caught Rael up.
“I have disabled the Sentinels,” Rael responded. “What ever the vote, the Syndics will not come for Karan until the morning. It will take time for them to discover our way in the labyrinths of old Shazmak below. With luck we will get that far. But first we must negotiate these corridors, and any chance meeting will undo us.”
“If there are but two ways out of Shazmak,” Llian thought aloud, “and each many days’ journey, how can we possibly escape? Karan is ill. She cannot walk any distance.”
Karan interrupted in a weary voice, “There is a third way out of Shazmak, Llian. It leads not over the bridges but down the River Garr. For us it is the only path.”
At first Karan led the way, but as they moved down into the deeper levels she became tired and unsure; she fell back and allowed Rael to lead. So the remainder of the night passed in an endless maze of corridors, stairways and long, dark tunnels. Llian stumbled along, a dim globe in one outstretched hand, aware only of the figure in front and the motion of the shadows before him. At last he called a halt.
“It’s no use,” he said. “We must rest. Karan is exhausted and I am too weary.”
Karan had been walking along in a daze. She continued for a while after they stopped before suddenly subsiding on the floor. They rested a scant ten minutes, then Rael urged them on, picking up Karan’s pack where she had dropped it and throwing it over his shoulder. Karan was asleep, but when Llian took her hand she roused without complaint and followed him like a sleepwalker.
After another two hours, as far as Llian could judge, they began to descend into an older, unused part of the city, where the walls were of native rock polished to an oily smoothness, and decorated not with the somber landscapes of Aachan but with delicate, time-worn carvings of the plants and animals of Santhenar. Llian ransacked the Histories to recall who had been here before the Aachim, but nothing came to mind. The air was warmer and more moist; water trickled down the walls and here and there collected in depressions on the floor. They were well into this lower city when Rael allowed another rest.
“It will be dawning outside now,” he said. “Soon they will discover that we are gone. Rest briefly. They will be swift on our trail, once they have found it.”
Hardly had he finished spea
king when the corridor around them vibrated. Less than a minute later came a hollow boom. “The Sentinels are sounding,” said Karan. “They know our path.”
On they fled along endless corridors, down steep stone stairs, finally reaching, at the end of a narrow, damp-smelling passage, a circular staircase terminating in a well, sealed by a broad metal lid. The lid could be opened by a lever connected to a chain that was attached by a ring to the top of the lid. They worked the mechanism and descended into the tunnel below. A chain hung through a small hole beside the underside of the lid. Rael tugged the chain and the lid crashed down.
“Can we not bar the way from this side to buy a little time?” Llian wondered.
“There is nothing to bar it with,” Rael replied tersely. “Come.”
Llian looked down the tunnel. It was empty, save for a trickle of water. Then inspiration seized him and he leapt up, heaving at the thick, heavy chain until he had formed a knot.
“That will hinder them a moment when they try to lift the lid,” he said with an air of satisfaction.
“Not long,” Karan responded dreamily. “The Aachim have a power over metal and stone.”
They hurried on, eventually coming to a huge set of flood doors that closed across the tunnel. “These we can bar from either side,” said Rael. They had just pressed the doors shut when there came a distant crash.
“Run on,” cried Rael. “I will bar the doors and catch you. They are close behind.”
Llian set off down the tunnel, pulling Karan by the arm. She was almost unconscious and in great distress; twice she fell. The second time he caught her up, threw her over his shoulder and staggered on. Shortly they came to another set of doors: Rael barred these also. Now Llian too was staggering from side to side, his eyes wide and staring.
“I must rest,” he gasped. “I can go no further—not if all the hordes of the Aachim are behind us.”
