The Eye of Night

by Pauline J. Alama

  I gripped Hwyn's arm and whispered: “Look: it's Trenara!”

  We wove our way closer to see. My eyes had not deceived me. Amid open-mouthed guards, the lady clung to Trenara, crying, “Cousin Luith! By the Hidden Goddess! How you've surprised me! Why have you come all this way? Is there trouble in Quinth?”

  Trenara embraced her with all the grace she could so well command. I could hear Hwyn's breath drawn in slowly; I could almost hear her hoping this would last. But Trenara spoke as calmly and musically as ever: “I am the Lady Trenara of Larioneth. I come from the Troubles in the North.”

  “Larioneth!” the stranger exclaimed. “You are a long way from home! Forgive me: I mistook you for a kinswoman of mine. But come with me anyway. I am eager to hear all the tale you must have to tell me. I am Lady Goldifer, Guardian of Day—surely you have heard of me? I have long taken an interest in the fate of your land.”

  Trenara looked about for us, then turned back to the lady, saying, “I must bring my Hwyn.”

  At these words Hwyn reached Trenara's side, and in a heartbeat I saw her transformed into the half-wit she had seemed when I first saw her. “M-m-m'lady?” she stammered. I managed not to burst out laughing.

  “Your servant, of course, must come with you, noble sister,” Lady Goldifer said. “Have you any other retinue?”

  That was my cue, and I summoned my wits as hurriedly as Hwyn had hidden hers. “My lady, will you require my services, or shall I attend my meditations in the temple till you send for me?” I spoke to Trenara, who only smiled graciously, as ever; but I awaited an answer from Her Resplendence.

  She took the bait. “Your chaplain travels with you?” Lady Goldifer said to Trenara. “Ah, but of course. You are a lady of piety as well as beauty. He is welcome as well. Of which order is he?”

  Trenara only cocked her head to one side with a dreamy look. I said, “My Lady is tired from a hard journey. We have lost all our goods on the road, and have scarcely eaten these three days; it's no wonder she is half in dreams by now. Is there a place she can rest?”

  “She shall share my own litter and rest in Kreyn Hall,” the fair-haired lady declared. “You, reverend sir, may take one of my guards' horses. The servant can follow.”

  That plan was not to my liking. “Begging your pardon, my Lady,” I said, “let me walk, or let Hwyn ride with me. She is a distant kinswoman of mine, and it would dishonor my forebears to accept such distinctions from her.”

  “As you wish,” the lady said. “She will be no great burden to the mount.” At her command, one of the guardsmen relinquished his horse. I mounted cautiously—it had been years upon years since I'd been on horseback, and I'd never been much of a rider. As for Hwyn, she showed no sign of knowing what to do, and she was too short anyway to put her foot in the stirrup to be pulled up; in the end I had to dismount and lift her up into the saddle while the impatient guard held the reins. By the time I regained my seat, the procession had almost gone without us. But then we were on our way through the market-streets of Kreyn, and all was well. The busy crowd cleared before us at the demand of the heralds. Hwyn let go of the horse's mane just long enough to squeeze my arm briefly, as if to reassure me that behind the fool's mask, she still remained. It seemed I could feel both our spirits lifting, and with good cause: we had found a way in to the stronghold, and more than that, we would surely be given something to eat.

  Kreyn Hall was magnificent—not after the regal manner of Kelgarran Hall, with its huge oaken table and mighty hearth, but in a glorious disorder, like a field of summer blossoms. Lady Goldifer's feasting-hall was hung with jeweled draperies and furnished with an array of soft divans—crimson, sapphire, gold brocade—around a series of low tables of various sizes. One table, carved with intricate filigrees, stood on a dais before an ample couch. Here the Guardian of Day led the Lady Trenara to sit with her; at her sign, servants brought a footstool for me. As for Hwyn, she scurried off with the servants, who disappeared into the kitchen almost without any word of command. They reappeared with golden flagons of Iskarrian green wine, platters of cold spiced meats, fragrant cheeses, glistening fruits, fine white bread. It was not the hour for the household meal, so the expanse of the room was empty, but I could well imagine it cluttered with guests and swarming with a hive of these quick-footed servants, shuttling back and forth from kitchen to table to kitchen with steaming trenchers on their shoulders, melting away like morning dew at a clap of their mistress's hands. As it was, we were more than well attended to, and Hwyn looked more unnecessary than ever, fussing over Trenara's plate, cutting her meat, getting in the way, hearing things meant for other ears.

  Lady Goldifer eyed Hwyn as she would a fly on the meat, but she spoke only to Trenara: “Noble cousin, how is it that I found you in a situation so beneath you? Could you not have come to me at once when you reached Kreyn?”

  “I do not know this place,” said Trenara.

  “But surely anyone on the street could have directed you to the great hall,” Lady Goldifer said.

  Trenara shrugged, nibbling a bit of meat in that delicate, maidenly way of hers. By then I had watched that elegant nibbling enough to be impressed by how much food she could make disappear without ever seeming to gluttonize. “I didn't know,” she murmured, when her mouth was empty.

  I explained for her: “The streets are full of strangers, and without gold or goods we had little to capture their attention or sympathy. We'd lost our valuables when a ferry sank and we had to swim for our lives. By the time we reached your city, we had to beg for sustenance—but there are too many beggars in this town for anyone to regard a few more.” I took a wedge of cheese from the tray, trying not to attack it with noticeable desperation.

  Lady Goldifer shrugged. “There are not more beggars here than in another town.” From this I judged that either she'd never seen another city, or she'd never seen her own.

  Trenara interrupted, “My city is Larioneth”—a bald non se-quitur, which I was sure would give her away.

  But before I could make a lame attempt to rescue her, Lady Goldifer took the fool's gold for true coin, and repaid it. “Ah yes: tell me of your troubled land.”

  “It is not like this place,” Trenara said, a melancholy chime. “I miss it.”

  “How long ago did you leave?” Goldifer pursued.

  “Long,” Trenara sighed musically, “long and long years ago. My family were scattered by the Troubles.”

  “The Troubles! Are they all the tales speak of? The earth in upheaval, the dead pitched from their graves, kings cast down, all order lost?”

  Trenara looked solemn.

  “Ah, these are dark times, dark times indeed!” Lady Goldifer cried. “But let me ask you: have you had any peculiar dreams—I mean, any visions, dreams sent by the gods to illumine the Troubles?”

  Trenara nodded slowly. I held my breath; what would she say?

  But the Guardian of Day burst out eagerly, “So have I! I meditate on the mysteries, and I dream things … Do you know what I think is happening in the North? It is really quite simple. Night is falling.”

  Hwyn spilled the wine she had been pouring. Mopping it up with my napkin, I kept my mind on the conversation taking place past us, lest we miss the sequel to this revelation. Before resuming, the Guardian of Day clapped for servants, who cleaned the table and replaced the food that had been flooded.

  Lady Goldifer repeated, “Night is falling: the night of the world. That's why it is important, above all, to reflect light—to reflect on the light—to meditate on the sun and its gifts. So I tell my people. The laborers used to sleep through the noon of the day, but now, by my decree, all must be out of doors under the noonday sun. We need its blessing. And these—” she raised the pendant she wore at her throat, a crystal stone that flashed in the sunlight streaming from the windows above her. It was the same sort of gem that ornamented her golden hair and the belt at her hips. “See how it sends the light everywhere? We must reflect the light. It is our weapon again
st the darkness. I have decreed the wearing of these crystals as the duty of the commonwealth. The laborers cannot comply, of course, but all the citizens of any worth join me in this. I have charged the merchants of the town with procuring them. We need them more than any other goods. We need them to reflect the light, to dispel the darkness.”

  Hearing her impassioned speech, watching her pendant flash with each emphatic movement of her head, I could not resist asking, “Your Resplendence, if you send your merchants east and west to procure these gems, will not other lands be defenseless against the darkness?”

  Hwyn gave me a warning nudge. But the Guardian of Day missed the edge to my voice. “Other peoples do not know what to do with them,” she said. “In other lands these are mere baubles. Here, they are the prayer of pure light. I have many of them in my chapel, along with other holy things. In sight of them, my chaplain and I gather the best citizens each day to praise the dawn. The power of our light together—ah, you shall see it, priest, and doubt no longer: we shall drive off the darkness, not just from Kreyn but from all Swevnalond, from all the world.”

  “That—that is indeed admirable,” I stammered, my mind racing for a strategy. Those “other holy things” in the chapel ought not to escape Hwyn's scrutiny. “I long to see this chapel,” I said, “to feel the power gathered there. Must I wait till dawn?”

  Goldifer began smiling her consent, but my goal was scarcely half achieved. Of course I, as Trenara's chaplain, would easily make my way to the chapel, but Hwyn? Furiously I cast my mind back over my years in the Tarvon Order for some grounds for bringing her along—and it was as if St. Tarvi, like his image on our crest, handed me the key of wisdom. I smiled. “With so many tokens of light gathered in one place, and holy things— healing things, I dare say—perhaps we may find in the chapel some healing power for my afflicted kinswoman's eyes.” With that I brushed back the wisps of hair from Hwyn's eyes so their abnormality was plainly visible.

  “Ah yes—she has need of light,” said Lady Goldifer. “Perhaps even her wits may be bettered by it. Can she be trusted to behave fittingly in a place of worship?”

  I assured her she could.

  “Good,” said the lady. “If her lady needs her during the day, we will send a servant to call her back. Meanwhile, my chaplain will show you the way.”

  The chaplain appeared almost as rapidly as the servants had; one of them must have been dispatched for him in the same silent way they'd been sent for food. He was a stoop-shouldered man with gray hair tonsured across the back of the head, just as my own had recently been; but his cassock, unlike my drab one, was brilliantly white. I could not identify his order. He bowed deeply to his lady, smiled at me, and with a few soft words, conducted me down a corridor as I led Hwyn by the hand. He pulled open a heavy arched door and gestured us in. “Now tell me, have you ever seen the like?”

  “It—it's astonishing,” I gulped.

  The chapel was indeed a startling sight. Light streaming in from high glazed windows struck sparks from crystals on all sides, so that the room glittered like snow in sunlight. The broken light of the crystals cast strange colors on the faces of the gods above and below and around them. And indeed, there seemed to be more gods in that room than anywhere on the World-Wheel.

  Single icons of the Bright Goddess predominated, portrayed in all the classic ways: embracing the sun, clothed in the sun, clothed in flowers, scattering flowers on the earth, releasing doves from her hand, blessing fruit-trees. But there were also more icons of the Upright or Rising God than in my whole abbey, which had been devoted to his worship. And there were a number of World-Wheels with the Four Great Ones portrayed in various styles, old and new. One of them must have come from the Western Islands, where men are beardless and both sexes wear the same loose robes; this icon was hung wrong, with the Rising and Turning Gods at the top and bottom, where the goddesses belonged. Some of them were badly drawn, faces distorted pitifully, but none were adorned with less than four gems, and one was made entirely of crystals of various colors. There was also a wheel without any proper icons; the four directions were marked instead by four gems, amethyst for the Hidden Goddess, emerald for the Rising God, diamond for the Bright Goddess, and for the Turning God a garnet. My eyes were dazzled by the glitter.

  “It's awe-striking, isn't it?” the chaplain said, misreading my glazed expression. “Sometimes I stand here so lost in wonder that the sunset comes before I can fathom how the time slipped by. It's like being out of the world.”

  “That it is,” I breathed. “The townspeople come here—they are allowed?”

  “Two or three dozen each morning,” the chaplain said.

  There were two cushioned benches, enough for eight or ten to have seats; the rest must stand or sit on the tiled floor, and they must be crowded quite close to the riches on the walls. “But these jeweled things—doesn't her ladyship fear theft?”

  “What! Steal a sanctified relic from the temple? Who could be so mad?”

  There was nothing here that I'd have called a relic, none of the brittle locks of centuries-old hair, the bones full of mystery, the rags of cloth or clay cups once handled by an ancient saint, that I'd seen enshrined in the Tarvon Monastery or the sea-cliff temple at Swanroad. “Gems make many mad,” I said, “and there are many poor.”

  “This is a god-fearing city,” the priest said, “and what is more, the people reverence the Guardian of Day for her piety. Why, they'd as soon—” he broke off suddenly. “Must that serving-maid handle the icons?”

  “Hwyn!” I pulled her away by the hand. “I'm sorry, your reverence. She's nearly blind, you see: she only knows things by feeling them. Where we stayed at Annelon, there were many born blind, and the temple had icons entirely made for the touch, so the blind could feel the love of the gods. She's used to being able to touch them.”

  “What her ladyship might say—” the priest muttered, but his shoulders sagged, as if he disliked forbidding. “Ah, well, I suppose, if her hands are clean …”

  And so, as he and I chanted prayers together and the sunlight in the high windows faded to twilight, Hwyn fingered everything in the room. I noticed that the chaplain kept his eyes shut to avoid seeing her at it. Mine were wide open in fear that Her Resplendence would walk in and see her gems getting dulled by finger-streaks—or worse still, that the Speaking Stone would start babbling prophecies and give us away. I could barely conceal my joy when the chaplain ended his interminable prayers and made a move toward the door. “I must go to bless the evening meal for the noble family, and then spend the night with my own wife and children,” he said.

  Not celibate, I noted compulsively. Order of St. Hubon?

  “You two may come with me or stay here, as you please,” he continued.

  “We will stay. We may need to meditate through the night,” I said. “This is a healing place, and gods alone know when we will find another in our travels.”

  The chaplain nodded approvingly. “I will see that no one disturbs your meditation.”

  For that, I prayed the gods bless him eternally. I thanked him, accepted his blessing, and breathed a great sigh of relief when the door closed behind him.

  Hwyn drew close enough to whisper to me, “For an honest man, you lie well.”

  “Hush,” I laughed. “You're lucky you weren't thrown out onto the streets, putting your grubby hands on her ladyship's crystals.”

  “My hands are clean,” she protested. “But this place—these crystals—” She shook her head. “They're not what I'm looking for. There must be another place—a secret altar somewhere. What do you think?”

  “What do I think?” I said. “I think her taste in icons is appalling. What more do I know of these matters?”

  “Really? Are they ugly? Most are just a blur of color to me,” Hwyn said. “But you do know something of these things— enough to be flippant about Her Resplendence's piety.”

  “I finally understand,” I said, “why the Tarvon Order was so given to plai
nness—and what the abbot meant about people who try to buy the gods. But there was one thing the Lady said, that you said before—”

  “‘Night is falling,’ ” Hwyn whispered back. “Yes. She came this close to the truth—” she held her fingers a pinch apart, “—and then sailed on past it as fast as ever a thought could carry her. At least, so it seems to me. Unless I'm the one that sailed past the truth and went on going.”

  “When one woman's vision sets her in luxury amid the misery of her people, and another's leads her into hardship, I know which vision I trust. ‘The gods are not easy comrades,’ ” I said, quoting St. Ligaiya back at her. “But tell me, what do you find here?”

  “Nothing,” Hwyn whispered furiously. “None of these ‘holy things’ have a glimmer of power, any more than my old boot. But there's something of real power in this house—nearby, but not in this room. That must be the Speaking Stone.”

  “Unless Klem was mistaken,” I cautioned.

  “Maybe,” she said, “but I feel some trace of power, not far away.”

  “I don't know. How would I know?” I muttered. Then something came to me. “You don't think the Speaking Stone could be the one on the lady's neck?”

  “No,” Hwyn said. “If it were, it would be speaking constantly. It's always touching her skin.”

  “Is that what a Speaking Stone does?”

  “So I've heard,” Hwyn said. “At the temple in St. Fiern's Town, a priestess told me of them.”

  “Well, you know more than I,” I said. “Perhaps I'd best go back to praying.”

  “Yes: chant some prayers, so no one will hear me scuffling about.”

  She paced the room, touching the walls here and there: the west wall, with its door to the outside world, where the townspeople must enter for their morning prayers; the south wall, painted with the largest icon of the Bright Goddess; the east wall, hung with a tapestry of the Rising God. There she paused and gazed a long while at the image, squinting to see. Then she groped behind the hanging purposefully for far too long. All my attention was on the northern door, the one to the other rooms of Kreyn Hall, lest anyone enter and catch her in this un-simpletonlike behavior. After a time Hwyn dropped to her knees before the tapestry, but not in prayer. She felt the floor, chose a flagstone, and pulled with all her might, but the stone would not give way. Instead, with a tremendous tug, she unbalanced herself and went careening into the wall below the tapestry, which shifted with a small creaking sound. Hwyn opened her mouth as though to cry out, then stopped it with her fist. It was all I could do to keep up my chanting as she pried the section of wall open. The secret door was so low that even Hwyn had to bend her head to enter. She waved a hand at me, then disappeared through the doorway. I prayed fervently that no one would come and ask for an explanation: all my clever lies were spent.