The Gates of Tagmeth (Chronicles of the Kencyrath Book 8)

by P. C. Hodgell

  “I don’t like having them out of sight,” said Brier, frowning, “but they’ve cropped the hillside down to the roots.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Lord Caineron. He’s left us alone so far, perhaps because he expects us to fail on our own, but that won’t last. Sooner or later he’s going to try to push us out of Tagmeth, and a raid on our herds would be a logical first step.”

  “Agreed. Can we afford to leave Char’s command out in the field? They can’t oppose a strong attack, but they can give us warning and, in the meantime, prevent the stock from wandering.”

  “Yes. That’s practical. Killy will have a fit, though. He’s already complaining that he’s no cowherd and that ‘his’ command should be severed from Char’s.”

  “Who’s . . . oh yes, Char’s five.”

  That was already an irregular situation. By rights, Char should have had the rank of an independent master ten, as did Farmer Fen, Cook Rackny, herbalist Kells, hounds’ master Tiens, and horse-woman Cheva. If so, that would give Killy the independent command that he clearly craved. Was he ready for it, though? Nothing Jame had heard or seen suggested that he was.

  “We’ll leave Killy in place for the time being,” she said. “He can herd with Char and like it. After all, everyone here is subordinate to someone else.”

  That made her think of her latest letter to Tori. She had been sending them regularly since her arrival, detailing their progress, but had not yet received an answer. There had been no demands either, which was something, but still. . .

  She wondered what was going on in the Riverland proper and at Gothregor in particular. When her messengers returned, all they reported was unrest, whatever that meant.

  That in turn reminded her of a recent dream.

  These days she and Tori seldom encountered each other in the dreamscape, but sometimes something trickled through, as this had. She had found herself in the Haunted Lands keep, in the circular great hall where the garrison had once met, where now only nine-legged spiders spun lopsided webs from the rafters, in which to catch nightmares. Someone, her father presumably, was banging on the door that led to the ramparts.

  . . . oh, his bloody fists, the fletching of the arrows in his chest that scraped against the wood as he leaned into it . . .

  “I will tell them,” he had shouted, in that hoarse voice just short of a stammer as he struggled for control. “I will tell them all! You left me without my permission. I died cursing you. And now you dare to call yourself highlord?”

  Another muffled, sullen voice answered from outside the closed front door:

  “ . . . leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone . . .”

  “Heh,” thin, gloating voices had chortled over her shoulder. “Heh, heh, heh.”

  Yet, when she turned, there had only been the spiders watching through a myriad of hungry, faceted eyes.

  Rue arrived with a tray.

  “Porridge,” she said, plumping it down before Jame. “With milk and honey. You missed breakfast. Again.”

  “Huh. You won’t be happy until I weigh as much as Brier.”

  Rue eyed the tall Kendar askance and snorted. “Maybe by spreading out sideways. That I’d like to see.”

  Brier picked up her much corrected, heavily misspelled notes and rose to leave. “If that’s all . . .”

  “Not quite. Something odd happened today.”

  With that, she told her Lyra’s story.

  Brier sat down again, staring. “That girl. How d’you know that she didn’t dream it?”

  “Then so did I.”

  “She and the Merikit actually walked out of a wall? Humph.”

  Jame could see that she disapproved of a place where such irregular things happened. After more than two years with Jame, she should have been over that by now.

  “So.” The Kendar squared her shoulders, as if taking on an unwelcome weight. “What do we do now?”

  “Wait until the shadows gather. Then I’ll try my luck.”

  Brier considered this. “Set in the southern wall, isn’t it? There won’t be strong shadows there, but late afternoon before sunset is our best chance.”

  “‘Our’?”

  Brier snorted. “D’you think I’m letting you go on your own?”

  II

  THE DAY PASSED as most did at Tagmeth, full of minor triumphs and disasters.

  Char and his ten moved the herds southward. What Killy thought about this didn’t reach Jame’s ears.

  She attended Marc and Master Rackny in the larder and storage rooms, where they went over what supplies remained, surrounded by bouncing mice and Jorin practically air-borne in pursuit.

  The yondri reported on the firewood that they had gathered—an impressive stash—although Must hung back, not meeting Jame’s eyes. Now that she knew that the Caineron was pregnant, she couldn’t help glancing askance at her muffled figure. Cyd was right: no one could tell. Trinity, what to do . . .

  The masons reported on the rebuilding of the earthquake-damaged outer wall, now nearly complete.

  Farmer Fen suggested that they at least plant their small supply of rye in the field prepared for the winter wheat.

  Kells appeared with a fresh poultice and made grudging sounds of approval over her improved condition.

  Tiens reported that half the dogs were still sick after their gorge the previous day.

  Mid-afternoon, Brier returned, apparently intent that Jame not do anything stupid without her, and they descended to the courtyard with Jorin bouncing on their heels.

  The timing was good: Most Kendar were still at work and the kitchen hadn’t yet started preparations for dinner. Watched by Brier and, in his way, by Jorin, Jame prodded the stones of the southern arch. They felt, again, perfectly solid.

  “You should have borrowed one of the Merikits’ special torches,” said Brier.

  Jame glowered at her over her shoulder. “Now you’re being sarcastic. Besides, opening sacred space takes a whole range of rituals that neither I nor Lyra have access to. There’s got to be some other trick.”

  She looked more closely at the blurred runes carved on the lintel, but could make nothing of them except that they seemed to be punctuated by grinning imus. It wasn’t usual to see these primitive, stylized faces so overtly cheerful, yet who would make a joke of them?

  Remembering Lyra’s comment about approaching sideways, Jame moved to the left edge of the arch. To her surprise, the stones seemed to shift as her perspective did, standing farther out from the wall.

  “Did you see that?” she asked Brier.

  Still positioned squarely in front, the Kendar frowned. “See what?”

  Jame flattened her back against the wall and peered aslant.

  “I can see light between the stones. Lyra must have left the gate ajar.”

  “It’s probably from the mess-hall on the other side.”

  “I don’t think so. And there’s a hot breeze.”

  “Probably from the kitchen.”

  She tried to move the stones farther out, but they didn’t budge. Lyra had spoken instead of widening the shadow. Jame inserted her fingertips into the crack. The stones still didn’t shift, but the space between them and the framing arch increased. The light was now blinding.

  “Here we go,” she said, and wriggled through.

  III

  JORIN SQUIRMED through on her heels, and tripped her on the far side. Face down on the ground, she spat out sand and blinked. The glare still filled her eyes. She was looking into the sun as it hovered over a western bluff. Even as she averted her gaze, the lower rim of fire kissed the rocks and began to sink. Here, as at Tagmeth, the day was declining. That she was somewhere else was obvious. For one thing, the Riverland didn’t have white sand of this nature. For another, at this season it wasn’t this warm, although the creeping shadow of the bluff brought a hint of the evening’s approaching cool.

  Before she could rise, Brier came through after her and stumbled over her pro
ne body, accidentally kicking her in her sore ribs.

  “Argh. Why doesn’t someone just kill me outright?”

  “Sorry. You completely disappeared from the courtyard. I panicked.”

  Jame rolled over to look up at her habitually expressionless face. “You?”

  “Me. Did you think that I couldn’t?”

  Jame reflected that the big Kendar had been increasingly on edge since she had nearly gotten trampled in the yackcarn stampede. The event had evidently brought home to Brier as nothing quite had before that her liege lady was prone to dangerous situations. That in turn was bringing out a stubborn protective streak that Jame found annoying.

  Brier surveyed their surroundings. She, apparently, had had the good sense to come through with her eyes closed. Besides, the sun had almost set.

  “It looks like a garden,” she said.

  Jame got to her feet, dusting herself off. Behind them was a stone wall pierced by the short tunnel down which they had come. At its end were the blocks that partly sealed off the gate, now edged with fading light from the courtyard beyond. Over the top of the wall, however, there was no sign of the keep. They appeared to be in a depression surrounded by worn cliffs. Ahead of them stood a grove of short trees with smooth, white bark, large, lobbed leaves, and small, plump, purple fruits. Jame picked one and broke it open. The inside was as red as a fresh wound and dotted with seeds.

  “Figs,” she said, tasting it. “We only see them dried in the Riverland, even in Kothifir, but in the Southern Wastes. . .”

  Brier looked at her as if she had lost her senses. “That’s more than a thousand leagues away.”

  “Nonetheless, we’re here. Look at those date palms.”

  Sure enough, Lyra’s “funny, skinny trees” swayed in the distance over the figs, each one crowned with a tuft of fronds and bunches of brown fruit.

  “Yes, but how?”

  That was a good, although not altogether unfamiliar, question.

  “Rathillien is a strange world. One thing I know about it—besides the fact that much of it is alive, and moving—is that there are lots of peculiar ways to get around. Weirding, soft patches, folds in the land, even arboreal drift if you catch a passing tree. . . Beyond those, have you ever heard of step-forward stones? Tunnels lined with them run between the Builders’ city in the Anarchies and the nine temples. Step on one and you’re transported miles ahead to the stone’s original geological site.”

  Brier looked dubious. “Is that possible?”

  “It must be. I’ve done it, and so has Marc. My guess is that these gates are something similar. What puzzles me more is why they’re at Tagmeth. I mean, here we are—were—in the middle of nowhere. The Riverland keeps do each seem to have something odd about them related to the hill fort ruins, but this is new, at least to me. By the way, where’s Jorin?”

  The ounce had disappeared.

  They went looking for him, through groves of olives and apricots, mangoes and guavas, oranges and lemons. Most of the trees were dwarf, and set out in formations surely not natural. Water glinted through leaves, leading them to a spring fed lake reflecting a sunset sky. On the far side, set in the encircling wall, was another gate.

  “Probably to the desert,” Brier said, regarding it distrustfully.

  “Or perhaps to another part of Rathillien.”

  “You and your blasted shortcuts. Unnatural, I call them.”

  “Then so is this entire world.”

  On the shore near at hand was a white, mud brick hut with a molded frieze of happy imus. Jame bent to peer under its low lintel.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  No answer, not even an echo, although several mice bounced out.

  One of the questions Jame had dearly wanted to ask Lyra was whether she had encountered any people during her explorations. Here seemed to be at least one answer, if the building wasn’t long abandoned.

  A flicker of movement caught the corner of her eye. When she turned to look, however, all she saw were leaves beginning to dance in the evening breeze. Still, the sense had definitely been there of being watched.

  “Look,” said Brier, pointing.

  Down the darkening shore, a small bonfire leaped in the growing shadows. Approaching it, Jame first saw Jorin stretched out on the sand, apparently intent on the blaze. Then she saw that someone was turning a spitted mouse over it. Skinny arms, legs like sticks of kindling under the tattered folds of a skirt, a half veiled face. . .

  Eyes rose aglow with reflected flames. Ragged teeth grinned at her.

  “Took your time, didn’t you, girl?”

  “I didn’t know that you were expecting me. What if I had gone through a different gate?”

  “Then I would have been waiting for you there.”

  Jame lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the sand. “Granny, this is Brier Iron-thorn. Brier, meet Granny Sit-by-the-fire, also known as the Story-teller.”

  The Kendar nodded and sank to her heels, a wary pose.

  “Well,” said Jame, “now that I’m here, what do you want with me?”

  The half-veiled grin turned almost carnivorous. “Why, to tell you a story, of course, and to ask a question.” She cleared her throat and spat into the fire, almost hitting her dinner. “D’you remember the desert gods?”

  “Some. Stone, that tells truths hard to bear. Dune, that reveals with one hand and covers with the other. Mirage, that always lies and lies without purpose. And Salt the Soulless.”

  “Very good! There are also gods of the mountains, the plains, and the oceans, of course, or were in the old days. Some have since lost their voices; others, themselves. Man came, you see, and big truths like Stone and Dune and especially Salt—they frighten him. He has to recast everything in his own image, so he took what he found and made it look more like himself. A new pantheon arose. You call it ‘old’ now, given what followed.”

  “Is this making any sense to you?” Brier asked Jame.

  “Yes. Granny is saying that the Old Pantheon brought divinity down a peg by adding the human element. Remember the healer Vedia, sometimes woman, sometimes statue, wreathed in all of those snakes? In Kothifir, her kind were banished to the Undercliff. I hope Kroaky has kept his word and let them out. Gods in the basement are never a good idea.”

  “Heh, heh, heh. So they aren’t, pretty-pretty, as you well know. But the story I have to tell starts in the days when the so-called Old Pantheon reigned. Before the tribes of the middle plains built their cities and then their empires—”

  “Bashti and Hathir?”

  “Yes, yes. Don’t interrupt. Before them, I say, a clever people lived in the land. Did you never wonder where the ruins in the Riverland came from? Perhaps they were the distant ancestors of the hill-tribes, but oh, they were so much more cunning. Among many other things, these folk discovered the use of stepping stones, and that allowed them to settle wherever they pleased, with their fields and gardens half a world away—always depending on the presence of the right stones, of course, and they tend to show up where this world is most itself. But nothing lasts forever. In time, their wisdom faded. Maybe it was war, or sickness, or religion, but one by one they wandered off and their keeps fell into ruin. However, that’s not the story I meant to tell, either.”

  Brier snorted. “Does she ever get to the point?”

  Granny pointed her skewered mouse at the Kendar and shook it with a stink of burning fur, its whiskers and tufted tail alight. Jame saw that she had neither skinned nor boned it.

  “Silly girl. What do you know? Your mother swims under the sand and your great-grandfather tortures cranberries.”

  Brier stiffened, but Jame put a calming hand on her knee.

  “After all,” she said, “Granny is right.”

  “Hah’rum! In the days after those of which I speak, not long before the wheel of the gods turned yet again, a strange folk came to us. They were no bigger than children and their skin was gray, laced with blue veins, but oh, they were sma
rt. Your home, Tagmeth, was one of the last keeps with a nearly intact step-forward ring. They learned from it, and used it, and built one of their own in their new city. Heh, but one not as good as ours. These were native stones, y’see, and these people, they were as alien as . . . as you yourself are, and the rest of your kind. They may not have meant harm, but they caused it. Mother Rathillien had her revenge on them for their arrogance, oh, yes she did.”

  Granny slid the mouse off the skewer. Holding it by its tail, she ate it as a snake might, head first, whole. More disappeared down her skinny throat with each swallow.

  Glup, glup . . .

  She nipped off its tail with her snaggle teeth and threw it to Jorin, who snatched it out of midair.

  “Ah . . .”

  With that, she fixed her firelit glare on Jame.

  “You know what I’m talking about, girl, don’t you? Mother Rathillien is patient, but nothing lasts forever. You and your temples and your god—as if three faces could out-face many.”

  “Then you disown the New Pantheon and the Four?”

  Granny grimaced. “Your lot changed much, but not everything. As I am the daughter of Stone and Wind, so Mother Ragga is my granddaughter. This is her time, hers and those other three. I only watch, and warn, and tell my tales. For now, farewell.”

  The fire leaped sideways. In a moment, she was wrapped in flames, then ash, then gone.

  Brier had jumped to her feet, aghast.

  “Don’t worry,” said Jame, also rising. “She often leaves that way.”

  IV

  SAFELY BACK IN TAGMETH, the next day Jame took Farmer Fen through the barrier, although he nearly got stuck in the process. In his opinion, while not all of the trees were in season, enough should ripen over soon to see them through the winter.

  “Mind you,” he added, “we’ll need more than fruit unless you want rampant diarrhea.”

  This led to the next expedition, through the gate to Lyra’s peach orchard. Here they found no peaches, their time being past in this clime. In a neighboring field, however, apples ripened on the bough. Beyond that, Jame wasn’t sure where they were. High, rugged mountains rose to the east above a thick belt of trees over which gray, eyeless birds circled. To the west, the land descended steeply toward the distant glint of a river. It could be the eastern slope of the Ebonbane bordering on the Anarchies, she supposed, or even the other side of the Snowthorns, although that would put them in the Western Lands, which might not even still exist.