Among the spoils taken from the City was the Girdle of Binding, and this Girdle was brought to Tchent to be kept in the treasure house there. Though none of the Thiene remained in the world at that time, the line of Tar-Akwith was said to have Thienese ancestry, and his son, the father of Sud-Akwith, married a woman from Tchent. P’Vey, a chronicler attached to the High House of Akwith, writes that Sud-Akwith was displeased that a military force had been brought against the City of Mists and prayed publicly that no evil should befall the line of Akwith because of this dishonour done to Our Lady. In any case, the Girdle was put into safekeeping in Tchent.
It was shortly after this time that the Lord of the Northlands attempted the rebuilding of Tharliezalor on the hundredth anniversary of the founding of the Akwith realm. He thus aroused that which dwelt beneath the ruins of the city and was almost defeated by demon forces. Through the use of one of the holy artifacts, the Sword of Fire – or, as it came to be called, the Sword of Sud-Akwith – the demons were driven back, but events were set into motion which culminated in the end of the Second Cycle.
Nothing more is written of the Girdle until the time of the Chronicles of D’Zunalor, the sagas of the Axe King. Here it is written that a ‘wondrous belt’ was taken at the fall of Tchent as part of the plunder. This plunder was taken from Tchent to the Rochagam D’Zunabat, the high plain of the Axe King, where it was distributed among the axe lords and the minor lords. The ‘wondrous belt’ fell to the lot of Zunochon, a very highly placed courtier, perhaps a prince of the Axe King’s line.
The next record is found in the Bagur Namu, the Song of Namu, in which it is recorded that Zunachon gave the Girdle to Chu-Namu, a princess, perhaps priestess, from one of the captive cities, before setting off into the Northlands at the Axe King’s command. He was not seen again. The Bagur Namu says that the Girdle had the power to bind time and that Chu-Namu sought her lover for over five hundred years, not aging during all that time. The Song ends with the end of the search, with Chu-Namu finding her lover at last, ‘beyond the Gate.’ Before entering the Gate with him, she gave the Girdle to her maid, the twelfth generation daughter of the maidservant who had accompanied her mistress on the search five hundred years before. The Song says, ‘She (the maidservant) came back into the west to bring the Girdle of Chu-Namu to that place which waited to receive it.’
The ‘place which waited to receive if could have been a Temple or religious foundation dedicated to Our Lady. This seems likely inasmuch as Chu-Namu was, in some accounts, alleged to be in the service of the Lady at the time of her capture. Since the reign of the Axe King ended in about 164 TC, and the search was said to have lasted for 500 years, the Girdle would have reached its destination sometime in the seventh century TC. Some of the most reliable accounts of that period and the following century mention that something of the kind may have been kept in Howbin, in a shrine or museum of antiquities there.
Since there is no modern mention of this shrine, it must be presumed lost. Perhaps its contents passed into the keeping of one of the Drossynian Lords of Howbin. If the Girdle does, indeed, ‘bind all time, love, and devotion,’ it is likely that it still exists somewhere in those western lands. Certainly Howbin is a likely place to begin to look for it.
There followed in the notes some general observations about the geo-politics of the region to the west of the Sorgian Sea with particular reference to the duchies of Howbin, Sisedge, and Rheesmarch, and generously quoted material from original sources, much of it in the ancient languages of D’Zunalor, Akwith, or the Drossynian Kings. There was also a detailed map of Howbin – a weary and impossible journey to the west from the familiar bounds of Lakland.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THEWSON
Year 1167
In his travels across the mountains and valleys and seas of the world, Thewson often found himself remembering – for no reason he could name – the spear round he had made when he reached puberty. It was the custom in the Lion Courts. It was hoped that each young man who returned from the round would have received a message, or failing that, a mark of favour from one or more of the gods. The round was strenuous, but no longer overly dangerous. One of the Chieftains several generations back had ruled that there was no advantage to the tribe in killing off too many of its young men, and the mantraps and deadfalls were removed from the trail of the round. In still later generations the cliff climbs were notched somewhat to afford hand-holds, and by Thewson’s time, the way was almost tame.
Of course, a boy ha^ been killed the previous year by a tiger. Thewson had been told of that several times, in order that he be properly respectful and apprehensive. Actually, no one knew whether it had been a tiger or not. All that had been found were the bones. It could as well have been a snake, striking from beneath a sun-warmed stone.
So, when Thewson began to sprout hair in new places and bulge his loin leathers in an interesting manner, he was taken to the house of the Chieftain, to the very room of the Chair, and there the great chest which was bound in iron and studded with ivory and bloodstones was, opened before him. Inside were the spear blades of the tribe. When a warrior died, the shaft of his spear was broken, but the blades came down from generation to generation, long and narrow as blades of grass, sharp as the sting of scorpions. Thewson was left alone with the blades to listen to them, to hope that one would speak to him. One of the blades was green, with a curled guard and a long tang. It spoke to Thewson the moment he took it from the chest, saying his name three times. Thewson spent an hour in the room, as was proper, but the blade did not speak again. He carried it out proudly into the sunlight and lifted it above his head to show the people his choice. His uncle, the great craftsman, helped him form the shaft and pierce it, to rivet the blade and bind it with strips and tassels of basilisk hide which does not stretch when wet. The spear was too heavy for him, and too tall, much too tall, but that was proper. A boy should grow to his spear, and he should struggle to carry it upon the round.
He was told to watch out for the Great Beast, was given the usual small pouch of food and told to seek drink where he might. The first night was to be spent in the cave of the jewelled bird god, beneath the skull shelf. There would be two stops during the day, one at the tree of the tailed god, and one at the well of the One-Of-Frogs.
Thewson received no message in either place. The tree, aside from the carved image at its foot, was insignificant. The well smelled of stagnant rot. The cave of the jewelled bird was warm, dry, and smelled pleasantly of the spice flowers which grew at the entrance. Thewson scratched himself out a level space on the floor and built a small fire, and lay curled beside it staring into the shadow dance the flames made. He had not expected to receive a message from the tailed god. The tailed god was mostly a god of thieves or messengers, a god for getting out of tight places, a god for the small hours of the morning. The One-Of-Frogs was a god of wet places, a god who would cure diseases of the skin, most particularly the flaking disease. Thewson had conducted himself with proper respect in both places. He had been told what could happen to young men who failed in respect to even the least of the gods. The gods could get even in ways never suspected by men until they found those unmentionable things actually happening to them.
The jewelled god was a god for warriors because it did not rest. It did not perch, nor was it seen nesting. Its wings moved always like the shadow dance of flames, and it was tireless. Small boys, always in motion, were called by the jewelled bird god’s name. Warriors, tireless in battle, were given the name of the jewelled bird god in addition to their battle names. The image of the god flickered in the shadows of the cave, suspended by ancient art and nearly invisible strings, as restless as the bird itself. The nervous glitter threw scraps of light across the walls and floor, across Thewson’s dusty arms and chest, up and across and pause and back and down and pause and up and across and pause and back and …
The god spoke to him, in a voice like the whirr of wings, a dry, quiet buzzing. ‘Another messag
e seeker, eh, eh? Stupid. Silly. I’ll give you a message, young killer. Fly. That’s the message. Disappear. Vanish. Go like the breath of wind and the sound of lost wings. Eh, you get that? That’s my message to you. When faced by danger, flee.’
Thewson tried to open his eyes and could not. He raised his head with enormous and concentrated dignity. ‘I couldn’t do that. No warrior could do that.’
‘So die, then,’ whispered the god. ‘So die with your blood all around you and your pretty skin in tatters. Eh? I don’t know why I bother. I tell them all. They never listen.’
There was a feeling of vacating, as though someone long in residence had gone away to an unimaginable distance, and Thewson opened his eyes. There had been a finality about that last phrase, ‘They never listen.’ Deep inside him, something snapped to attention, and Thewson heard. ‘I’m listening,’ he whispered into the silence. ‘Really.’
At the end of the distance, at the place where distance ends, an opening happened and the dry whirr came through, softly. ‘Well, think about it, eh? Think about it.’
Thewson slept well. The next day’s trip took him through the little clearing where the Tree of Forever stood, the stone god house at its base dwarfed by the towering trunk, the xoxaauwal, the sky gatherer. Nearby was the house of the old shaman, and Thewson paid his respects to both the Tree and the office. He went then to the place of the giver of law, the ledge of ending where the god of things forgotten lived, then to the falls, streams, pools, and marshes of the woman gods. He slept nearby, expecting no message. Indeed, it would be exceedingly inappropriate to receive a message from a woman god. He wakened, blushing, but could not remember why.
That day he went through forest and over cliff and by chasm past the whole pantheon of weather gods. He bowed before lightning and thunder and rain and mist and wind and the god-brothers little-wind and great-wind, who were quite different from the God-Of-Wind-Alone. He gave obeisance to dawn and morning and to the Ulum nur wavar somu’nah’aluxufus, the God-Of-When-Trees-Eat-Their-Shadows, that is, the noonday god who sat with his big hat and staff in the sun of the cliffside above the desert. In the desert he burned incense to the god of the sun, to the god of drought, to the god of heat (who brought fevers and could be propitiated with beer and the juice of limes) and to the thorn god, That-One-Who-Prickles.
At the edge of the desert way was the place of flowers and the holy garden where the gods of planted things lived; the blossom goddess and the pollen god and the fruit goddess and the grain god and the Blind-One-Who-Lives-Below responsible for the roots of things, especially potatoes. It was a neat and carefully tended place, full of old men and old women and orphan children and warriors who had been blinded or crippled plus a few young men and women who had taken the flower way. The jewelled birds hung in the air before the massed flowers, the whirr of their wings saying ‘think, think’ as they crossed the sightless gaze of the blind warriors or the limping steps of the lame. Thewson shook his head and compressed his lips, thinking. Then he went into the forest again.
It was growing dark when he came to the grove of the Mysterious-One-Who-Will-Not-Answer. He felt it would be better to sleep there than to go on to the gods of war and death and battle and blood. He feared no message from the Mysterious One, who was not known to give messages at all. The grove stood on a talus slope part way up the high cliffs which he would climb in the morning, the tilted blocks of the cliff looming one above the other, face on face uplifted to the westering sun. The cliff faces were sheeted with water-rock, that kind of rock which could be split into thin, transparent sheets and used in windows or lanterns. Even in the grove, as the boughs moved and tossed in the evening wind, the light flashed from the tilted rock faces, blinking on and off, and on and off, and on and off, and on, and on, and …’
‘_____________________?’
‘I am listening,’ answered Thewson, asleep.
‘_____________________?’
‘I will remember,’ he said.
‘_____________________!’
‘I have never learned of that…’
_____________________!!’
‘That is a very strange thing…said Thewson.
In the morning he had new knowledge of which he was not aware and which he could not have told anyone of. He believed that the Mysterious-One-Who-Will-Not-Answer had not spoken, in which conviction he was, in a way, correct. Thereafter he did not consciously remember any messages given him by the gods.
Now, however, in the world of those who killed for any reason or for no reason, Thewson found himself thinking often of the spear round. Sometimes he would waken in the night to a silent imperative or to a dry whirring, a remembered voice coming from a great distance. So it was that he wakened one night in Dantland, among the dunes which edged the Silent Sea, surrounded by tufts of salt grass and the sound of the never-ending wind, brought to full Wakefulness by that remembered whirr. He crawled to the top of the dune to peer down at the shore which stretched its empty length away into darkness beneath a time-eaten moon. There were dark blots on the sand, men coming from the south, carrying nets, with their boots wrapped for silence’s sake. Alone on the sand, beckoning the black-robed men, was a curiously hunched figure moving crabwise. Thewson knew him at once. It was a creature from N’Gollo who had tried to cheat Thewson over the price of Thewson’s trade goods and who had not taken kindly to being summoned before the trader council.
Thewson’s lips curled into a sneer. The hunched creature obviously planned to sell him to the black robes, the Gahlians, the slavers; had tracked him out onto the dunes and then summoned strongarms to take him prisoner. Thewson breathed deeply, working himself into a killing rage which would sweep ten or twenty of the black robes into oblivion. Then, far and quiet, he heard the whirr’, the voice, the dry whisper, ‘Go, like the breath of wind….’ Without thinking further, he slipped away, silent as a shadow.
When the slavers found his sleeping place, it was cold. Later Thewson thought deeply about the incident. Had it not been for the whirr of wings, he would now be dead. It was not what a warrior should have done, but it seemed to be what the god of warriors would have Thewson do.
It was puzzling. It did not cease to be so.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JAER
Year 1168-Early Fall
One conversation that the two old men had during the years that Jaer was with them occurred on a still night in the late summer. They were behind the parapet of the tower, leaning on it as Ephraim smoked his pipe and looked at the stars.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘we ought to give Jaer a quest.’
‘A quest?’
‘You know. A mission. Remember all the old books. There were armoured men on horses going off on quests. And strange creatures to be conquered. There were mysteries to solve, or maidens to save from horrible fates, or lost artifacts to locate. Things like that.’
‘I know the word. I remember the stories. What I don’t understand is why Jaer ought to have one.
‘It would give him something to do.’
‘I thought we were going to suggest that he get to Orena as soon as he’s fully grown?’ They had taken to referring to Jaer as though he/she was a family of children, saying ‘he’ whenever Jaer was a boy and ‘she’ whenever she was a girl.
‘Even so, that’s a long trip and a hard one. It would be nice to have a quest to distract one along the way.’
‘Setting aside that any distraction might mean death, did you have anything special in mind?’
‘Well, I thought maybe the Gate….’
‘That isn’t a quest. It’s a chimera.’
‘A chimera is a mythical animal.’
‘I mean simply that a quest ought to be something do-able, achievable. It’s silly to spend time searching for something that doesn’t exist.’
‘We don’t know that it doesn’t exist.’
‘I know that.’
‘You do, maybe. I don’t.’
‘You just don
’t want to.’
‘All right, I don’t want to. I want to believe there’s a Gate to a better world, or maybe back to a better time. I want to believe there are answers. I want to believe that we haven’t found it simply because we haven’t looked in the right places.’
‘People have looked everywhere.’
‘If I believe there’s a Gate, I believe we haven’t looked everywhere.’
‘Well, if you believe there’s a Gate, you can believe anything.’
At that point there was a long silence. Ephraim looked more hurt than sullen, and Nathan was ashamed of himself. After all, what difference did it make?
‘Ephraim, suppose there were such a thing. I’ll just suppose with you that there is. Now, how would you make a quest out of finding it?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘How would you make a quest of it? There should be signs and wonders, prophesies, maybe a map? At least a few little myths or cryptic verses? Maybe an enchanted steed, at least for part of the way?’
‘Nathan, it isn’t kind of you to mock.’
‘I’m not mocking. If you’re serious, let’s be serious. If you’re not, I’ll stop thinking about it.’
‘I’m serious enough. There have been signs and wonders. There were maps, too, many of them.’
‘And all different.’
‘So? There were myths, cryptic verses, all the things you’re asking for.’
‘Then we have a quest, ready made.’
‘No. We would have if I could remember it all, but I can’t. It’s all back in the archives at Orena, buried in the dust I blew off them when I was twenty and eager and ready for a quest of my own.’ He scratched the back of his neck with his pipe-stem. ‘That’s really what I want, I suppose; to go back and be twenty again with a quest of my own, full of hope.’
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