The vision faded, but the sense of direction did not.
Queen of Water … bring us there.
While she sat there, the sun and breeze had dried her; her boots and her leather jerkin were still damp. But she had nothing in which to carry the jewels that made up her seat … and though a shirt had held the bones from the well, it would not hold these. And besides—she had no water, no food, nothing but the clothes she wore and the crown on her head.
Then the goblet from the set of regalia rose in front of her as the crown had done before.
Drink.
The goblet moved closer. She reached out, took it, brought it to her lips. Cool water eased her salty lips, ran down her throat … she only then remembered the frightening verse engraved in its rim. But nothing bad happened.
You are the Queen of Water.
Dorrin stood; the stones slithered down from the seat shape into a pavement beneath her feet that extended perhaps ten strides in front of her in the direction she felt sure was right. Well, then … she took a step; the jewels supported her in the sand.
“Won’t that damage you?” she asked, not entirely sure whom she meant.
You are the Queen of Water; you cannot hurt your element.
Dorrin walked forward; the jewels rustled along the sand on either side of her, moving to the front of the strip as fast as she walked. It was easier to walk on than loose sand. The regalia that had not attached itself to her—the crown to her head, the rings to her fingers, the necklace now draped around her neck—floated along on either side.
Once on top of the first dunes, she turned and looked back to shore. Far out, sun caught the curve of a sail, but the rest of the water lay empty of ships. She could not see land beyond it. She walked on that afternoon, first down the back side of the first dunes, then between two of the next, coming to higher, firmer ground inland as skeins of cloud to the west took color from the sun as it set. Behind her now the sea seemed a glistening sheet of darker blue; off in the distance she could see an island jutting up, white cliffs catching the sun. Was that Whiteskull, the island the captain had warned of as a pirate lair? Or another? East along the coast, the dark headland showed that it ran back to the mountains still distant from her.
Here the ground was hard and lumpy, mixed gravel and rock; she thought briefly of turning back to the dunes for a more comfortable place to sleep, but the jewels still moved before her, smoothing her way. Only when it was completely dark did movement stop. Then, as her legs failed her and she stumbled and nearly fell, the jewels once more rose, this time shaping a hollowed surface long enough to lie down in.
Rest. You are safe.
After all that had happened, that seemed foolish, but she saw nothing around for brigands to live on. She lay down on the jeweled couch rather than the stony ground, wondering how cold it would be … but the jewels shifted around her, and soon she was comfortable and warm.
When she woke the next morning, the first thing she saw were white-robed figures standing in a circle around her couch. She sat up, the jewels rearranging themselves, slithering quickly to make her seat.
“It is the One,” one of them said. She saw no sign of rank, but they all bowed to her when that one moved his hand.
“Who do you think I am?” Dorrin asked.
“The One who was to come, the Healer for the land.”
“And who are you?”
“Those who watch for the One.” Not the same speaker but another. “It is time. Will you have food before we go?”
Her stomach rumbled. “Yes, thank you.”
Food was a dry, nearly tasteless slab of what Dorrin guessed was unleavened bread and a piece of dried meat, hard as wood. “Suck on it,” one of them said. “It will soften.”
Dorrin took a couple of bites of the breadlike slab, then stood. The jewels shimmered as they rearranged into a path again. The watchers bowed.
“So it is true, as we were told. It is all true, and the end will come.”
That sounded ominous, but the crown gave no warning. Dorrin took a step on her jeweled path; the goblet floated to a convenient height, and she sipped from it.
“My name is Dorrin,” she said. “May I hear yours?”
Quick glances around the group, and one finally bowed and said, “As the Queen of Water wishes. I am Silig and bear within me two hands of those who came before.”
The next in line bowed. “I am Cebrig and bear within me two hands and one of those who came before.”
“Wait—” Dorrin interrupted the recitation, suddenly revolted. “Do you mean you … you kill a younger to transfer your … your essence—?”
“No! That is abomination!” said Silig, dark eyes flashing. “I am this-born, youngest of my heritage, and came to watcher at twenty, when Herrin died, who came to watcher when Orig died, who came to watcher when Ilfin died, who came to watcher—” he went on, all ten of them. “They live in me, my elders, for only thus can humans approach the wisdom of the Elder Kin, whom surely you know, for they departed to the lands you came from.”
“It was done willingly, then?”
“Of course. It is the greatest gift and honor one of us can have, to cradle those who cradled us and let them see the end of their long waiting, which now has come. Should we let them die wholly, with their hopes yet unfulfilled?”
“Er … no. But—do you know of the other, of killing someone to transfer one’s own mind?”
Now they all glared at her. “Did you such a thing?”
“No. But I knew those who did. That is how it was done in the north. I had not heard of … of cradling elders down the generations.”
“Your elders died wholly?”
“My elders did what you call abomination,” Dorrin said. The harshness in her voice surprised her. “They used blood—” She stopped as all the watchers turned their backs.
Silig turned around finally. “To make these—” He pointed at the jewels. “—of blood, that is the worst of all. We cannot … we cannot hear it.”
“I will not tell it,” Dorrin said.
“And you did no such thing?”
“Never.”
“And you bear the crown, the necklace, the rings: none of evil can handle them. Tell me, Queen of Water, does the crown speak to you?”
“Yes, it does. It told me to come here.”
“Then please come with us and do not speak of that other again.”
They began again, climbing steadily up the barren slopes of stony hills, heat rising from the rock in waves … but the path of jewels was cool beneath Dorrin’s feet and smoothed her way. The watchers did not attempt to step onto it. Finally Dorrin asked them why they did not.
“Only the One may set foot upon the sacred,” said Qaraf. “It is not for us. It is for you and because you are bringing it home.”
That day and the next they worked their way to the foot of the mountains. Dorrin looked back now and then to the shimmer of the water behind. The view widened as they climbed; she could now see distant islands and a smudge that might be another island or the nearest part of the shore of Aarenis.
When she was thirsty, the goblet came near and gave her water. None of the others would drink of it but sipped now and then from waterskins.
As they neared the mountains, Dorrin saw shattered rock, red and black spires of it, and nothing more. Higher up the slopes—no trees, no bushes. Her guides led her straight toward a cliff; she wondered how they would climb it, for she could see no trail. Then one vanished into the rock, and she followed into a narrow cleft, as if someone had cut the rock with a sword … but not a straight cut. The cleft twisted, divided, rejoined, climbing up stone steps that looked as if water had once flowed down them … then leveled again, twisted, climbed.
Traversing the mountains took days; Dorrin lost count of them. Her guides knew of a few scant sources of water. “For sometimes a rain comes from the sea, and the rock holds it.” The watchers had, over the years, enlarged sheltered basins to store this rainwate
r. They had also tunneled out from these—over how many years, Dorrin could not imagine—to create lookout points from which they could observe long stretches of the shore.
“We knew the One would come,” Silig said. “And as the years passed and the life of the land failed, those we now cradle prepared for the years of duty ahead. From here we see all that come to these shores … though … in my lifetime … not all these watch stands were watched. Not all still hold water enough.”
Dorrin looked out the hole in the rock, down across the barren hills to the barren dunes, and then to the sea. The sails of three ships caught the light; more islands than she had known of studded the sea, though she could not tell if people dwelt there.
“How are so many of you here, then? Is the place the crown told me of nearby?”
“No, Queen of Water. It is many days’ journey inland. But three or four winters ago, the Guardians had received a sign and said the veil had been drawn aside and the One would come in the lifetime of those young enough. We were sent, all the watchers, to be sure that the One would find welcome and guides. We were in each of the watch places, all along the coast, and when one of us saw you wash ashore with those—” He pointed to the jewels. “—word passed to the others. As many of us as could went down to meet you.”
She could have died before they arrived. But perhaps not; she’d had pure water to drink, and a few days’ fast would not have been fatal. The watchers themselves needed water and food … they could not have gone from shore to the water basins even every other day.
For several days more they followed steep trails up and steep trails down, sleeping each night near one of the water sources. Dorrin lost track of the days, for the crown had begun to sing, and the song in her head distracted her from anything as mundane as counting the days that passed. The song sounded of water now … drips at first, then trickles, then the chuckling of a small stream. What words she could discern were few, “almost” and “soon” and “closer.” The jewels that laid a path for her feet made a couch each night for her rest and a seat whenever she needed one.
Finally they came out of yet another narrow cleft to look down a slope to barren country below. Far off, a lighter color might be dunes, Dorrin thought, but nearer, it was clear the land was mostly rock and gravel, undulating toward the south. Waves of hot air shimmered in the sun, and a hot breeze flowed up to touch her face. Dorrin squinted through the heat haze and thought she saw a huge lake shining in the distance.
“Is that water salt?” she asked, pointing.
“It is not water at all,” Silig said. “It is the lure that the Liar puts out to tempt the wanderer away from what little water there is. We will spend the day in this shade and start at dusk, for the plain is hotter than the mountains.”
Dorrin slept poorly in the afternoon; heat radiated from the rocks, and despite the cool of the jewels beneath her, the hot air from below seemed to scorch her face.
At dusk, her guides offered her a white robe like theirs. “The night will be cold, and tomorrow we can offer no shelter from the day’s sun. In this you may rest.”
The robe felt strange over her clothes—not as harsh as most wool nor yet as smooth as silk. They walked through the night under brilliant stars, pausing once to eat. As the stars faded near dawn, Dorrin looked back; the mountain range stood dark against the paling sky, but as she watched, sunlight picked out one peak after another as if a flame were skipping along the crest.
They walked on until the stifling heat slowed them. Dorrin had water to drink, but the glare and heat made her dizzy. They crouched in the meager shade of waist-high rocks scattered across the slope, each with the robe’s hood pulled across the face. Dorrin tried to doze but found it impossible.
As soon as the sun was down, the air cooled again, and once more they set out. Day after day the same routine—walk at night, try to sleep by day. The mountains receded behind them to a line on the sky visible only at dawn and dusk.
Finally, she saw ahead of them a cluster of white stone huts and three broken towers surrounded by looming dunes of red sand, the place of her earlier vision. When they came to it, more white-robed figures came out, bowing to her and gesturing that she should enter one of the huts. Inside it was cooler, and she slept awhile, grateful for the protection of the walls and roof. In early morning, they took her from the village to see the rim of a vast bowl.
“Here,” said one who named himself a Guardian. “Here is where it will be. We will guide you.”
For the rest of that day she stayed in the hut, out of the burning sun, while the people made some preparation she did not understand, chanting in a strange tongue near one of the broken towers. She felt no anxiety, as she had felt none since she had come to the deck of the galley. Whatever was meant to happen would happen.
Before dawn, the white-robed Guardians woke her. Overhead the stars were bright, giving enough light so that the Guardians made vague shadows. The trail the Guardians led her on was steep and rough, but the jewels fashioned steps for her and she did not slip. Nor did she peer over the side into the darkness below. What she had seen from the rim was frightening enough. If she slipped—
You are safe.
For now. As they descended, the night seemed darker, with the dark walls rising around and cutting off most of the starry sky. Then a soft glow rose from beneath her, as if water reflected the starlight. One of the Guardians muttered; the two in front turned to look. Both bowed low but said nothing and turned away from that glow, tapping with their sticks as they had before.
Through the rest of the night, Dorrin walked in that light, never slipping.
As night faded into predawn, they were on the last slope down to the floor of the vast bowl, its rim black against the lightening sky. Here the path’s zigzag way showed pale, worn by many years of travel, less rough than on the harder rocks above. By the time the sky was a clear blue and sun touched the rim behind them, they had reached the floor—not a level plain, as it had looked from above, but humped and hummocked with drifts of sand caught in heaps of fallen rock, threaded by ancient channels of running water.
But shortly before midday, with the sun beating down and glaring off the white sand and clay, they came to the place the Guardians insisted was ordained: a circle of bare white clay, hard as bone. Now the Guardians formed their own circle around it and motioned to Dorrin where she should stand. They began a low chant; she could not understand the words.
The Guardian of Guardians stepped forward, followed by two who each held small stone jars. He held out his hand; one poured something into it. He crouched, holding his hand low over the center of the circle.
Dorrin watched carefully. Whatever it was flowed like water or … sand, she realized, as with a movement of his hand he drew on the flat white surface with a line of color, rust-red. Moment by moment, the design grew, forming a pattern she had never seen but that throbbed with power long before it was complete. Other colors joined the red: blue, yellow, green, black, white, each from its own jar one of the helpers held out to him.
She recognized some of the symbols—the image of the Sunlord, Esea, the Stormlord, Rainbringer, Barrandowea, the familiar wheat sheaf of Alyanya, the circle of the High Lord. But the rest, though it teased her vision as the elven patterns had, she did not understand.
At times it seemed the design drew itself, but Dorrin saw the tension in the man’s hand, the care with which he worked from the center outward. The center itself he left bare, perhaps a handspan across. He stepped back as the sun reached its zenith.
Wind died; the sun beat down. With a gesture, the Guardian of Guardians halted the chant.
“The One’s seat is there,” said one Guardian to Dorrin. He pointed not to her but to the empty center of the pattern.
Now, O Queen.
“How can I—I cannot walk on that—” The design would be ruined.
Let me go. Set me free.
“Be what you are,” Dorrin said. Where the words had come from she
could not have said. “Be what you are and where you should be … I set you free.”
Familiar weight lifted from her head; the crown rose and floated above the pattern, then settled on the empty center. Within its brilliant circle, the bare clay showed white.
“Your water there,” the Guardian of Guardians said.
The goblet hung in the air at her heart-hand. She took it, reached far out over the design, and poured. Water fell in a silvery ribbon, sparkling as it fell, into that circle … and rose, contained by the frame of the crown, to reach the jewels.
One by one, they burst, exploding with water, a river from each jewel, it seemed, water rising so fast that Dorrin and the Guardians were knee deep in a moment, the careful design on the sand covered … but still shimmering beneath the water, undisturbed. The jewels she had walked on, sat on, lain on, dissolved into more water; the water rose steadily, thigh-deep, waist-deep, still clear as crystal.
The light dimmed; Dorrin looked up to see clouds gathering overhead, blotting out the sun, dark as the summer rainstorms in the north, and in the next moment rain roared down to join the water rising up.
The water had motion now, tugging at her white robe; she struggled with it and got it off, the better to stand, to try to wade back to the distant wall of rock, but the current strengthened, pulling her into deeper water, and the rain fell so heavily she could not tell which direction to go. It pounded her head, her shoulders; she was soaked to the skin in the first moments; she could scarcely breathe. She would drown if she fell; she might drown standing up.
When the rain ceased to fall on her, she looked up to see a vast dark shape hovering over her like the roof of a house hanging in the air … beyond its protection, rain lashed the water, but here not even a drip fell from the creature above her. Staring at her was one large flame-colored eye; she realized, blinking water out of her eyes, that its sinuous neck had twisted around to watch her even as she sheltered under it.
Crown of Renewal Page 49
