by Alison Baird
“You don’t know that, Papa!” exclaimed Ailia. She felt a sharp, cramping sensation somewhere in the region of her stomach and suddenly thought, This is what real fear feels like. It was not in the least romantic. “You heard what Jaim said—King Khalazar wants a base for his ships, so they can attack the Continent!”
Jaimon stepped forward. “Uncle,” he said, “Ailia is right. There may not be enough silver to buy passage for the whole village and the Kaans. But we could at least send away our women and children, and theirs too, until this threat has passed. You needn’t go if you don’t want to. I will be on board, and I can leave the ship when we get to Maurainia and look after Ailia and the others—until we’re certain it’s safe for them to return.”
Ailia watched her father with a strange blend of fear and elation. Please let him agree, please . . . Dannor ruminated, stroking his bristly chin, and as always the many lines and furrows in his weathered face made his expression impossible to read.
Then he looked up at his nephew and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “Very well, then,” he said.
2
Damion
FATHER DAMION ATHARIEL STOOD ALONE before the gate of Heaven.
It reared up from the green hill’s crest, gleaming in the tropical sun: two tall pillars of white stone, placed about ten paces apart so as to form the posts of an invisible gate. Each was adorned with a carved dragon, its stone coils wound around the pillar in a graceful spiral, its horned head resting on the capital. “Spirit-gates” like this one could be found throughout the Archipelagoes of Kaan: they were very old, dating to the days of the Elei Commonwealth, and their use and significance were now unknown. There was never more than one to an island, and they were never located on roads, or near the ruins of old cities where a gate might be expected: they stood always in isolated places, leading from nowhere to nowhere. The Kaanish people in the city below declared that this gate was wizards’ work, and that it led to the spirit world. Though the Maurainian missionaries had walked between the pillars time and time again to disprove the superstition, nothing could induce the Kaans to follow them.
There were, Damion acknowledged, similar superstitions in his own country. A pair of old standing stones in northern Maurainia was believed, at least by the locals, to mark a magic portal to the faerie world. But those ancient menhirs were crude things compared to the spirit-gate. He walked closer to the right-hand pillar, examining the sculpted dragon. It was a beautiful creature, lithe and sinuous and scaled like a carp, with only a superficial resemblance to the fire-spouting beasts of his own western mythology. The “dragons” of old Elei and Kaanish lore were not monsters, but celestial beings like gods or angels. Their proper dwelling place was the spirit plane, but they manifested in the material world whenever they chose, and always used their magical powers for good. The heroes of Kaanish legend did not ride out to slay them, but rather to seek their help and guidance. Celestial dragons used this gateway, it was said, flying back and forth through it invisible to mortal eyes. It was still against the law to erect any building on the summit of this hill, for such a structure—so the Kaans explained—might obstruct the paths of the dragons’ flight.
Damion sighed. It was to eliminate pagan notions like these that he and other missionaries of the True Faith had journeyed from Maurainia to the Archipelagoes. The Faithful were particularly suspicious of dragon-worship, for in western lands the dragon was a symbol for the Fiend, Modrian-Valdur. But now that he had lived here for a time, Damion’s feelings were curiously mixed. He found much in the eastern traditions that was both beautiful and inspiring. He stepped back and gazed at the vista framed by the stone posts. No otherworldly realm lay there: merely a view of the hillside’s feathery foliage, the tiled roofs of the city of Jardjana, and the jewel-blue expanse of its harbor and bay. In the distance loomed the green volcanic peaks of Medosha, the sacred island, where none but the highest Kaanish priests ever set foot. Many other islands reared out of the sea beyond, blue and dim with distance so that they might almost have been low-lying clouds. And on the far horizon sprawled real clouds with towering summits, like islands still larger and more fantastic in shape.
Damion stepped between the pillars and descended the grassy slope of the hill. This island of Jana, with its bustling port city, had been his dwelling place for the greater part of a year. Exotic and strange as it had seemed to him at first, it had now become like home to him. The steep-roofed buildings, with their ornate carved eaves and fierce-looking ceramic door-guardians; the houses of the poor, built on stilts over the water because of the scarcity of land, so that they resembled spindly-legged birds wading in the tide; the riot of smells—incense blown from shrines, fresh fish, spices, cow dung, the ripe refuse of the gutters; the short-horned water buffaloes, smaller cousins to those of the Antipodes, that carried peasants and huge straw panniers to market; the open-air stalls with barrels full of mangoes and coconuts and clambering crabs . . . all these things were familiar now, like a garment grown more comfortable with wear. But not until this moment had he realized that he loved the Archipelagoes. And now he must leave them. This last walk around the city was his final farewell.
In the early days Damion had walked the streets of Jardjana with his cowl drawn over his head, as much to ward off the Kaans’ inquisitive stares as to counter the rays of the sun. His white ankle-length robe marked him as a priest of the True Faith, but the Kaans of this day and age were accustomed to seeing the garb of the western religion in their streets; it was the young man’s coloring that had drawn their attention, the fairness of his skin and hair and his astonishing sky-blue eyes. But now passersby paid no heed to him. Panic-stricken citizens rushed past him along the hill path with all their belongings bundled on their backs, fleeing the city for the dubious safety of the hill country farther inland. Refugees from conquered islands thronged the streets and alleyways below, some trying to set up crude shelters in the gutters. In the midst of this confusion the beggars squatted among their hovering flies like heaps of discarded rags.
The Zimbouran king had ordered all citizens of the Commonwealth expelled from the island domains, which he declared annexed; Jana’s governor, knowing that other islands had already fallen and that his own warships could never match the Zimbouran fleet, offered no resistance. People from the western Continent—merchants and missionaries, for the most part—crowded the harbor inns: they would be able to get any berth available, as they had money. Most of the natives could only stare hopelessly at the few ships remaining, and wait for the invading Armada. One small black-hulled Zimbouran galley, rowed by slaves, had already arrived in the harbor this morning.
Tales of Zimbouran savagery abounded in the city. When they conquered a country, they burned whole villages to the ground and put hundreds of people to the sword—“just to frighten the rest,” one trembling Kaan told Damion. There was no reason to doubt the man’s word. It was well-known that Zimbouran rulers meted out such treatment to their own people; they would surely not hesitate to do the same to foreigners. A few Kaans, driven to desperation, had set out in fishing boats and makeshift rafts in a dangerous attempt to cross the leagues of open ocean separating their island from the nearest Commonwealth colony.
And now we are leaving, abandoning them to their fate.
Damion’s bleak thoughts were interrupted by a commotion in the street ahead of him. Craning his neck above the crowds, he glimpsed a number of black-clad priests standing on the steps of a building, an exquisite structure whose gilded spires reflected in the shallow moat surrounding it. It was a native shrine, its shape an imitation of the Sacred Island. But the clerics on its steps were not Kaans. They were Zimbourans, tall and almost deathly pale: they had likely come here from the slave-galley. As Damion watched, one Zimbouran priest descended the steps and walked right into the throng, which parted and eddied around him as though he carried some deadly contagion. Mere days ago, Damion reflected, this man would have been pursued and beaten by the crowd
s for daring to go near one of their holy sites.
Now no one dares touch him, and he knows it.
To avoid a confrontation with the priests, he turned quickly toward a side alley. Even as he did so there was a clatter of boots along the main street and a little procession of dark-clad men appeared around the corner. He recognized these as Zimbourans also, and withdrew into the alley to watch them stride past, imperious as a parade of conquerors despite their small numbers. They knew the island was theirs now. A stout, bearded captain walked at their head in black leather battle dress. In the heat his face had turned from the usual Zimbouran pallor to deep pomegranate. His dozen underlings followed, one man lagging somewhat behind. At the sight of this last figure Damion caught his breath in surprise.
This was no Zimbouran: the man’s skin was dark as mahogany, his black hair curly rather than straight. He must be at least half-Mohara, though how such a union could have come about was baffling. The Zimbourans considered the Moharas a lower caste, and the two races were forbidden to intermarry. It was a wonder this improbable half-breed had been allowed to live, let alone been made a soldier. He wore a defiant air; his black leather tunic was open at the front, showing much of a well-muscled chest, and on his left ear gleamed a brass ring from which an animal’s claw—a lion’s, perhaps?—dangled. A fierce mustache shadowed his upper lip; beneath the heavy brows his dark eyes were like smoldering coals. For an instant those eyes met Damion’s own, and suddenly the fire in them rekindled: they flashed briefly with anger—or was it disdain? Then the man deliberately looked away and walked on. Damion stared after him, wrung with pity and indignation, until he disappeared into the crowds along with the rest of the procession. He must be a slave of the Zimbourans—but why, then, had he shown such resentment to a western priest?
The guardsmen, Damion realized, were heading for the shrine. There was another flurry of activity there, followed by shouting, and then a sound Damion had never heard before tore the air.
It was a man’s scream—harsh, despairing, filled with pain.
Damion could see the Zimbouran soldiers, standing tall above the slight island people: their leader seemed to be carrying something in his arms, a roll or bundle of dark brown cloth. Some sacred relic, no doubt, snatched from the shrine in an act of deliberate desecration. The crowd moaned. And then it gave a great roar: there was a flash of movement, and the heavy, sweating captain stumbled and fell ignominiously, vanishing along with the bundle into the press of bodies below. Had somebody actually dared to trip him up?
At the back of his mind Damion knew that things were growing dangerous and he should leave, but still he remained, riveted by the unfolding drama. Someone was fighting his way through the mob. The young priest saw no one, but there was a trail of jostled bodies and gesticulating arms, like a disturbance of undergrowth when an animal darts through. The Zimbouran leader’s head and shoulders reappeared above the crowd: he had managed to get to his feet again, but he no longer held the bundle. His face was redder than ever, red with rage. He yelled at the crowd in Kaanish.
“Stop him!”
The commotion in the crowd was moving in Damion’s direction, toward the side alley. Peering through the overlapping bodies, he glimpsed a thin, wiry figure weaving in and out through the tangle of limbs. A boy of about fourteen years, it looked like, clad in beggar’s rags with a dirty cloth wound turban-style about his head. Damion saw to his astonishment that the boy’s face was as fair-skinned as his own, with a freckled nose and wisps of blond hair straggling under the turban. This street waif was a westerner! Pale blue eyes flicked up at Damion, then away again, as the youth struggled through the milling bodies.
Under one arm he clutched the cloth bundle.
Shouting, the Zimbourans beat their way through the crowd with the flats of their swords, parting it by force. Two black-clad soldiers lunged simultaneously for the thief, who dodged neatly, making the men collide with one another. He rolled on his side to avoid another attacker, then was on his feet again, sprinting down the alley toward Damion.
“You, priest—come with me!” The waif grabbed Damion’s hand and yanked him into the alleyway.
Damion found himself running along beside the youth. “What is it? What have you got there?”
“No time,” came the breathless answer. The street waif gave a swift backward glance, followed by a foul and explicit Kaanish curse. “I can hear them coming! Take this to the monastery, Father, while I try to draw them off down that other alley.”
Before Damion realized what was happening, something was thrust into his arms, and he found himself the possessor of the contested bundle. He gaped. “What! Wait a minute!”
But the youth only gave him an impatient shove. “Go on!” he yelled, then sped off down the other alley. There were shouts as the pursuers caught sight of their quarry, and a pounding of booted feet.
Damion stood rooted to the spot, stunned. I mustn’t panic, he thought, still unable to believe that any of this was really happening. He watched, in a curious detached way, the Zimbourans approaching. They shouted, seeing Damion standing there: a priest of a rival faith, with their stolen prize in his hands.
Damion pondered no further. He whirled and sprinted wildly down the narrow lane and on through a maze of interconnecting alleys beyond. In his confusion it never occurred to him to throw the bundle away; if anything, he held it to him more tightly than before. All he could think of was the rage on the leader’s face, and the hoarse scream he had heard coming from the shrine. Glancing down at the dirty brown cloth of the bundle, he saw with a queasy feeling that a smear of red on it had rubbed off onto his robe. Blood . . . ?
The back alley proved to be a veritable obstacle course, with supine beggars, meandering pariah dogs, rubbish heaps, and laundry lines strung inconveniently across it. He ducked and dodged as he ran, and was soon out of breath, but dared not stop: he could still hear booted feet clumping behind him, and gathered from the grunts and curses he heard that the pursuing soldiers were encountering the same obstacles. He risked a frantic glance over his shoulder: no sign of them. Kilting up his robes with one hand, he put on a desperate spurt of speed, despite the growing stitch in his side.
He did not even know to what deed he had become an unwitting accomplice: he only knew that it was too late now to turn back. Would his pursuers believe he had nothing to do with the seizure of this bundle? They might have done, had he surrendered it to them at once. But now they would be certain that he was part of some plan, that he’d conspired with the turbaned boy to snatch . . . whatever this thing was.
The heat was overpowering, but he could not pause even to mop the streams of sweat from his brow. He blinked as it ran into his eyes. Speeding around a sharp corner, he crashed into a broken handcart lying discarded in the middle of the alley, and fell his length on the pavement. For a moment he lay stunned, gasping for breath. Then with an effort he took up the fallen bundle and struggled to his feet again, leaning for support on the side of the overturned cart. There was a fiery jab of pain in his left ankle as he put weight on it, and his shin was barked and bleeding. Wincing, he forced himself to limp on for a few paces. The alley widened out into a small oblong space between buildings, their walls flaking and blotched with damp. The space was dominated by a huge rubbish heap composed of everything from filthy rags and torn clothing to rotting vegetables. Flies swarmed noisily above it. At the far end an archway led into another dingy alley. He must keep running—but his ankle was hurt . . .
The soldiers were drawing nearer. Suddenly Damion knew he would never outrun them, lamed as he was.
His eyes swept around the court, then settled on the rubbish heap.
“IT IS TRUE, BROTHER: the Zimbourans are coming. A slave-galley has arrived in port, and the royal Armada is less than a day away, according to reports that I have heard.” Abbot Shan’s face and voice were calm as he spoke these words, but Prior Vale blanched.
“Dear God in Heaven,” he murmured.
/> Within the walls of the Monastery of Perpetual Peace, perched on the second highest of Jardjana’s hills, the atmosphere was that of a fortress under siege: never had the building seemed so ill-named. Its monks had broken with tradition to offer the sacred inner spaces of their cloister as a safe haven, and its once-silent hallways rang with the clamor of the refugees.
“I think, my friend, that you and your Maurainian brethren had best leave while you can,” continued the Kaanish abbot in his deep, tranquil voice. “Your mission here is ended. I am glad I could give you shelter this day, but before long even these walls will not be sufficient to protect you. The Zimbourans have no love for the peoples of the western Commonwealth, as you well know. There are ships in the harbor still, and the guardsmen from the Maurainian merchants’ compound have agreed to escort all their people there. Gather up your monks, Brother, and join them. Tomorrow you will have no guards, and no more vessels to flee to.”
Prior Vale gave a sober nod. “I’ll go fetch the Brothers at once.”
He heaved a great sigh as he hurried out of the cloister and into the central court. This monastery was a triumph of the Faith: a former pleasure-palace, donated to the Order by an island noble who converted some years ago. The monks had since labored to give the buildings a more austere atmosphere, painting over decorative murals and transforming the women’s solar into a chapel. The building represented many decades of mission work—and soon it would all come to nothing. In the courtyard birds and cicadas twittered and thrummed complacently in the branches of stately cypress trees, while water plashed in the blue-tiled basin of a fountain. The sweltering heat pressed down upon the prior’s head as he crossed the court toward the missionary monks gathered at the fountain’s edge. “Still no sign of Father Damion?” he queried, wiping his brow.
