The Flight from Kar (The Emperor's Library

by Frederick Kirchhoff

  The library was safe and the Emperor had escaped his enemies—and none of it would have taken place without him. Last year Jon had done something stupid; now, however, he’d done something intelligent and that made up for the rest—at least as far as the others were concerned. Because John had been killed, he’d always be alone, and that was the price he’d pay. But was it any different from the way his life had been before? And now? Well, now, there was really nothing else to do. Why mess up the symmetry?

  Yet, with these thoughts, a second voice questioned. Why assume a rational pattern to life? Expecting anything to make sense was absurd.

  ▲

  It had been weeks since the last rain, but one morning they awoke to a gray sky and a cold south wind. By the time they broke camp, clouds had rolled in, creating a fine mist that grew heavier as the morning progressed. Soaked to the skin, they trudged on in silence, and once again Jon fell back, lagging the end of the group. Soon the rest were out of sight in the fog, yet he saw their footprints on the sand and heard their voices, so what was the point of hurrying to catch up?

  Late in the afternoon, they rounded a steep cape and found themselves on the bank of a deep river flowing between hills close to the beach. Following it inland, the land broadened into a wide valley, where the river turned first north and then south before it went on in the direction of the mountains. Was this the S-shaped river Jon had been looking for? It fit the pattern, but he didn’t remember the hills on either side of its mouth and, of course, there could have been more than one river with a double curve. In any case, there was no going forward today. They had found what appeared to be a shallow place where they could cross the water, but it was unwise to attempt it in the dark, and so they camped for a miserable, wet night, lying down in damp clothes, for Falco had been unable to kindle a fire.

  The cold didn’t keep Jon from sleep, but at some point in the middle of the night he woke, sensing that someone had called his name. Hearing nothing, he concluded it must have been a dream. Yet, just when he’d almost fallen back into sleep, he sensed the call again. He sat up and looked around, but saw only the sleeping forms of the party. And then he heard the voice a third time. Nearby yet not nearby. It was impossible to locate the direction. Nevertheless, he was sure that someone—or something—had called him. It was like the night when the Rand had helped him up the hillside, and he’d heard voices that weren’t so much voices as sounds in his own head. If he hadn’t felt the Rand’s touch he’d have dismissed it as hallucination. And then, as tonight, the words dissipated into nothingness.

  The next morning was little better than the previous day. The rain continued, soft but steady, and the fog still rolled in from the ocean, one cloud after another. The crossing proved easy. They were already wet when they stepped into the water. Jon felt as if he’d never be dry again. And as they began the trek back along the north bank of the river, he saw that Klei was walking with Marekko once more.

  “Just as well,” he muttered to himself.

  But then, as they approached the coast, the rain let up and then stopped altogether, and gradually the cloud cover began to break. Soon the sun was shining in a blue sky scattered with small white clouds; its warm light made their clothing steam and dried the path before them.

  The path before them! Without realizing it, he’d been following a path. And this was no animal trail; Jon was certain that others had come this way, not centuries ago, but recently.

  Once they reached the beach, the path disappeared into the sand, so nothing was to be learned from it here. Even so, his heart rose at the sight of the open water, now shimmering in the sunlight. He didn’t notice Zoë and the Emperor approaching. They’d come to ask if he’d realized they’d been following a path.

  “Yes, I saw it.”

  “And you saw that it was made by men, not animals?” Zoë asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Of course you did,” the Emperor observed. “But did it occur to you how odd a trail it was, coming out of the sea and leading up towards the mountains? Surely whoever made it didn’t simply emerge from the ocean, and so they must have come here from somewhere else—perhaps on this side of the mountains, perhaps from the other. And maybe one of them will appear tomorrow morning and bid us “good day.” But we still have no evidence that anyone beside ourselves is here at the present time. And if someone else is here, they’re doing their best to keep out of sight. Yet, if they’d wanted to do us harm, we’ve given them ample opportunity; and that means they’re not enemies.”

  “It’s hard to tell how long it’s been since someone else used this trail,” Zoë said. “The sandy soil doesn’t preserve good footprints—especially after a rain.”

  ▲

  The following afternoon they faced the westward bend of the mountains that blocked further travel along the coast; this meant that the river had indeed been the one Jon had been looking for, so now it was time to turn east. Two days ago, in the fog and rain, they would have been glad for a change, but today, under a sunny sky, the thought of leaving the Western Ocean made the occasion almost sorrowful. Even the Emperor seemed less interested in the pass they were about to ascend than curious about the ruins that Jon and John had discovered here.

  “We’ve been talking about them for months now. At the very least I should have a look.”

  Oddly, however, Jon had difficulty finding the place. The sand had shifted, covering most of the stones. The site looked completely different a year ago.

  “If I hadn’t known this was here,” Jon said. “I’d never have noticed it. Even with our eyes out, we could have missed similar ruins elsewhere along the coast.”

  “Jon is right,” Zoë said. “I wouldn’t have noticed this place if he hadn’t brought us to it. No one would expect buildings so close to the shoreline; people would have lived inland where there’s fresh water.”

  “Exactly,” the Emperor agreed. “The only other trace of habitation we saw was on an estuary miles from the sea. Someday I’ll send an expedition here to seek other ruins—and follow that trail up into the mountains. Would you like to lead such an expedition, Jon?”

  First he was to be a colonizer, then an Imperial minister, and now an explorer. Of all those roles, though, being an explorer most appealed to Jon, since it entailed the fewest responsibilities.

  “Yes,” he answered, trying to sound noncommittal.

  “Of course you would. It’s the very thing for a man like yourself. And when you return to civilization, you’ll write a book about your discoveries.”

  “A book?”

  “Why not? And once you’ve gotten that under your belt, you’ll be ready to write the history of my reign. You’ve been with me almost from the beginning.”

  “That means you’ll be a character in your own book, Jon,” Zoë pointed out. “If you tell the story of how the Emperor saved his library, you’ll have to include yourself, since you helped him carry out his plan.”

  “That’s true,” the Emperor said. “Without Jon, it would have been difficult. But why should he write about me, Zoë? He might compose his own life’s story instead. Many books chronicle the reigns of emperors, but hardly any tell us about ordinary men. It would be something entirely new.”

  “I don’t think I’d like to write such a book,” Jon replied.

  “Why not?” the Emperor asked.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t like the idea of writing about myself. It would sound like boasting, or, if not boasting, then like complaining.”

  The Emperor laughed.

  “Well, you can write about me instead. I’d be happy to sound better than I really am.”

  “But it’s not just the boasting,” Jon continued. “A book has to have an ending, and I’m not sure there will ever be an ending to my life. I’ll die of course, but that’s not the kind of ending you need in a book. Imagine reading a story in which the hero suddenly drops dead in the middle of a paragraph. It wouldn’t make sense. People die in the midst of things eve
ry day, but we expect books to be different. And we also expect books to tell us all there is to know about a person, but I don’t think anyone really knows all there is to know about himself, much less another human being.”

  Zoë was only half listening. The subject of books left her cold.

  “If Jon doesn’t want to write your story,” she announced, “then I’ll do it instead. It can’t be all that difficult to write a book. They’re nothing more than a string of sentences, and anybody can write a sentence. And it will be an incredible story to tell—a story of bravery and conquest and benevolent rule. I’m certain you’ll be remembered as one of the greatest Emperors.”

  Unsure how to respond to this enthusiasm, the Emperor returned his attention to the ruins, using a stick to push the sand away from the masonry.

  “When you mentioned that you and Zoë’s brother had found the remains of a building here, I imagined something more impressive,” he said.

  “It’s not much,” Jon admitted.

  “And from what’s left here, you can’t tell very much about the original structure.”

  “Was it a house?” Zoë asked.

  “I don’t think so,” the Emperor said. “A high sea would put it under water.”

  Had he forgotten that Jon had made this observation first?

  “And you once talked about it being a lighthouse, Jon. But it’s obviously too small to support anything tall.

  Jon nodded in silent agreement.

  “So it looks like we’re left with yet another mystery,” the Emperor concluded. “But not nearly as interesting a mystery as the others we’ve encountered.”

  At that, he turned and walked away, followed by Zoë. But Jon stayed behind. The Emperor’s indifference made him all the more eager to discover what these mysterious places meant. He picked up the Emperor’s stick and used it to dig away the sand from one side of the stonework. The two uppermost courses were partly worn away, but below them the masonry appeared intact. The stick, however, was a poor tool for digging, so he found a large, flat shell and used it to scoop away more of the sand. It was a better tool, but the task proved futile, since loose sand poured back into the excavation as fast as he removed it.

  But then something caught his eye—marks cut into the lower courses of masonry. It was impossible to make them out in the shadows, but he could feel them with his fingers. Symbols of some kind were incised in the stone, each about the size of his hand, and one of them was the line-and-circle he’d seen in several places.

  Surely these remains had something to do with the Rand. Why invent other builders when the existence of the Rand was certain? Ever since that night on the hillside he’d felt a connection with these people. He’d caught no sight of them on their journey, but why should he expect to? Anyone following them in secret would have had no trouble keeping a safe distance. Someone could be watching the party at this very moment. And if the Rand were nearby, perhaps there was a way to communicate with them. They’d know if their ancestors made this structure—or the town near the lava flow or even the buildings above West House.

  Jon tossed away his shell and walked back to join the group standing by the water. Some were for beginning the next stage of their journey at once. They saw little reason to waste so many hours of daylight.

  “We’ll need a full day to cross the mountain pass,” Jon told them, “There’s no good place to sleep on the mountain, so I think we should make camp here and set out first thing tomorrow. Part of the way is difficult, and we may have to leave a few things behind.”

  Turning his head, Jon saw Klei studying his face in that strange way he had—a look that always seemed like a question that Jon didn’t want to answer. Klei knew the story of Jon and John’s visit to the sea. Did he also know that Jon wasn’t telling the truth when he said there was no good place to sleep on the mountain?

  Aware that Jon had observed him, Klei moved away and began speaking to Marekko; then they walked off together.

  “I need to think,” Jon told Zoë. “If anyone asks, tell them I wanted to be alone for a while. It will be my last chance to see the ocean for a long time.”

  Klei and Marekko had headed south toward the cliffs, so Jon made a point of going north, retracing their steps along the beach. As he walked, he looked back from time to time, to make sure no one was following him, but no one appeared.

  After about a mile, Jon turned inland and climbed a high sand dune, where he sat down and watched the waves approaching the shore. They broke once, far out, and then again as they reached the land. But beyond the breakers, the sea was calm. You could tell that the tide was receding, leaving a wider and wider expanse between him and the sea. A few small birds wandered across the wet sand, picking at seaweed and small crustaceans, their elongated legs absurdly out of proportion to their bodies. When he’d been here with John, this beach had seemed the most glorious place in the world. Now, it was hard to tell what it seemed like. He’d expected his return to overwhelm him with feeling, but no feeling materialized. He felt empty—that was all.

  His islands were still there. How far away was the larger of the two? There was no telling. Still, the Emperor had granted it to him, for whatever that was worth. Perhaps someday he’d actually go there. The Emperor had also spoken of sending him on a mission of discovery, but that was idle talk. It would be a long time before the man sent anyone on a scientific expedition. He was lucky to have saved his own skin. If Jon ever went to the islands, it would be on his own. He’d have to learn how to build a boat, but that shouldn’t be difficult. The people at Bent Lake built boats, didn’t they? He’d never seen one, of course, but the women had spoken of their fishing on the lake. A boat for the sea would have to be stronger than the ones the Bent-Lakers probably constructed, but the principle must be the same, and there was plenty of timber on the mountains. He imagined himself cutting down trees and shaping them into a boat . . . no, not a boat—that would be too difficult. A raft would be easier, but a raft with a sail of some kind—nothing elaborate—just enough to catch the wind. He’d have to find a piece of cloth—or several pieces, and sew them together; and that meant he’d have to learn how to sew. When it was complete, he’d push his raft out into the surf, the sail would fill with air, and he’d be on his way across the water.

  Suddenly, he felt a strong desire to go for a swim. This would be his last chance for a long time, wouldn’t it? Perhaps his last chance period. Climbing down to the foot of the dune, he stripped off his clothes and ran down to the water. It was cold on his feet and ankles—he hadn’t remembered it being this cold the first time he’d been here.

  He walked further into the surf; hesitated, while the low waves broke against his knees; then took two quick strides forward and dove into the water, swimming out, where the waves were higher. For the first time since the night of John’s death, he felt happy. Somehow this place, so linked in memory with John, had overcome the recollection of John’s loss. Had this swim restored his sense of the joyfulness of life? That was what Klei had said he needed to do, and he couldn’t deny that Klei was often right about things like that.

  A cloud crossed the sun; it was time to return to the shore.

  Reaching the edge of the water, he looked toward the dunes where he’d left his clothing and saw two figures standing there. Klei and Marekko? No. It was a man and a woman, and they were naked like him, and, like him, they had cords around their necks, although the man also bore a fiber pouch slung over his shoulder. At that moment he began to hear the inner voices again—words that made no sense, except that he caught the syllable Jon. They must have been speaking to him, although their lips were motionless. But how did they know his name?

  They had to be Rand. He remembered David’s description—the warm smile, the creamy brown skin, the blue-green eyes—and the hair, a mass of ringlets almost the same color as their skin, only more golden—why hadn’t David mentioned the hair? It was wonderful. How could anyone help but love such creatures? The woman was wearing
an oval greenstone and the man had a green arrowhead much like Jon’s, only intact. And, yes, they were speaking to him. Jon felt the stream of their words welling within him. But still none of it made sense.

  They didn’t move a muscle as he approached them. They just kept smiling in a way that said they expected him. He held up his hands with his palms outstretched and nodded his head from side to side. It was the best he could come up with for a sign that he didn’t understand the words they were sending him. The man and woman looked at one another, then the man walked up to Jon and examined the broken arrowhead. Before Jon could react, he’d removed it from his neck in a rapid gesture. Jon wanted to protest, but he was unable to move. Then the man removed his own greenstone and placed it on Jon.

  Suddenly he understood the woman’s questions. She was asking why they’d come here and where they were going. And she wanted to know how he felt and if he’d enjoyed his swim—a fast string of questions that seemed perfectly natural. And, strangely, he experienced them as an ordered series, not a confusion of ideas. At the same time, the sky and the sea seemed united in a purpose he could almost but not quite grasp.

  And then, without uttering a word, he found himself telling her his story—from the day he’d met John to the present moment. He didn’t know why he was revealing so much, but it seemed the right thing. And the details flowed faster than he could have expressed them in spoken words.

  The woman listened intently. From the look in her eyes, she appeared to be living through his narration, registering fear when he described his capture by the Brotherhood and anger when he recounted the deeds of the Chosen.

  The man had put his hand on her breast. Jon knew he was listening to his story through her, and both seemed to identify themselves totally with its teller.

  When he’d completed the tale, she asked him a question. She wanted to know more about John. That was the one part he’d held back, but now that memory, too, flooded out—more of it than Jon had fully acknowledged to himself and much more than he’d ever imagined telling another person. Yet when the transfer was complete, he experienced a sense of great relief, as if a lifetime of knotted feelings had unraveled themselves.