The Redemption of Althalus

by Eddings, Leigh;Eddings, David

  Ghend raised his sword of flame. “Behold the instrument of thy doom, thief!” he roared with lightning seething about his face and with his burning hair wreathing up around his head. And then, with pace inexorable, Ghend marched toward Althalus and toward the table bathed in golden light, and footprints of fire marked his passage across the marble floor.

  But Althalus raised his hand, saying, “Leoht!” And a wall of purest light barred Ghend from his goal. Ghend howled, and all the flaming hosts of Nahgharash howled with him.

  Caught up in desperate frenzy, Ghend slashed at the wall of light that barred his way, as lightning seethed about him and his sword of flame rang hollowly against the barrier Althalus had placed before him with but a single word.

  “You’ll break your sword, Ghend,” Althalus told him, forcing all traces of archaism from his speech. “You won’t get through unless I let you through. Are you ready to listen?”

  Ghend, still bathed in fire, seized the hilt of his burning sword of flame with both hands and struck mighty blows at the wall of light.

  “You’re wasting time, Ghend,” Althalus told him, “and you don’t have much time left.”

  “What are you doing?” Dweia demanded.

  “Stay out of this, Em!” Althalus snapped. “This is between Ghend and me!”

  Ghend lowered his sword of flame, but his eyes burned even hotter, and the shrieks of the hordes of Nahgharash howled about him.

  “You have a choice to make, Ghend,” Althalus told his frenzied enemy, “and you have to make it now. You can persist in this idiocy and suffer the consequences, or you can turn around and close that door.”

  “Are you mad?” Ghend shrieked, as flames seethed hotter about him.

  “Close the door, Ghend,” Althalus told him. “The fire will go out if you close the door. Pull your mind together and close that door. Shut out Nahgharash and Daeva. This is your only chance to escape.”

  “Escape?” Ghend shrieked. “The world is within my grasp, you fool! I can have it all—forever!”

  “Not without your Book, you can’t, and you’ll never reach that Book in time to use it. You’ve lost, Ghend. I’ve beaten you. If you’ll admit that, you might live. If you refuse, you haven’t got a chance. Choose, Ghend. Make your choice now, so that we can get on with this. Time’s running out.”

  “I will have my Book!”

  “Are you sure?”

  Ghend renewed his attack on the wall of light, and Althalus felt a sudden sense of relief as certain restrictions were lifted from his shoulders. “Somebody’s going to hear about this,” he muttered, even as he lowered his hand. “Ghes!” he said.

  Ghend, still burning, stumbled forward as the barrier of golden light flickered and vanished and the wails of the multitudes of Nahgharash rose to shrieks of triumph.

  Althalus stepped aside as his desperate enemy rushed to the table. Ghend, wreathed in flame, hesitated a moment, and then he cast his fiery sword aside and reached out with both arms as if to seize up all three Books. But as his hands plunged into the golden light, the song of the Knife soared, and with a startled oath Ghend jerked his hands back.

  “You didn’t really, really think I’d let you do that, did you?” Althalus said. “You can take your Book, if you think you must, but ours stay right where they are. Quickly, Ghend. Time’s almost run out.”

  Ghend’s answering snarl was almost bestial as he snatched up the smoldering black Book. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Althalus!” he shouted as he turned back toward the door.

  “Oh, yes we have, brother.” The voice was not the voice of Althalus, even though it came from his lips. Then the voice cracked like thunder. “Now, Eliar!”

  There was a sudden hollow sound as the door beside Dweia’s window vanished. The archway that had enclosed it became a formless hole filled with the empty darkness of Nowhere and Nowhen.

  Beyond that formless hole, Althalus could see the buildings of flame and the wailing creatures of fire that were the sum and essence of Nahgharash sinking and liquefying into the rivers of fire that were the streets of the city of the damned; and the rivers ran fast to spill over some unimaginable brink to cascade into the abyss of absolute nothingness. And now, all commingled and aware, the streets and the buildings and they who dwelt in flame shrieked out in despair, and their shrieks faded down and down and down into that utter silence.

  Khnom, all aflame and gibbering in panic, tried to catch at the sides of the formless hole as he was inexorably drawn into the nothing that lay beyond the doorway, but that, of course, was hopeless. Khnom passed through the doorway of this world and vanished.

  Ghend, armored in fire and still clutching his burning Book, flailed about with his free arm, desperately seeking something he could cling to as the emptiness beyond the doorway drew him across the smooth marble floor of the tower room. Shrieking and cursing, he clawed at the marble, but still he slid inexorably toward his fate. And at the last moment, he looked with pleading eyes at the face of his enemy and reached out a supplicating hand. “Althalus!” he cried. “Help me!”

  And then he vanished through that awful doorway with his Book still clutched to his breast, and his scream faded behind him as he fell forever into the nothing that had finally claimed him.

  “Close the door, Eliar,” Althalus said with profound sadness. “We’re finished with it now.”

  E P I L O G U E

  It was one of those things you have to see to believe, Twengor,” the bald Gebhel told the vastly bearded Clan Chief as Althalus and his friends all sat reminiscing in Albron’s hall on the evening before the wedding of Khalor and Alaia early the following summer. “The silly thing stuck up out of the plains of North Wekti like a huge tree stump—except that you don’t very often come across a tree stump that’s a thousand feet high.”

  “I still don’t understand what possessed you to abandon your trenches, Gebhel,” the recently elevated Chief Wendan said. “You’d just finished tearing up the Ansu cavalry and wiping out that surprise attack from the rear. Why didn’t you just sit tight? Your trenches seem to have worked out very well.”

  “Khalor’s scouts told us that the Ansus had reinforcements coming, and it was fairly obvious that they’d reach our trenches long before Kreuter and Dreigon could possibly make it,” Gebhel explained. “Trenches are all right, but only if you’re not too badly outnumbered. When the numbers start moving into the neighborhood of five to one against you, it’s time to cut and run, I always say.”

  “It all turned out for the best,” Sergeant Khalor said. “I had a few doubts about that tower myself, to be perfectly honest with you, but that artesian spring and all the food supplies in that cave sort of tipped the balance.”

  “Oh, yes,” Gebhel agreed with a broad grin. “If you gentlemen don’t mind a bit of advice, I wouldn’t play dice with Khalor if you can avoid it. He’s had a run of unbelievably good luck here lately. Even nature seems to be on his side.”

  “Oh?” Koleika Iron Jaw said.

  “A wind storm pops out of a dead-calm morning just when he needs it to fan a grass fire. Then there’s that earthquake that opened a ditch across the top of that tower right in front of the crazy man who was charging our position. And to cap it all, there was the river that ran in both directions and washed an entire enemy army away.” Gebhel absently rubbed his hand over his bald head. “There were a lot of things going on that I couldn’t understand,” he admitted.

  “Would you consider the possibility of divine intervention, Sergeant?” Bheid asked slyly.

  “I’m an Arum, Brother Bheid,” Gebhel said. “We prefer not to think about that sort of thing.” Then he shrugged. “I don’t know exactly how all those lucky things happened. I’m just glad that Khalor was on my side during that particular war.”

  “I’d say that his lucky streak hasn’t run itself out yet,” Twengor said, grinning. “I’ve seen the lady he’s going to marry tomorrow, and that’s about as lucky as any man’s likely to get.”


  Althalus leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly. Any time there was a gathering of more than three Arums, they always seemed to start telling each other war stories, and the stories inevitably got better with every telling. After a few seasons, the stories would slip over the line to become legends, and legends tended to gloss over the more blatant impossibilities. Given a few years, the Arums would shrug off rivers that ran in two directions, a Knife that knew how to sing, and a blond girl who could hear the thoughts of the people around her. The events of the past couple of years would enter the realm of folklore, and Emmy would slip away on soft paws. Nobody would know just exactly how much she’d tampered with possibility or reality.

  You’ll still know, though, won’t you, pet? her soft voice purred in his mind.

  I don’t really count, Em, he replied. Somewhere along the line I seem to have misplaced the definition of the word “impossible.” I don’t really get excited about much of anything anymore.

  I think I’ll be able to come up with something that’ll change your mind, love, she purred.

  Brother Bheid officiated at the wedding of Khalor and Alaia. Dweia, only marginally disguised, attended; and after the ceremony, she joined the well-wishers clustered about the bride and groom in Albron’s hall.

  I think I’ve just come up with a way to solve a certain problem, pet, her silent voice murmured to Althalus.

  Oh? Which problem was that, Em?

  We’ll get to it, love. We’ve got a couple more weddings to get out of the way first.

  “I’m not their father, Em,” Althalus protested a few days later when they were alone in the tower.

  “Don’t argue with me, Althalus. Just sit there, look paternal, and give your permission. It’s an ancient ritual, and rituals are very important to ladies. Don’t try to turn it into a joke, Althalus. I’m warning you.”

  “All right, Em. Don’t tie your tail in a knot about it.”

  “Those ‘knotty tail’ remarks are starting to wear a little thin, Althie,” she said tartly. “They weren’t very funny to begin with, and they get less amusing each time you come up with some feeble excuse to make them.”

  “You’re in a grouchy sort of humor today, Em. What’s bothering you?”

  “Our children are leaving us, Althalus,” she replied pensively. “Eliar and Andine will go back to Osthos, and Bheid and Leitha will be in Maghu.”

  “We’ll still have Gher, Em. It’ll be a while before he grows up.”

  “That’s something we’d better talk about, pet. Gher’s never had anything even remotely resembling a normal childhood, and I think we should do something about that—after the wedding.”

  “We’ve got two weddings, Em.”

  “Let’s do just one, love. Separation’s painful enough to begin with, so let’s not drag it out.”

  “Who do you think should officiate? Emdahl, maybe?”

  “Not in my temple, he won’t.”

  Althalus blinked. “You’re going to do it yourself?” he demanded incredulously.

  “Of course I am, you ninny. They are my children, after all, and I want to be sure it’s done right.”

  He surrendered. “Whatever you say, Em.”

  Althalus sat in the tower on a golden summer morning making some pretext at reading the Book while Dweia, garbed in splendor, sat enthroned beside the south window.

  The stairway door opened, and Gher, once more in his page-boy costume, entered. “I’m supposed to say that they want to see you, Althalus,” he said. “Andine made up a speech for me. You didn’t really want to hear it, did you?”

  “Let’s go through the motions, Gher,” Dweia told him. “Speak the speech in formal wise.”

  “Do I really have to, Emmy?” he said with some distaste.

  “The ladies would prefer it that way, Gher.”

  Gher sighed. “All right, Emmy, anything you say.” He cleared his throat. “All-powerful father,” he addressed Althalus, “thy children entreat thee to give them a hearing in a matter of utmost importance.”

  “Do it right, Althalus,” Dweia said firmly.

  “If that’s the way you want it, Em.” Althalus straightened. “Advise my noble offspring that I will hear their petition, my son,” he told Gher, “and—barring unforeseen demands in their presentation—gladly will I grant their each and every request, as our dearly beloved Goddess giveth me strength.”

  “Unforeseen demands?” Dweia asked.

  “Just a precaution, Em. Let’s keep the dowries at a reasonable level.”

  Arm in arm, Andine and Eliar, both in formal garb, entered the tower room, closely followed by Leitha and Bheid.

  The bows and curtsies were a trifle florid.

  “We have come this day to lay our petition before thee, our noble and beloved father,” Andine announced, “forasmuch as we are—and must be—guided by you in all things. Noble Eliar and Holy Bheid will speak of this anon, but know full well that my beloved sister and I do add our plea to theirs in this matter. Long and hard have we considered this, and it doth appear clearly evident that much benefit shall accrue to all peoples shouldst thou graciously accede to our humble request.”

  “And is it thine intent, glorious Arya, to dwell upon this in perpetuity?” Althalus asked, deliberately exaggerating the formal speech Andine had addressed to him, “for should thine oration continue at greater length, might not it be more humane to permit brave Eliar and righteous Bheid to beseat themselves?”

  “You’re not supposed to say that!” Andine flared. “Make him stop that, Dweia!”

  “Be nice, Althalus,” Dweia chided. “Go on, Andine.”

  The tiny orator pushed bravely on, and Althalus stifled several yawns.

  “I would not presume to attempt to outdo our dear, dear Arya,” Leitha announced. “Thus must I speak in simple terms. The Exarch of the Grey Robes hath caught mine eye, dearest Daddy. I want him. Give him to me.”

  “Leitha!” Andine gasped. “That’s not the way it’s supposed to be done!”

  “Well, gentlemen?” Althalus said to Eliar and Bheid. “How do you feel about this?”

  “Andine and I want to get married,” Eliar said simply. “Is that all right?”

  “It is with me,” Althalus replied. “How do you feel about it, Em?”

  “I can live with it,” she said with a faint smile.

  “That settles that, then. Was there something you’d like to add, Bheid?”

  “I don’t think there’s much left for me to say, Althalus,” Bheid noted. “I want Leitha as much as she wants me—or maybe just a little more. A formal wedding might be a good idea, because certain things will start to happen—with or without the ceremony.”

  “He’s definitely making progress, isn’t he?” Leitha said with a sly little smirk.

  “How says mighty Althalus to our humble request?” Andine demanded, trying to salvage some small remnant of formality out of the wreckage.

  “Would ‘yes’ upset anybody?” Althalus asked.

  “That’s all?” Andine flared. “Just ‘yes’? Nothing more?”

  “It does have a certain abrupt charm,” Leitha observed. “Now, if nobody objects too much, I think Brother Bheid and I ought to investigate the notion of ‘with or without the ceremony’ just a bit further, wouldn’t you say?”

  Bheid blushed furiously.

  Now it came to pass that upon a certain day when golden autumn had spread her glory across the land did sundry people from across the length and breadth of all lands come together in the high temple of the Goddess Dweia in stately Maghu. And fragrant were the flowers that did bedeck the altar, and exceeding glad were all they who gathered there to witness the joining that was to come on that happy day.

  And the Goddess Dweia, mother and perpetrator of all life, smiled, and with her smile were all cares banished, and all they who were there were caught up in rapture.

  And behold, she who mothers all was filled with love, and her gentle face did expand into enormit
y, for no shape of humankind could contain a love so vast. And spake she then in language ancient, for even as Dweia was the mother of love, so that tongue which she spake was mother of all speech wheresoever or whensoever people dwelt. Strange and alien sounded the language in which she spake, and yet did all they who were there clearly perceive her meaning, for Dweia spake unto their hearts and minds, and not unto their ears.

  And the mother of love spake of love unto they who had come before her that she might bless their union. And behold, she did open doors between them which had ne’er been opened before, and tall Eliar’s mind was forever linked with the mind of tiny Andine, and their minds did merge in that ancient language, never again to be separate, and thus were they wed.

  Then turned Divine Dweia her attention to holy Bheid and pale Leitha. Troubled was the mind and heart of Bheid forasmuch as in a moment of rage had he struck down with mortal blow a fellow human, and his guilt lay heavy upon his soul. And behold, the Goddess Dweia did freely and with love boundless absolve the fallen priest of his sin, and his soul was cleansed. And then in like manner did the divine Goddess extend her boundless forgiveness to pale Leitha. Great had been the pain of Leitha by reason of acts compelled of her by necessity, and the suffering of Koman still gnawed at the heart of gentle Leitha. Softly did divine Dweia remove all memory of the fate of Koman from her pale daughter’s mind, that she might be whole again, and thus were the troubled pair freed of their pain, and their minds and hearts were bound together, and so they too were wed.

  And the very stones of Dweia’s ancient temple did burst forth in song, casting away the stern and somber humor of the priesthood that had usurped that holy place and turned it aside from its intended purpose, which was and is yet love and joy.

  And all of Maghu resounded with the rejoicing of Dweia’s temple.