by Diane Duane
(What!) she thought a second later, amazed. Nothing had come; her Power source was blocked from her.
She tried again. Nothing happened. “Damn,” Segnbora said under her breath, perplexed, for it was supposed to take death to separate one from one’s Power, however feeble. There wasn’t time to puzzle over it now, however. And what if Herewiss is having the same problem? It was imperative that she find the others as quickly as possible.
The light glittered again, closer: a faint shimmer, there and gone. She headed toward the place where it had been—
—then, seeing the source, froze briefly in shock. Not far away an outwall rose, a giddy frameless window on the evening sky and the upper peak of Adínë. And there against crystal and dying sunset stood silhouetted a small slender woman in a midnight blue surcoat.
Her dark head was bent. Her arms were folded in front of her as she gazed out into the sorrowing twilight: her back was turned. The summersky opals set as the eyes of the eagle on the back of her surcoat now grasped and knitted together what little light there was, flashing it back at Segnbora. The eagle was white, in trian aspect, silver wings and blue Fire for eyes—the undifferenced Darthene arms, worn only by Queens and Kings. Segnbora had seen those same arms this morning on Eftgan’s back. But these were worked in an antique style, in embroidery that looked new—
“Efmaer,” Segnbora whispered.
Slowly she went to the unmoving woman, and stood beside her. Efmaer took no notice, just went on staring down into the pathless air. Her face was young, and frighteningly still. Her pale gray eyes had given up their color to the twilight and taken on its violet shimmer.
Segnbora had to swallow twice before she could speak. “Queen,” she said, “you’re a long time away from Darthis.”
The gray-violet eyes opened a touch wider. Disbelief danced in them for just a moment, and then began to fade again, sinking back into vague sorrow. The Queen didn’t move.
“Efmaer,” Segnbora said, louder. In the incredible silence, her own soft voice seemed to rattle her bones.
The Queen’s eyes shifted just a little toward Segnbora. “Since I came here,” Efmaer said, hardly above a whisper, “not one soul has spoken to me.” She said it gently, absently…but that voice was not meant to be a gentle one. It had the rasp of bronze in it, but the bronze was blunted by time and disuse. “I dream,” Efmaer said, “and the dreams grow vocal.”
It isn’t fair! Segnbora thought, losing her voice again, this time to impending tears. This woman had been one of the great powers of her time: vital, powerful, quick to laugh or fight or love. She was the woman who had fought Death and won. Yet now she was like all the others here, her spirit emptied out on the crystal floor.
“Queen,” Segnbora said at last, “I’m no dream, unless I stay here too long. Have you seen a man go by here, one of the living? He was wearing the arms of Arlen.”
Efmaer turned slowly, and her eyes dwelt on Segnbora’s surcoat and her lioncelle passant regardant in blood and gold. “I know that charge,” Efmaer said, showing for the first time a wrinkle of expression, a faint frown of lost memory. “My sister—”
“Enra,” Segnbora said. “I’m of her line. You are my…my aunt, Queen.”
“How many generations removed?” Efmaer said, and just for a second the bronze in her voice went bright.
Segnbora could not answer her.
“That many,” said the Queen. “She is dust, then. She walks the Shore…”
Efmaer’s voice drifted away as she started to lose herself again in the undertow of Glasscastle’s sorrow. Segnbora winced. There was something nagging at the back of her mind, something that would mean a great deal to this woman. If only she could remember—
“Queen,” Segnbora said, “if you haven’t seen him, I can’t wait. I have to find him.”
“I could not find the one I sought, either,” Efmaer said in that same half-dreaming voice. “I looked and looked for Sefeden, while the Moon went down and the Evenstar set. We must have passed one another half a hundred times, and never known it…but the Firework sustaining this place is greater than any mortal wreaking, and the place keeps its own. You will not leave…”
“My friends and I will get out,” Segnbora said, hoping she was speaking the truth. “Come with us—”
Efmaer shook her head. “Only the living can leave this place.”
“Are you dead then, Eagle’s daughter?”
For the first time, Efmaer looked straight at Segnbora. Emotion was in those eyes now, but it was an utter hopelessness that made Segnbora shudder. “Do I look dead? Would that I were. Not Skádhwë itself could kill me here!”
“Skádhwë is here?”
“Somewhere,” the Queen said. “Once the doors closed, I lost it, the way I lost everything else. Yet even while the doors were open, it did me no good.” She closed her eyes, and with a great effort made another expression: pain. “I fought, but I could not kill myself, and so I am less than dead…”
Pity and horror wrung Segnbora, but she couldn’t stay. “Queen—I must go hunting.”
“He will be with her,” Efmaer said, still holding onto that look of pain like a banner of pride. “Far in, at the place where your heart breaks. But be out before moonset…”
She did not move or speak again. Segnbora paused only long enough to take one of those pale, pliant hands and lift it, kissing the palm in the farewell of kinsfolk of the Forty Houses. Then she turned and hurried away.
Hall after hall opened before her, all alike, huge prisms full of silence and the reflections of empty eyes: corridor like corridor, gallery like gallery, and nowhere any face she knew. Segnbora ran harder. Through the walls she saw the treacherous Moon hanging exactly where had been when she entered. Likewise, the sunset appeared about to grow dimmer, but had not changed. Inside Glasscastle, she realized, there was eternal sunset. Outside, who knew how much time had passed? The three Lights could be about to vanish, for all she knew—
The thought of the others still unfound, of the awful way back to the main hall, of Efmaer’s ghastly placidity, all wound together in her brain and sang such horror to Segnbora that for a few seconds she went literally blind. Trying to turn a corner in that state, she missed her footing and skidded to her knees. Desperately she tried to rise but could not. Her leg muscles had cramped.
There Segnbora crouched, gasping, sick with shame and rage. The awareness of the huge head bowing over her, great wings stretching upward, was small consolation.
(Sdaha.)
(Yes, I know, just a—)
(Sdaha. Here’s our lost Lion—)
She pushed herself up on her hands and looked. There was Freelorn, not more than ten or fifteen feet away from her. He was kneeling on the crystal floor, very still, his head bowed. The sight flooded her with intense relief.
“Lorn,” she whispered, and scrabbled back to her feet again, ignoring the protests of abused muscles. “Lorn. Thank the—”
—and she saw—
“—Goddess…” Segnbora’s voice deserted her, taking her breath with it.
The throne was wrought of crystal, like everything else in the place, but reflected nothing from its long sheer surfaces. The one enthroned upon it seemed caught at that particular moment when adolescence first turns toward womanhood, and both woman and child live in the eyes. She was clothed in changelessness and invulnerability as with the robe of woven twilight She wore, and Her slender maiden’s hands seemed able, if they chose, to sow stars like grain, or pluck the Moon like a silver flower. Yet very still those hands lay on the arms of the throne, and Segnbora found herself trembling with fear to see them so idle.
That quiet, beautiful face lay half in shadow as the Lady’s gaze dwelt on Freelorn. For a long while there was no motion but that of Her long braid, the color of night before the stars were made, rising and falling slightly with Her breathing. Then slowly She looked up, and met Segnbora’s eyes.
“Little sister,” the Maiden said, “you’re
welcome.”
Segnbora sank to her knees, staggered with awe and love. This was her Lady, the aspect of the Goddess she had always loved best: the Maker, the Builder, the Mistress of Fire, She Who created the worlds and creates them still, the Giver of Power and glory. Not even on that night in the Ferry Tavern had she been struck down like this with terror and desire. The Maiden gazed at her, and Segnbora had to look down and away, blinded by the divine splendor.
Segnbora gasped for breath and tried to think. It was hard, through the trembling; yet that she trembled this way disturbed her. Even as the Dark Lady, walking the night in Her moondark aspect, the Maiden did not inspire such fear. Something was wrong. Segnbora lifted her head for another look, and was once more heartblinded by Her untempered glory. Segnbora hid her eyes as if from the Sun, and began to shake in earnest.
Within her Hasai bent his head low, and spread his wings upward in a bow like kneeling. (She’s not as you showed me, within you. Nor is She like the Immanence. Its experience, too, is always one of infinite power, but the power is tempered—)
(It’s—) The words seemed impossible, a wild lie in the face of deity, but Segnbora thought them anyway. (It’s not really Her!) Suspicion was beginning to grow in her as to what was wrong with this Maiden, and Who was maintaining the great wreaking that had built the Skybridge, keeping the Glasscastle-trap inviolate. But the point now was to get herself and the others out of Glasscastle before she discovered she was right. Segnbora got up –
—and was very surprised to find herself still kneeling where she was. With a flash of anger she met the Maiden’s eyes again. They poured power at her, a flood of chill strength, knowledge, potency. The look went straight through Segnbora like a blade. Once before, long ago, those hands had wrought her soul, those eyes had critically examined the Maker’s handiwork. Now they did so again, a look enough to paralyze any mortal creature, as flaws and strengths together were coolly assessed by the One Who put them there.
But Segnbora’s soul was a little less mortal now than it had been when first created. There were Dragons among the mdeihei who had had direct experiences of the Immanence on more than one occasion, becoming both Song and Singer. The judgment of ultimate power didn’t frighten them; they were prepared to meet the infinite eye to eye, and judge right back.
I am what I am, Segnbora thought, reaching back toward the Dragons’ strength and staring into those beautiful, daunting eyes, blue as Fire. Even as You are. And We are not done with me yet. I will not be judged and found wanting with the work yet incomplete, with my Name still unknown—!
Suddenly she was standing, surprised that she could. She’d half expected to be struck with lightnings for her temerity, but nothing happened. Segnbora kept her eyes on the fair, still face, and saw, past the virulent blaze of glory, something she’d missed earlier. The Maiden’s eyes had a dazzlement about them, as if She too were blinded.
“My Lady,” Segnbora managed to say, “I beg Your pardon, but we have to leave.”
“No one comes here,” the Maiden said gently, “who wants to leave. I have ordained it so.”
The terrible power of Her voice filled the air, making the words true past contradiction. Segnbora shook her head, wincing in pain at the effort of maintaining her purpose against that onslaught of will. “But Freelorn is the Lion’s Child,” she said. “He has things to do—”
“He heard Me call him and came here of his own free will,” the Maiden said. She moved for the first time, reaching out one of Her empty hands to Freelorn. He leaned nearer with a sigh, and She stroked his hair, gazing down at him. “And now he has his heart’s desire. No more flight for the Lion’s Child, no more striving after an empty throne and a lost sword. Only peace, and the twilight. He has earned them.”
The Maiden half-sang the words as She looked at Freelorn, and Her merciless glory grew more blinding yet. Segnbora shook her head, for something was missing. Whatever lived in those eyes, it wasn’t love. And more than Her glory, it was Her love—of creating, and what she created—that Segnbora had worshiped—
(Sdaha, quick!)
(Right—) She reached out to grab Freelorn and pull him away from the Maiden’s lulling touch, but as she moved, the Maiden did too—locking eyes with Segnbora, striking her still.
“You also, little sister,” She said, “you have earned your peace. Here you shall stay.”
“No, oh no,” Segnbora whispered, struggling again to find the will to move. But, dark aspect or not, this was the Goddess, Who knew Segnbora’s heart better than she did.
The Maiden spoke from within that heart now, with Segnbora’s own thoughts, her own voice, as the Goddess often speaks. …I’m tired, my mum and da are dead; there are months, maybe years of travel and fighting ahead of us—and even if I bring Lorn out of here, he’ll probably just get killed. Isn’t this better for him than painful death? And isn’t it better for me, too? No death in ice and darkness, just peace for all eternity. Peace in the twilight, with Her…
The song of the mdeihei seemed very far away. Segnbora couldn’t hear what Hasai was saying to her any more, and somehow it didn’t matter. The cool of the surrounding twilight curled into her like rising water. Soon it would rise high enough to drown her life, to abolish both pain and desire.
The Maiden was seated no longer. Calm as a moonrise, She stood before Segnbora, reaching out to her. “There’s nothing to fear,” She said. “Nothing fails here, nothing is lost, no hearts break or are broken. I have wrought a place outside of time and ruin—”
The gentle hands touched Segnbora’s face. All through her, muscles went lax as her body yielded itself to its Creator. Her mind swelled with a desire to be still—to forget the world and its concerns and rest in Her touch forever. “Then it’s true,” she whispered as if in a dream. “There’s no death here…”
“There is no death anywhere,” the Maiden said, serene, utterly certain.
The relief that washed through Segnbora was indescribable. The one thing that had been wrong with the world was vanquished at last. Impermanence, loss, bereavement…all lies: the Universe was perfect, as it should have been from the beginning. There was nothing to fear anymore…
…though it was curious that one dim image surfaced, and would not go away. In languid curiosity she regarded it, though her indifference kept her from truly seeing it for a long time. It was a tree, and a dark field, and brightness in the field. Night smells—
—smells?
There were smells that had little to do with night. Ground-damp. Mold. Wetness, where her hands turned over dirt, and jerked back in shock. The liquid gleam of dulled eyes in Flamelight. And the carrion smell of death—
In a wash of horror, the dream broke. Segnbora knew who she was again, and Who held her. The Maiden had made the worlds, true enough, and in the ecstasy of creation had forgotten about Death and let It in. But She had never denied Death’s existence, or Her mistake, in any of Her aspects.
Segnbora tried to move away from the hands that held her, and couldn’t. Her body felt half-dead. She settled for moving just one hand: the right one, the swordhand that had saved her so many times before. Her own horror helped her, for she knew the name of the legend before Whom she stood: the One with Still Hands, that Maiden Who has stopped creating and holds all who fall into Her power in a terrible thrall. This was a dark aspect of the true Maiden, one Who had found no solace for the Error in Her other selves, and so from guilt and grief went mad. In that madness, it seemed, She had taken Glasscastle as Her demesne, Her prison. And Lorn’s. And mine, forever. Unless—
(Hasai!)
As she struggled to move, she was shocked to get no answer. Twilight had fallen in the back of her mind, and she could feel no Dragonfire there. She would have to raise her swordhand alone, no matter that the Maiden’s cool hands on her face made it almost impossible to concentrate.
Sweat sprang out with the effort. The hand moved an inch. I will not be entombed here with the dead and the near-dead! I wi
ll not leave my mdaha trapped in a forever of not-doing – or walk past Lang and Freelorn and Herewiss a thousand times and never see them! We have things to do!
Another inch. Another. The hand felt as if it were made of lead, but she moved further into h, finding strength. I have things to do! ! Mdaha!!
In the twilight, something else moved. Down inside her memory, in the cavern—not her own secret place, but the cave at the Morrowfane—stones grated beneath Hasai’s plating, scoring the dulled gems of his flanks as he rolled over to be still from the convulsions at last. Peace, O blessed peace, I thought the pain would never stop… Horrified, Segnbora discovered that the One with Still Hands was there as well. Dark as a moonless night, she was soothing Hasai’s worst pain, offering him a mdahaih state that would never diminish him to a faint voice in the background, but would leave him one strong voice among many.
But Segnbora knew the promise for a lie. (Mdaha! Move! She can’t do it. She’ll trap you in here, and we’ll both be alive and rdahaih forever!)
He could not move. Desperately, Segnbora reached all the way back inside, climbed into his body and took over—wore his wings, lashed his tail, lifted his head, forced one immense taloned foot to move forward, then another, then another. Together they crawled to the mouth of the cave, Hasai gasping without fire as they went.
(Sdaha, have mercy! Let me go!)
She ignored him, pushing his head out the cave entrance into the clear night. The entrance was too small for his shoulders and barrel. Segnbora pushed again, ramming muscles with thought, ramming the cave wall with gemmed hide, steel bones. (Now!) she cried, and they crashed into the rock together. It trembled, but held. (Now!)
Stones rattled and fell about them. The mountain shook and threatened to come down—but stone was their element: they were unafraid. Slowly Hasai began to assist her, living in his own body again, remembering life, refinding his strength. (Now!)
