Mascu's face hardened and he said in a whisper, "You are a demon."
"No, merely well informed." Tralane could hardly keep himself from laughing, and he felt the old satisfaction of a ploy successfully executed filling him with confidence. "Why have you sent the people away? I mean them no harm."
The sorcerer shook his head vehemently and took a step away from the bard. "They are in the Nushu Land the world of the dead. There, even you may not touch them. Nothing living that belongs to us will be touched by you."
This time Tralane did laugh as he reached for the hanging blanket to brush it aside. "Mascu, you both underestimate and overestimate my power."
Without further words, Tralane entered the hut. His freshly won confidence immediately evaporated as he found himself in total darkness. The door was effectively sealed against light, and the usual smoke hole had not been built into the roof. Tralane groped for a proper response to the situation, a way to gain control over what was happening; but without a guide to help him forge a new course of action and without the old fortifications of his mind which had invariably protected him from the consequences of his actions, he was at a loss. He cursed his companion, the Jade Warrior, who seemed totally disinterested in his fate.
"Sit, Tralane," came Lisakeness's voice from somewhere in front of him. Tralane obeyed.
A glow emanated from a small pit when a flat stone was drawn across the floor, uncovering the hole. Coals piled at the bottom of the pit provided the light in which Tralane could make out the queen, sitting naked on the earth floor on the opposite side of the glow's source. The walls were indistinguishable from darkness. They might have been sitting in the cramped night of another world.
"You and I will talk, Tralane," the queen affirmed in a matter-of-fact tone. "Mascu has left, your spirit has abandoned the ghost hut. We are alone. No one will interfere. We can speak freely."
Tralane nodded, puzzled by the shape his trial was taking. He had been expecting something more physical, like one of the initiating rites he heard the Tribe Nations favored.
"I will tell you I am Lisakeness, daughter of Lysaka, guardian of the gate to the Nushu Land. I have loved her with my heart, as I now love Mascu, and as I will love my children."
She swayed in a circular motion, staring into the pit, awaiting his reply. He was expected to answer in the same formula of speech, but there was nothing he could say.
"I will tell you of the beginning of all things, so it may be known how the People of the Plains came to settle the valley," she continued, without looking at him. Already, Tralane was losing the battle.
"There was a place in the west, beyond the marshes and seas, where lived the Twelve Mothers and their consorts. These couples had children, the Sons of the Plains, and the Daughters of the Earth. These children traveled east over ice, sea, fire, mountains, and unfathomable chasms, all to satisfy their lust for wandering and to rid themselves of watchful parents. The first land they saw when, at long last, after much in the way of suffering, they broke through the barriers the world had thrown across their path, was the wide rolling plain. Herds of wild shui, tawwas, thorts, kruushkas and other beasts, large and small, made the ground tremble with their multitudes. Flocks of wenoths, as well as the predatory shyn and boklcara, wheeled across the sweeping sky, borne by the strong winds that carried the clouds before them and caressed the earth below. The Sons, with a shout of joy, rushed out into the open expanse, each with a sister trailing behind uttering unheeded warnings. Soon the Sons lost sight of one another. As the great bowl of stars closed over their heads they spread out in all directions. They could not even see each other's camp fires.
"The sisters caught up to the brothers, and every couple beat back the whisper of loneliness that had worked itself into their souls. The twelve brothers and sisters lay with one another, and on that first night in the living lands the race of men was conceived.
"As the grass grew and was felled by winter, the sisters gave birth while the brothers stayed out on the plain, hunting food and seeking one another. The brothers came home to their makeshift shelters, to the blood and life around their sisters, and cried out. And the sisters, on seeing the new spears and knives the men had fashioned for their hunt, also cried out. From then on, the knowledge of womanhood and manhood has been kept a secret with all twelve lineages, and taught to the children with the dignity of ceremony befitting such terrible knowledge. And the sleeping together of brothers and sisters has been forbidden, so as never to recall those days of isolation on the plains.
"But in those days the children grew without restraint, and the pattern set by the twelve sons was woven again by the male sons, while the daughters could only do as their mothers had done and follow. The parents died as time wore down their spirits, and their children had children. And now, with the plains more populous, the grandchildren began to meet one another as they hunted and wandered. They began to gather and follow the herds. As they did, they fell into clans to protect their child and hunting rights, and to guard against the rashness of desire that had moved their grandparents. Families moved and merged, split and reformed, as herds diminished or were discovered. Nations were founded as the clans banded together so that more hands might be able to feed more mouths. For generations upon generations, until the Daughters of the Earth were almost forgotten and only the Sons of the Plains were revered because they had led while their sisters trailed behind, the people wandered across the land.
"But the ancient spirits of the Twelve Mothers had not forgotten their children. They sent the winds and rains driving across the plains. Ice and snow fell during the winter, and with each passing year the air was colder and the game scarcer. Many died, more were never born. The plains were cursed with affliction, and the people became weary of the endless pursuit of life. They traveled north until they were met by the mountains, and then came the time for the Sons to rest and the Daughters to take up their right.
"The mysteries of life and blood replaced those of the hunt and the kill. What was needed came to the fore, what was not fell back. No longer do the Sons lead and the Daughters follow. Now the time has come for the Daughters to build and grow, to reach down into the depths of the earth for the warmth and life buried there. The Sons leave, but they must return. The search for sustenance is at an end, it is here, where all life begins and ends. It is within me, beneath me, about me. The life of the Shosheya people beats around us. Hear it? The sustenance feeds all and attracts all, friends and enemies, saviors and jealous demons. All follow the sweet scent and the filling light to us. And here we stay, to greet them or destroy them."
Tralane's head was pounding by the time Lisakeness finished the tale of her village. The smoke from the coals, as well as her hypnotic intensity, clouded his senses. Her silent swaying indicated a response was required of him, but again there was nothing for him to say. Hers was a story of life, a history of her own people. She had given him the reason for her existence and for the existence of her world. In the stock of tales garnered from the finest courts of his home as well as those taught to him by Mathi, there was nothing of equal personal value for Tralane to offer in reciprocation.
"Now let me tell you of a savior," she went on, firmly cutting the silence. "When first the Shosheya came to the mountains, following the river with the hope of finding a haven before the winter closed in, they came upon a hut built on stilts over the river. In the hut they found an old woman, and by the woman they found a chest. But before they could touch the woman or the chest, she woke. Upon seeing so many people in her but and on the shore, she cried out and, clutching the chest to her bosom, leaped through the door and disappeared into the waters of the river.
"The Shosheya moved on, deeming the place to be cursed, and continued on their quest. Many days later, when camp had been made and the fires were beating back the fearsome night that poured down the mountainsides, the woman appeared among them. She carried her chest under one arm while holding a talisman in her hand. She sat by one of th
e fires as if it were her due.
"The people greeted her with food and drink and let her sit by the fire alone until she had her fill of rest and refreshment. They thought her a spirit of the river, demanding repayment for being disturbed in her home. For the respect and kindness they showed her, the old woman promised to lead them to a place which would shelter them from the winds and storms and teach them new ways of gathering food and living from the land.
"There were more days of travel, and they parted from the main river to follow the streams as the old woman told them to do. Then she said stop, and our ancestors did. They settled on the quiet banks of the waters that run outside, and which have swollen with the years of settlement. The old woman showed what fruits could be raised from the earth, when to sow, and when to harvest. She taught new weaves to the women, and gave men power to master and herd more animals than they had, ever thought possible. The Shosheya celebrated their gifts with great fires and magics, and even the smothering night held back its gloom before the joy and health that glowed within the people's hearts.
"The old woman was asked to stay in the village she had helped to build, but she refused. Her time in the world was nearly spent, and she preferred the deep, lonely silences of the rivers and mountains to the daily reminders of fresh life and promise which the children of the village held. But before she left, she buried her chest at the village's center, that the place might be made sacred and a source of supernatural might. For at the call of one who knows the soothing words, the chest does open, deep beneath the earth, and out of the eternal depths of that box the souls of all those who have lived and died among the Shosheya answer. Though no loving creature may know of those depths where the dead rest and answer the call of their children, the old woman unlocked the door to the place where we might be closest to our ancestors. Thus was the Nushu Land made open to use, power bestowed, and the secrets of life given to the people of the Shosheya."
When she had finished, Tralane had only a question to offer in response. He did not want to ask it. A bawdy story from his bag of entertainments might break the web Lisakeness had spun around him. Seduction, violence, and rape were other options to be considered. What he could not gain by the old, subtle tricks that had carried him through his youth, he could now have by sheer brute force. His palm itched for the feel of the black sword's pommel. But his violent fantasies could not break the chains that bound him. The point of his anger pricked only at his own heart.
"How did the woman open the way to the Nushu Land?" he asked, his voice cracking and his eyes tearing from the smoke.
"Her talisman shattered the barrier between worlds, and she found that realm which is closest to the end of all worlds. She worked powerful spells and drew forth the hidden energies of her instrument to break down the door permanently, so that only a thin veil of illusion separates this earth from the Nushu Land. She gave the illusion-shattering words to the Shosheya and placed barriers so that none but the Shosheya could venture to that other land. It is grim and shadowy, with little light or life. My people are there now, because of you."
Tralane met her gaze steadily. "And what happened to the talisman?"
His curiosity was reflected in her eyes. The air hummed, as if with many voices chanting in a secret tongue.
"She took the talisman with her when she departed. But the old woman left behind her a warning. If ever the Shosheya should see that talisman again, they should call on all their powers to bury it in the chest at the village's center. She called it an evil thing, and destined to bring suffering and death to all who surrounded its carrier. She was a sorceress and so knew ways to twist its evil predispositions to suit her will. But there must have been a price, or she would not have chosen to live alone by a river deep among the mountains."
Over her words and the ever more distinct ethereal chanting came the mage Gibron's name for people such as Tralane—Keepers. There had been, Gibron said, many of them.
"And so what price have you paid, demon?" The queen leaned forward, and her entire body seemed to be lighted, as if from fires burning within her. Her eyes lost their humanity, becoming more like angry suns than soft, sym-pathetic reflections of moons that Tralane expected.
"What sacrifice have you made to return the curse to the Shosheya, who are prepared to put this evil to rest?"
The chanting became deafening. No matter how hard Tralane pressed his hands to his ears, the sound came through. The walls of the hut trembled. A strong breeze slapped his face.
"Go join your brothers and sisters beyond the Nushu Land, demon Tralane. Be taken to the village center, be buried deep, deep beneath the earth. Fall into the chest that holds all the souls of the Shosheya. Put to rest the talisman of our ancestors, the instrument of our savior, the curse of our future. Do these things, and your wish will be granted. Join our ancestors, and you will be accepted."
"No!"
Tralane's refusal was swept away by Lisakeness's many-voiced scream. He stood to leave, not sure of where he would go, when a sudden blow to the chest knocked him through the black curtain and out into the natural world.
Awareness of every curve and point, edge and line, flooded Tralane's mind. The mountains and trees, even in their distance, staggered him by the sharpness of their definition. The river's water trickled by as if it were inside him, flowing through him. The smells of the earth and vegetation and the scents of animals and men were each clearly distinguishable. He could almost picture the appearance of each thing he smelled.
The Shosheya's village and lands became the focus of reality, and the rest of existence was transformed into a dense fog. All that belonged to the Shosheya assumed more than its share in a physical state; their belongings emanated the sense of interconnection, of sharing, of being in a state of one and many at the same time. Each thing cried out its own special name, and the many voices merged to form a song in which every part was distinct yet merged into a whole. Tralane was not a part of that song. Already, he was becoming physically indistinct, a part of some other existence beyond that of the village and its surrounding lands.
Tralane tried to take a step, and found himself being half-pushed, half-carried towards the village. The clarity with which he sensed was dizzying. He could not grasp what was happening to him. Huts passed, achingly empty; cooking utensils, unfinished carvings, tools, and other paraphernalia of craftsmen and workers were strewn about, abandoned. The chant that had deafened him in the hut followed him, the unseen voices rising in intensity as he approached a circle of huts ahead. At the center of the circle, a mound of earth boiled.
Clumps of soil leaped into the air, and rocks flew out like startled birds. The mound spread. At its center, a pit was being widened by desperate but invisible hands. Something was digging itself out of the ground, something which, for all of Tralane's sudden clear-sightedness, he could not make out. A mere shimmering of the air, like heat rising, was what penetrated his jumbled senses.
The forces pushing him now grabbed hold of his limbs as he struggled against his relentless advance. He was lifted off of the ground and carried to the pit. He struggled with increasing ferocity, fear swelling to take control of his mind and body. The pit seemed to be more than death, which perhaps he would not have tried to fight off with such determination. Mere annihilation and the eternal blackness of nonbeing were welcome fates compared to the thing waiting for him in the depths of the mound. There lay the Shosheya soul, the Tribe's collective spirit mingled and rooted in the spirits of the earth, seeking to grasp him forever to its bosom.
Life in its power would not merely be extinguished; it would be petrified in a prison of rigid law and ceremony. He was being sucked into the chaos that lay at the heart of every order, bound and hidden beneath the everyday world where it would not disturb the smooth functioning of material reality. He would be part of that thing which only emerged when called upon, when survival of order meant the unleashing of chaos to destroy the greater threat of nonexistence. He would belong to a spirit wh
ich was never fully acknowledged, only fed and used. His individual being, transformed into a mere source of energy, would be worse than crushed: it would be denied the fact of its existence.
He screamed, and his voice was as steady and undying as the chanting of the Shosheya spirit.
He was at the mouth of the pit, and all the world was being drawn into the confines of that hole. Wind rushed by him, funneling into the depths of the mound, twisting his limbs and torso as it tried to make him tumble down. But Tralane resisted the wind, the invisible hands, and the trembling, ever-shifting earth. Still screaming, Tralane looked down into the hole, into the darkness. He quickly turned his head when his eyes stung with pain from the needles of blackness that were flashing up, enveloping his head, cutting him off from the diffused light of day.
In a desperate attempt to free himself, Tralane reached for the pouch containing Wyden's Eye. He tore it from around his neck and was about to cast it down into the pit as a sacrificial offering to substitute for himself when a surge of power coursed from his hand through his arm. He held the amulet with both hands, and the awareness of external reality suddenly inverted. Every muscle, bone, vein, and fiber tingled with new life. He knew his body's every strength and weakness. Control of his actions returned to him, and the hands of the Shosheya spirit sloughed off as he regained firm footing. The wind lashed his face, and Tralane could taste the blood oozing from his open mouth and trickling from his eyes and nose to his lips. His clothes ripped, his skin was raked and punctured. Blows from unknown quarters landed on his chin and back and across his shoulders. His legs, however, were unshakable. Turning his back to the pit, he made his way down the side of the mound. His hands were locked around Wyden's Eye, as both he and the amulet, momentarily welded into one creature with the common goal of survival, struggled away from the village center.
Tralane reached the outskirts of the village with no idea of how much time had elapsed. He gauged his life by the diminishing force which resisted his departure; nothing else mattered. Once the hut in which he and Lisakeness had conferred was behind him, he found his stride lengthening as the Shosheya spirit's strength weakened with every step he took. The village was a distant cluster of huts when Tralane stopped and looked back. There was no sign of life or movement. Birds had left the area, and even the insects and brush creatures were silent where Tralane stood. Only a cool breeze blew along the river and ruffled his hair on its way to the village.
The Bard of Sorcery Page 13
