Ashling

by Isobelle Carmody

  I had heard the song before, but never like this; never with such rending sorrow. Empathized, it became something greater and deeper than a song about two brothers. It became a song about all wars. I wept for the pity of two brothers, lost to one another until it was too late. But I also wept for my own brother, Jes, and for Jik and Matthew and Dragon; for the gypsy Caldeko and for the nameless rebel who had broken bis back on the pole. For all the victims of hatred and war.

  And I was not alone. Kella and Freya and Dameon wept, but many of the Sadorians wept too. Even some of the rebels wiped their eyes surreptitiously as Miky sang the final words: "Will there ever be a time when war does not kill the babes and the dreams of me world?"

  When the final notes faded, the sun set in a dazzling golden haze and it seemed to me that the radiant sky itself paid homage to their voices. Malik stood dry-eyed and contemptuous as Bram rose to speak, dabbing at his eyes.

  "The rebel song offered humor and this is a fine thing to bolster a warrior's courage," he said. "But the Misfit song is greater, for it reaches into me very soul of a warrior and causes him to question himself."

  "What does it matter mat a song brings tears to the eyes of the weak and me womanish? Will it win a battle?" Malik demanded.

  "A song will not wield a sword of metal, my friend," Bram said softly. "But it can put a sword into the heart that will never rust or blunt. It can cause warriors to fight when good sense bids them surrender, raise an army or quell me tears of a babe."

  He rose and lifted his arms.

  "The sun has gone and the Battlegames are ended."

  "Who won men?" Malik demanded.

  Bram cast a cool eye on the rebel.

  "Impatience is not the least of your faults, Malik. It is a kind of greed and some day it may see you undone."

  He cast his eyes about to take in rebels, Sadorians and Misfits alike.

  "I have been asked to judge these Battlegames. I tell you now that this is not merely a matter of tallying points, but of examining how each game was played. Sometimes this makes the judging difficult, for fewer points might have been awarded to me one who wins."

  My heart swelled in sudden hope. Was it possible he might decide in our favor despite me fact that we had won fewer games?

  "In this case, however, the judging is a simple matter," he went on. "The games were staged to determine who were the greater warriors, and whether the Misfits and their unusual powers were worthy of alliance. The answer is that the rebels are clearly far more fitted to warfare than the Misfits. They have shaped their souls for aggression and quicken to violence as a gravid mare quickens with new life. The rebel legions, if they are truly represented by these men, are made for battle. No instinct of mercy would restrain them, no compassion stay their hand, no love of beauty keep them from destruction. The Battlegames have shown them to be swift, decisive, ruthless and resourceful. They are filled with the warrior's desire to dominate and subdue.

  "As for the Misfits, if they are truly represented by these before me, they are no warriors. They care too much for life and for one another. They are not stirred by the glories of war, and the shedding of lifeblood brings them sorrow, whether it be of beast or human, friend or foe. All their instincts are for defense and so their great powers are all but useless. They are not cowardly or weak, but their minds appear incapable of allowing their great powers to serve them as weapons.

  "Witness that they used the incredible ability which they call empathy to its greatest effect in a song, rather than to turn their enemies' hearts to terror.

  "They will never have the rebels' singlemindedness of purpose, nor therefore their driving force, because they cannot see things in terms of simple goals."

  He turned in the dead silence wrought by his powerful oratory, and faced the rebels. "We here in Sador value the earth above all life—humans and beasts alike are short lived and unimportant. This you know. We have thought that Landfolk valued their own lives too much, regarding themselves as the chosen of their Lud. But these Misfits seem to value all life and this is strange for us to contemplate. But think you this. You rebels opposed alliance with the Misfits because you thought them monsters and inhuman. Ask yourselves now which team has this day shown the keenest humanity and which has shown itself to be more monstrous."

  The old man paused, then he said in a voice drained of all vitality, "I declare the rebels the victors of the Battle-games."

  The rebels cheered, but there was a puzzled, halfhearted edge to the sound. Malik's face was thunderous as he moved to join the other rebel leaders and receive their congratulations.

  Rushton turned to us, looking much older in that moment than I had ever seen him.

  "The old man's judging was fair," he said.

  I stepped forward to tell him that if I must be like Malik to be a warrior, then I would not be a warrior, but my leg buckled under me. As I fell forward, Rushton opened his arms to catch me, but I slipped through them into the abyss.

  I dreamed I was bound to the Zebkrahn machine and my legs were on fire.

  I dreamed of the Agyllian healer, Nerat, telling me she would teach my body to heal itself.

  I dreamed of a red-haired woman drowning in an ocean of blood, of Swallow raising a sword to salute me, of Ariel searching for me down long tunnels.

  I dreamed of Maruman telling me I would lead the beasts to freedom, and of walking on the deck of The Cutter, watching me ship fish dance.

  I dreamed of Rushton waiting at the doors of Obernewtyn, and of Freya in his arms.

  I dreamed of a shining river that called my name.

  "Do not go into the stream, ElspethInnle."

  "Atthis!" I thought. "At last you speak to me."

  "I have spoken often through the yelloweyes and the dreamingwoman you call Maryonfutureteller."

  "Why did you never speak to me?"

  "Because the H'rayka would hear. He flies the dreamtrails. He listens to hear what I will say so that he may thwart me/us/you."

  "Can he not hear us now?"

  "He would not dare come so close to the death/dreaming river for fear that it would swallow him. And so it might for you are perilously close. You must come back from the edge now. 1 am holding you but my strength fades."

  "I like it here. There is no pain and it sings to me. If I come back, you will not speak to me again."

  "It is not yet your time to hear this song."

  "Then why am I here?"

  "A small artery in your leg was severed during this testing called Battlegames. You bled near to death. They have stopped the blood, but you are too close to the stream. Your body has learned to heal itself, but it cannot do so when you are so close to the stream. You must draw back if you would live."

  I felt a great wrenching pull to return, but I fought it. I was not sure I wanted to live.

  "What you feel is the spiritcall of one who would have you live, ElspethInnle. Go back and let yourself heal, for the world has need of you. Go back, or the H'rayka wins. Go back or the beasts will never be free."

  I felt the pulling again and wondered whose spirit held me so tightly. Curious, I let myself be drawn away from the stream by it

  "Who are you?" I called, but there was nothing, only a roaring sound in my ears. There was a long rushing darkness and then I opened my eyes.

  A monster peered at me. I screamed and fled back to the darkness.

  I opened my eyes and Kella smiled at me.

  I opened my eyes and Dameon touched my cheek.

  I opened my eyes.

  I was lying in a bed in a dark, cold room. Beside me sat the hooded overguardian.

  "You are in the Earthtemple, Elspeth Gordie," said the voice from within the hood. "You have slept long."

  XLIII

  "Come," the Temple guardian murmured, his voice shuddering and whispering along the damp, echo-ridden, stone tunnels that honeycombed the Sadorian cliffs.

  "Where are you taking me?" I demanded, exasperated. "And when can I see my friends?"


  "Soon," he answered. The same thing he had said for days in the same queer, breathy voice.

  "I am no longer sick and you are keeping me prisoner!" I snapped. "I know they were in here before, so why can't I see them now?"

  He did not answer.

  I glared at the damp walls resentfully. Maybe Rushton and the others had not come in to see me because they had gone back to Sutrium. After all, I had been unconscious for five days and awake for three. Eight days in all since the Battlegames had ended. The Temple guardians had cared for me when I woke, weak and disorientated and I was grateful for that, but I was fully recovered now. If the place had not been such an impossible warren of tunnels, I should have long since walked out myself. As it was, I must wait until the overguardian allowed one of the underlings to escort me out.

  I was about to repeat my question when we rounded a bend. Set into the side of the tunnel was a huge panel carved of wood, I had not come across in my wanderings.

  I stopped and gaped at it in amazement, for there was no doubt in my mind that whoever had executed it had also carved the doors to Obernewtyn! The chisel work on the doors had possessed a precision in angling that could not be mistaken, and was as individualistic as the markings on one person's palm.

  "Come," the guardian prompted.

  Dazed, I did not move. "Who did this?"

  He came back a few steps reluctantly. "Kasanda. Now will you come?"

  I followed him. "Who is Kasanda?"

  He did not answer and my temper rose again. I wrestled it down.

  "When can I see the overguardian?" I asked sweetly.

  Again he did not respond.

  I ground my teeth and searched my mind, but before I could come up with something rude enough to fracture even a guardian's phenomenal composure, he stopped before a stone doorway.

  "Go in. The overguardian will come to you here."

  I stared at him incredulously. "You mean now?"

  "Soon."

  I opened my mouth but thought better of it and went through the door. Behind it was an enormous lantern-lit chamber. Like most of the caverns, it was devoid of furnishings. The temple was, in fact, a natural labyrinth and the guardians inhabited only a fraction of the chambers and tunnels. But unlike the other empty caverns every bit of wall space in this one was taken up with huge panels of carved stone. I could see at a glance that whoever had done them had also executed the wood carving in the hall.

  "The sequence begins here," the guardian said, pointing to the panel nearest the door. "You look here and then you go that way."

  I nodded absently and moved to the first panel.

  It was part carved, part daubed with mud and fiber to raise up shapes, and tinted with darker and lighter tones. Little enough with which to create a world, let alone a lost world of unimaginable wonders, and yet the panel showed one of the Beforetime cities. I was reminded inevitably of the city under Tor, but the city depicted in the panel was vibrantly alive. Exaltingly magnificent, the constructions reaching to the skies embodied the greatness of their makers. The panel was a paean of praise to the Beforetimers.

  I shivered, for surely such a vision could only come from one who had seen the cities of the Beforetime in all their glory?

  After a long while, I tore myself from the first panel. The next also featured the towering Beforetime structures, but they were subtly different. After only a moment of admiration I noticed not the buildings, but the way they crushed and smothered the earth. I saw the caged and stunted trees devoid of sunlight I realized that this panel spoke not of greatness, but of soaring, overweening pride and, most of all, of oppression. The Beforetimers had gouged and yoked and reshaped the very earth to their creations.

  I shifted to the third panel. Here again were Beforetime structures. Above lay a pall of blackness such as rose chokingly from the smithy's forge. I did not know what purpose these buildings served, for no smith would need so much space, but the message was clear. Not content to despoil the earth, the Beforetimers had smeared the skies with their messes.

  One after another panels depicted similar scenes—rivers clogged and poisoned, forests hewn down and transformed into salted deserts, mountains levelled to rubble. The Beforetimers had been masters of wanton destruction and they had built their world regardless of the cost

  I moved to the next panel and here at last were scenes of the Great White. Seen thus, it seemed to me that the holocaust had been inevitable, given the nature of the Beforetimers. How else could their story have ended, but with men and women and beasts and birds fleeing in terror from the huge fiery mushrooms that rose in the skies behind them? And when the whiteness faded, there were panels of utter desolation—sere deserts and poisoned waters: the Blacklands.

  "Truly this is a place of sorrows," a boy's voice said.

  I whirled to see the tiny hooded figure that had sat at Bram's feet during the Battlegames. The overguardian's hands lifted and removed the hood.

  I recoiled involuntarily, for the face revealed was grossly deformed. In stark, dreadful contrast, his eyes were the color of isis pools, sad and beautiful.

  "I am sorry," I said. "I did not expect..."

  He smiled, a grotesque twisting of his lips. "I am the overguardian of the Earthtemple. That which poisoned the earth also poisoned my mother. It is so with all of the guardians here."

  I took a deep breath, hiding my surprise at his age as much as at the fact that he was a Misfit. "I am glad to meet you. Thank you for healing me ..."

  "I did not heal you. Your body healed itself. We do not know how."

  His words evoked a memory of my dream, and Atthis telling me my body could heal itself. Had it really been the old bird, or a feverish delusion? Yet, if it was true it would explain so many things. Perhaps even the disappearance of Swallow's tattoo.

  Atthis' words sounded in my mind like the wind over a seashell: "The world has need of you. Go back, or the H'rayka wins."

  I looked around at the carved panels and thought bitterly that it would be better if the battlemachines were activated and humanity wiped from the face of the earth once and for all. The holocaust had changed nothing. People like Malik would use anything in their hunger for victory and domination.

  "There is a story," the boy said dreamily. "It tells of one who will come across the sea in search of the fifth sign of Kasanda."

  I frowned, drawn from my despair by curiosity. "The same Kasanda that carved these?"

  He seemed not to hear. "There are many born with Kasanda's gift here and even in your own land. But it is said when one comes in search of the signs, three companions will come also, one of whom shall be of true Kasanda blood."

  "Why are you telling me this?" I demanded coldly. His talk of seeking and signs chilled me.

  The boy shrugged. "Perhaps I dreamed that you would come, and that I must say these words. I have Kasanda's gift of true dreaming and so I am sometimes called a kasanda. But the first Kasanda is the one who dreamed of the Seeker."

  "The... Seeker?"

  He nodded. "After the signs. Kasanda told my people that the Seeker would bear the Moonwatcher and be borne by the Daywatcher, who is the color of shadows. You see the beauty and intricacy of the images? The Moon-watcher's daylight eye, and the Daywatcher's shadow-hue are complementary. Two sides of the spinning coin. The implication is that one may emulate the other in times of need. The interesting thing is that there is no information about the Seeker—as if that was too dangerous to be left"

  I shivered, unnerved by his use of the name Atthis had given me. I thought of the disturbed youth outside the Earthtemple flinging himself at my feet. He, too, had spoken of the Moonwatcher. I shook my head angrily. This was ridiculous. The threads of my quest could not stretch this far, surely.

  "It is said Kasanda took the signs from her dreams, and strewed them across the lands so that they should not be found except by the Seeker. There are rumors that they lead to the deepest treasures of the Beforetimers. Still others say they a
re the key to a power that is great enough to shift the stars, and even to quench them."

  Power again, I thought bleakly. That was what had brought about the holocaust. "Do you know what the signs are?"

  He smiled enigmatically. "I know many things. I know that the Herders come bearing lethal gifts of disease, and that they must be watched constantly to prevent them harming the earth or our people. I know that when the Seeker journeys forth with the Day and Moonwatcher, and with one of Kasanda blood, they will be looking for the final sign. Then may the kasanda, who is the overguardian, aid them."

  I shook my head angrily. "This is nothing to do with me. I want to get out of here." I glanced around at the panels with loathing.

  The boy sighed and resumed his hood. "Very well. Tomorrow your friends will come to the Temple for you."

  He went out, but when I followed he had vanished. The guardian who had brought me from my cell rose from the step.

  "I will take you back to your chamber."

  Left alone, I sat on the edge of the bed. My mind was filled with pictures—the Herder torturing Iriny's bond-mate, my parents killed for their beliefs, Malik's eyes filled with hatred, and the dark dreadful visions in stone left by the mysterious Kasanda for the Seeker.

  Well, the Seeker had seen them.

  I thought of the transcendent beauty of the first panel, and tried to understand how the ability to create such wondrous beauty could have become so perverted, so destructive.

  With power, my mind whispered.

  I felt desperately confused and lay down, longing to be in the mountains. I closed my eyes and sent my mind out into the desert. It was night and the pale changeless dunes undulated beneath the night sky, going on as far as the eye could behold without a sign of human life. So must the world have looked before the Beforetime and the demon angels we named Oldtimers. The Great White now seemed the least of their evils. Perhaps not evil at all, for if it had not come, then what would they have done next? Shaken by this thought, I tried to draw the calm grace of the desert into me, but the despair was too strong.