Beneath an Opal Moon (28 page)

Tsuki. ‘The moon,' it meant.

Where are you now, Kossori, my true friend?

I hope you approve. I think you do.

The rain slanted down, hissing, a gray-green blanket limiting visibility, soaking everything; it obscured his pursuit from prying eyes.

He was already half a day's ride from Corruña's western gate, heading northwest for Kintai. His luma's slick coat was a tawny topaz, fitted with a black leather saddle, silver pommel and red leather harness. The somewhat smaller mare was a deep blue in color. He was grateful for these luma, for their high intelligence combined with their great speed and endurance made them more desirable than mere horses. But, he knew, they were wild and difficult and expensive to train; thus there were few of them about.

He plunged off the far side of a ridge of brown fertile land into a long softly undulating valley. He wiped the rain from his eyes. Trees were sparse here and, for as far as he could see, low brush and scrawny brown plants dominated. He dug his heels into his luma's flanks and rattled the reins. The stallion leapt ahead, lifted his head, snorting into the wind.

How strange life is, Moichi thought. Stranger than any tale ever spun at night in a warm tavern or around a leaping fireside. How it returns in a circle; the end is the beginning. If Kossori had but known he defended Tsuki's daughter with his very last breath—

A death, Moichi thought, should not be useless. Sad, yes, that life should come to an end but inevitable, too. And, being so, should there not be meaning in the final act? In this the Iskamen and the Bujun were somewhat alike. Perhaps in other ways, also.

It was a hero's death for Kossori. More heroic now than he would ever know. Or again perhaps he would know, if, as the Bujun believed, the soul is spun out, interweaving a long procession of lives until perfection is achieved and one leaves the endless wheel of life and death.

So for the Iskamen. God is history, his father never tired of telling him, and in history lies man's only salvation.

Now, at this moment, as he pounded across this plain, so desolate in the rain, flying after evil, Moichi knew that his faith had survived. The blood of his forefathers pulsed through him, too strong to be long discarded or ignored. Tears came to his eyes, mingling with the rain, as he thought of his father and the man's enormous faith in God. Perhaps you were not so very wrong, after all, Moichi thought, recalling their bitter arguments of faith, the long silences, suffered by the rest of the family, the long days and nights of anger and frustration. All the time lost because they were both so strong-willed. But he knew now that they had not fought over faith. No, that had been a convenient but spurious battleground both of them had chosen rather spitefully. You were so intolerant of me, Father. How you resented my growing up so independent of your will. I was so unlike Jesah, who, perhaps because he was the second, you were able to mold into your own likeness. He did whatever you told him while I resisted. Why would you not let me be, Father? What was it you were so frightened of? It couldn't be, as you professed so many times, that I would turn away from God because you caused that to happen to me yourself.

He rattled the reins again, sounding the litany of his long journey over the land. I will never know, now, because you took that answer with you when you died. Like God, there was not a forgiving moment in your life. The end was, indeed, like the beginning.

All life is so personal, he thought, wonderingly.

There was death in the air.

He sniffed again and, though he was far from his beloved sea, he knew it still. He believed in auguries. Not in any superstitious way but in the manner of the Iskamen, whose turbulent history was filled with such messages from God, guiding His people.

The rain lessened somewhat and, as the mistiness lifted, he could discern in the fulminating sky low, fantastic shapes alight in the darkness of the billowing clouds. Far to the northwest, lightning forked, blue-white and ghostly, a moment later came the crack and after-tremor of the thunder, rolling against his ears.

Onward the luma fled.

No cultivated field, no house, no sign of man at all could he see. Just the pattering of the rain. Then, as the rain further abated, a line of weathered mountains appeared, marching like battered veterans along the horizon toward yet another war.

“I have no hope now,” she had said into his chest as he held her. “It is Sardonyx and I am vulnerable.”

“‘Vengeance is mine,' saith the God of my people,” he said, recognizing the words of his father.

“You do not understand, Moichi. This is Sardonyx we speak of and you must know before you leave. She is a sorceress.”

He laughed. “Sorcery is gone from our world, Tsuki.”

But she shook her head. “No. She can do the impossible.”

“Then she is but a conjuror, a clever one. I have met some of those. It is all illusion.”

“No, Moichi. No. Please do not make that mistake. I know, believe me. That which she creates is real, terribly real. Beware of her power. Beware of it.”

It was nearing sundown and the high mountains loomed over him; he was in the last stretch of the vast plain.

Trees were more plentiful now and grass grew long and wild, so that his luma was obliged to slow their pace, wary of rodent burrows hidden from view.

Almost directly before him he saw the slopes of two mountains meeting in a narrow defile which seemed the only way through. It was a question of light now. It would perhaps be safer to camp here for the night, then proceed through the narrow pass at first light. But far too much time would be lost that way and the caravan already had a large head start on him.

There was no choice, really.

He made full speed toward the defile.

To the east, the sky was still dark and unsettled but above and to the west, ahead of him, it was clear, lavender and plum, as if bruised by the storm's passage. The plunging sun was too low for him to see directly but the world was filled with its reflected illumination.

The moon was already out, a thick crescent and as crimson as a drop of blood.

The way became immediately rocky and grassland sparser as he neared the foothills guarding the mountain range. Great boulders of granite and sparkling schist built themselves on all sides.

Soon he was engulfed in the defile itself. Thick jutting shelves of rock shot up high into the air, oblique, the evening's light spilling down them like a cataract, turning the entire gorge mauve. Natural rock terraces stretched themselves above his head, rising in tiers until they were lost in the haze.

As the sky darkened into night, the rock walls seemed to close in on him, the terraces expanding until but the merest sliver of sky remained.

Signs of the caravan's passage were more in evidence here. At first he believed this to be a result of the more sheltered position in the defile, but as he looked closer he discerned that the signs were fresher. He was closer to his quarry than he had realized.

This place seemed devoid of life. No avians flew overhead, not even the scavengers; no lizard, no insect. He began to experience an acute sense of isolation, so strong that it was almost tangible.

The nature of the rocks had changed, also. He was obliged to pause and light a brand made of tightly woven hemp treated with pitch. By this flickering light he saw that the rocks were now streaked with orange and sulfurous yellow and their configurations had become contorted, almost tortured, as if they had been formed during some painful upheaval of the earth.

He reined in and drew his sword.

Around a bend ahead of him, he saw the glow of another torch. He waited, uncertain even of what to expect.

It was a solitary figure on horseback and now, as it approached, he saw that it was a woman. She was impossibly tall, narrow-skulled and sunken-eyed. She was dressed in a simple farmer's tunic of dun-colored cotton. She was unarmed.

“Greetings,” she said, her voice floating toward him, ghostly in the confines of the defile.

“Greetings,” Moichi answered.

“I heard your approach,” she said. “I get so few visitors these days—I was curious to see. I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all,” he said. “But I'm afraid that I have little time for small talk or pleasantries at the moment.”

“You are in a hurry. Yes,” she nodded, “it's plain to see. Your mission is urgent. Is it all right if I ride along with you to the end of the defile? Then we may talk without my hindering you.”

Moichi nodded and spurred his luma forward. The woman turned her mount, fell in beside him. There was just enough room for them both. The jiggling of their harnesses echoed eerily off the rock faces.

“Whither are you bound?” she asked. “I know this land well. Perhaps I can help direct you to your destination. It's plain you've never been here before.”

The mist was returning, although the rain seemed to have departed. “I already have directions, thank you,” he said as politely as he could muster. He frankly did not like having anyone distracting him in such a perfect place for an ambush. If she had heard his approach, could not others?

“They might be incorrect, you know,” the woman said thoughtfully. “That often happens these days. People are not so conscientious as they used to be. Not very fashionable, I expect, though I know little enough of the world. Who was it gave you these directions?”

Moichi glanced at her briefly. What was wrong with her face? The inconstant light of the torches made it impossible to see clearly. “A friend,” he said noncommittally.

“A friend,” echoed the woman. “Yes, of course. It would be. Well, even friends are liable to make a mistake—when much time has passed.”

Moichi was about to ask her to amplify that statement when she said, “I fear I have tarried too long already at your side.” She spurred her mount into an awkward gallop and in but a moment had disappeared into the deepening mist ahead. He wanted to call her back for he had been puzzled by their rather one-sided conversation, but there was nothing he could do to deter her save shout, and that he could not risk.

He rode on, keeping to his former pace, and presently he felt rather than saw the sides of the defile widen. Raising his torch, he could just barely discern that the rock faces had begun to lose a bit of their steepness. This effect increased rapidly and he picked up his pace. Soon he had emerged.

On this end, the defile debouched onto a long valley. Above, the sky was streamered with stars. Below, the land seemed as flat and featureless as newly plowed fields.

Over the rolling grasslands he flew, the wind whipping against his face, cool and invigorating. He reveled in the open space around him, feeling as if he had newly awakened from some nightmare where he had been trapped in a coffin.

Not long after, he spied a pinpoint of light on the near horizon. Cautiously, he made for it; the signs of the caravan's passage were fresher still than at the last site, where the camels' dung had been warm. As he neared, he saw that it was a small cottage set on the near bank of a wide, sluggish river which, he saw, straggled west for a short distance before turning south perhaps half a kilometer past the house.

He drew in and sat atop his luma for a time, looking about and listening to the chirruping of the cicadas and the quiet croaking of the river frogs. Above him, the moon seemed greatly magnified, as if seen through a lens. It was as red as blood.

At length, he dismounted and led the luma forward. He peered into a window, saw only an old woman, her back toward him. Abruptly, he was famished, and, striding to the door, he opened it and stepped inside.

The old woman was bent over a circular stone hearth set in the center of the floor on a sort of stone plinth. “Close the door,” she said without turning around. “The night air is cold and it disturbs me.” Her voice had the quality of chalk screaking along a slate board.

She had a thin face, he saw, as she at last turned around, a patchwork of skin, it seemed, crisscrossed and sealed by the seams of time. And the skin seemed glossy, as if it were not skin at all. She had a wide, loose-lipped mouth upon which red paint had been carelessly smeared, and shiny button eyes that were all pupil like a bird's.

“Are you hungry?” she said. But she was already setting the table with rough-hewn bowls and crude utensils. “I have a stew all ready.”

Now that she mentioned it, he did smell the rich aroma of food and his mouth began to water. He looked beyond her, saw a black metal pot hanging over the flames of the hearth.

“Have you seen a small caravan pass this way?” he asked.

“Come,” she said. “Sit and eat.” She was ladling the stew, thick and hot, into the bowls. There was a large loaf of black bread on a wooden board, a knife lying beside it.

He sat down.

“Haven't been outside all day,” she said. “Don't do that so much anymore.”

“Did you not see the rider, then?”

“The rider?”

“A woman. Odd-looking. Very tall. Surely she came this way.”

“I believe you met my daughter.”

“She's not here.”

“Obviously. She is hunting.”

“At night?”

“It's the only way here. All our game is nocturnal.” The old woman pointed to his bowl. “Is my cooking so poor?”

He took a bite of the stew. It seemed to have no taste. He sniffed. It smelled delicious.

“Do you follow the caravan?” the old woman said. She reminded him of someone. “It's plain to see you're a traveler.”

Something caught his eye.

“Aren't you hungry? Of course you are. Eat up, now.”

What was it? Time seemed to have slowed down. He began to hear his own breathing, as stentorian as that of a dragon's. He seemed to have trouble moving, also, as if the air had turned to jelly.

“Go on with you. Eat. Eat.”

Corner of his eye, a million miles a-w-a-y … Took some time to register. Firelight dancing, pretty patterns. Hauled himself together mentally. Slipping, slipping a-w-a-y … Firelight. Not the firelight. Below that, glinting like the sea on a moonlit night remember the time for God's sake wake up will you what's happening colors r-u-n-n-i-n-g together something important there moonlight chopping the surface of the sea into ten thousand f-r-a-g-m-e-n-t-s-s-s-s pull yourself together man and con-cen-trate.
Concentrate
. No circle. That was it don't let it slip away now a-w-a-y—No, stop it!
Stop it!
The hearth was not round. It was a pentangle.
Pentangle
, you nitwit, don't you understand?