Dragons on the Sea of Night (19 page)

And then her eyes locked on the blade of her dai-katana, which seemed to shimmer darkly in the torchlight. And then she blinked, for she saw that what she had mistaken for refraction was, instead, a substance crawling out of the fissure along the center of the blade.

It was orange-red and flowed like molten lava or mercury, travelling at first painfully slowly, then more swiftly along the blade. Chiisai's erratic heartbeat was making her ill. Black spots danced in front of her eyes and each breath caught in her throat, becoming a heroic labor.

‘Almost there,' Kaijikan cried in triumph.

And then Chiisai's breathing became less labored, her heart rate descended. The orange-red substance flowed, coating the entire length of the blade and then began to drip off it onto the floor of the cavern. As it pooled it became more viscous, then solid, pouring upward – if such a thing were possible.

It became denser, darker, like the fall of a sea of night. And, to Chiisai's dismay, it began to take a form. At first, there were but hints – an appendage here, what appeared to be a tentacle or a tail there. The brief bulge of a head, ballooning out, then as quickly deflating, forming in another place.

And all the time the thing was growing, expanding exponentially. Like a horribly deformed fetus it grew arms, legs, tail and head. Then the details began to be imprinted upon the living substance. Until, at last it rose up, and trembling in its birth pains, towered over even Tokagé.

Chiisai gasped and her nerveless fingers fell from the hilt of her dai-katana, which nevertheless remained securely inserted in the fissure. For standing in front of her was a beast at least seven feet in height. It stood upon sturdy hind legs with taloned feet and a scaled tail with a multi-spiked end. It had a humanoid torso, though horribly distorted, but its head was truly hideous: that of a predator owl – all enormous, circular eyes and a wickedly curved beak. The luminous yellow eyes gazed in rapt attention at the being it found confronting it. It turned its neck in small birdlike increments and when it spoke its voice filled the cavern. It was so grating Chiisai found it painful to listen to.

‘So you have fulfilled your promise.'

‘Yes, Phaidan. You are in the world of man.'

‘Then the Bridge has been made constant.'

‘It has, indeed,' Kaijikan said.

‘No more maiming of my people; no more extinguishing of their spirit as they make the Leap from one dimension to another.'

‘No,' Kaijikan assured him. ‘The sword and this brave one make the Bridge absolutely reliable.'

And Chiisai screamed inside, cursing herself, because now she knew the consequences of all the wrong choices she had made. She should have chosen to act during their journey here, no matter the odds against her. She should have chosen passivity now, anything rather than place her dai-katana in the fissure, creating the Bridge from this world to …

‘Many will follow me,' said Phaidan, the Chaos creature. ‘This time there will be no error. Our retribution will be complete.'

The Dai-San speaks:

I wanted to stay with her but I could not. The world does not work that way; even the Dai-San cannot have everything he wants. In a profound way there is a kind of solace in that. Our universe tolerates no absolute power, but this is no time to debate the concept of God. No one – not even I, not even the Kaer'n – knows the truth about how the Mountain Sin'hai was born and what exists upon its summit. There are still some mysteries beyond our grasp; enigmas yet to be born
.

Here I admit my love for Chiisai. Why not? It is part of my remaining humanity and, as I have said, the Kaer'n have taught me the importance of this. I will not think about her being taken away from me; my Kaer'n forbids me to think such thoughts and I must realize it is for a good reason. The Kaer'n nurture me and protect me and I still have much to learn about them. In many ways, they remain the greatest mystery left for me to unfold
.

They are like origami – that complex Bujun art of making paper creatures – unfolding in so many layers the process itself becomes dizzying. The Kaer'n exist on many levels at once. Well, what can you expect, considering their origin. And it is this very thing which keeps them hewn to the shadows. Fear is still the easiest emotion to evoke in humans, and there is no telling what kind of panic common knowledge of the Kaer'n would set off – even in the Bujun
.

But I must continue to learn about them for I have come to understand that this is the only way I will ever fathom the key to my own existence
.

PART THREE

S
YRINX

TEN

W
HITE
L
OTUS

Unlike other desert communities
, notable chiefly for their impermanence, Mas'jahan was a fortress. To the eye of the weary traveler its brooding brown-black sandstone walls, beetling with the weapons-filled crenellations of a citadel eternally at war, said
sanctuary
. This was no doubt because the vast majority of those who passed through its lion gates were considered, at least in other parts of the world, criminals. Not in Mas'jahan. The sacred Mahatsin'jo, the fiercely visaged lion with the plumed wings of the phoenix, was the protector of all who lived beneath his benevolent wingspan.

Mas'jahan sat at the extreme northwest corner of the Mu'ad. It was a desolate tract of land, even by the standards of the Great Desert, streaked with a curious dark sandstone the Catechists alone knew how to work. But over its ramparts one could see looming the Mountain Sin-hai, its summit perpetually obscured by fulminating clouds and severe ice storms. Occasionally, a kind of reddish lightning illuminated those clouds and the citizens of Mas'jahan lifted their heads to stare, standing with their legs far apart as the ground beneath them shuddered as if in great racking sobs. These not infrequent quakes were the overt signs, so the Fianarantsoa told its constituency, that Zarathus was, indeed, among them, striding across the snow-encrusted summit of the Mountain Sin-hai, his sacred site of meditation.

Near the base of the Mountain Sin'hai's blue-black flank, legend had it, lay the ancient land of Syrinx. But none in Mas'jahan had ever ventured there or, at the least, returned to tell of it.

This was what the members of the Fianarantsoa had told Moichi in the pre-dawn interview Sardonyx had promised him. As they tore rough chunks from rounds of unleavened bread and popped dried dates in their mouths, they told him the dogma of Catechism – the ecstatic side was not yet for him, an infidel. But as for Dujuk'kan and the Makkon, they had no knowledge and no recommendations. They had been in the Mu'ad for forty days and forty nights, as the Living God, Zarathus, had bade them. As for recent events in Mas'jahan they were deaf, dumb and blind. But they gave him a gift, just the same: a magnificent push-dagger with double blades of an almost black Damascus steel, a gold-veined bronze guard and a carved mahogany grip.

‘I did not believe they could help. But no matter,' Sardonyx had said blithely.

‘How can you say that?' Moichi had asked. ‘When I get to Mas'jahan I will need help.'

‘And you shall have it,' she told him with such conviction he had no other choice but to believe her.

Mas'jahan possessed a formidable presence, abetted no doubt by its reputation. No people had ever been successful in extraditing one of their own from this Catechist stronghold by diplomatic means and none were foolish enough to attempt such a thing by force. ‘God has brought him to our bosom,' the Catechists invariably said. ‘Sooner or later, he will find the Path.'

This was the Catechists' most profound belief: that in every human being lies the seed of good from which God would manufacture His magic: redemption. It spoke to the very heart of the faith which, with its other face, both condoned the trading in human life and encouraged sexual exploration as a furtherance to attaining the ecstatic state required to hear and interpret the testament of the Living God.

‘
We accept the trade in human flesh because it is part of the natural order, part of God's design
,' Vato-mandry had told Sardonyx when she had been under his tutelage. ‘
We do not believe in equality for all people, for we have found that breeds anarchy and discontent. When people are given a freedom they cannot handle, the wildness that is buried inside them erupts and disturbs the ongoing process of goodness that will lead them onto the Path. This is not mere speculation or religious dogma but proven fact
.'

‘
But how can you or anyone else make the decision of who will be free and who will be enslaved?
' Sardonyx had asked. ‘
The Iskamen were enslaved in Aden and they rose up against it and became free
.'

‘
We are the chosen of Zarathus
,' Vato-mandry had said, ‘
God chooses. As for the Iskamen, it is our belief that their freedom is illusory. They are still tied to Aden in ways hidden from normal sight. Their battle for freedom is not yet done
.'

Sardonyx related this disturbing conversation as they walked down the narrow streets of Mas'jahan. Everything was made from the same indigenous sandstone, so that it seemed somber and austere for a place with such a reputation for carnal and venal pleasures.

Above them, the harsh desert sun, the color of a ripening fig, hung brutally in the hard, cloudless sky. Moichi began to appreciate the cleverness of Mas'jahan's plan. The citadel's high walls cut off all wind, and the narrow, plaza-less streets, made for a minimum of blown sand. The central market made a slightly crooked X through streets jam-packed with cowled and robed religious leaders and brigands and cut-throat traders alike. These people appeared to live in, if not quite perfect harmony, then a state astonishingly close to it. What minor incidents Moichi witnessed – petty larceny, disputes over prices – were swiftly resolved by a member of the Fianarantsoa. These elders moved through the throngs, faced drawn weapons and razor-thin tempers with the admirable sang-froid of seasoned politicians. Not one of the disputations that Moichi witnessed was allowed to get out of hand.

Sardonyx bought them a concoction of ripe black figs and a tangy yellow cream that she said was made from co'chyn mares in heat. They ate this with their fingers as they walked through the market. Below the colorfully striped awnings they passed merchants selling all manner of spices, dried fruits and meats suitable for desert journeys. Coppersmiths and artisans in pewter, silver filigree and gold wire watched them from behind their magnifying loupes. The air reeked of so many scents it was often impossible to identify them all.

Up ahead, Moichi saw a wizened old woman, her back in the shape of a comma. She sat upon a well-worn stool tooled with complex and indecipherable runes. Before her gnarled hands were the skulls of a half-dozen small animals – rodents, no doubt – in shades of white, cream and ivory. They had been bleached by the sun, patinated by being constantly handled. In this way, they had taken on a character all their own – almost another life – one might say.

Seeing her dressed in Catechist robes, Moichi asked about her.

‘She is a Tsihombe, a kind of Catechist oracle.'

‘I did not know the Catechists believed in divination.'

‘It is often surprising what their religion embraces.' She looked at him cannily. ‘Do you wish to petition her?'

Moichi nodded. Though he was anxious to get on with his search for Dujuk'kan, Sanda's merchant husband Yesquz, and the Makkon, he knew he had business here. ‘I had a dream in the Mu'ad when Sanda came to me. “
Save me!
” she implored me. And then she recited what seemed a riddle to me.'

As they approached, the Tsihombe raised her cronish head and, licking her lips, took her handful of tiny skulls off her baize table and rolled them around in her palm. They made a curious clacking sound, as musical as a row of hollow gourds.

‘The future, good sir?' she cried in her cracked voice. ‘But no.' She lifted a gnarly forefinger. ‘The future is not your immediate concern, though it should be. You seek an answer to a question.'

She cackled a little, rolling the skulls out before Moichi could tell her what question he wanted answered. She stared down at the result for not more than a tenth of a second. Then her watery eyes lifted to Moichi's expectant face. ‘The bear you seek is not what you expect. It lies northwest of here.'

‘Northwest lie the slopes of the Mountain Sin'hai,' Moichi said.

The Tsihombe nodded. ‘But before the Mountain lie the great fens and marshes, the Barrier. Within them waits the bear.'

‘What barrier?' Moichi asked.

‘Why, the Barrier God created between the world and Syrinx.' There was a sly smile on her face. ‘The moment His servant Miira passed her Mirror around the chamber of state He formed from the great marshes and fens the Barrier, expanding it a thousand-fold and populating it with all manner of strange and wondrous life. All this in the moment death and retribution were visited upon Syrinx.' The spread of her sly smile made of her face an eerie mask. ‘You know the tale of Miira's Mirror, do you not, good sir?'

‘That I do,' Moichi said. He gestured to Sardonyx. ‘Pay the Tsihombe for her service.'

The crone raised her hand. ‘This oracle was not for sale, good sir.' She nodded her head, her rheumy eyes hooded. ‘Continue on your way to the house of Vato-mandry, and may God look you in the eye.'

‘How did she know where we were headed?' Moichi said as they hurried down the street.

‘Vato-mandry's house is just down this block.' She shrugged. ‘Then again how did she know what question you wanted answered?'

‘I did not even know it was a question,' Moichi said, repeating for her in total the poem Sanda had recited in his dream.

The Fianarantsoa's dwelling was unremarkable. In fact, it looked much like the brown-black sandstone buildings on either side of it. Only a lone fig tree out front, gnarled and bent as the Tsihombe's back, marked it. Sardonyx used the brass knocker which sand and wind had blasted to a dull, rough finish.