Kirith Kirin (The City Behind the Stars) (12 page)

I nudged Nixva gently with my booted feet. The big horse tossed his head and cantered through the clearing, unmindful of those who drew aside out of his path, taking that deference as his due. I watched them in the clearing, Kirith Kirin and Mordwen, Karsten and Imral joining them in the pale light and watered shadow of new day.

5

I rode in open Woodland with golden light pouring down. The second sun has a clear, cool light that is said to be calming. It was beautiful, that morning.

Mist rolled between shaggy tree trunks and along huge falls of vine. Nixva pulsed, the beat of his stride pouring through me, waves of strength radiating from him along with unmistakable joy, and I believe he could have galloped forever, uncomplaining. I felt the same exhilaration, as if I too might live forever, as if the world might be endlessly new.

We rode through Goldenwood beneath trees that glowed like a roof of flame. We followed a path Nixva seemed to know, a lane where a horse could pass unhindered by underbrush. He stopped in a broad clearing through which a brook ran. I found myself a grassy seat by the water, unwrapping my bread and cheese, eating both hungrily while Nixva made a meal on clover. Light filled the sky, winds blowing monumental clouds across the blue expanse. Birds sang nonsense in the trees, bright noises, high trills and echoing arias. The wind blew across the treetops, sending flowing waves across the grass, tangling Nixva’s heavy mane. From this scene, or some scene like it, I was to recognize a sign worth remembering for Mordwen. The word for luck is suuren. It is also the word for a star that appears for the first time in the sky, one that we may never have seen before and will not name. I was looking for suuren to take back to camp.

I might have worried as long as I chose, sitting there beside the brook with my mouth full of cheese, but Nixva was watching me as if he knew what our business entailed and my idleness displeased him. I packed my food away, slipping it inside the leather pouch at my waist, and rinsed my hands in the brook. Returning to Nixva, I took his head in my hands, looking deep into his eyes. “My lord prince of horses,” I said, “this is a fine morning for a ride, and no one could ask for a better horse, but I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

He answered with something like,
Get on my back and you may find out; you certainly won’t find anything standing in the grass
.

I got on his back obediently, whether I heard his answer or made it up. He tossed his head and let it be known he would continue as the guide.

I had forgotten, in our more leisurely riding along the Arthen road, how fast Nixva could go when he wanted to, a black blur along the grass, as on the morning when we crossed the Queen’s Girdle and entered the Woodland. I felt peculiarly attuned to him, the wave of his motion, the two of us riding the center of the wave where each stride of his galloping burst us through to the next moment. I felt present with him in that way. Even in the forest he could find a path safe for us both, since I made myself such an insignificant package against his back, the stirrups pulled up short and my weight supported just over the warm saddle by tensed legs. Riding above the saddle, resting on it for a moment, lifting myself again. We rode so far the countryside changed again. The trees were iron-colored, both bark and leaves. The grass took on a gray cast, and the wildflowers bloomed in shades of blue, silver and bronze. It was wonderful country, taking my breath away. Nixva tossed his head proudly, cantering beneath the trees, letting me get a good look at the abundant flower beds, offerings of star-shaped silver petals, delicate lattices of leaves, fine as moss. Nixva was vain as if he had invented the whole country himself.

The wonder of the place seized me completely and I lived in my eyes. Nixva cantered with a purposefulness that led me to believe we had not yet reached our destination, even amidst this vision of wonders. The forest became open and airy, trees competing less fiercely for the light, which fell in abundance. The sky was blue as if it were burning with the color, tumbles of clouds parading, helpless to resist the wind that impelled them, that tossed the trees, that swept the grass.

We came at last to a wide clearing, set with stones about the perimeter, with a rock shrine at the center. One could tell it was a shrine by the YYmoc carved on flat stone. The rock was craggy, moss-covered, with a smell of age. Beneath the altar, hidden at the back of a carved rock shelf, an old lamp sat, of a gray metal the Smiths make that refuses to rust. I had to get down on my knees to find it, but I thought it must be somewhere; what use is a shrine without a lamp? No oil, of course.

Looking at it, with Nixva behind me making complacent noises, preening himself between mouthfuls of grass, I said, “So this is suuren for today,” running my hands along the rough stone.

Nixva stamped his approval. I walked round the shrine slowly, getting a good look at it, in case Mordwen Illythin should ask me a lot of questions. Surely this must be a famous place, a shrine in the middle of such an odd part of the Woodland. I replaced the lamp carefully and mounted Nixva, meaning to turn him toward camp.

But he stood curiously still. The wind died also, and every sound vanished. The day, the whole Woodland, drew in breath and paused.

Vaguely I heard music, clear singing. Then silence. Far off, at the edge of the clearing, three figures on horseback watched me, draped like ladies of a rich house, their horses stamping, tossing their manes. I saw them only a moment, then they were gone, much faster than they could have turned those immense horses, vanishing more completely than mere tree shadow and distance could account for. A breath of perfume reached me when the wind resumed. Birds began their singing again. Nixva snorted, tugging at the reins.

Three ladies in rich clothes, riding horses that were beautiful even when compared to my own horse, the son of Keikindavii. Arthen has the name of a place where magic can happen. I had a feeling I had seen my first piece of it.

6

I returned Nixva to the Prince’s horse master, Thruil, who took him away to feed him oats and give him such other care as royal horses receive. Nixva suffered the groom’s handling with the ease of any master to his servant, turning his head to me and blowing out his breath; That wasn’t such a bad ride, he was saying, and we’ll do it again tomorrow.

I hurried through the tent city to the Nivri precinct, remembering Mordwen’s instructions on how to find his tent. He was waiting for me in the clearing beneath the banner that flew in front of his pavilion. “You returned at about the proper time. Was this your instinct or the horse’s?”

“A little of both.”

“Then you gave Nixva his head?”

“He seemed to require it.”

This made Lord Illythin smile ever so slightly, and he walked into the sunlit woods, signaling me to follow. “You have respect for him, which is a good thing. If you didn’t respect his wishes, you wouldn’t sit on his back for very long.” He paused in a patch of sunlight, its radiance illuminating his thick hair, his lined face, the dull-colored robe he wore.

After a moment’s hesitation, I asked the question foremost in my mind at the time. “Is Nixva mine?”

Lord Mordwen looked down his long nose at me. “It would seem so.”

“Why were people so angry?”

“Royal horses bear children only once in a lifetime. And Nixva is the youngest of the Keikin’s offspring. The gift of a true-horse is a sign that a house is very powerful. Some of the Nivri had their eye on Nixva. They’ll refuse to understand why Kirith Kirin gave this precious gift to a farm boy from the Fenax.”

“Should I give him back?”

“Heavens no. You would mortally offend Kirith Kirin. Never mind what anyone thinks, the horse is his to give as he pleases. In many ways you’re the wisest choice possible, since you offend all the Nivri and the Finru equally.”

I remembered his own reaction from the morning, and worked up my nerve. “The gift didn’t seem to please you so much earlier.”

Mordwen eyed me thoughtfully. “I will have to remember you have a tendency to ask brazen questions. No, the news didn’t please me at first. But his reasons were good ones. Now that I’ve watched you for a while, it seems to me you’re the right master for Nixva.”

“Why? I’ve done nothing but light the lamps.”

He chuckled, scratching his hairy knuckles on the bark of a tree. “Never mind. We’ll let you wonder what your virtues are in order not to limit their scope by praise. Suffice it to say I do not like children but I find you tolerable and am not in despair at the prospect of having you in the shrine. No more questions.” He touched his finger against my lips; I had indeed been about to let fly with another one. “We are about to take you to your tutor. But first tell me what you saw on your ride.”

“A shrine made of stone, one that looked as if it were carved a long time ago, sitting in the center of a field where the grass was gray and the trees all around were gray, a strange country.”

“Describe the shrine.”

This being the question I had anticipated, I took a deep breath and pictured the heap of stone in my mind. I told him about it, omitting nothing, going into much detail about the lamp, a simple cylinder of metal, much plainer than the lamps used for Kirith Kirin’s altar. I described the countryside thereabouts in more detail too, in case the Seer should think that was important. After I had been talking a while, he said, “Good, good, that’s enough. Do you want to know where you were?”

I had been just at the point of telling him about the image of the three ladies, but his grand manner halted me. “Where was I?”

“Hyvurgren Field. One of the oldest shrines, built by the Diamysaar, a holy place. That part of the Woodland is called ‘Raelonyii’ because the trees give off soft light whenever two white moons are in the sky.” He said this in a dreamy voice, hardly aware that he was speaking to me. But his eyes narrowed slightly. “Hyvurgren is half a day’s ride from here. It’s only just past mid-morning now.”

“We got there in no time,” I said, “Nixva was fast.”

“How can he have been that fast?” He made me describe the place again, which I did. This time, when I got to the part about seeing the image of the three women, I felt a sudden dread and fell silent. Mordwen, fretting about the distance to the shrine, ignored my disquiet. “That’s Hyvurgren all right,” he said, “there’s no other place it could be.”

He recorded my ride in the book he carried, writing in square, bold letters, “The kyyvi rode to Hyvurgren Field, one of the Naming Fields, in Raelonyii.” I could not read the letters but he told me what they meant. He explained Naming Field was a place where the Jhinuuserret received the name from God, the Umiism, as well the signs that accompany a true-naming. These fields are very holy places, five of them altogether, each with a shrine built by the YY-Sisters.

I remarked that I was surprised no one had stolen the lamp in all these years if the Sisters themselves made it; Mordwen only smiled. “I wouldn’t doubt people have tried.”

He led me back to his tent, the book under his arm and the words written in it, “The kyyvi rode suuren to Hyvurgren Field.” I had intended to tell him about the women but had not done so. The omission seemed purposeful, and I said no more.

One chamber of his tent had been converted into a schoolroom. We went there without any further warning or delay, and I met my tutor, Kraele, a woman of Mordwen’s household. Lessons in High Speech began immediately, without any prelude. Kraele told me the name for simple objects, and made me repeat them. She taught me a phrase I have always remembered, “Whatever sun the day brings, it’s best not to quarrel with it.” I went away from the lesson repeating the words.

It was good after so much newness to retreat to the shrine tent, to tend the altar again, to polish the deniire lamp, picturing the colored light flaming from its jeweled heart. The deniire is the most compact of the ritual lamps, being shaped like a pyramid with a jewel at its crown, a white, clear stone called “iire”, the Eye of God. Mordwen had described the light it shed, a splendid, austere rainbow, colors shifting as the flame consumes the oil. This is a very expensive lamp to own, because of the iire.

As I worked I sang an old song Grandmother Fysyyn taught me, “If I sow beside all waters,” peaceable words in the language of the farm country. I went on singing even when I heard voices in the outer shrine. I was not nervous, I felt no shrinking; rather, it was as with Nixva, the rhythm of the moment carried me. I sang softly in one language, picturing new words in another. As I carried the deniire lamp out from the workroom Mordwen nearly ran into me headlong. He took a good look at me and slowly smiled. Saying nothing, he walked ahead of me into the shrine room.

Many faces, as before. Some of them I recognized, but only one I looked for: Kirith Kirin, fresh from riding. But even he seemed quite far away. I was separate from them, I was, in my mind’s eye, facing the shrine in the wide field in the country of iron trees, the place Mordwen Illythin had called Hyvurgren. I was carrying the deniire to its holy place, to the altar where YY-Mother watches, her single eye the gem that crowned the lamp. I was in the field and the three women were listening.