Kirith Kirin (The City Behind the Stars) (32 page)

“Don’t make fun,” Vissyn said. “Jessex will have a wonderful time in the gorges and ravines.”

“Well, at least he’s come to his senses,” Vella said, and I knew, without asking, she wasn’t referring to me.

I was not with them long that day. They were working with the glimmering fabric draped over their knees, their preoccupation obvious. I performed a cyclical of meditation and trance exercises, said a routine good-bye.

We left Suvrin Sirhe in the month of Ranthos, the fourth day. Summer was fleeing while we marched from the shadow of the eastern mountains. It felt like no summer I had ever known.

1

Nevyssan lies beyond the Arth Hills, twenty days march from Suvrin Sirhe, in northernmost Arthen. Nevyssan is hill country, an ancient habitat of shadowed firs and aged cedars, the only part of the old north forest to survive.

That whole part of the world is different from other places, as if the blast of a God still hangs in the air. A hundred volumes could not hold all the stories that are told about the Arth Hills, where the Sisters were born beneath the Eldest Tree. Nowadays one cannot get to that tree, or anywhere near it. One cannot reach the interior of Arth Hill country on horseback, nor can one cut a path through the brambles, the foxvine, the elgerath tangling and choking on itself. Even the Jisraegen at the height of their woodcraft never traveled in those hills, and whatever creatures live in Arth have no need of intercourse with other peoples.

The lake women never took me there, though to do so would have been within their power, nor did they tell me any stories about the place, nor answer my questions. When the march took us close to the hill-shadows, I asked Vella what was there. She gave me a bland look, answering with uncharacteristic firmness. “What I know about the Arth Hills comes from long before any time you need to know about, young fellow. No one will tell you anything about Arth, so keep your questions to yourself.”

The column reached the edge of the hills on the twelfth day of marching. By then I felt as if I had been riding toward Nevyssan for a century at least.

Time at Illyn intensified again. The long days of autumn passed, the briefest of pauses, the soldier column marching through bronzed leaves, autumn flowers and heavy fruits. Moments away from training were like rest between long breaths.

I was left to surmise I was making progress from cryptic references in the lake women’s conversations, from which I gathered that some difficulty in hiding us lately came from me. Exactly what I was doing that made the veil such a drain on the Sisters’ concentration I did not know and could not learn. They were not displeased with my skill as far as I could tell, though any word of praise that I had hoped for died in the air.

There is no need to linger over the events of those days, either at Illyn Water or on the march to Nevyssan. I was becoming accustomed to the bizarre routine of entering and leaving real time; it no longer troubled me that between singing Velunen in the morning and Vithilunen in the evening, an interval might pass that seemed months long in my mind. None of what I did at Illyn bore much resemblance to anything I had ever seen or done in the world beyond. I was young and, lately, had gotten used to changes.

When we reached Nevyssan, guides joined the column to lead us along the trail to Kirith Kirin’s encampment, five days march to Nevyssan’s Point, a hilltop with a commanding view of the surrounding Fenax. These guides were not people I knew, but they did bring some news even I hadn’t heard. We were heading for Kirith Kirin’s camp, all right, but he was absent at the moment and Mordwen Illythin was in command. Kirith Kirin rode with patrols along the Angoroe border, marking the northward progress of General Nemort.

One of the guides had a message for me from Mordwen. He wanted me to ride with the bearer of the message in advance of the main column to Nevyssan’s Point. Sealed with his ring. The Nivra Vaeyr sent for me and told me to pack.

The summons from Mordwen flooded me with relief and the prospect of seeing him made me so happy I could hardly contain myself. I had been alone a long time and thought of him as company. That he had sent for me almost made up for the news Kirith Kirin was somewhere else.

I rode away following Velunen, accompanied by the messenger, Cuthru son of None, who had been lent Mordwen’s horse Prince Naufax for the occasion, along with a ring to tame him, to keep pace with Nixva. I was acquainted with Prince Naufax from other rides and scratched the blue-black stallion’s silken nose by way of greeting. Cuthru was a taciturn man, a descendant of Cordyssans who had migrated to the south generations back, his mother having inherited land from a childless uncle in Amre. A “son of None” is a boy whose father will not acknowledge parentage; a daughter would be called his “false child.” Northerners are not well-liked in the south, any more than southerners are liked here in our country. The bloods have never blended, even in the present day.

He told me a little about life in the south as we rode the marked trail toward the encampment. Not that he was talkative by any standard. He made jaka briskly and whittled with his wrist knife and thumb blade, weapons some soldiers prefer to the ordinary hand-held dagger. He wore southern clothing for all his Jisraegen airs: a sleeved shirt, leather leggings and soft doeskin boots. I liked him but was shy to talk to him, and gave up. I had a troubling sense of being too thoroughly seen by him. He had piercing eyes; one could imagine him an eagle, scrying prey miles off.

We rode through the darkening Woodland through hills and valleys, following a cleared trail that led miraculously through swaths of vine, waterfalls of tangled branches, shadowed hillsides covered with white moonflower that thrives in the rarer light. Our second night on such a hillside, the white moon did rise though the red one did not, and the flowers really did glow, an eerie light flowing like a mist, throwing ghostly shadow against the roots and lower trunks of the twisted trees that towered out of the rock. The landscape struck me with such an aching force I wondered how I would sleep. I walked around our campsite once the moon rose, heeding Cuthru’s warning to be careful of badgers and wildcats that were known to prowl the hill country, and above all not to step on one of the moonflowers, since that could be bad luck in another way. I told him I would be careful. I felt as if I were in fairyland, walking from dark tree trunk to fall of vine, stepping between the full, glowing blossoms of the broad moonflowers, the petals shaped like the ends of torches, delicately veined, limpid. The petals were warm, one did not have to touch them to feel it, and the flower shivered as if to the beat of a gentle pulse. I was careful not to disturb a single blossom.

Sleep came easily in spite of the flowers and the vibrant light. Just after dawn, when the flowers ceased glowing, we rode again, and by midmorning we reached the encampment, atop a tall hill at the northernmost place in Nevyssan, called Nevyssan’s Point.

The encampment was nestled in a small cul-de-sac formed by rock, down which washed a narrow, shallow brook. Tents had been pitched in the available clearing, standard issue, nothing as fancy as what we were used to in camp. When we rode into the clearing, where a cook fire was burning, Thruil emerged from one of the tents, saw us and hurried forward. Without awaiting any greeting he called out, “Mordwen’s been expecting you all morning, Jessex. He’s in that tent yonder, the one with the banner over it. He may have folks with him but go in anyway to let him know you’re here.”

I hesitated only long enough to thank Cuthru for the company. He acknowledged with a curt nod and helped Thruil with the horses. I hurried through the crowded tents and trees, toward higher ground where stood the brown tent with the crimson banner hanging in the breezeless morning.

Mordwen’s voice sounded among others. A guard was posted by the tent flaps, armed to the teeth. She announced me to someone inside and I entered, stepping past two clerks who were copying out letters and Gaelex who was composing another. Mordwen was seated on cushions in the tent’s center, wearing a dagger and wrist-knife with the blade sheath in place. He had war bracelets on his upper arms, glittering birds of prey inlaid in white enamel on the beaten gold. He had a look of deep concentration on his face. He was listening to the officer in front of him, the Nivra Cothryn of Cordyssa.

Mordwen was looking more vigorous than I had seen him, holding his shoulders higher, occasionally touching the hilt of his dagger as if to reassure himself that it was still safe in its scabbard. I watched him for a while, caught his eye and nodded, and went away.

He did the Prince’s business all afternoon, while I wandered in and out of camp. I went for a ride on Nixva and had a pleasant run. Since we were close to the border of Arthen we rode to the Woods End, beyond which lies the open plain.

The Girdle was bare and empty, windswept, grass darkening in waves. With the Queen’s forts conquered or besieged, no patrols rode in this part of the world. Peaceful not to have to worry about Blue Cloak patrols. There was something uncanny in looking at that open landscape through which one could move without restriction. Here was Arthen and there was the plain. No soldiers on horseback stood between the two.

Cothryn and a few gentry were in camp that evening, as well as enough soldiers to suit Mordwen’s rank, about two hundred folks; every tent pulled its own kitchen duty, sometimes sharing a cook fire with a neighbor. At night the lights from the fires lit the hillside, smoke drifting to the stars, and one could hear music from every side, lyre, guitar and kata sticks. After dinner I sat outside till the officers finished their discussions with Mordwen regarding the layout for main camp, which would arrive in the next day or so. The sound of voices blended with the music and wind in the upper branches. Because we were on a hillside one could see the sky. Duraelaryn do not grow close to the border of Arthen, nor do they care much for rough country like Nevyssan. I watched the stars shining, naming the ones I knew, remembering nights when I was shepherding the flock through the meadows close to the Queen’s land.

When the officers were gone I found Mordwen sharing a polite glass of wine with Cothryn. The Nivra was in a courteous mood, and while I was present he followed the convention of not referring to me or speaking to me directly, until he was ready to leave, but I was conscious that he watched me. He asked if I would sing the morning song and I answered that I probably would, though there was no lamp and the cook fire would have been lit long before dawn. He expressed what he called a sincere desire to hear Velunen as he was used to hearing it since I became kyyvi. Mordwen overheard this remark and raised an eyebrow.

When he had gone, Mordwen stood in the tent opening, watching him walk away. I thought Mordwen wanted to say something. He stood thinking for a while and then asked if I had brought the suuren book.

Once he had inspected my entries and found them to be satisfactory in neatness and form, he read them with absorption. Presently he said, “I see no more of a pattern than when I was keeping the record.” In answer to the question he could already hear coming out of my mouth, he went on, “It’s nothing you’ve done. Maybe it’s a lost art.”

“Lost?”

“What we know about suuren-keeping comes from books written by the Cunuduerum priests. Not many of their writings have survived outside the city, and one does not venture to visit the libraries. Falamar broke the ranks of the Praeven but he never fathomed the magic they used to hide their secret places. Drudaen could never break those magics, either, when he was still able to enter Arthen. Some of the books that do exist mention a few of the suuren patterns that were used by the priests to foretell the future. But they were able to see a pattern where I see nothing at all.” He closed the book and gave it back to me. “Go on recording the entries yourself, as you’ve been doing.”

“Yes sir. Were all the priests magicians?”

“What priests?”

“The ones who lived in Cunuduerum. Did they all know magic?”

“What a strange question. They were magicians of a sort, primarily masters of lore. They were not originally Word-masters as were Falamar or Lord Durassa; at least at first. But they developed a language that gave them strength when they used it together, and they made magic that way. They used the kyyvi and the suuren to derive the true-names of all the trees in Arthen, and the names of all places they could reach, and all things they could think of, and used those names and words they derived in other ways to make a new kind of chant. They were Jisraegen after all and had an ear for magic. Do you know anything about Words of Power?”

The hair on the back of my neck prickled. “A little.”

“Words of Power are magic words, and only magicians like Drudaen know how to use them. When the Praeven learned to make magic, the balance of the world was disturbed, and they did not seem to know what they had done. They made a song that is said to have terrified YY-Mother, because if she had let it end it would have brought about the Great Breaking then and there. So she gave Falamar a new strength and allowed him to end the song and to destroy the Praeven, and after that he ruled Cunuduerum and Arthen himself.