Kirith Kirin (The City Behind the Stars) (8 page)

I crossed the bridge without considering what I was doing. To tell the truth, I thought I was dreaming. Within moments I stood at the entrance to the main gate that guarded the city side of the bridge. Once my eyes had adjusted to the twilit interior I glimpsed a portcullis suspended above my head, spikes of iron massive enough to crush people and horses. Along the walls were slits in the stone, maybe where more such gates waited, or maybe places for soldiers to stand with weapons. The wall was thick and I had a goodly walk in the dark. But soon I came to the end of the tunnel.

Beyond the wall, tall sheer buildings flanked the flagstone road on either side. I gaped at these immense structures as anyone in my place would have. I could see parapets at the tops of the buildings; and then, for a moment, I glimpsed a line of soldiers, nearly colorless in the daylight, glaring down with hollow eyes and black-rimmed mouths. When they vanished a chill passed through me.

By now I could not tell whether I was dreaming beneath the branches of the infthil, comfortable on my bedroll, or whether the dream finally consumed me and I had found the city at last. I passed through the open bronze gates into the precinct beyond. One could see Cunuduerum spreading far off toward the horizon.

A feeling of overwhelming recognition engulfed me. Beyond the gate was a courtyard, beyond the courtyard a lane lined with mansions, and along one rank of these mansions ran the marble quay where I had wandered, following along a broad canal which led from the river toward Seumren Tower.

I wandered farther, passed mansion after mansion along the canal. At first I sensed only the absolute quiet of the place, its desertion. But everything was in perfect order, maintained as if the citizens were expected to return at any moment. Soon I began to imagine that figures moved in the distant houses. I heard voices as well, the murmur of a festival in the ghost city.

I did not think of my uncle or of anyone I knew. I was in the dream, I was walking down the quay. From the houses I passed I got some greeting; not the laughter and musical speech of my dream but silent, sullen stares. Once I passed a figure on the quay itself, gaunt and transparent so I could see through him to the dark canal. He gazed at me with malevolence and spoke a word that did not sound as if it came from any language I had ever heard. I was afraid of him so I passed him singing bits of melody from my dream. I continued singing as I walked. I had no conception of time and could only guess how long I had been gone. The sun sank low over the mansions along the canal.

I had headed, since the canal ran that way, toward the High Place. When I approached its shadow, long and cool, I also recognized the courtyard at its base.

The crystal fountain lay beyond broad archways which I recognized, with a start, from my dream. No water flowed in it now. The sun was nearly gone but still struck a little fire in what was left of the crystal. I passed through the archway in shadow and could dimly make out the courtyard beyond. It lay in ruins.

Only the boat landing, the termination point of the canal, stood as it had in my dream.

A wind came up, gentle and caressing. Maybe there was some breath of voice in it but if so, the voice was quiet. Here I stood in the courtyard I had dreamed about so many evenings. The sun would soon abandon me to darkness and more voices, I could feel them gathering around me. I felt curiously stirred and wandered toward the landing, where the boat would come. The end of the quay had been crushed, I could see stone fragments beneath the surface of the water. I stood close to the broken pavement in the slanting sun.

Each fragment of stone shimmered beneath the water, pale like spring flowers. I did not realize what I had been hoping for until I stood there. The boat could not come if there were no place for it to dock. The court of the fountain was silent but for voices no one wants to hear. These days only the dead gathered by the river, and no King ever arrives to ascend the steps to his grand city.

But I had not come here for any of that. I had come to Arthen to serve in a shrine. I kept hold of that thought. I was cold and wrapped my coat close against me. I turned and found where the sun was sinking.

As it vanished I sang “Kithilunen,” the Evening Song, wishing for a lamp to hold in my hand. In the ghost city I could give full play to my voice and I let it soar. Who knows how long since “Kithilunen” had been heard in that ruined place? My voice floated in the air asking YY for warmth and comfort through the night, for safety in the knowledge of darkness, a prayer my Grandmother taught me, older than we are. A prayer that there should be one light in the sky, at least, each night. When the last note died I felt the peace that comes sometimes from singing and sometimes from worship. I took a deep breath and watched dark water. The impression of voices in my head increased.

I heard a real sound, a horse’s hoof striking stone, and I turned.

A horseman appeared in the Courtyard, inside one of the arches, though not the one I had entered. The horse’s coat blazed white in the twilight, like the horse of Death in the stories. The horseman carried no torch but I could see him clearly. I thought him another ghost in spite of the sound of the horse’s hooves. When he rode closer I could see the elegant trappings of his saddle and gear. The man unclasped the russet cloak he wore, as if he found the courtyard warm. When he saw me he reined in the big horse and sat still. After a moment he called out words I failed to understand, his voice musical and deep. When I gave no answer, he rode the horse across the broken courtyard and dismounted.

There was fear on his face. He asked me something in that language I couldn’t understand. His beauty astonished me and took me back to the dream, and when I recognized him I felt as if I couldn’t get breath. He had not arrived by boat this time. Yet he must be a ghost, too. He appeared not much older than Sim but was stronger of body. He wore a light tunic and riding boots. He had a rich mouth, olive-colored lips perfectly shaped, flaring. His eyes were black as night, his skin tawny, between bronze and gold. He spoke to me intently in that ringing speech again, and I heard fear in his voice. I said, quickly, “I’m a farm boy from the north country. The only language I understand is the one I’m speaking.”

His relief was obvious. In Upcountry he said, “You’re not one of the ghosts?”

“No, sir. Are you?”

He laughed, a warm, lively sound. “No, I’m not a ghost either. So we’re both all right that way.”

His horse blew out breath impatiently. The man went on watching me, without hurry. “I heard you singing Kithilunen. You sing well. How do you know that song if you can’t speak true Jisraegen?”

“My grandmother taught it to me. I know what most of the words mean.”

“I heard you from very far away,” he said. “I’ve waited for that song for a long time. Do you know where you are?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m in a courtyard where there was once a glass fountain. Over there is what’s left. Did you know about the fountain?”

“Yes. You know, your disappearance caused quite a stir in your camp.”

“Have you been there? Is my uncle angry?”

He laughed. “Yes, I’ve been to your camp. Your uncle is concerned, not angry. He had just noticed you were missing when I arrived and his friends were getting ready to search for you, even though they’re afraid of this city. I offered to search for you myself.” He stepped closer. I could not tell how old he was, any more. “How did you think you would find your way back so far at night?”

The thought had never occurred to me. I stared stupidly toward the river. “I would have walked along the canal the way I came.”

When he stepped closer I felt a flood of the dream returning; at the same time he lifted my face to catch the moonlight, touching me easily; I hardly gave it note. “You’re like a boy from ten thousand years ago. Arthen is the true home of your blood.” He paused, a slight guardedness to his expression. “Do you know who I am?”

The question made my heart pound. Because I did know. “You’re Kirith Kirin,” I said.

He went on watching me without comment or sign of surprise. His horse called him and other horses approached, torchlight flickering on the arched entryways and then on the ruined flagstone of the courtyard. The black haired man stood there as if he heard nothing. A woman’s voice rose clear and strong, a question.

“I’m on the quay,” he answered, speaking Upcountry. “Where the boat landing used to be. If you look you can see me.”

“Don’t be clever, I don’t have Venladrii silver in my eyes. Why are you speaking Upcountry?” She had switched to that language herself however. The woman rode her horse forward. “Some of Imral’s men have joined us. They crossed the bridge anyway, the boy’s uncle and some other folk. Have you found anything here? Do you think he could be the voice we heard?”

“Yes of course he could,” Kirith Kirin said, and laughed. “He’s right here in front of me, I found him exactly as I told you I would. Send Imral word the boy’s all right, and tell his uncle too.”

She rode her horse toward us impatiently, then thought better of it. “Well, are you planning to be down there for very long? No one wants to be here after dark.”

“For heaven’s sake Karsten, do as I’ve asked. I trust I won’t keep you waiting beyond your patience.”

She said, “At your service, oh prince,” as she rode away, and he laughed again watching her. When he turned to me his voice was gentler. “Everything seems good tonight, even Karsten’s sarcasm. We can’t stay here long, you’ve caused a fuss. Will you ride with me on Keikindavii, Jessex?”

Maybe it was only that he said my name, that made me trust him. Though, more likely, it was simply his charm, something that everyone felt. We walked to his horse. Kirith Kirin saw that I was shivering and wrapped his cloak around me. “How can you be cold in Cunuduerum perpetual summer?”

“It doesn’t feel like spring to me,” I said, and he watched me carefully again and mounted Keikindavii, Nixva’s father, who greeted me grandly. Kirith Kirin drew me up behind him.

“Hold on to me. You’ll soon be warm.”

I hugged his waist. The warmth of his body was wonderful. He paused a moment before he turned the horse to cross the courtyard. “I must have dreamed of seeing the city this way a thousand times,” he said, “and here it is at last.” We rode to meet his soldiers who awaited him with patient torches burning.

4

That ride through darkness was more dreamlike than the walk through the city. His outriders led us quickly, with torches, across the bridge to camp. The woman he had called Karsten rode close to us. I watched her through the folds of the cloak, noting the strength of her long brown legs, the power of her arms, the beauty of her face framed in shining white hair. There were many riders round her and behind her, and she shouted commands to them, beautiful syllables like singing. In their company, my fear of the dream vanished.

I could hear Prince Imral’s voice along with my uncle’s in the crowd of riders but I could not see them. Keikindavii started neighing long before we reached the clearing where long ago I had helped make camp. The voice that greeted him was one I knew. Prince Kirith felt me squirm against him and half turned. “Do you hear Nixva? He knows his father is coming. He’s wondering about you too, if you can credit it.”

I could, remembering Nixva’s gray eyes from the morning we rode into Arthen. I settled against Kirith Kirin again, brief last moments of warmth before we rode onto the lawn where the cook fire was burning.

We dismounted by a smaller fire close to the river. Kirith Kirin helped me down and kept me by him, not yet claiming his cloak. When his riders assembled he had his Marshal of the Ordinary, a woman named Gaelex, assign them to posts. He wanted a watch kept while we were near Cunuduerum, and sentries. He wanted his own tent pitched wherever Imral was. The soldiers were to be fed even if they had already eaten and anybody who wanted wine was to get it, to the last cup if necessary. He said this in a jovial way. He dismissed his retinue soon after, and turned to his friends. When I started to find Uncle Sivisal Kirith Kirin held me back and said, “Not yet. Wait.”

I stood awkwardly, trying to hold up his cloak and look dignified. In the fire shadows I glimpsed Uncle Sivisal, walking toward the cook fire scowling at me. He bowed to Kirith Kirin, who greeted him by name. “We found your nephew,” he said, “so wipe that look off your face.”

Uncle Sivisal glanced at me, a warning and a question. “Sir, I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into him —”

“He wanted to see the city,” Kirith Kirin shrugged. “Who wouldn’t, being so close?”

Said in this way, as if I were simply a curious tourist, the remark brought laughter. No one, it seemed, ever had such thought about this place. Lady Karsten added, “At least we know your nephew’s no coward, Sivisal. We found him near the High Place. He was singing.”