The Darkangel (5 page)

"It is the weight of these garments," another said, or perhaps it was the first again. They all moved about constantly, rocking or pacing, before and behind her. Aeriel could not keep her eye on them all. And all of them had the same face, save that some were more or less withered than others.

"Our garments and our bones," another told her.

"And the years."

"And the tears."

"The other one wove us garments she said were of seedsilk," said one of the wraiths, "but we are growing so thin that already they drag us down."

They moved a little closer, and Aeriel fell back until she pressed against the wall. A musty fragrance came from them, reminding her of ashes and root cellars. She watched the wraiths.

"You must weave us kirtles of finer stuff."

"Mouse-hair."

"Or birdsong."

"Or breath."

They looked at her with their hollows for eyes, and some of them nodded. Aeriel shrank away.

"Which one of you is Eoduin?" she whispered. Her voice would not stay steady otherwise.

"Oh, we have all lost our names by this time," they replied.

"Which one of you was the first to come here?"

The wraiths looked at one another in puzzlement. "We do not know," said one. "Our memories fade, then come again. None of us can now remember back much farther than a day-month, and there were always many of us a day-month ago."

Aeriel suppressed a shudder. "Why does he keep you here?"

"We keep ourselves," said the wraiths. "If we wandered freely about this great castle, we would surely lose ourselves—what little there is left of ourselves to lose."

Aeriel grimaced at the creatures' closeness.

"Why are you afraid of us?" said another of the wraiths.

"What has he done to you?" cried Aeriel softly, able to keep her revulsion hidden no longer. "You were women once."

"True," said one.

"We were like you."

"But prettier."

"What has he done to you?" cried Aeriel again.

"Drunk up our blood."

"Stolen our souls."

"Torn out our hearts and thrown them to the gargoyles."

Aeriel turned away from them, groped for the door.

"Where are you going?" cried the wraiths.

"I," began Aeriel, finding the doorway with her hand.

"Do not leave us!"

"I... I must find the garden."

"We have no one to talk to," said one of the wraiths.

"You have each other," stammered Aeriel, brushing away one slender mummy-hand that reached to catch a pleat of her kirtle and tug her back.

"We are all almost the same," sighed the wraiths. "Talking to each other is only a little more or less like talking to oneself."

"I—I must go," choked Aeriel, gathering her kirtle more closely about her against the delicate pulls and pinches of their hesitant, outreaching hands.

"Go," they told her, "but come back."

"I will come back," she heard herself promising—anything to be gone—and ran.

The garden lay on the north face of the castle, above the clifFside, and had grown quite wild in the years since it had last been tended. Silvery spindle-grass threaded up through the pavement. Across the footpaths snaked sinewy creepers, their long, twining tendrils dotted by wine-scented blossoms with petals of gold. Elsewhere in the garden, the firethorn was in flower, and beside it the brittle-fruit stood blooming, its branches unladen as yet with sweet, crystalline drupes.

Aeriel wandered amid the flowers and the foliage, pausing now and again to peer through the fronds of white fig, or sort through the leaves of owl's feather wort in search of fruit, or seed, or nut—but there were none. And slowly she began to wonder whether this might not be a garden arrested in midseason: where everything flowered but nothing came to fruit, nor perhaps ever would wither and die.

Aeriel was hungry. Solstar had climbed a dozen degrees in the black, starry heavens since she had last eaten, and more than that since she had last tasted water. The nectarine scents of the flowers made her stomach twist with hunger. Her throat was close and dry. She had begun to feel lightheaded, dizzy.

She spotted a statue in the sunlight only a few paces from her, a little man about three feet high. He had a quizzical face and a long, twining beard. Aeriel approached the stone figure, leaned against it for support—but he was not a statue, she discovered. Only a moment after her shadow fell across him, he slowly blinked, then pursed his lips and stretched.

"Well, Merciful Darkness, girl," he sighed. "I thought you'd never—
don't
move!" he cried as Aeriel leapt back in surprise. As he said it, he jumped with her so that he remained in her shadow. "Now keep your wits, girl," he continued quickly. "I couldn't hurt you if I wanted, and I can be of help to you if you'll have me."

"Who are you?" said Aeriel hesitantly, more intrigued than frightened.

"You may call me Talb," the little man said with a bow, still careful to remain in her shadow. "It is not my name, but then, one must be careful just whom one hands one's name out to these days. And who, may I inquire, are you?"

"My name is Aeriel," she replied. "I come from the foot of the steeps of Terrain."

"That far?" said the little man. "Well, he must have brought you, then—not one of his new brides, I hope? But no, you're not wasted enough, and it's too soon, besides.
May
we stand out of the sun, mistress?" Here the little man's tone grew petulant. "It's rather awkward trying to stand here in your shadow when you keep bending and cocking your head to peer at me. Perhaps the songbriar over there... ?"

He gestured and Aeriel nodded. They walked carefully to the shade of the leafy songbriar and sat down on the grassy limerock.

"You're his new maid, I suppose," said the little man, straightening the sleeves of his robe. The air about him smelled like old parchment and calf.

"I'm to spin," said Aeriel, "for his wives."

"Oh," said the other with some distaste. "Those awful wraiths. They wail, did you know?

Worse than the gargoyles. I've tried talking to them, once or twice—witless things. I think their brainpans,must be empty."

Aeriel looked at him. "I find them pitiable," she said, trying hard to put down her repulsion. She had promised to go back. "Grotesque, perhaps, but it's not their fault."

"Oh, without a doubt, without a doubt," the little man agreed, "but not much company."

Aeriel looked off across the garden. "Who... I mean,
what
are you," she asked him, "and from where do you come?"

The little man's tangled eyebrows rose. "I'm a duarough," he cried, almost indignant;

"can't you tell? I come from the ground, from the caves under the ground, from the great caves, from the jeweled caverns. I was treasurer to the late king in my time, kept the vast storehouses brimming with jewels—all empty now. There is only the lime crystal left in the caves, though that is lovely___" His voice trailed off and his little stone-grey eyes grew moist remembering.

"What were you doing in the garden?" Aeriel asked him in a moment, when he did not continue. "That is, why were you standing so still?" She was afraid to admit she had taken him for a statue.

"Hm?" said her companion, coming out of his thoughts. "Oh, yes, well—I'm a duarough, as I said. Are you sure you have not heard of us? We do well enough by dark, or starlight, or earthlight, or even lamplight—but the light of Solstar blinds us, halts us in midstep, turns us to stone, you might say; we can't look away." He chuckled softly, stretched again, and yawned. "I had just come out in the predawn for a bit of fresh air— but I'm afraid I dozed, and the sunrise caught me. Marry, I was glad when you stumbled across me! I was afraid I should have to stand there all day-month till sunset, staring into that wretched star."

Aeriel felt her hunger returning as her initial surprise faded. "You said you could help me," she said in a moment.

"Ah, yes, and so I can," said the duarough, "so I can. I tried to help the one before you, but she wouldn't listen. At first she was of good heart and as gay as could be expected.

But the day-months grew long, and she began to look weary as the wraiths—hollow-cheeked and hollow-eyed." The little man sighed and shook his head. "She knew she mustn't run away. But she kept straying to the steps in the cliff face that lead down to the plain. One day she took them, poor thing—didn't get very far. The gargoyles saw her escaping almost at once and raised the alarum, dreadful sound!" The duarough looked at Aeriel. "I suppose that is why he brought you here, to replace her."

"Please," said Aeriel; she was feeling faint. "Is there any food in this garden?"

"Ah, food!" her companion cried, as if suddenly remembering himself. "Of course. No, there's no food in this place, but if you'll follow, I'll take you to my caves, where there's food and in plenty."

The caverns were vast, great hol-lows in the bedrock on which the castle stood. They stretched on in a winding chain far beyond the limit of the pale rushlight the duarough held up high. A gleaming river ran. out of the endless chain of caverns to the left, through the high-ceilinged natural hall into which they were emerging, and away down to the right, where Aeriel could hear the water's splashing echoed back through a myriad of long vaulted chambers.

"Where does it lead?" said Aeriel.

"Miles and miles," the duarough replied. "Oh, heavens, child, I've never had the time to follow—all the way to eternity for all I know." He hopped off the last step of the tunnel of stairs they had taken down into the earth from the garden. "Now come along," he said;

"we shall have to wade."

He stepped out onto the sandy bank and Aeriel followed. The sand lay smooth and white as sawdust, felt at the same time soft and gritty. The water was warm, the current swift but not treacherous. And Aeriel realized its light was not merely the reflection of the duarough's torch, but an actual property of the river. Aeriel stopped in midstream, cupped her hands to the water and brought it to her lips. There was a taste of minerals to it, vaguely saline, and a soothing, almost herbal fragrance. It settled her stomach and steadied her. She drank again and followed the duarough to the opposite bank.

He led her along the cavern wall then, for a little way. It was of smooth white limestone and sprang up only a pace or two from the riverbank. They came to a place where the wall doubled back a step (though the river did not) before running on, and there in the shadow of that narrow niche was an ivory door—invisible until the duarough held up his rushlight to it and pushed it aside. It gave easily.

There was a narrow passage for a few steps, and then a great chamber of white limestone bare of anything but a small heap of sticks in the middle. They burned merrily—leapt in white flame—being dry and grey as desert driftwood. The duarough went forward into the chamber— his rush was almost burnt out—and tossed it into the little blaze.

"Come, girl," said the duarough. "Sit by the fire and rest while I fetch us some food—for I have not eaten in as long as you, probably longer."

Then he hobbled off across the room—his legs were very short—and disappeared through a door in the wall, one Aeriel had not noticed before. It was, like the other, carefully concealed by the shadows and unevenness of the wall. She sat by the fire, watching the pungent woodsmoke rise to the ceiling in a thin, white line, where it pooled and filled the little pocks and pockets there. Aeriel had never seen a wood fire before.

The people in her village burned oil in lamps and jars, or candles.

Presently, she heard the duarough returning on the other side of the little door, ambling along and mumbling a quiet tune to himself. His arms were laden with fruits and berries.

He knelt down beside the fire and spread them out. Aeriel sat staring at the quantity and variety of it all.

"Well, eat," the duarough said. "And you had best be quick, or I shall eat it all myself."

Then he immediately fell to and Aeriel followed. There were quinces and lemons and pale mauve citrons, pearl nuts and fanworts and pumpkins of gold. There was bitter-gummed saproot and taproot of cane, and squat milky mushrooms sweeter than nutmeat and smoother than curd. There were fish, too, dead ones. Aeriel was astonished.

"You eat them?" she asked the duarough. "Fish?"

"Certainly, daughter," the duarough replied, offering her some. "That is what they are for."

Aeriel tasted a bit of the moist white flesh. It was warm and tender on her tongue. "But they are dead," said Aeriel. "How is it their bodies have not fallen into ash?"

"Hra?" mumbled the duarough, munching on almonds now. "Oh, the cooking does that."

Aeriel ate of the little man's provender until no more was left, for the duarough, it seemed, was fully as hungry as she. She realized that, after all, he had not eaten since before sunrise—though since he had been dead stone most of the while, not living flesh, she was surprised he should have developed such an appetite. At any rate, it made no matter, for between them, they both had quite enough.

"Where does all this come from?" asked Aeriel when they were done.

Her host was busy collecting the leavings of their feast. "The food? From the caves, from the stream," he said, looking up. "Here is life."

"The water," said Aeriel, "it's warm. Where does it come from?"

"From the ground, daughter, from the earth."

Aeriel felt a frown creasing her brow. "But it's warm," she said. "Water out of the ground is cold."

The duarough nodded. "Aye, still water, dead water. But this is real water, girl. It runs and glows and bubbles with life."

"But so much of it," answered Aeriel, thinking of the depth and breadth of the stream.

"Much!" her companion cried. "That's barely a trickle. Ah, if you could have seen the caves of Aiderlan as I did in my childhood." He sighed. "Water still fell from the sky in my youth,, and swelled the rivers. We called it rain."

"From the sky?" said Aeriel, for wonder. "How long ago were the days of your youth?"

The duarough sighed again. "A dozen thousand day-months past," he said and fell silent for a little space. Presently he glanced at Aeriel again. "Well, where did you think the water went when the seas receded and the land arose?" He laughed a little, sadly.