“Why would you act this way? Can you not understand that we have been very fortunate? Why would you wish to trouble your people, who have had enough of suffering, with questions about something that is over and done with?”
Thus, when Viyeki discovered several more similarly abandoned projects above the failure line of the collapse, each one with its own well, all strung along the face of the mountain like gems on a necklace, he told no one. There was only one he wished to speak with about it in any case, and Viyeki was not quite ready for that conversation.
“We come now to the end of this particular tale of the Wars of Return, and to a necessary apology from your chronicler. Because these words were written less than half a Great Year after the events described, and because your scribe lived through the siege of the city and felt the mountain fall it has been more difficult than usual to keep this chronicler’s flawed perceptions from affecting the proper recounting of fact.
“The only true history is that which has survived for generations and provided edification to our people, history that gives us an understanding of the past which holds firmly to the eternal truths of who we are—the undeniable truths of our martyrs, our sacred home, and our beloved monarch.
“But since Queen Utuk’ku slept the keta-yi’indra throughout the siege, and even as of this writing has still not returned to us from her healing exile on the Road of Dreams, this telling of our history can only be flawed and incomplete, full of the errors that come when one humble chronicler tries to tell the tale without the necessary perspective of time and the corrections of her superiors. Still, it was this scribe’s duty to do so, and she performed it as best she could.
“A great tragedy in the south was nearly followed by an even greater tragedy, the loss of our longtime home and the destruction of our people. But by the virtue of the nobles of our most important orders, the Sacrifices, the Singers, and the Builders, we survived. A lesson is here for alclass="underline" Do not trust in what seem to be the truths of the moment. Put your faith instead in the things that are eternal. Love our queen and love our mountain, love and remember the Garden That Was Lost, and the song of our race will find its proper melody.
“Here this telling ends. The humble chronicler begs pardon for her failings and hopes that her efforts have brought at least something of use to those who read this.”
—Lady Miga seyt-Jinnata, Order of Chroniclers,
in the Eighth Great Year of High Celebrant Zuniyabe,
16th magister of that order
Viyeki’s Builders were digging out a blocked main tunnel to the outside. As he returned from an inspection of the workers’ progress, making his way down a narrow, nameless alley on the main tier of Nakkiga, he suddenly felt the hairs on his neck rise. It took a moment longer before he heard the muffled sound of soft boots. Instead of waiting to discover whether any of those coming behind him even approached his own rank, Viyeki heeded the warning of his lifted hackles and stepped to the side to allow those behind him to pass.
It was a line of Singers in robes the color of dried blood, a dozen or more, and the four at the back were carrying a litter. As the procession went by, some silent signal was passed. The litter stopped and its curtains parted. Viyeki could see nothing of the face in the deep-shadowed hood that appeared there, but he knew that unmusical voice the instant he heard it.
“Hold, there! I see a face I believe I know. Is that Viyeki sey-Enduya of the Builders?”
Surprised and perhaps even a bit frightened at the unexpected recognition, Viyeki made all the proper gestures of respect as he bowed low. “It is, great Lord Akhenabi, and it is flattering that you remember me. I only heard of your recovery a few bells ago, but I have already lit several candles in the temples in gratitude for your return to us. I’m sure all of Nakkiga feels the same.” Despite his fear of the powerful Lord of Song, Viyeki was not exaggerating: the people of Nakkiga might all tremble before the magician, but Akhenabi had been a familiar part of all their lives since before any but the queen and a few of her eldest councilors could remember. The news of his reawakening had been greeted by most as a reassuring return to the way things had been.
As befitted one of his stature, the great Singer gave no sign he had heard the flattering words. “I have been told that Lord Yaarike has named you his successor, Host Foreman. I hope that when you ascend to Yaarike’s title you will be as cooperative with the important work of our order as your master has been.”
Without another word or any sort of sign, Akhenabi’s litter rose back onto the shoulders of his carriers. The hooded procession abruptly moved off down the street, vanishing into the darkness and leaving Viyeki to ponder all the meanings that could lurk in the Lord of Song’s words.
Cooperative. He hopes I will be as cooperative as Lord Yaarike. That innocuous phrase, which ordinarily would have seemed only a bit of obvious politicking, seemed in present circumstances something more sinister. Of course our orders worked together during the siege for the good of all Nakkiga. But does Akhenabi mean some other cooperation with the Order of Song? Something darker and more secret?
After a long day spent breathing stone-dust in the sweltering depths of the mountain, Viyeki wanted nothing more than to return to his house, to order and quiet. But Akhenabi’s cryptic words gnawed at him, and he knew rest would be as elusive as it had been for many nights now. The only thing that might quiet his mind was finding answers to the questions that tormented him, though he knew hearing them might destroy his world.
But even if he could not put off the confrontation any longer, he still had to return to his house first. He had something there that he needed.
“Southerner! Porto! Over here!”
It was Kolbjorn, waving from the other side of a group of men hitching oxen to carts. “Hoy! Over here!” the Northman called.
Porto went to join him, stepping over the quantities of dung that decorated the muddy road. The wind had a freezing bite to it today, and the drovers and others were struggling to work while keeping their backs to the icy breeze.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” the young Rimmersman said. “One of the duke’s men is waiting for us back at the campfire.”
Porto pulled his cloak tighter. “Why? By the Good God, they’re not going to keep us here any longer, are they? I have five hundred leagues to ride home. I will be fortunate if I am back before the Elysiamansa festival.”
“You will be fortunate indeed if snakes don’t eat you,” said Kolbjorn. “I hear the southern lands are fierce with snakes.”
Porto rolled his eyes. The Rimmersmen all seemed to think he had spent his life in a steaming jungle like the swampy Wran instead of a perfectly civilized city. “Oh, yes, the snakes are common as kittens where I come from. They crawl into your bed at night to stay warm and then lick your nose to wake you when they’re hungry.”
Kolbjorn stared at him for a moment, sensing the other might be having fun at his expense. “Well, I’d rather fight giants every day than have those Devil’s creatures under my feet all the time.”
Porto laughed. “You are a braver man than I, Kolbjorn, but we already knew that. What does the duke’s man want?”
“Ask him. There he stands.”
The yellow-bearded Rimmersman was the only figure beside the fire—the one they called Sludig Two-Axes, one of Isgrimnur’s fiercest fighters. At the moment he looked distracted but otherwise approachable.