A tall, powerfully built Jehanan male glided out of the darkness. His scales were golden, shimmering, flashing like mirrors. Well-muscled arms wielded a burning stave, a length of wood wrapped with pitch and resin. He sprang into the circle, whirling flame over his head. So swift was the movement the blurring stroke became a single burning disc, shining in the east.
Avaya fled, leaping and bounding – and Gretchen knew she fled down the hillside, springing rushing streams, weather-worn boulders, seeking always the safety of night behind beckoning hills – and the Sun-King gave chase. The crowd of faces, the soft outlines of the rooftops, the dusty street of a market town, all fled from Anderssen's perception and for a timeless moment, all she beheld was the long chase of the Lord of Light to reclaim the precious Nem from the hands of iridescent Avaya and his endless quest to bring her forth from bondage in the underworld.
A chorus of voices joined the winging sound of the instruments, calling back and forth in counterpoint to relate the pleading cries of the King, and the demure, evasive answers of the maid.
Malakar shook her shoulder gently, drawing the human back into the shelter of the crowd.
"We must go," the gardener whispered. "The tikikit do not tarry on their rounds."
Gretchen blinked, rubbed her face and followed – unseeing, half-blinded by clinging smoke – as they passed down a narrow lane and a set of broad steps. The old Jehanan stopped, dipping her claws into a stone trough.
"Here," the gardener said, raising cupped hands. "Clear your eyes."
Anderssen splashed shockingly cold water on her face, shivered and wiped her nose. The glorious visions of the sun racing across the hills of a dry, green world faded. Everything was dark and close again, pregnant with the smell of cinnamon.
"Thank you. I was…overcome."
The Jehanan's eyes gleamed in the darkness, reflecting the lighted windows of the nearest house. "You impress me, asuchau. You were singing, as the eldest do, remembering fragments of the lost… Most of those around us did not understand the words, but some did. They were becoming alarmed, once they realized who you were and had no business knowing such things."
"Singing?" Gretchen shook her head vehemently. "I can't sing."
"Certainly," Malakar said, amused. "Your throat and pitiful snout are not suited for our songs, of course. I see why you are shy – but still, a worthy effort."
"I was not singing," Anderssen said sharply, feeling intense irritation. "You must have been imagining things."
"Hoooo…" The gardener tilted her head to one side. "Perhaps."
"Where is this tikikit?" Gretchen said, relieved the creature did not pursue the matter. Her throat felt a little raw. She cupped her hands and drank from the trough, which flowed silently with cold spring water. The damp, fecund odor of moss filled her nostrils.
"It will come soon." Malakar continued on down the steps, which led into a grove of ancient trees. Forgetting to turn on her flashlight, Gretchen hurried after, not wishing to be left alone in the humid darkness. With the sun passed away behind the seventeen hills to the west, the night air was turning cold.
The path narrowed, winding among close-set trees, and then ended in a rutted track. A lamp-post stood beside the road, holding a paper lantern. Malakar stood in a circle of light cast by the dim yellow flame. In the wan radiance, the old Jehanan looked particularly tired, her scales glowing the color of brass. Gretchen slowed, boots sinking into soft, springy ground, and her eyes were drawn to the trees, to the moss covering their roots and the half-seen shape of a tiny stone house set between two enormous, gnarled trunks.
Dim outlines of seated figures were visible inside the open door. Anderssen felt a prickling chill; haphazard thoughts tickling the back of her mind. Spirits of forest and glade, watchers over traveling folk. Guardians to keep the foul denizens of the night at bay…the hatchet-handed corpse, the weeping woman, swarms of ciuateteo seeking warm blood…
"Do we have to wait here?" Anderssen pulled her jacket tight, shuffling forward. "This is an uneasy place… Don't your people know crossroads areunlucky, particularly at night?"
Malakar lifted her snout and blew disdainfully through her nostrils. "Where are your quick, knife-sharp thoughts now, asuchau? You're pale as new-laid shell. Did your grandmother feed you tales of ghosts and spirits with your growing milk?"
"I'm not comfortable here," Gretchen admitted, squatting down next to the old Jehanan. In the colorless lamplight, the muddy pools of water in the rutted road shimmered. Short-bladed grass growing at the verge cast long, sharp shadows. Gretchen shivered a little, feeling the eyes of the statue in the little house boring into the back of her neck. "Not comfortable at all."
The gardener made a low, hooting sound, little more than a rumble in the back of her throat. "Fear not – this is only a waiting place. Many have waited here before, many will wait here again. The tikikit will come soon and bear us south. Just sit a little, rest your weary feet. Feel the quiet under the trees, in the long branches…"
Anderssen tried, but squatting beside Malakar made her feel hot and uncomfortable, so she moved to the side, searching for someplace dry to sit. After a few moments of crawling in the low grass, she came upon a flattish rock and sighed with relief. Now she could sit properly. The gardener had been right about the silence – the only sounds were dew slowly dripping from overhanging boughs and the distant, faint murmur of the festival.
Gretchen realized she was tired and sore. Her legs hurt from running and walking and climbing stairs for days on end. Despite the complaints of her body, she didn't feel hungry, so she laid her head on her forearms and closed her eyes.
Anderssen woke abruptly, roused by the sound of someone singing in a queer, warbling voice, sending hooting, trilling calls wandering among the trees. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the light and found Malakar staring at her with a rapt expression, long head tilted to one side.
"Do not stop," the Jehanan begged. "The wholeness of H'єnd and the Diamond-Eye has been lost to all memory!"
"What are you talking about?" Nervous, Gretchen unfolded herself from the ground, legs numb and stared around at the dark trees and the road and the lamp-post with wide eyes. "Where are we? Where are the fire-tower and the plain of salt? The city of glass?"
"You were singing of them, but who knows where they lie?" Malakar bent her long snout to the ground. "Your voice is strange – hollow and low and soft – yet still I could make out the words…"
Anderssen pressed her palms against her eyes, feeling the edges of a dream fade away into darkness. Her throat hurt. She sipped some water from a flask, and then forced her numb, clumsy fingers to dig out a threesquare. Gagging, she managed half of the cold goo in the tube.
"Are you hungry?" Gretchen offered Malakar the rest of the threesquare. "This is human food, but you might be able to metabolize the proteins. It's spiced chicken."
The gardener sidled up, tail twitching and sniffed the tube. "Che-keen smells like sewage," Malakar declared, nostril flaps tightening. "I will wait."
Unable to finish, Anderssen nodded in commiseration and stuffed the threesquare back into her pocket. She rubbed her throat. "You heard me…singing?"
Malakar nodded solemnly, rising to her full height. "Without doubt. How can this be? Did you tarry upon Mokuil in your vision long enough to learn venerable songs, to sit at the feet of the eldest as they sang of the ancient heroes?"