"Does the boy understand speech?"
Qinnitan nodded, dully, hopelessly. Even if the others went looking for her, she had just realized, it would be to the countinghouse tower on the other side of the palace grounds.
The pale man turned to the boy. "If you try to run away, I will cut off her nose, do you understand? The autarch won't care."
Pigeon looked at the man with narrowed eyes. If he was a dog, he would have growled, or more likely, simply bit without making a noise. At last he nodded.
"Well, come along then." The man landed a single kick that made tin boy whimper wordlessly and scramble awkwardly onto his feel so his bonds could be cut. Pigeon rubbed his wrists, unable to look at Qinnitan for the shame of having been part of her capture. "No tricks," the man said. "It would waste time if I have to kill or cripple either of you, but it wouldn't change anything important. Move along now." He pointed to the doorway. "We don't want to keep your master waiting. He's much less patient than I am, and much less kind."
Qinnitan stepped out into the light of the deserted courtyard, the cord chafing her ankles at each constrained step. She was too shocked and empty even to cry. The space of a few heartbeats had changed everything. Only a few dozen yards away in Kossope House she had friends, a life, all the things she had wanted so badly, but they were all lost now. Instead, she belonged to that madman again-the terrifying, utterly heartless Living God on Earth.
I
39
City of the Red Sun
So Habbili, son of Nushash, found himself alone in the world after he had
been crippled by cruel Argal. He took himself on a journey into the far
west, my children, of which only legends speak and where men have never
traveled. There it is said he spoke with his father at one end of Nushash's
mighty voyage, and afterward returned to the lands we know.
To his lordly father he said that one day he would throw down the children of Mother Shusayem, and so he did.
— from The Revelations of Nushash, Book One
F
OR A LONG TIME THE MAN wandered without a name through a forest of black poplar trees and tall cypresses that swayed in an unfelt, unheard wind. A dark stream wandered near the path, but its course veered away and vanished into the mists again as he went for¬ward. Willows curtained it, drooping and shivering like crying women, their branches dangling just above the silent waters.
The man had no strength to wonder where he was, or how he had come to this land of mist and shadow. For a long time he could think of nothing to do but walk. The sun was utterly absent, the sky a gleaming emptiness that was neither dark nor light. He thought that he had been in such a place before, a country of perpetual evening, but he also felt certain he had never been in this gloomy country. The only other thing he knew was a quiet fear that if he did not keep moving he would become as still and hopeless
as the black poplars that surrounded him might even sink into the muddy, squelching soil and become one of the trees himself.
The man wished someone were with him, a voice to sing, or speak, or even weep, anything that would pierce the unending stillness. He tried to do it himself but he had lost the knack of making words and noises just as he had lost his name. It was very quiet in this country. A few black birds walked on the branches above his head, or fluttered from tree to tree, but they were as silent as the trees and the wind and the water.
He walked on.
He had been seeing moving shadows on the far side of the stream for some time, misty figures with the shapes of men and women. Now he saw something else on that far shore which made him pause in wonderment, but he was still uncertain. He wished again he had a voice so he could ask for help from those shadow-folk, for he could see no way to cross the water, and although it seemed to move slowly he did not trust its opaque quiet.
But what do I have to lose even if the water swallows me? He had no imme¬diate answer, but he felt that somehow he did possess something, a truth of some kind he did not wish to surrender, but which the waters of the stream might wash away.
How can I cross, then?
You cannot. Or if you do, you will never return from that other shore.
A small, naked child of three or four years old stood beside him, her pale hair fluttering slowly. His first thought was to feel sorry for her, so tiny and so unprotected from the wind. Then he looked into those eyes like molten gold flecked with particles of amber and knew she was no child, or at least no mortal child.
Who are you? he asked.
Her voice was not that of a child either, or at least not of one as small as she appeared. Each word was as measured and golden as her gaze. One who remains after the others have gone. One of the elder guardians of this place-no, «guardians» is not correct. «Guides» would be better. And clearly you need guidance, little lost one.
But I want to cross the river. I need to. I… I think I see someone there that I know.
All the more reason to fear it. That is the way most of your kind lose their way in our land, by following someone they know, or think they know. You are not ready. Your time comes soon-all your kind are only a blink away at most-but it has not come yet.
He did not know what any of this meant. How could he, when he did not even know his own name? But that did not change the tilings he fell, the pull of the farther side.
Please. He reached out then, tried to take the child's hand, but it was as though she stood at the bottom of a stream that bent the light deceptively. Wherever he reached, she was not there. Please. I never told him… I did not…
Her face at first was tranquil as a marble mask, but it changed as some¬thing like pity stole across it. Then you take it upon yourself, she said at last. It is only because you have come here by mischance that it is even possible. You may cross-you may see both how things are and how things were-but you will have to be lucky as well as strong to cross the dark water a second time and come out again.
He lowered his head, humbled by his greed for something he could not even name, could not quite understand. You are kind.
Kindness is not part of these laws, especially once you are beyond my hand. The child-face was solemn. There, rules are like the paths of the stars through the great vault, fixed and remorseless. You must not eat any food or accept any gift. And you must not forget your name.
But… but I can't remember it. He looked around at the endless grove of poplars, the trunks marching away in all directions. It seemed his name was almost within reach but he still could not summon it no matter how he tried.
The child shook her head. Already? Then you are all the more a fool for tak¬ing such a risk. Only the strongest hearts can enter the city and yet live. She lifted her tiny, pale arm and a boat slid up to the bank, a thing of rusty nails and gray, weathered boards. Very well, this is the last thing I can do. I do it in mem¬ory of one like you, long ago, who also put his life in my hands. Your name is Ter¬ras Vansen.You are a living man. Now go.
And in the next moment he was upon the river. Both banks had disap¬peared and there was nothing but mist everywhere.
He was a long time on the black water. Vast shapes moved just below the surface, and sometimes the boat rocked as they passed beneath it; once or twice the things even broke water and he could see their wet hides, black and shiny as polished metal. They did not touch him or threaten him in any way, but he was very glad he was in a boat and not floundering in the dark, cold current with those huge shapes swimming beneath him, drawn to his warmth and movement.