In his panicked flight, he nearly plummeted down into the hole headfirst. Managing to catch himself at the last moment, he threw himself on the floor, grasped hold of the rungs of the ladder, and, executing a clumsy somersault, tumbled down inside. He hung suspended a moment, his hands clinging awkwardly to the top rung of the ladder, his bare feet scrabbling wildly for purchase. It was a long drop down.
Limbeck caught hold of the ladder with his toes, planted his feet more or less securely. Prying his sweating hands loose from their hold, he turned himself around and clung to the ladder thankfully, catching his breath, listening for sounds of pursuit.
“Did you hear something?” one elf was asking.
Limbeck froze against the ladder.
“Nonsense!” The lieutenant’s voice was crisp. “It’s that damn opening. It’s making us all hear things. Captain Sang-drax is right. The sooner we shut it up, the better.”
He heard a grinding sound, made by the statue sliding shut on its base. Limbeck climbed down the ladder and headed, grim-faced and coldly angry, back to his headquarters, there to institute the Plan.
His thread trail back to the automaton, the automaton itself, the unlikely peaceful union of humans, elves, dwarves—none of that mattered now. And it might not ever matter again.
He would have Jarre back... or else.
18
The weesham[31] experienced an overwhelming sense of thankfulness as she approached the Cathedral of the Albedo.[32] It was not the beauty of the structure that touched her, though the cathedral was rightfully considered to be the most beautiful of any structure built by the elves on Arianus. Nor was she overly influenced by the awe and reverence most elves felt on approaching the repository for the souls of the elven royal families. The weesham was too frightened to notice the beauty, too bitter and unhappy to be reverent. She was thankful because she had, at last, reached a safe haven.
Clutching the small lapis and chalcedony box in her hand, she hastened up the coralite steps. Gold-gilt edges gleamed in the sunshine, seemed to shine on her path. She made her way around the octagon-shaped building until she came to the central door. As she walked, the weesham glanced more than once over her shoulder—a reflexive action, born of three days of terror. She should have realized that it was not possible for even the Unseen to trail her here, into this sacred precinct. But her fear made her incapable of rational thought. Fear had consumed her, like the delirium of a fever, made her see things that were not there, hear words that weren’t spoken. She blanched and trembled at the sight of her own shadow and, reaching the door, began beating on it with a clenched fist, rather than tapping softly and reverently as she was supposed to do.
The Keeper of the Door, whose exceptionally tall stature and thin, almost emaciated-looking form marked him as one of the Kenkari elves, jumped at the sound. Hastening to the door, he stared through the crystal panes and frowned. The Kenkari was accustomed to weesham—or geir, as they were less formally but more appropriately known[33]—arriving in various stages of grief. The stages ranged from the resigned, quiet grief of the elderly, who had lived with their charges since they were young, to the stiff-lipped grief of the soldier-weesham, who had seen their charges brought down by the war currently raging on Arianus, to the anguished grief of a weesham who has lost a child. The emotion of grief on the part of the weesham was acceptable, even laudable. But lately the Keeper of the Door had been seeing another emotion connected with grief, an emotion that was unacceptable—fear.
He saw the signs of fear in this geir, as he had seen the same signs in too many other weesham of late. The hasty pounding on the door, the distraught glances over the shoulder, the pale skin marred by gray smudges of sleepless nights. The Keeper solemnly and slowly opened the door, met the geir with grave mien, forced her to go through the ritual proceedings before she was permitted entry. The Kenkari, experienced in these matters, knew that the familiar words of the ritual, though it seemed tedious at the time, brought comfort to the grieving and the fearful.
“Please, let me in!” gasped the woman when the crystal door swung open on silent hinges.
The Keeper barred the way with his own slender body. He lifted his arms high. Folds of cloth, embroidered in silken threads of iridescent reds and yellows and oranges, surrounded by velvet black, simulated the wings of a butterfly. The elf seemed, in fact, to become a butterfly—his body the body of the insect that was sacred to the elves, the wings spreading on either side. The sight was dazzling to eye and mind and reassuring as well. The geir was immediately recalled to her duties; her training and teaching returned to her. Color came to her pallid checks, she remembered the proper way to introduce herself and, after a few moments, quit trembling.
She gave her name, her clan name,[34] and that of her charge. This last name she spoke with a choke in her voice and was forced to repeat it before the Keeper understood. He searched swiftly through the repositories of his memory, found the name filed there, among hundreds of others, and ascertained that the soul of this young princess rightly belonged in the cathedral. (Difficult to believe, but, in this degenerate age, there were those elves of common blood who attempted to insinuate their own plebeian ancestors into the cathedral. The Keeper of the Door—through his extensive knowledge of the royal family tree and its numerous offshoots, both legitimate and otherwise—discovered the imposters, made them prisoners, and turned them over to the Unseen Guard.) Now the Keeper was in no doubt and made his decision immediately. The young princess, a second cousin of the emperor on his father’s mother’s side, had been renowned for her beauty and intellect and spirit. She should have lived years longer, become a wife, mother, borne more such as herself to grace this world.
The Keeper said as much, when—the ritual ended—he admitted the geir into the cathedral, shut the crystal door behind her. He noticed, as he did so, that the woman almost wept with relief, but still glanced about her in terror.
“Yes,” replied the geir in a low voice, as if, even in this sanctuary, she was afraid to talk aloud, “my beautiful girl should have lived long. I should have sewed the sheets of her wedding bed, not the hem of her shroud!” Holding the box in her open palm, the geir—a woman of around forty years—smoothed its intricately carved lid with her hand and murmured some broken words of affection for the poor soul held within.
“What was it struck her down?” asked the Keeper solicitously. “The plague?”
“Would it were!” the geir cried bitterly. “That I could have borne.” She covered the box with her hand, as if she could still protect the one inside.
“It was murder.”
“Humans?” The Keeper was grim. “Or rebels?”
“And what would my lamb, a princess of the blood, be doing with either humans or the rebel scum![35]” the geir flashed, forgetting in her grief and anger that she was speaking to a superior.
The Keeper reminded her of her place with a look.
The geir lowered her eyes, caressed the box. “No, it was her own that killed her. Her own flesh and blood!”
“Come, woman, you’re hysterical,” stated the Keeper sternly. “What possible reason—”
“Because she was young and strong, her spirit is young and strong. Such qualities,” said the geir, tears trailing unheeded down her cheeks, “are more valuable to some in death than they are in life.”
“I cannot believe—”
“Then believe this.” The geir did the unthinkable. Reaching out her hand, she grasped hold of the Keeper’s wrist, drew him near to hear her low, horror-filled words. “My lamb and I always had a glass of hot negus before retiring.[36] We shared the drink that night. I thought it tasted odd, but I assumed that the wine was bad. Neither of us finished ours, but went to bed early. My lamb had been plagued with evil dreams...” The geir had to pause, to regain her composure.
31
An elven wizard whose function is to capture the soul of a dying member of elven royalty and deliver it to the Cathedral of the Albedo. A weesham is assigned to a royal child at its birth and follows the child continually throughout life, waiting for death and the release of the soul, which is captured in a magical box.
32
An ancient word taken from old Earth. Originally “albedo” referred to that proportion of solar light shining on a planet that is reflected from that planet. The elves use the word in a highly romanticized form, to denote the light of elven souls reflecting back to their people.
34
Elves of other clans may become weesham, though only the Kenkari may serve in the cathedral. The weesham, who must be highly skilled in spirit magic, study with the Kenkari from the time they enter adolescence until they become adults (equivalent in human terms to the age of twenty). At this time, the geir are assigned to their charges, usually members of their own clans.
35
Reference to the rebel elves, who were currently attempting to overthrow the Tribus empire.
36
The geir never leave their charges, but remain at their sides, day and night, in case death should take them.