Then she realized.
THERE WERE NO MOONS!
The shock of it almost made the story fade. There were no moons, and the Anaran sky was black as she had never seen it, full of millions of brilliant stars.
And it was so cold.
This was important, she knew it was; she tried to hold on to it but the story surged back and the giant cried out, “Where is my sacrifice? Where is my reward?” so that the rock shook. She tore a hand free of the ropes and grabbed the sword.
“It’s not me!” she screamed. “And I’m not going to fight you!”
But the god roared and swung its great mace and she ducked, striking back at it. For a day and a night she fought with it, time that passed without time, until Anarax rode to her rescue on the winged night-cat, and in an instant the story transformed and . . .
. . . SHE WAS STANDING ON A HILLTOP, still under a dark sky, with six other Sekoi.
Breathless, she looked up.
Out of the night, a silver staircase was forming. Down it came new, strange people; small, slender forms, their hair long, unfurred. A male first, tall and dark-haired, dressed in a coat of stars, and behind him others—a female, another bigger male with an animal in his arms.
The Sekoi murmured. Around her, anxiety rippled.
The Karamax walked out to meet the Starmen.
Under her feet the grass was frozen. As she crunched on it something shot through her numbed mind like a stab of memory. She had seen this meeting before. A hundred times. On smashed windows, images, relics. These were the Starmen.
Men.
She struggled for the other word bitterly, forcing her mind after it as it slipped away.
Makers.
These were the Makers.
The Sekoi gathered at the foot of the stairs.
“We welcome you, strange people,” Sharrik said in the Tongue.
The Starmen smiled. The tall one held out small hands.
“Let us be friends,” he urged. “My tribe and your tribe.”
She knew this story, but it was wrong. This wasn’t how Raffi told it.
Raffi!
How do I get out? she asked him, almost in tears. How do I direct the dream, Raffi, and get out of this stinking mess! What do I do?
But he wasn’t there, and the Starmen were turning away. The story was fading and she knew she had to do something now, right now, or this would go on forever, so she shoved through the gap and ran, breathless, to the foot of the silver stairs and grabbed the cold handrail, screaming out the only name she could think of in an explosion of breath and anger.
“Flain! Wait! Talk to me!”
He stopped.
Halfway up the stairs he turned, as if he was puzzled.
She felt free, as if she had burst a hole in some smothering web.
“Listen to me, Flain, please! Galen always says I should talk to you. So now I’m talking.”
He smiled. “I see.” Quietly he walked back down. She saw he was a man in his prime; dark hair slightly touched with gray, hiding the thin gold crown. Close up, his face showed a small scar on the bridge of his nose, and the dark coat he wore was threadbare, flecked with small moth-holes.
She caught hold of his arm. “Tell me my name.”
“You know your name,” he said patiently. “It’s Carys.”
“Carys! That’s right!” She frowned, scratching her furred tribemark. “Look, I need help. I have to break out of these stories!”
Flain laughed. “You’ve needed help before. You’ve rarely asked for it.”
“That was different!” Looking up, she saw Tamar and Soren and Theriss waiting for him. Right at the back was a smaller man, thin and wiry, his narrow face bearded, closed with some inner tension. A chill of astonishment touched her. That must be Kest.
“Different?” Flain asked lightly.
“It was never like this!” She shook her head. “There was never a time I hadn’t been trained for, when I didn’t know what to do. But this! It’s all in my mind. I can’t stop it. It won’t let me out and Galen’s in trouble, all of them are!” She had five fingers now. She threw down the Sekoi wand in disgust.
“And we, the Makers? We’re in your head too?”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t help me.”
He smiled wanly. “Remember that outside the cage, Carys, if you can. And tell the keeper he will see me soon. Very soon.”
Suddenly she caught a glimpse of gold in his hair and put her hand up. “That’s the Coronet!”
He stepped back.
“That’s what we’re looking for!”
He nodded. “Indeed. Gold.” A long look passed between them; she caught her breath in sudden understanding. But he had turned and was walking up the stairs.
“Wait! How do I get out?”
“That’s easy! Even Raffi could tell you. You just open your eyes.”
“They are open!” she yelled, furious.
“Ah, but they’re not.”
A door slid wide in the sky. One by one the Makers went through it. On the threshold Flain looked down at her and smiled. “It’s easy, Carys.”
Then he stepped in, and the sky slid back.
At once the story began to gather; she could feel its power, speeding, crowding, moving her on, the fur on her face rippling back. She yelled with anger, shrugging off everything, swearing, struggling, kicking it away. “Wait! ” she screamed at the stars. “What use are you? Come back and help me!”
No one answered.
So she gave up in utter exhaustion.
And opened her eyes.
20
Alas, who speaks in the silence now?
Who lights up the dark?
The Lament for Tasceron
AT FIRST SHE THOUGHT it was another story.
She was lying on her back, and all she could see was blue. After a moment she realized it was the sky. A mew-bird soared across, opening its mouth as if it squawked, though Carys heard no sound. In fact, all she could hear was a faint hum.
She sat up, and stared around.
She was on a wooden slab in an empty room, and she was cold, but the amazing strangeness of the room made her forget that.
It was a bubble. An enormous clear dome of glass, coming right down to the floor all around, and as she stared out of it in wonder she saw that it rose up in the middle of the ocean, and all she could see out there on every side was water, a vast swell that slapped and surged against the glass, leaving swathes of foam that slithered silently down.
It was astonishing. She swung her feet off the table and stood up, finding her body stiff and aching. She was ravenously hungry.
But the dome! Walking up close she saw her own reflection, and putting a hand up she touched the glass. It was smooth and perfectly transparent, though it had to be incredibly thick. Not a whisper of sound came through it. Maker-work, obviously.
There was a small step up to a gallery that ran around it; and she climbed up, so that her eye-level was above the water. She was standing in the sea; it was all around her and yet she couldn’t smell it or taste its salt. Miles of empty water stretched to the horizon, and the small moon, Lar, was just setting, a chalky smudge.
It looked to be about midday. But which day? And where was the land?
She shook her head. So much for boasting to the Sekoi.
Her pack lay under the slab and she hurried down to it, rummaging inside. She pulled out another shirt and dragged it on, hurrying her coat back over it, then unwrapped a few strips of salted meat and dried fruit and gobbled them down. There was a jug of cold water and a cup. She drank thirstily. Obviously she wasn’t meant to starve.
There was no way to tell how long she’d been here. Days maybe. The Sekoi might even have reached Galen by now. Chewing raisins, she looked around the room carefully and saw the door, outlined in the smooth wall under the gallery.
She poured the rest of the water into her own flask, then swung the pack on fiercely. As she did the straps up, her hands shook with a fury that almost made her laugh. So she was a traitor, was she? She grabbed the crossbow, checked it, and loaded a bolt grimly.