Priests led the soldiers to this house, which they called the Demon House. They took the Waylord away as a prisoner. They killed any people of the household who resisted them, and the old people. Ista managed to get away and hide at a neighbor’s house with her mother and daughter, but the Waylord’s mother was killed and her body thrown into the canal. Younger women were taken as slaves for the soldiers to use. My mother escaped by hiding with me in the secret room.
I am writing this story in that room.
I don’t know how long she hid here. She must have had some food with her, and there’s water here. The Alds ransacked the house, looting, burning what would burn. Soldiers and priests kept coming back day after day, wrecking the rooms, looking for books or loot or demonry. She had to come out at last. She crept out at night, and found refuge with other women in the basements of Cammand. And she kept herself and me alive, I don’t know where or how, until the Aids ceased looting and wrecking and settled down as masters of the city. Then she came back to her house, to Galvamand.
All the wooden outbuildings had been burned, the furnishings broken or stolen, even the wooden floors torn out in places; but the main part of the house is stone with tile roofs, and it was not much harmed. Though Galvamand is the greatest house in the city, no Ald would live in it, considering it to be full of demons and evil spirits. Little by little Decalo put things in order again as well as she could. Ista came back from hiding, with her daughter Sosta, and the old hunchback handyman Gudit turned up. This was their household, and they were loyal to it and to one another. Their gods were here, their ancestors who gave them their dreams were here, their blessing was here.
After a year had passed the Waylord was released from the Gand’s prison. The Alds put him out into the street naked. He could not walk, because their torture had broken his legs. He tried to crawl down Galva Street from the Council House to Galvamand. People of the city helped him, carried him here, carried him home. And there were people of his household to care for him.
They were very poor. Every citizen of Ansul was poor, stripped bare by the Alds. They lived somehow, and under my mother’s care the Waylord began to regain his strength. But in the cold and hunger of the third winter after the siege, Decalo took ill of a fever, and there was no medicine to cure it. So she died.
Ista declared herself my by-mother and looked after my needs. She has heavy hands and a hot temper, but she loved my mother and did her best for me. I learned early to help with the work of the house and liked it well enough. In those years the Waylord was ill much of the time, in pain from the broken limbs and the tortures which had crippled him, and I was proud to be able to wait on him. Even when I was a very young child he’d rather have me wait on him than Sosta, who hated any kind of work and spilled things.
I knew it was because of the secret room that I was alive, for it had saved me and my mother from the enemy. She must have told me that, and she must have shown me the way to open the door or I saw her do it and remembered. That’s how it seemed to me: I could see the shapes of the letters being written on the air, though I couldn’t see the hand that wrote them. My hand followed those shapes, and so I would open the door, and come here, where I thought only I ever came.
Until that day when I faced the Waylord, and we stood staring at each other, he with his fist raised to strike.
He lowered his arm.
“You’ve been here before?” he asked.
I was quite terrified. I managed a nod.
He wasn’t angry—he had raised his arm to strike an intruder, an enemy, not me. He’d never shown me anger or impatience, even when he was in pain and I was clumsy and stupid. I trusted him utterly and had never been afraid of him before, but I did hold him in awe. And at this moment he was fierce. His eyes had a fire in them as they did when he spoke the Praise of Sampa the Destroyer. They were dark, but that fire would come into them like the smoulder of opal in dark rock. He stared at me.
“Does anybody know you come here?”
Shake head.
“Have you ever spoken of this room?”
Shake head.
“Do you know you must never speak of this room?”
Nod.
He waited.
I saw that I had to say it aloud. I took a breath and said, “I will never speak of this room. Witness my vow all you gods of this house, and you gods of this city, and my mother’s soul and all souls who have dwelt in the House of the Oracle.”
At that he looked startled again. After a moment he came forward and reached out to touch my lips with his fingers. “I bear witness that this vow was made with a true heart,” he said, and turned to touch his fingers to the threshold of the little god-niche between the shelves of books. So I did the same. Then he put his hand lightly on my shoulder, looking down at me. “Where did you learn such a vow?”
“I made it up,” I said. “For when I swear that I will always hate the Alds, and I will drive them out of Ansul, and kill them all if I can.”
When I had told him that, my own most secret vow, my heart’s wish and promise that I had never told to anyone, I burst into tears—not fury tears, but sudden, huge, awful sobs that seemed to pick me up and shake me to pieces.
The Waylord got down somehow on his broken knees so that he could put his arms around me. I wept against his chest. He said nothing, but held me in a strong embrace until at last I could stop sobbing.
I was so tired and ashamed then that I turned away and sat on the floor with my face hidden against my knees.
I heard him haul himself up and go limping down towards the shadow end of the room. He came back with his handkerchief wet with water from the spring that runs there in the darkness. He put the wet cloth in my hand, and I held it to my hot blubbery face. It was lovely and cool. I held it against my eyes for a while and then scrubbed my face with it.
“I’m very sorry Waylord,” I said. I was ashamed to have troubled him with my being there and my tears. I loved and honored him with all my heart and wanted to show my love by helping and serving him, not by worrying and disturbing him.
“Theres a good deal to weep about, Memer,” he said in his quiet voice. Looking at him then I saw that he had cried, too, when I did. Tears change people’s eyes and mouth. I was abashed to see that I had made him weep, and yet it eased my shame, somehow.
After a while he said, “This is a good place for it.”
“Mostly I don’t cry here,” I said.
“Mostly you don’t cry,” he said.
I was proud he’d noticed that.
“What do you do in this room?” he asked.
It was hard to answer. “I just come when I can’t bear things,” I said. “And I like to look at the books. Is it all right if I look at them? If I look inside them?”
He answered gravely, after a pause, “Yes. What do you find in them?”
“I look for the things I do to make the door open.”
I didn’t know the word “letters.”
“Show me,” he said.
I could have drawn the shapes in the air with my anger as I did when I opened the door, but instead I got up and took the big dark-brown leather-bound book from the bottom shelf; the book I called the Bear. I opened it to the first page with words on it. (I think I did know they were words, but maybe not.) I pointed to the shapes that were the same as the ones that opened the door.
“Thisone, and this one,” I said, whispering. I had laid the book on the table, very carefully, as I always did with the books when I looked inside them. He stood beside me and watched me point at the letters I recognised, though I didn’t know their names or how they sounded.
“What are they, Memer?”
“Writing.”
“So it’s writing that opens the door?”