Through Immon's Gate
With his death, Silvergleam's house fell. Whitefire and Judgment were
banished into the same Unbeing to which old Twilight had been
dispatched, and most of their servants slaughtered. Crooked only was kept
alive because the children of Moisture coveted his arts. They tormented him
first, cutting away his manhood so that he would never spread the seed of
Breeze's children, then they made him their slave.
Even the victors did not sing of these deeds, but made false tales to hide
their shame and grief. The truth could not be encompassed.
The true story is called Kingdom of Tears.
— from One Hundred Considerations out of the Qar's Book of Regret
THE MYSTERIOUS DARK-HAIRED GIRL had not appeared to him in days. His hours in the cell were long and empty, he was still angry with Vansen, Gyir had shown no evidence of having come up with the promised plan of escape (nor done much at all except sit in oblique silence), and Barrick was desperate for something to distract him from his own discomfort and dread, so he brooded about her.
He had even begun to wonder if she might have been a herald of his own death-whether, despite all her words about courage and resistance, her presence actually meant he was nearing the end of his life. Perhaps she was some daughter of Kernios, awakened or summoned by the nearness of
the monstrous gntc. Barrick didn't know whether Kernios had a daughter he had never been able to keep up with Father Timoid's endless recitations of the lineages of gods, even if his family claimed relationship to one-but it seemed possible.
Still, if the dark-haired girl was an emissary of the ultimate, he was not as afraid of dying as he had thought he would be. This Death had a kind, clever face. But so young! Younger than he was, certainly. Then again, if she was a goddess, how she appeared meant little-after all, the gods could be¬come whatever they wanted, trees or stars or beasts of the field.
But what was the use of wondering, in any case? Day after day of throb¬bing pain in his head and blurred thoughts, night after night of frightening visions-Barrick was not even quite certain of what was real anymore. Why had he been chosen for this particular torment? Not fair. Not fair.
Push against it. He heard her voice again, but only in memory. Escape it. Change it.
What had Gyir told him? You are only a prisoner when you surrender. Even steadfast, stolid Vansen seemed to reproach Barrick for his weakness- everyone else was so cursedly certain about things they didn't have to suffer.
Barrick opened his eyes a little. Vansen was sleeping next to him, the sol¬dier's thin face now softened by a beard which obscured but could not completely hide the hollowness of his cheeks. Though they drained every drop of the swill Jikuyin's guards gave them, they were all slowly wasting away. Barrick had been slender to begin with, but now he could watch each bone sliding and moving beneath his skin, see the deformity of his shat¬tered arm in more detail than he had ever wanted.
For a moment, then, his eyes half shut, he could almost see King Olin's features hovering before him instead of Vansen's.
I hope you're happy, Father.You were so ashamed of what you did to me that you couldn't even speak of it. Soon I'll be dead and you'll never have to see me again.
But was it really all his father's fault? It was the curse, after all, a poison in the Eddon blood they shared, and even his father's blood was not as cor¬rupted as Barrick's. For proof, he need look no farther than the days and nights just passed: when Olin had escaped the castle his own curse had be¬come less-his letters had all but said so. Barrick, though, was in the grip of even worse fevers of madness than he had experienced at home.
He shut his eyes tight but sleep would not come. A quiet shuffling noise made him open them again. The latest shift of prisoners had just come back
from their labors and one of the apish guards was coming right toward then cell, Gyir, who had been propped in a corner of the stony cell with his chin against his chest, slowly looked up. Barrick's heart raced-what could the guard want? Had the time come for the blood sacrifice Gyir had feared?
The creature stopped in front of the grille, cutting off most of the out¬side light. Gyir moved toward the door, but with a swift, easy grace that took a little of the edge off Barrick's fear: he had learned to read the fairy's movements a bit, and what they said now was not danger but only caution.
The beastlike guard stood in silence, its face pressed against the bars. Nothing visible passed between the guard and Gyir, but after a dozen or so heartbeats the shaggy creature shook itself and then turned away, a puzzled, perhaps even frightened expression on its inhuman face.
During the course of the following hours and days, many more guards and more than a few returning prisoners enacted a similar ritual as Barrick watched with fascination. He couldn't help wondering what this had to do with the Storm Lantern's talk of gun-flour, since there was none of the black powder to be seen. Instead, it was like watching the Bronzes cere¬mony at the Southmarch court, when the leading nobles of the March Kingdoms came and laid their weapons at the feet of the king sitting in the Wolf's Chair and each of their names was marked on a bronze tablet which was then blessed and then laid into the vault at the great Trigonate temple. But the beasts of Greatdeeps were bringing the fairy nothing that Barrick could see, nor were they taking anything away.
He realized that almost a year had come and gone since King Olin had performed the Bronzes ceremony before leaving on his ill-fated voyage. He wondered if Briony would take the fealty of the Marchwardens this year, and was suddenly filled with a homesickness so powerful it almost made him burst out sobbing. It was followed by a wave of loathing at his own helplessness, his own uselessness.
Look at me! I lie here like a child, doing nothing, waiting for death. And what is my death? A warrior's death? A king's death, or even a prince's death? No, it takes the form of a girl, a doe-eyed girl full of sympathy, and I wait for her like some smit¬ten bard, some… poet. Then, the thought burning like fire in his guts: And even she thinks that I have given up-that I am a coward.
Barrick dragged himself upright, ignoring the sharp pain in his arm, which was always worst the first time he bent it after having been asleep. He made his way over to Gyir and sat down beside him. The fairy, whose eyes
had been closed as if in sleep since the last visitor or tributary had shuffled away, opened them to fix Barrick with the banked fire of his gaze.
You do not need to sit near me to talk. I could speak to you from the House of the People, almost. You grow stronger every day.
Why are those guards and other creatures coming to you? he asked.
I am schooling them in what I need, Gyir told him. I do not want to say more, since we will risk all on this throw.
Barrick sat quiet for a while, thinking. Why is all of this happening now? he finally asked. Not what I was just asking about, but… everything.
Narrow your question, please.
Everything that hasn't happened before, or at least not for hundreds of years- the Shadowline moving, your people attacking Southmarch and warring against my people. And this demigod Jack Chain, or whatever he is, digging up the palace of Kernios.You can't pretend those sorts of things happen all the time.
Gyir let out the gust of bitter amusement that Barrick had come to rec¬ognize as a laugh. Your people and my people at each other's throats is not so un¬usual.You slaughtered us for years. And, to be fair, we have attacked you twice since then.
You know what I mean.
Gyir stared at him, then nodded. Yes, I do. There are things I cannot tell you even though circumstances make us allies-promises I have made to others and oaths I have sworn. But here are some things I can tell, and should. Your companion must hear this, too. The fairy paused. Barrick turned and watched Ferras Vansen slowly push himself into an upright position, woken by the Storm Lantern's silent call.
Our time is short, Gyir said. You both must listen well. He spread his pale fingers. There are two ways other than experience that wisdom comes to the Peo¬ple. One is the gift of the Fireflower-this made a an idea in Barrick's mind he could barely contain, something that was as large and complicated as any¬thing Gyir had ever said-and the other is the Deep Library.
In the most hidden places within the House of the People, the wisdom of our old¬est days remains mostly in the form of the Preserved and their Voices-that is the Deep Library. These Voices speak the wisdom of the Preserved and thus are the Peo¬ple taught and reminded. Gyir's thoughts were rhythmic, almost singsong, as though he passed on a story that he had learned in childhood. These Voices, along with the wisdom of the Fireflower, which is sometimes called the Gift, are what lifts the High Ones above the rest of the People and what has brought us dominion over our lands and songs.
You have heard that the gods have been banished from this world into the realms of sleep. That was the work of the god we call Crooked, and about that mystery I can say little, but it is the foundation of all that comes afterward. The place where those events burned brightest, and where they still smolder thousands of years later, is at the place we name Godsfall-the place your people call Southmarch.Yes, Prince Barrick, your home.
Barrick stared at him, confused. Was the fairy trying to say that the gods had lived in Southmarch? Or died there? It was so bizarre a thought that for a moment he feared he was dreaming again.
Only a few years ago, Gyir continued, the Voices began to warn us that the slumber of the gods in their exile had grown very shallow, very fragile, fust as the moon may pull on the earthly tides when he swings close, creating perturbations in the blood of those most sensitive, so the gods, even in sleep, are closer to us now than they have been since they were driven from the waking lands. Gyir paused to lis¬ten to something Vansen asked. No, I cannot say more about it now. It is enough to know the gods were driven out of the waking lands, that for a long time they have been gone, almost as though they were dead.
But now the gods loom close, pushing into the minds and dreams of both your people and mine, and in countless other ways as well. That would be grim enough-dangerous too, because even in their eternal sleep the gods can still make mischief both small and great, and they ache to have back what was theirs. But by a grave chance, this ominous hour has arrived when another terrible thing was already hap¬pening to the High Ones of my folk, a thing that has plunged all of the House of the People into terror and mourning. Our Queen Saqri, the Mistress of the Ancient Song, is dying.
Barrick had never seen the fairy show much in the way of emotion, but it was obvious from the pain in his thoughts that what he was saying struck him to his core.
The High Ones, Gyir went on at last, at least those in the Line of the Fire-flower, do not die as mortals die. We can all of us meet a violent end, and we are prey to illnesses and accidents just as you sunlanders are, but those of our highest house like Saqri and Ynnir are not like the rest of living things, either in their mor¬tality or their immortality. That is all I can tell you. No, I hear your questions but it is not my secret to share with your kind. I have not the right.
But I can tell you this. Queen Saqri is dying, and that which she needs most was to be found only in the old sacred place of our people-your people's home, the castle called Southmarch. Desperation had driven us to recapture it two hundred years before, but we were driven out again. Now desperation has driven us back there once more.
But this time, there was the matter of the gods' restless sleep to consider. Your Southmarch is a place that touches closely on the realms oj the gods, Even the Voices of the Deep Library agreed that there was a terrible chance that an attempt to re-capture the sacred place and use its virtues to save Queen Saqri would wake the gods from their slumber and bring an era of blood and darkness over the earth.
But why? Barrick could not help asking. Why would waking the gods do such a thing? He looked to Vansen, but even in the dim light he could see that the soldier had gone quite pale, as though he had just been told the in¬cipient hour of his own death.
"Blood and darkness…?" Vansen whispered. He looked as though he had been stabbed in the heart.
The gods would not be able to avoid it, Gyir declared, any more than a wolf could let itself starve to death while apiece of bloody meat lay before it. Such is the nature of their godhood-they have been trapped in sleep for century upon century, powerless as great beasts caught in hunters' nets. One of the gods' most fearsome at¬tributes is the mightiness of their angers. But even faced with such terror, humans would not easily give up dominion. When the gods lived on the earth in the distant past, mortals were their servants, small in numbers and weaker in self-regard, but they have grown in both wisdom and numbers. If the gods wake, there will be a war to end all wars. In the end, though, the gods will triumph and the pitiful survivors will begin sifting the ruins of their cities to build new temples to their greedy, victo¬rious, immortal masters.
Barrick wasn't certain he understood everything, but it was impossible to ignore the dreadful certainty in Gyir's thoughts.
So in our fear of waking the gods, the House of the People became divided be¬tween those who wished to see the queen saved at any cost, led in spirit by my lady Yasammez, and those who sought some other path. That was KingYnnir's way, and although I fear it will only delay the inevitable, or perhaps make it worse when it comes, his wishes had enough support that a compromise was made.
We call that compromise the Pact of the Glass, and at this moment it is all that stands between your people and annihilation, because we ofYasammez's party be¬lieve that what we serve is more important than any mercy and is worth any risk.
Barrick felt light-headed again. And… and you still feel that way, Gyir? That killing every man, woman, and child in Southmarch would be an acceptable cost to reach your goal?
You will never understand without knowing the true stakes. The fairy's thoughts came to him like drips of icy water on stone. And I cannot tell you all-/ have not the stature to open such secrets to mortals.
So what are you saying? That your king and queen are at war with each other? But they've made some kind oj truce?
War is too simple a word, Gyir told him. When you understand that they are not only our lord and lady, husband and wife, but also brother and sister, you of all people may understand something of the complexities involved.
They're brother and sister…?
Yes. Enough. I do not have time to explain the full history of my people to you, or any great urge to defend the Line of the Fireflower against the ignorance of sun-landers. Be silent and listen! Gyir's frustration was so palpable that his words came almost like blows. The Pact of the Glass is the most fragile of wisps, but at the moment it holds. We defeated your army but we have not attacked your strong¬hold. But if we must, we will, and I promise you with no joy that if we do the blood will run like rivers.
Barrick was angry now, too. Say your piece, Storm Lantern.
I do not wish your love, man-child, only your understanding. I am sorry if you thought that friendship between us might change the facts, but the gods themselves could not undo what is coming, even if they wished to do so.
So why do you tell us all this, curse you? If we're all doomed, what difference does it make?
Because as I once told you, things are still balanced on a knife's edge. We must do what we can to keep that balance from tilting. Here. He reached into his tat¬tered shirt and pulled out a tiny bundle wrapped in dirty rags, held it out in his open hand. This is the thing I told you about but would not show you. Now I must abandon caution, hoping you will understand the terrible danger we face and how important this is. This is the prize my lady Yasammez ordered me to carry to KingYnnir. On this small thing may rest the fate of all.
What is it? It was smaller than the palm of Barrick's hand, vaguely round in shape. He stared at it, bemused.
It is the very scrying glass around which the Pact of the Glass is built. If it does not reach the king soon, Lady Yasammez will renew her attack upon Southmarch, this time without mercy.
He handed it to Barrick, who was so surprised he almost dropped it. Why are you giving this to me?
Because I fear thatfikuyin intends to use me in some way to open Immon's Gate into the palace of the Earthfather. If that happens, if I am lost while I still carry the Glass, then all is lost with me.
But why me? Barrick shook his head. / can barely stand up! I'm full of mad thoughts-I'm sick! Give it to Vansen. He'll get it where you need it to go. He's a
lint this time, there was the matter of the gods' restless sleep to consider. Your Southmarch is a place that touches closely on the realms of the gods. liven the Voices of the Deep Library agreed that there was a terrible chance that an attempt to re¬capture the sacred place and use its virtues to save Queen Saqri would wake the gods from their slumber and bring an era of blood and darkness over the earth.
But why? Barrick could not help asking. Why would waking the gods do such a thing? He looked to Vansen, but even in the dim light he could see that the soldier had gone quite pale, as though he had just been told the in¬cipient hour of his own death.
"Blood and darkness…?" Vansen whispered. He looked as though he had been stabbed in the heart.
The gods would not be able to avoid it, Gyir declared, any more than a wolf could let itself starve to death while apiece of bloody meat lay before it. Such is the nature oftheir godhood-they have been trapped in sleep for century upon century, powerless as great beasts caught in hunters' nets. One of the gods' most fearsome at¬tributes is the mightiness of their angers. But even faced with such terror, humans would not easily give up dominion. When the gods lived on the earth in the distant past, mortals were their servants, small in numbers and weaker in self-regard, but they have grown in both wisdom and numbers. If the gods wake, there will be a war to end all wars. In the end, though, the gods will triumph and the pitiful survivors will begin sifting the ruins of their cities to build new temples to their greedy, victo¬rious, immortal masters.
Barrick wasn't certain he understood everything, but it was impossible to ignore the dreadful certainty in Gyir's thoughts.
So in our fear of waking the gods, the House of the People became divided be¬tween those who wished to see the queen saved at any cost, led in spirit by my lady Yasammez, and those who sought some other path. That was KingYnnir's way, and although I fear it will only delay the inevitable, or perhaps make it worse when it comes, his wishes had enough support that a compromise was made.
We call that compromise the Pact of the Glass, and at this moment it is all that stands between your people and annihilation, because we ofYasammez's party be¬lieve that what we serve is more important than any mercy and is worth any risk.
Barrick felt light-headed again. And… and you still feel that way, Gyir? That killing every man, woman, and child in Southmarch would be an acceptable cost to reach your goal?
You will never understand without knowing the true stakes. The fairy's thoughts came to him like drips of icy water on stone. And I cannot tell you all-I have not the stature to open such secrets to mortals.
So what are you saying? That your king and queen are at war with each other? lint they're made some kind of truce?
War is too simple a word, Gyir told him. When you understand that they are not only our lord and lady, husband and wife, but also brother and sister, you of all people may understand something of the complexities involved.
They're brother and sister…?
Yes. Enough. I do not have time to explain the full history of my people to you, or any great urge to defend the Line of the Fireflower against the ignorance of sun-landers. Be silent and listen! Gyir's frustration was so palpable that his words came almost like blows. The Pact of the Glass is the most fragile of wisps, but at the moment it holds. We defeated your army but we have not attacked your strong¬hold. But if we must, we will, and I promise you with no joy that if we do the blood will run like rivers.
Barrick was angry now, too. Say your piece, Storm Lantern.
I do not wish your love, man-child, only your understanding. I am sorry if you thought that friendship between us might change the facts, but the gods themselves could not undo what is coming, even if they wished to do so.
So why do you tell us all this, curse you? If we're all doomed, what difference does it make?
Because as I once told you, things are still balanced on a knife's edge. We must do what we can to keep that balance from tilting. Here. He reached into his tat¬tered shirt and pulled out a tiny bundle wrapped in dirty rags, held it out in his open hand. This is the thing I told you about but would not show you. Now I must abandon caution, hoping you will understand the terrible danger we face and how important this is. This is the prize my lady Yasammez ordered me to carry to KingYnnir. On this small thing may rest the fate of all.
What is it? It was smaller than the palm of Barrick s hand, vaguely round in shape. He stared at it, bemused.
It is the very scrying glass around which the Pact of the Glass is built. If it does not reach the king soon, Lady Yasammez will renew her attack upon Southmarch, this time without mercy.
He handed it to Barrick, who was so surprised he almost dropped it. Why are you giving this to me?
Because I fear thatfikuyin intends to use me in some way to open Immon's Gate into the palace of the Earthfather. If that happens, if I am lost while I still carry the Glass, then all is lost with me.
But why me? Barrick shook his head. / can barely stand up! I'm full of mad thoughts-I'm sick! Give it to Vansen. He'll get it where you need it to go. He's a
soldier. He's… honorable, lie looked over to the guard captain and realized that he meant it-despite everything he had said about the guard captain, every petty dislike he had expressed, Barrick admired the man and envied his strength and determination. In another world, another Barrick would have given much to have such a person as a friend.
/ intended to, said Gyir, but I have been thinking. There was a brief silence in Barrick's head as the fairy spoke only to Vansen, then he turned his scar¬let stare back onto Barrick. Ferras Vansen is brave, but he does not carry Lady Porcupine's touch. My lady singled you out, Barrick Eddon and gave you an errand of your own to the House of the People-one that even I do not know. Her com¬mand will carry you on when all else would fail. But it will not keep you alive if Fate intends otherwise, the fairy could not help adding, so do not be foolhardy! Ferras Vansen can go with you, but you must be the one to carry it.
So you want me to do a kindness for the woman who wants to kill all my people?
Must I have this argument with every sunlander who can draw breath? Gyir
shook his head. Have you not listened? If this does not reach King Ynnir, then
Yasammez will destroy all in her way to recapture Godsfall-your home-for our
folk. If the Pact of the Glass is fulfilled there is at least a faint hope she will hold
back, but only if the glass reaches the king's hand.
Barrick swallowed. He had spent most of his young life trying to avoid just such situations-a chance to fail, to prove that he was less than those around him, those with healthy limbs and unshadowed hearts-but what else could he do?
Very well, if we must. He thought of the brown-eyed girl, of what she would think of him. Yes, then! Give it to me.
Do not look into it, Gyir warned. You are not strong enough. It is a powerful, perilous thing.
I don't want to look into it. Barrick tucked the ragged bundle into his shirt, trying to make sure it went into the one pocket that did not have a hole.
Ah, blessings. May Red Stag keep you ever safe on your path. The relief in the Storm Lantern's thoughts was clear, and for the first time Barrick realized that Gyir, too, might have been carrying a painful, unwanted burden. Then Gyir abruptly stiffened, becoming as still as a small animal under the shadow of a hawk. Quickly, he said, what day is this? He turned his burning red eyes from Barrick to Ferras Vansen, who both stared back helplessly. Of course, how would you know? Let me think. Gyir laid one hand over the other and then brought them both up to cover his eyes, and for the space of perhaps two dozen heartbeats he sat that way, silent and blind to the world, We hare a day, perhaps two, he said abruptly, dropping bis hands away from the smooth mask of flesh.
A day until what? Barrick asked. Why?
Until the ceremony of the Earthfather begins, Gyir said. The sacrifice days of the one you call Kernios. Surely you still mark them.
It took Barrick a moment, but then as it dawned on him he turned to Vansen, who had also understood."The Kerneia," he said aloud."Of course. By all the gods, is it Dimene already? How long have we been locked in this stinking place?"
Long enough to see your world and mine end if I have the day wrong, said Gyir. They will come for us when the sacrifice days begin, and I am not yet ready.
He would not say any more, but fell back into silence, shutting his two fellow prisoners out as thoroughly as if he had slammed a heavy door.
It was bad enough to suppose that the Kerneia marked the day of your doom, Ferras Vansen kept thinking, but it was made far worse by being trapped deep beneath the earth with no certain way of knowing what day it was in the world outside. This must be what it had been like to be tied to a tree and left for the wolves, as he had heard some of the old tribes of the March Kingdoms had done to prisoners, stopping the condemned's ears with mud and blindfolding their eyes so that they could only suffer in darkness, never knowing when the end would come.
Vansen slept only fitfully following Gyir's announcement, startled out of his thin slumbers every time Prince Barrick twitched in his sleep or some other prisoner growled or whimpered in the crowded cell outside.
Kerneia. Even during his childhood in Daler's Troth it had been a grim holiday. A small skull had to be carved for each family grave, where it would be set, nestled in flowers, on the first light of dawn as homage to the Earth-father who would take them all someday. Vansen's own father had never stopped complaining about the laziness of his adopted folk in Daler's Troth, who made their skull carvings out of soft wood. Back home in the Vuttish Isles, he would declare at least once each year, only stone was acceptable to the Lord of the Black Earth. Still, Ferras Vansen didn't doubt that with three of his own children gone to their graves and also the resting places of his
wife's parents and grandparents to be adorned, I'edar Vansen must have se-cretly been grateful he could make his death-tokens in yielding pine in¬stead of the hard granite of the dales.
Skulls, skulls. Vansen could not get them out of his thoughts. As he had discovered when he came to the city, people in Southmarch purchased their festival skulls in the Street of Carvers, replicated in either stone or wood, depending on how much they wanted to spend. In the weeks before Kerneia you could even buy skulls baked of special pale bread in Market Square, the eye-sockets glazed dark brown. Vansen had never known what to think of that: eating the offerings that should go to Kernios himself seemed to trifle with that which should be respected-no, feared.
But then, they always said I was a bumpkin. Collum used to make up stories to amuse the other men about me thinking thunder meant the world was ending. As if a country boy wouldn't know about thunder!
Thinking about poor, dead Collum Dyer, remembering Kerneia and the black candles in the temple, the mantises in their owl masks and the crowds singing the story of the god of death and deep places, Vansen wandered in and out of something that was not quite sleep and that was certainly not restful, until at last he woke up to the tramp of many feet in the corridor outside.
The gray man Ueni'ssoh drifted across the floor as though he rode on a carpet of mist. His eyes smoldered in the dull, stony stillness of his face and even the prisoners in the large outer cell shrank back against the walls. Vansen could barely stand to look at him-he was a corpse-faced night¬mare come to life.
"It is time" he said, his words angular as a pile of sharp sticks. The brutish guards in their ill-fitting armor spread out on either side of Vansen and his two companions.
"For what, curse you?" Vansen raised himself to a crouch, although he knew that any move toward the gray man would earn him nothing except death at the ends of the guard's sharp pikes.
"Your final hour belongs to Jikuyin-it is not for me to instruct you." Ueni'ssoh nodded. Haifa dozen guards sprang forward to shackle Gyir and loop a cord around his neck like a leash on a boarhound. When Barrick and Vansen had also been shackled the gray man looked at them all for a moment, then silently turned and walked out of the cell. As the guards
prodded Vansen and the others after him, the prisoners in the outer cell turned their faces away, as if the three were already dead.
Do not despair-some hope still exists. Gyir's thoughts seemed as faint to Ferras Vansen as a voice heard from the top of a windy hillside. Watch me. Do not let anything steal your wits or your heart. And if Ueni'ssoh speaks to you, do not listen!
Hope? Vansen knew where they were going and hope was not a very likely guest.
The brute guards drove them deep into the earth, through tunnels and down stairs. For much of the journey the slap of the guards' leathery bare feet was the only sound, stark as drums beating a condemned man's march to the gallows. Since Vansen had only seen these passages through the eyes of the creatures Gyir had bespelled, it was strangely dreamlike now to travel them in his own body. They were not the featureless stone burrows he had thought them, but carved with intricate patterns, swirls and concentric cir¬cles and shapes that might have represented people or animals. He could recognize some of the shapes on the tunnel walls, and some of them were hard to look at-great, lowering owls with eyes like stars, and manlike crea¬tures with heads and limbs divided from their torsos and the body parts piled before the birds as though in tribute. Other ominous shapes and sym¬bols lined the passages as well, skulls and eyeless tortoises, both symbols of the Earthfather that Vansen knew well, along with some he did not recog¬nize, knotted ropes and a squat cup shape with stubby legs that he thought might be a bowl or cauldron. And of course there were images of pigs, the animal most sacred to Immon, Kernios' grim servant.
"The Black Pig has taken him!" A despairing cry rang in his head, a child¬hood memory-an old woman of the Dales, cursing her son's untimely death. "Curse the pig and curse his coldhearted master!" she had screeched. "Never will I light a candle for the Kerneia again!"
Kerneia. In a faraway land where the sun still rose and set, the crowds were likely gathering on the streets of Southmarch to watch the statue of the masked god go by, carried high on a litter. They would be drunk, even early in the morning-the litter-bearers, the crowds, even the Earthfather's priests, a deep, laughing-sad drunkenness that Vansen remembered well, the entire city like a funeral feast that had gone on too long. But here he was instead in the heart of the Earthfather's domain, being dragged to the god's very door!
i
A fever-chill swept over him and Vansen hail to light to keep horn stumbling. He wished he could reach out to the prince, remind Barrick Eddon that he was not alone in this terrible place, but his shackles pre-vented it.
The way into the cavern that held the god's gate suddenly opened wide before them. The enormous chamber was lit by a mere dozen torches, its obsidian walls only delicately streaked with light and the ceiling altogether lost in darkness, but after the long trip through pitch-black tunnels Ferras Vansen found it as overwhelming as the great Trigon Temple in South-march on a bright afternoon, with color streaming down from its high windows. The gate itself was even more massive than it had seemed through the eyes of Gyir's spies, a rectangular slab of darkness as tall as a cliff, resembling an ordinary portal only in the way that the famous bronze colossus of Perin was like a living mortal man.
The guards prodded Vansen and the others toward the open area near the base of the exposed rock face. The slaves already assembled there, a pa¬thetic, hollow-eyed and listless crowd watched over by what seemed almost as many guards as prisoners, shuffled meekly out of the captives' way, clear¬ing an even larger space in front of the monstrous doorway.
The guards shoved the prisoners to their knees. Vansen wallowed in drifts of stone dust, sneezing as it billowed up around him like smoke and Barrick collapsed beside him as though arrow-shot, scarcely stirring. Vansen nudged the youth, trying to see if he had been injured somehow, but with the heavy wooden shackles around his wrists he could not move much without falling over.
Remember what I said…
Even as Gyir's words sounded in Ferras Vansen's skull, guards and work¬ers began to stir all over the room-for a moment he thought that they had also heard the fairy's thoughts. Then he heard a thunderous, uneven rhythm like the pounding of a mighty drum. When he realized he was hearing footfalls, he knew why the guards, even those whom nature had made help¬lessly crooked, suddenly tried to straighten, and why all the kneeling slaves began to moan and shove their faces against the rough floor of the great cavern.
The demigod came through the door slowly, the chained heads that or¬namented him swaying like seaweed in a tidal pool. As terrifying as Jikuyin was, for the first time Vansen could see something of his great age: the monster limped, leaning on a staff that was little more than a good-sized
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young tree stripped of its branches, and his great head lolled on his neck as though too heavy for him to hold completely upright. Still, as the ancient ogre looked around the chamber and bared his vast, broken teeth in a grin of ferocious satisfaction, Vansen felt his bladder loosen and his muscles go limp. The end had come, whatever Gyir might pretend. No one could fall into the hands of such a monstrous thing and live.
The other prisoners, many of them smeared with blood from their labors, struck their heads on the floor and wailed as the demigod ap¬proached. The awful, gigantic chamber, the hordes of shrieking creatures with bloody hands and filthy, despairing faces prostrating themselves before their giant lord-for a moment Vansen simply could not believe his eyes1 any longer: he had lost his wits, that was all it could be. His mind was re¬gurgitating the worst tales the deacon in Little Stell had told to terrify Fer-ras Vansen and the other village children into serving the gods properly.
"Perin Skylord, clothed in light,"
Vansen murmured to himself,
"Guard us through the awesome night
Erivor, in silver mail
Smooth the seas on which we sail
Kernios, of death's dark lands Take us in your careful hands…"
But it was pointless trying to remember childhood prayers-what help could such things be now? What good would anything do? The huge shape that was Jikuyin, so massive that he crushed stones that a strong man couldn't lift into powder beneath his feet, was limping toward them, each grating step like something as big as the world chewing, chewing, chewing…
Do not despair! The words came sharp as a slap.
Vansen turned to see that Gyir was still upright, though his guards had prostrated themselves. Everything in the Storm Lantern's featureless face showed in his eyes alone, wide with excitement and fear, but also hot with rage. Just beyond Gyir, Prince Barrick swayed as if in a high wind, scarcely able to balance even on his knees, his face a pale, sickly mask in the flick¬ering light. For a moment Vansen could see the sister's handsome features in the brother's, and suddenly he felt his almost-forgotten promise stab at
him like a dagger. He could not surrender while there was breath in him he had an obligation. Despair was a luxury.
Prayers to the Trigon brothers seemed pointless on the very doorstep of" the Earthfather's house. Unbidden, another prayer wafted into his thoughts like a fleck of ash floating on an updraft, a gentler prayer to a gentler deity-an invocation of Zoria, Mistress of the Doves. But although his lips moved, he could not make his clenched throat pass the words. Zoria, virgin daughter, give me… give to me…
A moment later the Zorian prayer, Zoria herself, even his own name, all blew out of Ferras Vansen's mind like leaves in a freezing wind as Jikuyin stopped in front of them and leaned down. His face was so huge it seemed the cratered moon had dropped from the sky.
"A gift to you." The demigod's voice shook Vansen's bones; his breath smelled like the fumes from a smelter's furnace, hot and metallic. "You will witness my supreme moment-and even participate." The curtain of dangling heads swayed stared sightlessly, shriveled lips helplessly grinning.
I'll be joining them soon, Vansen thought. How would the gods judge him? He had done his best, but he had still failed.
Jikuyin's great, bearded head swiveled to inspect Vansen and his com¬panions, and Vansen had to look away-the god's eye big as a cannonball, the power of that squinting, reddened stare, were simply too much to bear. "Your blood will unseal Immon's Gate," Jikuyin rumbled, "open the way to the throne room of the Dirtlord himself, that piss-drinking King of Worms who took my eye. And when Earthstar is mine, when his great throne is mine, when I wear his mask of yellowed bone, then even if the gods find their way back I will be the great¬est of their number!"
You are mad, said Gyir wonderingly. Many in the room heard his silent words: a moan of fear rose up, as though the slaves who could understand him expected to share his punishment.
"There is no madness among gods!" Jikuyin laughed. "How will I be called mad when I can shape everything to my own thoughts? Soon the gate will open, the blood will flow, and then what I speak… will be."
My blood will dry to powder, to choking dust, before I let you spill so much as a drop in pursuit of this madness.
Jikuyin reached out a giant hand, fingers spreading as though he would crush Gyir to jelly. Instead, he only flicked at him, knocking the Qar war¬rior into a mass of shrieking prisoners. After those who could escape had
sc rambled away, the Storm Lantern lay unmoving where he hdl fallen, his featureless face in the dust.
"Who said it was your blood I wanted, you little whelp of Breeze?" Jikuyin laughed again, a booming roar of satisfaction that threatened to bring down the cavern roof. His hand reached out again, knocking Vansen to the ground, then it folded around Barrick, who let out a thin shriek of surprise and terror before the breath was squeezed out of him. Jikuyin dropped the limp prince among the guards. "Him-the mortal child. I can smell the Fire-flower in him. His blood will do nicely."
Vansen struggled helplessly against the heavy shackles as the guards dragged Barrick toward the looming gate, but they were too tight to slip, too heavy to break. Ferras Vansen let out a howl of grief. Whatever hap¬pened, he would certainly die too, but the imminent death of the prince seemed a greater failure, a more horrifying finality.
Something grabbed at his arm. Vansen kicked out and one of the stink¬ing, shaggy guards fell back, but got up immediately and came toward him again. Fighting the inevitable, Vansen managed to land another kick (to even less effect) before he saw that something was strange about the crea¬ture's expression. The apelike face was slack, and the eyes wandered lazily, fixed on nothing, as though the guard were blind. It was also holding a key in its clumsy, clawed hand.
If they want me unshackled before they kill me then it only means I'll take some of them with me. But why would they want to take that risk? As the creature fum¬bled roughly with the shackles, he suddenly realized he had seen that befud¬dled expression before on the creatures Gyir had controlled. Vansen looked to the fairy. The Storm Lantern was staring up into nothingness, squinting so hard in concerntration that his eyes were little more than creases. Another guard stood behind Gyir, doing something with his bonds as well, but even if the fairy was controlling them both, time was running out.
The guards had dragged Prince Barrick to a spot just before the mighty doors which stretched above them higher and wider than the front of the great temple in Southmarch. Ueni'ssoh, the terrible, cadaver¬ous gray man, walked slowly up to stand beside them and raised his skele¬tal hands in the air.
"O Fire-Eyed, White-Winged, hear us through the empty places!" he in¬toned in his harsh, unfeeling voice, "O Pale Question,grant us audience!"
Vansen could understand every word, but the tongue was nothing In-had ever heard before, as inhuman as the sawing of a cricket: the sound of the gray man's fluid speech was in Vansen's ears, all tick and slur, but the meaning was in his head.
"O Emperor of Worms, see us through all darknesses!" Ueni'ssoh sang, "O Empty Box, grant us audience!"
The gray man's voice now rose, or gained some other power, because it seemed to fill Ferras Vansen's head like water poured splashing into a bowl, louder and louder until he could scarcely think, although the actual tones seemed as measured and unhurried as before. This was no song of Kerneia that he had ever heard, but Vansen thought he recognized a few words here and there, the ancient words of mourning his grandfather had sung at his grandmother's grave in the hills, but the gray man's terrible, flat voice made Ferras Vansen see pictures in his head that had nothing to do with his long-dead grandmother or his father's burial plot. A crimson-lit world of scut¬tling shadows filled his thoughts, an end to all things so final and so terrible that it lay on his heart like an immense weight.
The fairy-spelled guard still scrabbled at his shackles. Vansen was not free yet-he could not let the voice overwhelm him. He could not fail.
"See now where the darkness twists in us like a river
It is time to get up and go to the land of the Red Sunlight
The land where the sun sets and does not rise.
"O Burned Foot, let us shelter in your hard folds of shadow
Where we can still see the dying sun until the last day.
Crowfather
Wearer of the Iron Gloves
Husband to the Knot that cannot be Untied
We are frightened, O King. Open the gate!"
At first, in his terror and confusion, Ferras Vansen thought the massive stone portal was beginning to fade, or to melt away like ice. But no, he re¬alized a moment later, something much stranger was happening: the great doors were swinging inward into shadow, the darkness beyond so absolute
that it could smother the stars themselves. Vansen's heart quailed. 1 lis body felt suddenly boneless, limp as an empty sack.
Verms Vansen, do not despair! The words came like a whisper from the Other side of the world, but they gave him back a little of himself. It was Gyir speaking, Gyir in his head, but only faintly. He could feel the fairy's powers stretched to their utmost as they touched Vansen, Barrick, the guards working at their bonds, and many others Vansen could not even name-Gyir's will spreading among them in an invisible spiderweb of in¬fluence, although the web quivered and sagged now, near its breaking-point. The Storm Lantern's strength was astonishing, far beyond anything Vansen could have dreamed.
Fight! Gyir demanded. Fight for the boy-fight for your home! I need more time.
Time? Why? It did not seem as though even the fairy's heroic efforts would make much difference. Whether they were shackled or not, the world was ending right now, here in the darkness beneath the ground. Whatever was behind that door would swallow them all…
But even now, when nothing mattered, Ferras Vansen could not forget his oath to Barrick's sister. It was almost the only thing he could remember: his own name and history, all that had happened to him before this mo¬ment, were fading swiftly, swallowed in the gray man's sonorous words.
"O Silver Beak, Send your flying ones before us
O Ravens' Prince, Make a trail in the sky
Show us the way to the gate, the gate of your servant."
The gray man's incantation now filled the cavern like the noise of a ris¬ing storm, harsh and booming, but it was also as intimate as if he whispered in Vansen's ear. Surely no human throat could sound like that…!
"The ocean of mud where the breathless sleep
Pass it by!
The dreaming tree that lifts mountains with its crushing roots
Pass it by!
The forest of the beating heart
Where the flutes of the lost play in the shadows beside the path
Pass it by!
The Storm of 'loirs With rain that wounds the faces of pilgrims like arrows-Pass it by!"
The gate was completely open, a hole into absolute blackness, but a blackness that was still somehow, inexplicably alive-Vansen could almost hear it breathing, and his heart seemed to swell in his breast until he thought it would push up into his throat and choke off the last of his air.
"Skull Eater, destroy our enemies hiding beside the road;
Roots of the Immortal Pine, fill our nostrils so we do not smell demons!
Shepherd of the Mummies, lead us safely among the unquiet dead;
Black Bones, hold us tightly in the icy winds!
Cloak of Singing Dust, show us only to the stars!
The gray man gestured. Two huge, hairy guards pulled Barrick up onto his knees in front of Ueni'ssoh, who was still chanting, then one of them yanked Barrick's head back so that the boy's chin jutted out toward Vansen and the others watching. The other guard unsheathed a strange, terrible knife with a jagged blade half as wide as it was long, and set it almost ten¬derly against the white flesh of the prince's throat. Frenzied, Vansentried to struggle to his feet, and just at that moment he felt the creature behind give a last wrench at the shackles and they tumbled off his arms. Knives of pain stabbed in his joints as he raised his arms and staggered toward Barrick and the guards.
"O Narrowing Way, open the gate!"
The chanting words of the Dreamless filled every part of the world, every part of Vansen's thoughts. They were heavy as stones, dropping on him, crushing him-or was that the thunder of Jikuyin laughing? The prince, the guards, and the gray man were washed by torchlight but framed against absolute darkness as if the gods themselves had forgotten to provide a world for them to inhabit.
Ueni'ssoh's voice surged in triumph.
"O Spiral Shell, lead us to the center! O Cauldron Lord, give us back our names!
Grass Chieftain, open the gate!
Earthlord, open the gate!
Blark Earth! Black Earth! Open the gate between Why and Why Not…!"
Something was in the black space of the door now, something invisible but so all-pervasive and life-crushing that Vansen shrieked in terror like a child even as he threw himself at the shaggy guard who held the knife to Barrick's throat. A shadowy recollection of Donal Murroy's teachings came to him as if from another person's life: he grabbed, braced, and snapped the guard's elbow against its own hinge, so that the creature howled with pain and dropped the queer blade. Vansen snatched it up and whirled to look for Ueni'ssoh, but the gray man seemed lost in some kind of trance, so Vansen lunged at the other guard instead, knocking Prince Barrick free from the creature's grasp as he did so and sending the shaggy beast skidding face first across the rocky floor. Vansen snatched up a stone from the floor and began pounding on the lock of the prince's shackles, intent on freeing him, ig¬noring Barrick's cries of agony as the boy's crippled arm was rattled in its socket.
A moment longer, something whispered in his head. Ferras Vansen's own thoughts were so tangled and diminished that for a long instant he could not understand who was talking to him, and even when he could, he could not understand it. Keep fighting a moment longer…!
The lock broke and the prince's shackles fell away just as the other guard attacked him. It was all Vansen could do to shove Barrick aside, then use the knife to dig at the guard's stinking, hairy body. Vansen and the guard stood, locked in a helpless clinch, gasping into each other's faces, each with a free hand gripping the other's weapon, both weapons shuddering in front of an enemy's wide, terror-staring eye. Vansen could see the monstrous open gateway past his attacker's shoulder, the blackness roiling and bubbling with invisible forces that squeezed Vansen's bones and guts until he thought his heart would stop.
Vansen had a moment to wonder if Gyir really had made a plan, but that everything beyond getting the shackles off had simply failed to happen. Then the second guard hit him in the back, forcing him to let go of the other crea¬ture's killing hand. He swung his weight and ducked to avoid the stabbing blow to his face and he and the two guards became tangled. Locked in a straining, gasping knot, the three of them hobbled a few steps, then stumbled together over the threshold of the god's door and fell into darkness.
Black.
Frozen.
Nothing.
The apelike guards spun away and vanished into the void as they all plummeted downward; within a heartbeat their wordless screams had faded. His own voice was gone. He could feel his lungs shoving out a scream of absolute terror but he heard no sound except the almost silent whistle of his fall.
Ferras Vansen hurtled down and down. Within moments he was far be¬yond the point where he could survive the impact, but still he fell. At last his wits flew away in the emptiness and wind.