Perkar revised his opinion of the previous night's darkness. A cave could be darker and most certainly was. He thought briefly of the bugs he had drowned in tar as a boy, wondered if having tar poured all over him would be this dark. But of course, the tar would be very hot, and any darkness it brought would be the least of his worries. Which was, in fact, their current situation. Lack of sight was discomforting—frightening—but they had other, more serious problems. It did not seem like the time or place to voice such thoughts.
"We'll have to light a torch," Apad muttered. "Piss, Perkar, why did you have to open your mouth?"
A cackle of laughter erupted right in Perkar's ear, and he could see again. The Lemeyi was crumpling against the wall, holding his belly.
"We'll have to light a torch," he shrieked gleefully, his voice pitched high and shrill. "We'll have to!" He howled on.
"Dung-eater!" Apad snarled, yanking his sword free. "Laugh at this!"
"Laugh at this!" the Lemeyi roared, waggling a finger at Apad. Apad growled inarticulately and sprang forward, his sword swinging high and overhand. Perkar stood as if frozen, a protest trying to get from his numbed brain to his lips. Apad was not joking or making a threat; murder was plain on his face.
He miscalculated his attack badly, however; doubtless he had never practiced swordplay in a narrow cave. The blade screeched in protest as it met with the low ceiling of the tunnel; sparks spattered onto the floor. Apad dropped the weapon; it clattered to the stone and he staggered, holding his wrist. The attack nearly killed the Lemeyi anyway; his chuckling became convulsions of hysteria, and Perkar thought that perhaps the creature had swallowed its own tongue; he watched incredulously as the Lemeyi's face changed from red to purple. Apad glowered, still nursing his wrist. Grimly he stepped to pick up his sword.
"No!" Perkar snapped at him. "No, we need him!"
"It's true, Apad," Eruka agreed.
Apad watched the Lemeyi—who was actually wiping tears from his eyes—disgust and hatred plain on his face. Nevertheless he nodded, retrieved his weapon, and after glaring at the nicked and dulled blade, returned it to its appliqued scabbard.
"You ask why I do this," the Lemeyi said, when he was able to speak. "There is your answer." He shook his head gleefully. "And now, if you great warriors would like to continue on…" He gestured down the tunnel.
Perkar forbore asking the Lemeyi any other questions. They continued their passage into the mountain, the Lemeyi chortling every now and then, remembering his joke.
At last the passage widened and then opened into an enormous glittering chamber. It was like the vault of heaven, shimmering with a million more stars than the real night sky. Every surface of the cavern was encrusted with jewels, radiant in their unnatural vision. For a long moment he could only stare, gape-mouthed at the wonder of it, at the cascades of shimmering crystals. The only sound was their breathing and the faint dripping of water somewhere.
"Well," the Lemeyi remarked. "Here we are. Karakasa Ngorna."
"Kadakasa Ngorna," Perkar corrected, thinking that the Lemeyi had mispronounced "Belly of the Mountain."
"No, no," the Lemeyi said, a bit crossly. "Karakasa. The Raven's Belly. When he swallowed the sun that time, this is where it rested."
Perkar studied the Lemeyi's face. Surely, as always, he was joking. And yet, Perkar knew so little of these gods. The claims they made… and the Crow God liked pretty, shiny things. Like the sun, or these crystals. Was it possible that this cavern was, also, in some way, some part of Karak? Better not to know for sure, Perkar decided.
"The weapons?" Apad asked nervously. "Where are they?"
The Lemeyi snorted. "You only demonstrate your mortality with such impatience," he muttered.
"We're in a hurry," Perkar explained.
"Of course," the Lemeyi replied, more than a hint of condescension and sarcasm in his tone. "This way."
He conducted them across the cavern floor. "This is his feasting hall, you know," the Lemeyi confided.
"Feasting hall?" Apad asked. "Where are the tables, the benches?"
"Can you not see them?"
Perkar, to his astonishment, thought he could. To his eyes, the cave seemed to flutter, like the wings of a bird; now an empty cave, now a hall more glorious than that of any damakuta, replete with tables and benches, all unoccupied, awaiting occupants.
"I do not," Apad muttered.
"Then you are entirely mortal," the Lemeyi retorted. "Is there no godblood in you?"
"No," Apad said. "There is not. And that pleases me."
"Of course it does," the Lemeyi replied, and Perkar put a hand on Apad's shoulder as it bunched, as he reached again for his sword. His friend shot him an angry look, but the sword remained in its scabbard. They continued on, Perkar stepping around a table, Apad walking through it.
"Ah," the Lemeyi noticed, observing Perkar. "But you have a tiny bit of the golden blood in you, do you not?"
Perkar did not answer. The surprise was that Apad had none. What family had no god anywhere in its lineage? Apad's, apparently, and he was proud of it. From the corner of his eye, Perkar saw Eruka avoid the table, as well.
They reached the far end of the gallery, and the Lemeyi stopped. "This is as far as I go," he said. "I may wait for you here, if it pleases me—and I suspect, somehow, it will. The treasures are just down there." He indicated a small side chamber; Perkar could just see it, adjoining the larger one.
"You may speak to the guardian about seeing the treasures."
"Guardian?" Apad asked.
"Yes, well, of course there is a guardian. Some gods are greedy, and wealth must be protected."
"What sort of guardian?" he persisted.
"Just go see," the Lemeyi answered, taking another drink from the woti flask. "She and I don't get along, so I'll wait here."
Perkar drew a deep breath. He had come this far; he was in the heart of the mountain at the heart of the world; he could all but feel his enemy to the north, the Changeling. He could not come so close to victory and walk away empty-handed. Without another word, he crossed into the adjoining cavern.
It was much like the Raven's Belly, though smaller. This meant that the shimmering walls were closer, in a sense more splendid. Yet Perkar would not let himself be distracted; his scrutiny was fixed on the guardian from the moment he saw her.
Perkar was not sure what he had imagined—a dragon, perhaps, like the one encountered by Iru Antu in the "Ekar Iru Antu." But this was no dragon, no one-eyed Giant. The guardian was a middle-aged woman, black hair shot with silver framing a careworn but handsome face. She wore a simple black shift, and across her lap lay an elaborate gown that she seemed to be embroidering.
"Hello," she said, hardly looking up. Behind her, weapons rested on a shelf of stone. Swords, straight and sickle-curved, promised edges finer than glass. Hammers, spears, sheaves of arrows lay carelessly about. Around the weapons, other treasures vied for his attention: golden circlets, flasks of woti, all sorts of Human-made adornment.
"Grandmother," Perkar said carefully.
"Who are you?" For the first time her gaze really fastened upon him; her eyes were gray, faraway—mist in the distance.
"My clan is Kar Barku," he told her. "My own name is Perkar."
The woman smiled a thin little smile. "Perkar—so you are an oak tree, are you?"
"That is my name."
"A god named you?" she asked.