Into the Narrowdark, page 71
“I am sorry, my friend,” she said to Quarrel, gently rubbing the spot between the roots of his antlers. “One last race, then I promise that I will release you to your forest.” She leaned close and sang, reminding him of his taming, and he stood patiently as she climbed back on. “Be grateful I wear no armor,” she said, “and that I am small and slender.”
The stag turned his head and gave her a sidelong glance. If it was a look of gratitude, he hid it well.
“Haste, good Quarrel,” she said, using her knees to turn him gently toward the track they had just climbed. “Your reward will come when we have caught them up.”
* * *
* * *
It took all that day and part of the next, with only a few short stops to let the stag rest, before Tanahaya reached the place where she hoped to cross the travelers’ path. The stag was stumbling a bit now, bone-weary, and she was growing more and more concerned for him.
“A bit farther, only,” she whispered in his ear. His head was down like a weary ox dragging a plow, and she feared she would have to release him before she could catch up with the riders she had seen. And if those travelers were themselves hurrying, they might already be gone. She had considered moving to higher ground to try to find them again—guessing at their path was much more difficult at ground level, where one stony outcrop looked much like the next—but the sky had gone witchwood-gray, and she could see a storm coming down from the north which would likely blanket the peaks in snow.
“I will not force you to climb into that,” she told Quarrel. “You deserve a better reward for your labors.”
The stag snorted, his chin wet with foam, his tongue dangling. She slid off to let him rest and browse on a patch of mountain sedge while she climbed onto a stone that jutted from the soil like a half-buried spearhead. Once atop it, she could see that the storm was coming faster than she had thought, and she was about to jump down and lead Quarrel to shelter when she caught a glimpse of the riders she was chasing. They were less than half a league ahead of her now, following the course of a stream at the bottom of a steep gorge, and the sight of them lifted her heart again.
“One last run, brave Quarrel,” she said, swinging herself onto the stag’s back. He made a groaning noise, but even without the prompting of the Song, he let her guide him downward toward a place where her path would join the river valley. “Now, fly,” she said. “Your freedom is only an hour away.”
Whether he understood her or not, the stag leaped down the slope as Tanahaya clung to his broad chest. Several times she had to grab at his antlers to keep her balance, but she feared breaking them off and let go again as quickly as she could. The sound of running water rose to her ears, and soon after that they reached the mouth of the gorge. Its walls rose high on either side, massive rock faces that looked as though they had been sliced with a dull blade and then pried apart. A few pines and spruces clung to the lower reaches, but otherwise the gorge was all gray stone.
She held on tight and urged Quarrel into his version of a gallop. At last, as he began to slow with weariness, she saw the travelers at the far end of the gorge.
“Now give me your best!” she cried. Quarrel did not disappoint, though she could feel his chest heaving as he raced along the gravel and broken stone that had collected beside the stream. As she drew closer, she became more and more certain that these riders were her own kind. The last of them heard Quarrel’s hoofbeats and turned to look back.
“Stay!” she cried. “Stay for me, kinsfolk! Stay for me!”
The endmost rider had apparently called to the others: they all turned in a narrow place where the stream ran between the close-leaning hills. One of the riders jogged back toward her with his bow ready, an arrow already on the string. Tanahaya slowed Quarrel and sat up straight, hands lifted to show she held no weapon.
“Who are you?” the stranger shouted. “These are the wrong lands in which to go nameless. Speak!”
“I am Tanahaya of Shisae’ron,” she called back. “A friend of Year-Dancing House. I seek Anvi’janya!”
He pulled up and watched her approach, bow still in his hands, but held more loosely now. As she neared him, she threw back her hood and he did the same. His hair at first looked gray, but on closer view revealed itself to be flecked with both black and white.
She slid down from Quarrel’s back. The animal stayed where she left him, his sides heaving, for once not even interested in finding food. The Zida’ya stranger watched her carefully as she walked toward him, but his eyes kept straying to the big red stag.
“A strange mount you have chosen,” he said.
“The Garden gives what the Garden gives.”
He lowered his bow. “You call yourself Tanahaya? That is strange—I have heard that name many times in these last days.”
Before she could ask him what he meant, she heard the drumming of hooves and looked up to see another rider galloping back toward them, cloak billowing. “Spark!” the newcomer cried. “Spark, is that truly you?”
“Rabbit?” It was almost too good for Tanahaya to believe it possible. “Aditu, my beloved friend!” She ran toward the approaching rider. “What are you doing here?”
Aditu reined up her horse, then dismounted, though not without some effort. Her belly had grown even bigger since the last time they had been together, a beautiful roundness like a full moon. She even had to turn sideways to embrace her friend. “My own dear Spark,” she said, “I have worried for you since you spoke to Jiriki. Where is the mortal princeling, Morgan?”
“I do not know—I fear he may have been lost. A large company of Hikeda’ya attacked Da’ai Chikiza as I was using the Witness to speak to your brother. We were overwhelmed but Vinyedu of the Pure and I managed to bring down the Place of Sky-Watching’s roof, trying to even the odds. Vinyedu perished, and I was separated from Morgan. I could not find him in the rubble.”
Aditu shook her head. “Terrible. Jiriki said nothing of any Hikeda’ya attack.”
“He did not know. Some fell spirit reached out from Nakkiga and ended our talk.”
“This is grave news about young Morgan.” Aditu pulled Tanahaya to her again. “But I rejoice to see you alive.”
“Where is Jiriki? I must speak to him.”
“He is gathering fighters to ride to old Asu’a because of your discovery of Himano’s scroll. I do not know where he is.”
Tanahaya’s heart, so buoyant at seeing Aditu again, now grew heavy. “Ah. I feared this. Who do you travel with? Do any of your companions have a Witness so I can reach out to your brother?”
Another rider approached. “I have a Witness, but it will do you no good,” she said. Her hair was silver-white, her face handsome and strong.
“I know you, my lady,” said Tanahaya. “You are Ayaminu, mistress of High Anvi’janya. But this is another mystery—at least to me. Why are you and Aditu here, in the middle of the mountains?”
“The Great Year is ending,” Aditu explained, “but my mother still sleeps in the Yásira of H’ran go-Jao. The witchwood is all gone, of course, but the Year-Dancing Ceremony was always more than just the witchwood.” She made an ancient hand-sign—The Garden Abides. “I am not yet our people’s Sa’onsera, but I cannot turn my back on our most important ritual. Lady Ayaminu and her grandson came to meet me.”
Ayaminu turned to the rider with black and white hair. “Liko, hasten ahead and tell the others that all is well. We will catch them soon.”
He nodded and rode away up the track.
“Lady Ayaminu, you said your Witness would do me no good,” Tanahaya said. “I mean no disrespect, S’huesa, but I must ask why that is so. I have a most important message to give to Jiriki.”
“Your conversation with him, though it was days and days ago, was the last time we could use the Witnesses,” Ayaminu told her. “At the same time as the Hikeda’ya must have attacked Da’ai Chikiza, some great force rendered the Witnesses silent—both Jiriki’s and my own.”
“Utuk’ku,” said Tanahaya in dismay. “This must be her work.”
“It seems likely,” Ayaminu agreed. “It seems we have much to discuss, but as you can see, a storm is coming and we have one last climb still to make. I do not wish to be caught in the open when the weather changes.”
“One last thing, then,” said Tanahaya. “I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. Do you have a horse to spare?”
“Sadly, we have several,” Ayaminu told her. “Three of our companions died at the hands of Sacrifice troops. You may ride poor Yiyuna’s mare, Feather. She knows the mountain trails well.”
“Then the time has come for me to release my courageous mount. He has labored bravely on my behalf—although not by his own choice.” She turned and took the stag’s face between her hands. His shoulder was by her head, and his antlers stretched higher and farther than she could reach, but as she leaned close, he stood motionless but for a slight trembling in his legs. “You have served me nobly, friend Quarrel,” she told him. “I set you free now to find your own way. But if I am in great need, I may call for you again one day, and I pray you will come if you hear my song. My thanks to you, excellent creature.”
Quarrel raised his head then and looked at her for no little time before suddenly prancing backward and thrashing the air with his antlers. A moment later he turned and bounded away back down the river valley until he was lost to sight.
“I see we all have stories to share,” said Aditu. “Come, dear one, ride with me until we catch the others. Ayaminu says we will reach Anvi’janya’s gates well before tomorrow’s sunset.”
Tanahaya looked at her friend’s swollen belly and smiled. “In the midst of all this fear and bloodshed, I have at least one piece of good news, my better-than-sister.” She leaned close so she could speak in a whisper. “I carry a child.”
Aditu’s eyes widened. “Glory!” she said. “Oh, Spark, this is such happy news. It almost makes me feel hopeful. Have you told Jiriki?”
She shook her head. “No. But sadly, it is not the thing I most need to tell him.”
Her friend’s smile faltered. “Oh. Oh, Spark, I do not like the sound of that.”
“Nor will you when I tell you what it is. But do not despair—it might only be my own over-loud worries. Still, I will be glad to reach Anvi’janya and its libraries.”
Aditu managed another smile, though it was smaller than the first. “My dear Tanahaya. Nothing is entirely real to you until you have read it in some chronicle.”
Tanahaya shrugged. “That is what I am, dear Rabbit, and I have always believed it is what the Garden wants of me. I am a scholar. My only monarch is truth.”
“It is a pity you chose such a demanding master.” Aditu embraced her once again. “You may pursue truth for a long lifetime and still never get to meet it.”
* * *
* * *
Feather proved to be as steady as Ayaminu had said. Now that she could ride without concern that she might be injuring or overstraining her mount, Tanahaya could finally give real attention to the landscape around her as they climbed higher into the hills. Here the earth’s rocky bones stuck up in gray masses that wind and rain had carved into strange shapes, fluted spires and great slope-shouldered mounds like hooded figures. As Tanahaya and Aditu talked in undertones, sharing all that they had experienced since they had parted in H’ran Go-jao, Ayaminu named the peaks that loomed on either side of their winding track.
“Pe Ni’yo,” she said, gesturing toward the nearest, “—Watcher of the Way. There, the Twin Hunters. And that one is Jumi’iru—Moon Cradle. Behind her, Gundao, The Marshal.”
“I have never seen such strange mountains,” said Tanahaya. “Not a single one has the same shape as another.”
“Soft stone,” Ayaminu explained. “These ranges are full of caves, too, because the water wears them away.”
“In the terrible flood ten Great Years ago,” Liko said. “Whole cliffsides fell away and broke up. The water carried stones as big as houses down the valley.”
“I was not alive then,” Tanahaya said, “but I have heard much of the flood, and I was lately in Da’ai Chikiza, which I know was drowned for some time. Did Anvi’janya take any harm from the water?”
Ayaminu turned back and favored her with a smile. “That is right. I forgot you were one of our younger folk, like Aditu. No, Anvi’janya was not harmed by the flooding. You will see why soon enough.”
Aditu was so front-heavy now that Tanahaya could not help fearing she might overbalance as they followed the twisting track, but she reminded herself that in all the time she had known Jiriki’s sister, she had never seen her do anything gracelessly. “You would probably fall as gently as a leaf,” she said, not realizing she had spoken aloud.
“What is that, dear one?” Aditu asked.
“Nothing. I am so pleased to see you again that the thoughts in my head are bubbling like a hot spring.”
“My heart has the same feeling,” said Aditu, laughing, but a moment later she grew more sober. “When I heard that you were in Da’ai Chikiza, and then learned that Utuk’ku’s soldiers were in the forest nearby, I feared for you, though I did not know the Sacrifices had entered the city.”
“I was lucky to escape.” A clutch of sadness made her take a deep breath. “I can only hope that the mortal youth made his way out, somehow. But I fear it is not likely.”
“Do not give up hope. Young Morgan is a grandson of Simon—and Miriamele too, of course. Did you know I found Simon once when he was only his grandson’s age, lost on the forest’s edge in midwinter. I led him back to Jao é-Tinukai’i through the Summer Gate.”
“Yes, I know that story well,” said Tanahaya, smiling.
“Then know this. I spent much time around Simon in that year, and though he was little more than a child, even by his own people’s reckoning, he had a strong suya’do.” The word was an old one, a Garden word for “thread” that meant something like “fate” or “destiny,” but even Tanahaya, despite all her years of study, could not have easily translated it into the mortal tongue. “Happenstance will not take young Morgan’s life. Only a destiny greater and more potent than his own could do that. At least, that is what I feel. We are all part of a tapestry, under the hands of some unknown weaver who creates a pattern too vast and intricate for us to see.”
They rode on in silence for a while, until Aditu said, “Tell me of the life you carry inside you. When did you know?”
Tanahaya made a finger-sign—frailty. “In truth, I still do not know for certain, though I feel certain. It came upon me over a time. Dreams told me, but I did not recognize them at first. Only when I dreamed of my poor, lost mother did I wake to realize what was inside me.” She hesitated. “This will sound strange, but I thought that in the dream my mother spoke with your mother, Likimeya’s, voice.”
Aditu looked troubled. “I have only heard her voice once since she slipped into the deathlike trance of the keta-yi’indra. Strangely, I did not even hear her words as well as the mortal boy Morgan did.”
Tanahaya found that startling. “Truly? What did she say?”
“Morgan told us she said, All the voices lie except the one that whispers. And that one will steal away the world. I did not hear so much—her voice only murmured in my thought briefly, as faint as the sea in an empty shell. Still, I heard enough to know he spoke truly, which does not explain why she spoke to him and not to her own children.”
“I cannot make sense of it either,” said Tanahaya. “But I have other questions, other grave fears, that might be answered by Anvi’janya’s archives. Perhaps there we can also find an answer to what Morgan heard.”
* * *
* * *
The company rode through the night, resting the horses when it seemed necessary. Dawn found them at the base of a mountain whose rounded top loomed high above them. “Now we climb,” said Ayaminu.
Tanahaya was puzzled. “Forgive me, my lady, but this mountain does not look like what I have been told of Soori K’yan—the Sun’s Eye.”
Ayaminu smiled. “That is because it is not the Sun’s Eye. This is Funida—the Step. Be patient and you will soon understand.”
Tanahaya had been told to be patient so many times by her old mentor that she almost felt comforted. “I hear,” she said. “And when I hear, I learn.”
“And I hear Master Himano in your words,” said Ayaminu, smiling. “I was very sorry to hear of his death. You had a good teacher.”
“I miss him every day.”
As they made their way up the Step, the air grew colder and snowflakes swirled around their heads, though most of them melted before they reached the ground. Tanahaya had never been to Anvi’janya, though she had heard much about it, and she was puzzled why they should be climbing a different mountain than the one she had been taught was the seat of the ancient city. Then, as they followed the track around Funida’s base, she saw what had been hidden from her eye behind it—a mountain standing nearby that was almost twice as high as the Step, its peak like the tip of a sword blade. “Is that not the Sun’s Eye over there?” she asked in confusion. “What do I not understand? Are the stories wrong?”
