Infinity's Shore (34 page)

She found her thoughts more coherent now, with surprise giving way to curiosity.
What about people and races who are naturally color-blind?
The effect must involve more than mere frequency variations on the electromagnetic spectrum, as the urrish glasses probably did more than merely darken. There must be some other effect. Light polarization? Or
psi?

Emerson's rewq satisfied his own need for goggles. But Sara felt concern when he peeled back the filmy symbiont to take an unprotected peek. He
winced
, visibly recoiling from sensory overflow, as if a hoonish grooming fork had plunged into his eye. She started toward him—but that
initial reaction was brief. A moment later the starman grinned at her, an expression of agonized delight.

Well, anything you can do
—she thought, nudging her glasses forward.…

Her first surprise was the pain that wasn't. Her irises adjusted, so the sheer volume of illumination was bearable.

Rather, Sara felt waves of nausea as the world seemed to shift and dissolve … as if she were peering through layer after layer of overlapping images.

The land's mundane topography was a terrain of layered lava flows, eroded canyons, and jutting mesas. Only now that seemed only the blank tapestry screen on which some mad g'Kek artist had embroidered an apparition in luminous paint and textured thread. Each time Sara blinked, her impressions shifted.

—Towering buttes were
fairy castles
, their fluttering pennants made of glowing shreds of windblown haze.…

—Dusty basins became shimmering pools. Rivers of mercury and currents of blood seemed to flow uphill as merging swirls of immiscible fluid.…

—Rippling like memory, a nearby cliff recalled Buyur architecture—the spires of Tarek Town—only with blank windows replaced by a million splendid glowing lights.…

—Her gaze shifted to the dusty road, with pumice flying from the wagon wheels. But on another plane it seemed the spray made up countless glittering stars.…

—Then the trail crested a small hill, revealing the most unlikely mirage of all … several narrow, fingerlike valleys, each surrounded by steep hills like ocean waves, frozen in their spuming torrent. Underneath those sheltering heights, the valley bottoms appeared verdant
green
, covered with impossible meadows and preposterous trees.

“Xi,” announced Kepha, murmuring happily in that accent Sara found eerily strange-familiar …

 … and she abruptly knew why!

Surprise made Sara release the glasses, dropping them back over her eyes.

The castles and stars vanished …

 … 
but the meadows remained.
Four-footed shapes
could be seen grazing on real grass, drinking from a very real stream.

Kurt and Jomah sighed. Emerson laughed and Prity clapped her hands. But Sara was too astonished to utter a sound. For now she knew the truth about Melina the Southerner, the woman who long ago came to the Roney, supposedly from the far-off Vale, to become Nelo's bride. Melina the happy eccentric, who raised three unusual children by the ceaseless drone of Dolo Dam.

Mother
 … Sara thought, in numb amazement.
This must have been your home.

The rest of the horsewomen arrived a few miduras later with their urrish companions, dirty and tired. The Illias unsaddled their faithful beasts before stripping off their riding gear and plunging into a warm volcanic spring, beneath jutting rocks where Sara and the other visitors rested.

Watching Emerson, Sara verified that one more portion of his battered brain must be intact, for the spaceman's eyes tracked the riders' nude femininity with normal male appreciation.

She squelched a jealous pang, knowing that her own form could never compete with those tanned, athletic figures below.

The starman glanced Sara's way and flushed several shades darker, so sheepishly rueful that she had to laugh out loud.

“Look, but don't touch,” she said, with an exaggerated waggle of one finger. He might not grasp every word, but the affectionate admonishment got through.

Grinning, he shrugged as if to say,
Who, me? I wouldn't think of it!

The wagon passengers had already bathed, though more modestly. Not that nakedness was taboo elsewhere on the Slope. But the Illias women behaved as if they did not know—or care—about the simplest fact all human girls were taught about the opposite sex. That male
Homo sapiens
have primitive arousal responses inextricably bound up in their optic nerves.

Perhaps it's because they have no men
, Sara thought.
Indeed, she saw only female youths and adults, tending chores amid the barns and shelters. There were also urs, of Ulashtu's friendly tribe, tending their precious simla and donkey herds at the fringes of the oasis. The two sapient races did not avoid each other—Sara glimpsed friendly encounters. But in this narrow realm, each had its favored terrain.

Ulashtu knew Kurt, and must have spent time in the outer Slope. In fact, some Illias women also probably went forth, now and then, moving among unsuspecting villagers of the Six Races.

Melina had a good cover story when she came to Dolo, arriving with letters of introduction, and baby Lark on her hip. Everyone assumed she came from somewhere in the Vale. A typical arranged remarriage.

It never seemed an issue to Nelo, that his eldest son had an unknown father. Melina subtly discouraged inquiries into her past.

But a secret like this
 …

With Ulashtu's band came a prisoner.
Ulgor
, the urrish tinker who befriended Sara back at Dolo, only to spring a trap, leading to captivity by Dedinger's fanatics and the reborn Urunthai. Now their roles were reversed. Sara noted Ulgor's triplet eyes staring in dismay at the astonishing oasis.

How the Urunthai would hate this place! Their predecessors seized our horses to destroy them all. Urrish sages later apologized, after Drake the Elder broke the Urunthai. But how can you undo death?

You cannot. But it is possible to
cheat
extinction. Watching fillies and colts gambol after their mares below a bright rocky overhang, Sara felt almost happy for a time. This oasis might even remain unseen by omniscient spy eyes of alien star lords, confused by the enclosing land of illusion. Perhaps Xi would survive when the rest of the Slope was made void of sapient life.

She saw Ulgor ushered to a pen near the desert prophet, Dedinger. The two did not speak.

Beyond the women splashing in the pool and the grazing herds, Sara had only to lift her eyes in order to brush a glittering landscape where each ripple and knoll pretended
to be a thousand impossible things.
The country of lies
was a name for the Spectral Flow. No doubt a person got used to it, blanking out irritating chimeras that never proved useful or informative. Or else, perhaps the Illias had no need of dreams, since they lived each day awash in Jijo's fantasies.

The scientist in Sara wondered why it equally affected all races, or how such a marvel could arise naturally.
There's no mention of anything like it in Biblos. But humans only had a sprinkling of Galactic reference material when the
Tabernacle
left Earth. Perhaps this is a common phenomenon, found on many worlds.

But how much more wonderful if Jijo had made something unique!

She stared at the horizon, letting her mind free-associate shapes out of the shimmering colors, until a mellow female voice broke in.

“
You have your mother's eyes, Sara
.”

She blinked, drawing back to find two humans nearby, dressed in the leather garments of Illias. The one who had spoken was the first elderly woman Sara had seen here.

The other was a
man.

Sara stood up, blinking in recognition. “F-Fallon?”

He had aged since serving as Dwer's tutor in the wilderness arts. Still, the former chief scout seemed robust, and smiled broadly.

A little tactlessly, she blurted, “But I thought you were dead!”

He shrugged. “People assume what they like. I never said I'd died.”

A Zen koan if she ever heard one. But then Sara recalled what the other person said. Though shaded against the desert's glow, the old woman seemed to partake of the hues of the Spectral Flow.

“My name is Foruni,” she told Sara. “I am senior rider.”

“You knew my mother?”

The older woman took Sara's hand. Her manner reminded Sara of Ariana Foo.

“Melina was my cousin. I've missed her, these many years—though infrequent letters told us of her remarkable children. You three validate her choice, though exile must
not have been easy. Our horses and shadows are hard to leave behind.”

“Did Mother leave because of Lark?”

“We have ways of making it likely to bear girls. When a boy is born we foster him to discreet friends on the Slope, taking a female child in trade.”

Sara nodded. Exchange fostering was a common practice, helping cement alliances between villages or clans.

“But Mother wouldn't give Lark up.”

“Just so. In any event, we need agents out there, and Melina was dependable. So it was done, and the decision proved right … although we mourned, on hearing of her loss.”

Sara accepted this with a nod.

“What I don't understand is why only women?”

The elder had deep lines at the corners of her eyes, from a lifetime of squinting.

“It was required in the pact, when the aunties of
Urchachkin
tribe offered some humans and horses shelter in their most secret place, to preserve them against the Urunthai. In those early days, urs found our menfolk disquieting—so strong and boisterous, unlike their own husbands. It seemed simpler to arrange things on a female-to-female basis.

“Also, a certain fraction of boys tend to shrug off social constraints during adolescence, no matter how carefully they are raised. Eventually, some young man would have burst from the Illias realm without adequate preparation—and all it would take is one. In his need to preen and make a name, he might spill our secret to the Commons at large.”

“Girls act that way, too, sometimes,” Sara pointed out.

“Yes, but our odds were better this way. Ponder the young men you know, Sara. Imagine how they would have behaved.”

She pictured her brothers, growing up in this narrow oasis. Lark would have been sober and reliable. But Dwer, at fifteen, was very different than he became at twenty.

“And yet, I see you aren't all women.…”

The senior rider grinned. “Nor are we celibates. From time to time we bring in mature males—often chief scouts, sages, or explosers—men who already know our secret,
and are of an age to be calm, sensible companions … yet still retain vigor in their step.”

Fallon laughed to cover brief embarrassment. “My
step
is no longer my best feature.”

Foruni squeezed his arm. “You'll do for a while yet.”

Sara nodded. “An urrish-sounding solution.” Sometimes a group of young urs, lacking the means to support individual husbands, would share one, passing him from pouch to pouch.

The senior rider nodded, expressing subtleties of irony with languid motions of her neck. “After many generations, we may have become more than a bit urrish ourselves.”

Sara glanced toward Kurt the Exploser, sitting on a smooth rock studying carefully guarded texts, with both Jomah and Prity lounging nearby.

“Then you sent the expedition to fetch Kurt because you want another—”

“Ifni, no! Kurt is much too old for such duties, and when we do bring in new partners it is with quiet discretion. Hasn't Kurt explained to you what this is all about? His role in the present crisis? The reason why we gambled so much to fetch you all?”

When Sara shook her head, Foruni's nostrils flared and she hissed like an urrish auntie, perplexed by foolish juniors.

“Well, that's his affair. All I know is that we must escort you the rest of the way as soon as possible. You'll rest with us tonight, my niece. But alas, family reminiscence must wait till the emergency passes … or once it overwhelms us all.”

Sara nodded, resigned to more hard riding.

“From here … can we see—?”

Fallon nodded, a gentle smile on his creased features.

“I'll show you, Sara. It's not far.”

She took his arm as Foruni bade them return soon for a feast. Already Sara's nose filled with scents from the cook-fire. But soon her thoughts were on the path as they crossed narrow, miraculous meadows, then scniblands where simlas grazed, and beyond to a steepening pass wedged between two hills. Sunlight was fading rapidly,
and soon the smallest moon, Passen, could be seen gleaming near the far west horizon.

She heard
music
before they crested the pass. The familiar sound of Emerson's dulcimer, pinging softly ahead. Sara was loath to interrupt, yet the glow drew her—a shimmering lambency rising from Jijo, filling a vista beyond the sheltered oasis.

The layered terrain seemed transformed in pearly moonlight. Gone were the garish colors, yet there remained an extravagant effect on the imagination. It took an effort of will in order not to go gliding across the slopes, believing in false oceans and battlements, in ghost cities and starscapes, in myriad phantom worlds that her pattern-gleaning brain crafted out of opal rays and shadows.

Fallon took Sara's elbow, turning her toward Emerson.

The starman stood on a rocky eminence with the dulcimer propped before him, beating its forty-six strings. The melody was eerie. The rhythm orderly, yet impossible to constrain, like a mathematical series that refused to converge.

Emerson's silhouette was framed by flickering
fire
as he played for nature's maelstrom.

This fire was no imagining—no artifact of an easily fooled eye. It rippled and twisted in the far distance, rimming the broad curves of a mighty peak that reared halfway up the sky.