Kirith Kirin (The City Behind the Stars) (11 page)

“You’ve done well, both during the ceremony and after.” She had changed to Upcountry, she spoke it with no accent at all.

“There were a lot of people,” I said.

She looked at me curiously. “Your father is of the Erejhor Clan? Is that right?”

“Yes ma’am. My grandfather is very rich, he used to work for the Lady of Curaeth.”

She smiled. “You don’t realize who I am, do you?”

Puzzled, cocking my head.

“I don’t wear my house-signs most of the time. But I’m the Lady of Curaeth, I knew your grandfather, and your eldest uncle, though he was a babe when I came into Arthen.” I bowed my head and said I was glad to meet her. She was amused but too polite to laugh. “I meant to speak to you before but my mind wanders these days. Too many distractions.”

She was Kiril Karsten, the Lady of Curaeth. She was twice-named, too. Here were four of the Twelve.

Mordwen had knelt beside me. Apparently he liked Kiril Karsten since in her company he became good-humored. “You see how they’re all staring. Tell me they don’t know everything about this whole affair from beginning to end.”

“They’re curious. Since when did Kirith Kirin ever send to the Fenax for a kyyvi? The Nivri would expect the next kyyvi to come from one of their houses. I’d be curious too, I expect.”

“They know every wretched detail,” Mordwen said again, laughing gruffly.

“Don’t listen to him, Jessex, he’ll poison your mind.” She laughed and rose to greet a jewel-bedecked dandy wearing another of the round skullcaps common to the southern folk; she greeted this gentleman warmly and politely, shifting out of Upcountry into another mode of speech, different than I had heard before, and Mordwen beckoned to me to escape with him, which I did.

Many of those who had come for the ritual were drifting away to find supper. My own belly was calling me to the same purpose. Mordwen stopped by the shrine to survey the chamber a final moment, his glittering eyes scanning the lamp-lit faces as if he could read each one.

3

I ate supper in the lower camp, in one of the common tents, with my uncle. The tent was spacious, supported by delicate beams of fragrant wood from which hung ornate lamps made of metal strips and glass, called vuu-lamps, these being by all accounts the best light for early evening, burning with a warm glow that lights the flesh as if from within. Though in other parts of the tent were other lamps, I noticed, for those who preferred something different. The Jisraegen are connoisseurs of light, and there are dozens of varieties and families of lamps in use among us, and hundreds of variants, or probably thousands; the Jisraegen language contains over a hundred different words for light, as I would learn. That tent was large enough that two hundred people could eat inside it at once, seated on benches at long wooden tables whose surfaces were bleached from repeated scrubbings. We ate some kind of broiled meat and a gruel that would have thickened any man’s middle, along with bread my mother would not have given to the crows. Uncle Sivisal, who had come to the shrine tent for lamp-lighting, watched me eat and encouraged what he termed my fortitude. “Not exactly what your mother used to make, I expect.”

“Well I don’t think I ever ate it before.” I lifted the edge of the cutlet cautiously.

“The cooks haven’t had much to work with lately. This part of Arthen isn’t famous for game. Early in the year most everything tastes stringy to me, anyway; half-starved from winter.”

“Then it isn’t always this bad?”

Uncle Sivisal chuckled softly. “No. Let’s hope there aren’t any cooks listening.”

As a matter of fact there were none, and we were speaking Upcountry anyway. We had chosen a table close the center of the tent, directly under a lamp where the shadow was richest, velvet-textured and tinged with violet. At first we were alone at the table and a long time passed when no one joined us. I satisfied my curiosity by studying the adjacent tables, which were nearly full: hefty women cramming bread into their mouths, burly men laughing; some slim, some fair; some tall, some short; some with clear, pretty voices; some with deep, throaty timbres; a few fat ones, a few thin ones; a few homely, a few nice, a few really passable, a few pleasing, a few striking, a few handsome, a few true beauties, along with every variation. Some with scars and some missing limbs. I tried not to stare at those. I had never seen so many people, even in Mikinoos when my father sold corn. About half women and half men.

I noticed one thing very plainly, sitting there with my fork in my mouth. As I was staring at them, they were staring at me. More than one of them. I should have expected this, but in front of that mass of strangers I was cowed and longed to have them look at someone else. Sivisal affected not to notice anything and went on chewing his supper, but his eyes twinkled as he watched me.

“Eat your gruel. You’d be amazed how good for you it is.”

“It sticks my mouth together.”

“Wash it down. That’s the way. You can’t let a glob of gruel beat you.”

“Why doesn’t anybody sit with us?” I asked at last, seeing that nearly every table in the tent was full except ours.

Sivisal chuckled and leaned forward. “Because they’re afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of you. Because Lord Illythin’s dream brought you here and Prince Kirith rode to meet you himself.” Chuckling again. “They know who you are, make no mistake. You can’t keep a secret in a camp like this. Too many Cordyssans; they can hear through stone walls.”

Some silence followed and we settled down to finish our suppers, with the noise in the hall rising and falling like a tide. When we were done with supper we carried our plates to the appointed tables, where a fat old man with a hairy wart was standing by a vast cauldron full of boiling water. A couple of hags, his helpers, took our plates from us and dipped them into pails of soapy water, the old man barking at them to be quick about it, since the water wouldn’t be boiling to midnight. We passed beyond their table and out of the tent by another flap.

The night was clear and fragrant, stars burning overhead in the gaps between tree branches. Uncle Sivisal obtained a torch from the tent-porter and led me along the overgrown path to the shrine. One could see the warm glow of the tent a long way off, a gauzy, milky light, clinging like film to the crown of the hill. At the perimeter of the clearing we parted, after he introduced me to the sentries, whom he knew. I entered the shrine alone.

I said good-night to YY-mother and watched the sentries vanish into the darkness, the torchlight flickering beyond layers of flowered branches.

4

Lord Illythin woke me long before daybreak, calling my name from beyond the tent-flap. He set a traveling lantern beside my bed, light spilling over my sleep, rousing me insistently. He opened the chest and pulled out a fresh white tunic, gathering together the pitcher and basin along with a decanter of cleansing oil. When I sat up, rubbing my eyes, he said, “Out of bed, child. I need to show you some things before the morning ceremony. The day ritual is not as simple as the evening.”

He handed me a long-sleeved coat of soft cloth, explaining to me in a mellow, morning-gentle voice that I must take a ritual bath each morning before putting out the lamp. I stood, put on the soft bath-coat and followed outside. Down a narrow path we descended, toward the sound of running water, and soon I saw a brook shrouded in vuthloven, blossoms floating on the surface.

Lord Illythin led me through the ritual. One stepped a certain number of steps into the water and washed one’s body beginning with the head and ending with the feet, this while facing east, keeping strict silence and breathing a particular number of breaths. The patterned breathing and movement has the effect of easing one gently into wakefulness. At the end of the bath one steps from the water, drying the body beginning with the feet and ending with the head, using the bath-coat to drink the water from the skin. Finally one lifts the lantern and returns to the shrine. Once inside the tent, with the bath ceremony completed, one is permitted to speak.

Mordwen asked me if I had questions and I told him I thought I could remember the ceremony for the next day. He quizzed me to see if I was telling the truth and I gave him good answers. He warned me that there were other variations of the bath ceremony used when we were camping in places where running water was not convenient, and another ritual altogether to be used when we were in a palace like Inniscaudra. I would learn these in due time.

He taught me the correct knot to use when tying back the eastern tent-flap, through which daylight comes to light the sunstone. He told me the proper order for morning ceremony, including what time I should enter the shrine, where I should stand and when I should wet my fingers for snuffing out the lamp wick. By the time he finished explaining everything once, folks were gathering in the clearing outside.

We could both feel morning come. By instinct I knew it was the second sun, the pale light. Soon Mordwen nodded for me to begin. As I stepped toward the shrine, watching the blue-white flame burn in the ka-globe, I said a phrase Mordwen had taught me, lifted the lamp from its fastening, careful to carry it on a padding of cloth to protect my hands from the heat of the glass, and walked with it to the tent opening.

Light from the lamp spilled into the clearing beyond. Kiril Karsten was the first person I saw, but I recognized others too, faces but not names. Prince Imral and Kirith Kirin led a few people into the shrine when I went back inside, following Mordwen’s signal.

At the appropriate moment of brightening, I wet my fingers with scented water and when the heart of the muuren clouded through with the first touch of true daylight, I snuffed out the ka-lamp. Amid the soft clink of lamp-shutters closing I sang Velunen.

For me the feeling of singing was like the night before, I let my voice hang on the breeze, watching the sun through the treetops, the muuren’s misty heart, the trail of smoke rising from the lamp and vanishing. At the end of the song I carried the lamp behind the shrine and listened to the voices from beyond. I disassembled the lamp and cleaned it as one is supposed to do. Mordwen found me pouring the oil into a funnel that guaranteed every costly drop reached the safety of the jar. I wiped the lamp clean with wet cloths and dried it with dry ones, polishing the metal and breathing on the glass, finally packing the various parts away in the wooden chest. I locked the case-lock and fastened the key ring on my waist. Mordwen said nothing till I had put the case away and turned to him. “Well done,” he said. “Now, put on leggings and your coat. The groom is bringing a horse. My householder is packing you some breakfast, too.”

This was news to me, a horse.

We walked round to the clearing from the back of the tent, Mordwen wishing to avoid conversation with anyone remaining in the shrine, as he admitted. “I’m as nervous as a cat,” he said, “when I thought I was long past superstitions.”

“I’m very superstitious,” I said. “What do you mean?”

He narrowed his eyes at me, as if he had caught me making fun of him, though I was completely serious. “The morning ride is for luck,” he said, “and in the days of the Praeven, signs the kyyvaeyi brought home were read as augury, sometimes very accurately. We don’t have the means for reading ride-signs these days, the lore books are locked away in Cunuduerum. So we won’t know whether you’re bringing us good luck or bad.”

“What did the last kyyvi bring?” I asked.

“The last kyyvi did not do the morning ride,” Mordwen said. “It’s been a long time since Kirith Kirin required it.”

We were near the clearing, where only a few folks were still milling about, suspended between Velunen and the journey toward breakfast. A murmur of astonishment went up ahead of us. I could see nothing but Mordwen’s back and the headdress of a Cordyssan noblewoman, pearl studded roosts of hair. The headdress tilted precariously and vanished. The crowd parted. Mordwen, his expression gone suddenly sour, stepped to one side.

Kirith Kirin had taken Nixva from the groom and was walking toward me. Nixva tossed his black head, the fine velvet of his mouth quivering, as if to say we were headed for a fine life together, a fine ride, morning after morning. I gazed at them both in wonder, Prince and stallion, hearing nothing of the hubbub in the crowd.

I took the reins from his hand. He nodded, ever so slightly. Though he said nothing, the fact of the gift was plain and I could hear the reaction from those gathered.

Mordwen knelt next to me and whispered, “Now you get on the horse and ride east. Let Nixva have his head. Return at mid-heaven and look for me.”

We contrived to seem as though Mordwen were helping me onto the horse as he whispered these instructions. Kirith Kirin stood close by. “Return with luck,” Kirith Kirin said.