The Revenants (47 page)

Authors: Sheri S. Tepper

BOOK: The Revenants

11.6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Beneath the dome in Tharliezalor a shadow seduced the prince, the singer, and the changeling.

Medlo thought of Alan. No. Of Jaer. As he had seen her outside Murgin, mutilated and broken. That was what Alan was now. That. And Rhees had fallen to the Gahlians. It was all lies and false promises. ‘No,’ he said to the shadow. ‘No.’

Terascouros’s voice had faltered, but only for a moment. From far-off Gerenhodh the mind of the Sisterhood reached out to her. ‘Teras,’ said Old Aunt. ‘Behave yourself!’ Terascouros laughed in her heart, took up the pain again, and the song.

But Jaer moved to the great jar. She wanted to lay her head against it, let what was within swallow her up together with all her inhabitants. Then, from the silent multitude within her, a voice cried, ‘Do not forget me.’

For a moment she did not know whose voice it was. The realization came slowly. Among the multitudes were even those who had died…. Jaer took a deep breath and looked upon the shadow where it dwelt and had dwelt for thousands of years. ‘Mother, I will not forget you.’

So saying, she stepped to Medlo’s side and lifted the fringed sash over his head, feeling the solid weight of it on her palms, the roughness of the silver thread. She stood to confront the shadow with the sash across her hands.

‘I have two weapons,’ she whispered. ‘I have carried neither. One is the song of Terascouros, which binds for only a time. The other is the Girdle of Chu-Namu, the Girdle of Binding, which binds forever.’

That
in the jar struck out at her, a bolt of force thrusting out of blackness. Jaer staggered, went to one knee, still speaking. ‘During my long sleep, I learned of this girdle. Jasmine sought it. Medlo carried it. It is destined for this place, to bind … to bind … myself?’ Her voice broke as the bolt of force came again, darkness spun into a lance of fear and horror, but there was a tall form standing beside her, reaching across her quivering shoulders to stroke the sash which she held while comforting her with glowing yellow eyes.

‘No,
Not yourself Jaer. Not you. Others.’

They were there suddenly, seven slender forms which burned with anguished fire, blazed with a single purpose. One of them took the sash from Jaer’s lax hands, and Jaer wept at the touch, for the agonies of Murgin had been nothing beside this agony. She heard a woman’s voice cry, ‘Farewell, Urlasthes, my love….’ The seven moved toward the black jar.

Time moved away from them into maelstrom, a twisting, vertiginous wracking which wrenched at them until bones screamed with pain and blood started in droplets on their foreheads. Behind them the keening of the serim grew in intensity, higher and higher. Before them the Remnant struggled to encircle the jar, struggled as they were thrust this way and that, thrown by the force as though they had been dolls.

Urlasthes held tightly to the hands of others of the Remnant to left and right. Then his grip was broken. The two ends of the fragile chain were flung aside, lashing like pennants. The circle struggled to close, was broken, struggled again, was broken once more. Dazedly the seven crawled toward the jar to try once more, and were driven once more into the shadows. Within the jar, a paean of awful triumph began.

Jaer clung to the metal table beside her, the multitudes within her tumbled and whipped as though by hurricane, torn into fragments even as the structure they had helped to build began to shine, to glow. Light from it moved into Jaer, coursed through her, into her eyes, her mouth. At once she was aware of the city, the piled serim, the hills and upon those hills the gathered forces she had denied – those who had destroyed Murgin, those ancient, awesome, and mighty; the gathered hosts of myth.

‘Come,’ she cried, in a voice like a great gong struck before a multitude. ‘Come. There is need of thee. Thou, dwellers of the world, companions, thou long-denied, there is no need of thee….’

The thundering force from the black jar redoubled at her cry. Her fingers slipped from the table. Terascouros was blown away to crash into a wall, lying sprawled and still. The song from Gerenhodh fell silent.

But then the room began to fill with others. Wings moved above stalking bodies, ivory hooves struck against stone, sounds as of far music rose over the serim cries, terror and joy walked into the room, draperies, leaves, mists, metallic hides spotted with jewels. The sphinx which had marched on Murgin marched once more, eyes fixed on the great jar, seeming hardly to see the pitiful, white-robed figures which the narrowing circle of creatures gathered and thrust before them. Lion forms walked; tree forms; things of ocean and air. Among them was the tall being with yellow eyes, achingly familiar, infinitely strange. They came in a silver flood, lifting the Remnant before them into a circle which tightened upon the shadow. Then the hands of the Remnant were joined, passing the Girdle from hand to hand. The tall figure moved among them, helping to fasten the Girdle at last.

For a moment, words too loathsome to hear screamed at each of them as
that
fought to stay Separate. Then there was a sound, almost as though thunder muttered for an instant upon a far mountain, then a shattering noise as the great jar broke, its bonds snapped through. Wind rushed by them full of noisome odours, returned fresh with summer. Of the seven, nothing remained. Dust blew in the wind.

Among the shards of the jar lay Medlow’s sash, softly gleaming with silver embroidery over its pattern of clouds and rain. It was Jaer who picked it up and placed it in Medlo’s hands once more, but it was the voice of the yellow-eyed one which spoke to them.

‘The Girdle of Chu-Namu, the Girdle of Binding, given to Our Lady of the Waters in the City of the Mists in a forgotten time, No other than this could have bound the seven to that which they had presumed to cast out, so long ago.’

Then it seemed that the tall, yellow-eyed one left them; the creatures vanished as a cloud vanishes; for they were alone in Thaliezalor with a woman who told them her name was Taniel.

Thewson could not think. In the still air above the valley there was no attempt at thought. There was only rage, fury of wing, talon, beak and fang. Even at that height, Sybil’s voice could be heard cawing, ‘Die, winged lion, old eagle-beak. Die then as the Sisters and Choirs will die. I mock you as I mock them, those who would have set Sybil to the silence. Who will have power now? Who will rule where the Council once sat. I, winged one, I, I, I, I, I.’

Sybil’s voice almost drowned out Litho’s muttering, ‘Die, die you who are not, are not, are not….’

But it was the serpent beasts which died in their dozens. Hazliah and Leona found themselves alone in the wide sky save for a few of the serpents. They spiraled tightly so the beasts could not reach them from behind, labouring to breathe, to beat wing, again, again. A venomed sting had touched Leona’s great foot, and it hung beneath her, useless. Blood hammered in her ears. A rush of wind tumbled her out of the spiral, threw the serpents into confusion. In that instant she darted upward with her last strength to strike with brazen beak at an exposed serpent neck. Rent in two, the corpse fell slowly on rigid wings into the ghost-ridden meadows.

Which was empty. Barren. Grey. Where the ghosts had marched, a dead and dusty plain. Alone before the walls of the city marched the two in the blood-red robes. Sybil. Lithos. They did not look behind them, did not see the emptiness where the ghosts of Gahl had been gathered. Jasmine did not see, nor Hu’ao, nor the others chained and driven like animals before the red-robed ones. Leona recovered herself to strike hard at the one beast left between her and the earth. Behind her, Hazliah followed in a silent curve on quiet wings to come to earth behind the two. Neither Sybil nor Lithos saw the gryphons until they were grasped from behind by mighty talons, raised up and held before the walls of Orena, before the thousands of eyes in the city, squirming in sudden terror.

Jasmine caught Hu’ao in her arms. Dhariat tore the chains from her wrists. Thewson vaulted from the walls and ran toward them in giant strides. On the walls, the Sisters fell silent in awe. Leona’s sides moved laboriously, blood pouring from many wounds, but she held her burden high, in silence, waiting, as did Hazliah.

‘Leave them,’ came a quavering voice from the walls. One of the oldest of the Sisters, one very like to Old Aunt, gestured to the gryphons. ‘Leave them.’ Supported by two younger women, she tottered to the parapet. ‘Leave them.’

The gryphons backed slowly away, leaving the red-clad two to writhe in the grey dust like creatures of the dark brought from under a turned stone. Song began upon the walls.

Medlo would have known it at once. He had once asked Terascouros about it. He would have been interested to hear it sung. It was known as the Song of Dismissal.

Sybil struggled to her feet. ‘No,’ she screamed. ‘You have no right. I am one of you. You can’t…’ Then she clutched at her throat and was silent.

Lithos shrieked. ‘You cannot. My Master will not allow it. I am Lithos. I am the master of what is …’ That voice, too, fell silent.

It seemed to Leona that hot air might be rising between her eyes and the two red-robed figures, for they quivered, quivered, began to break into fragments like shards of ruby glass. A shrill crying came from these fragments, almost like the shrilling of the ghosts, yet with something of humanity in it. Lithos’s hood slipped back to show the narrow grin of the madman; the glaring, lidless eyes, open forever in staring wrath; the throat swelling into words which grated from the shivering shards of ruby light, ‘Are not, do not exist, are not…’ The shards became smaller, still smaller, dust, a bright cloud, and were gone. As the face faded into disparate mist, Leona thought she saw an expression of relief, as in the face of a child kept too long awake as it collapses into sleep.

Nothing. Nothing. The song rose triumphantly, faded into minor harmonies and into stillness.

Sighing, Leona turned away, once more human, naked, wounded. ‘I hope someone will bring the Vessel,’ she said. ‘I left it for the Sisters, but we have need of it now.’

It was Systrys who brought the Vessel, together with a small, stained book with a brown cover.

‘When you meet with your friends again, please give this to Jaer. As you can see, it is the quest book of Ephraim the Archivist. I found it before the battle started, but there was no time to give it to you then.’

Leona opened it at random while they washed her wounds, read from it.

‘From shadows, the dark warrior comes

with Widon’s sons and Power’s Sword
.

A singer beats the dead-march drums

to welcome him, the Lion Lord:

‘That is like Jaer’s book,’ said Thewson. ‘Partly.’

‘This verse is longer than the one in Jaer’s book. Still, the dark warrior did come with Widon’s sons.’

‘That is true,’ said Thewson. ‘I am Lion Lord, and that fuxlus, that singer, did beat a mighty drum. It is a dead drum, too. I killed it.’

‘You came barely in time, Thewson.’

‘I came as fast as any person could come. Down from the north on horses, all the thousands with the new swords. To the River Rochagor. Boats there, and Jasmine and the little people. Then boats to Tiles where is Fox with the girl child, Hu’ao, and two nuns. Then quick on the river to Lakland, from Lakland to River Del. One bad day on that river, upstream, pulling boats. Then the other river, sails, back and forth, back and forth. Good wind, then. Some men make battle march, some ride on boats. Next day, other men make battle march, some ride on boats. Long, long, river gets shallow. Then all men make battle march, to kill the drum and those …’

‘And now – what? What of Jaer, and Medlo, and Terascouros?’

‘Now we go see. We must heal you quick, you and Hazliah, so that we may go away to the north. You, and Jasmine, and me. We are needed there.’

‘Does the Crown tell you this?’ she asked him, weighted with weariness. ‘You are never satisfied, my friend. Either we must wait and do nothing when we do not wish to wait, or we must go at once when we are unable to go. When we are healed we will go as quickly as we can.’ And she tucked the little brown-backed book into her belt pouch. She would give it to Jaer, who would treasure it.

Around them the people of Orena moved to carry the wounded of Hazliah’s kindred within the walls and dispatch the serpent beasts which still lived. Of the ghosts of Gahl, there was no sign except for the grey and barren earth which they had crossed.

FROM THE QUEST BOOK OF EPHRAIM THE ARCHIVIST

The Prophecy of Geraldhis

Between Gerenhodh and the sea
,

by Gahlian maimed, by capture grieved
,

three chainbound captives are set free

that one great end shall be achieved
.

From shadows a dark warrior comes

with Widon’s sons and Power’s Sword
.

A singer beats the dead-march drums

to welcome him, the Lion Lord
.

The King of Rhees shall rise again
,

beside him maiden, mother, hag
,