19
“I suppose,” the Wolf said, “I
should be scared?” It licked its great teeth with a long
tongue.
“You should.” Pyra put down
the clam basket and shrugged off the red cloak.
“Because I’m not what you
think. And if you swallow me, all you’ll get is a fire in your
belly that will never go out.”
The Wolf crouched. “If you
don’t mind,” it said politely, “I’ll take my chances.”
“Fine. Whenever you’re
ready.”
Pyra and the Wolf
AND THE WOLF LEAPED.
“No!” Carys screamed in fury. “This is just a
story!” But the great maw opened and she was inside it, swallowed
deep down red tunnels into a raw, pounding heat.
THE SUN WAS GOING DOWN. All the horizon was on fire
and Herax knew the danger beacons had been lit; warning flames
across the Karmor hills. Below her the Sekoi army was gathered,
thousands strong, armed only with wooden staves, small knives,
hastily cut spears. The Karamax went among the columns, encouraging
them, firming their minds with legends.
Beyond the fires, over the edge of the world, the
Watchmen were. They moved in dark rows on the high downs.
Herax tuned the final string on the saar. She
struck a soft chord, and the music went down into the veins of
Anara, and shivered in the leaves of the trees. All the Sekoi-host
heard it; it entered their stories and memories, seeping into them,
a great unsettling, stirring their wrath.
Herax sang the Song of Anger; a wordless song, a
song without harmony, that had not been sung since before the
Starmen came. It moved through the host like anxiety, like an ache,
darkening their minds; and as she sang it she felt her own thought
curl up and her mind go cold with the chilling anger of the Sekoi,
knowing it was her skill that would bring so many to their deaths.
Herax . . .
But her name wasn’t Herax.
She stopped, struck by that. Her fingers gripped
the taut strings and she stared out at the smoky fires, not seeing
them. Her name was . . .
Was ...
It had gone. Shaking her head she flung the saar
down among the rocks. “No!” she snapped. “Not this story either.
You’ll never get me to forget! My name is . . .”
But there was only emptiness. And as the army in
the plain below gave a great cry, rain pattered hard from the
iron-gray clouds.
Bewildered, she watched it drip from her seven
fingers.
THERE WERE TOO MANY STORIES. They came so fast; she
slid helpless from one to another like a shadow, caught up in the
fights, the journeys, the escapes. Breathless and injured in the
Karelian jungle; then lazing on a bed of silk in the Castle of
Halen; another time wandering deep in the Forbidden mines, consumed
with nothing but thirst—all the scenes crowded in on her. And she
lived them. They were real. She could smell the mossflowers that
tried to devour her, taste the bitter chocolate in Bara’s box. When
the kite-bird struck at her in the tombs of Ista it made her bleed
and hiss with pain, the thin amber stain clotting the fur of her
neck.
Only now and then when a story drew to its close
did the despair come flooding back, the sudden knowledge of the
cage, so that she knew she was trapped in an endless web of words
and events and happenings—old treacheries, love affairs, wars,
quests—none of it hers, none of it mattering. And beyond that was
something else, some deep real anxiety that bit her like a
Kest-claw which she couldn’t shake off, and in all the confusion of
the stories she could never find out what it was.
Once, deep in the strange Sekoi-houses in the tale
of Emeran from before the Watch-wars, she caught a glimpse of her
own narrow striped face in the mirror and knew her name was Carys
and that her eyes were brown, not yellow, but the knowledge was
gone in an instant as the keeper Ganelian knocked on the door and
the whole relentless tragedy began. She was Emeran; all that had
happened to her had to be lived through, and only when the tale
ended and she found herself weeping over his body with the poison
vial in her hand did she struggle back to herself.
Just for a second, her mind cleared. She smeared
the tears away fiercely, knowing she had to do something, now! But
what? There was no Watch-training for this. No procedures. Old
Jellie had never taught her anything about escaping her own mind.
Galen would have. The Order, they understood things like this. They
knew ...
But it was already too late.
The story flowed back. She drank the poison,
feeling its hot stain corrode her stomach and veins. As she fell
forward, retching, the white Emeranflowers sprang out of the ground
around her.
THIS WAS THE SEKOI-CONSCIOUSNESS. She saw with
their eyes, smelled their sharp scents, dreamed in their odd,
complex colors. The stories grew older, more alien. Now they were
myths of heroes from before the Wakening, when the world was
colder.
Standing on the rock of Zenath, tied hand and foot
with the broken sword at her feet, she stopped struggling with the
ropes and stared up at the sky, the wind flapping her long
coat.
Because it was dark. Too dark.
Quite still, she wondered why the stars astonished
her, what was wrong with them; ignoring the churning wash of waves
as the great two-headed god strode toward her through the
sea.
Then she realized.
THERE WERE NO MOONS!
The shock of it almost made the story fade. There
were no moons, and the Anaran sky was black as she had never seen
it, full of millions of brilliant stars.
And it was so cold.
This was important, she knew it was; she tried to
hold on to it but the story surged back and the giant cried out,
“Where is my sacrifice? Where is my reward?” so that the rock
shook. She tore a hand free of the ropes and grabbed the
sword.
“It’s not me!” she screamed. “And I’m not going to
fight you!”
But the god roared and swung its great mace and
she ducked, striking back at it. For a day and a night she fought
with it, time that passed without time, until Anarax rode to her
rescue on the winged night-cat, and in an instant the story
transformed and . . .
. . . SHE WAS STANDING ON A HILLTOP, still under a
dark sky, with six other Sekoi.
Breathless, she looked up.
Out of the night, a silver staircase was forming.
Down it came new, strange people; small, slender forms, their hair
long, unfurred. A male first, tall and dark-haired, dressed in a
coat of stars, and behind him others—a female, another bigger male
with an animal in his arms.
The Sekoi murmured. Around her, anxiety
rippled.
The Karamax walked out to meet the Starmen.
Under her feet the grass was frozen. As she
crunched on it something shot through her numbed mind like a stab
of memory. She had seen this meeting before. A hundred times. On
smashed windows, images, relics. These were the Starmen.
Men.
She struggled for the other word bitterly, forcing
her mind after it as it slipped away.
Makers.
These were the Makers.
The Sekoi gathered at the foot of the
stairs.
“We welcome you, strange people,” Sharrik said in
the Tongue.
The Starmen smiled. The tall one held out small
hands.
“Let us be friends,” he urged. “My tribe and your
tribe.”
She knew this story, but it was wrong. This wasn’t
how Raffi told it.
Raffi!
How do I get out? she asked him, almost in tears.
How do I direct the dream, Raffi, and get out of this stinking
mess! What do I do?
But he wasn’t there, and the Starmen were turning
away. The story was fading and she knew she had to do something
now, right now, or this would go on forever, so she shoved through
the gap and ran, breathless, to the foot of the silver stairs and
grabbed the cold handrail, screaming out the only name she could
think of in an explosion of breath and anger.
“Flain! Wait! Talk to
me!”
He stopped.
Halfway up the stairs he turned, as if he was
puzzled.
She felt free, as if she had burst a hole in some
smothering web.
“Listen to me, Flain, please! Galen always says I
should talk to you. So now I’m talking.”
He smiled. “I see.” Quietly he walked back down.
She saw he was a man in his prime; dark hair slightly touched with
gray, hiding the thin gold crown. Close up, his face showed a small
scar on the bridge of his nose, and the dark coat he wore was
threadbare, flecked with small moth-holes.
She caught hold of his arm. “Tell me my
name.”
“You know your name,” he said patiently. “It’s
Carys.”
“Carys! That’s right!” She frowned, scratching her
furred tribemark. “Look, I need help. I have to break out of these
stories!”
Flain laughed. “You’ve needed help before. You’ve
rarely asked for it.”
“That was different!” Looking up, she saw Tamar
and Soren and Theriss waiting for him. Right at the back was a
smaller man, thin and wiry, his narrow face bearded, closed with
some inner tension. A chill of astonishment touched her. That must
be Kest.
“Different?” Flain asked lightly.
“It was never like this!” She shook her head.
“There was never a time I hadn’t been trained for, when I didn’t
know what to do. But this! It’s all in my mind. I can’t stop it. It
won’t let me out and Galen’s in trouble, all of them are!” She had
five fingers now. She threw down the Sekoi wand in disgust.
“And we, the Makers? We’re in your head
too?”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t help me.”
He smiled wanly. “Remember that outside the cage,
Carys, if you can. And tell the keeper he will see me soon. Very
soon.”
Suddenly she caught a glimpse of gold in his hair
and put her hand up. “That’s the Coronet!”
He stepped back.
“That’s what we’re looking for!”
He nodded. “Indeed. Gold.” A long look passed
between them; she caught her breath in sudden understanding. But he
had turned and was walking up the stairs.
“Wait! How do I get out?”
“That’s easy! Even Raffi could tell you. You just
open your eyes.”
“They are open!” she yelled, furious.
“Ah, but they’re not.”
A door slid wide in the sky. One by one the Makers
went through it. On the threshold Flain looked down at her and
smiled. “It’s easy, Carys.”
Then he stepped in, and the sky slid back.
At once the story began to gather; she could feel
its power, speeding, crowding, moving her on, the fur on her face
rippling back. She yelled with anger, shrugging off everything,
swearing, struggling, kicking it away. “Wait! ” she screamed at the
stars. “What use are you? Come back and help me!”
No one answered.
So she gave up in utter exhaustion.
And opened her eyes.