Chapter 2
warriors of the people in the valley of lost souls travel on their errands; the despair of the deceiver settles on their winged shoulders like a layer of fine, gritty dust. those at the outermost edge who are most capable of movement and thought, cannot help but rail against the lord esli whose abandonment of their souls to this perdition is clearly in error . . . it cannot be otherwise: as warriors, does not the world revolve around them? the despair of esga'u grows heavier and heavier as they brood upon their fate, until at last they seek the solace of the center where movement ends and thoughts find their refuge in oblivion. there are two ways to escape the valley of lost souls. one way is virtually impossible: at the center is the perilous stair that ascends the icewall to the fortress of esga'u, but only the rarest hero can lift his head to see it.
the other, nearly as unlikely, involves self-negation: recognition that even the greatest warrior can be reduced to nothing if the eight winds blow a certain way, or if esli wills it. stripped of egocentricity, a warrior can find a new inner peace without such feelings. it is a rare transcendence: admitting that control of the situation belongs to someone else—or, perhaps, to no one. it is just such a change that saved the people from self-extinction when eshu'ur conquered them three generations ago. even fewer warriors can ascend the perilous stair. those they leave behind can only escape by piercing the icewall.
—Ke'en HeU'ur,
Ur'ta leHssa and the Icewall,
saLi'a'a Press: esYen, 2314
He remembered a starship hurtling across empty space. It approached in his peripheral vision, coming closer and closer and then striking him, impossibly, sending pain through every receptor. Then there was another instant of blinding pain from the other side, driving him into unconsciousness.
He could still see that ship flying at him, end over end, in slow motion. He had all the time in the world to trace its trajectory back to the origin . . . And trace it he did, watching it retreat like a vid image until it came to a halt in an upright position on a shiny, reflective surface.
Hands were around it in his mind's eye: two meat-creature hands, one of them bearing a circle of bright metal on one finger.
Two hands.
An Academy ring.
Suddenly, in the depths of wherever he was, he knew whose hands they were: They belonged to Georg Maartens, the captain of the Imperial starship Pappenheim.
Running the vid slowly forward . . . ever so slowly, so he wouldn't have to feel that pain again . . . he watched as Maartens picked up the ship, a heavy model of the Pappenheim itself, and flung it at him. He'd been distracted somehow—he'd turned away in meat-creature form to the door, to face Dante Simms, the Marine commander of the Pappenheim—and the model had hit him on the side of the head.
Where am I? he thought; followed immediately by, Who am I?
The first question had no answer. It was dark here, wherever "here" was: It might be a vat of g'jn-fluid to regenerate whatever parts he might have lost when . . . when—
The second question had an immediate response. You are N'nr Deathguard, he heard in his mind. That is the most important fact. You are of the Ninth Sept of E'esh, he added to himself, placing it at a distance, a color-change behind the first one.
N'nr Deathguard.
He knew where he was now—or at least what his current status must be: a prisoner of the meat-creatures, caught in their k'th's's somehow. It was impossible but it must be true nonetheless. The walls of his n'n'eth seemed intact, so his mind was unbreached; he didn't know how long it had been since the meat-creatures had struck him unconscious, but he must still be so. This emerging series of thoughts was clearly deep within his i'kn-mind, so whatever means had been used to keep him unconscious was beginning to wear off.
Soon, very soon, he would know where he was. If his i'kn-mind was beginning to function, his waking mind would emerge within a few vx*tori . . . all he had to do was wait.
He didn't have to wait very long. He became aware of minds in his vicinity: primitive, but still possessed of k'th's's—and too many to idly Dominate, particularly in his weakened condition. He let one eye open slightly, and saw a chamber. It was dimly lit and disturbingly square, with a higher ceiling than was comfortable; even his time aboard the starship Pappenheim, during which he'd accustomed himself to human habitation, had not completely eliminated his natural aversion to open spaces.
So. This was likely a zor habitation. That explained the k'th's's, then—the winged servants had far more powerful abilities than their wingless masters. It wasn't an encouraging thought—it meant they were aware of the threat he posed. His presence here also meant that the Pappenheim had escaped the digestion of Cicero.
To confirm his supposition, he saw two of the egg-sucking meat-creatures enter his field of vision. They were speaking in the Highspeech; something was interfering with his ability to pick up stray surface-thoughts, so he was at a loss to understand what they were saying—except that it was likely about him.
One of the zor turned to face him. "You have awakened," it—he—said in Standard. "We have much to discuss."
"'Discuss'?" he managed to croak. "I have nothing to say to you, m—"
"'Meat-creature.' Yes, I know. Let us presume that we will dispense with the preliminary insults. My name is Byar HeShri. I will forbear addressing you as 'Servant of Despite,' and you can withhold your own pejoratives as well. Agreed?"
Byar HeShri took up a perch near where he lay. He opened his other eye and swiveled his head around to take a good look. He was lying on a large cot in some sort of examining room—an elaborate sickbay aboard a base or ship. He was physically unrestrained, but some sort of weak force field was being projected around the cot: It was like a hive-ship's defensive field, though obviously much weaker, but enough to disturb his k'th's's and prevent him from seizing this one's mind . . . though the winged servant did seem to be powerful in his own right.
A tiny amount of fear began to form on the outside of his thorax. He wanted to extend a tentacle and wipe it away, but he didn't want to call attention to it.
"You have left me little choice in the matter."
"There is always choice." The zor rearranged his wings. "For example, you may choose to cooperate with me and explain the objectives of your people . . . or you may choose otherwise. As you spent some time in the guise of a naZora'e, you might believe there may be some hesitation in extracting that information by force—but do not deceive yourself.
"You are far too dangerous for half-measures; you are also far too dangerous to be allowed where you might be rescued or left unguarded. Almost no one knows that you are even alive or in captivity."
"My own people know."
"I do not believe that they care very much about you at all," Byar answered. "From what we have been able to learn, there is a very low tolerance for failure among your people. And make no mistake . . ." The wings moved to another position. "At least for the present, you have failed. Cicero is in the possession of the enemy, but everything that could be removed from that place is beneath a safe wing."
"Except your precious sword," the alien answered immediately. "And you have chosen some egg-sucking zor warrior to try and fetch it back."
The zor's wings moved again; the alien thought it might possibly be in amusement, but had no way of being sure.
"Something of the sort."
I suppose there was no way to have avoided this becoming a media event, the High Chamberlain thought as he made his way through the closed-off terminal. Those privileged enough to have access to this part of A'alu Spaceport gave T'te'e HeYen a wide berth as he flew slowly and purposefully along, followed by his retinue, staying—as protocol required—two wing-lengths behind and one below. As the High Chamberlain went by, those he passed dipped their wings respectfully, assuming postures that communicated respect, awe or fear, in about equal proportions—all conveying what the situation required; all more or less ignored by T'te'e as he flew his path.
At the edge of his peripheral vision he noticed a 3-V camera crew tracking his movements: Without directly affronting him by close physical approach, they had deliberately invaded his vague sense of privacy—and some of his postures and expressions would be on the comnet a few sixty-fourths of a sun from now.
In an earlier time he would have cursed the crew to travel the dark paths of the Plain of Despite, but that seemed to be altogether too close and painful now; instead, he simply altered his direction slightly to stare directly at the crew-captain, whose wings had been arranged to convey a polite but justified defiance: I have a right to be here, it said. An equal right to your own.
At the High Chamberlain's glance, however, the anonymous tech looked away quickly, settling his posture into one of greater politeness.
That is better, T'te'e thought to himself. But the pleasure in winning the insignificant conflict was shallow, and the High Chamberlain despaired to think just how little his dignity meant anymore.
The spaceport named for the legendary first High Lord A'alu had grown to span a substantial area on Zor'a's main continent. A century ago, when the People were at war with the naZora'i, much of the activity at A'alu consisted of military craft; the Navy had commandeered several of the spaceport's terminals for its own use, arranging access-paths and lines of sight to make them inaccessible to civilian travelers. The traffic patterns around A'alu had been altered significantly to accommodate this usage, and in more than eighty years they had not completely shifted back.
After arriving in Zor'a System, the High Chamberlain had arranged for the shuttle to land on a field serviced by one of these terminals. He had come down to the surface separately and quietly, so that he could fulfill the ceremonial forms.
He perched on a narrow platform overlooking the field through a huge trapezoidal window. Below, the officials and press people were gathered, keeping an eye out for the approaching vessel. From time to time, one or another would ascend to get a better view, always careful to stay well below the High Chamberlain's level.
Some amount of irritation and impatience had already set in when the shuttle appeared on the flight path. T'te'e changed neither stance nor expression (cameras continued to record him, moment by moment), while the attendees below burst into a hubbub of action. The great glass window prevented any noise coming in from outside, but the High Chamberlain's contemplations were interrupted by a fluttering of wings nearby; he turned to see Byar HeShri, Master of Sanctuary, coast gently to a landing beside him. The Sensitive teacher placed his wings in the Stance of Courteous Approach and waited for T'te'e to speak.
The High Chamberlain gestured to an aide who drew out a privacy-field cylinder and activated it. The slight humming that emerged was barely audible to the People on the platform but effectively masked the area outside it from prying microphones or attentive ears. Four of the liveried attendants placed clawed hands on their chya'i and began to make slow rounds of the elevated platform.
"I am pleased to have you nearby," T'te'e said at last, not looking away from the window, where a distant point of orange grew more and more distinct. "But your studies and preparations are surely of more importance."
"I wanted to see what we have wrought."
T'te'e turned to face him. Anger was scarcely repressed in his eyes. He did not allow his neutral wing-position to alter. "This is not of our making, se Byar. Were we not old friends and companions, I would feel it necessary to enforce that point with my chya."
"Eight thousand pardons," Byar answered, as his wings shifted to the Posture of Polite Indifference to emphasize the irrelevance of his apology. "Let me rephrase."
"Please do."
"This flight had no alternative but to come this way. esLi Himself alone knows how it shall end, but the gyaryu would be gone by this time. It is remarkable that the old man is alive after having lost it . . . but he knew the risks, as did we."
"Make your point."
"ha T'te'e, you know—as do I—that if the Gyaryu'har is not able to speak for himself, it is you who are answerable. So it is, with heroes: they must face the consequences of their actions, good or ill."
"Are you suggesting . . ." the High Chamberlain began angrily; but Byar HeShri simply raised his wings in the position of the Cloak of esLi.
"I suggest nothing except to assure you, Respected One and old friend, that you cannot cloak yourself with pain and guilt because our old friend returns in this condition. We knew that it was to happen. He is already lost to us, likely beyond all hope to recall. The People will have to do without a Gyaryu'har for a time. It is a blessing that they at least have a Chamberlain."
"That will not reassure them." T'te'e spread his hands, gesturing at the throng below, jostling and fluttering for a clear view of the incoming shuttle.
"It does not matter; we also lack the gyaryu. That will disturb them even more." Byar examined his claws, looking away from the troubled—and troubling—gaze of the High Chamberlain. "Can you tell me anything of what progress has been made in getting it back?"
"se S'reth was here an eightday ago. esLi's Chosen One ascends the Perilous Stair alone, accompanied only by her spirit- guide. si Ch'k'te HeYen is beyond the Outer Peace now," he added, watching Byar's wings elevate briefly in surprise as Byar connected the last two sentences and drew the same conclusion he had drawn when S'reth had first told him. "The esGa'uYal know that the avatar of Qu'u still lives, and they have accelerated the pace of their attacks—as I am sure you are aware."
"Based on what I have begun to learn from the esGa'uYe we have in our custody, they understand less than you might think. But yes, Sanctuary is cognizant of this. Without our advance preparations, in fact, we would be far worse off . . ." He turned to look at the incoming shuttle, visible now, a glowing bird of prey descending toward the landing-field. "Still, you are aware of the stakes: Without the gyaryu to protect us, there will be little chance for Sensitives to withstand what is certainly coming. Without the Sensitives, there will be no Circle within which to stand."
"I am aware of that," T'te'e replied wearily. "I have no control—"
"That is the problem, ha T'te'e, is it not?"
"What?"
"That you have no control."
"I am not one of your students, se Byar. For a second time you come dangerously close to touching my honor. I let the first indiscretion pass. Are you seeking a confrontation?"
"No, I am not. Of course I am not. What I am seeking is your admission that this affair is no longer under the control of anyone." And he leaned on the word with additional emphasis. "Certainly not yours."
"What purpose does this 'admission' serve?"
"It pierces the Icewall, old friend. It pierces the Icewall."
T'te'e held the gaze of the Master of Sanctuary for several moments. To anyone watching, it would have seemed as if the two powerful Sensitives were engaged in a contest of wills; indeed, in their heightened state of Sensitivity, they could pick up stray thoughts from unprotected minds nearby: What did the old one say to him? . . . the blade of ha T'te'e is singing, I can hear it! . . . Perhaps they are subvocalizing, maybe the lab techs can pick up something from the recording . . .
The shuttle of the Gyaryu'har touched down on the landing-field. The High Chamberlain looked away from the Master of Sanctuary and let his hands drop to his sides. His wings slumped in a position of regret.
"With the High Lord in his present condition and the Gyaryu'har unarmed and indisposed, I am the ranking warrior of the People. Are you telling me that another climbs the Perilous Stair to confront the Deceiver and regain the gyaryu while I toil in the Valley of Lost Souls?"
"The will of esLi is His own business, as you well know."
"She is not even a warrior of the People," T'te'e hissed. "Even though I helped set her on this flight, I never thought we would rest the fate of the People on her alone."
"You are being disingenuous. You know the legend: You, of all people, must know the tale—and the outcome. What is more, the esGa'uYal are expecting—and looking for—one of the People, se Jackie may not be one of the People, but she is most decidedly a warrior."
T'te'e looked away from Byar and moved toward the edge of the platform. A cordon of guard-warriors formed around him. "It is time for the Ceremony of Welcoming," he said, not exactly an acknowledgment of Byar's last comment. Without a further glance or gesture, T'te'e launched himself into the upper flying-lane of the terminal.
So much dust gathers on his wings, Byar thought to himself, arranging his own wings in a posture of respect to esLi. He must pierce the Icewall or we truly are lost.
The cameras recorded the Ceremony of Welcoming from a distance. While eight zor in the livery of the High Nest stood with their chya'i drawn and their wings held in the position of Glaive of the Hero, eight others performed an aerial exercise that had remained essentially unchanged since it was performed for the first Gyaryu'har, the hero Qu'u, when he had returned from the Plain of Despite with the sword of state. To the hundreds of billions of the People and tens of quadrillions of humans that saw it—or would see it—the elaborate and intricate dance held great artistic merit . . . but only the People understood its symbolic meaning, also unchanged since the time of Qu'u.
The Gyaryu'har is home.
The gyaryu has returned.
EsLi forgive me, T'te'e told himself, as the grav-bed descended from the shuttle airlock to ground level. He had his own chya placed in the salute position, and his wings arranged in the Posture of Deference to esLi; but his own Sensitive talent and the soft whine and snarl of his blade made him realize that the Lord Over All had no forgiveness for his duplicity in welcoming back a Gyaryu'har who was essentially absent and unarmed. The notion of idju—dishonor to the point of death—no longer seemed to mean anything. It appalled T'te'e how quickly his most cherished values seemed to have gone from paramount to inconsequential.
The Gyaryu'har's bed coasted to a stop almost directly under the whirling pattern of airborne warriors. At a subtle gesture from T'te'e they changed their motion to a slowly coasting circle. The High Chamberlain stepped forward to the foot of the bed where se Sergei lay, arranged his wings in the position of the Cloak of Worship, and extended his chya out in front of him.
"'And the Lord esLi spoke to High Lord A'alu, and commanded her, "Recite this in My Name.
"' "Tell all of the generations of My People, alive and yet to come, that I have commanded this: That among the People there shall be one Lord, one High Nest and one High Lord.
"' "Say to them: 'The Lord esLi has looked upon the works of His People, and has chosen in His grace to send them a sign whereby His will should be done—that a hero should be found. This hero should be of great and noble heart, and though young and not well-tried, he shall go forth to the Plain of Despite, and recover that which was lost, and which, with my assistance, he shall have regained.'"'
The awkward mixing of tenses had always made the passage difficult to follow, but ritual required T'te'e to articulate it just as it had been written in The Legend of Qu'u five-twelves of turns ago.
"'"Tell them the hero has returned to them, and that he bears a sword I have reforged for him.
"'"Tell them that by this sword shall My People become one People, and the Nest of the hero shall become the High Nest. This shall be the sword of the Nest, the sword of the hero that pierced the Icewall, who will stand within the Circle when the armies of the Deceiver come to the gates."'
"With these words the Lord Over All addressed the High Lord upon the return of the hero Qu'u, the first Gyaryu'har of the People. With these words we ceremonially greet the Gyaryu'har Sergei Torrijos, friend and Nest-brother, on his return—"
"Deception!" a voice shrieked in the Highspeech, cutting across T'te'e's address.
T'te'e's wings rose in a posture of defense, and he turned, with chya still drawn, to face the speaker just landing nearby.
Then, in an instant of reflex, T'te'e lowered his blade and bowed low, his wings pulled around him. "hi Ke'erl . . . I did not expect to see you here, High Lord."
Cameras recording the whole scene continued to run, following Ke'erl HeYen as he half walked, half flew, past his High Chamberlain to stand beside the bier of the comatose Gyaryu'har.
"Deception," Ke'erl HeYen whispered. "The Army of Despite advances as we speak—as we recite, se T'te'e!—and you seek to welcome back this shell, this—this container . . ."
"The Gyaryu'har, hi Ke'erl—"
"Is not here!" Ke'erl HeYen spread his wings in a posture that communicated madness, desperation and a sort of deep intensity that T'te'e could not even properly perceive. "The Gyaryu'har is not here, T'te'e."
The High Chamberlain winced as the High Lord spoke his name, excluding even the least-honorific prenomen, but remained silent.
"His hsi is far away, in Ur'ta leHssa."
The High Lord bent over his human sword-bearer: the old, old man who had served his grandfather and his father before him. More gently than a human observer might have believed, Ke'erl ran a clawed finger along Sergei's face, from his brow along his cheekbone to his exposed neck.
The High Chamberlain, for his part, looked on at this display of emotion, unable to act for a moment. Then it occurred to him that it was being broadcast across many worlds of the People and, in less than a sun, recordings of it would be available across inhabited space.
A gesture ended that: High Nest warriors moved to shut down the comm crews. The eight circling dancers from the Ceremony of Welcoming descended to land nearby, though they kept a respectful distance. Ke'erl continued looking down at Sergei, his wings held in a pose of sorrow.
T'te'e sheathed his chya. "hi Ke'erl."
The High Lord's arms dropped to his sides. He straightened and looked up at T'te'e. "Why do you disturb my contemplations?"
"It is not my intention to disturb you. I merely wish to prevent you from completely embarrassing yourself."
"I do not know to what you are referring." Ke'erl's eyes glittered with something T'te'e couldn't quite read: madness, lack of sleep, perhaps some kind of drug that could deaden the effects of the prescient dreams that were destroying the High Lord's sanity.
"Let me tell you to what I refer, hi Cousin," T'te'e whispered quietly. "I am referring to this foolish display you have just put on for esLi-knows-how-many of the People. se Sergei is far away, and both of us know why and how that came about. We could see the flight leading to this place from many turns in the past. Most of our people know only that se Sergei is sick. There was no reason to tell them otherwise."
"Why? Shall we wait until the esGa'uYal seize their hsi, too? They will not be listening then."
"That is not my intent."
"Just what is your intent, Cousin?" The High Lord's hand ventured close to the hi'chya, and T'te'e felt a thrill of fear: Engaging in blade combat with the High Lord would be a sure way to earn idju status, like it or not.
"My intent," T'te'e answered carefully, after a moment, "is to manage the High Nest according to your directions—or, rather, the directions you gave when you took an interest in the High Nest."
T'te'e looked around and noticed that the guards had moved the comnet crews well out of range. "That is my primary concern," he continued, his voice lower. "Attempting to guide the Nest from day to day. I am merely your servant, High Lord Ke'erl." His wings assumed the Configuration of Righteous Honor—not sure but that it would infuriate the High Lord, and not sure whether he cared anymore.
"Merely my servant," Ke'erl repeated. The High Lord's shoulders slumped, and his wings settled into an uneven pattern of disarray. "You serve emptiness, se T'te'e. The abyss stretches before you, and you bow to it." He waved his arms above his head, following their motions with his eyes for several moments. "You perform the Ceremony of Welcoming over it. Shrnu'u HeGa'u sits in the High Seat, se T'te'e, and commands that his servants attend."
Without a further word and without giving T'te'e a chance to reply, the High Lord took to the air and began flying sunsetward. The High Chamberlain gestured to four guards nearby, and they launched themselves after Ke'erl HeYen.
Emptiness, thought T'te'e, turning back to look at se Sergei. You know about all of this, old friend. The abyss that yawns before the High Lord's mind's eye certainly exists, but we can hold it at bay with the gyaryu. I pray to esLi, the Lord Over All, that it can return to us.
He watched Ke'erl HeYen receding in the distance, flying away from the shipping lanes with four High Nest guards escorting him. The orange sun of Zor'a dappled the High Lord's wings so that they appeared afire; he flew on, not noticing. It seemed fitting to T'te'e: a metaphor for the whole situation.
Hours later, when the scene had been replayed eights of times on the comnet and had begun to make its way outsystem, T'te'e was taking a moment of reflection at the entrance to hi Ke'erl's esTle'e. He had not ventured down the arbored path to see what the High Lord might be doing; hi Ke'erl might be asleep, or hurling himself against the roof-dome of the place—it depended on the state of his madness this sun.
As the High Chamberlain stood quietly, watching the People of the High Nest move to and fro on their errands, he saw S'reth approaching. The ancient one walked with only a slight assist from his near-translucent wings, which were held in a posture that mixed amusement and genuine concern.
"se S'reth," T'te'e said. "I thought you had returned home. How may I assist you?"
"May we speak privately for a moment?"
T'te'e gestured to the arbor. They took several steps within, out of sight of the main concourse. T'te'e activated the privacy cylinder at his belt and the soft hum dulled the sounds around them.
"I am disturbed by the behavior of the High Lord this sun," S'reth said. T'te'e dipped his wings in assent. "I would be less disturbed, Younger Brother, if I had not heard something in his remarks: 'Shrnu'u HeGa'u sits in the High Seat, and commands that his servants attend.'"
"You ascribe meaning to that phrase. What do you think hi Ke'erl meant to say?"
"He perceives that something has happened. So do I."
"Where?"
"Adrianople."
T'te'e's wings moved into the Cloak of Guard. "Why do you think something has happened there? It is heavily guarded by an Imperial Fleet—"
"No, Younger Brother. It is not. It is due to be reinforced by one. But if the base has already fallen to the esGa'uYal, then that fleet will be flying into a trap."
T'te'e did not reply.
"I believe that hi Ke'erl sensed this, and my own contemplations tend to confirm it."
"I would be more inclined to give credence to this, se S'reth, if the humans would confirm it."
"They do not know yet. Indeed, they scarcely see the threat."
"What do you propose?"
"Allow me to travel to Adrianople," S'reth answered. His wings, rarely expressive, had taken on a position of respect. Normally T'te'e would have ascribed this to wry humor on the part of the old sage; but he perceived that S'reth really meant it—he considered it vitally important that T'te'e go to Adrianople.
"I would not willingly send you into Ur'ta leHssa, old friend."
"I do not intend to remain there, Younger Brother. But I do not wish a powerful force such as the one headed there to be trapped in the Valley. Send me and a few eights of Sensitives with strong hsi. This sun. This fraction." S'reth grabbed T'te'e's forearms with a surprisingly strong grip; there was emotion in his eyes. "I ask this favor of the High Nest that I have served so long."
His old wings moved to the Stance of Respect to the High Nest, and remained there for long moments. In the end, T'te'e could hardly choose other than to accede.