David Farland - Beyond the Gate

“The demons inside him should never bother him again,” Ceravanne whispered. “We didn’t alter the memories much, just restored the true versions, so that Gallen may see upon reflection our judges were not harsh. When Gallen wakes, everyone will know that I’ve returned to make peace among the peoples. Some may resent me for it. Some may still hold allegiance to the Inhuman, but we’ve removed the hidden thought structures that the Inhuman inserted into its hosts. People will be free to make up their own minds.”

Ceravanne sat, her arms wrapped around her Bock. “And what of those who do resent you?” Orick asked. “What if some of the Tekkar try to kill you?”

“I suspect that they will,” Ceravanne said. “I’ve been killed before, but always I’ve been reborn. Still, such actions anger the faithful. The Rodim were destroyed as a people for such acts. The Tekkar know what will happen to them if they are too harsh.”

Orick licked Ceravanne’s hand, and together they waited for the awakening.

* * *

In the recesses of his mind, Gallen lived through the days of Druin after the fall of Indallian. He rode his huge war-horse through the forests in his youth, and suffered the pangs of lost loves, he fought many battles and learned to crave blood as much as he craved the wider world. He united many people, before he was crippled by a spear in the back.

As an old man, he became frustrated in his designs. Many admired him as a man of learning, for he could do little more than lie in his bed and study. He became devoted to the welfare of his people, yet he dreamed of walking again, of visiting the stars.

He learned to hate the walls of his bedchamber, and so he sent messengers to the City of Life and hired travelers from other worlds to come and be his tutors. He began acquiring metals to build his starships, and studied the designs.

When word reached him that the Immortals planned to stop him, he built cannons to guard his city, and great were the battles waged against him, until in ruin he was forced to put aside his weapons.

In old age, his men took him to the City of Life, and there sought the rebirth. And the judges found him unworthy. Still, they took pity on him, and gave him back his legs, sending him away. He took his gift, but turned and cursed his judges.

Thus Druin wandered far, and never visited his realm again. So it went, life after life, Gallen saw the portion of meanness in character that the Dronon had chosen to hide.

And then Ceravanne’s mantle showed Gallen other lives, the lives lived by some of those who had won the rebirth-Tottenan the Wise, from the race of the Atonkin, who felt no desire to dominate other peoples. He spent his days buying old swords and melting the steel to be used in building nails.

And Gallen recalled the life of Zemette, a shipbuilder of weak mind but great heart, a man who somehow understood by nature how to be happy, who used all of his money to buy slaves from the southlands, so that he could set them free.

And Gallen lived the life of Thrennen Ka, a Derrit who sought to teach farming to her own people.

Over and over, the lives came to him, and he was shown an equal portion of the divine and the damned. And while the dronon whispered to him that all men were equal, and therefore should serve their new dronon overlords, Gallen saw that all men were given time to make of themselves what they would, and that while some became vile, and others merely consumed, always there were a few who earnestly strove to make the world better for all, and such people were rewarded in the City of Life. And thus Ceravanne’s mantle sought to make Gallen a wiser man, full of hope and experience, and then it left him.

When Gallen finally woke, raising his head so that Ceravanne’s mantle jingled, Orick came to his side. There was a noise reverberating through the darkened hive, and the shadows jangled to the querulous notes of people waking to a new world in wonder.

And when the Harvester woke, Ceravanne hungered for a private conference with her sister. So they sat close together and held one another and cried. Gallen sat listening to the women talk.

“I’ve killed with my own hands,” the Harvester whispered, almost a wail. “I need cleansing. Can you feel it?”

“Five hundred years will not suffice, “Ceravanne agreed, not concealing the worry in her voice. “I would come with you, aid you if I could. But one of us must stay here. The Swallow must return as promised, and bring peace with her.”

“I know that you still hurt for the Rodim,” the Harvester said. “Your healing is not complete. How can we bring peace, when we feel none ourselves?”

Ceravanne opened her mouth, but spoke no answer for a moment. “We are our bodies,” she whispered at last. “Neither of us can escape our guilt. And both of us must seek to establish peace in our turns. You go to Northland, to the Vale of the Bock.” Ceravanne went to her pack, fumbled out a small seed. She held the unborn Bock up with evident care, as if it were a great treasure. “Plant this in the Vale. And there you can find peace for both of us.”

The Harvester took the seed, held it up in wonder, then grabbed Ceravanne, hugged her fiercely, and whispered, “Thank you. Thank you. Look for me again in summer, in some distant year, when both our hearts are lighter. A Bock will come with me.”

They held each other, crying softly for a moment, and Gallen petted Orick’s head, stroking it softly. There were cries in the land again, the sound of Tekkar awakening, and Gallen was looking off into the distance, into the shadows of the corner of the room. He did not mention Maggie’s name, though his heart was heavy for her.

Then the main door to the throne room squeaked on its hinges, and Gallen glanced over, expecting to see some Tekkar.

Maggie poked her head into the room.

“Maggie!” Orick shouted, bounding toward her. “I thought you got killed.” Orick reached her, sat on all fours and licked her hands, wanting to jump up and hug her, but knowing she would fall over if he did. She bent forward and kissed his forehead. “Very nearly, but the AI ejected me before the car blew.”

She stood looking at Gallen across the room, and neither one of them spoke or moved for several long seconds.

“I was afraid for you,” Gallen said at last.

“I love you, too,” Maggie said, her lower lip trembling, and they rushed into each other’s arms.

He was surprised how, even now, her touch could be electric. He kissed her, looked deep into her face, and was surprised at what he saw. There was a peace in her eyes that had never been a part of Maggie Flynn before, a new clarity and softness.

The hallways leading to the Harvester’s chamber had begun to fill with people, and Gallen could hear them talking reverently, saying, “The Swallow, yes, she’s in here.” They stood outside the doors, afraid to come in, until Ceravanne rose to greet them.

They slept that night under the bright stars of Tremonthin, with the Tekkar camped around them. The people knew the Swallow from ancient memories downloaded into their skulls, and they showed her great reverence. The Tekkar vied for the honor to become her protectors, and chefs brought her their finest meals.

Maggie looked about, and it was hard to miss the adulation shining in the eyes of the people. But all of it was for Ceravanne. Gallen, Maggie, and Orick were all but strangers in the city, people who were obvious friends to the Swallow, nothing more.

The Harvester had dressed in black robes and a hood to hide her face, and she went out into the darkness beside the river, and for long she stood alone in the moonlight.

And so at last when Maggie and Gallen staggered off to sleep in a thicket, Maggie listened to the sounds of the night, and for the first time on this world, she slept unafraid.