David Farland - Beyond the Gate

As the day drew to its close, a brief squall blew over, and Fenorah, unwilling to risk that his travelbeast should injure itself by slipping in the mud, decided to set camp in an old fortress, in a great hall without doors or windows. So they brought the travel beast inside.

The walls were made of huge stones, a meter thick, carved so that various grooves fit together. Maggie suspected that the stone might not deter the Inhuman’s signal as well as a dozen feet of solid dirt, but she hoped it would serve nearly as well. She found the most secluded corner and directed Gallen to sit there and rest.

Dried horse dung left by the mounts of previous travelers served as ample fuel to set a small fire, and Fenorah brought out stores for dinner. They had not had a formal meal since early morning, and everyone was tired, and the poor giant was most weary of all. He curled into a corner while Maggie cooked dinner, and he fell asleep before it was done.

After a brief dinner Ceravanne withdrew from the group, going out a back hall that led to a tower. Outside, the rain was falling steadily, hissing as it struck the leaves of trees, and the heavy scent of moisture pervaded the room. It was chill and dreary.

“That song you began to sing today,” Orick said. “Will you sing it to us now?” And Maggie hoped that he would, for the sound of music would do her heart good.

Gallen sang in a low voice the same time he had begun earlier in the day, and Maggie was amazed at his voice, at the easy grace and power in it, as if he’d been born to sing.

He sang of Indallian, the riches and glory that made it the envy of all the world. He sang of the peaceful peoples drawn by the Swallow to form the great Accord, where each species had equal voices in the open counsels.

But then the Rodim came, a greedy race lured by tales of the rich deposits of emeralds and gold found in Indallian, and they ravaged whole villages, looted and burned the caravanserais.

The Swallow’s love, Belorian, was a strong man, and he sought to protect his people by arming them. But the Swallow urged him to counsel with the Rodim peacefully, to reconcile with them, bring them into the Accord.

Yet when Belorian met with the savage chieftains of the Rodim in their mountain camps, they slew him and put his body upon a pole, then danced through the night, proclaiming victory over the land of Indallian, and they sent their armies to Belorian’s throne at the city of Indallian, where they heaped contempt upon the dead by destroying the crystal that held Belorian’s memories.

Ceravanne was there, in her tower, and she witnessed the abuses committed upon her people, and upon her lord. Then the Rodim’s head chieftain ravished Ceravanne in Belorian’s bedchamber.

Because of the atrocities, the peaceful people of Indallian gathered together and slaughtered the armies of the Rodim without mercy, then fell upon the villages of their women without restraint and murdered their children, removing the Rodim from the face of the land.

Many went to the Swallow, asking her to have mercy before the final slaughter of the Rodim, hoping to spare some remnant of the race.

But Ceravanne turned away so that not one child remained.

And when the Rodim were all dead, the Swallow put a single red rose upon the grave of Belorian, and another upon the grave of the chieftain of the Rodim, to signify that she forgave him and his people, though she had not spared them. Then she proclaimed a year of mourning for the Rodim who lay dead, and for those who were forced to kill them.

None who beheld her could miss the horror on her face, nor deny her torment. And hours later the Swallow disappeared, and her crystal scepter was found in the mud of her courtyard. Many thought she had chosen to die rather than live without Belorian; while others imagined that she was so horrified by the genocide that was done in her behalf that she turned her back on mankind forever; but her friends swore that she would return when her grief had run its course, and so the legends said that someday she would come back to lead the Accord.

“Four hundred and eighty years ago the Swallow left rich Indallian,” Gallen intoned. “And still her heart knows no peace. Yet in songs and legends, people here remember the days of the Accord.”

Maggie looked toward the door that led to the tower, understanding why Ceravanne sought refuge in silence. Ceravanne had said earlier that her love, Belorian, was fresh on her mind, and Maggie felt the pain of knowing that she was surely losing Gallen to the Inhuman, just as Ceravanne had lost Belorian to the Rodim.

Gallen lay beside Maggie and stared into the fire, unable to sleep for a long time. Sometimes, he thought he could hear snatches of whispers, and he saw brief visions, tatters of memories that belonged to other people. But the song of the Inhuman was weak tonight, possibly because of the storm. Even as this thought struck Gallen, he heard the distant rumble of thunder, confirming his suppositions.

He got up quietly so as not to rouse Maggie, and he put some twigs on the fire.

“How many lives you recall?” Tallea whispered, letting the sound of her voice fill the night.

“Just the seven,” Gallen answered. Then to fill up the silence that followed, he said, “I wonder how many more the Inhuman has in store for me.”

“A hundred lives to be remembered,” Tallea said. “You fortunate, remember them slowly, over days. Should be easy.”

“Yes.” Gallen smiled wanly. “I’m fortunate.” A cold shiver of fright wriggled down his backbone. He went to his pack, dug around for a moment, then pulled out a thin film of translucent material and applied it to his face.

His face suddenly shone like blue starlight as he put on the mask of Fale, and he stood for a moment, his black robes draped over him, weapons bristling on his back and thighs. He recalled how the witnesses at his trial back home had imagined he was a sidhe when thus garbed, a magical being with malevolent intent, and now Gallen could indeed feel it. With his face gleaming in the dark like a ghost, there was little human left in him. He looked like a thing.

Gallen stood at the door, as if he would walk out into the night rain, and for a moment he wanted to do that, just walk away into the dark and the cleansing rain that was sweeping down in misty sheets.

Instead he went to a back corridor of the great hall. The floors were thick with dust and moss, old leaves, and the husks of pine nuts carried in by squirrels.

He stood for a moment, testing the air to see whether the Inhuman would try to send him more memories. But there was nothing. It seemed that for the time being, he was free.

Using his mantle’s night, vision, Gallen negotiated the passageways until he found some stairs curving up the wall of a tower. Muddy footprints showed that Ceravanne had been here recently, and though Gallen mistrusted her, he felt drawn to her.

He climbed the winding stairs for twenty meters, till he found a room that opened at the top. There, several arching windows were still intact; weathered stones surrounded casements that had long ago rotted into dust. Ceravanne stood beside one such window. Ivy grew in dust on the floor, so that she stood as if in a meadow, surrounded by foliage, staring out into the rain. Her back was to him, and she shivered.

Gallen went to her, stood for a moment. He could feel the heat of her body near his, and he inhaled her clean scent. He knew that it was only pheromones that drew him so vigorously, yet he found himself wishing to hold her, to comfort her.

“I hoped you would come,” she said, and she turned. With the light amplification provided by his mantle, he could see that she’d been crying, and she stared into his face, at the mask, and he wondered what she saw. A blue glowing phantom, with dark holes for eyes.