David Farland - Beyond the Gate

“Better still, the Council of Immortals in the City of Life hopes to diminish its influence. We hope to combat it on its own terms, counter its lies by telling the truth.”

“But,” Orick growled, “you’ll be little better than they are. You’ll have your own Word burrowing into Maggie’s skull!”

Ceravanne shook her head violently. “I do not understand a great deal about how this technology works,” she said. “But I know this: everyone who has ever been affected by the Word already has a built-in receiver, and this mantle can send to the Inhuman’s frequencies. But our mantle isn’t fully operational. If it were, we could send our message out now and be done with it.”

“What more do you need?” Maggie asked. “Maybe my mantle can help you make it?”

“We need the key to the Inhuman,” Ceravanne said. “When a Word burrows into its victim, it sends a coded message telling the Inhuman to begin sending information. The memories are then sent, but they are only readable by the Word that requested them.”

“So this ‘key’ contains an encryption program?” Maggie asked. She sounded so much like one of the technicians in the City of Life that her question startled Ceravanne.

“Yes, that is what the technicians called it.”

“And they couldn’t just break the encryption program?”

Ceravanne shook her head. “The key was made by the dronon, using their own technologies. Our people cannot duplicate it. But I do know that if you take the key off the mantle, the Inhuman will cease to function, for the key also bears the power source for the memory crystals on the mantle.”

“And so in the most favorable scenario,” Gallen said, “you would capture this key intact. Is that what you imagine?” Ceravanne nodded. “If I can speak to the Harvester, I hope she will give it to me. If not, you may have to kill her and take the Inhuman’s key.”

Gallen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps he had imagined rushing into a room, killing everyone and everything there, considering that the job would be finished. But Ceravanne had come to see that it could not be done so easily. She had imagined that the journey into Moree itself would be an easy walk, with only minor elements of intrigue-not a constant mad dash for her life. And now she saw that stealing the key to the Inhuman would be no small feat. Obviously, by the way that Maggie and Gallen furrowed their brows, they were thinking along the same lines.

Gallen got up, paced in the darkness, gazed off south toward Moree. The windows in the aircar showed only the mountains. He rubbed his hands together as if to warm them with the friction. “Moree is a hive worse than the city of Indallian, and its keepers are more fearsome than any tribe of Derrits. Do we even have an idea where to find the Harvester in that maze?”

Ceravanne went to her pack again. “Traders have been to Moree often enough, and some of them have been to the old king’s throne room. It is well defended, and we believe that the Harvester is there. I have some intelligence on the place.” She brought out a large map on thick gray paper. It showed three routes into the city, and from each route it displayed the number of doorways and chambers to the Harvester’s throne room.

Gallen studied it for a moment, and his brow furrowed in dismay. Much of the map consisted of blank spaces, unknowable regions of the city that could easily house warriors. But what the map did show was that with each route, there were several guarded entrances, fortified gates. The Tekkar were a fierce race, created for a harsh world where survival seemed improbable, and their inborn need for a strong defense showed in the design of their city. It made for an impossible journey through the warrens of the Tekkar.

* * *

That evening, Gallen was relieved to find that instead of another sleepless night sitting among cold stones, he was able to enjoy the company of the Riallna in their temple at the Vale of the Bock.

The Riallna devotees were all women, with cream-colored complexions and hair that was long and as soft and golden brown as corn silk, and though he knew that they were each hundreds of years old, they looked as if they were only handsome women of middle years. Their lives were simple and peaceful, and in their own way they were as devoted to making the world a place of beauty as any of the Makers.

On the outside, the temple seemed to be only a large blockish building of ivory-colored stone with a row of four fluted-stone columns that rose in front to form a large porch. It was a variation on a theme common in this rainy region, and it was a simple design, and graceful.

But inside, the temple was a masterpiece of functionality and comfort. The walls were covered over in some gold cloth and decorated with large wooden panels of ash, carved with delicate scenes of the suns rising over mountain fields.

On the main floor, low beds were laid out on rich carpets around a central fireplace that was shaped into a tall cone, with perhaps a dozen small holes near the bottom so that heat and light could escape the fire, while the smoke would be drawn up the chimney.

Various oil lamps burned around the room, keeping the place bright inside, but the soft wine-colored sofas and the forest-green carpets muted the brightness, creating a lighting that reminded Gallen of a forest glen at dusk, rampant with earth tones.

Evidence that the Riallna had a strong sense of smell was also abundant. Gallen noted a cleanness, a freshness to the room that had seldom been duplicated among other cultures. The scents of lightly seasoned foods were evident, but no harsh perfumes, and perhaps it was the scent more than anything else that gave the room a sense of wide spaces, an openness that size alone did not account for.

In moments, the Riallna began serving them silently, bringing in warm water to wash with first, followed by plates heaping with food. Some of the priestesses played flutes and cymbals at the far side of the great hall, so that the music of woodwinds floated dreamily through the air, and Ceravanne’s friend Alna sat quietly with them, anticipating their needs, willing to let them steer the conversation in any direction they desired.

After a while, it became evident that the priestesses were seeking to serve their every whim, to give themselves completely in a manner that Gallen had seldom seen, even among the many lives the Inhuman had shown him, and he was pleased by the effect. He knew that this night, he was free to do whatever he pleased-whether it be to eat, sleep, listen to others, or talk quietly, and he realized suddenly how shallow the Inhuman’s training had been.

Among the lives that he’d been shown, none of the peoples he’d met had been as generous as the Riallna. Instead, they’d often been grasping and outright selfish. Perhaps not overtly so, but it ran like a strong current beneath all of their actions. Even the best of the people he recalled had been … unconcerned about anyone beyond their own kin.

And as Gallen considered where he most would like to be this night-home in Tihrglas listening to some old hand playing the violin, or among the Suluuth listening to the piping song of the winged people, or on the plains singing at the stars with the Roamers, he realized that he was most content to be here.

Almost effortlessly, he fell asleep beside Maggie upon one of the couches, unaware of when the music ended.

Shortly after dawn, Gallen woke to the sounds of women cooking. Orick was asleep on one couch, lying on his back, his paws in the air. Maggie slept beside Gallen, and he gently disentangled himself from her arms. Ceravanne was no place to be seen, and Gallen imagined that she might be out bathing in the pool again.