Диана Дуэйн - The Door Into Fire

She scowled at the floor again, and would not answer him.
'A little draining to amuse yourself? I should tell you, the Bride doesn't look kindly on such things. Draining away your lovers' potency is likely to make you less of a
woman, not more. And anyway, who taught you your Nhaired? Two of the words on the bag were misspelled, and there was too much asafetida. If you had left that there much longer, it would have started to recoil, and half the place would probably have tried to rape you. Try draining that.'
Herewiss sighed. 'You're not being very open with me,' he said. 'I'm in a quandary as to what to do with you. Maybe you really do want to be a goat.' He went over to the bag on the floor and took out the other book, the one with the seals on it. Softly he said the word to undo the seals, and the second word that spoke the pages apart, and then went through the book slowly, looking for the right page.
The innkeeper's daughter was beginning to worry now. 'Please!' she said, 'please, no – I'll do anything—'
She squirmed her torso at him, and Herewiss looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head in mild amazement. 'I'm not interested in that kind of anything,' he said. 'I might consider information, though,' he said. 'Tonight at dinner some people were talking and someone mentioned a place called the "hold in the Waste", and everyone else hushed them up. What is that? Why won't they talk about it?'
Fresh fear went across the girl's face like a shadow. 'I don't know—'
His underhearing jabbed him hard under one rib, like the pain one gets from running too hard, and he knew she was lying. 'Then I guess I'll have to turn you into a goat,' he said, wondering how he was going to make the bluff good, and turned his attention to the page before him. 'Faslie anrastuw oi velien—'
'No, no, wait—' She looked around fearfully. 'It's unlucky even to talk about it—'
'Being a goat isn't unlucky?'
'Uh – well. Out in the Waste Unclaimed, about forty miles or so into the desert, there's an Old Place – the oldest of the Old Places in all the world.' She gulped. 'It's full of the Old wreaking, and ghosts and monsters walk around there. Sometimes the desert around it – changes somehow, and becomes other places. I don't know how—'
'I know what you mean.
'They say that the rocks roll uphill, and water flows sideways along the hills there, or up the sides of valleys –and it rains scorpions and stones instead of water. Even the Dragons won't go near it; they say it's too dangerous. There are doors into Otherwheres—'
'Doors?' Herewiss echoed.
'That's all there is,' the girl said. 'It's not lucky to talk about it. It's a cursed place.'
'No,' Herewiss said, 'just Old, I would imagine. We don't know enough about the Old people's wreaking to know their curses from their blessings. Forty miles into the desert. Near where?'
'North of the pass above Dra'Mincarrath,' she said, 'about sixty miles or so. But it's cursed—'
Herewiss stood there silently for a long few moments, holding the backlash away while reading the spell in the book, readying it. 'That'll do, I think,' he said. 'But one thing only.'
She looked at him in fear. 'I don't trust any promises you might make about your future behaviour,' he said. 'So I am going to give you a conscience of sorts.'
He spoke the last word of the spell under his breath, and immediately the girl groaned and doubled over, clutching at her stomach. 'The next time you sleep with a man or woman for whom you don't care, that will take you,' he said. 'Don't bother trying to rid yourself of it; if you meddle, you may find that particular avenue of pleasure
permanently closed. And let me give you advice – don't play around with sorcery. It shortens the life.'

Go on.'
He cut the air with one hand in a short quick motion, and the girl staggered to her feet and lurched without another word out the
door.
Herewiss closed and sealed his book, fetched the other one from the bed, and put them back in his bag again. His head was aching violently, and his stomach churned, threatening to reject the steak pie.
Suddenly a dark shape loomed at the window. It was the smoke– creature, peering in curiously.
'Oh Dark, I forgot,' Herewiss said. He gestured at the window, the same quick cutting motion. 'Go free! And thank you.'
The creature bent a little with a passing night breeze, and dissipated silently.
'Ah, my head,' Herewiss groaned as he headed back to bed. 'Shortens the life indeed. I wish I were dead.'
He pulled the covers up around him again, and laid his throbbing head down on the lumpy pillow as tenderly as he could. The darkness was almost peaceful for a few moments — until the sound of a drunken countertenor began to float up from the stable, half a tone flat, singing of what the King of Darthen did with the shepherdess and her brother.
'Oh Goddess,' Herewiss moaned, and buried his face in the pillow. 3
Opening Night is not so much a time of year as it is a state of mind. It can be invited, by no more difficult a measure than keeping one's eyes and heart open all the time. There are Rodmistresses who could not share in the Opening if they stood at the Heart of the World on Nineteen-Years' Night; and there are children, and the eager of heart, who can break the walls between the Worlds in broad day, and call the wonders through. Those who do not close their hearts to Possibility soon find their lives full of it.
Reflections in the Silent Precincts, Leoth d'Elthed, ch. 7
The next day was gray and overcast, threatening rain. Herewiss left early, having been awakened by the impending light of dawn despite the fact that there was no sunrise to be seen. He didn't stop for breakfast – partly from a desire to hurry, and partly to avoid running into the innkeeper's daughter again. He felt a little guilty for laying as restrictive a spell on her as he had. But then again, she had been messing with his private property — and her actions had hardly been intended in benevolence.
'Aah, the Dark with it,' he said to himself as the inn receded behind him. He was heading south again; Dapple was trotting along briskly and needing little encouragement to hurry.
Doors into Otherwheres. Such doors were legendary –they might open on to other times, like the Eorlhowe Door hidden in the mazes beneath the melted stones of the Howe in North Arlen; or other places, like the old King's Door in the Black Palace in Darthis; or other worlds entirely, as does the Morrowfane Gate beneath the waters of Lake Rilthor in southern Darthen. There were not many permanent doors, and they tended to be difficult of access and dangerous to use, because of time limits or unpredictable behavior. One of the Queens of Darthen acquired the sobriquet One– Hand when she crossed through the King's Door and it closed unexpectedly.
Out in the Waste? Well, it would be a good place to put
them if there are time-gates. At least the Dragons would think so – they won't let anyone but Marchwarders near the Eorlhowe Door, and the human Marchwarders won't go near it themselves for fear of changing the past.
Herewiss sighed. He would have given almost anything to go through a time-door, or just look through one, to find out if things really happened as the histories said they had. Or to see the great days of the past happen again – to see Earn and Healhra take the Power upon Themselves at Bluepeak, to see the terrible Gnorn come tottering over the mountains and go up in a blaze of the blue
Fire as the Lion and Eagle gave Themselves for the destruction of that last menace. Or to see the founding of the Bright-wood, or of Prydon city, or Darthis. To watch the last stone being set into the paving of the Great Road, and watch the Oath of Lion and Eagle being sworn for the first time by Earn's and Healhra's grandchildren. Maybe even to see what no man had seen, the Worldwinning, as the Dragons dropped out of the darkness and the Messenger in Her glory drove the Dark away—
I'm getting carried away with this, he told himself severely.
And you're enjoying it, another part of him answered him back. Well, why not? Dreaming was free. Consider this: how about going back to the day Freelorn's father died, and finding out where old Hergotha had been hidden? That would certainly make Freelorn happy. True, Freelorn had Suthan now, and that was not exactly a sword without lineage – the princes of Arlen had been carrying it since the time that Anmod had used it to kill the Coldwyrm lairing in the fords of Arlid. But it was just that, a prince's sword, and Freelorn was king, if not in name, at least by right. Herewiss didn't need his under-hearing to detect Freelorn's dissatisfaction with Suthan.
Lorn wanted Hergotha, which was the king's sword; he lusted after it the way some people lust after others' bodies and desire to possess them.
Hergotha, though, had gone missing after Ferrant's death – he had not been wearing it on the day his heart stopped, and it had never been found in the palace. Perhaps he had taken it with him past the Door into Starlight, and walked the shore of the final Sea with it slung over his back, the kingliest of the shadows that dwelt there. Or perhaps the Lion had taken ft back into His keeping again, maybe to return it to the rightful wielder one day, if one of the Line ever came back to claim the throne. Herewiss doubted that Freelorn would have the patience.
To find Hergotha, bring it back to Freelorn—
This is ridiculous, Herewiss thought. I don't know for sure that
this place has time-doors in it – or any doors, for that matter — and if it does, there's no guarantee that I'll be able to get through them. Or even make them serve my purpose.
He sighed. It was still nice to think about. To look back in time. To see his mother. To see Herelaf—
Or to look forward in time, perhaps, and see how he would finally forge the sword that would work for him, then do it.
Yes. And if those doors looked out into other worlds, mightn't there be one world somewhere much like this one, except that both men and women had the Flame? Or maybe there would be a door into that long-past time before the Catastrophe, when everyone could use the Power—
Dapple stopped abruptly, and Herewiss looked up in confusion. About a hundred yards away, at the foot of a little hill that rose suddenly from the grassland, stood a small building.
It was built of logs stood up on end and bound together. The roof was thatched, and there was one door, and a window on the side that faced him. It wasn't a house –there was no sign of a garden, or even a cow. A shrine, perhaps?
His curiosity nudged him, and he pulled on Dapple's reins and rode up to the place. He dismounted before the open doorway. 'Hello—?' he called. No-one answered.
There was a wooden plaque fastened next to the door, and though it was weathered, the runes were deeply scratched and easy to read: OF OUR LADY OF LIBERATIONS – USE, CLEAN, BLESS, AND GO SAFELY.
Herewiss stepped in and looked around. The inner walls were plastered, and there were scenes painted on them in a primitive and vigorous style, the colors bright, the figures stylized, stark and clean. In the middle of the room was a rough offering table. Dead leaves and bits of grass were scattered about on the table and floor. Something made an irritated twitter, and Herewiss looking up, saw a sparrow's nest high in the corner, where the
plaster had fallen away and left an opening to the outside.
He smiled at the appropriateness of the place, for there was one aspect of his personality sorely in need of liberation. The few minutes it would take to clean and reconsecrate the shrine wouldn't be wasted. Besides, if the Goddess were to come to his house when he wasn't there, and if it were full of leaves and such, She would certainly clean it up.
For a moment he grinned at the image of the Tripartite Lady busy in the Woodward with a broom. But the Goddess had never been known for standing on ceremony. On Her travels through the world She tended to leave home Her Cloak which is the night sky, and the Robe
glorious as Moonlight, in favor of plainer and more utilitarian clothes. Even at that most sublime and beautiful of times, when She comes to share Herself in love – as She comes to every man and woman born – even then She rarely appears in any of the forms or manifestations attributed to Her by legend. Once in a lifetime, a person will know the joy of being held in the Goddess's arms. She comes as just another person, with human quirks and wrinkles; sometimes She comes in the form of someone you know – perhaps even your own loved, by way of an affectionate joke. But She never comes when or where you expect Her. As the proverb says, 'The Goddess is as likely to come in the window as through the door.'
Herewiss found a broom in one corner, not much more than a mildewed bunch of birch twigs, and did his best to sweep up all the detritus on the floor. As he swept, he looked at the figures painted on the plaster. One wall depicted the Triad in its first form – Maiden, Mother and Wise Woman, Their hands joined to show that They were One: and then underneath that, the Maiden with Her hands full of stars, busy with creation. But her back was turned to the other Two, illustrating the Error. Behind the Three of Them hung the symbol for the Great Death, the downpointing Arrow, and only the Eldest of the Three saw it. Her hand was outstretched to Her younger self, but the Maiden ignored the Eldest and went on creating as if her works would last forever.
In the next panel the Maiden stood in Her sorrow, Her hands covering Her face, as She realized the nature of Her error: She had forgotten about Death. And now that She had spoken the Final Word that set the Universe on its way, Death was trapped inside it. This whole Universe would have to run down and die itself before She could make it perfect. The Mother and the Wise Woman stood
beside the Maiden, trying to console Her; but for some things there is no consolation.
The following panel showed the Maiden's solution for Her own grief and guilt. She knew Her other selves in the manner of woman with woman, and became with child. Now she sat on the birthing-stool, and was no more Maiden, but Mother. The children She bore were twin sons, and She suckled Them one at each breast with a smile of maternal joy. The pane! below showed the Twins grown already, beautiful young men, Her Lovers, and She stood between Them and They all three embraced one another. Then came the New Love, and the Lovers knew Each Other and found yet another joy. In the painting, Their mouths touched with almost ritual solemnity, even as Their strong arms strained about each other and They strove to be one.
But then the great Death entered in, casting the Shadow over the Lovers, filling Them with jealousy, each desiring to alone know the other Lover to the Mother's exclusion. The Lovers' hands went about each other's throats, and They choked the lives out of each other. The Triad stood above them in sorrow, and together They lifted up the dead, and with Them entered into that Sea of which the Starlight is a faint intimation, therein to be renewed and reborn, to close the circle and make all things whole again.
The last panel, near the door, showed why the shrine had been built. There was a sorrowing mother with her four dead children in her arms, three little girls and a boy; and the inscription, My Children. The Plague Came in the Night. Having Pronounced, She Sets Free. May I Meet Them on the Shore.
Herewiss stopped there, leaning on the broom, saddened. He thought
how it must have been for that poor mother, building this place with her own two hands, most
likely, hard by that little hill which probably housed her children's bodies; painting those scenes, slowly and with care, and trying to find some sense in the deaths of her little ones. Probably there wasn't any; but at least she had left something beautiful behind in their memory, and it may have been that having something to do had brought her at least partway through her grief.
He swept the last of the leaves out the door. The sparrow chittered faintly in its nest, and Herewiss looked at it with affection. Another mother, and her children, safe and comfortable. The nameless lady who built this place would probably be pleased.
He went out to where Dapple stood grazing, and rummaged around in the left-hand saddlebag until he found what he wanted, his lovers'– cup. Herelaf had made it for him, a long time ago. It was of white oak, simply carved and stained, with a border of leaves running around the outside just under the lip, and Herewiss's name scratched under the foot. He could remember watching Herelaf carve it. 'When it's finished,' his brother had said, 'take good care of it and it'll last you a long time—'
It certainly had. Fourteen years. Herelaf had been dead for twelve of them.
Herewiss took a waterbag out of the pannier, and filled the cup with it. Carefully, so as not to spill any, he carried the old brown cup into the shrine, and set it on the altar.
'Mother of Days,' he said softly, looking for the right words, 'Mother of Stars – bless the lady who built this place, and her children, whether they're reborn or not — may she find love again, and may they too. Take care of the people who pass here; keep the Fyrd off them, and the terrors of night, and save them from loneliness. And take care of Freelorn for me, until I get there, and afterwards too.' He paused, swallowed the lump that was filling his
throat. The hurt was twelve years gone, it was silly to be still crying about it. 'And take care of Herelaf – let him come out of the Sea and find joy—'
He picked up the cup, drank quickly. It was harder to cry with his head tilted back and his eyes squeezed shut. By the time he had drained the cup, he was back in control again.
'—and help me find my Power when I get back home,' he said. 'In Your name, Who are our beginnings and our endings—'
He went out of there in a hurry. Dapple had stopped grazing, and was looking at him inquisitively. It had begun to rain. 'Let's go,' Herewiss said. 'Freelorn is waiting.' He undid his rolled-up cloak from the back of his saddle and swung it around him. The rain began in earnest then, pelting down hard. Herewiss made as if to mount, and to his utter surprise Dapple reared up and danced away from him, whickering.
'What?' he said. 'What's the matter?'
The horse's eyes were calm, but when Herewiss reached for the reins, Dapple backed away again. 'What, then?' said Herewiss. 'Am I supposed to stay here?'
Dapple took a step backward and gazed at him.
'Dammit, when Dareth made your family smart, I wish she'd made you a little more verbal! All right, let's see what I can find—'
Herewiss pulled his cloak more tightly around him and slipped the hood over his head, then leaned up against the wall of the shrine and closed his eyes. He tried to put his underhearing out around him like a net. It was a fickle talent, one which often refused to manifest itself when it was needed, and for a moment or so he couldn't find it at all. He concentrated, and tried to listen—