Sofia Samatar - A Stranger in Olondria

They took me to that city, to Velvalinhu. We traveled on one of the barges of the king, a funereal-looking vessel lined with cushions. A black leather awning provided some protection from the rain, though the soldiers suggested I store my satchel in the hold. I sat with them on damp cushions while the bargemen, wearing dark hats trimmed with silver bells, poled their way down the canal. At the sea they exchanged their poles for oars. They sang: “ Long have I carried the king’s treasures. But the corals of Weile are not so red as your mouth.”

Bain drew away from me, vague in the mists. Then the rain stopped, the sky lightened, and the bright sea spread around me on every side. As Ravhathos writes in his Song of Exile , “I turned my face to the north”—and like his, my heart was “shivering like a stringed instrument.”

Islands dotted the sea. The imperial barge slid past them in silence: the white, uninhabited knob called the Isle of Chalk, the lovelier islands with mountains and streams, where palaces stood in groves of cypress, the Isle of the Birds, the Isle of the Poet’s Daughters. “Fair are the isles of Ithvanai,” writes Imrodias the Historian, “but fairest of all is the Blessed Isle itself, the fallen star which all the waters of Ocean could not extinguish, the fragrant island, the asphodel of the sea.” It glimmered, at first an indistinct shadow, a gathering of mists, then more solid, its pier a pale ray on the sea and its mountains cloaked in olive trees. We left the other islands behind, and it stood in serene majesty, like a white horn or an amethyst crown, like a city of alabaster.

A carriage met us at the pier, and we rumbled down the smooth Eagle’s Road, the soldiers smoking, the windows obscured by an anise-flavored fog. I slid open the pane beside me for air. A clement countryside rolled past, its vineyards bedecked with grapes like beads of glass. The thought of the coming “examination” distracted me from those tidy fields, but I gasped when I saw Velvalinhu at last, forgetting everything for a shining instant in the iridescent glow of its pillars of Ethendrian marble.

In the islands we do not pierce the clouds, for fear of the goddess of rain. But the northerners are prey to no such dread. The pinnacles of Velvalinhu rose to heights I had never seen in the capital, and never imagined even in nightmare. They were varied, no two alike, formed by the separate wills of kings: smooth walls rose beside walls puckered with carvings, marble figures leaned from the balustrades and adorned the towers where spires of obsidian sprang up, somber, drinking the light. Mirrors flashed from conical roofs, jade dogs snarled on the battlements, flights of steps hung shimmering in midair, and ornamental trees grew in the gardens, impossibly high, that peeked from between the richly tiled walls. We crossed the magnificent square in front of the palace, as vast as a desert, and rumbled down a slope into a subterranean carriage house. I thought of the words of Tamundein’s ode: “ O lamp of the empire, forest of marble, caravan of the winds, Velvalinhu! ”

In the carriage house our coachman opened the door, holding up a lamp. “What news?” he asked.

“All bad,” the old soldier answered cheerfully as he stepped out. “Low pay, high taxes, and no prospect of war outside Brogyar country.”

“I’d like to go to the Brogyar country,” the younger soldier said.

“You!” his companion exclaimed with a laugh. “They’d pickle you like a herring.”

The coachman chuckled appreciatively and tilted his head toward me. “What’s this one for?”

“The Tower of Myrrh.”

The coachman stepped away from me, and the soldier bade him good-day with a grim smile.

I followed him down a torchlit tunnel, the young soldier walking a pace or two behind me. We entered a hall with the dimensions of a temple. Three, perhaps four houses like my own in the islands might have been stacked inside it. Light filtered through its high windows, ladders of floating chalk. Such space, such silence. On one wall hung the triumphant painting of Elueth’s wedding, one of the last masterpieces of Fairos the Divine, its gold paint mellowed by centuries of smoke. I knew the picture: I had seen it reproduced in my master’s copy of The Book of Time . The human girl knelt in the foreground, wearing a smile of celestial happiness. Each fold in her dress was large enough to contain me. Her hair was “smooth as a shadow,” and she held one palm turned outward, showing where she had been burned by the skin of the god.

A second hall. A third. The soldiers’ boots clicked in the stillness. Each window let in, like a secret, a halo of misty light. We climbed a marble staircase, then another. No one accosted us, no one passed. It was as if the great palace were utterly deserted. Only when the halls narrowed and began to fill with an acrid smoke did we see a few figures, preoccupied men and women in long robes. They flitted past us without a word, like moths. At last, in an ill-lit room where urns smoked in the corners, the old soldier stopped with a cough.

“Well,” he said, “we will leave you.”

I nodded, my fingers tight on the strap of my satchel.

“Don’t look so frightened,” he advised me. “It never helps.”

He turned to his young subordinate and jerked his head toward the door. “Come on. They’ll give us bread and tea in the printer’s shop.”

They went out, the young soldier’s chain clanking softly at his belt, and left me alone in the eerie and stifling darkness. I heard a rustle and turned. A tall, slim figure was moving toward me across the carpet, carrying something white in both hands.

I do not know what I expected: perhaps a priest in a belted robe or a green-cloaked scholar with the smug air of Olondrian medical men. Certainly not this tall woman in a dark dress, her delicate features lit from below by a lamp in a globe of frosted glass.

“Are you the petitioner?” she asked.

“ Teldarin ,” I answered, “I am a stranger.”

She gazed at me closely. “But you have come to see my father.”

“Is he the Priest of the Stone?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am—I think—he is to examine me.” I paused, unable to trust my voice.

“Welcome,” she said. She balanced the light on one hand and held out the other; I clasped her fingers warmed by the lamp like heated wax. “My name is Tialon,” she said. “My father is the Priest of the Stone. He’s waiting for you; we received the letter yesterday.”

“The letter.”

“Yes. From someone called Yedov. You were staying with him, I think.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, compassion softening her gaze.

I laughed: a short, hard sound.

“Your name?”

“Jevick of Tyom.”

“Jevick. Come with me. He’s waiting for you in his study.”

I followed her. She was taller than I, and her curls were cropped short, as if she had been ill. There was nothing elegant in her cloth slippers, her plain wool dress; had she not introduced herself as the daughter of a priest, I would have taken her for some sort of superior servant. Yet she had a certain distinction, an air not of loneliness but of self-sufficiency. In the next room, where gray light filled the windows that dripped with returning rain, I saw that she was older than I had thought, perhaps thirty years old. Her left temple was tattooed with the third letter, against insomnia.

“Father,” she said.

I did not see him at first; the room was crowded with desks, each covered by a landslide of books and papers. I only noticed him when he cleared his throat: a bent old man in a black robe, seated by the fire on a high-backed chair.

The knob of his head gleamed in the grainy light as he gazed at me. At the sight of his carven features my heart gave a throb of hope: he had the same arrogant, solitary look as the doctors of my own country, men who cured illnesses of the spirit, men who banished ghosts. Ivrom, Second Priest of the Stone—a holy man. “Greetings, veimaro ,” I said. “My name—”