P. Hodgell - The Sea of Time

“Quiet.”

“Mother?” called a voice from outside. “What’s happened to your guards? Mother!”

A well-dressed boy rushed into the apartment. He had Kalan’s blond hair and a rangy build that probably reflected that of his late father. Jame guessed that he was in his early teens.

“My second oldest, Lathen,” said Kalan, confirming her suspicion.

“Who are these people?” the boy demanded. “Does Cousin Lainoscopes know that you have visitors?”

Kalan drew herself up with an effort. She looked terrified. “Dear, this is an old friend. She’s come to take me home.”

The boy paled. “What do you mean? This is your home!”

“You know that I came here from over the sea, from a future when Langadine no longer exists. A daughter waits for me there. Don’t you remember? I used to sing to you about her, your little half-sister. She’s still only a baby and she needs me. Now I am going back to her.”

The boy shook his head, distraught. “No, no, no. Those were only foolish stories, and you’re deluding yourself now. I told my brothers that the king was pushing you too hard, but no one listens to me, not the way they did to Father. You can’t leave! What about us?”

“Lanek will go with me. You and the rest are old enough to look after yourselves, unlike your sister. Please, dear . . .”

“The king won’t allow it. You’ll see.” His voice broke. “Let go of me!”

Brier had taken his arm. He twisted futilely in her iron grip, simultaneously terrified and outraged that she could overpower him so easily.

“You can come with us,” said Jame.

“Where? Into some fantasy of future days? This is my time. I belong here.”

“Yes. I suppose you do.”

At a nod from her, Brier released the boy and he darted out the door, bound, no doubt, to inform the king of their imminent escape.

“I don’t understand,” said Damson in Kens as they descended the outside stair, Jame supporting the seeker, Brier carrying a delighted Lanek. “If he finds any guards still awake—and he probably will: I couldn’t put them all to sleep—they’ll be after us. So why let him go?”

Jame sighed. “He was right: this is his time, even if it kills him. Brier could have knocked him unconscious, I suppose. That would have been more sensible. But it just didn’t seem fair. He’s terrified of losing his mother. Why take away his self-respect on top of everything else?”

“Why? To get us safely out of here. Ten, sometimes you think too much.”

They had reached the courtyard. A cluster of men advanced on them—guards, Jame thought; Damson was right—but then she saw that they were all clad in yellow and that they escorted an old man who held back, talking fast:

“. . . you see, it wasn’t as if I actually flew. Think more metaphysically. You know that my intellect far exceeds your own . . .”

“Yes, Master, of course, Master,” they soothed him.

The Tishooo spotted Jame. “You were there! You said that I fell!”

“So I did. So you will. But it won’t hurt you.”

He looked up at the tower, his head tipping further and further back. For only three stories, it was remarkably high, “the tallest in the city,” Byrne had proudly claimed.

“Don’t tell me what will or won’t hurt!”

“Just keep talking!” she called after him as he was hustled past. “Stall!”

They went as quickly as they could down through a city shaken awake by the latest tremor. Some dwellings had collapsed while others were on fire. Many had left their inhabitants huddled outside in the street in their nightgowns while their neighbors tried to comfort them, meanwhile keeping a wary eye on their own shaken houses. The night market was a kicked ant’s nest full of merchants scrambling to save their wares. Jame hoped that Ean had taken her seriously concerning the need for haste.

At the waterfront she found not only Ean and Byrne but her own command, moas and all, piled into a sturdy fishing boat.

“Get aboard!” Gorbel shouted from the prow.

There was no wind to speak of, so the oars were out and manned by the cadets. The former owner stood on the marble wharf, his pockets bulging with golden coins, some of which he fingered, as if unable to believe either his luck or the foolish extravagance of some people.

“Are you sure you don’t want to hire a crew?” he called to the newcomers as they rushed past him. “Then at least remember to cast off!”

Gorbel threw off the front hawser, Brier the stern. The boat rocked away from its mooring and began to drift sideways. The moas swayed, squawking.

“Pull, damn you!” roared the Caineron Lordan.

Some oars crashed in midair like inept duelists while others splashed into the water. The cadets hadn’t had any practice rowing since their flight from Restormir in Caldane’s barge more than a year ago. The Silver didn’t promote such sport.

“All right, all right, calm down and start over. Up, down . . . pull!”

The boat backed away from the wharf, stern first. How did one turn the thing around? No matter, as long as they were making progress.

Jame stood on the prow, watching Langadine recede ever so slowly. From here, she could see several broken terraces with shattered houses spilling down through the gaps, also flames reflected on whitewashed walls. People shouted. Dogs barked. Perhaps nothing else would happen, tonight at least. Oh, to get away while that doomed, many-tiered city still stood . . .

Whoomp!

The palace folded in on itself in a billow of dust, then the hill on which it stood. Not so the black temple. As the built-up ground fell away, more and more of it was revealed, still square and immobile but looming higher and higher. At first it wore the tilted remains of the tower like a hat, until Kalan’s former quarters fell apart and away, with the hint of a figure in gold flung from its ramparts even as it crumpled.

“Fly,” Jame whispered. “Fly!” But she knew that even now the Old Man had begun his endless fall.

The collapse spread, terrace by terrace, flattening the city as if a great weight had been laid on it. More dust rose, obscuring details, muffling screams cut short.

“What’s happening?” asked Timmon, wide-eyed, standing beside her.

“The temple has come to life and our people are about to arrive on Rathillien,” said Jame. The weight of history bore down on her and the ancient words rose in her throat as harsh as vomit:

“‘Two-thirds of the People fell that night, Highborn and Kendar. “Rise up, Highlord of the Kencyrath,” said the Arrin-ken to Glendar. “Your brother has forfeited all. Flee, man, flee, and we will follow.” And so he fled, Cloak, Knife and Book abandoning, into the new world. Barriers he raised, and his people consecrated them. “A watch we will keep,” they said, “and our honor someday avenge. Alas for the greed of a man and the deceit of a woman, that we should come to this!”’

“Don’t you see? It’s all happening now . We are fallen, and in flight.”

Oh Dream-weaver, oh Mother. Do you see, will you ever see, what you have done?

“Fallen or not, we aren’t fleeing fast enough,” said Gorbel, coming up to stand between them. “Are we going to be squashed flat, too?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Everyone, clear the foredeck.”

While the others retreated to the waist (Timmon, reluctantly), Jame ransacked her memory for master runes. The Book Bound in Pale Leather was out of her hands, still hidden in the cave behind Mount Alban where the thing that was once Bane sat guard over it. In her mind, however, she flipped over its pages, quickly so as to recognize but not accidentally animate any of its dire sigils.

Nothing, nothing, nothing . . .