For Lost Time Therese Arkenberg




For Lost Time
Therese Arkenberg
 
 

The settlement in Simrandu was called Nurathaipolis-in-Exile.It bore some
physical resemblance. Simrandu had been built when the Polean Cities still
held great cultural influence, and its mansions and gathering halls mimicked
the Polean style, with long terraces and fat domes supported by rows of
fluted columns. Nurathaipolean violets and Therathaipolean roses bloomed in
planters, and the streets were lit by pole-lamps as ingenious as any
construction out of Merenthaipolis. These similarities must have drawn the
settlementłs inhabitantsrefugees from those cities lost to Time;
Nurathaipolis the jewel at their crown, now nothing but a name that
lingered.
“Are they all wizards?" Semira asked Aniver. The Polean CitiesÅ‚ mortal
inhabitants had been lost with their metropolises, caught in unbreakable
slumber as their homes fell to dust around them, but a gathering this large
made up of nothing but wizards strained imagination.
“And a few otherstravelers who were away from home when the slippage
happened, ambassadors and guests in other lands, expatriates. They found
each other here. And here they... wait."
Five years had passed since Nurathaipolis-That-Was and its sibling cities
had turned to ruin in one night. Time enough to build a new life of a sort
here. Time enough to pursue possibilities, experiments, plans to undo the
strange tragedy that had befallen their homes. Time enough to give up hope.
Not for Aniver. Semira watched him descend the winding brick pathway,
narrow shoulders rigid with determination.
“Of course, itÅ‚s the wizards weÅ‚ve come for," she mused aloud.
“Yes." Aniver pushed hair from his eyes and straightened his jacket as
they neared the doors of this mansion, which was nearly a small palace. It
occupied grounds so vast that the rest of Simrandu, or at the last the
quarter given over to Nurathaipolis-in-Exile, was only visible towards the
horizon, its pillared roofs rising above the hedges and ornamental trees.
A servant answered Aniverłs knock. Colorless eyeswhat must be a
Nurathaipolen traitsurveyed them: Semira, slight, wiry, brown-skinned, with
her long hair in a tight braid; Aniver, tall and slender, a wizardłs circle
marked in the pale skin on his forehead, and around his neck a charm in the
shape of a tiny hourglass. Its golden sands fell to the bottom, through
the bottom, and kept falling. Eternally in one direction. As time
should run.
“WeÅ‚d like to speak to Madam Melviater," Aniver said.
The servant seemed about to speak, then bowed instead in a way suggesting
a shrug and led them inside. They passed through marble-floored chambers and
down corridors with walls hidden beneath paintingsportraits with colorless
eyes, forested landscapes bearing in their midst cities with canals, bronze
statues, and palaces of elegant columnsuntil they entered a room
overlooking the gardens. The servant left them there.
They waited long enough for Semira to decide to sit on one of the plush
sofas, only to rise again as Melviater swept into the room.
Between her round eyes, a nacreous wizardłs circle stood out against her
lined forehead, framed by the sweep of her coal-black hair. She received
their bows with a friendly smile.
“A pleasure." Her voice was rich. “We donÅ‚t get many visitors."
“You assume IÅ‚m a visitor?" Aniver asked.
“Rightfully, donÅ‚t I?" Her eyes narrowed on him. “You donÅ‚t seem the type
to have come to settle downnot yet. But you have come to me, preeminent
mage of Nurathaipolis-That-Was." She spoke without a hint of arrogance.
Sinking onto the couch near Semira, she continued, “So I expect youÅ‚re
attempting a rescue."
“Do you get many would-be saviors?"
“Fewer as time goes on." Melviater beckoned for him to sit. “Where are
the two of you from?"
“IÅ‚m Semira of Timru. IÅ‚ve been AniverÅ‚s companion... and friend... this
past year."
“And IÅ‚m Aniver of Nurathaipolis. But as for where weÅ‚re from
directlyour journeyłs taken us here from Arisbat."
“The library?" Eyebrows thick as brushstrokes rose. “Many of us have
looked for answers there."
“It depends which shelf you look on."
“And what shelf did you investigate?" Melivater asked with conspicuous
patience. If, as she implied, shełd been visited by many would-be saviors
before, she must find each renewed encounter rather dispiriting.
“There are only so many shelves full of books on the dead, are there
not?" Aniver smiled at her. He smiled so rarely that it was hard for Semira
to read this one. “And it was among the dead that the Lotorai Sibyl told us
to seek answers. I went to the deadI met Semira while crossing the
Glass-Clear Sea. The ghosts there told me... Well, I say this all so
circuitously in part because IÅ‚m trying to avoid speaking her name."
It was bad fortune to say Kahzakutriłs name aloud, but alsothe real
reason Aniver held back in Madam Melviaterłs presenceit was impolite.
Her eyes grew moon-large. “The Queen."
“To some, She would be the first to come to mind when we speak of the
dead. It is Her kingdom, after all. But I suppose wełd all rather exhaust
our other options before risking it." “And," Aniver added quietly, “we have
exhausted them, havenłt we?"
“Yes." Melviater rearranged her skirts. “Many have come to mewizards and
mortals bothwith many theories of how the Polean Cities were lost, and how
to save them. Your... suggestion is certainly more creative than most."
Semira, sensing that Melviater was about to leave, spoke up over whatever
comment Aniver might make next. “In the Library of Arisbat we found a book
that spoke of the Rivers of TimeAlteration and Unmaking. They flow at the
borders of Deathłs Kingdom. Their mists dance across the world, making ages
pass. But if a few drops in excess of the proper proportion fall somewhere"
“As on the Polean Cities," Aniver said, “the result might be...
unparalleled."
MelviaterÅ‚s lips narrowed. “Even so, no wizard, or even a cadre of us,
can contend against such Rivers."
“No." AniverÅ‚s gaze was distant as he rested his head on one hand. “I was
thinking of Someone a great deal more powerful. They are Her
Rivers, Her responsibility. I thought I might petition Her." Even he
couldnłt keep his voice entirely steady as he said it.
Melviaterłs nostrils flared as she took deep breaths. Her distant vision
seemed more astounding than AniverÅ‚s. “And you think I can help you?" she
said at last.
“WeÅ‚ve been traveling West, to meet with the Queen. But I thought it
would be better to... first scout out the territory, so to speak."
“ThereÅ‚s one sure way to get a look at Queen DeathÅ‚s Kingdom."
“Yes," Aniver said. “ItÅ‚s getting back which is uncertain. That requires
help."
Melviater shook her head. “Help, perhaps... but even the greatest wizard
could only take you so far."
“I understand."
She looked between them. “Howeverthe fact is, you are a wizard
yourself."
“This isnÅ‚t wizardry I could work upon myself."
“But you have" Her gaze touched on Semira, who bristled without quite
knowing why. Aniverłs own eyes darkened.
“Semira is my companion," he said. “All and only that. I could never ask
her to undertake such a risk."
“So you admit itÅ‚s risky."
“You think IÅ‚m mad," Aniver said. “But pay the small courtesy of not
thinking me a fool."
The two wizards met each otherłs stares and held them a long time. An
undercurrent flowed that Semira couldnłt read: anger would be petty beside
it, yet it was less animosity than the opposite, edged with fear and
incredulity. What Aniver was suggesting was awesome and awful. And Semira,
not being a wizard, didnłt understand half of it. She probably never would.
Melvaiter sighed. “AnythingÅ‚s worth trying, I suppose."
Aniver started upright. “YouÅ‚ll do it? I know itÅ‚s no small task I ask of
you."
And what is it? Semira almost asked, but then Melviater snorted,
on the verge of laughter.
“Escorting you to the border of Death and back?" She nodded. “No small
task indeed. IÅ‚ll begin preparations at once. Would tomorrow night be
acceptable?"
“Not a moment too soon," Aniver murmured. He looked to Semira.
“ItÅ‚s your choice," she said, “youÅ‚re the one participating."
“I was going to ask if you would come with me." He sounded almost shy.
“Not as part of the ritual." His glance at Melviater was stony. “Only for...
support."
“Of course."
“Then tomorrow night would work well for us, Madam Melviater." He bowed
before clasping her hand on it.

 
Every night at Madam Melviaterłs house at Nurathaipolis-in-exile there
was dancing. She invited Simrandułs natives and visitors from farther afield
to join the exiles. They trod the floors to music that had been old when
Aniverłs grandmother first courted, in steps as ancient as the stones.
“Feel free if you want to join in," he encouraged Semira. Neither of them
had, that first nighttheyłd made it to their rooms and collapsedbut this
evening they were too restless to simply sit and wait for Melviater to
summon them for the ceremony when the time came. The music had beckoned
them.
“YouÅ‚ll tell me before you go?" she asked. But already she was returning
one of the admiring glances sent her way. She wore a shimmering violet tunic
and leggings sheathed her trim legs, while a pair of silver earrings, in
Timri design like the rest, matched the glimmer of her dark bright eyes. No
wonder the Simrandi and exiles alike were looking.
“IÅ‚ll tell you." He added the whole truth: “IÅ‚m not sure I could do it
without you."
She graced him with a brief, startled smile before a young man crossed
the room in answer to her silent invitation. His features formed the epitome
of narrow-boned and delicate Polean Cities stock, though he was so suntanned
that he neared Semirałs coppery complexion. His hair was nearly as long,
falling from a gathering of curls around his face. Taking her hand, he bowed
over it and introduced himself as she returned the gesture: “Houriven
Matlos, your servant."
Semira, glancing beside her, realized Aniver had stepped away, leaving
her to navigate this introduction herself. “Of which city?" she asked.
He shrugged. “It matters less now that IÅ‚m hereand with you, Madam...?"
“Semira," she said, adding a little awkwardly but firmly, “of Timru."
Houriven surveyed the room, from the musicians on the dais to the couples
whirling across the floor. “Do they dance like this in Timru?"
“If I could keep up with FimeanÅ‚s Reel, IÅ‚m sure IÅ‚ll manage this." All
the same, Semira threaded her arm through Hourivenłs with the air of lashing
her storm-tossed body to the mast. The music carried them away.
Aniver watched until the crowd swallowed them, seeing enough to confirm
Semirałs confidence in herself and to catch the smile she threw his way.
“HeÅ‚s been to Zandar," a voice said at his shoulder. “Houriven Matlos."
The speaker, like Houriven, wore his hair long with elegant curls but was
paler and somewhat more solidly built. Though his soft tone was hard to
read, the fact that he had marked Aniverłs attention on the couple suggested
interest in Aniver himself. And of course no one would bring up such a
burningly interesting topic as Zandarespecially not to a clearly marked
wizardunless he desired a discussion. Though not a long one, Aniver
amended, noting the sheet music in the manłs hands.
“When?" Aniver asked him. “And why?"
“Almost two years ago now. ItÅ‚s still all he ever talks about, every
night. He thinks we should all go there."
“Why?" Aniver repeated.
“So that we see home once againas he hasand realize, as he has, that it
isnłt home any longer, and we can move on with our lives."
“But ZandarÅ‚s illusions arenÅ‚t home."
“Are they really not?" Asked softly; all the manÅ‚s words were soft.
“ZandarÅ‚s magic draws its shape from the very souls of its visitorstheir
hopes, their dreams, their fondest memories. Not exact representations of a
place, no. But when we judge based on that fact, itłs the real
which disappoints, which comes up short. So perhaps whatłs in Zandarłs
mirror is truest of all."
“Do you plan to go, then?" At once Aniver felt sorry as the man flinched.
“No. I still hold out hope... that one day IÅ‚ll see the real
Istanthaipolis again."
“HourivenÅ‚s given up that hope." Aniver noted. Anyone who set foot on
Zandar forever forfeited their native land; that was part and parcel of the
uncanny sorcery of the place. For some it was worth it, to see their fondest
dreams, if not made real, then brought as near to reality as possible.
“Perhaps he feels itÅ‚s better to give it up than lose it. So many are
losing it." The man sighed. “We gather here as around a dying fire, for
whatever warmth is left... That and perhaps the dancing. Do you dance,
sir...?"
“Aniver of Nurathaipolis-That-Was. And no, not usually."
“Endreidon, of Istanthaipolis-That-Was."
Aniver shook the offered hand and accepted Endreidonłs bow, though hełd
never been comfortable himself using that formal, at times over-effusive
salute between peers. It was liable to be misconstrued.
For a moment Semira and Houriven reappeared, sailing past them. Aniver
nodded in case she spotted him.
Endreidon saw, at any rate. “Of course, it depends on the partner."
“For many people," Aniver agreedkeeping humor from his voice in case
that, too, could be misconstrued. He did not intend to mock. “For some it is
difficult to find a suitable partner. Or the right song. For me, both have
proven, so far, utterly elusive."
“And have you given up trying?" A gleam in EndreidonÅ‚s eyes suggested he
was not beyond humor himself.
Usually here Aniver would have replied with polite gallantryI would
not want to become tedious to my partner in such attempts, and I would be
tedious, truly. Gallantry, too, could be tedious. Endreidon had been
open with him, so he returned it. “IÅ‚ve found trying isnÅ‚t worth the
trouble. I do not enjoy dancing. It is not a flaw of my partners, who often
prove excellent company in other ways." Endreidonłs brows lowered as he no
doubt reconsidered Semira. Or perhaps himself. “Nor do I consider it a flaw
in me."
“Of course not," Endreidon said. “There are many tastes."
He and Aniver smiled at each otherfragile smiles, suddenly a little shy.
“In any event," Endreidon added, shifting the folio in his hand as if
weighing it, “I would not have been able to dance for long."
“WhatÅ‚s your instrument? I... used to... play the violin." HeÅ‚d lost the
skill while he and Semira were fleeing the pursuit of the Hounds. Along with
much else.
“The harptheyÅ‚re carrying it out now."
The Istanthaipolen harp was legendary, and with justification. Aniverłs
breath tightened as he considered how long it had been since hełd heard it.
Aniver glanced at Endreidonłs fingers, callused, strong, yet with a
suggestion of delicacy and care. “I do not dance, but I will be privileged
to hear your music."
“I am grateful to play it," Endreidon said.
After a few minutes of lighter, inconsequential talk, the song ended.
Couples separated, catching their breath. Some exchanged partners, though by
no means all. Semira and Houriven, for example... Her laugh, low and clear,
carried across the hall.
Endreidon took his leave, and as the music swelled for the next dance it
carried the thrum, deep and sweet, of notes drawn from the tall
silver-stringed harp set in a place of honor on the dais. Aniver listened,
so intently that the crowd and dancers faded in his vision, and he could
feel as well as hear the fingers tenderly moving across the strings. He
absorbed the musicnot the way a wizard gathered fuel for future spells. He
drank it in as a man in the desert gulped orgua-nut juice. In his stillness
he did the same as Semira did with her dizzying steps. She let herself be
guided by a partner, and perhaps Aniver did, too.
He was guided, everywhere and nowhere at once, until Melviaterłs hand on
his arm brought him back to Simrandu.

 
“But going to Zandar" Semira wrestled with the incredible weight of the
thought while Houriven, aided by the incredible music, lifted her like a
leaf in the breeze.
“It wasnÅ‚t a hard voyage," he said. “Used as you are to the oceans, Madam
Sailor, the Nerrening Sea would likely rock you to sleep."
“I couldnÅ‚t." She laughed helplessly, as if being tickled. “YouÅ‚re right,
I am a sailorif I set foot on Zandar, could I ever return to the sea? Could
I ever leave?"
“Perhaps youÅ‚d have to fly away."
She flew, swept into the arc of a circle described by his hands in hers.
“Still," she said, brought back to his arms, “it seems an incredible...
exchange to make."
“You dance like a Grace," he said. “Do I really have you only half the
night?"
“IÅ‚m afraid so." She kept from bristling as his words, though she didnÅ‚t
favor being spoken of as if she could be had. “Aniver and I
promised to meet with Melviater soon."
“And why must you keep such a dreary promise?"
She chuckled, but her laughter turned rueful. “We have to make up for
lost time, I suppose."
“Have you lost a lot of it, on your journey?"
“Oh, yes." Sometimes literally, as at the Tindalo pass and the... months
following. Sometimes, figuratively, chasing false hints or finding even the
true ones much more difficult than expected. And through it all, time had
dogged themits Hounds hunted them, its Queen bewitched them, and the
secrets it had covered rose to them out of layers of darkness and dust. It
was Time, mishandled, misplaced, that had taken away the Polean Cities. When
it came to lost time, they had much to make up for.
“But perhaps you could lose a little more?" he said hopefully, with a
tiny sweet smile.
“WeÅ‚ll see," Semira promised. She had lost more than time this past year.
It would be a treat to find some of it again. She could trade away
sleepyesterday shełd had all the sleep she could stomach.
Once again to trading. Perhaps traveling with a wizard so long was making
her think like one. But trade was the essence of sorceryand sorcerous
places, like Zandar.
“For one last glimpse of home," she said, “you gave it up forever."
To her surprise, Houriven laughed. And his laughter was like flying to
the music: rich, clear, utterly free. “IÅ‚m afraid the old Ä™Polis isnÅ‚t home
to me anymore. Here in Simrandu, itłs all of us together, and itłs
beautiful, and it fits me better than anything else IÅ‚ve ever known. Here in
exilethis is home to me, now."
They rounded each other with short quick steps, nearly skipping, then
circled back in reverse. It gave Semira time to muse, to chase the thought
nagging her. A quiet portion of the music, at which Houriven gathered her
close, gave her the chance to voice it. “But isnÅ‚t your true home always the
one Zandar bars you from? If itłs here... how did you return?"
Houriven smiled. Then he was smiling less and less. He opened his mouth
to say something, as soon as the words would come to him.
Except before they did, Aniver was at her side. “Semira. ItÅ‚s time."

 
They joined Melviater in a small round chamber in the lower reaches of
the grand house. Tiles on the floor made a circle cut by the arms of a
compass cross. She knelt at the edge of the circle with a black lacquered
tray beside her. On it was a bowl of sweet-scented incense and a knife.
Aniver strode past Semira when she hesitated in the doorway. She followed
with a deep breath, noticing him take one of his own.
“I must warn you," Melviater said. “I have never done anything quite like
this before."
“What a coincidence." Aniver sat at the center of the circle. “Neither
have I."
She chuckled. Semirałs mouth was too dry to speak, and in a moment of
absurdity, she hoped this wouldnłt lead them to assume she had prior
experience with... whatever this was.
“Are you joining, then?" Melivater asked her. Semira nodded.
“You can start by putting on one of these." Melviater tossed her a mass
of saffron-colored cloth which turned out to be a full pleated smock like
the one she was wearing. “No sense ruining your nice clothes."
Aniver began to roll back the cuffs of his shirt. He watched Melviater
fan the incense smoke and adjust the placement of the knife. Semira, stomach
churning, drew the smock over her head.
Aniver gestured for her to sit beside him. The gesture was less
commandinghe had no power to command her, regardlessthan nervous, shy. He
wanted her here for this. She knelt over the circlełs border, hoping that
her placement wouldnłt mar the spell.
Melviater seemed unbothered by it. “Are you both ready, then?"
“Yes," Aniver said, very steadily. Semira echoed him.
“Good." Her gaze flickered between them, bright and hard as the blade she
reached for. She said to Semira, “Hold him."
Semira did, hesitantly at first. With a faint smile, he settled back
against her. His head rested on her chest, and she combed back a lock of
dark hair that sweat had pasted to his brow. He lay almost in her lap,
holding out his bare wrists to Melviaterłs knife.
“So we go," the sorceress murmured, and began to cut.

 
At first Aniver wondered by what sacrifice, what diminution of the soul,
Melviater was guiding him. But it very quickly became clear that no true
guidance was possible in this cold, chaotic vortex. Nor was it necessaryit
took no skill or knowledge to find the Kingdom of the Dead.
Bodily sensation lingered, a faint awareness of weakness and pain. It
changed not so much in intensity as in quality while he fell: pain grew
bittersweet, weakness icy. Sight vanished; he couldnłt even see darkness, if
there were darkness here.
And then it surrounded him. Relief, in his diminished state, felt as
strong as his weakness, and his weakness was nearly as overpowering as his
fear as he saw the roots of Her Tenebrous Throne.
He grasped the roots, not with hands he no longer had at the ends of
dripping, emptied wrists, but with power. Power that came from the soul,
which was all he had left of himself anyway.
The small gray four-toed feet resting on the Throne tapped against the
shadows. He wondered if one would kick him away. When it didnłt happen,
optimism, of a pale sort, enabled him to look up. The Thronełs arms ended in
snarling heads, or barbaric weapons, or else only the shape of an unreal
substance weathered by unimaginable forces, and on those arms rested slender
gray limbs bearing delicate four-fingered hands. Above those... looking past
Her face for the time being, Aniver stared at the spires that topped the
Tenebrous Throne. The structure seemed organic, not in the sense of being
alive but in the fact that it couldnłt possibly have been constructed. It
had grown or perhaps formed around the shape of the Queen, who sat here at
the edge of Her kingdom.
Kahzakutri. Hełd spoken the name often enough back in the living
world where it was inauspicious; nothing more terrible could happen here,
but now he hesitated to voice it out of respect.
Except that for a tattered soul with no mouth left, to imagine a name was
good as to express it aloud.
“Yes," She saiddid She have some sort of body, flesh to cloak Her mind
in, or had She been thinking at all Herself before now? “And you are Aniver
of Nurathaipolis-That-Was, come to discuss that very matter with
me. Cities lost to Time. To my Time, you suspect.
“I know everything the dead know," She continued, in a voice high and
clear but so dry it hurt to hear. It might have deafened living ears.
Aniverłs ears were not living anymore. His knowledge was Her own.
Was there any point in dialogue then?
The question was his, but She shifted on Her Throne with a hum as if of
amusement. “The problem is, in seeking the return of your Cities, you mean
to appeal to my generosity. I have none."
He was speaking to the Ultimate Queen; he was in Her very presence. The
fact struck him but did not seem to affect himafter all, meeting Her here
seemed the most natural thing in the world. Also, he no longer seemed
capable of awe or terror or surprise. These things were washed out of him.
The Throne, he could see now, rested on the icy bank of the River Unmaking
and perhaps was formed of its ice as well: not clear, black, or white, only
absenceof light, of darkness too. Aniver would have felt an absence also,
if She had not been speaking to him.
So that was the point of dialogue. To make him real enough to be capable
of it. Recursive, but still more logical than he had any right to expect in
the Kingdom of the Dead.
And he replied to Kahzakutri: “Why not?"
Speaking took a surge of power, falling through the bits of him which
were not hands but which dared to grip the Tenebrous Throne. The words
themselves were struck upon by luck or instinct. Yet why not? Why should she
not be generous?
“And, if not generosity, Majesty" he continued with the burst of
inspiration “what of justice? Is it right that five cities should, through
accident, be wiped from the face of the earth too soon?"
“Many die young."
“This was not death, Your Majesty." She of all beings must have known
that. Aniver gathered his courage and faced Her, although he was no longer
sure his fading form had a face. “It was, at best, a parodyone that should
concern you, trespassing as it does on your domain."
“My domain is everywhere. It includes even would-be trespassers." She
smiled down at him. “It is unavoidable, in any case, that the Polean Cities
should fall into decay. What difference do a few centuries make?"
She seemed genuinely curious. Genuinely ignorant, he thought with
desperate hope. There were things She did not understandgaps in Her
omniscience, and perhaps Her omnipotence, too.
He reached for another argument. “You speak of what is inevitable, what
is natural. But for us, Your Majesty, what happened to our cities was
anything but natural... In exile, we are like the dead still living."
That rhetorical flourish was a mistake, he realized as She laughed. “IÅ‚ve
never seen such lively corpses as the ones dancing in Simrandu."
“But not all of us." SheÅ‚d seen the dancers through his eyes; She knew
his inner experience. He drew Her attention to it. “After all, Your Majesty,
the spell I use to be here is fueled by something."
“Oh?" Her hollow, cold gaze settled on him, peering deep. Past the
surfacehe didnłt know the nature of Melviaterłs sacrifice, and so She
couldnłt eitherand past the simple surrender to fatełs gravity that had
brought him here in the simplest sense. To the mooring line wrapped tight
around what was not Aniverłs flesh and was too dead to be his soul: the
sorcerous construct that met Melviaterłs work halfway, that made this a
meeting only and not his final journey. That made this an argument, not a
surrender.
Kahzakutri touched the tether, and a jolt of terror shot through him at
the thought that She might sever it. But She wouldnÅ‚t, or couldnÅ‚t. “Ah,"
She said and released it, examination complete.
“Grief," She said.
“More than that, Majesty."
“Fear. Anger. Confusionand frustration at your confusion." Her lips
twitched like worms. “Helplessness. So much helplessnessit took a subtle
touch to turn that into power."
He wasnłt sure how to acknowledge a compliment from the Queen of the
Dead. But he had Her interest once again. “ThatÅ‚s what I feltthe mark left
on my soulafter awakening to find Nurathaipolis lost."
“And youÅ‚ve been storing it up all this time?"
“I never intended to use it." But he had spent so much else on his
journey... it was the last essence of any power he had left. “Is that not
like death, Your Majesty?"
She tipped her head, ravenlike, about to peck.
“IÅ‚ve faced death sincedanger, and fear so strong I felt certain doom
must follow... The similarity is striking."
In Arisbat, he and Semira had discovered the old legend: that facing
death, the terror and awe and deep-cutting grief of it, was the source of
the power that turned Kahzakutri from a mortal woman into the Queen.
It was not dying itself that had transformed Her. Death could only make a
being lesser. And everything living could die. The magic stemmed from
knowledge
“YouÅ‚re not dead," he saidor his soul exclaimed; there was no
difference.
“IÅ‚m sorry?" She asked almost archly.
“You transcended at the moment of dyingnot after death. Though you may
rule the dead, Your Majesty, youłre not one of them."
“What difference does it make?" She was not indifferentShe was curious.
More proof of his dawning realization.
“Because the dead care for nothing; are concerned for nothing. Being
indifferent, they are not generous. But you arenłt showing
indifferenceennui, certainly, but not indifference."
“Are you about to accuse me of"
“The dead wouldnÅ‚t ask so many questions." AniverÅ‚s very essence grinned.
“YouÅ‚re a dying woman, Kahzakutri. And I know"
The dead did not become angry. The dying did, quite easily.
He should have considered that.
She rose from the Tenebrous Throne and kicked him back.
“You go too far, Aniver of Nurathaipolis-That-Was. No surprise, IÅ‚m
sureyou do it often enough. But never before like this."
He didnłt cower. It would have been wise to, but he was too transfixed to
move.
“You will get out of my sight," She said. “There is plenty of
obnoxiousness among the dead without you adding to it. And I believe IÅ‚ll be
spared your presence in the future. Because surely you, so clever, know what
becomes of wizards when they go too far."
The tether binding him tightened. A faint shock traveled down it, from
such a great distance that feeling it at all testified to the extreme
sensation at its far end. Melviater. She wasnłt pulling Aniver back, though,
at least not on her ownshe felt him being forced away.
Kahzakutriłs deafening voice followed him even as She expelled him from
Her kingdom.
“You throw your magic into this stupid quest. You fuel that magic with
everything you have. Already youłve given things you never planned to
givethe most precious fragments of yourself. And you are not made of
infinite fragments. The dead that come to me are only the unused remnants of
souls.
“If you come again, come to me by walking West. YouÅ‚ll need yourself in
person as well as your shade. Youłll need it all. And when youłre through,
when youłve done your utmost to bring Nurathaipolis backand when youłve
paid the cost of itI donłt think therełs a bit of you that wonłt have been
used up, Aniver.
“It will unmake you as surely as if you swam in my river. I may
perpetually be dying, but you will forever be even more nothing
than the dead." She laughedbut in the echo of Her laughter was a sigh.
Or so Aniver thought. Perhaps he was listening too closely. But
Kahzakutriłs threat, or warning, grew ever fainter, and then his soulwhat
was left of ittouched against Melviaterłs with a snap. The tether had drawn
him home, where he really was dying.

 
Semira couldnłt tell if he was breathing anymore.
For the past half-hour Aniverłs chest had risen ever more shallowly, and
when she touched his face and neck the skin was cold. Melviater looked up
from wrapping bandages around his slashed wrists. No blood soaked through
the cloth; there wasnłt enough left.
They knelt over Semirałs bloodstained smock skirts, in absolute
stillness. Then Aniverłs heels knocked against the floor. As the tremor
passed through him, his mouth gaped for air.
Melviater leapt forward, grasped Semirałs hand and pressed it to Aniverłs
chest. Something passed through the two of them to him, and Aniverłs white
skin flushed at the point of contact. For her own part, Semira felt drained.
“IÅ‚m sorry," Melviater said. “He needs more blood, and IÅ‚ve already given
him as much as I can spare."
She was also paler than she ought to be, a stained-ivory shade instead of
her usual healthier glow. The shadows beneath her eyes, in contrast, were
inky.
Anvier gasped for another breath and won it, a deep breath that pushed to
the bottom of his chest. He was still clammy, but feeling warmer. Semira
leaned close and whispered his name. No sign if he heard her.
Melviater rose, calling hoarsely for her attendants. They came in from
where they had waited in the hall, and together they carried Aniver upstairs
to his room.
One woman hung back, offering her arm to Melviater. Semira took
Melviaterłs other armpartly to lend support, and partly for the comfort of
a human touch. Without Aniver, she felt shaken and frighteningly lonely.
She thought of Houriven but knew shełd have no time for that this night.
A pity.
“You should get some rest," Melviater said, following her thoughts. “And
take care."
“Thank you, I will. If someone could send me a bowl of oxblood tea"
“Not that." Melviater waved a frail hand. “Not just that. Ah,
Graces and shades, but IÅ‚m tired. Never" she addressed her
attendant, but perhaps Semira, too“I will never again involve
myself in these matters. Let the Polean Cities rot. Theyłre only stones. How
are we to salvage anything if we expend ourselves... just as I have," she
finished ruefully.
Semira didnłt know her well enough to tell if she meant what she said or
was only relieving her nerves theatrically. Either would be understandable.
“He can only do this for so long." Melviater pinned Semira with a stare,
and this she meant absolutely. “And after that? Will he expect
you to go on in his stead, when he falters?"
“I already have," Semira said. “In Arisbat."
The words hung between them.
“Do not think we are untested." Semira could not have explained further,
and perhaps Melviater could not have understood.
At last Melviater said, “May the gods help you," although wizards were
not known for their reverence of the gods. Leaning heavily on her attendant,
she departed.
As soon as Semira made it to her room in the palace, she collapsed into
bed. The very emptiness of her sleep was worse than nightmares. What Aniver
had endured must have been even worse. Perhaps he would tell her someday, if
she asked. If he ever woke to be asked about it. If the Queen was not
jealous and his exhausted frame too weak. If he didnłt carry those secrets
back to their source.

 
She went to his room as dawn grayed Simrandułs hills. She knew he
wouldnłt be awake yethełd taken a longer journey than the sun had this past
night. But when he did awaken, she wanted to be near him.
She wasnłt the only one. An older man, pale and a little stocky, sat
beside the bed. As she drew near, Semira saw his fine fingers pleating the
coverlet draping Aniverłs body.
The attendants last night had undressed Aniver, bathed him, and left a
tall carafe of water on the side table. There was also a small vial, no
doubt from Simrandułs physician.
“How is he?" she asked the stranger.
He didnłt startle, though she hadnłt thought hełd noticed her entrance.
“Feverish." He nodded to the vial. “Two drops in a full glass of water, when
he wakes."
“Thank you."
“IÅ‚m Endreidon."
“Semira."
They shook hands, and he stood. “You neednÅ‚t go," she said.
“No, itÅ‚s all right. IÅ‚m sure heÅ‚d rather see you, ifwhenhe wakes."
That was near enough her own thoughts that she didnłt argue. Friendship
counted for something, even on the borderlands of the dead. They had staked
so much on that.
Semira took Endreidonłs place. She watched Aniverłs narrow chest rise and
fall, mopped the sweat from his forehead and collarbone. She dampened
another cloth and moistened his lips.
He might falter, but she remained. It was her quest now as much as his.
Together theyłd braved half the curses of the world. Alone, she had faced
Arisbat. Alone, he had faced Kahzakutri.
And from here?
It was not a question she could answer by herself.
Aniver did not awaken that day, or the next.

 
It was tempting, so temping, to just lie there and die. To slip away into
the current pulling him, to flare to ash in the conflagration. To return to
the hollow land hełd not quite managed to fight his way back from.
It would be easier.
At least there would be something left of him.
The dead did not rest, not truly; to rest required living flesh, muscles
to know the ache of exertion and to recognize restingłs ease; a mortal brain
to fall quiet, to dance with dreams. Knowing that death would not relieve
his exhaustion made Aniver a little more interested in living. But there
remained the fact that if he lived much longer, in the sort of fashion he
led...
Kahzakutri was right. He was in danger of unmaking himself, of unweaving
his very soul.
Already he had only fragments left, held together by the will to bring
Nurathaipolis back. The very grief which had spurred that resolution was
gone now. So much was gone. If he was to resurrect a citythat would take
more power than he contained.
Which wouldnłt, on its own, stop him. Aniver was no longer intimidated by
the impossible.
If it was possible, thoughthe price of making it possible, that
frightened him. Wizards valued their souls as much as anyone else.
Among the frantic paths trod by a fever-driven mind, he found another:
the straight track of a realization. If the dead could no longer lose their
souls, they could no longer win them either. Could no longer have the
experiences, emotions, beliefs, and hopes that shaped a personłs essence,
changed them, grew them into something greater and more intricate and
vaster, vaster with every day of life. If he died now, he would forever be
as he was: stunted; more than that, maimed.
So it was decided.
Unfortunately, living proved to be a matter more complicated than simply
resolving to. Consciousness slipped; became a half-thing, a twilight where
each breath felt like swimming to the surface from the bottom of a well. Hot
and cold wracked him in turns, and through it all, weakness like a weight
threatened to draw him down through the cushions. He couldnłt summon the
strength to throw his gauzy blanket off or to draw it closer as he shivered.
The gauze abraded his skin. Ice trickled across his lips, sweat, and then
something cleaner.

 
“He forces no one but himself to undertake these risks," Semira told
Endreidon.
“But why do you undertake them?"
“Because..." She wet the cloth in the cup and wrung the medicinal water
over his lips. “IsnÅ‚t it worth it? To save the cities from oblivion?"
And what of those still sleeping in them? She almost asked the question
that had haunted her since coming to Simrandu, the question that none of the
exiles seemed willing to face. Not, she thought, out of callousness. Which
was why she hadnłt askedshe didnłt want to inflict that pain, reopen those
wounds.
“If they can be saved." Endreidon looked down at AniverÅ‚s gray face and
reached for a cloth to mop away the sweat already dewing again. “IÅ‚m not
certain itłs worth this."
“What?"
The two of them jumped as if the walls had spoken.
Aniver sipped more of the water Semira had left for him, and said in a
somewhat clearer voice, “Worth what?"
“You," Endreidon said, straightforward with shock.
Aniver blinked up at him. His gaze hardened more than it cleared. “Do you
believe IÅ‚m worth more than all of Nurathaipolis?"
“I think," Endreidon said, “that youÅ‚re a surer thing."
Aniver laughed, even though he had no strength for it and could only
produce a hoarse rasp like the growl of a prowling beast. Semira grasped his
shoulder, trying to soothe him. Shełd rarely touched his bare skin before,
and today it was pale and glossy as marble and hot and moist as steam. She
flinched awaybut not as far as Endreidon did.
Aniver sat up, looking around him. His chuckle died off. “Thank you for
your... care of me," he said at last. “Whatever your thoughts on my value."
“What are your thoughts on your value?" Endreidon asked.
“Kahzakutri," Aniver said, “is very upset with me. IÅ‚ve come to know
Her... too well. Wełre much alike."
“No," Semira said.
“At the least, we both know what itÅ‚s like to lie dying. It offers an
interesting perspective." He turned back to Endreidon. “If you want to
remember me as a sure and certain thing, then leave now."
Without hesitation, Endreidon went to his feet.
“Thank you," Aniver said. Then“Did you play for me while I was asleep?"
“No." He flushed. “I didnÅ‚t think to."
“I wish you had." Aniver drew the blanket up higher. “I think I lost your
music while I was... away. IÅ‚m sorry. I expended a number of things that I
hadnłt intended to. It took more... and I had less left than I realized. Iłm
sorry" But before he finished speaking, Endreidon had fled.
“So was it worth it, to get to know the Queen better?" Semira asked.
“Probably wise of me to scout the territory ahead first."
“And whatÅ‚s it like?"
“Harder," he said, “than telling Endreidon my magic devoured his music.
Just barely." He was so exhausted his tone was leached even of dryness.
Hełd been lying half-dead for three days, summoning the wrath of the
Queen of the Dead, expending pieces of his soul without realizing it;
without ever intending to.
Semira swallowed.
“Will it be worse than Arisbat?" she asked.
Objectively, Arisbat had been nothing. A library, haunted by sourceless
fear. That was its trick. Aniver, in extremity, terrified for no reason, had
left her.
But she no longer sought the return of Nurathaipolis only for his sake,
if she ever had.
For what it was worth, he had returned then. And again, just now.
“I came through all right," Semira said, answering her own question.
Aniver smiled weakly. “You could turn back."
“And let you go on alone?"
“I could turn back." His smile vanished. “Settle here with the rest of
the exiles. Learn to live with my losses. Content myself with what is...
certain."
“Listen to music again."
“Perhaps."
“Or," Semira said, “I could go on without you."
“You arenÅ‚t a wizard."
“Neither was Kahzakutri, until the end." Until the sheer horror of death
had transformed Her. Until She had remade Herself in desperationnot to save
Herself; She was beyond that. But to become more than a victim of Fate.
After Arisbat, Aniver had said that Semira had the makings of a wizard.
Insofar as wizards could be made.
At the beginning of this journey shełd fancied making herself a hero.
That fancy had been lost somewhere along the way. But she still felt loyal
to the idea of it.
“YouÅ‚re not even Nurathaipolean!" he said.
“And you and Endreidon and Melviater are. Does that count for something?"
He sighed. And smiled again, but even more faintly than the first. “You
think we should go on, then?"
“YouÅ‚re deferring to my judgment?"
“Perhaps I lost my wisdom along the way..."
Or his strength, his courage, or any number of the things Semira had
lately felt quite strained in herself. But she met his gaze. Almost clear
now. Trusting.
“I think," she said, “that once weÅ‚ve come so far, itÅ‚s a waste of time
to worry about how much wełve already lost."
“You may be right," he said. He reached for her hand, and she grasped
his. Clammy but no longer feverish, and above that, healing scars.
“I still have you," he observed.
“Are you surprised to?"
“I would have been, once."
“You should rest," she said. “Get well."
“I will."
He did, after that. Quite quickly in fact. In a few days more he was on
his feet and walking the halls of Simrandu again. Semira went with him so he
could grasp her arm if he needed support. He made two brief visits aloneone
with Melviater, one with Endreidon.
He never told her what happened in either of them. He was slightly more
communicative about his conversation with Kahzakutri.
“A dying woman," Semira mused. “And you weredying. You think you
understand Her, then, based on that?"
“I think She can be convinced," Aniver said. He added quietly, “After
all, itłs no cost to Her to bring the Polean Cities back."
“And She is a wizard," Semira said tartly. “Always thinking of costs."
He grinned at her. It was his first grin since he had awoken from the
Kingdom of the Dead, though his smiles had been rare even before that.
The next day, they left Nurathaipolis-in-Exile, heading for the Western
edge of the world.

 
© Copyright 2015 Therese Arkenberg