Jace gasped and cowered as Vandien thrust the stubborn door open. But no white sunlight flooded in to scald her; instead there was the still warm air of evening, and beyond the door the shadowy alley and the night sky.
‘Thank the gods it is passed,’ Jace breathed. She vented her relief in a long sigh. Easing forward, she leaned against the splintery door-frame and peered out. Chess crept forward to peek out under her arm. Their eyes stared up at the strange stars.
‘Time to move.’ Vandien spoke with satisfaction. ‘We have a lot to do while this night lasts.’ Stooping, he gathered the waterskin and the cloak that Chess had lain on.
His horse was as he had left it. Wadding the cloak into a bundle, he tied it behind the saddle, and added the waterskin. He drew the bridle out of the tangle of dead branches he had hidden it in and began fitting it to the horse’s head.
‘He does not appear to enjoy that,’ Jace said reprovingly as the horse tongued away the bit Vandien tried to force between its jaws.
‘This horse never appears to enjoy anything,’ Vandien replied dryly as the horse bared yellow teeth at him. ‘It’s just his nature. He’s a master of understatement.’
‘I do not find this a matter for levity.’ Vandien felt Jace’s hand fall light on his arm. Her other hand clutched the bridle firmly. The horse snorted and shifted as Vandien tried gently to free it from her grip. Jace held on, her eyes frightened but determined. The horse took advantage and shied his head free of both of them. Vandien expelled his breath in a rush through his nose. He let the hand holding the bridle fall to his side.
‘I take it you do not use beasts for carrying things in your wondrous land beyond the elusive Limbreth Gate.’
‘No. We don’t.’ Jace shrugged off the annoyance in his voice, but Chess’s eyes grew wider in the darkness. Vandien’s shoulders slumped in defeat. Much as Jace was beginning to irritate him, he would do nothing to give the boy more fear. He plainly expected that Vandien would strike Jace for disagreeing with him. No guessing what he had seen in that tavern.
‘Just how the hell do you live over there?’ he demanded pettishly as he flung the bridle over the saddle. He stooped to unfasten the tether line.
‘We are farmers, most of us. We tend the earth, and harvest what we invite to grow there. From the trees we receive fruit and nuts. From the plants we take the leaves and buds they can spare, and later the seed, fruits and tubers. From our ocean the waves yield to us the salty curling plants of the deep, and bring to us the floating bulbous kelp.’
‘You keep no cattle for milk and flesh? No flocks for eggs and meat?’
Jace turned from him in disgust. ‘You speak of leading a life founded on the death of innocent creatures.’
‘And I suppose the wolves and Harpies of your world graze upon grass or browse upon willow leaves?’
‘Wolves rend flesh there, yes, but no sentient being does. When you say “Harpies” I know not what you mean.’
‘Well, Ki will be grateful for that. A world without Harpies would suit her fine. Tell me, Jace, do you condemn the wolf that brings down the deer to feed?’
‘A wolf is only a beast. Such is its nature.’
‘Then consider me a sentient wolf. Predator I am, Jace, and not ashamed of it. I am no less than the wolf in that I kill for food only.’
‘And no more,’ Jace replied succinctly. She turned her back on him in a whirl that sent her gown rippling about her. ‘Come, Chess. Let us seek the Gate and see if there is any way for us to enter.’
‘I had thought to rush it on horseback, while you distracted the Keeper.’ Vandien fell in behind them dispiritedly. ‘Won’t you consider trying it?’
‘It is not natural to bestride a living creature. Nor is it proper to try and upset the balance of two worlds. Entering and leaving the Gate must be done in harmony.’
‘Not even to get Chess back to his own side, and away from what he has suffered here?’
‘Shall I reinforce the evils he has seen here, teach him that it is all right to behave incorrectly if one stands to gain by it? Vandien. I can imagine what you think of me. But our ways are not yours. Much as I long for my own world, and despise the Keeper who tricked my son, I cannot condone what you suggest. If Chess and I are patient, sometime we will regain our world. Somehow.’
Vandien stopped and the horse halted behind him. After a few steps, Jace paused and looked back at him. Chess clung to her hand. Even in the moonlight, Vandien could see the despair in his wide grey eyes. The mother knew little of what she spoke of so serenely. Meanly Vandien thought that if only Chess were safely on his side of the Gate, he might be tempted to let Jace sample the life Chess had found here. But there was Chess.
Vandien slapped at his clothing. His purse was flat and empty. Most of his possessions were in Ki’s wagon. There was nothing on him he could easily trade for coin. Except … He flinched. From his neck he lifted the chain of fine silver links. The tiny black hawk winked at him regretfully as it swung. Ki would forgive him for parting with her gift sooner than he would forgive himself. Stepping forward, he put the hawk into Jace’s hand, the horse’s tether into Chess’s.
‘I will presume your folk do some trading, and you will know how to bargain these for coin – though I doubt you could ever get what that hawk is worth to me. Still, it will be enough, from hawk and tack, to get stable space for the horse and a cheap room at a decent inn. Be sure and ask for a cheap room; then you’ll surely get one with no windows.’
‘You abandon us.’ Tears edged Chess’s voice.
‘No. I go to do for you what you won’t do for yourselves. I’m going to force your Gate, and return with Ki. That will be two coming in and two going out …’
‘It will take three exiting to restore the balance if we two enter,’ Jace began to correct him, but Vandien shook his head at her.
‘I’ll do what I can. Keep the boy safe. And come to the Gate at least once every night. I don’t know when I’ll return. Ki makes better time in that wagon of hers than you might suspect. Much as I hate to admit it, she may like your world. But I’ll talk her into coming back. There’s little, wise or foolish, that I can’t persuade her to try. When I bring her back, be waiting for us.’
‘And if we run out of coins before you return?’ Chess asked practically.
‘Sell the horse. Ask thirty silver bits, but don’t take less than twenty.’
‘We cannot sell a beast into slavery!’ Jace objected.
Vandien looked at her despairingly, and turned to Chess. ‘Perhaps I should be telling you to look after your mother. Do what you can, Chess, and what you must, to stay alive. Remember to come to the Gate at least once every night. You will?’
Chess nodded once, and looked up in awe at the beast he led.
‘Don’t worry about him. He’ll obey you perfectly, as long as you don’t ask him to work. He’ll love your mother. They’ll get along well.’
‘You think me an ungrateful fool, Vandien, but –’
‘The night slips away, and the Gate goes with it. If I fail, we can talk all day about what we think of one another. If I succeed, it won’t matter. Be careful.’
Vandien could take no more of it. He stepped up silently to claim his cloak from the saddle.
‘Take your waterskin also, and fill it before you go,’ Jace urged him softly.
‘Your land has no water?’
‘It is not safe for you to drink. It will affect you …’
‘I’ve a brass-lined stomach, friend. Water in strange lands has never given me the cramp or flux.’
Jace shook her head impatiently. ‘It’s not that. The water in our land flows to us from the hills of the Limbreth. With it flows wisdom and peace. You would lose your determination if you drank it. You would begin to see the higher goals you might set for yourself. No outworlder has ever passed the first stream without drinking from it. Its call is said to be undeniable. No one is ever unchanged by it. After the second bridge, you never need fear the stranger. That is how our saying goes. The peaceful water of the Limbreth quenches their fiery thoughts and hot lusts. It brings to the surface whatever sweetness is hidden within. They become enlightened and seek the Limbreth, to be cured forever of restless ways and dissatisfied hearts. Then they are given a task that is to them a joy, and is to the Limbreth a lasting monument.’
Jace’s heart was in her words and her words were worshipful when she spoke of the Limbreth. Chess lifted his face to his mother and his shining eyes echoed the peace his mother spoke of. Not even Vandien was immune to it, despite his quick, hawklike nature. Peace. Contentment. How often had he scoffed at those goals – as Ki had, with her roaming Romni attitudes. What had that old priest called it? Sour fruit.
They had given the priest a ride on the wagon one spring when they overtook him, footsore and weary, upon the road. His wooden chest of healing herbs and potions Ki had lifted into the back of the wagon. Gently she chided such an old man for wandering so far from his kin that cared for him. But all he spoke of was the peace and contentment of poverty and service. There was a joy in binding up the running sores of a beggar, or mixing the potion that lifted delusion from the mad. Ki and Vandien had smiled at one another over his white head. ‘Peace,’ he had chided them then, ‘to you two will always be sour fruit. You long for what you cannot reach, and so you pretend to despise it. You run from the aches in your hearts and the scars on your bodies. I would that I had a potion to cure you, but you are beyond such skills as I have.’
His words had quelled all talk; Vandien had not been disappointed when he left them at the foot of a pass. He and Ki had kept the image of sour fruit, and made it a secret bandying word between them.
Vandien gave his head a shake, aware that they were both staring at him. He could see their secret fear; he would find peace in their world and forget all about them. ‘Do not be afraid,’ he told them lightly. ‘I’m immune to contentment.’ He made those words his farewell, lifting the waterskin from the saddle as he went. Let it be a sign to them and a talisman to himself. Once he glanced back. They both were looking after him, holding horse and hawk in their hands. He hoped to the gods they would have the sense to follow his instructions.
He replenished the waterbag at an ancient fountain. Looking down at the moon reflected in the water he promised her never again to drink Alys in a tavern, and to beware of needy strangers. A drop of water from the bag’s spout fell back onto the surface; the moon winked at him, knowing well he lied.
He slung the bag over his shoulder. This early in the night there were still people abroad in the streets, though not many. Cheerful light issued from many a window or door left ajar in the summer heat. He passed an inn where the sounds of revelry beckoned him. But he went on, threading his way through the unfamiliar streets. Lacking a knowledge of the city’s landmarks, Vandien relied on his sense of direction to take him back to the city walls. He soon found himself on a street he remembered. There was the house of the woman who had called him a pox bringer. The flung stones were still scattered in the dusty street. But of the Gate there was no sign.
The gods striding on the walls of the city looked past him in disdain; the heroes went on their heroic tasks. The wall was innocent of any Gate or opening or crack as far as he could see in the gloom. No one was about. Vandien went quickly to the wall, running his hands over it. No cracks, no loose stones to push. The wall was solid. Rapping his knuckles on its thickness did nothing but skin them. The wall emitted no sound, hollow or otherwise.
Stretching to his full if unimpressive height, Vandien ran the tips of his fingers over the wall again. He grimaced to himself in the darkness. It was no better maintained than any other city wall he had been up against, but its basic construction was sounder. The bas relief figures offered little purchase for climbing. But it was not impossible. He did wish he had kept the horse with him. Its back would have given him a place to start his climb from.
Stooping, he unfastened the buckles of his knee boots. Kicking free of them, he stood barefoot in the dust of the street. He flexed his toes and feet in the dust, and rubbed his hands down his shirt to free them of sweat. Once more he stretched and ran his hands over the wall. A kneeling goddess offered him a leg up. He gave a final glance about for guards; the last thing he wanted to do was flee barefoot down these streets with a pack of guards after him. The dusty streets were hot and empty. Vandien started up the wall.
From the goddess’s knee he found a grip on her torch. Vandien cursed the unknown artist admiringly. Purchase places were few, and they were shallow, nail-bending, knuckle-scraping ones. His chest dragged against a hero’s face, and he wished he had left behind the friction of his shirt. A third of the way up, one foot slipped from its spider-splayed grip and he nearly tumbled back. He heard his knuckles pop and felt a toenail tear. But he did not fall, and after a moment resumed his ascent.
The city had confidence in its walls, or no longer cared. At the top were no jagged potsherds or broken wooden spikes. There was only a wide flatness big enough for a man to lie on. Vandien panted for an instant, then wiped his sweat and the dust from his eyes. He looked over the wall.
Nothing. Well, nothing different from what Ki and he had seen approaching the North Gate. A flat expanse of yellowish plain interrupted by scraggly trees and thorns. Nearly out of eyeshot in the darkness were the humps of houses and low growing masses that indicated a farm kept alive by well and bucket irrigation. Only to the north of the city could one glimpse the far shining band of the river that brought the trade and kept the city alive. During late winter and early spring the river became a flowing plain of water, bringing new soil and fresh life to the farms by it. The long hot summers shrank the river into submission. Farmers that chose to live closer to the city walls rather than endure the annual flooding had to turn to buckets and wells to survive. It was a harsh land he looked down on; Vandien could not imagine calling it home.
He lay flat on the wall and hung his head over. The ground looked hard, the sand and dust blowing across it loosely. There were no marks of a wagon’s passage, or any sign of regular passage of folk through a gate. Vandien was perplexed and still as he let the slight dry wind ruffle the damp curls on his forehead and cool the sweat on his back. Over the wall, he conceded, was not the same as through the Gate. If only he could find the damnable Gate.
The city streets were still empty. Vandien swung his legs over the side and scrabbled his toes for a hold. His raw toe bumped and he stifled an oath. As he inched his body backwards off the wall, he considered making a light and catlike leap down into the street below. Then he considered lying in the street until morning with a broken ankle, and eased his body a little farther down the wall. He went from having his ribcage hooked on the edge of the wall to hanging by his forearms, and then to a crumbly and wrist-straining hand grip. His feet skidded down the images, rubbing grit into his raw toe and scraping ankles and shins. But at last one toe got a precarious grip on an exposed lip of stone. He braced himself on it and let go with one hand, to ease another questing foot farther down.
But suddenly there was no wall at all beneath that foot: it swung forward into an empty but only semi-yielding space. Finger grips and toenails failed; Vandien fell, back first, in a gut-wrenching downward arc. He landed on a lumpy mass that collapsed under him. He lay still, trying not to be sick. The wind had been knocked from his lungs, he had struck his jaw against the wall and the front of his body was scraped raw from the slide. His joints crackled as he closed his hands. Whatever he had landed on was still poking him in the back. A red haze of pain obscured his vision as a nettlelike tingling singed his skin.
When he could, he began to move. But his muscles seemed to resist his will. He was able to straighten his legs, but slowly. He wondered what damage he had done to himself. The very air seemed to resist him, as if he were entangled in a giant but invisible spider’s web. With a gasping heave he hauled his body to a sitting position. Dazedly he looked about.
He was sitting on the threshold of the Gate and the lumpy mass beneath him was the Keeper. Vandien’s mind swung. There had been no Gate here when he climbed up, but he had fallen into the middle of it. It was impossible. The Keeper groaned and began to stir. Vandien tried to roll off him; he was lucky he hadn’t broken his neck. Then, as his sense came back to him, he realized he was sitting on the opportunity he had sought.
A force was gently pushing him back to his side of the Gate; Vandien fought it. He leaned against his invisible bonds, striving to push them to their limits. The tautness of them against his face was like a smothering stretch of fine linen. The tingling grew worse, nigh unbearable. Vandien eased back a trifle and felt it follow him. He also sensed the easing of the force. The more he pushed, the more it resisted.
It felt like a membrane; so, he reasoned, why not treat it as he would a stubborn birth sack that was strangling a new calf? Vandien leaned forward against the force, stretching it to its full limit, and then drove his fingers stiff against it. His hands were small for a man’s, no larger than Ki’s, but the callused palms and scarred knuckles attested to their usefulness. He tried to get a grip on the barrier, tried to twist his fingers into it and rip it. But it was thicker, heavier, slicker and stronger than he expected. It eluded his grasp and his fingers could not rip it.
The Keeper was stirring now. Any second he would return to full wakefulness, and then Vandien would have two opponents to battle. If he was going to break through, he had to do it now. One outstretched hand kept the tension on the wall; the other reached for his belt knife.
He stabbed the blade into it. He had expected to plunge the point of his knife through it. But his initial stab bounced back into his hand. He tried again, pushing the blade in steadily, leaning on it with wrist-cracking force. The haft began to burn against his hand, but the blade sank in. He forced it to the full length of the blade, gasping at the effort it took. The barrier showed no sign of parting. Vandien tried cutting with a sawing motion. But his blade was smooth, lacking the serrated edge for this to be effective. The Keeper raised a hand to his head and groaned dully. Vandien sawed frantically.
His knife suddenly went through and his hand followed it. The sensation was the same as puncturing a large skin of cool water. His hand plunged into the coolness; he felt more of it ebbing and squirting out at him.
The Keeper rolled over with a sudden gasp, as if the spattering coolness had revived him as well. ‘Stop it!’ he shrieked wildly. ‘You’ve broken the seal! You’ll unbalance us!’
Unheeding, Vandien pushed his forearm into the other side while he worked the fingers of his other hand into the rupture as well. The Keeper clutched at his bare feet. Vandien kicked at him, using the gained impetus to force his second hand the rest of the way through. The thick nails of the Keeper’s hands scraped down Vandien’s legs as he kicked free of him. Like a diver preparing for very cold water, Vandien steeled himself with a deep breath of air. He butted his head against and then into the torn wall. The sensation was unpleasant in the extreme, like plunging his face into a congealing gut pile. He could neither expel nor take in breath. His vision wavered. He struggled, bucking his body, feeling the Keeper finally get a good clutch on one of his ankles.
Vandien was suffocating. What if this wall never let him through? What if he became entrapped between, like a fish in aspic? Panic was inspiration. The Keeper had captured one of his feet. Vandien shot out the other one in a tremendous kick that caught the Keeper in the chest, breaking his grip and propelling Vandien forward.
Vandien felt the vague stirring of birth memories, and then cold air on the top of his skull. He felt his shoulders constricted by the wall. With a wiggling surge, he forced his way out into the cool dark air. His chest was squeezed, and then he was falling, hands braced to catch himself as he somersaulted through the Gate. He tumbled into an awkward heap on a smooth straight road.
From behind him came a muffled cursing. Vandien leaped to his feet, ready to run. He had a dim vision of the Keeper trying to hold closed the torn curtain between the worlds. His ragged clothes were stirred as if by a powerful wind; his hood fell back to reveal a band of white and wrinkled skin where Vandien had expected eyes. The torn barrier fluttered with a snapping sound backed by a rushing noise like a river heard through windstirred trees. Vandien felt the motion as it rushed past his face toward the tear. At least he need fear no pursuit; for a time the Keeper would have his hands full. He slid his knife back into its sheath and turned his steps down the long straight road.
Barefoot, and a night and day behind Ki. The grey team always made their pace look easy, but Vandien had more than once tried to match them on foot. Even their most leisurely pace had a way of devouring the road. He gave a sigh and broke into a wolf trot. The road was smooth and cold beneath his bare feet. He rested one hand on the waterskin that hung from its shoulder strap to rest at his hip. He had never been so poorly prepared for anything. But the night air was cool and clean against his face; the arching trees garlanded with pale flowers beckoned him on. An unbidden smile came to his face. It was a fine night for running.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the signs of Ki’s passage. The heavy wheels had left long grooves cut in the tongues of moss that stretched here and there across the road. Vandien trotted doggedly on, his eyes fixed as far ahead down the road as he could peer. His body worked smoothly and independently of his mind. His mind chewed at the little information he had, letting the lovely night scenery slip by him unnoticed. Chess had indicated a Windsinger had set up this whole ruse. But why? They had lured Ki through this Gate, but she had met with no foul play as far as he could tell. The Windsingers had no reason to love Ki, but one at least, Rebeke, had reason to treat her with courtesy. As for Ki herself, she had never spoken of the Windsingers with anything but distrust. Her dislike of them was founded on her father’s old hatred, which blamed them for the untimely death of Ki’s mother. Ki had inherited that theory with no facts to back it up. Yet there had been a time when Rebeke would have fallen prey to the wizard Dresh, had Ki not intervened. It was all a most interesting tangle when viewed in the abstract. When considered while trotting down a black road with the aftermath of a hangover bouncing in one’s skull, it was positively unsettling. But it was also as irresistible as prodding at a loose tooth.
His legs and feet had begun to ache dully, and he had been running in the moss beside the road for some way when the bridge came into view. He let his trot ease down to a walk, but the bridge demanded more. He stopped and gave it a full share of attention. He had no comparisons for it; rather it was like the first glimpse of a natural wonder. Like the mountain from his childhood that would always be The Mountain, or his first dimly remembered glimpse of the sea, this bridge would stay with him the rest of his days. It was the pure essence of Bridge, the perfect form that all such structures sought to attain but never did – till this one. He could spend a night looking at it, a week touching its graceful curves and still not have absorbed all the beauty of its lavish arch. If only he had the time.
But he did not. His bare feet throbbed, his shirt stuck to him and his trousers chafed him. Unstoppering the waterskin, he swung it up for a small mouthful. He let it wet his mouth and trickle slowly down his throat. One more small swallow and he regretfully put it away. Much as he would have liked to gulp the water, he could not run with a sloshing stomach, nor did he know how long the water would have to last him. He looked longingly at the stream that chuckled and slid beneath the elegant bridge. Its cool freshness changed the air. He rubbed the back of his sticky neck and looked about at the night that gave no clue as to the passage of time. The wagon was far ahead of him now. He had found no traces of a cold campfire, nor any signs left by the road Romni-fashion. If Ki had not stopped here, then he could ill afford to. But his throbbing feet decided him. Jace had told him not to drink the water; she had said nothing about bathing in it. He trotted heavily on toward the water, pulling his shirt over his head as he went.
The delightful chill of it eased his feet, making their hot throb an unpleasant memory. He lay full length in the shallowness, letting it flow past and over him. He had not known how much he ached until he felt the moving fingers of water soothing it away. Tipping his head back, he let it saturate his dark curls. When he shook his head briskly, he was amazed to find his headache completely gone. The water shattered from his hair in a silver spray. When he slowly rose from the water, it clung to his body in a silver sheen. The night air closed over him like a robe of silk as he moved lazily to the moss and soft grasses of the shore. He slowly rubbed his hands over his face and stubbly chin.
Abruptly he dropped his hands to stare at them. The flesh stood in white ridges on his fingers and palms. Had he really soaked that long? An inspection of his feet showed even their callused surfaces were soaked into tender wrinkles. He lay back on the moss, feeling foolish and relieved. Foolish to have lain so long, and relieved that he couldn’t resume his run just yet, because his heels would crack and lame him. Besides, he needed rest. No telling how far he had come from the city. No lights showed behind him, and the glowing of the horizon was as distant as ever. Ki was probably camped somewhere by now anyway. She likely wasn’t getting any farther ahead of him. He rolled over on to his belly to relax, and froze.
Just a simple thing. Just a set of wagon tracks that led off the road and then back onto it. Vandien rose hastily to snatch up his clothes. He bent over the tracks, squinting at them in the dimness. Ki had paused here. Here were the cuts of the team’s great hooves. But the grass and small plants in them had already struggled upright again, save those broken outright. Vandien straightened to stare down the road. Ki had come through the Gate looking for him. She had stopped here, but made no fire, and had gone on. Something was wrong.
He lifted his eyes to the horizon and the pulse of lights thronging it. Jace had said they had a pull, a lure for the unwary. He looked at them and felt only a mild curiosity. A nameless urgency laid hold of him. He began to drag clothing on over his damp skin. He gave the bridge a last admiring look and took up his trot again. He would have to gamble that he would reach Ki before he lamed himself. Unwillingly he glanced again to the horizon. What in hell was a Limbreth anyway?