Instead, he used the last memory session before they reached Dinas Emrys to ask who mattered most in his life now, and whether they were looking for him.
His mental view flashed on images of his sister, and of several men he knew had been more than friends. Einon asked if any of those close to him knew he was here. Suddenly he saw the nightmare eyes, and felt a sharp pain in his head. Einon brought him out of the trance at once. He was panting, and sweat filmed his palms. Apparently he wasn’t ready for that knowledge yet.
As they neared the City, settlements became more frequent. Sais didn’t ask why some of the houses they passed had shuttered windows with blue circles painted over them - the frequent pyres told him all he needed to know. He was sure the falling fire was no visitation of divine will. Diseases were spread by physical contact, or in water or food. Even if the only cure was this red rain that miraculously fell at the end of the winnowing times, simple precautions could prevent the spread of the disease and ease the suffering. But he suspected the Traditions might say otherwise, so he kept quiet.
They saw Dinas Emrys the day after the road began to parallel a slow, wide river that Einon called the Afon Mawr. A steep-sided mountain - the Tyr itself - emerged from the distant mists. It squatted on the plain, dark against the green-tinged fields and the bright expanse of water on the far horizon. Those must be the fenlands the Afon Mawr emptied into, Sais thought, one of the boundaries of the known lands, according to Einon’s map.
At dusk twinkling lights appeared around the base of the mountain and part-way up its sides.
That evening Kerin spoke to him for the first time since she’d had to treat his hand. He suspected she had been waiting for a moment when they could be alone, and it came in the unromantic setting of the inn’s latrines. She walked in as he walked out. He was about to pass her when she put out her hand.
He stopped and looked at her. The decision had to be hers.
‘I release you from am-annwn,’ she blurted.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘because having to get Fychan to repeat everything so we can communicate is really beginning to piss me off!’ It came out bitter, when he had intended it as a joke.
They stood there in silence, neither of them willing to concede more for the moment. Then he took a step towards her. Words had got them into too much trouble; he wondered if she’d let him hug her.
She backed away and he cursed his assumptions. ‘Sorry,’ he said, feeling foolish. ‘Where I come from, friends make up by embracing.’
She raised her chin. ‘Outside of star-season tis not permitted for a man to act so with a woman who is not his wife.’
He was heartily sick of what was and wasn’t permitted around here. ‘So, would all your problems be solved if I married you then?’
To his surprise, she took his comment at face value. ‘Are you offering to? Have you changed your mind and want me now?’
‘Another thing about where I come from: I’m pretty sure we marry for love. I don’t love you, Kerin. To marry you would be dishonest.’
‘T’would be an act of compassion to marry me, Sais, and I know you are not short of that. But I would not ask you to sacrifice your valued principles of honesty for me.’
‘Christos, Kerin, you are one prideful woman!’
She stared at him and he realised he’d let another of his unacceptable oaths slip out.
Into her silence he said, ‘I like you and I respect you. You’re brave and you care for a world that doesn’t care for you. You want me to be the person who saves you from all the shit this uncaring world’s thrown at you. I’m not going to, and it’s not just because I don’t feel that way about you. It’s also because I know you’re strong enough to save yourself.’
‘Sais, look at me! I am an ugly widow with no property, no skills, no money, and once my son has gone to the sky, nothing to live for. Perhaps where you come from having a hard will and a soft heart would be enough to overcome these disadvantages. Here, it is not. I must accept that, and so must you.’ She walked off.
But the am-annwn was broken and the following day she was willing to speak to him, though only so far as it made their journey easier.
By noon they could clearly see the buildings of the City itself, like a multi-coloured fuzz infesting the lower part of the Tyr. Curls of smoke came from off to one side of the main settlement; with so many people living in one place, the pyres must burn constantly, Sais thought. As the view grew clearer, they caught sight of a large structure, one of the highest up the slope, built into the side of the Tyr itself: Einon told them that this was the Senneth building, where nobles and leaders of the City’s guilds met to decide matters of law and administration, overseen by the five Escorai of the Tyr or their representatives.
There was no wall delineating the start of the City, just a point where more land was given over to buildings than farming. As the sun set behind them, a silver line flashed into life overhead. It ran from the top of the Tyr up into the sky, like a ribbon of white light. Everyone stopped and looked at Einon, who pointed unnecessarily and said, ‘Behold, the Edefyn Arian, our link to the Heavenly realm.’
Sais saw Kerin circle her breast. Fychan did the same, his mouth open in awe.
Then memory engulfed him.
The reason everything here kept confounding his expectations was that he came from another
world
. That slender, impossible, silver thread was a
beanstalk
, a link between the surface of this world and an orbital platform. Everything he had seen, everything on Einon’s map, was a small part of
one planet
, and this planet was just one of hundreds in human-settled space.
The sky wasn’t where God - or the Skymothers - lived. It was where he came from. It was his home.
As he stood gawking at the beanstalk he felt the universe balloon out towards infinity, the boundaries of possibility expanding in a vertiginous wave. The certainties he’d built up over the weeks were blown away in a moment by the sight of something from his own world, his own life. Here was evidence of the truth - a truth it appeared that only he knew.
A truth that went against everything those around him believed.
Out of the corner of her eye, Kerin saw Sais take a step backwards, still staring at the Edefyn Arian. She went over to him and whispered, ‘What is it? Are you ill?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll be all right, really. I’m just tired.’
Though she suspected he was lying, she nodded and moved away. She had to wean herself back into his presence slowly. If he was unwell she would help; if not, she would leave him be.
Smaller paths joined theirs as they continued, and the last fields gave way to houses. The ground began to slope upwards and soon they were close enough to the Tyr that Kerin had to crane her head back to see the top, where the Edefyn Arian emerged.
The houses had two or more storeys and were built of red brick, their steep roofs tiled in blue-grey slate. The only growing things here were flowers in carved wooden boxes under the windows of some of the larger houses. When the lanes between houses - Einon called them streets - began to close in Kerin felt like she was walking through dim, man-made chasms. Though most windows were shuttered for the night, some houses had wide front openings that reminded her of the stalls at the star-season fair. When she saw one whose shutters were still propped open, Kerin realised this was exactly what it was: a giant, permanent stall built into a house. This one was serving food. Her stomach grumbled at the scent of meat sizzling on a griddle. The smell was soon lost in a dozen others: ordure, incense, rotting vegetables and many she had no name for.
Even in the City, where there were so many people, they attracted plenty of attention. Though interest focused on Damaru, Kerin had changed into her skirt and it drew admiring glances from some of the women. Perhaps she did have something to trade. But a number of men and older women frowned at her uncovered head; she had considered buying a scarf at the fair before deciding that any problem people had with her appearance was down to them, not her.
She turned her attention to her surroundings, trying to work out the function of the new things they came across. The narrow ditches running at the side of the sloping streets carried away filth. Symbols painted on the walls of some houses indicated what went on within - loaves of bread, piles of coins, scissors and thread, a joint of meat. Other, more complex symbols were painted on the houses at the ends of streets.
At first she was perplexed by the poles made of a dark substance, neither wood nor metal, that stood along the sides of the streets at regular intervals. Then, as the daylight failed, small white globes at the top of the poles began to glow like tiny full moons.
‘How do they shine like that, Gwas?’ said Fychan, gawping up at one of the lights like the ignorant clansman Einon probably thought he was. Kerin had seen that cold glow before: these devices were cousins to Einon’s flameless lantern.
The priest indicated the light-dimpled mass of the Tyr looming over them. ‘Through the beneficence of the Beloved Daughter, Chilwar. This is why she named this place the City of Light, because her radiance permeates it.’
Fychan circled himself, though Einon hadn’t exactly answered his question.
Einon had told them he knew a place to stay, but from the way he kept stopping to peer at the street-corner symbols, Kerin wondered if he really knew where he was going. Now that darkness had fallen, the streets had emptied. A group of men came marching down the street towards them, moving so quickly and purposefully that Kerin half expected them to walk straight over her. Instead they halted, and the one in front said, ‘Badges please.’ Kerin had seen enough monitors on the road to recognise the uniform, but she had no idea what they were asking for.
Einon pulled off his broad-brimmed travelling hat. His shaved, tattooed head shone in the unearthly light from the poles. The monitors’ demeanour shifted from hostility to respect. Einon indicated Damaru, who stood behind Kerin, holding onto her arm. ‘I am accompanying this skyfool and his people to his presentation. We have only just arrived; I shall ensure they register as soon as we are settled.’
‘Of course, Gwas. Good evening to you.’ The men traced the circle and left.
She knew about registering with the authorities from Neithion: it was something drovers did to record their cattle and the money they made from selling them, making them accountable for taxes and tithes. Why people might need to do it she did not know. Sais, speaking for the first time since he had seen the silver thread, voiced her concern for her. ‘What did you mean about registering us?’
‘Nothing to worry about. You just need a visitor’s badge.’ Einon spoke with forced levity.
Soon after that they turned down a street whose corner displayed a shallow bowl painted in faded pink below a tall brown triangle. Kerin later found that what she had taken to be a bowl represented an open hand, and the triangle was the Tyr.
‘This is Stryd Dechreur, the Street of the Acolytes,’ said Einon. ‘Youths wishing to enter the priesthood stay here while undergoing their initial training and preparation for the acolytes’ examinations. Companions of priests who come to the City on official business may also stay here at a reduced cost.’ Einon spoke as though he was doing them a favour, though the house he stopped outside was the smallest and shabbiest on the street, next to a close-shuttered house whose blue-painted lintels spoke of the passage of the winnowing times.
Kerin asked innocently, ‘And is this the house where you stayed when you were an acolyte, Gwas?’
Einon said, ‘No,’ and for once, did not elaborate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Einon had found his travelling companions did not vex him as much as he had feared on the journey to the City of Light. Fychan was growing into the responsibility laid on him, and the woman - Kerin - showed commendable solicitude towards her son. Einon had no idea what had caused her and Sais to fall out, nor to make up again; he might be a priest, but the depths of human emotion remained a closed book to him. He was aware Sais was not fully disclosing his recollections. Einon was concerned, for there was a faint whiff of blasphemy about Sais - the odd oaths he used; his lack of piety towards the sacred blade . . . and yet he had risked his own life to save Einon’s. He did not want to believe the worst of him, nor embroil him further in priestly politics.
It hurt to sneak back to the City of Light like some miscreant. He longed to return to the sacred precincts of the Tyr and lose himself in the cold, safe beauty of numbers. But until he knew why Sefion had sent an assassin after him he would follow his Escori’s orders and remain in hiding. He chose the guest house with care: it was cheap - a necessity, given the dent paying for Sais had made in his funds - and it was anonymous. At least he reclaimed his privacy, for Sais was happy to share a room with Fychan.
He had four full days before Fychan was to present Damaru to the Cariad: four days to find out what was going on. Given the way power ebbed and flowed in the Tyr it might be that his death was no longer desirable, and he would be safe to throw his lot in with the skyfool and declare his presence. He prayed that this was so, but needed to rely on more than prayer to make his final judgment. He must gather rumours. There were so many Tyr priests throughout the City that one could be virtually anonymous, so he should not attract undue attention.
He must also get a coded message to Urien. After some thought, he hit upon an idea: he would hide his words in a poem about pastries. Urien patronised a particular baker in the upper City, and received a weekly bill for his costly delicacies - pastries that he had introduced Einon to. If the bill arrived with an innocuous note extolling the virtues of their favourite pastries, then Urien would, Einon devoutly hoped, be able to decode the hidden message within - his address.