PROLOGUE (10 page)

"So any creature born on Earth is in some way their child." "That may be," he said, laughing dryly.” Yet there is more to you than your human form. That we speak each to the other right now is a mystery I cannot explain, because the languages of humankind are unknown to me, and you say that the language of my people is not known to you. But we met through the gateway of fire, and it may be that the binding of magic lies heavier over us than any language made only of words."

"It seems to me that with you I speak the language known to my people as Dariyan."

"And to me, it is as if we speak in my own tongue. But I cannot believe that these two are the same. The count of years that separates my people from your land must span many generations of humankind. Few among humankind spoke the language of my people when we dwelt on Earth. How then can it be that you have remembered my people's language all this time?"

It was a good question, and deserved a thoughtful answer.” Long before I was born, an empire rose whose rulers claimed to be your descendants, born out of the mating of your kind and humankind. Perhaps they preserved your language as their speech, and that is why we can speak together now. But truly, I don't know, The empresses and emperors of the old Dariyan Empire were half-breeds, so they claimed. There aren't any Aoi on Earth any longer They exist there only as ghosts, more like shades than living crea tares. Some say there never were true Aoi on Earth, that they're only tales from the dawn time of humankind."

"Truly, tales have a way of changing shape to suit the teller. If you wish to know what the spirits meant when they addressed you as 'child,' then you must ask them yourself."

The stars scintillated so vividly that they seemed to pulse. Strangely, she could find not one familiar constellation. She felt as if she had been flung into a different plane of existence, yet the dirt under her feet smelled like plain, good dirt, and many of the plants were ones she remembered from her childhood, when she and Da had traveled in the lands whose southern boundary was the great middle sea: silver pine and white oak, olive and carob, prickly juniper and rosemary and myrtle. She sighed, taking in the scent of rosemary, oddly comforting, like a favorite childhood story retold.

"I would ask them, if I could reach them."

"To reach them, you must learn to walk the spheres."

The arrow came without warning. Pale as ivory, it buried its head in the trunk of a pine. Grabbing her quiver, Liath rolled off her pallet and into the cover of a lowlying holm oak. The old sorcerer remained calmly sitting in his place, still rolling flax into rope against his leg. He hadn't even flinched. Behind him, the arrow quivered and stilled, a stark length of white against drought-blighted pine bark.

"What is that?" she demanded, still breathing hard. In the four days since she had come to this land, she had seen no sign of any other people except herself and her teacher.

"It's a summons. When light comes, I must attend council."

"What will happen to you, and to me, if your people know I'm here?"

"That remains to be seen."

She slept restlessly that night, waking up at intervals to find that he sat in trancelike silence beside her, completely still but with his eyes open. Sometimes when she woke, half muddled from an un-remembered and anxious dream, she would see the stars and for an instant would recognize the familiar shapes of the constellations Da had taught her; but always, in the next instant, they would shift in their place, leaving her to stare upward at an alien sky. She could not even see the River of Heaven, which spanned the sky in her own land. In that river, the souls of the dead swam toward the
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Chamber of Light, and some among them looked down upon the Earth below to watch over their loved ones, now left behind. Was Da lost to her? Did his spirit gaze down upon Earth and wonder where she had gone?

Yet was she any different than he was, wondering what had become of those left behind? Da hadn't meant to die, after all. She had left behind those she loved of her own free will.

At night, she often wondered if she had made the right decision. Sometimes she wondered if she really loved them.

If she'd really loved them, it shouldn't have been so easy to let them go.

Twilight had little hold on this place. Day came suddenly, without the intervening solace of dawn. Liath woke when light brushed her face, and she watched as the old sorcerer's expression passed from trance to waking in a transition so smooth that it was imperceptible. He rose and stretched the stiffness out of his limbs as she sat up, checking to see that her bow was ready and arrows laid out. Her sword lay within easy reach, and she always slept with her knife tucked in its sheath at her belt.

"Go to the stream," he said.” Follow the flower trail to the watchtower. Do not come out unless you hear me call to you, nor should you wander, le;t others come upon you. Remember to take care, and do nothing to cut yourself or let any blood fall." He began to walk away, paused, and called to her over his shoulder.” Make good use of the time! You have not yet mastered the tasks I set you."

That these tasks were tedious beyond measure was evidently part of the training. She belted on her sword and fastened her quiver over her shoulders. She had become accustomed to fasting for a good while after she woke; it helped stave off hunger. She took the water jug with her, slung over her shoulder by a rope tied to its handles.

As she walked down the path, she noted as always how parched the ground was. The needles on the pine trees were dry, and perhaps a quarter were turning brown, dying. Few other trees were hardy enough to survive here: white oak, olive, and, increasingly, silver pine. Where dead trees had fallen, carob grew up, shadowing buckthorn, clematis, and spiny grass. She never saw any rodents. Despite the isolation of their living circumstances, she had seen no deer, aurochs, wolves, or bears—none of the great beasts that roamed plentifully through the ancient forests of Earth. Only rarely did she hear birds or see their fluttering flight in the withered branches.

The land was dying.

"I am dying," she whispered into the silence.

How else could she explain the calm, the sense of relief, she'd fallen into since she had arrived in the country of the Aoi? Maybe it was only numbness. It was easier not to feel than to confront all the events that had led her to this place. Was her heart as stony as Anne's, who had said: "We cannot let affection cloud our judgment"?

With these words, Anne had justified the murder of her husband. No faceless enemy had summoned and commanded the spirit of air that had killed Bernard. His own wife, the mother of his child, had done so.

Anne had betrayed Da, and she had betrayed Liath not just by killing Da without a scrap of remorse but by making it clear that she expected Liath to behave in exactly the same way.

And hadn't Liath abandoned her own husband and child? She had not crossed through the burning stone of her own volition, but once here, in the land of the Aoi, she had had a choice: to stay and learn with the old sorcerer, or to return to Sanglant and Blessing.

Hadn't she also let judgment override affection? Hadn't she chosen knowledge over love? Hadn't it been easy to do so?

"I'm no use to Sanglant or to anyone until I master my own power," she muttered.” I can't avenge Da until I know what I am."

Her words fled on the silent air and vanished like ghosts into the eerie silence of the drought-stricken land. Even the rage she'd nurtured toward Anne since the moment she'd discovered the truth about Da's death felt cold and lifeless now, like a clay statue clumsily formed.

With a sigh, she walked on.

The stream had once been a small river. She picked her way over river rocks coated with a white rime of dried scum, until she reached the narrow channel that was all that remained of the watercourse. Water trickled over rocks, sluicing down from highlands glimpsed beyond the sparse forest cover. She knelt to fill the pot, stoppered it carefully. In this land, water was more precious than gold.

Holding the full vessel hard against one hip, she leaped from stone to stone over the stream to its other side. Algae lay exposed in intricate patterns like green paint flaking off the river stones. Grass had invaded the old riverbed, but even it was turning brown. Climbing the steep bank, she found herself at a fork in the path. To the right the path cut through a thicket of chestnut that hugged the shore before, beyond the chestnut grove, beginning a precipitous climb to higher ground. To the left lay a remarkable trail through a lowlying meadow lush with the most astoundingly beautiful flowers: lavender, yellow rue, blood-red poppies, delicate gillyvor, fat peonies, pale dog roses, vivid marigolds, banks of irises like earthbound rainbows, all intermixed with a scattering of urgently blue cornflowers.

This flowery trail wound up away from the river like a dream, unheralded, unexpected, and unspeakably splendid in a land so faded to browns and leached-out golds. It was difficult not to linger in this oasis of color, and she did for a while, but eventually she had to move on.

The meadow came to an abrupt end where a finger of pine woods thrust out along the hillside. The drought had taken its toll here as well, and the wood quickly degraded into a grassy heath. At the height of the hill stood a tumble of worked stone that had once been a lookout station. She climbed to the highest safe point, where she crouched on a ledge, bracing herself against what remained of the rock wall, and looked out over the land.

The hillside fell away precipitously, as if the watchtower had once looked over a valley, but in fact there was nothing to be seen below except fog.

According to the old sorcerer, this was the outer limit of the land. Nothing lay beyond the mist. She stared at it for a long time. Above, the sky shaded from the merciless blue of drought-stricken country into an oddly vacant white, more void than cloud.

The silence oppressed her. Out here, at the edge of the world, she didn't even hear birds, nothing except a solitary cricket. It was as if the land were slowly emptying out, as if the heart and soul of it were leaching away into the void. Like her own heart.

Setting quiver and sword aside, she settled down cross-legged.

She clapped once, a sound to split away the ordinary world from the world where magic lived, or so the old sorcerer had taught her. With patterns he had shown her, she stilled her mind so that, below the clutter of everyday thoughts, she could listen into the heart of the world: the purl of air at her neck, the slow shifting of stone, the distant babble of water, and beneath all those, the nascent stirring, like a flower about to bloom, of vast power held in check by its own peculiar architecture.

"Humankind was crippled by their hands," the old sorcerer had said.” They came to believe that the forces of the world could only succumb to manipulation. But the universe exists at a level invisible to our eyes and untouchable by our hands, but comprehensible by our minds and hearts. That is the essence of magic, which seeks neither to harm nor to control but only to preserve and transform." In every object, all the pure elements mix in various proportions. If she could calm her own breathing, draw her concentration to such a narrow point that it blossomed into an infinite vista, then she could illuminate the heart of any object and draw out from it those elements which might be of use to her in her spells.

In this way, the daimones who had enfolded her within their wings had called fire even from stone, even from the very mountains. This was the magic known to the Aoi. But she had a long way to go to master it. At last she ascended through levels of awareness and clapped her hands four times, a sharp sound that brought her squarely back to the ordinary world. One of her feet had fallen asleep. She scratched the back of her neck, tickled by a withered leaf, and blinked a mote of dust out of one eye. Slinging her quiver over her shoulder, she clambered back down, testing each stone as she went, bypassing those that rattled or shifted under her probing foot.

In the shade at the base of the tower, she drank sparingly and finally allowed herself to eat: some desiccated berries, a coarse flat bread made palatable by being fried in olive oil, the sugary, withered carob pods she gathered every day, and today's delicacy, a paste of fish-meal and crushed parsnip flavored with onion and pulped juniper berries. There was something so desperate about each meal here that she had quickly learned that the old sorcerer would neither watch her eat nor let her watch him.

After she had licked every crumb off her fingers, she turned to her coil of rope. Twisting fiber into rope was the most tedious of the tasks the old sorcerer had set her but one he insisted she master. She had amassed a fair length of rope. She measured it out against an outstretched arm: forty cubits worth. It would have to be enough.

Tying one end around her waist, she cinched it tight and, with her weapons slung about her, walked to the edge of the fog. She tied the other end of the rope to the trunk of a pine tree, tugging to test the knot, before she swept her gaze along the hillside. Nothing stirred. A bug crawled through the dry grass at her feet, startling because it was the only sign of movement except for the swaying of trees in a delicate wind.