Stargate (20 page)

A whisper threaded the air behind him, but he ignored it, full of contempt for them both. He planted his feet firmly on the edge of the perch and his hands on his hips and spoke, his voice rising melodious and rich to ring out over the countryside.

“People of Ghaka, I salute you!” he said. “Now I will tell you why I have torn you from your bodies. Tragedy and evil are swallowing up the universe. The one who made you now hates you and tries with all his power to unmake you, to turn the good to corruption, to make you slaves instead of free. The end is coming. The destiny of the universe lies in the balance. Shol is the battleground, you are the warriors. I call on you to fight for truth, for goodness, for all that is right.” He paused, feeling for more words, and the breeze seemed to bring him a soft moaning, a low, murmurous wailing that troubled the air and entered him to fill him with unease. But I own them, I control them, he whispered to himself. The edge of warning in the sound of their misery cannot touch me. Oh? something else in him queried mockingly. You have unleashed a power on the universe unknown before now, an untimely birth, a monster. You manipulate things you do not understand. Have you more skill than the Messengers to transform?

Forcefully he shoved away the niggle of doubt. The Book spoke to me, he reminded himself. The treasure is my guide. I am doing right. It has shown me how. He spoke again, but behind his thoughts he saw the Messengers, and he knew that he feared them.

“Sholia and the Unmaker will rule the universe if we do nothing!” he shouted. “We must go to Shol and make war and save Shol …”

Suddenly his words choked him. He felt a tunnel enclose him. He thrashed, panic-stricken, to loose his mind from the suffocating weight pressing on it. At the end of the tunnel was light, and in that light he saw himself standing on the ledge addressing the invisible throng below, his arms gesticulating, his body pale in the dawn. Fighting for breath, he groped toward the vision, but it flickered out. Darkness filled his eyes. Then the light was back, presenting to him the same vision. He saw himself go through the same motions, vanish, come back to repeat it all three, then four times. Sweat sprang out on his forehead, for with the vision came a consciousness of time stretching, spiraling into the darkness of the future only to snap back and begin again the long, slow reach to the same beginning.

Trapped! he screamed soundlessly. Doomed to gather them in pain and horror, speak to them like this, gather and speak, gather and speak, forever? How many times in the past have I stood here, Mirak and Tagar beside me? Lived through the terror of their deaths? In a moment of insight rising from some part of him still untouched by what he had become, he knew that the Book was doing this thing to him, showing him its true purpose, the peculiar remorse and disillusionment that came hand in hand with the knowledge it bestowed. I did not ask to know! He writhed. You chose me, forced yourself upon me. I did not choose!

You chose, the clear beam of self-revelation rustled back. But you can choose no longer. You are a prisoner of the Book. The Future is fixed for you, and you cannot turn aside into another path. You have seen, and in seeing you have fastened the chains of an irreversible time around your neck. Now you know why the Book was forbidden to the people of the suns.

Ghakazian tried to close his eyes against the tiny figure of himself on the ledge but could not. Mercy! he begged, but even that cry was directed only at himself. For an age he crouched, tossed relentlessly, and then the tunnel was gone. The sun had risen. In awe, with a weakness sobbing in him, he struggled to his feet and looked at it. It had not sailed hot and yellow into the sky. It had crept unwillingly, its light muted now to an angry purple, and the dawn's light rippled purple also, giving to mountain and valley alike the hue of an everlasting sunset. Like Fallan's sun, Ghakazian thought, appalled. I remember the color of its sickness. But what have I done that my sun should be stricken so? Is it a punishment for looking in the Book? He backed away from the lip of the ledge, the devastation of sun and planet above and below him, the haunted shadow behind and beside him. He felt as though he alone was whole, caught at the center of a radiating disintegration.

“Go through the Gate!” he shouted. “Call to the suns of Shol, and they will carry you! I, Ghakazian your ruler, command you to obey!”

Then the invisible presences that had shared the ledge with him were gone. Shivering, he slumped upon it, while beside him on the Gate stair he heard a shuffle begin. Road and valley drained of their last life. The drift of menace wound slowly around the mountain, and while Ghakazian trembled and averted his eyes it poured through the Gate and was gone.

The Trader passed through Danar's Gate and paused for a moment, stepping out of the stream of travelers coming and going. He looked toward the entrance to the tunnel, where hot summer sun beamed out of a cloudless blue sky and warmed the stone flags of the tunnel for as far as its rays could reach. Delicately he inhaled the season, dust and the pungent, lingering odor of haeli flowers in full bloom, crushed grass, sun-licked mortal skin. He ought to have been able to calculate in an instant how many days had passed while he flashed down the corridor between the Gates of both worlds. He frowned. It cannot be more than four days, he thought. Probably only three. Surely it does not matter, surely three days will make little difference in the long run. He reached inside himself, thickening his body for the onslaught of Danar's atmosphere, and felt his bundle grow heavy on his shoulders. Shrugging it off, he spoke to one of the corions, who yawned under the sun-crowned arch.

“I would like to leave this here,” he said politely. “Would it trouble you to see that it is not moved or trodden upon?”

The corion explored its teeth with a long tongue. “It would not trouble me, Trader,” it replied. “Did you bring Storn's sleeping mat?”

“I did, but Storn will not be in any hurry for it. Winter is far off. I thank you.”

He lowered his load behind the beast, nodded, made his way to the sun-crowned tunnel, and set off across the soaring parapet that met the long stair to the palace. Below him and to the right the Time-forest murmured languorously in the noon drowsiness, its shelter a deep blue, inviting shade where one or two corions stretched lazily. Because of the thickness of the leaves the Trader could catch no glimpse of the city beyond. He turned away and mounted the steps, finding himself suddenly alone. The crowds, which had no business with immortals, had come out from the Gate, turned away from the slim parapet, and descended the stair that skirted the forest and brought them to a road that led to the heart of the city. Gradually their laughter and conversation died away, and he walked across the terrace of the palace, under the short noon shadow of the frontal pillars, and across the cool gloom of the empty entrance hall.

It took him a long time to come to the place where the two immortals of Danar met with the citizens of their world, but at last he stood under the blue gold-etched ceiling. He did not sit but moved to the small table, picked up a bell, and rang it once. Sweetly the tone tinkled out and dispersed, leaving silence. He continued to stand by the table, a column of paleness, his luminosity so quenched in the fierce sunshine that a casual glance into the room would not have revealed him. Only his blue scarf and the round glitter of his eyes shone iridescent and visible.

Presently a door at the far end opened and closed, and Janthis strode toward him, a smile lighting the stern lips. He came up and bowed, and the Trader answered the courtesy with a fluid bending of his own.

Trader, you are welcome here, Janthis said, his mouth not moving. The words had come straight from his mind, and the Trader heard them clear and true in his head. He spoke again, still smiling. Have you come to open the Books of Lore?

The Trader suddenly quivered, and when he was still again, he turned away from Janthis, answering without sound, the ends of the voluminous scarf stirring over his back. The smile faded from Janthis's face. Tell me, he said quietly.

There is an evil on Ghaka. A Law has been broken.

The old familiar feeling of inadequacy and hopelessness settled around Janthis like a garment that he thought he had thrown away but found he had not. The Trader felt it curling into his own mind, transmitted whole and dreary from the other.

What Law?

The Law pertaining to the mortals, which states that a mortal shall go whole to the Gate when his time has come, and that a Messenger shall see to the transmuting of flesh and essence together.

I do not understand.

Still the Trader would not turn around. I saw flesh without essence on Ghaka, he said, his thin lips pressed together. And by the Gate there was an essence that waited without flesh.

Janthis allowed himself the privacy of a moment of sheer despair. Oh, Ghakazian, not you! I do not accept this. Somewhere the Trader is in error.

Were flesh and essence the same?

Yes. I knew this mortal well. His name is Tagar, and he was the oldest and wisest of the wingless ones on Ghaka. His descendants are many, and he was greatly respected by all men, winged and wingless alike.

Too old and too wise to break a Law, Trader? You know how easily in these ages a Law may be broken. Perhaps you had been on Ghaka too long and were confused. Perhaps Tagar was asleep, and in the shadows by the Gate you mistook your own thoughts for the wavering call of an essence.

Now the Trader turned swiftly to face the immortal. Denial blazed suddenly from his eyes, but his answer was gentle. Do not delude yourself, Janthis. The thought dropped quietly into Janthis's agitated mind. I am not a fallen mortal led into error by every sense, not able to trust what I see or hear. If I say I saw Tagar propped against a mountain, swollen and stinking, then I saw him. And if I say I heard his essence entreat me in the darkness by the Gate, then I am not mistaken. Nor do I lie, because I worship only the Law, and the Law cannot lie. I have fled the creeping fringes of black fire before. I know. I know.

Did you see Ghakazian while you were there?

I did not. I traveled the valleys, trading. I heard a profound and strange silence. I felt a threat in the rustle of wings over my head, and a need to hide. Ghaka has fallen.

No! The word burst in the Trader's brain, and he winced. It has happened before that the Unmaker's will has seeped through a Gate, darkening the minds of mortals and causing them to falter without the knowledge or consent of the sun-lord. Such a falling can be cured. That at least is within our power.

The Trader mentally shrugged. Such a thing would never have happened to Tagar, he said aloud, his voice a timbreless whistle in the hot air of the room. He would never have embraced the subtle blandishments of the Unmaker's vanguard. He would have recognized their disguise and dismissed them without ever knowing the true importance of the step he took. He of all mortals on Ghaka was whole and innocent.

Then how do you explain to me what you saw? Janthis's voice was level.

You need no explanation, the Trader replied. Someone murdered Tagar.

Silence fell between them. They considered each other without seeing. Who? Janthis thought to himself. Ghakazian knows the dangers. At each Gate-closing they have been impressed more deeply into each one of us. Suddenly he remembered that Ghakazian had come and asked permission to read the Books of Lore, and with a chill he now wondered why. I am not equipped to lead the council, he thought sadly. I fear the fire, we all fear it, but my knowledge of it ought to be the greater because I lead, yet I do not trust myself. I knew the Worldmaker as the others did not. His mind was open to me. It would be open again, I know, if I wished, but I am not strong enough to read it and retreat unscathed. The Trader broke in on his thoughts.

I do not know what is happening on Ghaka, he said. That is your concern. I only know that I am affronted and diminished because a Law has been broken. I do not tell you your business, nor do I offer you anything but my words to be accepted or rejected as you choose.

Pride does not suit you, Janthis replied. It is not impossible to corrupt a Trader, though you and your kin would wish it were not so. Have you forgotten the Trader from Tran?

No, I have not. The Trader sighed, his body pulsing, floor and wall shivering through him. It must have been a powerful thing indeed, the cause of his fall. I am sorry. I have traveled the worlds for too long without a respite.

I will order Ghakazian here, Janthis went on reluctantly. Where will you go?

I have to deliver some goods on Danar, and then … I do not know. Perhaps I will walk on the oceans of Shol for a while, or go home to my own realm. Trading is no longer good. Only Danar and Shol remain.

There are other worlds.

Yes. Far out in the universe, far from the dark side. Worlds the Worldmaker left unfinished. Worlds of molten rock, worlds covered in water, worlds without mortals, worlds full of strange beasts. The ones out there have no sun-lords to sit in council. They are of no use for trade. If Shol and Danar fall, it means the end of everything and the beginning of nothing. I think I will go home.

Thank you.

They smiled at each other as equals, bowed, and then the Trader tightened his body and floated from the room. Janthis continued to stand in the quiet, sun-drenched room, but no thoughts would come. Presently he went through the door and down a passage and emerged into the vast stillness of the council chamber. He climbed to the dais and, picking up the silver hammer, struck the sun-disc once. Then he went and sat in his chair, his hands covering the cold sun-ball on the table, the sound of the gong throbbing in his ears. I am tired, he thought in surprise. I, who never grow old or change, am weary.

Danarion came first, walking lightly into the chamber, his golden eyes still glowing from the summer brilliance of the sun. He came up to Janthis and smiled, but his smile was not returned, and he took his seat at the other's left hand, settling easily into a patient stillness. Sholia entered next, her long, gossamer-thin gown shimmering many colors in her own bright aura. She greeted them and slipped quickly into her chair, and her eyes flitted around the high windows.