“You were punished,” he said. “Do you remember him, Raldnor son of Rehdon, Elect of the goddess? Do you remember in that tent under Koramvis the night before the last battle? He told you what no mortal thing should ever have to hear, he told you he saw the evil in you, as if you were the only creature in the world that had evil in it. And because he made you know your littleness and your viciousness and your selfishness—which is in every one of us, mother, and in him, in Raldnor, too, when he was a man—because he made you know all that, where most of us can keep ourselves from knowing and so hope for something better, you hoped for nothing of yourself, and became simply what he had told you that you were.”
She stared through her tears. Her mouth was open, as if she would gasp in what he said to her.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, “anything you did to me. You gave me my life. What I do with my life is my concern, not yours, nor can you be blamed for it. But I thank you for the giving.”
“Rem,” she said, “I’m dying.”
“Wherever you go,” he said, “you’ll be free of this.”
“Are you dead?” she whispered. “Rem—have you come to lead me?”
He knew from the name she called him, and the name she had had for Kesarh, from the room, from the sensation of the atmosphere and season, that he had retrogressed, eight or nine years. She had died in Karmiss long ago and he had not heard of it. As he had ridden on Kesarh’s business to Ankabek, Lyki had finished her battle with the earth. And probably he only imagined this. It was not possible to go back. She had ended alone.
But he said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. The other side of life is only life.”
She frowned, taking the words into herself. She was still puzzling when the final breath went from her. And then her face smoothed over, as if she knew it all. He closed her eyes. Her lips remained a little parted, but no longer wizened or turned down.
He stepped away, and saw Doriyos standing in a colonnade, holding out to him a cup of wine.
But when he took the cup it was Yannul’s son, Lur Raldnor, who had offered it. Then the cup touched his lip. He tasted not wine, but water.
“You will bring yourself to yourself again,” said Ashni. “At the proper hour.”
A skin seemed to tear, across his sight, across his entire body. The dismemberment was painless but total, and the whole of it lifted away and was gone.
He lost nothing, only this, which had come between him and existence. He understood who he was and how he came there, all that had been, everything he had participated in, even the death of Lyki.
And he understood also who the elegant bandit was, standing with him in the rain in the colonnade. So he drank the wine, which had a wine taste now, and nodded.
“Thank you, Tuab Ey.”
“Ah,” said Tuab Ey. His eyes were wide, but he added flippantly, “And who in Aarl are you?”
“Your guest.”
“Called?”
“You may not accept my name, seeing we’re here.”
“Try,” said Tuab Ey, and waited as if he would wait forever.
And having become himself, he said quietly, “The son of Raldnor Am Anackire, the brother of Raldanash, Storm Lord of Dorthar.”
The wide eyes could widen no farther, so they half-shut.
“I’ve heard of you. Rarmon Am Karmiss.”
But he said: “My name is Rarnammon. After the King who built the city.”
“You lost your prey, Kathus.”
“No, my lord. Free Zakoris lost him.”
“Zakoris,” said Yl, “does not trouble too much.”
Kathus showed nothing, which was not uncommon. He was able to conceal disappointment, if he was disappointed. He had lost Raurm son of Ralnar in the moment Raurm’s sanity gave way. The plummet into Thaddra’s jungles was only a formality.
When the fire smothered in the rain, those that could do so went in search. The blundering track of the palutorvus was at first very evident, but later less so. They picked up fragments of chain and wood. In the end, there had been a succession of clearings, and here they were deceived and the trail eluded them. By Yl’s order, the overseers were beaten with rods, but not put to death. From this, you told he did not rate the misadventure very highly.
“Probably, my Kathus, the beast headed for the swampy ground, and the Prince was sucked under there.”
“Probably.”
“We shall see to it Dorthar receives tidings of demise. Yes?”
Kathus acquiesced.
They had gained the end of the stone corridor that ran beneath the palace at Ylmeshd. A great door of trunks braced with bronze was hauled aside. The King and his Counselor entered the cave temple of Rorn.
Free Zakoris had decided to honor all the old ways.
Three male slaves were to be drowned in the sea pool before the god’s altar. The King would not officiate, these were minor ceremonies.
The thickset priests, naked to the waist and kilted in long folds of leather, waded into the pool. As they forced the struggling men under and held them there amid a chaos of churned water, Kathaos Am Alisaar looked on, impervious, polite.
Violent murder did not oppress him, and he was not superstitious. And yet Free Zakoris offended him aesthetically and in most other ways. He had sunk to this, and knew it.
He pondered idly, as the churnings in the water faded, if Dorthar was worth such dealings in brutish mindlessness, or if he would even have Dorthar, when everything was said and done. The long game had failed him so far. Why not once more? Was the extraordinary happening in the jungle a foretaste of failure—as a similar happening had been, almost thirty years ago?
There was a sudden tiresome inertia on him. He knew no trade but this, intriguer, game-player that he was. He could not live any other way, so was condemned.
Shaved if not shorn, the man with a king’s name, who claimed to be the son and brother of kings, began entirely to resemble one himself. He moved among the robbers with ease, yet they were aware of a superiority—nothing he set on them, only something which was. If what he had told Tuab Ey was correct, then he would be used to command. Grudgingly, they acknowledged it, and grudgingly, growling a little, gave him room, picked no quarrel. The passing of the madness was wonder enough. And he could obviously handle himself if it came to a fight. Altogether they fared better with the palutorvus, which they regarded as a symbol of status to their adversaries, and had made into something of a pet.
Rarnammon, anyway, was not much with them.
He walked about the ruined city, almost as if seeking some hidden thing. This interested them rather. Maybe there was a cache of gems or gold or arms he knew of and they did not. But seeing Tuab Ey tended to go about with him, and Galud not much behind, they must trust to that.
In the first days, Rarnammon quartered the city. Tuab Ey acted as a guide, for he had come here more than once, alone or with his pack. The land rose and fell in the valley, and the ancient streets ran up and down in humps and hollows. Here and there were the bandit nests, standing houses or mansions that had been possessed and now held long enough to merit the chiefs label upon them—Scarecrow’s Villa, Jort’s Wall. When cook-smoke went up, they were in residence. To the west, where the jungle had encroached most vehemently and only a few frames of masonry stayed upright, there was a small leper colony. It had its own well, and kept to itself for fear of instant spearing. On the white alleys, the ochre figures moved weightlessly, dying shadows without faces.
At noon, seated on a high terrace, Tuab Ey pointed out a certain flower that was commencing to nose its way up through the paving.
“The year’s turning, Rarnammon. Over the mountains the ice will be starting to heave and crack.”