“But little free will. When my creator commanded, I had no choice but to act as was dictated to me. After the days of conflict, I managed to hold a small portion of myself—something of my mystery and something of my glory—and shape what became Ayradyss.”
“You asked me for pity.” The caoineag’?, words were not quite a question.
“I did not know I could be called back into that form. And although the form of the charm told me what my immediate purpose was, I could feel the tug of my creator at the back of my mind. I feared a recall.”
“Your creator?”
“One of those On High, the Dwellers on Mount Meru. Most call him Seaga and his domain is the vast tidal masses of data in Virtu. Along with Skyga and Earthma, he is one of the great Trinity.”
“Father, Son, and Holy Ghost?”
“No. It is less metaphysical than that—or perhaps merely other. Skyga oversees the general power of the system’s structure. Earthma is the aion of all aions, the base program for all loci. Other deities reside on Meru, each with their own hard-won areas of authority, status defined by how high they can ascend on the mountain’s slopes.”
“Has it been this way since the beginning?”
“No. There were many battles. Many things—forgive my weakness, dear friend—that I prefer to forget. As I have said, I am not very religious—even in the religions of Virtu. This is the reason why.”
“Are you too angry with me?”
“No. You did warn me that I might not like what you planned to try. How can I blame you for not knowing what you were inflicting on me? And it did get us past the guardian.”
“It did that. Ayra, forgive me for saying so—having been the one to use you so hard—but you look exhausted.”
“I am, but I don’t know if I can rest.”
Voit interrupted. “My limited reading of your vital signs indicates that rest would be the optimal choice. Refusal to rest could be hazardous to the developing infant.”
“I will rest, then. One thing continues to trouble me, Heather.”
“What?”
“Who sent you that charm?”
“I thought I just drew it from the collective unconscious of the race—the anima mundi as Yeats was fond of calling it.”
“Wasn’t Yeats rather after your time?”
“There was a poet of idle habit but romantic nature who often came to the castle’s ruins and read Yeats’s works aloud. Still, to return to your question, I have often simply known something I needed—modern dialect, for example. I believed it to be one of the benefits of my job.”
“I suppose that could be the answer, but wouldn’t the charm you recited have come from the anima mundi of Virtu, rather than that of Verite?”
“True. But then, as with the place we just departed, there seems to be overlap.”
“Yes, and I find that disturbing. I do know enough of the religion of the aions to know that there are those who claim that Virtu, not Verite, is the first reality. These claim that the computer network simply provided the means for the crossover.”
“So?”
“I wonder if they could be right, and if so, for how long will the gods of Virtu be content to take second place? Could they be mustering their armies, awakening the old legends? I seem to hear a form of your incantation still drumming in my brain, calling me back.”
“You are exhausted, Ayra. Tell your robot to take you to your room. When you have slept and eaten, then see if there is still drumming in your ears.”
“You may be right. Perhaps, I should not have taken this journey in my condition.”
“Rest now, Ayra. We will talk later.”
The caoineag walked into the wall and vanished. With her departure, the moon portal vanished as well. Ayradyss shook her pounding head, decided this was a mistake, and leaned on Voit.
“Take me to my room, please, Voit. Perhaps you could call ahead and see if the kitchen could send up some cocoa.”
“Chocolate is not permitted on your diet, mistress,” the robot reminded, shaping a swinglike chair from its extensors and lowering so that she could sit.
“Then some imitation cocoa that doesn’t have any of the things I should be avoiding and has lots of the things I need.”
“I will see what I can do.”
Ayradyss traveled the rest of the way to her chambers in a daze. She hardly felt it when Voit set her on her bed, or when Dack (arriving with the hot beverage she was now far too sleepy to drink) removed her shoes and outer garments and tucked her beneath the covers.
She dreamed, though, of times long gone. In those dreams, she knew for what purpose the Lord of Deep Fields needed her son. When she awoke, however, finding John sitting at her side, her hand clasped in his, his bearded face revealing a protective concern he did not bother to conceal, the revelation vanished, a certain peace taking its place.
PART TWO
ONE
Spring, with a horde of tiny flowers—blue, red, yellow, and white; foam on the sea-crests; a near night sky, dropping burning rocks; the in-out rush of the ocean breathing stirring bands of mist in the mountains… and the keening, lowing, bellowing wailing of bagpipes from a distant crag or vale; sun, risen above cloudbanks, orange and golden gateway for warmth and the opening of Seeds.
Spring.
The great monotone of the air release had come with the dawn, and the melodies had risen slowly and spilled with a treaclelike deliberation sometime after that. The bagpipes had not changed significantly since the seventeenth century. The exact location of this one and of its piper was unknown. Not that it mattered. On such a fine spring day one should be out philosophizing by breathing, not viewing the end of spring’s light through glass.
And one who’d an ear for the magic of the pipes might find it there in piobaireachd, “The Kilberry Book of Ceal Mor.” The traditionally structured tune rose, swelled, subsided. Only gradually did a sense of differentness fan its wings and glide.
Beyond “Over the Sea to Skye” and “The Glen is Mine” there came up a lilting unrecognizable tune which somehow got itself recorded that day. It came to be called “Salute to the Birth of John D’Arcy Donnerjack, Junior.”
Even the banshee, had she chosen to wail, would have been hard put to be heard above the piping. It continued through the afternoon, despite frequent attempts to locate its source. The unseen piper was sought in the mountain, on the seashore, in the valley, and even in town, but the more he was sought, the more elusive the music became. Its complexity increased as indications of his direction were spun away by the elements. Did the piper know that any man in the nearest town would be happy to stand him to drinks if he made his identity known? Or that his chances with the ladies stood quite good right now?
Or if he did know and didn’t care, why didn’t he come? Some of the pieces he played that day were of unknown provenance. Even the musicologists at the university, who were in near consensus that they were venerable melodies, could not pin them down as to subject or person.
Whatever the piper was, he knocked off for his midday meal just before several researchers claimed they were about to locate him. He was very good, and the town fell pretty much into a holiday mood as his music filled the air.