Once outside the grounds of the estate, they moved into the teeth of the wind. There was no more than a foot of snow underfoot. On either side of the track, striped markers stood, awaiting the time when the snow was deep.
To get to Kharnabhar, the peak, they had to pass the Esikananzi estates. The track then wound through a tall stand of caspiarns, the branches of which were fuzzy with frost. As they advanced, bells of differing voice told of Kharnabhar, as it emerged gradually from the cloud.
Everything here was bells, indoors and out. What had once had a function — to guard against the possibility of being lost in snow or fog — was now a fashion.
Toress Lahl reined her yelk and stared ahead, holding a cloaked arm up to her face to protect her mouth. Ahead lay the village of Kharnabhar, the lodgings for pilgrims and the stalls on one side of the main track, the housing for those who worked with the Great Wheel on the other side. Most of the buildings had bells on their roofs, housed in cupolas, each with its distinctive tongue; they could be heard when the weather was too bad for them to be seen.
The track itself led uphill to the entrance to the Great Wheel. That entrance, almost legendary, had been adorned by the Architects with gigantic bird-faced oarsmen. It led into the depths of Mount Kharnabhar. The mount dominated the village.
Up the face of the mountain the buildings climbed, many of them chapels or mausoleums erected by pilgrims on this holiest of sites. Some of them stood boldly above the snow, perched on rock outcrops. Some were in ruins.
Shokerandit gestured largely ahead. ‘Of all this my father is in charge.’
He turned back to her. ‘Do you want to look more closely at the Wheel? They don’t take you in there by force. These days, you have to volunteer to get a place in the Wheel.’
As they moved forward, Toress Lahl said, ‘I somehow imagined that we should see a part of the Wheel from outside.’
‘It’s all inside the mountain. That’s the main idea. Darkness. Darkness bringing wisdom.’
‘I thought it was light brought wisdom.’
Jostling locals stared at their metamorphosed shapes. Some locals bore prominent goitres, a common malady in such mountainous inland regions. They superstitiously made the symbol of the circle as they moved towards the entrance of the Wheel with Shokerandit and Toress Lahl.
Nearer, they could see a little more: the great ramplike walls leading in from either side, as if to pour humanity down the gullet of the mountain. Above the entrance, protected from landslides by an apron, was a starkly carved scene embodying the symbolism of the Wheel. Oarsmen clad in ample garments rowed the Wheel across the sky, where could be recognised some of the zodiacal signs: the Boulder, the Old Pursuer, the Golden Ship. The stars sprang from the breast of an amazing maternal figure who stood to one side of the archway, beckoning the faithful to her.
Pilgrims, dwarfed by the statuary, knelt at the gateway, calling aloud the name of the Azoiaxic One.
She sighed. ‘It’s splendid, certainly.’
‘To you, it may be no more than splendid. To those of us who have grown up in the religion, it is our life, the mainspring that gives us confidence to face the vicissitudes of this life.’
Jumping lightly from his yelk’s back, he took hold of her saddle and said, looking up at her, ‘One day, if my father finds me fit enough, I may in my turn become Keeper of the Wheel. My brother was to have been heir to the role, but he died. I hope my chance will come.’
She looked down at him and smiled in a friendly way, without understanding. ‘The wind’s dropped.’
‘It’s generally calm here. Mount Kharnabhar is high, the fourth-highest mountain in the world, so they say. But behind it — you can’t see it for cloud — is the even grander Mount Shivenink, which shelters Kharnabhar from the winds of the pole. Shivenink is over seven miles high, and the third-highest peak. You’ll catch a glimpse of it some other time.’
He fell silent, sensing that he had been too enthusiastic. He wished to be happy, to be confident, as he had been. But the encounter with Insil the previous evening had upset him. Abruptly he jumped back on his yelk and led away from the entrance to the Wheel.
Without speaking, he wended a way through the village street, where pilgrims were crowding among the clothing shops and bell stalls. Some munched waffles stamped with the sign of the Great Wheel.
Beyond the village was a steep ravine, with a path winding down into a distant valley. The trees grew close, with massive boulders between them. Drifts of snow lay here and there, making the route treacherous. The yelk picked their way with care, the bells on their harness jingling. Birds called in the branches high above them and they heard the sound of water falling onto rock. Shokerandit sang to himself. Batalix weakly lit their way. In the chasmlike valley below them, shadow ruled.
He halted where the track divided. One fork ran upwards along the slopes, one down. When she caught up with him, he said, ‘They say this valley will fill with snow when the Weyr-Winter really comes — say in my grandchildren’s time, if I have any. We should take the upper track. It’s the easiest way home.’
‘Where does the lower track lead?’
‘There’s an old church down there, founded by a king from your part of the world, so you might be interested. And next to it is a shrine my father built in memory to my brother.’
‘I’d like to see.’
The way became steeper. Fallen trees obstructed their way. Shokerandit pursed his lips to see how the estate was being neglected. They passed under a waterfall, and picked their way through a bed of snow. Cloud clung to the hillside. Every leaf about them shone. The light was bad.
They circled past the cupola of the chapel. Its bell hung silent. When they reached level ground, they saw that a great drift of snow had sealed the door of the building.
As a native of Borldoran, Toress Lahl recognised immediately that the church was built in what was known as the Embruddockan style. Most of it lay below ground level. The steps which wound down its curving outer dome were intended to give worshippers a chance to clear their minds of worldly things before entering.
She scooped away snow so that she could peer through a narrow rectangular window set in the door. Darkness had been created inside, such light as there was penetrating from above. An old god’s portrait gazed down from behind a circular altar. She felt her breath come faster.
The name of the deity eluded her memory, but she knew well the name of the king whose bust and titles stood, sheltered from the elements, under the porch above the outer door. He was JandolAnganol, King of Borlien and Oldorando, the countries which later became Borldoran.
Her voice shook when she spoke. ‘Is this why I am brought here? This king is a distant ancestor of mine. His name is proverbial where I come from, though he died almost five centuries ago.’
Luterin’s only response was to say, ‘I know the building is old. My brother lies nearby. Come and see.’
In a moment, she collected herself and followed him, saying, ‘JandolAnganol…’
He stood contemplating a cairn. Stone was piled on stone, and capped with a circular block of granite. His brother’s name — FAVIN — was engraved on the granite, together with the sacred symbol of circle within circle.
To show reverence, Toress Lahl dismounted and stood with Luterin. The cairn was a brutal object in comparison with the delicately worked chapel.
Finally, Luterin turned away and pointed to the rocks above them.
‘You see where the waterfall begins?’
High overhead, a spur of rock protruded. Water spouted over its lip, falling clear for seventy feet before striking stone. They could hear the sound of its descent into the valley.