His roving mind seeks his daughter. Does not find her.
Not here? Not even here?
Farther north, then, perhaps. These are only subordinate Nests, subordinate Queens. Seek elsewhere, then. He feels the lodestone pull of the huge capital that lies beyond them, the home of the Queen of Queens, to which these great quiescent creatures are mere handmaidens.
Nialli? Nialli?
On and on he goes. Still no hint of her presence. Now he feels his disembodied consciousness approaching the Nest of Nests, ablaze on the northern horizon like a second sun. A terrible irresistible warmth comes from it. From it comes the incandescent all-loving soul-embrace of the Queen of Queens, calling to him, drawing him in.
No Nialli here. I have misled myself. She didn’t go to the Nest after all. I’ve gone in the wrong direction. Taken myself thousands of leagues away from where I should have looked.
Hresh halts his flight. The bright radiance on the horizon grows no closer. Time for him to return. He’s traveled as far this day as he can. The Queen of Queens is calling, but he won’t answer that summons, not now. It’s a powerful temptation: to enter the Nest, to fuse his soul with Hers, to learn more of what the world within this great hjjk-hive is like. The Hresh of the old days, wild little Hresh-full-of-questions, wouldn’t have hesitated. But this Hresh knows that he has responsibilities elsewhere. Let the Queen wait a little longer for him.
The warmth of the Nest burns in his flesh. The heat of Queen-love courses through his spirit. But with a powerful effort he makes himself turn, pulls away, begins the homeward journey.
Southward now he flew, past the barren lands, past radiant Vengiboneeza, past Yissou, past the dry plateaus of ruined fragmentary cities. The familiar warm greenness of his own province came into view. He could see the bay, the shore, the hills, the white towers of the city that he himself had built. He saw the parapet of the tall narrow House of Knowledge, and saw himself within the building, sitting sightless at his desk, the Barak Dayir clutched in his sensing-organ. A moment later he was united with himself once more.
“Thaggoran?” he called, looking around the room. “Noum om Beng? Are you still here?”
No, they’re gone. He’s alone, dazed, shaken, dumb-founded by the voyage he has just made. Somehow the night has fled while he journeyed. Golden light out of the east floods the room.
And Nialli — he has to find Nialli—
Surely she’s somewhere nearby, as Taniane had argued all along. Certainly she lives; the shinestones wouldn’t have deceived him about that. The life-impulses he had detected had been unmistakably hers. But where, where? In exhaustion he contemplated the Barak Dayir, wondering if he could muster the energy for another excursion.
I’ll rest a little while, he told himself. Ten minutes, half an hour—
He became aware of the sounds of shouting in the street far below.
An uprising? An invasion? With an effort Hresh rose and went outside, to the parapet. People were running and calling to one another down there. What were they saying? He could make nothing out — nothing—
A gust of wind blew him a few syllables only: “Nialli! Apuilana!”
“What is it?” Hresh called. “What’s happened?”
His voice would not carry. No one could hear him. Fearfully he rushed down the endless winding staircase to the ground floor, and out into the street. He stood clinging to the gate of the building, gasping for breath, his legs trembling, and looked around. No one there. Whoever had been shouting had moved along. But then others came, a band of boys on their way to school, tumbling and leaping, tossing their notebooks about. When they saw him they halted, adopting a more sober demeanor as befitted an encounter with the chronicler. Their eyes, though, were bright and jubilant.
“Is there news?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Your daughter, sir — the lady Nialli Apuilana—”
“What of her?”
“Found, sir. In the lakelands. The hunter Sipirod found her. They’re bringing her back right now!”
“And is she—”
He couldn’t get the whole question out soon enough. The boys were on their way again already, scampering and cavorting.
“ — all right?”
They called something back to him. Hresh was unable to make out the words. But their tone was cheerful and the sense of it was clear. All was well. Nialli lived and was returning to the city. He gave thanks to the gods.
“You must come with me, Mother Boldirinthe,” the earnest young guardsman said. “The chieftain requires it. Her daughter is in great need of healing.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” the offering-woman said, smiling at the guardsman’s solemnity. He was a Beng, like most of the guards, blocky and thick-tongued, with a heavy manner about him. But he was very young. Much was forgivable, on that account. “Don’t you think I knew I’d be summoned? Four days lying in those vile swamps — what a shape the girl must be in! Here, boy, help me up. I’m getting as big as a vermilion.”
She extended her arm. But the guardsman, with unexpected diligence and courtesy, rushed around behind her chair and slipped his own arm around her to lift her to her feet. She tottered a bit. He steadied her. It was hard work for him, strong though he was. Boldirinthe chuckled at her own unwieldiness. Flesh was accumulating on her with the force of an avalanche, new layers of it every day. Soon she’d be entombed within herself, virtually unable to move. Her legs were like pillars, her belly was a rippling massive mound. That was a matter of little concern to her, though. She was grateful to the gods for having let her live long enough to undergo this transformation, and for having provided her with the sustenance out of which she had created her vastness. Many others hadn’t been so fortunate.
“Over there,” she said. “That satchel on the table — hand it to me—”
“I can carry it for you, mother.”
“No one must carry it but me. Hand it here. There’s a good boy. You have a wagon waiting?”
“In the courtyard, yes.”
“Take my arm. That’s it. What’s your name?”
“Maju Samlor, mother.”
She nodded. “Been in the guards long?”
“Almost a year.”
“Terrible thing, your captain’s murder. But it won’t go unpunished, will it?”
“We seek the slayer day and night,” said Maju Samlor. He grunted a little as she swayed and lurched, but held her steady. At a cautious pace they proceeded into the courtyard. This was twice in two days that she had left her cloister, now, for only yesterday she had attended the meeting that Taniane had called at the Basilica. That was unusual for her, in these days, to go out so often. Movement was so difficult. Her thighs rubbed together with each step, her breasts pulled her groundward like weights. But perhaps it would do her some good, she thought, to bestir herself more frequently.
The long satchel she carried was more of a burden to her than she had expected. She had loaded it that morning with the things she would need in caring for Nialli Apuilana — the talismans of Friit and Mueri, of course, but also the wands of healing, which were carved of heavy wood, and an array of herbs and potions in stone jars. Too many things, maybe. But she managed to hobble out to the wagon without dropping it.
Her hillside cloister was near the head of the steep street known as Mueri Way. Just a hundred paces or so farther uphill was Mueri House. The alleyway in which Kundalimon had been murdered lay midway between Mueri House and her cloister.
It angered Boldirinthe that blood — innocent blood — had been shed so close to her holy precinct. How could anyone, even a madman, have dared violate this place of healing by casting an aura of violent death over it? Each morning since the killing she had sent one of her junior priestesses to the site to perform a rite of purification. But she hadn’t gone to it herself. Now, as Maju Samlor tugged at the reins and the xlendi moved forward into the street, she turned to look toward the fatal place.