The Bronze of Eddarta Page 14

  The door started sliding shut. It was bigger than the opening through which we had stepped. It was nearly six feet wide and as tall as the nine-foot ceiling. Made of layers of wood laminated together, it was four inches thick. And if that weren’t enough, covering it on this side was a thin sheet of bronze, decorated with a lot of tiny geometric designs.

  I don’t know how the Eddartans rigged that one-way spring system. The door was so well balanced that one man could open it. Thymas and I both put our weight and muscle against it, trying to keep it open. But it was determined to close, and we had to snatch our hands away at the last second to keep our fingers whole.

  “Now what?” Thymas asked.

  “Same plan,” I said. I pointed to the far side of the room. “Different door.”

  “Wait,” Tarani said. “Zefra must be nearby. Let me call her in here, Rikardon. She can tell us what to expect and I—I can say good-bye. I promised her,” she added, a little defensively.

  Thymas said: “Let’s get out of here.”

  “And I promised you,” I reminded Tarani. “Do it. But keep it short.” She nodded, then sank into one of the chairs and leaned back, holding the Ra’ira in her lap. She closed her eyes for a second, then said: “She’s coming.”

  Using her power is getting easier for her, I thought. That’s another reason to get her out of here.

  I started pacing. Thymas started looking at the figures on the bronze face of the door, and Tarani just sat there, waiting.

  I was at a loss to explain the sense of urgency I felt. A number of explanations occurred to me, all of them plausible, none of them precisely right.

  Now that we had the Ra’ira, I was eager to get it away from Eddarta.

  Knowing I was probably surrounded by the Eddartan “nobility” made me itchy.

  Certainly, I was looking forward to hugging Keeshah.

  *Where are you now?* I asked him.

  *In the city. Smells. Can’t find you.*

  *We’re up on the hill, but you wait there. We’ll be down soon. Has anybody seen you?*

  In answer, he sent me a flash of what he was seeing: a crowd of people, carrying torches, following him at a respectful distance. I saw something else that made me glad—Ronar was with him.

  *Nobody bothers us,* Keeshah said. I would have laughed at the understatement, but my nerves were too jumpy. I was half-afraid I’d get hysterical.

  A soft click warned us that the entry door was opening. Zefra slipped through, and let it swing shut behind her. “So Troman’s Way does exist!” she said. “Gharlas?”

  “Dead,” I said.

  “Good. You … recovered what you came for?”

  Thymas gave a small start. “We found the gold, yes,” I said, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Thymas relax. Zefra noticed him. “May I present Thymas, of the Sharith? Thymas, this is the lady Zefra, Tarani’s mother.”

  Thymas was prepared to greet her respectfully, but Zefra merely glanced at him, nodded coolly, and started to walk past him. But she stopped, abruptly, near his left arm, and swung on him in a fury.

  “You dare to bring that vile thing before the Bronze?” she demanded, and reached out as if to snatch up Rika’s gleaming blade where it hung free of Thymas’s baldric. “It was a symbol of trust between King and Guard, until the Guard turned its blade against the Kingdom. What insolence to bring it here!”

  Tarani grabbed her mother’s shoulders and pulled Zefra away from Thymas, who had jumped back with his hand on Rika’s hilt.

  So much for not judging the Sharith, I thought.

  “How dare you insult our friend?” Tarani demanded of Zefra, yanking her around. “You speak of the distant past, Mother. That sword has no meaning here except that it has saved our lives.”

  Confronted by her daughter’s anger, Zefra blazed up. “No meaning, you say? The distant past? You are mistaken, Tarani. The past is here in this room. As the Bronze is the symbol of the Kingdom, so is that sword the symbol of its destruction!” Zefra had shaken loose from Tarani and climbed to the dais. She touched the massive piece of decorated metal, almost reverently.

  “This is the Bronze. It was created here in Eddarta, at the command of one of the early Kings. It was installed in Kä, to be the final test for one who would be High Lord. Harthim brought the Bronze back to Eddarta, and mounted it as you see it here. No one, other than the Lords and High Lord candidates, has ever seen it before.”

  She turned around and fixed her gaze on Tarani. The peculiar intensity I had seen before had returned to her face, and I thought that even Tarani saw it now, and was a little frightened.

  “I was wrong to attack your friend, Tarani. There is meaning in his presence here with you. It is a signal that you can command the loyalty that Harthim lost.

  “A message lies hidden on the Bronze, daughter. The very mind-gifted can read the message, because the All-Mind knows what it says. The mindpower has weakened in us through the generations since Harthim, and most of the message has been lost. I have heard that only the first few words are still readable.”

  Zefra went to Tarani and put her hands on the girl’s shoulders, turned her to face the huge, patterned door. “But you can read it, Tarani. I know it. Read the message of the Bronze,” Zefra breathed to her daughter.

  My skin crawled.

  “There is nothing here but meaningless decoration,” Thymas said.

  “There is a message!” Zefra cried. “This is the old writing. The message was imprinted first, then other markings were added to make all the characters look like the master figure. Those who have the power, whose link with the All-Mind is strongest, can see the original inscription.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” I said.

  Tarani’s back stiffened. “I think this is little enough to grant in return for all the help Zefra has given us.”

  I controlled my impatience, and nodded assent. Thymas moved restlessly away from the wall Tarani was going to “read”

  Now that Zefra had explained the markings. I found some knowledge of the “old writing” in Markasset’s memory.

  Gandalaran characters were made up of lines joined in precise angles or crossing one another. Modern writing employed brush and ink on paper, and considerations of speed and appearance had allowed the development of curves and longer lines in writing style. But the original characters were based on the “master figure” Zefra had mentioned: eight short, straight lines, radiating from a common center at precise forty-five-degree angles from one another. Every character was made up of some of those lines.

  I looked at the Bronze, and all I could see was the master figure, repeated over and over again. All the tiny marks were imprinted to exactly the same depth, were exactly the right length—the vertical and horizontal markings slightly longer than the intermediate lines.

  But Tarani looked at that wall full of nonsense and started to read out loud. At first she read slowly, hesitating over every word. Then she began to read with more confidence.

  I stared at her in amazement, and I noticed that she had the Ra’ira, hidden inside her clenched hand. Whether that was helping her, or her own native power was doing the trick, I couldn’t have said. Zefra watched her daughter with a look of rapture as she and Thymas and I listened to Tarani’s voice speaking a message from the distant past.

  19

  I greet thee in the name of the new Kingdom.

  From chaos have we created order.

  From strife have we enabled peace.

  From greed have we encouraged sharing.

  Not I alone, but the Sharith have done this.

  Not we alone, but the Ra’ira has done this.

  THESE ARE THE WEAPONS

  OF WHICH I GIVE THEE CHARGE

  AND WARNING:

  The Sharith are our visible strength—

  Offer them respect; …

  Be ever worthy of their loyalty.

  The Ra’ira is our secret wisdom—

  Seek out the discontented;


  Give them answer, not penalty.

  THIS IS THE TASK I GIVE THEE

  AS FIRST DUTY:

  As you read the scholar’s meaning

  Within the craftsman’s skill,

  So read within yourself

  Your commitment

  To guide

  To lead

  To learn

  To protect

  If you lack a high need

  To improve life for all men,

  Then turn aside now,

  For you would fail the Kingdom.

  I greet thee in the name of the new Kingdom, And I charge thee: care for it well.

  I am Zanek,

  King of Gandalara

  I was totally stunned. Not just by the fact that Tarani had read the thing. Not even by the nobility of its message. The signature was what got to me.

  Zanek? Zanek had the Ra’ira when he created the Kingdom? But Thanasset said the stone had been sent to Kä when the corrupt Kings began to demand tribute, which was ages after Zanek’s day. Maybe Thanasset, and the other Supervisors, prefer to think that the Ra’ira was used only during the bad times, so they can justify keeping it in Raithskar.

  I don’t know the answers. But I do know that there is no more relationship between Zanek and Pylomel than between me and a vineh. That foolish gem belongs in Raithskar, where Pylomel and his kind can’t get to it.

  Zefra had Tarani—who seemed a little dazed by what she had read—by her shoulders, and was shaking her lightly. “You see? Yours is the strongest mindpower in generations, Tarani. You are meant to be High Lord. It is why you came here.”

  Tarani pulled out of her stupor to push away her mother’s arms. “So that we can rule your way, instead of Pylomel’s? Mother, were you not listening? Zanek warned that the power of the Ra’ira could be used well or badly. He was a good man; I could sense that from the message. But there are few like him in the world today.” Her voice trembled. “Volitar was one. I thought you might be another, but I see I was wrong. No matter what you say you want, Mother, you are not much different from Pylomel.”

  Zefra gasped, and hauled back her hand, and slapped Tarani. The girl accepted the blow, and faced her mother again.

  “I offer you my thanks, Mother,” she said. “For your protection of me all these years and, now, for giving me proof of the rightness of our duty. We must get the Ra’ira back to Raithskar, where it can be protected.”

  “Tararti!” I said sharply. Her intake of breath told me she realized her mistake, but the damage was already done.

  “You have the Ra’ira?” Zefra whispered, and began to plead. “Think of it, child. You could be High Lord. The changes you could make. The good you could do. The things that Volitar believed in—you can make them real! If you have no other ambition, merely keeping Indomel from becoming High Lord would be a thing worth doing.”

  A new voice, high-pitched and full of sarcasm, sounded from behind us. “What a loving thing to say, Mother.”

  We whirled around to see a handsome boy, tall and dark-furred, close the entryway door. He walked through the room as if he owned it, and stopped a couple of paces away from the women. Thymas and I were both on the other side of the table, with our hands on our swords. But he made no move toward the jeweled dagger that complemented his rich clothing—a floor-length tunic of green covered by a heavier, sleeveless tunic in a deeper tone of green. He just looked Tarani up and down in an appraising, insulting way.

  “I grant you that this lovely creature is talented,” he said. “I felt the compulsion she sent to you. I didn’t understand what it was, until I saw you sneaking into the Council Chamber—where you have no business being.

  “I caught the door before it quite closed, and I heard almost everything, but I’ll be glad if you’ll confirm a few things. For instance, I gather that Gharlas is dead?”

  “Yes,” Zefra said.

  “I should be grateful for that, I suppose. My father is many ways a fool, but never so seriously as when he permitted Gharlas to win the favor of the Guard. My first act, as High Lord, was to be the destruction of Gharlas—an unnecessary task, now.”

  He walked slowly beside the table, letting one long-fingered hand caress the back of one of the huge chairs.

  “I heard another name that sounds vaguely familiar,” he said. “Volitar?”

  “He was my father,” Tarani said. “A good man. Gharlas killed him.”

  I wondered what she thought of the self-possessed boy who faced her. She showed no affection or revulsion, merely wariness.

  “Ah, I remember, now—the jeweler who disappeared before I was born, around the same time as my mother’s infamous escapade. Or should I say ‘our mother,’ since it appears you are my half sister?”

  “No,” Zefra said, with a fierceness that made the boy retreat a step. “How often I have longed to say this to you, Indomel. Tarani is your true sister, your elder, the rightful candidate for High Lord.”

  “What are you saying?” Tarani demanded.

  “Pylomel is your father,” Zefra said. “The night he visited me, the night before I left Eddarta—he compelled me to lie with him, and how I hated him for it. I didn’t have the power, then, to resist him completely, but I managed one small defiance—I hid it from him that I was fertile, and that I had conceived.

  “But I told Volitar the truth, that I carried a child with a great gift—I could already sense it, Tarani. I feared to raise you in Lord City, for Pylomel would have taken you from me. Volitar understood. He took me away. He loved you like his own daughter.”

  “I am his daughter!” Tarani cried. “Everything I am, Volitar gave me. I refuse to accept that—that filthy old man as my father!”

  Indomel laughed with genuine humor, but the sound of it was sour.

  “An apt description, sister, and a wise choice. We who are in this room believe that you are my full and true sister, but should you claim that before the Lords, you would find it difficult to prove. All you have is the word of a woman who has been locked away, by choice, for many years, and who is generally spoken of as eccentric, if not actually insane.” He smiled. “A reputation I have encouraged at every opportunity, dear Mother. You see—Tarani, is it?—our lack of affection for one another is entirely mutual.”

  Tarani’s neutrality vanished. “You are a monster,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said agreeably. “And I have power that not even our dear mother suspects.”

  Suddenly, there was pain. Not the concentrated hurting that Gharlas had inflicted, but a general, intense pain. It struck. Thymas, Tarani, and I flinched, gasping. It receded.

  Indomel was smiling.

  I really hate this, I thought. Aren’t we ever going to get out of this bizarre place?

  “I can use a less … exotic form of compulsion, as well. Your friends look formidable, Tarani, but could they defeat the entire Guard? No, I think not.”

  “She is your sister, Indomel!” Zefra cried.

  “So you say, Mother, and so I must believe. Because of that, and because this is the eve of a great day for me, I am feeling generous. Tarani and her friends may leave here alive—on condition that they never return to Eddarta, and that they leave the Ra’ira with me.”

  “Do not take us for fools, Indomel,” Tarani said. “We have not come this far to give up now.”

  “I am not often generous, sister, as you should have learned by now, if only from Zefra’s teaching. Why don’t you consult with your friends? I can’t imagine two healthy young men sharing the company of such a delightful creature without becoming totally devoted to her. How do they feel about your being the first to die?”

  Tarani jerked convulsively, then doubled over, moaning in pain, and Indomel sighed. “You may have a strong gift, Tarani, but it is limited by your kindness. I have no such restraint on mine.” He waved his hand, as if in dismissal. “I have nothing to fear from you.”

  “Then let her go!” I shouted, running around the table to put my arms around the
girl. Thymas was right behind me.

  “Stop hurting her,” he growled, “or I will cut your hands off and feed them to you.”

  Indomel, self-assured as he had seemed until then, took a step backward before Thymas’s ferocity. Then he straightened his shoulders and spoke with some bravado: “I will stop when I have the Ra’ira.”

  Tarani gasped: “No!”

  I stared at Indomel, projecting my hatred. I hoped that, if his power could penetrate my “double-mindedness”, the strong emotion would mask my plans.

  “It isn’t worth Tarani’s life, Thymas,” I said. I opened the pouch at my belt and pulled out the duplicate we had brought from Volitar’s workshop, that Gharlas had wanted so desperately to possess.

  Indomel’s long, thin fingers took the glass piece from my hand. He turned it over once, looking at it carefully; then Tarani stood up, free of pain. She kept one hand clenched around the real Ra’ira; the other hand reached for mine and pressed it tightly.

  “The Ra’ira,” Indomel breathed, looking through the blue “stone” toward the light. He was trying to seem only politely interested, but his breathing had quickened. He was beginning to see the implications of what he thought he had.

  “There have always been legends, of course, that this beautiful bauble had some power of its own. How I shall enjoy learning the truth of it.

  “How did it come to be in Eddarta?” he asked.

  “Gharlas stole it from Raithskar,” I answered shortly. “You said you would let us go.”

  “Oh, yes, certainly. Go on. I’m sure my dear sister can provide you concealment as you move through the celebration. You may wish to pause a moment, and have a dance or two. What are you waiting for? Go on.” His eyes never left the blue stone as he waved us past him.

  We moved down the room toward the entry door. Tarani turned back to her mother. “Zefra?” she said uncertainly. “Please …”

  “I will stay,” Zefra said. “I—regret striking you, Tarani. I heard Volitar’s words in your voice, and they shamed me. But I cannot change now, daughter. Go carefully … and be safe.”

  Tarani waved her hand slightly, then pulled herself around to face the chamber door. Music and laughter greeted us as we opened it. A short corridor lay before us. Beyond the open entryway we could see the food-serving area of the party, a chaotic collection of tables and servants.