The River Wall Read online

  “I see differences,” she said. “I cannot explain why you do not see them, as well. Here, look with me—”

  She seemed to wrap more closely around me, and it was only then that I realized Tarani had gone to some lengths to minimize the contact between our minds. Tarani and I suddenly achieved a closeness very like the blending that Keeshah and I sometimes shared. She and I became a single entity for a brilliant, searing instant, and we shared ourselves totally. Our emotions, our memories, our private fears and hidden shames … what we believed, our attitudes and logic patterns, our experience and everything our experience had taught us … our selves.

  It was wondrous and terrifying and unbearable and beautiful. Tarani broke the contact almost instantly and, for the moment, we paused in our journey merely to rest. The moment was part of our memories now, and we would be able to sort through what we had learned of each other at some later time. For now, there were two immediate by-products of that union.

  First, I could now see what Tarani saw—each spark was surrounded by something not really visible. Each mindpresence emitted an aura which was unique to itself, made up of patterns and pulses of different energies. A spectrum of colors is an appropriate analogy for the range of energies, but the quality of the energy itself was more akin to the lines of force in the mindplane than to anything in the physical world.

  It was the other effect of our brief union that made us pause. In a way which had never before been possible, I knew what Tarani thought of me. What’s more, I knew how her feelings had changed as she had been exposed to all of me, all of my very private, innermost me. That was what kept me silent and shocked. She had seen all the filth and self-hatred and unwanted memories resting at the bottom of my soul, and she had come away with more love for me than she had felt before.

  Yet, how did her reaction differ from my own? I had looked into the depths of Tarani, too, at the things she was hiding from herself. The way a sixteen-year-old girl, caught between Volitar’s abhorrence of control and Antonia’s sensual maturity, had been frightened and fascinated and exalted by exercising the sexual and mental power Molik had craved. The guilt she carried for every moment of enjoyment she had reaped from their warped relationship. The self-loathing and self-doubt stimulated by meeting and being disgusted by her natural father, Pylomel. Other things, childhood horrors from both Antonia and Tarani.

  I had seen all that, yes. And I had seen her tenderness for the sha’um cubs, the sense of peace and goodness that entered her when she cast her healing sleep, her determination to make life better for the Eddartans. The net effect of all that deep learning was to make me appreciate Tarani more.

  I realized that Tarani was not merely an individual who had been born. Nor could her specialness be explained by the invasion of Antonia’s personality. Tarani had made herself what she was through a constant struggle, a continual need to make choices. Most of what was locked away in the dark closet which had opened to me were choices she regretted. But she had emerged from the struggle whole and good, with an awareness that there would never be an end to doubt, but with an established habit of making right choices. She was committed to values I respected and—more importantly—she herself respected.

  The weakness I had seen only made her strength more impressive. Her doubt called out to my sheltering and protecting instincts, and I made a fierce resolution that her choice to love me would never have to be relegated to that ugly closet.

  If I came away from that encounter with new commitment to and a stronger love for Tarani, why did it surprise me so that Tarani could have the same reaction toward me?

  As I recovered from the intensity of our blending experience, I found the answer—an answer I had given to Shola and Dharak and Thymas in Thagorn. It is always easier to forgive another than it is to forgive yourself.

  Tarani’s guilts and fears seemed only natural to me, some of them even inconsequential. But my own were real and terrifying and, certainly, much worse than everyone else’s. At least, I had thought they were, until Tarani had touched them. She was not disgusted and repelled—because, as I had done with her, she had touched the good things in me, too, and found them to be more important.

  Knowing that she could tolerate the awfulness inside me diminished it, and made me feel more positive, more complete. It seemed as if I had been loving her imperfectly, drawing limits just short of the closets of my mind. Something in me had been freed when those boundaries had vanished. I loved Tarani with more confidence that my love had value.

  “I did not know that would happen,” Tarani’s mind said at last, “and if warned, I would have resisted it. I am glad we had no warning, for it is a memory I shall treasure forever.” She paused. “Tell me—the clearer sight which was the reason for our joining—do you have it?”

  “I see the auras,” I said. “But I still don’t feel sure I can help you find Indomel.”

  “I found him before, and will recognize him again,” she said. “It is a different sort of sensing—I believe you will recognize him too. We should begin the search.”

  As I agreed, I noticed that I was no longer enclosed within Tarani. If the word touch has any meaning in this purely nonphysical sense, we were barely “touching,” yet the mind-to-mind communication was as easy as it had been before. Now she did not carry me, but led the way, and I was able to follow.

  We seemed to flow from one mindpresence to another, moving swiftly. Tarani’s prediction proved to be correct. As we approached each mindpresence, I knew whether or not we were approaching Indomel. Eventually, we found him—one presence in a cluster of others, the patterns surrounding him erratic but strong. There was another, nearby, which issued similar patterns, but in a forced, unnatural way. In the minor differences of its pattern we recognized Zefra.

  “He must be keeping her under compulsion,” I said, knowing that Tarani, too, had recognized her brother and mother.

  “As horrible as that must be for her,” Tarani said, “I am glad that she is not helping him willingly.”

  “What now?” I asked.

  “Now, my love, we announce our presence.”

  She swept toward Zefra’s mindpresence and … replaced it. Two patterns were visible to my heightened senses: Tarani’s strong and balanced pulsing and, underneath, a weaker pattern which shifted uncertainly as Zefra’s mind threw off Indomel’s control.

  So suddenly had Indomel’s compulsion been broken that I sensed him reeling from the shock. I took advantage of his imbalance, and I … became Indomel.

  I had a moment’s shock, myself, as the “normal” world screamed into my senses again. I was in the central meeting room of Lord Hall, seated in the chair on the dais reserved for the High Lord. Six other Lords were present, all of them right now staring at Zefra, who was reeling back toward the door that led to the main area of Lord Hall. The man nearest the outer door was half out of his chair, his hand extended toward Zefra.

  “Wait,” I said, and all the heads snapped in my direction. “Wait a moment. She is all right.”

  “Indomel,” said the man in the chair which represented the Rusal family. He was the only Lord I remembered. The other five men were young, new. “You may force me to call you High Lord in public and accede to policies which violate my sense of values, but I beg you again to release the lady Zefra from your domination. Her statements in support of you have served their purpose; what more use can she be? We have seen her body fail under your continuing compulsion. Would you destroy her utterly?”

  Inside me, Indomel, I felt something utterly surprising. Regret. Shame. Love. All from Indomel for his mother. Just as Tarani’s presence had released Zefra from Indomel, my arrival had destroyed the—literal—mindset which Ferrathyn had established in Indomel.

  He was still Indomel. There was ambition and greed and the excessive self-interest that Pylomel had instilled in his son, but there was also the pitiful cry of an abandoned child, the anger of a boy against a mother not strong enough to claim him, the love that
had never been given an opportunity for expression.

  Indomel’s mind was free of the superimposed madness of Ferrathyn’s manipulation, but the boy was left with the memory of what he had done and—worse—the memory of having enjoyed the domination of his mother, enjoyed it to the point where he had employed it unnecessarily, enjoyed it to the point where he had literally endangered her life. Even for Indomel’s decadent, self-serving spirit, that truth made him ashamed.

  “I am not Indomel,” I said, and in the wake of the Lords’ shocked expressions, I stood up and moved away from the high-backed chair. “And the true High Lord is here to claim her place.”

  Zefra/Tarani had recovered her balance, and Zefra walked the length of the room, to climb to the dais and stand beside me. There were murmurs from the Lords as Zefra moved—the way she walked betrayed the difference.

  “Your kindness,” Tarani said to the Rusal Lord, “is deeply appreciated, by Zefra and by me.” She looked around the room at the faces reflecting bewilderment and realization.

  “Does anyone doubt that I am Tarani, and rightful High Lord?” she demanded, “or that the man beside me is not Indomel at the moment, but Rikardon, Captain of the Sharith?”

  Those who could find the strength to move at all shook their heads in silence.

  “Good,” she said, and moved to sit down. “Indomel’s dominance is at an end, and work must begin immediately to repair the damage he has done. Our time here is short, so listen carefully. First, I see Indomel has replaced nearly everyone. I see no need to create further distress by recasting the Council of Lords, provided you follow my instructions explicitly.”

  They all nodded.

  “Good. Now, if you will please introduce yourselves …”

  31

  The first thing I was conscious of, when I awoke again in my own body, was a burning sensation in my left hand. I jerked my hand away, and Tarani echoed the gesture at almost the same time. The Ra’ira rolled across the floor between us, turning clumsily. It was pervaded with a glow that seemed to be fading.

  That initial, startled movement sent tremors of weakness shooting through my body. The elbow that propped me started to shake, and gave way. I flopped back down, my head reeling.

  I heard Zanek speak from the other side of Tarani. “Lie quietly, please—you have used too much energy. It will take you quite some time to recover.”

  “Successful,” Tarani said, her rich voice thick now with fatigue.

  “We know,” Milda’s voice said, sounding none too steady. “Your … illusions—we saw it all, heard it all.” Suddenly the old voice broke. “I wish Thanasset had been here.”

  Tarani’s hand crept across the space between us and pressed weakly on my arm. “It was a … special experience,” she said.

  “Well, rest now,” Zanek said, and Milda came around to me and began to touch my face with a dampened cloth. “When you are feeling stronger, food will help. Just rest now.”

  We stayed on the parlor floor for several hours, and were finally able to struggle to a sitting position. Milda descended on us with an enormous spread of food, and we ate voraciously. From there, we staggered upstairs to share Markasset’s bedroom and sleep, exhausted, for nearly a full day. Then we rose, and bathed, and visited the sha’um. Finally, we felt ready to be in touch with the world again.

  Neither one of us had worried about the Ra’ira, and we were not surprised to find that Zanek had ordered the glass display case moved from the government house to Thanasset’s mid-hall, and had stored the gem in plain sight of anyone who came into the house. It made sense and seemed an appropriate reaction against the way the stone had been handled for so many centuries. Secrecy had not really been a protection; perhaps public awareness would do more to keep the stone’s power controlled.

  When Tarani and I came in from our baths, Zaddorn was standing near the case, staring at the stone. He turned around when we entered, produced a smile which, I was glad to see, had a faint echo of his old wryness, and gallantly bowed to us both. In contrast to the efficient, elegant gray outfit he had worn on our first meeting, he wore a ragtag mess of torn but clean clothes, and he looked weary. Yet the composure and presence which had always impressed me were still there.

  “The outskirts of the city have been cleaned up, and the vineh show few signs of continuing interest in Raithskar,” he said. “Work parties have been organized to clean up the city’s interior, and that project is progressing. Having put all this in motion, the Council of Supervisors has voluntarily—with some relief and a lot of embarrassment, to my view—dissolved. As much as Raithskar has a government now, my friend, you two are its government. I have come to report progress and get further instructions.”

  I went over to Zaddorn and clapped my hand on his shoulder. “I think that ‘honor’ goes to you, my friend, at least for as long as Raithskar continues. Tarani and I will rely on you to keep things organized here, and to supervise preparations for the move.”

  “What?” he demanded, his face darkening. “What move?”

  Tarani came up and took Zaddorn’s hands. “Come and sit down,” she invited. “When you understand, I think you will agree.”

  He did, but it took a lot of talking. Finally, he said: “All right, I believe you. But remember that I know you—as much as you can be known by a … Gandalaran. The citizens of this city are already feeling betrayed and bewildered. They have just reclaimed Raithskar; I doubt they will abandon it readily, and then their agreement will depend on being convinced that what you’ve just told me is true. Will you spend this much time talking to each citizen of Raithskar?”

  Tarani and I looked at one another uncertainly. It was a phase of our planning we had not thought through clearly.

  Milda came into the parlor just then. She greeted Zaddorn warmly, then handed us several messages which the maufel had just delivered. Tarani had three from Eddarta. One was from the Rusal Lord, confirming that everything was being handled according to her instructions. Zefra’s note thanked Tarani for freeing her from Indomel’s compulsion, but admitted that her own ambition had paved the way for it by not resisting too strongly. It was an apology, and what sounded like the first sincere expression of love for Tarani that Zefra had ever given her daughter. Tarani read that letter aloud, folded it, and tucked it inside her tunic, smiling to herself.

  The third letter was from Indomel himself, its tone predictably defiant. It promised Tarani his cooperation and, in plain terms, acknowledged his defeat. And it asked a question similar to Zaddorn’s.

  I had been present in Indomel’s body when he had heard Tarani speak of the upcoming disaster and the preparation required. Because of that, Indomel knew it was true. But he said that under Tarani’s instructions, the Lords were giving Lower Eddarta back to the people who lived there. How did Tarani expect to persuade them to give it up again?

  I had a most welcome message from Ligor in Chizan, announcing that both passes were open again. Supplies were still very limited in the city, he warned, and anyone attempting to make the crossing should carry extra water. As Tarani had done with hers, I read the letter aloud—the final line with some surprise. Give Milda my very best regards, Ligor said, and tell her I may be ready to settle down, finally, if she hasn’t made other plans.

  I looked at Milda, whose face was blushing furiously.

  “Ligor told me he saw a lot of Keeshah while he was barely a kitten,” I said. “Now I know Keeshah wasn’t the only attraction he found in Thanasset’s house.”

  “The silly old rogue!” Milda exploded. “If he thinks I’ve waited all this time for him, well—well—” She shrugged, and smiled wryly. “Well, he may be right, is all. When it comes time to head for Chizan, Rikardon—I’d be obliged if I could travel with you.”

  I got up and hugged her, laughing. “That’s one reunion I wouldn’t miss,” I said.

  Zaddorn left shortly after that, and Tarani and I discussed the problem he had brought to us. It was later that evening, when we
walked in Thanasset’s garden—now thoroughly ruined by the four large sha’um presences—that we stumbled on the answer.

  “They will never believe,” Tarani said. “Their existence is too solidly tied with the value of water. How can we make them believe that water can be harmful—even if they would believe in the concept of the Pleth refilling?”

  “I wish I knew,” I said fervently. “I wish we could give them what we feel, the sense of change, the certainty of the consequences, the awareness that we have to start to work together now to avoid disaster.”

  She thought a moment. “But what has changed?” she asked. “I mean, physically, observably. The earthquake startled everyone, but the damage was done and people are already beginning to cope. Certainly there have been social changes, but none of them are directly a sign of the disaster to come.”

  I stopped moving.

  “What?” Tarani demanded. “What is it?”

  “I think I know how to do it, Tarani.”

  Some four weeks later, Keeshah and Yayshah were wet and miserable, and Tarani and I had to shout at each other in order to be heard. The sha’um, over their own substantial protests and in an act of pure loyalty to us, were picking their way fussily across the spray-slick surface of what had recently been a dry and rocky plain. For generations of Gandalarans, this place had been no more than a marking on a map: the Valley of Mists. Now it was growing—or shrinking, depending on one’s point of view—and it was creating the future of Gandalara—or destroying it, depending on one’s point of view.

  Tarani and I had little to say to each other, even if we had been able to converse normally. We had made our plans before leaving Raithskar, and had reviewed them the night before, at our camp at the edge of the mists. We had wakened this morning soaked to the skin, with two very unhappy sha’um on our hands. Only the promise that we would complete our mission today and start back for Thagorn tomorrow appeased them.

  In one sense, we had known what to expect when we penetrated the wall of fog. We knew that the rolling clouds of condensation were the product of spray from a waterfall meeting the hot, arid air of the Gandalaran desert.