The Door Into Fire (6 page)

“Oh, my head,” Herewiss groaned as he headed back to bed. “Shortens the life indeed. I wish I
were
dead.”

He pulled the covers up around him again, and laid his throbbing head down on the lumpy pillow as tenderly as he could. The darkness was almost peaceful for a few moments—until the sound of a drunken countertenor began to float up from the stable, half a tone flat, singing of what the King of Darthen did with the shepherdess and her brother.

“Oh Goddess,” Herewiss moaned, and buried his face in the pillow.

•

Opening Night is not so much a time of year as it is a state of mind. It can be invited, by no more difficult a measure than keeping one’s eyes and heart open all the time. There are Rodmistresses who could not share in the Opening if they stood at the Heart of the World on Nineteen-Years’ Night; and there are children, and the eager of heart, who can break the walls between the Worlds in broad day, and call the wonders through. Those who do not close their hearts to Possibility soon find their lives full of it.

Reflections in the Silent Precincts,

Leoth d’Elthed, ch.7

The next day was gray and overcast, threatening rain. Herewiss left early, having been awakened by the impending light of dawn though there was no sunrise to be seen. He didn’t stop for breakfast— partly from a desire to hurry, and partly to avoid running into the innkeeper’s daughter again. He felt guilty for laying as restrictive a spell on her as he had. But then again, she
had
been tampering with his private property—and her actions had hardly been intended in benevolence.

“Aah, the Dark with it,” Herewiss said to himself as the inn receded behind him, and he headed south again over open country. Dapple was trotting along briskly, needing little encouragement to hurry, and Herewiss had leisure to ponder what he had learned.
Doors into Otherwheres…

Such doors were legendary. They might open onto other times, like the Eorlhowe Door hidden in the mazes beneath the melted stones of the Howe in North Arlen; or other places, like the old King’s Door in the Black Palace in Darthis; or other worlds entirely, as does the Morrowfane Gate beneath the waters of Lake Rilthor in southern Darthen. There were not many permanent doors, and they tended to be difficult of access and dangerous to use, because of time limits or unpredictable behavior. One of the Queens of Darthen acquired the sobriquet One-Hand when she crossed through the King’s Door and it closed unexpectedly.

Out in the Waste? Well, it would make sense to put them there, away from casual access, if they’re time-gates. At least the Dragons would think so—they won’t let anyone but Marchwarders near the Eorlhowe Door, and the human Marchwarders won’t go near it themselves for fear of changing the past.

Herewiss sighed. From the time he first heard of the concept, he would have given almost anything to go through a time-door, or just look through one, to find out if things really happened as the histories said they had. Or to see the great days of the past happen again—to see Earn and Héalhra take the Power upon Themselves at Bluepeak, to see the terrible Gnorn come tottering over the mountains and go up in a blaze of the blue Fire as the Lion and Eagle gave Themselves for the destruction of that last menace. Or to see the founding of the Brightwood, or of Prydon city, or Darthis. To watch the last stone being set into the paving of the Great Road, and watch the Oath of Lion and Eagle being sworn for the first time by Earn’s and Héalhra’s grandchildren. Maybe even to see what no man had seen, the Worldwinning, as the Dragons dropped out of the darkness and the Messenger in Her glory drove the Dark away—

I’m getting carried away with this,
he told himself severely.

And you’re enjoying it,
another part of him answered back.

Well, why not? Dreaming was free. Consider this: how about going back to the day Freelorn’s father died, and finding out where old Hergótha had been hidden? That would certainly make Freelorn happy. True, Freelorn had Súthan now, and that was not exactly a sword without lineage—the princes of Arlen had been carrying it since the time that Ánmod had used it to kill the Coldwyrm lairing in the fords of Arlid. But it was just that, a prince’s sword, and Freelorn was king, if not in name, at least by right. Herewiss didn’t need his underhearing to detect Freelorn’s dissatisfaction with Súthan. Lorn wanted Hergótha, which was the proper sword of the Arlene kings and queens; he lusted after it the way some people lust after others’ bodies and desire to possess them.

Hergótha, though, had gone missing after Ferrant’s death. He had not been wearing it on the day his heart stopped, and it had never been found in the palace. Perhaps he had taken the sword with him past the Door into Starlight, and walked the shore of the final Sea with it slung over his back, the kingliest of the shadows that dwelt there. Or perhaps the Lion had taken it back into His keeping again, possibly to return it to the rightful wielder one day, if one of the Line ever came back to claim the throne. Herewiss doubted that Freelorn would have the patience.

To find Hergótha, bring it back to Freelorn—

This is ridiculous,
Herewiss thought.
I don’t know for sure that this place has time-doors in it—or
any
doors, for that matter. And even if it does, there’s no guarantee that I’ll be able to get through them. Or even make them serve my purpose.

Yet he sighed. It was still nice to think about. To look back in time. To see his mother. To see Herelaf—

Or to look forward in time, perhaps, and see how he would finally forge the sword that would work for him... then do it.

Yes.
And if those doors look out into other worlds, mightn’t there be one world somewhere much like this one, except that both men and women have the Flame?
Or maybe there would be a door into that long-past time before the Catastrophe, when everyone could use the Power—

Dapple stopped abruptly, and Herewiss looked up in confusion. About a hundred yards away, at the foot of a little hill that rose suddenly from the grassland, stood a small building.

It was built of logs stood up on end and bound together. The roof was thatched, and there was one door, and a window on the side that faced him. It wasn’t a house—there was no sign of a garden, or even a cow. A shrine, perhaps?

His curiosity nudged him, and he pulled on Dapple’s

reins and rode up to the place. He dismounted before the open doorway. “Hello—?” he called. No one answered.

There was a wooden plaque fastened next to the door, and though it was weathered, the runes were deeply scratched and easy to read: OF OUR LADY OF LIBERATIONS—USE, CLEAN, BLESS, AND GO SAFELY.

Herewiss stepped in and looked around. The inner walls were plastered, and there were scenes painted on them in a primitive and vigorous style, the colors bright, the figures stylized, stark and clean. In the middle of the room was a rough wooden offering table. Dead leaves and bits of grass were scattered about on the table and floor. Something twittered in irritation, and Herewiss looked up to see a sparrow’s next high in the corner, where the plaster had fallen away and left an opening to the outside.

He smiled at the appropriateness of the place, for there was one aspect of his personality sorely in need of liberation. The few minutes it would take to clean and reconsecrate the shrine wouldn’t be wasted. Besides, if the Goddess were to come to his house when
he
wasn’t there, and if it were full of leaves and such,
She
would certainly clean it up.

For a moment he grinned at the image of the Tripartite Lady busy in the Woodward with a broom. But the Goddess had never been known for standing on ceremony. On Her travels through the world She tended to leave home Her Cloak which is the night sky, and the Robe glorious as Moonlight, in favor of plainer and more utilitarian clothes. Even at that most sublime and beautiful of times, when She comes to share Herself in love—as She comes to every man and woman born—even then She rarely appears in any of the forms or manifestations attributed to Her by legend. Once in a lifetime, a person will know the joy of being held in the Goddess’s arms. She comes as just another person, with human quirks and wrinkles; sometimes She comes in the form of someone you know—perhaps even your own loved, by way of an affectionate joke. But She never comes when or where you expect Her. As the proverb says, “The Goddess is as likely to come in the window as through the door.”

Herewiss found a broom in one corner, not much more than a mildewed bunch of birch twigs, and did his best to sweep up the detritus on the floor. As he swept, he looked at the figures painted on the plaster. One wall depicted the Triad in its first form—Maiden, Mother and Wise Woman, Their hands joined to show that They were One: and then underneath that, the Maiden with Her hands full of stars, busy with creation. But her back was turned to the other Two, illustrating the Error. Behind the Three of Them hung the symbol for the great Death, the down-pointing Arrow, and only the Eldest of the Three saw it. Her hand was outstretched to Her younger self, but the Maiden ignored the Eldest and went on creating as if her works would last forever.

In the next panel the Maiden stood in Her sorrow, Her hands covering Her face, as She realized the nature of Her error. She had forgotten about Death…and now that She had spoken the final Word that set the Universe on its way, Death was trapped inside it. This whole Universe would have to run down and die itself before She could make it perfect. The Mother and the Wise Woman stood beside the Maiden, trying to console Her; but for some things there is no consolation.

The following panel showed the Maiden’s solution for Her own grief and guilt. She knew Her other selves in the manner of woman with woman, and became with child. Now She sat on the birthing-stool, and was no more Maiden, but Mother. The children She bore were twin sons, and She suckled Them one at each breast with a smile of maternal joy. The panel below showed the Twins grown already, beautiful young men, Her Lovers, and She stood between Them and They all three embraced one another. Then came the New Love, and the Lovers knew Each Other and found yet another joy. In the painting, Their mouths touched with almost ritual solemnity, even as Their strong arms strained about each other and They strove to be one.

But then the great Death entered in, casting the Shadow over the Lovers, filling Them with jealousy, each desiring to alone know the other Lover to the Mother’s exclusion. The Lovers’ hands went about each other’s throats, and They choked the lives out of each other. The Triad stood above them in sorrow, and together They lifted up the dead, and with Them entered into that Sea of which the Starlight is a faint intimation, therein to be renewed and reborn, to close the circle and make all things whole again.

The last panel, near the door, showed why the shrine had been built. There was a sorrowing mother with her four dead children in her arms, three little girls and a boy; and the inscription,
My Children. The Plague Came in the Night. Having Pronounced, She Sets Free. May I Meet Them on the Shore.

Herewiss stopped there, leaning on the broom, saddened. He thought how it must have been for that poor mother, building this place with her own two hands, most likely, hard by that little hill which probably housed her children’s bodies; painting those scenes, slowly and with care, and trying to find some sense in the deaths of her little ones. Possibly there wasn’t any. But at least she had left something beautiful behind in their memory, and it may have been that having something to do had brought her at least partway through her grief.

He swept the last of the leaves out the door. The sparrow chittered faintly in its nest, and Herewiss looked at it with affection -- another mother, and her children, safe and comfortable. The nameless lady who built this place would probably be pleased.

He went out to where Dapple stood grazing, and rummaged around in the left-hand saddlebag until he found what he wanted, his lovers’-cup. Herelaf had made it for him, long ago. It was of white oak, simply carved and stained, with a border of leaves running around the outside just under the lip, and Herewiss’s name scratched under the foot. He remembered watching Herelaf carve it. “When it’s finished,” his brother had said, “take good care of it and it’ll last you a long time—”

It certainly had. Fourteen years. Herelaf had been dead for twelve of them.

Herewiss took a waterbag out of the pannier, and filled the cup with it. Carefully, so as not to spill any, he carried the old brown cup into the shrine, and set it on the altar.

“Mother of Days,” he said softly, looking for the right words, “Mother of Stars—bless the lady who built this place, and her children, whether they’re reborn or not—may she find love again, and may they too. Take care of the people who pass here; keep the Fyrd off them, and the terrors of night, and save them from loneliness. And take care of Freelorn for me, until I get there, and afterwards too.” He paused, swallowed the lump that was filling his throat. The hurt was twelve years gone, it was silly to be still crying about it. “And take care of Herelaf—let him come out of the Sea and find joy—”

He picked up the cup, drank quickly. It was harder to cry with his head tilted back and his eyes squeezed shut. By the time he had drained the cup, he was back in control again.

“—and help me find my Power when I get back home,” he said. “In Your name, Who are our beginnings and our endings—”