The Revenants (23 page)

Leona polished the dark metal with the edge of her tunic, making a small silvery patch across the ancient lines. There were twisting leaves, fish, birds, a curly-maned sun, letters in a wavery script which was undecipherable to Leona. She offered it to Terascouros. ‘Can you read it?’

‘No. There is probably no one alive who can, save perhaps among the archivists in Orena. When the Thiene came into the known world, they brought with them many gifts. The first was the gift of the Sisterhood, for it was the Thiene, the Thousand, who founded the Sisterhood. Also, they explained the covenant of the Powers. It was they who coaxed the archivists out of Tchent where they had hidden themselves since the Departure to send them among the people, teaching. If the legend says that the Thiene brought as a gift a vessel of healing, I would believe it – though I am more inclined to believe that the Thiene found it or preserved it rather than made it. In the Sisterhood we are taught that certain things have great power because of the intention and dedication with which they are made and the acceptance of that by the Powers. So, who knows when this was made? What can we believe except that the Vessel is here, now, in our hands? Do you doubt it?’

‘No.’ Leona laid it reverently on the blanket. ‘I see my own wounds healed which were made only days ago. This is the Vessel I sought. This would have healed my love.’

‘Would have? Will you not beg it from Jasmine and take it to Anisfale?’

‘After five years? Fabla cannot be alive still. No. Surely she is gone to peace, a better peace than mine. I had sworn to lay the Vessel even on her grave, but perhaps the time is gone for that. I am weary, old woman. I am other things than weary, as well – things I am incapable of understanding.’

They lay quietly, Leona cradling the flask in her arms, unable to wonder properly at the miracle, too worn for astonishment. They slept. When Medlo came, his face sunken and lined with exhaustion, he woke Leona before sleeping himself. So they went, two by two, through the day and night hours, talking endlessly into the ear of the sleeper who had been Jaer, sleeping between times as though they would never sleep enough.

During that day and night, Jaer’s body
changed
four times. The green-clad sisters saw, put their heads together in whispering gaggles in corners, went away to consult others and came back again to watch with intent faces, hands twisted into the hems of their tunics. Every hour or so one of the party knelt at Jaer’s side to tell a story. Because they were weary, they told what was easiest for them, stories of their own lives, that which they knew best. When the Council summoned them, Jasmine was storytelling with Thewson at her side, so it was Medlo, Leona, and Terascouros who attended upon the assembly.

They went in what state they could muster. Medlo wore his best coat, somewhat wrinkled from long packing but clean, and his fringed, embroidered sash across his shoulders holding the defiantly slung jangle. His narrow face was weary but composed. During the agony of the last few days he had realized that Alan was gone, dead, destroyed by the black-robed ones of Murgin, so long ago. The thought that Alan might not be dead hovered at the edge of consciousness, but he would not allow it into the front of his mind. No, Alan was dead, must be dead, could be grieved for and forgotten. It was enough for the moment.

Leona was dressed as they had first seen her, white breeches and shirt with leather long-vest, her hair drawn up through the maiden circlet of the Fales. She had an air of angry impatience. She was angry at herself for not taking the flask to Anisfale at once, and yet she could not make up her mind to go. She wanted to fetch Mimo and Werem, at most only a day’s journey away for a healthy traveller. She wanted, or thought she wanted, to go away by herself to think. There were certain half memories of flight, of ravening, of angry tearing at squeaking creatures, certain firelight memories of wild longing, inchoate desires which boiled monstrously within her, promising sensations strange and terrible. Still, when she was alone, she did not find herself thinking. Quite the opposite. She found herself rocking slightly to and fro, rhythmically distracting herself from thought. The need to stay and to stay quiet irritated her. Only Terascouros’s stern bidding kept her reasonably still.

As for Terascouros, she had recovered some strength and a not inconsiderable dignity. The Sisterhood had given her proper dress and sandals and a queenly braiding of hair. She came into the chamber resolutely, knowing that every word would be a struggle. Sybil had taken a position many years ago from which she would not now retreat, and her voice carried great weight in this Council. She had the great strength of the single-minded, the inability to be distracted. She had the great desire of the fanatic, to prove false all doctrines save her own. And also, said Terascouros to herself, Sybil had the monstrous power of ignorance, that which can act without the hampering restraints of knowledge.

Thus, in the dim room beneath the Hill, full of the shadowy rustle of Robes of Observance and the murmur of voices, when Medlo spoke of meeting Jaer and of the great sea serpent which reared out of the deep onto the moon track between Candor and Hynath Port, Sybil disbelieved this in scoffing declamation. When he spoke of the quest book and of the buying of Jasmine in accordance with that quest, Sybil laughed and disparaged his trustworthiness. What was he after all, she asked, but a wandering labourer, a musician of taverns, a cheapjack for hire? When Leona spoke, unwillingly, of her own transformation, when Terascouros spoke of the fall of Murgin, Sybil spoke firmly of the symptoms of hysteria and the senile infirmities which came with age.

Finally, in anger, Terascouros spoke of Mawen.

‘Some of you will remember old Mawen, Mute Mawen, who was often called The Woman Who Talks to Birds? Some in this chamber will remember her coming to us sixteen years ago this summer to tell us that Ahl di lasurra sai would soon >be born. Some here will remember that Sybil doubted, as she doubts now; that she discredited old Mawen, as she discredits us now; that she sent Mawen away into the world to die shortly thereafter. Some of you will recall that I then rebelled at Sybil’s doubt and disparagement, and that I went from this Sisterhood into the world.

‘Some here will remember my going, my words to you then. I said I would find the Ahl di lasurra sai or die in the world as Mawen had died, unconsidered, unbelieved, discredited, denied. Some in this chamber will remember that Mawen was my mother.

‘I return to you now to say that the Ahl di has come. I do not care whether you believe it or not. I, myself, had despaired of this search. I had been near death. I had been rescued by chance – if this may be called chance – and had resolved to return here only because others came this way. On that journey I learned of that one with us named Jaer, sought by strange forces. Why should they search if not for a danger to them? Who should be a danger to them if not the one who was foretold? Recall now the words of the prophecy of Hanar:
You shall know the time by its precursor sign, the sound of a baby crying in the deep night One who cannot speak will speak of its coming. The day of its coming will be marked by the River of Hanar. It shall not be male nor female, but of Earthsoul, whole
. Those signs have come. That time is now. That person is here. I say the Ahl di has come, unwittingly, unknowingly, sleeping now, but soon to wake.

‘I say let Sybil be blind, let Sybil be deaf, let Sybil lead herself into still greater darkness. Let Sybil mock and lead you astray as she did in the time of Mute Mawen, my mother. But, let this Sisterhood see, hear, and know.’

Sybil rose haughtily, her face already contorted into an expression of derision and disdain, only to be stopped by a voice which quavered out of a shadow by a far wall. ‘Nay, Sybil. Be silent. Let us who can see, see. Let us who can hear, hear. You have led us; we have trusted you. Now let us test that leading. If we have been led well, the Surrah, the Way, will soon show.’ The frail, white-haired woman who spoke was bent with age, but she came forward into the centre of the gathering and turned to the assembled women. ‘I call upon the will of the Sisterhood to let those contending go forth from us that we may look inward in peace.’

There was a rustling murmur from the assembly, then a voice sang into the quiet, ‘Sur-aaaaaa,’ the sound fading and hanging in the air to be joined by another voice, and another, until the cavern hummed with the long-drawn harmony of voice on voice.

Medlo sat up, his face suddenly awakened into full attention as though someone had spoken his name. Sybil grunted harshly and made a gesture of appeal, but the voices continued, building, notes added at the top and the bottom of the scale until the chord stretched from a low, almost baritone sound to a single, high birdlike fluting. Terascouros came slowly to her feet, beckoning Medlo and Leona to follow. They went from the chamber, Sybil’s rigid figure striding before them.

‘That old woman is my aunt,’ said Terascouros. ‘My mother’s sister. I had thought her dead long since, but here she is, still creaking about and still able to cry peace in the chamber even in the face of Sybil’s wrath. Would she had been here sixteen years past.’

Leona gestured impatience. ‘What will they do now?’

‘Now they will do as I did in the northern forest when Leona cried that I should see her and I could not. They will take time to set aside all they have believed about me, about Mawen if they knew of her, about Sybil. They will set aside what they have believed about the world, divesting themselves of all preconceptions, all judgments. It is a difficult exercise, one we learn when we join the Order. They will do it, then they will send their minds out to seek the truth.’

‘Send their minds out?’ asked Medlo curiously.

‘A thing most of them can do. A thing that the Sisterhoods do. Not often, Medlo. It is hard, and it troubles the world. You may read of it in the libraries.’

Leona mocked gently. ‘And will they find the truth?’

‘Some may.’ She led them toward Jaer’s resting place. ‘Some among the Sisters will, and they will lead the others. Finally they will tell us.’

‘About?’ Medlo demanded. As a musician of sorts, he had been shocked and entranced at the ‘call of peace.’ There had been a power in the chanber which he had recognized without being able to identify or duplicate it. At that instant, and for the first time, he had felt there was something more to the Sisterhood than a mere sequestered order of females. ‘What will they tell us about, Terascouros?’

‘About the truth of what we have told them. They will see whether their vision of it is the same as ours. They will see whether we did what we thought we did.’

‘Of course we did. We were there!’

‘Perhaps not. It is always terrible to learn that what has seemed real is false, what has seemed shadow is real. Still, it is more terrible not to know.’

‘When will they…’

‘Days. It is not easy, Medlo. It is not done lightly. We must be patient.’

They were not patient. Still, there was time to rest, to think, and talk.

Jaer slept as though Jaer would never wake. Terascouros asked some of the Sisters and the men to take their turns as story makers for the Jaer who changed again and again before their wondering eyes. None of the travellers had any stories left to tell, and from that time on the illusions in which Jaer dreamed had to come from others. Thus freed, Jaer’s fellows turned to other things.

Medlo spent his time in the music libraries, talking with the choral leaders, trying strange instruments, reading ancient manuscripts with exotic names: the Plainsong of the Alamathan Rite, the Descant of Urthrees, the Thienese Oratorios – as well as volumes with simple, chilling titles: the Chant of Forbidding; the Calling Chant; the Song of Closing; the Melody of Quest. He immersed himself in song, coming up now and again for food, smiling mildly, lost to reality. Around him the Sisters shook their heads. Had he been one of them, he would have been set to certain duties, given certain exercises to bring the learning into perspective. As it was, what did one do with a guest who at once understood so much and so little? At last they went to the ancient woman, the aunt of Terascouros, and begged her advice between sessions of the Council. She sent for Medlo.

‘In return for our music, traveller, would you keep an old woman company for a time? Sit here in the sun. See how the light reflects through that crystal hanging in the window cleft? It throws little rainbows of light into the caverns. The children love to chase the little lights, moving up and down, across, up and down. You are very tired, aren’t you? So late awake, studying our music. Very tired. The lights are very pretty. See the way they move? Across and back and your eyes are very heavy, are they not? So heavy. Sleep. I will wake you later, when you have rested. Your eyes are so very heavy. Sleep.’

Then she did what only a very old and experienced (and near to die) Sister would have dared to do. She taught him the things the Sisters had learned about the music they made. She taught him that the Song of Opening is only a musical statement of the true sound of dawn, the true sound of a volcano erupting, the true sound of a leaf unfolding. She spoke of infrasounds, the true sounds of mountain ranges and great rivers. She taught him that the Melodies of Quest were only a statement of the true sounds of planets as they move, suns as they burn, birds as they cross trackless sky. When she had done, she stroked his head gendy. He was a little like her son had been. Or had it been her grandson? Well, one or the other. They were all a little bit like, really. She sang a loosening song, then hobbled back into the Council chamber leaving him sleeping in the window. When he woke he went back again to read all the things he had read before, this time emerging from the libraries stunned and amazed.

That night he asked Terascouros, ‘What would happen if all the Sisters sang, at once, in one place, the Songs of Dismissal?’

Terascouros smiled. ‘We have always been taught that the world would end, Medlo. Some of us even believe it.’

Jasmine was as near to tone deaf as made no difference, but she identified the gardeners among the Sisters and men in a moment, following them out to the gardens which lay at the end of long, wandering tunnels in hidden hollows of the hills. There were orchards as well, and grain fields, all hidden away in folds and valleys of the southern Savus Mountains. There were no roads in or out, but the tunnels were wide enough for small wagons and sturdy ponies to traverse. She watched the Sisters at work and play and at their flirtations and romances in the fields and under the orchard trees. Surprised, she wondered aloud whether sworn virgins ought to act so.