Bringer of Light (14 page)

So the inhabitants of Aleph
were
expanding, just very slowly. One thing still puzzled Jarek. ‘The lightship we accidentally damaged: it had a hi-tech sail, but why use a lightship at all when you’ve got zepgen?’

‘Request for clarification: the term zepgen is not familiar.’

‘Right. It’s a power-source.’ Jarek hoped he hadn’t screwed up by mentioning it.

‘Query: does zepgen draw energy into our universe from outside?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Such a device is known to us as a dimension-engine. It is amongst the technologies that are reserved solely for the use of patrons.’

Jarek might have expected the males to be jealous of their tech – which brought him back to their reason for coming here in the first place. ‘And how about beacons? I assume you know about them, even if you’ve never seen one.’

‘Beacons are not a subject the lingua have much knowledge of. The patrons have informed this lingua that they are complicated to make, which is why these accommodations have been provided for you. You may have to wait here for several days for the beacon to be completed and brought here.’

‘Ah. I hadn’t realised that. Not that it’s a problem.’ Though Jarek wasn’t sure Taro would feel that way, given the current situation with Nual.

‘While you wait,’ Ain went on, ‘you may summon this lingua whenever you need, and you may ask whatever you wish. It is a lingua’s function to inform; this individual’s presence should be viewed as part of the patrons’ hospitality.’

‘Thanks, that’s good to know,’ said Jarek. He didn’t mention the deal with Khesh. Though the Minister had given them the impression that the Aleph males were providing the beacon as a favour, Jarek doubted it was as simple as that. But for now at least, he wasn’t going to question the arrangement.

For the rest of that day, Ifanna lay unmoving on her filthy bed. She was vaguely aware of daylight growing, and of pain receding. The bar of light from the high window moved across the wall; as it crept up onto the ceiling, the healer returned. The woman cleaned up the last of the blood and examined Ifanna again.

‘My – the child?’ whispered Ifanna, not sure what she was asking.

‘Gone to the pyres with a priest’s blessing,’ said the healer gently.

That was something, at least.

After the healer left, Ifanna wanted to pray, but the words would not come. Instead she waited, empty and numb, for death.

When the door opened the next morning, it was almost a relief.

In the doorway stood the Rhethor of Plas Morfren, a muscular man of middle years who would have looked more like a farmer than a priest without his shaved head and robes. She might have expected the Rhethor himself to come for her, because he was the Reeve’s judge and a powerful priest, one who would not easily be turned by her will. She circled her breast, though it felt strange to make the gesture lying down.

‘The healer says you are able to stand,’ he said, ‘so get up.’

He did not call her
chilwar
– child – as a priest should when addressing a lay person, and Ifanna was chilled by this confirmation that, in the eyes of the servants of the Mothers at least, she was already beyond redemption. She stood, though it took some effort.

The Rhethor gestured behind him and men dressed in the Reeve’s livery came in to bind her. There were four of them in all; two held crossbows trained on her while the others hobbled her feet and tied her hands. Ifanna was oddly gratified at still being subject to such careful precautions. She wondered if the fear of her had grown; perhaps her fame had spread as she languished here. While the men checked her bonds, she asked, ‘
Gwas
, will there be many there?’ She called him ‘Father’, the priestly title of respect: to do otherwise would acknowledge her damned state.

‘What do you mean?’

‘At— At the trial.’ She should have given more thought to this! She determined now that she would retain her dignity to the end, and not beg, or curse.

‘You are not to be tried.’

‘I—’ Would they just kill her, without justice being seen to be done? ‘My mother said the Reeve would want a trial!’

‘Your mother is dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘She died some weeks back. She was one of the last victims of the falling fire.’

So Maman had gone to the Skymothers. No doubt she had died without speaking out against Da. Ifanna felt a quick flash of anger at her mother’s cowardice. Hard on the heels of that came shame, that she should think so badly of her own dead mother, and grief, for now she would never be reconciled to her. ‘And what of me?’ she asked faintly.

‘You are being given a chance you probably do not deserve,’ said the Rhethor. Then, to the men, ‘Bring her.’

Ifanna did not resist. Flanked by the guards, she let the Rhethor lead the way out of her cell. Though the corridor outside was as grim as the cell, the sight of a view that stretched beyond three paces nearly made her miss her step. She caught herself and carried on. By the time they came to the turning that led out of the cellblock she had adjusted to this small freedom, and to the possibility of more. ‘
Gwas
!’ she called out to the Rhethor, ‘what is to be my fate?’

For a moment she thought he had not heard her, or perhaps had decided to ignore her impudent question. Then he stopped, holding up a hand to stop the guards, and turned to face her. Beyond him Ifanna saw light, a door open to a bright morning. Her eyes drank in the sight.

‘Your mother came to see the Reeve while you were awaiting your trial,’ he said. ‘I do not know what passed between them, but after her death, he asked that I petition the Tyr to have you sent there rather than be tried in Plas Morfren. I believe he did not expect this request to be honoured, but he felt obliged to make it on Mistress Aelwen’s behalf.’

‘I do not— I am to go to the Tyr? To Dinas Emrys?’ She had heard tales of the City of Light, but never met anyone who had seen it for themselves. Yet her mother had travelled to Plas Morfren, no doubt against Da’s wishes, in order to petition that Ifanna be sent there. She felt a renewed wash of mingled shame and grief.

‘Aye. Once within the Tyr you will be judged by the Beloved Daughter of Heaven.’

‘The— The Cariad herself is to hear my case?’ Even as Ifanna’s hand circled her breast, dread began to descend.

‘I too was surprised when the Reeve’s request was granted, yet such is the will of Heaven.’ The Rhethor’s voice was sharp with resentment.

‘But—’ The Cariad would see into her soul, and be appalled at the corruption there. ‘This is not what I want! Let my end be here, please.’

The Rhethor took a step towards her. His face was in shadow, but Ifanna knew the signs of fury in a man. She cringed, tensing for the blow.

He did not strike her, but his voice was low and harsh. ‘How dare you question this decision! I would see you drowned for the abomination you are, but others have ruled that this is not to be. Now, you will not speak to me again, do you understand?’

Ifanna nodded, and the Rhethor turned on his heel. Ifanna followed, her heart racing. When they came out into the courtyard she bowed her head under the weight of the open sky, then forced herself to straighten. As she started to look around, something was slipped over her head. She flinched at the pressure across her eyes, until a voice behind her said quietly, ‘Steady there, and keep those eyes closed.’

She heard the Rhethor mutter, ‘Have you a spare blindfold?’

‘Aye,
Gwas
.’

‘Then use it to stop her mouth.’ As they tied the gag he called, ‘I would keep that on her,
chilwar
, lest her words corrupt you.’

Hands grabbed her arms and she was half-dragged, half-pushed forward. More hands lifted her up, and she was laid down ungently on a wooden floor. She heard voices, but could not make out any words, until someone ahead yelled ‘Hyup! Hyup!’ and the wooden floor began to move. So she was in a cart of some sort, most likely pulled by oxen . . .

She spent the rest of the day lying in the bottom of the cart, listening to the steady plod of hooves and the occasional snatches of conversation above her. It took her a while to differentiate the voices, but she had little else to do. She was being accompanied by three people, plus a driver. One was a priest, one a woman; the other appeared to be a guard, possibly the woman’s husband. Ifanna did not recognise any of the voices, and nothing they said gave her any further clue as to her fate in Dinas Emrys. She had awakened without hope this morning, believing her situation could not worsen, but she had been wrong: now she was to face Heaven’s judgment directly, while she yet lived. The Cariad’s fearsome gaze would reveal her every sin; her lies would be uncovered, her small powers of deception and control crushed by the will of the Skymothers’ earthly representative. All her secrets would be brought into the light – and those dark secrets were all she had. Of course the Skymothers knew everything already, but the Cariad was here, within Creation, as the living manifestation of their will. Ifanna wondered if her maman had wanted to send her to the Tyr for that very reason. Unable to face bringing the truth into the light herself, she had turned the task over to the gods. Ifanna dismissed the thought as unworthy at best, blasphemous at worst.

Yet the Rhethor had called it ‘a chance she did not deserve’ – did that mean she might somehow escape death? Or was he talking about a chance to redeem her soul, to not be eternally condemned to the Abyss? That was her deepest hope, and she turned her prayers towards it.

When the cart stopped for the night her gag was removed, though the blindfold and bindings remained. The woman held a cup to her lips and spooned pottage into her mouth, then replaced the gag and led her away from the camp to relieve herself.

Ifanna was told to lie down beside the cart; her hands were tied to one wheel, her feet to the other. They were obviously not taking any chances. As her companions were about to settle for the night the woman said, ‘Mothers preserve us! That was a bright one!’

Ifanna had no clue what she was talking about, but the comment provoked uneasy muttering from the others.

The next day she tried to distract herself from brooding by focusing on the sounds from beyond the cart: the
thrum
and
caw
of a paddywader taking wing, and the calls of men splashing through the fields – from the sound of it, harvest had begun.

That evening, after she had been fed and before the gag was replaced, she asked meekly whether she might be allowed to sit up the next day. She received no answer, but in the morning they sat her upright on the floor of the cart, propped up between the end-board and the woman.

It rained that night; the others, asleep under the cart, remained dry while she got soaked.

She had no idea how far it was to the City of Light. From the fifth day on, the sounds around them began to change. Instead of splashes and the sucking of mud she heard the swish of blades cutting crops, and the sounds of unknown animals, quite different from the lowing of water-oxen. The very air began to change; it felt somehow thinner and drier.

The next day was the Sevenday, and she was left tied to the cart while her companions attended a service nearby; the wind brought the sound of chanting to her. She tried to form her own prayers in her head.

She listened intently to the everyday talk of her companions, who were all members of the Reeve’s household. The man and woman had volunteered for this job in order to see their son, who was an acolyte in the Tyr, and a source of great pride to them. The driver had coins to trade for luxuries not available elsewhere, so the cart would not return to Plas Morfren empty. And the priest was there to offset Ifanna’s evil influence – though he too was looking forward to visiting the holiest place in Creation.

The sight on which the woman had commented that first night occurred again regularly, and Ifanna finally pieced together that they were seeing mysterious lights appearing briefly in the sky, as had happened every night since a single, bright light had appeared around Midsummer. These strange omens were causing great unease.

The road began to improve, something Ifanna, sitting on the hard wooden floor of the cart, was grateful for. They passed other travellers more often now. She wondered if any of them saw her, sitting low in the cart.

She tried not to consider the future, for whenever she did, terror flooded her soul. Given the choice she might take her own life rather than face the Cariad, but there was no more chance of that than there was of making her escape. And if she did kill herself, then her soul would be doubly damned.

Taro was happy to leave the talking to Jarek, who asked the lingua about everything, from how their hab was set up to the wheelings and dealings of the Aleph ‘patrons’ (a good word, thought Taro; from what the lingua said the males were as possessive of ‘their’ humans as Khesh was). When Jarek’s stomach grumbled loudly enough to be heard over the conversation, they moved from the garden to the diner, and carried on talking while they ate. Nual stayed in the background, trying to make like she wasn’t there, though Taro knew she’d be listening for lies.

In the garden Vy had been sulky but quiet; when they moved inside he started getting twitchy again. Finally, in one of his freaky outbreaks of formal speech, he asked sniffily how long it was going to take to organise ‘a private talk with the powers that be’.