In the Earth Abides the Flame (49 page)

It had been about two years previously that the King of Straux had travelled to Instruere, bringing with him the notion of enlisting Bhrudwan help with the governance of the Sixteen Kingdoms. After overcoming his initial resistance to the idea - what child from Straux had not been taught to abhor the hated occupiers of long ago? - his administrator's soul saw the advantages of the arrangement. The imposition of unity where none existed, and would never exist if the kingdoms were left alone; the offer of financial assistance and the promise of legalised trade; and the infusion of new and vigorous ideas into what was undoubtedly a dying Falthan culture. The extra inducements offered him were hardly necessary, indeed somewhat insulting; but he took them anyway so his king and country would not lose face. Or so he told himself.

The Arkhos of Nemohaim, a repulsive man whom he had never liked, took him aside at the end of the next Council and welcomed him into the group he named the Falthan Patriots. He was surprised and a little chagrined to learn he was not the first Councillor so approached. 'Of course, we of necessity required such a one as you,' the fat man said, his breath wheezing. 'I'm so glad you chose the path of progress.' Perhaps he had imagined the subtle threat fringing his words: we can replace you at any time if your performance leaves anything to be desired.

From that time the Patriots met secretly, for fear of alerting the traditional element of the Council; and by the time those foolish northerners presented their distorted information to them all, the Patriots were well prepared. The removal and elimination of the old loyalists was necessary, and he thoroughly approved. Those were the ones who asked the awkward questions, insisting that the chain of command be followed, that every Councillor be accountable to the Council, and other such tiresome and time-wasting restrictions. Hadn't they realised their job was to get things done? Some of the others might not care, but he was determined to make his mark on Falthan affairs, and already he sensed time was running out.

So now the Arkhos of Nemohaim was gone (for that, if nothing else, he owed a debt to the Bhrudwan), leaving the city in chaos. Curse the misfortune that allowed crises to coincide with a change of leadership! However, if Deorc took care of the petty disturbances, he could get on with the more pressing tasks. It was with relief and not a little satisfaction that the Arkhos of Straux reached his private quarters, summoned his secretary and began work on a revised guard roster.

It was at the beginning of the third week that the basement gathering began to be known as the Ecclesia. The identity of the one who bestowed the name was never recorded, but within two or three days of the name being given it was the shorthand used in conversations all around the city. The Ecclesia became the dominant subject of discussion not just with the general populace, but also with a range of special-interest groups from the Council of Faltha through to underground political groups, including the remnants of Escaigne. Many such groups sent unannounced representatives to Foilzie's basement to look for ways to control the Ecclesia, to bend it to their own ends. People from all sectors of society converged on this new movement: the rich and cynical, to acquaint themselves with the source of the gossip or simply to mock the spectacle; the depressed and destitute, seeking against hope and reason for the one thing that would make all the difference; the Instruian middle class, frightened by the turmoil and the rumours in their city, frustrated by their inability to achieve their goals. And amidst them all, people looking for the Most High.

Stella watched them all come to the basement. She listened to them talk, listened to their ideas and dreams, their hopes and fears; and, where she could, tried to explain what the Ecclesia was about. At first this was difficult, for no one was really sure what was happening. Later, however, she and the other members of the Company became proficient in introducing people to the Ecclesia.

'For two thousand years the Most High has remained remote from human affairs,' she said to a group of first-time visitors. 'But not any more. He wants to reveal himself to the sons and daughters of the First Men, and he has begun right here, in this basement. From here it will spread throughout Instruere, throughout Faltha.'

'How does he reveal himself?' an older lady wanted to know.

'Come back tonight; you'll see people shaking and laughing as they are touched by his fire.'

'What's all that got to do with religion?' asked another. 'That sort of stuff's just a put-on.'

'The Hermit says that whenever the Most High comes to dwell in a person, our weak, mortal flesh cannot bear it. We can't hold it in. He says it's no surprise such things manifest, with the power contained within us.'

In the few days the Company had been involved in giving this explanation, they had come to expect most people would leave at this point. After two thousand years of religious indifference, some just couldn't conceive of a hands-on religion like this. 'The doubters will mock, and many will leave,' the Hermit warned them. 'But we are better off without them.

Their presence in the basement offends the spirit of the Most High, and dampens the fire.

Let them go! We have our hands full with believers.' And that certainly was true.

Near the back of the group stood a tall, dark-skinned man with fine, even delicate features.

'What do you plan to do with this "fire" you have placed among the people? How will you shape it?' His plucked eyebrows arched together as he pitched his question.

'Ah - we have no plans for anything,' Stella replied, momentarily disconcerted. 'There's been talk about the Council of Faltha, but the Hermit says our mission is spiritual, not physical. I guess everyone knows we came here from Firanes to warn the Council about the coming Bhrudwan invasion, but were ignored. It looks to us like the Most High has a different plan for our defence than we imagined.'

'You going to laugh them to death?' suggested one bored youth at the fringe of the crowd, but no one joined with his mirth.

'Tell me,' said the dark-skinned man. 'Is the fire for Bhrudwans too?' He directed his eyes at Stella, and for a moment it seemed to her his real intent had been masked by the words: tell me: could you fall in love with a Bhrudwan? She shook off her momentary foolishness. 'I don't see why not,' she answered, smiling. 'Perhaps that is his plan. Perhaps if they find the fire, they will not want to attack.'

'Perhaps you're right,' he said; and as he spoke she could tell from his eyes that he would be one to receive the fire.

LEITH THOUGHT THEY WOULD never make the brow of the hill, the long, slow hill they had been climbing all that afternoon, but finally, as the sky began to purple, the slope gave way to the hill's crown. He and the Arkhimm were rewarded with a distant view of the Almucantaran Mountains. Three days they had messed about in the broken maze of foothills that led southwards from the Valley of a Thousand Fires, climbing steadily all the while. The path was in serious disrepair and they lost it at least half a dozen times. Heavy rain during the winter was no doubt responsible for the state of the path, seldom used at the best of times.

Years could pass without the tread of human feet, according to Prince Wiusago, and consequently the Arkhimm fought their way through thistle and briar. The third time they lost the track almost proved disastrous. They found themselves above a sheer bluff overlooking a steep-sided gorge, and spent an afternoon working back up a cruelly steep ridge. But now the Almucantaran Mountains, closer on their right, stretched away to the left, impossibly sheer snow-tipped peaks fading into the hazy distance. There, on the edge of sight, towering storm clouds straddled the mountains like dark riders astride their pale mounts. And between them and their goal lay ridge after wooded ridge, green into blue into purple like waves of the sea fading into the misty distance, a sight disturbingly similar to the wild North March surf during a spring westerly. An inhuman place, a place in which a man might drown.

Prince Wiusago frowned as he looked out over the sea of ridges and valleys ahead of them.

He had been here once before, perhaps seven years ago, when he had been learning the warrior's craft, and others had been responsible for the route they took.

'I thought I would be able to find a way through for us,' he admitted to the others. 'But I remember virtually nothing. I'm afraid I might not be of much use to you.'

'Great,' said Te Tuahangata. Kurr groaned, Phemanderac frowned. The others said nothing, but the prince's bleak words served to increase their already overwhelming sense of insignificance in this vast, pathless land. The full history of this mountainous region was not known to any of them. Wiusago, as prince of Deruys, knew some of it, and Te Tuahangata was aware perhaps of even more, and so both kept silent. The land ahead was a place of dread, a place of death, a place of destruction beyond the knowledge of the Arkhimm. They would not win its crossing easily.

The Arkhimm rested that night on the high ridge bordering the land of Astraea. In the morning they started down the ridge in the general direction of the highest of the Almucantaran Mountains, in the absence of any better plan.

The Arkhos of Nemohaim had been having a rough time. After he and his band had lost contact with the northerners in Straux, having failed to resolve the strange affair of The Reveller's Rest in Kinnekin, they took time to search thoroughly through southern Straux and into the broken country of coastal Deruys. He was tempted to stop at Brunhaven and inquire of the Deruvian king whether any northern travellers had been seen within his borders; but he abandoned the thought, realising the foolishly Falthan-loyal King of Deruys would be unlikely to supply him with any information; and even if he did, it was likely to be so cryptic as to be unusable. So in great frustration he and his entourage thundered through Brunhaven just after dawn on a grey morning, looking to the inhabitants like a group of maniacal avengers.

It was after Brunhaven the troubles began. No peasant, no farmer, no one on the road claimed to have seen his quarry, however

roughly questioned. Undoubtedly the northerners had obtained horses by now, and were probably making better time than he. Of necessity, he travelled somewhat slower than others might. The Arkhos of Nemohaim was a frustrated man.

His temper did not improve when, a week south of Brunhaven and in the Southern Marches of Deruys, within sight of the mountains of his home, they were held up and robbed by a surprisingly large and well-armed band of highwaymen. Their food, money and weaponry were taken; yet, incredibly, they were left unharmed and with their horses even though they were defenceless. It was not until he reflected on this in a calmer mood that he realised these were soldiers, not highwaymen. But if the raid was inspired by Deorc, why did he not take the opportunity to have him finished off? And if it was not Deorc seeking to harry him, who was it?

The reason they were left with their horses became perfectly obvious later on that miserable day. Up in the mountains to the east dark storm clouds brooded, drenching the western margins of the ill-reputed land of Mist with late spring rains. Swift streams brought that water rushing down to the sea in foaming brown torrents: one such river appeared to have destroyed the bridge crossing it, leaving a few boards tenuously attached to each other.

'It will take our weight, my lord, and perhaps yours; but it will not support the horses'.' The Captain of the Guard still smarted from the indignity of the morning's ambush. He spoke diffidently, fearing to raise the Arkhos's ire.

'How far to the next bridge over this stream?' The Arkhos of Nemohaim chose not to indulge in the luxury of anger.

'My lord, there is no other bridge.'

The Arkhos scowled, but inside he knew fear. Not because of the delay this would cause, but because he knew this was the only bridge - this was, after all, his own country - and had forgotten. He did not forget things like this. The fear came because this was not the first time he had read in himself signs his supreme efficiency was disintegrating, falling apart from the inside out; the ultimate disaster for such a man as he.

'Yes, yes,' he said brusquely. 'Then we must abandon the horses and walk.'

'My lord?'

'This will add a week to our journey.' The Arkhos recovered himself by being brutally honest.

'Unless we can procure horses on the other side of this stream.'

'You are the Arkhos of Nemohaim,' said the Archivist. 'Surely horses will be made available for you? Every peasant in the land would regard it as an honour.'

'Not here, and not in Nemohaim,' said the Captain of the Guard. 'Here the people are fiercely independent. They pride themselves on it. We will get nothing without paying for it. The king himself would not be able to command a horse.'

'So how—'

'Did I say anything about paying for them?' said the Arkhos. Really, this scholar was astonishingly naive. He looked forward to the day when the Archivist became unnecessary.

For two days the Arkhimm maintained their direction by the simple expedient of sighting the mountains from the ridgetops. It became obvious that this continual traipsing up and down ridges, rather than being able to follow the valleys, would cost them both time and strength; but there seemed no alternative. What disconcerted Leith most was that after two days'

walking the mountains remained exactly the same distance away.

Then the weather closed in. Pale clouds came towards them from all sides, forming an unbroken roof over their heads. They opened to pour water in the sort of torrential deluge that at home would have sent Leith, who loved the rain, scurrying outside in wonder and delight.

But not here. Here the rain beat at the ground like hammers on an anvil, as though the heavens sought to cleanse the land, or strip it bare, or drive the interlopers into the ground.

The Arkhimm could no longer sight the Almucantaran Mountains from the ridgetops. Indeed, such was the force of the rain, and such was its duration, they could not contemplate ascending the ridges. They kept to the valleys, seeking shelter and some semblance of dryness, while avoiding the streams that boiled into torrents even as they watched. Their progress was slow. Worse, they had no means to ascertain whether their exertions were for good or ill, whether they drew closer to or further from their goal, which discouraged them deeply.