The Cataclysm (7 page)

As the hills slipped away to either side, Matya began to feel a growing sense of unease.
The land around them was strangely silent. There are no birds here, she realized with a start, here where the
meadows should have been filled with birds.

It was late in the afternoon, and the amber sunlight had grown heavy and dull, when the
wagon crested a low ridge. Below lay a small, grassy dell, and in its center stood -

“Tambor,” Trevarre said triumphantly.

Matya shook her head in astonishment. She had expected to see a pile of ruins in the dell,
the burned-out husks of a few cottages perhaps, and some crumbling stone walls. Instead
she saw a prosperous village. More than a score of well-tended cottages lined a main
street, busy with people, horses, chickens, and dogs. Smoke rose from a low stone building
- probably a smithy - and a mill's waterwheel turned slowly in a small stream.

“You have kept your end of the bargain, Matya,” Trevarre said solemnly. “Now it is my
turn.” He handed her the leather pouch that contained the doll. Matya gripped the purse
with numb hands.

The kender had been wrong, she told herself, that was all. Tambor had NOT been destroyed
in the Cataclysm. Matya didn't know why she was surprised. Still, there was something
about this that did not seem entirely right.

“What is such a prosperous village doing at the end of such an overgrown road?” she asked
herself, but she had no answer. Not that it mattered. She had the doll now. That was all
she cared about.

“I can walk the rest of the way,” Trevarre said, starting to climb down from the wagon,
but Matya stayed him with a hand on his arm.

“I know it's hard, but try not to be a fool, Knight. I'll take you into the village. I'll
need to stay here anyway. It's growing late. I'll set out again in the morning.”

Matya guided the wagon to the banks of the stream. A small stone bridge arched over the
clear, flowing water. A young woman stood on the far side of the stream. She was clad in a
gown of flowing white, and her hair was as dark as jet. She was beautiful, as beautiful as
the porcelain doll.

“My knight, you have come to me!” the woman cried out. Her voice was the doll's sweet
voice. Matya thought this odd, disconcerting, but it didn't bother Trevarre. His pale eyes
shining, he slipped from the wagon and limped across the stone bridge, ignoring the pain
of his injury. He knelt before the young woman and kissed her fine-boned hand.

Matya scowled. He never kissed my hand, she thought sourly.

“I am Ciri,” said the sweet voice. “Welcome, Sir Knight. My deliverance is at hand.”

*****

Ciri led Trevarre and Matya around the edge of the village. “Quickly,” she said softly.
“The fewer the folk who see us, the better.”

Matya wondered why, but it wasn't HER place to ask. Trevarre tried to walk faster, but it
was clear his wounded leg was causing him great pain. Ciri laid a fine hand on his elbow,
and the grimace eased from the knight's face. He walked more easily with her hand on his
arm. Matya noticed that Trevarre seemed to have taken more than a passing interest in
Ciri's lovely face. “I'll warrant he's more interested in her looks than his honor,” she
muttered, suddenly annoyed for no particular reason.

As they walked, Matya looked at the village in the ruddy light of the setting sun. Nothing
appeared out of order, but something was not right. You're tired, Matya, that's all, she
told herself. Tomorrow you'll ride into Garnet and leave this knight and his foolishness
behind. That thought should have made her feel better, but it didn't.

Ciri led them to a small, thatch-roofed cottage standing slightly apart from the others.
She looked about to make certain no one was watching, then opened the door, gesturing for
Trevarre and Matya to enter.

The cottage was warm and neatly kept. A fire burned on the fieldstone hearth, and the
wooden floor had been scrubbed clean. Ciri bade them sit down. She filled a wooden cup
with crimson wine for each of them. Matya raised the cup of wine, then set it down without
drinking it. It had a funny smell to it. Trevarre, however, drank deeply, thanking the
woman for her hospitality - all politeness, as his Measure called for, Matya supposed with
a frown.

“And now, my lady, you must tell me why you have called to me,” Trevarre said. Ciri smiled
at him, a sweet, sorrowful smile. “And I hope your reason is a good one,” Matya noted,
crossing her arms. “It was no mean feat getting this knight here, I'll tell you” Ciri turned her gaze toward Matya for a moment,
and suddenly her smile was neither sweet nor sorrowful. 'Tor that, I do thank you, my good
woman," Ciri said. Matya could not mistake the coldness in Ciri's otherwise lovely voice.
It was clear that Matya's presence had not been expected; neither was it wanted.

Ciri's gaze turned soft again as she regarded the knight. Matya scowled, but she said
nothing. If the young woman feared competition for the knight's attention, then she was as
much a fool as Trevarre. There was little room in a bargain driver's life for love. Such
fancies dulled the sharp edge Matya depended on for her livelihood. Besides, there was
nothing about the knight she liked, even if his pale eyes were strangely attractive and
his voice DID remind her of a trumpet's call.

The gloom of twilight descended outside the cottage's window. Ciri began her tale. “I fear
the fate that lies before me is dark, my knight. A terrible wizard - my uncle - means to
force me to marry him, against all propriety and my own wishes. He is a mage of great
power, feared by all the folk of Tambor, and even beyond. He is away now, gathering
components for his magecraft, but when he returns, he will compel me to wed. You have
arrived none too soon, my knight.”

“Well, why don't you simply run away?” Matya asked. Ciri gave her another chill look. “I
fear it is not so simple. You see, my uncle dabbles in the BLACK ARTS, heedless of the
peril to his soul. He has cast an enchantment upon me. I am unable to leave the village.
The banks of the stream are as far as I may tread. Should I take but one step beyond, I
would perish.”

“But what of your father?” Trevarre asked. “Will he not protect you from your barbarous
uncle?”

Ciri shook her head sadly. “My father and mother both died many years ago. There is no one
here to protect me. That was why I wove the boat of rushes and sent the doll down the
waters of the stream, hoping someone might find it and hear my plea”

“How does the doll speak with your voice?” Matya asked, not caring if she aroused more of
Ciri's displeasure.

“It was but the echo of my voice,” Ciri explained, her eyes on the knight. “The doll is a
magical thing. My rather brought it all the way from Palanthas for me when I was a child. If you speak to it, or
sing it a song, it will echo your words back to you with the rising moon, exactly as you
spoke them.”

Matya's eyes glittered brightly. This was better and better. The doll would be almost
beyond price. ALMOST, that is. Matya always had a price.

“And how can I break this grievous enchantment?” Trevarre asked earnestly. He was good at
this knightly business, Matya had to admit, despite his sorry looks. Ciri stood and walked
to the window, gazed through it sadly a moment, then turned to the knight.

“There, in the center of the village, stands a shrine. In that shrine is an altar carved
of marble. The altar is the focus of all my uncle's dark powers. I know, for I have seen
him work his wicked spells there. From it, he draws his strength. But the magic of the
doll has the power to counter it. If one who is strong of heart sets the doll upon the
altar of his own free will, the enchantment will be broken.”

“And what will happen to the doll?” Matya asked suspiciously.

“Its magic will be dissipated,” Ciri answered. “It will become an ordinary doll and
nothing more.”

She walked to Trevarre then, and he rose to meet her. She laid a hand gently upon his
breastplate. Matya could see the pulse beating rapidly in the man's throat. It was clear
Trevarre was not immune to Ciri's bewitching beauty. Another weakness of knights, Matya
thought acidly. Not that she cared one way or the other, she reminded herself.

“Will you do this task for me, my knight?” Ciri pleaded. “I cannot break the enchantment
with my own hand, and there is none in the village brave enough to defy my uncle. Will you
help me?”

Trevarre sighed and glanced at Matya. “I would, with all my heart, that I could do this
thing, my lady, but I fear I cannot. You see, I have given Matya the doll in payment for
bringing me to this place. On my honor, I cannot ask her for it back”

Ciri's face twitched. She shot Matya a look so filled with malice that Matya shivered.
Then, aware of the knight's eyes on her, Ciri's sweet, sorrowful look had returned to her
lovely face. She bowed her head.

“Then I am doomed, my knight.”

“No,” he said, with a fierce smile. “No, I cannot think that. I am no sorcerer, but I
expect there is another - albeit cruder - way to free you.” His hand moved to the hilt of
the sword at his hip. “I will stand before your uncle when he returns, and I will demand a
duel. The enchantment will be broken when your uncle lies dead at my feet. Won't that
solve your problem, my lady?”

Ciri sighed. “My knight, you are indeed brave,” she murmured. “So very brave.”

Matya noticed, however, that Ciri did not answer Trevarre's question.

*****

Matya awoke in the gray light before dawn. Ciri had provided her a bed. Trevarre slept
soundly on a bed of furs before the cottage's hearth. Matya looked around the cottage, but
Ciri was nowhere to be seen.

Just as well, Matya thought. This way she would not have to bid the strange young woman
good-bye.

Matya knelt beside the sleeping knight before she left. His careworn face was peaceful in
slumber, his brow untroubled.

“I hope you find your honor truly reward enough, Knight,” she whispered softly. She
hesitated a moment, then reached out a hand, as if to smooth his mouse-brown hair over the
bandage on his head. He stirred, and she pulled her hand back. Quietly, Matya slipped from
the cottage.

“Trevarre has what he wants,” she reminded herself, “and so do I.”

The ruddy orb of the sun crested the dim purple mountains to the east as Matya made her
way through the village. A few folk already were up at this hour, but they paid her no
heed as they went about their business. Once again, Matya had the feeling there was
something peculiar about this village, but she could not quite fathom what it was. She
hurried on toward her wagon and the restless Rabbit.

Then it struck her. “The shadows are all wrong!” she said aloud. Her own shadow stretched
long before her in the low morning sunlight, but hers was the only shadow that looked like it was supposed to look.
The shadow cast by a two-

story cottage to her left was short and lumpy - much shorter than she would have expected
for a building so high. She looked all around the village and saw more examples of the
same. Nowhere did the outline of a shadow match that of the object that cast it. Even more
disturbing were the villagers themselves. None of them cast shadows at all!

Her sense of unease growing, Matya gathered up her skirts and hurried onto the stone
bridge. She suddenly wanted to be away from this troubling place. She was nearly across
the bridge when something - she was unsure exactly what - compelled her to cast one last
glance over her shoulder. Abruptly she froze, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a
cry.

The village had changed.

Well-tended cottages were nothing more than broken, burned stone foundations. The smithy
was a pile of rubble, and there was no trace of the mill except for the rotted remains of
the waterwheel, slumped by the bank of the stream, looking like the twisted web of some
enormous spider. There were no people, no horses, no dogs, no chickens. The dell was bare.
The dark ground was hard and cracked, as if it had been baked in a furnace.

Matya's heart lurched. She ran a few, hesitant steps back across the bridge, toward the
village, and she gasped again. Tambor looked as it had before, the villagers going about
their business. Blue smoke rose from a score of stone chimneys.

Perhaps I imagined it, she thought, but she knew that wasn't true. Slowly, she turned her
back to the village once more and walked across the bridge. She looked out of the comer of
her eye and again saw the jumbled ruins and blackened earth behind her. Slowly, she began
to understand.

Tambor HAD been destroyed in the Cataclysm. The people, the bustling village, were images
of what had been long ago. It was all illusion. Except the illusion was imperfect, Matya
realized. It appeared only when she traveled TOWARD the village, not AWAY from it. But how
did the illusion come to exist in the first place?

Resolutely, Matya walked back across the bridge. She found that, if she concentrated, the
illusion of the bustling village would waver and grow transparent before her eyes, and she
could see the blackened ruins beneath. She walked to the center of the village, toward the single standing stone of pitted black basalt.
This was the shrine of which Ciri had spoken. At the base of the standing stone was an
altar, but it was not hewn of marble, as Ciri had claimed. The altar was built of human
skulls, cemented together with mud. They grinned at Matya, staring at her with their dark,
hollow eyes.

“Did you really think I would allow you to leave with the doll?” Ciri spoke behind her in
a voice cool and sweet.

Startled, Matya turned around. She half expected to see that Ciri had changed like the
rest of the village. The woman was as lovely as ever, but there was a hard, deadly light
in her sapphire-blue eyes.

Ciri gazed at Matya, then understanding flickered across her face. “Ah, you see the
village for what it is, don't you?”

Matya nodded silently, unable to speak.