The Cellar Beneath the Cellar (Bell Mountain) (16 page)

“It’s white through and through,” Ellayne said. “It’s like an old man’s beard.”

“Your hair’s still brown, though,” Jack said.

“I can fix that.”

They made a campfire, and while it burned, Martis cut Ellayne’s hair to make her look like a boy, doing a much better job of it than Jack had ever done. Wytt eagerly collected the hair that fell to the ground.

“Why do you like my hair so much?” Ellayne asked him.

Wytt tried to answer in his limited Omah way, which was not quite speech—tried, but didn’t entirely succeed.

“What’s he saying?” Martis wondered.

“Something about my hair being like sunbeams.” You could see Ellayne found that flattering, and liked it.

“And something more,” Jack said. “It’s hard to make sense of it: something about a Promise that somebody gave them long ago, that they’ve always waited for. What kind of promise, or by who, I can’t make out.”

Of course they all knew the Scriptures said “the hairy ones” would inherit the great cities of Obann and possess the ruins. But that was all they knew about it, and Wytt couldn’t explain it any further.

Martis kept feeding the fire until he had a goodly pile of ash. He took this up in his hands and rubbed it into his hair. “I want it to look naturally grey, and not just full of ashes,” he said. “Tell me when I’ve done enough.”

“It looks pretty good already,” Ellayne said; so he didn’t add any more.

“We’ll wait until we get to Caristun to decide whether to go on to Obann by land or water,” he said. “We’ll tell people you’re my grandsons and we’re refugees fleeing from the Heathen, that we came down from the hills. There’ll be plenty of refugees. Jack’s a common enough name, so you won’t need a new one. But Ellayne from now on will just be ‘Layne,’ a boy’s name.

“The closer we come to Obann, the safer we should be. I know the First Prester: he’ll have his men searching for you far afield. In the Old City we should be very safe indeed. The patrols never go there if they can help it. And then we can search for your cellar beneath a cellar.”

“Whatever that means,” Jack muttered.

The Heathen army came down the hills from Silvertown while Jack and his companions crossed the plain to Caristun. In the forest, Helki and Andrus spied on Squint-eye.

The divisions of the army reunited in a narrow land between the wooded foothills and the northeast spur of Lintum Forest. From there they could either swing around the forest to the south or march alongside it to the north and west. The southern route would be the easy way; if they went north and west, there would soon be fighting. Normally the mardar would have made the decision, instructed by the Great Man’s will. Now the chieftains would decide. They brought in Obst to consult with them in the big black tent.

“Is it your god’s will that we march north, or would he rather we marched south?” asked Shaffur, the Wallekki. All twelve of the chiefs sat on their stools, and Obst stood before them. Later Ryons chided him for not demanding a stool for himself. “The mardar would have sat, and made them stand,” he said.

Obst thought God would best be pleased if the Heathen all went home, but he didn’t say so.

“My chieftains,” he said, “God will not advise you on the best means of making war on people who never did you any wrong. Nor, it seems, will He restrain you: for the people have wronged Him. He will protect you from the false god in the East if you put your trust in Him. God wills that all men live in peace with one another, but He does not force them to.”

“So either way we go is just as well with him: suits me!” said Spider, the Abnak. “North’s the best way, toward all those towns along the river.”

“And at the end of it, the great city of Obann,” said Szugetai, the horse-lord. His eyes glistened. “That’s the prize we came for.”

“Our friends in the forest tell us the westmen have not yet sent an army to Lintum Forest,” Shaffur said; and Obst wondered who those friends were. “Instead, they are strengthening their cities up and down the river. The more of them we kill out there, the fewer to defend Obann. And it may be we’ll be able to pen them up in their cities like camels, while we pass by and make straight for Obann. Once we’re on the open plain, we can strike in any direction we please.” All of the chiefs nodded: this was good generalship.

“So, old man,” he said to Obst, “your god will neither help nor hinder us. That’s good news.”

“He has not told me that He has marked this host for destruction, warlord,” Obst said. “Even so, He will be watching you.”

“Then we shall give him a good show,” said Spider.

Crossing the plain at its narrowest point was only a three days’ journey for Jack, Ellayne, and Martis. Once they saw a giant bird in the distance, but it went on its way without attacking them.

“I’d feel better if I had a crossbow,” Martis said. He was leading Dulayl, with Jack and Ellayne riding the horse, and Ham the donkey carrying their gear.

Having had his first horse killed and eaten by a bird, and himself with two narrow escapes already to his credit, Martis had a dread of the flightless monsters. But he’d lost the mindless panic they once inspired in him. Now he saw the birds as just another one of many ways to die. But he didn’t speak of it.

They found Caristun a beehive of activity—militia drilling on the fields beside the river, crews laboring feverishly to strengthen the walls; boats swarming around the docks, laden with supplies and passengers; crowds milling this way and that; and guards at the gates to bar any more refugees from entering the town.

“We’re only taking able-bodied men—no women, no children,” an armed sentry told them. “If you want to stay, pop, and lend a hand in the defense, we’ll find a place for you. You can send the kiddies on to Obann. But the three of you together can’t come in.”

“Can we get passage on a boat?” Martis asked.

“Sure—if you’ve got a wheelbarrow full of gold.”

A tent city had sprung up below the walls, the only shelter to a host of people fleeing from the east. Some slept under their carts. Jack, Ellayne, and Martis had only their blankets, and there was no firewood to be had at any price.

“It’ll be a long walk to Obann,” Martis said, “but at least we have a horse and a donkey. And maybe we’ll have better luck at Cardigal, where the Chariot River flows into the Imperial.”

“We went to Cardigal once,” Ellayne said. “It’s a real city, bigger than Caristun.” Jack had never been west of Caristun. “My father was a guest at the oligarch’s annual dinner for the councilors.”

That, of course, reminded her that now her father and her mother and her brothers were all stuck in Ninneburky—which had no stone walls, but only a wooden palisade—waiting for the Heathen. She might never see them again. But she didn’t want to cry in front of Martis.

Jack surprised her by saying, “They’ll be all right, Ellayne. We’ll pray for them. If God’s going to send us on these endless errands, the least He can do is keep your folks safe while you’re gone.”

Ellayne nodded. If worst came to worst, the people in Ninneburky could always flee across the river and take refuge in Oziah’s Wood. And the walls of Ninneburky, although not of stone, would be made as strong as possible. Chief Councilor Roshay Bault was not a man to be conquered easily.

In Obann, Lord Reesh sat presiding over a special meeting of the Synod of Presters—all of them, at least, who were able to attend. Many of those in the east had chosen to stay where they were, rather than risk capture by a Heathen scouting party. There were at least two Heathen hosts across the mountains now, with more expected. Wallekki horsemen had been sighted on both sides of the river.

The purpose of the meeting was to announce the discovery of a long-lost fascicle of the Book of Batha the Seer, one of the earliest of the prophets. Batha lived in the days before there was a kingdom of Obann, and little was known of him.

An obscure scholar, a reciter of no prominence, discovered the fascicle in the Temple archives where, for all Reesh knew, many such discoveries remained to be made. It was written on a parchment wrapped around an ancient ledger devoted to Temple finances. Prester Orth, who had composed the verses himself and treated the parchment to make it look old, arranged for the scholar to discover it. As far as the scholar knew, the relic was genuine. He was a little bald fellow named Occus, who’d served the Temple all his life and never came close to being ordained a prester. Today he addressed the leading presters in Obann, under the blue dome of the Oligarchs’ Chapel.

He was reading from a copy of the counterfeit scripture, and just coming to the important part of it.

“Hear me, my people,” he read, “because you have not destroyed the Heathen, nor cast them out, they shall destroy you, and cast you out. Because you have given them your daughters in marriage, they shall take your daughters without your consent. Because your sons have taken their daughters in marriage, they shall take your sons into captivity. Because you have not destroyed their idols, as I have commanded you, you shall be made to serve their idols.

“Nevertheless, says the Lord, you shall one day obey Me and destroy them; for I shall stir them up against you, and they will be to you as hornets, and a plague of locusts. And you shall know that in those days you must surely destroy them utterly, from one sea to the other sea, lest they expunge you from the face of the earth. For on that day you shall know—”

Occus stopped reading and laid the paper aside. “Here the page is torn away,” he said. “It may be that I’ll find the rest of it somewhere in the archives. But I think you’ll agree, gentlemen, that finding this much of it, at this point in our nation’s history, is providential.”

A murmur of assent rose from the presters in the pews. Reesh stole a look at Orth’s face and liked what he saw—no hint of satisfaction in a job well done.

“Too providential, if you ask me!”

That was Prester Jod speaking up: he came from the city of Durmurot by the mouths of the great river. He was a big handsome man noted for his piety, but not one of Reesh’s favorites.

“Prester? I don’t understand—”

Jod ignored Occus and stood up, addressing the whole congregation.

“Brothers, there is a curse on any man who adds to or subtracts from Holy Scripture.” His voice rang in the hall, and there was some muttering from certain parties who agreed with him. Reesh took careful note of who they were. “We must bear that curse in mind before we accept these verses as authentic.”

Reesh had anticipated something like this, and prepared for it. But he would leave the debate to others. He never spoke at synods, except to open and close them. So Orth stood up.

“Our learned brother is quite right to be cautious,” Orth said. “However, the fascicle fragment has been closely studied by scholars of no small reputation—including myself—and pronounced authentic. The language, the formation of the letters, the punctuation: all belong to an archaic period, the time of Batha the Seer. Although I grant you it is almost certainly a later copy. We have no evidence that sheepskin parchment was used in Batha’s day.”

“There is no mention of these verses in even the oldest commentaries on Batha,” Jod answered, “nor by any of the prophets that followed him. Nor does Batha himself make mention of the Heathen in any other sayings. At a time when our country is in mortal peril, we should be offering up prayers, not pranks.”

This set the whole hall buzzing. Angry voices clashed. Reesh pounded his gavel until the noise subsided.

“Thank you, my lord First Prester!” Orth said. “The authentication committee having approved these verses, I don’t know what Prester Jod would have of us. Is it so strange that in these days, when our towns and cities are overrun with false prophets, God would send us a message by a true prophet? But I have heard that Prester Jod, in his own city of Durmurot, has been not unsympathetic to the false prophets in the streets.”

Again Reesh had to pound the gavel. Orth was getting carried away with his own eloquence, he thought. He would speak to him about it later.

“My learned brother knows the Scriptures,” Jod said. “‘Out of the mouths of infants ye shall know wisdom.’ And out of the mouths of old women, slaves, and madmen, too! These poor creatures are not out on the streets for their own amusement, presters. I’ve taken the trouble to question some of them myself. It may be that there are lunatics among them and mere imitators. But there are others who quote Scripture who cannot read it, nor have ever had it read to them. The spirit of prophecy is in them. They haven’t the cunning, or the learning, to pretend. And they were all perfectly ordinary, normal people—until they heard the bell.”