The River Wall (8 page)

“With the Ra’ira, Ferrathyn can learn what’s going on anywhere in Gandalara,” I said. “I doubt he exercises it often, but he has the capability, and we don’t—not alone.”

Charol frowned. “You have our willingness to share with you any and all information which comes to us,” he said. “But our maufel are trained only for their local areas.”

It was a feature of the bird-handlers’ gift that they could direct their maufa only to places which they had visited personally. I thought Charol meant that information might not reach us quickly enough to be of any use, and I began to think aloud.

“Say we’re in Omergol,” I said. “You would have to send the message to Kanlyr, Haddat, Inid, Relenor, then Yafnaar, before it could be directed to Omergol, right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Charol said, “but—”

“Considering the speed of the birds,” I interrupted, “I think that’s not a problem.”

“Rikardon,” Tarani said, “I believe you are missing the point. There is no problem if we are in Omergol. There
is
a problem if we are in Thagorn. Is that not what you meant, Charol?”

The Elder nodded, and his face formed itself into an unreadable mask. “No Fa’aldu has ever visited the stronghold of the Sharith.”

I had met many differing views of the Sharith, from ignorance to contempt to fear to the awe associated with legends, but the Fa’aldu held the prize for ambivalence. On the one hand, the aloof isolation of the Riders was an uncomfortable reminder to the Fa’aldu of their own history. On the other, they were as subject as city dwellers to fascination with the sha’um and the men for whom they were willing to abandon their own kind. The Sharith were very conscious of the privilege granted them by their sha’um partners, and made no attempt to conceal their pride on the occasions when they mingled with people outside Thagorn. Their attitude grated on the equally proud Fa’aldu, so that most of the contact between the two groups had occurred on a very impersonal, formal level. In their dealing with me, the Fa’aldu had been forced to deal with an individual, rather than a stereotype, but Charol’s sudden remoteness was evidence that the conflict lingered.

“I believe I can help, if the maufel will allow it. May I speak with him?” Tarani asked as she stood up.

“Her,” Charol corrected. “Lesara is young, but very capable. Her father became ill, and died suddenly, less than a year ago. Come, we will see her now.”

So there is disease in Gandalara
, I thought, as we left Charol’s apartment and crossed the inner courtyard.
All the “early” deaths Markasset had heard of were violent, or the result of some definable cause—like the lung corruption caused by spending time in the copper mines. There are human illnesses I know these people don’t share, but I guess they have some of their own. At least they seem to be comfortingly rare.

In the northeast corner of the complex, we stepped through a doorway and found ourselves in a small, empty room. A second doorway, fully covered by a tapestry hanging, faced us. After a moment, a slight figure pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the room. The young girl, whom I presumed to be Lesara, was dressed in an ankle-length white robe not unlike Charol’s, indicating her special standing among the Fa’aldu. I tried to mask my surprise when I saw her face; it was disturbingly off-center. Instead of forming a precise widow’s peak at the center of her forehead, her thick, gold-brown headfur reached down to the widow’s point somewhat left of center, then swept off to the girl’s left in a ragged line. The left brow ridge, usually a smooth arc, looked bumpy, as if it had been broken at one time and healed imperfectly. Under it, her eye and the corner of her mouth pulled together slightly. Her head rode slightly leftward on her body, as well.

Lesara bowed to Charol, then held back the curtain while we entered the inner area. I was surprised to be in a small courtyard, open to the sky, with a pair of salt-block benches in its center. A large cage, built of dried reeds lashed together, lined one wall. On the opposite wall was another tapestry-draped door which was, I assumed, Lesara’s sleeping quarters.

The girl led us to the benches, a shorter stride with her left leg giving the effect of a limp. She sat down on one of the benches, and gestured wordlessly that we were to sit opposite her, which we did. She looked at her hands, clasped with careful calm in her lap, as she spoke.

“How may I serve the Family, Respected Elder?”

“Lesara, I present Rikardon and Tarani. You know who they are?” Charol asked gently.

Lesara looked up then. Her eyes were exceptionally dark, and they focused on Tarani’s face with a brief, intense, and unreadable gaze. Then her head dropped again.

“They honor me with their presence,” she said.

“They have asked the Fa’aldu for aid, my child, and I have promised them your cooperation and that of all maufel among the Families. I believe there is an obstacle, however—”

He told her about the need to communicate with Thagorn. As he spoke, her hands tensed together, and her shoulders hunched forward. When he finished, she whispered: “It cannot be done.” Suddenly her face came up and she looked at Tarani with an anguish that was painful to see.

“Even had my Elder not asked it of me, I would wish to help you, High Lord. I—I—”

Tarani left our bench to sit beside the girl. Tarani was so tall, and the girl so slight, that Lesara looked even younger—I guessed she was about fourteen.

“There may be a solution to the problem.”

The girls face brightened into a shy smile, but she shook her head sadly.

“You know of me?” Tarani asked. “Of my history?”

“I—” she began, then hesitated. Suddenly, words poured out of her in a breathless, eager rush. “Yes, High Lord, I heard of you even before you came to Iribos. I seldom speak to travelers, but those Fa’aldu who serve them shared with me their tales of a beautiful woman who danced with fire.” The girl’s expression softened, her gaze seeing
past
the Tarani sitting beside her. “The stories made me long to see such a dance, High Lord. No—truth—they made me long to
be
such a dancer.”

Tarani stood up, and offered her hands to the girl.

“Come then, and dance with me,” she said.

Stunned beyond any thought of refusal, Lesara put her hands in Tarani’s and allowed the High Lord to draw her into the largest open space in the room, the corner between the benches and the wall that held the entry door. Charol and I stood up and moved to the opposite wall. The maufa, disturbed by our nearness, fluttered and chirped inside their cage.

“I know the High Lord means well,” Charol whispered to me, “but I fear she will only leave Lesara more aware than ever of her …”

“Difference?” I supplied, and the Elder nodded uncomfortably. “Tarani would not do this,” I assured him, “if she thought harm would come of it. Besides,” I added, “Lesara may not be as ‘different’ as you think.” I nodded toward the two women, and Charol looked at them in surprise.

Tarani had executed a turn, arms lifted and back arched. She stopped and waited, and Lesara’s face suddenly beamed. The girl tried the turn and, though she stopped too soon, her movements and body position were an exact imitation of Tarani’s model. Tarani spoke to her, encouraged her to try it again, and Lesara did it perfectly the second time.

They worked together for several minutes, Tarani performing a movement and then watching Lesara. They were simple steps, designed with a syncopation that blended well with Lesara’s slightly left-favoring gait. Lesara was a quick study, and one thing soon became clear: she had a natural grace almost the equal of Tarani’s. And she
wanted
what was happening, wanted it so tangibly that I felt afraid to breathe, lest it break the spell that bound the two women together.

Tarani began to repeat the steps in different combinations, and Lesara imitated them exactly. Lesara’s long white robe was slit to above the knee, and did not hamper her in the leaping or kneeling steps. It swirled to good effect in the turns, reminding me of the gown Tarani had worn in her performances.

Finally, Tarani combined all the steps into a single, fluid dance. When she finished, Lesara took a deep breath and then, her face absolutely shining with joy, Lesara performed the dance.

Tarani turned to us.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “if you will please take you seats?”

Charol and I moved forward to sit on the salt-block bench that Tarani and Lesara had occupied. Tarani turned back to Lesara, whose joy faltered as she became aware of her audience.

“Together,” Tarani said, and though her voice was not harsh, no refusal of its tone was possible. Lesara snapped back into the almost-trance of obedience, and she and Tarani executed the dance together, matching one another’s movements and timing exactly. Though each step had seemed simple, the combination was complex and impressive. Tarani had choreographed the dance to take advantage of every square inch of available space, without making the “stage” seem crowded or cramped.

Beside me, I felt the tension in Charol’s body. When the dance ended, I knew he was on the verge of shouting his pleasure and congratulations. I put my hand on his arm to delay his outburst, because I had finally figured out what Tarani was doing.

Charol looked at me questioningly, but I only nodded toward the “stage.” Tarani took Lesara’s arm and led her back to the starting point of their dance. Both women were breathing heavily; since I knew Tarani’s tolerance, I suspected her fatigue was partly faked for the sake of Lesara’s self-image.

Tarani faced the girl, and lifted her arms above her.

Her hands caught fire.

Charol gasped.

Lesara took a step backward, with a little cry of surprise.

Tarani brought her flaming hands down and offered them to Lesara.

The girl stared at Tarani’s hands, their outlines barely visible within the flames. She looked up at Tarani’s face, and a look of resolution came into her own face.

Lesara stepped forward, closed her eyes, and placed her hands in Tarani’s. She opened her eyes and stepped back again; four hands now seemed to burn.

Tarani and Lesara danced again, their burning hands leaving fiery trails in the air as they turned and bent and leaped about the room.

The dance was faultless.

The dance was beautiful.

Lesara was beautiful.

When they froze in the final pose, a kneeling bow, it was evident that Lesara had reached the end of her endurance. She was panting heavily, but the glow in her face outshone the brightness of her hands. They stood. They faced each other. Their hands touched, and the flames went out. Still holding the girls hands, Tarani leaned down to kiss Lesara’s cheek.

“Thank you,” she said, “for giving me a reason to dance again.”

Charol could contain himself no longer. He jumped up from the bench and rushed over to them. Heedless now of what he perceived to be Tarani’s “rank,” he put his arms around both women and hugged them fiercely, so overcome that his voice was raspy and barely understandable.

“That was beautiful … so special … I feel privileged … I have never seen anything so remarkable….”

He released them at last, and regained his composure. I gave him credit for not showing the least embarrassment over his impulsive gesture. “Lesara, it would be selfish of me to keep this memory for myself alone. It would please me greatly if you will dance before the family—at a time of your choosing, of course.”

The glow of triumph faded from Lesara’s face.

“The High Lord must leave soon,” the girl said. “I would not ask her to perform, and I—I cannot make the flame. That is her gift.”

“With great respect for the High Lord,” Charol said, “I have not asked her to perform, and the flame is not the sole—nor even the greatest—beauty of that dance. You have allowed me to see a Lesara who is hidden from us, my daughter. I ask you to share her with the rest of the family.”

“I—I will consider it, Respected Elder,” Lesara said.

Charol nodded, then said to Tarani: “This performance was a treasured gift, High Lord. But we have yet to discuss the solution to your problem.”

“On the contrary,” Tarani said. “Lesara and I have demonstrated that a solution is possible. Through an illusion, she can see the places
I
have visited, and share that vision with her maufa.”

Lesara frowned.

“Will that not work?” Tarani asked her.

“It may, High Lord,” Lesara said. “But—I find this hard to explain—a maufa cannot
learn
in the same way you and I can. It must
know.
It knows where to go because I know, from my own experience, where it must go. I fear that my learning, through you, will not have that same sense of … sureness.”

“I have some skill with animals,” Tarani said slowly. “Nothing so great as the skill of a maufel, but I once shared a bond with … a bird.”

A look of pain flashed across Tarani’s face as she thought of Lonna, now dead; the look quickly passed.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “if I share my vision with you
while
you are bonded to a maufa …?”

“Yes,” Lesara said, suddenly excited. “That might work—shall we try?”

The two women moved toward the cage, as deeply absorbed in this new project as they had been entranced by the dance a few moments earlier. Charol looked at me and gestured toward the door. I nodded and followed him out, leaving the illusionist and the bird-handler to their task.

We ate dinner with the family that evening, and served the Fa’aldu’s hunger for news with stories about the sha’um cubs. For a time, the crisis and the purpose were forgotten. They came back, full force, though, when we entered our apartment and I let the door tapestry fall into place behind us. “We have their help, now,” I said. “But to do what?” I sighed. “I still don’t know where to start.”

Tarani came to me and hugged me, pressing the warmth and shape and strength of her body all along mine. It was inexpressibly comforting, and I held on and tried to return the comfort. After a moment, she pulled away.

“I would share this burden if I could, Rikardon,” she said. “But though we are both committed to the need, only you have the knowledge to guide us.”