by tais teng
Marat, age 16
It was Saltday and the whole city smelled of
iodine and rotting fish, like the shore of an
ancient sea. Marat was up quite early, doing his
morning chores. Twenty meters above him the hearth
lamp gave a cold light and all shadows were clean
and crisp.
"Marat?" Dunja stepped from the portico, and she
held the flower of her darling tree. The flower,
he thought, just the flower and not the fruit of
the vine. She wants me as a lover, not as husband.
He fingered the scar on his left cheek. He had
fought Jehann for Sylphia, the year before. Not
with his diskos of course but with the serrated
dueling knife that left nicely ragged scars which
the girls simply adored. Not that it clarified
anything: Sylphia had laughed in his face and
later offered her betrothal-apple to a much older
boy.
"You want..." Suddenly his mouth felt completely
dry and his tongue became a dead weight, a
paralyzed slug. Impossible to speak except in a
stutter. And then he blurted the most stupid thing
he could imagine. "You brought only a blossom. You
don't want me as your true love. Not as your
husband. You just want to hang your girdle in the
tree and get rid of your virginity!"
"You are so stupid!" She threw the flower on the
mosaic floor, stamped on the delicate petals. "Do
you think the Censors will ever allow me to breed?
With this hair? With the color of my eyes?" She
burst into tears. "Anything more than a flower
would be a lie. A stupid lie."
Marat's body was so much more intelligent than
his brain. He took her in his arms, held her and
stroked her beautiful curling hair. He said the
thing desperate lovers have murmured even before
there were proper words. "Hush. I love you. You
are my true love and we'll find a way."
Lies of course, but beautiful lies.
On the stair they met his youngest sister. She
gave him a knowing smile and didn't say a single
thing. For that he would be forever in her debt.
The tattoo of a feathered snake circled one of
Dunja's pert breasts and dipped down until it
slipped into her vagina. In her belly button an
emerald gleamed, the exact color of her eyes.
She is so beautiful she could almost be a
darkling.
Such a strange thought. He kissed her nipples and
walked his fingers down the snake until she
started to giggle.
"Stop, stop! No, go on, go on."
The first time they had to halt in the middle,
they were both laughing too hard to go on. The
next two times they concentrated and it went a bit
more like in the moving books. There were no
exploding rainbows, no melding of two souls. It
was mostly great fun.
"I could learn to like this," Marat said.
She smiled at him. "Me, too."
Afterward they sat hand in hand in the window
sill, their bare feet twenty meters above the
ground.
The city of Gray Blossoms was laid out below them
like a beautiful but slightly worn mosaic. There
were fountains and blood-red alga ponds, the
soaring marble towers of the Windworks. Silk
banners flew from the shining cupolas of the
Great.
"There are a thousand cities in the Redoubt,"
Marat said. "Each as different as a snowflake.
Surely there must be one that accepts us? Would
treasure our children?"
Dunja shook her head. "They are different, yes.
But there are Censors in every city and the law is
everywhere the same. Only true humans may have
children."
"You are a true human! You can spiek, you can
hier. You project the master-word."
"That isn't enough. When the Censors see me they
see a freak. I am like a cave man, like a
Neanderthal woman! True women, they have white
hair, eyes with irises as black as their pupils."
"I'll find a way."
I'll have to. I may be a true human,
genetically perfect, but I'm also the great
enemy of the Redoubt. When I took the diskos I
became Rabath reborn. All his glory and crimes I
claimed as my own.
His uncle had sponsored him and he had been
studying for Censor. He could recite the whole
basic-genome of true man, enumerate a hundred
species of darkling and how to kill them. On his
twenty-first birthday, the moment he returned from
his Ascent, Fredruk would personally give Marat
the ambiglaukos colored uniform of a Censor and
put the tattoo of the Wheel on his forehead.
During the Investiture three of the most powerful
sensitives of the Censors would walk through his
brain, search for the taint of darkness. They
wouldn't find that, but they would find someone
else. Someone even worse than a pneumavore.
"I'll find a way," he repeated.
The corridors of the Grand Library seemed
endless. There were racks filled with glass books
bound in titanium and rolls of vellum. Columns of
pulsating light held a million different
containers for digital content, many no larger
than a grain of sand.
"The Lesser Redoubt?" the Librarian mused. "We
lost contact so many generations ago." He rubbed
his chin. "Though I seem to remember..." He
reached above his head and a book materialized
between his fingers. "There were dreams,
night-talk, and that only fifty years ago."
The pages were sheets of flexible crystal with
text and pictures streaming across them.
"Got it. Here. Better even than a dream. Two
messages, authenticated by the master-word." He
cleared his throat and translated the text. It was
written in ornate machine-script and quite
unreadable for any normal person.
"The earth current is faltering. We beat them
back, but lost all nine lower levels. If only we
had a general like great Rabath!" He lowered the
book. "Rabath the traitor. As well pray to the
master of the House of Silence. Hah!" He nodded.
"It must have been some message to an outpost.
Another colony. Not meant for us."
"There was a second message?"
"Well, yes. Now, that is strange. Quite recent,
too. Only sixteen years ago." He touched the book
and the text peeled from the page, hung pulsing in
the air. "We got our current cannons on line
again. Burned the vermin and cleared all lost
levels. But the best news of all is this: the
Sensitives discovered Rabath has been reborn!
Exactly at the moment the last star winked out. If
only we could locate him..." The Librarian
frowned. "Why didn't anybody notice?" He closed
the book. "I must warn the Censors! If he wasn't
born in the Lesser Redoubt it must have been right
here. We have been clutching a deadly viper to our
bosoms!" His hands fluttered like panicked moths.
"Wait! We know the exact moment. Could be no more
than ten, twenty boys at most."
"I'll tell the Censors," Marat said. "I am
practically one of them myself."
"No, no. This to important to leave to an
untrained boy."
"Not untrained."
The Librarian gave a single grasp, crumpled.
Marat knew nine ways to kill a darkling without
leaving a trace and an old man is much more
fragile than a darkling.
He took the book and put it back in the wrong
section. With a bit of luck nobody would find it
for centuries.
Walking all the way down the Grand Staircase Marat
searched his soul for remorse, like a tongue
probing for the gap of a broken tooth. There was
nothing. The Librarian had been a self-declared
enemy. And the man had been old, already at the
end of long and no doubt quite satisfactory life.
Killing the diskos had felt much worse. No, this
was just a necessary action, like the elimination
of a tainted baby.
That night the Dark crept into his dreams. There
was the low drone of a telepathic sending, flashes
of color quite beyond both jale and ulfire. The
darkling stepped from a rent in reality itself and
shook out her long and shining hair. She was
indeed even more beautiful than Dunja, wonderfully
strange. Her skin was a wonderful golden like one
of those ancient heroines from the sun-lit sagas.
Eyes the pale gray of moonstones.
"Are you crazy?" he cried in his dream. "Do you
want me executed? Right this moment all sensitives
of Redoubt must be sitting bold upright in their
beds and asking you for the master-word." He
balled his fists and realized he was no longer
asleep, but indeed, quite awake. The darkling
didn't even waver and seemed completely real.
"They can find out who answered your call."
"O, they already know," she said. "They believe we
are just two lovers whispering night-thoughts."
"What do you mean? You want..."
She spoke the master-word. She spoke it loud and
clear.
"This is impossible!" He immediately felt quite
stupid. Always accept what is.
"True lovers have no secrets for each other. I can
grow any kind of body I want, Rabath. Even one
that is genetically pure human." She spread her
arms and the walls turned transparent as glass.
Marat looked up at the House of Silence and all
windows were lit. There was the rich glow of
candles, a glow so ancient and comforting that it
must have been programmed into his very genes.
"I am like a spider," the darkling said, "lying in
wait and I feed on souls. Human souls. But I can
be distracted. Sometimes even for a long time.
Rabath lived with me for a hundred and eighty
years before I made a mistake and killed him. And
even then I stopped just in time. I only took his
life, not his soul." She folded her arms and
suddenly she seemed regal, a queen come to
negotiate with an equal. "The House of Silence can
be a very powerful ally, my dear Rabath. For any
one Redoubt. There are worse enemies than me and
many more voracious." Her smile dazzled him.
"Think about it, my true love."
There was a movement, a turn in a direction that
hurt his very brain and the room was empty.
Next to him Dunja stirred and opened a sleepy eye.
"I heard you talking?" she murmured. "Must have
been in my sleep. A dream I guess."
"A dream. I hope it was a nice one." She fell
instantly asleep again. Marat looked at the slight
smile that lingered on her lips. She was suddenly
very dear to him but not, alas, not his true love.
Still, Marat had to know for sure. One of the
Bright Cities functioned as a kind of reservation
for forgotten gods, cultivating the madness of
religion.
The stink of sandalwood and incense made Marat's
eyes water the moment he stepped from the
elevator. A holographic Kali danced above a silver
stupa and juggled a stream of severed heads. Holy
mountains rose in the distance: cloud-wrapped
Olympus, Fuji Yama with a sparkling streamer of
radioactive fog.
Olam Moraan! Many Sensitives who walked the road
of madness ended up here. Some had looked beyond
the end of the universe or heard the ponderous
gallop of the Hounds of Tindalos just behind them.
Becoming mad didn't really help but it was still
better than knowing. Marat asked a snake-charmer
for directions to the Sisters of True Love and was
answered in an unknown tongue. The snake, though,
uncoiled, glared at him with no less than three
eyes and spat on the cobblestones just in front of
Marat. A rivulet of poison ran smoking across the
stones and froze into a map.
"Turn left at the third intersection," the snake
hissed. "Go find her! Yesss, yesss, seek your
beautiful doom."
"Never trust a snake," a passerby whispered in
Marat's left ear but when he turned there was no
one standing there.
Marat turned to the left at the third intersection
and became quickly lost in a maze of tiny shops
and dead-end alleys. Gods and demons leered from
darkened shrines and they were clad in cloaks made
of eyeballs and squatted on thrones fashioned from
human bones. Not a single one could tell him the
right direction.
The hovering hearth lamps were already dimming
when he finally located the Shrine of the Most
Devout Sisters of True Love. It stood on the edge
of the central lake, where a dozen fountains wove
rainbows across a fleet of endlessly circling
funeral barges. The sagging hovel of the Sisters
was wreathed in porcelain flowers. From a rack
hung a score of golden hearts and pursed lips made
of red alabaster.
"Looking for love?"
The single priestess must in her last months. She
had lost most of her hair and all of her teeth.
"Such a handsome young man," she cackled. "It
shouldn't be hard to find your true love, for she
must be as beautiful as you."
"Is that the way it works?" Marat said. "What
happened to the Beauty and the Beast? Or those
opposites that are supposed to attract?"
"Phew. That is rank superstition, young man!" She
spat on the cobblestones but her saliva didn't
smoke or do anything interesting. "A beautiful
soul always finds a beautiful body and the rich
are rich forever."
"I stand corrected," Marat said. "What…"
"A liter of your blood, some saliva. And there are
certain expenses."
"Of course." He opened his money bag, for the only
way to pay here was with antiquated coins minted a
million years ago by forgotten emperors.
It took her only a quarter of an hour to extract
the name of his counterpart, the missing half of
his psychic DNA.
"She isn't here. Nowhere in the whole Redoubt or
the Fields Below. So she hasn't been born this
cycle or she is somewhere else. Somewhere
outside."
"Somewhere?"
"Oh, I can be more exact. Seventy five miles to
the North."
The direction of the House of Silence. "Thanks.
I had already guessed as much."
"Nothing human lives there, young man." Her smile
was beautiful, even without teeth. "And no, it
won't be necessary to kill me. What Censor would
listen to the ravings of a mad woman?"
"You are right, grandmother."
"And by the way, her real name, her first name,
was Lurella. Lurella of the Road Makers."
Marat still had Lurella's icon on the wall of his
room. It showed her astride a night-hound while
she led the cities that always moved westward,
under a red, swollen sun.
"You are just reading my mind," he accused her.
"If you say so."
Marat, age 17
All young men had to make the Ascent to the top of
the pyramid the day after they turned seventeen. The
idea was to spend twenty-four hours on every level
of the Redoubt, talking with perfect strangers,
working in the ornate gardens or hunting feral rats.
That way they would become citizens of the whole
Redoubt and discover that even their dearest held
convictions were only parochial and small-minded.
For the girls the Ascent was kind of optional: most
of them chose to remain in their girl-bands and let
the wandering boys come to them.
"We can go together," Dunja said when Marat hung his
seventeenth bell in the darling vine. "I don't want
you kissing a thousand strange girls."
"Me neither." It was hard to imagine a girl half as
beautiful as Dunja, even in the most exotic and
brightest of cities.
O no? a part of his brain jeered. How
about Lurella? How about the Mistress of the House
of Silence?
There was a very good answer, age old and time
tested. Two very good answers in fact: ""Love the
one you are with" and "Better a cold slice of
grease-bread in the hand than honey-pie tomorrow".
If he ever tired of Dunja, Lurella would still be
there, he concluded with the bluntness of a
seventeen year old boy who had only recently
discovered what his penis was really for.
In the morning, at the first sputtering of the
hearth lamp, they walked away from their clan-home.
At the corner of the Street of the Diligent Weavers
Marat looked back. The double gate with its brass
butterflies seemed suddenly very small and dingy and
the leaves of the darling-vine drooped.
Perhaps I'll never return here. We'll stay in
some upper city, so far from the bottom lands that
the air is ice cold and tastes of ozone. It
was nonsense of course. He was a Censor and had
given his pledge, even if he wasn't confirmed yet.
They would find him anywhere.
The city of Prynn excelled in moss-sculpting: all
her streets were green and you left a gurgling trail
behind of slowly filling footprints.
They found an inn next to the central garden, with
free food and lodging for boys and girls in their
wander-years. That would be true for every Bright
City.
That night they made love on a bed of warm reindeer
moss and woke in the morning to the shrill warbling
of striped marmosets.
The next week brought them to Umbre Almira where the
great lamp was a tinkling swarm of glowing crystals.
Then Samedi which turned out to be mostly deep blue
water with every clan-home a floating papyrus
island.
Coyluin they hated at first sight, so dark and damp,
her narrow streets filled with mist and the only
sound the rattle of loose shutters.
On Kill-yiri Marat felt a sudden overwhelming itch
to do something, anything. Training for Censor had
left him with little aptitude for loitering. So for
one glorious day Marat trapped darting swallows with
a net of programmed polywater, while Dunja cut their
heads off and threw them in a vat of boiling tar.
The swallows were not exactly swallows, nor really
alive. Their brain-stones would later form the nodes
of new message-webs.
In glorious Grouninga they had their first row.
"You are looking at every girl but me!" Dunja
accused him. She burst into tears. "I bore you. You
think I am plain and horrible!"
When you are seventeen your arguments don't have to
do anything with logic. Only the volume counts.
"I look at them because I'm curious," Marat
patiently explained. "I compare them to you and
always find them lacking. Have I slept with anybody
but you? Also, I'm supposed to look around, to
learn."
"I hate you!" She slapped his face, slammed the
door. It was a scene that had been invariant for at
least twelve million years.
He went to the hotel window and saw her stride
across the plaza. Marat sighed. The stupid thing was
that her accusation had been true: he had been a bit
bored with her. Which he now assuredly wasn't
anymore as his raging hard-on proved.
Three cities later they met in the dining room of
the inn and were able to ignore each other for all
of three quarters of an hour.
Here the mattress was a plank of pressed seaweed,
the pillow a slab of jade. The aria's of a dozen
melon vendors woke them but there was no reason to
get up. He kissed the nape of Dunja's neck, cupped a
warm breast. "Stay with me," he whispered. "Stay
with me forever."
Once a month Lurella of the House of Silence walked
into his dreams. She never touched him and just
stood there, an infinitely patient goddess.
"Whenever you go outside I'll be waiting for you.
I'll make you a king, Rabath." But when he awoke he
always found Dunja lying next to him. Love the
one you are with. It would be three whole
years before he would be forced to make a choice.
Marat, age 20
Only four months to his twenty-first birthday and
Marat had been feverishly planning for the last
dozen cities. Capsules of powdered water were hard
to get, just like tubes of wayfarers food. Such
items were reserved for official explorers and the
trained Censors who patrolled the Air Clog. The
maps, while quite expensive, proved nearly useless.
No two details were the same and whole sections
between the two Redoubts had been left blank. Dunja
was the greater problem, though. His lover didn't
show the slightest interest in the outside, in the
wonders of the Night Land. He didn't dare ask her
outright if she would travel with him to the Lesser
Redoubt. Stepping beyond the Air Clog was considered
tantamount to suicide. Most people didn't have a
monster as protector, of course. But Dunja wouldn't
be exactly by charmed by a rival who was a
pneumavore.
The next Bright City would be Novaya Roma, whose
inhabitants were obsessed with history. Her city
archives were second only to the Library and no one
would think his questions strange or inappropriate.
This was the only place in the whole Redoubt where
he could freely discuss the Great Traitor.
He had rolled three fossil knuckle-bones, a system
as old as mankind, and they had had told him the
solution would be found in this city.
The city-block devoted to Usurpers, Speculators and
Other Supremely Evil Men was twice the size of the
block specializing in Sages, Paragons and Benevolent
Leaders. At the gate he searched in vain for an
information kiosk or doorman.
"Hello there? I am looking for anything about
Rabath."
There was an urchin leafing through a book with
brightly colored pictures. The book must be truly
ancient because the pictures were voiceless and
didn't even move.
"Rabath? Rabath the Great Traitor?
"That Rabath. Yes."
The boy closed his book. "Liam's family has been
collecting Rabathicana for the last three centuries.
I can show you the way." He canted his head, brought
his hand to his ear. He clearly was expecting a tip,
but how do you pay a historian? Stories of course,
songs.
"I know a rope skipping rhyme that is at least half
a million years old?"
"That will do. Sing it."
Marat felt a complete fool but he started to sing,
touching his nose and ears and clapping his hands.
The gate of the clan-house had been carved in seven
meter high portrait of Rabath. In Marat's own city
the villa would have been fired inside the hour and
the inhabitants hung from the walls. Novaya Roma
clearly considered no subject taboo. "There he is.
Liam," the boy pointed and instantly sat down,
opening his book.
"What aspects exactly are you interested in?" Liam
asked. He wasn't the doddering ancient Marat had
expected. Twenty-five at most, he might just have
returned from his own Ascent. "Everything I guess.
People who study him in my city are considered
eccentric at best and are often found in the morning
with a slit throat."
"I see why you came to our city. Monsters, they are
ever so fascinating."
It isn't easy to find something if you don't know
what you are searching for. Marat read about
Rabath's youth, studied pictures of his lovers, his
wife. Rabath's wife didn't look in the slightest
like Lurella of the House. Not so strange: all that
came later, much later, when Rabath already ruled
the Lesser Redoubt. At least if the darkling hadn't
lied about it all and it hadn't just been a trick to
make him step beyond the Air Clog.
"Perhaps you'll find this interesting? It was taken
from the Tower of Observation." Liam put the fragile
wafer in the viewer and the picture expanded until
it filled the whole room. Marat looked down on
Rabath's exodus from six miles up. Millions of
people were streaming out into the Night Land. It
was so long ago that the sun still hung low above
the hills, a fist-sized ember against a background
of much brighter stars.
It was like a flood of living flesh, with the edges
outlined by the flicker of diskoi. A veritable army
of mansonyaggers marched in front. So many that the
arsenals of the Redoubt must have been almost
emptied. Three airships drifted overhead. As far as
Marat knew the Last Redoubt owned not a single
airship.
All those accusations were true after all.
Rabath left the Redoubt almost defenseless. He
zoomed in on the people. The movie was incredibly
information-dense, almost sixteen petabyte, and
Marat could see the faces of the people, count the
hairs on their heads. The hair of one particular
lady glowed red as the tail of a fox. He saw skin
that seemed almost black. Brown and golden faces.
Some noses looked like the hooked bills of
raptor-birds or were tiny and upturned.
Everybody who was different went with Rabath. All
the variants. It left us depleted, white-haired
and pale faced as albinos and the Censors made
that the mark of true humanity.
Marat called his lover from the kitchen where she
had been peeling lychees, put the wafer in the
viewer. He swooped down on the crowd.
"Think of it! A whole pyramid waits out there,
filled with people like you! Like us." She stared at
the moving masses, the army of strangers who could
make her normal for the first time in her life.
"But how can we ever get there?"
Perfect, he thought, when I flee I won't have to
travel alone. And it won't be with a helpless
female. Not if I can help it.
He took her hand. "Come. I'll show you how to use a
diskos."
Dunja was a natural. After a week she could slice a
simulated night-hound in mid-jump. Now if only she
could conquer the tendency to scream with every
swing of the diskos... The Night Land was filled
with stealthy whispers and growls, ululating wails,
but no matter how well-armed quiet as a mouse was
the still your best option.
That morning the hostler stopped at their breakfast
table.
"You are Marat, from the city of Gray Blossom? Yes,
your face matches. This message came for you."
Marat stared at the gleaming sheet that bore
the crowned owl and crossed diskoi of the Censors.
His own face hovered above it in hologram.
"Dear nephew,
Such good news! I managed to get you assigned to
my very own patrol.
I hope to see you soon.
Ever Vigilant,
your Fredruk."
How had his uncle ever found him? Marat never used
his own name at the inns and they had been hopping
from city to city in a random way, going from number
13 to 783 or stepping in every third lift shaft. And
whole telegram rang false. Uncle Fredruk would never
call him "Dear nephew," not even in a official
communication from the Censors.
We have to leave. As soon as possible.
He turned to Dunja. "Get your diskos. Our luggage."
"How do you mean? Where are we going?
"Down. The Censors, they have noticed us. They are
watching us."
"Oh." She didn't ask any further questions. The
Redoubt wasn't exactly a police-state, but getting
noticed by the authorities had always been the
single unforgivable crime, no matter if you lived in
the Ur of the Chaldees or twenty-first century
America.
It was possible to get down to the Night Land gate
in three hours, using high-priority elevators meant
for the Great and the guild-masters, but Marat
didn't want to stand out in any way. They passed
Gray Blossoms, the garden city of Linn, swirled like
falling leafs past Croi-of-the-Dancing-Moths and
High Desseret.
When the door of the final elevator opened, it was
six hours later.
"And now?" Dunja whispered.
"The Lesser Redoubt. Where I'll be king."
She looked at him, with such a steady gaze that he
suddenly felt very small, like a schoolboy who had
been caught boasting by his teacher.
"So it is true. You are Rabath reborn. Good."
She stepped past him, marched down the corridor to
the Outer Gate.
He felt a sudden lift of his spirit. Beautiful and
smart. What more could a man ask for? And she loves
me.
An antique current cannon pointed down the corridor.
They walked past quivering electric spears, metal
war-beetles that clashed their mandibles.
Nobody challenged them: going out they were almost
invisible. When the gate opened, the mansonyagger
unfolded his legs. It regarded Marat with his ferret
face, then lifted his angelic head.
"You are back and you have found the girl of your
heart's desire," the mansonyagger stated. "How I
love those ancient stories!" His angel-head turned
to Dunja. "Your swain is a rogue and most fickle to
boot, as the Bard said."
"I know."
The monster gestured to the shimmering wall of
fire.
"You won't be back, I guess."
Marat saw Lurella standing just beyond, leaning
on a bone walking staff she must have taken from a
Silent One. If this was a human body she could
have stepped right through the barrier. It
probably wasn't, but something much tougher and
armored even if it looked human. Yes, just below
her skin pulsed lines of energy. In this shape the
Air Clog could kill even the mistress of the House
of Silence.
"He won't be going anywhere." The voice ran out
across the black sand. There was some regret in it
but mostly determination. Uncle Fredruk stood next
to the mansonyagger, his diskos leaking jale
sparks.
"A sensitive told me you were talking to the
dark. I didn't believe her, of course. But I'm a
Censor. I had to investigate." He gestured with
his diskos. "Throw down your weapon, nephew. Right
now, or I'll have to sever your wrist."
Marat put his diskos on the ground. It would take
a full three seconds to activate.
"Maybe the Council will only exile you." The tone
of his voice told Marat that his uncle didn't
believe any such thing.
From the corner of his eye Marat saw a movement.
Dunja's mantle swirled and her humming diskos
sailed through the air and cut Fredruk's head
right off. For two heartbeats the body remained
standing, fountaining blood from the stump and
then it toppled into the sand.
"Ah," the mansonyagger said, "variant seventeen
point nine of the standard saga. The princess
kills the captain of the guard. So nice to see
that those ancient patterns still hold." He bowed
to Marat and Dunja. "No matter what they'll say
you are both gloriously human." He stepped back in
his guardhouse of land-coral and folded his legs,
powered down his eyes until only a tiny LED still
blinked.
Crossing the Air Clog Marat only felt a slight
tingling of his finger tips, a pressure in his
ears. Stepping back, though, he would probably
turn into a pillar of ash. He was now part of the
Dark.
"So there you are," Lurella said. "You took your
time, Rabath."
"So you are the ally my Marat was talking about,"
Dunja said. "A soul-eater."
To have two beautiful women fighting over you is
probably one of the most common of all boyish
dream. The reality only made Marat feel distinctly
uneasy.
Lurella and Dunja were exactly the same height,
he saw. Lurella was gold and silver, Dunja fire.
They stood stock still, fierce as fighting fish.
Lurella laughed, then offered her hand. "Peace.
There will be enemies enough." She turned to
Marat. "She has spunk. You are to be
congratulated. She will do very well as your
queen."
"Don't call him Rabath," Dunja said. "It is
Marat."
"Agreed. The one who first tames a wild animal
gets to name him." The women shook hands and Marat
relaxed.
Lurella reached in the air and a map
materialized. She unrolled the painted silk. Marat
saw the fires of the kilns flickering, the
Ones-that-peer looking down from the ridge then
jumping back in the shadows. The House of Silence
shone forth across the waste, all windows blazing.
"Throw your own maps away," Lurella ordered.
"They are mostly fantasy and wishful thinking."
She pointed to her own map. "The old road reaches
all the way to the House of Silence. The biggest
problem is that we aren't the only ones traveling
the roads."
© tais teng
11 Nov 2011
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