But the meek weeping would continue inside, hopeless and eternal, and it had become a drone within her mind, so that with years she began to hate its soul-wrenching sound, even more than she hated the dark man with the insane eyes, who had been her own father.
Eventually, she had grown into a tall girl, and then she also would get locked in the room with her mother, because she would say something against him, something that he found wrong. Unlike her mother, she did not remain silent for long, but would attack him with snarling words and maddened eyes. And yet, she kept her fingers clenched tight into fists at her sides, holding them there always, on the verge of an explosion that would never take place.
She never tried to raise her hands against him, for he had been her father. And that one true instinct had been instilled within her so strongly that she remembered, even in the moments of her wildest feral anger.
She had learned to be cold, rational, always remembering to stay in control. She had learned to be contrary with deceit, and to stand her ground. And eventually the dark man had grown older, so that she towered over him in her fierce youth, and it was his turn to cringe and give way before her. By that time, her mother had faded into obscurity, and even now Ranhé did not clearly remember the actual moment of her death, only a fading of sorts, like gray soft smoke dispersing, water vapor wafting into the twilight of the silver world around them.
She had grown up in one of the poorest sections of the Academic Quarter. Her father had been a scribe, and held an array of insignificant clerical posts. Despite being somewhat of a visionary, with a quick brilliant mind, he had been unable to hold down any job for long. Thus, the family would go starving often, so that Ranhé learned to value any food source, and would eat as much as she could when there was anything to eat. Later, they had found out that her father had been secretly visiting a number of other women in the City, and she had at least four half-sisters and brothers of her own, that she had never seen, nor would she ever plan to see, except for the fact that Father owed them all monetary support.
And at last, after she had become full-grown and strong, she also realized that her father, whom she had hated so fiercely for so long, was not an evil man as much as he was an ill man. His insanity had been subtle, coupled with a bitter character, and only with the passing of years did the irrationality surface enough so that she could recognize it for what it was. Then, she regretted only that her mother had never known this truth.
Her hate had burned out then, and she allowed herself pity. And at times that same early warmth that she had felt when she had been an infant had resurfaced to stir her occasionally. She tolerated her father’s outbursts, his perversity, and no longer let any of it touch her. He would grumble and scold her and she would ignore him and do as she pleased, sometimes just to spite him, because she could. It was wrong of her, and she knew it, and yet, she was taking revenge for all those endless times of her childhood, for her whimpering mother.
At the same time, puberty came to her, and with it, her body changed, and hateful hair grew everywhere—her genitals, body, stomach, breasts, and her face. When she had been a child, the adults had praised her for her thick luxuriant braid. But now there were only the comments that she had grown from a pretty little girl to a sloppy big woman. “Ugly,” her father called her, “not a girl but a hairy man.” And thus she grew to feel hairy and masculine, and somehow virile and strong, while an anger burned inside of her, directed not at anyone else but at herself.
She had tried to shave her chin and cheeks, but the hair grew back, leaving stubble. She had once taken a candle, and in the secret darkness of the cellar below their small house, she had tried to burn the hair on her face. Luckily, there was water nearby, so she could douse her face before the skin caught on fire, but her lashes and eyebrows were singed. And yet all the hair grew back again, and soon there was only the hell, the repeating pattern of growth and removal, and the constant sense in the back of her mind that she was different, she was not a woman. . . .
Not a woman.
Every time she touched her face and felt the stubble, she was reminded of it, every terrible time. And eventually the self-hatred was ingrained so deep that she stopped fighting the revulsion and gleefully embraced it. She stopped wearing women’s skirts, stopped trying to comb her long mane of hair or tie it back with soft shiny ribbons. Instead, she took boys’ clothes cast off by the neighbors, and walked around with big strides made easier by the length of her legs, her height.
While other girls her age learned the flirting looks and movements that they would later perfect and put into practice, she refused to look at a man in any other way than plain honesty. This put her on equal nonsexual footing with the young men her age. And it set her apart further from them all.
She had learned swordplay by practicing with the old soldier who lived in a small hovel next to theirs, and whose room she cleaned in exchange for the lessons. And even earlier than that, she had learned body fighting on the streets of Tronaelend-Lis’s Outer Fringes, where she ran in a gang of boys, hair tucked inside a cap, carrying a wooden stick that served well as a pretend sword. Eventually, somewhere, she had gotten a knife, and had drawn someone’s blood, and someone else had drawn hers. And when she had come home, her father—screaming at her in fury, ironically calling her a slut, and other familiar epithets—banished her from the house.
That night, Ranhé slept on the street, curled in an old blanket, hugging the long knife at her side, while blood dried on the shallow wound in her arm. She would return to the house grimly the next day—for as always father would forget everything, and greet her with an initial smile. She would return, because she knew he could not do without her, he was helpless in his wandering patterns of logic, and could not be left alone and on his own.
That had been almost ten winters ago. There was no more Father. Having grown bone-dry and withered, nearly blind, and his thoughts gone abstract to the point of incoherence, he had died softly, in his sleep. When she came that one morning to check on him, there was peace on his face. The face was noble at last, handsome and clean and free. And thus she also was free.
There were no close relatives to come for the funeral. The neighbors came to help her carry the body to the burial on the outskirts of the City, and later, they burned the candles in her tiny house, filling both empty rooms with gray firelight. When they left, she had stood alone, surrounded by monochrome candle glow, pouring against the low ceiling. Soft, flickering, blossoming candlelight everywhere, casting shadows that swayed and disappeared. . . .
A single candle, burning in her vision, through all the veils shrouding memory.
Ranhé blinked, returning to the present. She saw that the candle had grown low, nearly burned out, and the wax had pooled thickly upon the slab of stone of the primitive altar of this tiny room. Outside, in the doorway, the day had grown dim, and the shadows were long.
There was no feeling in her knees. Ranhé got up, grabbing at the floor with one hand to keep her balance, and stood up, swaying softly. She then turned away, bent her head at the doorway, and left the Shrine of Light.
Elasand had remained sitting where she had last left him. Upon seeing her, life surged in his empty eyes, and he stood up quickly and came up to her.
The sun was setting. She stared at the western sky, shielding her eyes with one palm, still groggy from memory-thoughts. Those thoughts—she had not wanted to return to them, ever, but somehow, it had happened.
“Did you—” began Elasand.
“No,” she interrupted wearily. “I am sorry, my lord, but I saw nothing, nor heard any divine voice.”
“And yet, you were inside for a remarkably long time,” said the blond assassin, coming from behind her. Once again he succeeded in startling her. Upon which, she looked down at her feet, at the grass below, stopping rather than show a reaction.
Elasand’s hopeful expression became once again lifeless. “I had failed in a greater way than I expected,” he whispered, begin
ning to walk away from them both.
Elasirr’s lazy gaze narrowed even further, maybe because of the bright setting-sun glare. Leaving Ranhé, he came after his half-brother, and unexpectedly touched him on the shoulder.
His contact was light, and yet Elasand stiffened, and turned back to look at him, almost in reproach.
“Let me go in there,” said Elasirr softly.
Lord Vaeste stared at him unbelieving. “What?” he whispered. “You would do this thing for me? Why?”
“Not for you, Elasand-re. I would try because it is an option. All options must be considered. I am also curious somewhat. Besides, it’s been a long time since I—prayed.”
Elasand’s expression was acute. “Go then!” he said, and reached in his candle pouch.
Elasirr took the offered candle, pausing for the briefest moment, then turned and went into the Shrine of Light.
They waited for a long time. The sun continued to swoon, sinking eventually into the western treetops, and light came faint, fractured, scattering thinly through the jet black silhouettes of branches and leaves.
Elasand sat with his head leaned forward, and Ranhé watched his raven locks close in around him like a curtain, obscuring all. So different he looked—it occurred to her suddenly—from the confident arrogant man of only two days before. And she realized that Elasand had not laughed or smiled for the duration of the time they were in the forest.
“I will build a fire now,” she said softly, and when he did not react, went to gather the dry branches, and struck a flame from the stone to ignite them. The fire burned like a beacon in the gathering twilight, and then night slammed down upon the world. With it came the customary chill.
Ranhé sat close to the fire, stirring the burning branches, inhaling the curling smoke almost gratefully, because its abrasiveness brought tears to her eyes and gave her life. She glanced occasionally at the stone building, watching the metallic fireglow spill in shadows upon the chipped walls. The entrance gaped black, and there was no sound from within.
And even later, when the tea had boiled, and she was sipping the soothing draught from her mug, the Guildmaster of the Bilhaar came silently out of the Shrine.
In the dark and firelight, he was unreadable, and there was no apparent expression in his half-lidded shadowed eyes.
“Futility,” he announced loudly, then coughed to clear his throat—dry from not speaking all these hours.
Elasand barely looked up at him, but the hope in his expression had been minimal. “I didn’t think the lady would speak to you,” he concluded. “I was not wrong.”
“Ah, damn you, Vaeste,” said Elasirr, forcing a tired grin, then neared the fire. “To hell with your Tilirr nonsense. Now, have we any food left? Pass me a mug, you—Ranhé.”
Ranhé silently filled a mug with tea and handed it to him, not bothering to react at his last derogatory remark.
Although Elasirr had made a joke of it, his face, when relaxed, eventually took on a darkness that was more than just the shadows of the night.
Soon, after they had eaten some of their supplies, and were all settled before the fire, Elasand mentioned that there was nothing else to be done, obviously.
“We head back tomorrow,” he said, staring blankly at the flames.
“Cheer up, Elasand-re,” replied Elasirr, half-mockingly. “Think of this as a pleasure excursion to the country. We’ve done nothing and learned nothing, and our quest has failed miserably. We return to Tronaelend-Lis with no blessed words from any of the Tilirr, and Hestiam Grelias will laugh thoroughly at our expense. That is, if he still remembers how to laugh, through his fear of the damn Lord Vorn.”
Elasand did not say anything in answer to that. Ranhé watched him with some concern, seeing his all-consuming apathy, the gauntness of his features.
He was dying, it suddenly occurred to her. It was a slow thing, a hunger unrelieved.
“I think I’ll sleep now,” said Elasirr. “The two of you together are such overwhelming company that I am weary beyond belief. Do me a favor and try not to disturb the trees as they grow.”
And grabbing a blanket, he stalked away to lie down away from the fire, near a thick tree trunk.
“I’ll take the first watch,” said Ranhé softly, glancing at Vaeste.
In reply, Elasand remained motionless, staring into the fire.
Flames. They moved in his field of vision, lulling with their swaying monochrome tongues, and he had grown warm, groggy, despite the gaping hole deep inside of him.
At some point, the licking ribbons of fire blurred, coagulated, and he saw a blossom of light stand in the middle of darkness. And then, like an outpouring of rich thick liquid in his field of vision, he saw the blossom begin to change, to deepen.
Violet.
The rich colors flowed from the blossom core and separated into fine strands, the filaments of her hair, deep shadows that were violet, pale highlights of lavender. She looked at him from fathomless eyes, and on the other side there were other worlds, indescribable, as was the expression of her face, the smooth vapor of her lilac skin, her lips deep like the heart of the night. . . .
Laelith! he cried with all his mind, and all of him was in that cry—all the need, the unfulfilled secret corners of his self, the confused awareness of being alone within that mind, alone.
He knew he was dreaming then, for he had reached for her, grasping with strong pale beautiful fists, while she floated away from him, on the other side of his inner tunnel, and her hair stood up in a glorious corona of lavender light.
Life surged through him. He stood in the violet tunnel, nude, feeling no coolness against his skin, feeling only a kind of slow simmering fire begin just below the surface. He had felt it only with her, this fire, this surging madness. No other had ever touched him in this way.
Laelith! He cried in snarling desperate madness, driven by the subdermal fire, until there was a sound in his temples of blood rushing, and he recognized the sound of the stream, the river that always accompanied her.
What must I do, tell me! I cannot bear any more to be apart from you! He no longer knew how his senses screamed, but felt himself rushing forward, tumbling, being carried by a whirling tornado, and all around, her streaming bright tresses. Closer, she came, and he could almost touch her, smell her warm living presence, wallow in the proximity of her breath, her lips. . . .
And then, for the first time, she spoke to him, and he could hear her words.
Her voice, like tongues of honey-fire.
Beloved. I am here. I have always been here with you. But only now at last you come to understand me.
His innards convulsed at the sound of her, at the living flowing fire of her.
What must I do to be with you, O lady? I die!
The eyes that held worlds within them suddenly wavered like smoke, and he blinked and saw their liquid glimmer.
Her tears rolled down smooth cheeks of lily-violet.
Beloved, came the gentle whisper. You must touch the Rainbow. Only then will you all be fulfilled.
And in his dream, Elasand cried out like a wounded animal, and then wept like a ridiculous madman. For she faded, and in passing he realized that in his selfish desire he had forgotten to ask her about the fate of the City, the only justifiable reason for his quest. And yet, her answer was all-sweeping, for she knew—knew his deepest soul! And he saw images of Tronaelend-Lis rush before his eyes in a kaleidoscopic dance of time and events. And suddenly, Elasand knew and saw the events ahead of them.
He recognized the gathering twilight.
The blond man lay on his back, watching through slitted eyes the abyss of dark shapes of the trees overhead. Only a little distance away was the small campfire, and its shadows were cast erratically upon the ebony succulent leaves of the great tree. He did not bother to turn his head, aware that the man and the woman were still there, seated near the fire.
The leaves, moving in the cool night wind, took on various forms in the darkness. He lay
, breathing lightly, softly, thinking of the man seated next to the fire, probably like a stone statue of sorrow, the man who was Lord Vaeste, his brother. And he thought of the woman who was still and stoic, also paused silently in her own reverie before the fire, probably staring past the silver flames, while her fingers curled around the warm mug of tea.
They were fools, both of them, he thought, his mind growing heavy and muddled, while the leaves in the branches whispered and slithered, moving before his weary eyes in an endless swaying pattern.
Patterns of gray and slate charcoal interspersed with black. The sounds of night cicadas dancing in his auditory sense. Candescence and steel, black and dull grizzle, all moving like shadow soldiers across his closed eyelids—for they had closed now, and he had not even noticed. And he was beginning to spiral in the heavy warmth that came just before the nightly oblivion of sleep.
It seemed that one of the gray shadows took on a shape like a warrior of metal and darkness, flying past him on a great war stallion, becoming clearer suddenly, drawing into distinct focus, taking on a form separate from the night—
There was a warmth that suddenly gathered inside him, deep near his belly, in the lower regions, in the solar plexus. He lay, while the world seemed to spin all around and fall away, drawn by that gathering of warmth. And the soldier neared him still, no longer astride but walking, rich shadows flying past, and from somewhere, suddenly, blossomed a gathering of pinpoint stars of light.
Strange, rich living light, moving to saturate the inside of his eyelids, incomprehensible at first, until suddenly, a memory came, and with it the shock of recognition—
Red.
Elasirr shuddered, coming out of his groggy half-slumber, and yet simultaneously sinking into what was a dream—and he knew it for such.