Merlin was surprised to find she missed the scatterling youth.
He had treated her well, though she had hardly been appreciative at the time. He was the only one since she had wakened to have offered her unconditional friendship. She had not spoken to a friend since . . . she couldn’t remember when. She laughed bleakly at her own joke.
She had failed to see Ford’s value because she had been too preoccupied with her own problems. The truth was, she thought sadly, she had been more than slightly frightened by his savage appearance – his scarred eye and his near nakedness. She was ashamed of her prejudices, but in honesty, she had to admit that she had been even more unnerved by his sudden interest in her. Remembering the hungry way he had looked at her, she shivered.
She missed Ford’s company, but she did not miss his gaze or the alien quality of his appearance. She did not miss his telepathic questioning. She was sorry he had decided to be attracted to her. When he had talked about his hunger for knowledge, she had actually forgotten the differences between them. Of course, she couldn’t possibly love him. He was too strange and different for that, but she thought they might have been friends.
‘I speak of the mating heat, and you answer me with friendship?’
The memory of his scathing tone made Merlin redden. Maybe friendship between them wouldn’t have worked anyway. She was getting sentimental and stupid because she felt lonely.
Merlin had spent the previous night curled in a hollow tree-trunk in a barren clearing, too tired to search for anything safer. Her last waking thought had been that the only dangerous animals in the Region of Great Trees seemed to be two-legged ones.
She did not wake until a beam of sunlight stabbed like a knife onto her cheek. Extricating herself from the tree, Merlin was stiff and sore all over, the muscles in the backs of her legs knotted and tight. Hobbling back into the shade cast by the giant trees with their tough, pungent leaves, Merlin came to the conclusion that she must have led a very lazy life to be so unfit.
‘Exercise should be moderate and consistent, and supported by a nutritionally balanced diet for the fullest effect,’ the mechanical voice advised.
‘Sure!’ Merlin snarled. The shadowed ground was soft underfoot, and moist, as if fed from a subterranean water source. Thirsty, she had only to gouge a hole in the ground and wait for it to fill. The water was cold and slightly brackish.
She then massaged her muscles gingerly until they felt less rigid, relieved herself and set off, chewing the final tough strips of meat.
She felt euphoric at having survived the night alone. She was not starving, even if the remaining meat had smelled spoiled; she had quenched her thirst and was well rested. And for the first time, she woke with a purpose.
Perhaps that explained her surprising calmness. She wondered if Marthe really could see the future. Remember, she had called it. It had been unnerving to be told that she would go to the Conclave because the Rememberer saw it. On the other hand, Marthe had seemed to imply that she saw a combination of possible futures, rather than a single, certain future so perhaps she was not as positive as she made out. The thought of being able to see the future was a fantastic if confusing notion. Of course most of what had happened since the accident would fall into the realm of impossible fiction in the world of her memory.
Where am I? Merlin wondered again. The question had less force than on the previous night. She was beginning to accept her new life, simply because she had no memory of another to regret. As well, there was the pressing need to come to terms with the changed world, and to understand it, which left little energy for curiosity about the past.
She was not sure the Conclave would yield anything useful, but it was better to be travelling there with a purpose than blundering around aimlessly among the trees. If she stayed in the forest, she would be found by the Citizen gods or the scatterlings; either way, it would be dangerous.
She decided not to think beyond the Conclave. If that answered no questions, she would worry then about what to do next.
Midway through the morning, Merlin climbed a steep ridge. At the crest she saw Marthe’s distant jagged hill. She felt a rush of relief and realised she had secretly feared that the Rememberer’s directions were calculated to get her lost, despite their apparent clarity. She sent a silent apology to the Rememberer and set off at a brisk pace down the other side of the ridge. Before long, she was walking up again. The ground became increasingly corrugated. One minute she was carefully picking her way down a steep descent, the next she was panting her way up a sharp incline.
Each time she reached the top of a ridge, she took fresh bearings from the hill. She was gradually moving away from the sunset and closer to the hill and calculated that she would reach the end of the Region of Great Trees by late afternoon.
In fact, she reached the edge of the Region of Sands shortly before midday.
The Region of Great Trees ended with perfect and impossible symmetry, as if someone had cut along the edge with a pair of shears, and laid it in the middle of a desert of pale yellow sand. This reminded Merlin of her original notion that the trees were part of an immense plantation. Through the gaps between trees, the Region of Sand stretched unchangingly to the horizon, and a wall of solid wavering heat lay up against the cool, dark shade offered by the trees. The hill she had followed was not in the Region of Great Trees as she had supposed.
A road ran straight from beyond the flat horizon towards the trees, breaking off abruptly a few metres from the treeline, and curving back on itself towards the side of the hill which now revealed its shy twin.
Between them must lie the Valley of Conclave. Merlin could see no telltale gap, but Marthe had said the way into the Valley was narrow. The Rememberer had warned her to get onto the road unseen. This would be more difficult than it had sounded. There was an unbroken line of traffic right from the horizon, and few gaps between groups. And even when there were gaps, the road was so straight and the terrain so flat, she would be seen from miles away.
Stupidly, she had not asked Marthe why it was important that no one see her come out of the trees. The road curved within a few metres of the treeline at one point, and Merlin decided she would make her break from there. Working her way through the trees, she was careful not to expose herself to the travellers, though they seemed to ignore the trees altogether. Merlin wondered why they kept so carefully to the road. No one even looked at the trees or took advantage of the shelter they offered from the searing sunlight.
She sat down using a bush right at the edge of the treeline to screen her in case someone did happen to glance her way. Breaking off strategic branches, Merlin was able then to see the road right in front of her and in both directions.
Settling down to wait for a break in the traffic, she was in no hurry to join the road. She was glad of the opportunity to study the other travellers.
There was no uniform dress code among them. She had half expected all the people travelling to the Conclave to be dressed similarly but there was a dizzying variety in the clothing they wore. This confused her until she remembered Marthe had told her the clans were very different.
The strangest thing though, was that despite different clothes and dramatic variations in body shape and facial race features, all of the pilgrims had darkish skin. No one’s skin was white as she remembered white skin. The skin tones ranged from her own pale golden shade and progressed to a dense chocolate brown. Uptilted Japanese eyes and thick Negroid lips went equally with all colours. There was not a single definite race type among the travellers.
She puzzled over this for a bit, before accepting she had no more likelihood of understanding this than her own dilemma.
Gradually, she noticed there were variations in dress that seemed to mark one clan from another. Idly, she began to try catagorising clans by their clothing.
There were those she named camel clanfolk, clad in flowing robes bound with thongs of leather. The men and women were hard to differentiate in this group, but th
ey all rode on shaggy, camel-like creatures.
These were the first animals Merlin had set eyes on, apart from the dead ferret things Ford had caught and killed. Again she wondered at these animals that were not quite like those she remembered. Her memory was filled with pictures of wild creatures in cages and roaming free in a natural state.
Abruptly, she forced the questions away and went on studying the bypassers.
Some travellers wore rich, fluttering layers of vividly dyed cloth. Even from a distance, their ankles and arms sparkled with gems. She called these the jewelled clan. It appeared the wealth of clans varied too. Some of the jewelled clanfolk rode in small, ornately finished sedan chairs, carried by men who looked like they came from another poorer clan.
‘Unequal distribution of wealth is the basis of the world’s wars and poverty,’ the mechanical voice said. Whatever else had changed, Merlin thought this had not.
She found herself remembering thin, huge-eyed Cambodian children from a culture starved and victimised by wealthy nations for whom their tiny country was no more than a warground. The children were as clear as all the other memories, and she wondered at this. Was it possible she had met those children?
If so, why did she remember the children but not meeting them? She thrust the unanswerable questions away, recognising composure lay in not constantly staring into the gaping holes in her mind.
There were two clans who wore scant dress, and Merlin was unsure if they were one clan or two. The second group also wore loin cloths but they were so heavily painted that at a distance they seemed to be wearing patterned body suits.
All the travellers, regardless of dress, carried baggage. The poorer clans carried their own, while others used servants or the camel beasts. She guessed these bundles represented the products Marthe said would be sold and traded at the Conclave.
This reminded Merlin that she possessed neither money nor goods to barter. She wondered if this would cause her any difficulty and experienced a sudden suspicion that Marthe had known she would need money, but had not bothered to tell her. The Rememberer had been very anxious to get rid of her.
Merlin chewed her lip uncertainly. So far, everything Marthe had told her had been proven true. There was no real reason to suspect her now.
Just the same, Merlin knew she was at the mercy of the other, and without warning a wave of loneliness and despair washed over her at the knowledge that she had no choice but to trust someone who had disliked and feared her. She realised her composure was a fragile wall.
‘True friends are rare, and should be treasured above all things,’ the William voice said.
Oddly, this made Merlin think of Ford. She had spoken of friendship to him, but in reality, that was not what she had offered. And now she was alone. Merlin’s eyes filled with tears. The questions that had tormented her since she had woken flew at her, savage as magpies protecting their nests. Merlin cried without restraint, and tears rained down her face with alarming ease.
‘Your name is Merlin,’ the William voice said.
‘Great. That helps a lot,’ Merlin snapped, then grinned, struck by the idiocy of getting angry at the disembodied voice. This gave her the strength to throw off the moment of despair.
The truth was that the only one who could help her was herself, so she might as well get used to it. She must rely on her instincts and trust them; her instincts told her Marthe had not lied when she said there might be answers for her in the Valley of Conclave, so she must find a way to enter the Valley.
She wiped her face dry with what remained of her tunic, determined not to cry again.
She jumped at the sound of a voice, then realised the wind had changed direction and was carrying snatches of conversation from the road towards the trees.
With a feeling of excitement, she inched forward on her belly to the very edge of the shade, listening.
No one even looked at the treeline, but Merlin was not brave enough to show herself in case someone did. She thought they might be afraid of the trees. Why else would they refuse so rigidly even to look at them? Perhaps there was a taboo associated with them. That might explain why Marthe had stressed the importance of joining the road unnoticed.
There was a lot of laughter, Merlin thought. This boded well. It was the laughter of people who expected to enjoy themselves. Merlin frowned at the sudden clear memory of a vivid and intricate painting of a country fair.
‘This picture is very old,’ the William voice whispered reverently.
Merlin thrust the words and the painting from her mind and forced herself to concentrate on the travellers.
To begin with what she could hear was too disjointed to make sense, but at last a group of serious-faced men in rough, sweat-stained clothes passed by, walking slowly. Merlin strained her ears.
‘Baltic clan have silk for barter this year . . .’
‘ . . . odd since they have no knowledge of the secrets of . . .’
‘ . . . one of the men married a silkmaker from Fallon and he learned the way of silkmaking in mindbond. She had no choice as his mate. There could be no secrets between them . . .’
‘This will change the fortunes of Baltic.’
The words faded. Merlin frowned, wishing she dared to go nearer to the road. The snatches of conversation were tantalising.
Behind the men came another group of men wearing elaborately embroidered kaftans and vests. The jewelled clan, Merlin guessed, though there were few jewels in evidence. Like their clothes, their manners were elaborate and ornate.
‘ . . . he tried to bribe the warden not to Choose the boy, but the warden denounced him to the Lord warden. He was executed, of course, and the boy taken anyway.’
‘What about the woman? Surely she was not blameless . . .’
‘I have heard the mindbond is more dangerous than was known. Nallar no longer practises it so commonly . . .’
The group passed on and Merlin wondered about the function of the wardens. They sounded powerful – judge, jury and lawmakers all in one.
A harried-looking older man passed, holding the slender elbow of a pretty, petulant girl with intricately braided hair. The pair were surrounded by servants laden with bundles.
‘ . . . I cannot offer grain directly to Fallon, my doveling. They have no need for grainfoods. I will have to offer our grain at low cost to Gawlor for coloured dyes, which I will then have to offer to Fallon at prices less than Gawlor . . .’ the man said pleadingly.
The girl looked bored and unimpressed and Merlin grinned. If she were not mistaken, the older man was husband to the pretty sulking girl. She began to see that Conclave was, as Marthe had said, much more than a meeting of clan groups. The talk among travellers was all of trade and barter advantages and gossip concerning different clan yields and prosperity. There was no mention of money and this made Merlin wonder if the clans used money at all. It sounded as if they relied solely on barter. That would explain the wealth of the clans with desirable produce or abilities – Fallon clan’s silkmaking, for instance.
As time dragged on, Merlin began to fear she would never get onto the road, let alone into the Valley.
It was hunger in the end that made her take the chance.
Traffic along the road eased fractionally towards late afternoon, while the numbers of travellers in groups increased, making it harder for them to stay within the borders of the road. Some way off, Merlin noticed a large group from the jewelled clan. They seemed to be playing a complicated running game. There was a lot of laughter – Merlin could hear them despite the distance. Every few minutes, someone would rush at someone else; there would be a brief chase and a scuffle before the pair resumed the path. The runners often ran very close to the trees.
Merlin’s heart began to beat swiftly when she saw there was a gap between this group and the next. She stood up, and found her legs rubbery with fright. She had to try it, she told herself sternly. It might be her only chance. If she waited until the noisy jewel people had drawn just past
her, then walked down quickly to join the road, there was a good chance she would not be noticed.
Once she had reached the road, she would drop back, lengthening the distance between her and the other group. Merlin hardly noticed the people passing in front of her, so intent was she on the game-players.
If she could just break away from the trees at the moment one of the runners was close to the treeline, she doubted she would be noticed by either the game-players, intent on the antics of their friends, or by the group coming up behind, who would take her for a game-player.
The group before the game-players passed. Merlin gathered herself. Her heart beat out a jerky tattoo and she felt sick and breathless.
What would happen if she were seen?
As the group drew level, there was a feeling of inevitability in her breast; a now or never ultimatum forcing her to go on regardless of the risk.
‘Some things are worth a risk,’ the William voice said urgently.
‘Now or never,’ she whispered, taking a deep breath.
She stepped out into the blazing sunlight, and walked on stiff legs towards the road. It seemed a very long way. She felt terribly vulnerable. Her back hunched as she walked. She could almost hear the words: ‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’
But no one called out.
Merlin stepped on the road, suppressing the urge to be sick. It was dreadfully hot and her back and hands were already damp with perspiration. She had not expected the blazing wall of heat beyond the shade.
Slowly, and with great apprehension, she forced herself to look behind. The other group had drawn near enough for Merlin to see they were painted people, but they took no notice of her.
With a thrill of elation, Merlin realised she had done it.
Relieved and utterly drained of energy, it was all she could do to keep walking. There was a loud burst of laughter from the group in front of her.
‘Ha! Got you.’
‘My win this time. Serves you right . . .’
Merlin heard the words from a long way off, as if she were under water. She forced herself to walk steadily, opening the distance between herself and the jewelled people. She judged it to be less than a kilometre to the hill. From the trees it had seemed closer. The sun beat down savagely on her naked head. She thought longingly of the water in the Region of Great Trees.