What others are saying about
Dreams of the Compass Rose
“A clever concoction of vignettes and short stories knitted into a morality tale about the temptation of illusion and the price of truth... an exotic setting reminiscent of Tanith Lee’s Flat Earth series.... The author’s sumptuous language will resonate with Lord Dunsany and Clark Ashton Smith fans.... Nazarian’s vital themes and engaging characters are sure to entertain.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The colorful strong writing style that Vera has worked on for years has come to full fruition.”
—Marion Zimmer Bradley
“I love this book. Dreams of the Compass Rose is a story-cycle in which we keep coming back to the same characters, except from different viewpoints and different times in their lives. It’s set in a land of desert empires that never was, though it could easily be our world—far in the future, or deep in the past. Some of the stories are brutal, some are like dreams. All of them are engaging and resonant, creating a new mythology that feels so right one might be forgiven for thinking that it’s the cultural heritage of some forgotten country or people that have been lost to history. It reminded me of those wonderful, dream-laden story-cycles that Clark Ashton Smith and Lord Dunsany were writing around the turn of the last century. Dreams of the Compass Rose has a similar stately lyricism, a compelling and visionary voice that speaks to the heart of the reader.”
—Charles de Lint
“Nazarian’s story cycle treads the borderline between the episodic novel and the short-story collection… her imagery is rich, vivid, and memorable, not to mention being remarkable because she realizes it not in her native language, Russian, but in English…. this is a singularly appealing book by a new voice in fantasy.”
—ALA Booklist
“An intricate multi-level story... a kind of Aesop’s Fables... spoken with a voice from the Far East, hypnotic as the desert sands.”
—Locus
Dreams of the Compass Rose
Vera Nazarian
Published by Norilana Books at Smashwords
Copyright © 2002 by Vera Nazarian
Cover Design Copyright © 2010 by Lisa Silverthorne
Cover Art: “The Night” by Vera Nazarian
Discover other titles by Vera Nazarian at
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Norilana
Epub Format ISBN:
ISBN-13: 978-1-60762-075-4
ISBN-10: 1-60762-075-8
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in an imaginary manner to entertain, and any resemblance to any real people, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Dedication
For many friends, and for many reasons:
Steve Algieri, Lisa Silverthorne, Wendi Gansen, Paul Melko, Jane S. Fancher, Kurt Roth, Lauren Oliver, Sherwood Smith, William Sanders, Marion Zimmer Bradley, John Sullivan, Patricia Duffy Novak, James D. Macdonald, and Paul Barnett
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dream One: Amarantea
Dream Two: The Miracles of Ris
Dream Three: Sailing the Eye of Sun
Dream Four: Goddessday
Dream Five: Tale of Nadir
Dream Six: Shimmering Scythe
Dream Seven: City of No-Sleep
Dream Eight: The Garden, the Wind, and the Gong
Dream Nine: The Compass Rose
Dream Ten: Gods and Fleas
Dream Eleven: Night of a Thousand Moons
Dream Twelve: The Cup
Dream Thirteen: Caelqua’s Spring
Dream Fourteen: The Story of Time
Dreams of the Compass Rose
DREAM ONE
AMARANTEA
In the metallic blur of the horizon, below the cumulus cloud skies, lies Amarantea. . . . It is violet, lavender, or indigo, at dawn, noon, and dusk. It is where the soul flies in search of wonder, when sleep takes you by the eyelashes. . . .
So it was told, in all the lands of the Compass Rose. It was also related, in the late cozy evenings by the marigold hearth, when children settled to absorb the ancestral wisdom of their elders, that Amarantea was a place between worlds, inaccessible.
One such child, sitting at her Grandmother’s knee, asked insistently every night to hear the story, until Grandmother nearly went daft with repetition.
“Tell me of the beast that inhabits the island kingdom!” little Learra cried. “The one that has no name, and that can only be seen when it sleeps! Tell me of the king of Amarantea, who has wed a woman with no eyes! I want to hear the words of the greatest Truth that are inscribed upon the coffin of brass—the one that is within the anonymous sepulcher of the unknown one!”
“The beast that has no name does not want nosy little girls to know anything more about it,”
Grandmother said. “And neither does the king and his poor wife. As to the words of Truth on the brass coffin—why, I’ve recited them to you over a dozen times.”
“One more time, please!”
“It says,” Grandmother began to speak with the patience of an antique maple, “that whatever lies within this grave is the only source of evil. And it should not be disturbed by you or me, or anyone with the least bit of brains, for that matter. Nor should silly questions be pursued beyond a certain point.”
“No, no!” insisted Learra. “I want to hear the real words, please, not your own, Grandmother!”
“Ah . . . What’s an old woman to do, when her words are no longer considered real? Very well. It says: ‘The soul is a flower, severed from its stem, bearing seed, planted at birth, reaped in death, but never discarded in the bottomless well.’”
“But that says nothing about evil. And what strange words! What does it all mean?”
“How should I know?” said the Grandmother, moving her embroidery needle through cotton fabric.
“Then how do you know the words at all?”
“Why—I was told them when I was your size, little one.”
Learra touched a small hand to her Grandmother’s sunken cheek, saying, “Then I must find out, before I am your size.”
In the mists that form the edge of the world, sleeps Amarantea. . . . And, all around, an ocean of steel and mauve sun-glitter upon cool waters—for it is an island.
A young woman with a sharp seeking gaze stood on the starboard side of a galley, the only ship that could bring her here, to the end of the world.
After serving twelve years in the cities directly South of the Compass Rose, having drudged away her gleam of youth, her freshest bloom, the softness of her fingertips, Learra had earned enough to purchase one rare pearl of indigo-ebony. And cupping that pearl like her own heart in her thoroughly coarse palms, she had taken it to the one temple in the Southern city that served a true god.
In exchange for the pearl, the god answered her inquiry. Directions were given to her as to the precise location of the mysterious place out of legend tha
t she sought. And a ship was hired, the only ship that would sail there, commanded by an insane captain. As they sailed through the seas of metallic twilight, through sun-drenched expanses of aquamarine, through haze and mist and downpour, and thunderstorm skies shattered by gods’
lightning, Learra sensed her heart take on a certain new rhythm. The rhythm built, so that she could hear her temples almost every waking moment as they drew nearer to their destination. At sundown on the hundred and seventh day, the needle of the ship’s compass lost its magnetism and lost its mind, beginning to float aimlessly in its cradle with every jolt of the ocean waves. Very soon after, they saw the horizon, and with it an indigo shadow on the rim. Wonder. . . .
When night came, the ship continued, piercing the black satin of the waters and leaving a ribbon of ghost-white lace in its wake, while the moon shone down upon the world from a violet sky.
In the darkness, the land formed around them, volcanic, out of the waters. The ship dropped anchor before a soft ebony shore that arose gradually out of some formless void that was the night.
Learra stood watching the line of surf sweep the black sand like a silver comb. And then she was on a small boat, was being rowed to shore, was stepping upon the soft resilient sand. The androgynous captain with the fearless eyes would wait for her, three days if necessary, and then, as agreed, would be free to turn around and return home, without any more concern for her fate.
She stood, while the boat returned to the ship, and watched the spray fill her footprints upon the sand with liquid night-silver. She stood, breathing the intense cool wind that carried in it scents of both land and sea, and some unknown soft perfume.
The night wind touched her cheek, and she thought she heard her name whispered, as she started to walk along the rising shore into the unknown. Her way was lit with liquid moonlight. For a long time there was only a forest of darkness, of trees with winding pale limbs, of leaves rich with succulence, and everywhere living eyes that reflected the moonglow—eyes of those who populated this dark. And then, just as the first lavender shimmer began in the Eastern sky, she came out of the forest into a clearing, and upon the black ruins of something ancient and remote.
The ruins were grandiose. Their nature was that of the fabric of her most vital dream. She knew it, because they stretched for miles in all directions, as far she could see through the encroaching dawn. And yet, as light gathered, pooling onto the sky, it transformed the vista before her. Slowly, very gently, the structures took on a shape, columns shone with clean marble, walls filled out where only moments ago they had appeared to possess gaps of fallen bricks, mortar filled crevices through which the wind had slithered just at the previous heartbeat. A sensation came to haunt her briefly. She heard ancient sand granules rubbing with a hiss against rock, and breathed a lungful of dry hot air. But quickly it was gone, to be replaced with the quickening sound of the lush forest and the moist cool breeze carried from the sea. And when at last the first piercing shard of the sun broke through thick growth on the horizon and struck the land, Learra stood at sparkling gates of gold before a fabled living city. It lay fully formed before her, blazing with the dawn. She saw gold-capped towers and spikes of bronze, all razor-bright. She stared in wonder at perfect veined marble, rose and lapisblue, and at shingles of sandalwood, painted obelisks and carved winged beasts, and, in the center of all things, a structure of translucent jewel hues.
And yet there was not a living soul within this world. She walked past the gates into a place of fountains, beating in the early morning light like transparent blood from a severed vein. She wandered through streets paved with cream polished stone, underneath arches carved with words she could not read, that had never been pronounced in her lifetime. And she found herself, as the sun swept higher into the sky-dome, at the heart of this dream.
She knew it for what it was, because her own heart pounded within her, and her vision had grown absolute, all her senses having receded to supplement it.
A white luminous structure loomed, wrought with enamel jewel tones—palace, temple, or tomb. And it beckoned her to enter, its delicate archway entrance shimmering with the heat of day, warping like a mirage before her. And beyond it, from deep within—cool lilac twilight. Learra entered, catching her breath and beginning to cough from the sudden pungent odor of ancient dried flowers. The cloying dust was everywhere, choking her, while the intensifying presence of her dream arose to make her buoyant on the inside. And yet the soles of her feet felt weighted down, heavy like stone.
She was within a domed chamber. The walls were in permanent shadow, but the remote ceiling dome was filled with central illumination that streamed in from a pattern of window skylights high overhead. Razor shafts of sun fell through the skylights upon rows of coffins of brass that reposed upon the mosaic floor.
She did not bother to count the coffins. There were over a hundred, for they filled the grand chamber. Instead, she moved deeper into the room, dragging the soles of her feet, step after step. She coughed and breathed with distaste, her lungs rebelling at the sickening ancient sweetness. She stood like a thick-minded dull creature, unsure of what to do with herself, with this whole world around her, while long moments flowed past and time blurred. And then, drunk on time and flowers, she started to read the markings, the incoherent shapes and symbols of an unknown language running like beads of rain past her eyes. She trod heavily and yet softly, letting her vision glide along each symbol, each plaque, striving, with constant repetition, to obtain a glimmer of meaning.
And thus she paced, while the sun slowly traveled the sky towards night, and eventually dipped beyond the skylights. With that came pale violet twilight, and then there was a sudden fall of darkness.
In the dark, she found that she could still see. Vision lost its relevance and she no longer relied on eyes to perceive, but instead the awareness that came through the pores of her skin. Eventually vision returned. From high overhead, stars poured their remote pinpoint illuminations and gave the chamber a faint form. The coffins stretched in rows of deeper darkness than the air, and, with effort, she could make out the markings upon the brass. It had grown dull and old again, the brass. Its luster had been stripped away with the night. And for a moment only Learra pulled herself away from her task of perception, and looked around her at the chamber itself. It, the chamber, was now but a black ruin sprawled around her, with missing sections of wall through which she could see the night outside, and hear, from far away, the tumult of forest at the ruins’ distant rim. . . .
And then, the moon rose. With the coming of moonlight, ruin receded all around her, and again she could see the glamour of solid refined form. Moonlight streamed into the skylights from above, and the writings on the plaques grew clear again, while the brass glimmered pale and polished.
And as she continued to walk among the rows of brass, she began to decipher some of the symbols, which then wound and turned and slithered into her, making sense at last. Amarantea. She could almost read the symbols that formed the word, she saw instances of it, etched upon metal, almost like blossoms. Here. And yet again here. . . . Ah-mah-ran-teh-ah . . . it whispered in her mind.
And she knew, with a surety, with a pounding of her blood, where she was, at last. What are you, what mystery? My spirit self drowns within you, is consumed. The thirst to know calls, pulls me into you . . .
And for a moment the wind wanted to answer her, swooping down in night gusts from the windows above, whispering, whispering.
There were three coffins in the center of the chamber, somehow distinct from the rest, not in appearance but in their situation, right below the central skylight. Learra approached this grouping, for something subtle, delicate, intimate, pulled at her. She paused before each, and read the flowing wavering symbols, seeing their pattern in the moonlight, and encountering the other, that pattern she had come to recognize and long for. . . . What was within the coffins seemed to whisper her name. Or was it the wind, cool and insolent?
O
pen the brass lid—her thoughts taunted her with dream images—open it and release the enigma inside.
If she pried open the heavy lid on that coffin, the one on the right, would she find, within, the decayed bones of an ancient king? And would the coffin on the far left contain what had once been a woman out of legend, a queen without eyes?
And the other one, the coffin that was between them, separating them even in death unto eternity—what greatest evil could be contained within it?
The soul is a flower, severed from its stem, bearing seed, planted at birth, reaped in death, but never discarded in the bottomless well.
What sin had been committed here, in this relic of a sepulcher, within a ruined place at the end of the world? What curse of madness, of unfulfilled desire, slithered about the ruins at night, and revealed their true stagnation only with the retreat of light?
Or—did it thus also show their greatest truth?
Where was it, the beast that has no name, the one that can only be seen when it sleeps?
The ruins stirred in their own bottomless slumber all around Learra. But the beast without a name tugged at her nature, her innards, her fear, urging her and yet pulling her back, seductive in its caution, always but one step away, just out of sight, at the edge of her living dream. . . . And she knew then, with a sinking, a gentle sadness, that if she were to follow her final desire—the one that pulled at her, that called upon her to open the coffins one by one and thus reveal the final mystery—then she would find out something that was not human, was not hers to know.
Dare to know! wailed the night. You, who seek, you must achieve that what has driven you all your life. . . .
And Learra stretched out her hand with its callused work-palm, and trembling, touched the cold bronze metal of the center casket before her.
Do it . . . Whispers came from all recesses of her mind. Proceed, or you will die in madness. . . .
The brass handle of the coffin was circular, made to fit her palm exactly. The heavy lid had probably jammed with time; lifting it will require inordinate effort. Do it . . . This is the one purpose of your life.