DARK VEIL
By Dana Beehr
Chaladon
had
been following the sluggish, brown river for the past
few days when she came upon the small outpost tucked
into its bend: a clutch of drab buildings that seemed a
part of the rugged, gray-green hills.
She saw a stable suitable for a dozen horses, a
one-room office building, a bunkhouse where a weary
traveler could get a meal and a bed.
A courier station for messengers of the
long-dead Empire.
But
of
course, out here the Empire still stands. The men
and women in travel-stained clothes, the horses tied to
the hitching rail outside the office, the odors of dung,
smoke and scorched metal, the distant clang from the
blacksmith’s forge, attested to that truth. She stood
for a moment, watching the bustle, drinking in the
sights and sounds of ordinary life.
It’s
been
too long.
The
sun
had sunk below the glaring wound of the Rift in the sky,
which had been there for most of her life; Chaladon was
tired, hungry, and ready to stop for the night. She
went to the small pump by the office building and let
her pack and dance sword slide from her back.
She filled her waterskin, then put her head
under the cool water.
When she straightened, dripping, she blinked
the water out of her eyes to see an older man with dark
hair and moustache in a care-worn face leaning against
the wall, eyes on the road.
He tipped his hat and nodded to her.
“Greetings,
Deep
Dancer. Not too often we get one of your kind around
here.”
“And
never
will again, most like.
I’m the last of them.”
“A
shame,”
he said. “Be
you from the Empress?”
“The
Empress
is dead; the Empire of the Center fell centuries ago.”
Again,
the
man shrugged. “As
may be. Out
here it stands yet.”
“What
is
the name of your Empress?” she asked, curious.
“Empress
Zhalia,
long may she reign.”
Chaladon nodded; that was two empresses before
her time. “Take
it you’re not on Imperial business then,” he continued.
“In
a
way.” Chaladon
was not in a mood to give him more, and after a moment,
he went back to scanning the road.
As if waiting for someone.
“Well,
it’s
an honor to have you, Deep Dancer,” he said. “Be
you staying long?”
“Just
passing
through. Who’s
in charge here?”
“Myself,
Lady
-- what’d you say your name was again?”
“Chaladon
the
Ninth.” She
resettled the weight of her pack on her shoulders,
sliding her sword into place underneath the looped
strands of her dance veil.
“Lady
Chaladon,
then,” he said. “I’m
the marshal around these parts.
Name’s Oghain.”
His eyes were kind and friendly, his face open. The openness
smoothed out places in her that had been rough for a
while, and Chaladon found herself smiling back.
“I’m
hoping
to claim Imperial rights -- food and board and perhaps
to draw some coin against the treasury, since the Empire
stands yet where we are.”
Oghain
nodded.
“I’ve always felt for you from the Center.
It must be strange, feeling your Empire roll up
behind you as you travel.
Like running on a bridge collapsing beneath
you.”
“Yes...”
She
was struck by his words.
Yes, it was exactly like that.
“Well,
we
can see you get what you asked for.
Anything else?”
“Whatever
you
can tell me about the way ahead,” Chaladon said.
“I’m headed Outward; hoping to follow the
river--what is it called?”
“The
Ssha,
Lady Chaladon,” Oghain said.
“My
quest
is to seek the Edge of the World.”
Oghain
raised
one brow. “Well. We’ve had
others come through here seeking the Edge, though none
returned. They
each had a story; what’s yours?”
“A
commission,”
Chaladon said. “Given
to me back in the days...”
She
broke
off because she did not know what to say.
Not back in the days when the Empire of the
Center still stood; she had been born too late for that. Back in the
days when she, Chaläestra, and Chalira, dance-sisters
three, had been raised to maturity, the last Deep
Dancers in the last creche of the last line of their
order; a commission given them by their Dancemistress
Chalise, who had raised them for that purpose, had sent
them out into the world... as if she sensed we would
never return.
And
now
there was only herself.
“A
commission
laid upon me by my Dancemistress, in the name of the
Empress of the Center.
To destroy the Everstorm at the center of the
world.”
Oghain
nodded,
taking her words in stride.
Yet he never stopped watching the road.
“Well,
then
so be it,” he said.
“But I must tell you, Lady Chaladon, the way
you’re plannin’ to go -- through the Valley of the
Ssha -- best you find another route.
You see, it’s -- “
He
stopped. His
gaze sharpened into alertness. Chaladon turned to look.
A
woman was heading along the road toward them, on foot. Even at this
distance Chaladon could tell something was wrong: she
swayed and lurched like a drunkard.
Sunstroke?
As the woman came closer, Chaladon saw that her
eyes were wide and glittering, her teeth set in a rictus
grin. This
is no illness.
A chill passed down Chaladon’s spine.
The
color
drained from Oghain’s face.
“Three Ladies, it’s Tamaya!”
His
shout
ripped the air, bringing all the people in the street to
a halt. Hands
went to weapons. Tamaya
ignored everything, staggering toward a youngish man
with soft, brown curls and an open, innocent face, who
stared at her as if he could not look away.
“Tamaya
--
“ the man whispered.
“Jasin,
be
careful,” Oghain warned. “That’s not your Tamaya anymore
-- “
Jasin
seemed
not to hear. He
took a step...another one...
She
shrieked
horribly and lunged, a wicked-looking knife flashing in
one hand. In
a blink she had buried her blade in his chest.
“Tamaya
--
!” Jasin staggered backward and collapsed.
Tamaya yanked out the knife, and blood spurted,
painting her face demon-red.
She went for him again, but a big man with the
air of a soldier grabbed her arm and yanked it behind
her. The
bone snapped audibly, but Tamaya, screeching and
thrashing, seemed not to notice.
In another instant, a thin-faced woman carrying
a shovel stepped up and hit Tamaya sharply on the back
of the head. She
slumped like a rag doll. It had all happened so quickly,
Chaladon had not had time to free her dance sword or the
Fire Veil she carried.
As
the
crowd closed up around the prone forms, murmuring,
Chaladon looked over at Oghain.
“What was that?”
The
lines
in Oghain’s face deepened. “Been
three or four days since she disappeared. People said
she’d gone to the Valley of the Ssha -- looking
for a rare plant to cure her little daughter.
They try to beat it every now and then; believe
it can’t happen to them.”
“What
can’t happen?”
Oghain
was
silent for a long moment. “Round here we call it the
Madness. Nobody goes into the Madness, not
if they can help it; and them as does -- “ He broke off,
his eyes haunted.
“Tell
me,”
Chaladon said.
“Most
don’t
come back. Them
as are lucky. We
reckon they’re lying somewhere dead in the cleft.
And for those who live -- “ He indicated the
knot of townsfolk gathered around the fallen forms of
Tamaya and Jasin. “Well,
you just saw it there, my Lady.
Anyone walks out of the Madness brings
a raging hatred, a thirst to kill -- this be the
cruelest of all -- those they loved.”
“Those
they
loved?” Chaladon looked at him closely.
He
gave
a grim nod. “Parents,
children, husbands, wives --
It’s as if every scrap of love they’ve ever
felt has turned to hatred.
Nothing will stop them.
Men and women have traveled for miles and
years, to do their last loved ones to death.”
He looked at her as if to see if she heard him.
Chaladon
regarded
him evenly. “Have
no fear. For
there is no one left in the world that I love.”
Oghain’s
face
grew even heavier.
“Then that’s a terrible thing of itself, my lady. Listen.
I can’t stop you from goin’ —- not a Deep
Dancer, you understand -- but ‘twere best to turn back.”
She
shook
her head. “I
can’t. Not
after coming so far.” Without another word she turned
away, starting up the steps into the bunkhouse.
As
she
crossed the veranda, a figure lurking in the shadows
detached itself from a roof post.
“Please, Lady Deep Dancer -- “
Chaladon
saw
a scrawny, stained, young woman with stringy hair and
deep shadows under her eyes. “Yes?”
“If’n
you’re
heading into the Madness, could you be keeping
an eye out for my brother Yeman?
He went in a while ago on a dare and never came
back. I
can’t bear to think of -- if we have to -- “
She wiped at her eyes with the back of one thin
hand. “If
you can find him -- Well,
we hear tales of you Deep Dancers even out here.
If there’s any way to cure him, I know you
can.”
The
simple
trust in her face touched Chaladon’s heart, much to her
surprise. She
had thought nothing could, after all this time.
“What’s
your
name, girl?”
“Yelena.”
“I’ll
see
what I can do,” she said.
Yelena’s wasted face lit as if she had just
been promised the three moons.
“Oh,
thank
you, my lady. Thank
you so much. I’ll tell my ma and pa.
It’ll do them so much good to hear that you’ll
help.”
She
bobbed
a quick curtsey and scurried off down the central
street. Chaladon watched her go.
At least, she thought, I
can make someone happy.
###
The
next
morning found her on the road out of town. She’d left
before the sun was all the way up over the Edge of the
World, as the Moons sank past the glaring, lurid Rift in
the sky.
The
road,
a flat, gray ribbon of dust, followed the curve of the
Ssha around a high ridge.
The land was covered with stunted bushes and
tall grass, lying open and sleepy under the bright
morning sunlight. Chaladon saw nothing so far to drive
one mad. Unless from sheer boredom.
On
the
other side of the orange-colored ridge, road and river
entered a narrow pass. Bluffs
rose against the sky, leading into a broad canyon. The
canyon floor was covered with the same drab, gray-green
scrub grass as the plains beyond.
Here and there stood gnarled trees with twisted
trunks, bearing strange, fleshy fruits like fungal
growth.
The
brown,
muddy Ssha flowed on steadily, filling the air
with the sound and scent of running water.
The ground was marshy, a fetid mud that
squelched and clung to Chaladon’s boots.
Insects landed, biting, until she cast a simple
ward to keep them off; even then the whine of the
mosquitoes and hum of the ugly, bristling, black flies
filled her ears.
Eventually
the
valley widened out, and Chaladon found herself pushing
through tall grass and small, hidden cactuses.
She stepped on one and felt a sharp pain in her
foot; with a muttered curse, she looked down to see an
inch-long spine stabbing through her leather boot. When she yanked
the thorn out, the tip was stained with blood. A warm
rivulet was flowing down the side of her foot.
She
sat
down on a boulder, or tried to; it was hard to keep her
balance, and she had to brace one foot while propping
the other up on her thigh.
Misshapen little lizards with grotesquely large
heads scurried over the warm rock.
They hissed at her, and a few took tiny nips at
her ankle; Chaladon kicked them away and pulled off her
boot.
Blood
was
trickling down her instep; already the puncture wound
looked inflamed. A gesture of healing magic stopped the
bleeding; then, Chaladon reached into her pack for a
vial of healing salve -- given to her a long time ago,
when she had visited the Rivers of Light -- and
dabbed some onto her foot, spreading soothing relief.
But
what
about the boot?
A
glance, and she grimaced in dismay.
It was still wearable, but she would have to
get it repaired the next chance she got.
She
could
do nothing but continue.
Chaladon slid off the rock and began forging
ahead once more. The
ground was muddy where it wasn’t stony, and tangled with
brush. The
strange, ugly little lizards continued to hiss and nip
at her feet. The
stunted trees crowded the edges of the road more
thickly. Birds called from the trees’ branches: a harsh,
grating cawwww.
They were vile-looking, with tattered plumage,
naked heads and gleaming, beady eyes, hunching on tree
branches like evil spirits. When
she ventured too close to a misshapen nest, one of them
dove at her, screeching, and pecked at her head until
she retreated.
What
a
rotten, foul place this is. She picked her
way around some bushes squatting like big toads,
glowering with lopsided flowers for eyes. The scorching
sun had risen past the rift that flared like an inflamed
wound -- a wound of nothingness, a gaping maw.
That Rift had not always been there; no;
Chaladon had seen it made.
Had
known
the one that made it.
Chaläestra.
The
mirror
crack’d from side to side,
she mused. It
was a line she had heard once.
Years -- or perhaps centuries -- after she,
Chalira, and Chaläestra had visited the Tower of
Shalott, sung by those who had not even been born
when the three of them made their visit.
No. What’s done
is done. She shook
her head and pressed on.
The
heat
of the sun baked down.
Sweat trickled down her face and dripped into
her eyes, stinging.
The air was oppressive and still; it felt like
trying to breathe through a warm, wet towel.
Chaladon gritted her teeth.
Just keep walking, she told herself, just
keep
walking....
She
started when a fox dashed, growling, from a crevice, and
latched its teeth into her boot. It hung on doggedly
even when she tried to kick it away.
She was lucky -- it bit into her toe where the
leather was thickest, so could not reach the skin -- but
she was forced to draw her belt knife and stab it behind
the head to kill it.
Even then, its teeth remained clamped on her
boot until she pried it off with her dagger.
She
studied the tiny carcass.
The fox’s green eyes were glazing in death; its
tiny, needle-sharp teeth broken and stained. It
was bony with patchy fur.
Gashes dripping pus marred its sides. In
disgust, she kicked it away.
What kind of place is this where
even the animals run mad?
She
wondered
suddenly what her dance-sisters, Chalira and Chaläestra,
would have made of this place.
Chaläestra would think it all a grand game. It was
strange: Chaladon would have thought, with the passage
of miles and years, that it would have been harder to
recall her dance-sisters, but somehow they seemed to be
standing at her shoulder.
Yes, Chaläestra would have found this place
amusing, just as she found everything.
When they had first set out, Chaläestra’s
levity had seemed a blessing. Chaladon had believed her
dance-sister’s joy would carry them through every trial.
I
didn’t see her as she really was. Not light-hearted
and free; rather, capricious and cruel.
Even
now, Chaladon would have gladly denied it, but she knew
it was true. She had always been that way.
She
cracked
the sky at Shalott.
For a jest. After
that, it had been clear Chaläestra was a danger, to
them and the world. Why didn’t we see sooner?
Why didn’t Chalise see? She was our Linemistress,
she was supposed to be looking out for us....
Chaladon
slogged
onward through heat and dust, her resentment growing. Yes,
Chaläestra never did care for us, did she -- or for
the quest. Only
for whatever she wanted. She glanced up at the
Rift, burning across the sky, widening day by day. We should
have dealt with her much sooner, Chalira and I....
Chalira:
the
level-headed one, whom she counted on -- had always
counted on--to balance Chaläestra.
Chalira, the responsible one --
Or
was she?
In
the
end, Chalira didn’t care about the quest either, did
she? She left
me. Turned aside -- for what?
A man? Home? A family? Chaladon
remembered
the Garden of Forking Paths, the things Chalira
had said....
“You
never
truly cared about the quest! All that mattered to you
was that Chaläestra and I followed your lead.” Even now, a
surge of anger flared.
How could she possibly
believe that?
I did
everything I could
to keep the quest going!
The fate of the
world was on our shoulders -- and now, the burden is mine alone. I
thought Chalira knew, that she’d follow me to the End
of the World, but she failed me. She
and Chaläestra both.
Failed? Or betrayed?
Chaladon
turned
her ankle on a rock, but she hardly felt it.
Her thoughts ran on and on, growing steadily
darker, a ceaseless skein twisting through her mind. Chaläestra,
Chalira -- they
betrayed me.
And Chalise -- she sent us out there
knowing we wouldn’t come back. She
sent us out there to die.
In that moment, it suddenly made sense; she saw
Chalise’s actions clearly for the first time. She
hoped to get us killed, by sending us on this
pointless errand.
To find a solution to the Everstorm?
As if that were even possible.
No, she wanted us all to die....
Us
all? Or
just me?
Chaladon
froze,
struck motionless by the thought.
Of course. That explains everything. Links in a
chain of evidence locked into place with a deafening click.
The realization took her breath away.
It was always a plot to kill me.
That’s why they left -- Maybe
that was even why Chaläestra cracked the sky.
So that I’d challenge her and she could
strike me down --
And the argument with Chalira...
She meant for me to fight her. When
I wouldn’t, she left.
So that I would die out here, alone --
It
all
made so much sense. I can’t believe I didn’t see it
before -- Her
mind reeled at the enormity of the revelation.
Those faithless traitors -- all those years,
feigning friendship to my face, while plotting behind
my back --
Were
they
plotting still?
Of
course. If they had
hoped to destroy her, why leave it undone?
It was so obvious. They were still working
against her, all three: Chaläestra, Chalira, Chalise. Frightened and
enraged, she wondered if every obstacle she’d ever
encountered had been their doing.
They might
even be watching her now, preparing an ambush -- The
image of the three of them together filled her with fury
beyond reason. She
could feel
them out there -- preparing to strike her down. Her
skin prickled with danger.
A
slow, red mist filled her brain.
They’re lying in wait for me.
Maybe -- Maybe I need to lie in wait for
them. My
old “friends.” Her
hands gripped her veil.
Find
them
and kill them. Find
them and kill them. Chaläestra. Chalira. Chalise.
Somehow
she
had unwound her veil, readying it for attack. She was
already turning, almost without volition; she seemed to
be watching herself from a distance, through a haze of
fury. She
had actually taken a step back when a thought struck
her.
“Wait.” She said it
aloud. “Chaläestra,
Chalira, Chalise — they’re all long dead.”
No, that skein
of underthoughts insisted.
No, they can’t be --
“They
are.” She spoke
aloud, lending weight to the words.
“How could they possibly be plotting against me
when they’re already dead?”
The
shock
cut through the fog like a slap in the face. They’re
dead. They’ve been dead for years.
I know that.
Where would I get the idea that they’re
working against me?
She
could
still feel the anger, a pounding tide that beat against
her temples, but now she grasped its true nature: alien,
not truly a part of her but coming from outside
somewhere. And
underneath, like a thread running through all her
thoughts, ran an insistent yammering:
No,
no,
they’ve betrayed you, kill them all, you must kill
them all, they don’t deserve to live....
With
an
effort, she pushed the thoughts from her mind.
Shaken, she struggled to steady herself.
If
I
hadn’t remembered that Chaläestra, Chalira, Chalise --
that they were all gone --
“Some
kind
of spell.” Saying
the words aloud helped -- carving the truth into the
air, bringing it out where she could hear and see it. It’s the
only explanation.
It must lie over this whole valley.
But who did it, and why?
She
wrapped
her Fire Veil around herself again and studied
her surroundings. The
valley stretched around her: the fetid river, the
reeking mud squishing around her feet, the spiny
cactuses, the loathsome little lizards.
She closed her eyes, emptying her mind, seeing
what remained.
It
felt
as if she were standing in front of a wall of black
thunderheads; a chill, horrible pressure weighed on her.
Something
up
there hates.
A
corrosive hate, as filled with poison as a rotted wound. Chaladon could
feel it oozing out and tainting everything around her. It
was that hatred that seeped into my mind -- that
wanted me to kill those I loved.
Chaladon
opened
her eyes. That
wall of hatred seemed a solid thing, dark and ominous
and impassable. It
would be safer, wiser — easier — to turn
around. Backtrack
her steps, try to find another route avoiding that
monstrous evil.
But
she couldn’t. Whatever
was waiting up there was vile, and extremely dangerous. She’d seen a
trace of the suffering it caused in the town the day
before; if left unchecked, it would only cause more
harm.
Was
it
not the duty of Deep Dancers everywhere to deal with
threats like this?
I
can’t just leave it.
She
reached
into her belt pouch for her zils and slid them onto her
fingers, then drew out a bronze medallion with a single
yellow stone and fastened it around her neck.
Touching it, she saw what she suspected: The
whole valley glowed with a subtle magic aura.
And the strongest source of the aura still lay
before her.
She
remembered
Yelena’s brother Yeman. Could he be waiting for me? She had seen
no sign of him. Still,
he might be lurking somewhere, ready to strike.
Her
senses
on edge, she proceeded.
The
terrain
grew worse. Insect
clouds thickened, bouncing off her ward, their whine
drilling into her ears. Mud rose to her ankles.
The Rift overhead glared down at her like a
suppurating wound.
She gritted her teeth and pressed on.
The sense of malignity grew with every step,
until....
There.
A
round hill perhaps twice her height, nestled in the
crook of a rise. It
was tufted over with grass and white and yellow flowers. A gnarled tree
clung to the crest like an evil hobgoblin. Slabs of
stone formed a dark opening.
The
sense
of malice was strongest there.
She touched her magic-detecting necklace. The
mound shone like a beacon fire.
This
is
the source.
A
strange hush hung over the place.
Chaladon’s feet crunched over gravel as she
approached. The
chill air from the black doorway reeked like fetid air
from a tomb. Brushing
past her face, it felt alive, even gleeful.
“Come in and try me,” it seemed to say.
“If you dare.”
Stepping
across
the threshold felt like slipping into an icy bath. She pressed
against one wall, letting her eyes adjust.
She
stood
in a round room with walls of cut stone blocks.
Thick dust coated the floor.
The chamber held close within it a sense of
great antiquity, as if it had been made before the
ancestors of any human living -- perhaps even before the
Empire of the Center.
In
the
far wall where the mound joined living rock, Chaladon
saw a vertical crack.
A cave.
The
dark,
rotted skein of hatred running through her thoughts
leapt up again, throbbing like an infected wound.
No, no, no, go kill them, kill them all —
Someone
or
something did not want her to go farther.
Chaladon
took
her Fire Veil in her hands, and stepped through
the crevice. On the other side was a short, natural
tunnel. Enough
light filtered in to turn pitch darkness into a murky
gloom.
The
tunnel
was filled with the hatred she had felt before,
almost choked with it, like a viscous substance
filling the air. Pushing against it was like wading
through quicksand.
Her nerves hung on a hair thread as she pressed
through, till she reached an arched doorway.
She stopped there and strained her eyes; in the
room beyond, she could make out a stone dais against the
far wall. She
edged closer, trying to see --
The
woman
on the dais was long dead.
She had dried rather than rotted: her skin a
shiny, cracked leather, stretched too taut over the
bones of her arms, her legs, her rib cage.
A cloud of brittle black hair drifted around
her head, framing her desiccated features.
She lay on her back, her legs stretched out,
her arms folded on her chest.
She
wore the regalia of a Deep Dancer.
Chaladon could not mistake the fringed top, cut
to leave the arms bare and expose the belly, the flowing
trousers, the shiny coin belt.
And
gathered
in her arms, clasped protectively to her chest, was a
bundle of darkness: a black so black that it
took Chaladon a moment to understand what she was
seeing. A
veil.
What
is
it? Her eyes
struggled to make sense of it.
Something tugged at her mind; she had heard
tales of a Dark Veil, another of the
twenty-seven Great Veils -- just as her Fire
Veil was. Is
that what this is?
And who is this woman holding it?
Chaladon
stepped
closer, straining to make out every detail.
The corpse’s garments were a rich wine color
fringed with gold; Chaladon’s own colors were blue and
silver. She
searched her memory, trying to match those colors with
any legendary dancer she had ever heard of....
The
woman’s
eyes opened and she sat up.
Chaladon’s
heart
leapt with shock. She
jerked back. Her
Fire Veil
almost fell from her hands, and her entire body
flashed first cold then hot.
The
woman’s
eyes moved, alive and hellishly bright in that
desiccated, peeling face; they shone a brilliant,
inhuman gold, so steeped in hatred that their very
glance burned. Her
withered features writhed: leathery, cracked lips
drawing back against the bones of her skull to reveal
yellowing teeth. Her
jaw opened, her throat worked, but only a hiss emerged.
The
dead dancer swung her legs over the edge of the bier and
rose to her feet.
Chaladon
retreated
a step. The venom rolling off the woman was almost
unbearable. That
thing -- that woman who could have been Chaladon’s
sister -- hissed at her again, and moved her hands
apart. Her
veil, black as if torn from the night, whirled up and
around, raising a dark cloud, edged with the soft,
soughing whispers of a fetid wind.
The
cloud
flowed toward Chaladon with the stench of decaying
roses. Hot
fire in her blood, she leapt aside, and the faintest
edge of that darkness brushed her -- but where it did, a
sickening hatred raced through her veins, and her skin
seemed to curdle.
Any
stronger
and that hatred might have poisoned her; as it was, it
served only to fire her spirit. With a wrench,
Chaladon’s mind grabbed hold of that anger, that hatred,
and forced it to serve her. My enemy!
She
yanked
the Fire Veil
free, and it became a roaring sheet of flame.
It crackled, alive and hungry, its power
flowing through her, until she felt as if she could do
anything. Fire
blazed in the air, turning the cavern into day, each
pebble casting its own shadow.
Droplets of moisture on the walls hissed into
steam, and lichen began to smolder.
At the heart of the fire, Chaladon felt none of
it.
The
desiccated
dancer whirled her veil into a fountain of blackness. Chaladon
replied with fire, driving the shadows back. The two of
them opposed each other, veil to veil, the Fire Veil
blazing in Chaladon’s hands. A lance of night struck
out, a twining whip trying to encircle her; Chaladon
flared her own veil and shattered it into a thousand
particles of darkness. Black fell to the ground, as
greasy as oil, oozing toward her.
She swept her veil in a great arc, and the fire
burned the droplets off.
Whoever
this
woman was, she was excellent. For
an instant Chaladon wondered what an observer would have
made of their duel; in a strange, twisted way it was
like dancing with a partner again, for the first time in
a long time -- and yet it was not. She was
exerting herself, not with but against the other
dancer, striving to disrupt and overpower her.
All her instincts to join, match, echo
were against her. Yet
it was exhilarating; she balanced on the knife edge of
life and death, forced to exert her skill to the utmost
to win another step, another spin, another breath. Fire and
shadow strove against each other, twining together light
and darkness --
And
Chaladon
realized she could not win.
She
was living and mortal, where her opponent was dried
flesh and leathery skin and naked bone.
The other dancer did not tire, did not need
food or drink or rest.
Indeed, as they fought in whirling motion, the
undead dancer seemed to be gaining strength, as
if she fed on Chaladon’s opposition.
Her darkness beat wildly at Chaladon’s wall of
flame, surging with ever greater virulence, and Chaladon
could feel herself faltering.
I
can’t keep this up,
she thought. She
can fight forever --
Do
something. Now.
Before it’s too late.
As
the
strange dancer hurled shadow at her, Chaladon flung her
veil to meet it. The
Fire Veil slid under the darkness, lifted it, and
tossed it back. Chaladon
lashed out, wrapping her veil around the desiccated
dancer’s leg, and pulled.
Flames raced up that
withered limb. The
undead woman hissed a scream of anger and her Dark
Veil fell
from her grasp. Screeching, she grasped the Fire
Veil with her bare hands, and rent it in two.
Fire
raged
up. She
lit, and became a torch.
Chaladon fell backwards, sprawling on the floor
as the undead dancer burned. The torn, fluttering pieces
of the Fire Veil twined like serpents around
her, as flames claimed her long-dead flesh, crackling in
her hair and racing along her shrunken, dry limbs. She
burned like kindling, as bright and hot, and even as the
inferno consumed her, Chaladon saw those gleaming,
golden eyes, blazing with hatred, through the fire.
Until they too were gone.
Almost
as
quickly as they had caught, the flames died. Chaladon’s
eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness.
The heat that filled the cavern was gone, and
she shivered in the sudden chill.
Of her adversary, only a pile of ashes
remained.
Chaladon
huddled
on the floor for a time, trying to catch her breath. As her
strength seeped back, her eyes turned toward the remains
of her adversary.
Who
was
she? Where
did she come from?
The
woman’s
jewelry: bangles, rings, necklace, lay amid the ashes,
bright and untouched by the flame; but they meant
nothing to her.
No
way
of knowing--not now.
She
turned
her attention instead to the two strips of the Fire
Veil.
They lay limp and colorless, the power
they had held gone.
When Chaladon reached to touch one, it crumbled
to dust.
Just
as
with the rest of my life.
Her
legs
buckled, and she collapsed gracelessly to the rough cave
floor, struck by the loss of her veil, as if by a
terrible physical blow.
It seemed in that moment worse than any other
of her myriad losses. The veil was not just a source of
power, but part of her order’s history, a priceless
artifact entrusted to her--a precious link to the creche
of her childhood. And now it was gone. The sadness
pressed on her like a titanic weight. Chaladon
could do nothing but bend over those ashy remnants,
immobilized by grief.
Something
else
I have destroyed.
After
what
seemed forever, the terrible grief receded.
As she got to her feet, something caught her
eye. A shadow in the deeper shadow by the barrow wall; a
color of black so dark that she could barely discern it.
The Dark Veil.
Chaladon
wanted
nothing more than to turn and walk away.
It’s not my veil, it’s not my responsibility,
she thought, recognizing the selfish, childish impulse
along with her bone-deep weariness.
Yet she knew she could not.
The same thing that had forced her to come this
far impelled her now.
I
can’t leave it like that.
If someone should find it...
It
would
destroy them, she knew. And
that,
only if they knew nothing about it. If it were someone
with a darkness in her heart to match the veil...
Yet
that
was not the whole reason.
For a powerful curiosity filled her also. Who made
this veil? Who
was she that carried it?
Cautiously,
she
approached the Dark Veil.
It lay like a folded, inert shadow on the
ground. This
close, a sense of malignancy radiated off it like heat,
corrosive as acid.
Chaladon wanted nothing more than to back away.
Instead,
she
reached out and brushed the veil with her fingertips.
It
was
like falling down an endless hole, being swept along a
rushing river, plunging over the edge of a waterfall; it
was like that first, terrifying step onto the Winged
Winds. It
took everything she had not to lose herself in the tide. A solid wall
of rage slammed into her, so powerful it could scarcely
be endured. Kill them, kill them all, they deserve
it, kill them, all of them, kill them, kill them I
tell you --
Images
of
violence snatched up her mind, spun it, tossed it. Her entire
past came crashing down on her:
the places and people she had known, changed in
terrifying ways: her line-sisters sprawled in pools of
blood; the man she had loved once for so brief a time,
his corpse hanging lifeless; her Linemistress Chalise,
head shattered like an egg -- See, this is what they
deserve, this is what they shall have -- you must kill
them, destroy them, slaughter them --
To
fight
that tide of violence would have meant annihilation. Instead,
Chaladon sought to let the images simply wash over her,
observing as they passed. As she steadied herself, she
sensed something else: a texture older and darker and
much more somber. She picked up the thread of this new
emotion, and the name she found for it was...
Grief.
An
ancient,
decayed grief, so achingly painful that to brush it
almost meant death. They were bound together, that deep,
unspeakable pain and the fire of rage.
The
revelation
set her back on her heels.
Grief... but for what?
Chaladon
concentrated,
ignoring the anger.
That dark shadow unfolded, and Chaladon realized
she was touching, somehow, the mind of the person on the
other side of the veil -- the woman who had woven it so
long ago.
She
lost
someone.
The image of the decayed dancer she had fought seemed to
flow backward in time, into a woman with long, dark hair
and wide, brilliant eyes, sparkling with life and joy. How many years
ago had it been? Hundreds,
maybe thousands. The
memory had the feeling of great age.
A
name drifted to her: Stharana.
A dancer of the line of Sthatha. And
she had...
A
husband. Husband
and children. A tall man
with a riot of brown curls, dark eyes with a roguish
twinkle; a young girl with her father’s eyes and a boy
with his mother’s.
The images were partial, fleeting -- decayed
almost past recall. What happened to them?
Once,
perhaps,
the veil had held the memory; now, there was nothing. All that was
left was that loss, as raw and sharp as a shriek.
Another
image:
Stharana sitting at a loom, surrounded by darkness,
ceaselessly weaving.
She had turned to weaving to allay the grief,
yet all she could weave was anger. It poured into her
craft, twisting and folding back onto itself, into a
hatred as strong and vicious as poison, a hatred of
anyone who still had loved ones: a desire that they
would suffer, just as she had.
Chaladon
sensed
the woman’s horror when she saw what she had woven --
and her terrible choice.
Of course, she should destroy it, but how could
she? That pain, that hatred, were a part of herself. Destroying the
veil that had been woven from them would be like ripping
out a chunk of her heart -- and ending forever all that
remained of her connection with her loved ones.
She
kept
it,
Chaladon realized, not knowing what to do with it;
and in time, the veil kept her.
It
kept her still, holding traces of her mind, a faint
impression trapped within warp and weft.
Chaladon felt her presence clinging to the veil
still, watching. Waiting.
It
would
have been so easy to wipe that presence from existence. But...
Chaladon
too
knew what it was like to to lose forever the ones you
loved, and to hate the world because of it.
She knew pain as great as that of Sthanara;
she, Chaladon, woman out of time.
I
understand. I
know what you feel, have felt....
From the
depths of her heart, she excavated her own grief and
loneliness. I
know your sorrow.
We are kindred spirits, you and I.... I grieve
along with you.... And she
wondered wistfully, How much must you have loved
them, to feel this way?
The
veil responded, an upswelling of emotion like water
bubbling up out of sands, a love so powerful it almost
brought Chaladon to her knees. It was as if the
consciousness in the veil had sought only a chance to
bring it out. And
as that love came to the fore, so the hatred melted like
frost in the sun.
I
understand,
Chaladon told it, and the presence seemed to respond. It was fading,
as if the hatred had been all that held it to the world. As if all
it had wanted was to have someone see its pain. Slowly, that
other presence dimmed, until with a breath of
thankfulness, the last of it lifted away.
Chaladon
opened
her eyes and looked down.
She was still holding the veil.
The deep shadow had drained from it; the fabric
in her hands was a stainless, undyed white.
It lay in her hands, inert. She sensed a power
there, but it was locked away, quiescent.
She
wrapped
the veil around herself, twining it over her shoulders
as she had with the Fire Veil. This
would not be a replacement, but it would be something. The Fire
Veil, that
remnant of power and her life before, was gone --
another piece of her past, gone forever.
Well, Chaladon
thought, I’ve lost so much already. What is one more
loss?
She
made
her way through the cave, the stone antechamber beyond,
back into the daylight.
The sun was bright overhead; she squinted as
she looked up at the sky.
The memory of Sthanara’s pain pulled against
things inside her own heart, aches not healed -- that
perhaps would never heal.
She clasped her hands in the new veil’s fabric,
holding it as if it were all she had left in this world.
A
shower of rocks caught her attention and she pivoted at
once. But there was only a very confused young man,
blinking in the light.
“What...what
am
I doing here?” he stammered.
“Who are you?”
“A
friend.” She
relaxed her grip on the new veil.
It hung from her fingers, limp and lifeless. “And you?”
“Yeman,”
he
said, shaking his head.
He looked as if he had awakened from a long
sleep. “I
don’t know how I got here -- “
“What’s
the
last thing you remember?”
Yeman
frowned. “I
was -- “ Then
his face paled. “It
was a dare.”
“A
dare?”
“Yes. Someone had
dared me to go into the Valley of the Ssha.” He looked
stricken. “I
couldn’t think how to back out.
I just thought I’d go a little way in and say I
had -- where am I?
I haven’t -- “
He
paled
still further and suddenly stared down at his hands as
if terrified he would see blood on them.
Chaladon touched him on the shoulder.
“You
are
all right. You
never left the valley.
Those you love are still alive.
They’re still alive,” she repeated.
His
entire
body slumped in relief.
Tears glistened on his cheeks.
“Thank the Triune.”
His voice shook.
“I thought that -- but you, who did you say you
were?”
“Chaladon,”
she
said. “I am
a Deep Dancer.” And
as his eyes widened in awe, she continued “This valley
is cleansed, and so are you.
You are free to go.”
He
drew
a deep breath, like one reprieved from drowning. He
seemed ten years younger: a bright smile dawned on his
face.
“Deep
Dancer,
I don’t know how to thank you.
You must come back with me, so our town can
celebrate your deeds -- “
“I
can’t,”
Chaladon said, pulling herself away.
“But you can. Go
home, Yeman. To those who love you.”
She
sent
him on his way with a gentle shove, and watched as he
hurried off, till he was out of sight over the crest of
the hill. Then
she settled her new veil again and turned resolutely
about, starting in the opposite direction.
Forever outward.
END
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