“Funny.” She helped him up; her own feet were as clumsy as stones. “You can already see the Summer Star. I saw it through my fingers a few days… Oh—” whispered. She rubbed her stinging face with the back of her hand.
“Yes.” Sparks slumped against the out curving wall. Beyond the final turn of the trail the rushing became the roar of water flung over a precipice, battered by rocks, a silvered sacrifice falling eternally to its death. And there the trail ended.
They stood breathless and confused in the cacophony of sound and spray beside the falls. “It can’t end here!” Sparks struck at the falling water. “We know this is the right path. Where is it?”
“Here!” Moon crouched, peering over the edge beside the water curtain, loose strands of hair falling forward in dripping fingers. “Handholds in the rock.” She stood up again, wiping her hair back. “Suddenly this isn’t…” She shook her head, the words lost as she looked back at him and saw the anger on his face.
“What is this, anyway?” Sparks shouted down the valley toward the sea. “What more proof do You want? Do we have to kill ourselves?”
“No!” Moon pulled at his arm, his temper grating like sand on her fatigue. “She wants us to be sure. And we are.” She crouched down again, pulling off her boots, and put a foot over the edge.
She began to climb down, letting the roar and the spray fill her senses, batter down her fear. She saw Sparks begin the climb above her; telling herself that countless people had gone down before her, through countless years… (foot fumbling over wet rock)… she would do it, too… (another step! her fingers clutched a lip of stone)… this wet climb was no more than the rigging of a ship, which she had climbed without thought countless times… (and once more)… always trusting in the Sea Mother to place her hands and feet surely… (fingers cramping; she bit her lip)… She concentrated on belief, in the Lady, in herself; because only if she doubted either one would she… (her foot beat against the wet-slimed wall, finding no crevice, no step, no — )
“Sparks!” Her voice scaled up. “It just ends!”
“…ledge!…” She heard the word, distorted by the roaring and her own terror; clung to it desperately, as she hugged the cliff face. “Go right!” She kicked right, opening her eyes as her foot found the ledge of stone. Blinking hard, she saw it disappear behind the falling water. She reached out, with a quick twist of her body pulled herself over and into the cleft. Sparks came after her; she put out her hand to help him across.
“Thanks.” He shook himself, shook his stiffened hands.
“Thank you.” She took a long breath. They moved deeper into the cleft together, realizing, as their eyes adjusted to the green dappling of light, that it pushed on into the side of the valley. “This is it — this must be it! We’re here, the choosing-place…”
They stopped again, their hands reaching out for each other instinctively. They stood breathless, waiting. Nothing called them but the voice of the falls. Nothing touched them but the random drift of spray. “Come on,” Sparks tugged at her, “let’s go deeper.”
The cleft peaked in shadows far overhead, making Moon think of praying hands, as they followed the serpentine shaft into the rock face. Sparks collided abruptly with a sharp turn. “I knew I should’ve brought a candle.”
“It’s not dark.” Moon looked at him in surprise. “It’s strange how the light keeps getting greener…”
“What are you talking about? It’s like being buried alive — I can’t even see you!”
“Come on.” Unease began to stir in her. “It’s not that dark — just open your eyes. Come on, Sparkie!” She pulled on his arm. “Can’t you feel it? Like music…”
“No. This place gives me the creeps.”
“Come on.” She pulled harder, straining now.
“No — wait…” He gave a few steps, and a few more.
The music filled her now, centered at her head and spreading through her body like the rhythm of her blood. It touched her like silk, with the taste of ambrosia and the green light of the sea. “Don’t you feel it?”
“Moon.” Sparks grunted as he came up against another wall in the darkness. “Moon, stop! It’s no good. I can’t see anything, I don’t hear anything… I’m — failing, Moon.” His voice wavered.
“No, you’re not! You can’t.” She turned distractedly to the truth in his eyes, unfocused like a blind man’s, the confusion on his face. “Oh, you can’t…”
“I can’t breathe, it’s like tar. We’ve got to turn back, before it’s too late.” His hand tightened over her wrist, pulling her back toward him, away from the music and the light.
“No.” Her free hand closed over his, tried to break his grip. “You go back without me.”
“Moon, you promised! We promised — you have to come.”
“I do not!” She jerked loose, saw him stumble back, surprised and hurt. “ Sparks , I’m sorry…”
“Moon…”
“I’m sorry…” She backed away, into the arms of the music. “I have to! I can’t stop now, I can’t help it — it’s too beautiful. Come with me! Try, please try!” getting farther and farther away from him.
“You promised. Come back, Moon!”
She turned and ran, his voice drowned by the song of her breaking heart’s desire.
She ran until the cleft widened again, spilling her out into an unnatural space lit by the perfectly ordinary flame of an oil lamp. She rubbed her eyes in the sudden gold, as if she had come out of darkness. When she could see again, when the shining song fell away and released her, she was not surprised to find Clavally waiting, and a stranger… Clavally, whose smile she could never forget, through years, or even a lifetime.
“You’re — Moon! So, you did come!”
“I remembered,” she nodded, radiant with the joy of the chosen, and wiping away tears.
2
The city of Carbuncle sits like a great spiral shell cast up at the edge of the sea, high in the northern latitudes on the coast of Tiamat ’s largest island. It breathes restlessly with the deep rhythms of the tide, and its ancient form seems to belong to the ocean shore, as though it had actually been born of the Sea Mother’s womb. It is called the City on Stilts, because it wades on pylons at the sea’s edge; its cavernous underbelly provides a safe harbor for ships, sheltering them from the vagaries of the sea and weather. It is called Starport because it is the center of off world trade; although the real star port lies inland, and is forbidden ground to the people of Tiamat. It is called Carbuncle because it is either a jewel or a fester, depending on your point of view.
Its resemblance to a sea creature’s cast-off home is deceptive. Carbuncle is a hive of life in all — or at least many — of its varied forms, human and inhuman. Its lowest levels, which open on the sea and are home to laborers, sailors, and island immigrants, rise and merge into the Maze, where the interface of tech and non tech, local and off worlder, human and alien, catalyzes an environment of vibrant creativity and creative vice. The nobility of Winter laugh and argue and throw away their money, experimenting with exotic forms of stimulation elbow to elbow with the off world traders who brought them. And then the nobles return to their own levels, the upper levels, and pay homage to the Snow Queen, who sees everything and knows everything, who controls the currents of influence and power that move like water through the seashell convolutions of the city. And they find it hard to imagine that a pattern which has lasted for nearly one hundred and fifty years, guided by her same hand, will not go on forever.
“…Nothing lasts forever!”
Arienrhod stood silently and quite alone, eavesdropping as the voices poured out of the speaker in the sculptured base of the mirror. The mirror was also a viewscreen, but dark now, showing her only her face. The unseen nobles were discussing a broken-stringed selyx, and not the future; but they might as well have been, because the breaking of the former and the ending of the latter were ultimately interrelated, and her own mind was absorbed with the future — or the lack of one.