Shamara, The Oblation Bearer

SHAMARA, THE OBLATION BEARER
THE FALL OF ETAN
VOLUME II
THIRD THUNDER, BOOK II
by
MSI
Dedicated to:
Almira - in each of you

Shamara, The Oblation Bearer 1
Edited by Savitr Ishaya
Illustrations by Carolyn Grant
Copyright © 1991 by MSI

Contents
1. The Sacrifice of the Gods .................4
2. The Path of the Gods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
3. The Fishermen of the Gray Isles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
4. The Diella Sea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
5. Tilvia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
6. The Crystal Valley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
7. The City of the Weedeaters . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
8. The Lesser Pass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
9. The Devil's Anvil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
10. Athalia the Fair . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
11. The Lord of Athalia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
12. The Uttara Vedi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153

1. The Sacrifice of the Gods
A brilliant shaft of silver light burst upward from the early morning sea. It was unlike
anything Krishanu had ever seen: radiant with self-luminous beauty, it almost seemed a creation
of his mind‘s fantasizing to compensate for the unchanging sameness of this watery world.
"Brother, do you see –" he began, but his words died in mid-sentence, for it was obvious
that 'Sravasa was also staring in amazement at the silver column of light, stretching upward to
infinity.
How far away was it? For that matter, how large? There was no way to judge. The spire
was directly in front of the prow of their boat (which fact alone made Krishanu's skin crawl), but
its base was beyond the horizon.
Curiosity overcoming his surprise, he murmured, "Forward." Their ship plunged boldly
ahead. It was a small craft, sky-blue in color, adequate for the two of them; there was a cabin for
provisions and protection from inclement weather, a foredeck large enough for 'Sravasa and an
aft-deck, suitable for Krishanu. But this simple description is deceptive; there was no sail for
this ship, no motor, not even a rudder.
Before their journey began, their brother, Yehokhanan-Ishtar, had tried to explain exactly
how the ship worked: "It is really quite simple, Krishanu. I have attuned the fabric of this
vessel‘s quantum field matrix to your mind. Whatever you tell it to do, it will do. Do you
understand?"
Krishanu had not, but 'Ishtar's second explanation was so scientifically complex that
Krishanu had given up ever trying to understand. 'Ishtar, rather amused, stopped after two or
three sentences and said softly, "It will be rather like your bow and arrow, Krishanu."
Now that made sense. With the thought, his bow was in his hand, an arrow taut on its
string. With a cry of wild joy, Krishanu loosed the shaft at a small golden cloud floating by
overhead. The arrow shattered the cloud, then flew back to his hand, outstretched to receive it.
"Why didn't you just say so?" smiled Krishanu, stroking the bow as if it were alive.
Which was actually not far from the truth. Krishanu had practiced for so long that
artistry had married his weapon to the deepest level of his mind: intention alone was sufficient to
carry his shafts at a speed rivaling that of light. And his implements themselves, originally
fashioned from wood or steel, then plastic, had gradually transformed to become purely mental.
If his attention moved to them, his bow and quiver were on his arm and back, solid and real; if
his thought strayed, they faded to a diaphanous shadow, only slightly more substantial than the
memory of a forgotten love in an ordinary man's mind.
But this was not the most unusual characteristic about them. The fact that he had even
thought to create his first bow was surprising in the extreme: Krishanu lived with his brothers
and sisters, father Swayam and mother Shatarupa in Etan, a paradise of peace and perfection
created by Swayam; neither Krishanu nor any of his kindred had ever known or heard of any
other humans; Krishanu had never learned of war nor even death. Swayam and Shatarupa had
been most cautious what they taught their immortal offspring.
When Krishanu had independently conceived of creating a weapon, Swayam had been
deeply shocked. He had thought that perhaps he should forbid so odd a desire in his fifth eldest
son, but Shatarupa had counseled him, "No, beloved; let him be. Thus he compensates for the
loss of Chavva." Swayam had seen the truth of her words, for of course she was right: Chavva
had only recently chosen Krishanu's twin Orah as her life-mate.
Krishanu had loved her as much as or more than any man had ever loved a woman, but at
the last moment Chavva had denied him and chosen his brother, the Dancer Orah. Losing her,
Krishanu had refused to accept another, refused even to consider another.
In time, his love for her transmuted into two diverse but highly engrossing channels:
first, his admiration for his eldest brother Uchai-sravasa grew beyond that for any other of his
brothers. 'Sravasa responded in kind: they became as inseparable as any married pair. Second,
he developed a skill as unlikely for one of his family to discover accidentally as the idea of
warfare or even death: Krishanu invented the bow and arrow.
'Sravasa was also unique among their kindred. Firstly, he was the eldest: he had lived
alone with Swayam and Shatarupa for many centuries before they built Etan. Secondly, he was
taller by a head than any of the others; this was part of his main claim to being unusual: he was
also slightly less handsome than any of his brothers.
Whenever 'Sravasa noted that he was not quite as perfect in form as his siblings, he
shrugged mentally and thought that perhaps his condition had in some mysterious way allowed
his many brothers and sisters to be so divinely made, like so many gods and goddesses.
This difference in form was actually quite subtle. Even if everyone of his family could
at once see the slight deficiencies that made 'Sravasa, if not ugly, simply inferior to them all, a
stranger would find it difficult to see any significant difference between him and the others. But
of course, there were no strangers; the Etanai were the only people that had ever lived on
Martanda. Or so most of them had always thought.
From the perspective of the Etanai, Krishanu was the embodiment of physical perfection,
as much beyond Uchai-sravasa in beauty as was conceivable. Except for Krishanu's sable eyes,
he was the duplicate of his twin Orah, reputed to be the most perfectly made of the Etanai,
closest to their father Swayam in appearance. If Krishanu were aware of this fact, he did not
show it: he wore his beauty with as much regard as he paid to his sleeveless argent robe, flowing
in silken waves over his powerful body.
'Sravasa alone of Swayam and Shatarupa's offspring did not wear silver–his shimmering
golden robe, created and maintained by his mind, was the only badge of distinction he allowed
himself. This much freedom did he take, as memento of the long years he had lived alone with
their mother and father before Swayam built Etan.
'Sravasa and Krishanu had journeyed North-westward from Etan across the ocean for a
fortnight without incident. This voyage was rare in the extreme: the Etanai never left their
homeland for any reason. It was only happening now because their sister, the Healer Althea, had
insisted, saying that there was a "terrible danger" growing ever larger "elsewhere" on Martanda.
She had somehow convinced Orah to journey alone to the north; at the same time, she asked
'Sravasa and Krishanu to cross the ocean, heading northwest.
At first, the request had been all but impossible to understand, let alone fulfill. Krishanu
particularly had been confused. "I can't understand you!" he had exclaimed, running his scarred
fingers over his bowstring, unusually taut. "Leave Etan? Whatever for? Immortals are
immortal. What can you mean by danger?"
"I do not believe we are truly indestructible," Uchai-sravasa had said, quietly amused by
his brother's ire. "If 'Ishtar were a little careless about his super-plasmic bodies–what do you call
them, brother, `Black Holes?' because not even light can escape, right?–If he were careless and
fell into one, it would be an interesting technical question as to whether or not he were still alive.
But practically speaking, he would certainly be non-functional."
"And non-ideational," Yehokhanan-Ishtar laughed, thoroughly enjoying such nonsense.
"But what relevance the delightful impasse of singularity to this odd journey? There are no
others on Martanda."
"The urgency in your tone, Althea, inspires me to think differently," 'Sravasa said,
weighing her with his glance. Could she have discovered the abandoned race? When had she
ever left Etan? He could remember only once, long ago, when she helped 'Ishtar with one of his
stranger experiments. Could she have learned more then than she had revealed? Why would she
have kept such knowledge private? "If you deem it necessary, I will of course do as you ask.
But how shall you speak to father?"
"You and Krishanu have never journeyed from our home. Is it unthinkable you could
wish to explore the world?"
"No Etanai, with the sole exception of ourselves, has ever so wished," mused 'Ishtar.
"And now three in the space of twenty-four hours. You don't think Swayam might find this
curious?"
"It may be so. Yet will he accept and approve. I can not help believing he has intuited
your desire ere now." She turned full upon Krishanu with this, her fathomless azure eyes
sparking copen fire.
"Why do you say–" The protest caught in his throat as he realized her words were true.
Why had he not noticed this desire before? It was fully developed in his heart in an instant,
catalyzed by the force of her words, as if some hidden corner of his mind had labored over its
creation for centuries.
"You see," Althea continued, perceiving he had just discovered something of himself,
"Swayam will not deny you."
They had come upon nothing in fourteen days. It was entirely possible that Etan was
built on the only land in a world of endless water, or so Krishanu had often thought as he tried to
wrest meaning from this strange journey. What peril could Martanda be facing? It was
impossible, mad. And yet. . . and yet, there was a nebulous something in his own breast that he
almost understood, almost perceived clearly, capable of explaining all this and more, if he could
but break the boundaries in his own mind. Why should there be limits in his mind? How could
there be anything other than his experiences in Etan? And yet he knew with profound certainty
that this otherness inside was not of Etan. And the Healer Althea had intuited at least something
of this strangeness, had actually caused it to manifest! Why? How?
Frustrated, Krishanu forced his mind from the analysis, staring straight ahead. Again
today, the predawn light had revealed nothing other than endless gray sky and water. Must the
world forever reflect my mind? he mused, remembering Chavva's popular play about the dawn of
time. And suddenly, so close to being in response to his thought as to make his skin crawl, the
brilliant silver column of light had streaked upward toward the heavens directly in front of their
path.
"Brother, do you see–" he began, but stopped as he saw 'Sravasa staring at the silver spire
with a peculiar intensity that looked like awe.

But Uchai-sravasa was looking at the column with far different thoughts than his brother
could have expected. He was, in fact, recalling what Swayam had once told him about an arcane
science he had long ago created. Atira, it was called. Sacrifice. The binding back of life to its
Source. For the purpose of? Expansion of power, most often. Could the art of Atira have been
remembered or rediscovered? Remembered? After two hundred thousand years? But how
could anyone independently discover such a subtle science? And, more importantly, who?
As this passed through his mind, 'Sravasa held 'Ishtar's Recorder in his right hand so it
could copy his thoughts and observations. The small silver sphere was nothing but mystery to
Krishanu: 'Ishtar had explained that everything 'Sravasa thought, did or said on this journey
would be recorded by the little machine. But Krishanu had seen no value in that: "Why bother?"
he had asked, amused. "Are not our memories sufficient?"
"Indeed, brother, they are. But there could one day be a need to communicate with those
not of our family." The wonder of such a thought had left Krishanu absolutely speechless: he
had never conceived of a world beyond Etan; all of his ninety millennia had been lived in
Swayam's created paradise, in the ideal fellowship of his brothers and sisters, desiring nothing
beyond its ever new and wondrous beauty.
Krishanu, noting 'Sravasa's mental communion with the Recorder, remembered this
conversation now. Indeed, it was the only logic he could find in the sudden appearance of the
brilliant silver column ahead. Even as he ordered the ship forward, he noticed that the formless
doubt inside him was gaining strength, independence; its writhing, seething presence almost
made him feel nauseous. For he knew with certainty he was not as ignorant of what lay ahead as
the logic of his years in Etan insisted he should be. As their craft accelerated toward the
disturbance of the dawn his mind half feared, half rejected what his heart was struggling to
reveal.
The island suddenly looming before the brothers was a rocky anomaly in a sea stretching
as featureless on every side as an uncreated world. As Krishanu used the full force of his mind
to stop their ship before they ran aground, a dispassionate part of him wondered why he had not
seen the land sooner: surely the circle of mountains at the base of the column of light should
have been visible for many leagues. It was as if the island had appeared from nothing, as if it
had been fog covered and a gale had revealed it in an instant. But there had been neither fog nor
wind: Save for the argent spire the sea stretched clear and featureless to infinity at one moment;
at the next, the island was before them.
In the sudden reversal, 'Sravasa nearly toppled forward into the shoals.
"Sorry," said Krishanu, "I didn't see the land."
"Nor did I, brother. There was a veil. But let us be careful: for such a thing to be,
someone the equal of Malinda, Mirabeth and Mirabel must be about us on this isle." Their
sisters, the Weavers, had demonstrated such an art before, but they alone among the Etanai had
ever succeeded in masking the power of vision. Such an ability was considered among the
highest perfections of the mind. 'Sravasa had every reason to suggest caution.
"Who else on Martanda could be so subtle?" asked Krishanu, but softly: this land was
strange–the plants and even the ground itself seemed fundamentally different from those of Etan.
Not a more vibrant expression of the earthbreath than those of Swayam's art, certainly, but
almost as if from a different world. The tropical trees and flowers looked harmless, but imbued
with the same quality–timelessness?–that sparkled everywhere in the glimmering light of the
new sun. It looked almost as though the island really had been created but moments before, had
appeared in an instant where featureless water had existed for all time. Or had it stayed outside
of change for uncountable years, removed by some miraculous power from time and entropy,
and had it only just now reentered the flux of the Universe? If so, why?
Krishanu slid the boat partly up the sandy beach, then stood looking around with
amazement.
Uchai-sravasa was somewhat more immune to wonder (having, after all, seen the way
Swayam built Etan); without another word to Krishanu, he walked across the golden sand and
entered the jungle.
It had seemed a dense tropical forest from the lagoon, but there were pathways. The
exuberant profusion of growth was not in the least disorderly but was perfectly balanced, highly
symmetrical. Like Etan, thought Krishanu, yet of a different kind of order. For Etan was a
reflection of Swayam's nearly perfect mind, but here the life and structured beauty were almost
as if the plants themselves possessed a degree of intelligence and had agreed to avoid all
disastrous conflicts for the sake of harmonious and beautiful growth. Like Para, he thought,
surprising himself by that thought of absolute order and harmony. Where in Etan had he heard
of a world named Para? He searched deeply but could not discover the memory, which fact was
also unprecedented and increased the pressure of his growing inner doubt.
Before Krishanu could begin to ask his brother about this garden-like, seemingly
intelligent island, 'Sravasa exclaimed, "Krishanu: The column! Do you not see the change?"
Although the spire was still several leagues away, beyond the mountain they were
climbing, it had resolved into distinct elements: it was composed entirely of gigantic beings!
Krishanu looked at them and felt different aspects of life radiating from each: one seemed the
essence of fire; one, of wind; one, of rain; one, of earth; many of positive emotions such as hope,
love, compassion; some of subtle forces that do not easily lend themselves to expression in this
latter-day tongue – one, a power that diversified life into greater complexity of form; another, its
converse, an essence that caused life to grow together, unify, simplify. "The celestials of Para,"
he whispered, for the second time that morning shocking himself by his intuitive knowledge.
Some of the titanic beings, formed of a super-mundane joy, flooded his spirit with an
echoing bliss that made him almost stumble from its ecstatic pressure. Some seemed as wise as
'Ishtar and Althea (or more so); some possessed an authority of dominion greater than Swayam's,
greater than any he had believed possible. And some were radiating an extraordinary
melancholy, bearing the weight of sorrows more powerful and eternal than those knowable by
the human mind. Something even deeper than the wound Krishanu had once felt in his mother
when she was sitting alone quietly, unaware any of her children were present.
The beings of the spire alternated between solidity and translucence, as if they were at
one moment of the world and at the next withdrawn or returned to the place of their origin. Was
there some difficulty in the process of transition?
'Sravasa touched him on the arm; he started as if he had been dreaming. What was it in
him that aroused such profound empathy with those beings?
"Come, brother, let us see what causes this disturbance in the world." Uchai-sravasa was
almost certain now there were Atira Priests ahead. Doubt that this could possibly be true
alternated with a wildly irrational hope that it was. For if it were! What could he not discover of
the Art of Singing? Swayam had told him the Atira Priests could create anything from their
words, manipulating vibration to change energy into any desired form. Much of this knowledge
'Sravasa had already discovered, but he knew there remained vast skills he had but dimly seen
even during his moments of greatest clarity.
He longed to share his thoughts with Krishanu, but how could he speak about the Spire of
Atira ahead without violating his promise to their father? He had sworn he would tell none of his
brothers or sisters about Swayam's failed earlier race! But if he could not speak directly, he
would continue to give subtle hints to help his brother past the other-worldly strangeness ahead.
The two Etanai followed a path around the shoulder of the mountain and came into a
small valley circled by nine peaks. They could now see that the silver beings composing the
spire were made up of countless smaller figures–humans, animals, plants, indistinct forms.
At the base of the spire of light were three stone altars, rough-cut from granite. Before
each of the three stood a gray-robed man, each quite old, each with white skin.
They were chanting in an odd rhythm, somehow manipulating the spire with their words.
Now it seemed to Krishanu that the beings of the spire, the celestials as he had named them,
were looking at him beseechingly, asking him for some kind of response to their extraordinary
need. What possible use could I be to them? he thought, doubting his perception.
The Atira Priests poured an amber liquid into their fires; the resulting smoke temporarily
masked the lower part of the spire. When it cleared, the celestials had remerged into
undifferentiated light, or the Etanai could no longer distinguish them. But now, directly beneath
the heart of the column of light, in the center of the three altars, sat a lovely young woman,
golden hair cascading over her scarlet dress, as fair of skin as the priests themselves. At her side
sat a misshapen dwarf with reddish-brown skin; he was clothed in emerald green with a complex
belt carrying tools or weapons and forming an "X" over his chest. He stared up at her with
unwinking brown eyes, but her eyes were closed, as if she were deep in trance or concentrating.
"Misshapen dwarf" is rather an understatement. He was beyond doubt the ugliest being
Krishanu had ever imagined: he was as homely as Swayam's life was unending. His
extraordinarily long nose was distorted no less than three times at unlikely angles; his enormous
ears stuck out at perfect right angles to his head; his chin and forehead were so recessed as to
seem non-existent. His back was permanently hunched; his left shoulder protruded a full hand's
breadth above his right. Even his hair did not have the dignity to hang straight or roll in curls,
but wandered in wild, intractable patterns of patchy chaos over his skull.
Again the Atira Priests poured their oblation, once more the smoke covered the spire.
When the air cleared, the column of light began to fade, starting from the base and gradually
disappearing upward.
The Atira Priest of the southernmost altar looked up at the Etanai and beckoned them
forward. The woman and dwarf remained unmoving, as if attempting to mimic a statue. The
other two priests walked over to stand behind the first, who was still staring at the Etanai with
brilliant ebony eyes. He spoke to them in their native tongue when they reached his altar,
"Welcome, Lords of Etan. We are pleased to meet our uncles. Does Swayam send you to us, or
to the Tilvians to help them break the Asurs' oppression?"
"Not our father, but our sister Althea bade us journey northwest from Etan," replied
'Sravasa, wondering in an oddly abstract way at the asker‘s knowledge. Then his eagerness
poured around his restraining will, "Can you truly be Atira Priests? How can you still exist?"
"We merge into the timeless for a century at a time, returning for but twenty-four hours to
send the Oblation to the throne in Tilvia. Today marks the end of the second cycle of one
thousand; your witnessing presence here further demonstrates our long labor is ended. Shamara
is our last Bearer; her companion Oman, the last Guardian. And Tahir, who is yet to come, will
be the last Follower. Brothers, our time is here." He turned to face the other two priests;
clasping their hands, they began to turn in a slow circle.
"Who are you?" asked Krishanu, having understood nothing of their meaning, yet finding
himself extremely agitated by their strangely familiar appearance.
The first Atira Priest looked over his shoulder at Krishanu and said, "Forgive me for
calling you Ùncle,' father. I see that it has not helped your mind. . . Faster, brothers." They
began to run in their tight circle, racing more and more quickly, until they began to blur from
their speed. Suddenly the spire reappeared over their heads, no longer silver, now completely
clear. Faster and faster whirled the three, until they were as nothing but the base of the column.
"Now ends the Sacrifice," echoed the Atira Priest's voice from somewhere far over their
heads. With his words, the spire began to fade and withdraw upwards. Within moments, it was
wholly gone; where the priests had stood was a crystal chalice, filled with an iridescent fluid.
'Sravasa walked around the right side of the stone altar to look at the chalice. He bent
over it, entranced by its versicolored beauty. It seemed to pulse with a life of its own,
reminiscent of Swayam's nectar of immortality, the amrita, but different from it in exactly the
same way the loveliness of this island was different from Etan.
Krishanu started around the other side of the altar. But as he passed the stone, a voice
cried, "Stop! You who turn falsely around Death's Southern Door." He felt an invisible hand
holding him. From surprise, he did not struggle, but looked with wonder at the young woman.
She was standing now, staring at him with verdant eyes that possessed an extraordinary intensity.
Her hands were raised toward him in a gesture of warding. The dwarf stood slowly, but stared
still at her alone.
"Come no closer," she continued, "until I judge if you are the Verity or the Lie."
"He is my brother, Sharan," said 'Sravasa simply. But the word "sharan" wreaked a
havoc in Krishanu's brain: he could not capture its full meaning–it was like a symbol of
concentrated power, exploding in him. "Oblation Bearer" came closest to expressing it, but
"protectress" was also there, as was "princess." "Motherhood" flashed in it briefly, like the
sparkle of sunlight from a flawless diamond; so did "sisterhood" and "daughter." Krishanu had
never heard such a perfect expression from 'Sravasa; even his brother's marvelous songs never
before so moved him. Was it because of the word or was it because of the being to which it
referred?
As this rushed through him, the girl was answering, "Much of wonder lies in this future
time. Perhaps my beloved Tahir was right, perhaps I should have come sooner. Is the one you
name `brother' truly so? I can read the lines of being in you without effort–you are good and to
be trusted. But he possesses mystery upon mystery, reminding me at once of father Arama and
the traitor Navril. I cannot decide of which he partakes. Do you know?"
"He is my brother, Krishanu, the Archer. I will speak for him. He will not betray your
quest."
"Is our Path so open to your eyes? I do not remember you. Your skin is oddly colored.
What is your descent from our father Arama?"

"Your father's father Swayam begot other progeny, Sharan. I am Uchai-sravasa of Etan,
a singer of sorts, sent by my sister, the Healer Althea, to seek the answer to the odd perturbations
she feels troubling Martanda. You are the Shamara whom the Atira Priest mentioned? The
Oblation Bearer?"
"I am. The dora in the chalice I must carry to the throne in Tilvia to complete the
sacrifice, as have my sisters before me. Your aid on the Path of the Atira would be welcome, but
I must have more perfect assurances about him you name Krishanu."
"What do you require of me?" Krishanu asked, wondering how 'Sravasa could have such
an intimate knowledge of this person and her purpose, wondering also why the strangeness in his
chest felt as though it were sardonically laughing at him.
Shamara turned to the dwarf and whispered something to him. He stared at her a moment
longer, then leaped toward the Etanai in irregular bounds that made it seem likely he had a
spastic frog in his ancestry. He landed the last time a pace from Krishanu and said in a gentle
voice that seemed completely out of place in his distorted body, "Speak to me of your passions,
man of this future time."
The Etan stared at his brown eyes, wondering what to say, and then abruptly felt the
island fade as his mind involuted. He knew that he had begun to speak, but for some reason, he
could not understand what he was saying. And then he lost all knowledge of the external world
as he found himself floating inside a golden sphere. No, he was not inside the sphere, he was the
sphere, drifting over a huge ocean, surrounded by vast numbers of similar globes.
Abruptly, there was something wrong with him, with his body: his symmetry was not as
perfect as the others'; there was a dark area within him that was not only extremely peculiar, but
a potentially destructive mutation. He tried to understand the darkness, but found only confusion
and doubt: where was he? Who was he? Why was he here? Where was he going? What
meaning was there in life?
And then he realized the questions were the darkness, were what made him different from
the other flawless creations: the fact that he could entertain doubt about life was the cause of the
mutation of his appearance.
He wanted to return to innocence, but found he could not so easily still the inner debate.
In fact, the harder he tried to end the conflicting thoughts, the more impassioned became the
struggle. The darkness became increasingly specific in shape, began to take on a definite form:
with a soul-wrenching dismay, he saw himself being born. He was as much the darkness as he
was the sphere of light!
Then he remembered, like a single ray shafting through an eternal night, that he was the
Archer, Krishanu. His bow was in his hand, his arrow on the string; he launched it at the leering
face in the darkness (the perfect reflection of himself) then felt the arrow pierce his own
forehead. "I kill myself!" he screamed as the sanguine agony burst through his skull, rending his
not quite perfect golden mind into ebony ribbons of unlooked for death. . .
And then again he was standing before the dwarf Oman, speaking of his life. But in a
shock of surrealistic continuing dream, he realized it was not the life of a Lord of Etan he was
describing.
"I war with the heavens to wrest immortality from the Grandfather. Who can oppose my
will? I grow mightier from age to age while the children of my father weaken and decay. Where
are the armies that can stand against me now? All those who have dared oppose me are dust."
Krishanu tried to force his mouth to follow his will, but this act turned it beyond his
desire: it took on a power larger than his own, began to speak meanings never before known.
"The arrow is my life, the life of the Universe. I bind the two extremities of the bow to
slay the Enemy of Desire with my shaft of healing light. Thereby shall I save Narain's Garden
from the Forsaken One's curse of nihility. He shall fall before me! No more will he terrorize my
children. He who was begotten by my loins shall pay the full measure for his evil. Navril Hagar
will be chained by my wrath, shall no longer wreak his abominations on humanity."
As the awareness of these new themes penetrated into Krishanu's brain, he managed to
gather himself sufficiently to regain control of his tongue. Abruptly the words ended, leaving
him in utter confusion.
'Sravasa was staring wide-eyed at him, the marvelous chalice at his feet wholly forgotten.
Oman looked into Krishanu's sable eyes a moment longer, then hopped back to Shamara.
"His eyes reflect the Universe," he said, his face looking up to her as if this explained everything.
Then, almost as an afterthought, "I suggest you rely on your own intuition: there is no simple
answer. Perhaps by your choice you create the future."
"He looks so like father," she mused, staring at Krishanu with a deep longing. "Save for
the eyes. "I can't help but wonder. . ." Her thought was interrupted by a tremor in the ground. It
was at once similar to an earthquake, yet completely different: it was as if, for a moment, the
reality of the island had been questioned–questioned, and nearly failed to answer.
"My Sharan, we must be swift!" cried Oman. "The Unmaking proceeds."
"Very well. The Doubtful One may accompany us for now, until we can know him
better. Let us go." She came gracefully to them, placed an amethyst cover over the chalice, then
lifted it with both hands. Without another glance at the Etanai, she turned and walked toward the
north.
"Sharan, we have a vessel–" began 'Sravasa, but Shamara laughed gaily and replied,
"How do you think Tahir could find me, were I to step off the Path? The two of you may come
or go as you like."
2. The Path of the Gods
Shamara led them across the island to the craft the Atira Priests had created for her
journey. Vigyan was a lovely ship, formed to resemble a swan, but almost translucent.
Shamara's crimson dress appeared saffron in the gentle golden light filling Vigyan; the light
seemed to come as much from the ship itself as from the decaying sun, coloring the sky to the
west in lustrous multi-hued shades.
The touch of their feet on the deck sent a thrill of ecstasy through them all. Every part of
the ship sparkled with vibrant life; 'Sravasa felt he could easily spend long hours lost in
contemplation of every part of it. But he soon discovered that the most wonderful feature was
the steps leading into the hull: as he walked them, they manifested light and melody–brilliant,
multi-colored, beautiful, as perfect an expression of life, shape and truth as he had ever heard or
seen. He walked the stairs for an hour, marveling at the profound changes in tone, meaning and
color from each step.
Oman looked at him curiously, as one might a barbaric child suddenly exposed to the
wonders of civilization, but said nothing.
Krishanu did not particularly notice the stairway: he had kept an uneasy silence since
they left the altar, wondering why he had said such peculiar things, trying to beat down the
chaotic otherness inside offering him impossible solutions. He stood in the stern and stared at
the island receding in the white light of the moon Gauri and the reddish light of the moon Rohini,
meanwhile struggling to maintain a balance never before in question.
After they had traveled toward the northwest for an hour, 'Sravasa at last grew tired of the
stairs and decided to help resolve his brother's confusion. He came to Krishanu, still standing in
the stern, outwardly maintaining the essence of stability. But 'Sravasa could feel his inner
turmoil, and asked softly, "Is it possible there could be a past you have never known?"
Krishanu turned tormented eyes toward him, but said only, "How?"
"I do not know. Swayam once mentioned there could be more than one existence for the
Etanai; I always assumed he meant in the future. But now I wonder if he could have meant the
past."
"That is impossible." Why was 'Sravasa trying to increase the power of this seething
internal presence? Why, indeed, was he so well succeeding?
"I must confess it seems impossible to me also. But there are many mysteries of life,
many strange convolutions it may undergo to fulfill the Grandfather's intent. I feel this may be
the least of the enigmas we will confront before we are through. I think it would be worthwhile
to question our companions further. Will you come?"
Krishanu was grateful to go with him, hoping temporarily at least to ignore his
increasingly unpleasant inner struggle.
Oman and Shamara were sitting quietly near the bow, in identical postures to those in
which the Etanai first saw them: she sitting with eyes closed; he staring unblinking up at her.
'Sravasa hesitated when he saw their irenic silence, but at last his curiosity emerged victorious
and he asked, "How can it be that Atira Priests of Arama still live? Are you truly of the past, as
they implied?"
Shamara's eyes slowly opened, reflecting the aureate loveliness of Vigyan's gentle light.
She stared at him for a moment with a slightly bemused expression, as if she could not quite
recall where she was or how she chanced to be there. Then she answered in her gentle, sweet
voice, "Lord of Etan. We of the Brihas School alone escaped Swayam's destructive wrath. We
learned earlier than any that my brother Navril had stolen Arama's clone; therefore we began the
two hundred millennium Atira to recall the Father to us. I am the last Bearer of my kindred;
Oman, the final Guardian. When we reach the throne in Tilvia, the last of the dora will be added
to the reserves there. Then will the Sacrifice be completed: Arama will return to us and the
Betrayer will be chained to the world."
"Or so we have long believed," added Oman, looking as usual only at her. "But we do
not know that the earlier Bearers succeeded in their quest. Navril may have captured or
destroyed them."
"And then our labor would be for naught," said Shamara, her dispassionate tone belied by
her rigid stare at the chalice she clasped tightly with both hands. "But we must hold to faith;
none of the earlier Bearers were without a Guardian or Follower either; there is good reason to
hope all succeeded. Your presence here, Krishanu C " and now she raised her brilliant eyes to
look at (or through) him – "further demonstrates that my Oblation is not only the last but also the
most critical. For in spite of the enigmatic ambiguity of your existence, I say you would not be
here lest you are the one we seek to recreate or the one we seek to bind. Which are you, Etan?"
He returned her gaze, feeling even more perplexed than before. What was happening to
him? Why did they hold him to be something or someone other than he was? What was the
meaning of his experience of the golden sphere? How had he lost control of his own voice?
What was this miasma of otherness inside him? And why did his own brother know so much
about these people? This at least could be investigated. But as he began to ask, a prickly
sensation along his spine transformed his words, "It is peculiar–could someone be following us?"
"Of course," answered Oman, never moving his gaze from his mistress, "did you not hear
Brihas tell of him? Purity ever follows the Path of the Sacrifice. Certainly after the Final
Oblation. How could Tahir not come?"
Krishanu looked at Uchai-sravasa to see if he understood any of this, but his brother was
holding the small metal sphere that was 'Ishtar's Recorder, apparently cataloging his thoughts.
Ever more confused, Krishanu returned to the stern to review his own perceptions and attempt to
make some order out of the day.
An hour or so later, a single brilliant star blinked into being immediately in front them.
They all stared at it, even Oman for a moment abandoning his contemplation of the Oblation
Bearer. The star gradually grew larger and more brilliant until it came to rest on the prow of
Vigyan. It was clearly a lady of Etan–golden hair falling luxuriantly over slightly cerulean skin,
argent robe, azure eyes–but she was not from Etan. Krishanu's heart was drawn toward her; for a
moment his inner struggle was stilled. 'Sravasa passed one more thought to the Recorder and
stood and bowed to her. Suddenly Shamara gave a little scream of ecstasy or fear and clutched
the chalice closer. She began a low moaning, which may have been a form of incantation.
The newcomer smiled at each of them briefly, then stepped off the ship and returned as
she had come. With her step, Krishanu's mind exploded in a whirlwind of gold and indigo light–
the retreating form pulled his awareness through his forehead and after her. He resisted, fearing
to lose contact with the ship and the others; the conflict of active opposition to her power threw
him writhing to the floor.
'Sravasa was over him at once, Oman but a moment later. Shamara did not move, but
stared after the vanishing star, moaning over and over, "Jaya. Lord Brihas was right. Mother
Jaya returns."
'Sravasa and Oman held Krishanu until the spasm passed. In a dazed fog, he thanked
them vaguely. His brother asked him if he needed anything; but he was lost in a wilderness of
infinite confusion: shaking his head, he lay down and quickly fell asleep.
Shortly before dawn, his mind organized the divergent strains of experience into definite
patterns–he began to dream.
The visitor Shamara had named ―Jaya” floated toward them again, and stood again on
the prow of Vigyan. But now it was she who spoke her name, "I am Almira." Her words
expanded in him in brilliant circles of knowledge and bliss: I am the Auspicious Forethought, she
who confers good to the mind and hearts of men. I am the Giver of all life and love, that of the
sun which nourishes, protects, inspires growth. There is no path to omniscience but mine. I am
Non-violence. I am Perfection of speech, Perfection of act. Then the pulling sensation through
his forehead began again. This time, he did not resist, but allowed his spirit to flow freely in
response to her authority.
Vigyan and the others (including his own body) were left behind as Almira drew his mind
with her. He glanced back and saw that the ship now appeared as a small protrusion on a silver
cord, endless in both directions. It was impossible to tell if Vigyan moved along the cord or if it
was stationary and the whole structure moved in reference to the world.
Krishanu looked at Almira; she was heading directly toward the sun. With no visible
transition, they stood on the sun itself, partaking of the Presence of Eternity. The light was
variegated: one area was more perfect, more brilliant than the rest. Almira headed toward it,
saying, "The doorway to our world." The portal of gold opening before them revealed a light
more effulgent than that of the sun but of a different nature; for the light of Para, the World of
Beginnings, is not of radiation but of the Grandfather's mind.
The otherness inside him suddenly became violently agitated. How could he be on the
sun? He must be dreaming! His doubts held him, causing him to resist her influence again. The
Primal Light of her world at once attracted and repulsed him; he warred within himself, part of
his spirit yearning to follow Almira, part rebelling and struggling to hold him to his old Universe.
Almira, perceiving his conflict, returned to him and led him away from the entrance to
her world.
Again with no obvious transition, Krishanu was floating over a world, different from
Martanda. With a deep certainty, he realized he was viewing an historical event.
Two armies of machines faced each other on a broad plain. One of them was defending a
towering citadel of silver-steel; he intuitively knew that inside was a treasure of hope for the
world below–a being's life-work. . . Whose?. . . Jaya's!–that could alter the course of time in
ways unparalleled in history.
But the defending army was defeated. Krishanu watched impotent, aghast, as the victors
destroyed Jaya's masterpieces of thought and intention. Then he himself was commanding the
sacrilege, destroying the final hopes for the people Jaya had labored to save from themselves.
And then he himself was slaying her, rejoicing in the perverse violations he subjected her to
before administering the final stroke.
The vision transformed again; he followed Almira through a tunnel of space or time to a
second scene of violent death–two men, one with bluish skin, one with saffron, were fighting
before a complex bank of machinery. Again Krishanu knew intuitively that he was watching the
life-and-death struggle of Arama and his son, Navril Hagar. Arama, who had been taken wholly
unaware, was stabbed repeatedly and died. Krishanu saw the spirit flow out from Arama‘s heart
as a nebulous wraith which split into roughly equal halves. One of the wraiths vanished; the
other remained as Navril dragged his own nearly ruined body into the machine.
A full day passed; the wraith waited as Almira and Krishanu watched. Shortly after
sunset of the second day, the machine opened; Navril stepped out, but now his body was an exact
duplicate of Arama‘s!
With a soundless scream, the wraith leaped onto him, but could not even make its
presence known. It withdrew and floated over the usurper for a time, analyzing an approach.
Finally, it dove toward his forehead and passed into him. If Navril were aware that his fine new
body had been breached, he did not show it.
Years passed; Krishanu witnessed the two spirits living in Arama's clone body, Navril in
continual control, the wraith struggling for the slightest chance to gain mastery. But it could find
precious few holds, for so to usurp Navril's power would mean becoming as was he, would mean
that it would share in the works of evil he promulgated on a global scale.
Largely because of the rare moments of the wraith's ascendancy–at times when Navril
was extremely tired or intensely involved–others discovered the body had been stolen.
Navril and all his works were destroyed in a war with Swayam, which reduced both the
usurper and his passenger to the status of wraiths. They wrestled together then, as before when
both had possessed physical bodies, but now there was no possibility of end: they were equally
matched combatants, struggling throughout Infinity and Eternity to bind each other.
But at last Navril triumphed again. Perhaps this was so because it had been much longer
since the wraith owned a true body; perhaps because, living so long in the same body with
Navril, it had taken on something of his nature, something of the evil of he who had ruined two
worlds. The wraith was chained to unconscious forgetfulness; Navril was again freed to take on
form.
Krishanu floated closer to look at the wraith. Even in its sleep of non-life, it retained the
memory of its earlier form. Krishanu opened its eyes and saw that they were as his, black--
on-black. He stared into them and saw the Universe there, all the unending stars and galaxies of
the Grandfather's megacosm. Suddenly the Universe coalesced again into the face of the
alive-dead wraith; Krishanu screamed in terror as the awful truth finally burst into his soul. For
there could not be the slightest question: this face too was his.
Krishanu awoke to the sound of fierce battle. Shamara was kneeling before him,
clutching the chalice to her as if she wanted to press it into her heart. He stared at her in
confusion, trying to understand where (and what) he was. How much had been illusion, how
much memory?
"I don't know if you can help, Etan," she said, her voice trembling from passion or fear.
"I don't know if even I should ask your aid, for the mark of Navril Hagar is upon your brow. But
Oman and 'Sravasa fail before the onslaught; the Follower cannot reach us in time to save my
dora. Can you, will you help?"
Her eyes pleaded with him more elegantly than her words. He drank deeply there and
saw the perfect complement to the horror he had experienced when he looked at the wraith's
face–even in her present agitation, she was perfectly whole, filled with love, deeply in peace.
Who are you, Shamara, he thought, but answered, "What–?" They were below deck in Vigyan;
the hull was dark, no longer translucent. Shamara's dress in the darkness was more than a deep
sanguine, almost black. The sound of distant explosions struck them repeatedly. Krishanu could
hear a faint threnody that may have been 'Sravasa manifesting power with his voice.
"We are attacked. A kind of laser cube, similar to the spheres Arama gave the rajanyas to
protect the Atira Priests. They descend on us in swarms from the north – we are directly south of
the Mereds, ten degrees north of the equator. . . You were unconscious for four days. I would
not have woken you, but the attack comes closer; Vigyan was not created to withstand such
force. I dare not expend a drop of the dora: we do not know if the earlier Oblations arrived
safely. Can you help? Arama is in you as well as the Betrayer. I can see his bow and quiver
hovering in your mind. Will you help me?"
Krishanu stared at and through her, wondering how much of his dream had been real,
how much had been engendered by Shamara's beliefs about him. Mentally shaking himself, he
decided that given the present danger, neither case was relevant. Standing on legs that wobbled
only slightly, he walked to the winding stair that led to the deck.
The steps were utterly silent. Was the whole of Vigyan’s life absorbed in protecting
itself? The hull could almost have been made from metal now, so opaque had it become. As
Krishanu climbed the stairs, his bow materialized in his hand and the quiver appeared on his
back.
Shamara's eyes followed him furtively, as if they belonged to a terrified rabbit. She made
no move to come after him, but knelt where she was, clutching the chalice to her, terrified lest
the Final Oblation not arrive whole. For she, as well as any of the Brihas School, knew that the
power of the later Oblations was logarithmically more than the earlier, and that the last was by
far the most important of all. Thus had she waited in the crystal world through the centuries
while her cousins bore the earlier chalices, waited for the ultimate product of the Atira Priests'
art.
She was not naive; she fully expected that as the power of the dora increased from age to
age, so would the strength of the Opposition. Therefore had she chosen Oman to guard her, for
she knew his heart to be true, his wielding of weaponry the most proficient of his rajanya
kindred. And Tahir, of course, had demanded the right to follow, as he had loved her in life
better than she could have hoped or dreamed. He was the logical choice: who could better find
her if the Path should be severed?
No, she had no doubts about the age-old choices: they were true and filled with power.
But now she felt they should have done more. She could at least have had Tahir follow more
closely. She never expected an attack so soon! Tilvia was still so far! Who could have
predicted that the Enemy would have a stronghold in the Mereds? Brihas had given no such
clue. Nor had Matri's son Jamad; they of all would have spoken, would have warned her! But
they had said nothing! They must have known. How could they not? And why had they not
mentioned Krishanu? They had said two of Swayam's later progeny might arrive in time to
accompany the last dora down the silver Path of the Atira. But Krishanu was not just a younger
brother of her father, he was Arama himself, reborn! And yet not Arama: more than the
Firstborn in the odd way he employed the tools of the rajanyas; and yet less too, for something in
him belonged to–or had been borrowed from–the Enemy, Navril. But how could he be both?
Why had the time-honored tests failed to reveal the whole of his spirit? Who was he in the
deepest sense?
Shamara stared with frightened eyes after the Etan, clutching her precious burden close
into her body.
Krishanu climbed the stairs, opened the crystal door (now dark as his eyes), and stepped
onto the deck of Vigyan. 'Sravasa and Oman stood on the prow of the ship, uniting their abilities
to repulse the attack. Around Vigyan on all sides were thousands of flying black cubes–the Asur
Emperor Valin's gorlems from the Mereds–apparently held back from their craft only by
'Sravasa's chanting. Krishanu had not known his brother could do such a thing–Vigyan was
surrounded at the distance of a league by a golden field of power. Oman for his part was
launching missiles at the gorlems from an odd mechanical device on the prow that looked like
something 'Ishtar might have invented in one of his madder moments.
Krishanu strode swiftly up to them, saying, "I did not know your words held such
power."
'Sravasa broke off his chanting briefly to say, "They never did before. Vigyan aids me:
the power of the ship creates this sphere of protection; I strengthen it." Then he returned to his
work, fearing lest a moment's lapse should allow the enemy to breach their defense.
Oman did not pause from his machine-like motions, but commented, "Worst perversion
of your work I've ever seen, Arama." He at least was firm in his belief about Krishanu. Perhaps
it was his own shrunken and twisted body that made him more empathetic than Shamara for the
profound struggle the Etan was enduring; or perhaps it was his training as a rajanya, one of the
elite corps of warriors Arama created as Jaya's main line of defense from their perverted
progeny; or perhaps he was, after all, much more innocent than Shamara. Whatever the cause,
Oman was sure Arama lived in this Etan's body and hoped his acknowledging the fact would aid
in his victory over the Betrayer. "Nastiest war machines we've ever fought. Makes the Battle for
Jaya's Citadel seem like a child's game. Navril has no respect."
"How big are those things?" asked Krishanu, staring at the gorlems.
"Not large," answered Oman, still not looking at him. "Three stacked together would not
be taller than your brother."
"How can I help?" asked Krishanu, ignoring some deep corner of his heart attempting to
tell him he already knew.
"If that is as good a bow as your other, you need only let your earthbreath expand through
it. You are the Archer of Time, you know." Oman glanced at him now with a look that was
almost feral in its intensity. A vision of a muddy lake flashed in the Etan's mind; Oman trans-
formed to a curiously shaped staff that was systematically purifying the water. "This may take a
little time," the staff said to him.
Krishanu shook his head to clear the archetypal image from his brain, and stared at the
enemy. Vigyan's shield was absorbing their fire, but it was not clear how long it could withstand
such an onslaught. Almost as if in answer to his thought, an area of the sphere to the northwest,
directly along the path of their travel, flickered briefly and disappeared. A stream of gorlems,
rapidly growing to a flood, poured through the breach. Oman fired his missiles as fast as was
humanly possible, but they were hopelessly inadequate: a dozen gorlems instantly replaced
every one he ruined. He took a moment to crane his head over his shorter shoulder and say,
"Now might be a rather good time to try."
'Sravasa chanted more fiercely, the force field closed. But several thousand had forced
entry; their fire outlined the transparent inner shield surrounding the ship in an angry crimson
light.
Krishanu stared at the gorlems, trying to remember how to use his bow. Where had the
knowledge gone? Always before, it had been as automatic as breathing; now he could not even
draw his mind-created arrows from the quiver. He struggled vainly as the temperature on the
ship began inexorably rising.
Oman fired his weapon with reckless abandon; gorlem after gorlem exploded, but the
temperature continued to rise. Already it was past any reasonable level of comfort – another few
minutes and they would be baked alive. Yet still Krishanu could not remember his art.
The forward shield failed again; a sea of gorlems flooded through. And then, abruptly, it
failed on all sides. "Circuit overload," muttered Oman, trying without much success to wipe the
sweat from his brow. "Focus on the inner wall."
'Sravasa understood his meaning; at once the inner shield burned golden as his words
reverberated around them. The temperature dropped a few degrees, but there was no question
their respite was temporary at best.
Shamara came onto the deck, her face ashen. She clutched the chalice so tightly her
fingers looked like ice. "There is no choice. I must use the dora."
"No!" cried Oman. "A moment longer! Give Arama more time!"
The temperature began rising again: the shield was so bombarded by the gorlems' fire it
looked as if they stood inside the sun itself.
'Sravasa shouted, "My song fails! The shield buckles! I cannot hold it!"
Krishanu, for the moment forgetting himself utterly, raised a hand in warding and said in
Navril's voice, "Begone." Abruptly, the attack ended. The inner shield cleared; they stared in
confusion as the gorlems retreated in all directions. Within moments, they were traveling
through a perfectly calm sea.
"What happened?" asked Shamara, climbing up to join them on the prow. Vigyan
returned to gold as the shields stopped drawing so much power.
"I don't know," said Oman, refusing to doubt Krishanu. "Another few seconds and we
would have been ended."
"Perhaps the Enemy tests us," said 'Sravasa, staring out of the corner of his eye at his
brother, "or wished to show us his power. He may wish to capture, not destroy; use the dora for
his own ends."
"How do you know these things!" flared Krishanu, using his brother as focus for his own
frustration. How had his art become so separate from his will? Were these strange people with
their bizarre preconceptions somehow blocking the flow of his own mind? By forcing him to
accept their extraordinary beliefs about his past? Why? And how did ‗Sravasa seem to know all
about them and their purposes? Such knowledge was not of Etan. How could he have come by
it? Why had he never shared it? He was supposed to be Krishanu‘s closest intimate! What were
these dark secrets?
"Etan was not Swayam's first creation, brother," answered Uchai-sravasa slowly, staring
at him with an unrecognizable expression, "though father made me swear I would never reveal
this to any of you. Before he discovered the amrita, there was an earlier line, parented by my
elder brother and sister, Arama and Jaya. Their children live still on Martanda, as apparently
does he who betrayed their race, Navril Hagar."
"But if they have not tasted Swayam's amrita–"
"They live and die. Such is the way in the world."
"Death? Like a plant? That is impossible." What an outrageously bizarre concept. His
Universe reeled from the thought. As in the dream that Almira inspired, he thought, surprising
himself how thoroughly he accepted these strange experiences as the true past. "Why does not
Swayam give them the amrita?"
"The roots of Navril go deep, Etan," said Shamara. "Your father deemed none worthy.
Not even his own son Arama and daughter Jaya. He allowed them to die, rather than partake of
immortality."
"But I believe the cost was severe," added Oman, "for he has not forgiven himself for
their loss and has isolated himself from their offspring."
"Yes," agreed 'Sravasa, thinking he had quite a lot to ask Oman. But he deferred his
curiosity to help his brother through the desert and continued, "Yet he did not wholly abandon
them: he left seven pieces of himself: the Atira Priest Brihas we met and six others. They were
to aid his children to be worthy of immortality. . . But I fear the Seven must have progressed
rather poorly, if that attack was indicative of the state of Martanda."
"Tell me again where we are going," said Krishanu, not yet even partially understanding
these strange concepts. People dying? Like plants? It seemed too absurd.
"Arama's body was stolen by Navril Hagar," said Shamara, speaking as if she had
discovered the treachery but yesterday. "Brihas learned of it soonest and began our Atira,
dedicating the whole of his School to the completion of the Sacrifice. I am the last of the
Bearers; if my dora successfully reaches the throne in Tilvia, Navril will be bound; Arama will
resume his dominion over his children. . . Or so we believed when we began this work; but now I
can't help but wonder if–"
Her doubt was interrupted by an explosion that threw them all to the deck. A huge hole
was torn into Vigyan; already the ship began to list as the ocean poured into the hold.
"Burrowing torpedo!" cried Oman. "Ate through the shield one micron at a time–"
"Over the side! Quickly!" shouted 'Sravasa.
"The path!" cried Shamara. "Tahir won't be able to follow us! I can't see it without
Vigyan!"
"We will call him to us!" cried Oman, certain that 'Sravasa's conclusion was correct. "If
we stay here, we are dead!" He lifted Shamara and unceremoniously threw her overboard.
The tropical water was as tepid as the bath of the rich; they swam away, northwestward
still, but all looking sadly back at the sinking Vigyan.
Within moments it was gone; they were alone in a measureless ocean.

3. The Fishermen of the Gray Isles
"But, confound it," said Krishanu, joining the others in skirting their immediate problem
for the sake of distraction, "this follower you keep talking about will be along soon, won't he?
He can pick us up." They had drifted and swum for half the day already, with no change:
whoever or whatever had sunk Vigyan was apparently content to leave them to their fate.
"No," answered Shamara, clutching the chalice with one hand and stroking with the
other, "Tahir would not see us. We are far too small. And secondly. . ." her voice trailed off –
she could not bear to speak the awful truth. Was their hope so soon lost? Could any of the
earlier Bearers have failed so completely? Perhaps her vanity had been overlarge; perhaps she
should have carried an earlier Oblation. But no, Brihas approved the ordering; it could not only
be because of Oman and Tahir. There must be something she could do. But what? In less than
seventy-two hours. . . .
"Secondly," finished Oman for her, "Tahir must not pass the dora before we reach the
throne in Tilvia. If he were to do so, the Oblation would lose its potency. The Sacrifice must
proceed according to a specific schedule, lest it fail. We must move on within three days or the
lives of all those who went before will have been worthless." He spoke these hard truths without
inflection, as if he were reading a treatise by the Atira Priests on the Art of Sacrifice. Perhaps he
had lived too long in the semi-vivified state to feel much concern for loss or gain. Or perhaps he
was the universal choice for the Last Guardian precisely because of this unique quality of
non-involvement. Whatever the cause, Oman seemed as concerned about the fate of their
mission as he was about the state of sunspots.
"So we need a means to resume the path," said 'Sravasa, bringing the conversation
dangerously near the issue they were tacitly avoiding. "I wonder, brother, if you might succeed
in calling 'Ishtar's boat to us?" Uchai-sravasa had never put overmuch faith in Yehokhanan-
Ishtar's odd inventions, preferring to manipulate the earthbreath directly with his voice. But
there seemed precious little he could do now: he shielded them occasionally when some
predators showed too great an interest, but he had no desire to test his skill after dark. Three of
Martanda's seven moons would be above the horizon, but Kali was never very bright, and Mata
was in her last quarter. Rohini would be nearly full, but the red moon could do little to aid their
vision. Not that there was much to see: the emerald ocean stretched endlessly in every direction.
He knew there must be a song to carry them forward, but had not yet discovered it. He
alone of Etan fully understood that all of Creation was composed of vibration; he alone had
learned to mimic and influence many of the subtle patterns he saw and heard underlying
existence. His knowledge was not yet perfect enough to make him a flawless master of the Art
of Singing, but the remaining obstacles to his success were not so great as those he had already
surmounted in his long life–he knew beyond question he would one day succeed, possibly even
before another score of millennia were passed.
"I have already called it, 'Sravasa," answered Krishanu. "But even at its best speed, it
will be four days before it reaches us. By then, their Tahir will have passed us. . . But is it not
possible, Shamara, that even if he passes us, we could pass him again? Would not the dora then
regain its power? As long as we reach your destination first, is that not sufficient?"
"And he could reveal the Path!" cried Oman, oddly sharing Krishanu's excitement. Or
was he simply reflecting the Etan's mood?
"I would sooner spend a portion of the dora than put such a scheme to the test," said
Shamara, looking and sounding darker than a full eclipse of Gauri, "It could mean the certain end
of all we have waited to create. May I never be so tried! Choices of death or madness."
They floated and swam until the day ended in a glory of color. "Light brume rising," mused
'Sravasa to no one in particular, wondering how Oman and Shamara would tolerate a night of
exposure. The water was warm, but the constant exertion must eventually take its toll. Suddenly
he realized that the fair-skinned Oblation Bearer was severely burned, wherever her flesh had
been exposed to the intensity of the tropical sun. He swam over to Oman and whispered, "Your
mistress has been seared by the sun. I marvel that she seems unaware of her condition. Can you
aid her?"
Oman looked at him with a quizzical expression that might have appeared comical if their
situation were not so desperate and said, "I am ashamed! I did not notice! I did not realize. . .
What can we do? My ointments were lost with Vigyan. Have you any knowledge of curatives?"
"I do not. No such is ever needed in Etan. When will she notice?"
"It may never touch her mind. She is the Bearer of the dora, not subject to many of the
demands of mortal life."
"What are you two whispering about so earnestly?" asked Shamara in a cheerful voice as
she swam over to them.
"My lady," said Oman, "Are you feeling well? Do you require anything?"
"Other than a ship, you mean? I think not. But this water does grow rather cold, does it
not? How could Vigyan have been so easily breached?"
"The gorlems," he answered, wondering if the jumping of her mind was indicative of her
state. "They left a burrowing device. Penetrated our shield a micron at a time. I beg your
forgiveness for being deceived." What could he do? Try to wrap her in his arms?
"No, my Guardian is not to blame. No more could have been expected of you. How is it
that Krishanu did not aid us? Does Navril dominate him?"
"I believe he wished to. I don't know why he failed. Perhaps it would have interfered
with the Sacrifice: he is obviously connected to its goal."
"This foggy gloaming must be deluding my eyes," said Krishanu, stroking over to them.
"I swear there is a moving star there, just to the south." His senses were clearer than they could
have guessed: he had heard their whispered thoughts. But this knowledge was valueless to him,
as he understood nothing of their path or purpose.
"A boat, by the sixteen syllables of the Grandfather!" cried Oman, at once striking off
boldly southward. It was hardly necessary–the vessel was heading directly toward them. The
chugging of its engines floated lazily over the darkening water; it approached ponderously, as if
it had all the night to cross the league separating them.
The three brothers stood in the wheelhouse of their small craft, staring miserably at the
corpse of their father lying on the map table. They wore similar clothing–loose fitting gray shirts
and pants, simple wooden sandals on their feet. Their skin was auburn, their cheekbones high,
their brown eyes narrower than in other races. Their hair was black and long, tied behind by
rope; their chins were beardless. They were all handsome, but the eldest was the most so.
The day had begun well enough: they had filled their gill-nets three times as they
followed the school southward. But then, in a truly bizarre accident, their father Xenas= chest
had been crushed by the mizzen mast boom and he had quickly died. How could one so
seaworthy have been so careless?
Cadmar, the eldest, had intoned the traditional rites of passage as Moriah, the youngest,
knelt as witness. But the middle son, Zaki, had gone away from them to keep his grief locked
within himself. Cadmar respected his wish, but Moriah followed him as soon as the ceremony
was over and said, "Brother, do not blame yourself. It is the price of the fisherman's life. We
live in danger daily; our family has been fortunate for three generations. It is not your fault."
Zaki turned his haunted eyes toward him and said only, "The way he kept saying my
name! I know he blamed me! I am lost."
"He merely wished to tell you he held no condemnation for you. There can be no other
interpretation. You know it was an accident. Do not blame yourself." But Zaki would not listen
and stared at his hands, lost in contemplation of the recent past.
They lashed the wheel at sunset and stood around their ruined father, following their
separate thoughts. Cadmar was tallest as well as eldest. A strong wiry man of thirty, he bore
more scars from the fishing life than the other two. Moriah was but newly committed, as his
allotment of three children had only just been fulfilled–he had taken a longer time than most;
had, in fact, reached the maximum age of twenty-five. Zaki had traveled extensively in the
Mereds for the past nine years, trying to ease the lot of their village with the Asur overlords, and
had only this season joined them in the family trade.
Cadmar was strong in spirit as well as in body. As the new head of their small family, he
did not look forward to telling their wives, children, or mother, but had already assumed the
mental burden and felt it a heavy but not uncomfortable weight. Mostly he ached for their
mother Panphila: always was she so full of love, so all-embracing in her devotion to Xenas and
their family. It seemed so unjust that her husband could be stolen before he had passed the half
century mark. . . No, such was not a true thought: the turns of life were never without meaning,
if they could only be seen from a right perspective. Xenas had labored long to preserve their
ancient beliefs, resisting the Asurs' harsh rule as much as passive wisdom could allow. He had
been one of the most successful at that art: their family, poor as any of the Gray Islanders to all
appearances, nevertheless maintained a considerable storehouse of wealth and knowledge. Both,
of course, were illegal. Discovery of the wealth would have meant harsh punishment; discovery
of the ancient books would have meant public execution of the leader of the family, brands on
the faces and arms of the others.
Xenas had felt the preservation of their traditional beliefs worth the risk, as would
Cadmar now in his stead; but Zaki had opposed them more and more adamantly whenever he
returned from his journeys of ambassadorship to the Asurs. Only with his last homecoming did
he not so protest. Once his role of conciliator ended, the need for such conformity in his family
was no longer viewed with such a harsh mind, or so Xenas and Cadmar had concluded, glad in
heart their family was harmonious again. If Zaki still entertained doubts, he kept them rigidly
private, as befitted a fisherman of the Gray Isles.
Moriah stood with head bowed, staring down at the corpse, his tears unashamedly
wetting his gray tunic. If Cadmar was intellectually closer to their father, Moriah was nearer to
him in heart. It was Xenas' influence alone that had kept him from the sea-life for so long. "Let
him enjoy life with his lovely Narda while he may," he had told Panphila in one of his less
taciturn moments. "The heaviest regret I bear is that I took Cadmar so soon from Olethea."
Now Moriah felt as though his world had irrevocably changed for the worse. If life held
any hope or love for him now, he was not sure where or why. The Asurs and their gorlems
allowed him but one night a week with Narda now that they had birthed their third child; the
innocent joy of his recent past seemed a dream of Paradise forever lost. How much had Xenas
shielded him from the foul cruelty of their subservient lives? And now he was utterly alone
before the terror.
He could no longer bear to look on their ruined father, and left the cabin to walk alone on
the deck of their ship.
"Perhaps now you can turn the family onto a safer path," said Zaki as soon as Moriah left
them.
His strange undercurrent of passion caused his brother to look at him with deep concern.
Cadmar had seen grief change many of his friends in peculiar ways; he wondered now if his
brilliant brother had journeyed one too many times to the Mereds. Would not excessive contact
with evil necessarily corrupt? He sighed softly before answering, "I have seen nothing in father's
life of which I do not approve, Zaki."
"No! He endangered us all by his violations of the Primal Code. We must use more
wisdom." Was Cadmar going to be as thick-headed as Xenas had been? He had prayed his
brother might be more logical, once their father's influence had been removed. Perhaps time
might change his mind?
"Would you so defame our family, even before his tomb is sealed? I shall certainly honor
his will and intention."
"Cadmar! Zaki!" cried Moriah, ending their discussion before they could confirm that
their adamant wills were locked in permanent conflict. "Come here! Quickly!"
Moriah was standing in the prow, staring and pointing toward the north. A bright glow
was floating on the water, a light somehow different from any they had ever seen.
"By the Dream of Life, I mistrust this sight," said Cadmar, nearly overwhelmed by his
fear of the otherworldly radiance ahead.
"As do I," said Zaki, surprised to find himself for once in complete agreement with him.
When was the last time they had shared a feeling? Perhaps there was indeed still hope for their
family.
"Now are you both to me as strangers," said Moriah, amazed at their words. "I feel more
of life and hope, yes, even of father's living presence there than I have ever known. I believe we
witness his Gift of Passing to us chained to this sad world."
"No, this cannot be his, little brother," answered Cadmar in a trembling voice that
somehow reminded Moriah of the Asurs, "I have never dreaded a sight so deeply."
"Someone is there, in the water!" cried Zaki, his excitement for the moment overshadowing
his doubt.
"Never have I dreamed such people could exist," said Zaki, amazed by the color of their
skin.
Cadmar said, "In the most ancient of our records, there is mention of a white-skinned
race. Somewhere in Tilvia, I think–far inland, well beyond the coast."
But Moriah was too enchanted by the beauty of Shamara, 'Sravasa and Krishanu to think
of any comment. He helped them aboard, covering the shivering Oblation Bearer with his
woolen blanket. Two of them looked blue from the water, but did not seem cold, and refused his
offer of blankets. How long had they been in the sea? He introduced himself and the others, but
could make nothing of their reply. But then he felt an odd tingling somewhere in his brain, and
the taller cerulean man began speaking to him in the Fisher tongue.
"I did not think you would see us. So I covered the water with light. Thank you! I am
Uchai-sravasa of Etan; this is my younger brother, Krishanu; this, the Guardian, Oman; this, the
Bearer of the Final Oblation, Shamara."
"Sharan!" cried Cadmar with an emotion so powerful that Zaki and Moriah joined the
others in staring at him in wonder. Shamara looked at him but made no comment; Oman crossed
his arms unobtrusively to move his hands nearer to his weapons.
"Forgive me!" exclaimed Cadmar, "There is an old history about an age-long sacrifice
and the bearers of the crystal chalice. It is said the Asur Emperor Valin's power will end when
the Final Oblation passes to Tilvia. Is it true?"
"Can you help us?" asked Shamara, trying her luck with the odd tongue. "Our Vigyan,
our vehicle of the Path, was sunk by the Enemy. We must reach Tilvia before our Follower
Tahir passes us. Can you take us there?"
"Our fuel runs low," said Cadmar as Moriah cried,
"Of course! At once!" and Zaki said harshly,
"I would not risk that passage for ownership of the Gray Isles."
The three brothers exchanged a quick visual conference, then Cadmar assumed his
prerogative as firstborn. "Our father has only today died. We must bear this news to our family.
We will reach our home in the Gray Isles by midnight, then refuel and aid you by dawn." His
years of self-denial had gifted him a skill for strong intuitive decisions; further, his study of their
father's contraband histories had convinced him that if there were any hope for the freedom of
their people, it must come from beyond the Gray Isles. He held no illusions about their race:
they were a defeated people. It was only because their archipelago was so divorced from the
economic need of the Mereds that their semi-independent existence was more or less tolerated.
There was no ability in them to resist the Asurs. But the histories! They spoke of earlier
Oblations; his own ancestors had twice aided Bearers. He and his mother alone, now that Xenas
had joined their forefathers, knew another Oblation was imminent. How could he have been so
fortunate to be present at the correct time?
"No!" shouted Moriah and Zaki at the same instant, for completely different reasons.
Neither possessed any knowledge of the old records, but framed their opposition entirely from
their feelings. Moriah felt the least delay in fulfilling Shamara's desire, regardless how many
logical reasons supported caution, could not be borne. His thought that these four were Xenas'
Gift of Passing to his family was now a tenet of absolute belief, impossible even to question. He
would serve them to the death.
But Zaki was livid and adamant: "You cannot be serious! To so break the Law could cost
us everything! Not even Father was so mad!"
"How can we know?" asked Cadmar calmly. "He was not presented this opportunity.
We shall do as I say: I am the head of the family now; further, I believe Xenas would have done
no differently."
"Excuse me," said Krishanu, thinking a change of subject might somewhat lessen the
tension, "but did I understand you correctly when you said you bear your father home? And that
he is dead?"
"That is the sad truth," replied Cadmar heavily. "He lies just there, in the wheelhouse."
"Might I see him?" asked the Etan, excited by such a fascinating concept.
"If you wish. Moriah? And Zaki, start the engine, please. There is no conflict between
us in returning home, at least. Do you require aught else of us, Shamara? Nourishment
perhaps?"
As Moriah led Krishanu into the ship, 'Sravasa answered, "The sharan is suffering from
severe burns. Can you aid her?"
"What?" said Shamara, feeling her face and arms. "No, I'll be fine. This blanket will be
sufficient." She huddled by the lifeboat, holding the chalice to her as if it were a child. Oman
crouched by her and resumed his analysis of her face.
"This is so peculiar!" exclaimed Krishanu, touching Xenas' body. "His skin feels like ice.
Hard and cold! I could never have imagined such a thing. Where is his earthbreath? How did it
happen?"
"A boom struck him. The tying peg was loose. We have not used the sails much this
year; the winds have been too erratic. Zaki tried to catch it, but failed. . . Have you truly never
seen death?" Moriah was as fascinated by Krishanu as the latter was by his father. Where could
such an oddly colored race be hiding? Truly, Martanda must be as wonderful as Narda had tried
to teach him. He could not help staring at the Etan.
'Sravasa entered the cabin and said, "Brother, we must decide on our course from the
Gray Isles. North to the Mereds, or northwest to Tilvia. Which fulfills Althea's desire?"
"How can you ask? We must accompany Shamara." Krishanu was surprised 'Sravasa
could doubt it. Had not Althea sent them to meet the Sacrifice and aid in its completion? But
then, how could she have known of it? She had left Etan only once, long before, aiding 'Ishtar.
Could she have met an earlier sharan? Or was her knowledge born from prescience?
"I too am so drawn, brother. But we must carefully analyze our purpose. Where lies the
greatest need in Martanda?"
"I know not of other lands," said Moriah, "but the Mereds are like our small cluster of
islands: enslaved by the Asurs. There is naught you could do for them, other than incite a
full-scale rebellion. I doubt that would be easily accomplished–the people have been maimed in
body and spirit for too long. They are brutally dehumanized. The Asurs refuse to let them be
born or be sick or even die with their families. They take them into huge metal and plastic
buildings, drug them into unconsciousness, and perform their rituals of mutilation on them. All
in the name of healing them! And this is such a long-standing practice the people actually prefer
it! They would rather eat manufactured food than real life! And when their teeth rot because of
this fare, they drill them with holes and fill them with metal! I have even heard that when they
can afford it, they feed artificially created milk to newborns! I tell you, exciting them to
rebellion would be next to impossible."
"What is this talk of rebellion?" asked Zaki, coming to check the position of the wheel.
"The Asurs are harsh only if you resist their guidance. You should see the marvels they have
wrought in the Mereds, Moriah! Then you would not talk so foolishly. Our poor fishing villages
are decades, even scores of years, behind the times. They have virtually eliminated disease! The
few remaining bastions of illness are attacked, soon they will fall before the Asur's perfect
science! And you should see how they travel! No rusty old ships for them! Mostly individual
air transport highly sophisticated! Our people are as barbarians before their glory."
"Do you think we could be of some assistance to them?" asked Krishanu, happy to find
both sides of the signpost directing them to follow Shamara.
"Whatever for? They have everything they could ever want."
"They are not oppressed?" asked 'Sravasa, trying to understand the divergent themes.
"Is that what you've been saying, Moriah? You always have such strange fantasies. I
myself have spent nearly ten years among them, Etan; I have seen nothing but eager compliance
with the Law. Only those devoted to madness could think otherwise."
"So," said Krishanu, only partially to prevent Moriah's reply, "it seems there is little or no
need to journey northward. From both sides, there is no point."
"I must agree," said 'Sravasa. "I merely wished to understand your intention."
The brothers' village appeared impoverished even in the gentle light of three moons. A
half-dozen other old and rusty vessels stood in harbor; the houses were inelegant wrecks, looking
as if they were placed near the sandy beach more by chance than design. Not one of them but
needed fresh paint. Yet even so, there were subtle touches that spoke well of the Fisher People:
flower gardens, well tended orchards, neatly stacked tools of the fishing trade. Had they been
forced into housing prepared (or abandoned) by a race with vastly different standards?
"Zaki, please unload and refuel," said Cadmar, then asked Moriah to help him carry
Xenas to their home.
Panphila was waiting for them; her tear-washed face showed that her intuition had
brought early news of her permanent loss. She was a noble spirit, still standing proud, but
prematurely aged by their harsh life. She was dressed as her sons, in gray, but her rough garment
was of one piece.
"I knew from the moment you left," she said in agony as she stroked Xenas' face. "Ah,
husband. Why did you not listen to me? Now all of life is fruitless." She laid her head on his
chest as the full weight of her intuitive power was revealed to her. Why had she not argued more
forcefully for her inner voice? She looked up at them in a moment with a dark despair in her
milky eyes and said, "Here, bring him in. Lay him on the table."
Moriah went to seek Narda as the others stood there awkwardly, waiting to be noticed or
remembered, looking around at the neat but poor home. There was very little furniture: the
ancient table, creaking under the weight of Xenas, four wicker chairs, a few poor utensils on
shelves near the cast iron stove, two dimly glowing oil lamps, attached by tarnished brass to the
bare wooden rafters, an old and battered chest between two doors leading elsewhere. The floor
was rough-hewn plankwood; it had been worn to a silver sheen in the heavy traffic areas. The
inner walls were the same rough, unpainted wood; they were adorned by two small but clean
windows and nothing else. To all appearances, these Fisher People lived in extreme poverty.
Cadmar bent over Panphila and whispered to her. She rubbed her sack-cloth over her
eyes and stared at the guests with poorly disguised rage. "So," she said at last, in a tone that
harbored accusation, "Xenas was right. Another Oblation passes to Tilvia. Now I understand
why he traveled so far southward this season. He hoped to be like his grandsire. Ah, his
foolishness has cost him that which is most precious! Madman that he was! And I am left with
the burden of my bereaved family and four strangers."
"Forgive me," said Shamara, "I would not so complicate your life were our need not so
desperate. I must journey quickly to Tilvia, lest the long labors of my kindred be for naught. I
need the use of your boat, as well as your silence. I marvel the Enemy has not returned to seek
us. He must learn nothing more of our presence."
"Probably thought his weapon would end us. Misjudged Vigyan's power in warding us,"
said Oman, declaring the obvious.
"But why not send one to check, if it be so?" asked Cadmar. "The Asurs are meticulous
to the verge of fanaticism."
"I have wondered that myself," said 'Sravasa, impressed by the wisdom of the eldest
brother. He also felt the attack had not yet been properly understood. Swayam had told him
about the Enemy's subtlety more often than any other single fact concerning him. Were they the
victims of some perverse scheme? If so, which of these could be the agents of Navril?
"Something about it does not sit well with me."
"That need not concern us now," said Shamara, regretting she had broached the subject.
"The need is clear. We must remain ahead of Tahir, whatever the cost. I seek the aid of your
family, Panphila."
"You would take the men and leave the women and children helpless before the
Inquisitors?"
Zaki came in now from the harbor and said raucously, "I have counseled him against this
madness, mother, but he is as adamant as was father. Even the question of fuel–"
"Xenas," she said, drawn back to the cold reality lying on their dining table. "Xenas. . .
He would have gone with you as did his grandsire, whatever the cost. . . But the Inquisitors were
rare in those days; men could disappear for weeks at a time. Now you would endanger Olethea
and Narda and the children, Cadmar. You would return to burned houses and hung corpses. Or
branded slaves. Or worse."
"I would not endanger you," said Shamara. "Let us only take your ship. You can say it
was stolen."
"You could never hope to navigate the Gray Isles," said Cadmar. "I alone possess such
knowledge."
"Our ship is too small for such a journey!" cried Zaki. "Too small for even an overnight
trip. How could you commit our last worthwhile possession to such a mad enterprise!"
"Your great-grandfather's ship was smaller," said Panphila, dwelling in the past to
decrease the pressure of the present. "No steam. Sail only. And yet he lived to return with his
tale." A mother was supposed to love impartially, that she knew; yet she had to admit she really
didn't like Zaki. His opposition made it so much easier to agree with Cadmar. Not that it
mattered. Her eldest son's will was law for her now.
"Is there anything of his record left?" asked Shamara excitedly. Losing the Path was the
heaviest weight. Perhaps their knowledge would be enough: she did not wish them harm.
"Stories. And a map," said Cadmar, crossing the room to open the old sea chest. "Just
here. . . By the Sea God, Panphila! Where has it gone?"
"What? Xenas was studying it just last evening. Why, this has been opened today, or at least,
after he did! He would never have left such a shambles. Cadmar, did you–?
"No, of course not."
"How well did you study the map?" asked Oman, looking only at the Oblation Bearer.
She looked back at him as if she were bearing the weight of the world.
"Not at all. He knew it perfectly, we only indirectly, from his comments. It was his
right."
"Shamara?" asked Oman. "What price this knowledge? Do we have hope for regaining
the Path otherwise?"
She was as cold as death. Taking the chalice in violently trembling hands, she said to it,
"Brihas! Do I have a choice?" She stared at it as if expecting an answer. If there were one, it
was not apparent to anyone else.
After an uncomfortably long moment, she came to her decision. Removing the amethyst
cover, she let the iridescent light of the dora flood the room. "Open his mouth," she ordered
Oman. "No, Panphila, it is all right."
The Guardian hopped to the corpse and forced open its mouth enough to allow her to pour in a
part of the Oblation.
"One-sixteenth," she said, as if tolling the doom of their hopes. Then she covered the
chalice again. The room returned to the moons' semi-light. But now Shamara was changed: she
glowed herself slightly, with a definite amber hue. It was almost as if she and not Xenas had
drunk the dora. Or did her spirit seek to compensate for a loss she thought irreplaceable?
Xenas' corpse began radiating a similar other-worldly light. Panphila, exercising
supreme willpower, somehow kept herself from screaming. But she did not keep from fainting
when Xenas' voice cried raucously from over their heads, "Who dares break the sleep of the
dead?"
Cadmar knelt by Panphila, his years of precise thought shutting out the impossible
present. But Zaki fell trembling to his knees, as if he felt he were on the verge of being cursed.
"Forgive me, you who were Xenas," said Shamara, staring at the corpse. "I am the Final
Bearer of the Two-Thousand Headed Sacrifice. We have lost the Path, and require your
knowledge. Will you consent to guide us?"
"You would have me return to the chains of flesh for such a paltry thing? Why should I
care? I am free!" The tone of the disembodied voice was nevertheless somewhat more gentle,
belying the sense of the words.
"Your family–"
"The Universe is my family. Why should I intervene for your insignificant world?"
"If not your presence, at least your knowledge? Your Grandfather's map?"
"It would be useless to you. He falsified it. To protect the throne in Tilvia."
"Will you not tell us? It is the Master of the last of the dora requesting you."
"If I aid you, I could be drawn into returning to your world. You know this?"
"If you do not, our Sacrifice is doomed. Would you betray the Martanda that bore you?"
As if in response to her words, an image of the planet floated over Xenas' body. It
vibrated, subjected to violent earthquakes everywhere. Tidal waves drowned continents;
mountains sank, others rose to replace them. Thermonuclear explosions rent Martanda with
violent death. A face formed within the globe–identical to Krishanu's, save that the eyes were
blue. The Etan stared at it in horror, wondering again if he were the agent or the victim.
"Well," said Shamara. "Is it Navril's damnation or Arama's blessing you reveal to us
now?"
"Martanda dies in either case, sharan." She reeled and might have fallen but for
Oman's support. She whispered hoarsely, "And humanity?"
Before Xenas could answer, Moriah burst through the door, crying, "The Inquisitor
comes!" Then, seeing how very strange the room had become, he exclaimed, "By the Sea God!
What is–?" His question was obliterated as a final explosion tore the model of Martanda into
nothing. The light composing it rose swirling together with the radiance semi-vivifying Xenas,
then arrowed at Moriah's chest. He fell to his knees, virtually mimicking Zaki. But whereas his
brother was transfixed by fear, Moriah was in ecstasy.
Three gorlems flew through the doorway. One said, in a corrupt version of the
Fishermen's language (it made their use of the tongue seem like honey), "You will all stand
where you are. I am the Inquisitor of Moka village. Who are you?"
Oman gathered his mind first and reacted with machine-like speed. The gorlems were
blown back out of the door from his explosion before they could fire.
"Now we must be swift!" cried Cadmar. "The loss of a gorlem brings a thousand within
two hours. We have no more time."
"I must have that knowledge," said the Oblation Bearer, trying to understand where the
dora had gone.
Zaki, looking as relieved as if he had just been saved from hell, said, "This madness must
end! You will ruin us all."
Oman commented dispassionately, "I had forgotten how effective uni-directional
grenades are. Not a bad shot, I daresay."
'Sravasa exclaimed, "We cannot bring you more harm! We will take your boat and flee."
"No," said Cadmar firmly. "I have given the word of my family. We shall aid you. But
we must all come. Lest those left behind be punished."
"Our boat is far too small!" cried Zaki. "You doom us all to a pointless watery death!"
"Do we still have a choice?" answered Cadmar. "Is Moriah all right?" His brother had
collapsed into Krishanu's arms. Moriah's eyelids were half-open; inside his pupils flickered
something of the radiance that had permeated Xenas.
With Cadmar's words, Shamara stopped staring at the corpse and looked at Moriah. Then
she laughed and said, "Xenas did not deny us! There lies our map!" And she pointed at Moriah's
heart.
The boat was worse than crowded. Cadmar not only loaded the entire family, hustling
the six children out of bed without a word of explanation, but also brought as many supplies as
he possibly could. They were low in the water, but to him this was a Holy Quest; he did not
doubt the gods would aid them. Apparently he had not yet remembered the most common
element of any sacrifice.
Zaki slowed their preparations as much as possible. He had hoped their family without
Xenas would be more conservative, but was finding that it was embarked on a course that was
mad at best! How could they cross the Diella Sea? How, for that matter, could they hope to slip
by the Coastal Guardians? It was incomprehensible, brutally insane. He tried again and again to
dissuade Cadmar, but was more and more curtly rebuffed.

Moriah was utterly entranced and was of no use whatsoever. Oman and Shamara
hovered around him as if he were as precious as the chalice; Cadmar left them to themselves.
Panphila recovered herself enough to assist Cadmar's wife Olethea and Moriah's wife
Narda with the children; the Etanai also did what they could to speed the process, Krishanu
taking small moments to check on Moriah regularly.
When they were fully awake, the children looked on all this as a great adventure,
especially given the presence of Krishanu and Uchai-sravasa: they were entranced by the Etanai
and followed them everywhere as much as their mothers permitted.
4. The Diella Sea
As the first light of the sun touched the harbor they steamed out at full speed, leaving the
known life of the Gray Isles for an at best uncertain future.
"Heading?" cried Cadmar from the deck wheel.
"West-by-Northwest," answered Oman, then added to Shamara, "thus perhaps we will
regain the Path more quickly."
"It is well," she said, staring at Moriah, wondering if her decision were wise. Might they
not have found the Path before Tahir caught them, without using the dora? Had she invalidated
her life, betrayed the sacred trust of Brihas? No, she told herself sternly, there had been no
choice. The cost to the Oblation was as small as reason permitted, and of course there remained
the possibility of reclaiming it after they reached the throne. Exactly how that was to be done
was not clear. She hoped there would be an easier way than by casting Moriah's body into the
Sacred Fire. . .
Narda came up to them, her six-month and two-year old babies on either hip. Shamara
was impressed by her unconscious display of wholesomeness. She was not particularly lovely;
was, in fact, rather heavily retaining the weight of her last pregnancy. But there was something
about her–motherhood?–that made her seem the most healthy of the three fisherwomen.
"Is Moriah going to be all right? He has never looked like this before." They had
enjoyed a fortunate life together, had been protected much more than the average family of the
Gray Isles. Was this to be the payment for their innocent youth?
"I believe so," said Oman, staring as always at his mistress. "He needs to integrate the
knowledge Xenas passed to him. . . We will need his direction soon; doubtless the Oblation
Bearer can awaken him if need be."
Shamara looked at him curiously–she never had conceived of such an act. Interfere with
the action of the dora? It was not done.
Krishanu stood in the stern, still trying without success to manifest his bow and quiver. It
came to him, a vague shadow, wholly useless. Why had his ability to wield it passed so
thoroughly from him? Was it necessary to be in Etan to so employ his skill? But what was it
Shamara had called his bow? Arama's. So at one time, his eldest brother (who, for some reason,
these people from the past kept wanting to identify with himself) had used a similar skill. If
anyone else had so manipulated the earthbreath, there was no reason why he should not be able
to as well. 'Sravasa was having no difficulty with his art outside of Etan. It had suffered no
diminution. If anything, his power was greater.
What was he to do? Make arrows and a bow from wood? He tried again to draw and fire
as he had for long years, but could not direct his mind's creation into concrete form.
Frustrated, he sat on the deck and stared at the water being churned by the propellers.
After an hour 'Sravasa, surrounded by four of the children, came looking for him and asked what
he was doing.
"Trying to understand where my skill has gone," he answered with melancholy. "The
earthbreath no longer flows for me."
"Does 'Ishtar's ship still follow us?"
"It should reach here within forty-eight hours, catch us within sixty at our present rate.
Why?"
"So you can still manipulate the earthbreath. I don't know why your archery is blocked–
perhaps from Almira's influence?"
"Jaya–" he whispered, briefly reliving his dreams. "I suppose there could be something
in that, for–what's happened?" The ship's engine sputtered and died.
"Zaki!" cried Cadmar. "What's wrong?"
"I'll check," he said, disappearing below. He was back in a minute, saying, "The fuel
tank is empty. Must be a leak."
"I checked it within the fortnight. Are you sure you filled it?"
"Of course! Now we must tack back to port. Perhaps the Inquisitors will be lenient if we
willingly surrender."
"The sails –‖ began Shamara, but Zaki interrupted,
"The wind is from the north. Quite useless for your direction."
"Oman, what can we do? Tahir will be here in two days. We must keep moving."
"The Atira Preists could raise a wind for us."
"I cannot use more of the dora!" she cried.
"Perhaps I could try," said 'Sravasa. He began to sing, spreading variegated impulses of
energy spiraling behind them.
"Zaki, help me with the sails," said Cadmar, unfurling the cloth.
"Will you never be sensible?" sobbed his brother. "You will murder us all." He stared at
the three masts, but made no move to help.
But Panphila and Olethea and Cadmar's eldest son, Xareb, assisted him; within moments
the sails were up. But not a breath of wind stirred. Even the north breeze had died.
'Sravasa paused in his chanting to glance at Oman. The Guardian was indulging in one of
his rare external views; immediately understanding, he hopped back to the Etan in the stern, then
took a tool from his chest rack.
'Sravasa began again to project his many-colored vibrations. Oman waited until the
power was widely dispersed, then threw his addition upward. It exploded in an iridescent
display like the most expensive of fireworks. But instead of brilliant streams of light falling into
the sea, the particles of the explosion were caught by 'Sravasa's power and carried toward the
southeast. "I think that may be sufficient," the Etan said after a few minutes. "I have no way to
gauge quantity."
A slight breeze began; within half an hour it intensified into a strong wind. Shamara's
hopes rose with the wind. But 'Sravasa had badly underestimated his power: the wind kept
rising. Cadmar took down the fore and aft sails, fearing lest the wind become a gale. Yet still it
increased.
"By Varun!" cried Zaki, it becomes a typhoon!"
It was no understatement: even as they raced to lower the mizzenmast sail, the wind
roared into it with hurricane force. The flapping sheet struck Panphila and knocked her
overboard. Someone threw a vest after her, but she did not break surface. Cadmar leaped in
after her, holding a line. Within moments, he surfaced, holding her in his arms. Meanwhile the
force of the gale screamed around them as if marking their certain doom.
Somehow the line Cadmar was holding came loose; they were lost far behind in the
rushing maelstrom of the storm. Olethea looked dumbly over the side after her lost husband.
Zaki dragged her below to join the children and the others; then he secured the hatches and tried
with the Etanai and Oman to lower the masts. The mizzenmast snapped before they could free it
and was lost. They saved the foremast, but the aft smashed into the wheel and broke it as if it
were a toy. The ship careened out of the wind and began rolling onto its side. Zaki pulled his
way to the wheel in the cabin and tried to regain control of the boat. But the rudder had jammed
when the wheel broke; there was no response to his frantic efforts.
"'Sravasa," screamed Oman over the tempest, "could you perhaps still this? Else we will
soon be unshipped again."
The Etan was stunned that he had not thought of this. He began to shout his commands
at the storm. For a long moment, they seemed to have no effect. But then, abruptly, the
hurricane ended. The waves subsided at once; the ship righted itself.
"Is there hope for finding Panphila and Cadmar?" asked Krishanu, wondering how they
should begin. The storm had utterly disappeared; the sun showed an hour or so before setting.
"We will have to be swift," said Oman. "If we do not find them by sunset, I doubt they
would survive the night."
"We can use the lifeboat," said Zaki. "It still appears seaworthy. If we can determine the
direction."
There was fundamental disagreement over that: the fisherman adamantly maintained a
course twenty degrees different from the Etanai's belief. But 'Sravasa could not be dissuaded;
they rowed steadily for half an hour before discovering the life vest they threw after Panphila.
But she and Cadmar were nowhere.
"No!" cried Zaki, the fire in his tone raging enough to terrify some of them, "I am now Eldest. I
say we take our crippled ship homeward. Probably we can stretch our supplies so long. Any
other course is worse than madness. We have but one mast, the smallest; it will take most of the
day to free the rudder. There is no other choice."
It was dawn again: they had spent the night mourning the missing and assessing their
damage. Three of the six children were violently ill; Olethea had withdrawn into an
impenetrable shell. She sat below, staring at the nets her family had used for their livelihood for
generations beyond record; no one could elicit the slightest response from her. Narda had
counseled leaving her to her grief for a time; the children agreed, with greater and lesser
understanding.
Their only ray of optimism was that Moriah had returned to himself in the middle of the
night. Shamara and Oman questioned him at length, but discovered little from his words. The
fisherman was not certain, yet felt he would recognize the Path when he saw it: he told them it
burned in him like a silver stream of fire.
"I am sorry for the grief our journey has inflicted upon you," Shamara answered Zaki, "but
we must continue on, staying ahead of the Follower until the Etanai's ship can pass him and
reach us. It is a close match now: even a league might make all the difference. I must beg your
aid once again."
"What hope do we have if we return home?" asked Moriah. "The Asurs are merciless.
That way leads to death."
"He who perpetrated this crime is already lost –‖ began Zaki, but Xareb interrupted him,
"I am eldest of Cadmar's line," he said, trying to make his voice deeper than his years
allowed. He was afraid of Zaki: his uncle was always cold, distant, never open to the normal
interplay of familial love. But Xareb could not deny the Oblation Bearer's need and continued,
"I pledge myself and our family to the aid of Shamara. After their other boat catches us, you can
return to the Gray Isles if you wish."
"You are a boy," said Zaki with intense wrath. "You have no control over this family."
"Wrong," said Moriah without the slightest rancor. "He rules, as is our law. As you well
know."
"Will you not join us?" asked 'Sravasa. "If the Gray Isles are ever to be free, this
Oblation must proceed to its destination. Will you not aid us with this work?"
Zaki, seeing adamant opposition on every face, muttered something foul and went to
work on the damaged wheel.
"Can we raise the sail of the foremast?" asked Shamara, eager to gain as much distance as
possible from Tahir.
Two days later at dawn, the Oblation Bearer stood anxiously staring to the southeast.
'Ishtar's ship was not yet visible, but a brilliant silver cloud near the horizon filled her with a
dread unlike any she had ever known. "How much longer, Oman?" she asked, unwilling or
unable to continue looking at the Follower.
"Krishanu estimates an hour. And ninety minutes before Tahir overtakes us. There is
sufficient time."
"Can we regain what we have lost?" she said, asking for the fifteenth time the one crucial
question of the Sacrifice.
"Uchai-sravasa says their ship may be slightly faster than Vigyan. Yes, we have a good
chance," answered Oman didactically, ignoring the fact he had answered her with the same
words so many times already. It was not surprising she was distracted: the last hope for
Martanda, to their understanding, rested solely on the success of their Oblation.
In another thirty minutes, 'Ishtar's ship was visible, a small golden dot in the furthest
distance. The silver cloud was much larger now, had spread to cover the whole of the sky to the
southeast, brilliantly rivaling the sun's light. They had all gathered above deck to watch the
approach of the Follower: he was like the harbinger of another age, or so they all felt. Even
Zaki shared the awe. But whereas the others greeted it as the dawn of hope, he was terrified to
his deepest core by the strange-familiar presence that followed the Path of Sacrifice.
"He is like a messenger from the Sea Gods," said Noleta, second child of Cadmar and
Olethea, the only girl among the six children, "I never dreamed such beauty could exist."
"I wonder," said Moriah, "if we do not witness the source of many of the Gray Isles'
beliefs. Who could look on this unchanged in heart?"
But Zaki said, "I have often felt that the Fisher People worship the Enemy. Now is my
feeling furthered." These people were all mad, were all most certainly going to die.
Suddenly Oman cried, "Gorlems! From the northeast! A hundred thousand or more!
'Sravasa!"
They stood together and attempted to build a shield from the Etan's words and Oman's
tool belt. The result was pathetic at best: a flickering dome of energy just beyond the prow of
the craft.
"How long can that last?" cried Shamara.
"Not long, I fear," answered Oman. But then he shouted in a tone the closest to despair
any of them had ever heard him use, "No! We are not the target!" He was right, of course:
wave after wave of the Asurs' war machines dove firing at 'Ishtar's ship.
The Architect of Etan had not built for defense; in moments his craft was destroyed. The
gorlems retreated, not bothering even to fly over the fishermen's ship.
"A fire, Oman," said Shamara as if declaring the end of her life. "There is no choice."
"As you command," he said in a similar tone, then gathered some burnables onto the
metal roof of the wheelhouse.
Shamara walked to the fire as if she were a ghost. Holding the chalice tightly to stop her
shaking, she poured one-tenth of the dora into the flames. The fire roared higher briefly, then
was extinguished. The Column of the Sacrifice appeared over the coals, disappearing out of
sight upwards, a slender thread of manifest power.
At once the brilliant cloud that was the Follower withdrew back as it had come.
"It is done," she said in a tone devoid of life. "Tahir will hold back 'til we land in Tilvia.
By the thousand names of Narain, the Enemy is subtle."
The base of the luminous column of the Sacrifice transformed into the Atira Master the
Etanai had seen on the island. "What is wrong, daughter?" he asked in a particularly ethereal
voice.
"Nearly one-sixth of the dora is spent, Brihas," she sobbed, "and we are far from Tilvia. I
fail at my task."
"Despair not, Sharan. Navril has grown strong in this world, but we are not yet wholly
without power. Behold!" He raised a hand, from his palm came a radiant spiral of force that
crystallized into a vessel not a quarter league off to port.
"Vigyan!" cried Shamara. "How is it possible?"
"Not Vigyan. Suvigyan, for this is more potent, being a result of your sacrifice of the
dora. . . I will alert the Follower to your new course.
"Oh, and Krishanu," he added, stepping out of the column, "you should realize two
things: first, Almira brings you visions of truth. You should not resist her again. And second,
the earthbreath is as much a part of the sea and air as it is of Etan. Open your heart to this new
world and your ability will flow freely. You indeed have much to gain or lose by this Sacrifice."
The Column began to disappear; as it did so, Brihas faded with it. "One more knowledge
I freely give all of you," he said, much more faintly now, sounding very far away. "There is only
one path to triumph over the Enemy. Let none of you listen to opposed council. Shamara must
reach the throne in Tilvia with her dora. Farewell!" And he was gone.
As the rest of the adults transferred their provisions, Uchai-sravasa showed the children
Suvigyan's crystal stairway. Their success proved to him that it was fashioned for the innocence
of a child's mind: instead of individual responses of sound and light from the sedate step of an
adult on the sentient stairs, the children's gamboling produced a responding symphony of light
and sound that enraptured the Etan. He sat at the bottom and watched in ecstasy as they ran and
danced up and down, Suvigyan responding with cascading rhythms of rainbow light and
harmonious sound.
The fishermen paused for one final look at the means of their family's livelihood. It
looked small and forlorn; insignificant alongside the glory of the Atira Priests' craft.
"It was a good ship," said Moriah. "Xenas would not have enjoyed seeing it abandoned."
"It was a symbol of our poverty," said Zaki, having set his sights rather higher. "We have
lost nothing."
Moriah glared at him and began to say, "Your thoughts are a curse to our family!" but the
words stuck in his throat as he stared past Zaki at the morning sea.
There was no illusion: someone was in the water, swimming swiftly toward them.
Within moments, they were certain it was Cadmar.
They pulled him from the water, crying joyfully over him, pestering him with question
after question. He told them he had carried Panphila until she died from exposure, then
abandoned her to continue on alone. It was his extraordinary good luck alone that had enabled
him to find them. Which was quite an understatement, considering how long he had been in the
water. . .
Olethea wrapped him in a dry cloth and led him into Suvigyan. The children stopped
playing on the stairs to climb all over him. Except for his youngest son, Xamir: he would not
stop screaming as he stared at him. Olethea finally had to hold him to quiet him. He fell asleep
at last in her arms, quietly sobbing.
That evening, Krishanu stood in the bow and tried to understand what Brihas had meant.
How could he open his heart? Either the ability to utilize the powers of life should be there
naturally, as effortlessly as breathing, or he should have nothing to do with the earthbreath. For
if his life were not in harmony with Nature, what could artificial manipulation accomplish?
Why was he not able to use his bow here in the middle of the Diella Sea as effectively as
he ever had in Etan? Was his power only a reflection of Swayam's thought? Was he not an
independent being, but a slave merely, furtively hiding in his father's shadow? Why, for that
matter, had he alone of the Etanai developed such an odd skill? None of his family had ever
openly opposed him, but had they not laughed at him behind their smiles? Yes, and why should
they not? None of the others had even dreamed of studying the form or essence of a martial art.
Why Krishanu alone? What was different about him? Further, as long as he was chastising
himself, why had he not married? Why had Orah's victory with Chavva left him so thoroughly
disenchanted with female kind? Was his self-confidence so hopelessly shallow?
He castigated himself in various ways, but could not intensify the manifestation of his
bow or quiver. It was like struggling with a phantom of reality. Was the world outside of Etan
such a poor shadow of life? Could he not affect it in the least? He was less than useless to
Oman and Shamara. No wonder she looked at him with fear. He was an anomaly – a peculiarly
twisted scion of a family that otherwise grew perfection; the one corrupt member in the
consummate ideality of Etan. Swayam had
given the amrita without discrimination to all his children after Arama and Jaya. Was it logical
that every one should be worthy of immortality? Was he a – a what? His mind groped for a
word – a mutant? Was that it? Perhaps his perverted nature had simply lain dormant in Etan,
awaiting only this external journey to manifest in ways beyond his bizarre skill of archery.
But if his archery were an element of corruption, then why could he not use it now, when
he was as far from Etan as any of the Etanai had ever gone? For here any force that opposed
perfection must logically be stronger. Perhaps the influence of the dora?
He thought of asking Shamara if he could look at the Oblation, but immediately
dismissed it as impractical – her doubts would make that a hard decision for her at best.
Once more he ordered his bow to appear in his hand; it came, a transparent, ghost-like
thing, lacking true substance. He attempted to force the earthbreath of the air and sea into form;
the bow shimmered slightly but did not solidify further. He tried to create his quiver; the bow
faded like a wraith of vapor.
Krishanu struggled through the evening as the bow and quiver alternated through various
stages of transparency, but never once did they become particularly real. And with each attempt,
his impotent frustration grew more and more intense. By midnight, it pierced his soul like a
dagger of ice; he screamed his rage into the gentle breeze playing over his face like the tickle of
a lover. In response to his ire, the earthbreath of the Diella Sea rebounded onto him, breaking
something constricting his heart. And then, instead of standing on a ship rushing over an ocean
made beautiful by the mingled light of five of Martanda's seven moons, Krishanu stood alone on
a mountain, the versicolored radiance of Imagination streaming from his outstretched palms as if
he were the prime mover of life. He looked at the world below; it was not Martanda stretching
away in wave after wave of vibrant life, but rather a world so supernally perfect, so far beyond
any of the narrow confines of his life – yes, even far beyond Etan, for Swayam's modeling clay
was after all the same as that which made our world – so wonderfully glorious that he could only
believe he had crossed over to the realm of pure Idea. The other was the similitude; this, the
Reality: the other was pain, death; this, Life, ever-new Joy. Never would he desire to return to
his previous world.
But he could not remain static in that place of perfection, for to do so would cause it to
degenerate. He walked slowly down the mountain, marveling at the inexpressible peace, love
and harmony flooding his spirit from all sides. Where was he?
Almira was waiting for him in a little grotto near the base of the mountain. She was as
magnificently lovely as she had appeared on Vigyan, but now a single tear hung delicately from
her right eye, threatening expansion, threatening by its very existence to negate the ever-new
beauty of this transcendent world of Para.
"For me?" he asked; she nodded her reply as her thought entered him, I am forbidden to
aid you in your final tasks, Beloved.
"Then I must return to Martanda?" Again she nodded; the tear broke free and slid down
her cheek. Krishanu stared at it as it sparkled and fell. It seemed to capture all the perfect order
of the world in its simplicity. And then it was not reflecting the world, but was the world, yet
still as evanescent as a bubble, as permanent as a mirage in a desert.
Krishanu stood again on the prow of Suvigyan. The others were awake now, staring up at
him with a peculiar emotion that may have been fear. An unknown yet eerily familiar voice was
speaking: "You are all doomed, all dead for daring to aid this sharan. None of you will return to
your people. But I may condescend to let some of you watch her fate unfold, so that you may
tell others what happens to those who dare derogate me."
"Navril!" Shamara cried, her tone but partly masking her terror, "the days of your
authority are numbered, as you know. I will erect the living body of the Sacrifice on your tomb!
Our family will be purified–the memory of your life will be as the ashes of January's fires in
August!"
Krishanu wondered why they were all staring at him. But when the voice began again, he
understood. In fear and loathing, he understood: for it was his own! He could not control it–he
was a prisoner in his own body, subject to the will of the usurping power of defamation.
"Oh, I think not, Shamara. More like the raging forest fire in August. But as to you and
the earlier fools–no one in the subsequent ages will even know you ever existed. That thought
may give you some solace as you waste your lives en route to Tilvia. To strain as hard as you
will, only to meet with despair and failure at the end! What a beautiful irony, my lovely sister.
To think you could have shared it all with me! All the years, all the mastery. Yet instead you
chose that dullard Tahir with his inane mysticism. You will pay the greatest price of any sharan,
indeed, of any human since the mutant Swayam first climbed down from the trees. I will beat
your soul into my body! You will live the supreme sacrifice for this affront to me: you will
become as a single hair on my bosom." He laughed, a harsh mirthless sound that chilled their
blood more than his words had done–an utterly hateful, extraordinarily powerful outpouring of
perfect malice.
And then Krishanu felt control of his words return. He sat down clumsily and said, "I
feel terrible." 'Sravasa came and helped him below. It was difficult–Krishanu walked as if his
legs were both poorly made from wood. The others did not talk to him or even look at him–
except for Moriah, who helped Uchai-sravasa carry him down the stairs. As they eased him into
one of the sleeping hammocks, 'Sravasa leaned close to Krishanu and whispered, "Did you hear
what you said?"
"Only the last part. Was there much more?" Why was he losing this battle?
"Much. But nothing more specific. Mostly vague threats. I think he's scared. Badly
scared. Shamara's Oblation may just succeed in chaining him."
"That showed scared?" said Krishanu with a shudder as he remembered Navril's laugh.
"If anything, I would say we should be. It's just too bizarre – he knows exactly where we are,
sends his war machines to attack us whenever he wills, possesses my voice as he desires, yet still
permits our passage. What is he getting out of this? Sadistic humor? Relieving his boredom?
Or have I missed something?"
"He knows the power of the Atira Priests. If they say the successful completion of their
Sacrifice will imprison him and restore Arama, we must assume it will do exactly that. No, I
think he fears it indeed. And yet he permits our passage for some reason we don't know.
Possibly he gains something from a nearly perfect Atira C an almost correctly completed but
subtly perverted end may be what he desires. He may actually want Shamara to find the throne –
but only with an inadequate or damaged dora. I do not see how else to interpret what has already
befallen us."
"So, Navril shepherds us. And we innocently go along, hoping it is the Sacrifice as
originally conceived we thus serve. This is the material of madness."
"Only if we allow it to be so, Etan," said Oman, coming down to them. "We all create
everything that comes to us."
"That is a hard teaching," said Moriah. "Did Panphila choose a watery death far from
home? Do the Fisher People choose slavery? There is little of sense I can see in such words."
"Nevertheless," countered the dwarf, "it is the truth I speak. Take your brother Zaki, for
example. His mouth is permanently twisted into a grimace of distaste because he chooses to
view life as a hopeless struggle against insurmountable odds. He is miserable, with no one to
blame but himself."
"This does not explain how I can break Navril's hold over my spirit or body," said
Krishanu. "I do not wish to endure his presence."
"Perhaps you once did, for reasons no longer clear. Perhaps you sought to understand
him by study; perhaps you hoped to capture him. You may yet succeed! Even though you have
forgotten your quest. But he is the strongest foe on Martanda – you have chosen a worthy
adversary, my friend."
"There is not much contest if one player not only wrote the rules but controls the game,"
said 'Sravasa. "I would like to change the odds."
"Is that not our whole purpose?" answered Oman. "Not by force of arms or direct
confrontation can we enslave the Enemy. Once, perhaps; but that day has long passed, lost with
Arama and Jaya. I think this Etan Krishanu only reflects more clearly than most the common
truth – Navril exists in everyone now. To bind the perverter of being, we must struggle with
ourselves, light against darkness, spirit of life against the ego."
"Your speech is like a winter storm," said Moriah, "a hopeless burden for humanity. I
pray you are wrong, for never have I even dreamed such evil." He had been cheated more often
than not by the cruelty of their age, yet still he clung passionately to love. His father's choice had
not been without purpose.
At dawn they were abruptly awakened by Olethea, screaming wildly that Xamir was
missing. It was true; after they finished their third exploration of Suvigyan, they could only
conclude he must have fallen overboard during the night. The family was inured to grief, but
they gathered numbly in the stern and spoke the traditional words of passing for a Fisherman of
the Gray Isles. Olethea sat on the deck, arms tight around her knees, rocking to lessen her pain,
quietly sobbing.
Oman went to Shamara and said darkly, "There is something most strange in this. No
one could consciously fall from this ship. I do not believe it."
"Nor do I. Watch them all carefully, Guardian of my Person. We have a scorpion among
us."
They sighted land by midafternoon of the fourth day following; Moriah said it must
certainly be Tilvia. Before the continent grew much larger than a faint line on the horizon, the
gorlems descended upon them again. There were more than before: they blackened the sky
completely from their numbers. Oman and 'Sravasa fought them as before. Krishanu, the
Oblation Bearer and the three fishermen joined them in the prow; the other women and the
children stayed below.
"It holds, Shamara!" cried Oman, hopping about excitedly, looking for all the world like
a frog in ecstasy. "Brihas was right! Suvigyan is more powerful than her predecessor!"
Cadmar looked at the Guardian peculiarly, then left them. Moriah was up and after him a
moment later. Krishanu, feeling a strong intuitive pull, abandoned his frustrating attempt to use
his bow and followed them both.
Cadmar, apparently unaware he was not alone, made his way to the stern. Unlike the rest
of Suvigyan, several areas there were never translucent: the restrooms and storage areas. And
now with the ship's power feeding the shields, not the faintest glimmer of light passed through
the bulkheads there. Cadmar disappeared into one of the compartments; Moriah hesitated for a
moment then followed. Krishanu stood outside, undecided, questioning the inner certainty that
had led him to follow them.
Just as he decided to return to the prow, the door burst open and out tumbled the brothers,
wrestling as their unsheathed knives quested each other's heart. Moriah's blade was wrested
from him; he was viciously torn along one arm as he broke free. Cadmar crouched to spring on
him, but Krishanu, faced with the certain death of his friend, suddenly remembered his art
sufficiently to fill the fisherman with seventeen arrows in less time than it takes an average man
to string a bow.
In death, Cadmar's body distorted and distended, becoming the huge, hideous carcass of a
verdigris and sanguine monster. "A Rakshasa!" exclaimed Krishanu, shocking himself equally
by the name and the knowledge. Was there no end to the unexpected passageways in his mind?
"Here, let me see that," he said to Moriah, examining the wound. It was not particularly deep,
but something in it reminded him of poison.
"How did you know?" asked the fisherman, staring at him with a respect that verged on
veneration. "I caught him setting some sort of bomb. He wished to destroy the ship! But how
did you know he was the false one? He looked exactly like Cadmar."
"You could not have been the lie. The sign of the dora burns in you. I don't know how I
knew he was not Cadmar. Maybe it was the extreme improbability of his having found us again.
Or perhaps it was the way he looked when we learned Xamir was lost – no emotion flickered in
his eyes, even though his words were correct. It is not possible a father could feel so little."
"They need you in the bow, Krishanu! The shields buckle!" cried Zaki, rounding the
corner. "Where – my God!" He stared with undisguised horror at the body on the deck.
"We were betrayed, brother. Cadmar never returned to us. It was this thing. Who can
tell Olethea?"
"I will tell her, Moriah. But can we dispose of this first?" Together they threw the
Rakshasa overboard. Its blood left a sickly green stain on Suvigyan.
Krishanu helped Moriah back forward. It was true: the sheer weight of the onslaught
was threatening to break through their defense at any moment.
As the Etan explained what had happened, Shamara pulled off the cloth Moriah had
placed over his wound, then touched the line of the Rakshasa's stroke, whispering something to
herself. The fisherman's blood colored her fingers like the onset of untimely death. Then she
said, "You have partaken of the dora. You can command this to heal and it will do so."
Moriah stared at her, then shut his eyes and concentrated on the wound. Within moments
the skin closed, forming an angry but bloodless scar.
"There may have been poison on the blade," she said. "For that, there is but one cure:
hold the Path of the Gods in your mind as if it were your deepest meaning, your one soul. In this
way only can you hope to overthrow the Rakshasa's evil. Doubt not, we shall stand beside you."
"When–?‖
"If the tip carried Rakshasa poison? You will know soon–no later than sunset. If you are
poisoned, the next three days you would perhaps not like to live. But hold to the dora's Path; you
will awaken on the fourth day hence. There is nothing else we can do for you."
Krishanu waited to ensure his friend was well tended, then attempted to aid Oman and
'Sravasa. The situation was serious: it was obvious their shield was severely endangered. But he
had remembered himself enough for at least a rudimentary manipulation of his art: his explosive
arrows flew at the gorlems wherever the onslaught was the worst. Thousands of the machines
were destroyed by their combined efforts, but ten replaced every one struck down. It was
hopeless.
"At least," said Oman, during one of his rare pauses to catch his breath, "we are better
protected than before against their burrowing torpedoes. A few refinements of structure make
this a much improved model over the other. I can almost hope –‖
He was rather rudely interrupted by a huge explosion from the stern that disintegrated
that whole end of the ship. "I defused that!" cried Moriah, running to rescue those in the hold.
But his world suddenly turned completely surrealistic: he felt as if he were running in a dream;
his legs and arms seemed enormous, completely out of proportion to the rest of his body. He felt
Krishanu grab him, but could not hear what he was shouting at him. He struggled, kicking the
air as the Etan held him up, but could not wrench himself free. Like a degenerating nightmare,
he saw some of his family trying to escape from the corpse of the again transparent Suvigyan.
Then he was under the water, looking at the green and gold sunlight sparkling over his head.
The shock of the water brought some respite to his sickening mind; he kicked sputtering
to the surface. Had Krishanu thrown him overboard? Then he saw Shamara and Oman leaping
from the deck: the Oblation Bearer as always clutching the chalice to her breast, the Guardian
burdened with even more weapons and machines than usual. A head bobbed to the surface
nearby. It was 'Sravasa; then another came up: Krishanu. The younger Etan stroked to him and
said, "Can you swim? Good. This way, quickly, lest we are caught by the undertow. Quickly!"
"The others?"
"They will come as they may."
"No! The children!"
"They are dead, Moriah," said 'Sravasa. "Except for Noleta. She is there, with Narda and
Zaki. See them? The others were killed in the explosion."
"All?"
"I am sorry, fisherman. All."
Moriah felt the dark despair clutching at his soul, but denied it with the thought Narda
might need him more than he needed the pain, and so swam over to her. She and Noleta were
huddling on a piece of the hull; Zaki was trying to push them forward. He turned a furious eye
on Moriah when he reached them and cried, "I told you that you would destroy our family! Now
there is only this handful left of so many! You mad fool! For what sin have you cursed us! The
Asurs' punishments would have been harsh, but this is the end!"
"Hush, Zaki, there is no need," said Narda tenderly. She could not bear the sound of this
disharmony. She well knew Zaki had desired her before she married Moriah, but she had long
persuaded herself his feeling was forgotten as result of her status as sister-in-law. But that very
hour he had again made advances, professing his love had never diminished, and he had only
awaited this opportunity to express it. She had taken him aside to dissuade him from such
madness, which fact alone had saved them both when the bomb exploded.
Noleta had simply been lucky: the shards of metal that lacerated the bodies of the others
missed her. The sight of the dying bodies of her mother, brother and cousins stayed in her eyes
like a living statement of damnation. She had done nothing to save herself, but had not struggled
as Narda pulled her from the water. She stared blindly ahead, oblivious to anything but her inner
picture of carnage.
The others swam over to them now as the last of Suvigyan sank into the now silent water.
As before, the gorlems had left as soon as the ship was destroyed.
"I can't fathom it," said Oman. "Nothing could have penetrated our shields."
"The false Cadmar planted a bomb in the stern," choked Moriah. "I defused it. But he
must have set another before I found him. And now the family is destroyed. Zaki is right – it is
my fault."
"No, husband. You did what you could," said Narda, just moments before the others.
"We are young. We can make more children." A few hours more and she would not be able to
say that. But the pain was not yet alive, had not yet penetrated her awareness. The weight of
losing her three sons was not yet particularly real – it was too sudden, impossible to believe or
understand. So did she willingly encourage the dream to continue: once she admitted what she
perfectly well knew, she would be lost. Before she would allow that knowledge to touch her, she
wanted to be certain Moriah was firmly in control.
In that, she was certain to be disappointed – the clarifying effect of being thrown into the
sea was already fading from him. He felt as if he were swimming through a dream, with the
scenes of the world becoming more and ever more fantastic; and opposing that, the only item of
sanity in a mad Universe – the silver thread of the Atira Priests' Path. Compared to that, all of
Martanda was but illusion, a meaningless shadow of reality. He began to stroke away from
them, following his vision.
The others stared after him, then began to swim after him, seeing no other logical choice.
Noleta alone did not follow their route with her eyes, but gazed where Suvigyan had sunk, seeing
only her lost family.
5. Tilvia
The Watcher stood alone as he always had, staring silently toward the south. Once he
had helped with the gardens, but that was long ago now: the last of his Masters told him to stop
working with the Weedeaters and Harvesters, and instead Watch the Diella Sea. Which he had
most faithfully done for many years. So many, in fact, that he no longer remembered exactly
what he was supposed to do if he did see anything other than birds or fishes. He had gotten into
the habit of saying a little prayer that he would never have to find out what he should do, never
have to decide how to respond if anything unusual ever did appear on the horizon.
But today! His years of prayerful waiting and faithful Watching were ended. He tried to
pretend that the ones making toward the beach were just some odd new kind of seal, tried to
believe his time of patient thoughtless activity would continue forever. But he could pretend no
longer: they were humans, and were swimming as directly toward him as if they knew him to be
there.
Sighing in resignation, the Watcher climbed down the cliff to confront them. For if he no
longer knew exactly what he should do, he could at least bid the foreigners welcome. Perhaps
they might even suggest a new life for him! Now that the Watch was over, he could admit it had
been exceedingly boring. Perhaps he had been foolish to maintain it for so long. No one had
told him to continue forever, after all. Had it been worthwhile? No, there was no reason to be
harsh with himself – in the final analysis, what else had there been to do?
Moriah led them out of the water onto the silver sands. Tropical fruit hung luxuriantly
everywhere; there was no sign of civilization. How could so much be left to waste? In the
Mereds, robot collectors would have stripped the trees bare. Were there no machines here? Nor
people? Why had not some of their badly overcrowded population moved here? He searched his
memory for mention of Tilvia, but could only remember that it was held to be all poisonous
jungle and desert. But this was paradise! Why would the Asurs lie about this?
Then he heard the comments of the others and was even more confused. At first, he was
not sure they were discussing the same land: all their words were of dismay or even horror at
coming ashore in such a terrible place. He gradually made out that they were seeing a
foul-smelling and frighteningly hideous jungle where he saw only a lovely harmony of fruit,
flowers and tropical birds.
Moriah haltingly explained what he saw, but everyone looked at him with doubt; he
could not make any one understand the innocent beauty of the land. Frustrated, he walked to the
nearest tree and picked one of the fruits. It looked like a kind of tropical peach, lovely in
appearance and scent. But just as he was about to taste it, Oman tackled him and 'Sravasa pulled
the fruit from him. He struggled against them, trying to recapture it: he felt it would heal him,
keep the Rakshasa's wound from affecting him; he longed for the fruit with all his spirit.
Finally they tied his hands, using some of the vines that grew everywhere as thick and
strong as rope. He shouted angrily at them, tried to convince them by reason, pleaded with them,
but nothing worked. Finally his words degenerated into a pathetic whimpering. What was
wrong with them? Why were they so blind, so cruel?
"He is feverish," said Shamara with a tone of finality. "The Rakshasa poison affects his
brain. I am sorry, Narda, but we must restrain him until we can be sure he will not harm himself.
To eat any of those would mean certain death."
She responded with a curt nod. The weight of her loss was beginning to grind into her
soul. The unrelieved pressure on her breasts was pulsing more forcefully with each heartbeat;
she now felt the decimation of her family as a curse directed against her alone. Moriah's present
state was the final blow of this ruinous attack on her peace and health.
"Shamara," said 'Sravasa, "if we begin our overland journey here, you must leave a
message for the Follower."
"You have well mastered our wisdom, Lord of Etan. My mind agrees with you, but my
heart wars within me. Oman, can we learn from Moriah if the path turns overland here?"
"He came directly here, did he not? But to expect rationality from him before the poison
is wholly adsorbed strikes me as questionable. I agree with Uchai-sravasa: Tahir must be
alerted, so that he may adjust his flow. I see no alternative." To underscore his point, he began
collecting twigs for a fire.
The Oblation Bearer stared at him sorrowfully, fingering the chalice absent-mindedly,
fearing the act forced upon her by necessity. Before the Guardian finished his preparations, a
noisy crashing from the jungle brought them all to their feet, Oman questing for a weapon and
Krishanu creating his bow and quiver with consummate grace. In this, he proves Arama, thought
Shamara. Yet still he reflects Navril. Why do they war for ascendancy in him? Is he symbolic of
the fate of Martanda? Then her attention was wholly on the monstrous metallic form breaking
through the jungle toward them.
Noleta clung to Narda, fearing the monster approaching them as much as she had ever
feared the gorlems of the Mereds. Once she had been brought before the Inquisitor: she was
caught out after curfew, innocently playing with some friends. Her spirit still bore the scars of
that encounter.
That which approached them now also terrified Narda as much as any experience of her
life: the death of her family was horrible, a ghastly display of nightmarish fate, but this
approaching monster filled her with such loathing and fear as to make their end seem almost
clean.
Only Moriah seemed utterly at ease about the coming encounter. He looked eagerly
through his febrile eyes at the monstrous form, poorly seen through the shaking and vibrating
jungle.
It was a long time since the Watcher had come down this road: it was completely
overgrown; he had to push aside the bushes and trees that choked out the gray stone of the
highway. He knew the strangers must be close now: he could feel their emotions. Fear was in
some; in some curiosity; in some caution, readiness to defend; in one only a warm welcome. He
did not know what their divergent feelings meant, was not even certain which he preferred (it
had been that long since he had seen anyone). Nevertheless, he was intrigued by the varying
emotional responses awaiting him and plunged eagerly ahead.
Narda could not believe her eyes. The shiny metal monster crashing through the jungle
toward them was nearly twice her height. It had two long, gangly legs, but four arms, evenly
spaced around its torso, each ending in three sets of opposed pincers. Its head was plain except
for three crystals: one red, one blue, one white. She almost screamed when the monster began
to speak. But then she realized that the voice coming from somewhere around its midriff was not
harsh, was in fact sonorous. If there was a sense to the words, she could not make it out; but first
'Sravasa and then Krishanu answered the thing in the same tongue. And then somehow the
monster was speaking in the language of the Gray Isles.
"I bid you welcome to Tilvia. The Masters said to Watch for strangers, and so I have.
But you are the first; I no longer remember what I was to do if any should come. So I thought
perhaps you could tell me what to think."
"How many years since they so instructed you?" asked Oman, trying to establish
parameters.
"I think just over nineteen hundred. Although I have not Watched as closely as I could
have and am not wholly sure. I was a Gardener before, but the Weedeaters and Harvesters broke
and the Masters ordered me to Watch instead. And now, finally, I have someone to see! Thank
you for coming!"
The survivors looked at each other doubtfully, wondering how they should respond to
this ancient machine. Finally Oman said, "He seems harmless enough. Perhaps he can tell us of
roads through this jungle."
"That thing is evil!" cried Zaki. "We should drive it off in any way we can. It will betray
us again and again!"
"Are you completely mad!" shouted Moriah from the ground. "He is the only hope we
have! He alone can lead us down the Path. Tell us truly, Jonasa-Vered, do you not know how to
reach the throne?"
"That name – yes, it belonged to me. How did you come by it? I know where the Capital
Athalia is, where the Masters rule, if that is your question. I have led the Harvesters there many
times. Though it was many years ago now, of course. Why are you bound? Are you a
criminal?"
"He sees a garden where we see a noxious jungle," explained Oman. "We seek to protect
him."
"He is poisoned by a Rakshasa's blade," said Shamara. "We know not how to help him
but by restraining him and waiting."
"I do not know: it has been many years since I have seen a sick human. But in the
animals‘ world, the milk of the mother is often the best elixir for most poisons."
Narda stared at him. Seeing no reason not to try, she bared her breast to Moriah; he
sucked her milk eagerly as if its sweet warmth was the answer to his deepest desire. He drank
for a full two minutes, then fell abruptly and deeply asleep. "He is less feverish," she said with
surprise and gratitude. "How did you know? Were you trained as a physician?"
"No, I was never a Medical. A Gardener, as I said. But the years of Watching taught me
of animate life: I have seen the birds and animals and learned something of their wisdom. You
are not so very different from them."
"A metal man of philosophy," said Zaki, harshly.
"Nevertheless, harmless," said Oman. "And perhaps useful. Shamara? Should we
continue?" He again set to work on the fire, certain of her agreement.
"Soon. First I would ask this being something more of his past. Jonasa-Vered, where did
your masters go?"
"North. There was a war with those ugly black cube ones; after that the Weedeaters and
Harvesters wouldn't work anymore; all of our garden went to weeds; the roads disintegrated. It
feels odd, talking about these things again. This is a strange tongue. I don't know if I altogether
like it."
"And you have no memory why they ordered you to wait here and watch?" There was a
rather large piece of this puzzle missing, which fact was making her most uncomfortable.
"No, I don't. Until you came along, there was no one. Some cubes occasionally, in the
distance; that's all. But they never approached Tilvia. It has been a thankless task, rather
boring."
"None? No one at all?"
"Nothing."
"A hundred years ago, there should have been a ship! And a hundred years before that,
and so on back through the centuries. Did you see them?"
"No. Nothing. No one until today. And I see as well at night. I am sorry," he added,
reading the Oblation Bearer's expression well.
"Oman? Do we drift off the Path?"
"It may move like a living thing, sharan," he answered. "This has been debated before.
Perhaps here we have proof. For we know the last Oblation reached the throne, do we not?"
"Do we? We know only that this family had a record. It may have been a fabrication,
created by Navril to delude us. He is that sadistic."
"I would rather believe the Path moves," said 'Sravasa. "How else to explain the gorlems'
failure to press their overwhelming advantage, three times already? He wants the dora, or at
least part of it, to reach the throne. Of this much am I certain."
"Shamara?" said Oman a little tightly: this discussion of the Enemy's desires put him
very much on edge. How were they to understand him? For that matter, why should they even
try? That way led to failure, he felt certain. "Shamara, the Oblation should wait no longer. The
utility of this fire will pass if it decays to coals."
She looked at him with an unreadable expression and said, "Very well. We can question
'Vered more later." She stepped to Oman's little fire and opened the chalice ceremoniously,
reciting some phrases in the tongue of the Atira Priests.
'Sravasa was impressed by how calmly Shamara poured out the dora. But then, he
reasoned, this act may have been anticipated; certainly they would have planned to notify the
Follower of their changing course when they disembarked. The ship of the Atira Priests could
not be expected to lead them all the way to the throne.
For whatever reason, the Oblation Bearer was utterly calm. She measured out a seventh
of the original quantity into the flames, then stood back to witness the result. The column of
light that resulted was different from the others the Etanai had seen; more golden, less silver, less
translucent.
"It needs to be strong to endure 'til Tahir comes," she explained softly to no one in
particular. "He will use it to transform his shape so he can follow us overland. Then he will
carry this fraction of the dora back to me."
"It will last," said Oman. "It is well made."
Moriah swam back to wakefulness as soon as the dora touched the flames: any
disturbance of the Path reflected in his mutating mind like an explosion. He sat up and stared
around with pyretic intensity. The sun had set, but the others seemed to be burning with a
self-radiating and brilliant light. Noleta and Narda were bright green; the Azure Lord 'Sravasa
golden; Shamara was a particularly colorful violet; Oman, silver. Zaki was a deep sanguine,
almost nauseating in its violent intensity. But Krishanu was colorless at one moment and
fantastically iridescent at the next. The fisherman gaped at him for a full five minutes, lost in his
peculiar complexity. But then he saw the robot; all others paled in comparison. Never had he
envisioned such beauty: all the spectrum reflected there, spiraling from him in perfect waves of
light and color. 'Vered could have been the projector responsible for all Moriah saw: wherever
the multi-hued beams and rays emanating from him touched the trees and flowers, they increased
in color and depth.
Never had he seen a more lovely garden, nor fruit more appealing in color and scent. It
was astounding that the others could not share his perception. But then he remembered his
wound, and began to doubt. Perhaps Narda's milk had begun to counteract the poison's effect;
perhaps Shamara's spending of the dora in the sacrificial fire had revitalized his mind. He did
not want to deny the evidence of his senses, but neither could he ignore the vehemence with
which the others declared they were surrounded by death. Did it truly matter? What was real
and important was the Path: that burned in him ever more brilliantly, to the lessening–even the
exclusion–of the rest of the world. From that perspective, what difference did it make if the
jungle were filled with nectar or poison? "Release me," he said to Oman, "I will not eat the
fruit."
Narda had been gently stroking his back since he awoke; now she looked questioningly at
Shamara. The Oblation Bearer came and asked, "You perceive the jungle as poison?"
"It is still more than fair. But I will respect the majority opinion."
Jonasa-Vered came lumbering over and asked, "This chaos looks like a garden to you?"
"Exactly, yes."
"Can you describe it?" As Moriah did so, the old robot's crystal eyes blinked on and off
erratically. Was he experiencing an emotional response to the fisherman's words? When Moriah
finished, the tone of 'Vered‘s reply indicated he was on the verge of awe or perhaps of a deep,
unfathomable sadness: "So it was. He describes the Tilvia that existed before I became the
Watcher. How does he know these things? Has he been here before, or talked to one who has?"
"He has partaken of our dora," said Shamara, as if that explained everything.
"A part of him is connected now to the earlier steps of her people," said 'Sravasa. "He
may see your land as it was during an earlier Oblation."
"If this is true, then he might know–" began 'Vered, but stopped abruptly, as if fearing to
voice his thought.
Oman, alert as always to subtle disharmonious strains, asked him to finish: was he
remembering why he was told to watch the Diella Sea? If so, what other orders might be waking
up inside his ancient metallic brain? But at that moment, Noleta sat bolt upright, screaming.
Narda held her close to calm her, but the girl was shrieking in terror; her aunt could not
stop the mad jabbering that flowed from her in endless streams. After a quarter hour of her
unreachable terror, Shamara cracked the lid of the chalice and let the ethereal radiance of the
dora play over Noleta‘s face and body.
Some of the light spilled onto Narda; in that brilliance she appeared descended from
another time or world. Or so, at least, she seemed to Moriah, who stared at her with wonder and
said, "You are the handmaiden of this garden."
She almost shared his vision then, but because she was still concentrating on her niece,
most of the life of the Oblation's light passed into Noleta.
Noleta stopped her meaningless yammering when Shamara opened the chalice.
Gathering her mind, she sobbed, "I see them all! They point with their bloody hands, their
distorted mouths accusing me for their horrible end! It is terrible! I did not hurt them! Why do
they blame me?"
"Who, dear one?" asked Narda gently, fearing to reawaken the nightmare but deeply
intrigued in spite of herself.
"Who? All of them! Father, Mother, Grandfather, Grandmother, Xareb, Xamir, Lavore,
the babies, all of them! Accusing me, blaming me! I didn't kill them! I didn't! Why won't they
leave me alone!"
"They're still with us?" asked Zaki with a peculiar undercurrent of passion that caused
Oman to stare at him.
"Yes, just there." Noleta gestured vaguely past the light of the golden-silver column in
the same direction 'Vered had come. "They're standing there, no longer pointing at me, but
watching. Watching me, watching us all. Oh, they look so sad, so lost. Why are they here?
They are not at peace, Narda. What is wrong?"
"This delusion is terrible," said Zaki, looking fearfully toward where Noleta was staring.
"Can we put her to sleep?" asked Narda. "Maybe in the morning she will be all right."
"We should try," said Shamara. "Uchai-sravasa? Do your words possess such power?"
"My effect on humans is rather limited," he answered, "but I can certainly make the
attempt. It might be wise for all of us to rest. Do we need a guard?"
"I will Watch," said 'Vered. "I never sleep. And Watching is what I do best. Not that
there is much to see in our ruined garden. A few wild animals. Nothing very interesting. You're
the first I've been able to talk to in a long time. It‘s been rather lonely–"
He sounded like he might continue on for some time, but 'Sravasa began his song. He did
not use words with meaning, but chose sounds, mostly sibilants and long hums. Light began to
swirl around him in gentle lambent spirals of gold and crimson. Wherever his gentle massaging
rhythm touched conscious minds, they drifted gently to sleep. Except for Moriah: the strange
quality causing him to see a different world also kept him from succumbing to the Etan's power.
Moriah lay quietly with the others until even 'Sravasa succumbed to his own soft
chanting, then got up noiselessly and wandered through the jungle, amazed by the supernal
beauty that the moonlight but partially revealed. He had a strong empathy for all growing things:
once he had cared for some flowering trees in the Gray Isles; he had been skilled at sculpting
them to improve their native qualities. But here! Never had he seen a more perfect marriage of
artistic talent with the natural exuberance of healthy growth; he would not have believed it
possible that plants could grow in such flawless order, in such wonderful symmetry of placement
and planned abundance. And yet the others said it was all poisonous jungle, putrid with decay
and death! He was tempted again to taste the fruit–such perfection of form, of color, of scent!–
but he remembered his promise and stayed his hand.
Moriah wandered aimlessly for an hour, then chanced across Jonasa-Vered, standing
motionless in the moonlight. "Well," asked the robot, "do you see beauty still?"
"Never have I envisioned such order," answered the fisherman passionately. "And you
are–or were–one of the Gardeners. You possess an extraordinary talent, to make the world so! It
astounds me."
"I am curious how your vision can be so different from mine, and from the others‘. We
had a fair garden here once, it is true, but I think I was a trifle vain to believe what you describe
was ours–we were never that talented, and I suppose the past must seem more lovely now,
colored as it is by my rusty memory. No, we had our weeds and other problems. Tilvia was
called `the Garden of Martanda,' but it was never perfect."
"But, if not from the past, whence my vision? I have never even heard of such beauty.
We could be in Paradise–indeed, if someone told me I had died and gone to the Sea God's
Heaven, I would be easy to convince. Except for the single element that no one shares my
perception. I can't believe it! How could such Truth, such Beauty, be false? Rather would I
believe you are all accursed and blind. How can I deny my perception?"
Jonasa-Vered began a rhythmic tapping of three of his arms on his torso, an idle habit
picked up sometime during his long watch of the Diella Sea. "Never have I met a human so
adamant and precise about visions not held by others. Detailed delusion, yes; strength of feeling,
yes; but never so completely as you. I don't quite know what to make of you, Moriah. You bear
Watching more than the others."
"Why? Why did you wait and watch for no one? What reason was there in it?"
"Why does anyone do anything? What meaning is there in any life? There must have
been a purpose originally; I honor the Masters that created me, trusting in their superior wisdom.
Can there be fault in this?"
"But what if their needs have changed? They may no longer even exist. Would you wait
forever?"
"Not now. Now I will accompany you. For you are the only beings I have seen that
should be Watched. I don't even know if you are a danger to Tilvia or a boon; but I will observe
you until it is clear which you are."
"And if you decide we threaten your masters?" asked Moriah, already sure of the answer.
"Then would you be as weeds in my garden. For Tilvia is more important than any
number of humans."
"Then I pray you watch carefully, Jonasa-Vered. For these I accompany believe the fate
of Martanda is dependent upon their success."
The companions set off through the jungle soon after dawn, the old robot creating a path
for them down a highway visible only to his memory. It was slow going–the jungle grew ever
more dense as they left the ocean. Swarms of mosquitoes and biting flies drove them almost to
distraction with their noxious whining attacks. Except, that is, for Moriah–he walked through his
perfect garden, impervious to the terrible insects, foul smells, sticking plants, grasping vines.
Soon the jungle was nearly impassable. They struggled valiantly against its wildly
exuberant density, but it did not yield ground easily, even to 'Vered. The ground became more
and more swampy, until dry land became as the memory of a secure haven in the midst of a wild
tempest at sea. And even though water was abundant, it was of a sort no one (except Moriah)
would consider drinking.
Zaki was passionately worried about food, and asked anyone and everyone what they
proposed to do about it. Moriah saw no problem; Narda was content to wait for the Oblation
Bearer to act in her own time; Noleta stared at her private ghosts and ignored Zaki's mundane
concerns. Her specters no longer terrified her, but she could not remove her gaze from them.
The Etanai also did not share Zaki's fears, for the amrita in their cells was as food to
them. But as the day wore on and the water became ever more putrid, Shamara began to worry
for the Fisher People. She was loathe to abandon them, particularly Moriah: he alone could see
the Path. But how could she ask them to face death from starvation or thirst? Better for them to
stay on the beach, where at least there was fresh water and fish.
She caught up to Uchai-sravasa, first behind Jonasa-Vered, and explained her thought to
him. He pulled on one of his ears as he mulled over the problem, then said finally, "I do not
think you can afford to abandon your map. For it would cost you more of the dora if you lost
Moriah, would it not? And I also question the morality of abandoning these children. I am not
fully acquainted with the Atira Priest's art, but I assume the way in which the Sacrifice is
completed must determine its outcome? I thought so. Let me think about this." He kept tugging
on his ear as they struggled to follow 'Vered's crashing advance and contemplated what he knew
of manipulating the earthbreath. Finally he continued, "I can try to create food and water, but I
might well fail; at best, it would certainly take me a long time. I do not have my sister Althea's
skill at manifesting substance from the earthbreath. Perhaps our steely friend could have some
better solution? If not, I see little alternative–they can not go much further without water."
Which appeared to be true for each of the Fisher People except Moriah. Was his unique vision
also providing him with sustenance? Was the dora acting on his nervous system to allow him to
draw nourishment from the earthbreath? If so, there were only three to worry about. That made
it seem much easier, even though to look at them closely they were in poor condition: Zaki's
scowl was deeper than ever, he seemed to be walking by will power alone; Noleta looked
completely dehydrated, she stared about with feverish eyes at her private vision of the untimely
slain; even Narda at last appeared to bear the full weight of what she had forever lost. How long
before the three of them would cause Shamara to fall further behind on her precious Path? What,
indeed, was the weight of three lives as compared to the future of Martanda? But then the Etan
recognized the evil of that thought and crushed it with a rare anger, refusing to believe there
could be no better solution.
While he thus analyzed, Shamara forged ahead to catch up with 'Vered. It was not easy:
the robot was moving forward with surprising speed, more often than not pushing the trees to
their ruin, belying the fact that he had once been a gardener. Time changes all purposes, thought
Shamara grimly as she struggled down his swath of destruction.
Finally hearing her hail, he stopped abruptly and waited for her. The tree he was forcing
to the ground sprang back up and struck him about his midriff, causing an extremely noisy clang.
He did not act as if he noticed the tree or its effect.
"'Vered," she panted indicating the others, "`Vered, some of these need clear water and
food. Are any of these foul looking fruits edible? Otherwise, I fear we shall have to leave the
Fisher People behind."
"There should be fresh water in the foothills. And game too," he answered, drumming
two of his arms on his metal chest.
"How far?"
"Three or four days at your present rate."

"It won't do. They'll never make it. Can none of these be eaten?" She looked doubtfully
at a rather mangy-looking, yellow papaya-like fruit hanging from a nearby branch.
"That makes as good a choice as any. The entire land is poisoned. But they may derive
moisture from that and survive. They should certainly eat as little as they can, however."
Shamara picked some of the healthier looking ones and distributed them to the Fisher
People as they came up. Three of them grimaced over the bitter taste, but Moriah looked ecstatic
and raved about the fruit. For Zaki, it was the final argument his brother was completely insane.
They came upon a higher and relatively dry area in late afternoon and decided to spend
the night there. Jonasa-Vered knelt by a pile of moss-covered rubble that could once have been a
stone building. Oman hopped over to see what he was doing and was surprised to find him
aimlessly trailing all four arms through the debris. "Are you all right?" asked the Guardian.
"It was here. Just here," said 'Vered with what seemed an oppressive melancholy. "They
would never have let it come to this. They must be dead or changed beyond any possibility of
recovery."
"Your masters? This was a special place to them?"
"The Temple of the Sun. Here they found their power. If Tilvia's temples are dust, they
are gone. And I am pointless and lost."
"Perhaps they have withdrawn into a smaller area, maybe their Capital? If their numbers
decreased, it would have been logical to concentrate."
"Yes! You bring me hope, Oman! I feel gratitude for you." He tried to hug him, but the
dwarf bounded back a few paces and said,
"I hope it‘s so. It is a possible alternative."
That night it was Zaki's turn to scream: his cries of horror awoke them about midnight.
He babbled in the madness of total fear; gradually they discovered he thought he was being
crawled over by slimy and scaly monsters like the Rakshasa Krishanu had killed aboard
Suvigyan. He could not be calmed; even the light of the dora had no effect. Oman made a fire;
they set Zaki in front of it; he sat there willingly, sweating profusely. But his stream of verbal
terror did not abate.
Noleta meanwhile began to carry on a conversation with her mother and brothers. Narda
tried to hold her but was rebuffed instantly and harshly. She went over to lie by Moriah, asleep
again already, hoping his positive hallucination might lessen the oppression weighing her down.
Her grief for their children was unassuageable; seeing Zaki and Noleta suffering so much was an
unbearable addition. Why were they all hallucinating? Was it something to do with the nature
of the land? If it were only Moriah, she could have blamed his wound. But neither Zaki nor
Noleta had been touched by the Rakshasa's blade. Was it the strain of losing their family?
Perhaps. Particularly for Noleta. But why Zaki? He had never been close to the others. But
was that fair? Who could say what was going on underneath that harsh exterior? And, above all,
why was she alone not affected? What set her apart from the other Fisher People?
Narda looked over her shoulder uneasily, more than half expecting to see something or
someone herself. But there was only 'Vered, kneeling in the ruined shrine, and a little farther off,
Krishanu, standing alone, staring at the moon Kali. Why did none of the others hallucinate?
Was it because they lived, to varying degrees, from the subtler forces of Nature and had not
partaken of the fruit or water of Tilvia? But if this was the cause, why was she alone of her
family spared?
Narda nestled up to Moriah; he mumbled something about perfect beauty and threw an
arm over her without further awakening. As she slowly fell asleep, she kept looking around,
terrified of an altered perception but more than half longing that she might see something–
anything!–unusual.
Krishanu went off from the others after Zaki was more or less stabilized by Oman's fire,
and stood watching the Dark Moon rise. Jonasa-Vered's ruined temple reminded him powerfully
of Almira: the memory of her visits and the knowledge she inspired kept churning in him,
keeping him from rest. There was much he did not understand in all of this, much that gave him
feelings of discomfort, even dread; and yet within the past fortnight were the most precious
experiences of his long life. If he weighed on one side his ninety millennia in Etan, gradually
and without interruption growing in the knowledge and mastery of the earthbreath, and on the
other the handful of days since they had stumbled across the Sacrifice, the scale balanced
perfectly. So profoundly had the revelations inspired by Almira moved him.
Why had she honored him? How could he call her to him now? If Tilvia were inspiring
strange hallucinations in the Fisher People, it was heightening his clarity of intellect: he no
longer wholly denied the truth of his visions, as well as the assumptions Shamara and Oman
made concerning his past. He was the firstborn Arama, of that much he was now all but certain.
But he also believed he had entered into Navril after the traitor murdered him and stole his clone.
How else to explain his present split personality? That fateful sharing of one body was
responsible for the occasional losses of control of his voice. Where was Navril now? In the
Mereds, where his minions were so closely gathered? Or waiting patiently ahead, guarding the
throne in Athalia to twist the Atira Priests' Oblations to his own ends?
And why was he here now? And why 'Sravasa and the Fisher People? It could not be
chance, not to his present mind. No, it was logical, even certain that each of them walked down
the Path for a specific reason. To aid the Oblation Bearer in different ways? Or could some
have been placed to hinder her work?
That thought caused him to shudder as he considered his companions. In a rush of
uncomfortable insight, he realized perfect honesty would brand himself the most likely traitor.
Already the Enemy had spoken through him – not once, but twice! No wonder Shamara could
never keep the doubt from her eyes when she looked at him, nor Oman let his hands wander far
from his weapons belt. Was there truth in their mistrust, or was it their own delusion?
Krishanu continued his harsh analysis until dawn, but came no closer to understanding
the destiny the Sacrifice was imposing on him.
Soon after the sun cleared the horizon, Oman went to 'Vered to see if he were ready to
lead them again. The robot was sitting exactly as he had the evening before, still abstractedly
playing with the rubble of the temple. But he turned to front the dwarf when he came up and
said, "You may be right about the coalescing of my Masters in the Capital. It is worthwhile to
find out. Are you ready?"
Already the day promised to be hotter and more humid. The early sunlight filtering
through the trees and vines was decidedly unpleasant, and was further heralded by swarms of
insects.
If yesterday had been difficult and unpleasant, today verged on the impossible. The
jungle formed a solid wall before them, but a wall without a firm base or footing anywhere: the
swamp was now nothing but murky water, far from any semblance of land.
To make matters considerably worse, the Fisher Peoples' hallucinations became more
dominant with every additional step into Tilvia. Zaki was absolutely terrified by the monsters he
saw everywhere, crawling over his arms and legs, threatening to attack him again and again. He
kept drawing his dagger and slashing the air in vicious and (to the others) meaningless strokes.
Several times he stopped walking altogether as he faced some hideous creature and would
continue only when Oman or Krishanu brandished their weapons in the general direction of the
challenge.
Noleta was so much involved with her dead that she no longer recognized anyone except
'Vered: she followed the trail he forged through the jungle, talking only to her deceased
companions.
Moriah too was less and less of the world. Everywhere he looked he saw only perfection
and beauty, completely out of context with the fate of his body: he was as slimy as any of the
others from the malodorous muck of Tilvia's swamp. But he only smelt the fragrance of
wonderfully beautiful flowers. He was bright and cheerful–he saw lovely butterflies and irides-
cent dragonflies everywhere, and tasted the richest of liquors whenever he fell into the water.
Narda still saw the world as did Shamara and Oman and the Etanai, but she was
increasingly oppressed by fear for the fate of her remaining family. They were so obviously
deranged! Her heart felt as if it were breaking whenever she looked at any of them. And she
dreaded more with every passing hour the moment when her turn would come. It made no sense
that she alone should prove immune to the strange disease of Tilvia.
Yet even though her fear became ever more palpable–became a gnawing destructive
agency that even outweighed the bitter agony of the loss of her children–still her perception did
not change. Perhaps it was because her greatest discomfort came not from the insects, nor from
the dank and corrupted water that long since had chafed through the skin under her sandals so
that she bled more with every step, nor even from the poisonous fruit that had turned her
intestines into burning knots of pain. Perhaps her stronger hold on the everyday world of
Martanda was because her worst physical pain came from the unrelenting pressure on her
breasts. She hand-expressed her milk regularly, but could not stop the flow from engorging her.
It was a brutal agony, made worse by the simple memory of how the glands had so recently been
used. And no one seemed to have any sympathy left for her. But then, why should they? Zaki,
Noleta and Moriah walked through realities so wholly foreign that were it not for the stabilizing
effect of Shamara and the others she would have doubted her own mind. They were all mad;
what difference her pain when compared to this brutal fact?
That night they could find nothing even vaguely resembling dry land. They had been
forced to wade since noon, occasionally falling off the narrow underwater path 'Vered
miraculously kept following, falling off into bottomless spaces from which they fought back to
the surface through utterly noxious water, back to a reception of stinging and biting insects to
which the water was almost preferable.
Even 'Sravasa had begun to be off-tempered about the foul waters, the unending
mosquitoes, the thoroughly obnoxious scents and sights everywhere.

By sunset, they were more than ready to rest, but no land at all was available. In the
mingled light of Gauri, Jenna, and Rohini, they climbed above the water into a tight grove of
what seemed a kind of locust tree, squeezing around thorns as long as their arms to wedge
themselves into the branches for a fitful sleep.
'Vered stayed below, promising to seek more of the mangy yellow fruit–they‘d had
nothing of even such limited value since the day before.
Even though she was quite dehydrated, Narda's breasts simply refused to stop producing.
She tried to have Noleta drink, but her niece could neither see nor respond to her; Zaki screamed
in absolute terror when she looked at him; Moriah tried to nurse, but found the taste bitter
compared with the water he eagerly drank whenever he fell off 'Vered's path. He was very
apologetic, but simply could not force himself to drink it, could not even make himself suck it
and spit it out: to him, it was as poison.
Narda thought of approaching the others but was too modest, instead did what she could
with her hands. After working for an hour, the pressure eased; she joined the others in a poor
imitation of sleep.
An hour before dawn, a tropical storm opened over them. They were as drenched in
seconds as if they were beneath a waterfall. But at least they could satisfy their thirst now, and
the storm lasted less than a quarter of an hour. When it ended, they gasped for breath in the
suddenly clear air: the rain had been so intense it had been hard to breathe.
The insects returned with the sun; Narda looked almost with gratitude at the water, as it
would at least protect part of her skin. But by noon their protection began to manifest part of
Zaki's continual nightmare: crocodiles. They came into an area of clearer water; at first they
enjoyed the sight of fish and fowl. Krishanu drew to shoot, but 'Vered explained they would be
as poisonous as the plants. Apparently not to the large reptiles, however, that lived here in
abundance. Krishanu's bow saw use now, as did Oman's weapons and 'Sravasa's voice. 'Vered
also had a hand in it, slapping the crocodiles with sufficient force to crack skulls.
They had to climb the thorn trees again at dusk. Even 'Vered joined them this time, not
particularly desiring to wrestle with crocodiles through the night. Shamara made sure everyone
tied themselves to the trees before they fell asleep.
The next day the underwater ridge 'Vered had unerringly followed disappeared; they had
no choice but to swim. The water had fouled again so that no creatures lived in it; but of course
this also made swimming that much more unpleasant.
Zaki had lost his voice to absolute terror; Noleta had not the slightest perception of any of
them except 'Vered and talked incessantly with her Olethea, Cadmar and the others; Moriah
wandered in absolute bliss through his private paradise; and Narda felt the mental and physical
pressure increasing until she wanted to scream her frustration. How much longer could any of
them endure this nightmare? They were all covered with open sores; it was a miracle none of
them had been killed. What hope did they have to live even through the day? It would be
impossible to swim much farther or longer.
The hours began to blur together from exhaustion. Noleta was the first to fail: she held
onto a vine and whimpered to her mother she could go no further. After a brief conference with
Shamara and Oman, 'Vered strapped her onto his back with two arms and continued on. Narda
was certain her turn would be next, but grimly followed on through the declining day, somehow
finding sufficient strength to keep up with the others.
Then, when every one of them was certain there could be no other world than this
hideously vile swamp, it ended abruptly in a rise of rocky ground. They clambered gratefully out
of the foul water at sunset and threw themselves onto the earth. They all slept then, leaving
Jonasa-Vered to find them clear water and food if he could.
6. The Crystal Valley
Shamara awoke before the others. For the first time since their arrival in Tilvia, it
seemed less humid. She sat up and filled her lungs with the hope the air contained. The trees of
the swamp had thinned as they climbed the hill; she wasn't sure, but she thought she saw one or
two varieties that required frost to live. Could they have come so far north already? Certainly
they could not have gained much in altitude: the swamp was like the echo of an inland sea; she
doubted they were very far above the ocean.
'Vered saw her sitting up and lumbered over to her, his best attempt at being quiet waking
most of the others before he reached her. He said in the quietest voice he owned that he had
found fresh water within a half-hour's walk. Since it was a new day, perhaps they could continue
on to it?
She hated to do so, but she woke Zaki and Noleta. To her surprise, both seemed less
afflicted: Zaki could talk in coherent sentences again, even though his eyes revealed he still saw
his waking nightmares everywhere; Noleta recognized and spoke with Narda and the others.
Only Moriah was more lost in his private world than ever. Shamara concluded that the Rakshasa
poison had acted as a catalyst on the dora that had entered Moriah from his father, causing it to
translate his mind to the birthplace and goal of the Oblation –to Para itself. If he did not soon
return to a normal perception of Martanda, she doubted he would survive much longer: if some
extraordinary reality of the world did not kill him due to his simple misinterpretation of it,
something ordinary inevitably would, sooner or later. To the fisherman, every poisonous fruit
was nectar, every stagnant pond ambrosia. Could his body, a thing of the everyday world,
respond to his supernormal perceptions in other than a normal way?
Shamara walked with him toward 'Vered's water to gauge the depth of his experience.
But before she spoke, he said, "Thank you for joining me. I‘m curious how Jonasa-Vered
follows the Path so perfectly. His slight diversions around obstacles haven‘t in the least
deflected us from the trueness of our direction. How can he know the Path of the Atira?"
"The throne we seek may be in the ancient capital of his masters. I assume the ruined
roadway he follows matches our route for that reason."
"That makes for a quite exceptional and therefore not particularly likely coincidence,"
said Uchai-sravasa, slackening his long stride to join their discussion. "How could the secret
throne of the Atira Priests be so well known as to cause a city of humans to be built around it?"
"There are two ways to hide anything," said Krishanu, surprising himself by his words as
he also joined them. "The first is to disguise it so perfectly that it is impossible for anyone to
discover in the normal course of events."
"And the other is –?" asked Zaki, a rather odd light in his eyes.
"Why," said Oman, hopping over to them, "to place it in front of everyone, as if it were
valueless. Who would treat the most precious of treasures as dirt? Of the two, the latter is
generally the more effective."
"As long, of course," said Krishanu, "as no one is wise enough to see it correctly to give
it its true value. I find it perfectly reasonable that the Atira Priests' northern altar could have
been mistaken for a common throne of men."
"How could you know the hidden throne is the northern altar?" asked Shamara in a tone
mostly of ice. "Arama died before this knowledge was born."

Uttara vedi. Yes, how did he know it? "I – I don't know, Sharan. Did you or Oman not
so name it? Then I can only assume I knew it before. I am sorry, Shamara; I do not fully know
myself. I want to help you. I have no desire to harm you or your Oblation."
"No, you don't. But there is something in you that wishes very much to do so. I have
begun to wonder again about that explosion on Suvigyan."
"He killed the Rakshasa!" cried Moriah.
"Such a ruse is not unknown to the subtle in evil," said Zaki, taking an obvious pleasure
in this turn of the conversation. Discord and disharmony were states he admired and always
secretly longed for.
"Do you want water or not!" shouted 'Vered impatiently from his stream. These humans
were so peculiar. For days they had talked about nothing except how thirsty they were, how
worried about each other they were, and now they stood not fifty paces from the best water yet
seen in Tilvia and carried on some frivolous discussion! It almost made him reevaluate his
interest in them. Well, no, they provided as good an excuse as he could hope for to go in search
of his Masters; there was no reason to abandon them yet. And then, too, he still needed to
remember what his response was supposed to be to those he Watched. . .
They willingly ended their conversation to run the last distance to the little stream. The
old robot was right: it was thoroughly delightful. Even the Etanai raved about the taste: after
all, living solely from amrita was not particularly satisfying to the palate, even though it was
completely nourishing to those who had partaken of it.
By noon, after they all had taken turns bathing in the little pool under the fall, they were
ready to continue on. But now, for the first time, there was disagreement as to direction: 'Vered
wanted to lead them almost due west, around the mountains he said lay to the northwest, but
Moriah said the Path continued on in the same direction they had followed from the first.
"We should not vary, lest Tahir lose us," said Shamara. "What advantage lies to the
west?"
"The road always went that way, around the mountains," said 'Vered adamantly. "I don't
know any other route."
"Was it not because you had large machinery with you?" asked Oman, firmly dedicated
to logic. "Surely there are passes. Especially for those on foot."
"I don't know of any," the old robot answered stubbornly. "I wouldn't know the first
thing about crossing them. If you insist on going that way, you'll have to lead yourselves."
"We dare not deviate from the Path," said Shamara soothingly. "Surely there must be a
route, else it would not lead us this way. We must continue as Moriah directs."
As if to end their disagreement, a hart leaped across the stream not a hundred paces away.
Oman and Krishanu tied in their response: the Etan's shaft lodged in the buck's heart at the same
moment the dwarf's laser bored through its skull. Together they ran to clean their kill. Zaki
joined them from eager hunger.
"We can wait until tomorrow to decide," said Shamara. "Now I propose a feast and rest
for the remainder of the day. Perhaps we will thus forget the nightmares of the swamp."
"Tahir?" asked Moriah.
"I wonder if he has not learned to read our presence and passage more accurately," said
'Sravasa. "Shamara? Is this not a further effect of your expense of the dora on the beach?"
"Your knowledge of our Sacrifice is oddly intimate," she answered, scowling at him.
"Yes, it is true. He now paces not only to our mode of travel, but to my person. He would not
catch us unless we fell much further behind than a single day. But I must say that your arcane
understanding makes me almost as uncomfortable as the dichotomous appearance of your
brother."
"I doubt your purpose will be served by suspicion," said Narda with surprising force.
Noleta huddled up to her suddenly as if seeking protection from her visions. Narda looked down
at her with surprise but moved an arm around her at once.
"My niece gives significance to Narda's words," said Moriah, himself wondering how
anyone could be distrustful in a land of such unparalleled perfection and beauty. Why did none
of them see the world aright?
"I must agree with the Fisherwoman as well," said 'Vered, thrumming all four arms on his
metal skin. These humans were most aggravating. He was beginning to yearn strongly for his
years of silent Watching in the hills by the Diella Sea. Life had been so simple, so linear – no
one had disputed his decisions in centuries. Frankly, he did not like his loss of authority in the
least. And they could not even retain harmony among themselves! "If you wish to cross Tilvia,
you had better forget your doubts. It is a long way, to be traversed with difficulty even by the
persevering. If you open yourself to question at the beginning, there are more than sufficient
traps which can end your aspirations far short of your avowed goal."
"Of what do you speak!" cried Shamara, fiercely turning on him. "Do you know of
obstacles to the Sacrifice, or are you merely theorizing?" She had realized with a rather
uncomfortable jolt she knew less about their mechanical companion than any of the others. He
had told them only that he had been requested to watch the Diella Sea. By whom? And for what
purpose?
Narda wondered why the Oblation Bearer was suddenly so on edge. Was it the same
force that had caused her family to have their strange visions? Could it be that Shamara was not
entirely immune? If so, what of Oman and the Etanai? Perhaps their threshold of tolerance was
different, but not without definite limits. It was a chilling thought, as frightening as any
experience she had yet had in Tilvia. She hugged Noleta closer and walked down with her to
where the others were building a fire to cook the meat.
"I do not possess specific knowledge," answered Jonasa-Vered as his arms beat an erratic
tattoo on his torso. "But I believe you should be cautious. Tilvia was ever a strange land. More
so, I was always told, than any other on Martanda. There are certain peculiarities in the water
and air that change plants and animals in ways uncommon to the rest of the world. Or so I was
told. I was always cautioned to follow the known roads with the Harvesters. Some areas, even
when the land was civilized and cultivated, were avoided because of their wildness–or their
unpredictability. Caution, even when the Masters owned and ruled with firm order, was always
taught us. There were some odd tales of those who chose barbarism over order–who fled from
the society of the Gardening life in favor of the primitive, uncultured ways of the wilderness. No
one ever journeyed through those mountains, even during the height of our Garden. But I don't
know why, other than in the general terms I have just described. Is there truly no alternative?"
"Only that which I dread more than such non-specific dangers as you mention. I dare
not use more of the Oblation. We must follow the Path."
"You choose more trouble than you need," he fumed, stalking off to watch them prepare
the deer.
"Well," said 'Sravasa, "it appears he will accompany us still, albeit unwillingly. The
order to watch must have been deeply implanted."
"Yes," agreed Shamara sullenly, wholly a victim of her incipient mood, "and I must
confess I wonder why."
"I like him," said Moriah cheerfully. "He is here to help us."
Shamara scowled at him, then walked down to the group cooking the deer.
'Sravasa shrugged and followed her. But Moriah sat where he was and looked around
with joy and love. Anywhere on the Path to him was as wonderful as anywhere else. What a
glorious world this was! How could they all be so blind?
The ground rose gradually the next day as the jungle thinned. They did not see plants or
trees that anyone except 'Vered recognized, which fact was particularly disquieting to Narda. Is
this how it begins? she thought. The preliminary to hallucination or madness, this uneasiness of
the senses, this doubt of even innocuous life?
Their feast the previous night had done wonders for Noleta: now she could talk with
Narda and the others calmly. Only the frequent furtive scurrying of her eyes showed that their
companions were still far more numerous to her.
They came upon the first ruined buildings shortly after noon, nestled into the bank of a
small valley. They had been well made of marble: many retained their shape, a roof or two was
still in place. Jonasa-Vered wandered into one of the best preserved and stayed so long that
Shamara finally sent Oman hopping in after him. The dwarf came back out in a few minutes, the
old robot erratically following. "What is the matter with him?" the Oblation Bearer asked
ungently. "His power supply failing?"
"He is offended by the existence of these dwellings," said 'Sravasa.
Shamara shot a harsh glance at him as Oman said, "'Vered cannot understand why any of
his masters would have lived so simply in a Forbidden Area. He is most upset by this
knowledge."
"Bah," said Zaki, for the moment ignoring the monsters that seemed to abound
everywhere in Tilvia, "these buildings could have been built after his precious race ruled this
continent."
"No," said 'Vered with a tone of undisguised woe, "they are contemporaneous with my
time as Gardener. No late-developing aberration built these. There are too many marks. These
housed Masters, but such as I never knew existed: a lowly evolved class of beings I would not
have bent an arm to aid."
"Perhaps they were outcasts," said Zaki, not to be dissuaded. "You say this was
forbidden ground. Perhaps your master race drove them here."
"There is something fundamentally unsettling in this," said 'Vered, as if not hearing.
These events made Narda wonder if even a machine could be victim to the disease she
thought everyone else had. If so, its cause would not be found in the air or water of Tilvia, but
must be even more basic. But in what? A warped element in the fundamental life of the land, in
the earthbreath? Even Uchai-sravasa was beginning to show subtle signs of abnormality. Or
was her own perception distorting? Or could it all be related to the Sacrifice? Could it have
become damaged, twisted? If so, they could be playing directly into the Asur Emperor's hands!
She walked with 'Sravasa to explain her thoughts to him, but he gave her scant hearing, as if he
were thoroughly absorbed in his own analysis of their shared reality.
They crested a small rise in the late afternoon and saw the mountains for the first time.
They were depressingly high – the top third of most of them was white. "Your path leads
through those?" asked 'Vered, sarcasm or malice touching his tone.
"So it would appear," said Moriah, not in the slightest daunted.
Soon after passing the crest of the hill, they began to walk by very old and oddly shaped
statues: huge heads on oddly thin bodies, grotesquely out of proportion. Shamara asked 'Vered
if he knew anything about them, but he refused to answer, saying only, "What an unfortunate
foolishness to brave Forbidden Ground."
That evening they discovered a grove of plantain with fruit that Jonasa-Vered analyzed
and found edible. They ate greedily, finishing also the last of the deer they carried. The Etanai
were not accustomed to flesh and found it hard to digest, especially on the second day. Narda
explained that unpreserved meat spoiled after a few hours. Both 'Sravasa and Krishanu found
that most curious.
'Vered as usual posted the guard. The others no longer gave it a second thought: it was
obvious Tilvia was unpopulated. Thus when the robot sounded his alarm shortly after midnight
they were the more surprised. They gathered hurriedly in a tight circle, trying to see through the
trees. The light was poor: only two or three of the smaller moons were above the horizon. But
even so, it was clear enough to see that they were surrounded by several score of–? The gray
hulking shapes might have been human. But then, it was hard to be sure.
Krishanu's bow was in his hand; Oman drew two weapons from his belt; 'Sravasa
hummed a little tune, as if to himself. 'Vered rocked back and forth, slapping his arms so
violently on his sides that he began ringing like a bell.
"Who are you?" asked Shamara.
Without making a sound, the gray shapes faded into the darkness and were gone.
"I warned you this land is Forbidden," said 'Vered.
"Well, no harm done, at least," said 'Sravasa. "I wonder what they wanted?"
But in the morning, he was no longer sure his assessment was correct. Zaki began the
day jabbering in near mindless fear about his nightmare monsters. And when Narda touched
Noleta to examine her feet, the girl screamed in terror: she was again lost in the world of her
departed family, once more blind to the living.
Moriah at first seemed unchanged in his visions of paradise, but when he led them down
the Path, he began talking to an invisible companion, much as was Noleta. When the Oblation
Bearer asked him who he was talking with, he was so startled that he stopped walking to stare at
her in confusion. It took some time to convince him no one else saw the lovely lady floating
above them, smiling, laughing, singing to him. Shaking his head in wonder, he led them onward,
enraptured by the beauty of her form and voice.
'Sravasa walked in the back with 'Vered: since Moriah had insisted on a different route,
the old robot had assumed a rather grouchy hindmost. When the Etan came to him, he began
thumping two of his arms with a not very well-concealed distress.
"I have been wondering," said 'Sravasa without preamble (even his uncharacteristic
shortness of temper had not abated), "how it is a gardener should have been equipped with a
language device. You possessed a perfect fluency in the tongue of the Gray Isles instantly.
What possible reason would the Tilvians have had for building such a capability into a tender of
plants? It is most peculiar. How do you understand it?"
Jonasa-Vered stopped his thrumming suddenly in a way that was almost more
disconcerting than his erratic plunking and said, "Well, you know, that is a very good question.
Their language came very naturally to me. Do you think the Masters may have added the ability
when they told me to Watch? How very intriguing."
As the companions approached the mountains, the oddly-shaped statues appeared more
and more frequently scattered about. They did not line the Path of the Sacrifice as Moriah
charted it, but were standing in great profusion everywhere. The sculptures were less and less
damaged by time: were they newer? Or made of a more permanent material? The stone did not
look in any way different. The third possibility, that entropy was less potent nearer the
mountains, was a particularly intriguing thought to Oman. For if that were the case, it must
mean the companions were approaching an area of such absolute order that even the mundane
quality of natural law was affected. Never had he experienced a more delightful thought, nor one
more potentially disruptive to his equanimity: the desire for perfection was the one characteristic
that at once made him the best and worse choice for the Final Guardian. The fact they could be
nearing a nearly perfect area was as a heady wine to him; he began to walk as one in a peculiarly
satisfying dream.
Shamara noted the change in him at once and analyzed possible causes. She well knew
his strengths and weaknesses; it did not take her long to correlate the decreasing disorder of the
statues with the change in the Guardian. And now, therefore, she had no one she could trust
unequivocally. She was utterly alone with her precious burden, as if she truly were the only
intelligent being for leagues in any direction. Except for the Follower. The thought of his
patient and hardest task, undertaken from love alone, steeled her will. What need did she have
for these others as long as such a one came unerringly behind her? Even as she strode forward to
follow Moriah more closely, she bent her love back toward Tahir, the one and final incorruptible
devotee of Shamara and her Oblation.
Before long the sculptures were completely undamaged by the hand of time. It was clear
by now they were in fact identical, all created from the same model. And that prototype was
utterly grotesque: the bodies seemed almost human, but the largely oversized heads and eyes
could have belonged to insects, praying mantises perhaps. Narda shuddered to look at them,
could not help but fear the coming regions.
And then the companions came upon the first crystal. It was as long as 'Sravasa's legs,
perfectly clear, formed into a many-faceted jewel, imbedded in the ground at a random and
improbable angle. By chance? Or careful design? They gathered around it, but could not decide
if it were created by nature or by the builders of the statues. 'Vered was adamant it must be a
natural formation of crystalline basalt, denying its perfect symmetry with a forcefulness that
surprised them all. But Oman was equally convinced that nothing so flawless could be other
than artificial. The others joined with one or the other with various degrees of intensity:
Shamara, Krishanu and Noleta agreed with 'Vered, Noleta the most passionately; the others felt
Oman was correct, with Zaki violently condemning any other view. Although Narda agreed with
Oman, hers was a passive voice; she was astounded by the vehemence the others displayed in
defense of their beliefs.
Finally they abandoned their (to be generous) discussion and continued on behind
Moriah, maintaining a rather strained silence. But as the last of them, which happened to be
Narda, passed the crystal, it pulsed a single flash of brilliant violet light. She turned toward it at
once, not sure she had really seen anything. The crystal was now perfectly quiescent. Had it
only been imagination? Was her anticipated hallucination beginning at last?
It took her another half hour to recognize the subtle signals her feet were sending her.
Then she stopped walking abruptly, sat and pulled off the tattered remnants of her sandals. Her
shout brought the others to her at a run. She could hardly contain her excitement as she
explained, "My feet! They are healed! Wholly well! I had terrible sores here, here, there! From
the poison swamp. But now they are cured! That crystal–‖
"What could that accidental thing have to do with your peculiar biped appendages?"
asked 'Vered acrimoniously.
"Why, it flashed violet as I passed it. I could not believe it at first, so I said nothing. But
I was cured at that moment." But even as she told them, she saw they did not believe her.
Noleta looked through her and said, "Mother, there is a vapor between us when you stand
there. Please walk beside me and tell me more of your childhood in Shamir. I am enjoying this
tale very much. Why did you not tell me anything of it before?" She continued on in the general
direction Moriah had been leading them, chatting amiably with her invisible companion. Narda
looked at her, the tears struggling to emerge from her eyes.
But Moriah came to Narda and held her, saying, "Of everything She touches, you are the
most blessed." She looked up at him through her blurred eyes and wondered if she should
rejoice in his happiness or cry for his madness. Deciding instead to suspend judgment, she
pulled her sandals onto her perfectly healed feet and hurried with him to resume the lead,
clasping his hand firmly.
The foothills gradually became higher and more rugged as they continued that day; they
came upon no more crystals. But the statues continued everywhere in random profusion. The
companions gradually became immune to seeing them. But just before sunset, the sculptures
stopped as abruptly as if the group had crossed an invisible wall.
A small grove of hemlock looked too pleasant to ignore, especially as a small clear
stream murmured gently over multi-colored stones through it. They–or at least, the Fisher
People–were very hungry: they had sighted no more game nor even birds. Were the plants
again poison, or was there some other force that kept animate life away? They settled down with
their empty stomachs rumbling uncomfortably, trying to be content with the sweet water as they
prepared for the night.
The gray watchers came again at midnight, circling noiselessly around the sleepers. This
time Oman awoke first and stood to confront them. Why had 'Vered said nothing? The robot
was standing, absolutely motionless, facing the west. Had he not said he would watch for them?
Oman pulled a flare from his belt; its blazing brilliance chased the shadows from the
grove. Where the gray forms had been hulking there was nothing, nothing at all. They vanished
in the flare's light as if they had never been.

The others sat up in the sudden brilliance, blinking in confusion, seeking the source of
their disturbed rest. Oman explained that the gray watchers of the previous night had returned
and vanished. Krishanu and 'Sravasa joined him in a search of the periphery. They found no
trace of the skulking shadow people, but Krishanu discovered half a dozen of the crystals,
reflecting Oman's dying flare. They were as perfectly formed as the first, and were oddly canted
at improbable and mutually contradictory angles. When he stared at one of the faceted stones, a
vision of Chavva burst into him. She was walking away from him, dressed in an indigo robe; her
long blond hair was tied carelessly or quickly behind her neck in a loose knot and fell languidly
over her right shoulder. She was not alone, but was talking to and walking toward another Etan.
At first he thought it was Orah, but then intuition flashed in him: although Chavva suspected it
not, she was confronting the Enemy, Navril Hagar himself!
"No!" cried Krishanu, falling to his knees before the orthorhombic stone and putting his
arms around it as if to tear it from the ground or, failing that, the image from his brain. "No! It
is not Orah! Do not go to him!" But she could neither see him nor hear his warning, and
continued approaching Navril.
The vision lasted but an instant, but it was long enough to unnerve him; he knelt
trembling by the crystal, staring blindly into its now featureless depths.
Oman and 'Sravasa came to him and asked what he was doing.
Krishanu looked up at his brother with confused eyes and said, "I wonder if we are, after
all, heading in the correct direction for the health of Etan. Or of the world, for that matter."
"For Etan, we can only assume self-sufficiency. For Martanda, we must also conclude
that aiding this Oblation is vital and necessary. Why do you question it?"
"Oman," said Krishanu, ignoring 'Sravasa, "is it true Navril Hagar looked like me?"
"Identical, except for the eyes."
"And this is how he passed for Arama for so many years? No one could tell he had stolen
his body?"
"No one until Lord Brihas. Then he began this Sacrifice to chain him. Did we not tell
you this already?"
"What did you discover that causes your doubt?" asked 'Sravasa. "Is Etan endangered?"
"No. Or, not yet. But Chavva may be – now, or soon. Curse it! This is the road to
despair."
"Then, let us abandon it. These are matters we cannot now affect–such a vision may
serve only to weaken your action in the present."
"Perhaps," he answered without conviction, staring again at the many-faceted stone. Yes,
there was nothing there now but the reflected light of Oman's dying flare. Had there ever been
anything else?
They came upon no more statues the next day, but the crystals–all the same size, all
marvelously faceted, all positioned at doubtful angles–became ever more frequent. As an
unmercifully harsh midday sun beat down upon them, they entered a small valley between
rounded hills. It was like stepping into an oven; even the shale beneath their feet was brutally
hot. Everywhere there were crystals. It felt as if they were walking through the storage area of a
factory devoted to producing the peculiar stones. As the sun glittered and sparkled off the
myriad facets, both Krishanu and Narda looked closely, but neither saw anything more out of the
ordinary. Except for their identical size and shape, the stones could truly have been a wholly
natural creation.
Regardless of the crystals' genesis, their use was subject to the will of three individuals,
each of whom was now staring with curiosity, fear, or hatred toward the odd party of nine daring
to cross their valley. The three had hoped their diverse warnings would be heeded, but it was
now abundantly clear the intruders were not going to be dissuaded from their route by any subtle
means.
"We must agree we need more time to study them," said Tanya, eldest of the three. Her
voice was normally the law, but the anger of Pazia was so strong that she insisted, "No! I say we
exterminate them at once! It is our most ancient law and custom: no one may pass the statues
and live."
"No," said Asta, terrified beyond all logic by the strangers walking through their valley
but unwilling to harm them from deference to Tanya's equally strong curiosity about their
significance, "that rule is too old to follow. There have been none for too long. The ones the law
was created to destroy no longer live in Southern Tilvia, most certainly not toward the swamp. I
agree with the Reverend Mother: we should further study these before we decide."
Pazia was even more infuriated. "What right do we have to alter time-honored law? No
good can come from this! I oppose your will."
But Tanya said, "Come, daughter, would you crack the crystals? You must act with us.
Else are we powerless to protect them. Just a time of study. Then, if we know with certainty
they are evil, we will exterminate them. Can you not agree?" Pazia was becoming too extreme
in her thinking. The Reverend Mother made a mental note to analyze her mind thoroughly
within the fortnight.
"Oh, very well. But don't expect me to change my decision without profound evidence to
the contrary. They are a blight on Tilvia."
"I wouldn't dream of it, my dear," answered Tanya, activating the crystals in the valley.
"A lovely sight," said Asta as the valley floor began burning.
"Let us examine them, then," said Pazia, as always eager to fulfill her duty to the letter.
The companions were near the center of the small valley when it happened. Narda was
the first to see it: the crystals became more and more brilliant–no longer merely reflected the
light of the sun, but burned with a greater power. She tried to scream a warning, but before the
sound could pass her lips, the resonating harmonics of accelerating light passed the threshold her
mind could tolerate. The words faded unspoken as her body froze. Her eyes were free for a
moment longer; they darted over the others and discovered they all shared the same fate. Then
her ocular muscles were also entranced, leaving only her mind still under control.
As the crystals' light died, having accomplished its purpose, Narda's thoughts went, as
always, to the others: how terrified they must be! Especially poor little Noleta. She could no
longer look at any of them to confirm they were still frozen, but the pictures her imagination
created were frighteningly real. If only she could help them! They were, as she, utterly lost in
their private Universes, perfectly isolated, terribly alone.
In that, her idea of their fate was at once not far off and yet wholly wrong. For as their
bodies became immobile, they entered completely into the worlds their minds had been creating
since they first stepped into Tilvia.
Thus Moriah, perhaps experiencing the most glorious of the companions' fates, found
himself walking through Para itself, a land as absolutely perfect as his dora-saturated mind could
conceive. The light of the crystals that had catalyzed this state was as the darkest of shades
compared to the light composing everything here. For a brief moment he remembered his past,
but the glorious wonder of the cedar forest around him destroyed it as quickly and permanently
as a man might crush a noxious insect. Never had he believed such order and loveliness could
exist! He wandered aimlessly, wholly entranced by the magnificent beauty of this small corner
of Almira‘s World. . . .
Zaki, of course, was not so fortunate. The demons that had been crawling all over him so
that his every moment became a waking nightmare were now his only reality. He would have
gladly run away from them, but the harsh red sun beating violently down revealed no end to the
monsters in any direction. Finally he could stay still no longer and did run, aimlessly, screaming
in terror; as he did so the reptilian horrors tore his skin and ate huge sections of his flesh. They
did not attack constantly, but always at odd and random intervals, so that he could not become
inured to the pain; never did they damage him enough so that his shocked mind would force him
to unconsciousness. He was torn again and again as he ran madly from terror to terror; his
earlier wounds, in panic quickly forgotten, closed and healed and were immediately made anew
to maximize his pain and infernal fear. . .
Noleta was too busy enjoying the complete reunion with Cadmar and Olethea and the
others to miss her companions, or even to notice she had traded one world for another. A brief
moment of uncertainty, like a half-dream on a lazy summer afternoon, came rolling over her as
she remembered her family's deaths. But it vanished as they held her in their arms and
welcomed her home as from a long and painful separation. Never had she felt so thoroughly
where she belonged. Never would she willingly abandon this place for that other, dimly
remembered like the hazy past of infancy. This was the only reality, she concluded logically,
and purposefully eclipsed the last remnant of the Martanda of her birth. . . .
Oman also walked in a land of perfection. Similar it was to the world Moriah wandered
through, but the greater depth of experience and longer life of the dwarf made his Ideal World
necessarily more complex: he walked, a full man's height with a handsome body and normal
gait, through the bustling marketplace of an enormous and beautiful city. The happy people
around him everywhere were as radiant as if they were all gods. With a rush of insight, he
realized he might call them that as well as anything else. Someone was calling him by name, just
ahead; he knew before he saw his master that it was Lord Brihas, welcoming him to his new life
and duties in his new world. Forever a rajanya, forever a Guardian, he thought with a broad
inner smile. A brief flicker of doubt flowed through his mind. . . What of Shamara? . . .causing
the Capital of Para to fade briefly, become for a moment a projection of his Martanda mind. But
then he banished the question to the outer darkness and hurried forward to greet the Lord of the
Sacrifice. . . .
Uchai-sravasa was back in Etan, but an Etan subtly altered from any of his past
experience. For Swayam no longer hunted his elusive perfection, but had quite obviously
succeeded in his age-old quest. He was now thoroughly content, definitely fulfilled. His well-
being had permeated all his offspring, so that the subtle flaw of the previous Etan–that no one
could honestly admit to having attained the one goal of evolution–was a thing forgotten. The
Immortal City was now become the City of Immortals: the Etanai were, no longer in just a
physical sense but in every way, eternal. . . What changed them? . . . The thought flashed through
him for an instant that almost unmade Swayam's success, but a simple enigmatic smile from
Shatarupa banished his doubt to the furthest reaches of Infinity. . . .
Jonasa-Vered was now a respected Gardener in a resurrected Tilvia. Scores of intelligent

and semi-intelligent Harvesters and Planters worked for him; his Masters noted his ability and
rewarded him with lavish attention. He did not notice he no longer supervised a corps of
Weedeaters, for there were no inappropriate plants in this new world. There were no accidents,
no random happenings, no weeds. A wispy thought whisked across his mind. . .something about
watching? . . .and for an instant, he thought he saw plants growing in inappropriate places. But
then a gentle, soaking shower, exactly on schedule, filled him with such joy that he forgot his
other existence forever. . . .
Shamara stood, pouring the full content of her chalice into the sacred fire at the Uttara
Vedi, the northern altar beside the hidden throne. The marble temple around her was ornate,
white, beautiful, serene, as majestic as her fondest dreams had formed it. But as the flames
licked into the dora, she realized she stood alone before the Fire of Sacrifice! Where were her
companions? Where the faithful, ever-vigilant Oman? Where the loving and true Tahir? Where
those shadowy others she but vaguely remembered? Moriah? 'Sravasa? Krishanu?
But as the whole of her Oblation was consumed, a door opened behind the northern altar
and her doubt vanished as if it had never been. For in the ethereal light streaming through the
doorway stood her father, Arama. The Vidyadhara Airavata was perched in falcon form on one
shoulder; the megacosmic serpent Sesha coiled on the other; the self-luminous Kaystarbha gem
was radiant on his breast; Lord Brihas stood by his right hand; to his left was her mother Jaya.
And behind, as much creating the supermundane light that flooded the temple as partaking of it,
were the significant companions of her past: In the air, uncountable myriads of the laser spheres
of protection and wisdom, Arama's greatest invention; and on the ground, all her brothers and
sisters and cousins–plus the Atira Priests, sharans, rajanyas, and the rest of the refugees from
Ganym–all immortal as was she, all radiating the consummate love and wisdom of Supreme
Knowledge. With a glad cry of recognition and welcome, she let the now empty chalice fall
from her hand (the first time it had been out of contact with her flesh since her part of the Atira
began) and ran to join the divine company eagerly welcoming her home. . . .
The duality that warred unceasingly in Krishanu did not allow him so simple a fate as the
others. The light from the crystals that froze their bodies while liberating their minds was to him
a searing pain. His spirit was thrown struggling into the most fundamental level of the universal
conflict that had played through him in various ways since he entered the Path of the Sacrifice.
No longer was his soul torn between the incomplete memories of Navril and Arama, but
stood now as witness to the basic struggle of existence itself: not that between Good and Evil,
for that stage of reality is more manifest than the Ultimate Duality; nor even between Death and
Life, for the spheres of Becoming and Being are as superficial coverings before that awesome
dichotomy of all that is, all that wishes to be.
What words can I use to describe the ultimate transcendental conflict, my children of this
latter age, that Krishanu witnessed in awe and fear? How can I explain the subtle requirements
of omnipotence? For this I record truly, as 'Ishtar's Recorder explained it to me: the Etan
Krishanu at this moment was as much of Eternity as he was of the past, present or future, as
much of omnipresence in the infinite cosmos as he was limited to a finite body frozen on a small
planet of an average sun of an average galaxy in a slightly corrupt Universe, as much of
omniscience as he was of ignorance.
Krishanu, refulgent white light cascading from his skull as if it contained an inexhaustible
fountain determined to brighten all of Creation, stood before the Eternal Throne and watched the
Two Hands moving together and apart, rhythmically, purposefully; randomly, meaninglessly.
For amusement merely?
Krishanu, brilliant golden light radiating from his chest in mighty beams as if his heart
longed to purge and transform all of Creation into the radiance of Para, stood before Almira in
the Amphitheater of Eternity and watched as she opened and closed and opened her own heart to
him in empathy and love.
Krishanu, opalescent light beaming from his forehead as if the mightiest sun of creation
(the First Sun, after which all later stars are but imperfect motes of fusion) burned inside his
brain, stood before Narain and watched as one of the hands rose in blessing while two of the
others systematically crushed the golden sphere that is our Universe.
Krishanu, as black and empty as the starless void before the dawn of time (as if he were
the Infinite empty field on which Creation would manifest) stood before the Grandfather of all
that is, and listened as he spoke the sixteen fundamental words of duality that move the wheel of
time.
Krishanu, his body the projected form of seven rays of prism light coming from a brilliant
white formed and unformed intelligence behind him (as if he were nothing but an actor in a
movie, the movie itself the Universe of name and form) stood on a nearly infinite number of
worlds and watched and participated in a nearly infinite number of lives of the created beings'
choosing. Sometimes mindful of his source, more often forgetful of his destiny, he built and
destroyed worlds and civilizations beyond any human ability to catalogue in a reasonable finite
time. Sometimes he participated in the dualistic dramas as both the leading characters,
sometimes as the entire host of actors, occasionally as a non-involved witness.
Krishanu took his mighty bow and strung it, uniting the Absolute to the Relative; as he
did so, the stars winked out, unable for all their mechanical brilliance to endure his manifestation
of Perfection inside created time.
Krishanu stood, surrounded by infinite numbers of his kind, watching the Grandfather
breathe forth Time and Time, applauding with them his marvelous workings.
Krishanu stood, utterly and eternally alone, and breathed in the last of the Grandfather's
created golden spheres. When his breath abated, there was nothing left, nothing anywhere at any
time, nothing anywhere at all. All that there was was Emptiness, alone and without a second.
And behold, it was very good.
"You see," said Pazia, "it is as I said. If we destroy these bodies, they will all remain in
their chosen and created worlds. None of them cares for Tilvia. Or Martanda for that matter."
"No, you are wrong," said Asta, standing next to Narda. "You must have overlooked this
one, sister. See? Her thoughts are solely for her companions. She is of this world, entirely.
And therefore they are not what they seem. You were right, Reverend Mother."
Pazia refused to accept Asta's conclusion without herself carefully testing this one
vagrant item of data.

"It seems you two are right," she said begrudgingly at last. "This one is still wholly here.
I cannot understand it! Tradition says it has never happened – "
"Perhaps the world has changed," said Tanya soothingly. Pazia was so brilliant. There
was no doubt who the next Reverend Mother of the crystal valley would be. If only she could
learn patience, and perhaps just a touch of compassion. "Come, let us return them to Tilvia and
give them such aid as we may. We have slowed and twisted their purpose enough already. I
would not like to be responsible for damaging their quest."
7. The City of the Weedeaters
They began with Narda, as she was the most (indeed, the only one) affected by the sight
of her frozen companions. Tanya stood in front of her, Pazia behind to the left, Asta behind to
the right. Together they touched her gently on her forehead, her heart, and the back of her head.
Simultaneously they pulsed the antidote to the crystals' light into the fisherwoman's sympathetic
and parasympathetic nervous systems as well as into her subjective mind and heart.
Narda stumbled forward as voluntary control of her body returned. Tanya caught and
held her until she stopped trembling. Narda looked up at her benefactor and said, "Your
appearance should terrify me. But I feel only life and health in your embrace. My companions?"
"Yes, we shall return them all. But most may not share your happiness at reawakening
here. It would be useful if you could aid their reintegration to the Martanda you love. Pazia,
Asta, let us begin with the Gardener."
They did not have to touch Jonasa-Vered; they stood around him in a triangle and bathed
him with a gentle violet light. Tanya's words were an understatement: he was far from happy to
return to the world, especially when he had a good look at his rescuers.
"Weedeaters," he snarled, his red crystal flashing harshly incarnadine. "And renegades!
You should be dismantled –"
"Now, Gardener," said Tanya gently, "the world is much changed. The Masters are long
gone. Would you have us tend fruit and vegetables for ghosts? We have a good life in these
mountains. . . One you could certainly share if you so desired."
"With renegades? I would sooner die." It was obvious now who had built the statues.
Why had he not recognized the model sooner? Those enormous, over-sized heads and eyes,
useful for minute discrimination of plants and pests; the supple bodies, built for contorting in the
planted rows and pruning: they were likenesses of Weedeaters! It had never occurred to him
that robots could possibly take to sculpting: it was too much of a human trait. And Weedeaters,
of all the unlikely candidates! They were semi-intelligent at best, with distinctly circumscribed
functions, among the least of the gardening staff. It was too improbable: something did not
calculate correctly about these strangely mutated machines. "Who dared to modify your
programming?" he asked harshly, far from satisfied.
"We will be happy to explain everything later," said Tanya, trying to be patient. "Now
we must revive these others before they are wholly lost to the possibility of return."
'Vered seethed, not content with commands, even gentle ones, from a wholly inferior,
always subservient, machine. But he restrained himself from further protest for the sake of his
companions. They will have much to explain, he thought, seeing no alternative to waiting.
The three Weedeaters gathered around Noleta, touching her gently with their silver
tentacles. Their gigantic heads nodded together briefly in perfect synchrony, then the girl
stumbled forward into her aunt's arms. "Oh Narda, Narda!" she cried. "They are–they‘re all
dead! Oh, my gods! My entire family! What a cruel fate–" She broke into impassioned sobbing
on her aunt's breast. Narda held her tightly and gave her as much comfort as she could, torn
between gratitude that her niece's hallucinations were apparently ended and compassionate
concern for her overbearing grief.
Zaki was next. He stared with a peculiar admixture of horror and gratitude at the
Weedeaters. He was overjoyed, of course, to be freed from his mind-created hell; but the
appearance of the three of them was similar enough to some monsters of that horror-filled place
to make him question the desirability of his present world.
'Vered lumbered over to him and said, "Renegade Weedeaters. Moderately upgraded.
Language units and high degree logic components. Terrifying creatures."
Zaki looked at 'Vered's triple crystal eye and wondered when his life had become so
depressingly bizarre.
Meanwhile the Weedeaters were awakening Oman. Tanya had to do some rather fast
talking to keep him from attacking them when he realized that, not only had he lost Para, but
Shamara was frozen by their science. He was neither content nor convinced until they revived
her.
The Oblation Bearer fell to her knees, clutching the chalice to her chest, crying
disconsolately. Oman hopped over to try to reassure her, but her loss was so immediate and
seemingly irreversible that she could not see how life would ever again be as it should. Then she
awoke enough to discover it was early morning; the realization they had apparently lost a day
made her jump to her feet, anxiously looking back the way they had come. No, Tahir was not
visible: probably he was still cuing to her person, in spite of the trance these robots had caused.
She had never seen their like before: on Ganym, Arama always preferred simplicity of form; his
creations were generally spherical. These modern machines were not only peculiarly distorted,
but chained by gravity. What kind of people had created them?
The Weedeaters moved on to 'Sravasa. He was the first after Narda to return calmly to
the world. He looked curiously at Tanya and said, "I wondered how Swayam had so easily
succeeded."
Moriah returned to Martanda less completely than the others: he was again aware of
them and of Tilvia, but Para shone more powerfully than before on the surface everywhere, and
the Path of the Sacrifice was now by far the most dominant experience in his awareness. Narda,
still holding Noleta snugly under one arm, looked earnestly into his eyes. What she saw brought
her hopes and fears to new heights, for the reflection was more Para than Martanda; to her, Para
was more alien than anything she had ever known, even dreamed possible. She was as wholly of
the world as if she were the embodied spirit of Martanda; anything other than her planet, as
flawed and sick as it clearly had become, was to her at once a challenge and a potential
blasphemy. Not in the sense of logical reasoning, but as the most fundamental characteristic of
her unsullied soul.
In this, Narda may have been even more devoted to Martanda than were the Weedeaters:
for although the machines had broadened their devotion from the Tilvian gardens to embrace the
whole planet, still their attraction was based primarily on intellectual processes; her attachment
was born from the emotional necessity of her life itself. This unreasoning love alone had saved
her companions: her intimate connection to Martanda had caused Tanya to judge her (and by
association, the others) worthy to continue their lives.
The fact that most of her companions viewed their return as a thoroughly unwelcome
burden was not of particular interest to the Weedeaters, and had not entered into their
calculations.
Krishanu could not be roused, not be returned from the nearly infinite worlds that he
experienced alone. The Weedeaters tried for an hour, but could not wake him to Martanda.
Finally Asta said, "At the city, we could perhaps succeed. Our Master can aid us."
"We must continue on the Path, across the mountains," said Shamara distantly, not sure
whether Krishanu's somnolence was good news or bad. She had never not doubted him, but a
part of her heart had opened to that of him reflecting Arama; that part feared for him now.
"Our city lies on the easiest route over the mountains," said Tanya. "It makes your best
way to the desert. We can make you water carriers, perhaps devise some clothing for you."
"Which way lies your city?" asked Moriah, feeling the Path an imperative directive.
Pazia raised one silver tentacle and pointed; he was surprised how perfectly her direction
correlated with his inner compulsion. His amazement must have shown clearly on his face, for
the Oblation Bearer accepted Tanya's proposal after one glance at him.
"Tahir?" asked Oman, and Shamara explained to the Weedeaters,
"We are followed by the Completion of the Sacrifice. We dare not allow him to pass us.
If your city lies on our Path, we can visit you, but will not be able to remain long. We have been
here, I presume, for nearly a full day? The sun stands earlier in the sky than I remember."
The Weedeaters carried on a brief conference as their tentacles weaved together in a
complicated sequence. Finally Tanya said, "Forgive us if we have done you harm. You stood
here a full seven days as we analyzed your minds' relation to Martanda."
"What!" cried Shamara, terrified to the full extent of her devotion to Brihas' Sacrifice. "It
cannot be! Tahir would have passed us, or at least would have seen us and stopped nearby,
behind us. But he has done neither! How can it have been a week?"
"I am sorry," said Tanya, trying to understand what possible difference it could make
who preceded whom on their mysterious journey, "but no one has passed this way, nor is there
now anyone this side of the marsh. Our statues report on all."
"No," said Oman, "you might not recognize him. He is not like us. . . We must assume,
Sharan, he keys accurately to your person. He knew we were not moving and has therefore
waited, three days behind."
"Yes," agreed 'Sravasa, leaving for the moment his attempt to revive his brother, "unless
he has been himself delayed. Or captured." He did not really want to say that, but his words
were pulled from him as if by some external power. What hope would the Sacrifice have for
ending if the Follower was lost?
Shamara turned clouded eyes toward him and said, "Let us hope for the other, Etan. For
such could spell the final doom of the Atira Priests' work."
Pazia and Asta interlocked half a dozen tentacles to make a chair for Krishanu; Tanya led
the companions out of the Crystal Valley. The stones were still now, mere lifeless rocks; Oman
wondered about the mechanics of attuning them to the Weedeaters' desires and temporarily left
off his customary analysis of the Oblation Bearer's face to talk with Tanya about this new
science.
The ground began rising rapidly as they climbed into the foothills. Narda realized she no
longer felt hungry or thirsty, but accepted the fact without question, happy the remnant of her
family was seemingly much healthier.
Jonasa-Vered could that morning have been her spiritual antithesis: he stumped along
behind Oman and Tanya, his unanswered questions and rebellious thoughts forming a seething
miasma that reflected as a wild pattern of light in his three crystals. Tanya looked at him with
compassion, but felt the Lord of their city could better assuage his doubts, and volunteered no
further information.
Pazia was also eager to see the Master of their people. She seriously doubted the wisdom
of returning the whole of this company to Martanda for the sake of only one who deserved to be
spared. Did they have the right to make such an exception? Or had the Reverend Mother vastly
exceeded her authority? This entranced one they carried was a telling proof they had erred. It
had never been done! In more than two millennia, none had been allowed past the crystals. And
now, here they were, leading not only these peculiar humans, but a half-mad Gardener as well!
It was wrong, wrong! Surely their Lord would be angry!
At sunset, they came into their city, built high in the mountains but still far below the
pass. It was like a glittering monument of plastic and steel, reaching to improbable heights,
composed of thousands of harmoniously blended structures. 'Vered was impressed in spite of
himself.
Tanya led them directly to the heart of the city. The many robots they passed did not
give them a second glance, as if having biologicals walking freely through their land were the
most common thing in the world. Oman wondered if they were naturally so uninvolved, or
whether Tanya had requested this treatment for the companions.
The central square of the city was huge, nearly a league from one side to the other,
surrounded by the tallest of the buildings. Another robot was waiting for them there. In ap-
pearance, he was very different from the Weedeaters; was, in fact, identical to 'Vered in every
respect. Tanya, Pazia and Asta bowed before him, saying nothing verbally; but 'Vered shouted
in a black rage, "By the Masters of Tilvia! What kind of abomination have you created,
Gotaman! I never would have dreamed a respected Gardener could be party to such madness!
What are you doing here?"
"Hello, Jonasa-Vered," said the Lord of the City in the tongue of the Gray Isles, using a
voice that seemed to Narda at once gentle and wise. "It is good to see you again after so very
many years. Very good indeed. I did not know another Gardener yet walked in Tilvia. We are
honored by your presence in our humble edifice."
"Gotaman!" shouted 'Vered, hearing nothing, "what have you done here! Giving
Weedeaters such knowledge and skills! Our Masters will spread your components to rust in the
rains across half of Martanda!"
"Now, 'Vered. Calm yourself. I have done nothing independently, nothing not requested
by the Old Tilvians. Some of them foresaw the war with the Mereds and wished to leave a
legacy of their civilization. They requested me to do what I have done. Just as they, I presume,
ordered you to some final specific task?"
"Yes," ‗Vered answered, rather abashed, yet still overwrought. "Yes, they did. To Watch
the Diella Sea, in fact. Which I have done most faithfully until these somehow passed the
gorlems' shields and entered Tilvia. Then I thought to follow them to the Capital and ask what I
should do next. But still I think you have gone too far! Weedeaters, Gotaman? What have you
created here!"
"Following these humans to Athalia will do you little good, brother. There are none of
the Old Tilvians left there. Although they probably intended you to do exactly as you have done.
I see no blame in your actions.
"As to the Weedeaters, they were the logical choice for the Inheritors. Planters and
Harvesters were too bulky to modify, Gardeners, too rare. These were easy to mutate, adding the
suitable components for high civilization not too difficult. This model was deemed the best. Not
by all, in this you are right; but some (and I believe, they were the wisest) foresaw Tilvia's fate
and acted so. Can you not see that the world has changed?"
Zaki, caring nothing for these matters, asked "What happened to the Tilvians? Where did
they all go?"
Gotaman turned slightly to front him and explained, "War, fisherman. The rulers of this
continent fought with and were defeated by the Asurs of the Mereds."
"But why did the victors not claim the land?" asked Shamara, suddenly realizing fully
what her body had frantically tried to tell her since they entered Tilvia.
"A simple reason, Sharan. Death comes to all biologicals who pass through this ruined
land. It is still highly radioactive."
"Then we–are all–" said Shamara as her words trailed off into an uncomfortable silence.
"Six months. A year perhaps. It is not pleasant," answered Gotaman softly. "This was
one reason we were to slay any who wandered this way through our crystal valley. But in this
case, there certainly are extenuating circumstances. Might I see the Oblation?"
Shamara started as if she were stung. How could this robot know of the dora? The
knowledge of the inevitable corruption of her body was a distant, impersonal threat. But this
mutated Gardener struck her much more intimately and directly: a body was a useful thing, but
the Sacrifice! It was her soul.
Reluctantly, the Oblation Bearer lifted the chalice to him. He took it gently from her,
then cracked the lid directly before his red crystal. "It is not all here," he said as he handed it
back to her.
"We were forced to expend fractions of it three times," she answered, unwilling to dwell
on the details.
"That is most unfortunate," he said gravely. "The Old Tilvians have waited too long to
have you fail in the end."
"We have not failed," said Oman gruffly. "But we would hear how you know so much of
our purpose. Have you had contact with earlier Bearers?"
"What? You don't know? I–Oh, now I must apologize. I assumed Jonasa-Vered would
have made it all clear to you. It did not occur to me he might not know. Or remember.
Shamara, after you deliver the Oblation, what will you do? And Oman? And Tahir?"
The obvious logic of his transition suddenly made it completely obvious to her. "You
don't mean–?"
"Of course. Where else? And how else? Ganym's knowledge has not died on
Martanda."
"Excuse me," said 'Sravasa, "but I would like to clarify this." He intensified his
connection with 'Ishtar's Recorder to catch every detail, for he intuited these truths concealed
something they all had missed. "The previous Oblation Bearers, Guardians and Followers, after
completing their share of the Sacrifice, remained in Tilvia, and fashioned civilizations? The last
of which perished in a comparatively recent war with the Mereds?"

"That puts it rather too concisely," answered Gotaman, "but is essentially accurate."
"So 'Vered's Masters were without exception Oblation Bearers?"
"Or their descendants."
The effect of this on Jonasa-Vered was perhaps predictable, but nonetheless surprising.
He threw himself onto the flagstones of the courtyard forcefully enough to make an enormous
clang and wrapped Shamara's feet with all four of his arms. "My Lady," he moaned piteously.
"My Lady. Forgive me. I did not know you."
She looked down at him awkwardly, then leaned over and picked up an arm to encourage
him to rise. He did so, but only after she was forced to order him. Really, she thought, this is not
seemly.
Meanwhile, Zaki overcame the shock of his impending demise sufficiently to say,
sounding as if he were being strangled, "Did he say we are dying?"
"That is what he said, brother," said Moriah joyfully, immensely pleased at the prospect
of being wholly of Para again soon. "Such an incomparable and unlooked for boon! We are
indeed blessed."
"You are utterly insane!" cried Zaki, looking as if he were contemplating serious
violence.
"If you wish to remain in our City," said Gotaman expansively, "we could at least ease
your pain, perhaps shield you from it entirely."
"I could never dream of abandoning Shamara," said Moriah, "as long as there is any
potential to aid her. But there is no reason for the others of my family to do so. Certainly they
should remain here if they so desire."
Narda said, "Wherever you go, there will I follow, as long as the corruption of my flesh
allows. This is certainly part of our marriage vow."
Noleta refused to remain without her aunt. Nor would Zaki. He would willingly have
stayed if Narda had chosen to, but the thought of spending the last of his days in the exclusive
company of some crazy machines was only slightly less appealing than returning to his
nightmare world.
"I see you are united in mind," said Gotaman after they all stated their intention. "Such a
fact bodes well for the completion of your part of the Sacrifice. I cannot offer you much solace
for the loss of your lives, but if you like, we can take cell samples from each of you and add
them to our repository here. When the land is healed, your bodies will be made again with those
of the Old Tilvians."
"But our spirits?" asked Moriah, agitated by the suggestion. "Would they return?"
"Perhaps," said 'Sravasa. "But not necessarily. That would depend on individual desire."
"That is so," agreed Gotaman. "We can guarantee only an identical body. Not the
inhabitant thereof. But it may offer solace to some of you."
"How much farther to the throne?" asked Oman, impatient to continue. Such esoteric
discussions interested him not at all.
"Well, that all depends," answered Gotaman slowly. "If it were summer, three or four
days over the mountains, then less than a fortnight across the desert and you would be in the
outskirts of Athalia. But for some reason I don't understand, Brihas began this phase of the
Sacrifice so that you must cross the mountains in the middle of winter. And that will make for
no easy chore, even this close to the equator. I marvel also that this particular route should have
been chosen. It has been more than two thousand years since a Bearer came this way."
"Necessity, perhaps," said Shamara. "The forces that dominate the Mereds may rule out
a more gentle route."
"Wait a minute!" cried Zaki, struggling still against the doom of his mortality. "How can
we be sure we are poisoned? Our great-grandfather aided the previous Oblation Bearer all the
way to the throne! Yet he returned to the Gray Isles and lived for many years! How can you be
sure we shall not?"
"I am sorry, fisherman. The last measure of the dora came to the Capital from the north.
For two thousand years, the sharans have circumnavigated southern Tilvia and come via the
barbarians: only the region south of here is poisoned. There are crude races still to the north of
our ruined Athalia, enslaved by the Mereds, but owning healthy, living ground. That has been
the only route since the Mered Wars. Your current Path makes a most peculiar journey."
"We assume Lord Brihas knows what he is doing," Shamara said drily.
"Of course, of course. You must proceed along his inevitable structuring. But it is a pity
your fine bodies are ruined." As they were talking, the lights of the Weedeater City began
coming on. It was not like any illumination any of the companions except 'Vered had ever seen,
being designed to aid the machines' night vision, and their eyes were much more sensitive to
infrared than were the humans'. To the Oblation Bearer and the others, the Weedeaters' lights
did little to alter the darkness of the cloudy night. The tall buildings loomed over them like
sentinels from another world, or so Narda thought as she shivered in the cool air and huddled
into Moriah.
Gotaman noticed her discomfort and said, "Forgive us. We have not served biologicals
for so long. Asta, please show these to their quarters. We have warm food and clothes prepared
for you; in the morning we will equip you as best we can for the remainder of your journey.
Now, if I could look at this human who has not revived properly. . ." Asta and Pazia had set
Krishanu down at the beginning of their conversation. Pazia and Tanya carried him forward now
as Asta led all the others except 'Sravasa to their rooms.
Oman looked as if he also wished to wait, but Shamara whispered something to him; he
hopped off beside her, holding her hand as if he were an unusual little boy and not her elder by a
significant number of years.
As 'Vered followed behind them, he rotated his torso around one hundred and eighty
degrees and said, "Your odd meddling has damaged that entity beyond repair. I hope you can
make some suitable compensation to his brother." Then he snapped back around and continued
eagerly behind Shamara, doing his best to demonstrate he was now her obedient slave with no
desire but to serve her.
"It is my fault," said Tanya. "We should not have taken so long to decide. He is lost in
his nearly omnipresent mind. I do not know how to aid him."
"Who is he, Master," said Pazia, "that his mind is so nearly infinite? I have never heard
of such a being."
"Many of the Tilvians await the return of their bodies, you know," said Gotaman to
'Sravasa, as if discussing the weather. "Some inhabit the frames of my Weedeaters."
"I suspected something of the kind," answered the Etan, wondering why the Lord of the
City was choosing such a peculiar way to help Krishanu. Or did he intend something else? Was
Gotaman trying to tell him he knew 'Sravasa intuited something of the true purpose of the
Weedeater City? If so, why did he not broach the subject openly? Was it because the
Weedeaters were not to guess their real meaning? If not, why not? This was a matter for great
caution. "When you repopulate Tilvia, they will reenter their nascent biological bodies,
remembering their past?"
"Precisely."
"This seems quite a large city for maintaining a few cells of a dead race. Very active, I
daresay."
"We must prepare for any eventuality," said Gotaman, then paused as if considering the
two Etanai. His three crystals took on a muted tone, as if he were deep in contemplation. Finally
he continued, "You would not have been able to kill these two bodies, Tanya. There is not the
slightest blame for you in your act. And Pazia, to understand this one's mind, I suggest you
review the historical record of Arama, first Atira Priest and first shara of Ganym and Martanda.
In fact, go and do it now. And Tanya, please go and ensure that our guests are settled
comfortably for the night. But first cordon us off, silent and black. This will make a delicate
process; we must not be disturbed." He waited as his Weedeaters stretched the screens of
darkness and silence around them. When they had finished, the two Etanai stood with Gotaman
inside an utterly dark cube some twenty paces on a side. The only light came from the soft
radiance of the Gardener's three crystals.
"You are correct, Lord of Etan. There are some knowledges we withhold even from our
own. The spies of the Enemy are everywhere, even in our fair City."
"You create weapons to attack the Asurs?"
"There would be little point in restoring our land and the humans' bodies if their foes
were free to destroy them again. This is one of our two great secrets."
"Is it not one that Navril could easily foresee?"
"Most certainly. But we have many layers of shields, many levels of secrecy. There is
some knowledge which only the Reverend Mothers possess, some which I alone have. We have
good reason to hope for our success. Especially if the Sacrifice is successfully completed."
"I marvel that he tolerates your existence. He must try to undermine you continually."
"He did not destroy us in the early years because he coveted our knowledge. And now
the cost would be high; that he also knows well. I think we are nearly the last on his list, the
final obstacle but for Etan itself. He waits until he has mastered the remainder of the world,
hoping to steal our discoveries from us before he administers the final blow. For he deeply
desires the sciences we have created. More perhaps, than the dominion of Martanda itself. He
has attempted to infiltrate us from the beginning, but we have mastered his schemes and passed
him only fragmented information; some true, some subtly distorted, but never the key
understandings he desires."
"What is it that Navril seeks? He already owns the full science of Arama, both physical
and supermundane. What could you possibly add to that?"
"Our second great project, Lord of Etan. That which the Enemy suspects, but never
knows, for we have nourished the rumors in various ways to aid in our protection, never
revealing enough to give him a clear perspective. Simply put, we develop the science of physical
connection between Martanda and Para."
Uchai-sravasa stared at the robot, his mind shocked and racing, "You mean to imply–"
"Exactly. You see why Navril Hagar covets our knowledge."

"But by the opposed wills of the Grandfather and the Destroyer! What will happen to the
Universe if he steals such a technique from you! Have you lost all contact with sanity,
Gardener?"
"We have our reasons, Lord of Etan. Before you judge us, perhaps you should
understand our thoughts."
'Sravasa forced himself to calmness and said, "Pray enlighten me."
"Thank you. The last of the Old Tilvians saw that their civilization was doomed before
the power and science of the Asurs. They were also fully aware the two hundred thousand years'
Sacrifice was therefore potentially lost because of the ascendancy of the Asur Emperor Valin
(who is, you must understand, none other than Navril) and his coming domination of the globe.
They foresaw many evil things, some of which have come to pass, some of which lie still ahead
of us in time. They predicted the poisoning of Southern Tilvia, for example, but also that which
has not yet come: the abduction of Martanda's firmament and the Enemy's interstellar empire,
sun upon sun enslaved in blasphemous adoration of his perverse throne.
"Concluding that the Atira Priests' long labor might fail, they felt it imperative to devise
other methods to chain the Asur Emperor. I was there when the Seven met with my masters and
founded our work. Brihas and even Matri approved of the plans. We have not acted from
independent thought, nor are we now bent on a separatist path.
"Even though few of my Weedeaters have any knowledge of our purpose, still we
progress well. Within a quarter century more, we will have finished the preparations. With luck,
the first open channel to Para will be created in these mountains. Then will we have the power to
bind Navril permanently."
"Or free him everywhere, forever! Why do you need a different means than the Atira?
The column of the Sacrifice extends through the multi-dimensional realities to the Source
Universe. Why do you need a second method?"
"The firmament will be blind. The Old Tilvians predicted the exact year and season: this
very spring, the first stars will begin vanishing from our heavens."
"What can you possibly mean! Navril's arm does not reach beyond Martanda, Gotaman."
"No, you are right; not yet. But the stars' light will be absorbed by a sphere of Emptiness
he is building around our globe. Within three years, it will be complete: no star or moon will
shine upon our impoverished world. Then, you see, the Column of the Atira will be limited to
Martanda! It will no longer pass beyond our world. We must have a new path opened by then!
One that will remain functional even without the stars. For if Brihas and the other Atira Priests
(who are after all only rays of distant planets and suns) are barred from any further action on
Martanda, we must learn to live independently from the firmament."
"The sun?" asked 'Sravasa, feeling this tale the strangest and yet most chilling of his
experience.
"It too will be lost, Lord of Etan. But not as soon as the moons or stars. Not, in fact,
until the next twenty-four years are completed. We have timed our work to the hour. We will be
prepared! Valin must not enslave Martanda, not be freed to create his Galactic Empire! The
innocent worlds must be protected, must be allowed to continue their freedom."
"We must control the Asur Emperor here, I agree with that. But suppose he masters your
device? Then a much greater evil would be loosed upon the Universe, for he could rule from
Para itself! Omnipotent power, Gotaman! This is what your work brings to the surface of
Martanda. If Navril grasps it before Arama C. "
"Then the Universe as we know it is dead. The Old Tilvians knew this, the Seven know
this, yet still they ordered our work. There was no doubt in their minds or hearts that they chose
correctly. I have honored their commitment through all these centuries, and will do so until we
succeed. The fear of failure or distortion is not, can never be, sufficient to deter us. We will
chain Valin!"
"My brother?" asked 'Sravasa, far from convinced, but seeing no simple method of
dissuading the earnest machine. This was knowledge Swayam must have, but for now he would
be content with a perfect inscription in 'Ishtar's Recorder. After Shamara's task was finished, he
would return to Etan with this report. But for now, his duty was clear.
"Yes, it is our fault he stands lost in the infinite. Or found, in too much of the finite, if
you prefer. This makes a matter of some delicacy." He placed a tentacled hand on Krishanu's
heart, one on each temple, one behind his lower back. Then his lights subdued as he analyzed
and probed the lost Etan. After a full thirty minutes, during which 'Sravasa sat, impatiently
drumming his fingers on his knees, Gotaman withdrew his arms and said, "I cannot reach him. I
am sorry, Lord of Etan. He is Arama. And Navril. And a great many more besides. I do not
have sufficient knowledge to reintegrate him into a useful personality. Perhaps time will succeed
where our powers fail. If you like, you may leave him here. Or I will send three Weedeaters to
carry him and aid you."
"The latter, if it must be so," answered 'Sravasa heavily. Was Krishanu's crippling inner
struggle thus to continue indefinitely? For the first time, he questioned Althea's wisdom in
sending them to join the Atira Priests' Sacrifice. So far, they had done nothing particularly
helpful for the Oblation Bearer, may have actually hindered the planned progress of the last dora.
He shook his mind forcibly and said, "I will take him to rest now. If you can remove the
screens?"
"At once, Etan Lord. I suppose it unnecessary to request your strictest confidence."
"Granted. Except for Swayam and the other Lords of Etan."
"Agreed. But I must caution you to remember the Asur Emperor looks exactly like this
one–except for the eyes. Be careful whom you greet as an ally."
Tanya was waiting just outside the screens; she reported the guests were settled
comfortably.
"We are going to send three Weedeaters with this company, Reverend Mother," said
Gotaman. "This Etan Lord is as yet unreachable; his brother wishes to remain in his company.
Who should go?"
"There must be some fault in us. We shall carry him. And guard them as we may."
In the morning, the companions gathered before Gotaman. It was a glowering, low day:
the tops of the highest buildings around the square were lost in the dark clouds. "Storm soon,"
said 'Vered sourly, "a poor sign indeed."
"Here is water and dried food," said Gotaman, ignoring him. "And these suits will keep
you warm in the mountains, and (to some extent) cool in the desert." He held up a metallic
raiment that sparkled in the light of his triple crystals.
"Why, it's lovely," said Narda, impressed by the consummate skill that had created the
garments. They were of one piece, but adhered wherever pinched together, and quickly proved
extremely resilient and strong. They fit virtually airtight against the skin, with a section that
formed a hood, and another area that could be formed into boots. Even Oman was impressed by
the quality of the material and workmanship.
"And for you, Jonasa-Vered, this small weapons' unit," said Gotaman.
"I do not need or desire your perverse creations," said the old robot harshly. "I have
never needed such before, nor do I wish to sully my Gardenership now."
"As you wish, of course. But if you desire to serve the Last Master well, I counsel you to
accept our aid in this matter. Shamara?"
"It cannot hurt, 'Vered," said Oman as the Oblation Bearer nodded her approval.
"Preparing for any eventuality is always wise."
'Vered grunted his discontent, but allowed Gotaman to install the unit. His crystals
flashed a brief pattern that might have been from surprise or pleasure. Then he said, "You have
created some interesting developments here, Gotaman. I apologize for my earlier attitude. Your
work is in accord with our Masters' wishes. May you progress well."
Uchai-sravasa wondered if what Gotaman had just done was entirely ethical. But then he
chuckled quietly, deciding harmony was worthwhile, especially if there were going to be
Weedeaters traveling with them. He mentally thanked the Master of the City for his foresight.
As if reading his thought, Gotaman said to him, "And for you, Etan, a special gift that
may help you to understand us better." He held up a magnificent opalescent jewel, flashing from
within itself a brilliant ethereal light. Even the Weedeaters gasped to see it.
Moriah said, "It is not of Martanda. In its light, the Path becomes more of Para."
"Tell us truly," said Shamara, "is that a product of the dora of one of my predecessors?"
"It is not, Oblation Bearer," he answered. "This much I promise you. You could call it a
byproduct of certain experiments we conduct in these isolated mountains."
"I will take it with honor," said the Etan, pleased by the gift even though he saw how
Gotaman hoped it would subtly influence his attitude. He also vaguely resented being made a
part of rumors Navril would certainly hear. Why must their allies be so devious? And then, with
a shock of insight, he realized that Gotaman had included Krishanu during his revelations last
night for precisely this reason! The Lord of the City knew that Navril existed inside his brother!
Simply because Krishanu was not responding to the outer world did not in any sense prove he
was not listening to everything he heard. So everything Gotaman had told him may have been
false. Or, at least, distorted–subtly tuned for the Asur Emperor's ears–and possibly for Swayam's
as well. This whole city could have vastly different functions than those explained, or those
intended by the Old Tilvians.
'Sravasa wondered with a further shock if Gotaman had perhaps concluded that
biologicals had become superfluous compared to machines. This would be a far better
explanation of the long-standing orders to slay humans approaching through the Crystal Valley
than any other yet spoken. And if this were true, this city's projects could be more dangerous to
Etan and humanity than anything else on Martanda other than Valin himself!
Quickly passing these thoughts to Ishtar's Recorder, 'Sravasa answered Gotaman, "It is as
perfect an object as I have ever seen. Rival even to the amrita. Do you have a name for it?"
"We call it `Kaystarbha', Lord of Etan."
Shamara gave a little cry of dismay. 'Sravasa looked at her thoughtfully and said, "I
would honor my brother with this. Tanya, please fasten it around his neck." As the Reverend
Mother did so, the jewel emitted one flash of light, as refulgent as if the sun itself were
momentarily contained within it. Then it resumed its earlier state of marvelous but quiescent
beauty.
'Sravasa gave a long sigh, surprising himself by discovering he had been holding his
breath, and said, mostly to himself, "I thought so." Then he added to Gotaman, "We are honored
by your thoughtfulness. I believe this gift truly priceless; its return to Martanda an incomparable
boon. Arama is furthered."
The Lord of the City bent toward him in a half-bow and said, "And for you all, a hard gift
but one I pray you accept." He held up a handful of small plastic containers. "One for each of
you. Inside are two kinds of tablets. The red will end pain for forty-eight hours. The black will
end life. I am sorry we cannot do more."
8. The Lesser Pass
Zaki was as sullen and potentially explosive as the low, dark cumulus clouds overhead.
Lost in his broodings, he stayed behind the others. Next before him walked Asta and Pazia,
silently carrying Krishanu; not too far ahead walked 'Sravasa, also deeply absorbed in his own
thoughts.
Narda was walking in front of them with Noleta. She craned her neck to look back at
Zaki with compassion from time to time, but was devoting most of her love and attention to her
niece. Noleta appeared as deeply tormented as Zaki; whether from the decimation of their family
or her own impending death, Narda couldn't tell. Noleta trudged along beside her, her face
twisted in pain, wholly unresponsive to Narda's tentative advances.
After more than an hour of gradual ascent from the Weedeaters' City, Narda again
decided to try soothing her with her words. Touching her arm gently, she said, "People are
rarely fortunate to know the span of their lives."
The girl looked up at her from brimming eyes and said, "There is so much I longed to do.
I would have made a worthy wife–and mother. It seems so–so unfair."
"The term of life and the hour of death do not clearly follow logic. I grant you it is hard
to understand and accept this. But we owe it to ourselves to make our last days as happy and
useful as they can be. Then what comes after life can be only good."
"But what is that? I dreamed of Cadmar and Olethea and the others, but they weren‘t
real. Not like Martanda is. I don't believe in the continuation of life. So is my existence strictly
circumscribed. And I am only newly a woman, as yet untried. How can I be content to die
without ever having lived? Oh, I can't expect you to understand. You've lived so much, had so
much love, so many experiences! You're practically twenty-three! There is no point in talking
with you." She pulled her arm away and slowed her pace to fall behind, the tears falling freely
from her eyes. Narda looked after her with heart-wrenching empathy, but respected her desire to
be alone.
Uchai-sravasa was suddenly at Narda's elbow, asking if he could be of some assistance to
her; she wondered how she must look to the others. But she pushed the thought away with
anger, vowing again to make the end of her life a crown rather than a curse. "Thank you,
'Sravasa, for your concern. Mostly I cry for Noleta. And Zaki," she added, hoping it didn't
sound too much like an afterthought.
"I can see why your brother-in-law is troubled," said the Etan. His experiences in Tilvia
must leave him terrified of what may await him after death. But the girl is a mystery to me. She
was blissfully happy in the Crystal Valley, enjoying her reunion with her family. Why should
she dread such a future?"
"She has many desires unfulfilled on Martanda; moreover, she doubts her visions were
real. Among the Fisher People, it is commonly accepted that death is death. The philosophies of
the Mereds have drowned us for centuries. We had an ancient belief to the contrary, but it is no
longer widely accepted. Her grandfather was one of the very last to speak of it. But the
influence of her peers. . . I believe she is as terrified of death as is Zaki."
Just ahead of 'Sravasa and Narda walked Jonasa-Vered and Tanya, amiably discussing
the Weedeaters' City and life. If she were aware how Gotaman had altered him, she kept it
strictly private and enjoyed their conversation thoroughly. Other than Gotaman, she had never
met another Gardener and was naturally curious about him. She asked him of his life since the
Masters fled Southern Tilvia, then could hardly believe his descriptions of his centuries-long
Watch. He seemed so selflessly dedicated, so exceptional in his devotion to the will of his long-
dead Masters. Compared to him, the Weedeaters seemed incomplete, even frail in their concep-
tion of duty. Even the Reverend Mothers: she could imagine none of her peers so purposeful, so
unwavering. For the first time, Tanya felt wholly exonerated for her decision in the Crystal
Valley. Here was a being she could understand, even admire. She had already confirmed what
the old records all stated: one was never quite sure where one stood with biologicals. Whenever
she thought she understood any of them, they did the most bizarre and unpredictable things. The
principle of randomness, carefully added to the Weedeaters in finite and useful quantities (mostly
to spur creativity), seemed to be the governing rule for some of them, never far from the surface
in any. 'Vered, on the other hand, was like a pillar of steel (which metaphor, of course, bore the
additional advantage of being literally correct)–incorruptible, perfect in his conceptions of duty
and devotion.
Jonasa-Vered, from his side, had willingly abandoned his earlier conclusions about the
Weedeater Civilization. Gotaman's subtle modifications may have been the original catalyst in
this transformation, but talking with the Reverend Mother about their diverse projects had
impressed him as profoundly as any of the Masters' ancient works. And why not? he asked
himself. For is not the Weedeater City another of their creations? Perhaps their last, perhaps
their most important. For if Tanya speaks truly, they one day may recreate many of the Masters'
bodies! A truly noble work! I was wrong to doubt them.
They were walking behind Shamara and Oman: 'Vered found this the most natural
position for him since learning who they were. As usual, the Oblation Bearer was immediately
behind Moriah, threading his way through the mountains with unerring skill as he followed the
Path burning in him more clearly than any scene of Martanda had ever done.
Shamara had started the day with grim intensity. She had slept very well. So well, in
fact, she had concluded that her simple but spacious room (all silver, black and white) was
equipped with a certain kind of machine very popular on Ganym: a silently vibrating unit that
resonated with the subcortical centers to produce high degrees of orderliness in the brain. She at
first resented the fact upon awakening, but then decided their host had meant well by the gesture.
After their previous experiences in Tilvia, she was rather inclined to be grateful that the others
would be well-rested before they began the hard crossing of the mountains.
But she could not so easily forgive the small transmitter she found carefully inserted into
the weathersuit Gotaman gave her. As soon as they were well beyond the city, she had all her
companions search their clothing and remove the wafer-thin devices. The Weedeaters protested
innocence; Shamara resolved to trust them no further than was absolutely necessary.
The matter of the radiation poisoning was a heavy burden to her. Not for her own life,
nor for Oman's: she had never looked beyond the end of the Sacrifice and did not care what their
subsequent fate might be. But to find that the Fisher People faced certain death for no good
reason other than their selfless desire to aid her was odious. She did not know how, but she
vowed she would somehow make amends to them before they died.
Oman saw the fey mood in his mistress without fully understanding it. He was pleased
their company was growing: he assumed the Weedeaters possessed potent armaments. Being
from birth a warrior (his mother was a sharan, but his father a general in Arama's army), he never
devoted much thought to anything other than the most direct and safest route to completing the
task at hand. If his body were lost in the process–well, such was the danger with which the
rajanya always lived as constant companion. His empathetic skills were not sufficiently
developed to appreciate that some of the others might not share his dispassionate view of mortal
existence; therefore he had difficulty understanding Shamara's agony. She was grasping the
chalice as tightly as if she feared someone were about to force it from her; her face was
shadowed by a grayness Oman found most disquieting. He kept close by her, imagining
potential assaults, looking askance at every ledge and outcropping, computing angles of defense.
For he was right that the Oblation Bearer was under attack; only his analysis of the source was
inaccurate.
Moriah led them onward, wholly engrossed in his vision of the Path and the concomitant
world it opened to him alone. Life was flawless, ideal, glorious, wonderful. What difference the
loss of his body at some future time? The present instant was perfect.
But at noon, just as they crossed a small rise, the Path ahead changed dramatically;
Moriah was astounded and stopped walking so abruptly that Shamara almost collided with him.
"What is it?" she asked crossly. The fisherman was staring into the small dell before
them, an unreadable emotion working his face into a strange grimace that might have expressed
outrage–or even fear.
"I–I don't know what to do! The Path–it divides in two! And in both directions, Para
wavers, it fades into nothing. . . into Martanda again. And there the Path ends! Shamara! What
does this mean?"
'Vered, Tanya, 'Sravasa and Narda caught up to them and stared curiously ahead. After
some thought, the Etan volunteered, "I believe that a division in the Atira can only occur if an
error in execution has occurred. . . or is imminent. Do you see anything at the juncture, Moriah?
Anything unusual?"
"There is nothing. It occurs there, just at the bottom of that hollow. The Path and the
world it creates are whole to that point. Then it divides; the Universe trembles on the verge of
dissolution. This is the most frightening thing I have ever seen."
"Probably so," said Pazia as she and Asta, carrying Krishanu, joined the others. "Doubt
is always the worst enemy. Much more so than fear, I hold strongly."
Shamara looked closely at the faces around her, trying to understand what this strange
event might mean. They were all there now but Zaki and Noleta who were together, walking
slowly far to the rear, holding hands and speaking quietly. The sight of them together sent a chill
of disquiet racing up her spine. But she ignored it to concentrate on the ground ahead. The dell
looked exactly the same on both sides of Moriah's division. Was the fisherman losing his mind?
"Should we not approach the place, examine it?" asked Tanya. "Certainly we can
discover the cause."
"Yes," said Shamara slowly, straining her eyes to see the slightest difference of any kind
ahead. "But I must caution you–all of you–to remain on this side of the division as Moriah sees
it. If the Path divides, we must exercise extreme caution."
If Moriah noted the doubt in her words, he did not consider it important compared to the
monumental alteration of perspective–no, of the world!–before them. As Zaki and Noleta at last
caught up to them, he led them slowly down the Path into the little dell.
Just then, the storm that had hung over them all morning broke upon them with the fury
and violence of a demon gone mad. Sheets of blinding rain soaked them before they could cover
themselves with Gotaman's weather suits. Then they were protected from the fury of the
cloudburst, but still could only with difficulty see anything more than an arm's length ahead of
them. It grew steadily darker as the crying clouds reached heavily down toward them.
Moriah was still fully aware of the Path, but he slowed his steps so the others would not
lose sight of one another. How could it be that the Sacrifice might be incomplete? There was
something illogical, impossible in this. Or was it possible that the dora within him was useful
only this far on the Path? If so, what would they do for a guide now that he had failed?
The sundering in the Sacrifice occurred directly over a small black rock, wholly
undistinguished in appearance. Moriah stopped and stared at it, then shouted into Shamara's ear:
"Just here! Here it divides! Beyond is chaos!"
She knelt by it and looked earnestly at it, but could see absolutely nothing making it in
the least significant.
"The `where' of division is perhaps not entirely relevant," 'Sravasa shouted at her. "We
must focus on the why without entering upon either alternative. At least, not yet."
"Is not waiting also an alternative?" she shouted back. "Potentially more damaging?"
"If you cross that rock," cried Moriah, "you will have to leave me here! I will not
abandon Para for that enigma of unresolved anarchy!"
"We can't just stand here!" shouted Oman.
Meanwhile Tanya, seeing they had come to an impasse, ordered Pazia and Asta to set
Krishanu down; together the Weedeaters began erecting a structure out of some flexible plastic
poles they carried. Then they stretched some of the metallic all-weather cloth over it to keep out
the rain and wind. In moments it was finished; everyone crowded inside to discover what to do.
The driving rain was muted by the cloth, so that conversation became almost reasonable.
"Let us review," said Shamara, extremely impatient, but insisting on caution. The
conflicting emotions made her voice rather tight. "Moriah, one more time. If you don't mind."
"There is little to tell. This side of that small black rock, the Path pulses with power and
light, as it has since we first came upon it after the dora entered me from Xenas. Surrounding us
lies the Universe of the dora, Para itself, eclipsing the Martanda of my youth as the haziest of
shadows. But there–" he pointed with his left hand through the storm–"the Path divides in twain.
And in its division, it alters fundamentally, becomes less brilliant, is very questionably the Path
at all. And further on, it disappears altogether. And there," he stepped forward to stare through
the rain, "there the world is deformed. Mutated horribly. Para is as an illusion or reflected
memory; decidedly not real. It is horrible."
"Are there no distinctive elements?" asked 'Vered in a matter-of-fact tone, perhaps a
partial result of his new unit. Tanya wondered how much Gotaman had dared to add to his
one-time peer and for a brief moment questioned the act.
"Nothing I can detect. They are equally ambiguous. Nothing special about either."
"In what directions do they lie?" asked Tanya. Moriah answered by forming a wedge
with his hands. "I thought perhaps so," she continued. "To the north, the major and more
common pass. To the northwest, the lesser pass, very rarely used. This division marks the
choice between the two routes."
"Surely it must signify more than that," said Shamara. "The formulators of our Path
would not create such a division for any trivial reason. We must analyze more deeply."
"Perhaps if we simply choose," said Oman, as always longing for action, "the rejected
path will vanish, and the one we follow will resume its form and quality. I see no need to wait
long. See, the rain lessens. I vote for the more common route."
"Such a decision should not be made in haste," said 'Sravasa, staring at the nondescript
rock marking this mysterious boundary. "The fact that we are faced with the problem insists we
solve it. But let us bring our full resources into play. Why would the Path of the Sacrifice
divide? Who should choose?"
Oman said, more than a little impatient, "We can't simply stand here talking! We've got
to do something. Perhaps we overlook some obvious sign."
As if in response to his words, Noleta said, the ice in her voice born of utter fear, "There
is someone behind us." Pazia cracked a vent, then pulled it open so they could all see. The rain
stopped abruptly; simultaneously Noleta screamed and tried to press herself into Zaki. He put an
arm around her, though he felt like running away in terror himself: standing not twenty paces
back the way they had come were all the recently deceased members of their family.
The Fisher People were not as Noleta had seen them before: then they were as she had
known them in life and health; now they were as reanimated corpses. The companions stared at
the specters with various degrees of curiosity, terror, amazement, indifference. The deceased
Fisher People stood there like witnesses of doom, not moving, but staring at the companions with
enigmatic expressions some thought were condemning, others, warning, others, challenging.
Suddenly Pazia cried, "Where is Krishanu?"
Shamara whirled and saw him just as he stepped over the dividing rock, heading toward
the northwest. As his body passed over the stone, it trembled for a moment then vanished. Then
he stopped and stood, facing away from them. They ran after him, the Oblation Bearer in the
lead. Only Noleta and Zaki remained behind, caught by a peculiar morbid fascination of their
lost family. But as soon as Shamara reached the Etan, the shades vanished as if they had never
been.
"Krishanu, what–?" she began, but stopped as she looked into his sable eyes. They were
in a sense vacant, but there was something overwhelming about that Emptiness. She felt as if
she were staring at the answer to the fundamental questions of Creation, but could not read the
script. Nor was she sure she wished to learn how.
"The Path!" cried Moriah, ecstasy vibrant in his voice. "It has returned!" He started
forward again, oblivious to the others.
Pazia and Asta raced to take down the tent, their tentacles flashing at a blurring speed.
But when they finished and came to pick up Krishanu, 'Sravasa said, "Wait a moment. If he was
able to walk just then, perhaps he can accompany us now from his own effort. Even if his mind
is largely elsewhere." Or everywhere, he thought, wondering if perhaps his brother were on the
verge of rendering Gotaman's search for an alternative to the Sacrifice unnecessary. How many
paths to enliven the dimension of reality known as Para could be opened? Or perhaps the
question was, how many should be opened? For was not a multitude of junctions potentially
dangerous? What if the Enemy succeeded in possessing one? Forging novel connections from
the coarse material of the relative cosmos to the Source Universe was at once highly laudable
and extraordinarily nefarious. No wonder his brother was divided against himself.
'Sravasa took Krishanu's hands and backed after the others. His brother walked after him,
as expressionless as if he were an android, or sculpted from clay. 'Sravasa dropped his hands,
then turned to walk beside him, gently touching his elbow whenever he showed signs of
stopping.
Shamara and Oman stood aside and let the others follow Moriah as they waited for the
Etanai. "He does seem to be reintegrating," said the dwarf approvingly. He at least regarded
Krishanu very highly.
"At last, yes," agreed 'Sravasa. "The mind is capable of unlimited wonders. It will be
fascinating to talk to him of life when he wholly returns to us. He may have acquired new skills–
"
"Such as choosing the Path of the Sacrifice," said Shamara drily. "I would be curious to
hear your analysis of what happened in that little hollow."
"There are two paths to fulfillment, Sharan, or so Matri taught me before my brothers and
sisters were born and she departed Etan to pursue her own projects. The longer, slower (and
lesser) path of the celestials; and the quicker but harder path of the sages. I believe we could not
proceed with the Sacrifice until Krishanu made his choice."
"Why should his decision be dominant, or even relevant? I am the Oblation Bearer, am I
not? Perhaps any of us could have triggered this change."
"I see you have not yet fully understood the role of this Sacrifice, Shamara, nor
Krishanu's status. Yet you have seen something of what he is: you know he is AramaC-"
"And Navril, Etan Lord. Which is why I doubt him."
"And Navril, Sharan. It could not be otherwise, for he is the Atira. Have you not thought
so?"
"My confusion mounts with your every word, Uchai-sravasa. This somnambulistic
brother of yours is most difficult to understand, even to one steeped in the knowledge of the
Seven. I must confess my ignorance of how to view him. . . Why were the deceased Fisher
People present at the juncture?"
"They were participants on your Path, Shamara. I surmise we carry their spirits forward
with us as we progress. Until the final act. At critical moments, they may still even participate
to some degree."
"I find this all strange in the extreme," responded Shamara sourly. "I can't help but wish
none of you were accompanying me." She abruptly increased her pace to catch up to Moriah.
Oman paused long enough to say, "I at least am glad you're here, 'Sravasa. Your arcane
wisdom rivals even that of Brihas. I think it is merely concern for the Sacrifice that makes her
short-tempered." Then he hopped hurriedly after his mistress, fearful to leave his Guardianship
for even a moment.
The quality of the land changed dramatically as they climbed into the hills that afternoon.
Soon they were walking through an evergreen forest, silent save for the whispering of the breeze
through the needles and boughs: there were neither animals nor birds. Yet in spite of the
absence of fauna, the land was lovely–the trees were so large and old there was very little under-
growth, making the forest seem a planned garden. The little streams wandering here and there
through the trunks and over moss-covered rocks chuckled gaily their sweet freedom.
Occasionally vistas opened of the mountains ahead: cerulean and indigo and white, massive
witnesses to the wondrous art of the Grandfather's unspoiled intention. And yet, thought
'Sravasa, seeing the beauty but appreciating the irony, this land is certain death to animate life.
That night, they gathered comfortably around the fire the Weedeaters made and filled
their stomachs greedily with the food provided by Gotaman. It was artificial (the robots had not
needed or desired to cultivate gardens for centuries) but it was prepared with such skill that it
was indistinguishable from the genuine, even to Oman's highly refined taste. "You are to be
commended," he said to Tanya, "the more so because you have remembered so long without
anyone to sample your work."
"A program is a program," she answered, slightly amused by the comment. "Once
knowledge is perfected, of what relevance is time?"
Shamara said, "You told us this is the lesser-used pass. Why?"
"There is a band of renegade Weedeaters near here. They use this route."
"Renegade renegades!" said 'Vered sharply, for the moment forgetting his acceptance of
Gotaman's works. "What do they do? Preserve the Masters' relics?"
"Don't know," answered Tanya, ignoring his sarcasm. "We don't bother them; they don't
bother us. But I wonder how they may feel about our crossing their territory."
"I suppose we should post a guard, then," said Oman. "I can't think of any reason they
must be friendly. And tomorrow, scouts on the flanks."
"We are always awake," began Tanya.
"I am the accustomed Watcher," said 'Vered, standing on his dignity. "I require no
assistance."
"We are in a new world," said Shamara gently. "It might be useful to have guards on all
sides."
"If you insist," said the Gardener grumpily, then strode away toward the north, his four
arms banging an irregular tattoo on his steel sides. The Weedeaters bowed as one to Shamara
and took up their stations in the other three primary directions.
The Oblation Bearer smiled as she adjusted herself on the soft evergreen needles, using
the weathersuit as both pad and blanket. Oman hopped to her and said, "Can we trust those
machines? Or should I also remain awake?"
"Jonasa-Vered is incorruptible. Gotaman modified him to some extent, but left him more
devoted to us than before. As for the Weedeaters, we have seen no reason to doubt them."
"The transmitters secreted in the weathersuits?"
"Gotaman may have been trying to help us. Though you're right; he should have told us.
Unless, that is, he didn't know of them. Tanya seemed genuinely surprised when we found
them. . . I trust her. And the others consider her will sacrosanct. I see no reason for us all not to
rest." She settled herself more comfortably, huddling the chalice as if it were her child. Then,
already nearly succumbed to the spell of the old forest's silence, she added languorously, "But
decide for yourself. I trust your intuition implicitly." Her eyes drifted closed; she was
immediately asleep.
Oman felt the pull of exhaustion that overcame Shamara as a languid burden, pulling him
into the soft carpet of the forest, to rest, to sleep! Almost he acquiesced to that force, but at the
last moment decided he should stay awake for just a while longer. Instead, he hopped off to
check on the guards.
Narda was quietly talking to Moriah, trying to understand the world he saw everywhere.
How could two realities co-exist? The fisherman saw no conflict: as far as he was concerned,
Para was like the inner layer of a flower, and the Martanda the others knew, the surface. It was
the same world, he insisted, seen from two perspectives. Her question as to which was real,
which illusion startled him: he had never doubted his perception must necessarily be closer to
the Truth. He tried to explain why this must logically be so, but found his words lacked
sufficient subtlety to express the differences he so clearly perceived. He found he could convey
neither superiority nor closeness to Truth. Finally, more frustrated than he had been since the
dora entered him, he rolled himself in the Weedeaters' garment and tried to sleep.
Narda kept sitting up for some time: Noleta was out walking with Zaki through the
moonlit forest; she wanted to see the girl safely home before she slept. But they did not return;
at last she let the tiredness of the long day's march take her, and lay down next to her husband.
Uchai-sravasa did not feel the need for sleep, instead spent the night trying to
communicate with his scattered brother. Occasionally he thought he caught glimpses of him,
deep in those sable eyes that no longer felt the necessity of ever closing or even blinking. But it
was always fleeting and far, far away, as if Krishanu's body were an infinite thing and his spirit
wandered deep and alone through its unending depths. How could 'Sravasa touch him, how
communicate with him? Who of all could reach him? Brihas? But to call the Atira Priest would
take more of Shamara's dora; he had no doubt she would firmly oppose any request to spend
more of her precious burden, particularly for Krishanu: her doubt of him had never ameliorated.
Was there no other way to recall his lost brother?
For some reason, his mind bent to Brihas' master, Matri, ruler of the Seven from the day
Swayam first saw the desirability of expanding his mind into distinct rays. Why remember her
now after so long? The Lord of the Staff had disappeared from Etan nearly a hundred thousand
years before; no one had seen or heard from her since. And yet there was something about this
silent forest that reminded 'Sravasa strongly of his one time mentor.
As Narda sat combing her hair at a small stream the next morning, she discovered that
large clumps of her hair were falling out. She examined herself closely and was surprised to find
the sores on her body which the crystal's light had healed were again opening. She resolved to
ask Tanya about it, but then she realized with a nasty shock neither Noleta nor Zaki had returned
to the camp last night! Just as she jumped up in alarm, she saw the girl entering the clearing.
Noleta saw her at the same time and made her way purposefully toward her.
"You did not sleep here last night," said Narda without inflection or preamble, looking
for signs of conflict or at least doubt in her niece's eyes. But she saw nothing of either, saw only
an ebullient mood that may have masked–or have been born of–a wild freedom.
"I spent the night with Zaki. I have no regret, so you needn't look your condemnation. I
will not be cheated of life!"
"Such a union is never approved! For good reason! The potential for damaged
offspring–"
"I don't care! I will be dead in a year! I hope he got me pregnant. If not last night,
perhaps tonight! I want experience! I want to feel pregnancy, childbirth! Even if it dies at once.
I don't care! Can't you understand? I want to experience as much as I can, while I can! How
dare you condemn me?"
"I do not, child, though perhaps I should. I just wish you would choose a partner not of
your own family."
"Who!" she cried with contempt. "The ugly dwarf? The one Etan is dead to the world;
the other is sexless, I'm sure of it! At least I can understand Zaki, and he me. I hoped you would
be more open."
"I cannot give my blessings to this, Noleta. What you do, you do from your own free
will. And to your future ruin, I greatly fear. I do not believe the Asurs are right: I think this life
is but one of many. I cannot approve your destruction of your future. Would you share Zaki's
nightmare world, rather than rejoin Cadmar and Olethea? You must be cautious, niece."
"You know I do not share those beliefs! I was deluded when I saw them before,
overcome by grief and the terror of seeing them violently slain. I am well in mind again now,
and know of no future but the corruption of my body and inevitable death. Look here!" She
threw her black hair aside in a flourish, revealing an ugly and open welt, just under the hairline
on the nape of her neck.
"Oh, Noleta, I–I am sorry," said Narda, horrified by the speed with which Gotaman's
prediction was being fulfilled. How much longer would any of them live?
"You see. What is there to wait for? Even if I am pregnant, I will probably not live until
the delivery. This is what my father and uncle have gifted me! And for what? A doubtful quest
for an ancient throne that may or may not even still exist. And the hope, not fully believed by
any of these–"she waved a disdaining hand toward the others, beginning to stir in the light of
dawn–"that this bizarre and ruinous journey may yet be productive of good for the world. For
this have I lost my family and my life! A curse on this Oblation! I will live my last days as I
please."
Narda could think of no other answer, and stared at her with misting eyes. Noleta stood
glowering at her, her hands convulsively clenching at her sides. But she could not long endure
her aunt's gaze and looked away, her tawny cheeks coloring crimson as she added in a gentler
voice, the memory of recent innocence, "I do not understand how life can be so cruel." Her
world in the Gray Isles had been hard, very hard–she had rarely known the gaiety that marks
childhood in free and healthy civilizations–but at least their rigidly ordered society offered her a
few definite satisfactions. And now even that pathetic handful had been stripped from her. She
would fight to experience something of the fruits she was forbidden, whatever the cost. Why
couldn't she make Narda understand? Life had betrayed her, had betrayed them all. It just wasn't
fair!
The companions began to encounter patches of recent snow by noon, the progeny of
yesterday's storm. Tanya told them the pass was a great deal higher, so they knew they would
certainly be faced with much deeper drifts. They were walking closely together, discussing this
probability and the best way to deal with it, when Asta came running back from the lead, crying,
"Renegades! Coming this way! I don't think they saw me."
Tanya hustled them all off the path, telling Asta to run to the rear to warn Pazia. The
companions watched from the poor concealment the large trees provided, waiting for the
Weedeaters.
They were there almost at once, running noiselessly down the trail. Turning neither to
the left nor the right, they passed through the companions as if some urgent matter beckoned
them onward and they had no time for casual analysis of their familiar territory. There were
thirty of them, identical in shape and color to Gotaman's Weedeaters, but perhaps not quite as
shiny. "Always short on oil," whispered Tanya to 'Vered. "We give them some periodically, in
exchange for certain minerals they mine. It is our only intercourse with them."
They were gone as quickly as they had come. Shamara waited until Asta returned and
said they had kept on without pause; she had left Pazia again as rearguard. The Oblation Bearer
directed Moriah to resume the march, but before he had taken thirty paces an old, old woman
with sad-wise eyes and deeply wrinkled white skin came walking through the forest toward
them. She was wearing a badly faded indigo robe, and carried a knobby wooden staff. Her
white hair hung in careless curls beyond her shoulders; on her feet were simple wooden sandals.
Something about her manner seemed very childlike and yet utterly serene, even timeless.
The companions had no chance to hide again; the Oblation Bearer faced her squarely,
flanked by Oman with drawn weapon on one side and 'Vered on the other.
The old woman came up to Shamara and said in the tongue of the Gray Isles, "Welcome,
Sharan. We guardians of the Lesser Pass bid you welcome, and offer you what assistance we
may."
"Gotaman-C" she began, inferring the only logical explanation.
"No, he did not tell us, Bearer of Valin's Doom. You must learn to curb your distrust. He
is a most excellent Gardener."
"How can you live in this poisoned land?" asked Oman tensely. He never liked feeling at
a disadvantage with a stranger. Meeting a human here was just strange enough to start the hairs
prickling all along his neck. This was impossible.
"One man's meat is another man's poison," said the newcomer with an odd little cackle,
"or so I have always been told. That which murdered Tilvia can not harm me."
"This skill some of us would dearly love to learn," said Zaki in a coarse voice. Narda
could not help wondering if he felt any remorse for his night with Noleta.
"To learn that art, brother of the Guide," answered the stranger, "you might have to give
up more than you would. Death of a body is no light matter, but it may, after all, be fairly low on
the scale of possible payments. Some existences might make oblivion preferable. Far
preferable," she added with a penetrating glance at Krishanu that was almost certainly not one of
curiosity.
"Enough riddles," said Oman impatiently. "If you cannot or will not explain, at least tell
us who you are."
"The Guardian takes his work seriously, it seems," she said, looking at the dwarf
good-naturedly. "That is certainly well, and bodes success for your journey. Once I cared much
for your Sacrifice; I suppose it is still true I consider it valuable, potentially a great boon for
Martanda. . . Or at least, to Arama," she added, looking again at Krishanu.
"You seem to know us very well," said Shamara, "but your understanding does not make
me more comfortable. It would help if you would be as open to us."
"Simple souls can be explained simply," said 'Sravasa, having reached his own
conclusions. "But others could mislead by terseness. I think she has told us who she is, but we
have a hard time hearing her."

"Who of the Etanai can compare to Uchai-sravasa?" asked the stranger. "Althea, with her
perfect foresight? Yehokhanan-Ishtar, whom humans shall one day praise above all others of
Etan, because of his wonderful science? Malinda, Mirabeth and Mirabel as they weave their
tapestries of fate into space and time? Swayam as he seeks the Grandfather who made him
throughout the expanding spheres?"
"You honor a humble singer, my Lady," said 'Sravasa. "I am certainly the least of those
you mention."
"Hold your judgment until the seventh wheel is secured, Lord of Etan! You, like the
bulbs of winter, may prove more vibrant than you now believe. For have you not heard that
seven tasks were ordained to the Cosmic Dancer at the beginning of our Universe? You may
have already guessed that Krishanu labors on the sixth. But the seventh is yet to come."
"Enough mystery!" cried Zaki with fierce wrath. "I want to know how you survive in this
land of death. No more enigmatic phrases!"
"Zaki, Zaki, will you never be content with your lot? Four times now have you betrayed
your family: three times to their deaths, once to that which may, for a time at least, be worse
than death. I tell you truly, Xenas' son, the next time you hurt anyone of this company, your life
will be forfeit. You do not know how close to the bottomless pit you stand."
The fisherman blushed scarlet, then white, then scarlet again, but said belligerently,
"Riddles now of accusation! Will you answer me plainly or not!"
"I have spoken to you plainly since your birth and you have not listened to me. What an
incomparable boon your life could have been to the Gray Isles! But instead you have sown lies
and death. You have ruined yourself, and now contemplate violence against me to force me to
reveal a means of saving that which is meaningless. Instead you could use your final hour to
burn in the fires of austerity that which has imprisoned you in hardened clay."
"What are we to do?" he asked Noleta in frustration. "She will tell us nothing."
Shamara said, "I too catch a glimmer of you, my Lady, like a star shining through the
gaps of a tattered cloud; but as yet I know you not. Would you be offended if I asked the Lord of
Etan to share his perception of you, if you are disinclined to speak of yourself?"
"As you have learned to value his wise words, Arama's dearest daughter, there can surely
be no harm. I have requested Zephyra to melt the pass for you; if you remain here for the night,
you can be on the north slopes within a single day. I will join you again tomorrow." Then she
turned and walked back into the forest. Oman attempted to follow her, but found that his feet
refused to obey his will.
"'Sravasa?" asked Shamara, wondering if she truly needed his analysis or not. But the
Etan was willing to share his conclusions, knowing no reason to withhold such knowledge from
the companions.
"Of space," he began in a low, rich voice that gradually became more and more musical
as he progressed through his collage of metaphor, simile and verity, "she is the Unbounded. Of
time, the first and last moment. Of life, most certainly birth. Of diseases, undoubtedly death. Of
the firmament, I would say Kanaan-dora, the evening star. Of the moons, Kali, the Dark and
unfathomable. Of the sources of light, the Sun, that's definite. Of Nature, the winter season. Of
the changes of the year, the vernal equinox. Of the metals, gold. Of the colors, violet. Of the
continents, Tilvia, I think. Of men, probably Swayam. Of Gods, doubtless Narain, the
Maintainer. Of Creators, the Grandfather, beyond question. Of Destroyers, Gana, the Cosmic
Dancer. Of the body, the crown of the head. Of the spinal wheels of life, the seventh. Of the
Sixteen Words of the Grandfather, most probably speech. Of the Seven Thoughts of Narain,
certainly omniscience. Of the states of man, unity. Of the movements of energy, lightning. Of
the wet things, the crystal pure dora. Of the weathers, the deep rumbling thunder. Of the winds,
the earthbreath. Of the fires, the uttara, completing the Sacrifice beneath the northern altar. Of
the movements of the mind, the auspicious forethought. Of the movements of the heart, divine
love. And of the Seven, the Staff Master, Matri."
"Matri," whispered Shamara in the suddenly still air. "Of Swayam's Seven, she alone I
never met in person. Was it truly her?"
"She is much changed; I have not seen her in nearly a hundred thousand years, Sharan,"
answered 'Sravasa in his normal voice, no longer resonating the threads of change into his words
(but still, perhaps, slightly echoing the threshold of infinite awareness to which he had led some
of his companions). "But no other could say so and not be so. A ray of Matri she is. I marvel at
her presence here."
"This is, beyond doubt, the most auspicious day of my life," said Shamara, rubbing her
chalice as if trying to polish it.
That evening, Narda had the bittersweet fulfillment of her desire: Noleta and Zaki had a
loud argument that ended when the fisherman stomped off by himself into the forest, leaving the
girl sitting alone, disconsolately crying.
Narda went to her and tried to comfort her. But Noleta rebuffed her angrily and ran into
the woods in a different direction from Zaki.
Narda was still awake when Noleta returned to lie among the companions, but Zaki did
not return before she was asleep and dreaming of her lost children.
When she awoke in the morning, though, he was again engaged in a fervent discussion with
Noleta. Narda prayed their rapprochement would not succeed, but as Moriah led the companions
up the trail, they again stayed apart from the others, earnestly and quietly talking.
Matri had made true her promise–the snow was gone, except for the smallest remainder
in the most protected areas. A gentle wind that could only be called balmy ruffled the hair on the
backs of their heads; they climbed as easily as if it were spring and not mid-winter.
When they reached the pass, Matri was waiting for them, standing amidst half a score of
Weedeaters. She greeted them in as obtuse a fashion as before, wholly discounting Shamara's
exuberant compliments. "I am whoever you wish me to be, Sharan. Not worth a second thought.
If you have energy to spare, think of your Sacrifice. Or of other matters still capable of being
influenced for good or ill. Of what value are these protestations of fidelity? I am with you but
for the day. Your attention would be better spent on Krishanu: he bears the burden of the age."
"How is that, Master of the Seven?" she asked as they walked with 'Sravasa and Krishanu
and Oman down the northern slope of the pass. Matri's Weedeaters fell in behind them, perhaps
intentionally excluding the others from their discussion. "To my understanding, he is not so
pivotal as you state."
"Without him, there would be no Sacrifice. And yet he is hardly himself, is he?" she
answered, looking at the Etan curiously. "When did this start?"
"In the Crystal Valley Gotaman uses to protect his City," said 'Sravasa. "Can you help
him?"
"That is one reason for my coming to greet you," she said. "To see if we can nudge this
omnipresence into more useful channels. . . I am not permitted to act directly, you know, for the
Grandfather so ordained Gana's final three tasks. But I can lend knowledge to those who are not
so constrained. Particularly to those who should be devoted to his success."
This last was clearly addressed to the Oblation Bearer, who looked at her, mystified.
"My life is consecrated to the Sacrifice–"
"Doralan, doralan, why do you close your mind to your father? Do you insist he come to
you, riding the Vidyadhara through a painted sky, Sesha coiling infinity around his shoulder? Is
it not enough he wears Kaystarbha? And that his new appearance perfectly mimics the old?"
"As does my diabolical brother's, my Lady," answered Shamara gravely. "And Navril
has twice already spoken through him."
"You do not understand, Sharan. When his son murdered him and stole his body, part of
Arama's spirit entered into the usurped clone to war directly with the Betrayer. He had poor
grounds for success, as Navril had but one flaw in his authority: his overbearing pride damaged
Arama's sixth spinal center when he assumed the clone body. Through this one area of weakness,
your father worked to betray the Betrayer. In time he succeeded: Brihas learned of the
deception and began your Atira to reverse the relative powers of the two, wrestling forever for
supremacy. For once begun, the conflict could never end.
"As the Sacrifice progressed through the ages, Brihas' objective began to manifest: the
portion of Arama that wrestled with Navril grew increasingly powerful, assuming near equality.
But your brother is himself a master of the subtle sciences, and knows full well of this Sacrifice
and what it portends if completed correctly. As Arama grew in strength, Navril divided his own
spirit, forcing the weaker portion away from him together with Arama. Together, they assumed
this new body in Etan. But now the relative positions were reversed, thanks solely to the
continuing success of the Atira Priests and sharans along this Path."
"In other words," said Oman, at last clearly understanding the Etan's dilemma, "within
Krishanu, Navril and Arama do both exist, but with the Enemy in the weaker position?"
"Exactly, yes. And Navril inhabits a new clone body, entirely free from Arama's
influence, therefore unopposed in his pursuit of his corrupt designs."
"This is like a nightmare!" cried Shamara. "But if I understand you, if we could destroy
the clone and Arama's clone bank, then the sole influence of Navril would be locked inside
Krishanu."
"That is one possibility, perhaps Brihas' original intention. But Navril's wisdom has had
long ages to grow. The unfortunate truth is that his current clone stands today on the verge of
true immortality."
"What!" cried 'Sravasa, visibly whitening. "How could he have discovered the structure
of the amrita? It is an extraordinarily complex molecule."
"Any chemical structure can be replicated, Lord of Etan. Given enough time and
patience. But he did not have to finish his attempt. Using his stolen form to beguile an Etan, he
has for nearly eleven thousand years been regularly transfusing his blood with hers, and–"
"What? What can you possibly mean?" asked 'Sravasa, his confusion overcoming his
horror at such an infernal revelation. "No Etan has left our city and not returned. Indeed, I know
of only the smallest handful who have ever journeyed beyond its confines."
"There is one you do not know, Uchai-sravasa. There was a stillborn, Shatarupa‘s last
delivery, remember?"
"Of course, but you can't be implying. . . Althea would never. . .could not have. . . ." he
stopped walking and talking to stare at her.
"But, you see, she did. Jaya has returned to human form, and was carried northward into
Vadil by Althea, changing thereby the intended conclusion of this Sacrifice, as she is now
Navril's prisoner. Now that the Betrayer has–or soon will possess–physical immortality, it is no
longer sufficient to chain a portion of his spirit within Krishanu. Perhaps it never truly was,
which is why Jaya decided to return as a Lady of Etan. If he can divide his spirit once, he can
certainly do it again and again, endlessly. In truth, he may have already. There is no longer a
choice: we must force his divided self back into one, then imprison him in a single immortal
form."
"Is it possible to alter the Sacrifice at this late date?" asked 'Sravasa. "Its form has been
set for ten score millennia."
"Because of your brother, it can be done. Let me explain."
"Is it safe to speak this before Krishanu?" asked 'Sravasa. "Navril is inside him as well as
Arama."
"Oh, he won't hear a word of this," she smiled at him and winked. "He's much too busy
just trying to figure out who he is." And as they walked together down the northern slope of the
pass, Matri told them in detail what they must attempt to do at the uttara vedi.
By the time she concluded, the evergreens had been largely replaced by a brown and
hardy scrub brush that tolerated semi-arid conditions. As they came to a small, clear brook,
noisily swollen with the recently melted snow, she stopped and said, "You should fill your
watercarriers here. There is no more suitable water until you reach Athalia."
"And what can we expect as reception there?" asked Oman.
"The Northern Tilvians are about to invade; what is left of the southern race will struggle
to repulse them. There is a chance you may arrive in time to help them, ten days from now.
That would be a second boon of your coming, for they are a good folk. Even though slightly
backward in their understanding of technology."
"Are they not descendants of Oblation Bearers?" asked Shamara.
"Of course, Sharan. . . But they are not what you expect: they are much changed. You
may be greeted as a god, crossing the desert from the south as you will be, and because of
Jonasa-Vered and the Weedeaters with you. That could be rather entertaining."
"I wonder," said 'Sravasa as the rest of their companions at last succeeded in passing
Matri's Weedeaters, "if you have been living in these mountains solely to spend a day chatting
with us–?"
"You scoundrel," Matri laughed, "You know I attempt to keep Gotaman's projects within
reasonable bounds. I watch him; he knows it; he watches me. That crazy old Gardener is
amassing more power than the whole of the Mereds. There are certain knowledges we would not
want the Betrayer to have, would we? It is as good a place as any to live."
Shamara summarized, "So the key to reintegrating Krishanu is to be found in the
completion of the Sacrifice? Not before?"
"Perhaps before. But not perfectly, not until he can throw off Navril. And that, I believe,
will require the passage of at least some of your dora into the flames of the uttara vedi."
They spent the night on the banks of the little stream. About midnight, Matri finished her
analyses of the next quarter century and took her leave, along with her Weedeater escort. Her
last act was to tap the jewel hanging around Krishanu's neck–which set it to gently sparkling,
reflecting Gauri's soft light in multi-hued patterns of gentle beauty–and whispering to it or to the
Etan, "Kaystarbha, open the septenary tomb. Let the Power of Life be unobstructed and true.
Remember the Dawning World. Remember the passing of the Council of Immortals. Remember
Gana's long pledge to the tormented children. Remember."
Kaystarbha made no further response to her gently hymned commands, but for a
flickering instant of hope in despair, Shamara thought she saw the gem's gentle radiance burning
in both of Krishanu's sable eyes. . .
Then Matri was gone, melting into the shadows of the night as if she were a memory of a
different world: a more youthful, innocent world for which Shamara longed and dreamed but
never hoped to rediscover. She knew she was changed, not just in her attitude toward Krishanu,
for now she understood something of the unique and terrible burden he had willingly taken upon
himself; nor just in her broader understanding of the Path and the long work of Brihas' school, of
which she was most certainly the last living member, the school of Arama‘s Atira Masters; not
just in these, but in the vastly expanded conception of her role in the Universe and especially in
the future of Martanda: not as isolated intellectual knowledge, but as a vibrant transformation of
her very being. Matri's presence had acted in her as a powerful catalyst, far transcending the
obvious purpose of her words. If before she were an actress on the Path, an agent of Brihas'
ancient desire, she was now the Path itself–taking on, for a time at least, human form. And this
miracle of evolution was not a result of the dora, as with Moriah, but was the natural byproduct
of that which Matri was.
The land on the northern side of the mountains was much rockier and more barren than
the ocean side. Large peculiarly shaped boulders were tossed erratically around the trail, almost
mimicking the crystals to the south, but coarsening their theme through a bizarre influence into
something no longer particularly lovely or even very interesting.
About noon, as they passed among some of the largest and most perversely twisted of the
gray rocks, Noleta suddenly started shouting wildly and incoherently. She threw herself to the
ground, rolling, gagging and screaming in what seemed an unusual combination of terror and
epilepsy.
The companions gathered around her, trying to discover how to help her. Zaki, judging
the moment as good as could be, drew his long, viciously serrated fishing knife and, grabbing
Shamara from behind, plunged it deeply into her left breast. He tore the chalice from her as she
fell dying, then tried to leap behind the nearest boulder.
Oman's response was behind 'Vered's by the time it takes a human synapse to fire. But
whereas the Gardener was content to cut the legs from under the fisherman with his newly added
laser, the Guardian's wrath chose the most horrible of the deaths his weapons belt could inflict.
The gray stain from the small dart spread over the traitor's back even as he fell forward from
'Vered's fire; the minuscule amount of poison which penetrated his body quickly sent its
commands throughout his nervous system. Within a heartbeat, every single cell of Zaki's body
began to boil. Thus did the Guardian Oman gift the fisherman Zaki the most painful death ever
devised by man.
Noleta was still writhing and loudly shouting (offering fair competition to her uncle's
terminal scream) but now her words were meaningful, "He said he wouldn‘t hurt her! He said he
would only take the Oblation! We don't want to die! I didn't know, I didn't know!" Narda tried
to hold her and comfort her, but had no noticeable success.
Oman bent over Zaki's corpse, extracted the chalice from his grip without a second look
at the contorted and distended flesh (which by now looked as if the fisherman had ended his life
in a vat of acid), and hopped to Shamara. He set the dora down long enough to pull the blade
from her heart. Then he removed the cover from the chalice and said, as if reading from a text,
"Resuscitation of the Oblation Bearer: one quarter of the dora." He poured the ethereal liquid
into the wound in her chest and her open mouth. A startled gasp marked her rebeginning breath:
her eyelids fluttered madly as her heart labored both to repair itself and pump her mutating blood
through her re-vivifying body. Within moments, the skin of her breast closed, concealing the
process of internal healing that was already nearly complete.
"We didn't mean it," sobbed Noleta, struggling as feebly as a dying fawn in Narda's arms.
"We just wanted enough to cure our bodies and live! I didn't know he would kill her."
"You would not have known the correct amount in any case," said Oman, looking up
with a rare anger reddening his eyes. "Now, 'Sravasa, we must decide what to do with this
traitor."
"She is a child, Oman!" cried Narda, hugging her closely, protectively. "She did not
know what she was doing."
"Such a vile act may have turned the balance for the Enemy," declared Pazia in a coldly
analytical tone. "Her complicity in this treachery may be one of the most heinous crimes in
history."
"What is the measure of innocence?" asked Tanya, unwilling to see the child punished.
"There should be some credit given to the suffering she has already endured."
"Participation in human murder," said 'Vered in a deep rumble, "was always punishable
by death." It was a simple logic, never to be questioned.
"There is nothing to discuss," said 'Sravasa calmly. "Shamara lives. This child tried to
take the chalice to prolong her own short life. She intended no personal harm, and knew not
what universal harm she might wreak by her selfishness. I suggest we drop the subject."
Oman's wrath drained away, leaving him feeling rather like an out-of-place relic of a long
forgotten age. The Etan was right, of course: no good could come to the Sacrifice by the
spilling of more blood. He leaned over Shamara, anxiously watching her face for signs of
increasing life. His mind knew no doubt, but his heart demanded certainty.
'Sravasa asked the Weedeaters to bury the remains of Zaki. When they had finished and
covered the grave with a considerable pile of rocks, Moriah knelt by the mound and tried to feel
some emotion other than the warm elation that had done nothing but increase ever since the dora
entered him. His intellect reasoned he should feel, if not sorrow, at least some pang of loss or
separation. But there was nothing, nothing at all; after trying for an hour or so, he stood and
went to see how Narda was progressing with Noleta.
The girl was pathetically hanging onto Narda. She was disconsolate, thoroughly
miserable: her aunt had made no progress in calming her, not even in stopping her incessant
crying. Narda looked up at him sorrowfully and said with frustration, "I cannot reach her! I
don't know how to begin. She has lost so much: so much of life, so many dreams. What can we
say to her, husband? What solace is there for one so betrayed?"
He looked down at them, but could see only Almira‘s World. He could think of nothing
to say, and tried to blame himself for his inadequacy. But it was a vain attempt: how could
anything of this matter? What relevance was here? Life was perfect, in every sense! Where was
there room for any other thought or feeling?
Narda held Noleta through that long afternoon and evening, occasionally trying to talk
with her, but more often, just embracing her, attempting with the language of her body to ease
the girl's cheated heart. Sometime after the early sunset, Noleta's whimpering drifted into
silence; then came a deep breathing that indicated the usual surcease of life's troubles. Narda sat
with the girl‘s head in her lap for a few more hours, gently stroking her hair, remembering sadly
what their family had been and perhaps might have become. Eventually, she slid down beside
her, covering them both with Gotaman's weathersuit, and joined her niece in sleep.
She began at once to dream: Zaki stood before her, wearing a black robe that contained
the stars of the firmament. His countenance, if not truly peaceful, was nevertheless more so than
it had been for many years. He said, "Narda, beloved Narda, I do not seek your forgiveness, nor
that of any of the others. But I have taken a vow to repay you–each of you–the full measure of
my debt to you, no matter if it takes all of Eternity to do so."
Narda wanted to say she desired nothing from him, that his death had more than absolved
the debt for her, that she only wished him peace. But he faded and was replaced by a single
white flower of thousands of petals.
Her awareness expanded; she discovered each petal was a world or, more accurately, a
portion of the multi-dimensional reality that was the flower. In that superconscious state, she
saw clearly that one petal was Martanda. Another contained her family, living happily in a world
populated by the dead of the Gray Isles–although they certainly weren't dead there. Some of the
petals toward the center reflected such beautiful and orderly worlds that she knew if she
examined them too closely, she would never willingly return to the Martanda she knew; she
glanced at them briefly, more with curiosity than longing, then resumed her random
investigation.
In one petal, very near the center, an old man was writing in a thick notebook by the faint
light of two candles in star-shaped holders. His young and beautiful wife sat at the same table,
reading a book, occasionally chuckling merrily to herself and making some pleasant comment at
which the old man smiled but did not in any other way answer. Their table was cluttered; Narda
thought the solutions to the most enigmatic problems of the age might be found among his
books, or perhaps only on the blank pages ahead of his racing pen. . . .
Another petal contained a magnificent Etan Lord (who looked very like Krishanu, only
somehow wiser and stronger), resting comfortably on a massive serpent of countless hoods,
expanded umbrella-like over him. Around him in limitless profusion were golden and silver
spheres of purest light. Playthings? Projects?
Another petal held an extraordinarily lovely fair-skinned lady, playing a stringed
instrument, singing. Her words were creating the spheres of light, which were endlessly floating
away in every direction, each filled with independent life and joy.
Another held a dancer who, as he twisted and leaped and spun, caused the golden and
silver spheres to disintegrate back into amorphous light. He did not act from anger, although
some have interpreted his dance so; nor did he destroy wantonly or randomly, but (it seemed to
Narda) from the highest goals and loftiest of perceptions. Of all the petals, this one could have
held the greatest fear, but she felt only love for the Cosmic Dancer.
There was no end to the petals of the flower. She saw more and more of this
multi-faceted jewel as she moved ever faster from perception to perception until at last all detail
blurred into featureless white light, more brilliant by far than any light she had ever known. And
as handmaidens to that radiance, Narda found what she had despaired of ever finding again:
peace and understanding.
The fisherwoman slept deeply then, the light alone remaining: any differences, even
those of the fulfillment of desire, wholly quiescent and absorbed.
9. The Devil's Anvil
Narda awoke earlier than the others the next morning: it was still completely dark. An
odd warm liquid had filled her mouth. She wondered at the taste with her partially awake mind,
then realized rather unpleasantly it was blood, from her gums. Why were she and Noleta so
much more susceptible to the poison? Moriah had no open sores and only one small bruise on
his left arm which may or may not have been related to the radiation. And Oman and Shamara
and the Etanai seemed untouched. Was it their connection to the Atira that enabled them to
repair their external symptoms? Or even grant them a higher degree of immunity? How much
higher? Could the art be shared? She resolved to ask 'Sravasa as soon as possible. If there could
be an alternative to death. . . She let the thought fall away; it dropped slowly, like the descent of
an autumn leaf; she rolled over to check on Noleta.
The motion caused her niece to say, "No, Zaki; you must not. No, Zaki." Then she
opened her eyes and, looking up at Narda with sudden recognition, whispered hoarsely, "We did
not want to die. Can't you understand that?"
"No one ever wants to, child. But the price you were willing to pay was too high; your
action not moral. Nothing so gained could have lasting benefit."
"I don't understand you!" she hissed, sitting up and drawing away from her. "What is
morality? The Gray Isles believe one thing, the Mereds another. Who determines which is
correct? The Fisher People would sooner commit suicide than endure the indignity of paralysis
or senility, but the Asurs will go to any length to prolong life, even if a person is no more than a
vegetable. Which is right? Who can judge?"
"Some matters are more clear than others. I do not believe stealing is condoned, even in
the Mereds."
"What price life? If that strange liquid could cure us, can you not see the wisdom of our
attempt?"
"You feel no regret. No shame." Was this the same girl who had cried herself to sleep
against her breast last night? Or was it the poison of the land, corrupting their minds even faster
than their flesh?
"Of course not. Why should I? I want to live! Don't think my act yesterday was real. If
I have to play the repentant child to keep these monsters from killing me, I will do so again. You
can help me and survive, or continue so stupidly and let your body rot."
"I will not help you in this, Noleta, not even if. . . not even if all my children were
suffering this corruption before my eyes! How fortunate were the others! We are the damned
ones."
"Suppose you could bring them all back to life? And Cadmar? And Panphila? Even
Xenas? Would you help me then?"
"What do you say!" cried Narda so loudly that Noleta looked around hurriedly, terrified
lest someone hear. No, they were all still asleep: Moriah nearby, snoring soundly; Oman at
Shamara's feet; 'Sravasa before Krishanu who was sitting erect but still, somnolent. The
Weedeaters and Jonasa-Vered were far off in a tight little group, animatedly discussing
something. No one had heard. She returned to her proposition, "You do not know the powers
these strangers possess. Why do you think our family follows us? They know, Narda! They
know we can return them to life. Would you deny them their lives?"
"How do you know these things?" Narda had a terrible thought: suppose it was not
Zaki's fault? Suppose Noleta had come to him with her evil seductive proposals? Zaki was
never far from temptation. What kind of child was this? She looked at her with a horror of
awakening understanding.
"How can you so overlook the obvious! Look at them, Narda! Other than the fact that
one of them can't wake up, they are in perfect health! Even Shamara, who yesterday had a fisher
knife in her heart! Yet they permit us, one by one, to be killed. I tell you, aunt, there is nothing
they could not do if they desired it! I think they need our blood for their precious Sacrifice! Will
you not help me save our family?"
"I don't know who you are, Noleta. You are not the niece I knew in the Gray Isles."
Where had she gone?
"None of us are as we were. Look at your mad husband! And where did you learn this
crippling weakness of will? I have seen you work entire nights to undermine the Inquisitor.
What has happened to you? Do you want to die?"
"Death may be better than the alternative you suggest, Noleta. Life without honor would
be a horrible burden."
"Perhaps as you grow sicker," the girl said, standing up, "you will reconsider. You still
have a lovely body, Narda. Perhaps as it rots you will renounce your stubbornness and help me.
I am going to live!" Noleta walked away alone into the early light of dawn.
The Oblation Bearer awoke with the sun. Oman was standing by her feet, staring at her
with obvious concern. What was troubling him? She had never seen him looking so worried.
Then, like the death of hope, she remembered something of her last waking moments, and
scrambled up on her knees to open the chalice.
She sat back, dismayed by what she saw there, and said, "So. I was murdered. Oman,
Oman! What are we to do? There is not enough left to complete the Sacrifice! What are we to
do? Our work is ashes."
'Sravasa saw her awaken and walked over to them. "If the Oblation enters a body,
sharan, it is not lost. The dora courses in your veins, as perfect and complete as it ever was.
Surely you know this?"
"Yes? Yes, I see you are right, 'Sravasa. My life is no longer that of biochemistry. The
uttara vedi will claim this body too, then. So we are not defeated! Not yet. I thank you, Etan
Lord; you have saved me from the darkness of despair."
Even though they were still quite high, the day quickly proved to be the hottest since they
had left the swamp. The black boulders everywhere multiplied the heat unmercifully; by noon
Shamara thought that they might have to ration the water. 'Vered and the Weedeaters each
carried huge water casks, but if they had to face ten more days of this furnace, it would be an
uncomfortable race. It might be easier to travel by night, once the foothills had ended; but for
now the ground was too rough to trust to dubious moonlight. For without Gauri, now rapidly
waning, Martanda's other six moons spread but dim light over the world.
Narda came to 'Sravasa and walked quietly beside him. She had tried to puzzle out the
problem of Noleta throughout the morning with no success. The girl herself was chatting with
Pazia as if she were nothing other than a normal child, wholly innocent now that she was freed
from Zaki's influence.
The Etan looked at Narda curiously, but respected her thoughtful silence. He had used
his morning to gently untangle the threads of his knowledge about this brother of his walking
beside him, perfectly responsive to commands, but otherwise wholly lost in his inner Universe.
'Sravasa had intuited much about him, marrying as uneasy partners his own extensive knowledge
and the revelations Matri had made. The information she had given him was behaving very
strangely: it almost felt as if it had become a separate entity in 'Sravasa's brain, nearly seeming
capable of independent thought and speech. He had tried gently ever since Matri left them to
integrate it with his mind; but the more he had tried, the more it had taken on its own form and
life, as if wishing to burst forth from him altogether. He had wondered more than once if Matri
had intentionally done this to him. But why? To create another divided being like Arama? It
seemed improbable that the Staff Lord would have had such an intention. Yet he could not deny
there was now a specific and localized–something–in his mind, given form and life from the
discussions Matri had with him.
And whenever 'Sravasa gently pushed this strange otherness to touch Krishanu's spirit,
there was a violent response that was decidedly unpleasant: a vertiginous, seething movement of
chaos that nevertheless contained a profound and subtle order that inspired his eager mind to
continue to probe. Was this the first step to bridging the gulf between sanity and the infinitude
of worlds entrancing his brother? Was this Matri's purpose?
'Sravasa was almost pleased by the interruption of his analysis Narda was apparently
contemplating. He stored Matri's knowledge, curiously watching it become more and more
humanoid from his apparent indifference, and waited for the fisherwoman to speak.
She walked by him silently for nearly an hour, organizing her thoughts, wondering what
the best angle would be to approach this wise but silent Lord from Etan. Finally she gathered her
will; drawing a deep breath, she said, "I would like to hear a tale, Uchai-sravasa. Something to
broaden my understanding of life, something about the Atira."
"I suppose I might be able to remember a tale about that," he answered, rather surprised
by her question. "What do those of the Gray Isles know of this science?"
"The Fisher People‘s awareness of the Atira is as faint as a wisp of steam, as fleeting as
the life of the day moth. Yet I have heard you speaking of it and would learn more, for I hope
thereby to counteract the effects of this poisoned land on my body and mind." Close enough to
the truth for now. Let him speak first, teach her more of their wisdom; perhaps the darker topics
could be avoided. For if it were possible to cure Noleta's twisted spirit by herself, familial and
racial pride insisted she make the attempt. The others had problems enough of their own. . . .
"Many live lives of false feeling of mastery over nature," said 'Sravasa as if beginning a
lecture rather than a tale. "Science is their only God, technology their one savior.
"Others, indeed, account themselves as victims of the cosmic wheel and loudly bewail the
fateful turning that impersonally elevates and then crushes them.
"But the wise flow with the cosmic design, with the various manifestations of natural
law, much as do the seeds on the wind or the rising and falling waves of the sea.
"Before the ages of humanity, the impulse of desire was born from Emptiness. From the
impulse of desire was born Swayam and the Seven, co-existent (although not yet separate) at the
dawn of time. Shatarupa sprang from Swayam's first Atira; together they have populated the
Universe with men and demi-gods and gods, although it is primarily the gods alone who
remember this.
"These are the words of one of the later gods to Swayam's first born son on Martanda, Ìn
the First Cycle of Time, when your young Father spread his newly formed stars before the feet of
Narain like so many jewels before a wise king, the gods were not, nor men, nor the inhabitants of
the middle regions: throughout the sixteen levels of the Grandfather's Garden, there was no one
else, no one other than Swayam and the as yet undivided projections of his seven spinal centers,
the immortal Staff Sages. But in those days of pre-becoming, the Seven were without rational
thought: they danced in Para, enraptured by the all-love of Almira, Fulfillment of the Word, She
who is Eternal-Truth-Without-Question.
"Ìnto that peaceful time of pre-desire blew a dark wind, a mighty tempest, wracking the
Universe from the atomic to the infinite, threatening to destroy all that was.
"Ìnto that howling miasma of mindless terror leapt your young Father, First and Only
Defender of the Grandfather's works. For thirty-three cycles of becoming he wrestled with the
Dark Destroyer, consuming suns as if they were torches; when their battle was over, the Power
of Chaos was chained into form; the Universe had become as we know it today: vastly decreased
in power and beauty, but stable.
"`Your Father, also greatly diminished, young no longer, walked alone on one of the
ruined worlds in one of the lower of the blasted dimensions and knew with certainty that he
could not, alone, even begin the work of rebuilding the cosmos to its former glory.
"`Circling back upon himself, he remembered what had been forgotten since the previous
cycle of creation: the Art of Return, powered by the upward current of life.
"`Swayam, the Self-Born Progenitor of all, circled back upon himself and created the first
Atira, the first Sacrifice, returning to the Ocean of Narain with the desire to populate the sixteen
spheres with life.
"Ìn an instant (encompassing, perhaps, billions of years), his involuting request was
heard and granted by Narain.
"`When your Father again opened his eyes, our worlds of space and time teemed with
life. And yet the chained Destroyer had in subtle ways perverted his prison: wherever Swayam
looked, he saw imperfection in the created worlds. Disease, death and warfare were the common
rule everywhere; the source of evolution–the Atira–was nowhere in the ascendant.
"`Swayam studied for long ages to discover how Chaos had again penetrated the worlds;
eventually, through labors as vast as time and space itself, he eliminated alternative possibilities
and narrowed the Destroyer's demesne into ever stricter confines, forcing again and again the
random and unformed into more specific boundaries.
"`Before the earliest suns collapsed into death, Swayam narrowed the Principle of Chaos
into a single nascent galaxy. Before most of the worlds of that galaxy had cooled enough to
permit the simpler hydrocarbon life-forms, he bound it into a single cluster of one hundred
thousand. And before the first humans walked in this solar system, Swayam, aided by the
myriad hosts of the Celestials of the higher dimensions (his earlier children, whom men usually
call gods and demi-gods, angels and natural laws) fought a mighty battle with the Destroyer and
closed the heavens to him, imprisoning him upon a single world.
"Ì remember the Last Battle well, for it was but a moment ago in my life, five million
human years or so. When it ended, we believed our work accomplished for all time: the
Destroyer, once present throughout all of space and time, was chained to a linear existence upon
a remote and insignificant dust speck, a small and previously unvisited world. The final step,
chaining the Enemy into a single specific form, seemed inevitable, all too easy after what had
already been accomplished.
"`But our over-confidence betrayed us: we have worked unceasingly with Swayam and
the Seven since the Last Battle, but have been defeated again and again. Almost have we forced
the Enemy into one limited and immortal form many times, but on each occasion has he escaped
in devious ways to inhabit body after body.
"Ànd he has perverted life in horrible ways, developing entire races of beings such as the
Asurs and Rakshasas to keep the Celestials' influence forgotten or circumscribed.
"`Swayam tried to chain him on Ganym, but a portion of his spirit took form in the
youngest son of Arama, Navril Hagar, and fled to Martanda. Swayam thought that he purged
him from both worlds. He succeeded on Ganym, but that planet paid the ultimate price, being to
this day a barren and frozen rock, circling the planet you name Brihas like a mindless moon.
And on Martanda, the Destroyer escaped Swayam's time-lock–perhaps it was a tiny fraction
only, but it has proved a quite sufficient amount–and has begun again his works of evil. And
how today shall he be fought, 'Sravasa? For now he can enter any of Arama's children who are
open to thoughts or acts of evil.'
"Thus spoke the god to me, Narda, nearly a hundred thousand years ago. The battle is
being fought still: Swayam and the Seven work to bind that part of the Enemy that has gained
self-awareness into one definite form, leaving only the mindless remainders free as vague spirits
of malice; eventually to force those as well to join the other into its specific and therefore
controllable body.
"Thus have we acted, succeeding, failing, succeeding through the endless years. The
present Sacrifice is one of the longest and best conceived attempts to accomplish our first
purpose; with skill (and perhaps, a large measure of luck), we may yet succeed."
The Oblation Bearer and Oman had come to walk with them while the Etan was quietly
relating his tale; now the Guardian said, "A worthy analysis, as good a history as I have ever
heard. But don't you feel there is something more to the perennial failure of Swayam and the
Seven than simply the subtlety and treachery of the Enemy? Is it not possible that the Principle
of Chaos cannot be completely defeated throughout the cosmos, lest the Universe cease to
exist?"
Shamara looked at him with surprise–to her knowledge, Oman had never been one for
intellectual analysis or philosophical inquiry–and said, "Even if the entirety of natural law in the
Universe supports him, still would we have no choice but to proceed as we do toward our various
solutions." She added rather drily, "With so many diverse schemes at work, surely one will
succeed."
"It may take a great many to affect even one cure," replied the Etan, while Narda
wondered what they were talking about. Always before, they had spoken of the Path as singular.
"On the other hand, Shamara, in all their diversity, they are truly only one. Scattered minds view
the world as multiple, active, forever changing in every respect; but the wise know creation to be
utterly still, silent, immovable."
By sunset, the random boulders began to dwindle in frequency and size. The rare brush
also decreased and changed in character: as the Oblation Bearer stared northward over the
barren gray hills, she could see almost no other life of any sort. There was a rare anomaly or
two, probably hardy succulents, but nothing else. The heat began to diminish finally; she
concluded again they should soon start to travel by night, if the terrain continued to simplify
toward the desert. She told the others to be conservative with the water; then she lay down and
stared thoughtfully at the winter sky, wondering why the Universe had become so very complex.
Had not all created beings come from Narain? Was it not necessarily true, therefore, that all
entities must retain the nature of the original and be capable of realizing it? How could the
Principle of Chaos, as Uchai-sravasa named it, come into existence to pervert the simplicity of
the Grandfather's intention?
Shamara was not familiar with such inquiries: always before, she had looked to Brihas
and the other masters of their school for answers to all problems. If she were the most advanced
of the sharans, it was not from her zealous analysis or the depth of her understanding, rather from
her extraordinary competence at her appointed tasks. There was in this, her best and worst
quality, the best hope and worst danger for the last act of the Sacrifice.
The Oblation Bearer stared at the heavens until sleep took her, rarely introspective, oddly
content with her life.
The next day began with a blistering hot wind from the north that dried their skin and
cracked their lips almost before the sun cleared the mountains. Gotaman's weathersuits offered
some protection and helped to preserve body moisture. But the wind possessed an uncanny skill
in penetrating the crevices in their garments and scorching their skin.
The barren hills seemed to go on forever. If their height were diminishing at all, it was
not apparent. Moriah led them through the landscape's monotonous regularity as if he had a map
imprinted on his brain. Which may have been quite close to the truth: the dora seared his soul
with the Path and its background field of Para ever more irreversibly. Narda by now had given
up her last hope of reclaiming him to Martanda. She held his hand, touched his body whenever
possible; the other-worldly glances he returned her were expressive of a transcendental joy that
marked a permanent abandonment of their shared life: not from repulsion or any kind of active
repudiation, but simply because the new world of which he was daily becoming more and more a
part left progressively less and less of him to participate in Martanda. Narda accepted this as
inevitable, at least for the present; she hoped she could eventually rejoin him–or he her–but knew
now that if patience and love together were not sufficient, she could do little else.
She tried to help Noleta, but the girl rebuffed her advances repeatedly, choosing to walk
alone, silently brooding. Or scheming, thought Narda sadly. What could she do to help her?
'Sravasa's tale had convinced her the knowledge of the Atira was far beyond her scope; what
other tool did she have but her selfless love?
Narda‘s frustration at not being able to channel her devotion was an oppressive weight,
more uncomfortably burdensome than the scorching red sun, more frustrating than her decaying
body. She had been violently ill that morning and was physically drained from the fierceness of
that onslaught. She was tempted to take one of Gotaman's painkilling tablets, but finally elected
not to, fearing to lose control of her body to any external agent.
'Sravasa that day avidly continued his analysis of his brother's strange disease and his
own development of a second and distinct personality within himself. Was this what had
happened to Krishanu? But the embryonic being inside him did not seem in the least evil, rather
innocuous, if not positively beneficial, and–he discovered with surprise– most certainly
feminine! What was the source of this unrequested symbiotic being? The intense radiation that
had murdered Tilvia, distorted and modified by the amrita which had given him immortality? If
so, could something similar be afflicting Krishanu? But because his brother had already
possessed two distinct inner beings, Arama and Navril, was the influence of Tilvia creating a
stasis of the opposing forces? Or was it perhaps the Path of the Sacrifice reacting with the
poison of this land that had produced this stable but inactive paralysis of his brother's mind?
By shortly after noon, the gradual change in the land had become too obvious to ignore:
the hills, although not growing in height, had become much more deeply scored by ravines. As
the desert wind burned the unprotected areas of her face, Shamara stopped walking to stare ahead
over the desolate wasteland. Her companions stood in a line beside her on the ridge, some of
them sharing her distaste of their next few days.
Pazia was standing next to and slightly behind the Oblation Bearer. Suddenly her
tentacles writhed wildly and grasped Shamara in their icy steel grip. "If any of you moves to
stop me," said the Weedeater in a peculiarly mechanical distortion of her normal voice, "I will
crush her skull. And decapitate her."
"What are you doing!" cried the others as Oman and 'Vered aimed their weapons at her.
Tanya cried, "Put her down!"
Pazia waved a tentacle in her general direction and said, "I am sorry, Reverend Mother.
Gotaman needs this tool. With this power, we can defeat the Mereds. I am taking it–and her–
back to our City. Don't try to stop me!"
"Gotaman will not receive you," said Tanya icily. "Put her down! This is a Fundamental
Order."
Pazia swayed slightly under the force of her superior's command, but did not loose her
hold. Shamara looked surprised, but not frightened. Oman would certainly free her.
"I am sorry. But I must take it back. Nothing else will save Martanda."
"If you cross the circle Tahir scribes around us," said 'Sravasa calmly, "the dora will lose
its power. That is the second purpose of the Follower."
Shamara started to comment, but Pazia tightened her grip around her neck and said, "I do
not believe you. Do not try to follow me, else she perishes." She backed off half a dozen paces,
but then, unaccountably, stopped. Shamara slid from her now powerless grip and looked herself
over. She was unharmed: the attack may have bruised her very slightly, nothing important.
"Are you all right?" some of her companions asked, while others said, "What happened to
Pazia?"
"Well," said Jonasa-Vered, "that still works. I'll be darned."
"What does?" asked Tanya in a rather strained voice.
"Why, I turned her off, of course,"`Vered answered, sounding rather pleased with
himself. "Naturally a Gardener should be able to control his machines."
"You mean you–at any time you could have–You beast!" she cried, outraged.
"A perfectly logical ordering. A good thing I remembered."
"I have some plastic explosive here," said Oman coldly. "If nobody minds, I think I'll
spread this pile of rust over several square leagues."
"No!" exclaimed Tanya. "She is ours. If you could all stand well back, please?" As the
companions withdrew, she said, "'Vered, can you return her senses and voice but not her
appendages? I would not destroy her without telling her. We have worked together for too
many years."
"If you wish," he said, thinking such feelings slightly mad.
Asta was meanwhile removing Pazia's water carrier and other supplies; before she
finished, the immobilized Weedeater said, "What have you done! Release me!"
Asta finished quickly and stepped away.
"You have betrayed the honor of the Weedeaters," said Tanya without emotion, as if
reciting a law. "You know the payment."
"No, Tanya! Asta, no! You know I acted only to further Gotaman and his works! I am
not a Betrayer! Biologicals are not worth our concern." One tentacle twitched erratically as she
struggled to overcome 'Vered's authority.
"You fool!" Now the white anger was audible in Tanya's voice. "The biologicals are our
masters! You have betrayed our highest purpose by your shortsightedness. Farewell."
"No!" screamed Pazia, and then, from terror or powerful desire to live, freed one tentacle
from the Gardener's control. It came up in one rapid motion, aiming at Tanya.
Before she could act further, the crystal eyes of the Weedeaters burned with a brilliant
saffron light. Pazia stood outlined in their fire for a moment, then began melting from the attack,
crying over and over until she was nothing but an amorphic mass of glowing and molten metal,
"No, Tanya! Please, Asta! Tanya! No!"
Narda walked beside Noleta and said, "You put her up to it. You are responsible."
"I don't know what you are talking about, aunt. Who?"
"Don't play stupid games with me, young lady! You tried once already to seduce me to
your treachery, remember? I know what you did!"
"The robot, you mean? You're quite wrong. She had already thought it all out; I merely
suggested she should follow her own judgment, not allow herself to be victimized by Tanya. It
almost worked! How was I to know that old Gardener could turn her off like that! What a
shame; I almost had it that time."
It was horrible: she showed no signs of shame, of regret! Noleta was like a stranger to
her. How could she reach her? "You vixen! Will you betray the entire world for your
selfishness?"
"I don't know anything about that! I only know I'm not going to die like you are. That
was you this morning, wasn't it? Emptying your guts so much I thought you must have coughed
out your stomach? Is that worth living for? Is that what you want for me?"
"No one wants to die, Noleta. But perhaps you should try to accept–"
"Never! By the gods of the Gray Isles, I will not be cheated of my life, not while the
antidote is so close! You may do as you like." She picked up her pace, leaving her aunt to stare
sadly at her back.
By evening it was clear to Shamara that, in spite of the heat, they would not be able to
begin night journeying yet: the ravines between the interminable hills were so deep there was no
hope to traverse them safely in anything less than the light of day. Discouraged, she gave the
order to make camp.
The next day, the height of the hills at last began decreasing; the companions were
approaching what would certainly soon be an arid and lifeless desert. Shamara's hope was
reborn that they might use the long, relatively cool nights to good use. But by afternoon, she saw
the thought die once again: the hills were gone, nothing remained except slight undulations that
would doubtless continue to decrease; but the ravines had returned, and were now nearly vertical
cuts of varying depth and width, erratically slicing across the plain in frustrating profusion.
Occasionally the companions could walk along the bottom of one of the clefts, but at odd and
unpredictable intervals they were forced to climb up or down treacherously steep banks. She
thought it was like a gigantic mudflat, cracked and dried in the harsh sun; the troublesome
ravines the expansion lines from the drying and shrinking soil. No wonder the degenerated
Athalians may think of us as superhuman. If we did not have the robots to carry our water. . .
We are fortunate it is winter. This must be hell itself in the summer. Never have I dreamed of
such desolation.
Moriah followed the Path like a beeline, never avoiding a cleft when it crossed their
route. For a while that long afternoon, Shamara tried to find simpler passages, sending the
Weedeaters to the east and west. But finally she concluded that crossing this erratic land was as
easy by the straight method as any other. Reluctantly she gave the order to halt at dusk, just as
the cooler air began to refresh their bodies. Or rather, some of their bodies: the machines, of
course, did not notice the searing air; neither did Moriah or Krishanu. The rest of them suffered
silently, following their own thoughts and feelings through the tortuous daylight hours.
That night, as the robots talked quietly together (wholly certain there could be no enemies
in this destroyed land) and the humans slept the deep sleep of exhaustion (except Krishanu: he
sat, his unwinking raven eyes gazing into eternity as if he were attempting to demonstrate Matri's
age-old affirmation, "I am wholly That, nothing other than That; I see naught but That, utterly
absorbing and enrapturing my soul"), a shadow slipped silently among the companions, taking
long minutes for each movement, attempting to mimic randomness lest sleepers wake or
watchful minds notice. Carefully, taking an hour or more, the shadow worked around the
Guardian, Oman. Slowly, cautiously, the shadow moved Shamara's arm from the chalice of the
dora. Another half an hour and the chalice was lifted–slowly, heartbeat by heartbeat, randomly,
gently readjusting pressures, equalizing–lifted and removed from the Oblation Bearer's relentless
hold. And then the shadow, standing in one swift motion, opened the chalice and put the dora to
her lips.
Oman tackled her at once, spilling the Oblation over the dry soil. Noleta struggled feebly
in his iron grip, as if the tension of her long labor had left her emotionally and physically
exhausted. But the truth was, she felt there was no further need: she had succeeded! She had
felt the dora trickle down her throat. She had tasted it! Not much, but she felt sure it would be
enough.
"What do we have here?" said the Oblation Bearer, staring curiously at the chalice in the
illumination of the robots' lights.
"Shamara!" cried Oman, sitting up and holding the girl with one arm. "I have failed you
again. I am unworthy of your service."
"No, rajanya, you have, as always, been exemplary. None could have done better.
Tanya, Asta, I must ask you to watch Noleta in the future. Apparently she cannot be trusted."
"Shamara! I should have warned you she coveted the dora," exclaimed Narda, her near
hysteria contrasting markedly with the Oblation Bearer's perfect calmness. "And she has drunk it
all. I am so ashamed."
"No, my Lady of the Gray Isles, your concern is misplaced. She drank a small fraction
only, probably less than a hundredth part. Not enough to cure her body. But it may save the
embryo."
"What!" cried Noleta, suddenly alert to the conversation. "What do you mean! I am not–
"
"You are, child. Thus begins the fulfillment of Matri's prophecy about Zaki's final
betrayal against your family. For yourself, you have wholly failed; another will live in your
stead."
"No!" screamed Noleta, pulling hard against Oman's tight grip. "I'm young! I want to
live! It's not fair!"
"If you continue as you have, even your death will be miserable," said 'Vered, rarely
contemptuous. "I begin to think we have slain two of our companions in error."
"Zaki deserved his fate," said Oman. "And Pazia as well, according to the code of the
Weedeaters' sisterhood. It is not the human way to kill children, Gardener. Even if the spirit in
the body is not that of a child. If adults allow themselves to be swayed by logic from such a one,
they should certainly not be surprised by whatever comes to them."
"Perhaps so," said 'Vered, far from convinced. "I also charge you, Tanya, to guard this
young traitor well."
"We will never cease to watch her. Shamara, I almost fear to ask you what you intend to
do now that the dora is lost?"
"The dora? Lost?" Shamara looked bewildered for a moment, then said cheerfully, "Oh,
of course you do not understand. We are inside Tahir's Circle. We can rearrange the position of
the Oblation herein without affecting it. The only way it can be lost is by offering it into the fire
of the Sacrifice."
"I did not know that," said 'Sravasa.
"Nor did I," said Oman, looking at his mistress with an odd mingling of curiosity, awe
and love.
"Nor did I," she laughed in response to their doubts, "until the dora occupied me long
enough to share Moriah's vision. You see the truth, don't you, Guide of the Path?"
"The Oblation is not lost," Moriah said, staring at the ground. "I can see it, just there.
But I do not know how to recall it. Is it possible?"
"Effortlessly," said Shamara, setting the chalice down where it spilled when Oman
captured Noleta. "Dora, smara. Kritau yagyan smara. Dora smara, smara," which those who
could understand languages heard as, "Remember, essence of life. Remember the action of the
Sacrifice. Remember, essence of life, remember."
The ethereal light of the Oblation appeared on the dry earth, rising upward in response to
her command, coalescing into a brilliant sphere of self-luminous opalescence. It drifted over and
settled into the chalice as if it were a conscious entity returning to its home.
The Oblation Bearer closed the lid with a snap. Then she huddled the chalice to her as
she had from the beginning, and said, "Now I suggest we finish our night's rest. We should
begin with first light."
The eighth morning after leaving Matri, Narda awoke before the others and lay quietly,
feeling her decaying body as an abominable weight of corrupting flesh. She could not remember
ever feeling worse; yet still she resisted her mind's insistence to take the tablets Gotaman had
given them. She, far more than any of the others, was a creature of Martanda. She had loved her
life with Moriah and his family in the Gray Isles, had often been the only one in their village to
be heard singing through their oppressed days, had been constantly cheerful in the face of
adversity. But this rotting flesh was draining her will more quickly and thoroughly than she
would have believed possible. If only there was someone who needed her, someone she could
help! But her husband was supremely content in his new world; Noleta always rebuffed even her
softest attempts to console her.
It had been four days since her niece had tried to drink the dora; four days of brutally
incomprehensible heat on the open flats, four days of impossible climbs up and down through the
interminable ravines. Narda had continued to plod along, though her dying body screamed in
agony from each dawn until the unforgiving heat drove all awareness of pain from her as her
throbbing awareness was entirely focused on each additional step through this blistering
nightmare.
Noleta had given up the afternoon after her last failure; Asta had carried her since then.
The girl, half-alert, lay in the Weedeater's encircling tentacles like an insect caught by some
gargantuan omnivorous plant, and refused to walk or even speak. Occasionally she would
whimper to herself silently. Was it to elicit sympathy? Or were her pathetic attempts truly all
she could anymore manage of mutual intercourse?
Narda had asked Asta her thoughts on the subject the previous evening, the Weedeater's
response may or may not have been particularly astute, "Noleta has died to Martanda." Did the
Oblation work in her to her destruction? Did it heal the fetus at the expense of the host's
conscious mind? Or was it that her three failed attempts at stealing the dora had rebounded upon
her, so that she had given up her will to survive?
Narda did not know the answer, but one thing was certain: she was of no more use to
Noleta than she was to Moriah. The one was utterly self-sufficient; the other, totally withdrawn;
both were as far from the fisherwoman as if they inhabited another planet. She was useless, an
excess piece of baggage, diminishing their supplies without making the slightest return; she was
a human leech.
After they wrestled with the brutal land for four long and soul-searing hours that day–
hours that left Narda incapable of any thought but occasional flitting fantasies of verdancy–they
came to the deepest and steepest ravine they had yet had the misfortune to encounter. Moriah
did not give it a second thought, nor even a second glance, but began the descent into its ques-
tionable depths immediately. The others followed him, some grateful to be out of the sunlight
for a time, some as mindlessly as herd animals.
About a third of the way down, Narda could feel no further foot or hand holds within
reach. She waited a few moments, unconsciously assuming the fog would surely soon lift from
her brain, now that they were out of the sun. But the minutes passed, and no clarity returned.
She was last in line; the others were all far below her now, apparently having no undue trouble
with the descent. She clung to the rock, patiently waiting, but could think of nothing to do.
They had gone down this way, but she could find no holds within reach. It was most perplexing.
Perhaps the poison of Tilvia had so much affected her mind that no return of clarity could
ever come: it would have been an absurdly simple thing to go back up a little way, cross over
and follow the line the others had taken. But she could no longer make such a straightforward
deduction. Or perhaps her feeling of uselessness was responsible: she may have longed for
surcease of physical and emotional strain, at any cost.
Whatever the cause, she could not see how to move, and clung to the rock like a damaged
fly, waiting for insight. Far below, she could see Moriah, already at the bottom, starting to cross
to the other side. He looked very tiny, improbably small; could he really be so far away? A deep
longing flowed through her to be with him again, to have a simple life with him again, in any
place, in any time. The oppression in the Gray Isles was severe, but she had been happy there;
she would be happy anywhere, if only her husband could be with her again. "Moriah," she said
softly, as a tear rolled down her discolored cheek over the dying flesh, "Moriah, don't go. I'm
coming, dear. Just a moment, Moriah. I'm coming."
Uchai-sravasa's shout caused them to look back at the cliff. Someone was still up there!
Nearly at the top. "Narda!" cried Moriah. "Wait! We're coming."
Too late! If she heard him or not was unclear; but she loosed her holds just then and
stepped off into space. The companions watched, united in their horror, as she fell down the
sheer wall. It seemed to take a very long time for her to reach the ground.
Moriah lifted Narda's head gently onto his lap, then softly wiped the blood from the
corners of her mouth. She looked up at him with clear eyes and said hoarsely, "I follow the
traditional path of a worthy mate, husband. I see your new world now, its loveliness shining on
the surface of everything, even in this dead and barren land. I will precede you there to prepare
for your coming."
"Hush," he said as his tears vainly attempted to clean the death from her face: this, at
least, had reached him. Was not Almira‘s World primarily of the heart? "Hush. You will be
fine. Just rest for a moment."
Shamara said, "Here, we can give her the dora. It matters not the use of the Oblation
inside Tahir's scribing." She cracked open the chalice and held it close to her lips.
"I desire not your gift, Bearer of the Final Oblation!" Narda exclaimed with a vehemence
that surprised them, coming from so ruined a frame. "But I thank you for the offer. . . I wish to
prepare the way for Moriah. . . Would you deny me my right? From age to age the dawn
precedes the Sun. . . It is perfect and proper that it should be so. Hold me, beloved, let me
pretend for a moment more that you need me as once you did; let me look into your face and see
the ultimate value of Para. . ." Ah, the thousand-petalled flower returns! I see you, Moriah!
standing on the pericarp, modifying the waves of change by your every thought and act. Fool
that I was, to consider you a mortal man! May the gods forgive my presumption. Moriah!
Beloved! Ah, Moriah. . .
Her body heaved once violently and was still; but her eyes stared on, now as unwinking
as Krishanu's, up at the face of her companion and lover.
Tanya and Asta labored for several hours to cut the hard stone of the ravine to make
Narda's grave; Shamara insisted the companions spend the night there to honor her memory.
When the body was interred and the stone replaced, Moriah and Noleta knelt by her tomb
throughout the long winter's night. The one was repentant at last, the other deeply hurt in spite
of the unending bliss pulsing ever more forcefully through his veins. Narda had, after all, been
completely wrong about them both: the poison had decayed her mind. All the ecstasy of the
Source Universe could not have made Moriah love her any less; Noleta had held onto her aunt's
incorruptibility of spirit as her one stable counterpoint to the degenerating ideas erupting in her
mind like a noisome stench of fetid decay. With Narda gone–Narda, who was always somehow
more of a mother than her own Olethea–she was utterly alone before the seductive horrors of her
corrupting mind, naked before the vast powers fighting within her for control of her soul. Now
how could she maintain the stasis she had entered as her only safe response to the terror of their
frightening demands? Her last support had been stolen from her.
"She who loved Martanda is gone," said Asta to Tanya after they finished the grave.
"She whose love alone inspired us to spare these in the Crystal Valley has been married to their
Path as a stepping stone. What do we do now?"
"What do we do, sister? Why, we assume her mantle, of course. If she cannot live to
love the world, we will have to do so for her."
"And the others?"
"We watch, we listen, we wait. As Gotaman instructed us. Let us not commit Pazia's
error, sister. We must not act until we are certain who they are. Only then will there be no
mistake."
Jonasa-Vered stood apart from the others and thought about their condition. He was
perceptive enough to realize that Gotaman, through the instrumentality of the weapons unit, had
modified his attitude about the Weedeaters and their city. He was not particularly upset by this,
no more than a man would be to learn that the objective report he was studying was in fact subtly
disguised propaganda. He could, after all, remove the indoctrinating weapons unit later, when it
was certain the young Master no longer needed him to have such powers.
No, Gotaman's modifications were not important. But there was something else about the
Weedeaters that did not settle well. What? His own guilt for not recognizing Pazia's treacherous
weakness? A general and persistent discomfort that came from dealing with renegades? Or
something else, something about their unspoken silences, their not quite verbal understandings
that did not synchronize with his own beliefs? Something only slightly twisted, yet something
highly significant.
A drop of rain spattered on his top plate; Jonasa-Vered thought that extremely odd for the
desert, but ignored it to continue his analysis. Shamara never gave him many instructions; the
few she had given were specific and dealt mostly with their journey. Very well, if the New
Master was silent, it must be that the final words of the Old Masters were still operative. They
had told him, impressed it upon his most fundamental circuitry, to Watch. Very well. Shamara
was the Master, there was no need to Watch her. Oman was her age-old warrior-servant,
companion and friend, far beyond any suspicion. The peculiar unconscious skill at purifying the
Path that 'Vered had discovered in the dwarf's inherent nature did not particularly interest him.
Krishanu could certainly be doubted, except for the fact that his unending trance made him rather
poor material for Watching: if 'Sravasa told him to walk, he walked; if he said to sit, he sat; to
climb, he climbed; to eat, to drink, to evacuate, he ate, drank, evacuated. But there was no self-
consciousness in his acts, he was like a–well, like a machine, a particularly stupid and
unresponsive machine, less aware than a Planter. Maybe if he eventually woke up a little more,
he might bear Watching; but now, other than an occasional check to see if he had changed, there
was simply no point.
Several more drops of rain spattered his steel, and he rotated a crystal skyward; yes, it
was true, the stars that had been visible through the banks of the ravine were gone, buried
beneath thick clouds. How strange for the desert. Had it been storming for a long time in the
mountains?
Uchai-sravasa was remarkable for his arcane knowledge. But if 'Vered had understood
their conversations correctly, he was a brother of Shamara's father and bound to her for a variety
of reasons, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual. He was trustworthy, beyond question; the
Gardener was sure of that.
Moriah was also not worth a moment's further thought: he was so thoroughly engrossed
in the Oblation Bearer's project that he lived more in her world of origin than in Martanda. His
niece was of course another matter, but the Weedeaters were guarding her well. Or were they?
Where was she now? There, still by the grave of her aunt, kneeling next to Moriah. And there
were Tanya and Asta, standing just behind at a discreet distance, but nevertheless close enough
to stop her at once if she attempted any further violence. He was not sure, but felt certain large
portions of their multi-faceted eyes were focused on the girl. Good. So she was being well
watched. He would continue to check on her regularly, just to be sure; but the Weedeaters were
apparently being most cautious in following the Oblation Bearer's instructions.
The rain began to beat an irregular song on him; he was reminded of how, as a Gardener
in pre-war Tilvia, he had enjoyed the rain marching over his croplands, bringing nourishment
and life. The Masters had controlled the weather: the rains were usually predictable, in proper
amounts for the various gardens. It was rarely necessary to irrigate; when they had to, a complex
system of canals and ditches had kept the land alive. He had enjoyed that too, watching the
life-bringing water flooding through their intricate systems.
If not Noleta, if not any of the humans, then what was there to Watch? The barren land?
It wrenched the complex mass of mnemonic circuitry that served as his emotional heart to
remember how lovely it had been; but it was intrinsically inactive in its death, particularly here
in this desert: no point in wasting his time on that. Then what? There was no one, nothing, no
one. Except the Weedeaters? Why should that be so? Machines, even highly sophisticated,
intelligent machines should be above suspicion. Unless. . . unless there was something in
them. . . something that should be obvious but was eluding him. . . Had Gotaman so altered him
that he could not suspect them? How had he overlooked Pazia's destructive mutation of thought?
It was so very long since he had been required to think: for so very long he had only Watched.
Now he needed to think rationally, needed to very badly, but somehow could not put the pieces
together. . . If only the rain would stop hammering at him. . . Something was out of place,
something very wrong, yes, something more than just some potential anomaly in the Weedeaters,
something that was everyday, ordinary, but something that somehow was being used
exceptionally, or occasionally. . . If not the Weedeaters, perhaps the ravines. . . Or maybe even
the rain. . . Long periods of drought. . . Irrigating the crops. . . The canals of Old Tilvia. . . The
irrigation ditches!
"Shamara!" he cried as the thought exploded in him. "Shamara! It's raining!"
"What?" she said, mostly asleep. "Why, good. It will be cooler tomorrow." A good time
for a little rain. Not worth a second thought.
"Good," said Oman, only slightly more awake. "Maybe we can catch some." The carried
water had begun to taste quite stale.
"No, you don't understand," said 'Vered, trying not to sound as agitated as he felt. After
all, he was just a Gardener, not really supposed to be an independent agent; he could be wrong.
"We are at the bottom of–"
"By the Seven!" cried Shamara, abruptly fully awake. "Tanya! Asta! Pick them up!
Run! 'Sravasa! Quickly! Up the far side! Not a moment to lose!" She dragged Oman upright
and scrabbled up the scree.
Jonasa-Vered was of course correct. The walls of the flood smashed into them before
they were halfway out of the ravine. The robots alone saved them then: Moriah hung on to
Tanya as she tenaciously climbed through the rushing water; Asta carried Noleta to safety;
'Vered somehow held onto both Oman and Shamara and kept them from being swept away. For
a terribly long moment, they all thought the Etanai were lost: the Weedeaters' searchlights
probing the moiling water revealed nothing. But then first 'Sravasa and then Krishanu surfaced,
climbing as though there was no flood raging at them, using their mastery of natural law to
anchor themselves as spontaneously and effortlessly as average men use gravity.
"I am sorry about Narda," said Shamara to Moriah as they were set down on the high
ground. "She must have been swept away in that. A pity we did not think of it."
"No, my Lady of the Path, you do not know our people. My greatest grief about her
passing was that her body could not join the sea. But now the flood will carry her to her long
home. It is good, more than good: It is perfect. I am most grateful."
But as they set forth that day, there was cause to regret his gratitude: the high land had
become a virtually impassable morass of knee-deep mud, the ravines a roiling chaos that had to
be followed long distances until suitable crossings could be found. And when the rain finally
stopped and the clouds dissipated three hours after dawn, the sun beat forth harshly, as if it were
eager to compensate for the rare violation of its brutal demesne.
"At least the heat should dry the mud," muttered Oman, hopping from hot waist-deep
mire to super-heated knee-deep mud to shoulder deep scorching muck. "I wondered what could
possibly happen to make this delightful journey any more difficult." No one bothered to answer
him; he wondered rather ruefully if the radiation had begun to affect his mind. His body was
beginning to feel uncomfortable with itself, but there as yet was only one external sign of the
inevitable process – a small boil on the back of his left hand. But internally, he could feel the
degenerating changes. Worst of all, he had begun to question himself: how many times already
had he failed her? The worst affliction for a warrior, self-doubt, was gnawing inexorably at his
spirit. How could he be effective for Shamara if he were unsure of himself?
The dwarf hopped over to 'Sravasa and asked, "What do you know of the effects of
radiation poisoning? Can it break the will before it destroys the body?"
The Etan, most of his awareness absorbed in viewing his mind-born child growing (his
continual act of attention seemed to nourish it) said vaguely, "There is no reason to assume it
might not."
Oman looked up at him, wondering if perhaps they all were being systematically ruined.
Was this Navril's scheme? To damage them to the point where he could effortlessly use the dora
for his own ends? "Why do you think the Enemy has not attacked us again since we entered
Tilvia?" he asked, wondering if he might reach the Etan along this different tack.
"I do not believe he ever intended to stop us, rajanya, only to slow us significantly,
thereby weakening our effect."
"What possible difference could a handful of days make?" asked 'Vered, lumbering to
them through the mud, his curiosity piqued by this discussion of the age-old foe of his Masters.
"He has had a century already. How could it possibly matter?"
"My brother was forever a perfectionist in his attention to detail," said Shamara,
struggling over to them. Her tone might have been bitter–or perhaps, it was merely sad. "He
times life to the minute in everything, trying to force innocent growth into the exact boundaries
of his will. It is perfectly reasonable to assume he found a matter of days–even hours–highly
important. And it certainly is logical that he desires us to arrive at the throne weak, at the end of
our capabilities, the more easily to force us to his desire."
"If he considers this Sacrifice vital," said 'Vered, "why has he not acted to alter it sooner?
Why did he allow the earlier Oblation Bearers to succeed?"
"We do not know the extent of their success," said 'Sravasa, finally becoming slightly
interested in the conversation, "Matri told us only that they all reached the throne. Whether their
dora arrived whole or incomplete is unknown. Navril may have already fundamentally altered
the effect of our Oblation–there is no way to know."
"This is the reason," said Shamara, "that the Final Oblation is the strongest. All the
previous together do not equal its power. To twist it to his purpose, this is the Enemy's great
prize, for which he has long worked and schemed."
"Why then does he not simply descend on us in force?" asked 'Vered, his logical mind
not to be so easily dissuaded. "And take the Oblation to use as he wishes? Why go to such
peculiar lengths?"
"The reason," answered 'Sravasa, "is that, being what he is, he cannot open the gateway
to Para. He could not carry the dora–it would instantly return to lifeless matter. He desires to
own the Path after it is completed, but cannot unfold it by himself. He wants to use us for his
own ends."
"I understand nothing of your purposes, plans or methods," complained the old Gardener.
"It makes it frustrating, harder to serve you innocently and effectively."
"It is complex," said the Etan, "but the essence is simple: there is a struggle for control of
this cosmos which may have begun with its creation. There are two forces that war continually,
the power that leads to life and growth, and its converse, that which tends to decay and death."
"But," interjected Tanya, coming up to them to share her thoughts, "if you view the
Enemy in such terms, he is not evil. Merely the agent of the inevitable cyclic pattern you
describe."
"Who ruled that life must be chained to death?" asked 'Sravasa. "Simply because we
have not known existence otherwise doesn‘t imply it has to be so. I have heard of dimensions of
reality where death and even change are forever unknown."
"Such is Para," said Shamara, by now following Moriah's lead in perception as she still
did his steps. "There the Enemy exists only as dimly remembered tales from the lower dimen-
sions. Rarely thought of, if not wholly forgotten. There is no death there, no decay, nothing of
the blemishes of this temporal three-dimensional world."
"To resume my theme," said 'Sravasa, "these two forces have become increasingly
localized in specific space, time and causation boundaries of late–particularly within the last five
million years or so. Why this has happened is not exactly clear, but my theory is that this is the
inevitable result of this distorted Universe being able to exist at all. This is therefore not to be
feared: to dispose of negativity, it must be given a channel by which it may depart.
"About two hundred twenty thousand years ago, humanity's high civilization on Ganym
began to decay. For some reason, the Enemy had focused himself increasingly there. Eventually
my elder brother Arama realized his race was doomed and fled to Martanda, bringing with him
those of his people who were free of the Betrayer.
"But Arama was beguiled by love for his youngest son, Navril Hagar, and could not
recognize how utterly he had been possessed. Arama was very old by then; perhaps the loss of
his wife Jaya in the last war on Ganym had led him to be overly attached to the final offspring of
her flesh.
"Whatever the cause, he did not know him until it was too late: Navril slew him and stole
his means for artificial immortality: his clone bank.
"Navril was diabolically clever. It took years before it was known what had happened;
by then, most of the descendants of the refugees from Ganym had been corrupted by his infernal
schemes.
"Brihas was the first to conclude Arama was no longer inhabiting Arama's body, and
began this Atira to slay the Usurper and restore the Lord of Man to his rightful frame.
"When my father discovered the truth about his son, he slew his clone body and, in a
great war, burned Martanda to the extent that ten only of the humans survived. And, of course,
the Atira Priests and sharans and rajanyas participating in Brihas' Atira. But they were not living
on the Martanda in which we live, having crossed over via the mechanics of the Sacrifice to
another dimensional world, a world in such a temporal relation to ours that a hundred years here
were but a few hours there. From there they have returned, century after century, to participate
in the Atira, none of them much older than when Navril in Arama's body still ruled mankind
from the Solar Throne in Vadil, on the other side of the world."
"But if your father Swayam destroyed the clone, who then is the Asur Emperor Valin?"
asked the Gardener.
"The reality of our time grows increasingly complex, 'Vered. Everyone, including
Swayam, Matri and Brihas, believed that Arama's clone bodies perished when Martanda was
burned by Swayam. Therefore the Seven decided the Sacrifice should be subtly altered: since
Arama's first body was slain, the situation would be artificially recreated in a second body.
Krishanu was born to bear this burden: in him, for nearly a hundred thousand years, have lived
both Arama and Navril, both unconscious, waiting through the long centuries for the completion
of the Sacrifice, at which time–"
"You said that Krishanu is nearly a hundred thousand years old?" interrupted Tanya, with
as much incredulity as her programming allowed. "And that he is your younger brother?"
"Swayam gifted his later children physical immortality, Reverend Mother. You could not
have destroyed our bodies in your Crystal Valley by any means, even if you had tried for a very
long time."
"But if the Enemy is locked inside your brother's body," said 'Vered impatiently (what
possible relevance did life-spans have with anything?) "How is it that Martanda is so corrupted
and ruled by the Asur Emperor Valin? I concluded from your earlier discussions that Navril was
Valin. But you said–"
"I said it became more complex," said 'Sravasa with a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Before Swayam burned Martanda, Navril not only effectively protected the stolen clone bank,
but also devised some method of vivifying one of its bodies with his disembodied spirit, even if
his previous body were not present at the site. Or so we assume. . ."
"And yet the Sacrifice had been altered, its angle changed," mused 'Vered, at last seeing a
glimmering of understanding. "And so this Atira actually forced the Enemy to divide. Instead of
one Betrayer, we now have two; one living inside this Etan. . . Why did the Seven not stop the
Sacrifice when they learned of their error?"
"It was not possible," said Shamara, perhaps sadly. "Once the first dora was carried to
the uttara vedi, we had no choice but to continue. But perhaps our latest modifications will
succeed in our purpose. Assuming we can cross this steaming mire of impossibility."
"Are you telling us that you are going to such extraordinary lengths to walk into a
probable trap?" asked Asta with anger. She was still, as always, carrying Noleta; she had joined
them some time before. They were all walking closely together now, listening carefully. The
only exception was Moriah; he was ahead of them all, lost in his private world. "You let your
companions one by one be slain, knowing your work is probably useless or perverted?"
"Probably? I think not probably," answered Shamara. "It is certainly possible that Valin
has succeeded in making our end as he desires. But fortunately, he does not know all our
thoughts. We have good reason to believe he may fail."
"But you do not know?" persisted the Weedeater, not content with her imprecision.
Biologicals were so frustrating! Was nothing ever straightforward with them?
"No, we do not know. The Enemy's subtlety is at once his greatest asset and his greatest
liability. If we can manipulate the Sacrifice as delicately as musicians their reeds, we have every
hope we may succeed."
"The world is less real than the reflection of a mountain in a calm lake; it is very like a
wave of foam floating on the sea," said 'Sravasa distantly, once again absorbed in his inner
project.
"I almost remember that," said Oman, puzzling out the Etan's meaning. "Was it not said
once before?"
"It was," answered Shamara with a grim tone that caused the Guardian to look up at her
with deep concern. "By my younger brother, Navril Hagar. . ."
"Shamara!" cried Moriah from a few paces ahead. "Do you think these ravines are safe
to cross again? The Path runs straight here; as you can see, in either direction it looks no better.
Do you think we should try?"
Shamara joined him on the lip of the canyon, looked down and saw it was true: the water
had largely receded; what was still flowing through the bottom did not seem particularly deep.
Apparently they were on the verge of re-entering the "normal" conditions of the previous few
days–but now, of course, no one but Oman and Noleta was really aware of the oppressive march
and the desultory heat. And the Guardian was, after all, a rajanya; he could endure it. The girl
was another matter, but she was curved into a tight fetal ball inside the mesh of Asta's tentacles,
had said nothing since they escaped the flood; she seemed to all purposes entirely catatonic.
Whether she were still scheming covetous plans for the dora was not clear, but her body had
apparently accepted (for the moment, at least) total defeat.
No, of all the Oblation Bearer's companions, there was none that needed her concern at
this time, or probably for the remainder of the journey to Athalia. So the only question was how
to arrive there most quickly; Moriah's following of the Path had always proved the best. If he
suggested descent now, why should she not immediately agree? But some vague foreboding
caused her to postpone her decision as she looked down into the dark water flowing through the
ravine.
"I think I would like to stay here an hour or so. I don't know, perhaps a mudslide. . . Let's
allow the banks to dry a while longer." They had been fortunate so far, in spite of the hard
going: most of the ravines today were far apart and small, easy to step or leap over, the few large
and deep canyons not too difficult to go around. This was the first major obstacle. She felt
unwilling to make the choice.
And then her mind abstracted: why was she unable or unwilling to decide? Since the
dora had entered her, she had acted from profound intuition: every thought had flowed through
her with perfect ease and grace, completely in accord with both her mind and heart. But now she
felt confused, disturbed by her indecisiveness: was the radiation affecting her mind? The dora
had returned life to her body, but had it passed over her spirit? How could that, even theoreti-
cally, be possible? Maybe it was just the heat–the sun was as searing, as oppressive as her mind
could imagine. Or was it from the forced period of hard marches, with no real challenge other
than where to put her feet?
A sudden crawling on the back of her neck made her whirl and look at Krishanu. He was
staring at her with something other than his usual vacuous expression of Eternity! His glance
was utterly unnerving: if ever eyes had the ability to look at someone and see them completely,
missing not the subtlest nuance of their character or past, these were surely such eyes. She felt
like both falling at his feet and begging to be treated like a child and, conversely, fleeing from
him across all of space and time to escape his deeply penetrating force.
Being intrinsically incapable of either act, she did the only other thing that came to mind:
she stared back, focusing her dora-saturated vision onto the Etan. The Oblation flowed out from
her, a gentle diaphanous aureate mist, questing toward the sable eyes that had become so
unsettling. Briefly she enfolded the Etan with her perception; then she was repulsed by a force
that was more powerful than that of the dora, yet perhaps no less benign.
She recoiled under the pressure of his superior power; her eyes misted momentarily, as if
badly strained. When they cleared, two virtually identical Krishanus stood facing her. The only
difference between them was their eyes: one of them had eyes as the original–black on black;
the other owned the azure eyes of Arama. The two Krishanus looked at her with their unwinking
eyes that possessed infinite knowledge. Or perhaps their bottomless gaze was the reflection of
omnipotent power.
Shamara stared back at them, winking to end the hallucination, but it refused to pass: the
Krishanus did not reunite. And then, behind them, she saw gray-cloaked figures slowly walking
toward her. She resisted looking at the newcomers, as she was nearly wholly absorbed in the
quartet of eyes staring at her, but as they grew larger and closer she could not keep from glancing
at them. Then she nearly screamed: it was those of her companions who had died in their efforts
to aid her. Narda led them now, her deep, lovely eyes afflicted with the pain of having lost her
Martanda at last. A scowling Zaki was to her left; Shamara wondered what he might have made
of himself if he had not followed her. To her right were Cadmar and Olethea, both utterly grim;
behind them were the five unsmiling children. And behind them all, gesturing to her as if in
supplication, were Panphila and Xenas.
Shamara stared at them all with an overpowering melancholy, convinced their hard fates
were wholly her fault. If she had only been a little wiser, a little stronger or perhaps more
cautious, these poor ones of this strange age would still inhabit their bodies, still be following
their traditional paths to happiness. What right did she have to impose the Sacrifice on them?
Why should it be necessary to spill modern blood on the Path of the Gods?
Shamara stared at them all, thinking they were the expressed manifestation of her guilt,
wondering how to atone for her shortcomings. She was caught by the heavy emotion for a long
time, but then chanced to look up, over their heads. Tahir was there! scribing his circle around
the field of action of the Sacrifice, forever vigilant and active. What would happen to the Fisher
People when the dora was united with the fire of the uttara vedi and the circle shrank to become
a point? Would the wraiths following her be extinguished like used candles? Or would they
return to their mind-created worlds to join the larger portion of their spirits, already experiencing
the logical antecedent of their lives?
She shuddered to see Tahir there; such an awful weight he had willingly imposed upon
himself, and for what? Love of her, or of the Sacrifice? Probably some of both. Yet another life
distorted because of her influence. . . Who was the true Enemy? Navril or her own self? And
what if she could not finish the Sacrifice as planned? How many more would die or live twisted
lives of failure because of her inadequacy? Did two thousand earlier Bearers, Guardians and
Followers live and die for a false dream, or a dream ruined or distorted beyond all recognition by
her own limitations?
Guilt. Fear of failure, fear of partial success. These were what had paralyzed her before
the ravine. The corrupting death of Tilvia may have accentuated the emotions, may have
increased their power over her, but it did not add anything not already existing within her.
Minutes could mean all the difference in the fate of the people of Athalia, the last remnant of the
Tilvian civilization. Descendants of her own peers! Descendants of her friends and family of
but a few days ago, according to the reckoning of the world they had borrowed to await their
appointed turns. Her own relatives, then! And yet she stood here like a vassal in someone else's
kingdom, unable or unwilling to follow the prompting of her own intuition and the dora.
She looked back at the duplicated Krishanus. The one with the eyes of Arama was
smiling at her! A great, big, laughing smile that said he understood her perfectly and felt her
problems to be no more important than the concerns of a child. With his silent laughter, her
mind rebounded onto itself, rebounded and exploded in spirals of light, the dora experiencing
itself and unfolding itself to itself. She felt herself carried into a realm of space and time that
was infinite in dimension, eternal in duration, absolute in perfection. From there, there could be
no return, no thought of return, no memory of any other world or reality, of anything else other
than this unchanging sphere of unbounded light. . .
"What can be the point of waiting?" asked Oman, trying the mud with his foot. "It seems
stable enough to me."
"What?" asked Shamara, completely confused as to who she was or where. "What did
you say?"
"I said," said Oman, looking up at her with doubt suddenly full grown in his brown eyes,
"that the bank of this ravine looks sound. I see no point in waiting five minutes, let alone an
hour." Too much time had been lost in this errant Sacrifice already to suit his nature. Besides,
the ravine would certainly be cooler than these sun baked flats.
"Oh–" said Shamara, turning her head to look at Krishanu. The Etan was staring into
space, as mindlessly as he had done since the Weedeaters exposed him to his self-created world
in the Crystal Valley and he had discovered in an instant that it was nearly infinite, containing
within its scope most, if not all, of our cosmos–and perhaps a great deal more besides.
"Oh," said Shamara again, looking beyond Krishanu for the shades of her departed
companions or Tahir's circle of truth, but seeing only barren desert and painfully blue sky, "I–I
suppose you're right, Oman. No need. . .no need to wait. If Moriah feels it is safe."
"The Path is clear and straight, Shamara," answered the Fisherman. "I think I doubted it
only because of yesterday's accident. I see no logical reason to wait."
Doubt. And guilt. And fear. "Then, let us proceed. I apologize for my reticence." A subjective
hour in no time at all? It seemed impossible but certain. Could radiation poisoning cause such a
time distortion? Or was it the effect of the dora? Or from some other cause? She glanced again
at Krishanu, but could see no clue there. What? How? And Where?
Crossing the ravine was not easy. Even the robots had trouble with the north wall: the
mud was slippery, the rocks treacherous. Shamara pulled herself over the last lip of the cliff,
wondering how she could possibly feel so tired, and dropped to her knees in exhaustion. But
then she laughed gaily as she looked at the ground: it was covered with tiny flowers of every
possible tint and shape running like a blanket as far as the eye could see, coloring the desert in
polychromatic hues. Was it necessary for most of the day to pass to bring these delightful plants
from the soil? Or did the last ravine mark a dividing line between the utterly dead and the
partially alive?
"Shamara, what is it?" asked Oman, just coming out of the canyon, seeing her kneeling as
if in pain, incapable of rising. But her eyes spoke her joy; she pointed at the ground. Mystified,
he stared at the earth and saw the countless tiny flowering plants. He laughed then too: never
had such a diminutive display of beauty seemed more monumentally significant.
Jonasa-Vered was confused by the happiness which spread infectiously to Moriah and
Uchai-sravasa; he turned his three crystals from one to the other in astonishment as they knelt
and stared at the ground and laughed as uproariously as if they had all gone mad. Even Noleta
opened an eye to peek at them. But Tanya looked with approval at the humans, feeling perhaps
she had judged correctly at the Crystal Valley after all.
They came upon no more ravines of any size by sunset; the Oblation Bearer saw no
reason not to continue on: she was not so fatigued as to want to miss the opportunity of a cooler
journey. As the countless suns of Narain's Garden began appearing overhead, they continued
behind Moriah like the shaft of an arrow behind its point.

After a few hours of crossing the desert, the soft flowers beneath their feet began to be
replaced by sand. Shamara did not think much about it at first, but it gradually became deeper.
She stumbled once and fell; when she got up she was surprised to find both hands bleeding. It
was not an ordinary sand: each particle was like a small dagger–unbelievably sharp, potentially
lethal. It was a minor miracle Gotaman's weathersuit boots had not been shredded by now. How
much could they take of this?
The answer was evident by midnight as first hers, then Moriah's, then Oman's boots were
ruined. They tried to tear material from the suits to bind their feet, but it was as unbreakable as if
it were of spun steel. Tanya suggested they let her try; she seared through the fabric neatly with
one of her incarnadine crystals.
By dawn, Shamara was exhausted; she wanted to continue, but felt the coming heat a
sufficient reason to halt. But 'Vered said, "If you feel time is important, we can carry you
alternately."
Moriah said, "There is no reason to halt as far as I am concerned."
Oman agreed fervently, although he was nearly as tired as the virtually debilitated
Oblation Bearer.
"Who should be carried first?" asked Shamara, hardly able to stand.
"I have no desire to be carried like a side of beef," said Oman stubbornly.
'Sravasa said, "Etanai are hard to fatigue. We have no need of their assistance."
"Then it is settled," said Shamara, her eyes fighting to close of their own accord.
"Moriah aboard Tanya, myself on Jonasa-Vered. And Oman can alternate with us when he feels
the need–but no later than noon, at any rate."
She clambered aboard 'Vered. His four arms did not make a particularly comfortable
lounge, but she twisted and wrapped her weathersuit around her, softening the hardest places
without unduly exposing her skin to the brutality of the coming day. It was hard to finish; the
encroaching exhaustion could not be appeased without claiming her conscious mind. She stared
through her half-opened eyelids as the ground rocked up and down for all of a minute before
they gently closed and she was deeply breathing, lost to the world.
Shamara did not awaken again until just before sunset. Her first sensation led her to
think it must have rained again: she was soaking wet. But then she remembered the searing
days and knew the correct cause.
She looked up at the darkening sky and at first could not believe her eyes: that narrow
ridge of cirrus to the east, turning saffron from the sunset! It was too regular, too perfect to be a
cloud! She rolled her head over; yes, it was in the west as well! She climbed up on 'Vered and
stared to the south. It was true! "Oman!" she whooped in joy. "Tahir! We near the throne!"
"Very near, my Lady," he answered tiredly from the ground near 'Vered's feet. She
looked down at him with concern: yes, there could be no doubt, he had hopped along all day.
Before she could ask, he continued, "The Follower appeared shortly after noon, shrinking his
circle toward us in visible increments. Jonasa-Vered confirms that we should reach Athalia by
tomorrow's dawn. Our Path ends, sharan; soon we will have completed our share of this labor.
Completed it, or–"
"Oman!" she interrupted sternly. "Why did you not change with me or Moriah? Why
have you not rested today?"

"I am a rajanya, my Lady. Apparently the very last of Arama's warriors still to live. I
refused Moriah's requests to ride, even when he climbed down and walked beside me. And you
were sleeping. . . ."
"I sleep no longer, Guardian of my person," said Shamara, leaping from 'Vered. "I
command you to rest. Now."
The dwarf protested, but 'Vered picked him up. Oman struggled weakly for a moment,
but then, recognizing the futility of arguing with the sharan, lay still. He might as well rest his
body a bit–there was at least a remote possibility of battle on the morrow–but he would of course
remain awake to guard her. There was nothing she could do about that. He would not let the
indignity of this position multiply by his falling asleep. . . He would remain awake. . . Must
guard the sharan. . . Must not sleep. . . The dignity of the rajanya. . . Must stay awake. . . .
Shamara walked quietly beside Jonasa-Vered until it was certain Oman was sound asleep.
Then she asked in a whisper, "Is the Capital truly near, 'Vered?"
"It is hard to compute accurately," he answered in a soft rumble, vaguely reminiscent of
distant thunder. "The land is vastly changed from the days of cities and croplands. But I would
say most certainly no later than early tomorrow day."
"At last," she sighed, eagerly anticipating the dawn. She stroked the chalice gingerly, as
if she truly believed it were alive, then wondered if the flames of the uttara vedi would hurt her
very much.
"This land is no longer flat," observed 'Vered as if the fact were highly significant.
"What?" asked the Oblation Bearer, mostly contemplating life after death and the
fulfillment of desire.
"It should be flat," said 'Vered with an unusual ferocity of tone that caused her to wake up
a little more to his words.
"What? Why? The desert is probably ending. At last! And the land doubtless decreases
in radiation as well; it must be virtually normal at Athalia if people live there still. Probably
animate life can survive here; those are healthy looking succulents. These are very good signs."
What was troubling the Gardener?
"No! You don't understand. It should be flat! The Capital lies on the shores of the
Minolan Lake, the ground should be very gently rising if anything, but definitely not beginning
to lower. Something is not right." Of all things of Tilvia, Athalia alone had remained uncorrupt
in his mind: it must exist as perfect–as golden, as silver, as white, as glorious–today as it had two
thousand years before: undecayed and inalterable symbol of the Tilvians' unsurpassed wisdom
and power. It was as impossible for him to think of it in any other terms as it would be for him
to conceive of betraying his Masters.
"Surely the land around Athalia shifted, changed with the war as did the rest of Tilvia."
Why could he not accept such a simple fact?
"No. It is not possible," he answered stubbornly. "Athalia of the Seven Towers lies on
the shores of the Minolan Lake, where it has stood since before there were Gardeners to care for
Tilvia. We should be going gently upward, definitely not down. I can't understand it."
Shamara, seeing no point (or indeed, even a reasonable method) to continue the
conversation, walked ahead to catch Moriah. He turned a face toward her that could only be
inadequately described as radiant, and said, "Para has quickened throughout the day. Do you not
see its glory increasing?"

"The dora has not been a part of me as long as it has of you, Moriah. I feel good, joyous
even, now that I have seen Tahir's circle and known our end is fast approaching; but my
perception of the Path and of Para is not as keen as yours."
"We have lived lives of shameful blindness. The world which appeared so fair to my past
has vanished into nothingness before the boundless glory of the World of the Path. I marvel that
I could have been so ignorant before, so lost to the reality of life. I rejoice that my term of
imprisonment to this flesh nears its end. My inspiration in life, my glorious consummation, my
ecstasy is–" He was throwing his arms around, gesticulating his enthusiasm; both hands collided
with the invisible barrier in front of him half an instant before his head smacked into it with a
resounding thump, ending his discourse on the glory of Para with an unceremonious and
certainly unprofound exclamation of pain.
The Oblation Bearer succeeded in stopping her forward progress just short of the
invisible wall; she reached out slowly and gingerly touched the–something that was as slick and
hard as new steel. As the others came up to them, she felt along it for some distance but could
find no opening or difference in texture or firmness at any point.
"A shield of some kind," theorized Uchai-sravasa. "But Matri implied the current
occupants of Athalia were not technological. I wonder–"
"It can't be! Not here. It just can't be," interrupted 'Vered, in a voice that in a human
might have presaged–or accompanied–tears, highly incongruous with his massive steel frame.
"What can't?" asked Shamara with only part of her mind: she was still searching for an
opening or flaw in the invisible wall. "Perhaps we could break it?"
"It can't be here!" moaned 'Vered, then said, as almost a wail, "It isn't possible! It can't be
here!"
"Shhh!" exclaimed Shamara, turning to him. "You'll wake the Guardian."
But 'Vered continued, sounding on the verge of hysteria, "Athalia's wall cannot be here!"
Shamara, at last catching his meaning, said, "Why not, Jonasa-Vered?" in a tone that
somehow settled the Gardener into a gentler frame of mind.
"Because, don't you see! This is not the way. . . Not the way. . . Not the way it was!" he
moaned, absolutely mournful. His two free arms began thrumming erratically on his torso.
"Where are the streams? The ponds? The orchards? Oh, by my Masters' breath, where are the
gardens?"
"Do you know how to pass this?" asked Shamara, hoping the impulse to action might
catalyze the robot into a more useful kind of stability.
"The gardens," he moaned as if not hearing, "The Tilvian gardens of Athalia! Never
before has such beauty been attempted or created! Ah, I was a poor worker in the cropland
fields, not worthy to stand beside those who tended the shores of the Minolan! Where has the
beauty gone? Where the wondrous living art?"
The Oblation Bearer tried again, "'Vered, it may be the case that something more has
been preserved, closer to the Capital itself. But we must pass this wall first. Do you know its
secret?"
The thought that part of the city he had preserved untarnished in memory for two
thousand years might still exist ahead had the desired effect: Jonasa-Vered ceased his
lamentation over the lost glory of Athalia and examined the wall. He clutched Oman to him,
looking rather like a mother carrying her child, or so it seemed for one fantastic instant to
Shamara. Then she was too busy trying to follow the complex maneuvering of the Gardener's
two free arms for the illusion to be maintained. It looked almost as if he were tickling the air in a
bizarre way, then it looked as if he were stretching open a hole. "Nothing complex about it," he
said when he had opened it higher than his head and wider than his body. "Even a Weedeater
could do it."
Then he stepped through the wall; the last stage of the Sacrifice had begun.
10. Athalia the Fair
Moriah was the last to pass through the invisible barrier into the Capital of Tilvia; he
entered cautiously, gingerly putting his hands before him, expecting solid resistance. But there
was only open air. When he was through, Jonasa-Vered reversed his odd manipulations to close
the doorway, repeating his declaration that it was perfectly simple.
"Could I learn it, then?" asked Moriah doubtfully
.
"Certainly," answered the Gardener. "An uncomplicated pattern, exerting a 2.53765 volt
contact; it peels open like an overripe melon."
Moriah thought better of commenting on 'Vered's reply; he returned to the front to lead
the companions down the Path. Before he had gone seven more paces, however, he turned and
asked, "Are there any more of those invisible walls?"
"More? Why would the Masters need more than one?" asked 'Vered, thoroughly amused
by the thought.
"Just checking," said Moriah, rubbing the swelling bump on his forehead.
The quality of the land began changing rapidly. A strong breeze had begun blowing in
their faces when Jonasa-Vered opened the portal; Shamara felt her skin rejoicing from the
moisture in the air. If the wall proved a barrier to water vapor, could it also stop radiation? The
moon and star light passed through perfectly well. Could it be a selective screen? Or perhaps
they were farther now from the epicenters that marked the death of Tilvia. Whatever the cause,
she was certain the level of radiation on this side of the barrier was tolerable by all life.
Her feeling was soon confirmed: they walked through a greater complexity of plant life,
grassland and healthy brush; there were small scurrying creatures all around them.
Two hours before dawn, Tanya and Asta came and told her Noleta was dying. Shamara
had them set the girl down, then bent over her and examined her closely. The Weedeaters were
right: her pulse was erratic and weak; the dora centered in her womb kept the fetus alive but
little else. It seemed improbable that she would last through the day.
"What happened to her?" Could the radiation have destroyed her so thoroughly, so soon?
"Her will to live is broken," said Asta simply. "She wishes to die."
"The pain-killing tablets?"
"No," answered Tanya, "we have not allowed her to exceed the safe dosage for her body
classification. I agree with Asta: she longs for death. . . Parenthetically, it might be a preferable
option to the lingering decay she otherwise faces. Living in a rotting body must be a rather
unpleasant end to any life."
"The dora is useless to her baby if she dies," mused Shamara. "And the land is no longer
poisonous. I see no reason not to recall it. 'Sravasa?"
"The dora is not needed by the embryo. If it chooses not to help Noleta's body, you
should not hesitate. You should not risk its mutating under the influence of death."
"Very well." As she opened the chalice, a small sphere of the dora rose through Noleta's
flesh from the region of her uterus. But at the last instant before it entered the chalice, Shamara
slapped the lid closed and said, "Something is wrong here. Moriah, what do you see?"
The small sphere hovered near the Oblation Bearer's hand, waiting for her to reopen the
chalice. The fisherman stared at it for a long moment before answering, "I agree. It does not
resonate properly. It almost has a life–or a mind–of its own, distinct from the rest of the dora. I
don't trust it."
"What then should we do with it? Return it to your niece?"
"Excuse me," said Tanya, "but Noleta returns to life."
"The dora was killing her!" exclaimed Shamara. "How could it be possible? I don't
understand this."
"I think I know where this should go," said 'Sravasa, suddenly grasping the brilliant little
sphere with his right hand. Before Shamara could stop him, the Etan placed it on his brother's
forehead. The dora flared briefly, then disappeared into Krishanu. He shook once violently as
his eyes swirled in a wild, random pattern that made the Oblation Bearer somehow remember the
color blue. Then he stood as silently and distantly (or universally) engrossed as before.
"What is the dora doing!" cried Shamara, her voice reflecting her concern or fear for loss
of control. "It is performing actions never intended. I do not think I approve of what you did,
Etan."
"No, it is as it must be," he said, twisting his energy field around the small droplet of the
dora he hadn‘t passed to Krishanu. He wasn‘t sure why, but he felt it imperative to conceal this
act from Moriah and Shamara. As he pressed it into the back of his skull, giving a good
imitation of scratching, his eyes glassed for an instant. Shamara saw that, but misinterpreted it as
concern for Krishanu or possibly tiredness.
The stolen dora gently merged into 'Sravasa's mind-created being. The unborn person
inside him shivered slightly as the Oblation entered her, as if taking on a semblance–or perhaps
something more–of life.
'Sravasa watched this internal process with fascination, leaving only a small but
competent fraction of his mind to relate to the external world.
"The dora was modified by Noleta for precisely this purpose," he added, marveling at the
extraordinary workings of Matri's active intervention in Brihas' sacrifice. How could such
brilliant art have ever been successfully opposed?
"I do not follow you," said Shamara, thinking such a theme peculiar in the extreme.
"How could this poor girl know Krishanu's needs? Or that of the Sacrifice?"
"Her intention was not responsible, sharan. But because of what she was making of
herself, the dora mutated. Perfectly to our purpose, I submit. Think carefully of Matri's
teachings. It is as if the Oblation absorbed–or adsorbed–that which possessed her. I would not
be surprised to find her awaken the innocent girl we first met in the Gray Isles."
"Then that which was evil in her now resides in your brother. Yes, Uchai-sravasa, I
concede you may be correct. The fact that the dora entered him at all attests to your belief. Yet I
must confess I am still uneasy: the Navril in him may be nourished by that corrupted part of the
Oblation."
"Almost certainly," murmured 'Sravasa, deeply absorbed in his own inner project.
"Almost certainly."
They came upon an orderly grove of tropical fruit just after dawn; the exuberant beauty
of the flowering trees, the fragrant scent of the crimson and lavender blossoms, the gaudy
multi-colored birds flying noisily everywhere smote their desert-scorched senses with blissful
agony. 'Vered picked a fruit and held it before each of his crystals in succession. "Wholly
innocuous," he pronounced gravely, as if pronouncing an irreversible judgment on the modern
region of Athalia.
Shamara stared at the tree with an odd mixture of wonder, love and joy. Then she took a
fruit and ate it, surprised and delighted by the tangy-sweet flavor. Her exclamations encouraged
Moriah and 'Sravasa to copy her example; their similar loud affirmations awoke Oman to a world
he felt must be a dream. Where was the endless desert, the brilliant scorching sun? The burning
dry air? What were these verdant trees and variegated fragrant flowers? He leaped down from
Jonasa-Vered and hopped over to Shamara to see what she was doing.
"Guardian!" she cried as the laughter tickled her eyes, "So you're awake at last! Tilvia's
Capital was somewhat spared, it seems. What succulence!" She handed him one of the large
saffron fruits.
The dwarf examined it, then tasted it gingerly. Surprised by the sweetness, he greedily
devoured it then searched for another near his height.
As they stood by the tree, laughing together, gorging themselves on the tender fruit,
Noleta came to them and said softly, "I wonder where we are." She stared up at the trees with
perfect awe.
Moriah gave her a fruit; she clasped it in her hands as the tears streamed from her eyes.
She looked at the ground near Shamara's feet and said, "I don't know what has happened. I feel
like I've passed through a nightmare. If even part of what I remember is true, I have hurt you and
your work terribly. I–I am sorry." She stood there alone, shivering slightly in spite of the humid
air, a perfect caricature of the archetypal orphan.
The Oblation Bearer embraced her and said warmly, "There is much we all regret. It
performs no service to dwell on mistakes; that only damages the future. Rather must we
transmute the past through the crucible of present free will. Then hope and love will bequeath us
a better world."
"Shamara," said Tanya abruptly, "there are three humans watching us from the edge of
the grove."
The companions caught a glimpse of them before they ran off to the northwest. Their
skin was as pale as Shamara's, but they were scantily clothed around the loins only.
"Shall we continue?" asked Oman, eager again to complete the journey. "They will
notify whoever lies ahead; there is nothing we can do about that short of killing them."
"They did not attack us," said Shamara. "I see no reason to fear them. Let us continue
down the Path; the closeness of our goal keeps any thought of tiredness far from me. And I am
glad to see Matri was correct that someone survived the destruction of Tilvia."
"They did not seem particularly desperate," mused 'Sravasa distantly.
As the companions followed Moriah toward the conclusion of their work, the land
transformed, became increasingly fertile and alive, as well as more and more orderly.
Jonasa-Vered turned from side to side, thrumming his arms rhythmically, occasionally muttering
his approval. But shortly after noon, as they cleared a short rise, he stopped and cried, "No!"
Shamara, assuming this was similar to his affliction at the invisible wall, said, "Now
what? Something else different?"
'Vered, made incoherent by the shock of what he saw, sputtered a handful of incomplete
phrases then lapsed into silence. His arms waved erratically in every direction to underscore the
chaos of his mind.
The Oblation Bearer looked over the wide valley that opened before them. At its bottom
was a peculiar geological formation composed of eroded stone, sculpted by wind and water into
an illusion of the towers and parapets of a fairly large city. To the west of the formation was a
small lake, a soft cerulean blue not very much darker than the skin of an Etan. Then she looked
up: to the west and north was the cloud-ring that was not cloud, but the far side of Tahir's Act of
Following! She looked around in joy at the scribing circle surrounding them, estimating distance
to their goal from its distension. There was no question: the uttara vedi must lie somewhere in
that formation of rock!
Shamara looked again at the peculiar stone, wondering why the Capital of Tilvia would
have been set in such a geological anomaly. Suddenly her perception altered: the strangely
eroded stones were much too large to be naturally placed, were not in fact rock at all.
"Athalia," she said simply. The word was sufficient to liberate Jonasa-Vered's tongue,
though his arms kept flying around as if they had gained a life of their own.
"It is. But how could the Masters have left it so? Gold and silver were the Seven Towers
of the Capital of Man! And the Minolan Lake! One could not see its far shore! What is this
pathetic puddle?"
"The world is much changed," said Oman. "I am sorry for you, 'Vered, sorry for all of
us: Martanda is reduced by the diminution of Athalia." Would their fate truly be determined in
such a pathetic city? He looked down at it from a hill that was once well within the structures of
the Capital of Tilvia; it seemed a truly insignificant grouping of dead and dying buildings,
stained with centuries of neglect, more of a tomb than a resurrection. From here they were
supposed to reorder an empire? For that was their purpose, stripped of any falseness of thought
or speech. Oman wondered why he had not realized that before. Brihas had judged the
succession of power in the Solar Dynasty and found it invalid. And yet–who was he to judge the
royal house? He was not a rajanya, but an Atira Priest! The warriors had not been consulted.
Some had joined the Sacrifice, but by far the largest number had sided with Navril. Why had he
chosen as he had? He tried to remember. Subjectively, it should have seemed merely a few
years, for the world in which they waited their turn moved to a vastly different temporal pulse
from Martanda. But real-time here had turned almost two hundred thousand years into dust.
What relevance did a criminal injustice, even a violent crime such as murder, have after such an
extraordinary lapse of time? They should have paused to evaluate, tried to understand the
modern world before they acted. Supposing they were wrong? And what if the Sacrifice, wholly
beneficial at its inception, had been so twisted by subsequent meddling that the completion of it
now would lead to the worsening or even destruction of the present-day Martanda?
Oman employed the standard methods of the rajanyas for separating truth from falsehood
and found he did not have sufficient information. He had never closely examined the structure
or plan of the Sacrifice, considering such knowledge exclusive to the Atira Priests, trusting in the
Oblation Bearer's judgment and will. He looked at her now, and found she was staring
thoughtfully at him, perhaps intuiting his thoughts. "A strange place to end our long traverse of
space and time, Sharan. I cannot help a certain discomfort and, to be honest, a certain
disappointment. I expected the uttara vedi to be housed in more auspicious ground."
"Where but in ruin can Chaos be confined?" she said as if she had thought about it for a
very long time. "But fortunately, Guardian of the Atira, it is not our place to choose. If Brihas
has decreed that here Arama will be reborn, here it shall be, though heaven and earth oppose it.
Shall we descend?"
Arama. The thought of the first shara cut through him like a burning sword. Who had
not loved him, not pledged eternal fidelity to him? Did a vow ever end? He shook himself
violently: what was he thinking a moment ago? It was like a huge, dark cloud, hovering in his
mind. But now it was separate from him; he felt it dissipating and dying in the clear light of his
reawakened devotion. "Shamara," he said, "there is something in this land that tries to possess
us, to mold us to its will. And it is operated by the Enemy."
"For a land to die as this one did, we can assume Navril's arm is indeed long. I rejoice in
your re-awakening to yourself."
Oman flushed a deeper shade of carmine, surprised and humbled by her insight. "Yes,
my sharan, let us descend. I believe it is time for us to begin the end."
"Two score humans approaching," said Tanya before they had quite reached the city.
"They are nominally armed."
Those walking up toward them in two groups were mostly naked: male and female alike
wore nothing but loin cloths. Seven only came first. Shamara assumed they were the rulers or
representatives of the rulers, as they were rather taller and more handsome than the others.
Those following were doubtless there to observe, perhaps as delegations of important groups or
lower castes. Such would make a logical ordering. But the seven fell to their knees some twenty
paces away; seven of the others took daggers and slit their throats before any of the companions
realized the quaint ritual they were witnessing had such dramatically brutal overtones.
A burly man with long red hair and beard who had wielded one of the knives strode
before the thirty-three, bowed deeply to the companions and said, "We do obeisance to the gods.
Pray they will not harm us. Request their aid." It was a violent, guttural tongue. How could it
have descended from Ganym vernacular?
Jonasa-Vered said loudly, "What do you barbarians do in Athalia? Where are the
Masters?"
A hasty discussion followed among the strangers which ended when the burly man said,
"We do not understand you. We are the masters of Athalia. Have been for a long, long time.
We thought to sacrifice these evil-doers to the gods. Have we erred?"
"We do not require human blood," said Shamara, still profoundly stunned. How could
descendants of Oblation Bearers have fallen to this? "We seek only to visit our ancient throne.
Will you lead us there?"
This led to another frenzied discussion among the natives. Finally they reached accord
and the spokesman said, "The barbarians who invaded a week ago have occupied that part of the
city. Can you drive them out for us?"
"Shamara," said Moriah, gently touching her elbow, "there is something very wrong here.
Why were the ones murdered so much more noble? Has he said anything to explain this? Why
should they sacrifice their best? It is not natural."

She looked at the natives again and realized the fisherman was right. Could criminals
have been so lovely? The thirty-three before them were stout, squarely built, with faces that
were not exactly ugly (especially if compared with Oman–but then, anyone compared to Oman
would look handsome in the extreme) but were certainly not as gently civilized as the seven they
had just slain. Perhaps the victims were of the invaders?
"Those you killed before us. Were they of your people?"
The spokesman required no discussion to answer this. "Does the goddess test us? You
know they were of infidel stock." He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled a wide, almost
toothless grin at them, certain of the success of his mission. Now the last of the Vardis would
surely be defeated; their victory would be complete by sunset.
Tanya moved closer to the Oblation Bearer. The natives stared at the robot with wide wild
eyes; they were able to stay there at all only from the strength of their leader. The Weedeater
said in the tongue of the Gray Isles, "There is something out of place in those. They are not as
balanced with the ecology of Athalia as they should be. And there is most definitely something
amiss in their devotion to Martanda."
"And in their experience of life," said 'Sravasa in the same tongue. "Perhaps as a result of
such evil as we have just witnessed. It is corrupt, tempered by another force that reminds me at
once of the ravaged lands we have crossed and of Zaki, a force of–anti-life, for lack of a better
word. Or perhaps, Emptiness, if the dora could be called a primary manifestation of Fullness. I
don't like it at all." The stolen droplet of the dora was increasing his intuitive power through the
medium of the mind-born woman he was leading moment by moment into independence of
thought and life.
"You feel they are treacherous?" Shamara asked everyone and no one.
"Most definitely," said Oman. "But probably not to us. They seem scared to death of the
robots."
"Can you take us to the throne?" asked the Oblation Bearer in their guttural tongue. It
hardly mattered, Moriah could lead them perfectly. But she wanted the natives' cooperation: it
seemed the best method, at least until they could know them better.
"Certainly," answered their leader. Then he struck his chest and shouted commands to
the others; at once they turned and started toward Athalia. He waited until the companions came
down to him, then walked beside Shamara. The fear in his eyes was too intense to hide, but he
mastered it by a stern will and kept his voice from shaking as he said, "I am Yul, Right-Hand of
the Host of Kadmus, we who have ruled Athalia since before the Death of the Land. I bid the
gods welcome to our city."
"How did the barbarians pass your protecting shield?" asked Tanya in a light tone.
Yul looked at her with an emotion that was terror tightly controlled and said, "The Vardis
could not for centuries. They lived a pathetic existence in the highlands of Central Tilvia,
warring with their equally barbaric neighbors to the west, east, and north, struggling to maintain
even a poor life from the harsh and ruined land.
"But just a week ago, they somehow learned the secret of the invisible wall and
descended upon us in great numbers. We were unused to warfare, but fortunately were able to
rally to our standard and force them into less than a third of our fair city. We were planning a
final attack today, but three of our scouts discovered you, coming from the–the south," he said as
if choking on the word, "and the Elders counseled us to wait, that perhaps you could assist us in
exterminating the infestation of Athalia without further loss of life to the Kadmus.
"But surely you test me? You doubtless know these things?" He was looking at the
Weedeaters when he asked that. He had apparently concluded they were the more intelligent of
the three robots; he hardly glanced at 'Vered. Which fact did not go unnoticed by the Gardener.
Two of his four arms began to strum a rather loud and irregular rhythm on his torso.
"We are not omniscient, Yul, if that is your question." Shamara thought to test the effect
of this and was not disappointed: the native relaxed visibly and almost–but not quite–smiled.
"You are going to leave those bodies there?"
"What!" he cried, then calmed his voice, as if he were more startled than he thought he
should be and added, "No, certainly not. We are not like the fierce Gainans of the far north. We
wait only for their blood to enrich the soil. Then we will carry them to Athalia for their final
rites." The word `rites' in his tongue was rather brutal, but carried overtones of feasting and
gaiety. It seemed a rather strange but not altogether implausible combination to mark the death
of an enemy.
They were walking now through well-tended fields and orchards, toward which
Jonasa-Vered turned an approving crystal. But then they passed a herd of cattle with several
cows lowing piteously, well past due for milking. "Why does no one look to the beasts?" he
asked harshly.
"What?" asked Yul, staring up at him. "What? Oh, the cattle?" He barked an order to
some of his group; three of them broke off to care for the cows. "The herdsman must have been
killed by the Vardis. We are not yet fully organized, fully recovered from their murderous
assaults. But we shall be avenged!"
Jonasa-Vered's erratic thrumming increased in intensity and frequency as they
approached the city. There were many small parks that must a few days earlier have been truly
lovely; but they were largely ruined, as if the barbarians had systematically defaced them as
much as possible. Were they so hateful of the Kadmus that they sought to destroy all their
works? But then the Gardener saw the rings of scorched earth from recent campfires and came
to a rather different yet logically inevitable conclusion.
An argument broke out between two of the Kadmus during the final approach to the city
proper, where the path they were following divided in twain. One of the males was gesticulating
wildly, pointing to the right-hand route; one of the females, equally loudly, was insisting on the
left. "Excuse me for a moment," said Yul, loping toward the disagreement. They stopped
arguing abruptly when he came up; the two disputants stood stiffly, apparently explaining their
opposing views. Yul struck them both, hard, then returned to the companions as the natives
started down the path on the left. This was the final proof to Oman that his unlikely theory was
nevertheless certainly correct.
The buildings of Athalia were extremely weathered. Uchai-sravasa could hardly believe
how thoroughly they were decayed: did these people have such a limited knowledge of
maintenance? Many of the buildings were burned and gutted in the recent battle for the city, a
few only had escaped unscathed. It was in the single remaining window display that he chanced
to see a naked mannequin; suddenly the Lord of Etan knew exactly why he felt so uncomfortable
about the Kadmus.
There were no children visible; all the natives were of approximately the same age, all
were strong in body, particularly powerful in their legs. Shamara asked Yul to explain, he said
that the young and infirm had been sent to the east when the attack came, to a small underground
fortress as old as Athalia itself. The Oblation Bearer asked him what a particular building
standing separately from the others might be; Yul stared at it for a long moment before
answering that it was a slaughterhouse.
"Do you think we could meet your Elders, before we deal with the Vardis?" she asked.
"If it is not too far out of the way."
"No, of course. They're quite close, actually. I preferred you to meet them, but thought
that perhaps you were eager for blood. Just this way." He turned down a side street, heading
westward toward the lake.
"We are all agreed?" asked Shamara in the tongue of the Gray Isles.
"Absolutely," said Oman.
"Most certainly," said 'Sravasa.
"Beyond question," said 'Vered with a particularly loud slap of his chest. "I wondered
when you would broach the subject."
"I too am convinced," said Tanya.
"What?" asked Moriah. "Why do we deviate from the Path?"
"I didn't follow the question," said Asta. She had been too engrossed in her patient (she
was still carrying Noleta, gently massaging her with her tentacles, trying in any way she could
think of to help cure her) to pay much attention to what the others were seeing.
"I'll explain to her," said Tanya, using one tentacle to pass her conclusions to her
subordinate.
Oman said to Moriah, "Wait and see, fisherman."
"What did you say?" Yul asked Shamara.
"I asked them how they felt about visiting your Elders before we eradicated Athalia of the
barbarians."
"Ah. And they agreed?"
"They feel there is definitely no other way," she said, smiling a large, ingenuous smile.
The Elders were hardly that. They were Yul's superiors by not much more than a decade.
There were ten of them, sitting in a semi-circle in the middle of a small inner city park. Oman
could not see anyone hiding, but could feel the subtle pressure of a score of arrows pointed at his
heart. The nearby buildings were filled with dark openings where windows had been in the
immediate past. The Guardian calculated range and angles almost as a matter of routine
analysis. He assumed the Gardener and the Weedeaters were similarly engaged, but he liked to
cover all possibilities with his own skill and planned accordingly.
"Are these the whole of your leaders?" asked Shamara dulcetly after she had met them
all.
"Three of them perished in the invasion," answered Yul. "It is a boon from the gods that
you have come among us to destroy the Vardis. Our desecrated land and murdered people cry
for revenge."
"Oh, I think you may have misunderstood me," she said in the same sweet tone. "I said
we wished to remove the barbarians from the land. Certainly not kill them. It is not necessary or
even desirable always to slay invaders. Sometimes it is preferable–far preferable–to give them a
good scare and send them back where they came from." She was standing about ten paces in
front of the Elders' semi-circle, holding the chalice in the crook of one arm. She raised her right
arm and pointed at Tahir's scribing ring of non-cloud that was just visible over the buildings on
all sides. "You see our work, men of Kadmus. I tell you plainly: if you do not withdraw beyond
the shield wall within twenty-four hours, you will all be dead." Her arm fell; 'Vered, Tanya, Asta
and Oman fired simultaneously, in one awful instant eliminating the whole of the Kadmus'
armed warriors in hiding. One arrow only was released at the companions; a low scale and
half-hearted hum from 'Sravasa turned it into a golden dust which fell at the Oblation Bearer's
feet like the ashes of the barbarians‘ dreams.
"I suggest you call them all quickly. Very quickly indeed," she said, allowing a faint
impatience to color her voice. "If you make us search them out individually, we will slay you
all. Would you prefer to be the first or the last? Call them now; we may let you live to depart."
"What is going on?" cried Moriah, totally frustrated by hearing meaningless sounds and
seeing such violence. The Elders of the Kadmus lifted their bone conches and blew three short
blasts. The buildings echoed and enlarged the sound, but did not mask the responding notes
from other horns throughout Athalia.
"Quite simple, really," answered Oman. "We have been consorting with the enemy, more
or less, and have now acted to repair our insouciance. Fortunately the Vardis are not all slain; if
the Kadmus had not wanted us to do their work for them, the last descendants of the Masters of
Tilvia might be only a memory by now. Laziness and greed unmade the invaders. And I
suppose fear of our god-like nature as well."
"But how did you know?" persisted the fisherman.
"No end of small things amiss," said 'Vered. "Untended cattle. Perversely attacked
gardens. Fresh camping fires in the Kadmus' areas."
"Clear knowledge of the northern barbarians," added Oman, "but sketchy at best of
Athalia. And their military training and behavior. That was an attack unit that escorted us."
"No children. Or old people," said the Oblation Bearer. "The physical condition of their
bodies. They could not be city dwellers."
"Their violent language," continued Tanya. "It teems with allusions to blood, the hunt,
the kill. No civilized race, even in mortal decay, would speak like that."
"Their clothing," said 'Sravasa. "I saw a mannequin in a store window. Who would
bother to display loincloths?"
Shamara ordered the Elders to lead them out of Athalia toward the east. "Tahir has
waited this long," she said to Oman. "I suppose a few more hours won't matter."
"I just can't believe," said Jonasa-Vered, turning his crystals from side to side and
sounding on the verge of another fit of nostalgia, "how there can be so little of the Capital left.
This place cannot measure more than three leagues in any direction. Less than one of the towers
when Tilvia was a garden. Where did the rest of the city go? There are no traces of it. It‘s as if
it never existed, or was taken wholly from the world. It is most peculiar. Quite uncomfortably
so."
Shamara was only partially attentive: the old Gardener's lamentations were rather boring.
But the thought that a large part of Athalia might have been removed from Martanda sent her
mind whirling through a Universe of hopeful possibilities. Perhaps on another dimensional
world, many of the Oblation Bearers waited with their Guardians and Followers for the
Completion in the uncorrupted remainder of Athalia! Perhaps in a world similar to the one
where she had waited for nearly three years for her part in the Sacrifice. If so, might they not
return coinstantaneously with the return of Arama and the imprisonment of Navril? Not all of
her predecessors would have chosen that way, of course; some would have remained to build the
Tilvian civilization. She could divide her friends and relatives into distinct groups: those who
would await the return of Arama, those who would remain to help the world, and a small number
who might have gone either way.
Or perhaps, when the Tilvians saw their land was doomed, most had fled with Athalia,
leaving a handful only behind for one reason or another: maybe the ones who were out of the
region, for example, left behind only because they had no choice. In that case, the population of
the other-dimensional Athalia would be the descendants of her family, rather than those of her
generation. Still this would be a boon: the Tilvians at the time of the disastrous war with the
Asurs were at the height of their culture and powers. Or if not actually at their peak, at least not
so terribly declined as everyone else in the modern Martanda. They would be as much her
equals as the Etanai. Perhaps more so, for Swayam's later progeny were embarked on a path that
would sooner or later make them view centuries as days or even hours in their immortal lives.
She was awed by such a conception of life, but was very far from sure she would care to
participate in it, were the option ever somehow miraculously presented to her.
Perhaps she was only dreaming again: probably the remainder of Athalia had been
vaporized in the war. But if so, how and why was this portion of the city untouched? The
buildings were corrupted with age, but there was no sign of such a nearby catastrophic event as
the annihilation of the rest of the city.
What if Jonasa-Vered were simply wrong? Could his imagination have aggrandized the
remembered boundaries of his Masters' Capital? Not that any of it made any difference to her
personally, of course. The uttara fire would soon end her dora-maintained existence, that was
clear enough.
The Oblation Bearer's revery was rather rudely interrupted by a sudden ambush by most
of the Kadmus. The companions were passing beneath two of the highest buildings of the city
when the Elders dove to either side of the street and the air above was darkened by the swarms of
descending arrows. Savage battle cries marked the spear and sword charge of the warriors
hiding inside the buildings. Even as her companions responded, Shamara was amazed by the
tenacious spirit of the barbarians: they looked as terrified of the robots as a human could be and
still move, yet still they attacked them.
Uchai-sravasa wove his voice into an argent hemisphere of protection over them,
manifesting the vibrations of his words into an impregnable shield of power, leaving the others to
return the attack. Which they did with devastating force and almost preternatural speed. Within
thirty seconds, not one of their attackers still lived.
Jonasa-Vered picked up four of the Elders and said, "Blow your bones again with a
different song, or by my Masters' genius! I will personally sever every one of your thick heads
from your puny bodies."
The Elders raised their conches and blew one long, uninterrupted note as Yul said, "We
do as you command. What is left of our host will retreat to join us east of the city." The
bitterness in his tone was deep. But he was a warrior and refused to demean himself or his
people in defeat. The old tales were true: the gods would brook no interference in Athalia. The
Kadmus had been fools even to have tried; never should they have listened to that satanic
foreigner. But the promise was so sweet, their life for centuries so mindlessly brutal in the
central steppes; they had not been very hard to convince. To their present destruction! How
could the old and children survive now against their many enemies with the strength of the
nation destroyed?
The Kadmus gathered to the east of Athalia, nearly three thousand men and women,
powerful warriors all. Shamara felt it a great pity they should be allied with the Enemy. Was it
by careful design that a marginally curable race should be the ones to invade Athalia? There
could be no question they were aided to penetrate the shield: no people so backward could do so
without assistance. But why? Navril could have sent gorlems by the hundred thousand to attack
Athalia. Why such a primitive race, in such a questionable war? He must have intended for
them to fail! "Oman," she said as the Kadmus gathered, "what do you make of this situation?"
"Nothing complex about it," he said, thinking only of exporting the invaders. "A straight
march to the wall, probably with the Weedeaters as escort, then close the hole they created,
dismantling whatever machine they used to break in. And give them a few more demonstrations
of technological warfare to scare them enough never to return. Basically simple, should be
accomplished by dawn tomorrow."
"Yes, of course; but I mean how is it Navril used such as these to challenge Athalia?"
"He always uses whatever is available to best advantage." A victory was a victory. Why
was she trying to complicate it?
"Yes, when necessary," she agreed, "but here, why so? Consider that he wants the
Sacrifice to end distorted. Matri explained what we must do; I believe we can succeed, given
non-interference at the final instant. Why, then, should Navril create a fairly obvious plot and
invasion? Against which we have, with almost no effort, regained control?"
"I see where you're leading," said Oman uncomfortably. "You think the Vardis may be
even more treacherous?"
"It is a possibility we dare not ignore. It may also be that other subtleties have been
woven into this city. We shall have to be supremely cautious before we commit the Oblation. . .
I wonder when the Vardis will start appearing?"
Yul said, "This is the whole of us. Will you slay us here or farther from your city?"
"We will slay you nowhere," answered Shamara. "Rather, we will send you from us with
strong warnings never to return. Why were you so foolish?"
"The gods are gracious to us!" cried Yul with true sincerity. "We knew better than to try.
But a strangely colored foreigner–his skin was orange, like the hills of Dun–came among us in
the fall and promised us fantastic wealth and freedom from our enemies if we attacked your holy
city. He said our life here would be easier, which was true; but he also said the gods were dead,
which was a heinous lie. I will personally eat that one's heart if I ever see him again. He has
ruined our race. How will we survive against our enemies with so many of our warriors slain?"
"As to that, Yul," said 'Sravasa, "if you want to endure in this changing world, you should
begin by making peace with your neighbors. The gods are returning to reclaim Martanda. If you
wish to have a place in the new world, you had better start preparing yourselves. And not in the
shallow way you pretended to be of Athalia. I counsel you to a fundamental alteration in how
you view yourselves and your neighbors. The gods hate evil, war and unrighteousness of any
kind. If the Kadmus wish to live in the rebeginning world, they should take these facts to heart.
When next the gods come to evaluate you, you would be wise to be other than you are."
"No more eating your enemies," said Shamara.
"What? We don't. . . You know? How–" His skin looked as if it were trying to imitate
his beard. Were there no secrets from them? From gods? How could he have been so mad? He
had been baited from the first. What great evil had his forefathers committed to wreak this
calamity on his people? No, it was his own sin: no one else shared the blame.
"The brotherhood of man," added Oman, vaguely desiring to have at least one of these
oracular pronouncements attributed to him. "The gods expect all mortals to live in peace and
harmony, within and without their individual nations. It is the highest rule."
"We will remember," said Yul. "Why did you abandon us?"
"Even a god can have enemies," muttered Shamara.
"How powerful they must be to defeat you!" cried Yul, then wished very much he had
not said it. Would they be angry?
But the Etan laughed and said, "If the king travels to a foreign land, taking with him all
his armies and servants, and while he is gone, a butcher steals some of his Lord's secrets and
assumes power over his land, making slaves of his people and perverting his works in all ways,
what fate should the king ordain for the traitor when he returns with his warriors? For that thief,
as powerful as he seems when his Lord is away, will be as the dimmest star in the Crab when
Gauri is full."
"Death. The most horrible, violent, painful, and slow death imaginable."
"What kind of a revenge would that be?" laughed 'Sravasa again. "Free his spirit to
wander elsewhere? That would condemn innocent people to be enslaved again by his evil. No,
man of the Kadmus, the gods are not so foolish as that. The evil Lord of Martanda, who has
perverted this fair world almost beyond recognition, will pay a heavier, more awful and lasting
price than a mere death. Navril Hagar, now known as Valin, the Emperor of the saffron race of
Asurs (one of whom counseled you to your defeat) is even now being bequeathed immortal life
by the agents of the gods."
"Why did he tell them that?" a thoroughly incredulous Oman asked Shamara in Ganym
tongue. "That is one of the highest secrets Matri passed to us. I can't understand! It will
undoubtedly be repeated to Navril."
"Of course, Guardian," she answered in the same language. "Uchai-sravasa knows that.
He weaves his webs to ensnare the demon. Truth-speaking in some contexts can be most
unsettling, especially to one as subtle as my brother. It may be that the Etan seeks to catalyze
Navril into peremptory action; or he may be pursuing some other scheme. If I am learning one
thing during this journey, it is to have confidence in 'Sravasa's wisdom."
"It still seems too risky to me," said Oman stubbornly. "I would prefer to tell the
Betrayer nothing; let him guess what we know."
"His guesses are uncannily accurate," she replied moodily. "It is time we had some
subtlety working for us. I trust the Etan explicitly. And implicitly."
"Immortal life!" Yul was meantime shouting. "You give your greatest enemy freedom
from death? Are you mad?" His warrior's instincts led him to the brink of doom, or so he
thought after his mind cleared enough to recognize his blasphemy. He stood stiffly, steeling
himself to accept the inevitable deathblow. But Shamara and the dwarf god were debating
something in the god-language, the devil-machines were standing as silently as if someone had
turned them off; the handsome blue god was staring off into space as he always did; the two
jaundiced gods were watching him curiously; the tall blue god was grinning at him widely. Was
it the smile of murder? Or of wrath? No, it seemed to be of genuine mirth, like a man might
show for his playful child. And then, in a burst of inspiration caused by his fear-catalyzed
physiology, Yul realized that was exactly what he was seeing! His warriors, indeed the whole of
the Kadmus, were to 'Sravasa nothing but a backward and quaintly immature tribe of barbarians.
It was a stunning revelation. "I think you must be fooling me," he said quietly.
"Not at all, Yul. We intend for the Enemy of Being to be the owner of exactly one,
perfect and immortal body. I think perhaps if you–your people–can one day understand why we
would do this, you will be ready for the new world. I would caution you to be swift in your
growth, however. The way of races is now being structured. More obdurate than granite will be
the final rendering; I tell you plainly this season of choice is limited in time. All the good actions
of the Kadmus for the last two thousand years will not weigh as heavily as right decisions for the
next twenty-four; all the evil of your past will fall away as dross if you turn now for the light.
You have the choice today, and for some few years to come; follow your hearts rather than your
fears. If you can remember and act on these things, you will be free."
"All right," said Oman to Shamara, "your judgment is ever deeper than mine. How shall
we deport these invaders? All go along?"
"Tahir's circle is scribed too closely for the Oblation to pass outward again. I shall wait
here. Probably the Weedeaters, as you said, are sufficient." She returned to the guttural
language of the Kadmus as she continued, "Tanya, Asta, I would like you to escort these
uninvited guests to the border of Athalia and see them safely en route back to their homeland."
Then she added in the tongue of the Gray Isles, "We will of course hold the dora until you return;
you have journeyed with us long enough to deserve such honor. 'Vered, how far is it to the
eastern wall?"
"From here, exactly 31.416 leagues," he answered, thinking that number an extremely
peculiar coincidence. What relevance circles here?
"So, Tanya, you will be done with them by dawn, or thereabout. Be sure you close the
rent fabric of the wall after them. 'Vered, can the opening technique be made more complex?"
"The requisite voltages are determined by a specific alternating pattern all the Gardeners
possessed. I do not think it can be changed."
"I wonder why Navril never cracked this place before," said Oman to no one in particular.
The Oblation Bearer looked as if she were going to reply, but Tanya said, "You do not
have to hold the conclusion of your work for us. It is very thoughtful, but–"
"No, I insist. It is not just an honor; there are other reasons. We will wait."
"As you wish," she said, then ordered the Kadmus to begin the march.
"Noleta," said Shamara, "there is certainly no need to travel with them. If Asta can bear
to set you down, that is."
The Weedeater's tentacles relaxed, but the girl held on and said, "I prefer to stay with
her."
"Be careful what you desire," said 'Sravasa sharply, intuiting her intention. "Once
opened to the darkness, the door can be forced again. You must cling to stability."
"I don't know what you mean! Asta keeps me comfortable and ministers to me. I do not
feel the poison eating my body while she holds me. And her walking gently rocks me. Is it all
right, Shamara?"
"If you wish, you may go," she answered. "I hold Asta personally responsible for your
safe return." What wayward tendencies could pass the watchful crystals of the Weedeaters? "Is
it all right, Lord of Etan?"
"As you worded it, Sharan, it is perfect."
As soon as they were distant from their companions, Asta touched Tanya with a tentacle
to ask her, "Why did you consent to this office? Have you completed your analysis?"
"Hmm?" answered Tanya, thinking of the gentle thrumming Jonasa-Vered's arms had
made on her top plate as he bid her farewell. She hoped he liked her gentle scratching of his
torso in reply. It was hard to know about a Gardener's likes and dislikes. . . "Oh, not quite, sister.
I have gathered sufficient data. But now I need to compute the material. I will inform you when
I have reached the correct conclusion."
"But if the result is that you should not let the Oblation be sacrificed?"
"Why, then we will stop it, of course. Don't worry; she said she would wait. Noleta,
where are you going?" she asked in the Fisher tongue.
"I just want to walk for a while. Feeling a little cramped. Is it all right?" she answered
sweetly.
Almost too sweetly, thought Tanya. "Very well. But stay away from the Kadmus. They
are very dangerous."
"Don't worry, I will," she said.
But within an hour, she was among them, gesturing and trying to express herself and her
desire in their alien language.
"Should I bring her back?" asked Asta.
"Not yet. The Kadmus may do the job for us. Let us wait a few minutes."
Tanya was right: the invaders quickly rejected the girl. Noleta trudged back to them,
looking utterly miserable.
"Dangerous to be related to the gods," said Tanya. "And, in this case, also much, much
safer."
Noleta said to Asta in a voice that sounded like death, "Carry me."
"As you wish," answered the Weedeater, but could not resist adding, "Why did you want
to join those barbarians? What could they possibly offer you?"
The girl said in a small voice, "I fear the Oblation Bearer's intentions. I don't want to die!
But if I must, at least I want my baby to live, to have the chance for life I'm losing. I thought
they might take me with them."
"It would have been the worse for you," said Asta. "They eat their enemies."
"That may have changed now," said Tanya. "But I am curious why you doubt Shamara.
What has she done to make you suspicious of her?"
"I have seen my family, one by one, die horrible deaths for following her Path. Moriah is
the only exception, and he is as mad as Krishanu. Only my people, my family have been killed!
She could have saved them all with her precious dora. But she let them all die! Who knows
what fate she has planned for me? I am terrified of her Sacrifice."
Asta said to Tanya, "Even the child fears them. Her personal emphasis is doubtlessly
wrong, but in the over-all sense, I wonder. . . Will this be added to your analysis?"
"Sister, everything enters into my work, as you know." It was quite apparent Asta had
already drawn her own conclusions. Well, she could not fault her using her mind, only her
impatience.
By dawn, they escorted the last of the Kadmus through the small breach in the wall. Yul
was the last, and said before he went, "Please tell the tall azure god the Kadmus will work to
fulfill his desire. There is much of his teaching that is incomprehensible to us, but we will be
more peaceful." As he said this, he felt like a starving animal. Why were the dictates of heaven
always so meaningless, opposed to common sense? How would they survive against their
enemies, how even find enough to eat? But what choice was there? They could not oppose
gods! "I, Yul, Right Hand of the Host of Kadmus, pledge myself and my people to the
fulfillment of his commands."
"You are the true ruler, then?" Tanya asked, mildly curious.
"The gods are all-wise. I am king of the Kadmus. Those I named Elders are my War
Council."
"How did you make this breach in the shield?" Asta asked, thoroughly disinterested in
their political structure.
"It was opened by a black cube that floated in the air," he replied. "It accompanied that
damnable saffron-skinned foreigner."
"Close the wall, Asta," said Tanya as Yul led his people back to their harsh life in the
north. "I can't help but wonder if they are the descendants of the Masters who were outside
Athalia when the Asurs attacked. Their skin color is the same."
"What happens to this shield?" said Asta, agitated. It was no longer perfectly transparent,
but slightly gray and shimmering visibly everywhere. "I only just closed the break when it
changed. Jonasa-Vered never said this might happen." As if to underscore her concern, a score
of gorlems rose from the ground to the north and raced eastward.
"There goes the cause," said Tanya, "Our expulsion of the Kadmus is responsible: it was
a signal to those waiting. I wonder if it means Athalia no longer rules this force field. Let's try
to open it again–"
But Asta, who had never taken all of her crystals off of the city, cried, "No!" The silver
column of the Sacrifice was just beginning to project upward.
"She said she'd wait for us!" cried Tanya in disbelief.
"Let's go!" shouted Asta. She clutched the sleeping Noleta tightly and raced away in
huge strides.
Tanya, hurrying to catch her, said, "I just don't believe it! She said she'd wait for us!
They could not have known–"
"What? That you would analyze the data and find the Sacrifice unworthy of completion?
Is that it? Have we betrayed Gotaman, Reverend Mother?"
"Yes, I have finished my analysis. It is worse than he feared, sister. We must push
ourselves to the limit: if they complete their work as intended, Martanda is dead." Why had she
not noticed Tahir's scribing circle contracting during the night? It was but a league from the
spire now, shrinking and descending rapidly. How could they hope to reach it in time? It was
over thirty leagues!

"Martanda? Dead? Martanda? You have made no error?" Even Asta's worst imagining
had not predicted such a global disaster. How could they have been mistaken in their trust?
Then she remembered the companions' failure in the Crystal Valley and increased her speed to
pace Tanya. For of them all, Narda only had been wholly of the world. Pazia was right after all!
How could they have been so beguiled?
"Every Sacrifice must have a victim, Asta. These place our world on their altar! If we do
not stop them, Martanda dies!" On they raced for the saving of the world, churning through the
leagues as if they were groundcars and not Weedeaters, staring with fascinated horror at both the
subtle changes in the column of light and the continuous descent and contraction of Tahir's ring.
They were machines, built and honed to mathematical certainties. They could therefore
harbor no illusions: they would be too late. Tahir moved too quickly! Their best speed was too
slow! Yet still they raced on, inspired by a hope neither born from nor related to logic.
Asta fell a pace or two behind: she could not move as quickly with the dead weight of
Noleta. Yet it would take longer to put her down; so she continued on. The girl awoke when
Tanya was a full seven strides ahead and cried, "What's happening! How can you run so fast!
I'm scared!"
"I apologize, Noleta," said Asta as calmly as if they were standing still, admiring a quiet
lake and not rushing ahead at nearly two hundred leagues an hour over rough terrain. "But we
must do this for the future of the world. You were right, you see: Shamara has betrayed us all.
She acts to destroy Martanda."
Half the distance was gone, the towers of the city were visible, but Tahir's cloud was
disappearing toward the base of the argent spire. It was an impossible quest, mad, yet on they
raced as Noleta held on to save her life (hardly necessary, of course, but it seemed prudent).
Tanya was a full twenty strides ahead as they passed the first buildings; Asta faithfully
followed behind, wondering abstractly how the Reverend Mother could so accurately choose the
correct passage through the many intersections to the throne room itself.
As they bounded up the stairs of the building, the last of Tahir's cloud was absorbed by
the brilliant column. The spire changed suddenly to aureate; Tanya burst through the throne
room door, screaming, "Stop!" But no one at all was there. She paused for a full millisecond,
analyzing, then recognized the ethereal light streaming through the small doorway in the far wall.
Leaping ahead again, she began her final sprint into the domain of the uttara vedi to save the
world.
11. The Lord of Athalia
As soon as the Weedeaters and the Kadmus were out of sight, Shamara said, "All right,
Moriah, let us return to the Path." One more problem disentangled.
"What?" said 'Vered in a tone indicating he preferred to believe he did not hear correctly.
"You told the Reverend Mother–"
"The Oblation Bearer fears they would attempt to halt the Sacrifice," explained 'Sravasa.
"They care more for the world–or rather, for their conception of it–than they do for the more
intangible and unpredictable human race. I can hardly say that I blame them," he added, thinking
of the multifarious complications and infernal dangers that always accompanied the human
condition outside of Etan. "The civilizations of men come and go like the seasons. By contrast,
Martanda must seem like eternal stability."
"Do you want me to turn them off?" the Gardener asked Shamara. His loyalty at least
was perfectly clear. "Until the Sacrifice is completed? They are powerfully armed." They were,
after all, nothing but Weedeaters. And renegades at that. Gotaman's weapons unit was subtle in
its influence, but not absolute in its suggestions to his mind. He could remove it and its
subliminal prompting at any time. But for now, the Master might need his destructive power
again: it was better to leave it in place, meanwhile keeping a close Watch on his thoughts and
moods. . . .
"Thank you, Jonasa-Vered, for your loyalty," said Shamara. She had seen the attachment
between the Gardener and the Reverend Mother. It was neither laughable nor pathetic, this love
of machine for machine, but rather touching. Or so it seemed to the Oblation Bearer. And then
to have him offer to turn her off! It was a good sign. "Thank you, but it will not be necessary:
we need them to escort the Kadmus out of Athalia. Later, perhaps. We will have to see how the
Sacrifice progresses."
"How long before the Vardis realize we've saved them?" asked Oman, hardly expecting
an answer, as they entered the city again.
"Not very long, as it turns out," said 'Sravasa, staring ahead into the shade underneath the
tallest building in this part of Athalia.
A tall and slender young woman was standing there, not so much seeking concealment as
staying out of the direct light. The skin showing around the fringes of her shimmering violet
dress was paler than the Kadmus'; 'Sravasa concluded she was highly sensitive to the sun. He
rarely considered such information relevant, but the further observation that this blond Vardis
was stunningly beautiful passed fleetingly through his mind. Her only ornament was a very large
multi-faceted crystal, hanging from her neck on a golden chain.
"I am Kara," she said in a soft, lovely voice. Her language was much gentler than the
Kadmus'; she almost seemed to be singing by comparison. "I have been sent to greet you,
Oblation Bearer and companions. I must apologize both for the state of your city and for our
tardy greeting."
"We could have expected you but little sooner," said Shamara, tasting the soft gentleness
of this tongue as highly pleasant after the ordeal of the other. "And I must apologize for not
arriving in time to save the totality of the Vardis." More of Kara's people began purposefully
appearing around the buildings, entering back into them, setting about the business of recovery.
Most were fair-skinned, but not all: some were as carmine as Oman. A few were blond; but
none had such luxurious golden curls as Kara, cascading in careless profusion over her
shoulders.
"We call ourselves simply Àthalians,' Bearer of the Last Dora," said Kara with a
bittersweet smile. "`Vardis' was the barbarians' name for us."
"I am Shamara, Kara. This is my Oman, Last Guardian of the Sacrifice. Tahir is the
Follower now encircling Athalia. This is Moriah, Guide of the Oblation since he joined us in the
Gray Isles. This is Uchai-sravasa, Lord of Etan and Counselor of wisdom; this his brother,
Krishanu, who was Arama before–" she with difficulty restrained herself from adding who else
also possessed the Etan's frame–"and this is Jonasa-Vered, Gardener and Loyal Companion on
our Path."
"I bid you all sweet welcome," said Kara, bowing partially to each. But when Shamara
mentioned Krishanu's past, the Athalian was so startled as to forget to bow for a long moment.
'Sravasa began at once to compose theories about the extent of her knowledge with the smaller
and continually shrinking part of his mind that was not involved with his inner creation.
"Can you lead us directly to the throne?" asked Shamara, eager to conclude her work.
"Of course," she answered. But a faint frown creased her brow as she added, "If you
insist. But your predecessors always met the Lord of Athalia first; we assumed you . . . . "
"Oh, of course. Certainly. Where is he?"
"Not far. That building up ahead. Just there, on the left. See it?"
Oman chuckled: it was the building Yul had called a slaughterhouse. Kara looked at him
quizzically and said, "He could of course meet you elsewhere if you prefer."
"Wherever. Whatever is customary will be fine," answered the Oblation Bearer,
scowling down at the dwarf.
As they walked to the building, Oman, wishing to make amends, said to Kara, "Tell me
how it is that the Kadmus so easily defeated you. Have your rajanyas no proficiency in
warfare?"
"We have no rajanyas here."
"I saw–"
"The world has much changed, Guardian. Skin coloration no longer denotes class or
occupation, at least in our city. . . We have lived in peace for two thousand years and have
forgotten everything our forebears knew about arms. We were helpless, our only savior (until
you came) the Lord of Athalia. He reintroduced us to some of the Museum's old weapons. But
we were largely inept, I fear; if you had not come, the Athalians would now be a memory.
Regardless of your success with the Sacrifice, much good has come from you already. You have
earned the unending gratitude of my people."
Such an intimate knowledge of our works and intentions, mused 'Sravasa vaguely.
"Was not Athalia much larger?" asked 'Vered, no longer able to restrain his curiosity. "I
recall it much differently. Whatever happened to the rest of it? And to the Minolan Lake?"
"I think," said Kara, looking at the Gardener with an expression that may have been of
wonder (the Athalians quite obviously no longer had intelligent machines) or perhaps of awe (her
gray-green eyes were always subtly altering their complexity of meaning), "I think I will allow
the Lord of Athalia to answer that question, if you don't mind. We are almost there."
"You are the descendants of the Athalians who were safe here when the Asurs attacked?
Is that not right?" asked Oman, certain of her answer. He was astounded by her response, so
much so that he stopped hopping for a moment to stare up at her.
"No, rajanya. No one here is descended from those who survived that war." She also
stopped walking, in deference to his mood, although the building that housed the Lord of Athalia
was but seven strides away. What honor should not be offered the last of the Guardians?
"Do you mean to imply," said Oman, trying to understand this novel theme, "all of you
are descended from–"
"Some of the Bearers, Guardians and Followers were mixed sets, as is yours. Yes, that is
my implication, Lord Oman. We are descended from the final Oblation Bearers. The Kadmus
may be all that remains of the earlier race."
"No!" cried the Gardener, quite loudly. "Those savages could never have descended
from the Masters!"
"Now, Jonasa-Vered," said 'Sravasa. "Think of the cause. Two thousand years of
struggle just to survive, punctuated by heavy doses of radiation. I think they have managed
fairly well, considering what they had to do. Yul is almost honorable; I believe his tribe will be
much more so within another generation."
"Your faith is admirable," said Oman, "but I wonder if such long-standing tendencies will
so easily be altered. . . in spite of your good advice."
"The Museum Hall of the Lord of Athalia is just here," said Kara abruptly and started
forward again, as if the limit of her responsibility to the Guardian had been reached, and she felt
a compulsion to respond to other demands. 'Sravasa noted this mechanical behavior and added it
to his growing collection of instructional observations about the Athalian. Most of which, he had
to admit, were pleasant in the extreme. . .
The lower part of the building was gutted by the invaders, but even in mortal decay it had
an elegant entryway. One piece of unbroken statuary caught most of their eyes (Krishanu, of
course, being the one exception). It was a golden flower of a thousand petals, rising on a slender
silver stalk. 'Sravasa thought it something of a miracle that it had not been destroyed by the
Kadmus. Or had they tried and failed? Was the sculpture more powerfully wrought than its
delicate structure implied? He felt very strongly drawn to it and decided to study it more
thoroughly after the Sacrifice was completed.
Kara noticed their attention and said as she led them through the ruined vestibule, "The
last Oblation Bearer carved it. She said it was meant for one of your companions."
"For one of–" began Oman, but the doors at the far end of the entryway banged open and
Kara said,
"Let us hurry now. Later you can explore the museum at your leisure. I think you might
find a great deal of interest here. The barbarians could not penetrate the vaults; most of the
precious treasures are safe. That one alone we display openly," she added over her shoulder,
indicating the golden flower with the back of her right hand, "as it is absolutely indestructible.
Not to mention immovable." Then she laughed gaily to end all further discussion, and led them
to the spiral stairway the opened doors revealed.
The stairway looked and felt like oak, but there was a refined quality about it that
reminded 'Sravasa of the semi-sentient stairs aboard Vigyan and Suvigyan. The effect on his
brother from putting his foot on the stairs was immediate and obvious: Krishanu's eyes focused
on the wood. Grasping hold of the railing, he cried, "Father! Remove this murderous burden!"
To hear him speak after so many days of perfect silence was beyond doubt the least
expected and most startling event any of the companions could have envisioned. Oman stared at
him with wide eyes, wondering as did the others if this were to be the totality of the Etan's
reinvolvement with Martanda. Almost as a reflex, he reached to his weapons, then himself
shouted as his hand was scorched.
'Vered suddenly began flailing his arms, seemingly erratically. But then 'Sravasa realized
he was trying to dislodge his weapons unit; ducking beneath the flying arms, he pulled it free.
"Thank you, Lord of Etan," said the Gardener in a voice that mimicked, mutatis
mutandis, a man panting for breath. "It was causing me great pain. Here, set it back in the slot,
just don't insert it all the way. . . Thank you."
Krishanu meanwhile gripped the railing as if he were trying to crush it: his hands turned
sanguine, then white as his eyes bulged from the strain. Then his mind surrendered to the
conflicting pressures: 'Sravasa was just in time to catch him as he fell forward, unconscious.
"I must apologize," said Kara, "I should have warned you. The Lord of Athalia allows no
functional weapons in his presence. But why did the one you said was Arama faint? Is there
something in him that is dangerous?"
"Help me with him," said 'Sravasa to 'Vered, standing motionlessly, recovering from the
assault on his weapons unit. As if commenting on the entire situation, the Gardener flapped his
arms once more wildly, then hoisted Krishanu as gently as he had once carried a load of harvest
fruit.
The stairway was interminable, spiraling up and up past floor after floor. The Kadmus
had broken some of the closed doors, but they did not have the time or skill to ruin very many.
Shamara idly wondered what secrets they might conceal; the energy permeating the stairway
responded to the dora possessing her and flashed a myriad display of answering images. But in a
moment more she questioned that what she was seeing could truly be behind these locked doors,
for some of the visions flashing through her brain in seemingly random sequence were so
extramundane, she doubted they could be of any place or time in the history of Martanda.
Shamara saw statues, as much alive as any person or growing thing, standing silently in
rooms as large as buildings; wild and beautiful gardens of exotic velvet flowers on shores of
calm azure seas in worlds that had never known (or had wholly forgotten) the ambiguous touch
of humanity; forests of evergreens with trunks as large as houses; palaces; cities; countries filled
with the happy and wise peoples of the four primary races: white, crimson, aureate, sable; a few
visions including only one individual, as beautiful and flawless as any man or woman she had
seen, one possessed of an overwhelming melancholy, one of a supernal joy, one–the most
strikingly handsome–of a silent wisdom that made her feel like a young child; other rooms that
included knowledges or beauties so vast her mind could not contain them: they flowed out
beyond her spirit in spirals and waves that would be missed but could never be recalled; others
that were nothing but abstract multi-colored brilliance; others filled with light molded into
geometric forms with profound meaning but no simple description; one room that was like a
semi-transparent barrier before the night sky: stars and galaxies were imprisoned in that room in
all their glory; one that was filled to infinity with a nothing–or an almost nothing–that was as
fundamental as the dora but as different from it as is life from death or eternity from the ultimate
limit of a fractured millisecond; and, directly across the stairway, a room that was as universally
filled with the light of the Atira as the other was with Emptiness.
The companions were now on the top landing; Shamara shook her head violently to clear
it of the lingering visions. Over their heads was a large leaded-glass skylight that was the sole
source of illumination for the long stairway. Below, the stairs disappeared into murky distance;
before them was a single wide doorway, three times taller than 'Sravasa, made of oak and as
permeated by energy as were the stairs. The Kadmus had made some attempts to penetrate it:
several broken hatchets and spears littered the landing. The door itself was unscathed; the fullest
extent of the Kadmus' wrath had succeeded in doing nothing more significant than loosening
some of the molding on the lintel.
Kara mumbled something that sounded rather like, "Filthy barbarians," as she kicked
some of the broken weapons past the railing into the emptiness beyond. Then she touched the
door in a specific place, saying, "Responds to fingerprint and voice." The door swung open,
revealing a much brighter light than that from the setting sun, filtering through the skylight.
The companions entered a large room covering nearly half the cross-sectional area of the
building. It was filled with couches and comfortable chairs and was illuminated by the walls, all
of which were radiating brilliant, opalescent light. "The Museum's Lecture Hall," explained
Kara, leading them obliquely through it toward the northwest.
Shamara paused for a last look down the stairway. It seemed normal enough now; the
doors ordinary, opening into rooms that were doubtless rather unremarkable. What had she just
experienced? As she turned away and crossed the threshold, the oak door swung noiselessly shut
behind her.
Kara was already touching a door across the hall; the Oblation Bearer hurried to catch up
with the others. The far door shimmered briefly with light, then opened smoothly before the
Athalian. As Kara stepped through into the less brightly lit room beyond, the dora in Shamara
suddenly stabbed her violently where Zaki's blade had torn her heart; she stumbled, nearly
falling. 'Vered's head turned around at the sound, his crystals alternating light in a pattern of
questioning or concern.
Moriah was at the threshold of the door, one step from entering, but 'Sravasa cried,
"Hold, fisherman!" He stopped by clutching the doorjamb, then twisted to look back at the Etan.
Oman could not so easily check his forward progress. As he was eager to meet the Lord
of Athalia and ask him (among other things) the mechanics of superheating weapons only when
touched, he was hopping behind the fisherman quite closely. They collided on his last bound;
since Moriah was standing firmly anchored, the dwarf careened through the doorway behind
Kara. He was outlined briefly in a crimson glory of light, then vanished.
'Sravasa ran ahead and pulled Moriah back from the treachery. Kara came back into the
Lecture Hall, wringing her hands, her face a display of concern. "Oh dear," she said, "This is not
right. Not right at all. What are we going to do?"
"What have you done with the Guardian!" cried Shamara, running over to them.
"Oh, this will not do at all," said Kara, her real or feigned worry distorting her fair face.
"Where is he?" demanded 'Vered in a tone that carried a not particularly vague malice, as
if he were contemplating reinserting his weapons' unit, regardless of the pain involved.
"Kara," said a voice from the eastern wall of the hall, "I think you had better lead our
guests through the correct door this time. You have done a great evil to the Oblation Bearer."
The Athalian started shaking violently, erratically; then she walked through the couches
and chairs toward the source of the voice, looking at nothing, moving by instinct, in all ways
mimicking the attitude Krishanu had displayed since the Crystal Valley. 'Vered asked her again
about Oman, but she passed by him without a second glance. Almost he reached with his free
arms to detain her, but then let them fall to begin an agitated drumming on his torso.
Kara touched and spoke to the doorway in the eastern wall; it opened to reveal a room
lined with sophisticated electronic equipment on the north and south walls, and a full-length
window overlooking Athalia on the east. The room was otherwise empty save for another
Gardener that could have been the duplicate of 'Vered and Gotaman. Except that this one was
wearing a loose-fitting golden cape, fastened around the top of his shoulders.
"Hello, Jonasa-Vered," he said as Kara prostrated before him and cried,
"Punish me!"
"Elkan-Harel?" asked 'Vered in a voice that at once sought to be both denied and
confirmed. "Is it?"
"Welcome, brother, to the last of Athalia."
"This is your master?" cried 'Vered to the prostrate Kara. "Are you insane? He is a
Gardener, no different from myself! What vile madness–"
"Patience, 'Vered," said Shamara. "Let him explain himself." Then she looked at the
new Gardener and said, "Please be concise. I am concerned for my Guardian."
"He is all right, I assure you," 'Harel answered, thrumming two of his arms exactly as
'Vered always did. "He has entered the other part of Athalia."
"So there is more of the City elsewhere!" cried 'Vered, his excitement for the moment
overcoming his anger.
"Five-sixths ascended," answered 'Harel, which statement caused 'Sravasa to give him a
most peculiar stare. "Kara thought to send part of the dora there–that which your Guide of the
Path possesses in his blood. But somehow the Etan Lord intuited her meaning and stopped
Moriah; another entered the passage in his stead."
"You permitted this abduction?" asked Shamara in a quiet tone which held the potential
for infinite malice.
"They call me the `Lord of Athalia,' but I am as you see me. The Masters added a few
refinements to me, gave me an impressive array of highly advanced capabilities, but left me here
alone to greet the subsequent Oblation Bearers. Which I have most faithfully done! And then,
after their dora was added to the uttara vedi, I have offered them the choice of remaining here or
joining the other part of the City which waits in timeless suspension for the renewal of Tilvia.
"Of those of your kindred who have come since Athalia was sundered, two with their
Followers and Guardians have entered the suspended state; the remaining eighteen have stayed
in Athalia and created a new race. Kara here is the granddaughter of the last Bearer; the sharan
deeply regretted part of her action in the Sacrifice and tried to amend it through this child."
"By sending a part of the dora into the sundered Athalia? Whatever for?" asked 'Sravasa,
finding the logical flow of all this far from comprehensible.
"Because she regretted not doing so herself. I stood here and talked to her as I now do to
you; she chose to commit the entirety of her dora to the uttara fire, and regretted it ever since.
So much so that she convinced Kara to try to take it by treachery." The girl moaned a little from
the floor, but did not rise or say anything else.
"And I ask again," said Shamara, "you would have permitted this sacrilege to occur?"
"I cannot deny I would have. My Masters told me to offer the choice to the Oblation
Bearers, but as yet not one has agreed. The Masters believed a century at most would elapse; it
has now been two thousand years. You are the Last Bearer; if the totality of your Oblation enters
the fire, their last chance is lost. Thus did I not attempt to stop her."
"You knew?" said Kara, rising up slightly. "You knew? then I am not guilty as you
said?"
"Forgive my dramatic overstatement. Jonasa was on the verge of violence. I felt it
imperative to seem outraged."
"I am still, Elkan," said the Gardener, his two free arms thrumming a virtually barbaric
rhythm. "I do not understand your authority over humans. Or where Oman is."
"As to the latter," 'Harel answered, "look through this window. What do you see?"
"Athalia," said 'Vered, then said again with deep emotion as full comprehension
blossomed in him, "Athalia! As it was! In all its glory. A photo, then?" The silver and golden
towers glittered in the moon and starlight like the jewels of a royal diadem.
"As it is, old friend," said 'Harel. "As it lies, frozen in time. As it will be again if–and
only if, let me be perfectly clear–a portion (even the smallest!) of the dora passes the door
through which Kara attempted to lead Moriah."
"I see," said Shamara, feeling no longer angry, only old, beyond her time, and very, very
sad. "So the flower of Tilvian culture, the descendants of nearly two hundred thousand years of
Oblation Bearers and their helpers, escaped from the war with the Asurs into a state of non-life,
believing that of course the subsequent Bearers would see its extraordinary value and spare but
an infinitesimal part of their bittersweet burden to restore the descendants of their peers from
their self-imposed exile. It must have seemed such a natural thought, so very easy to fulfill, such
a small thing to ask. Ah, the fools: they should have known better. And now I must condemn
my own Oman to their eternal fate."
"They had no choice," said Kara, a touch of anger coloring her words. She stood now
erect beside the Lord of Athalia, sure again of her position, no longer vaguely remorseful. "It
was escape to the Suspension or be destroyed by the Enemy. They knew they would probably
never return."
"Perhaps," said Shamara. "Perhaps. And yet Navril did allow this much of Athalia to
endure, did he not? I wish I could help you. And them. I truly do. But I think you know I
cannot. The purposes of the dora are greater than any single group of people, even such a race as
once ruled Tilvia with gentle benevolence. . . I am sorry, Kara, but I must, as did the others,
humbly decline, requesting your forgiveness. . . and that of Oman," she added, as the infinite
sorrow tried to permeate her finite words, "for now is he equally a prisoner of their unending
doom. Foul is this weight! Is there no other way to free them from their exile?"
"I fear not," began Elkan-Harel, but Kara produced a rather lethal looking weapon and
cried,
"I will not allow my family to spend Eternity frozen! I will take–" her words failed as a
white ray shafted from one of the consoles on the south wall. She was outlined in fire for an
instant, then collapsed. The gun clattered onto the floor.
"I begin to see why they call you, `Lord,'" said Shamara. "Is she all right?" The Oblation
Bearer found that she very much liked Kara. If there had been a different ordering of events, she
would have wanted to befriend her.
"As the others, outside," he answered sadly. "Her memory is gone. I try to let them
know and perceive and remember, but this is the usual result. They attempt to force me from the
Masters' intention. . . It does become a trifle lonely. . . ."
"All those, outside. . . "said the Oblation Bearer, struggling to understand the fact her
mind refused to accept about the current Athalians.
"All, yes. Happy ignorant children who worship me as a god because they know nothing
of their heritage. I keep them thus to protect my Masters' purposes, of which first and foremost
was the Sacrifice. Kara was right: none of them believed any of you would spare any part of the
dora. But they dared to hope in the face of unlikely fate. . . ."
"This is disgusting," said 'Vered. "A stupid Gardener deifying himself. You should be
dismantled, Elkan."
"It was never my choice, Jonasa," answered the Lord of Athalia calmly. "The Masters
made me what I am. They would certainly approve of my protecting their intention by cloaking
the minds of these few people. The Sacrifice is my Master now. But I must confess I did hope
one of you might have thought it not too great an alteration–"
"We dare not tamper with Brihas' intention," said Shamara. "We would not for the
saving of the world, let alone one city. I am sorry; you must have known what I would say."
"Oh, I knew. They have all said the same. Almost word for word. But I was requested
to make the option available. They are, or were, a marvelous race."
Jonasa-Vered's thrumming suddenly stopped. In a lightning swift movement, he tried to
reinsert his weapons unit. But 'Harel was quicker, perhaps because he had anticipated this.
'Vered froze, as catatonic as he had made Pazia. The Lord of Athalia walked over to him,
removed the unit, then returned to the center of the room before reanimating 'Vered.
"I am sorry, Jonasa," he said, "but I cannot permit you to harm Shamara. Too many have
worked for too long to permit failure for any cause, even such a one as motivates you."
"Harm me? He certainly meant to attack you," the Oblation Bearer answered, sure of the
Gardener's loyalty.
"I fear not, Bearer of the Last. He has just learned, you see, that his Masters–the Masters
by whom he was built and whom he has served unquestioningly for centuries–can be revivified
by your dora. I am afraid the roots of his current loyalty do not run so deep."
"Verily, the Enemy is subtle," said 'Sravasa, in an oddly melodious voice that caused a
small swirl of energized particles to dance in the air before them.
"Indeed he is," said the Lord of Athalia, staring at the Etan's work. "A lovely display," he
added languorously. "Wonderful. . . delight. . . of. . . form. . ." Then the thrumming of his arms
ceased as he turned inward along the line 'Sravasa's creation had opened for him alone.
"What did you do?" asked Shamara. "Why did you do that?"
"It was imperative. He was being inconsistent; doubly dangerous because of his power.
We must form our own conclusions about the successful progression of the Sacrifice, not be
swayed by the contradictory demands he was creating in us. We have no way to know if
anything he told us is true; to take the time to analyze and verify would slow the completion of
our work. . . 'Vered, can we trust you to take again your unit?"
"I apologize, Shamara, for doubting you. I don't know what came over me. It was like a
dream."
"You were a tool of the Lord of Athalia, as much as was Kara. Or Oman," said 'Sravasa.
"His schemes are so intertwined, I wonder if we'll see our way through them within a fortnight.
No wonder he lobotomized his population: good old human randomness could have unmade his
works. We may need you to adopt his sensory matrix, 'Vered, after we conclude the Sacrifice."
"If necessary," he said, reinserting his weapons unit with a snap. "Although I must say I
prefer the simpler life of a Gardener."
"I think we may all," said 'Sravasa. "I think indeed that we may all."
"Will someone please tell me what's going on?" asked Moriah plaintively.
Before anyone could answer, Krishanu's eyes popped open; he struggled free of 'Vered
then stood, looking as somnolent as before. The Lord of Athalia's mastery was the sole cause of
the Etan's unconsciousness.
Shamara stared sharply at him for a long moment, analyzing his current state, then
decided he was exactly as before and turned to explain to Moriah. But Krishanu had returned
farther than she realized: perhaps Elkan-Harel's interference had pushed him over the final
barrier of the infinity of choice, restoring him to the capability of knowing and acting in the
world; or perhaps simply enough time had at last elapsed for him to reach a plateau in his
reintegration where sensory interaction, if not yet communication, was again possible. The
Etan's head jerked from side to side; his eyes focused, unfocused; then he saw Shamara and
stabilized on her form. A minute passed as 'Sravasa and 'Vered watched him intently, fearing to
disturb him, a minute in which the Oblation Bearer explained to the fisherman about the Lord of
Athalia, the Suspended City and its people, wholly unaware that Krishanu was staring at her as if
he were a sailing ship lost before a hurricane that had now at last sighted a secure port. Finally
he said in Ganym tongue, "Shamara. Daughter. Where are we?"
She spun around to face him, her face reflecting a moving display of disparate emotions:
hope, surprise, fear, love. She said haltingly, "Father? Arama?" Then in a short skip-run she
was in his arms, crushing him to her.
Krishanu, unsure of his body, responded awkwardly, then said again, "Where are we,
Shamara? I know not this place." His vision moved around the control room, alighting briefly
on 'Vered, 'Harel, Moriah, the unconscious Kara, then lingered on 'Sravasa, to whom he said,
"You seem familiar to me. But I do not recall meeting you. Your mastery of natural law is the
most powerful I have ever seen."
"I am Uchai-sravasa, Firstborn. I am, in fact, your younger brother, but Eldest of the
Etanai. Much time has passed, nearly–" he paused to decide whether or not to continue–"nearly
two hundred thousand years since your son stole your body. We are now in the final stage of an
Atira begun by Brihas when he discovered Navril possessed your frame. Your Atira Priests and
sharans have solidified your life into form and have carried it in crystal chalices similar to the
one your daughter holds. For two thousand centuries, they have carried your life–the dora–
forward in time, to create this moment of your awakening to yourself. You have, I presume,
imprisoned the Betrayer into form?"
"The Betrayer? You mean Navril? I have gained control of this body; there is something
in me that exists as a definite but confined power that seeks to overthrow my authority. Is that
him? He is powerful, but for some reason, I am now in the Ascendant."
"It is because of the dora, father," said Shamara, pulling slightly away from him to stare
into his face, trying to wrest solutions from those fathomless sable eyes. Was it truly Arama? Or
was it possible that Navril was still the master, that this was yet another level of subterfuge? She
had not added her dora to the uttara vedi; anything could be possible! How could she be sure?
What test would be conclusive? Perhaps nothing less than the final consumption of the Oblation
itself. She clutched the chalice more tightly and stared up at him.
"To complete your victory and expel the Usurper," said 'Sravasa, "we must finish Brihas'
work. The uttara vedi is not far; this city of Athalia was founded around it. Now that you are
awake to yourself, we should not tarry, for –"
Moriah interrupted his words with a loud shout. He had grown tired of trying to wrest
meaning from the unknown languages filling the air and went over to stare at the wall-length
`picture' of the suspended portion of the city; now he was jumping up and down, crying with
overbearing passion, "It changes! It is no longer static! Athalia lives!"
'Vered was at his side in an instant. It was true: the tiny people were alive; their cars
moved; their airships floated through the air. "What happens?" he cried, more agitated that any
machine should be able to be. "Athalia has reentered time!"
"Elkan-Harel's unbroken awareness alone must have kept it suspended," said 'Sravasa.
"Whether this was good or not, is, I presume, open to conjecture, but–"
"But they are under attack!" shouted 'Vered, sounding on the verge of complete
mnemonic collapse from hysteria. "We must help them!"
"Now this is interesting," said 'Sravasa, in contrast to the Gardener's hurricane of
emotion, as calm as a windless sea. "They must have captured a huge number of the enemy
descending on Athalia when they removed the city from Martanda. Now that they progress in
lineal time again, the invasion continues. Tens of millions of gorlems! That must have been
quite a blow to Navril. Perhaps one hundred million there! The work of generations."
Jonasa-Vered's arms were slapping his torso so violently that Shamara wondered how he
was keeping from damaging it. He shouted again, "We must help them!"
"I begin to understand why they created their world with only one solution: the dora,"
said the Oblation Bearer almost as dispassionately as 'Sravasa. "If they could use it as the Path
of Return, they could leave the gorlems in that controllable dimension. An ideal defense, nearly
perfect: if and only if it can be made functional. Now, I wonder–"
"We must complete the Sacrifice, Sharan," said 'Sravasa. "It is our prime responsibility."
"I was wondering," she answered in a tone that said she well knew her duty, "if 'Vered
could assume
command of the control of their time as did 'Harel. There must be some method contained in one
of these
machines. If we can find it."
"Right, right!" cried the Gardener, touching the console nearest the screen of Athalia. He
immediately became deeply absorbed in its information.
"I surmise," said Krishanu, watching the others with as much fascination as if he had
suddenly awakened in the midst of a stage play (which, incidentally, makes as good a description
of the world as any I have chanced upon in 'Ishtar's lengthy records), "that the crystal city you
are viewing is somehow crucial to your concerns?"
"Crystal city!" exclaimed Shamara, suddenly rediscovering the ancient memory. "Like
the City of Pearls on Ganym's Emerald Sea! That's it! 'Vered, stop that!"
"What?" he asked abstractly, his mind engrossed in the informational flow of the console.
"I have made some progress. The controls for the suspended Athalia are–"
"No! Wake Kara instead. Reverse the mechanism 'Harel used. Quickly! Athalia will be
attacked in moments–"
"Two point seven-three-five minutes," he said, glancing at the screen. "Let me see. It
was this console, wasn't it? Let me look at it. . . ." He stared at the information unit on the
panel; a full thirty seconds passed as the gorlems descended on the now utterly defenseless
Capital of Tilvia. Then a brilliant light rayed from the console, aiming at Kara. She lay outlined
in fire for a moment, then awoke with a start.
"The city is frozen again!" cried Moriah. "The gorlems are motionless, as is everyone
else. How is it?"
"Well done, Sharan," said 'Sravasa, in the tongue of Athalia, helping Kara to rise.
"Absolutely impeccable logic. You beat me by at least a minute. I am humbled."
"No, father provided the necessary clue." This proves he is Arama! Navril would never
have allowed us to freeze his army! "You could not have known of Ganym's Crystal Cities. I
should have recognized the parallel sooner, but I visited them once only before we fled the
planet."
"They were one of the most lovely extensions of Jaya's art," said Krishanu, with a faint
tone of melancholy. "A tragedy we could not carry them to Martanda. But why was the
Controller unconscious? It is prohibited by both moral and natural law."
"The devious nature of Elkan-Harel rivals even that of the Enemy," said 'Sravasa. "He
thought to face us with the certain destruction of Athalia, hoping thus to force the expense of a
fraction of the dora."
"The Lord of Athalia would never permit hurt to the Suspended City," said Kara, a little
weakly. "You must be mistaken. I have nothing to do with its state."
"I believe you did not know," said Shamara kindly. "But it is nevertheless the truth that
your genes are encoded with the destiny of Athalia. Tell me, have you ever slept? Ever before
been unconscious like the others of your people?"
"No, but Elkan-Harel explained that was because I am granddaughter of an Oblation
Bearer. My mother never slept a day in her life either, until she and father entered the Suspended
City. . . You can't mean. . . Then if I were to die childless–" She touched the crystal hanging
from her neck with fear as her voice trailed off.
"He could pass the control on in other ways, my Lady," said 'Sravasa, surprising himself
by addressing her so. Mentally shrugging, he continued, "Again I must counsel you to hurry,
Shamara. Athalia is safe for now; we must capitalize on this instant of Krishanu's awareness,
lest he slip again into the universal ocean. We can continue this dismantling of Elkan-Harel's
machinations after the Oblation is completed. And discover an alternative method of revitalizing
the Suspended City," he added for the benefit of Kara–And Jonasa-Vered. "For it is certain that
another must exist." At least he hoped it was true. If not, perhaps a small portion of the dora
could be spared. He would have to think about it from every angle, would have to reach a
decision before he allowed Shamara to commit everything. For although she was the Oblation
Bearer, the very last in a line of impeccable men and women of the distant age, there was no
doubt in >Sravasa‘s mind that he himself was included in the Final Oblation solely to offer his
intellect as a tool of the Atira Priests. Valin would be defeated by no straightforward path in this
latter age; he‘d had far too long to plot his numerous schemes.
Uchai-sravasa regretted leaving the Lord of Athalia so, but felt it imperative to minimize
the active variables in this region of the northern altar. Only by simplifying could he hope to
discover the solution to the intricately complex problems presented by the Final Oblation.
Krishanu said, "Navril struggles mightily in me for dominance. Is the uttara vedi far?"
"The Path terminates within a league, father," answered Shamara, facing the end of her
age-old waiting and long journey with a peculiar admixture of dread, fear and hope.
12. The Uttara Vedi
The Athalians they passed in the starlit streets stayed at a respectful distance, displaying a
profound deferential awe, created by their belief that gods walked among them. Jonasa-Vered's
arms thrummed his torso more and more violently for every human they passed; Shamara
whispered to 'Sravasa, "I can hardly believe he has never dented himself, he strikes his body so
forcefully."
"Diamond-covered titanium crystal alloy," the Lord of Etan whispered back. "I doubt he
even knows the gift his Masters gave him with his final instructions. That shell of his will not
age noticeably in a hundred thousand years."
"It must have cost them a fortune," said Krishanu, overhearing their words, and willingly
withdrawing for the moment from his inner struggle. "Why has it been, Uchai-sravasa? Why
has this Atira taken so long to reach completion? How could my battle with the Enemy in this
body have taken two hundred thousand years?"
'Sravasa hesitated to answer: would the knowledge of the doubling of Navril aid or
damage his brother's task? Finally, he answered obliquely, "That which you are wearing is not a
product of your clone banks, Arama."
Krishanu stared at 'Sravasa with a dawning recognition that was not particularly pleasant
to watch. "Not of the clone bank? Then I failed in the original?"
"Father destroyed your race when he learned of Navril's possession. Your spirit and that
of the Betrayer were reborn in Etan as my younger brother. Which facts you had utterly
forgotten. Until today."
"But if my clone was destroyed, then we would need only to imprison the Enemy within
me and our purpose would be fulfilled. . . Except that he is no longer solely here, is he? The
state of this world is ample proof that he lives still. So the Sacrifice has failed."
"Not so, brother. That which is in you must be extricated and then destroyed, rather than
imprisoned in the Column as was Brihas' original intent. But then that can be made into an ines-
capable cell for the portion of Navril that still wanders freely in the world, working his evil to the
detriment of all and against the will of the Seven. He is attracted to this work, covets mastery
over the Sacrifice, for he wishes to possess the column as an open channel to Para and the other
higher dimensional spheres. Thus has he permitted the Atira to proceed, age after age, when he
could have ended it many times. And the Seven have allowed him this feeling of power, even
cultured it in diverse ways, planning to trap him the more easily here on the lower dimensional
planes because of his overconfidence."
"So Navril has a specific form, other than that in me? Not just a vague spirit of malice, of
hatred? But physically real?"
"Swayam failed, Arama," answered Shamara, unwilling to let his ignorance continue.
"The possessed clone somehow, in some diabolic fashion, survived Swayam's thermonuclear
fires. But you were excluded from him, taking along a portion of the Betrayer."
"So it is he you hope to capture in the uttara fire. Slay that in me, and imprison the other
until Time's Ending." Suddenly it was all perfectly clear.
"That is our intention, brother," answered 'Sravasa, wondering what the effect of such an
understanding might have on the second being inhabiting Krishanu's body. He hoped it would
force him to precipitate action or, failing that, at least finalize the process and stabilize the two
beings in their separation. They had warred together for so impossibly long! What would life be
like for Arama when the Betrayer was removed from him? Would he be the perfect
re-embodiment of the first shara, or someone else, someone perhaps more like his beloved
Krishanu?
The city's buildings began decreasing in size; the road terminated before a rather squat
and nondescript structure of gray stone. Shamara looked at the sky and her heart leaped in joy:
she had kept herself from watching Tahir's advance for much the same reason that a child will
save her best present–the contents of which she knows exactly–until the last; now the scribing
circle of the Follower was close on all sides. There could be no doubt: that unimportant looking
building ahead was the site of the uttara vedi! Soon now; very, very soon. "It is there," she
breathed, "the sacred fire. Now can we conclude. `Whether in plenty or want, in birth, death, or
decay, whether in solitude or the dizzying display of this complex world, the wise stand un-
shaken.'"
"Brihas' words are a delight to my heart," said Krishanu in a pleasant tone. But then he
stopped abruptly and said, "I perceive a flaw in your logic, 'Sravasa. You say you wish to
imprison my son in the sacrificial column. But the clone is perishable, mortal; you will thereby
free his spirit again to take on form, ending nothing of this interminable war."
"Indeed, brother, at any earlier time, it would have been so. Examine your body more
closely. Do you not feel a different life than you knew as Arama surging through your veins?
Simply put, that is an immortal frame you occupy. And Navril has–or soon will have–a similar
model. Physically immortal, eternally imprisoned, he will find it difficult for more than
fragmented portions of his spirit to escape, generally as vague and weak impulses of malice."
"Immortal flesh? So Swayam at last. . . Then the sooner we destroy this in me, the
better!"
"Quite," agreed 'Sravasa, following him into the ancient building.
The entryway was lined with the same aged, nondescript limestone; at its end were two
massive steel doors that opened ponderously inward on creaking hinges to reveal a dimly lit
room containing three thrones. The highest, apparently of solid gold, was in the center of the
room. To its right was a throne of carved ivory; that to the left was obsidian. "The Oblation
Bearers, their Followers and Guardians have occasionally assumed the temporal power, it
seems," commented 'Sravasa without a tone of judgment. "Although apparently not for many
centuries."
"My grandmother told me the thrones have a second purpose," said Kara, disliking any
disparagement, even if not intentionally implied, of the wonders of Tilvia. "She said the Three
who antedated the Seven would one day sit here as the first act of their Eternal Reign. But I have
never understood her saying, for are not the Seven unborn, coeval with the creation itself?"
"Curious," said 'Sravasa in the same flat tone, belying the writhing miasma in his mind
that her words had created. "Moriah, where is the uttara fire?"
"The Path terminates behind this wall," he said, staring at the featureless stone. "But I
see no entryway."
"Nor do I," said Shamara. "Kara, do you know how to pass this wall?"
"I do not. Nor did I know anything was there."

"The energy fields of the wall are unbroken," said 'Vered. "I can see no opening of any
kind."
"Perhaps in the light of the dora?" asked 'Sravasa.
"Perhaps," said the Oblation Bearer, cracking the chalice. In the ethereal light of the soul
of the Sacrifice, a thin outline was traced on the stone.
"I'll mark it," said 'Sravasa, framing the doorway in a saffron light that lasted beyond the
closing of the chalice. "Now we can study it to learn the mechanism of its catch."
The companions worked for an hour, trying every combination of technological,
biological and subtle knowledge they possessed (short of actually destroying the wall) without
the least success. Finally Shamara, utterly frustrated to be halted so close to her goal, said,
"Kara, are you absolutely sure you know nothing of this doorway?"
"Grandmother never mentioned it to me," she lied again, her mind racing. It was not
reasonable to hope they could overlook the obvious for very much longer. Before they
discovered the perfectly simple solution, she had an unexpected moment; she must try–no, she
must succeed!–in convincing them that the infinitesimal fraction of the dora necessary to
resuscitate Athalia was insignificant and not needed for the Sacrifice. They must not repeat her
Grandmother's mistake! "But she did once tell me a tale of her life that may be somehow
related." She had no idea what she would say, but felt the demands of the hour would lend
wisdom to her speech: it could not be that Athalia would be sealed away from Martanda forever.
There was too much of beauty, too much of wisdom that would be irrevocably lost.
"If her story can shed even a vague light on this final barrier to the Sacrifice, it will well
be worth hearing," said 'Sravasa, sitting on the lowest step that led up to the central throne, still
engaging this seemingly simple problem with the portion of his mind that was not occupied with
finishing his inner being.
"Agreed," said Krishanu, sitting next to him.
"I suppose," said Shamara, staring ruefully at the uncooperative door.
"Content yourselves as you will," said 'Vered, continuing to try random combinations of
voltages on the doorjamb. He knew that the different possible orderings verged on the infinite,
even in an artificially imposed time limit of, say, thirty seconds; but seeing no other way to
proceed, he saw no point in not trying.
Moriah, understanding nothing of Kara's language, knelt before the doorway, watching
the Path disappearing through the rock into the unknown. He could feel the end of their long
journey waiting there for them; his body yearned for that ultimate consummation of his spirit in
the uttara fire with a longing that was greater than any desire or love he had before experienced,
the questing of created life for its source–originating in every cell of his body!–that could never
be fulfilled by anything of space or time. It took all his will to keep from beating on the wall
with his hands or simply screaming his frustration to the world. But he was a fisherman of the
Gray Isles, accustomed to patience; he knelt in the center of the Path and let his eyes bore into
the stone.
"I will attempt to remember her words properly," said Kara, still with no idea what she
was going to say, thinking a short prayer over and over as her mind raced through possibilities.
Every word was crucial for the future of her people! She must succeed! There was no one else
now. What could she say to change Shamara's mind?
"I was quite young when she died, but mother repeated the tale to me many times.
Grandmother lived seventy-five years in our sundered Athalia, after she completed her portion of
the Sacrifice." She did not mention again that Sanyana regretted, every day of those years, that
she did not save something of the dora: no, she would have to convince them in subtle ways,
that was clear. Treachery, truth and force had been tried; all had failed.
Feeling the burden of the seven million in the Sundered City as her personal
responsibility she continued, now with the faint beginning of an idea forming: "Not too many
years after her part of the Atira was successfully performed–" her slight stress on "successfully"
did not go unnoticed by 'Sravasa: he saw the profound concern in the Athalian, and empathized
ever more strongly with the cause–"Grandmother Sanyana crossed over the Minolan Lake in a
canoe she had built herself and climbed into the foothills on the far shore." Yes, of course! This
was it: as perfect an event as if it happened solely for this midnight telling. She should have
thought of it sooner!
"She had no particular desire, at least nothing specific in mind when she crossed over, but
she felt a strong indistinct urge to explore the far shore. She found the foothills lovely in their
flowered robes as she climbed, not as far as the western wall, but high enough to be away from
all sight and sound of her adopted city.
"Sanyana sat in a meadow, feeling the peace of the enclosed land, wondering if it would
ever again be as it once was, when suddenly some arcane intuition caused her to take a stick and
dig into the earth.
"She dug for an hour, her intellect often questioning the sanity of this act, but following
the inner voice that kept insisting she continue. And then the earth resounded as she struck
metal; she dug until she uncovered a large steel doorway set into the side of the hill.
"Sanyana found a strong branch and pried open the door on its rusty hinges, then stared
into the darkness, toying with the idea of returning to the city for light. Finally she decided to
descend into the cave, hoping she could learn the purpose of the place.
"The stairwell opened below her like a gateway into hell; gathering her courage, she
entered the utter dark. Thrice she was convinced she must return, that she could make out
nothing in the blackness ahead; each time her eyes adjusted to make out a few more stages of the
gradual descent. A warm and pleasantly scented breeze blew steadily in her face, convincing her
there must be other entrances. How could anything buried so deeply in these hills smell so
sweet? It was like the memory of springtime in the Lucian Hills of Ganym, she said."
"The loveliest gardens of the world were there," commented Krishanu, sounding rather as
if he were dreaming.
"So Grandmother told me," said Kara, looking at the Etan with hope. If any of them
could see the loss of Athalia as too great a price, she felt certain her work would be
accomplished. Together they could convince the Oblation Bearer! She smiled at Krishanu and
continued, "Sanyana could not understand so marvelous a fragrance in the bowels of the earth;
her curiosity kept driving her deeper and deeper, beyond any rational limits.
"After even the memory of light was gone, like the last hope of. . ." she almost said, "the
Sundered City's return," but caught herself and stopped, looking for another metaphor.
"Of the eternally damned," supplied Krishanu. 'Sravasa thought the portion of Arama
imprisoned behind Navril and then lost in Krishanu might well have supplied such a phrase.
"Or of the Oblation Bearer when her Path is blocked," said Shamara, glaring at the wall.
Kara hurried to continue, "Sanyana felt her way onward; in time she came to a solid wall
topped by a grate through which the fragrant breeze was rushing. She felt over the smooth
surface before her for a thoroughly frustrating hour–" actually, this part was pure invention, but
she wanted them to identify as much as possible–"before she discovered the five small
indentations in the steel. As the warmth of her fingertips passed inward"–this was dangerous,
she must guard her speech well–"the door swung open before her.
"At first she was blinded by the light, even though it was not harsh: she had been too
long in the darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she found that the illumination came gently from the
walls of a spotlessly white corridor, running away in an extremely long arc under the hills.
There was no inner debate this time: she walked at once into the hallway, enjoying the warm
breeze which felt like the promise of a pleasant future. The door shut behind her; she felt no
need to try to reopen it.
"Sanyana walked for several hours through the white corridor. Sometimes it turned
gently, sometimes ran straight, sometimes rose, sometimes descended, but there were no
branches, no other openings. Why did someone go to such lengths to create a passage through
these hills? Was it an escape route? From what? There were so many turns that she could not
be completely sure, but it seemed doubtful she could be heading back toward either the current
or the former Athalia. The Sacrifice had been in process for two hundreds of millennia; it was
certainly possible that an earlier Bearer had built this passageway for some very good reason no
longer relevant to the future of her life or world. But that thought was antithetical to her spirit;
she refused to believe the marvelous breeze marked nothing other than the vanished dream of a
long-dead sharan.
"Sanyana began to be quite thirsty. How much farther could this tunnel go on? Why was
the air not musty? There must have been continual movement of air down the passage for a long
time before she discovered the buried doorway. Which must mean there were other vents she
had missed; when she opened the ancient door in the hillside, the air simply switched to the
shorter path. She tried to remember the exact location of the entryway, and had to admit she had
not watched her meandering over the hills very well.
"The plainness of the unending white walls began to affect her vision: strange and
fantastic shapes kept appearing, flickering in and out of existence like phantoms. But she
laughed and cried, `The entire creation is as a bursting bubble on the infinite ocean of perfect
silence. What significance these delusions?' The fleckless white corridor returned her words in
echoes that sounded oddly like laughter."
"This tale reminds me of the ballad of Lord Ramara that the Vidyadhara Airavata was
fond of singing," mused Krishanu. "I wonder how much is real?"
"I have questioned the history myself," said Kara, distorting the truth again, "especially
since no one else has found the doorway. But I can say without familial pride Sanyana was the
most exceptional of the Bearers: something changed her far beyond the average."
"I was never close to her," said Shamara distantly. "She always was very quiet,
undistinguished. At least outwardly. Yet there must have been good reasons for Brihas to
choose her as the Penultimate Bearer."
"If you spend any time in Athalia after your task is completed, you will see ample
evidence of her genius. The immovable statue of the golden flower in the Museum is but one of
the marvels she created. And she attributed her transmutation to her underground journey.
"Neither can I believe it was strictly a subjective experience. There is some hard
evidence that Sanyana did journey somewhere out of the sphere of Athalia as we know it."
"But if the door is now lost," said Shamara, staring at her own found but agonizingly
sealed doorway, "the only objective evidence you could have would be something she found at
the end of the tunnel and brought back with her."
"Exactly so. The tunnel did end at last, in a huge underground cavern, filled with the
ancient flora of Tilvia."
"The Garden of Tivolian!" cried Jonasa-Vered, for the moment forgetting his attempt to
open the door.
"You verify this tale?" asked Krishanu with an odd intensity that startled his brother.
"It was a glorious rumor for thousands of years," said the Gardener in the soft, vaguely
happy voice he used whenever he thought of the pre-war past. "It was said one of the wisest
Masters created a perfect garden and sealed it off from the rest of the world, foreseeing our
current time of death. It was an earlier attempt to preserve the Tilvian culture: the same
motivation that created Elkan's crystal world. But not in a separate dimension, rather somewhere
on Martanda itself. That was the tale, at least. Although not widely believed, for there was
never conclusive evidence. But if a sharan visited there. . . ."
"Sanyana could hardly believe such a garden was possible. It was the nearest to
perfection she had ever seen, surpassing, she said, any beauty created on Ganym. She wandered
entranced for hours through its wonderful order, amazed that the intelligent machines she saw
everywhere tending the plants had by themselves preserved this marvelous living sculpture.
"In fact, they had not. The Gardeners waited until they were sure of Sanyana's nature
before revealing her presence to their Masters, then awoke them from their long sleep and
whispered to them that a woman from the outer world had descended; perhaps the Age of
Waiting was at last over.
"The Masters–seven first generation descendants of an Oblation Bearer of some fifty
millennia before–stood before Sanyana and talked to her of her Martanda. They exchanged
much wisdom and love in the three months Sanyana spent among them; but the entire time, the
Gardeners analyzed the trends of the world from Sanyana's speech and at last concluded it was
not yet time for Tivolian to rejoin Martanda.
"The Seven Lords of Tivolian listened quietly as the Gardeners gave them their
conclusion. It was a hard truth: for three months they had planned with Sanyana for their return
to the world, hoping in the face of mounting evidence that their long exile and custodianship had
ended. One of them, in fact, could not bear the thought of resuming suspended animation.
"Kala left the seed of Paradise in the unending care of the machines, left his brothers and
sisters to their resumed sleep, left all the world he had ever known and accompanied his love
Sanyana back into the world of men.
"Together they reopened and then resealed the entryway. I suppose it is something of a
miracle no one else had discovered the disturbed earth where the Tivolian Gardeners covered the
passage, particularly during the search for Sanyana. But then, Grandmother told me the doorway
was in an unlikely part of the hills, rarely visited, far from where she left her canoe. . . .
"Together they returned to Athalia and were married in the Museum, telling only
Elkan-Harel and their children the secret of Kala's genesis. I am, of course, their granddaughter;
as much of the story as I have ever told, I have now gifted to you, Shamara."
"I am indebted to you, Lady of Athalia," she answered, only slightly awkwardly. Did she
not have enough burdens now without adding the responsibility of gratitude to Kara? It was
obvious what she was hoping for; well, she would do what she could. But her first (and only!)
responsibility was the completion of the Sacrifice. This whole complex situation could be no
more than a bizarre test, designed to purify in some arcane way the last of the dora. It was not
that she doubted a fraction of the Oblation would free the frozen Athalia–it was certainly
possible her forebears so ordered their departure into that static dimension, anchoring themselves
to the lattice of a crystal and a succession of Controllers chosen by 'Harel–but it was equally
possible, perhaps even probable, that to do so would ruin the Sacrifice. It could be that the total
destruction of the civilization created by her peers was the final requirement for the Atira to be
successful; the question of whether or not she should save it, the ultimate test. Or at least the
penultimate, for surely this stubborn doorway must be the last. Had they truly made no further
progress on it at all?
Jonasa-Vered had not resumed his attempts on the wall: instead, he was questioning the
Athalian about the objective proofs she had mentioned; she answered, "Four, Jonasa. First, her
long absence from Athalia: no one had passed through the wall. They assumed she had
drowned, I suppose. Second, the handsome man of unsurpassed knowledge and skill she brought
back with her: Kala, my grandfather. Third, she brought seedlings of twenty-seven trees
unknown to Athalia for thousands of years. And fourth, her own profoundly accentuated skill in
manipulating the powers of life: even in pre-destruction Tilvia, there was no one to rival her
craftsmanship. Her living statues are close to perfection; you have already seen her golden
flower statue in the Museum; if you examine it closely, you will see that each of its thousand
petals is encoded with an image of wondrous skill. It is the quintessence of art: matchless,
complete, filled with power. Yet Elkan displays it in a most obvious place, knowing it to be
indestructible and immovable to all but one, freely showing the highest vision to anyone who
cares to view it."
Uchai-sravasa was shaken by Kara's analysis. Not wishing to be distracted from the
completion of his vital inner project, he pushed his mind away from his empathetic vibration
with Sanyana's statue and instead asked, "No one has rediscovered the passageway?"
"Sanyana said they twisted their illusions around it so thoroughly it would not be found
until the appropriate time. And she told no one its location either." Which was literally true;
Kara knew her face or spirit could not betray her.
But the subtle 'Sravasa noted the change of pronoun, and for his own reasons aided her
deception before any of the others might uncover her secret, "A pity it is lost. Did they give a
date when Tivolian would be freed to flower again in Martanda?"
"There is a point of division, two potentialities of time the Gardeners isolated from the
trends of the world as displayed by Sanyana, two possible futures Martanda may yet experience.
The point of final division between the two lays still some twenty-four years away. At that time,
the Gardeners will know which course they should pursue."
"Can you tell us these two paths?" asked Krishanu with an intense look in his eyes.
"Why not? Probably you know already. In one future, Tivolian will sleep for another
hundred thousand years, for the Enemy will rule Martanda for at least that long. And in the
other. . ." She paused, made oddly uncomfortable by his curiosity.

"Yes?" asked Shamara, engrossed in spite of herself in this unusual Athalian. Almost she
wished she could divide her loyalties.
". . .In the other, the garden Tivolian must somehow escape this world. For Martanda is
dead."
The only sound in the silence ensuing Kara's pronouncement was Jonasa-Vered's
unusually quick thrumming. Wrenching himself about, the Gardener attacked the problem of the
doorway with a vengeance. The others rejoined him with varying enthusiasm.
But in spite of their united efforts throughout the night, the door remained quite definitely
closed. "I don't see why you won't let me blast through this thing," complained 'Vered grumpily.
"In less than thirty seconds–"
"You would destroy a marvelous mechanism," scolded the Oblation Bearer, "and might
ruin our hope of successfully completing the Sacrifice. We must consider more wisely."
"There is obviously something we have overlooked," said 'Sravasa at last, not exactly
tired, but most definitely frustrated. "Something that should be completely obvious, if not to any
of us, at least to the Oblation Bearer or to–"
"The Guardian!" exclaimed Shamara with sudden conviction. "Oman would know how
to open this. Now what exactly would a rajanya know that the sharans do not?"
"What is the essence of the life of the warrior?" mused 'Sravasa. "Devotion to duty?
Maintenance of the structure of society in righteousness?"
"`Devotion of life to the upward progression of natural law,'" said Krishanu, quoting
Arama.
"Including perfect attention to detail," added Shamara, looking at him with obvious
approval. "Viewing any life situation as a display of conflicting values solvable in at least one
viable manner."
"No sacrifice too great. . . At least one solution," said 'Sravasa vaguely as his eyes drifted
closed for a moment. They opened again almost at once, revealing a startling clarity. He
chuckled once and said, "We have been rather foolish, Sharan. Deluded, perhaps, by this
Navril-desecrated land. This door is operable only by the dora. No one but the Oblation Bearers
and their journey companions have ever entered the uttara vedi." The simplest solution was at
times so easy to overlook.
Shamara stared at the door, thinking much the same thing. Then, as the first rays of dawn
kissed the verdant hills around Athalia, she opened her chalice. Taking a few drops of the
Oblation in her hand, she traced the outline of the doorway. As soon as she was finished, the
door swung noiselessly inward, revealing a gentle light as brilliant as the dora, but coming from
everywhere inside.
Shamara, Final Oblation Bearer of Brihas' long Atira, removed the dora from the
doorjamb and entered the uttara vedi. Then followed Moriah, fisherman of the Gray Isles and
Guide of the Path, then Krishanu, magnificently handsome in the ethereal light, then the wise
Lord of Etan, Uchai-sravasa, pausing only long enough to whisper to Kara, "Do not fear for your
city. I shall save it. I love it. . .and, if you can hear this, you."
Jonasa-Vered, Gardener of a forgotten age, came next; last was the Athalian Kara, Sole
Controller of the destiny of the seven millions of the Sundered City. She was very, very red.
The inner walls of the room were non-existent. The six of them stood on a lonely hilltop:
the turquoise beauty of Martanda stretched away below them in in every direction except straight
behind, where a simple stone doorframe opened back into the throne room of a vastly different
world. Immediately before them on the crest of the hill burned a huge golden flame, fueled by
no obvious source; beside it was a transparent throne of diamond. Below them to the west was a
vast lake, disappearing into the sky in the misty distance. 'Vered looked at it and said with joy,
"The Minolan Lake! But where is Athalia?"
"This is the way it was the day Lord Brihas began this Sacrifice," said 'Sravasa. "We
stand now within the uttara vedi. There lies the consummation of our long journey, as well as
the end of the two thousand century Path."
The Oblation Bearer hesitated no longer: she strode forward to the fire. Raising the
chalice over her head, she cried, "To the fulfillment of Brihas' intention! For the completion of
the world! I offer it all with my mind." She removed the lid, poured out the contents, then
dropped even the chalice into the fire, lest the smallest amount of the dora be lost. The flames
roared higher; upward spired the Column of the Sacrifice. Kara moaned a little when she saw
the chalice consumed but made no other protest, holding firmly to Uchai-sravasa's whispered
promise.
"It is done," Shamara said softly. "This opening to the higher worlds will endure for
uncountable centuries of men. Now let us finish our other works. Moriah, the time for the return
of your dora is here. You may, of course, remain in Martanda if you wish."
"I thank you for the choice, my Lady of the Path," he said, "but what life would that be?
This body has been poisoned by Tilvia; if the dora passes from me, I will doubtless no longer
view Para. Thank you, again, but I must follow my Narda. I renounce this world; I will follow
the Sacrifice to its highest goal. You understand my desire?"
Shamara answered, "Future ages will glorify your name as long as time endures. Your
reputation will be among the greatest of humanity. Your sacrifice makes life meaningful for
everyone else."
Moriah bowed deeply to her, then quickly to the others. Kara implored him with dark,
fervent eyes, but he shook his head at her and walked into the termination of the Path. Almira‘s
World shone more refulgent than ever before; he hardly noticed the flames devouring his body.
His memory of Martanda faded like a singularly unpleasant dream as his spirit traversed the
column of the Sacrifice and stood once more in the eternal forest of the highest sphere. . . .
As the uttara fire absorbed Moriah's dora, a single shaft of argent light rayed back out and
pierced Krishanu in the center of his forehead. He staggered under its force and dropped to his
knees. Then the dora of the Sacrificial Column, purified by the austerity and devotion of two
thousand Oblation Bearers and their companions, resonated with the small sphere of dora in him,
resonated and caused the fracturing planned from the moment Brihas discovered Navril's
Betrayal. Rebounding back through Krishanu's forehead came a violet mist that solidified
gradually into a second form, identical to the Etan except with azure eyes. The doppelganger
stood motionless, paralyzed by the will of the original.
The first Krishanu said, "It is done! There stands Navril. Let the acts of the generations
be fulfilled."
"At once," answered 'Sravasa, then added to 'Vered, "Now." A crimson flame flashed
from the Gardener's highest crystal, outlining both the Krishanus in fire. The duplicate bodies
collapsed to the ground. Both Krishanus were imprisoned by the Gardener; both were
unconscious.
"Fifteen minutes at the most," said 'Vered in a tinny voice. "Then their power will best
mine; they will be free."
"So," said Shamara, "you couldn't decide either. I began to doubt my intellect. It is
impossible to judge! How will we ever know?"
"With our rational minds, probably never. I fear, niece, the conclusion will require your
portion of the Oblation."
The use of the technically correct but otherwise profoundly malapropos term to describe
their relationship shook her spirit as if she were a young willow before an autumn gale.
Suddenly confusion was rampant in her mind: she had focused for so long on the Sacrifice that
she had never thought about the end, other than the logical assumption she would see Navril
chained and Arama restored. Now she faced the certain truth she would see neither! Her last act
was to be made in faith: not as the two thousands of her peers who had preceded her to this
lonely spot of self-denial (the Sacrifice was necessarily incomplete for them, for there was more
of the Oblation yet to come) but because she could not live without the dora. And it was
required of her before the only other person capable of making the final judgment could act.
Kara, intuiting part of the dilemma confronting the Last Bearer, said, "You are of course
welcome in Athalia. You do not have to enter the fire." There must be a way!
"No, you do not understand," Shamara said as she tried but failed to keep the tears from
her eyes. "This body was murdered. Without the dora, I am dead. I always assumed I would
see Father whole again, fully confident he was not Navril. But now I discover my desire will
never be fulfilled."
"I am sorry, Sharan," said 'Sravasa, now soothing her with his words. "I believe Brihas
intentionally structured the Sacrifice in this way. The final act of every other Bearer has been
one of faith: they had no choice but to believe the others would succeed as well, so they acted
from hope, in innocent love. Your act must be no less than theirs for the Atira to end as it
should. Doubt not; your dora will clarify the final decision of the Sacrifice."
"I must believe you, of course," she answered slowly. She paused for a long moment,
then continued with ever more confidence and conviction, "My life has been dedicated to the
progressive advance of this Atira since Tahir first taught me of Navril's possession. Tranquility
will follow labor; Para will be born on earth. The shining spheres will descend onto Martanda
like the cooling beams of Gauri onto the calm mirror of the sage's mind. Our purpose is pure and
holy; I shall not regret that I cannot buy a moment of my life for all the wealth of the world: fate
is fate." She looked over the world of the vanished Martanda of two hundred thousand years
before, then glanced longingly through the doorway as farewell to Tahir–she knew his
metamorphosis could not be completed without her part of the dora. Finally she stared for a long
minute at the two Krishanus. "Goodbye, Father," she murmured, "whichever you are." Then the
Bearer of the Final Oblation strode boldly into the fire. She tried to concentrate on the
Grandfather but found instead her mind was thoroughly caught by the snares of the world.
Kara jerked in agony as the flames closed around the Oblation Bearer: was it truly
ended? Athalia and her parents lost forever in a static frame of space-time? Why had the Etan
lied to her? She should have done more! By Jaya's doom, she should have done more!
'Sravasa bowed his head toward Shamara's immolation, quoting Matri, "`You are as
sanctified as Narain forever. The Universe is no other than a tiny droplet in an infinite ocean; the
unbounded worlds are as atoms.'"
The dora liberated by Shamara's ultimate sacrifice mingled with that of her predecessors.
But her spirit was held by her unresolved desires: for the future of humanity, for the chaining of
Navril and the return of Arama, for the meeting again with Tahir. The Sacrificial Column
reacted to her unfulfilled spirit along the simplest path, the path of least resistance: Shamara's
soul erupted from the column as an arrow of golden light that pierced 'Sravasa through the crown
of his head.
The small fraction of the dora he had taken drew the Column to the mind-born creation
inside him as inevitably as Moriah's addition had projected onto his brother. And the result of
the dora entering him was virtually identical: 'Sravasa's mind-created body, built of and modified
by the stolen dora, burst from him to stand where Shamara had but a moment before.
Uchai-sravasa had not been inhabited by a second being as had Krishanu; nor had he
been unconscious of the inner process of division, as was his brother. Therefore he had
possessed greater freedom of action in his creation: no duplicate of his tall form stood before
them, but rather a perfect replica, to the minutest detail, of Shamara. A perfect copy not only
because he had found her the most available and attractive model, but because his nearly
omniscient mind had weighed the trends of their journey and had concluded the Oblation Bearer
herself would be the most likely candidate to occupy his created being. Correctly so: it was
nothing other than her spirit's unfulfilled desires that had caused the column to erupt a second
time.
The reborn Shamara opened her eyes and looked at 'Sravasa, still standing with his head
bowed toward her. His face turned slowly upward, until she could see the tears in his eyes. "I
am blessed beyond my due," she said softly. "To have had a second father. How can I ever hope
to honor you as you have me?"
He blinked at her through eyes that for some reason refused to stop misting and said,
"Fulfill your task, Sharan. Discriminate the living from the dead."
"The sable-eyed version is Navril, Uchai-sravasa. The projected body is inhabited by
Arama. Did you really need me to tell you this?"
"I concluded similarly, since the one ruling the original had no knowledge of Krishanu.
Arama would have had no difficulty in integrating my younger brother, but Navril had to reject
him."
"I cannot hold them much longer," said 'Vered, sounding extremely fatigued. "A few
moments at most."
"Let us be swift then," said 'Sravasa. But at that instant Tanya burst through the door,
crying loudly for them to stop. He had forgotten the Weedeaters! How could they have returned
so quickly? Just behind the Reverend Mother came Asta, still bearing Noleta, wide-eyed and
panting a little from the excitement of the Weedeaters' run.
The Gardener's light faltered as he analyzed them to see if they posed an immediate
threat. The temporary fluctuation of the beam was sufficient to awaken both the Krishanus.
Navril instantly concluded his deception was known. Leaping up with a speed that was virtually
superhuman, he dove toward the Sacrificial Column.
But Arama was no less fast: Navril fell from the air, pierced by a hundred mind-born
arrows before even 'Vered could act. Unlike a mere machine, a perfect biological operates with
the speed of the Grandfather‘s mind.

Tanya began virulently complaining, "What have you done? Why have you doomed
Martanda? I–"
But Jonasa-Vered raised an arm for silence and said, "There may be more important
things in the Universe than one life, Reverend Mother, even if that life is as lovely as this world.
Now be quiet or I will turn you off." Tanya's tentacles writhed as if she wished to dismantle
him, but she kept silence.
"It will do you no good," said Navril, lying in the pool formed by his ebbing blood. "This
is but the lesser part of my spirit. I shall own the Atira! Then the Universe will be mine alone!
You have done me an unlimited service by creating this tool."
"Carry this knowledge to your master form," said 'Sravasa sternly, "this Column shall be
yours, but in the relationship of a master to a slave. You will be bound herein from eternity to
eternity. If you try to corrupt it, far from ruling Narain's Garden with its aid, it will drive you to
the lowest spheres and chain you there forever. Rather should you join the good of the world."
"Join!" sneered Navril through his trembling blood-soaked lips. "Join? Under your
perverted control? Or the senile Swayam's? Or the despicable Arama's? Never! Better death in
freedom."
"No death, Navril. No freedom. Only bondage in darkness until the ending of time."
Navril laughed then, doing his best to sound evil or at least scornful, but he only sounded
nearly dead. Which was, in fact, exactly the case: before he could offer any further
imprecations, he died.
'Sravasa removed Kaystarbha and Krishanu's other possessions from him and gave them
to Arama, then told 'Vered to pick up the corpse and throw it into the fire to add its borrowed
measure of dora to the Sacrifice.
Kara exclaimed, "Uchai-sravasa, my people!"
But 'Sravasa answered her warmly, "Patience, Athalian. Hold to faith. They have not
been forgotten. That perverted dora in Navril's ruined body would be useless to you."
"How is it his body could perish?" asked Shamara. "You Etanai are supposed to be
immortal."
"He misjudged which was the amrita, which the dora," said Arama. "They are actually
quite similar in structure. That of me that is Krishanu misled him to believe he had retained the
amrita. But he mistakenly passed it into this mind-created body that I now wear."
"Father," said Shamara, realizing her desires were now all on the verge of fulfillment.
But Martanda was not yet as Para: her words of love ended before they were quite spoken as she
stared through the doorway. That golden-robed man, standing there! "Tahir!" she cried, racing
into his arms.
"The ways of the heart," commented Arama wryly.
But Tahir, denying the sweet taste of mortal life in his mouth, motioned for her to stop
before touching him and said, "The Sacrifice is not wholly completed, beloved, for I bear the
dora you left on the shores of Tilvia. And I perceive that a minute fraction of the Oblation still
exists in you. These must be added to the uttara vedi. Stand next to Arama; let me continue on."
Shamara backed up to her father as Tahir walked slowly, deliberately, ceremoniously
toward the fire. The golden sphere of the dora in his left hand pulsed with energy, as if it
possessed a life of its own and were eager to fulfill its destiny.
Kara, with a supreme resolution of will, kept herself from running after him to cry out her
concern, fall at his feet and beg him for his compassion. But just as Tahir brought the dora to the
golden flame, Noleta leaped down from Asta, crying, "Wait! Wait! They are there!"
Asta and Tanya caught her at once, but Tahir turned toward them, a puzzled expression
on his face, and said, "Release her. She means no harm." Then he looked at the girl and said,
"Yes, I have them all. How did you know?"
"I see them in the dora! If you add it to the fire, what will become of them?"
"Wait and see, child," he smiled, then cast his part of the Oblation into the fire. As the
flames licked through the dora, Tahir stepped back quickly, for he alone suspected what might
happen next.
For a long moment, everyone stared expectantly at the fire, wondering what, if anything,
the Atira would do–Arama was restored, after all, and Navril slain–but nothing at all happened.
The silver Column of the Sacrifice spired upward to infinity, exactly as before; the fire seemed
unchanged. Was Tahir's dora going to be nothing more than one more drop in an already full
ocean?
Noleta, sure she had seen the shades of her family caught in Tahir's dora, stepped closer
to see if she might catch one final glimpse of them in the flames or in the Column of the Atira.
One last look at her father Cadmar and mother Olethea, one more silent visual communion with
her loving aunt Narda, one final fond farewell to her grandfather and grandmother, her brothers,
cousins and uncles, this was her desire. Then she would be content with her hard fate.
Noleta, last living of the Fisherpeople of the Gray Isles to help with the Completion of
the Atira, came as close as she dared to the uttara vedi; her unfulfilled desires, her lonely heart,
her outraged sense of frustration and betrayal driving her to the very edge of the sacred fire. Was
she tempted to follow Moriah into the flames?
The dora Tahir had carried from the shores of the Diella Sea had been profoundly altered
by the lives of the Fisherpeople. For very similar reasons, the Atira could no more leave the
conglomeration of their unfulfilled desires in the Column than it could leave Shamara's.
The force of Noleta's longing reacted with the disharmonies carried by Tahir's dora: the
Column erupted a third time, very differently than before. For whereas Krishanu and 'Sravasa
had both contained mind-created beings, this child's mind knew nothing of fulfillment or
maturity. The mutated energy from the Atira did not enter her, instead it swirled around her with
fire. The flames were not painful or destructive, they were healing, regenerating–they bathed her
in their gentle radiance, canceling the ruinous damage caused by the thermonuclear death of
Tilvia.
All eyes were lost in this dramatic and unexpected display; for this reason, no one saw
the swan-ship racing toward them over the Minolan Lake until it was quite close.
'Vered (as ever, mindful of his duty to Watch) saw it first, but some unknown power kept
him from speaking. It was not until Arama glanced away from the golden fire bathing Noleta
and saw the twelve swiftly walking up the hill toward them that 'Vered's voice was freed; the
Gardener exclaimed, "Shamara!"
They all looked away from Noleta then, but at first, it seemed impossible: those twelve
simply could not be there.
But they were. The Fisherpeoples' bodies, vibrant with life and health, walked up the hill
past the uttara fire to Noleta; the swirling dance of light around her divided into twelve distinct
rays which entered the twelve newly created hearts, animating their bodies with the spirits of the
returned Fisherpeople. They gathered Noleta into their arms with glad cries and happy tears;
then, bowing to Shamara, Arama and the others, they left the uttara vedi to enter Athalia and
begin their new lives.
Narda, her six-month and two-year old babies on either hip, was the last to leave. Before
she stepped out of the Sacrifice and was lost to History (I have found no further mention of her
anywhere in 'Ishtar's Recorder) she said, "It simply wasn't fair to Noleta any other way. Even
Moriah had to admit the logic of that and allowed me to convince him to return to our world."
Shamara overcame her surprise enough to say, "Welcome home." After Narda was gone,
she said to 'Sravasa, "I never expected that."
"Nor did I," he answered vaguely, for he was staring again at Kara. The empty place in
his mind that had labored over the creation of Shamara's mind-created body was now quite filled
with unexpected but very pleasant thoughts about the Athalian.
"How was this possible?" asked 'Vered, astounded. "I have never seen nor even heard of
such an unlikely event."
"The dora creates the Path to Para," answered Tahir, looking at the Gardener curiously.
How had such an odd-looking creature come into self-conscious awareness? Who had made
such a thing? This new world was going to be very interesting, that was already clear.
It felt wonderful to be alive again. In his role as the Follower, his genetic code had been
tied to the energy field that was the final protection of the dora. The circle of cloud had been a
by-product of his multi-dimensional reality interfacing with the everyday world. It felt very
good to be back in a human body. Very good indeed.
"In Para," he continued, "form and substance follow Idea perfectly. Whatever is willed is
done, instantly. Since Noleta tasted the dora, her desire became part of the Sacrifice. Purified by
the Atira, this was the result."
"No impossibilities in Para, then?" asked 'Vered wistfully, thinking he would like to learn
a great deal more from his new Masters.
"None we have ever discovered," answered Tahir, smiling at him. Then he said to
Shamara, "And now the dora in you must be added to the flames."
"I think your task well concluded," said 'Sravasa gently. "That small fraction in Shamara
is needed urgently elsewhere. I speak for my master Matri in requesting you to release that part
alone from the uttara fire."
As Kara gasped with joy, Tahir, firm to his duty, asked sternly, "You are prepared to
assume full responsibility for this alteration?"
"I do," answered the Etan, thereby consciously assuming the burden for continuation of
life upon himself. "How could it be otherwise? This thread can never be severed. The dora
must pass on forever to conclude the original intention of Brihas."
"So there will forever be subtlety within subtlety, eh?" Tahir chuckled. "Very well, be it
so. Lord Uchai-sravasa of Etan, bear you well the burden of continuation to the Seventh Task of
Man."
"Here, take it," said Shamara, coalescing the molecules diffused throughout her body into
a single refulgent droplet on her right hand.
"No, first to Kara, Sharan. She must free Athalia. I will assume this burden only after
the final phase of this Sacrifice is concluded. This much at least will we do for her people. But
for her, yet more will be offered." He smiled at the Athalian; she blushed again but did not lower
her eyes.
Oman was not at all sure what had just happened: at one moment, he was following
Moriah and Kara toward a meeting with the Lord of Athalia; at the next, he was alone on an open
field before a stunningly beautiful city of gold and silver. He could remember no place so
lovely, anywhere on Ganym or Martanda. The craftsmen of ten thousand generations might have
labored unceasingly to create it; there was something about it that transcended all previous limits
of thought or experience. Yet he knew this was not Para: it was a city of Martanda, much as
other cities he had known, but much, much more refined.
An intuitive feeling of danger from behind him caused him to whirl around. Now he
discovered terror! The sky toward the east was black with gorlems! Racing in endless numbers
toward the city. The fear was not for himself, but for the innocent citizens of this beautiful place.
Did they have no defenses? They did not look like they were aware of their impending
destruction. What could he do? One against millions?
But Oman was above all a warrior: the consideration of odds was much less than that of
duty; he could not let those innocents be destroyed, not while a rajanya of Arama's blood still
lived, even if his life were quite obviously forfeit.
"A rather dismal sight, eh, Guardian?" said a familiar voice from behind him. The dwarf
jumped around again: there had been no one within a league a moment before.
"Krishanu?" he asked, his mind seeking confirmation of his perception.
"Once, certainly. Perhaps again. How many do you count?"
"Ninety million, possibly more. And they don't know. . . Within moments. . ."
"Oh, I think not, rajanya. Look again." The City was fading, cloaked by an iridescent
veil of light. "Kara's manipulation of the dora. Athalia returns to the Martanda that bore her. A
rather complex logistics problem: how to winnow on the submicroscopic level the skein of the
gorlems from the Athalians."
"A crystal world!" Oman cried in sudden recognition.
"Yes, with certain twists, for we stand in a separate dimensional reality, whereas the
traditional models on Ganym were always stored within the crystal matrices. But the differences
are not profoundly relevant; we still need to destroy these gorlems, lest someday they are
released from here. . . You might want to move back a little."
Oman watched Krishanu curiously: how could even a Lord of Etan stand against such
odds? The Guardian drew a weapon or two from his belt, more as a symbol of defiance than for
any other reason: what could two accomplish against so many?
Oman watched Krishanu, but the instantaneous act of destruction was so perfect an
expression of the Absolute that his mind could not retain the memory of the experience.
He observed a nebulous something flash from Krishanu's forehead in an expanding field,
something that did not simply destroy the gorlems but discreated them, transferred them to the
lightless dimension of infinite chaos that precedes or underlies creation. In less time than it takes
a human heart to beat once, the skies were clear.
"Shall we go?" asked the Etan. "Shamara is eager to see you."
"The Sacrifice?" Oman asked, unwilling for the moment to think about the power he had
just witnessed.
"It is completed, rajanya."

"Then you have–you are–"
"I am Arama, great-grandson. You have earned my unending gratitude, which we–
brother Uchai-sravasa and I–will begin to repay shortly."
"Here they are," said Kara as Oman and Krishanu stepped through the Gate of
Transference, thinking gratefully, Now I can relinquish the dora. It was burning her as if acid
bathed her every cell: she knew she was not made to withstand more than the most temporary of
possessions. It would be with true thankfulness when she passed it on to 'Sravasa.
Shamara and Tahir, arm-in-arm, were waiting for them; beside them stood 'Vered, Tanya
and Asta; from a far doorway, Oman heard 'Sravasa's sonorous voice rapidly explaining
something to someone. Could there be any doubt he had returned home?
"I do not know if we should accept your gift," said Shamara with doubt. "I=m not sure it
was meant for us." She, Tahir and Oman stood with Arama, 'Sravasa and Kara near the southern
shield wall of Athalia; they had extricated themselves only with great difficulty, even after seven
full days, from the complex social and intellectual demands of the citizens of the reintegrated
Athalia in order to accompany the Etanai and Kara this far on their departure. As far as the wall,
this was their plan. But as soon as they were alone, away from the myriads of revivified
Athalians and Fisherpeople, Arama had told them of their intention, producing a vial of the
amrita from his robe to underscore their position.
"No," 'Sravasa countered her doubt as he gently ran his wise hands over Sanyana's golden
statue. As Kara had foretold, it had effortlessly come to him at his touch; he knew he must
return it to Swayam in Etan to fulfill the Seventh Task of Man and master the complex
challenges of this age. Feeling anew the thrill of its omniscient wisdom, he continued, "You are
as deserving as any of the Etanai. More, perhaps, than most."
Arama said, "You are my last living offspring from Ganym. Shamara, my youngest
daughter; Tahir, of the line of my firstborn; Oman, great-grandson. Jaya would never forgive me
if I let death claim any of you. Consider yourselves as representatives of all the actors on the
Path of the Sacrifice who came before you. Take our gratitude as symbol of all their selfless
lives and works." Then, as they still looked unconvinced, he added, "As your Lord, I command
you to partake of Swayam's amrita."
They had no choice, nor, I suppose, any real desire to refuse the Etanai. The tint of their
skin gradually changed to a faintly bluish hue as the amrita raced like quicksilver through them.
The transformation in Oman was the most dramatic: within ten minutes of tasting the amrita he
was nearly as tall as Shamara; within half an hour, as the last of his cells finished their mutation
to immortality, he stood as tall as Tahir, just slightly beneath Arama. And his features! They
were as normal as any man‘s. One would not even stretch the truth by saying he was ruggedly
handsome.
"The thrones of Athalia will again be occupied, it seems," said 'Sravasa, laughing,
"perhaps for a slightly longer time than before."
"We would never–" began Shamara, but just now Jonasa-Vered, who had gone ahead
with the Weedeaters at the request of the Etanai an hour before, came racing back to them,
shouting,
"The wall! We can't open the wall!" They ran southward after him and found it was the
simple truth: no power, no skill of theirs could any more open the slightly less-than-translucent
barrier, for the Enemy had permeated it with a shield of Emptiness. It was impossible for them to
cross.
"I thought he conceded defeat rather easily," said 'Sravasa ruefully. "Fearing to make a
direct assault against us, he seeks to sap us, to weaken us by removing us from the life of the
world, waiting until he is ready to attempt mastery of the Column of the Sacrifice. I wondered
what his ultimate scheme would be."
"You're not giving up so easily?" asked 'Vered, astounded.
"Giving up? Certainly not! We will try every angle of approach, straightforward and
arcane, from now until the sun decays of old age if need be. Through or around, under or over,
eventually we will discover this prison's flaw. But in the interim, I would say he's bottled these
two Etanai-Cfive Etanai, excuse me–rather well. A brilliant strategist, your son.
"As always," answered Arama, sadly. "A pity we could never turn him to the Grand-
father's will."
"Yes," agreed Uchai-sravasa. "But then again, as Matri said, Àll natural laws and their
anomalies, as well as all the varieties and complexities of life, relative and transcendental, unite
perfectly in the tapestry of Narain's Design.'"
"Which means," said Kara, squeezing his hand, "that just maybe we can enjoy life as it is
for a while."
"Perhaps there may even be time for some gardening," said Jonasa-Vered hopefully.
Overhead, the stars began sparkling through the darkening sky. Krishanu's twin Orah this
very evening would finish his long journey northward over the continental plateau of Vadil and
descend into Riversland. And tonight the first star, the Eye of the Lion, would be stolen from
Martanda's firmament.
The Emperor Valin of the Asurs was most definitely on schedule.
And somewhere far away, a harsh laugh of purest evil echoed through a deserted throne
room for a very long time.
End of Volume I of THE FALL OF ETAN,

in which is described one half of Lord Gana's sixth task.
The FALL OF ETAN continues in THE DEATHLESS DANCER,

the history of Orah's journey northward into Martanda.
AFTERWORD:
THE OBLATION AND THE ATIRA
“You! Why do you recoil from your Sacred Offering? Why do you so judge your most
precious Gift? Why do you see only unworth in that which, of all your possessions, is most
worthy? You are entrusted with the Treasure that will save your race, yet you slink around in
the shadows of your shame, lest the world experience your Glory! And for what?!!”
--The Azure Sage Atri
Although the Eternal Fire is still maintained by the seven Sacred Priests of the Ishayas, it
was determined long ago that true strength lies in numbers, as well as in human free will. The
apocalyptic battle between Holy Spirit and ego has, consequently, shifted with increasing focus
to the level of individual choice. And this is well-ordained: For you are the consciousness that
the Ascendant is; and as such, you are the Archetype of all humanity. Within your spirit is the
evolution of mankind; your life‘s story recreates all the symbols of human history; and your
enlightenment is the Atonement, fully manifested and complete.
In the Ancient Tradition, countless generations of Oblation Bearers carried their

offerings to the Eternal Flame in total Trust and Surrender: Had their predecessors succeeded or
failed? Would they succeed or fail? How many Oblations would it take to fulfill the Atira?
Would this chalice be the final one?
And now it is You who are both the Oblation Bearer and the Crystal Chalice, the Sang
Real. Within you is borne the Oblation to be sacrificed to the purifying fire of the Ascendant
One. And what is this sacred gift you carry in the Universal Tree of your nervous system? Just
this: It is every aspect of yourself that you have judged as being ugly, reprehensible, unworthy;
it is every shadow in your Inner Temple that you have projected onto yourself and others and
then judged as less than perfect; it is that within you which has kept you limited and separate
from the Truth of Who You Are.
The healing of self is the healing of humanity. Quite literally, you have brought a portion
of human separation into manifestation in order to heal it. If you succeed, mankind will be
healed of those aspects of its illusion. This is your gift to your Holy Creation; indeed, like the
widow‘s mite, it is all that you have to offer—and it is beyond price, beyond any capacity for
relative worth.
So: Can you be willintg to reverse by 180 degrees the lens through which you have been
judging yourself so harshly and realize how precious you are to the simplicity of the Divine
scheme? Are you willing to see your ―limitations,‖ your ―faults,‖ your ―shortcomings‖ as mere
beliefs through which you can ascend to Wholeness? Are you willing to carry them, without
self-jugdment, to the Eternal Flame of the Ascendant? Are you then willing to release them and
surrender them to the Truth of your infinite Self?
Every spiritual Master, every Prophet and Saint, has given us a formula for healing the
ills that surround us: “If you would heal the world, you must heal yourself.” This is not a
precondition for would-be messiahs, it is a bold statement: As we begin to experience ourselves
in Truth, we are finally able to experience the world in its Truth as well.
The healing and salvation of the world is a fait accompli; it has nothing to do with us, nor
with our ecological, political, religious and military crusages. It is Human Consciousness that is
painfully, agonizingly out of sync—this is where the healing is needed; this is where your efforts
are vital to Atonement. Not surprisingly, the princes, principalities and institutions of the world
have never heeded this advice. Why? Because it isn‘t about them; it‘s about you! You, and
your Pathway of Return.
Your world is dying, love-starved, unable to see or taste the miraculous superabundance
of Love, fountaining all around it! Are you willing to empty your vessel that it may be refilled
with the nectar of that very Abundance, that it may radiate through your entire being and into the
heart of every hungering soul you meet?
You are an Adventurer of Cosmic proportions; and if you will carry your Oblation to its
fulfillment then you will be healed, humanity will be healed, and the planet will be healed. And
that will be the least of your rewards, for your expanding consciousness is also the key to the
Door of All That Is.
The author and supporters of this book practice The Ishayas’ Ascension, a very powerful
and effective tool for going deep within while shattering the societal programs of separation,
limitation and unworth. We not only practice The Ishaya’s Ascension, we teach it and we live
it—because it has been so powerfully transformational in our personal experience. There are
many other valid paths available today as well, and also many ineffective ones. If you haven‘t
already chosen a spiritual practice for yourself, we encourage you to do so.
At the risk of offending some institutions: It is the Goal, not the pathway that is of
paramount importance. Nonetheless, choose wisely: The fully healed and realized Self treads
the same soil as its fellows, but lives a very different experience, an experience that has been
called the Kingdom of Heaven. This is a reality whose rewards are of necessity beyond your
ability to comprehend in this moment, but they are also well within your grasp—so, this would
be a good time to begin. Indeed, this would be a very good time!
Jai Isham Ishvaram,
Savitr Ishaya

Shamara, The Oblation Bearer

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SHAMARA, THE OBLATION BEARER

THE FALL OF ETAN

THIRD THUNDER, BOOK II

Almira - in each of you

Edited by Savitr Ishaya

Illustrations by Carolyn Grant

Copyright © 1991 by MSI

1. The Sacrifice of the Gods .................4

2. The Path of the Gods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

3. The Fishermen of the Gray Isles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

4. The Diella Sea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

6. The Crystal Valley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

7. The City of the Weedeaters . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70

8. The Lesser Pass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82

9. The Devil's Anvil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100

10. Athalia the Fair . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125

11. The Lord of Athalia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141

12. The Uttara Vedi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153

1. The Sacrifice of the Gods

with a peculiar intensity that looked like awe.

What is your descent from our father Arama?"

2. The Path of the Gods

Within moments it was gone; they were alone in a measureless ocean.

3. The Fishermen of the Gray Isles

dissuade Cadmar, but was more and more curtly rebuffed.

4. The Diella Sea

"Three or four days at your present rate."

mosquitoes, the thoroughly obnoxious scents and sights everywhere.

6. The Crystal Valley

mostly of ice. "Arama died before this knowledge was born."

in the flare's light as if they had never been.

Jonasa-Vered was now a respected Gardener in a resurrected Tilvia. Scores of intelligent

vagrant item of data.

7. The City of the Weedeaters

of which perished in a comparatively recent war with the Mereds?"

"Exactly. You see why Navril Hagar covets our knowledge."

8. The Lesser Pass

have a hard time hearing her."

9. The Devil's Anvil

order to make camp.

begin with first light."

behind Moriah like the shaft of an arrow behind its point.

have you not rested today?"

see its glory increasing?"

10. Athalia the Fair

should they sacrifice their best? It is not natural."

over thirty leagues!

11. The Lord of Athalia

12. The Uttara Vedi

"I do not. Nor did I know anything was there."

other. . ." She paused, made oddly uncomfortable by his curiosity.

the speed of the Grandfather‘s mind.

"It is completed, rajanya."

End of Volume I of THE FALL OF ETAN,

The FALL OF ETAN continues in THE DEATHLESS DANCER,

THE OBLATION AND THE ATIRA

In the Ancient Tradition, countless generations of Oblation Bearers carried their

Jai Isham Ishvaram,

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