Tzoja was so deep into thoughts of the past that she gasped in surprise and stumbled when she stepped out of a thicket of smooth stone columns and found the great, glittering expanse of the night-dark lake stretched before her. For a moment it seemed as though she had walked directly into the starry sky—black stone overhead, black water below, and between those two horizons, thousands upon thousands of tiny, glowing points.
She turned, and there above her, shimmering gently on one of the stony hills that seemed to prop the ceiling of Dark Garden Lake, stood the volcanic stone house that had been awarded to her master by the palace, in thanks for the discovery of this strange, beautiful place. The path to its portico led upward between pale, dimly glowing lawns of candlesnuff fungus and whitecrown to a massive front door carved with the circular wreath of leaves and grass that the Hikeda’ya used as a symbol for the Lost Garden. Tzoja knew there would be blankets and robes inside for her to sleep on, as well as water and preserved food to pad out the supplies she had brought with her. She would be able to live here in secrecy and safety for at least a while—perhaps even until Viyeki came back.
But perhaps I won’t stay lucky that long, she reminded herself. She needed to start thinking about what she would do if this den were discovered, too.
Tzoja settled her bag on her shoulder for the last steep hike to safety, and began to clamber up the slope of loose stones toward the front path.
The light rain felt oddly soothing against Viyeki’s skin, like the touch of a thousand small, cold fingers.
What would it be like, he wondered, to live always beneath the sky like this? Our great mountain protects us but it also isolates us. We take our children from their mothers young to protect them from sentiment and the weakness it causes, and we avoid Mother Sun for the same reason. But is it truly weak to enjoy what the sky brings?
It was a strange and interesting thought, the kind that he often had when he left the confines of Nakkiga, but Viyeki could not afford to follow it just now. He had too many questions he needed to ask the upstart cleric Sogeyu and the Sacrifice military commanders—something that irritated him in and of itself: Why should a high magister have to seek for information? But he could find neither the main officers nor leading Singers anywhere around the camp, although he had walked from one end to the other. And not one of the Hikeda’ya soldiers or the bestial Tinukeda’ya carry-men who remained could tell him where they had gone.
His own company of Builders and the rest of the Sacrifice troops were spread across the north side of a hill in what he guessed must be the northern marches of mortal Erkynland. No fires had been lit, and even starlight and moonlight were scarce tonight with rain clouds thronging the blueblack midnight sky. He was thankful that at least they were not making their presence on mortal lands any more obvious than was necessary. Still, as he searched for the other commanders he felt himself almost a phantom, as though it was not the other Hikeda’ya leaders who had left him, but Viyeki himself who had stepped out of the world.
These lands are so wide, he thought, looking out across a landscape that sparkled with rain. So much room! How can the mortals stand it? How can they protect it all?
The answer was, of course, that they couldn’t. In the past, only the sheer lack of soldiers had kept the Hikeda’ya from triumphing in their battles against the mortals, who bred like rats in a midden-heap. That was why the Order of Sacrifice had declared the defeat of the old ways after the failed War of Return, and with the help of Viyeki and others had taken advantage of Queen Utuk’ku’s long sleep to change the ancient laws and begin to use mortal women as brood animals.
Viyeki felt a moment of pain thinking of his lovely Tzoja that way, but as one of the queen’s high magisters he could not shrink from the truth: as an individual, his mistress seemed almost as real to him as another Hikeda’ya, but as a race they were little more than vermin.
Perhaps we could save the best of them when we finally win back our land, he thought. That would be a kindness befitting an old and generous race like ours. And that way we would save them from themselves.
Viyeki stepped to the side of the path as a procession of brutish carry-men lumbered past pulling an empty supply wagon, silent but for their steady breathing, muscles bulging and straining. Even their overseer made no noise as he teased the creatures’ thick skin with the barbed tip of his crop. The carry-men’s hairless heads bobbed in rhythm with each step, as though they were one many-headed beast.
When they had passed him and gone trudging down the hill toward the main camp, Viyeki suddenly wondered where they were coming from. Why would a supply wagon be here, at the farthest edge of the camp, if not to bring someone supplies? But the supply train itself would have come in on the opposite side of the camp, trailing the soldiers’ advance.
Viyeki ordered his new secretary Nonao and the clan guards back to camp because he didn’t completely trust any of them, then he began to climb the slope in the direction from which the empty wagon had come. When he reached the hilltop he had time only to stand in the swirl of wind and spattering rain for a half-dozen heartbeats before a pair of Sacrifice guards appeared as if from nowhere and ordered him to remain where he was.
“What are you doing?” he asked as they approached with their spears lowered. “Could it be that you Pledged value your heads so lightly? I am High Magister Viyeki, Lord of Builders.”
They looked at him with more curiosity than they had before, but kept their spears lowered. “These useless slaves beg your pardon, Magister,” said one of them. “But we have orders from Host General Kikiti to let no one pass. We were told of no exceptions.”
“If one of Queen Utuk’ku’s high magisters is not an exception, then the queen herself will hear of it,” Viyeki said, and his cold fury was only partly for effect. “I do not doubt the punishments will be dreadful. Do you know of the Cold, Slow Halls?”
Both soldiers remained stolid, but Viyeki could see by the narrowing of their eyes that his threat had struck home. “Yes, Magister,” they said in ragged chorus.
“Well, then I suggest you think very, very carefully. I wish to pass. Will you try to stop me, or will you seek out your superiors and avoid a terrible mistake?”
Neither guard looked at the other, but he could feel the tension that gripped them both.
“I will go and ask our troop chieftain,” said one finally. He turned and within moments had vanished down the steep slope on the far side of the hill. His companion now assumed an even more fixed and determined look, as if he hoped to redouble the threat to make up for the other guard’s absence. Viyeki tamped down his anger and humiliation. These were ignorant Sacrifices, mere minions—Hikeda’ya, yes, but only a step or two up from Tinukeda’ya slaves. Letting himself feel anger at them was like hating the watchdog chained to the barn door.
It was League Commander Buyo who came back with the guard, his broad face creased in dismay. “High Magister Viyeki, what are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? I go where I please, Commander. Why am I being stopped as if I were an interloper?”
“I am sorry, Magister, but the Host General and the Host Singer gave strict orders. We did not expect you.”
“I suppose that you mean Kikiti and Sogeyu. Take me to them now.”
Buyo hesitated for a moment, but wherever his ultimate loyalties might lie, there was no possibility in any sensible Hikeda’ya world that a mere commander could dispute with a high magister. “Of course, great lord. Follow me, please.”
At first it looked as though the missing officers and Singers had built a small, separate camp for themselves on the east side of the hill, in a forest of rocky outcroppings just below the summit, but as Buyo led him down the winding path from the hillcrest, Viyeki realized that it was not just a camp but a sentry post, positioned so it could look across the wide valley at the Forbidden Hills and the great Oldheart Forest beyond.
Sogeyu greeted him there, her face solemn and her manner ingratiating. “My deepest apologies, Magister Viyeki! We would have sent for you within the matter of an hour or so even had you not come looking for us. Please forgive us.”
“I cannot forgive you until I know what you have done, Host Singer,” he replied with stiff formality. It was a dangerous thing to be left out of important meetings—a bad sign at best, and usually a token of fatal mistrust. “Why have I been ignored?”
“Not ignored, Magister. We delayed to summon you only to make certain that our forward position was safe for visitors.”
Viyeki doubted that—he could now see the others present, several more Singers and several important Sacrifices as well, including Host General Kikiti, and they all looked quite settled. “How thoughtful,” he said.
“Welcome, High Magister,” said General Kikiti, lean and long-legged as a black heron in his spiky armor. “Join us, my lord. We are making our plans, and although you need take no part in them at first, soon yours will be the most important part of all.”
“What do you mean?”