Chapter 8: The Runes of Truth

1:1 Before the world was, He was Joy. 2 The beginning was Joy, for then in Joy did He create. 3 He made the Deep Places and peopled them with stars. Then did the Creator and His first creatures rejoice, for in Joy did He create.4 Among the stars He sowed the seed of worlds. Then did life in all its rich and varied forms spring forth. And within these worlds there grew will and choice, the living gems of freedom.

5 Now some of the seed fell at the feet of a star that glanced away from Joy: to him it was not joy to be surpassed; he must himself taste of freedom. 6 But to him the morsel was the food of disobedience. Being not for him it did consume him: he had been, but now was not, yet was. 7 Then did he corrupt his way. He twisted joy to dismay, and life to death. And so did he to all worlds within his grasp, even tearing the fabric of all things.

8 Then did the eye of the Creator see his creatures' plight, how they did go in wounds and sorrow. 9 So did Joy lay his mantle on the High Places, even upon the throne of his creation. Then down he plunged into the depths of disobedience, and in a mortal body dwelt, that he might bring His likeness into Man, and Man's likeness into God. 10 Then did the Fallen Star cast his poisoned spear into the side of Joy; that he might smite Joy with death. 11 So Joy wrestled death in the dark place among the broken images. 12 But in three days did Joy leap up, holding in his body all virtue against death. 13 Now from the Blood of Joy sprang new life, which danced and sang praises to the Creator Redeemer.

14 Then were the jewelled worlds sown in Honour of Joy; then were Grenwilde and her sisters planted, and in them Princes sat...

3:1 But in time there arose a certain man who appeared in the East. He thought to alter the lot of man, and in his pride to change the boundaries of thoughts and bodies. 2 He troubled the minds of many of the children of men and turned them aside from the truth. And these were but the beginning of his ways...

7 And they reaped in their bodies the harvest of their corrupt devices, even to the mingling of their seed with the seed of animals. So they did great abominations, and made the land to stink, so that the stench of it went up before the Throne of Joy. 8 Thus did they defile their blood and so did the Creator give them over to an image of brokenness...

Jaomin closed the Runes of Truth and rubbed his eyes. It was difficult to read by candlelight. And he was tired.

Why had the man 'appeared' in the East? Jaomin wondered. Where did he get his horrible ideas? Wasn't the Fallen Star destroyed? Jaomin didn't know the answer to these questions, and now - since he was unable to attend Celebration - he couldn't even ask a Speaker for an answer. His father was wise but not particularly reflective, Jaomin thought.

He had heard - in fact, his brother Orun had told him - that there was a type of immortality possessed by some power or other behind the desigarg. It was likely a myth, Orun had added. People made up things about whatever they didn't understand. And no one could say they understood the desigarg. The world of the gargs was a defiled mystery, one that no one wanted to pry into. True, before the war the humans had begun trading with the desigarg, but there was no one foolish enough to go to their lands. Who would be crazy enough to want to? Who would be strong enough to survive? For it was well known how much desigarg hated humans.

As Jaomin thought the questions multiplied, but not the answers: do they hate us out of envy or sheer wantonness? What would it be like to be half human, to have your humanity endlessly pursued through your veins by the blood of an animal? Jao shivered remembering the eyes of the catamin he had faced in cold blood. To have that living inside you! It must all have started with this mysterious man from the East, Jaomin thought. Who was he?

"Maric?"

"Uhm."

"Where did the man come from who 'appeared in the East'?"

"What? Oh. I don't know, Jao. I guess I've never thought about it much." Maric spoke without looking up from whatever it was he was writing.

"Whatcha doing?" asked Jaomin.

"Writing to Sethrim," said Maric with the air of one swatting flies.

"Yeah? Oh. Well, say 'hi' to him for me."

Maric glanced over at his brother. "Write him yourself, lazy."

Sethrim was only one year older than Maric and the two brothers - against all odds - were even nearer in affection than they were in age. Father had thought he could get by with only two sons helping him, and - such was his loyalty to the king - he had let the other five stay to fight in His Majesty's Army. It bothered Maric to be separated from any of his brothers, but particularly Sethrim.

Jaomin leaned on his hand and peered out into the darkness of the night. Even with dull lights on inside he couldn't see a thing. He wished he could be with Telliam, Ganarth, Sethrim and all the others. He wished he could fight.

Jaomin straightened up, a thought occurring to him. "Hey!" he exclaimed, "how are you planning to get that letter to Sethrim? We don't have any micker birds."

"Gonna make a paper bird out of the letter and throw it."

Jaomin smiled his crooked unamused smile. "How?"

Maric didn't answer.

"Maric?" he said looking closely at his brother who was studiously not returning his gaze. "Are you gonna..."

"I'm going to ride to West Ganariel and give it to the King's Post, of course," said Maric as if speaking to a small child or idiot.

"What!" exclaimed Jao, offended and angry at the same time, "And about this you say 'of course'? Does Abba know?"

"Of course," said Maric irritatingly. "Did you think I was planning to take old Nina and just disappear?"

Jaomin looked at his brother silently for a moment. He wanted to go along. He'd never seen West Ganariel and he had seen about all he wanted to see of sheep. If he made Maric angry then his chances of tagging along wouldn't be particularly good. "I see. Do you think I could come?"

"Jao, think about it: two of us, one horse!" Maric spoke with his eyebrows raised. He was right, of course; Thunder, Maric's horse was lame. Jessef would never let anyone ride Wisdom - his own war steed. However, Jao had another idea.

"We could use the wagon..."

"No, Abba'll need your help. We can't both be gone."

"Well, that's not fair," said Jaomin. Being reasonable wasn't working so he might as well say what he felt.

"Look, Jao, suppose I meet a desigarg. What would I do if I had you along, eh?"

Jao bristled, "Die in company instead of being lonely, I guess." His voice was rising as he spoke. Who did Maric think he was, King Caliphanus? He was only two years older than Jaomin, and it rankled him to be treated as a child by some one nearly his own age.

"It was my idea, and I'm going alone," Marichael had two reasons for wanting to go alone, but he wasn't about to tell Jaomin either one.

"Abba!" called Jao, deciding it was time to move on to the court of appeal.

"Yes," a muffled voice came from outside.

Jaomin stalked out of the house to talk to his father. This was fine with Maric. Now he could get his letter written in peace.

"Abba," began Jaomin, before the door was closed behind him, "Maric says he's goin' to take Nina to West Ganariel. Is that right?"

His father looked over at the indignant figure of Jaomin, back-lit by the faint rays shining through their front window. He was in the process of tamping down the tobacco in his pipe. Since there was no pane of glass in it, Maric had no difficulty following the conversation. He was ready to leap in to defend his plan of going alone if that became necessary.

"He should be leaving tomorrow just after dawn."

Jao looked hurt, "Well, how come no one told me?"

His father wrinkled his brow and shook his head, "Son, no one was trying to hide anything. We're three very busy people. You were out looking after the sheep; I just decided this was a good time to take care of various pieces of business." His father stopped talking long enough to light up his pipe, "So Maric'll bring back supplies and - I hope - some letters from your brothers. Particularly, I'm hoping to get some news from Yason and Regine. Baby should be here by now, unless she's late comin' like you."

Jao was not to be put aside by small talk, "Can I go too?"

"No, son."

"Why, Father?"

"Well, first of all he won't be takin' the wagon..."

"But he could, Abba. If he's gettin' supplies it would make a lot more sense if he took the wagon," Jaomin reasoned.

"He won't be takin the wagon, 'cause he might need to move fast. I hope not, but he might need to."

"Desigarg?"

Jessef only nodded, leaning back on his crude homemade chair and puffing on his pipe. Looking out over the silent peaceful valley it was hard to believe that danger - in a hideously inhuman form - could come slithering over those hills at any time.

"But Abba, he'd be safer if I was with him. I could help him fight them."

"Son, there's only one thing Marichael will do if he meets one those gargs: ride for home. That you can't do on a wagon, not fast enough."

Jaomin stiffened, he was getting angry. For a while now he had suspected that Abba doubted that he - Jaomin - could handle himself like a man. He was tired of being treated like a child, "Why, don't you say what you really think, Father. You think I'm no good for anything except looking after sheep."

His father pulled the pipe out of his mouth and peered across at his son, "Jao, I've never thought..."

"You'd let anyone else fight the desigarg; I'm the only one you think can't fight! Well I can and I have!" Jao was running before a pretty strong wind.

"Jao, listen..."

"No, Father, you listen," it was suicide to talk to Abba this way, but Jaomin was beyond caring, "Did you know your helpless son killed a catamin!"

Jessef sat up straight in the chair, his pipe forgotten. He frowned at his son, wondering what the boy could possibly be going on about. There was one thing about Jao: he didn't lie. What the boy had said surprised Jessef so much, he forgot to get angry at his rudeness! In the silence that followed, the door beside Jaomin slowly swung open and Marichael came out of the house, stepping to where he could get a good look at Jaomin; he kept his eyes fixed on his younger brother the whole time, as if looking at some exotic animal or desigarg freak.

"What?" said Marichael quietly.

Jao sighed, looked uncomfortable, and peered down at his feet. "I did," Jaomin answered simply. No one said anything. Jaomin looked up, first at his brother and then - reluctantly - at his father. Well, he'd put his foot in it now, Jaomin realised. Without in any way embroidering the tale, he told them of the enormous cat that had tried to steal one of his father's sheep. How he had felt a deep rage and found himself running upon the beast, sling whirling, before he had time to think. "...it was a chance shot. I couldn't do it again if I tried all day."

Marichael put his hand on his brother's shoulder, "Maybe they should have called you Nimrodius, brother!"

Jaomin smiled; Nimrodius was the Prince of Hunters, but he glanced uneasily at his father.

"Son, understand this. You are far more valuable than all the sheep in the world as far as I'm concerned. I don't approve at all of what you did. On the other hand," said Jessef puffing like a chimney, "I'm prouder than a puffer bird over her spring brood."

Jaomin relaxed. Good, he thought. "So, I can go?"

"No," said Jessef, grinning, "you stay here and defend your ancient father!"

Jaomin knew when an argument was not to be won. But when he and Maric went back into the house, he knew also - from the amused but puzzled expression in Maric's eyes - that he'd won his brother's respect, maybe his father's as well.

~ ~ ~

The small lake had been called the Heart of Grenwilde by the first prince of that country, Galinal the Fair. In those days, the Northern Lands were not so bitter as in latter times, and this small valley - known as the King's Chalice - had been the place of joy and dance. The valley was quite remarkable, for although it was seven hundred and fifty feet below the peaks of the Three Sisters, it was suspended a further one thousand feet above the valleys lying beyond those peaks. The lake itself was fed from a strong spring, gushing up from deep within the heart of these mountains; the lake emptied through a single stream - not more than two feet wide. This stream poured between the two southern peaks and tumbled in a series of dizzying cascades and rapids, to the distant valleys below. It is said that in the ancient days the princes of Grenwilde had their high throne upon the northern most of these peaks, Kirarka Narth. Yet those days are as forgotten as the feet that danced by the shores of the sacred lake.

Standing on the slopes of Kirarka Narth, the Mountain of Truth, an observer looks straight across the Heart of Grenwilde into the honeycombed cliff-face of Mala Nal, where Taril had appeared two days earlier. In these latter days, the night time of the Northern Lands could be bitterly cold, and even during the early spring, the night air could chew its way through the warmest fur-lined clothing. From within one of those caves, nearly seven hundred feet above the valley, a fire could be discerned.

Fire has always attracted and preserved life. It is said that when the Creator honoured Adondaius, the Master of the Dance, he immortalized his art in the movement of the flames - leaving them as a perpetual instruction to mankind, that the art of dance might not be forgotten. Certainly the flames on that distant cliff-face danced with a warm invitation: a promise of comfort and human occupation.

Within the cave, snug by the fire, Taril, Sky-born and Nizzle-par lay in a confused heap listening to the soft voice of Nalitha, Mother in Loridan. Truthfully, the confusion was due mostly to Nizzle-par. Even by the standards of great northern arlor he was huge, but despite his great size he had lost none of his remarkable arlor flexibility. If it had been necessary for either Taril or Sky to stand up, the necessity would likely have had to go unanswered, for Nizzle-par had his long furry arms and legs under, over and around them. He was sleeping blissfully but was aware, as always, of his Mistress' voice. Sky, with a long-suffering air, was lying on his side with his head against his Master's leg. Occasionally some of Nizzle-par's fur got in Sky's nose and he snorted in mild irritation. Taril, minus armour, and surrounded by more than fifteen hundred pounds of warm recumbent animal was fighting drowsiness, but was aided in his fight by the fascinating stories Nalitha had been telling him.

"I believe," said the great lady, "that if the foliage were cleared you might still be able to read all the Creator's Runes of Truth. The Creator wrote them in the living rock with his finger. In the morning you may see for yourself that some faint trace is discernable among the bracken and - higher up - whole sentences can be viewed."

Taril shook his head, not in disbelief but amazement, he had heard that Joy had done similar things in other worlds, but never had his eyes beheld them in one of the low worlds. He knew them to be derivative of the great Rune Stone. "How is it that the people of this land do not honour this place, Great Lady?"

"They do, Taril, but only by word of mouth. Its place is forgotten by them, and many do not believe it exists at all. They think of it only as an idea or story. They have not the skill to read the signs of the times or seasons; a spirit of stupor is upon them."

Taril frowned, "It's always the same in every world where creatures have fallen from the Image of Joy. They follow cunningly devised stories and lose themselves in half-truths." Taril glanced over at the wall, where his armour leaned and his sword hung, "Let us try what Logos will do to those things which obscure the writing of our Beloved!"

Nalitha smiled warmly, "It's a good idea, Taril, but it will have to wait, I think. You will need to be going by first light if you're going to accomplish what the Redeemer has shown us. The clearing of the debris will have to wait for its time."

Taril shrugged, "Would it not be a comfort for you to look on the words of our Beloved, Nalitha?"

"Yes," she said simply.

"It would not take Logos five minutes, I think. He is a wonderfully powerful sword."

"Taril, don't forget that I'm here in hiding. Should you do this thing I don't think it could escape the eyes from which I'm being hidden."

Taril nodded, realising she was right. The Mothers of Loridan were as wise as they were beautiful. To them were entrusted the Jewels of the King. Anyone who had seen His Majesty with those children knew how precious they were to him, as indeed they were precious to all in Loridan. Taril was in a state beyond surprise to find one of these exalted mothers here, in Grenwilde.

"As you say, Mother, it waits for the time. But tell me, Lady Nalitha, how you came to be here?"

"Do you mean, in the King's Chalice or in Grenwilde?"

Taril laughed, "I guess I mean both, dear Lady."

She looked around at the warm cave, the comfortable hangings could hardly conceal the fact that it was - after all - a primitive place for anyone to be, least of all an immortal, a Princess of Loridan. "Well, Taril, they are both long stories."

"I'm comfortable," he said happily, "unless you are fatigued, my Mother."

"No, I'm glad of your company, Taril. Twenty-five years is a long time. Mortality weighs on a person, doesn't it?"

Taril nodded.

"It's a strange thing this flow of events, called time," she continued, "I had grown into the timeless day of Loridan. Coming here I felt like a tree being ripped up by the roots. Yet, such is the weakness of mortal nature, that sometimes in the years of my being here I have almost come to think of Loridan as a golden dream. At such times I prayed, and the Spirit brought me wonderful comfort. I even made a little likeness of the Rune Stone. It was only a simple carving in wood, but when I looked at it I thought of home."

"May I see it, dear Lady?"

Nalitha shook her head sadly, "I no longer have it. My husband wears it about his neck. It is his comfort. Mine is seeing his face in the Mirror of Visions."

Taril's eyes posed the question he had been longing to ask.

"And how does it come, you wonder, that a Mother in Loridan is a married woman in one of the low worlds?"

Taril nodded, for it was a great puzzle.

"A prayer I prayed once, long ago in a different world, is the answer to that, Taril. I lived my mortal journey, Knight of Loridan, in the world of Iystra. Of all fallen worlds Iystra, I think, has fewer citizens in Loridan than any other. I do not know how Majesty has brought any of its sons to glory."

"He brought you, Nalitha," Taril said softly.

"He did, for he can do all things. It was a cold world, Taril, and the only thing that mattered in Iystra was appearance. If a person was fat, ugly or even plain she was despised. The people of that world reckoned only on the outward man. I know it is the same in many worlds, but in Iystra abuse had become an art form. Since even the most beautiful are eventually old, everyone's grey hairs went down to the grave in misery: for in Iystra abuse of the elderly was esteemed a wonderful game. Now although few in Iystra bear children, for pregnancy is a thing that those of Iystra hate..."

"How, Nalitha, did that race survive?"

"They had found ways to bend the edicts of Creation and put their seed within other creatures and even artificial wombs," Nalitha shivered as though she had touched a loathsome thing. "Yet always I wanted to bear children and longed greatly to love and to be loved. In Iystra many women had five or six husbands but in all my years I had none. I was very plain, Taril. No man would have me, and those that looked on me only jeered. I grew bitter, angry and petty."

Nalitha paused and smiled down at her graceful hands. It was strange to think of her former life. It seemed like a barely remembered dream, "I sometimes think being plain was the greatest gift, Taril. For being so plain made me seek my comfort from Him who comforts the broken-hearted. At first I only sought Him to get what I wanted. Many years I beat on His door crying always that I be loved by man, that I should bear children. But, as the years went by, and age compounded my plainness with loneliness, I came to love the presence of the Spirit more than any thing. And you know His law, Taril, none that truly seek Him fail to find."

"By the time my mortal journey was complete, I had reached that place where all of my hope was in Him. I believe that if one had told me, in those last years of my life on Iystra, that I could have had any husband in the world, with youth and beauty thrown into the bargain, I would have laughed at the offer," Nalitha shook her head as though dismissing the shades of night.

"Then I awoke and beheld our Beloved." Here she stopped and Taril and the lady exchanged a look of knowledge. Both knew with tingling joy what seeing Him had meant. There was no need for her to explain that part of her story to Taril.

"He gave into my charge the children I had longed for, such children!" she went on, "I grew to love the Jewels of Loridan. In the Sacred Book of Iystra, it says that all who make the Redeemer their husband shall have more children than the stars in the sky," She stopped and swallowed once or twice, for the thought of her children made her sick with longing. Nizzle-par, hearing the note of sadness in his Mistress voice raised his shaggy head from sleep and looked blearily about, like a benign and puzzled drunkard. Nalitha sang a short aria that sounded to the ear as honey tastes to the mouth. The huge beast bleated his deep musical reply, understanding that all was well, and cuddled closer to Sky and Taril. Taril wondered whether this strange embrace was in part the beast's way of making sure these visitors would be on their best behaviour around his Mistress.

"He really loves you, doesn't he?" said Taril in amusement.

"Nizzle-par and Balla Luba are my almost constant companions. Part of the Master's provision," Balla Luba looked more like the constant companion of the cave's nether wall; she hadn't moved once since Sky and Taril entered the cave.

"One day as I was with the children in the Singing Forest, our Beloved came through the grove. He took me by the hand and led me out to the Portals of Loridan. There he spoke to me and showed me a small container with my prayers, and I saw how I had longed to be a wife. He told me of Grenwilde and its crying need. He told me that my prayer had made a way that I might descend into the lower worlds and be the mother and wife I had longed to be."

"Taril, there is no bitter thing in Loridan, as you know. But I laughed when I saw how the thing which I had longed for most, the thing which had brought me to a joy much greater than itself, must now make me leave my happiness for the darkness of the lower world. I saw the poetry of the will of Him who is most blessed; I bowed my head, and thanked his great Majesty. For I saw that I was being given a chance to lay my life down, even as our King of Peace himself did."

Taril nodded firmly, in deep joy and wonder.

"I passed through the Western Portal and found myself in the world of Grenwilde. Here I met and married a man of great kindness and humility. He had the heart of a king and I had the Royal Blood of Loridan."

The warrior and the lady talked long into the night, but before the sun was well up into the heavens, Taril and Sky were wending their way to Mirror of Visions to take up Quest once more.

~ ~ ~

On the night of the Battle of the Great Wall, at the very moment of his wonderful victory, the Prince of Night had received a terrible shock. It was the first time in as long as he could remember that he had been shocked. His living thoughts had circled above the battlefield raining fire from the heavens, obliterating all life below, when a strange disaster had overtaken him.

More quickly than he could reckon, searing bolts of white?hot light pierced the children of his mind: again, and again, and again. In perhaps five minutes all the vulgraths had been turned to vapour, and the Lord of Oblivion's inner eye had burned in unthinkable torment. Even yet he had not fully recovered.

It could only mean one thing; redemption lay close at hand, beating on the very doors of Grenwilde. But he would not let it happen. He had planned too carefully.

Nihilos the Demiurge peered into the Seeing Crystal. He was viewing his plan, suggesting it, creating it; the betrayal was at hand, the sacrifice prepared but this time - oh yes, this time - the outcome would be different. He would have an immortal trapped in a new - and most disturbing - form of immortality.

In the Crystal, he saw the foolish human, riding to his death. "You will do," he hissed, "You are just the perfect bait; you will do."