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  And then it came to her, softly, gently, a thought surprising, but not really, a thought that should have been disturbing, but wasn’t disturbing at all.

  Lub-Kaden had died on the hunt.

  Irb-Falpom, huge and ancient, had passed peacefully in her sleep.

  And Haldan—Haldan’s passage had been hastened by her insane brother.

  And the child…surely this was little Helbark.

  Helbark, who had died of fever.

  Dead.

  All of them.

  Dead.

  Just like me.

  But then another form appeared, a familiar form. Why, it was Karshirl, her daughter by Garios. She was all but lost in the glare of the strange white light. Ah, then this was a dream, surely, for Karshirl was still alive, was waiting for her down at the base of the tower. Strange, though, the way the younger female stood there, as if now, at last, she wanted to talk, to spend time with Novato, to know her mother.

  Such beautiful light.

  The dream didn’t frighten Novato. Nothing, she thought, could frighten her so long as she was in the presence of that hypnotic, wondrous light.

  The light’s edges were diffuse and yet she thought that maybe, just maybe, she could discern a shape in that light, a form in the illumination.

  A Quintaglio. A giant Quintaglio, bigger than the biggest thunderbeast. Maybe, just maybe…

  It was in profile now, this glowing Quintaglio.

  It had no arms.

  It was God.

  But then the periphery of the light shifted, shimmered, and whatever form she’d thought she’d seen there was gone, lost in the glorious whiteness.

  She wanted to approach closer, to be with the light, but new images were crowding her mind, a cascade of images, images blowing in the wind.

  Her first pilgrimage voyage. The Face of God at the zenith, a magnificent banded crescent…

  Getting her hunter’s tattoo, holding her jaw firmly shut, determined not to yelp as the metal lance repeatedly pierced the skin on the side of her head…

  She and her creche-mate, Daldar, running through the forest together…

  A culling—surely not her own! One she must have seen at some other point. A group of eight hatchlings half-running, half-stumbling across the birthing sands, while a giant male Quintaglio—a bloodpriest—gave chase, his purple robes billowing about him. One after another, hatchlings were caught in his gaping maw and then slid down his distended throat…

  A happier sight: her first meeting with gruff old Var-Keenir, when the master mariner had sought her out to acquire one of her far-seers. She’d beamed with pride at that, and all of Pack Gelbo had treated her with new respect…

  The sight of Kevpel through the big far-seer she’d set up at the summit of the dormant Osbkay volcano. Kevpel’s glorious rings, its retinue of moons, its beautiful banded cloud tops…

  That first glorious time she’d beat her teaching master at a game of lastoontal…

  Being there, aboard the Dasheter, to see her first clutch of eggs hatch, the eight babies using their little birthing horns to break through their shells, then tumbling out onto the wooden deck of the ship…

  Soaring through the air during that incredible first flight aboard the Tak-Saleed…

  And that time, long ago, with Afsan. Dear, wonderful Afsan. He’d seemed so awkward and gawky—just a skinny adolescent, really—when he’d shown up at her workplace in the old temple of Hoog. But what a mind he had! And what wonderful and startling truths they’d found by pooling their observations. And that night, when she suddenly found herself receptive, suddenly found herself with him inside her. That wonderful night—

  Mokleb had co-opted Pettit, Afsan’s apprentice, to do some research for her. Pettit knew what time Afsan’s usual appointment with Mokleb was, and so she waited for Mokleb along the path that led to Rockscape. The young apprentice stood in plain sight, in the middle of the path, so that Mokleb would be sure to see her well in advance. After ritual greetings were exchanged, Pettit spoke: “I have that information you requested.”

  “Ah, good,” said Mokleb. “Tell me.”

  “Empress Sar-Sardon arrived in Pack Carno on the nineteenth day of Dargo in kiloday 7096.”

  Mokleb’s inner eyelids fluttered. “The nineteenth? Are you certain?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Pettit. “There’s a commemorative stone in Carno’s territory. There’s a fine etching of it in the archives here; the date was easy to read.”

  “There’s no chance that the Empress’s arrival was delayed, so that the date was wrong?”

  “None. They tell me the date was carved in the presence of the Empress, and that the Empress then added her own cartouche, chiseled with the aid of a stencil. I checked with Porgon, who’s in charge of palace protocol. Of course, it was his master’s master who handled such things back then, but he said that’s the way it’s always done: the date not carved until the Empress was actually there.”

  “And how long did Empress Sardon stay with Pack Carno?”

  “Less than a day. Indeed, I spoke to one oldster who used to be with Carno but now lives here who remembers Sardon’s visit well. She said the Empress was there for only the better part of an afternoon.”

  “Incredible,” said Mokleb, shaking her head. “Did you also check the creche records, as I asked?”

  “Yes. The originals are still with Carno, but copies are kept here in the Capital. I found the duplicate record of Afsan’s hatching. The date is exactly as Afsan had said.”

  Mokleb stood there, shaking her head. “And the sequence of hatchings?” she said.

  “Six clutches were laid that season in Carno; Afsan’s was the second last to hatch.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “That’s what the documents say. Allow me to approach closer; I’ve copied out the birth records for you.”

  “Hahat dan.”

  Pettit moved close, handed over a limp piece of writing leather, then backed off.

  Mokleb was silent for a long time, staring at the sheet. After a while, Pettit said, “Um, will that be all?”

  “Hmm? My apologies. Yes. Yes, it will. Thank you very much.”

  Pettit bowed. “I hope the information is of some use.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mokleb. “Yes, indeed.”

  Suddenly, Novato was awake.

  Breathing.

  Alive.

  She opened her eyes.

  The strip of black along the edge of the door was gone. The outer door of the double-doored room had closed; either she had pulled the handle or perhaps it had slid shut of its own volition.

  She was floating again.

  And there was air all around her.

  Air and, drifting about, rounded globs of blood.

  Novato ached all over, especially her eyes, which felt as if they’d been under great strain.

  She touched her left earhole. It was caked with dried blood. Her right earhole was the same. She brought her palms together in a loud clap. She could still hear, thank God.

  God.

  She’d been dying. Dying. And she’d come back.

  It had been so peaceful, so inviting.

  And all those memories, those wonderful memories. Every moment of her life.

  But it wasn’t her time. Not yet. There was still work to be done.

  She had to go back. Kicking gently off the outer door, she propelled herself back into the corridor. Further kicks pushed her through the cubic room with the wall of nine windows and out into the staging area. She found her lifeboat, got in, and touched the panel that made the door disappear. The lifeboat began its long trek down to the ground. Although her entire body ached, Novato floated serenely in midair, absolutely at peace with herself.

  Chapter 24

  Afsan spent most of his days now in consultation with Dybo and members of the imperial staff, preparing for the arrival of the Others. They had developed a plan for defending Capital Harbor, and the engineers and chemists were now har
d at work devising the equipment needed. Still, Mokleb had impressed upon Afsan that the talking cure could not be interrupted, so every second day, for one daytenth, Afsan left the palace office building and came out to Rockscape.

  “Remember one of our early sessions in which you discussed your childhood with Pack Carno?” asked Mokleb.

  “No,” said Afsan. Then, “Wait—yes. Yes, I remember that. Goodness, that was ages ago.”

  “Very early in the therapy, yes. Remember you said you had wished there had been other people like you, others who would have accepted you.”

  “I suppose I said that.”

  “You did. I keep verbatim notes.” A rustling of paper. “Afsan: ‘It didn’t seem fair, that’s all. It seemed that somewhere there should have been people more like me, people who shared my interests, people to whom my mathematical skill was nothing special.’

  “Mokleb: ‘But there was no one like that in Carno.’

  “Afsan: ‘No. Except perhaps…’

  “Mokleb: ‘Yes?’

  “Afsan: ‘Nothing.’

  “Mokleb: ‘You must share your thoughts.’

  “Afsan: ‘It’s gone now. I’ve forgotten what I was going to say.’”

  Afsan shifted uncomfortably on his rock. “Yes, I recall that exchange.”

  “Well, I know whom you were thinking of, Afsan. I know precisely whom you were thinking of.”

  “Oh?”

  “In a much later session, you mentioned the visit of Empress Sar-Sardon to your home Pack of Carno.”

  “That’s right. I didn’t know it was Sardon at the time—guess I was too young to understand such things—but later I learned that it had been her. But, Mokleb, I can assure you that Sardon wasn’t whom I was thinking of.”

  “No, of course not. Now, this is crucial: are you sure it was Sardon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Absolutely sure? There’s no chance that you witnessed the visit of some other dignitary? The provincial governor, perhaps? Or a lesser palace official?”

  “No, I’m sure it was Sardon. I remember the blood-red sash; only members of The Family wear those. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you know what kiloday that was?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “It was 7196.”

  “Really? Then I would have been—”

  “Less than a kiloday old. Much less, in fact, for, according to palace records, Empress Sardon visited Carno on a tour through Arj’toolar in the sixth tenth of that kiloday.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Do you remember anything of your life before that?”

  “It’s hard to tell. I’ve got lots of memories, but as to which came first, I can’t say.”

  “Do you remember the creche?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you remember clutches of eggs in the creche?”

  “You mean while I was still living in the egg chamber? Goodness, that was a long time ago. Other clutches of eggs? No. No, I can’t say that I—wait a beat. Wait a beat. Yes, I—now that you mention it, I do remember one other clutch. Eight eggs, laid in a circle.”

  Mokleb shook her head. “That’s incredible.”

  “Oh?”

  “You were part of the second-last clutch to hatch during that hatching season, were you aware of that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s true. The bloodpriests keep meticulous records, copies of which eventually end up in the census bureau here in Capital City. There was one other clutch that hatched after yours.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes. And it hatched eight days after your own clutch did.”

  “Eight days? But that would mean…”

  “That would mean you have a memory from when you were just eight days old—maybe earlier, even.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “Who can say? No one has really studied early memories before.”

  “Eight days, you say. It seems incredible, but I’m sure I remember those eggs. Not well, you understand—the memory is dim. But I’m sure of it nonetheless.”

  “Do you remember anything before that?”

  “Like what?” Afsan clicked his teeth. “Like breaking out of my eggshell?”

  “Yes. Do you remember that?”

  “Oh, be serious, Mokleb.”

  “I am. Do you remember that?”

  “I—no. I don’t think so. I mean, I’ve seen eggs hatch before. In the very creche I was born in, for that matter, when I paid a return visit to Carno kilodays ago. So, yes, I have mental pictures of eggs cracking open in that creche, of little birthing horns piercing shells. But of my own hatching? No, no memories that I’m aware of.”

  “And what about the culling?”

  “The culling by the bloodpriest?” Afsan shuddered. “No. No, I do not remember that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’s something I wouldn’t be likely to forget.” Afsan seemed shaken. “I saw a culling once, you know. During that same trip back to Carno. I came through the wrong door into the creche. Most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen. Babies running across the sands, and a bloodpriest, his purple robe swirling around him, chasing them down, swallowing them whole, his gullet distending as each one slid into his stomach.” Afsan shook his head.

  “Did you say purple robe?”

  “Yes—that’s the color bloodpriests wear, at least in Arj’toolar, and I’d assume elsewhere, too.”

  “A purple robe…swirling around him.”

  “Yes, you know: swirling, flapping up.”

  “Flapping. Like wings of cloth?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Like a purple wingfinger?”

  Afsan pushed off his rock and got to his feet. “Good God.”

  “You saw a bloodpriest once as an adult. And we’ve already established that you have a memory that’s at most from your eighth day of life. The culling of your own clutch of eggs would have taken place on your second, third, or, depending on the availability of the bloodpriest and on whether the alignment of the moons was appropriate for the sacrament, your fourth day of life. Are you sure you don’t remember it?”

  “I tell you I do not.”

  “Forgive me, good Afsan, but I suggest that you do remember it.”

  Afsan spread his arms. “You can see my muzzle, Mokleb. I’m sure it’s as green as yours.”

  She held up her hands. “I meant no insult. I don’t mean you can consciously remember it, but that subconsciously, perhaps, you do recall it.”

  Afsan sounded exasperated. “Surely a memory that can’t be recalled consciously is no memory at all.”

  “I’d have agreed with you before I began my studies, Afsan. But events from our past do affect our present actions, even if we can’t voluntarily summon up the memories.”

  “That makes no sense,” said Afsan.

  “Ah, but it does. If does indeed. Have you ever wondered why Quintaglios fight territorial battles to the death, when animals do not? Animals are content to engage in a bluffing display, or to quickly determine who is the strongest without drawing blood. Although we call ourselves civilized and refer to the animals as wild, it’s we who don’t stop when instinct tells us we should. Instead, we fight with jaws and claws until one of us—even if it is a friend or creche-mate—is dead. Why is that? Why do we do that?”

  “I admit that question has puzzled me.”

  “And me as well—until now. Afsan, we’re traumatized.”

  “Traumatized? The kind of injury that leaves one in shock?”

  “Forgive me; I’m using the word in a slightly different way. I’m not referring to physical injury, but rather to emotional injury. Something that causes lasting damage to the mind.”

  “Traumatized, you say? By what?”

  Mokleb’s tail swished. “By the culling of the bloodpriests! Each of us was once part of a…a family, of eight siblings. Each of us had brothers and sisters. We hatched together, we spent a day or two or three becoming
used to each other, impressing each other, bonding with each other. And then what happens? An adult—a male, the first we’ve ever seen—swoops in and chases us, and seven of the eight die, gulped down by the bloodpriest. We see it happen, see our brothers and sisters devoured. You said that, even as an adult, watching a culling was the most horrifying thing you’d ever seen. Imagine the impact, then, of that sight on a child! And imagine, too, the guilt that goes with the eventual realization that you lived only because you outran your seven siblings, that the price of your life was that they died horribly.”

  “But I don’t recall my culling!”

  “Not consciously, to be sure. But it’s there, Afsan, deep in your mind, beneath the surface, shaping your perceptions, your mental processes. You said, in that early therapy session, that there had been no one in Carno who shared your interests, no one to whom your mathematical skill might have been nothing special. No one…no one except, you said, and then you trailed off. No one except your dead brothers and sisters, Afsan! They would have been more like you than different; you learned that by seeing your own children. And you remember your brothers. You remember your sisters. All seven of them.”

  “That’s impossible…”

  “They are there, in every one of your fears and bad dreams. You said my interpretation of your fear of Saleed was nonsense. You were afraid that he would dispatch you—the very word you used—just as he had dispatched his six other previous apprentices, to make room for the eighth and final apprentice you were sure must come. You said that couldn’t possibly be related to the culling of a bloodpriest, who likewise judges youngsters, dispatching seven and only keeping the eighth. It couldn’t be related to that, you said, because you hadn’t learned about the culling until after you’d left Saleed. But you already knew about the culling. You’d seen it with your own eyes! You’d seen your seven brothers and sisters die, and it’s the memory of the seven of them that haunts your dreams. Fourteen arms clawing at your own—the arms of seven siblings who died so you could live. The voices calling out ‘I,’ ‘you,’ ‘we’—seven long-forgotten siblings, a part of you, yet separate, seven voices that no matter how hard you try, you can no longer hear. The birthing sands, soaked with blood—the blood of your dead brethren. And swooping over it all, a purple wingfinger, representing the ravenous bloodpriest!”