A/N: This chapter is set fifteen years before the previous chapter – the next few chapters will also be set in this earlier time. The following scenes owe a great deal to Tolkien's Silmarillion, as well as to Ursula Le Guin's The Tombs of Atuan and Tehanu, both of which I wholeheartedly recommend. They are the second and fourth books in the brilliant Earthsea Quartet. Many people have said that they read fantasy in order to feel a sense of wonder, and I have rarely felt such wonder as I did when reading The Tombs of Atuan.
I would like to add that at this stage the story becomes rather different to what has come before. However, please bear with me. I know exactly where these chapters are going and it won't be too long before everything falls into place.
Chapter 4: The Secret of the Tombs
Harad - TA 2510 (fifteen years earlier)
Darkness – everywhere. Even when she raised her hand before her face she could see nothing. Something groped at her cheek and she flinched – but it was the touch of her own fingers. She had never been afraid of the dark – but this was something else entirely. Stale air pressed against her, as though centuries had passed since it had last been disturbed, and the cold of the stone walls made her skin prickle against the coarse weave of her novice's dress. For a moment she imagined she could hear the low roar of the river which flowed into the Forbidden Pool – but even that familiar sound was cut off by solid rock. They had been walking for only a minute, but already she felt trapped. With each movement down the stairs, she feared that her next step would meet only emptiness. She stumbled, and the sound was deafening in the enclosed space.
'Quiet!' hissed Ikara, the head priestess, and she turned around, so that her breath wafted across the younger woman's face, doubly unnerving in the darkness. The novice shrunk back, aware of the six priestesses waiting in silence behind her. The silence stretched unbearably before at last Ikara went on her way.
They continued downwards until suddenly the stairs ended. Though she could see nothing, the novice knew from overheard whispers that a floor of rock now stretched before her.
'The Hall of the Dead,' whispered Ikara, almost tenderly. 'All priestesses, past, present and future, are buried here, watching over their greatest secret.'
They walked into the hall, their hands brushing against the wall to guide them; light was not permitted anywhere in the vaults. The novice followed blindly, unsure whether her heart was pounding in anticipation or fear. At the end of their journey lay a mystery which had been guarded jealously for thousands of years – a secret which had cost intruders their lives.
After fifteen years of first being raised by the priestesses, and then being taken into novice-hood, she was to become one of them. This was her initiation. Here in the darkness, she could almost be taken for one of them already. She had been given to the temple when she was only a day old, her mother having died in childbirth and her father too grief-stricken to care for the infant. The priestesses had named the child Amtar. It meant Pale One. Her father was from the north, and Amtar had inherited his pale skin, so unlike that of the other temple women, whose dark olive skin never burned in the fierce desert heat. Amtar's father had returned to the north and was never heard from again. A wet-nurse had been hired to feed the infant, and as she grew she was raised among the other orphan girls who were sent to the temple by families too poor to feed another mouth, or, as was rarer, by those who wished to dedicate their daughter to the temple.
The priestesses walked in silence, their steps never faltering. Some way ahead, the blackness was dimming into grey. Amtar blinked; but what she saw did not change. There was a faint, pale light in the distance, issuing from one of the vaults. They inched towards it, and she felt her chest tighten. This light would lead her to the secret of the tombs. Suddenly she wanted to remain in ignorance forever – to escape into the light and the open air – but she had no choice but to continue.
They drew closer until at last they came to an entrance outlined with the faint light. Ikara turned into the passageway and walked towards the source. Amtar followed cautiously, her palms tingling, the soft footsteps of the other priestesses never hesitating behind her.
They were approaching a small chamber, which glowed with the quality and brightness of starlight.
Ikara drew to a halt. 'Come, child. See our secret, closely guarded for ages past.'
Her nails biting her palms, Amtar stepped forwards – and caught her breath.
On a pedestal was set a jewel. It was no larger than a small egg, its structure crystalline, hard and bright. Its heart seemed to burn white, and it was from this gem that the light came.
Never had she seen anything so beautiful.
'Legend tells us that six thousand years ago a great war was fought in the north, across the vast sea. Kin slaughtered kin, and citadels were burned to ash, the blood of hundreds soaking the land. They fought for possession of jewels such as this, greater and brighter, but of the same quality of light. Only when these jewels were lost to mortals forever, cast into the sea and into the sky, did the bloodshed cease.'
Amtar gazed at the jewel, captivated even as her blood ran cold at Ikara's words. Light swirled at its glassy core, swelling and diminishing like a white flame. Its radiance was clear and pure – but whatever it touched seemed softened, and more beautiful than it could have been in any other light.
'Such a thing was not created by mere mortal hands, of course. In their generosity, the gods sent such jewels to Men, thinking to show kindness. But the hearts of mortals were ever corrupt, and the gift led to death and despair. For thousands of years we have been charged with guarding this jewel; that no more may die to possess it. It cannot be possessed, for it is too far above mortality.'
Yet a gleam was in Ikara's eye that spoke otherwise. 'We keep it hidden because no other course of action would keep it safe.' Then her tone grew hard and derisive, making Amtar shudder. 'While men are ruled by greed and bloodlust, darkness will spread, as it did before. We sense it spreading again, and it will not be too long before the final confrontation will emerge in the north, and our fates will be decided. Such evil cannot be fought openly; we must hide from it and resist in thought rather than deed. Were the jewel to be spoken of, were its light to be revealed, darkness would come on swift wings and crush it. The gods gave it to us, and we will protect it until they reclaim it once more. Our watch must never end: it has lasted millennia, and will continue until this world is no more.'
Silence fell. The jewel gleamed like moonlight.
Ikara spoke again. 'It is time for you to take the vow of silence. You will never speak of this chamber as long as you live, and you will guard it till your last breath. If ever someone should slip past your watch, you will seal them in these tombs forever; that they might never speak of what they know.'
The jewel's light seemed to grow and swell before her eyes, shimmering gently, calling to her.
'Do you so swear?'
She started, and the light receded. 'I swear.'
Three months had passed since she had taken her oath. She now knew every turn of the underground passages, moving through the darkness with complete sureness, learning their paths at night while everyone else slept. If anyone should stray into the corridors unpermitted they would be caught like a fly. Only very rarely did she go to see the jewel. The strength of her reaction to it that first time had receded somewhat, to her relief, but the deep admiration she felt for its beauty still unsettled her. She could not stop thinking of those who had died for its sake; those who might yet die for its sake. It filled her with a morbid fascination.
She began to dream of endless pits, collapsing walls, suffocating blackness. When she woke she would slip outside and the cold spread of stars would soothe her. In the daytime she kept to herself. She had never been close to any of the other novices, and so no one remarked on her increasing absences. After a time she began to eat all her meals alone.
Yet as another month passed, and then another, it became impossible to ignore how little had changed since her initiation in the Tombs. The same rites and rituals filled her days, along with the endless chores of spinning, sweeping, and grinding of meal. She had thought some revelation might come upon her, that she might at last find her true place among the other women. Instead she spent more and more time alone, restlessly pacing the complete darkness of the underground passages, emerging sometimes to take solace in the light of the stars. Gradually her morbid obsession with the jewel and all the destruction it had inspired began to fade, giving way to a monotony so absolute that it filled her with something like terror. Now the stars seemed to mock her, forcing her to see the smallness of her own life. Her dreams of suffocation grew worse until she hardly slept at all.
For the first time, Amtar took part in the initiation of a novice, the near-silent Zaniyah, and she saw once again the possessiveness in Ikara's face when she looked upon the jewel, and the fierceness with which she intoned that if any stranger knew what these Tombs hid, they would not hesitate to steal it, shed blood for it. Later, after the evening meal was eaten, stories were told. This was the hour that Amtar had used to anticipate most, though in the last month or two she had come to listen only a handful of times. That night, the stories were of the north. Mistrust and scorn battled with fear in the voices of those who spoke, and the ears of those who listened. The oldest of the priestesses spoke with relish of the barbaric horse-lords and warlike Gondorians who warred endlessly with the Corsairs of Umbar. Fearful beasts walked among them: giant spiders, trolls and dragons, and trees full of malice. Last of all, the stories turned to a strange folk, wise and fair, but deadly, and possessed of great power and strength, a people now long since vanished.
As ever, Amtar felt a curious longing in her heart, offset by dread. Her parents had come from those northern lands – her father still lived there. But he had left her here and never returned since: she was dead to him.
As the months passed, her thoughts would sometimes stray northwards. But how could she ever go there? She did not speak their language; she had no money, no trade. There would be bandits, and worse. She had heard of the fate of unprotected women with no gold or valuables to buy their way. Never in her life had she set eyes on a map: she would not know where to go. Nor had she once ventured outside the temple compound, surrounded by a plain of hard soil stretching out in every direction. To the north lay only the shadow of darkness, growing in secret and ever threatening to spread south. At least in the temple she was safe. At least here she knew her place.
Almost nine months after her induction into the sisterhood, she woke from one of her restless dreams and descended into the Tombs, hoping the familiar paths would soothe her. By now she was immune to the darkness there; it was almost her natural condition to move fluidly through the blackness. As she edged down the Hall of the Dead, she automatically looked ahead for the moment where the darkness began to be edged with grey. She saw the greyness – but something was wrong. It was too pale, too soon! Someone must be in the chamber. Icy determination took hold of her as she plotted how to trap them. For a hundred years these halls had been undisturbed by strangers. The trespasser would pay for their violation.
Swiftly, on silent feet, she stole along the edge of the hall, one hand lightly brushing against the wall to guide her. The light of the jewel was growing in the distance. Rather than taking the most direct route to the jewel, she chose one which doubled back to the sacred chamber, leading to a spyhole. A minute later, she was in position. She put her face to the spyhole and looked through.
A man stood before the jewel, his eyes fixed upon it, and he held up a small phial filled with pure light. The effect of the light on the jewel was like a fire roaring up out of pitch darkness. The jewel was now ablaze with a light so clear, so beautiful, that it struck her like a blow. Its surface glittered, thousands of colours shifting back and forth, all stemming from the pure light. In that moment she saw why thousands had warred to possess such a jewel.
At last she knew why light was not permitted in the tombs.
In her wonder, she had almost forgotten about the stranger. He was gazing at the jewel intensely. There was wonder in his eyes, but it was tempered by grief and vigilance. She felt almost afraid – what could he possibly have experienced that made him respond to the gem in such a way, where any other man would have been dazzled, or covetous. She strove to turn her dread to anger: how dare he come here, to places forbidden; daring to look at this jewel of beauty as though it merely saddened him, when he ought to be awestruck. But still her dread remained; she could not rid herself of the feeling that he had lived a thousand years.
He was drawn and exhausted; he looked as though he had not eaten in days, and scarcely drunk a sip of water in all that time either; water was perilously scarce in the desert around the temple. He must have wandered for leagues. His clothes were torn and bloodied where once they had been fine. He would have been a pitiful sight, were it not for the infinite experience written in his face. But for all that experience, it was clear he was now close to fainting, if not to death.
As she watched his eyes dimmed and he swayed, all strength deserting him. The phial faded to a watery glow, and he sank to the floor, losing consciousness. He looked dead but for the minute rise and fall of his chest. But she did not dare go near him. She could not shake the notion that he was not quite mortal. If she touched him, she feared he would wake at once, and she was not sure she would be able to overpower him.
With relief she remembered her blowpipe. Swiftly she withdrew a dart from her pouch and inserted it into the pipe. In a quick movement she took aim through the spyhole and blew. She had been out of practice for a while and her aim erred by a few inches, but the dart landed solidly in his upper arm.
Suddenly his eyes flew open and he gripped the dart hard and tore it out. Her heart froze in her mouth; surely no mortal could have responded to so light a pain, when so deeply unconscious? But he was too late. In but a few seconds the tranquiliser took effect, his eyes rolled back and he fell once more into oblivion. Breathing hard, she pocketed the blowpipe and walked slowly along the passage until she doubled back into the chamber. Forcing herself not to tiptoe, she went to him. First she took his vial and slipped it into her pouch; he would have no more use for it. Then with some difficulty she removed his sword belt and set his sword in a corner. It was his only weapon; without it he was quite defenceless. And now she would move him to one of the cells – giving it an occupant for the first time in over a century – and leave him there to die.
She stood behind his head, reached down and grabbed him under the arms. As she pulled him up his hood slipped down; she glanced at his face – only to freeze in horrified fascination. His hair had fallen back, exposing his ears, their tips narrowed to fine points.