The Elder Gods Page 32

  They settled quietly through the cool night air to the calm surface of Mother Sea, and then, as one, they dove deep into the dark water to the hidden mouth of their grotto.

  The pink light of the grotto seemed pale and soft under the gentle touch of the moon, and Zelana clung to that light, pushing the horrid memories away.

  “It’s nice to be home again, Beloved,” Eleria said. “I think I’ve had about enough excitement for a while, haven’t you?”

  “More than enough, dear,” Zelana agreed. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not really,” Eleria said. “I think I’d like to sleep now. I wasn’t sleeping very well back there, and it seems to be catching up with me now.”

  “Go to bed, child,” Zelana told her fondly. “We’re back where we’re supposed to be, and the world can’t hurt us here.”

  “Kiss-kiss,” Eleria said, holding her arms out.

  Zelana took the child in her arms and kissed her. “Go to bed, Eleria. Nothing can bother you here, and I’ll watch over you.”

  Eleria sighed contentedly and went to her bed, nestling down with her pink pearl in her hand. She drifted off to sleep, and Zelana of the West envied her, even though she could scarcely remember sleep. Idly she wondered what it might be like to sleep away a part of every day and then to rise and eat food rather than light. Because of their unique situation, the Dreamers were experiencing things Zelana and her family had never experienced, nor would they ever.

  Zelana’s thoughts wandered and circled almost like hungry birds as she sat lost in contemplation in the glowing pink light of her grotto, but inevitably they returned once more to the horror of what had taken place in the ravine above the village of Lattash.

  Why had Veltan’s Dreamer gone to such extremes? Yaltar had seemed to be a solid, sensible little boy, but at the first hint of a threat to Zelana’s Domain, he’d gone absolutely wild.

  Except, she reminded herself, it wasn’t her Domain Yaltar had sought to defend. It was the Domain of his sister, Bala-cenia.

  That thought jerked Zelana sharply around. Dahlaine had assured them all that the Dreamers would have no memories of their previous existence, but both Yaltar and Eleria had occasionally referred to each other by their real names. Could it be that Dahlaine’s assurances had been nothing more than bald-faced lies designed to gain their approval? Dahlaine was obviously capable of lying. Zelana had caught him lying to her innumerable times herself, and she was fairly certain that Veltan and Aracia had also seen their elder brother wandering away from the truth.

  That thought raised a very disturbing possibility. If Yaltar knew that Eleria was really Balacenia, did he also know that he was Vash? Had all four of the Dreamers been quietly deceiving their elders? If Vash and Balacenia had been engaged in this deception, wasn’t it entirely possible that . . .

  What were their names? Zelana should know the real names of Lillabeth and Ashad, but when she searched her memories of the countless eons that lay behind, she could not for the life of her bring the other two names to the surface. It was maddening! The names were right on the tip of her tongue, but they absolutely refused to come out.

  She pushed that away. The names would probably surface as soon as she stopped worrying at the problem.

  Longbow had definitely been the proper choice as the man to lead the Dhralls of her Domain. The outlanders had stood in awe of him, not only because of his unerring accuracy with his bow, but also because he seemed able to come up with answers to impossible problems. Had it not been for Longbow, Zelana was certain that the outlanders might very well have viewed the Dhralls as ignorant savages ripe for plundering, or even for enslavement.

  That notion brought Zelana up short. Her encounters with the outlanders hadn’t been very extensive, but she’d occasionally caught hints that the more advanced cultures of the world beyond the shores of the Land of Dhrall routinely gathered up the people of more primitive societies and sold them as slaves. Zelana’s eyes narrowed. Let them try that here. There were all sorts of things—short of killing—Zelana could do to them to persuade them to give up that particular notion.

  Not all of the outlanders were evil, however, she realized. Eleria herself had unerringly found two, at least, who could be trusted. The child had chosen the Maag known as Rabbit and the earnest young Trogite Keselo, and had somehow managed to persuade Dahlaine that those two were the ones who should be made aware of the real situation here in the Land of Dhrall. There were times when Eleria went far beyond what Dahlaine had assured them would be the limitations of the Dreamers. Child Eleria pretended to be simple and sweet, but the more Zelana thought about it, the more it seemed that the kissing and lap-sitting were means to an end far more serious than demonstrations of childish affection. Could it be that the volcanic eruption that had so effectively destroyed the servants of the Vlagh in the ravine above Lattash had not been the desperate response of Yaltar? Could the eruption possibly have been Eleria’s idea?

  Zelana shuddered back from that unthinkable notion.

  Hideous though it was, however, Zelana was forced to admit that pouring molten rock into the caves of the servants of the Vlagh had been far and away the most effective solution to an otherwise unsolvable problem. Earthquakes might have killed all the invaders, but the possibility that a few of the caves could have remained intact would have left doubts. Molten lava, however, left no doubts. The servants of the Vlagh were gone, and Zelana’s Domain was safe.

  Zelana corrected that notion. It had not been her Domain Yaltar’s dream had saved; it was the Domain of Balacenia.

  She was almost certain that the Maags and Trogites had taken ship, or would very soon, to sail down along the coast to Veltan’s Domain. There was no absolute certainty that the servants of the Vlagh would attack Veltan’s domain in the foreseeable future. It might well be that Yaltar’s volcano had so decimated the creatures of the Wasteland that it would take many generations for them to propagate replacements. Then again, perhaps not. That-Called-the-Vlagh could produce countless offspring in virtually no time at all, and Zelana’s brother Veltan knew that as well as anybody. The servants of the Vlagh would almost certainly attack each of the four Domains in their mindless quest for more land. The Vlagh wanted—or needed—the entire continent if it was to have any chance at all to expand its swarm.

  What were their names? It was infuriating! The names were right there. Why couldn’t she remember them?

  Zelana yearned for sleep. The endless eons of her cycle weighed down upon her, and she was glad that the cycle was almost over.

  But Eleria wasn’t ready to take up the burden of Dominion yet. There were so many things she had to know, and there was so little time left to teach her. The changing of the cycles had posed no real problems in times past. The man-things had been little more than animals during Balacenia’s previous cycle, but they had come so far now, and it seemed that they were growing and developing faster and faster with each passing year. Zelana shuddered back from the thought of what they might be when Balacenia’s cycle had run its course and Zelana awakened once more to begin her next cycle.

  She smiled faintly. Maybe Veltan had come up with the best solution after all, and the moon was still there.

  Zelana pushed that thought away.

  The lovely village of Lattash was doomed, of course. Yaltar’s idiocy had seen to that. Even now the lava from the twin peaks was flowing inexorably down the ravine, consuming all in its path. The people of White-Braid’s tribe would have to leave their homes and find some new place and build a new village. The loss of Lattash caused Zelana an almost physical pain.

  “The gold!” she suddenly exclaimed. “I forgot all about the gold in that cave! I’ll have to go back and move it to a safer place. How could I possibly have forgotten that? I must be even older than I’d thought. First I forget my gold, and now I can’t remember names.” She looked at the sleeping child. “Please wake up, Balacenia,” she pleaded softly. “I just can’t carry all of this anymore. I’m so tired,
so very, very tired.”

  If Yaltar was aware of Eleria’s true identity, and Eleria was aware of Yaltar’s, could it be possible that they knew other things as well? Zelana searched back through her memories to see if she could find any evidence whatsoever that the children had, no matter how briefly, used their dormant abilities to alter reality in any small way. Their dreams were one thing, but if they’d been using their gifts consciously, the fabric of reality could very well be in danger.

  There seemed to be nothing overt. The only peculiarity Eleria had shown was her overwhelming need for the affection of the mortals. Her “kiss-kiss” game with Longbow, Rabbit, and finally even the stuffy young Trogite Keselo had seemed on the surface to be no more than some childish game, but what if it went much further? For obvious reasons, Zelana had never actually witnessed Balacenia’s methods to control the man-things of the Western Domain. Could it possibly be that she’d just kissed them all into submission? It had certainly worked with the pink dolphins when Eleria had been no more than a baby. Zelana almost laughed. What a clever way to rule that would be, and, by extension, it might just explain why Yaltar had gone to such extremes to protect Balacenia’s Domain. A few of those “kiss-kiss” encounters would have rendered poor Vash helpless. Then, with Vash wrapped around her finger, Balacenia could have turned to . . .

  What were their names? It was maddening! Why couldn’t Zelana remember their names?

  THE TIME OF SORROW

  1

  It was early summer now in the Domain of Zelana of the West, but this summer was unlike any other Red-Beard had ever seen. Summer is usually a time of beauty, but this one was haunted by the twin fire mountains at the head of the ravine. Each sunrise seemed to be smeared with blood as the fire mountains continued to belch forth smoke and ash, and a perpetual gloom hung over the village of Lattash.

  A few of the women of the tribe had gone through the motions of planting the customary gardens, but what was the use of that? The village was almost certainly doomed, and in all probability it wouldn’t even be here by next autumn at harvest-time.

  Lattash still looked much the same as it had for years. The bay was still blue, the sandy beach was still white, and the forest to the east was still dark green as it mounted up the foothills toward the snow-covered peaks. The tides continued to rise and fall as they had since the beginning of time. The only noticeable difference lay in the river that had always come joyously down the ravine to join the waters of the bay. It was no longer a river, though. It was hardly even a brook. The cursed fire mountains had obviously sealed off the source of the river, and it was now no more than a scant trickle that would almost certainly dry up by midsummer.

  That, of course, would mark the end of Lattash. Without fresh water, the gardens of the women of the tribe would die out, and there would be no food to eat next winter. The mood in the village was somber, and a cloud of melancholy seemed to hang over Lattash.

  Red-Beard sighed. There was no getting around the fact that it was time to seek out another home for the people of White-Braid’s tribe. That was where the problem lay. Red-Beard’s uncle, Chief White-Braid, was so overwhelmed with sorrow by the inevitable loss of the village that had been the home of the tribe for many centuries that he couldn’t function anymore. The tribe had to find a suitable new location, build new lodges, and grow food before winter came again, but Chief White-Braid refused to even talk about it. No matter how much Red-Beard cudgeled his brain, he couldn’t for the life of him come up with a way to bring his uncle back to his senses.

  Muttering curses under his breath, Red-Beard went looking for Longbow.

  “I don’t see that you’ve got much choice, Red-Beard,” his friend said gravely as the two of them stood on the protective berm looking down at the tiny trickle of muddy water that was all there was left of the river. “The fire mountains killed the servants of the Vlagh, certainly, but it looks to me like they’ve also killed the village of Lattash. Without water, your tribe will either have to find a new place to live or stay here and die.”

  “I know that, Longbow,” Red-Beard replied. “I can see it as well as you can, but how am I going to be able to pound the idea down Uncle White-Braid’s throat? Every time I even so much as hint at the notion, his eyes go blank and he starts talking about something else. He refuses to even think about relocating the tribe. Lattash is so much a part of him that he won’t even consider moving.”

  “You’ll probably have to step around him and take charge of the tribe yourself, then.”

  “I can’t do that!” Red-Beard exclaimed. “He’s the chief. If I start showing that kind of disrespect, the whole tribe will turn their backs on me. They won’t follow any orders I might give them.”

  “They will if your uncle tells them to.” Longbow looked at the clustered lodges of the village and the fishnets hanging from poles along the beach. “I’m sure this was a good place to live in the past, my friend, but the past is over, and now came along just as soon as the river started to dry up. Then went away, and your tribe’s living in the world of now. If they don’t move very soon, they’ll die for lack of food and water. If you put it to them in those terms, I’m sure they’ll listen to you. If your chief isn’t willing to give the necessary commands because of his sorrow, he’ll have to step aside and hand the authority off to someone else—you, most likely.” Longbow smiled faintly. “‘Chief Red-Beard’ has a rather pleasant sound to it, don’t you think?”

  “Not to me, it doesn’t,” Red-Beard objected. “Do you have any idea of how stuffy and tedious the life of a chief must be? I don’t think I could stand that.”

  “Be brave, Chief Red-Beard,” Longbow said with mock sententiousness. “If something is for the good of your tribe, you can’t just turn your back on it, can you?”

  “You had to go and say that, didn’t you?” Red-Beard grumbled sourly.

  Longbow shrugged. “It’s time for you to face reality, my friend. Sooner or later you will have to assume the authority in your tribe if your uncle can no longer function. This might give you some practice in the fine art of being stuffy. Right now, though, we’ve got a more pressing problem to deal with.”

  “The sky is falling, maybe?”

  “Well, not today, probably, but we’ve got a goodly number of unhappy people in those ships out in the bay. In her infinite wisdom, Zelana of the West saw fit to leave the village without bothering to pay Sorgan Hook-Beak and the other Maags for their services during the recent unpleasantness.”

  “The gold’s stacked up in that cave of hers just outside the village,” Red-Beard reminded his friend. “Why don’t they just walk into the cave and pay themselves?”

  “They’ve already tried that, but they can’t get into the tunnel where the gold’s piled up.”

  “What did Zelana do?—make the ceiling fall down or something?”

  “No, it’s completely intact, but there’s a solid wall blocking off the tunnel that’s filled with all those pretty yellow blocks. It’s a very unusual sort of wall. The Maags can see through it, but it’s harder than any stone. That means that they can look at the gold as much as they want, but they can’t reach it. Ox took his axe into the cave and chopped at the wall for the better part of a day, but he didn’t so much as knock a chip out of it. He did manage to destroy his axe, though. Now Sorgan’s absolutely positive that our Zelana’s trying to cheat him.”

  “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “You and I know that, but Hook-Beak doesn’t know her as well as we do. Lying, cheating, and stealing are part of the Maag culture, so honesty’s an alien concept for them. If Zelana doesn’t come back here fairly soon, we might just have another war on our hands before long.”

  “Now I’ve got something else to worry about.” Then Red-Beard remembered something. “Rabbit told me that you and Zelana can speak with each other without making a sound. He said you two did that back in the Land of Maag when trouble broke out in the harbor at Kweta. Could you possibly reach out to her
from here?”

  “I’ve already tried it a few times. Either she’s too far away, or she refuses to listen to me.”

  “Do you think that maybe Eleria could hear you? If anybody could bring Zelana to her senses, it’d be Eleria. If nothing else, the little girl could probably kiss Zelana into submission. She had you and Rabbit and that young Trogite, Keselo, wrapped around her little finger in no time at all.”

  “Tell me about it,” Longbow said. Then he squinted at his friend. “She never tried that on you, did she?”

  Red-Beard shrugged. “I probably don’t have anything she wants,” he replied.

  “Why don’t we go out to the Seagull and have a talk with Sorgan?” Longbow suggested. “If he realizes that we’re trying to get word to Zelana that it’s time to come back and give him the gold she promised him, maybe he won’t come ashore and burn the village of Lattash right down to the ground.”

  “Let’s not rush into anything here, Longbow,” Red-Beard said in mock seriousness. “If the Maags come ashore and burn Lattash to the ground, it might just persuade my uncle that it’s time to pack up and move on. Then I won’t have to do anything except obey his orders—or sneak off to someplace where he can’t find me. He’ll go back to being the chief, and I won’t have to grow up.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, Red-Beard. Let’s go see Sorgan Hook-Beak.”

  The sun seemed very bright as Red-Beard deftly drove his canoe toward the Seagull with long, smooth strokes of his paddle. It was early summer now, and Red-Beard was sure that the fishing would be very good. He pushed that thought aside. Despite the bright sun and sparkling water, there wouldn’t be any fishing today. He was almost positive that he and Longbow would have to waste a perfect day listening to Hook-Beak’s complaints.