Heights of the Depths

  Then Jepp felt as if something was beginning to build up within the small room. Energy, escalating toward a detonation that would wipe her from the face of the world. Once, she would have screamed and begged and pleaded. Now she stood there with her shoulders squared, confident that he would do nothing, uncaring if he did.

  Very slowly the energy subsided. The Traveler turned away from her then, paused in the door, and then rumbled, “’Ominosity’ is not even a word.”

  “It is now! How’s that for an idea?”

  He moved through the door and it slammed shut behind him.

  iii.

  When the Traveler exited Jepp’s room, one of his brethren was standing there waiting for him.

  “’Ominosity?’”

  “Shut up,” said the Traveler.

  “Seriously, Graves: omniosity?”

  “I told you to shut up, Trott, and I mean it.”

  Graves bolted up the stairs and onto the deck of the ship. Pulling back his hood, he looked to the skies and wondered, as he always did, whether those who had exiled them were looking down upon them. He suspected they were not. He suspected that they were not giving the Banished the slightest thought.

  The starlight glittered against his face. It was a sensation he usually enjoyed, although less so now since he had much on his mind.

  Trott, as always, made no noise as he came up behind Graves. None of them made any noise when they walked. Graves found that irritating. It made it seem as if they weren’t quite there. When Trott said nothing for a time, Graves finally sighed and said, “We should really just throw her over the side, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “But we cannot.”

  “I know.”

  “Except why can’t we?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Graves looked at Trott with undisguised disdain. “You are being less than helpful.”

  “I wasn’t actually trying to be helpful. And in that, I can assume, I have succeeded.”

  “Indeed you have.” Graves shook his head. The soft tinkle of bells accompanied the movement. “I hate this, Trott. I truly do.”

  “Hate what?”

  “This. The entire situation. The knowing but not knowing.”

  “It is the way we are and the gift with which we have been endowed.”

  “It is a gift that none of us has asked for and that I could, quite frankly, do without.”

  “Your preferences in the matter are of little consequence, Graves. You know that. Things are what they are because they must be that way.”

  “That’s entirely too circular an answer for me to find even a modicum of solace.”

  “I wasn’t saying it to give you solace.”

  Despite his generally bad mood, Graves actually snorted in amusement. “That is what I love about you, Trott. You consistently aim your sights low and thus always succeed in your endeavors. It must be nice.”

  Trott shrugged. He went over to Graves and draped an arm around his shoulders in commiseration. “It has its moments, I suppose. By contrast, I don’t think you’re truly happy unless you are truly miserable. Neither of us is perfect, but I will take my lack of aspirations over your lack of cheer any time.”

  “You are probably right.”

  “I generally am.”

  Graves leaned his head on Trott’s shoulder and looked out into the night. It was so dark that it was impossible to see where the water met the sky. Although the stars twinkled overhead as a general guide to directions, the small sliver of moon that was out tonight had hidden behind a cloud. They were cloaked in blackness as black as the capes which enveloped them. “What do you think she was dreaming of?” said Graves.

  “How would I know? You were the one who chose to awaken her.”

  “No. I was the one who was chosen to awaken her, just as such things always happen with us,” Graves reminded him. “I do not understand why this girl is important. I do not understand why her dreams are important. Of what significance can they possibly be?”

  “I wish I knew. Sadly, I do not.”

  “We will take her to the Overseer as planned,” said Graves with a sigh. “We will take her to him, and he will know why she was brought to him and what to do with her.”

  “Do you believe that, Graves? Do you really and truly believe that?”

  Slowly Graves shook his head. “Not for a moment.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “Just my luck,” said Graves, “that we select that, of all things, to be in agreement upon.” He paused and then called to the remaining Traveler who was standing at the wheel of the ship, “Ayrburn! Our good friend Trott here believes we are in a world of trouble, with no clear direction and no obvious end in sight. He believes transporting this girl to the Spires is a fool’s errand and that the Overseer will be of no use at all in determining her fate, ours, or that of the Damned World’s. What say you?”

  Ayrburn shrugged.

  “Well spoken,” Graves said drily. “Very well spoken.”

  The ship continued into the night.

  the upper reaches of suislan

  I.

  Pavan Rucaphonous was in trouble.

  The youngster sprinted down through the narrow, mountainous trail, slipping at one point and nearly falling. His padded feet managed to catch themselves before he tumbled, though, and he righted himself quickly before moving on. A stiff wind was blowing through the pass, but that was fairly normal for the regions in which his people, the Serabim, dwelt. Pavan was no more bothered by it than he ever was, for the white fur that covered him from head to toe provided him more than enough protection against the hostile environment in which he resided.

  He gasped for air as he continued to run, small mists puffing from his mouth as he did so. Just ahead of him he saw that there was a gap in the path, which opened down into a yawning cavern. One misstep and he would plunge into it and, by extension, into a huge pile of difficulty. Yet Pavan did not slow. Instead he sped up, his legs scissoring, his arms moving quickly to help gain him velocity. When he hit the edge of the drop he sprang with legs that were like coiled steel. They propelled him over the gap and he landed on the far side. Snow puffed out from beneath his feet in little clouds as he continued to run.

  Pavan’s face was flatter than most of the Serabim, looking for all the world as if someone had smashed it in with a skillet. What made him distinctive, though, was the crest of black fur that covered the top and back of his head like a hood. The fur marked him for his destiny. When he was much younger, he had been of the opinion that such demarcations seemed terribly arbitrary and not even fair. Since then he had come to accept it, along with his status.

  Mostly.

  “I’m sorry I’m late! I’m sorry I’m late!” he said, almost sliding past Akasha’s cave. He caught the edge of the cave with his fingers, the claws sinking in and preventing him from going any further. “I’m really, really sorry!”

  No answer came from within the cave.

  This caused Pavan some concern. “Akasha?” he called, more cautiously this time. “Akasha? Is there a problem? Are you all right?”

  Still no response.

  Pavan was unaccustomed to entering Akasha’s cave without any sort of invitation. The ritual of Pavan’s visits and time with his mentor was very specific. Pavan would announce his presence. Akasha would acknowledge it, typically with some cutting comment designed to make Pavan believe that he was hopelessly inept. Not that Pavan required such negative encouragement from Akasha, because he already believed it and was disinclined to accept that the destiny awaiting him was anything to which he was truly entitled.

  Now, though, no invitation was forthcoming. There was nothing but silence.

  A chill moved up Pavan’s spine, and it had nothing to do with the stiff breezes that were blowing past and through him. His furry body was flecked with snowflakes but otherwise the weather continued not to be an issue for him. Indeed, the Serabim had settled in the Upper Reaches of Suislan all those
turns ago specifically because they found the climate attractive and comfortable. Serabim could survive outside of the environs of the Upper Reaches well enough. For a while, at any rate.

  The chill that was moving through Pavan came from growing concern over his mentor. “Akasha,” he called once more, with greater firmness of voice than before, and this time when no response was forthcoming, he steeled himself and strode boldly into the cave. He had no idea what he would find.

  He found nothing.

  There was no sign of Akasha. There were signs that he had eaten there, and toward the back of the cave was defecation that seemed relatively recent, although it was hard for Pavan to be certain. He had virtually no possessions, because Akasha disdained such things. “Keepers need nothing other than themselves,” was his oft-stated philosophy, repeated so often in fact that it was all Pavan could do not to roll his eyes in impatience every time he heard it.

  He called Akasha’s name and this time his voice echoed as he did so, bouncing around within the confines of the cave.

  Pavan was becoming more and more disturbed. This wasn’t like Akasha at all.

  His mind started racing back over all his recent interactions with his mentor, and gradually a most disturbing, even disconcerting thought occurred to him. There was a grand tradition among the highly exalted rank of Serabim called the Keepers that Pavan would never, for one moment, have thought that Akasha would embrace. Yet here was Akasha, nowhere to be found, and he was getting up in years, and what other possibility could it be?

  Pavan knew he had to tell someone, but he wasn’t sure who to tell or what to tell them. He had nothing more than vague suspicions, nothing that he could really report to others with any sort of certainty. Still…

  “Someone must be told,” he said with certainty. He pivoted to head back for the mouth of the cave and let out a startled yell of alarm.

  Akasha was standing directly behind him, staring at him with his head cocked and a look of amusement on his wrinkled face. He had a crest of differently colored fur around his head, as Pavan did, but his great age caused it to be shot through with gray.

  “Pay attention!” shouted Akasha. His right hand whipped around before Pavan had time to react and struck Pavan on the side of the head. Pavan went down, landing hard on his rump, his skull ringing from the force of the blow. It was hard to believe that one as aged as Akasha still had that much power in his arm, but clearly he did.

  Akasha stood over him, his face now the picture of calm. “You were not paying attention,” he now said calmly. “You need to. You need to pay attention all the time. I will not always be around to protect you.”

  “Protect me?” said Pavan, rubbing his head. “Right now the only thing that I need protecting from is you! Damnation, Akasha! You nearly took my head off!”

  “I could have taken your head off,” Akasha said. He walked slowly past him, leaning against the wall for extra support. “If I had a blade in my hand, your head would be lying on the floor, lonely for its neck. Except that won’t be their aim.”

  “Whose aim?”

  “Our enemies.”

  “What enemies!?” Pavan felt as if he had wandered into the middle of a conversation, spoken in a foreign language no less. “We have no enemies! We are Serabim!”

  “Everyone has enemies,” Akasha said patiently. “You are a fool if you think otherwise. How is your head?”

  “Still ringing.”

  “Good. Perhaps it will knock some sense into you.”

  “I was worried! About you!”

  “The one you need to worry about is you. There is no one else to do it for you. Your parents are gone and our noble Chieftains are suspicious of you, as they always are of the Keepers. They mistrust that upon which they depend. You cannot trust them. You cannot trust anyone save yourself and me, and even I cannot be depended upon, for I am old and my time will be done ere long.”

  “That is ridiculous, Akasha. You still have many turns before you will leave us. Ow!”

  The cry of pain resulted from Akasha having struck him on the side of the head again, just when his head had nearly ceased throbbing from the previous cuffing. “Will you stop that!?”

  “Do not tell me things that you yourself do not believe,” Akasha said to him. “When you were running about in alarm, calling out for me, you thought something had happened to me. That I was dead.”

  “I did not think that, but,” he added hastily, seeing Akasha readying his hand for another blow, “I was worried that you had done something foolish.”

  “What sort of foolish thing did you think I had done?”

  “Well, I…” He hesitated.

  Akasha sighed heavily. It sounded like rocks rolling down a side of a mountain. “Out with it.”

  “I had heard that Keepers, when they become old enough…”

  He paused once more and then said, “that they dispense with themselves.”

  “You mean we kill ourselves?”

  “That’s what I had heard.”

  “For what end? To what purpose?”

  Pavan shrugged. “No one knows.”

  “Does that make any sense to you?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Then why would you believe such a thing?”

  “Because,” said Pavan, “you are the only Keeper that I have ever known, and in many ways you are as much of an enigma to me as when I first became your disciple all those turns ago. And because…”

  “Because what?”

  “It’s ridiculous. It’s selfish.”

  “One’s concerns for oneself are never ridiculous.” Akasha’s voice was surprisingly soft. “What’s going through your mind, Pavan? I have many talents, but the ability to read thoughts is not among them. So what—?”

  “People leave me.”

  “Leave you?”

  “My parents left.”

  Akasha moaned softly. “Pavan, that was a very long time ago. You cannot still be dwelling on—”

  “They abandoned me, Akasha. When my coloring came in, when they saw me, saw my crest, saw this,” and he pulled in frustration at the hood of black fur on his head, “they abandoned me. Left me to the care of you, and of others, and went off to find another tribe of Serabim. I think about them, and think about that, and all I can think of is that people don’t seem to care about me enough to stay around.”

  “So your fear that I dispatched myself had less to do with me than it has to do with you.”

  Pavan looked uncomfortable. “It sounds even worse when you say it than when I thought it.”

  “It doesn’t sound bad. Desperate, perhaps, and pathetic, but not bad.”

  “Well…” Pavan cleared his throat. “Anyway…you’re here…”

  “And you’re here, and this conversation has gone as far as it can go. So we must take it in a different direction. Have you been practicing your singing?”

  “Every day. Sometimes it seems every minute of every day.”

  “Then it’s high time you put it to use.”

  Pavan’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

  “I always speak seriously,” Akasha informed him imperiously. “Come along.” He turned and headed out of the cave, and Pavan followed behind him, his mind racing. Was this really it? Was this the time? Pavan had fantasized about it, dreamt about it, and also been afraid of it. Afraid of what would happen if he failed, and even more afraid of what would happen if he succeeded.

  ii.

  It seemed to Pavan that the wind had picked up as they approached the edge of Zeffer Point. Perhaps nature itself was trying to tell him that this was a bad idea, that he was not remotely ready. All of his practice didn’t seem to mean anything, because he felt his throat tightening up as he contemplated what was being asked of him.

  He remembered legends that he had read about how would-be Keepers had hit a wrong note in their first attempt to commune with Zeffers, had been picked up in a tentacle, and thrown carelessly off the mountain, screaming all the way do
wn and never heard from again when the scream eventually stopped. He didn’t know if such stories were true, or were merely designed to intimidate anyone who aspired to such high position. Either way, in his case, it was working.

  Akasha stood on the Point, turned and gestured impatiently for Pavan to approach. Pavan stayed right where he was and touched his throat. “I…”

  “You what?”

  “My throat feels scratchy,” he said as his fur rippled in the wind. “This may not be the best time. I should be in good voice, should I not, if—?”

  “Get your furry white ass over here,” said Akasha, never one to suffer fools even on his best day.

  Not wanting to seem like a coward to his mentor, Pavan approached slowly. He felt as if his feet had boulders tied to them. Akasha’s look of annoyance made it clear that Pavan’s sluggish approach was not merely subjective perception on Pavan’s part. Pavan did his best to hasten himself and what seemed an age later, he was standing at Akasha’s side. Akasha made a sweeping gesture as if taking in the entirety of the view. “Go ahead, Pavan. Impress me,” he said.

  Pavan drew in an initial breath, and the cold air stung his chest. He sang the first several notes of the song, and they were crackly and off pitch. Akasha raised a paw and Pavan quieted.

  “Calm down,” said Akasha in a voice that was surprisingly sympathetic. “Steady yourself.”

  “It’s just…it’s hard to breathe. The air—”

  “It has nothing to do with the air. It’s hard to breathe because you’re nervous and your chest is tightening up. Relax.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out through your mouth. Do it slowly and three times. That should be enough to clear your head. And by the way, no Zeffer ever threw a would-be Keeper into the abyss.”

  “Really?”