Within the Sanctuary of Wings

My sentences were clear; my calling was not. There were no universities in the Sanctuary, no intellectual societies of scientists who pursued knowledge regardless of practical use, any more than there were in Hlamtse Rong or Keonga or Mouleen. I might as well have said it was my profession to load myself into a cannon and shoot myself to the moon: that would have been equally beyond her ken. And I had neither the will nor the words to try and explain. We bedded down without carrying the thought further, and did our best to sleep.

  * * *

  When I woke the next morning, the only thing that persuaded me to leave my blanket was the knowledge that I would be warmer if I moved around. Ruzt was sluggish as well, and we, by unspoken agreement, left our belongings where they lay. If the next night was anything like the previous, we would need the cave’s shelter again. If it were not … then we would be glad of a more comfortable night we did not have to walk very far to obtain.

  Once outside, we separated and began to search. The terrain there was not so fierce as to pose a danger to either of us; if it were, the yaks would not have been as likely to venture into onto Anshakkar’s flanks. Unfortunately for us, it was a sighting the previous day that had led us here, not tracks, and so all we could do was quarter the area in the hope of stumbling upon some further hint of their presence.

  Had the night not been so bitter, I suspect Ruzt would have sent me in the opposite direction from the one she chose—but her brain was not working as swiftly as usual.

  I headed up a small ridge, thinking it would give me a good vantage point from which to survey the area. It is a mark of what effect the Mrtyahaima has on a person that I thought of the ridge as “small”; at home it would have been a good stiff hike. I shambled up it like an automaton, hunched in on myself against the cold, until I neared the ridge’s crest. There the morning sunlight found me, and I opened up like a timid flower, uncurling the tiniest bit to see if it was safe.

  Earlier in this text I said that my awareness of how my Draconean companions suffered in the cold was one of the things that kept me from sinking entirely into my own misery and self-pity. The sight that greeted me atop that ridge was another.

  Throughout the Mrtyahaima there are stories of a secluded mountain paradise. The nature of this paradise varies from place to place; in some regions it is the abode of the gods, in others it is the afterlife, and in some—though I did not know this until later—it is the bastion of some lost, idyllic civilization. I will not claim the Sanctuary was a paradise in the true sense of the word, and certainly it was neither divine nor idyllic … but its beauty I cannot deny. And from my vantage point I could take it in, from the encircling ring of mountains to the peak of Anshakkar towering above me, from the stony cliffs to the river that vanished into a steep-sided gorge, from the snow-coated trees to the flatter areas I suspected would be fields after the thaw. It was a wonderland of ice and snow, and so sublime was the vista that I forgot, for a few blessed moments, how cold I was.

  What recalled me to myself was the realization that I was standing like some kind of brave explorer posing for her portrait—and that, in so doing, I had made myself quite visible atop that ridge. Even if there were no Draconeans nearby save Ruzt, this was not the wisest thing I could have done, and I hastily crouched to reduce my profile.

  The shift in posture made me notice something else. The way up to the ridge had been a real scramble in places, but that was because I had chosen to take the most direct route to its top, rather than circling around to come at it from a lower point. Had I done so, the way would have been remarkably easy: the crest of the ridge was broad enough for at least five people to walk abreast, and quite flat.

  Suspiciously so. It was too heavily shrouded in snow for me to examine its surface, but the manner in which it rose from the valley floor looked a great deal like a road.

  And a road, of course, must lead somewhere.

  As if I were a puppet and Curiosity herself pulling my strings, I turned to look in the other direction, up the slopes of Anshakkar.

  There could be no doubt. It was a road, rising along a ramp either natural or Draconean-made; and although I could not properly see its end, something about the shape of the mountainside up ahead struck me as less than entirely natural.

  I cast a quick glance about. Ruzt was not in sight, having gone in the other direction around that particular flank of Anshakkar; in the distance I could see smoke from one of the villages we had passed, but no one moving about. Inconveniently, no yaks had made their way up the road, which might have given me an excuse—

  —but there were some yaks grazing not far off, on the other side of the road.

  Wrestling one of the cows away from her herd and up the road was not so easily done, but I persevered. I knew, of course, that I should likely not be climbing Anshakkar to see what was there. If Ruzt wanted me to know, she would have brought me there herself. But the joy of discovery was my sustenance, when everything else in my life had been taken from me; and I did not have it in me to turn around and walk away. This way, at least, if anyone asked why I had gone there, I could say truthfully (if incompletely) that I was following a yak.

  The beast finally received my messages and trudged up the road. The path was steep, but not arduously so, curving through a series of lacets that snaked their way up the mountain’s face. I could see my destination long before I reached it, but only in tantalizing glimpses of some monumental entrance, its lower parts blocked from view by the remainder of my route. Above that I thought I glimpsed something else, but it was even more difficult to see.

  My wind had improved greatly since I first woke up in the sisters’ house, as had my injured leg. When at last I reached the road’s end, I was breathing hard, but not gasping. If my breath faltered, it was for the sight in front of me, and no physical weakness on my part.

  The entrance carved into the mountainside looked like it belonged to the ancient world—and yet not quite. I could see the heritage of the Draconeans in the flaring, leaf-like capitals of the pillars which flanked the doors, but their bases were much wider than those I had seen elsewhere in the world, and no inscriptions marked their sides. The lintel above would have borne an intricate frieze if this place were in the Labyrinth of Drakes; here it showed only an abstract, geometric pattern, akin to those I had seen on pots and wooden implements in Imsali. And the doors—well, it is unfair to say how the doors compared, for the only surviving doors from ancient times I had ever seen were those in the Watchers’ Heart. But these were heavy and bound with corroded bronze, as if to hold out winter’s presence.

  Had it been necessary to swing open one of those enormous portals, I would never have gone inside. The snow blanketing the flat, courtyard-like area in front of the doors was not terribly thick, on account of the continual wind, but it was still enough to hamper the swing of a door; and these were large enough that I would have had difficulty moving one even at the height of summer. But set into one of the doors was a smaller gate, such as one often sees in the main entrances of large Anthiopean tabernacles, through which an individual can pass without troubling to open the entire thing. And when I put my hand to this little door, it shifted.

  Whatever this place was, I knew I should not be there. If anyone caught me, I might find myself in a great deal of well-deserved trouble.

  But I had not forgotten the day I drew pictures on the wall of the yak barn. Kahhe, I thought, had suggested bringing me here, or at least telling me about this place; she had nodded her head in the direction of Anshakkar, and the mere suggestion had enraged Zam. I could only guess at what Kahhe thought to achieve—but knowledge was power, and right now I sadly lacked that resource. Sooner or later my life here would change, and if I went into that transition blind, I did not like my chances. However much I trusted Ruzt and her sisters, I did not want to leave myself wholly at their mercy.

  I looked at the yak, who was ambling around nosing into the snow, as if wondering why I had brought her to a place with no grass. “No one wil
l believe I chased you inside,” I said to her. She flicked one disinterested ear. “But I am not willing to relinquish you, either. Therefore, you will have to stay out here.”

  There were five posts in the forecourt, whose purpose was no doubt ritual in some way or another. I tethered the yak to one of these. Then, before I could let myself think the better of it, I hauled the door open far enough to admit me and slipped inside.

  THIRTEEN

  The temple—A discovery upstairs—Exploration—The trespasser found—Images of the past—Nowhere to run

  The interior was quite dim, but not wholly dark. Several unglazed openings above the entrance admitted both light and a small quantity of snow to the chamber beyond. These gave enough illumination for me to identify freestanding braziers around the edges of the room, with small objects set on shelves built between the legs of the braziers. When I bent to examine one of these, I found it was a lamp—much like those I had been using these past two months, but more finely made. The yak butter within was solidified, but kindling sat in the brazier above, bone dry. It was the work of a mere moment to light the brazier, and then I held one of the lamps above it to warm while I looked at my surroundings.

  We humans have long been prone to identifying every impressive Draconean site as a temple, but I had no doubt that I stood in the antechamber of a holy place. Historically speaking, there are two types of buildings to which people will devote great amounts of labour: the religious and the kingly. It was possible the Draconeans of the Sanctuary had a king or equivalent ruler, but the remote location of this place did not lend itself to political use. This was, of course, assuming that Draconean motivations were like those of humans—but my experiences with Ruzt, Kahhe, and Zam gave me moderate confidence that their ways were not so alien as that.

  The walls of this antechamber were richly decorated, in elaborate circular patterns reminiscent of the mandalas found in many Dajin countries, but different in style. Their meaning was opaque to me: I could recognize that it must be there, for nestled among the spirals and geometric figures were repeated symbols, but they could have signified anything. Each was painted in vivid colour, predominantly yellow, blue, and white, with rare touches of red. The artist in me wished to examine these more closely, because I was curious about the pigments they used; surely the Draconeans did not trade with the outside world to obtain the necessary materials. But the white and yellow might be derived from lead-based minerals, and the blue … copper? Cobalt? There might even be lapis deposits in the region; certainly they were known elsewhere in the Mrtyahaima.

  I shook myself from my trance. The yak butter had warmed enough for me to light my lamp; with that in hand, I set forth to investigate.

  Three different paths lay before me. Staircases ascended from the right and left corners of the entry hall; between them stood a pair of doors, almost as large as those through which I had come, but much more elaborately carved. I suspected they would be easier to move, for they were not a tenth so weathered as their exterior brethren, but for the time being I chose to leave them untouched. Instead I took the right-hand staircase upward.

  Partway up this lengthy, spiral path, I realized why the climb was so fatiguing: the steps had not been cut for human legs. The Draconeans I knew were all a good thirty centimeters taller than me, and their legs were long to match; this meant that a comfortable step upward for them was a heave for someone my size. “I feel like a child again,” I grumbled to myself—and then snapped my mouth shut as if I could somehow swallow my words.

  For as I spoke, I came around the final curve and found myself at the periphery of a large, open room … which was full of sleeping Draconeans.

  Their tidy ranks stretched far beyond the reach of my puny lamp. But here, too, clerestory windows admitted dim light from without, disclosing lines of bodies that carpeted the floor from one wall to the other. Had I come up here without a lamp, I might have trod upon the nearest before I noticed they were there.

  I stood as motionless as a mouse under the gaze of a hawk. Had my voice disturbed them? The unsteady light of my lamp (unsteady in part because of my trembling hand) made it seem as if those close to me were moving, but I steeled my nerves and did not bolt. Long moments passed. In time I realized that I was holding my breath, and made myself expel it quietly. No one had shifted or made any sound. I was, for the moment, safe.

  And I had found the remainder of the Draconeans. Whether this was everyone who dwelt in the Sanctuary, I could not say; the room stretched back into the mountain, farther than either lamp or windows could show me, and I was not about to risk tiptoeing between them just to see. Certainly there were hundreds of them. For the first time, I found myself wondering about the size of the population here—were they in danger of inbreeding? But developmental lability might help to mitigate that issue; I had no idea one way or another, though it was an intriguing question to investigate later. It also helped to steady me. Very well, then: they hibernated, as I had surmised. Bars made a lattice of the clerestory openings, and below I could make out larger windows, shuttered and barred. Why both, the former open and the latter closed? Regulation of light, perhaps, while still admitting a quantity of cold air, which no doubt helped to keep them asleep.

  I was very grateful for the cold air.

  One careful movement at a time, I crept back downstairs. Brief investigation of the staircase on the other side of the entry showed me that, as I suspected, it led to the same place. For ritual reasons? Or practical ones? (Were I a Draconean, I would not have wanted to face the lengthy queues that would result from everyone there trying to ascend or descend by a single route.) Had Kahhe intended to bring me to that chamber? Wake someone inside? Or perhaps some other purpose altogether; I had not yet explored the entire place. I therefore turned my attention to the great carved doors.

  I was glad to see that the hinges of these were well oiled—I was still thinking of the sleeping Draconeans, though it was doubtful that a squeaky hinge would be enough to rouse them from their seasonal slumber. The handles were two large brass rings, still bright gold, in contrast with the green patina on the fittings of the exterior doors. Telling myself that it was unlikely to budge, I gripped one and pulled.

  Many thousands of years had passed since the construction of the Watchers’ Heart, but the Draconeans either had not forgotten the techniques of hanging an exceedingly heavy door, or had rediscovered them. It swung open far more easily than I expected.

  “Well,” I murmured to myself in a near-soundless voice, “hanged for a fleece, hanged for a yak.”

  Once again, my tiny lamp did not throw its light very far, and the small windows of the entry hall were no help at all beyond this threshold. But reflective flickers answered my lamp from all around the room; the nearest, to my right, was another brazier. Holding my breath—a foolish impulse, but difficult to quash—I lit the oil inside.

  Colour sprang to life all around me. This room too was painted, with more of those mandala-like designs, interspersed with elements I suspected were purely decorative. But the image that dominated the room was familiar to me from Draconean sites: a circular disc, from which extended two stylized wings. Where it is found painted upon walls, that disc is invariably yellow, but here, as in the hidden chamber of the Watchers’ Heart, it was made of hammered gold.

  HIBERNATION

  Our best theories said the disc represented the sun, though why it should be winged, no one knew. Equipped with my knowledge that dragon-headed people were real, I found myself re-evaluating the basis of Draconean religion: was the sun itself perhaps what they worshipped? The winged disc often held a central place at any site, either hovering over Draconean figures, or on its own. Then again, real Draconeans did not rule out the possibility of mythical ones as well. After all, human religions have often depicted the gods as human in shape. Moreover, I had no certainty that the faith practiced here was the same as that which had prevailed when the Draconeans reigned over a worldwide civilization. Indeed, I
should be surprised if it had not undergone changes.

  With a wry smile, I added “religion” to the list of topics I must broach with the sisters when time and vocabulary permitted. The list was approximately a thousand items long, and grew with every passing day.

  I turned my attention once more to my surroundings. The chamber was large, but not large enough to accommodate together all the Draconeans I had seen upstairs. Its furnishings were sparse. The reflections I had seen were from the winged disc and the gold tracery adorning the braziers, all of which had been polished to a mirror sheen. Finely carved benches occupied part of the floor, but not all. Beneath the sun disc stood what I presumed was an altar, with what appeared to be offerings. Approaching, I found branches of greenery and a bowl of seeds. The former were still springy to the touch; they could not have been cut more than a day or two before.

  Which meant that someone visited this place during the winter. Did the temple, too, have a caretaker? Or did the wakeful herdswomen come to pay their respects?

  Either way, it meant I should not linger. I had already been longer in the temple than I intended; I should collect my yak and go. But there were curtained openings off the central room, two flanking the altar, several along the side walls, and I could not depart without at least glancing inside. I pulled aside one of the curtains near the entrance and found a corridor behind, hewn, like the rest of the temple, from the living rock of the mountain.

  (It did occur to me to wonder if this place, like the Watchers’ Heart, had any hidden doors. But I could hardly spare the time to hunt for such a thing, especially when I had no clues to guide me, such as we had enjoyed during our search in the Labyrinth.)

  The corridor led me on a short way before debouching into a smaller room. A mandala adorned one wall, but this one was different; a Draconean figure dominated the center of the design. I could not help but evaluate it with an artist’s eye, noting the similarities to ancient art as well as the changes. A great deal of time had passed since the height of their civilization, but religious artwork is often highly conservative, harkening back to the styles and motifs of one’s forebears. Gone was the strange perspective which depicted figures in a combination of profile and facing stances, but the Draconean still adopted a familiar posture, striding forward with its hands at its sides.