The Last Banquet (Bell Mountain) (31 page)

“Wytt won’t go unless I go, too,” she told the Griff. “So either take me with you or don’t go at all. Tonight may be the only chance we have to give Jack and Martis the slip.”

When they were out of earshot of the camp, following Wytt down a path he chose for them, Chillith pleaded with Ellayne. “It’s a shame for a man to take a girl-child into danger,” he said. “Why do you want to do this?”

“Because I believe you,” Ellayne said, “because I want the Thunder King to be destroyed and for all of this war to be over and done with—so Jack and I and everyone else can go home.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Dangerous? That’s a laugh! Jack and I have been in more danger than you ever dreamed of. We climbed Bell Mountain. We went under the ruins of the Old Temple. And that’s not even the half of it!” She sighed. “We’ve been in more dangers than Abombalbap himself—so don’t worry about me!”

“Jack and Martis will follow us,” Chillith said.

“I know. But as long as we can stay ahead of them, that’s good. If we get into trouble, they might come along in time to save us. We mustn’t get too far ahead of them. Anyhow, it’s good for the four of us to be split up like this.”

“If the rangers catch us, they’ll make us go back.”

“Don’t be silly,” Ellayne said. “The rangers are much too busy to bother about us.”

Wytt led them along narrow paths. Maybe these belonged to the Forest Omah and the rangers didn’t know them. Between the moonlight and the snow, it wasn’t hard to see and they made good time, Ellayne leading Chillith by the hand. Except for when they spoke, the forest by night in winter was as quiet as a grave.

Ellayne thought she was following in the footsteps of Abombalbap. “Maybe someday there’ll be books about our adventures,” she thought. “How Ellayne and Jack climbed Bell Mountain and rang the bell—that’d make a story.”

But at the same time she understood that this blind Heathen, whose hand she was holding, was a prophet answering a summons from the Lord—not even his own Lord, and a summons that would probably cost him his life. Then it seemed mighty childish to be thinking of Abombalbap.

It amused her to imagine how angry Jack would be when he discovered that she’d tricked him, but she was already missing him. She hoped he and Martis would never be very far behind.

The maid, Bronna, knocked on Gurun’s door, and the Ghol on guard, Kutchuk, opened it for her so she could bring in Gurun’s breakfast tray.

“Wake up, my lady. It’s going to be a beautiful day.” She set down the tray and opened the curtains, letting the sun shine in. Gurun sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. There was something about this bed that made her sleep longer than she usually did.

“Don’t call me ‘my lady,’ Bronna. I am not a lady,” she said.

Outside in the hallway, another Ghol came up and spoke to Kutchuk. “Our father wants to see the girl this morning. I think he wants her to ride East with us, but doesn’t want to say so.”

Gurun sat up straighter. She hadn’t thought any of the Ghols could speak Obannese. But then Kutchuk startled her by answering in that language: “I don’t think she’d like being left behind. She has a mind of her own, that one.”

“Kutchuk!” she called. “When did you learn to speak Obannese?”

He stepped into the room and looked at her quizzically. “Obannese? Not me! But I didn’t know you could speak the language of the Ghols. You speak it much, much better than our father does.”

Bronna looked from one speaker to the other, thoroughly confused. Gurun and Kutchuk were conversing in mutually unintelligible languages.

“I hear you speaking Obannese, Kutchuk! Why do you deny it? As for me, I understand not a single word of Gholish.”

His eyes widened, and then he grinned. “I see, I see!” he said. “You do what our teacher Obst can do. Every man can understand him when he speaks, and he understands whatever anybody says. You must be a prophet, like him.”

She’d heard of Obst’s God-given mastery of tongues: he, too, woke up with it one day.

“But how could it be?” she said. “I’m no prophet. I’m only sixteen years old!”

Kutchuk laughed. “The prophet who told us that Ryons was to be our king was just a little girl—only so high!” He held his palm just three feet from the floor. “And how old is our father, King Ryons? Not so old as you. No, honeysuckle—you’re old enough.”

“Honeysuckle?”

“Just a name we Ghols have for a good girl.”

Gurun, who slept in a shift—another luxury that was new to her—threw aside her blanket. “Bronna, help me find my clothes. Kutchuk, take me to Obst right away.”

“But your breakfast, my lady—”

“I’ll wait outside,” said Kutchuk.

Obst didn’t want to go East with the army. There was more work for him to do here in the city than he’d ever dreamed of. But he would have to go—the council of chiefs couldn’t function without him.

How he missed his cottage in the forest! What could be more perfect than a rainy day in the spring, and nothing to do but read the Scriptures and commune with the spirit of the Lord? The rain trickling down from the thatched roof, the robins and the redbirds singing in the trees, and sometimes a squirrel sitting on his windowsill—and prayer, uninterrupted prayer: Obst longed for it with all his heart. “But God has placed me here,” he mused, and sighed.

This morning he was closeted with a seminary preceptor, pleading with him. The preceptor was a short, stocky, solid man who sat there like a rock.

“Don’t you see?” Obst said. “Yes, the Temple is no more—but that only makes the chamber houses and the presters and the reciters more important than ever.

“We need your scholars to copy the Scriptures and render them into modern speech so the people can read them and be instructed in them in all the chamber houses everywhere. Don’t you see? God wants the whole world now to be His Temple.”

The preceptor listened, but his expression never changed. Obst felt like shaking him. Everything had changed! Why couldn’t they understand?

“We aren’t even sure your newfound books of Scripture are genuine,” said the preceptor.

“Then study them!” Obst said. “Forsooth, they were found in sealed jars below the cellars of the ruined Temple in Old Obann. God Himself, through prophets, revealed their existence.”

“Prophets!” the preceptor snorted. “They were hanging so-called prophets in this city, and the Temple never objected.”

At that moment came a knock on the door. It was one of Ryons’ Ghols, with Gurun.

“Your pardon, Teacher—but she says she has to see you. A very wonderful thing has happened to her!”

Gurun strode past him into the room. “Say something to me in a Heathen language!” she demanded.

“Allow me,” said the preceptor. He rattled off something that very few people living would have understood.

“You have only recited one of Prophet Jarma’s proverbs: ‘He who wishes to be deceived will be deceived, and that out of his own mouth,’” Gurun said. “That was no foreign language.”

The preceptor’s eyebrows rose. “You are a scholar, maiden,” he said. “But I rendered it into Old Wallekki.”

“I know nothing of Wallekki, old or new,” she said. “But when you spoke the verse, I heard it in the language of Obann. And I understand the Ghols’ speech, too! When I went to bed last night, I couldn’t. Now I can.”

“What is this?” said the preceptor. But of course Obst knew what it was. He turned to the Ghol and told him to fetch Uduqu and Chief Zekelesh of the Fazzan: “And hurry, please!”

When the two chiefs arrived, Obst bade them speak to Gurun in their native languages. She understood what they said and translated perfectly.

“Now you see for yourself, preceptor,” Obst said. “This maiden has received the gift of tongues—even as I have, too. It’s the gift of God.”

“Or a trick, perhaps,” said the preceptor.

“Oh, go to!” Gurun snapped. “I come from Fogo Island, far away across the sea. I never heard of the countries these chiefs come from, much less ever learned their languages.” She turned to Zekelesh, who still hadn’t learned a word of Obannese. “Chieftain, did you understand what I just said to this man?”

“Yes—you speak Fazzan very well indeed,” said Zekelesh: but he meant that as a jest. He was used to seeing what Obst could do.

“Surely you can see the hand of God in this!” Obst said. “Surely you can see what great works God is doing in our time.”

The preceptor sighed. “I have seen more changes in the past year than I’ve seen in all my life,” he said. “I’m not a fool, hermit. I’m a scholar, with a scholar’s caution. I will not abandon that caution now.

“But to this I’ll agree, that seminary students should copy out the Scriptures to be disseminated to the chamber houses. They need something to keep them out of trouble, as you well know. And I myself will examine those scrolls from Old Obann.”

“Thank you!” said Obst.

“We’ll talk again soon,” said the scholar.

So it was that Gurun rode out of Obann with King Ryons and his army, because Obst said God’s hand was on her. “You can be sure she was sent here for a reason,” he said to all the chieftains, “and someday we shall see what that reason was.”

Obst went, too, although he had grave misgivings about leaving the city. They left it amply garrisoned with soldiers—most of the original garrison, after all, had survived the great siege—and governed by the city magistrates: the oligarchs having all fled or perished when the Heathen entered the city.

But Obst worried about what the former servants of the Temple would do. A host of them remained: presters, reciters, scholars, and students. Preceptor Constan, who now believed that Gurun’s gift of tongues was no deception, but a miracle, tried to reassure him.

“The scholars are by no means as hostile as you seem to think,” he said, “and neither are the presters—most of them, at least. They are eager to study the rediscovered Scriptures, and they know how important it is to get all the chamber houses functioning again throughout Obann. They understand the Temple can’t be rebuilt—not now, and probably not for many years. As for the students, you can leave them to me.”

Ryons concerned himself with none of this. He knew that trouble festered in the city, but what could he do about it? But he was happy to be out with his whole army again, riding with his Ghols all around him and Gurun beside him.

“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked.

“The chiefs all think the Thunder King will try to kill us long before we get to the mountains,” he said. “There’s so much to be afraid of; I don’t know where to start. I guess I’ll be more afraid as time goes on.”

In his heart he wished Helki were there, and Cavall. He missed the hound, and he had faith in Helki. But he didn’t think it proper for a king to mention things like that, and so he held his peace.

The Ghols struck up a song that sounded like a swarm of giant insects droning. “Can you make it out?” Ryons asked Gurun.

“It’s a kind of hymn,” she said. “They are asking God to let you drink fermented mare’s milk from the Thunder King’s skull.”

“That’s probably what he plans to do to me,” said Ryons.

Orth thought the people ought to have a stout log building where they could meet for prayers and all crowd into if the weather got to be too much for them. In this project Hlah couldn’t be much help: Abnaks make no permanent dwellings, nor do they grow crops or raise livestock. But three of the men were skilled in making cabins, and under their direction, the rest worked willingly. Hlah went out with the best hunters every day to keep the little community supplied with food. He was thinking they would need furs, too.

On one of their hunting trips they met some of the men of Chief Ootoo’s following.

“We’re living well!” a warrior said. “There are wagons going up and down the Thunder King’s new road every day, and we take everything we want from them. When they send Abnaks into the woods to hunt us, we tell them what happened down by Oziah’s Wood, and they make friends with us. This country’s full of our people now, all getting fat on the Thunder King’s supplies. Too bad there are more wagons than we can possibly capture—otherwise the Thunder King would be feeling it! But at least we can make him mad. Old Ootoo has two hundred warriors following him now. Not bad, eh?”