The Stone That Came From the Sea

The houses in the outer town were generally made of wood and stronggrass, unlike the grander stone buildings of the inner town, but they were solid and spacious, and trees and flowers grew between them just like everywhere else in Levare. There were no hovels, because the Kûzeen disapproved of poverty, so they saw to it that there wasn’t any. True, some Kûzeen had luxuries that were beyond the reach of others, but all had comfort and a bit of beauty, and so it was all over Kûz, not only in Levare. Here in the outer town the beauty usually consisted of bright geometric patterns painted round the doors and windows, and of coloured flags and ribbons strung in zig-zags across the streets, and inside the houses there were furnishings of stronggrass and of woven reed, woollen rugs, earthenware vessels, garlands of paper flowers, wall hangings of printed cloth and other goods of homely craft. In one such house, which stood on the southern edge of the city looking out towards the distant fields of the Tree Women, a man was busy mending the hem of a tunic when the door opened and his daughter came in.

“Good evening, Father!”

“Jarin, how lovely to see you! Sit down, sit down! Did all go well? Where is Wan?”

“Gone back.”

“Shame, I should have liked to see him. And the mission?”

Jarin laughed. “Hardly a mission, Father, just a message to carry. You always make it sound so grand. Really, I’m just a glorified postwoman.”

“Carrying messages for the Archseraph on the back of a – ”

“Father, please! I understand that you’re proud of me, but I’m just a normal human being. A tired one at that. Is there coffee?” Jarin stood up again and went over to the stove, where a long-handled copper pot shimmered in the afternoon light that came through the window. She took two mugs from a shelf, poured the coffee and added honey. Then she went back to sit beside her father.

“So what was the message about?” asked her father.

“You know I don’t know that!”

“But was it a friendly message? Are they still our allies over in Krandi?”

“They received me with the same courtesy as usually, that’s all I can say. Why are you so worried about this? And they are our neighbours; why do you call them allies? We’re not at war.”

“Not yet.” He stirred his coffee and began to sip.

“The Archseraph says the war will not come here.”

“But Jarin, don’t you see? If the Krâ, even just the steppe tribes, get involved in this war on the wrong side, it will make our life very difficult here, since we are Krâ.”

“I am not Krâ,” declared Jarin and put her mug down with vigour as if to make a point. “My grandparents were Krâ, but I am a Kûzin.”

“You look Krâ.”

This was true enough. Like their neighbours on the other side of the inland sea, Jarin and her father had pale skin, high cheekbones and grey eyes. Jarin’s hair was of a light, reddish brown and she wore it – her sole concession to her Krâ heritage – in a braid down her back, while the Kûzar custom was to pin it into a bun. It was not unusual for Krâ families to settle in Kûz from time to time, and the Kûzeen were unfazed by them and left them to follow their own customs or not, whichever they chose, as long as they abided by Kûzar law.

Jarin was indeed a Kûzin in all but looks, though her father could not with any confidence have declared himself either way. Unlike his, her Kûzar was flawless, in fact she barely spoke Krâin though she understood it well enough. From an early age, she had followed all Kûzar customs with the same, or greater zeal than her neighbours. She was an ardent believer in the New Way.

“And,” her father continued, “you are Krâ enough that the Archseraph always chooses you for his messages to Krandi.”

“He chooses me because I am the only lungi who doesn’t mind going over the sea. It seems the others are afraid of drowning – as if it wouldn’t kill them to fall off over dry land.”

“Nonsense! You are contrary today, Jarin. See that it doesn’t weigh you down.”

“My conscience is as light as dragon breath.” She shrugged. “If it pleases you, I will stay here tonight.”

“Of course. You must be tired.”

“It’s not that; I could take a boat. But I would have your company.”

“Very well. Would you like me to beat you at chess again?”

“I will win this time.”

-oOoOo-

It was made of stone, or perhaps of glass, and it was smooth and flawless to a degree that Hamûjil would have thought impossible. At first he thought it was mirroring the room in strange distorted ways, but then he realised there were images moving inside it. Swiftly, he closed the lid on the lacquered box.

“You did well to bring this to me,” he said to the man in front of him. “I will buy it, and I will pay a good price. Will you accept glowstone?”

“I would prefer gold. I have no ship to transport glowstone.”

“You shall have gold then. But first, tell me how you came by this thing?”

“I’m a spice trader,” said the man. “I was travelling in the Riverlands, not far from the sea, visiting a village where they collect the finest vanilla pods. I can give you a good deal on vanilla, if it pleases you –”

The Archseraph waved a hand. “Perhaps, but we can speak of that later. By your leave, continue with your story.”

“It’s not a long story, Archseraph. I saw the stone in the hut of their chief. Someone had found it on the beach a few years ago and they had kept it, but it made them uneasy. They were worried that looking at it could make you insane. I bought it off them along with the vanilla. Frankly, they seemed glad to be rid of it.” He nodded as if to reassure himself that he had done the forest people a favour. Hamûjil suspected that the price the trader had paid had been nowhere near as high as the payment he expected to get, but in fairness, the man had travelled far across perilous lands with few roads and fewer comforts, and that alone required a reward.

“I was thinking of offering it to the dwarves,” the trader continued, “but I thought of you first, Archseraph, as a man of fine taste and good judgement.”

And a man conveniently located in the city where you sell your other wares, thought Hamûjil, but out loud he said, “I am glad you thought of me. We will talk about the price in a minute. But forgive me for a moment.”

He turned aside and spoke quietly to one of his attendants. “Be so good as to send a message to the lungi requesting their services. I would prefer Jarin, if it pleases her.”

As the attendant left the room, Hamûjil asked the trader to name his price. The man was not shy to name a princely sum, no doubt expecting to negotiate, but Hamûjil detested haggling. He agreed to the price and had the trader ushered out with instructions to speak to the chamberlain about the vanilla. Then he sat without moving, looking at the lacquered box. Nearly half an hour went past. Eventually, he picked it up and went in search of his wife.

He found Majani alone in the room reserved for her when she was writing poetry, and he would not usually have disturbed her there, but he felt troubled and longed for the comfort of speaking with her.

Majani wasn’t writing when he entered. She sat at her desk with a number of porcelain birds lined up in front of her and was absentmindedly peeling a mandarin. Hamûjil put the box down.

“With your leave, dearest, I will show you something.”

She inclined her head in agreement and he lifted the lid of the box. Faint shapes flitted within the sphere. Majani leaned closer and then, just as Hamûjil had done, she closed the lid. For a moment, there was a something like an echo.

“What is it?” she said after a while. “Is it magical?”

“I do not know what it is,” he replied. There was no second chair in the chamber, so he sat on the edge of the desk. “But yes, I believe it is magical. Powerful magic, too, and very dangerous perhaps. It was fortunate it came to me rather than…” He gestured vaguely. Then he told her of the trader and of how he had come by the stone.

Majani tapped her fingertips against her chin. “I am not surprised the forest people were spooked. It feels…ominous. What shall we do about it?”

“I want to consult the Guardian. I have sent for Jarin and I hope we shall be on our way before noon.”

“Do you need to go yourself? It looks windy outside. Jarin could fetch the Guardian here.”

“A bit of wind will not kill me, Majani. It would be disrespectful to drag Alatar away from the Scared Cave. And are you not worried about him being out in the wind?”

“If the Council meets to discuss this, he would have to come to Levare anyway.”

Hamûjil shook his head. “I do not mean to let the Council see this thing. In fact, I am thinking the Sacred Cave might be the safest place for it. I am afraid some mischief will come of it.”

In silence, they both stared at the box, but there was no answer to be found there. It was a black lacquered box with the trader’s mark in green painted on one side; such boxes were widely used by traders of valuable merchandise. Neither of them had the nerve to lift the lid again.

“I guess you must go,” said Majani at last. “How long do you think you will be away?”

“No more than two or three days.”

She went to the window. The room was on the second floor and overlooked the gardens. Gusts of wind did indeed tousle the trees and hedges, and clouds hurtled across the sky. Hamûjil put his arm around her shoulder.

“Have no fear, Majani. I shall be quite safe. I will go to prepare myself now, and then I will come and say farewell to you and the children.”

“So be it.”

He kissed her gently and left. In his own rooms, he asked an attendant to pack the necessities for the journey, while he himself searched his mind for any unatoned guilt. He beseeched the Powers to guide him.

Two hours later, he stepped out onto the roof, where Jarin already awaited him. She wore breeches, and a belted-down cloak over her tunic, and a scarf was wrapped tightly round her head and neck. The Archseraph was similarly clad.

“Jarin,” he said and made the gesture of greeting, a graceful outward swoop of the right arm. “I know you have only yesterday returned from Krandi, and yet I would request of you to set out again today, and take me with you. I wish to journey to the Sacred Cave. Are you willing to take me?”

“I am willing, Archseraph, if Wan is.”

From her belt, she took a small silver flute and began to play. The notes rose and fell, softly at first but ever stronger, and the world around seemed to respond to the tune. Light that had lain still on the parapet trembled and quivered, the drifting clouds slowed down, and the air shifted. There was an urgent sense of something trying to happen, something like a birth or a turning of worlds. Jarin played on, and gradually a second tune wove around hers as if in answer, and then the Archseraph felt as if he himself flickered like a candle, and then the tune stopped, and where a moment ago there had been nothing but the empty rooftop, a dragon now stood.

It was sleek, wingless, perhaps eight or nine ells from the head to the tip of its tail, though it was hard to tell because of the undulating shape of its body. Its scales shone in red and bronze, but its head was fringed with tufts of white hair like flames. This was Wan, ancient and wise, a chief among the dragons of the East. Unlike the dragons of Morgoth, the dragons of the East were creatures of joy and light, and in some way more akin to eagles, for they were servants of the Power of Wind and Air. They lived within their own realm, but they came forth into the world of others as a shadow or an echo, not quite real, and indeed though the sun glinted off his scales, the lines of the parapet could be faintly seen through Wan’s body. 

Jarin bowed. “Honoured Wan,” she said, “if it pleases you, will you carry me and the Archseraph to the Sacred Cave?”

The dragon turned his eyes on Hamûjil.

“Archseraph,” he said, and his voice was like a whisper from beyond the sky. “How clear is your conscience?”

“Clear enough, I hope, honoured Wan,” replied Hamûjil.

“Mount, and we shall see,” said the dragon.

So Jarin mounted the dragon, sitting astride where his mane fell off his neck, and Hamûjil joined behind her.

“You are light as a shred of cloud, Archseraph!” exclaimed the dragon. “Are you sure you are a ruler of Men?”

Hamûjil laughed. “I try to be good.” Then he held out his hands and his attendant passed him the lacquered box. The moment the Archseraph grasped it, Wan staggered.

“What’s in the box, Archseraph? It weighs more than you and Jarin together!”

“I had not thought of that.” Hamûjil looked dismayed. “I wish to show the thing in the box to the Guardian, but if it is too heavy…”

But the dragon rallied and looked back at the riders. “We will go, Archseraph. But we may have to rest on the way.”

“That we would have to do anyway, I believe,” said Jarin. “I doubt the Archseraph is as hardy a rider in the air as I am. If it pleases you, we will make for Mil Nahara and stay there overnight. You can rest in your own realm and I will call you again in the morning.”

“An excellent plan, Jarin,” said Wan, and he cast off from the roof like a bird, but his wingless body swam through the air in long, gliding waves. Hamûjil closed his eyes, as he always did at the start of his rare dragon rides, and when he opened them again, the houses of the outer town fell behind. Ahead lay the fertile plains between the Sea of Calma to the west and the wooded hills to the east. Hamûjil clutched the box to his chest and held on to Jarin’s belt with his other hand.

From a window in the palace, Majani watched long after the last speck of the dragon and his riders had melted into the clouds.