A Gathering Of Stones

2

Korimenei pulled the half-hitch tight, glanced across the bay at the paired islands Utar-Selt, then left the stubby pier and started up the mountainside.

She was lanky and tall, thin for her height with long narrow hands and feet that looked too big for her. She had fine curly flyaway hair the color of dead leaves, a pale gray-brown with shines of an equally pale gold when the sun touched it at the proper angle. Her eyes were a light gray-green like shadowed water; her skin was thin and pale with a spray of small freckles across a longish nose and high broad cheekbones; every ebb and flow of blood showed through, to her frequent embarrassment.

She wore old canvas trousers frayed and soft as velvet from many washings, trousers inherited from a student long gone, and a sleeveless pullover with a high neck, several badly botched patches, assorted pulls and snags. Over this she’d pulled on a knee-length canvas coat with huge pockets and wide cuffs; it was slightly newer than the trousers, but even a ragman would turn up his nose at it. On her feet she wore a pair of heavy-soled sandals, fairly new but as scuffed and scarred as her ankles. She was carrying an old leather rucksack, not heavily loaded, with a thick blanket rolled into a tight cylinder and tied below it.

She climbed the Old Man’s Mountain, walking along an unobtrusive but well maintained path. Much of the time she was moving through lowslope woods, maple, beech, aspen, oak, the morning light glowing through leaves like translucent slices of jade, dark and light, gold and green, the leaf shadows moving mottles on the red earth of the path. A hundred kinds of songbirds flittered and swooped over her, hidden by the leaves, singing extravagant solos, or blending in pleasant cacophonies. Now and then the path moved out of the trees across an area of open slope or along a cliff edge where she had a clear view out over the bay.

Halfway to the Old Man’s Meadow, she stopped walking and turned to gaze at Silili; she could see the gilded roofs of the school buildings peeping through the dark yews, oaks and willows planted along the walkways and in the water-gardens. She was startled by how much of the south slope of Utar’s Temple Mountain the school took in. There were no vistas inside the walls, just gardens like green gems for teaching and meditation, so it was impossible to judge the size of the place when one was in it. She’d known the school was important from the way that merchants treated her when they saw the patch sewn on her shirt, but this was the first time she’d had any real idea how important it had to be. Only the Temple grounds were larger. You did me well, Maks my friend. I suppose I’ll have to thank you for it. She sighed again and trudged on. Hmm. I expected to see you before this. Well, busy busy, I suppose, setting the world right. She’d gotten very fond of the man and was a little hurt because he hadn’t come.

Watersong filtered through the trees; she went over a hump on the mountain’s flank and looked down into an ancient cut at a stream leaping along a series of steps, swirling about black and mossy boulders. The path continued along the rim of the ravine, crossed over it on an elegant wooden bridge, each timber handhewn and hand-polished and fitted together with wooden pegs and lashings of thin tough rope. On the far side the path curved through a stand of ancient oaks that almost immediately opened onto the Old Man’s Meadow.

His small neat but was across the meadow, half-hidden by the droopy limbs of a monster oak; like the bridge the but was built of ax-smoothed planks with a roof of cedar shakes. Korimenei pulled off the rucksack, rummaged inside and took out the gift she’d brought for the Old Man, a half pound of the most expensive tea found in Silili Market; it was wrapped in a swatch of raw silk and tucked into a carved ebony box.

The Old Man was kneeling between rows of onion sets, pulling gently at grass and tiny weeds growing around them. Ghost children ran in silent games among the dying vines on the beanpoles, ghost grandmothers so ragged they were little more than sketches watched over them, ghost grandfathers squatted beside the Old Man, chatting with him, pointing out weeds for him. A strangled man ghost hovered close to the trees, watching Korimenei with frightening intensity. A headless woman, her battered head clutched under one arm, came rushing at Korimenei, veered off, trailing behind her an anguished wail more felt than heard. Korimenei ignored all of them, stopped at the end of a row and waited politely for the Old Man to reach her Her first sight of the ghosts of Silili had startled her, Owlyn ghosts stayed decently among the treetops until they dissipated, but habit and time had made her accustomed to the sometimes vocal and always present dead.

The Old Man settled onto his haunches, his dirt-crusted hands dropping onto his thighs. Morning light cool as water and filled with dancing motes picked up every wrinkle, wart, and hair on his still face. He blinked, mild ancient eyes opening and closing with slow deliberation; with his shaggy brown robe, the tufts of white hair over his ears, his round face, he looked like a large horned owl. He also looked harmless and not too bright, but there were many stories about him and certain brash intruders who thought they could force his secrets from him. “Saцri?” His voice was the dry rustle of dead leaves.

Korimenei bowed and held out the chest. “This unworthy student will be much honored if the Satir considers accepting this handful of miserable tea.”

He took the chest, tucked it into a pocket of his robe. “Leave the mountain as you found it,” he said.

“This one hears and swears it will be so, SaOr.”

He grunted,.swung round still squatting and began pulling grass from around a set.

Korimenei flared her narrow nostrils, but swallowed the laughter bubbling in her throat; the Old Man could be touchy about his dignity at the most unexpected times. She resettled the rucksack and began walking again, following the path.