Eternity Road

8

River Road ran along the Mississippi to Argon, the northernmost outpost of the League, about ten days’ travel upriver. The road was all-weather construction: In most areas it had a pebble bed and good drainage. It plunged through thick forests of silver maple, bitternut hickory, pecan, and cypress. It passed farms and ranches, navigated among heaps of broken cement and patches of grassland. Concrete causeways carried it through swamps, and wooden bridges across streams and gullies. It hesitated before sites of historical interest: Pandar’s Glade, where the Illyrian hero had turned the tide of war against the Argonites; a restored Baranji fort from the days when the Mississippi marked the western frontier of empire; a statue of a Roadmaker military figure, right arm broken off, with the inscription: HE STOOD LIKE A STONE WALL.

Chaka was glad to get clear of the well-wishers, to move into the silences of the forest. She had been to Argon several times, although the most recent trip had been almost six years before, a hunting expedition with her family. Those earlier excursions had seemed like journeys to the end of the world. It was hard to realize that this time the outpost city would be little more than a jump-off point.

She was displeased with herself for agreeing to allow Flojian to join the expedition. The little man rode up front with Silas in his finicky, self-important way, and it irritated her that the two seemed to find much to talk about. She predicted to Quait that a few nights on the road would change his mind, and he would return home.

Silas bounced along on a horse that was too big for him. He’d borrowed a new animal from the Imperium for the expedition; his usual mount was, he knew, too old for the kind of effort that would be required. Chaka thought that Silas looked cold and uncomfortable. But he hung on, trying to give the appearance of a man at home in the wilderness, even raising himself in the saddle on occasion to get a better look at the river, or a eucalyptus, or whatever happened to catch his attention.

“He’ll be all right,” said Quait. “He just needs a little time to get used to the road.”

She was grateful to Quait, not only because he’d been instrumental in launching the expedition, but also because he obviously liked her and she needed that right now. Raney’s defection had damaged her more than she was willing to admit, and she traveled throughout that first day expecting to hear him ride up behind them. She played the scene over and over in her mind, Raney apologetic and trying to shrug it all away; she cool and formal, allowing him to sweat. “You’ll have to ask Silas,” she would tell him. “It’s not up to me.”

“This is the high point of Silas’s life,” Quait told her. “It’s what he’s always wanted to do.”

“Hard to believe,” she said. “He doesn’t look as if he’s enjoying himself.”

“He’s not used to riding for long periods.”

“I can see that. What’s he been doing for the last forty years?”

“Trying to understand what fuels the sun. The places he would like to go, people can’t get to.”

Chaka wasn’t sure she understood that, but she let it pass. She was suspicious of Avila. The woman was friendly enough, but it was hard to overlook the fact that she had abandoned her vows. Chaka was a believer to the extent that she didn’t like people to ask hard questions, and tried not to think too deeply about the assorted doctrines she’d accepted. Play it safe, respect the gods, and maybe it would pay off. Who knew? There had been a time, a generation back, when breaking with the Order would have meant keeping out of public sight for the balance of one’s life. But with the advent of the Republic, the ecclesiastical laws had been liberalized. Avila would be free to live as she wished, although most people would feel as Chaka did, that she was somehow remiss and morally suspect.

Avila was, however, the only member of the company who had been north of Argon. “We have a retreat about two days’ ride above the city,” she said. “It’s on a ridge, in deep woods. A good place for prayer and contemplation.”

“Didn’t you worry about the Tuks?” asked Chaka.

“At first. But no one else seemed very concerned. At least no one who’d been around for a while. The Tuks turned out to be friendly enough.”

“What did you contemplate?”

“Beg pardon?”

“You said you went up there to contemplate. What did you think about?”

Avila laughed. It was a pleasant sound, reserved, amiable, honest. “I think mostly I looked around at the wilderness and wondered what I was doing there.”

Silas had ridden in closer to listen. “Will we pass the retreat?”

“No,” she said. “We turn east when we get to Argon.”

“I think,” said Chaka, “you’ll have plenty of time for contemplation on this trip.”

They passed a sign. It was from the Roadmaker period, and gave no indication it would ever rust. (The origin of the more exotic Roadmaker materials, which seemed in some instances almost indestructible, remained just one more major mystery.) The letters were black and crisp in the sunlight:

All five could read enough Roadmaker English to grasp the literal meaning. It was nonetheless baffling.

“What’s it about, Silas?” asked Chaka.

Silas half turned in his saddle. “It means it’s time to get off the horses and walk.”

“No, really,” said Avila.

“I think Silas is right,” said Quait. “We should give the critters a rest.”

It was cold, and Silas adjusted his scarf. “The Roadmakers believed in a god who tortured people after they died. If they’d sinned.”

“Barbaric notion,” said Avila. “I wonder if people create the kind of divinity that reflects their own character?”

Flojian turned to stare at her. “It surprises me to hear a priest talk that way. I was taught that the divine essence cannot be misunderstood, save by willful effort.”

“That is the official position,” said Avila, refusing to take offense. “Incidentally, I’ve withdrawn from the Order.”

Flojian rolled his eyes. “Did Silas know you were an ex-priest when he invited you to come along?”

She nodded. “I haven’t hidden my status from anyone.”

Chaka tended to side with Flojian on that issue. If there was anything to the old traditions, an ex-priest might well bring them bad luck. She had considered voting against allowing Avila to join the company, but cringed at the prospect of explaining her reasoning. Nevertheless, she determined to keep a respectful distance, in case a bolt did fall from the sky.

A few miles north of Illyria, the forest gave way to low, grassy hills, which in turn descended into a swamp. The sky had turned gray, but there was no immediate threat of rain. They stopped by a spring.

The water was clear and cold. Chaka knelt on a rock and scooped it into her hands. It tasted good, and in fact, the day tasted good. She still hoped for Raney’s appearance, but a strange thing was happening: She was anxious to be far enough away from Illyria to be certain that he would not come.

“Not having second thoughts, are you?” Silas had come up behind her. He pushed his hands into his jacket and assumed the mien of confident leader. She wondered how he really felt.

“No, Silas,” she said. “No second thoughts. I’m glad we’re finally on our way.”

“Good.” He produced a cup and dipped it into the stream.

“I’d feel better, though, if we had a map.”

“Me too.” He drank deeply and stared thoughtfully at the horizon. “We’ll find our way. Meantime, I’m going to start a journal. We won’t make the same mistake Karik made.” A smile spread across his features. ‘We’re going to create the travel book of the age. Once we get beyond the frontier, we’ll record everything: foliage, wildlife, weather, topography, ruins, you name it. And charts.” A mile ahead, the road crossed planking and entered the swamp. “If there’s another expedition after this, they won’t have to play guessing games.”

“The Great Geographer,” smiled Chaka.

“Yes.” He laughed. “They’ll put my statue in the Imperium, left hand shielding my eyes, right pointing to the horizon.” He demonstrated the pose.

Chaka gave him a thumbs up, in her own style, both hands.

They arrived at the Crooked Man just before sunset. The main building was three stories tall, a massive, rambling structure with turrets, balconies, bay windows, glass-enclosed porches, sloping dormers, and parapets. A marble sundial that also served as a fountain guarded the approach. Grooms took their horses, and a liveried doorman welcomed them into the opulent interior. Chaka admired the thick carpets and shining hardwood floors. Murals depicting hunting scenes covered the walls. Stylish furniture from an earlier age filled the lobby and hallways, and lush red curtains framed the windows.

All of the travelers had stayed there at one time or another. The host of the Crooked Man was a four-hundred-pound giant whose name was Jewel. Jewel’s speech was polished and his manners impeccable. His luxuriant black beard spilled onto a white shirt. His arms were thick as beefhocks. He had great shaggy eyebrows and thick black hair streaked with gray and teeth that looked able to take down a horse. He was capable of ferocious grimaces when dealing with stewards, grooms, and tradesmen. But he was absolutely correct with guests, and called four of the five travelers by name, even though he had not seen some for years. He missed only Avila, apparently thrown into confusion at seeing her in nonclerical dress.

“It’s good to have you back at the Crooked Man,” he said. “I’d heard that a quest was going out, and if we can do anything. please don’t hesitate to ask.” Unfortunately, he explained, the inn was quite busy just now, and they would have to share rooms. He hoped that wouldn’t be a problem. Since they had intended doing that anyhow, it wouldn’t. Nevertheless, Flojian contrived to look inconvenienced.

Jewel directed their bags be taken care of, and personally showed them to their quarters, expressing his desire that they enjoy their stay and come again soon to see him. They thanked him and agreed to meet in the dining room at the seventh hour.

The rooms were single compartments; but they were nevertheless spacious and comfortable, almost as grand as Chaka remembered. The curtains had been opened to admit the last of the sunlight.

A low fire heated a pair of water pots in the chamber she would be sharing with Avila. Oil lanterns burned on either side of an enormous bed with large down pillows and a quilt. A freshly scrubbed wooden tub gleamed invitingly near the fireplace, on a raised wood platform designed to draw off excess water.

Two serving boys arrived with buckets of fresh water. Avila gave them coins. “Thank you, Mistress,” said the taller one. “Just ring the bell when you want more.”

Both women were covered with dust from the road, and a bath would be the first order of business. But Chaka shrank from the task. There were no modesty curtains in the room, and the prospect of removing her clothes in the presence of one who had been ordained to Shanta was daunting. She loosened her neckerchief and hesitated, suddenly aware that Avila was watching her. “If you don’t mind,” said Avila, with a hint of amusement, “I’ll claim the privilege of the older and go first.”

There is nothing quite like nudity to strip away titles, pretenses, and reservation. Before twenty minutes had passed, Chaka found herself admitting to her companion what she had not admitted to herself: She felt rejected by Raney, and she was at that moment recognizing that the future she’d thought they would have together lay in ruins.

“You may be fortunate,” Avila said. “If you truly loved him, I don’t think you’d be here at all. So maybe you’ve learned something about yourself.”

“Maybe,” Chaka said. All the same, it hurt.

“Why are you here?” asked Avila. “The cost seems to be higher for you than for anyone else.”

Chaka explained about her brother and Avila listened without comment.

“How about you?”

“It’s a chance to escape,” Avila said. “And the Roadmakers are interesting. If this Haven really exists, I wouldn’t want to miss my chance to see it.”

Chaka was seated in the window, watching the western sky turn purple. “I expect,” she said, “that if we do find it, it’ll be a ruin. Like everything else.” She described the time travel concept in Connecticut Yankee and said how she wished such a thing were possible. “I would love to have seen their cities when they were whole. And to have traveled on their roads before the forest took them. To have seen how the hojjies actually worked.”

“Wagons that needed no horses,” said Avila. “I’m still not sure I believe it.” She stood with one foot on a low stool, scooping hot water out of the tub and pouring it over shoulders and breasts. Suds ran down into the drains. (Illyrians did not sit in bathwater until they were clean, and would in fact have been horrified at the notion of doing so.) “But you’re right: We could learn a lot if there were a way to take one of the highways and use it to travel back a thousand years. Or whatever it is.”

“Maybe in a way,” said Chaka, “that’s exactly what we’re doing.”

After Chaka’s bath, they dressed in clean clothes, strolled downstairs, and swept into the dining room in high spirits. A slab of beef, tended by a cook, turned slowly on a spit over an open flame. There were roughly twenty tables, each illuminated by an oil lamp. About half the tables were occupied by guests who seemed already well into their cups. Their own party had commandeered a corner stall. Quait waved, and all

three men looked their way. Their glances lingered just long enough to bring a rush of satisfaction to Chaka.

Wine and brew were flowing enthusiastically, and the place was filled with laughter and the sizzle of beef. A young man sat on a raised platform in the center of the room, one leg crossed over the other, fingering a guitar.

Quait poured wine for Chaka and Avila and refilled the other cups. They toasted the quest, and then rose, one by one, collected metal plates, and went over to the spit. The cook sliced off a large piece of meat for each, scooped some peas out of a pot, and added two ears of corn dipped in melted butter. Chaka picked up some bread and an apple.

When they’d got back to their table, Jewel entered the dining room, carrying a glass of wine. At his appearance, the musician stopped and the house fell quiet. When he had everyone’s attention, Jewel held the glass high. “This is our finest,” he said. “And tonight I want you to join me in toasting some special guests of the Crooked Man.” He directed everyone’s attention to Chaka and her companions. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have the honor to host a group of very special people this evening. Silas Glote and Flojian Endine are leading a party of explorers who are going to try to find some lost books.” He glanced back at Silas. “Do I have that right, Silas?”

The diners applauded and Silas nodded. Chaka wondered who promoted Flojian.

“The Crooked Man wishes you well.” He drained the glass.

The audience followed in kind, and applauded.

“By the way,” continued Jewel, “the wine is produced especially for us, and we are selling it tonight at a very good rate Thank you very much.”

People came over to shake their hands. One young man, congenial and slim and interested in the Haven legend, asked

Chaka how she’d become involved in the quest, how she rated their chances for success, and whether she’d actually read the Mark Twain. His eyes were hazel and he had a good smile. She couldn’t help noticing that Quait was watching them with a disapproving frown.

His name was Shorn and, at his invitation, she took her wine and they strolled out onto the veranda. She was doing the sort of thing he would have liked to do, he explained. Leaving civilization behind, getting out into the unknown to see what was there. He wished he were going along.

They talked for a while, looked out over the river, and eventually returned to the table. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said to them. And to Chaka: “How long do you expect to be gone?”

“Maybe years,” offered Quait.

“Not past autumn, we hope,” she said.

“I’ll look forward to your successful return.” Their eyes connected. Chaka smiled, and then Shorn was gone.

A crowd had gathered around one of the other tables, where a lean man with vulpine features sat with his eyes closed. “No,” he was saying to someone in the group, “there is a shadow across your star. Be cautious on the river for the next two weeks. This is not a propitious time for you.”

The man to whom he was speaking, nondescript and straw-haired, placed a coin on the table.

Chaka joined the crowd.

“That is Wagram,” said a middle-aged prosperous-looking woman behind her.

“Who’s Wagram?”

“Who indeed?” said the vulpine man.

“He’s a seer,” said the woman.

“And you, young lady, are Chaka Milana.” He clicked on a smile. “Currently bound for Haven. Or so you hope.”

One of the patrons nudged her. “He’s never wrong,” he said. The patron was an elderly man, probably in his seventies.

“And what do you foresee for us, seer?” asked Chaka.

His eyes closed. Quait got up and came over. He was looking at her curiously.

“You will be successful,” he said at last. ‘You will find your lost treasure, and you will return to Illyria with fame and wealth.”

Chaka waited, expecting to hear a catch. When none came, she bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She fished a silver coin out of her pocket. That news, after all, was worth something.

The crowd expressed its approval, a few shook her hand happily, and a drunk tried to kiss her.

When they returned to their table, Flojian asked what the seer had said. Chaka told him and he seemed pleased.

“I wouldn’t take it too seriously,” said Quait. “They always give good news. That’s how they earn their tips.”

“Not necessarily,” said Flojian. “Some of these people are legitimate.”

“I wonder,” said Silas, “if he was here when Karik went through.”