Beneath the dome in Tharliezalor a shadow seduced the prince, the singer, and the changeling.
Medlo thought of Alan. No. Of Jaer. As he had seen her outside Murgin, mutilated and broken. That was what Alan was now. That. And Rhees had fallen to the Gahlians. It was all lies and false promises. ‘No,’ he said to the shadow. ‘No.’
Terascouros’s voice had faltered, but only for a moment. From far-off Gerenhodh the mind of the Sisterhood reached out to her. ‘Teras,’ said Old Aunt. ‘Behave yourself!’ Terascouros laughed in her heart, took up the pain again, and the song.
But Jaer moved to the great jar. She wanted to lay her head against it, let what was within swallow her up together with all her inhabitants. Then, from the silent multitude within her, a voice cried, ‘Do not forget me.’
For a moment she did not know whose voice it was. The realization came slowly. Among the multitudes were even those who had died…. Jaer took a deep breath and looked upon the shadow where it dwelt and had dwelt for thousands of years. ‘Mother, I will not forget you.’
So saying, she stepped to Medlo’s side and lifted the fringed sash over his head, feeling the solid weight of it on her palms, the roughness of the silver thread. She stood to confront the shadow with the sash across her hands.
‘I have two weapons,’ she whispered. ‘I have carried neither. One is the song of Terascouros, which binds for only a time. The other is the Girdle of Chu-Namu, the Girdle of Binding, which binds forever.’
That in the jar struck out at her, a bolt of force thrusting out of blackness. Jaer staggered, went to one knee, still speaking. ‘During my long sleep, I learned of this girdle. Jasmine sought it. Medlo carried it. It is destined for this place, to bind … to bind … myself?’ Her voice broke as the bolt of force came again, darkness spun into a lance of fear and horror, but there was a tall form standing beside her, reaching across her quivering shoulders to stroke the sash which she held while comforting her with glowing yellow eyes.
‘No, Not yourself Jaer. Not you. Others.’
They were there suddenly, seven slender forms which burned with anguished fire, blazed with a single purpose. One of them took the sash from Jaer’s lax hands, and Jaer wept at the touch, for the agonies of Murgin had been nothing beside this agony. She heard a woman’s voice cry, ‘Farewell, Urlasthes, my love….’ The seven moved toward the black jar.
Time moved away from them into maelstrom, a twisting, vertiginous wracking which wrenched at them until bones screamed with pain and blood started in droplets on their foreheads. Behind them the keening of the serim grew in intensity, higher and higher. Before them the Remnant struggled to encircle the jar, struggled as they were thrust this way and that, thrown by the force as though they had been dolls.
Urlasthes held tightly to the hands of others of the Remnant to left and right. Then his grip was broken. The two ends of the fragile chain were flung aside, lashing like pennants. The circle struggled to close, was broken, struggled again, was broken once more. Dazedly the seven crawled toward the jar to try once more, and were driven once more into the shadows. Within the jar, a paean of awful triumph began.
Jaer clung to the metal table beside her, the multitudes within her tumbled and whipped as though by hurricane, torn into fragments even as the structure they had helped to build began to shine, to glow. Light from it moved into Jaer, coursed through her, into her eyes, her mouth. At once she was aware of the city, the piled serim, the hills and upon those hills the gathered forces she had denied – those who had destroyed Murgin, those ancient, awesome, and mighty; the gathered hosts of myth.
‘Come,’ she cried, in a voice like a great gong struck before a multitude. ‘Come. There is need of thee. Thou, dwellers of the world, companions, thou long-denied, there is no need of thee….’
The thundering force from the black jar redoubled at her cry. Her fingers slipped from the table. Terascouros was blown away to crash into a wall, lying sprawled and still. The song from Gerenhodh fell silent.
But then the room began to fill with others. Wings moved above stalking bodies, ivory hooves struck against stone, sounds as of far music rose over the serim cries, terror and joy walked into the room, draperies, leaves, mists, metallic hides spotted with jewels. The sphinx which had marched on Murgin marched once more, eyes fixed on the great jar, seeming hardly to see the pitiful, white-robed figures which the narrowing circle of creatures gathered and thrust before them. Lion forms walked; tree forms; things of ocean and air. Among them was the tall being with yellow eyes, achingly familiar, infinitely strange. They came in a silver flood, lifting the Remnant before them into a circle which tightened upon the shadow. Then the hands of the Remnant were joined, passing the Girdle from hand to hand. The tall figure moved among them, helping to fasten the Girdle at last.
For a moment, words too loathsome to hear screamed at each of them as that fought to stay Separate. Then there was a sound, almost as though thunder muttered for an instant upon a far mountain, then a shattering noise as the great jar broke, its bonds snapped through. Wind rushed by them full of noisome odours, returned fresh with summer. Of the seven, nothing remained. Dust blew in the wind.
Among the shards of the jar lay Medlow’s sash, softly gleaming with silver embroidery over its pattern of clouds and rain. It was Jaer who picked it up and placed it in Medlo’s hands once more, but it was the voice of the yellow-eyed one
