He was speaking again to Father Sifans, almost at the end of his term. The passage of time had matured him; he no longer mourned his parents, and the Holies kept him busy. He had discovered recently in his charge-father an intense relish of gossip. The eyes blinked faster, the lips trembled, and the morsels slipped out. Every day, as the two men worked together in the prayer hall of their order, Father Sifans allowed himself a small ration of revelation.
“The Keepers can mix among us. We do not know who they are. Outwardly, they look no different from us. I might also be a Keeper, for all you know… .”
Next day, after prayer, Father Sifans beckoned Yuli with a mittened hand and said, “Come, since your novice term is nearly up, I’ll show you something. You recollect what we were talking about yesterday?”
“Of course.”
Father Sifans pursed his lips, squeezed his eyes together, raised his little sharp nose like a shrew’s towards the ceiling, and nodded his head sharply a dozen times. Then he set off at a stiff mincing pace, leaving Yuli to follow.
Lights were rare in this section of the Holies and, in some places, forbidden entirely. The two men moved now with assurance through total darkness. Yuli kept the fingers of his right hand extended, lightly touching a carved skein unwinding on the wall of the corridor. They were passing through Warrborw, and Yuli was now wall-reading.
Steps were indicated ahead. Two of the luminous-eyed preets fluttered in a wicker cage, punctuating the junction between the main passage, a side one, and the steps. Yuli and his old charge-father progressed steadily upwards, clack-clack-clack, up stairs, along passages punctuated by more stairs, avoiding by habit others who walked in the limestoned dark.
Now they were in Tangwild. The wall-scroll on the rock under Yuli’s fingers told him so. In a never repeating design of intertwined branches sported small animals which Yuli considered must have been figments of some long dead artist’s imagination—animals that hopped and swam and climbed and rolled. For some reason, Yuli imagined them all in vivid colours. The band of wall-scroll carving ran for miles in all directions, never more than a hand-span wide. This was one of the secrets of the Holies; nobody could get lost in the labyrinthine dark once he had memorised the various patterns that identified the sectors and the coded signs signalling turns or steps or corridor divisions, all woven into the design.
They turned into a low gallery which the resonance of sound told them was otherwise unoccupied. Here, the wall-scroll was of quaint men squatting with out-turned hands among wooden huts. They must be outside somewhere, Yuli thought, enjoying the scenery beneath his palm.
Sifans halted, and Yuli bumped into him. As he apologised, the old man rested against the wall.
“Be silent and let me enjoy a good pant,” he said.
In a moment, as if regretting the severity of his tone, he said, “I’m getting old. On my next birthday, I shall be twenty-five. But the death of an individual is nothing to our Lord Akha.”
Yuli feared for him.
The father fumbled about the wall. Moisture ran down the rock and soaked everything.
“Hah, yes, here …”
The charge-father opened a small shutter, permitting light to blaze in upon them. Yuli had to shield his eyes for a moment. Then he stood by Father Sifans and looked out.
A grunt of astonishment escaped him.
Below them lay a small town, built on a hill. Crooked lanes ran up and down, sometimes fronted by quite grand houses. They were intersected by alleys, where riotous building concocted a maze of dwellings. To one side, a river ran in a chasm, and livings perched dangerously on its very edge. People, tiny as ants, moved among the lanes and jostled inside roofless rooms. The noise of their traffic rose faintly to where the men stood peering down.
“Where are we?”
Sifans gestured. “That’s Vakk. You’ve forgotten it, haven’t you?”
He watched with some amusement, his nose screwed up, as Yuli stared down, open-mouthed.
How simple he was, he thought. He should have recognised it was Vakk without having to ask, like a savage. He could see the far archway leading to Reck, faint as ice in the distance. Nearer, squinting, he made out familiar livings and the alley where his room had been, and the home of Kyale and Tusca. He recalled them—and the beautiful black-haired Iskador—with longing, but his feelings were muted, because there was no point in yearning for a bygone world. Kyale and Tusca would have forgotten him, as he had them. What chiefly struck him was how bright Vakk appeared, for he remembered it as a place of deep shadow, lacking all colour. The difference marked how greatly his sight had improved during his stay in the Holies.