command that vision, he thought, standing trembling on the edge of the pool. Where did it come from? But he knew, he knew.
âEnough!â he called aloud. âI will take the treasure to Danar, and so be myself once more. Then the fish will not die, and change will once more wheel about me, not inside me.â He stumbled to the chest, wrenched it open, and lifted out the casket with fingers that shook. It weighed heavy in his hands, heavier than it ever had before, the steady sunlight in the room making no gleam on its dull surface, and it seemed to Ixelion that he held in his grasp something entirely Other, something outside and beyond the universe. It was aloof, lying there quietly waiting for him to make his choice.
But if I take it now, he thought, then I will never know what it is. May I not just look at it, just once? No! something in him shrieked, wild with fear. No, no! But other voices clamored, voices of envy and lust. They hold you light, Ixelion, the rest of them. You are the sun-lord of a worthless world full of simple people, far from the wonders of Danar, the riches of Shol. What is the crystal of Lix compared to the fragrant woods of Danar, the breathtaking stones and metals of Shol? You are worthless to all but your simpering, stupid people, who worship you because they know no better. Do you not deserve a little dignity? A brighter sun? A drier world? Does Janthis give your words as grave a consideration as Ghakazianâs? He writhed in the grip of the words that came whispering, pouring into his mind, trying to catch the screaming denial behind them all and hold on to it, and so gain the strength to say with his mouth what he knew he should say, but all he could see was the vision of Sholia, encompassed by all the pomp of Shol, and himself gliding over verdure in full, hot light.
Staggering, head down, he went to the window and collapsed onto the sill, the casket tight in his grip. Raising his head, he looked out. Evening was falling. It seemed to him as though evening was always falling on Ixel, the sun always divorced from the earth, the rain always pattering, the mists always hanging in the trees, the rooms of his palace, his hair; he even fancied that it seeped into his body, making it thick and cold.
He tried once more to save himself. I was made for this world, he said to himself. My body is thin and supple as a fish. My feet and hands cleave the water as cleanly as those of my people. My lungs recognize both air and water. I
am
Ixel, its soul, its life. I was fashioned out of the water and the soil. Yet your blood is the royal blood of the sun, the insidious voice whispered back, and though the earth of Ixel is your mother and the Worldmaker your father, the sun is your other self. You long for it, you desire its heat, you thirst for dry land beneath your feet. âYes,â Ixelion whispered back. âNow I do. Once I was content, but no longer. Why should I, out of all my kin, be so deprived?â
He shut his eyes, and his hand moved to grasp the lid, lifted it, laid it back gently. Blindly he explored the thing that lay exposed in the casket. He felt a coolness and indentations of many shapes. He did not know what he had expected. A circlet of power, perhaps, or a vial full of some strange, magical elixir. Something potent that would burn his hand or explode knowledge in his face. But not this puzzling labyrinth of tiny hills and valleys. With a last shudder he opened his eyes and looked down.
At first he could not understand what he was seeing, it was so simple, so ordinary, and he let out his breath in relief, feeling an urge to laugh. Falia, for some reason of her own, had tricked him, lied to him yet again. Then, like a wave of fresh terror, the indentations suddenly came together to form a pattern. Dread shivered over him, prickling in his hair, drying his mouth, and he slammed the lid shut and rose. Throwing back his head, he screamed and screamed again, the sound
âEnough!â he called aloud. âI will take the treasure to Danar, and so be myself once more. Then the fish will not die, and change will once more wheel about me, not inside me.â He stumbled to the chest, wrenched it open, and lifted out the casket with fingers that shook. It weighed heavy in his hands, heavier than it ever had before, the steady sunlight in the room making no gleam on its dull surface, and it seemed to Ixelion that he held in his grasp something entirely Other, something outside and beyond the universe. It was aloof, lying there quietly waiting for him to make his choice.
But if I take it now, he thought, then I will never know what it is. May I not just look at it, just once? No! something in him shrieked, wild with fear. No, no! But other voices clamored, voices of envy and lust. They hold you light, Ixelion, the rest of them. You are the sun-lord of a worthless world full of simple people, far from the wonders of Danar, the riches of Shol. What is the crystal of Lix compared to the fragrant woods of Danar, the breathtaking stones and metals of Shol? You are worthless to all but your simpering, stupid people, who worship you because they know no better. Do you not deserve a little dignity? A brighter sun? A drier world? Does Janthis give your words as grave a consideration as Ghakazianâs? He writhed in the grip of the words that came whispering, pouring into his mind, trying to catch the screaming denial behind them all and hold on to it, and so gain the strength to say with his mouth what he knew he should say, but all he could see was the vision of Sholia, encompassed by all the pomp of Shol, and himself gliding over verdure in full, hot light.
Staggering, head down, he went to the window and collapsed onto the sill, the casket tight in his grip. Raising his head, he looked out. Evening was falling. It seemed to him as though evening was always falling on Ixel, the sun always divorced from the earth, the rain always pattering, the mists always hanging in the trees, the rooms of his palace, his hair; he even fancied that it seeped into his body, making it thick and cold.
He tried once more to save himself. I was made for this world, he said to himself. My body is thin and supple as a fish. My feet and hands cleave the water as cleanly as those of my people. My lungs recognize both air and water. I
am
Ixel, its soul, its life. I was fashioned out of the water and the soil. Yet your blood is the royal blood of the sun, the insidious voice whispered back, and though the earth of Ixel is your mother and the Worldmaker your father, the sun is your other self. You long for it, you desire its heat, you thirst for dry land beneath your feet. âYes,â Ixelion whispered back. âNow I do. Once I was content, but no longer. Why should I, out of all my kin, be so deprived?â
He shut his eyes, and his hand moved to grasp the lid, lifted it, laid it back gently. Blindly he explored the thing that lay exposed in the casket. He felt a coolness and indentations of many shapes. He did not know what he had expected. A circlet of power, perhaps, or a vial full of some strange, magical elixir. Something potent that would burn his hand or explode knowledge in his face. But not this puzzling labyrinth of tiny hills and valleys. With a last shudder he opened his eyes and looked down.
At first he could not understand what he was seeing, it was so simple, so ordinary, and he let out his breath in relief, feeling an urge to laugh. Falia, for some reason of her own, had tricked him, lied to him yet again. Then, like a wave of fresh terror, the indentations suddenly came together to form a pattern. Dread shivered over him, prickling in his hair, drying his mouth, and he slammed the lid shut and rose. Throwing back his head, he screamed and screamed again, the sound
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