Author: Darragh Metzger
Category: Literature
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/darragh-metzger/page,20,25749-tales-from-opa-three-tales-of-tir-na-nog.html
12
As soon as the ship reached the dock, Harek and one of his men led Jean and Opa up a plank and onto the dock without ceremony, while people scurried past them to help secure the ship and claim space or cargo.
Though the city walls wrapping around the hill were still some distance away, a small town, little more than a cluster of warehouses and taverns, had sprung up in the open land around the docks. It seemed as though all the people who lived there had come to greet the ferryboat's arrival and to unload the cargo from another ship, one with an odd, triangular sail, already docked on the opposite side of the pier.
Jean's ears rang with the din of men calling to one another in a variety of tongues, intermingled with the drumming of shod feet on the wooden wharf, whistled signals, laughter, and shouted hails. He recognized two of the workers rolling barrels down the dock and past him as graceful Khmer, then reeled, off-balance, as a burly Turk with a huge trunk balanced on one shoulder shoved against him in passing. Harek steadied him.
"Easy there, traveler," Harek said cheerfully, "it can get a little rough out here. Folks get their eyes set on what they want and forget to pay attention to what's going on around them. And we're bringing in some cargo that's a bit overdue, so they'll be more impatient than usual."
Jean blinked, clutching the sturdy sailor's arm as he fought a sense of disorientation that left him dizzy. An armored Saracen and a jeweled Hindu argued on one side, while on the other a graceful, copper-skinned giant with a feathered helm poked at bales of cloth with a spear, scowling with disapproval at a fat Italian who waved his hands in time to his impassioned speech. "What sort of people live here?" Jean asked, bewildered.
"All sorts," Harek replied. "Everyone comes to Tir sooner or later, and many of them stay. You'll see folk from all the city-states here. The fellow with the feathers is from Teticaca-Chao-Chao, I'd guess, and the man with him looks like an Anagnian. The fellow in the fancy armor is from Sahyun, and his companion is probably from Delhi. Now, over there—" Harek pointed, but Jean was distracted by Sven, the hostler, who led Jacques up from the ship and handed the lead to Jean.
"Here's your horse," he said.
"My thanks," Jean replied. He reached to accept the lead line, almost dropped his satchel, and fumbled to gather everything securely into his one hand. Without a word, Opa reached up and took the satchel, slinging it over his own shoulder. The bulging leather sack reached below his knees, but the boy hitched the strap up higher and leaned against its weight, mouth tight with determination.
"Here." Sven reached to take the burden, but Opa pulled away with a fierce scowl, and the man drew back.
"Opa," Jean said hastily, "the man is offering to help. Let him sling the satchel over Jacques's saddle. We may have to walk a long way today."
"I can do it," the child insisted stubbornly, glaring up at Sven with suspicion.
Embarrassed, Jean glanced at the two men and cleared his throat. "Yes, but I may need you to have both your hands free. The horse won't even feel it, and you and I will need all our strength."
Opa thought about it, then surrendered his burden. Harek nodded at Sven, who lifted the satchel from the child's grasp and draped it around the saddlebow. "There you go," he said cheerfully.
"Thank you again, good sir," Jean replied with a smile and a slight bow to take any remaining sting from his ward's behavior. Fortunately, the Viking seemed impervious. Or perhaps simply oblivious.
Jean returned his attention to Harek. "And thank you for a safe and speedy voyage."
"Glad to be of service." Harek nodded. "Well, I must attend to my next passengers. Enjoy your stay. "He turned away, gesturing for Sven and the other man to follow.
"Wait!" Jean almost dropped the lead line while reaching to catch Harek's shoulder before he remembered and stopped himself. "Wait, please. How do I find my way to the Temple? Is there someone I must see first, some letter of introduction I need?"
Harek laughed. "Just head uphill to the Temple. They'll take it from there." He pointed along the well-paved road leading away from the docks toward the city in the distance, and Jean's eyes followed the direction of the gesture to the first of the great, white walls surrounding it. Beside him, Harek continued. "There's no direct path. Just follow this road and it'll take you straight to the city, to the main gate in the first wall. The Golden Gate, they call it. You'll see why. Go in, turn right or left, it's all the same, and keep going till you reach the next gate, and so on."
"The next gate?" Jean asked.
"Each level of the city is walled, and each of the walls has three gates in it, but they're all in different places. Just keep going up. You can't miss it. Oh, and enjoy the journey. Tir is quite a sight."
Jean stared up at the layers of walls and buildings sprouting from the distant hillsides like a garden gone wild, and mentally groaned. Tir assumed the aspect of a maze, waiting to trap him and keep him wandering within its white walls until he dropped from exhaustion or starved. "How will I know—" he began, but Opa tugged on his robe to interrupt. Jean looked down.
"They've gone." The child pointed back, and Jean glanced behind him to see Harek's broad back, flanked by the equally broad backs of Sven and the other sailor, shoving through the bustling crowd toward the ship.
Jacques shifted and flattened his ears as a man pushed past him with a wheelbarrow laden with crates. "Get that horse out of the way," the man growled in passing, not pausing to wait for an apology.
Jean rubbed his fist against the horse's neck and cleared his throat. "Well, it seems we've been left to figure our way by ourselves." He looked down again at Opa. "That fellow may have been rude, but he is correct. Ah, well, the sooner we begin, the sooner we will get there, yes?"
The boy smiled happily up at him and nodded. Jean took a breath and walked up the remainder of the dock to solid ground, Jacques' hooves thudding on the wood behind them.
The road was busy, which kept progress to a stately walk, but it was broad and well paved, so Jean and Opa encountered no more rude jostling.
The people sharing the road with them had the look of prosperous folk: clean, well-fed and well-clothed, though styles varied so widely that Jean wondered at the breadth of imagination humans had put into covering their bodies — or, in some cases, failing to do so. He flushed and looked away from several mounted women who passed them heading for the water, who seemed to be wearing only enough to protect them from saddle galls.
He recalled his outrage at the Red Triad Ranger's state of dress and shook his head. By comparison with many of the women who walked or rode through Tir, Athane had been clad like a nun.
Opa seemed to think nothing of it, or at least he stared no more at the ladies than he did at everything else. Jean was grateful that the boy knew enough to stay close by his side without being told.
After perhaps half an hour of travel they rounded a crest and saw the city gates ahead. Jean paused, surprised. The walls were many times the height of a man. Huge, brass doors hung open beside an archway through which a stream of traffic poured, afoot and on horseback. Carts, carriages, and wagons rolled without hindrance in both directions through that opening, the human figures dwarfed within them.
He shook his head. How did anyone manage to open or close those doors? Surely it must take an entire team of mules for each one.
"It's very big, isn't it," said Opa in a small voice.
"Yes," he replied without looking away from it. "Very."
"Are we going in there?"
"Yes. That is why we came." Jean tilted his head back and let his gaze stray upward, trying to guess at the size of the rest of the city. He was close enough now to see that Tir was many towns, each separated by white walls. Streets and houses, shops and squares, businesses and gardens, spread out within each ring, growing more grand in appearance the higher up the hill one looked.
His eyes reached the pinnacle and stopped. "Look, Opa. That is the Temple of Ohma."
It could be nothing else. He wondered who had designed and built it, for it resembled no structure with which he was familiar.
For all its size, it looked open, airy, almost fragile, as though it had but perched there on the hilltop and might float away at any moment. A thing of graceful arches, curves and pillars, it shimmered in the sun as though made of snow. A spire rose from its center like a bird taking flight.
Jean swallowed and reluctantly returned his attention to the road ahead. It would be worth braving the city just to reach that place, to see if it was as lovely as it looked from here. But it was more of a journey than he had guessed from the ship.
He looked down at Opa. "From here on, we ride," he said firmly. He slipped the rope halter that Jacques wore over his bridle from the horse's head and tied it to the saddle, then clumsily hauled himself aboard. Leaning down, he grasped Opa's outstretched hand and pulled the child up before him. Feeling more secure, he nudged Jacques into a walk, and they continued toward the gates.
As they drew closer, they were pulled into the flow of traffic. Jean wondered at the purpose of the walls; they were tall and sturdy, but no towers bracketed the portal, and though armored guardsmen stood on either side, they appeared to take little interest in the folk who came and went, and had the look more of ornament than purpose.
Opa, too, noticed the guardsmen, and studied them with wary interest. "Do you think they'll let us in?"
Jean smiled. "They do not seem to be stopping anyone else, so why should they stop us?" His attention left the guardsmen to inspect the brass gates themselves. Twice the height of a man and wider than two wagons abreast, they were formed like a trellis or a net woven from strands of metal, polished so brightly it had taken on the luster of gold. Enameled vines climbed up the strands, sprouting gemstone flowers that sparkled like dew in the sun. "Magnifique," he breathed.
Opa's eyes went even wider. "Do you think the Fey built those? They're so pretty!"
Jean opened his mouth to assure the child that these were the works of men, but closed it again. In this place, how could one be sure? "Perhaps you should ask one of the guards."
Opa shook his head but continued to stare at the gates in delight as they rode past. "I've never seen so much gold."
"They only look like gold," Jean assured him. "They are mere br…" His calm assertion died in his throat as their shadows brushed across the surface of the gleaming metal almost within arm's reach. Surely no amount of polishing or fine patina could grant to common brass the rich luster the gate displayed.
He swallowed. He suddenly remembered Uros telling him how the guards at Tisza had laughed when the Black Army had offered them gold. Could it be? He stared at the deep yellow bars gleaming from between the glittering vines.
"Hey, you, get a move on there. You're blocking the way."
Jean started at the shout and realized he had unconsciously drawn Jacques to a halt. Glancing around, he saw one of the guards waving him on with an impatient frown, and nudged Jacques onward.
Opa craned his neck to keep the gate in view as they passed under the archway. Jean wished he could do likewise, but one of them had to watch where they were going. "Of course," he said aloud. "I should have known. In a land where steel would buy a king's ransom, gold might be so common one may build city gates with it, simply because it is pretty."
Opa looked up at him, puzzled, and Jean shook his head. "Never mind. It is nothing. Only that this land continues to astonish me at every turn."
Once they were through the entrance, he paused to look first one way, then the other. A cobbled street curved around the hill in either direction, lined with shops and stalls, corrals, and buildings the purpose of which he could only guess.
Which way was best? Well, Harek had said it didn't matter.
With a shrug, he turned Jacques's head to the right. In a short time, he found a gate in the second wall, and rode through to the next level.
As they passed from one level to the next, the character of Tir changed, growing both more spacious and more lovely with each level. The buildings ranged from common stone and plaster to carved wood, chiseled marble, even fabric stretched over delicately carved frames, and they covered a wide range of architectural styles, many of which Jean had never even imagined. The only thing all the neighborhoods had in common was their perfect state of repair and cleanliness.
The people, too, reflected the subtle changes. As in the dockside town, the citizens must have come from every corner of the globe and the farthest reaches of a traveler's imagination, but like their homes, the people were uniform in their grace. Though some garments showed the wear and tear of hard use, they draped straight backs and strong limbs.
Whether capped, helmeted, bare, or ornamented, each head was held high, and the eyes in the faces Jean passed had the look of missing little.
No beggars, no filthy street urchins, only healthy folk of all ages going about their business with purpose and pride.
Though armed and armored men and women were everywhere, swords remained sheathed, and if gauntleted hands remained close to the hilts, Jean witnessed no brawls, heard little of the ordinary rudeness and noisy discourtesies common to the cities of his knowledge. The warriors moved with athletic grace, desiring no conflict but poised to meet it if it came.
It made sense, of course. With so many of the folk of this land trained in the use of arms from childhood and raised with the reverence for the warrior creed, it would be necessary for a system of stringent courtesy to develop, simply to keep everyone from killing everyone else as a matter of course.
Jean grinned in sudden delight at the insight. He yearned to stop right where he was, dismount, find a shady corner and write down his observations. Perhaps he could write a discourse, comparing the development of chivalry here and in his own country.
Plants and flowers were everywhere; the people of Tir seemed determined to outdo one another in filling every available space with some green growing thing. Lilacs, honeysuckle, and other flowers Jean could not name dripped from window boxes and stone planters along upper terraces. Roses and morning glories climbed the sides of buildings and spilled over walls in a riot of color. Trees flourished in great stone planters along the street. Their scents filled the air, competing with the smells of animals, cooking, and something else, something Jean could not name.
He sniffed at the air, testing it, trying to think of what was strange about the smell of the city. Not unpleasant, just unusual.
Not a smell, he realized, but an absence of one. As in Yasenovo, there was no trace of the usual city wastes in the air, the warm, familiar odor of humanity. He had never had the chance to ask how Yasenovo managed it. Perhaps here he could find the time.
The sixth level was composed entirely of elegant mansions and estates, each fighting to outdo the next in splendor. Jean stared as avidly as Opa, round-eyed with wonder at each new sight.
Here a garden escaped its walls and flowed into the street, strewing flower petals and tender leaves beneath the feet of passers-by. Further on, a statue, a woman of unearthly beauty, held a crystal globe in her outstretched hands from which water poured into a silver basin at her feet. Here the wood that made up a mansion's outer door had been carved into an exquisite frieze of a hunt, each scene surrounded by, and entwined with, Celtic knot work.
Quartz and alabaster, marble and white jade, moonstones and silver, had been formed into walls, pillars, walkways and arbors, and everywhere flowers, vines, trees and shrubs threw out bursts of color to warm the wintry whiteness.
"Do the Fey live here?" Opa asked, his shrill young voice muted with awe. "The Folk, I mean."
Jean swallowed. He knew that the hands of men could create such perfection, but was not willing to assert that men had done so unaided. "I don't think so," he replied almost as softly. "These must be the very rich, great Lords and Ladies who live here."
"Maybe the Triumphant lives her
e," Opa offered. The explanation seemed to satisfy him.
Jean recalled the Red Triad had mentioned that Triads who served long and well were sometimes given city-states to rule. Was that what a Triumphant was? If so, it was clear that the Fey, however fickle their favor in other regards, rewarded their surviving servants better than he had thought possible.
They turned uphill and discovered another wall with another ornamental gate, but unlike the others, this one was closed. A guard stood at full attention on either side, dressed in glowing silks and armor burnished so brightly it glittered, radiating pride in their post.
Jean drew Jacques to a halt, his breath escaping in a sigh of appreciation. The bars of the gate were of polished silver shaped into swords. A curved bow and graceful staff with a head in the shape of a starburst crossed where the two sides met. The gate bore no other ornament, but then it needed none.
"That's the Triad Gate!" Opa announced in sudden excitement. "The swords are for Cavalier, the bow is for the Ranger, and the staff is for the Mystic," he added proudly, as though reciting a lesson.
"The Temple must be beyond that gate," Jean said.
Opa bounced impatiently. "Tell them to open it!"
Jean took a deep breath and urged Jacques forward. The guards watched him approach but made no move, nor spoke. He halted before them. "My name is Jean LeFleur, and this is my…ward, Opa. I have come to speak to someone in the Temple. May we enter?"
The guard on the left stepped forward. When he looked up, the three blue dots on his forehead were clearly visible, though they were connected by white lines. "You're a little old to be a Pilgrim. What is your business?"
Jean hesitated, uncertain of how to proceed. Opa spoke for him. "We've come to see the Priestess," he announced proudly. "My uncle has come from the Outer Lands. He fought a river dragon to save me."
The guard's eyes dropped to Jean's missing arm. "I see. A valiant battle, sir. I salute you." He drew his sword and touched the hilt to his brow. "If your purpose is peaceful, enter and be welcome."
"I seek only knowledge and guidance," Jean replied. He wondered what other purpose he could have declared. Surely a one-armed man could be no threat.
The guard smiled. "Then you will receive both." He nodded to the other guard. The second guard turned and touched some mechanism hidden within the carved stone supporting the gate. The silver bow and staff parted, and the gate of swords swung silently open.
When they had passed through them, Jean and Opa found themselves in a wide courtyard paved with quartz, framed on two sides by tall hedges and flowerbeds, the blossoms of which were entirely white.
Jacques stopped of his own accord, and Jean looked around, entranced by the simple beauty all around him. White roses climbed the inner side of the snowy walls on either side of the silver gate and filled the air with their fragrance. The walls disappeared from sight behind the hedges, which he could only assume hid the rest of the grounds.
A fountain of white marble rose from the center of the courtyard, the water creating soft music as it splashed over and through a strange, elegant sculpture that seemed to be made entirely of glass. He turned again to look beyond the fountain at his goal.
Across from the gates, the courtyard ended at the broad, curved steps leading up to the Temple itself.
Jean eased Opa to the ground, then carefully swung down. He stood staring up at the Temple, wondering if it was real or another illusion cast by the land itself. If so, it was far too lovely to wish to break the spell. He drew a deep breath. He had only to ascend that stair and ask his questions. He took a step forward.
"Is Jacques coming, too?" asked Opa.
Jean stopped, flushing as he realized he still held the gelding's reins. He couldn't very well lead the horse into the Temple. On the other hand, it didn't seem quite the thing to simply let him loose in the courtyard, though Jacques would probably be quite comfortable. Many horses had a fondness for roses.
He glanced at Jacques in distracted annoyance, and started as he saw a man in a loose, white robe standing a few feet beyond. The elderly man smiled and held his hands out for the reins. Jean extended them with a befuddled smile. "Excuse me, would you be—" He stopped as the man took the reins and led the horse away without another word, disappearing around a curved hedge.
Opa tugged at his cloak. He looked down and saw the child's eyes bright with eagerness. "Come! Let's go up!" The boy pointed to the stairs, almost hopping in place.
Well, this was why he had come, after all. He sighed and straightened, brushing at the travel stains in his clothes. He was suddenly aware of how worn and shabby he must appear. It pained him. He had always been meticulous about his grooming. He made a sorry picture compared to the average citizen of Tir.
"Ah well, one does one's best," he murmured. He added more loudly for Opa's benefit, "Doubtless the good clergy here are trained to overlook outer appearances. It is the state of one's soul that matters, after all."
He took Opa's hand and approached the stairs. They were wider than they appeared. He had to help Opa up the first few until the boy figured out that he could jump up from one to the next if he took a small running step in between, which forced Jean to climb faster than he would have liked to keep up.
Even Opa was panting when they ascended the last step and reached the Temple, and Jean's own light-headedness reminded him how recently he'd left his sickbed. He released the boy's hand and straightened slowly, pressing his hand to the small of his back. "Let us catch our breath before we enter. I do not wish to lie gasping like a fish at our hosts' feet."
He turned to look back the way they had come, out over the courtyard and the elegant gardens. He was surprised that he could not see very much more of the gardens than he had from below; the hedges and the spaces between were designed so cunningly that the eye was forever tricked into seeing solid barriers. A clever maze. What was the purpose of it?
"What will we do now?" Opa asked. Jean looked down and noticed the child no longer looked afire with excitement — only curious, and more than a little uncertain.
He smiled at the boy. "Well then, I suppose we go to the door and see if it is open. If it is not, then we knock."
Opa looked behind Jean at the building waiting for them. "What door?"
Jean turned around and swallowed the quick answer that rose to his lips. Opa was right; there was no door. They were faced with three slightly peaked arches that curved inward like caves of ice.
Seeing them from below, Jean had assumed that they framed doorways. Now he could see that they were open, like tunnels or naives. Though cool shadows filled the openings, sunlight splashed over white marble floors beyond. The impression of air and light that had so captivated him from far below was intensified.
His apprehension melted away; it was impossible to harbor the darkness of fear when faced with such abundant brightness.
"I think we should take the center way, don't you?" he said lightly, smiling down at the boy.
Opa nodded and reached up to take his offered hand once more, clutching it tightly. They approached the central arch and stepped into the soft, frost-dappled shadows beneath it.
They had gone only a few yards when they were once more in open air. Once again, Jean stopped and stared in astonishment. "More illusion."
Opa looked up at him. "It looks real," he said uncertainly.
Jean shook his head. "I do not mean what lies before us, Opa. I mean all those gardens, the walls, this shell through which we've passed. All to conceal this." He waved at the field of uncut grass, the rich green dotted here and there with wildflowers of many hues, that carpeted the hill before them. "It would seem the builders wished to leave the hilltop as they found it."
His eyes returned to the crest of the hill, where the grass rippled in the breeze around a circle of huge standing stones topped by massive, rough-hewn slabs of the same grey rock. Moss, lighter than the rock,
grew green in the faint outlines of ancient carvings in the stone, and ivy crawled up the time-worn sides.
They reminded him of the cairn rocks he'd seen on the burial mounds in the mists — a lifetime ago, it seemed. Certainly they looked to be much of an age, and the shadowy suggestion of carvings on the surfaces evoked a similar sense of a long-ago civilization.
After the elegant, snow-hued grace of the rest of the Temple, the stone circle came as a rude shock. "That was assuredly not built by the same hands that shaped the rest we have seen."
Opa looked at the circle, then up at Jean. "Are we supposed to go there?"
Jean shook his head to clear it and looked around. A neat, covered walkway paved with white marble stretched out from either side of the triple archway where they stood and disappeared around the curve of the hill. He could see other openings, simple, rounded doorways that would admit a single person, but it was clear that the standing stones were the intended destination of any who trespassed here. It was somehow more daunting than a more elaborate display of grandeur would have been.
He tightened his jaw and his grip on Opa's hand at once. "So it would seem. At least, I do not see any other place for us to go. Well, let us not keep them waiting."
He strode across the grass toward the standing stones, Opa trotting silently at his side.