Threshold by Sara Douglass
I wept then, for I was sure that he had utterly destroyed any chance I would have for bearing children. It was my penalty for witnessing what I had.
“Tirzah?”
The door to the internal courtyard opened and a figure slipped through. “Tirzah?”
“Yaqob!” and then he had me in his arms, soothing me and crying with me.
He saw the bruises, and the hurt in my eyes, and he rocked me in his arms, and promised me a death for Boaz that would pain him ten times more than he had pained me.
But that gave me little comfort, for I was not sure, even after what he’d done to me that morning, that I wanted him to die.
“Yaqob, how did you get here?”
“Shush, love,” he murmured. “I was careful. Everyone thinks I’m in Threshold, laying glass. But, after what Isphet told me this morning, I had to come…”
“Oh, Yaqob!” I sobbed anew, and he kissed me, and let me weep.
“I have to go,” he said after a while. “I dare not stay any longer.”
“I thank you,” I whispered. “But go now, for I could not bear if it you were seized on my account.”
He kissed me again, and smiled for me, although his eyes were grim, and then he was gone.
I lay for perhaps another hour, then I struggled into my wrap, combed my hair into some semblance of order, and carefully, carefully, made my way out into the street. I blinked in the sunshine. It seemed strange that everything was carrying on as normal.
But there was something I had to do. Something I had to destroy as Boaz had all but destroyed me this morning.
Very slowly I made my way to Isphet’s workshop.
She was appalled that I had left my pallet.
“You need at least a day and a night, Tirzah. And we can manage without you today.”
“I will not stay long. There is something I must do.”
And she let me go.
Some of the workers nodded to me as I crossed the floor towards the stairs, and Druse caught at my elbow, fearful to hug me. “Daughter…”
“Shush, father. I will be all right. Let me go now.”
And he did.
The stairs were hard, but the pain was receding with every hour that passed, so I managed them with reasonable dignity. Zeldon and Orteas put their arms about me, their voices murmuring, and I let them hold me for a few minutes, then I gently disengaged myself.
“Let me go now, there is something I must do.”
I went to the place where I had secreted the goblet. I had wrapped it in thick rag and cloth, and Zeldon and Orteas could not understand what was in the bundle I carried, but they did not pry.
I went back down the stairs, and made my way towards the furnace.
What I would do would kill the glass, and for that I was truly saddened, but it would have to die. I couldn’t let it live now. Not after what he’d done.
Neither could I unwrap it, for I did not want to hear its soft whispering, asking what I did to carry it so close to the heat and flame.
“Tirzah? What is that you do?” Isphet asked behind me.
“Think not that I intend to kill myself, Isphet. Please, leave me be.”
And she faded back into the workshop.
The heat of the furnace was very hot on my face, but it was comforting, and I realised why Raguel had liked to work so close to the fires. Somehow they would have scathed away so much of the hurt to which she, too, had been subjected.
I was so close to the flames now that they seared the tears from my cheeks. I lifted the bundle in my hand and stepped up to the great doorways. Beyond them, red and yellow and orange flames and streaks of heat rippled and writhed, so intensely alive they called to me.
I prepared to cast the goblet in as Raguel had once cast in the bundle that represented her child.
Sweet, sweet Tirzah, let us touch you, touch you, hold you, soothe you, love you.
“No!” I cried and raised the bundle.
Sweet Tirzah, let us love you and hold you, let us soothe away the hurt, let us speak to you, talk to you, talk to you…talk…
“No!” I sobbed, but I had lowered the bundle in my hands, and my head drooped.
Talk to us, Tirzah, let us love you, touch you, soothe you…
And there was nothing I wanted more. Nothing.
My entire body racked with sobs now, I clutched the bundle to my breast and fled into the tiny alcove at the rear of the furnace. There I curled up into a tight ball, wrapping myself about the bundled goblet.
Soothe you, soothe you, love you…
And they did, although to this day I’m not sure how they managed it. After a long time I unwrapped the goblet, and turned it over and over in my hands.
The Goblet of the Frogs was all but complete. There was some fine sanding to be done among the river reeds, but the frogs were finished, and the lacework of the cage was fine and strong, and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever created.
The amber frogs were alive, crawling through the reeds, their eyes black and glistening with sympathy, reaching their cool, moist toes through the reeds to touch my hands and stroke my skin, then, suddenly shy, hiding among the waving reeds until their courage returned and they reached forth again.
Hello Tirzah.
The voices of the Soulenai, speaking to me through the mouths of the glass frogs.
I dashed away the final tears. Greetings, Soulenai.
This is a beautiful goblet, Tirzah. Deeply magical. Do not destroy it.
No. No, I won’t.
You carved it for…him.
Yes. But I do not think I will give –
Shush, and listen to what we have to say to you, Tirzah.
I kept my silence.
We watched and listened last night. We were pleased at what we heard.
They were silent for a while, and I thought they must still be overcome by what they had heard and witnessed. After a long time they spoke again.
That is the Book of the Soulenai, Tirzah.
Your book.
Yes, Tirzah. Be quiet. Let us speak, but we must of necessity be brief, and we cannot tell you it all. Listen. Boaz is an Elemental Necromancer.
No, no, it cannot be –
Yes, it can be, Tirzah, and it is. His father used that book to make him, spun magics about his conception and about the woman he made him in, and created an Elemental within her womb. Of course, he did not expect to be eaten by a water lizard within days of the conception. The boy was born and grew without his father to guide him, grew in a sterile and polluted environment where the Magi seized him and corrupted him as a child.
I thought of the scroll he had written as a nine-year-old child. Perhaps the Magi made their move when his mother died. And they never “understood” what they had in their care.
He was a Prince at court, Tirzah. The Magi seduced him in the hope that through him they could extend their power over the Chad and his heir. He has exceeded their expectations. Boaz has become a Magus of great power and purpose and influence and he works well for their cause. For Threshold.
But…
But underneath all of this lay the makings, the blood, of an extraordinary Necromancer, Tirzah. The growing boy, trying to be at one with the One, was horrified by the whispers he heard about him. Horrified by the talents he displayed. So he buried them deep. Buried his true self deep.
I thought of his residence. It was bare of anything that might whisper to him. Few metals, no gems, no glass. Wooden goblets.
Tirzah, the Magus is in almost full control. Only rarely does Boaz relax enough – and only ever with you – to reveal his true nature. Yet even with you such revelations frighten him. Terrify him.
“There is no hope for him. He will never let the Necromancer through.” I spoke aloud now, wanting to deny Boaz with my voice.
There is hope, Tirzah. There must be hope, for Boaz is the only one with a chance of destroying the horror that Threshold is becoming.
What do you mean?
&nbs
My mouth twisted bitterly. He will never destroy –
You must persuade him, sweet Tirzah. You must make him see who he is, teach him not to fear his hidden self, open himself to the elements, to us, to the Song of the Frogs.
He will never listen to me. He will never let himself be who he truly is. You know what he did to me. You know.
Yes, we know, sweet Tirzah, but there is hope.
Now I did laugh bitterly. Hope? Hope? After what he put me through? He will always deny his Elemental side. Always.
We believe not, Tirzah. Think, if you will. Think. He has kept the Book of the Soulenai, even though he must have known it was crafted of Elemental magic. Yes?
Yes, I said reluctantly.
He could have, should have killed you this morning, Tirzah. What true Magus, fully in control, would have let a woman live who had seen enough to think him an Elemental? Who knew that he kept an Elemental talisman? And who he knows must be Elemental herself?
What he did was bad enough.
Yes, yes it was. But even that was not as bad as it could have been.
Oh? And how much worse could it have been? He has destroyed any chance I have of bearing children. My womb has been rent and shredded.
No, Tirzah. He has hurt you badly, but he stayed the worst of the power. Your womb will recover, although it may take months, even years, to do so.
I was crying now. Even if my womb did recover, it would not lessen the betrayal of what he had done.
Tirzah, if someone visits such pain on another person, then one day that pain will rebound on them. It is the price he will eventually have to pay. Tirzah, he could have killed you, he could have permanently crippled you, but he did not.
I shook my head, not wanting to forgive him.
You do not have to forgive him, Tirzah. That is something he will have to seek from you himself. But listen to us. Listen. There is hope for the Elemental within that cruel hoax that calls itself Magus. Has he not hidden himself from Threshold? Has he not kept the Song of the Frogs alive in his heart for years and years? Tirzah, you must work to help him accept his true heritage. He’s struggling within himself now, screaming for help. Be the one to give it to him. Help him. And you know as we do that there is only one person he will let help him. You.
The Magus is too powerful…
You must find a way, Tirzah. Do all you can. Be there. Go back when he calls you. Finish the goblet and give it to him.
He destroyed the other glass.
Then we must hope that he will not destroy this one. Tirzah, do this for us. Help him, for he is the only one who can destroy Threshold – and we do not believe any of you yet realise what a terrible thing Threshold will eventually become. Help him. Soothe him, hold him, love him. Promise us this. Promise.
Yes, I promise.
I cried for a long time, then I grew sick of my tears and resolved to weep no more. I sighed and walked through the workshop, up the stairs, and sat down at the work table with Zeldon and Orteas.
Lifting a sanding strip, I sat for the five hours it took me to finish the goblet.
Zeldon’s and Orteas’ eyes widened at the sight of the glass, but they did not speak, and neither did I.
21
I DID not see Boaz for several weeks, which did not surprise me. He had revealed so much, so dangerously, that he would not call me again until he felt in full control. Until the Magus felt invulnerable.
But I was alive, and continued to live, and for that I suppose I was grateful.
My injuries healed as best they could, although when I pressed with my fingers all I could feel of my womb was a hard lump instead of soft, pliant flesh. I wondered if the Soulenai were right in saying that one day I would bear children, but all I could do for now was hope.
I did not tell Isphet or anyone else of what the Soulenai had told me. To do so I would have to reveal all, and I was locked too deeply into my secrets now to let a single one go. Besides, I wanted time to think. I wanted to see Boaz again. Be sure.
I went back to work with the glass, often helping out with the mixing and firing of the blue-green plate glass, as much of the work for the Infinity Chamber had gone to Izzali’s workshop. Soon we would begin the capstone. And then Threshold would be all but finished.
The plating now spread down the eastern face. Early one morning I went with Yaqob and a worker called Fust to help with a particularly difficult section of the glass. It would be my first time on the glass face, and I was a little nervous. But I wanted to go. The kindness of those within the workshop was stifling me.
Yaqob was cautious, but I was agile enough, and not afraid of heights, and he would be there to help me. And it would be nice to have some time together. Boaz confused me, and Yaqob was so straightforward. He had no hidden depths to tug at my own soul.
It was a lovely morning. As we used the ropes hanging from the peak to pull ourselves up, I laughed at Yaqob’s jesting and at the middle-aged Fust’s panting behind me. Even Threshold’s danger seemed mute, distant. We climbed to a spot two-thirds of the way up the face, and as we finally eased ourselves into a safe position, waiting for the glass to be winched up to us, I looked out over the landscape.
It stunned me. I hadn’t realised I would be able to see so much. Neither did I realise it would be so beautiful.
To the east the great Lhyl River wound its serpentine way through the land, green reed banks lining its path, irrigated fields and gardens stretching out about half a league on either side. Beyond them stretched league after league of desert, patched here and there with a stand of date palms about a spring or well. Far distant I thought I saw a slow caravan wending its way north. I wondered if it carried slaves, or more inanimate cargo. I returned my gaze to the river. Several graceful river boats plied south along its waters. The Lhyl was a wonderful gift to give the land, I thought. No wonder the frogs had sung for the Soulenai.
“Look,” Yaqob said, and pointed north. There lay a smudge on the horizon, a distant haze. Setkoth. Closer than I’d thought, but still a good half day’s travel by river boat.
To the immediate east and south of us lay Gesholme. It looked even uglier from above than it did from within. To the south-west, hidden by Threshold at my back, lay the compound of the Magi. It made me think of Boaz, and then Yaqob nudged me.
He pointed down this time. Far below, their forms puppet-like, a group of workers fastened plate glass to the ropes that would be used to haul them upward. Beside them were several Magi, Boaz among them.
I shouldn’t have been able to distinguish him from this height, for his clothing and head of black hair were virtually identical to the other Magi about him. But his movements were so familiar, the sweep of his hand, the way he shifted his weight from hip to hip, that I knew it was him.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again.
“Boaz?” Yaqob asked softly at my side.
“Yes, to the left. See?”
“He spoils the beauty of the morning, Tirzah.”
I nodded, opened my mouth to say something, then there was a shout above us, and all thought turned to the glass that fellow slaves were now hauling upwards.
The glass climbed ever higher, and we made ready to receive it, securing our feet in their notches.
Threshold’s shadow winked.
It was so brief, but I was sure. I felt it in the pit of my stomach as well as saw it, and I knew.
“Yaqob!” I cried, terrified, and he wrapped his arms about me as tight as he could – as if that could save me had I been chosen. He, too, had seen and felt what I had.
Who?
The glass sliding upwards passed over the mouth of one of th
Melted into the vicious black substance I had seen coat the walls and ceiling of the corridor that had cooked the five.
Seven. But who?
Mostly the poor men who slaved below to haul the glass skyward, and one donkey-handler standing close to them.
Great gobs of molten glass poured down and spattered the men.
They took agonising minutes to die, and I think Threshold had planned it that way. The glass seared great chunks off their skin and flesh. One man had his face eaten away, another half his chest. Another yet lost the flesh off his arms, and ran screaming about the compound, waving the blackened stick-like objects about. Apologetic whiffs of smoke drifted from them.
I leaned in against Yaqob and hid my face, and he held me tight until the screams and howls had been silenced.
Only then I dared look down again.
Boaz was staring up at me.
I was shaking, and could do no work. No-one could, the day’s glass had been destroyed and more would have to be transported to the site.
By the time we got down Boaz had gone.
Yaqob saw a tall, athletic man of early middle age in the crowd of labourers milling about the compound, and he gave a slight nod of his head.
The man responded and disappeared into the throng. Yaqob, Fust and I walked silently back to the workshop.
The athletic man joined us there in the mid-afternoon when the fuss had died down.
His name was Azam, and he was the one who Yaqob now depended on to bring the labourers behind his plan for revolt. Azam was a striking man, keen eyes, aquiline face, greying hair. I thought he looked anything but a labourer, and wondered if he had been born into slavery or had been subjected to it through misfortune.
Again we met in the upper room.
“Threshold has worked in our favour this time,” Azam said.
“How so?” Yaqob asked.
“Among the labourers there grows the sense that they are just fodder for Threshold’s appetite,” Azam said. “I have spread the word about the incomposite numbers, about how they grow into Infinity itself and how all of us, eventually, will die. Yaqob, almost to a man, they are now committed to you. Even if Threshold takes me, they will still follow. They know that if we revolt many will die, but they also know that many will escape, and that is enough.”