Stargate by Pauline Gedge Page A

conscious of any inferiority to them. But the hall of the sun-lord awed winged and wingless alike, and the wingless preferred soil under their feet and the sky above, not all around them.
    Behind the dais was another, smaller arch, hewn from rough rock, and walking under it, Ghakazian paused, his entrance chamber behind him, an abyss before. Below him a funnel fell sheer to the roots of the mountains, an infinity of dark, silent space; above, it ended in open sky. The crag was hollow. Ghakazian could enter it between the teeth of the summit or through his hall.
    Above and below the arch wide rims of stone ran around the circular rock wall. It was here that Ghakazian lived, received Mirak and his other winged mortals, and floated with them on the flavorless airs that blew from the depths in a never-ending draught. If he wanted to stand and think without disturbance, he flew to the high rock rim and perched there. Now he stepped into the nothingness and drifted upward, coming to rest on the ledge, where his sun never failed to drench him in its benison. With a sigh of satisfaction he lifted the sun-disc which sparkled on his breast and, clasping it in both hands, began to recite his responsibilities. I am not a Maker, I am the made. The words were engraved in his mind like flaming suns, and he saw them clearly as he called them to pass before his inner eye. I am not a lawmaker, I am an interpreter. I am not a healer—here he hesitated before going on firmly, a vision of Ixel’s Gate flicking between the eternal words of power—I am a maintainer. I am not a king, I am a guide. Slowly and deliberately he spoke, strength growing in him, and then he let the disc fall and shook out his wings.
    As he did so he felt his feathers catch in something at his waist, and with a shock he remembered the book he had picked up so casually from Ixelion’s floor and tucked under his belt. It was still there, and he drew it forth, warm from its contact with his skin, gleaming in the rays of the sun. I read something in it. He frowned to himself. Now why can I not remember what it was? Why did I bring the thing with me anyway?
As
he fingered it the book jerked in his grasp. The covers fell open, the pages riffled past his startled gaze, and there it was, the passage he had been trying to bring to mind. Magic beat up from it—he could almost see the force of the spell—but he knew that it probed him in vain. He could not discern whether it was a spell of protection or warning and shrugged impatiently. Begone, he spoke in his mind to the shimmering charm, and he dropped his eyes to the tiny silver writing picked out by the sun.
Ghakazian stood before his Gate,
he read as before,
with his armies ranked behind him. “Sholia and the Unmaker rule the universe now!” he cried, and winged and wingless groaned in answer. “There is none left to guard the light but us! We must go to Shol, beautiful, rich Shol, and make war, and take it for ourselves, and the light.”
    What madness is this? Ghakazian thought, irritated. It does not read the same as it did on Ixel, I am sure of that, but what it said then I cannot recall. Sholia and the Unmaker? Ixelion, what poisoned nonsense wreathed about your mind as you penned these words? Truly, you fell. I suppose I must take the book to Danar, but it cannot be incorporated into the Book of What Was in the All. It is the rambling of a mind being frozen slowly by black fire. Later I will read more, to see if the knowledge Janthis seeks is somehow wrapped among the madness. He will not rest until he knows how Ixelion fell. Ghakazian tossed the book carelessly onto the ledge and, spreading his wings, flew out into the sunshine.
    Tagar was sitting in front of his house, his hands clasped about a wooden cup, as Ghakazian glided down out of the new-washed blue sky and came to rest before him, scattering raindrops. The rain had stopped, and beyond the low stone building the valley