Nightwings Read online

  Nightwings

  A fabulous tale of pilgrimage and hope, betrayal and transformation by one of science fiction’s greatest writers…

  Robert

  Silverberg

  “One of science fiction’s modern masters…his words and his work have shaped the whole direction of the field.”

  Chicago Sun Times

  “Done Silverberg’s way, science fiction is a fine art.”

  Associated Press

  “One of the first rank of science fiction authors…He is a master at drawing the reader into times and places of which he writes with style, wit, and imagination.”

  Library Journal

  “Where Silverberg goes today, the rest of science fiction will follow tomorrow.”

  Isaac Asimov

  AVON BOOKS

  A division of

  The Hearst Corporation

  959 Eighth Avenue

  New York, New York 10019

  Copyright © 1968, 1969 by Galaxy Publishing Corporation.

  Published by arrangement with the author.

  ISBN: 0-380-41467-8

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to

  reproduce this book or portions thereof in any

  form whatsoever. For information address

  Scott Meredith Literary Agency, 845 Third Avenue,

  New York, New York 10022.

  First Avon Printing, September, 1969

  Fourth Printing, January, 1979

  AVON TRADEMARK REG, U.S. PAT. OFF. AND

  FOREIGN COUNTRIES, REGISTERED TRADEMARK—

  MARCA REGISTRADA, HECHO EN CHICAGO, U.S.A.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  For Harlan,

  to remind him of open windows,

  the currents of the Delaware River,

  quarters with two heads,

  and other pitfalls.

  CONTENTS

  Part I

  NIGHTWINGS

  Part II

  AMONG THE REMEMBERERS

  Part III

  THE ROAD TO JORSLEM

  Part I

  NIGHTWINGS

  ROUM is a city built on seven hills. They say it was a capital of man in one of the earlier cycles. I did not know of that, for my guild was Watching, not Remembering; but yet as I had my first glimpse of Roum, coming upon it from the south at twilight, I could see that in former days it must have been of great significance. Even now it was a mighty city of many thousands of souls.

  Its bony towers stood out sharply against the dusk. Lights glimmered appealingly. On my left hand the sky was ablaze with splendor as the sun relinquished possession; streaming bands of azure and violet and crimson folded and writhed about one another in the nightly dance that brings the darkness. To my right, blackness had already come. I attempted to find the seven hills, and failed, and still I knew that this must be that Roum of majesty toward which all roads are bent, and I felt awe and deep respect for the works of our bygone fathers.

  We rested by the long straight road, looking up at Roum. I said, “It is a goodly city. We will find employment there.”

  Beside me, Avluela fluttered her lacy wings. “And food?” she asked in her high, fluty voice. “And shelter? And wine?”

  “Those too,” I said. “All of those.”

  “How long have we been walking, Watcher?” she asked.

  “Two days. Three nights.”

  “If I had been flying, it would have been more swift.”

  “For you,” I said. “You would have left us far behind and never seen us again. Is that your desire?”

  She came close to me and rubbed the rough fabric of my sleeve, and then she pressed herself at me the way a flirting cat might do. Her wings unfolded into two broad sheets of gossamer through which I could still see the sunset and the evening lights, blurred, distorted, magical. I sensed the fragrance of her midnight hair. I put my arms to her and embraced her slender, boyish body.

  She said, “You know it is my desire to remain with you always, Watcher. Always!”

  “Yes, Avluela.”

  “Will we be happy in Roum?”

  “We will be happy,” I said, and released her.

  “Shall we go into Roum now?”

  “I think we should wait for Gormon,” I said, shaking my head. “He’ll be back soon from his explorations.” I did not want to tell her of my weariness. She was only a child, seventeen summers old; what did she know of weariness or of age? And I was old. Not as old as Roum, but old enough.

  “While we wait,” she said, “may I fly?”

  “Fly, yes.”

  I squatted beside our cart and warmed my hands at the throbbing generator while Avluela prepared to fly. First she removed her garments, for her wings have little strength and she cannot lift such extra baggage. Lithely, deftly, she peeled the glassy bubbles from her tiny feet and wriggled free of her crimson jacket and of her soft, furry leggings. The vanishing light in the west sparkled over her slim form. Like all Fliers, she carried no surplus body tissue: her breasts were mere bumps, her buttocks flat, her thighs so spindly that there was a span of inches between them when she stood. Could she have weighed more than a quintal? I doubt it. Looking at her, I felt, as always, gross and earthbound, a thing of loathsome flesh, and yet I am not a heavy man.

  By the roadside she genuflected, knuckles to the ground, head bowed to knees, as she said whatever ritual words it is that the Fliers say. Her back was to me. Her delicate wings fluttered, filled with life, rose about her like a cloak whipped up by the breeze. I could not comprehend how such wings could possibly lift even so slight a form as Avluela’s. They were not hawk-wings but butterfly-wings, veined and transparent, marked here and there with blotches of pigment, ebony and turquoise and scarlet. A sturdy ligament joined them to the two flat pads of muscle beneath her sharp shoulderblades; but what she did not have was the massive breastbone of a flying creature, the bands of corded muscle needed for flight. Oh, I know that the Fliers use more than muscle to get aloft, that there are mystical disciplines in their mystery. Even so, I, who was of the Watchers, remained skeptical of the more fantastic guilds.

  Avluela finished her words. She rose; she caught the breeze with her wings; she ascended several feet. There she remained, suspended between earth and sky, while her wings beat frantically. It was not yet night, and Avluela’s wings were merely nightwings. By day she could not fly, for the terrible pressure of the solar wind would hurl her to the ground. Now, midway between dusk and dark, it was still not the best time for her to go up. I saw her being thrust toward the east by the remnant of light in the sky. Her arms as well as her wings thrashed; her small pointed face was grim with concentration; on her thin lips were the words of her guild. She doubled her body and shot it out, head going one way, rump the other; and abruptly she hovered horizontally, looking groundward, her wings thrashing against the air. Up, Avluela! Up!

  Up it was, as by will alone she conquered the vestige of light that still glowed.

  With pleasure I surveyed her naked form against the darkness. I could see her clearly, for a Watcher’s eyes are keen. She was five times her own height in the air, now, and her wings were spread to their full expanse, so that the towers of Roum were in partial eclipse for me. She waved. I threw her a kiss and offered words of love. Watchers do not marry, nor do they engender children, but yet Avluela was as a daughter to me, and I took pride in her flight. We had traveled together a year, now, since we had first met in Agupt, and it was as though I had known her all my long life. From her I drew a renewal of strength. I do not know what it was she drew from me: security, knowledge, a continuity with the days before her birth. I hoped only that she loved me as I loved her.

  Now she was far aloft. She wheeled, soared, dived, pirouetted, danced. Her long
black hair streamed from her scalp. Her body seemed only an incidental appendage to those two great wings that glistened and throbbed and gleamed in the night. Up she rose, glorying in her freedom from gravity, making me feel all the more leaden-footed; and like some slender rocket she shot abruptly away in the direction of Roum. I saw the soles of her feet, the tips of her wings; then I saw her no more.

  I sighed. I thrust my hands into the pits of my arms to keep them warm. How is it that I felt a winter chill while the girl Avluela could soar joyously bare through the sky?

  It was now the twelfth of the twenty hours, and time once again for me to do the Watching. I went to the cart, opened my cases, prepared the instruments. Some of the dial covers were yellowed and faded; the indicator needles had lost their luminous coating; sea stains defaced the instrument housings, a relic of the time that pirates had assailed me in Earth Ocean. The worn and cracked levers and nodes responded easily to my touch as I entered the preliminaries. First one prays for a pure and perceptive mind; then one creates the affinity with one’s instruments; then one does the actual Watching, searching the starry heavens for the enemies of man. Such was my skill and my craft. I grasped handles and knobs, thrust things from my mind, prepared myself to become an extension of my cabinet of devices.

  I was only just past my threshold and into the first phase of Watchfulness when a deep and resonant voice behind me said, “Well, Watcher, how goes it?”

  I sagged against the cart. One feels a physical pain at being wrenched so unexpectedly from one’s work. For a moment I felt claws clutching at my heart. My face grew hot; my eyes would not focus; the saliva drained from my throat. As soon as I could, I took the proper protective measures to ease the metabolic drain, and severed myself from my instruments. Hiding my trembling as much as possible, I turned around.

  Gormon, the other member of our little band, had appeared and stood jauntily beside me. He was grinning, amused at my distress, but I could not feel angry with him. One does not show anger at a guildless person no matter what the provocation.

  Tightly, with effort, I said, “Did you spend your time rewardingly?”

  “Very. Where’s Avluela?”

  I pointed heavenward. Gormon nodded.

  “What have you found?” I asked.

  “That this city is definitely Roum.”

  “There never was doubt of that.”

  “For me there was. But now I have proof.”

  “Yes?”

  “In the overpocket. Look!”

  From his tunic he drew his overpocket, set it on the pavement beside me, and expanded it so that he could insert his hands into its mouth. Grunting a little, he began to pull something heavy from the pouch—something of white stone—a long marble column, I now saw, fluted, pocked with age.

  “From a temple of Imperial Roum!” Gormon exulted.

  “You shouldn’t have taken that.”

  “Wait!” he cried, and reached into the overpocket once more. He took from it a handful of circular metal plaques and scattered them jingling at my feet. “Coins! Money! Look at them, Watcher! The faces of the Caesars!”

  “Of whom?”

  “The ancient rulers. Don’t you know your history of past cycles?”

  I peered at him curiously. “You claim to have no guild, Gormon. Could it be you are a Rememberer and are concealing it from me?”

  “Look at my face, Watcher. Could I belong to any guild? Would a Changeling be taken?”

  “True enough,” I said, eyeing the golden hue of him, the thick waxen skin, the red-pupiled eyes, the jagged mouth. Gormon had been weaned on teratogenetic drugs; he was a monster, handsome in his way, but a monster nevertheless, a Changeling, outside the laws and customs of man as they are practiced in the Third Cycle of civilization. And there is no guild of Changelings.

  “There’s more,” Gormon said. The overpocket was infinitely capacious; the contents of a world, if need be, could be stuffed into its shriveled gray maw, and still it would be no longer than a man’s hand. Gormon took from it bits of machinery, reading spools, an angular thing of brown metal that might have been an ancient tool, three squares of shining glass, five slips of paper—paper!—and a host of other relics of antiquity. “See?” he said. “A fruitful stroll, Watcher! And not just random booty. Everything recorded, everything labeled, stratum, estimated age, position when in situ. Here we have many thousands of years of Roum.”

  “Should you have taken these things?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Why not? Who is to miss them? Who of this cycle cares for the past?”

  “The Rememberers.”

  “They don’t need solid objects to help them do their work.”

  “Why do you want these things, though?”

  “The past interests me, Watcher. In my guildless way I have my scholarly pursuits. Is that wrong? May not even a monstrosity seek knowledge?”

  “Certainly, certainly. Seek what you wish. Fulfill yourself in your own way. This is Roum. At dawn we enter. I hope to find employment here.”

  “You may have difficulties.”

  “How so?”

  “There are many Watchers already in Roum, no doubt. There will be little need for your services.”

  “I’ll seek the favor of the Prince of Roum,” I said.

  “The Prince of Roum is a hard and cold and cruel man.”

  “You know of him?”

  Gormon shrugged. “Somewhat.” He began to stuff his artifacts back in the overpocket. “Take your chances with him, Watcher. What other choice do you have?”

  “None,” I said, and Gormon laughed, and I did not.

  He busied himself with his ransacked loot of the past. I found myself deeply depressed by his words. He seemed so sure of himself in an uncertain world, this guildless one, this mutated monster, this man of inhuman look; how could he be so cool, so casual? He lived without concern for calamity and mocked those who admitted to fear. Gormon had been traveling with us for nine days, now, since we had met him in the ancient city beneath the volcano to the south by the edge of the sea. I had not suggested that he join us; he had invited himself along, and at Avluela’s bidding I accepted. The roads are dark and cold at this time of year, and dangerous beasts of many species abound, and an old man journeying with a girl might well consider taking with him a brawny one like Gormon. Yet there were times I wished he had not come with us, and this was one.

  Slowly I walked back to my equipment.

  Gormon said, as though first realizing it, “Did I interrupt you at your Watching?”

  I said mildly, “You did.”

  “Sorry. Go and start again. I’ll leave you in peace.” And he gave me his dazzling lopsided smile, so full of charm that it took the curse off the easy arrogance of his words.

  I touched the knobs, made contact with the nodes, monitored the dials. But I did not enter Watchfulness, for I remained aware of Gormon’s presence and fearful that he would break into my concentration once again at a painful moment, despite his promise. At length I looked away from the apparatus. Gormon stood at the far side of the road, craning his neck for some sight of Avluela. The moment I turned to him he became aware of me.

  “Something wrong, Watcher?”

  “No. The moment’s not propitious for my work. I’ll wait.”

  “Tell me,” he said. “When Earth’s enemies really do come from the stars, will your machines let you know it?”

  “I trust they will.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I notify the Defenders.”

  “After which your life’s work is over?”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Why a whole guild of you, though? Why not one master center where the Watch is kept? Why a bunch of itinerant Watchers drifting from place to place?”

  “The more vectors of detection,” I said, “the greater the chance of early awareness of the invasion.”

  “Then an individual Watcher might well turn his machines on and not see anything, with an inv
ader already here.”

  “It could happen. And so we practice redundancy.”

  “You carry it to an extreme, I sometimes think.” Gormon laughed. “Do you actually believe an invasion is coming?”

  “I do,” I said stiffly. “Else my life was a waste.”

  “And why should the star people want Earth? What do we have here besides the remnants of old empires? What would they do with miserable Roum? With Perris? With Jorslem? Rotting cities! Idiot princes! Come, Watcher, admit it: the invasion’s a myth, and you go through meaningless motions four times a day. Eh?”

  “It is my craft and my science to Watch. It is yours to jeer. Each of us to our speciality, Gormon.”

  “Forgive me,” he said with mock humility. “Go, then, and Watch.”

  “I shall.”

  Angrily I turned back to my cabinet of instruments, determined now to ignore any interruption, no matter how brutal. The stars were out; I gazed at the glowing constellations, and automatically my mind registered the many worlds. Let us Watch, I thought. Let us keep our vigil despite the mockers.

  I entered full Watchfulness.

  I clung to the grips and permitted the surge of power to rush through me. I cast my mind to the heavens and searched for hostile entities. What ecstasy! What incredible splendor! I who had never left this small planet roved the black spaces of the void, glided from star to burning star, saw the planets spinning like tops. Faces stared back at me as I journeyed, some without eyes, some with many eyes, all the complexity of the many-peopled galaxy accessible to me. I spied out possible concentrations of inimicable force. I inspected drilling-grounds and military encampments. I sought, as I had sought four times daily for all my adult life, for the invaders who had been promised us, the conquerors who at the end of days were destined to seize our tattered world.

  I found nothing, and when I came up from my trance, sweaty and drained, I saw Avluela descending.

  Feather-light she landed. Gormon called to her, and she ran, bare, her little breasts quivering, and he enfolded her smallness in his powerful arms, and they embraced, not passionately but joyously. When he released her she turned to me.