by Phil Tucker
They reached the great wall that surrounded the temple complex, and there the entire convoy was blessed in Maganian by a series of priests who walked past the palanquins, calling out prayers which were answered by a chorus of slaves, servants and guards in a ceremonial fashion. The priests held torches aloft that burned with green flame, and cast white dust at each member, a dust so fine it seemed to disappear in mid-air before reaching the supplicants.
The palanquins lurched forth again, passing between another guarding pair of lamassu statues and into the great courtyard within. The sole building was the massive tower whose base expanded into a temple complex. There was a brutal grandeur to the size of the building and its lack of windows or ornamentation; where the palace on the far bank had been beautifully decorated, this temple had the aspect of a tomb, an intimidating geometry that spoke of inhuman aesthetics and scale.
The palanquins were set down before broad steps that rose to the phalanx of columns that fronted the temple entrance. There, several influential-looking priests conferred with the magistrates. Acharsis, stepping down from the palanquin, watched with great interest as the figure with the genderless mask spoke with a hugely obese priest who wore a wig of gold that fell in great curls past his shoulders in imitation of a lion’s mane. They conferred at length, then the priest beckoned, and Acharsis, Magrib, and Elu were brought forth.
There had to be over a hundred gathered around to watch them, Acharsis realized, but the scale of the tower made the crowd seem small. Acharsis drew himself up and stopped when indicated. The massive priest stepped forth to stare at Elu. The man’s eyes were ringed in cobalt blue, and his lips were gray with paste. Massive bands of gold encircled his forearms like the coils of a great snake, and he held a tall staff of cedar topped with the hooded head of a cobra.
The priest studied Elu, disdain and suspicion evident in his expression, then raised a hand. Immediately servants and priests began to flow up the steps into the temple proper, while temple guards in white masks moved to stand escort alongside Acharsis and Elu. The palanquins were lifted and borne away, and with a shove to his shoulder, Acharsis was set in motion to follow the priest up the steps.
They entered the shadowed temple, and immediately the temperature dropped to become pleasantly cool. They turned to continue climbing a second set of broad steps to the second floor, and there stepped out into a hall that had to encompass the entirety of the structure.
Acharsis’ gaze was drawn to the far end of the hall, where a massive white marble dais rose, carved to resemble a cloud, and upon which rested a monster. An otherworldly being, a god: the lamassu of Magan.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The lamassu’s presence filled the room like the heat from a vast furnace. The elegance, wealth, and finery of those attending it were as nothing beside its own innate grandeur; recumbent upon its marble dais, it dominated the hall without moving, its broad face the focal point like the sun in the sky. Acharsis caught a brief impression of the crowd arrayed before it: a hint of massive pillars leading down the sides of the hall, the brightly-painted reliefs that adorned the walls, but no more. The lamassu held his attention with complete and utter surety.
It was huge, and though lying down, Acharsis guessed from its sheer bulk that it would stand some twenty feet tall should it rise to its leonine paws. Its eagle wings were draped down the length of its back, and in the light of the braziers its fur and wings glimmered like hammered bronze shot through with seams of copper and gold. Twin horns like those of a bull arose from over its triangular ears, each the length of a man, and though its upper lip was smooth, a great beard reached down to its paws, oiled and woven with metallic threads of crimson, blue, and silver.
Its face was broad and striking, that of a powerful man in his forties, with harsh, rugged cheekbones, a flattened shovel of a nose and a broad mouth. Its heavy brow beetled down over its recessed eyes. It was at once monstrous and awesome; regal and inhuman; powerful and indolent; sensual and terrifying.
A second shove got Acharsis moving again, and he walked down the length of the hall. Now he did take in the crowd: the servants with great plumed fans that they waved slowly to stir the arid air, the countless curious stares, the fine gradations in rank, the distant and sonorous chanting of priests in some hidden chamber.
The lamassu grew larger with every step so that, when finally they were bid to stop, it loomed over them like some effigy from the netherworld. Golden bands were wrapped around its wrists, from which hung hundreds of discs the size of Acharsis’ palm. He looked at its paws and thought of the talons hidden within them, and quickly averted his gaze.
The great priest moved to the fore and all conversations ceased. The priest climbed the first three steps toward the dais and then bowed, lowering himself to his knees and pressing his brow to the fourth step with impressive agility. He then rose without a signal from the lamassu, and began to address it in formal and reverent tones.
Acharsis, familiar with ritual, guessed that the first few minutes or so would be just titles and pleas for mercy and the like. He’d heard enough addresses like this to his father’s shrine when he was younger. After a while, he tuned out the priest’s droning voice and settled to studying the lamassu. Its expression was as impassive as if it were carved from rock, with only the occasional twitch or flicker of its tufted lion’s tail indicating that it was even alive.
Finally, the priest finished and stepped aside. The genderless masked official stepped up and bowed in a similar manner, then also began to speak. His - or her - voice was smooth, liquid, and as asexual as the mask. They spoke quickly and with assurance, and then also bowed and stepped aside.
At this point, a stern-faced woman in luxurious regalia stepped forth from the front of the crowd. She was tall, her shoulders square, and despite her years she yet retained some measure of her striking beauty. Hair so black it had blue tints hung to her shoulders, and a band of gold was wrapped around her brow, the head of a snake rising from the center of her forehead. Bands of gold adorned her upper arm, and there Acharsis espied a similar serpentine band as that which Elu had stolen.
She studied Elu with obvious contempt, then turned to the lamassu, bowed low, and spoke with stern disapproval. Her address was quick and to the point, then she bowed once more and stepped back.
The smoke from the braziers was starting to get to him, Acharsis realized; they were musky, and thick with some incense. Combined with the stillness of the air and the heat generated from the lamassu’s body, he was finding it hard to focus.
Not good.
Two other priests stepped in to speak, and through it all the lamassu remained impassive, immobile, its gaze as blank and pitiless as the sun. Acharsis was starting to think these speeches would go on forever when the lamassu finally looked down upon them and he felt the full weight of its focus fall upon him.
“You are immured by echoes of fallen divinity,” rumbled the lamassu in perfect River Cities common, its tone archaic, its pronunciations stiff and undercut by a velvety rumble. The words seemed to come not from its throat, but from the depths of the earth itself. “The scent of a passing god hangs in the air. You are far from your home, godling, and shorn of your power. Who are you?”
Acharsis dry swallowed. So much for pretense. “I am Acharsis, son of Ekillos, god of knowledge and male fertility, scion of the River Cities and former ruler of the city of Takurtum.”
“Ekillos,” rumbled the lamassu, as if tasting the word. “Yes. That is the savor. A manifold divinity, but long gone from this realm. You are a wound, Acharsis, a fissure in the rightness of the world. Why have you traveled here to disturb my court?”
Again, Acharsis swallowed. His mind felt mired, slow to react. What stratagem to pursue? The lamassu’s gaze seemed to pierce him to his core, to see both his past and his future.
“I come to give warning,” he said. “Irella, daughter of Nekuul, sends her dead armies across the Desert of Bones to strike at Magan from the rear. She s
eeks to conquer your nation, topple your towers, and subjugate your people.”
Acharsis felt ripples of nausea flutter through his stomach. Desperate, he studied the lamassu’s craggy features, hoping to read some sign of his words' impact.
The lamassu contemplated him, unalarmed. “The next ruler of Magan will thank you for your assistance, son of Ekillos. But I do not concern myself with temporal matters.”
Acharsis frowned. “Wait. You’re telling me you don’t care if Irella invades Magan?”
“We have been invaded before,” said the lamassu, voice a low rumble. “But Magan is old, older than the bones of the earth. Like a forest, it needs the occasional fire to cleanse the brushwood and revive its vitality. If the daughter of Nekuul invades our land, then we shall suffer, but in time we shall overcome and grow stronger for the experience.”
Acharsis turned to Elu as if the youth might have an answer. Elu’s eyes were still wide open, his face pale. No help there. “All right,” said Acharsis. “Who is to be the next ruler of Magan? When can I have an audience with them?”
“That is a question to which I am most curious to learn the answer,” said the lamassu. It crossed one paw over the other, the golden discs jangling as it did so.
“I thought you and your… family… chose the successor?”
“Not so.” A flicker of idle amusement passed over its face. “We must allow for the vagaries of fate. Were we to direct Magan with so stern a hand, it would become brittle, and shatter. No. Each city’s royal family shall put forth a candidate. These six shall enter the Quickening, where they shall be tested. The winner of this trial shall be elevated to the status of pharaoh, and rule over Magan for the remainder of their natural life.”
The priests, royal family members, magistrates and other notables were staring at them with increasing wonder. Most people probably didn’t get a chance to chat with their god-lamassu like this.
“And when shall this Quickening take place?”
“Three days hence. Then shall the purification rites begin, followed by the weeks of fasting, anointment, and finally, the coronation. Within a month, Magan shall have its new ruler.”
Acharsis sucked on his teeth. “A month. Irella will be here long before then.”
“A time of turbulence and sorrow for Magan,” rumbled the lamassu.
Acharsis pressed his hand to his brow and grimaced. Not good enough. Did the lamassu not understand the threat that Irella posed? Did it not care? How would it react when its Third Tower of Heaven was crawling with Death Seekers? Irella would extend her empire, subjugate the only entity that could rival her in power, and solidify her control over the River Cities.
“Acharsis?” Elu’s voice was a whisper. “What do we do?”
They couldn’t wait a month; couldn’t wait for Maganian politics to play out while Irella’s dead marched upon the hinterlands. Licking his lips, Acharsis balled his fists and stood up straight.
“Lord lamassu. We were brought here to stand trial. I claim that my son, Elu, is truly Senacherib, second eldest son of the pharaoh. Do you contest that claim?”
The lamassu raised its head, brows lowering as its ears quirked forward. A tide of whispers ran through the crowd. “Your son, Elu, is not Senacherib, second eldest son of the pharaoh.”
“Granted, he hasn’t been - but he could be.” Acharsis took a step forward. “Elu has divine blood coursing through his veins. He is the grandson of Ekillos himself. His lineage is as royal as that of Senacherib, or any of the scions that will enter the Quickening.”
The lamassu turned its head to one side, eyes narrowed. But it was listening.
“You said yourself you don’t pick the next successor. That you allow for the vagaries of fate. Further, you aren’t concerned with Irella’s attack because it will strengthen your people, will help cleanse them of dry brushwood. What but the hand of fate would have brought Senacherib’s snake band to Elu? What but the hand of fate would have brought him to Magan mere days from the time of the Quickening? Divine providence. A chance for new blood to revive the Maganian royal lines. A chance to invigorate your people.”
It was impossible to read the lamassu’s expression. He might as well have tried to guess the mood of a cliff face. Acharsis licked his lower lip. “If you hear any merit in my words, if you detect a pattern to this fateful meeting, then please, let him enter the Quickening. If fate does not want him to win, then, well—he won’t. But give him the chance.”
“Acharsis,” said Elu in a strangled voice. “What are you doing?”
Meeting the lamassu’s gaze was like staring into the sun. Was he daring too much? Was he mortally offending the god of this city? Had he thrown the nascent cordiality the lamassu had been showing him into the trash heap with his presumption?
“Fate, or conspiracy?” asked the lamassu at last. “Three months ago, the pharaoh was killed by Irella’s assassins. We grieved, but such is the way of the world. Now you appear at our temple, son of a dead River Cities god, and ask for the right to enter the Quickening. Fate? Or conspiracy?”
“I swear to you in the name of my fallen father that I seek nothing more than to defeat Irella, overthrow her rule, and bring back the nine dead gods.” Acharsis’ voice trembled with emotion. “The people of the River Cities starve. The harvests grow ever poorer since the death of the god of agriculture, and the dead shall soon outnumber the living. I wish nothing more than to aid Magan so that it can in turn aid me and my people. This I swear, by Qun the sun and Ninsaba the moon, by my life’s blood, my ancestors, and my children.”
“Victory would cost you your son,” said the lamassu. “To win, he must be the best ruler for Magan. He must hold our interests first and foremost in his heart. His loyalties would lie solely with us. You would lose Elu, and we would gain Senacherib.”
“With all respect, my lord,” said Elu, voice shaking as he stepped forward. “That is a concern you should not be putting to Acharsis, but to me.”
The lamassu turned its head to consider the youth. “You have a voice?”
Elu flushed, his brow gleaming with sweat. He was terrified, Acharsis realized. “Yes. I do. And though I’m young, I have the wisdom to know when to speak, and when to be silent.”
“A rare talent,” said the lamassu.
“I have no loyalty to the River Cities,” said Elu. “I don’t care for Irella or her rule. My whole life I’ve seen nothing but starvation and poverty. If I were to win through, I would have no difficulty in choosing to serve you and your nation.”
“And what do you know of me or my nation?”
“Nothing,” said Elu with a sharp smile. “But I would learn. After all, I can only win if the Quickening decides that I’m the best candidate. And if Senacherib is the best possible pharaoh, then that Senacherib will no doubt quickly learn all that there is to know about Magan.”
“Hmm,” rumbled the lamassu. “You speak well. You are your father’s son in truth, I see.”
“No,” said Elu. “You’re wrong. This man is not my father. He sired me, yes. But he didn’t raise me. He doesn’t know me, and I know nothing of his father, Ekillos.”
Acharsis felt his chest constrict. He stared at Elu, unable to speak, but his son stared straight up at the lamassu.
“I sense fire in your soul,” said the lamassu at last. “A will of your own. This pleases me. Had you remained silent, I would have denied Acharsis’ request. But you show spirit, and your divine heritage shines through you like the sun through thin clouds. I shall grant your request. For the next three days you shall be Senacherib, the lost son of the pharaoh, and shall be allowed to enter the Quickening. If you win through, you shall be elevated to ruler of Magan. If you fail, yet survive the trial, I shall punish you for your temerity by eating you and your companions. Are we agreed?”
The lamassu’s tone didn’t change in the slightest. Elu blanched, but then nodded, jaw clenched.
The lamassu turned its pitiless gaze to Acharsis. “Are we agr
eed?”
“Yes,” croaked Acharsis. “We are.”
“Very well.” The lamassu unfolded its great wings as it rose majestically to all fours, tail lashing behind it. It looked out over the crowd, and then spoke to them in Maganian, its voice unyielding in its authority. Acharsis didn’t see the reaction of the crowd. He but dimly heard their muffled gasps of surprise and shock. All he could do was stare at Elu, each beat of his heart spearing him with pain.
Elu turned to face the crowd, shoulders pressed back, chin raised, his mouth pulled down into a stern frown. It was only when the priests approached him, each of them desperately trying to mask their shock and confusion, that Elu finally glanced back at him. And his gaze was as hard and cold as the lamassu's.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Well,” said Kish, tapping her empty cup against the tavern table, “we could always try and find a dream rhino and ride it across the river.”
Jarek smiled sourly. “That might try Nekuul’s patience.”
A serving boy, head shaved to the scalp, iron ring around his neck, stepped up with three cups balanced on his tray. He’d already learned not to bother speaking, so instead simply raised his eyebrow in question, then set to replacing their cups at Jarek’s grunt.
“Drinking yourself into oblivion won’t help our situation any,” said Annara.
“No, but nor will getting kicked out into the street for not doing business.” Jarek swirled the harsh spirit around the base of the clay cup. “At least here we can sit in the shade while we plan a rescue.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” Annara leaned back, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. “Planning? We’ve been waiting here all day. I think it’s safe to say they’re not coming back.”
