The Seven Altars of Dusarra

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “This is the Thirteenth Age; the Fourteenth is soon to begin; but there are only fifteen of these higher gods. What will happen when each has ruled for an age?”

  “Perhaps they will start over.”

  Garth sat back and considered that. The whole system sounded rather haphazard; ages of varying length, in no known order? Only fifteen possible rulers? Interesting as it might be, and despite the seeming appropriateness of describing the last three centuries as an age of decay and the period ending in the Racial Wars as an age of hatred, he decided the whole system was just another human exercise in meaningless theorizing. After all, men could not even prove the existence of a single one of their myriad deities; how, then, could any trust be put in a system based on those gods? Besides, if this was currently the Thirteenth Age, then long ago there must have been a First Age; what came before that? He shook his head.

  “I am confused. Perhaps you could show me your temple while I digest this new knowledge.”

  “If you wish.” The priestess rose; Garth followed her example, pleased that she was being so cooperative. Any tour of the temple must surely include its altar.

  The gray-robed woman led him through a creaking, cobwebbed door into a dim wood-floored passage hung with ragged, decaying tapestries; he was surprised to see several doors opening to either side. This temple was much more elaborate than some.

  “These are the study chambers of our scholars,” his guide explained. She opened a door, apparently at random, revealing a small room, little more than a cell, lined with shelves that sagged beneath the weight of hundreds of books, scrolls, and papers, and illuminated by a single miniscule window. A narrow desk stood in the center, with a single rickety chair behind it; more papers were spread out upon it, held in place by a human skull that served as a paperweight.

  “The skull is just a reminder of the mortality of mankind,” the priestess explained.

  “How is it that your ... that you maintain such scholars? I have seen no sign of such learning elsewhere in Dûsarra.”

  “It is the way of our faith. The more we know of the world, the more we know of the gods who created it; and the more we know of the gods, the better we are able to serve our goddess. I have heard that there are many scholars among the followers of Aghad, though perhaps that is more from a wish to harm mankind than to serve the gods; and there is a splendid library in the temple of Tema. The priests of Regvos, of course, are unable to read. The priests of Bheleu have not the patience for study. Of the cults of Sai and the Final God I know nothing.”

  As she spoke the priestess led her guest away from the uninhabited scholar’s cubicle, closing the door behind her. At the end of the passage, ignoring another corridor that ran perpendicularly to the first, she started up a narrow spiral staircase of rusty iron that swayed unsteadily beneath the weight of the two. Garth inquired where the bypassed corridor went.

  “The dormitory,” she replied.

  “Have you some reason not to show me that?”

  “I did not think it would interest you; our accommodations are simple. Besides, most of my fellow servants of P’hul are asleep at present, and I did not wish to disturb them. Are we not entitled to our rest and privacy, as much as ordinary people? Our diseases make us outcasts, but we are still human.”

  “Of course; I meant no offense. Your ceremonies are at night, then?”

  “Oh, yes. The Lords of Dûs are, after all, the dark gods; all are nocturnal, whatever the habits of their worshippers.” As she said this she emerged from the shaky spiral and waited for the overman to join her.

  They stood in a fair-sized antechamber, its far wall dominated by a vast double door; either end was of wood, hung with rotting remnants of cloth so far gone in decay that Garth was unsure whether they had originally been banners, tapestries, or something else. The staircase was in a curved niche in the rear wall, which was of unadorned black basalt, pierced by three narrow lancet windows. The priestess crossed the room with an assured, easy stride, which Garth took note of. The woman might be diseased, but as yet the sickness had not seriously weakened her; she moved as well as most humans. Garth could not guess her age; she was well out of adolescence, beyond doubt, and had not yet acquired the white hair and stooped posture of extreme age, but beyond that he could not see any indication of her years. The ruination of her countenance erased any wrinkles that might otherwise have provided a clue.

  She swung open the great doors and the pair stepped into the chamber beyond.

  Garth found it necessary to hold his breath until the dust had subsided somewhat.

  The chamber seemed vast, larger than it actually was; it extended up the full remaining height of the temple and included the entire inside of the dome. It was approximately square, about forty feet on a side, but its dimensions were distorted by smoke and dust swimming thick in the stagnant air. Dim colored light seeped through dirt-caked stained glass, painting murky patterns on the worn wooden floor and on the intricately carved railings that adorned three tiers of balconies. These extended completely around all sides. A brighter patch of untinted light flooded the center of the room, pouring from a ring of windows at the base of the dome; in the middle of this circle stood the altar, Garth saw hazily. The brilliant sunlight lit it in a blaze of splendor, but simultaneously obscured it behind a wall of equally well-lit cobwebs, incense smoke, and drifting dust.

  The altar was a broad, square platform, raised two or three feet off the floor, built of carven wood, its sides upholstered in silk, its edges clad in corroded copper thick with verdigris; the top had strips of faded, moldering carpeting along each side, and a square of plain mahogany in the center.

  There was nothing upon it except a thick layer of dust.

  Garth stared at it resentfully.

  “This, of course, is the temple sanctuary. It is here that we perform our rituals, affirming our devotion to the goddess, asking her to remember us and deal mercifully with us.”

  She paused, expecting Garth to comment; the room was beautiful, or had been once, and she seemed sure the overman would appreciate this. He, however, was not paying complete attention, and said nothing. Unsure whether this was rudeness, or whether he was too taken by the room to respond, she added, “Many of us like to come here often, aside from the ceremonies, and simply enjoy it.”

  Garth recovered himself. “Forgive me. I was distracted.” He looked at the rest of the room: the webstrewn galleries, the cracked and dirtied colored windows, the smoke-softened column of sunlight. Despite the universal decay, the room was lovely, warm and inviting; perhaps the decay even helped, softening harsh colors, rounding sharp edges, blurring the flaws. It struck him that there was something very strange about such beauty in such a place. Should not the temple of decay be foul and malodorous? Should it not be slimy and rotting?

  “It is not what I had expected,” he said truthfully, when he saw that the priestess was still awaiting some comment.

  “Oh?”

  “No. I ... I had thought there would be an idol.”

  “Perhaps there was, once; much of the original interior fell to dust long ago. As is inevitable for our faith, every part of the temple has been refurbished at least once; since we are required to use only perishable materials and to do what we can to promote their decay, eventually they fall away completely and must be replaced if the temple’s usefulness is to continue. Save for the stone and some of the glass, I doubt any of the present structure is more than four or five centuries old.”

  “Four or five...” Garth was dumbfounded; his native city of Ordunin was less than three hundred and fifty years old, the most ancient surviving overman community. “How old is the temple?”

  “Oh, it’s only about two or three thousand years old, but of course it’s not the original either; there has been a temple of P’hul ever since Dûsarra was founded.”

  “When was that?”

  “Nobody really knows.”

  “Oh.” It had not occurred to Garth that the city,
or any city, could be more than two thousand years old. He struggled to accept such a concept.

  “In any case, there has been no idol in my lifetime.”

  “Oh.” Garth had hoped to somehow bring the conversation to the empty altar unobtrusively, but seemed to be meeting with no success—although these digressions were informative. He decided that a more direct approach was in order.

  “I see your altar is empty, while the other temples in the city keep precious objects or ceremonial devices there.”

  “I know nothing of what the others do. We keep nothing upon the altar. It serves merely as a centerpiece for our rituals. Supplicants sometimes pray atop it; it is said such prayers are especially heeded.”

  “Has there ever been anything kept upon it, then?”

  “Not that I know of, save for the dust; that, of course, is everywhere. Why do you ask?”

  Garth saw no reason to deny the truth. “I was asked—by a philosopher of sorts—to see if I could obtain what stood upon your altar.”

  “Oh, I see.” She smiled, the expression all the more horrible in the wash of green light that fell across her from a nearby window. “It must have been a surprise to see it empty.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “You are welcome to take the dust, if you wish.”

  “Thank you; I appreciate this courtesy.”

  “It makes no difference to us; we sweep off the altar every few months anyway.”

  “Oh.” Garth pulled the bag from his belt and looked at it dubiously; it was of a moderately coarse weave. It was quite likely it wouldn’t hold dust very well.

  But then, how much could that matter? It was, all in all, only dust. He knew nothing of magicks, but surely dust was dust. Feeling foolish, he scraped up a heap of dust from the altar, gray fluff of no distinction whatsoever, and stuffed it into the bag. That done, he knotted it shut and shoved it back under his belt.

  “Thank you,” he said again.

  “Is that all you came for, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I have spoken to no purpose?”

  Garth did not like the tone of the priestess’ voice. “I have found your words very interesting, woman. Do not feel that you have wasted your time.”

  “Have I not?”

  “No. This visit has been most informative, truly.”

  “It may be more than that, of course.” Her smile had returned.

  “How mean you?”

  “You have been in our temple for some time; perhaps the hand of the goddess is already upon you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All those who serve P’hul here bear her signs; her priests are the senile, the diseased, those with leprosy and cancer and tuberculosis and all the other wasting sicknesses. The very air of this shrine is rich in disease. You have spoken at length with a leper, where most men flee from my slightest touch. It is very likely that you already carry some illness within you; if not my own, then one of the others.”

  Garth said nothing; he felt a brief instant of panic, but suppressed it immediately, reminding himself that, despite what this creature might believe, no overman had ever contracted leprosy. Nor were most other diseases worth his concern; very few human diseases could affect overmen, and those that could were either not contagious, or of the more virulent and fast-acting sort, not wasting sicknesses. Overmen had their own ills.

  “Shall I escort you out, then? You have what you came for.”

  “I am in no hurry. I do not wish to offend your goddess by so quickly shunning her shrine.”

  “Truly? Perhaps I have wronged you in my thoughts.”

  Garth shrugged.

  There was a sound behind them; both turned to see a bent, shuffling figure at the head of the stair, on the far side of the antechamber beyond the still-open doors.

  It was a man, clad in the soft gray robes of a priest of P’hul; he was shriveled with age and moved slowly, as if in pain. His hair was white and unkempt, straggling down about his face, tangling indistinguishably with his beard. He blinked at the overman and the priestess.

  “Greetings, Tiris. This overman is a visitor to our temple.” The priestess spoke loudly, slowly, enunciating every word as carefully as she could with her deformed lip. The old man shuffled nearer; she said softly to Garth, “His hearing is poor. Tiris is the oldest of our priests; he is said to have the special favor of the goddess, to see things that others do not.”

  Garth was not impressed. He had seen enough of humanity to suspect that men and women were far more gullible than his own people; age and a mysterious manner could be sufficient to create the reputation of a so—called wizard. He could not deny that true wizards existed and that magic was abroad in the world; he had been confronted with the real thing on several occasions. That did not mean that he was willing to bow before every crazed old man with a trick or two on hand. He said politely, “Greetings, Tiris.”

  The old man stopped and studied Garth thoroughly with squinting blue eyes. Suddenly, in a voice that did not shake, a voice that was far stronger than the man’s withered form seemed capable of holding, he announced, “Greetings, Bheleu.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  For a moment no one moved; Garth and the priestess were too startled, and the old man had apparently exhausted himself. Then Garth said, “I am not Bheleu; I am called Garth of Ordunin.”

  Tiris shrugged and said, “As you please.”

  Garth was irritated, but tried not to show it. It seemed plain to him that the old man had confused him with the idols of Bheleu that were sold in the market; perhaps the senile old fool was not even aware that he was an overman, but assumed the idols depicted a unique being, in which case his bizarre error seemed almost reasonable. He considered pointing out that, quite aside from the absurdity of casually meeting a god in a temple not his own, he carried no sword and wore no helmet, but it would do no good, he decided.

  The priestess was edging away from him. He found that amusing; a leper, the most shunned creature in all the world, avoiding an ordinary overman because an old man called him by a god’s name.

  “I assure you, I am no god.”

  “As you please. Whatever you are, you are beloved of our goddess; if you are not her brother lord, you are his representative. The Age of Bheleu begins tonight, you know; you have come just in time.”

  “In time? In time for what?”

  “To receive P’hul’s service. Her power wanes as her age ends, yet she owes her elder brother fealty; before she withdraws from our mortal realm she will do her duty and serve you, to aid the cause of the Lord of Destruction.”

  The priestess was now openly backing away from the overman. Garth muttered, “This is absurd. I have no connection with any god.” He was uneasily reminded of the prophecies cited by the Seer of Weideth; people seemed determined to see him as a bringer of destruction.

  “Perhaps you are not aware of your role. We all serve the gods, and you more than any other.”

  Garth was unsure whether the reputedly deaf old priest had heard his remark, or merely guessed his thoughts. Whichever it was, he was not pleased. He wanted to retort that he served no one, but could not do so, since he was in fact serving the Forgotten King. Strange as the old man was, he was no god.

  Was he?

  What was a god like? Could the mysterious old creature be some sort of divinity? It seemed unlikely.

  “I serve no god,” Garth said.

  Tiris shrugged, but said nothing further; instead, he turned and shuffled away, along one side of the sanctuary.

  Garth turned to his guide, who was now almost cowering against the wall. There could be no doubt that she, at least, believed completely in the old man’s mystical powers of discernment.

  Disgusted, he marched past her and made his way down the rusted spiral stair; he had what he came for.

  He strode down the passage, ignoring the creaking of the floor. The door at the end still stood open; he passed through that, then through the one he
had burst in with his fist. Across the outermost chamber and out onto the sun-drenched steps he went.

  Only at the last minute did he recall that he had been pursued to the temple’s entrance, and that his pursuers might well be waiting for him.

  They weren’t. Luck was with him.

  It was early afternoon; the avenue was spattered with strolling citizens, enjoying the warm sun that had long since erased all trace of the morning’s rain. Several noticed him emerging from the brooding darkness of P’hul’s temple, but raised no outcry, preferring instead simply to give him the widest possible berth. Remembering the leper-priestess’ face he understood their attitude, and was grateful for it. He would not be bothered for a few moments, at least, not so long as it was known where he had just been.

  He was slightly hungry but not at all tired. There were but two temples remaining. He thrust aside thoughts of food and joined the northbound traffic, heading for his next target.

  He glimpsed the temple of Aghad to the southeast, and recalled with pleasure that he had not harmed anyone in the temple of P’hul.

  Ahead of him loomed the fourth temple on the street, and presumably the last, unless the city’s final shrine was concealed somewhere further along; he saw at once that it was a ruin. He had not noticed it at night, when the black of the sky blended with the black temple, but it was unmistakable in the golden daylight. The great dome was a skeleton, a metal framework, bent and sagging, with only a few broken fragments of its original stone sheathing left, clinging forlornly to its lower limits. It sat atop a broad, low structure, mostly hidden by the surrounding buildings, but with wide cracks and gaping holes visible.

  This was either the temple of destruction or the temple of death; in either case, a ruin was appropriate. Therefore he did not assume it to be abandoned.

  He suspected it to be the temple of Bheleu; it seemed more fitting. That would make the temple he had not yet located the temple of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, which was also reasonable. A god whose very name was secret would not have his shrine openly upon a major avenue.

  As he approached more closely he saw that the temple had a courtyard in front, similar to those of Sai or Aghad; a pair of steel gates stood open, blasted from their frame and hanging, twisted metal remnants, from bent hinges. Garth wondered what force load ripped them apart; he knew why it was done, if this was indeed the temple of Bheleu, but he could not imagine what means had been employed.