Silent Hall

by NS Dolkart

  But before they all managed to leave, Brother Tanatos found a way to pull Bandu aside and talk to her.

  “You are about to become something that you never were before,” he said. “It will be frightening, and you will think you are losing yourself. Don’t be afraid, and don’t blame it on your friends. Your sadness is the sadness of leaving childhood behind, which is something we all must do. You understand?”

  Bandu’s knowledge of words was getting better. It made her feel much more confident in her answer.

  “No,” she said.

  10

  Hunter

  They would travel together for safety until they found reason to part ways. Hunter doubted it would take long: Criton wanted to go looking for dragons, Narky didn’t, Bandu was most comfortable in the woods, and Phaedra had only ever slept in a bed. Soon Hunter would have to make a decision. Where would he go? With whom would he stay? There was no obvious answer, but that was not really the problem. The problem was that he didn’t care.

  He had had plans before, for a whole life. Now those plans were useless, and he could not think of a new one. It seemed that he was not as resourceful as Phaedra.

  When they left the abbey, the crows were waiting for them. There must have been at least fifty of the birds watching them from outside the grounds, and they greeted the survivors of Tarphae with a chorus of raucous voices.

  “I wish those damned birds would quiet down and go away,” Narky said.

  “Quiet,” said Phaedra. “The crow is sacred to Ravennis.”

  “They must be here for me,” Hunter said.

  Narky stared at him. “Why would they be here for you?”

  Hunter let his breath out through his teeth, and tried to explain. “Father went to see the Oracle of Ravennis, the Day Before. That’s why he made me go.”

  He thought they should understand, but they clearly didn’t. Oh, well. Hunter had never been very good at explaining himself. Father and Kataras were outgoing, talkative people, but Hunter and his mother were quiet by nature. When he was having a bad day, Hunter used to go and sit with Mother in her room. They never spoke, but he would sit beside her and polish his shield while she did needlework. An hour of their focused silence always made him feel better.

  “The day before what?” said Narky, and Phaedra asked, “What did the Oracle say?” Bandu said nothing, but she was looking at him in that unsettling way of hers.

  “Father asked how to give me a long life,” Hunter said, feeling their eyes on him. “The Oracle told him to send me away from Tarphae on the first ship he could find.”

  “Makes sense,” said Narky. “But I don’t see why that would make Ravennis send a bunch of crows after you now.”

  Neither did Hunter, but it was the only connection he could think of. “Maybe we should ask,” he said.

  “Oh, sure,” Narky said, and stepped toward the crowd of birds. “O holy birds, what are you here for?”

  A crow flew at his head, cawing furiously, and Narky had to duck and beat it off with a cry of surprise. Criton laughed, but the others were solemn.

  “Don’t insult the Gods,” Phaedra scolded. “Have you learned nothing? Our people were killed by a God, possibly because someone was foolish enough to insult one. The Gods take these slights seriously.”

  “Why should they?” Narky asked, looking rueful.

  “Now is not the time,” she said sternly. “I suggest you apologize to Ravennis as soon as you get the chance. Through sacrifice,” she added, when it looked as though Narky might make a sarcastic apology to the murder of crows.

  Hunter sighed. “What I meant was, we should go see the Oracle and ask what we’ve done to anger Ravennis.”

  “The Oracle is at Laarna,” Phaedra said. “North of Atuna.”

  “Where do you learn these things?” Narky asked.

  As they turned northward, the crows took flight. It gave Hunter an ominous feeling. He did not think the birds would leave them alone for long.

  After some time, Bandu asked, “What is oracle?”

  Phaedra explained it to her, as best she could. It seemed that Phaedra had studied continental religions extensively. When she had finished explaining about oracles, she expounded upon the nature of Gods, Their servants, and Their need for humans to do Their work.

  “The Gods are infinitely greater and more powerful than people,” she said at one point, “but that doesn’t mean They don’t need us, because Their power is remote. I like the way Katinaras puts it best. He likens the heavens to a wire mesh, with the Gods on one side and our world on the other. The Gods are huge and powerful, but that makes Them too big to fit through the gaps in the mesh. Only Their fingers are small enough to fit through, so as powerful as They are, Their power does have limits in this world. Especially when They’re opposed by another God.

  “They’re not really fingers, of course, Bandu, that’s only a metaphor. A metaphor is – well, no, let’s not get into that. But that’s why the Gods pay so much attention to what we people do. When we worship Them and give Them sacrifices, we strengthen the fingers, and when we oppose Them or slay Their followers, it weakens Them and makes Them angry. Because even though we see only a tiny part of Them in this world, we play a big part in Their relations with each other.”

  “How?” asked Criton.

  “Well,” Phaedra said, “the Gods are frequently in conflict. Since our actions can strengthen or weaken a God’s fingers, we can have a real effect on these conflicts. If your fingers are completely cut off, you can’t really stand up to your enemies on your own side of the mesh. Obviously it’s a lot more complicated than that, but that’s why I love Katinaras’ analogy. It makes so much sense, even if it is a little simplistic.”

  Hunter scratched at his scalp, where the hair was just beginning to grow back. “My father once said that when the men of Ardis conquered the plainsfolk to their north, they killed their Gods. Are you saying those Gods were actually killed on Their own side of the mesh by the Ardismen’s God?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  Hunter considered this. He thought he was beginning to understand the analogy, but he suspected that his understanding would dissipate as soon as Phaedra stopped explaining it all. He also couldn’t help but notice that now everyone but Bandu seemed interested in the conversation. The girl’s eyes had glazed over and she was tromping along silently, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.

  “But if someone insults the Gods,” asked Criton, “that can’t possibly weaken the fingers all on its own, can it? What harm can it do?”

  “I guess it humiliates Them in front of everyone They know,” Narky said suddenly.

  “Yes,” said Phaedra, surprised. “Yes, I guess it must.”

  They were traveling due north, not quite the same way they had come, but their journey still took them through the same thick forest of guardian trees and tall milk-rimmed shrubs. The road here became a narrow path through the undergrowth, at times barely discernable. Their progress was slow and loud, until Bandu tapped Hunter on the shoulder and whispered, “Stop.”

  Hunter looked about, trying to find whatever was distressing her, but he could see and hear nothing out of the ordinary. Then Bandu pointed and he saw, in the branches high above the path, two creatures silently watching them. They were tall as men, with bald heads and teeth filed down to points, and their hands and feet were great birdlike talons. Their bodies were pale, and at first he thought that they were wearing black cloaks, but then he realized that those were actually huge black wings, folded at rest.

  Hunter unslung his shield from his back as quickly as he could, and tightened the straps around his arm. “What are those things?” he whispered.

  Bandu shook her head, and Narky said, “What things?” followed by, “Oh hell!”

  At this, the pale monsters spread their wings and leapt from their boughs, screeching like birds of prey. Hunter drew his sword, and in an instant the things were upon them. His sword caught one in the chest as it flew at h
im, and the force of it knocked him off his feet and wrenched the sword from his hand.

  Criton had not ducked as quickly as the others, and the second monster caught him by the shoulders with its lower talons. Its wings beat the air, and its upper claws made to tear at his face. Yet before they could, the pale thing had suddenly let go and flipped backward onto the ground, ducking under a burst of flame from the young man’s mouth.

  Hunter had never seen Criton’s fire before, though Narky had told him about the bandit leader. For a moment he just stared. But the monster had dodged the flames unharmed, and it now leapt at Criton again, knocking him onto his back and tearing at his flesh. Hunter rose to his feet and charged the creature, throwing his weight against his shield. At the impact, the thing let go of Criton and fell against the ground next to Hunter, who rolled to his feet and was ready once more. The monster shrieked and its claws reached out, but Hunter knocked them aside with his shield and caught the monster’s face with it on his backswing. While it reeled, his hand found the knife that he kept in a sheath at the small of his back. After another bash of his shield against its head, he ran the blade across the monster’s throat.

  Blood spattered and the thing collapsed on the ground, shrinking away from him. Then the strangest thing happened. The monster went right on shrinking, shrinking under its feathers until it became a simple raven with its throat cut open. Hunter looked with surprise back at where the other had fallen, and found another raven impaled upon his sword. The sword looked so strange, yards from where he had lost it, now several times the size of the creature that had borne it away.

  Criton staggered to his feet, his face and shirt covered in blood. “What were those things?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Hunter, at the same time as Phaedra said, “Angels.”

  Criton wiped his face on his sleeve, revealing a fairly deep scratch above his eye and a bloody nose, but no more. His chest and shoulders were bloodied too, though he still seemed to have full use of his arms. That was a good sign.

  “Angels?” Narky said disbelievingly. “Those things?”

  “An angel is a messenger from a God,” Phaedra told him, in an irritated voice. “There is no other meaning to the word.”

  “Then we’re in real trouble,” said Hunter, retrieving his sword and trying to shake the dead raven off it. “Ravennis might have been warning us earlier, but now it looks like He’s just trying to kill us.”

  “But why?” Phaedra asked. “What was He warning us about? He can’t possibly be the one who sent the plague to Tarphae – why would He have told your father to save you before, if He meant to kill us now? We must have recently offended Him, but I can’t think how. The Gods sometimes forgive those who repent their sins, but you can’t repent for a sin you don’t know you’ve committed!”

  “Well, we don’t have time to ask the Oracle,” Narky said. “If we’re going to pray for forgiveness, we’d better do it now.”

  “Yes,” Criton said, “now would be the time.” The forest had grown suddenly dark, and he was pointing up at the skyline.

  Hunter looked up, and his heart sank. It was only just before noon, but the sun was nowhere to be seen. The sky was black with birds.

  11

  Narky

  When the sky turned dark, Narky could not help himself. He ran, ran from the others, ran into the forest as if it could shield him. He did not even know why he ran, pointless as it was, but his unreasoning reasons were good enough for him. The sky blackened further, and he tripped and fell to his knees. Maybe the birds would content themselves with the others. Maybe they would forget him here.

  He rose to his feet again, and ran some more. Where was the sun? Shouldn’t some angry Sun God be coming to his rescue right about now? Why should Ravennis go after him like this? He knew no oracles, and had done nothing more to harm the God than to talk sarcastically to a bird. Still, he repented for that as he ran. If what the Gods wanted was repentance, They would have it. Gods, They would have it.

  He tripped over roots and tore his way through brambles, but deep as he got into the forest, the darkness was always behind him. Behind and above. Behind and above, and coming closer. He repented for his callousness and his sarcasm. He repented for his rudeness to others. He repented for the murder, though he didn’t see why Ravennis should particularly care about that. No, that was no good! He repented for the murder again, harder.

  For a boy who had thought that getting killed by a mob was the worst thing that could happen to him, he was certainly having his eyes opened. The fear of that was nothing next to the primal, unreasoning fear of being torn to pieces by the Gods themselves. Or by Their messengers. Or by an Aspect of a God, or whatever they wanted to call it; it was beastly and horrifying. He ran, ran and wished that he could shed his skin, if it would let him run any faster.

  “I’m sorry if I humiliated You,” he gasped as he ran. Or maybe he only thought it, but thought it so loudly that he could hear it in his skull.

  I should have known what it was like. When they humiliated me, they laughed and stared and made me want to die. But when someone humiliates You in front of the other Gods, You actually do die, don’t You? They sense Your weakness, and they kill You, sooner or later, unless You can prove Your strength. I’m so sorry. I’m so small and weak, and please, you don’t need to kill me to prove Your strength. I’m so afraid, can that be enough? Please forgive me, I didn’t mean any of it. I will never laugh at a friar again, or be sarcastic to a bird, or do anything to make You angry. Oh Ravennis, forgive me!

  The air grew darker, darker than he knew it could be, and heavier. His chest burned and his limbs ached, but still he ran.

  I’m sorry, he thought, sorry about the murder. I hated Ketch, but he didn’t hate me. He thought I was nothing, just a rude nothing, and he was right. I didn’t kill him on purpose, but I wanted to. I meant to. So what if it was a mistake? It was a mistake I wanted to make, or otherwise I wouldn’t have taken the crossbow with me. Why did I need a crossbow? It’s not like I thought Ketch would try to kill me, I just didn’t want him to hit me again. To spank me, and make me feel like a stupid, weak child. I’m sorry. He didn’t deserve to die, but I do.

  Please, I repent! I know I deserve it, but I really, really don’t want to die this way! Why can’t I die an old fool in a bed, surrounded by foolish children? Oh, please let me die like that. What are another fifty years to you? Oh no, no, I’m sorry! I can’t help thinking this way, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry don’t kill me please.

  Could Ravennis hear him? Did the Gods only listen to prayers that were spoken over a sacrificial altar, with a bull’s blood running down its sides? What wouldn’t he have done to have an altar like that here in the forest! He would slaughter seven bulls and seven rams, and however many doves it took to feed a sky’s worth of ravens. Bandu was so smart to have given her wolf to these ravens. Surely Ravennis would forgive her.

  The darkness was closing in, he could feel it. The sound of millions of feathers, thousands of wings beating all at once. Every moment they were growing louder. Usually a flock of birds beat its wings in unison, but there was no unison in this, no pulse, just a chaotic roar of so many wings flapping as hard as they could. What was Ravennis a God of, other than ravens? Narky wished he could remember. Ravennis had a famous oracle, and crows were sacred to Him, and that was all the attention Narky had paid to the subject. Was He a God of mercy? No, Narky remembered now, He was the God of Fate. Cold and impersonal. Unavoidable, like the beaks and talons of so many birds. How long would it take them to tear all the flesh off his bones? It would happen much faster than Narky could repent for all his sins, that was for sure.

  He was sorry for the disrespect he had shown his father, and for the dryness with which he had taken the news of his death. Of everyone’s death, really. Eramia, and Tank, and the farmers and shepherds, the blacksmith and the fisherman’s lads; even Mother and her ironmonger, who must also be hidden somewhere on the
island with seawater in their lungs. Why had he not mourned them? Death was such a horrible thing; people needed to be pitied and mourned and forgiven, yes, forgiven! He forgave his mother, as well as he could. What had she ever done to him? Only left. She had not killed him, had not humiliated him on purpose, had never murdered anyone. She had only run off and tried to be happy. Surely she did not deserve to die for that! Why had he condemned her so quickly in his mind?

  Any second now, any second. They were so close – they must be! But he was too afraid to turn his head and look.

  Would he meet Mother again, in the afterlife? Would he have the chance to apologize for hating her so? Would he be able to apologize to Ketch? For the first time, he hoped so. He hoped he could apologize to his pa, for disrespecting him just like everyone else did, and to Eramia for misunderstanding her. She had never loved him, but she had never meant to lead him on. She was only being friendly, friendly! He had never had a friend before, and had not understood.

  He should have been able to call the other refugees his friends by now, but he had never really been their friend. He thought they could become his friends, if he could stop being so rude to them all the time. Now it was too late though, wasn’t it? People did not make friends in the afterlife, he was sure of that. They were too busy being dead.

  What a wasted life! He wished he had more time to sort himself out. He could have been a really worthwhile person, he thought. He would learn from Criton and Hunter, who had killed others only to protect themselves and their friends, not out of anger or pride. He would learn from Phaedra, who was so interested in the Gods that surely she would know how to repent properly. Hell, he would even learn from Bandu, whose love for her wolf had been so much stronger than anything Narky had ever felt. For all her savagery, Bandu was far more human than he was.