WoP - 02 - Istu Awakened

by Robert E. Vardeman

  Fost stretched, yawned.

  'You're the one doing the talking, but my throat's as dry as dust,' he said. 'Thanks for the lesson.' Oracle arched a pale eyebrow.

  'The lesson's far from complete,' he said, 'but I perceive the chamberlain, the one you always think of as "the slug," approaches along the corridor. He doubtless means to drag you to another rehearsal or lesson in protocol. As always, it was a pleasure speaking with you. I look forward to our next session together.'

  'I'd look forward to it more,' said Fost, rising, 'if we could talk about something less unnerving and more coherent.' But the image of the little, fat man was gone, leaving Fost alone with the smell of incense, the sound of mumbling savants, and the petulant pit-pat of the chamberlain's sandals coming down the hall.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The thick stone walls of the temple muffled the bustling sounds from without as they muffled the oppressive heat. Fost and his companions wandered along the cool flagstone-paved aisles, glimpsing here and there priests robed in the color of the deity they served, or worshippers laden with small offerings to plead their petty cases, seeking the mending hearts or the winning of good luck for themselves and bad luck for their enemies.

  'What I want to know,' said Erimenes the Ethical, laying a long, vaporous blue finger beside his beaky nose, 'is why the Temple of All Gods, by rights the fairest in all the Sundered Realm, should be so prodigiously ugly.'

  Fost laughed, winning him a dirty look from a pinch-faced priest in a white and yellow robe. The pillared hall swallowed the sound without a trace, however, so that only those nearby heard. It might have been that among the deities whose likenesses were housed here were those who did not disapprove of voices raised in laughter.

  'You can thank the Northblood Barbarians for that,' he said. Ziore tilted her head, partly in respect for the sundry deities and mostly to hear his words, which were spoken now with decorously lowered voice. He saw Moriana looking on with apparent interest, and his heart lifted. There were times since the battle when she seemed to be drifting into another world, a world divorced from this one. Anything that captured her interest and took her away from her own problems merited his approval. That Ziore likewise appeared interested also heartened him. The nun's ghost and Moriana had become closely linked in a way that he could not truly fathom. Their emotions merged into something beyond telepathy. If Ziore smiled, that communicated directly to Moriana's mind.

  He nodded polite acknowledgement to a statue of Ust the Red

  Bear as they passed. The god was one of Fost's patrons, entrusted with guarding the Realm Roads, and he felt an obligation to pay slight obeisance since he had called upon Ust so many times in the past. In spite of his reflexive invocations of the bear god, he wondered if it did any good. He had no proof one way or the other, yet the hetwoman of the Ust-alayakits, Jennas, believed in the god. The time he had spent with Jennas getting through the Rampart Mountains and crossing the length of the Sundered Realm had instilled in him a healthy respect for - if not belief in - Ust. Jennas had predicted this War of Powers long before he had seen the signs forming. Whether her knowledge came from shrewd insight into the ways of man or true revelation by Ust, Fost couldn't say. Either way, Jennas was a superior woman of rare courage and even rarer abilities.

  'The barbarians knew only a few of the Wise Ones when they invaded nearly five thousand years ago. Like most barbarians who pride themselves on virile vigor and their superiority to effete civilized folk, the first thing they did on conquering Medurim was to settle down to emulating the Medurimin citizen in earnest. They somehow decided that gods prefer ostentation. So, they rebuilt the Temple of All Gods according to their own ideas of splendor fitting for a house of deities.' Fost waved a scarred hand. 'These are the results of that wild, misguided fit of building.'

  They looked about. Some of the statues stood free on pedestals, while others were sheltered in alcoves, the gods' and goddesses' preferences determined by their devotees. But the statues mostly predated the barbarian dynasty and were not what captured the eye.

  In his youth, the unschooled and half-wild street urchin named Fost thought that the Temple was ugly. From the outside, its hewn granite blocks were set in massy tiers appearing to form crude steps in the ultimate shape of a pyramid. Now that Fost was grown and had seen other architectures offered by cities in the Realm, he knew the place was an eyesore.

  Inside was no better. High up, where the tiers jutted together, crossed and criss-crossed a spiderweb of struts and supports of wood and iron. The Temple's original plan called for the stepping-in to continue until the ranks of stone met. Planning exceeded expertise in construction. The huge blocks were poorly balanced and would fall if the building had continued upward as intended. The Emperor Gotrag II had ordered his artificers to roof over the partially finished upper structure. The lofty courses were dangerously unstable, as a result, and the latticework of joists and struts grew more complex with every passing year. Should one single succeeding Emperor fail to add bracing, the Temple roof would certainly collapse.

  'But whoever heard of square columns?' demanded Erimenes on a rising note of outrage. The genie whirled about in a tight vortex of blue mist as he pointed out the offending supports. Ziore wavered nearby, her substance lightly mingling with his and giving the philosopher silent approbation. 'And who saw fit,' he continued, 'to build them of alternate blocks of rose granite and whatever that ghastly chartreuse stone is?'

  'It's a type of limestone,' explained Fost. 'And in answer to both the other questions - the Northern Barbarians.'

  Ziore looked puzzled and slightly pained.

  'Forgive my asking, Fost, but I thought the Northern Barbarians founded High Medurim, and that the residents were descended from them.' She bit at her non-existent lip, fearful of giving offense.

  Fost laughed.

  'They did; I'm descended from them, just as you and Erimenes and Moriana are mostly descended from the Golden Barbarians. The Golden Barbarians have achieved a static society while the Northern ones have locked themselves into a cycle of renaissance and regression; every few centuries they work themselves up to the level of barbarism, then they fall to fighting and knock themselves back to savagery. They call it progress.'

  They stopped in front of an alcove containing still another of the seemingly endless statues of a goddess. It was a conventional enough rendering of a lovely, slender woman bearing sword and lyre. Fost was struck by the resemblance between the chiselled stone features and those of the illusion Moriana had brought forth in the Black March. The exiled Sky City princess had duplicated well, never having set foot in this Temple before.

  If she had duplicated, Fost found himself thinking.

  Wordlessly, Moriana slipped the strap of the satchel containing Ziore's jug from her shoulder and handed it to Fost. She stepped forward and fell to her knees in front of the statue, placed a sprig of blue wildflowers at the statue's feet and bent her head in prayer. Fost held his breath, half-expecting and half-dreading some sign. But the statue remained stone.

  Moriana finally uttered a small sigh and rose.

  'The goddess thanks you, milady,' came a voice behind Fost.

  Fost turned to see a stout, short man dressed in green and gold, with a fringe of gray hair hanging lank from the base of his bald head. Around his neck rode a gold chain supporting a medallion struck with the signs of sword and lyre. His eyes shone surprisingly green and youthful from a leathery, seamed face.

  'It's I who have come to thank her,' Moriana said.

  The priest's brow knit, then his face underwent a remarkable migration of lines and wrinkles that eventually sorted out into a broad beam of joy.

  'But you, Princess Moriana, are the one who called her down to succor our folk at the Black March!' He dropped to his knees and reached an arthritic hand out to catch the hem of her gown and raise it to his lips. He fumbled a moment, uncertain when he found no skirt, then took the hem of her suede tunic and kissed it instead.
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  'This is the happiest day of my life! All my devotions are rewarded. I come at last into the presence of one truly touched by blessed Jirre!' Great tears of happiness rolled down his round cheeks. Even Fost, skeptical of priests and politicians, was moved by the intensity of the emotion displayed.

  Tears gleamed at the corners of Moriana's eyes as she reached down and helped the little priest to his feet.

  'You need not kneel to me,' she said. Fost thought she was going to tell him it hadn't been Jirre at all but rather an illusion she had summoned to confound the Zr'gsz. But her eyes caught Fost's, a corner of her mouth quirked upward, and she said nothing.

  'They cried at the portal that you were within,' the priest babbled in rapture. 'But I did not dare hope. Joy, joy!'

  'Wait a minute,' Fost said. 'Who was crying at the portal that Moriana was within?'

  'The mob.'

  Fost swallowed. He exchanged bleak looks with Moriana. There was no need to ask which mob it was. News of the way Moriana had brought the battle to a conclusion had preceded the returning army by a full day. Coming between that news and the first tired riders had been the tidings borne by Zak'zar of Kara-Est's destruction and Moriana's lineage. When Moriana had entered High Medurim, she had been beset by two masses of people, one throwing flower petals and naming her holy and the other naming her witch and traitor to her kind. It was even rumored old Sir Tharvus wandered the streets dressed in a mendicant's rags and egged on the violent taction. He had lost brothers in battle and blamed Moriana. If a mob truly gathered at the Temple door crying Moriana's name, she and her companions were in danger.

  As the priest hopped from one foot to the other pleading to be told what troubled the holy lady, Fost corralled a worried-looking woman in white and red. He found that, as he had dreaded, half those thronging the Temple screamed for Moriana and the other half screamed for Moriana's blood.

  'But won't the ones who call you savior protect you from the others?' asked Ziore.

  'More likely the two factions will pull her apart in a tug of war,' Fost answered grimly. 'It's happened before.' He had lost his own parents to a riot many years ago when the mob rose up in rage at learning the dole was to be cut to cover the expenses of celebrating Teom's ascension to the Sapphire Throne.

  'If I must face them, then I shall,' she said, tossing back her hair. 'Where's my sword?' Moriana walked toward the front of the hall.

  Fost seized her arm. Her eyes blazed as she spun on him, but she neither broke his grip nor fried him with a lightning bolt.

  'You won't defeat the Dark Ones by getting yourself torn to pieces on the Temple steps,' he pointed out.

  'What would you do? Do you want me to cower among the statues until the mob rushes the gates and drags me out? If I must die, I'll do it on my own two feet, with my head held high.'

  Fost knew it wasn't bravado speaking. She had gone to what seemed certain doom in the Sky City and the Circle of the Skywell to face the Demon Istu himself. She had succeeded in slowing the Demon's pace long enough for many of her subjects in the City to escape; not once had she wavered in front of that black, soul-sucking being.

  'No need,' he said. 'Where are the Wardens of the Temple?'

  Grasping the peril of the situation, the portly priest gathered up his skirts and hustled off in search of one of the brown-robed custodians of the Temple. Two figures soon returned, both tall, both with brown hoods drawn well up and closed to cover their faces. They carried faded leather satchels containing ceramic jars slung over their shoulders. They paused for a moment listening to the battle raging on the other side of the vast structure, and then hurried off through the puddles and refuse that desecrated the interior of the Temple. They slipped through a side door and made their way through the city's alleys.

  They dined as they generally had since coming to High Medurim, alone in their apartments except for the two genies. After they had finished, the chamberlain arrived all a twitter to go over the protocols they would be called on to observe on the morrow when Teom invested them both as nobles of the Empire. When the man left at last, pale hands fluttering like a mother bird drawing attention away from her nest, they both felt as tired as if they'd been forced to run around the entire city of Medurim - twice. A sultry, sticky sea breeze blew in through the windows, laden with the smell of dead fish.

  Moriana had a stack of scrolls and books piled in the corner, grimoires that a servant had brought over from the Library. But she claimed to be too tired to make sense of them. For his part, Fost toyed with the notion of paying a visit to Oracle.

  He just as quickly discarded the idea. Since the night of the orgy celebrating their initial arrival to the city, Empress Temalla had taken to popping out at him as he walked the corridors, particularly at night. He knew all too well what would happen if he angered her, and he was running out of tactful refusals to her sexual overtures. The last time had been the most embarrassing. He had admitted - lied - that he had contracted an uncomfortable fungus infection from riding so long in a wet saddle. At that, the Empress had laughed uproariously and told him she was too old to believe in a child's fable and that he must have gotten the blight by becoming more familiar with his war dog than was conventional, even by High Medurim's permissive standards. He had been blushing quite authentically when they parted.

  Fost and Moriana finally retired for the night, to separate pallets. Though she had not rejected his company since the battle, she hadn't encouraged intimacy, either. He had considered asking for separate quarters, yet hoped that their nearness would again spark the feelings for one another they'd lost. He undressed quickly and lay down, turning his face to the wall and trying to ignore the rustlings and shirtings Moriana made as she disrobed.

  The two Athalar spirits had been cooing and making calf-eyes at one another constantly while the humans ate. Before going to her own bed, Moriana poured them together in a bronze vessel Teom had provided for just that purpose. There were many times Fost wished Erimenes and Ziore had remained as hostile to one another as when they'd first met. He had thought their incessant squabbling wearisome, but itwas nothing compared to this. Thanks to Ch'rri, the Wirix-magic spawned cat woman and a healthy dose of aphrodisiac vapors, the two genies had discovered the art of incorporeal love-making. They may not have had bodies but they carried on like pigs in rut. In spite of the squeals, moans and titters, sleep soon found Fost.

  Walls of light, flowing curtains of blue and scarlet and white shifting relentlessly, colors blending seamlessly one into another circled Fost. He reached out an arm turned curiously insubstantial. Warmth met his fingertips. He pushed into the colored fog and the wall vanished, revealing a long corridor.

  Unafraid, Fost walked forward. His feet met only softness, as if he marched on the very stuff of which clouds were made. The parti-colored walls remained just beyond his reach as he walked and walked and walked, for what seemed an eternity. Suddenly, he realized he had acquired a companion.

  'Erimenes!' he cried out in surprise. 'You have feet!'

  'Of course I do, dear boy. Did you suspect tentacles - or perhaps another head?' The spirit appeared as tenuous as ever, but now Fost joined him in this ghostly state.

  Ziore reached out and caressed Fost's cheek. Surprised, yet curiously calm at all happening to him, he caught up her wrist. His fingers momentarily felt substance, then his fingers flowed through her forearm. He couldn't tell if it were she or himself lacking a real dimension.

  'Ahead,' came Moriana's voice. 'How lovely it is!'

  Fost felt ineffable calm. His friends had joined him in this dream world, this dream. He looked in the direction Moriana pointed. Unbidden, the name 'Agift' came to mind. This was the home of the gods and goddesses. His mind flitted around the idea this was more than simple dream, then hastily moved from such conjecture. He was too caught up in the swirling nothingness at the end of the corridor. Even as Fost watched, the mists solidified into a subtly hued chamber filled with light that cast no shadow.

 
He blinked, then noticed a table at the far end of the room, the figures grouped around it strangely familiar to him.

  Radiant in her gown of green and gold, Jirre rose as the four approached.

  'Daughter,' the goddess said to Moriana. 'It is good to see you again. I had not planned on it. You may thank Majyra for this meeting.' She nodded to a young woman at the head of the table, stately in a lavender gown that left milk-white shoulders bare. Deep red hair was piled atop her head. Her eyes shone out as black as night.

  'Sit and be welcome. You can stay only a short while.' As she spoke, her gown's color changed to icy blue.

  Fost hadn't noticed the four chairs before. He and the others took seats and faced the Three and Twenty Wise Ones, their gods and goddesses.

  'We are not all here,' said the older woman to Majyra's left. 'Tothyr and Avalys won't come because they find Majyra too frivolous, and several of the others are missing for whatever reason. Who can say with us?' She drew deeply on a leaf-rolled cigarette, then blew the smoke out. The smoke danced and formed fleeting caricatures of those missing from the table. Fost blushed when he recognized the acts being performed by those smoky figures.

  'I thank you for your hospitality, Lady Majyra,' said Moriana, gathering her wits more rapidly than Fost. Of them all she took this with the most aplomb. Even Erimenes remained uncharacteristically silent in the presence of the deities.

  'And to you, Jirre,' continued Moriana, 'I offer my thanks and eternal devotion for the aid rendered at the Black March.'

  'You are welcome,' said Jirre, a smile curling her lips. 'I truly wish I could do more. But as I told you, I cannot.'

  'What of the others? My world is your domain. The Dark Ones threaten it. Can't you take an active part in defending it?'

  Several of the deities stirred impatiently. Fost felt the shape of the chamber altering, as if the emotions rising somehow changed the very physical dimensions of the room. He sensed that few of the Three and Twenty assembled were favorably disposed toward him - or Moriana.