by Martha Wells
He told her where he had hidden it, and finished, "I wanted you to see it before anybody else, especially the other priests."
"Yes, if it's priests she's after..." Maskelle said slowly. Then she grimaced. "Why do I have the feeling she already has what she's after?"
He leaned on the balustrade next to her. If there were guards left down in the garden, they weren't visible. "The Rite?"
"Yes." She massaged her temples. "I'm beginning to wonder if the second Wheel has to be on a power center after all. The Infinite is very close to our world right now. Maybe it's enough that a Wheel be on a line between two power centers. Or very close to one."
He nodded. "The canal between the Baran Dir and the Marai. We should find out who gave her that house."
"It was the Throne," Maskelle said, with a trace of bitterness. She shook her head with a grimace. "We need to pay Marada another visit."
Rian watched her worriedly. "But you think it's already too late."
"Yes." She nodded. "First let's get that box."
***
But when they went to the spirit shrine near their guesthouse where Rian had hidden the box, they found nothing but a ruined scrap of mud-stained silk—the scarf he had used to carry it.
Maskelle examined the silk, feeling a leftover residue of some magic clinging to it. It had a foul taste, sour and strange, and she couldn't quite remember encountering anything like it before. And with the number of dark powers she had encountered in the past few years, that was hard to believe. "You're sure they couldn't have followed you?" she asked Rian, who was searching for tracks along the mud and grass at the edge of the canal. Not that she thought it was much of a possibility.
He gestured in exasperation, sitting on his heels to examine a disturbed clump of grass more carefully. "They turned out half the neighborhood to catch me. Why let me get all the way across the city with it if they knew where I was? And they couldn't know I'd be stopped before I got it to you." He shook his head.
"Yes. She used magic to find it." Maskelle let out her breath. "Foreign magic." In my city. She remembered poor Veran and anger stirred, hot and welcome.
"She's a sorceress, this woman?" Rastim asked, looking from Maskelle to Rian. He was poking a stick into the mud and searching around the base of the statue, as if hoping the missing object had merely been misplaced. He had seen Maskelle and Rian come down the street with the Celestial One's entourage and come out to see what they were doing.
"For her sake, I hope so," Maskelle said. She went back to the road, where the Celestial One's white palanquin waited, his attendants parting for her like a shoal of startled fish. He lifted the curtain and peered out.
"Proof?" he asked.
"No."
He closed his eyes and sighed, starting to withdraw into the palanquin.
She said, "I need a free hand."
He stopped, watching her, his rheumy eyes expressionless. She lifted her brows. "You don't trust me."
His mouth twitched, not in amusement. "I trust you as far as you trust yourself."
That’s a hard one to answer, she thought ruefully. She said only, "Remember the Rite."
He was still another moment, then nodded once and withdrew into the palanquin.
The procession moved away, the acolytes going to the front to clear the way with sistrums, and she walked back to the shrine.
"Did he say we could do something about Marada?" Rian asked, looking up at her.
"Yes." Maskelle smiled. Something to do, at last. "Tonight she'll be getting a visit from the Adversary."
Chapter Eleven
The sky cleared toward evening and the sunset was blood red.
The whole city would agree that it was an omen, though there would be much debate over what spirit or Ancestor it came from. With one look Maskelle knew it immediately; it was the Adversary's omen.
If there had been no sign, it wouldn't have changed her mind about what she meant to do; but it was good to have the confirmation.
It was evening now and the candles were lit in the bronze and gold stands of her palace suite, sending warm shadows playing among the gilded and inlaid carvings on the walls. In the jasmine-scented breeze from the windows there was distant music and mingled voices; the sound of one of the many banquets being given by high officials and courtiers in the Celestial Home's gardens tonight. If she had stood and looked out the window and over the garden wall, she would see lamps hung from low branches or floated on the pools in little islands of flowers. It reminded her that as far as the rest of the city was concerned, this was Festival Eve. Rastim had mentioned that the Ariaden were engaged not only for the official celebrations tomorrow but for a special kiradi performance tonight at the home of the Lord Portmaster of Telai, who was in the city for the festival and giving a party for a hundred or so of his closest friends. In a few weeks the puppet Gisar would be able to rejoin them, purged of its curse by the Marai's influence.
"This is a bad idea," Rian said, for perhaps the hundredth time.
Maskelle sat on the floor, eyes closed, her hands turned palm up in the meditation position. Her awareness was split, part of it in the room and the rest roaming the night outside. She could feel the damp breeze from the window lightly on her skin, and more strongly as it tore through her insubstantial spirit body.
The Celestial One had sent several young Koshan monks with them, to act as his witnesses and to perhaps exert a restraining influence on any of the Throne's impulses to stir trouble. They were camped out in the stairwell now, practicing meditation rituals, and she could hear the soft echo of their voices in the Infinite. Old Mali had also come with them, apparently feeling that if Maskelle was staying at the Palace she needed an attendant to lend her countenance. Maskelle had mixed feelings about this: she didn't want to put the old woman in danger, but Old Mali had come in handy, terrorizing and then driving away the servants who kept showing up on various pretexts. Most of them were undoubtedly spies sent by Mirak, Disara, or other old enemies, but there had been nothing for them to see. Rian had sent away anything in the suite that could possibly be poisoned, and from the extent of the list, Maskelle wondered how there was anyone alive left in the Sintane.
She could hear Rian pacing and knew he was doing it to deliberately wreck her concentration. Without breaking the trance, she said, "It would be better to do this in the Illsat Sidar."
The pacing paused. "Why?"
"Then I'd have help that would cooperate and keep its mouth shut."
She was trapped here for the night by her agreement with the Throne, or at least her body was. After telling Vigar about Marada and the strong possibility that the second Wheel was located somewhere in her house, they had made their plans for tonight. Then Maskelle had spent the day in the difficult balancing act of removing the dark portion of the Rite grain by grain while the other Voices continued with the rest of the design. The symbols she and Vigar had uncovered as they had taken off the outer layer of dark sand were even less encouraging. They were inexplicable patterns that seemed to hint at storms and ruin, and the Koshans who were searching the libraries had found no record of them so far.
Maskelle and Vigar had also confirmed the hypothesis that the patch of dark sand had been growing larger. It had been trying to creep out along the Western Ascension, and if it had managed to traverse that axis, it could have gone anywhere in this hemisphere. With the second Wheel destroyed, they would never know what the purpose of it had been, but Maskelle was willing to sacrifice that knowledge for safety.
The other Voices would be completing the last part of the Wheel now. If they hurried, it would be just ready by the culmination point of the Equinox tomorrow, and the climax of the Rite would take place as ordained. Maskelle meant to give them the time they needed. The Celestial One was spending the night with the other Voices in the Rite chamber. All of the lower ranks had been given special instructions to ward themselves against spirit possession—a precaution that was normally only necessary outside the boundar
ies of Kushorit cities and villages, when Koshans travelled in the deep forest or on the wild rivers, anywhere particularly strong dark spirits might be encountered.
The pacing had started again. Rian said, "Forgive me. I meant, this is a stupid idea."
"And your natural timidity kept you from saying so before."
"I did say so before."
Maskelle remembered that Rian had never mentioned how the old Holder Lord of Markand had died. She suspected strongly that it had been from exasperation. "How did the Holder Lord die?"
There was a hesitation, then suspiciously, "From a fit, why?"
"Just confirming a supposition. If you can't be quiet, go sit with Old Mali."
"If that old woman slaps me on the ass one more time—"
"Rian." Maskelle took a sharp breath, opening her eyes. "Come here."
He stopped on the far side of the room, watching her warily. "Why?"
"Just come here."
He came reluctantly, taking a seat on a cushion in front of her. "Why?" he said again.
"I'm going to show you exactly what I'm doing. Give me your hands."
When she held his calloused palms in hers, she closed her eyes again and said, "Listen to the wind in the trees. Think of nothing but that."
She extended the window in the Infinite to include him, knowing it might not work. Some people were simply blind to the Infinite. But after a moment she felt his tense grip on her hands relax. She shifted her awareness to the Infinite where her spirit body hung above the Marai in the dark and tearing wind. For an instant she felt him beside her, then he jerked his hands away.
She opened her eyes. He was giving her an indignant look. "You could have warned me."
"It's the twilight world, the connection between this world and the Infinite. Everyone sees it in a different way. Now do you want to come with me or not?"
"All right, all right." He gave her his hands again.
They were in the air high above the Marai. The wind was stronger here, tearing through their spirit bodies. The streets were dark canyons, the buildings insubstantial blurs, and the people were only moving smudges of color against the darkness. Many of the streets and plazas were lit by torches for the festival crowds, but they were dim red blurs, like banked coals. Only the temples, shrines, and the canals were sharply visible. They glowed with a soft inner light, the carvings standing out in such high relief they were almost readable from this height. The faces on the Baran Dir were warm and alive, and the smaller temples and shrines glowed like fallen stars. Except the Marai. The light around the Marai was not soft. It was sharp, outlining every stone of the temple in warm yellow fire, and it pulsed with the growing power of the Rite. The causeway across the moat was covered with what looked like a solid red glow: the procession of Koshans entering the Marai for the opening ritual.
She could feel Rian watching it. She said, "Marada's house," and guided his sight in the right direction.
Two seventh-level Koshans and several monks and temple guards from the Marai were watching Marada's guesthouse tonight. They might not have any proof they could show the Throne, but Rian had seen enough to make the Celestial One put the woman under observation. In spirit form Maskelle could see something that was invisible to the watchers, except perhaps for the seventh-level priests. There was a radiance around the house, a dull, sickly blue glow.
"What is that?" Rian asked. "What's she doing?"
"Watch. She'll have to move soon; they must be almost done with the Rite by now."
The Infinite hummed with power; whatever Marada was doing was nearing completion. Then suddenly the blue glow died, coalesced into a point of light near the center of the house.
"Now we get our proof," Maskelle breathed.
Something was leaving the house, moving down the gallery, drifting over the railing to alight gently on the ground.
Its outline was blurred silver, shifting and changing as it drifted out of the house's compound and down the street. The people it passed did not react to its presence.
"It's like the water creature from the river," Rian said.
"Something like, something unlike. This wasn't what I was expecting." She saw that the two seventh-level priests didn't sense its passage either. It wafted past them, through the wall of another compound, through the house within it that was crowded with people, across the canal on the other side. It was making a straight line for the Marai.
Maskelle had known that there was some sort of spirit in the business when Rian had found the marks of a garrote around Igarin's neck. But she had thought Marada was leaving her own body and taking spirit form, with the help of some special foreign magic that kept the high-level Koshans from sensing her presence. But whatever that was, it wasn't Marada. And it was utterly impossible for a spirit to progress in a straight line across the power pathways of Kushor-At and Kushor-An.
Maskelle cast around for a form to take and felt a bird spirit high overhead, drifting in the night sky. Bird spirits belonged to the Adversary: another omen. She called to it and felt it circle and then fall toward her.
When it came close she felt Rian almost break the trance. All razor-tipped green and gold feathers and flashing claws, it too closely resembled what he thought demons looked like. But he didn't let go of her hands. She explained, "My spirit self can't truly touch or move anything; this spirit can."
She felt a wing brush her cheek, opening up a line of fire as the sharp-edged feather cut her skin. I need you, she thought to it. Just for a short time.
It circled her warily. She knew it recognized her. To watch? it said.
To hunt.
It laughed and opened itself to her, and suddenly she was looking through its eyes.
Its vision was sharper than that of her spirit body. It could see the temples and the canals even more clearly than she could, but the houses and other buildings were still just big brown blurs, the people nearly invisible. It hadn't seen the creature moving away from Marada's house until she looked through its eyes. She heard it hiss in surprise. Kill, the bird spirit whispered in her mind.
Soon, she told it. They watched the creature drift across the Marai's moat. Maskelle was still amazed by the temerity of the thing. She had to change her course to follow it, flying above the straight line of the causeway; even the Adversary's proxy had to approach the Marai through the correct passages.
Once across the moat, the creature moved through walls, again taking the straight path through the temple that should be impossible. Maskelle had to make each square of the inner and outer court before she could drop further toward the ground, buffeted along the way by the power entering and leaving the temple.
She brought herself down to the inner courtyard and felt her own toes curl in reflex as the spirit's claws touched the damp cool stone. The lamps, here were dim orange glows, and there were strange blurred shapes that were all she could see of the people moving in the court. She stepped out of the bird spirit and it crouched, waiting.
Her quarry drifted across the paving stones, the silver nimbus around its form a little sharper now. The creature was moving toward the central tower, toward one of the blurs that stood near the archway. This blur was more well defined than the others, its presence in the Infinite stronger. Maskelle recognized the Celestial One. So that's it. She shifted to block the creature's path.
It stopped, then tried to go around her. She moved again and it halted, drawing back a little. It seemed to see her even less clearly than she could see it. It tried to go around her again, reaching for the Celestial One. Now she could see the cord in its hands.
Now, she told the bird spirit, kill.
With a shriek that echoed through the Infinite, the bird spirit leapt onto the creature.
They fought across the court, twisting and writhing, teeth and claws throwing back shards of light. Maskelle knew the higher level Koshans in the Marai would sense this; she felt the Celestial One's awareness slide across her.
Struggling desperately, the t
hing shook free of the bird spirit, throwing it halfway across the court. The bird spirit tumbled in midair, a dizzying ball of green and gold, then shot back toward its opponent like an arrow. She saw the thing try to wrap its cord around the bird spirit's neck and the spirit went insubstantial, laughing, to reappear again and tear lacy remnants of the thing's flesh away.
***
Watching in fascination as the bird spirit tore into Marada's creature, Rian heard a sudden urgent shout from behind him. He turned to look, but couldn't tell which of the blurs in the court it had come from. Then he heard it again, still coming from behind him, and realized he had heard it with his real ears, not whatever passed for ears here.
He looked at Maskelle, but a crash of wooden furniture decided him. In another heartbeat he was sitting opposite her in the room in the Celestial Home. The room wavered in and out; he took a deep breath and pressed his hands to his eyes, trying to adjust to the abrupt transition. The noise came from the anterooms where the monks were on guard. One of them was shouting for help.
That jolted him back to full awareness. He rolled back off the cushion, catching the siri up on the way and drawing it as he came to his feet.
In the doorway one of the monks was blocking the way, trying to hold someone off with a stool. Old Mali was at his back, armed with a heavy gold pot. Past them he could see a figure in dark robes with lacquered armor and a crested barred helmet disguising its face. One of the other monks sprawled unmoving on the floor.
Torn and bleeding, the spirit thing fled out of the Marai's court. Maskelle went straight up, almost losing sight of it as she and the bird spirit threaded their way out of the pathways of power around the temple. But the thing was fleeing straight across the city and she knew what its destination must be. It was going back to Marada's guesthouse, to its master.
Rian pushed Old Mali aside, caught a handful of the monk's robe and yanked him out of the way, just as a Kushorit short sword cleaved the air where the young man had been standing. Rian slung the monk behind him and ducked a second swordcut. He slammed into the armored man, knocking him back out of the doorway and across the stairwell.
