City of Night

by Michelle West

  He waited; he did not speak until she turned to face him. “The news you have already brought me,” she whispered, “is dark enough, Ararath. It is far, far worse than the daggers.”

  “My pardon, Sigurne,” he replied.

  “No. I will not grant what you have no need to ask of me. It is I who should ask yours. If I desired a life free of trouble, I would not now occupy the position I hold. Tell me,” she added.

  “Gods,” he replied.

  She closed her eyes.

  In the silence, Ararath of Handernesse accepted death. He had accepted it in theory, when Jewel had first begged him to leave his pursuit of the demons, although she did not know what she asked. He had accepted it in the troubling conversation with Haval. But accepting the unknown, accepting the risk—and calling it certainty—was not the same as choosing. As knowing.

  Is this what Jewel always felt? he wondered, as he watched Sigurne’s veined lids, her closed eyes, the way her hands trembled.

  He would have left her, but knew that she would not allow it. Frail or no, she would hear what he had to say. And in truth? He required it. He required the knowledge, the certainty that she could offer.

  “There are two,” he continued, “and I do not understand the second.”

  “The first?”

  “The first I understand well,” he replied. “The god we do not name. To see his hand in the work of demons is not a stretch,” he added, “If the demons are free.”

  She nodded.

  “But the nature of his influence is not clear to me. In all three of the dreams, darkness figures prominently, but—and the dreams, even of prophecy, cannot be said to be literal—the darkness is devouring the City.”

  Sigurne said softly “That is not possible.”

  “As you say,” was the quiet reply. A minute passed in a silence so still words would have shattered it. Rath waited until that stillness had eased before he chose to continue. “In the second and third dream, however, another god—my informant believed it to be a god, and my informant’s instincts are seldom wrong, although they are frequently fractured—appears, and it is a god, in aspect and description, that I cannot name. I admit that I have done little research,” he added. “I came directly to you upon receipt of this information.”

  “Tell me of this second god.”

  “He had no name. He did not name himself, and my informant likewise could not name him. However, he told my informant that this fight, in the end, was his fight.” He hesitated. He was weary of subterfuge.

  But he was not yet willing to expose Jewel’s talent- born gifts to this woman. Not even to this woman, whom he trusted. He had all but said he would send Jewel—as a messenger—to Amarais. To House Terafin. But he could not bring himself to speak of her abilities; not directly.

  “What aspect did he choose?”

  “Ah. He had no fixed form. The first time she saw him, he was a giant beast; a giant antlered beast. But in both cases? Forest figured prominently.”

  Her frown was a frown that could be found on the countenance of any member of the Order of Knowledge, and it lessened the pain and fatigue. He had presented her with a riddle.

  “Hunters?” she finally asked, and the way she asked caused Rath to raise a brow.

  “In the first dream, yes, if I am not mistaken. They were not seen in the vision, but horns were heard, and dogs. You have some suspicion of who he must be?”

  “I have, but, Ararath, what I know makes no sense.” She turned back to the window that framed the street.

  “How so?”

  “The Hunter God is worshiped in one of the Western Kingdoms, the Kingdom of Breodanir. He is worshiped nowhere else,” she added, “But he is considered the god of the hunt, and it is not in the interests of the members of the Order to question his existence while they work there. One of his aspects, the most feared, is that of a giant beast; it is said he causes the deaths of his Hunters annually.”

  “You have members in the Western Kingdoms?”

  “We have members anywhere that it is relatively safe for them to study. Not all of those members, by any means, are mage-born.”

  “And they do not believe that the Hunter God is a god?”

  “He has no mortal children,” she replied. “Not even in Breodanir, the kingdom in which the whole of his worship resides. The term hunter-born, which is used with frequency, refers merely to the sons of the ruling nobles. None of the hunter-born are golden-eyed; they are not, in any way that we have been able to determine, born of the god they worship.”

  “They do not put the golden-eyed to death there, as they do in the Dominion?”

  “No. They accept the existence of our gods, and in general, the worship of our gods in Breodanir is similar to their worship in the Empire. The mother-born work in the Mother’s temples in the King’s City, and possibly elsewhere in the Kingdom, and they are treated with both respect and understanding of their divine nature. It is because the true gods are accepted, and even worshiped, that Breodanir has long been a puzzle to us. It is seldom that a country accepts the existence of true gods while venerating, by their side, a god that cannot exist.”

  He frowned. “So. A god that doesn’t exist offers the key to the defeat of the plans of the god we do not name.”

  “I will confer with my colleagues,” she replied. “It may be that some part of the mystery will be unraveled by those who have made Breodanir their study.”

  Rath stood, then. “Sigurne,” he said softly, grasping, at last, at straws. Seeking a way out, a way to survive. “Will you not take this to the Kings?”

  “I would take it,” she replied, “had I access to your informant, and some way of ascertaining the truth of Wyrd you have claimed on their behalf.” She raised a hand to her eyes for a moment, and then lowered it. “I could go to Duvari. The political caution that must be exercised with The Ten would not trouble him.”

  Rath flinched at the use of the name. He did not, however, argue.

  “But if I go to Duvari, he will demand the name of your informant. If you are not ready to surrender it, you will no longer be free. And if you are ready, and you pass this information to the head of the Astari, your informant will almost certainly not be unencumbered again.” She hesitated. “Ararath.”

  “I think it likely you could sway the Kings by belief alone, given your position and your reputation.”

  “About the demons, yes. But in order to reach Cordufar, we would have to cross The Darias in the Council, and without proof—as you have long known—that is not an option to us.

  “And not even I would be able to claim, by belief alone, that the gods are literally involved.” She rose. “It is not, however, by belief alone that I would operate in that realm. Remember, I am on the Isle.”

  “You will speak with the Exalted?”

  “I will,” she said softly, tiredly. “If it concerns the gods, who better than the children of the three to consult? But there is much that involves the gods that the gods will not divulge. I will speak,” she said quietly, “with the Son of Cormaris.” She walked toward the door, and then turned back.

  Voice gentle, she added, “But if, indeed, the god we do not name is involved, it is my belief that the gods would know, and they would bespeak their mortal sons and daughters. If this were the case, word would have already reached the Kings.”

  “And you do not think it has.”

  “The Kings have not approached the Order of Knowledge with this information.” She lifted a hand before he could speak. “Nor would they hesitate, Ararath. The Magi are part of the first line of defense against those that serve the unnamed god; they are part of the first line of defense, hampered as they are, against the demons.

  “But I will speak, now, with the Exalted of Cormaris, should he choose to grant me audience. If it will ease you, accompany me.”

  “I am hardly dressed in an appropriate manner to speak with the Exalted.”

  “No,” she replied, “You are not. But I wil
l cede, for the moment, a robe for your use. It will be of lesser quality than the jacket you now wear, but it will mark your presence as one who aids me in my journeys. Come.”

  When a robe had been found—and the search had raised brows and caused some dire, and thankfully largely inaudible muttering—Rath slid it over his clothing. The outer halls of the first floor of the Order of Knowledge were decorated in a way that suggested wealth and its obvious extension, power. There were, therefore, mirrors into which he might look, adjusting the fall of shoulders and the drape of hood, both of which were large, even considering the jacket he wore beneath its folds.

  While he was thus occupied, Sigurne approached him at the side of another member of the Order.

  “This is Matteos Corvel,” she said. “Matteos, this is Ararath. His style of dress is entirely a courtesy to the Exalted.”

  Rath bowed. “Member Mellifas felt that speed was advisable and I was not otherwise able to come up with suitable attire on short notice.”

  Matteos Corvel raised a dark brow. His hood did not obscure his face; it was dark, and the lines across his brow, white in comparison, spoke of battles that had not managed to kill him.

  “Matteos,” Sigurne told Rath, “is often charged with my safety. Member APhaniel is not currently in residence,” she added. “But in any event, Member APhaniel is not always the ideal choice for the formality of the Church of Cormaris.”

  At this, Matteos Corvel grimaced and looked as if he would speak; he held his peace, but with some effort. Instead of words, he offered Sigurne his arm, and she nodded gracefully, placing her hand upon it.

  The cathedrals of Averalaan Aramarelas could be seen by travelers long before they had reached the demiwalls which girded the outer City itself. At that distance, they were evocative; they hinted at wealth and the serenity of distant, benign power. It was not, however, as such a traveler that Rath now approached them.

  Nor was it as such a traveler that he was granted entrance. Unlike the palace, with its obvious guards, its obvious foreign dignitaries and the wing of Avantari occupied by its multiple bureaucracies and their attendant employees and visitors, the cathedral was dramatically silent. What bustle there was existed behind the walls of the open nave. Visitors, of course, did not use those halls. They walked, instead, beneath the spread wings of an eagle in flight, and passed beneath the rod he clasped in curved talons. That all of this was done in stone was expected; that the stone did not rob the eagle of intelligence, focus, and the sense that it was living, was not.

  But here, of course, the maker-born had toiled. If any could afford their services, it was the cathedrals upon the Isle.

  Gold leaf had been laid upon the carved runes of welcome, and startling blue stones had been laid at their points. Rath gazed at them a moment, but did not linger. It had been years since he had come to sit on the magnificent and gleaming benches that spread out within the space formed by three walls. The cathedral was never dark. Even in Henden, at midnight, magelights shone, reflected in gold and warmed by aged ivory and polished silver. The Mother’s cathedral observed the strict tenets of the Six Dark Days, as did the cathedral of Reymaris, but Cormaris was the Lord of Wisdom, and in the darkness, wisdom was light.

  Or so Rath had been told. Funny, to think of that here.

  Sigurne had passed beneath the towering arch that led to the pews, Matteos by her side. The younger mage—Rath had no doubt he was mage-born—had relaxed perceptibly upon entering the cathedral. Rath envied him; he hadn’t.

  Nor was it required. Sigurne had not been in the building long before two Priests came from the recessed doors to either side of the great nave. They wore robes that were not dissimilar to the Order’s robes, but where the Order’s robes were functional and plain, the robes of the Priesthood were subtly embroidered with gold. The men were silent as they approached, but they tendered Sigurne a deep bow; it was also genuine.

  “Member Mellifas,” one man said. “The Exalted is waiting.”

  She nodded in turn, and Matteos offered her an arm.

  “Your companion?”

  “Ah. He is, as you have divined, new to the Order, and he is here at my request.”

  “Very well.” He glanced once again at Rath, as if words were about to spill into the silence and he hoped to catch them. The silence, however, remained unbroken. Long past the point it would have been awkward under merely social circumstances, the Priest nodded and turned.

  The halls that were traveled by Priests and novitiates were not as finely accoutered as the areas meant to instill awe in visitors, but they were by no means plain, and they did not suggest humility. They were wider than the servants’ halls that wound like warrens through any of the great manors, and the sconces that held torches—or, in this case, magestones—were gleaming in the light. The floors were stone, as were the walls, but they were broken by any number of architectural flourishes: small alcoves in which statues resided, arches that were not structurally necessary, molded cornices. There were also hanging tapestries and framed paintings; the halls were not short, and they followed the halls until they reached a set of narrow stairs.

  The stairs were winding stairs, girded in the center by a stone pillar around which were engraved emblems of the god. The Priests led up those stairs, and the mages followed in single file. Rath brought up the rear, pausing to glance up toward the pillar’s height where eagles were, indeed, in perpetual flight.

  He approached those eagles as he climbed; the stairs, like the halls, were not short. Although halls branched from the spiral, they were not taken. Rath wondered why it was that even Priests loved the heights. Then again, this was their job, their place of employ; it was no doubt to entirely more humble—and thankfully less steep—stairs that they repaired at the end of their day’s service.

  But the stairs did end, and with them, the climb and the building ache they caused in the leg he favored. As Sigurne did not trouble to pause to catch breath, no one else could. Vanity was foolish that way, but it drove far greater men than Rath, and he acknowledged this with a wry smile.

  The Priest noticed, of course. The one thing about Priests that made them so daunting was the utter lack of humor they indulged in while on duty. Not that humor on this particular day was required—but the lack of humor implied a certain self-importance that on the best of days annoyed Rath.

  He let it go, and followed Sigurne down the hall. It was in all ways finer than the halls on the first floor, and windows graced it, colored light illuminating both walls and floors. Here, sun behind their insubstantial wings, eagles soared above both mountains and City, watching from a remove of flight, untroubled by the things that could not touch them.

  And what, thought Rath, as he paused to watch their captured flight, troubled gods? Why, if they existed as they did, in their perfect distant lands, did they care about the fate of mortals, whose lives might end before they finished a thought?

  He reached up with his right hand, and paused an inch from the surface of the window under the watchful eye of Sigurne, who had stopped and turned back. Embarassed, he lowered his hand. She simply waited, and her expression when he turned to meet her gaze reminded him, in ways that he could not define, of Cormaris, the god in whose service this entire cathedral had been built.

  She held out her hand, command in the silent gesture, and after a moment he understood the grace she offered, and he extended his arm as naturally as if he had never left the patriciate for the hovels of his later homes in the holdings. She placed her hand upon that arm, and by simple presence, it steadied him. What we ask for, Rath thought, and what we give. Both sustain us. She smiled, as if she had heard the thought, and she inclined her head slightly.

  Nor did Matteos resent his replacement; he simply fell into the position Rath had occupied, and continued to walk.

  So it was that they came at last to the chambers in which the Exalted ruled the churches of Cormaris across the Empire. In the center of the chamber, in the center of a mosaic of st
one, stood a throne. It was so tall in back that it seemed at first to be narrow; it was not. The rests were heavy and dark, and the seat itself could not be seen because it was occupied by the Exalted of Cormaris.

  Robes of white and gold fell from his broad shoulders to the floor; his hair, in the light that streamed in from the ceiling, seemed pale, as gold was often pale, although it could have been brown, or even gray; the light was transforming. He wore a simple circlet, and it was simple, compared to the more complicated headdress that was required by official functions outside of his own domain. His fingers were ringed, and he did, indeed, carry a rod, which lay now across that brilliant lap.

  But it was his eyes that drew the attention, and his gaze that held it.

  “Sigurne,” he said, dispensing in a word with formality.

  She was trusted, Rath thought, that much.

  She bowed to the Exalted, as did Rath and Matteos; they held their bows longer, but some consideration was due her age and the rank granted her by the Order of Knowledge. And yet, in the eyes of the god-born son of Cormaris, there was no obvious acknowledgment of her power.

  “Exalted,” she said, as she rose. Rath smiled slightly; if informality had been offered, she had very politely rejected it. Nor did the son of Cormaris seem surprised or displeased.

  “Have you come to have daggers reconsecrated?”

  “No, Exalted. I have come to beg an audience with your father, if you deem it wise.”

  A pale brow rose in the light. “Speak plainly, Sigurne.”

  “I have received word from my associate of a dreaming Wyrd,” she replied. “And it is significant, if indeed it is a Wyrd.” She turned to Rath. “Ararath,” she said quietly. “Tell the Exalted what you have told me, and let him judge.”

  Rath bowed to her. “With your permission, Exalted,” he said quietly.

  “Granted.”