But how . . . what had happened? Was the miracle in the cave just an illusion? Had he and Lea only fooled themselves?
Heartsick, he dug into the pouch and felt the beveled sides of the small, polished emerald.
Astonished, he pulled it out. In the sunlight, it was only a brown pebble. He stared, unable to explain it, then dropped it back into the pouch. Peering inside, he could dimly see the outline of the two emeralds. A glint of green winked out at him.
Caelan opened his mouth, then closed it. Briefly he smelled the soft fragrance of warm earth and blossoms; then it was gone, obliterated by the stench of smoke and death.
The earth spirits were still with him, still protecting the gift they had given him. He did not know why, but he wasn’t going to question it. Hope filtered back through his grief and despair. Only a tiny sliver of hope, but it was more than he’d had a moment before.
Then the Thyzarene put iron shackles on his wrists, and reality returned with all its grim implications. Caelan stared at the chains and could not imagine himself a slave.
His owner grinned at him with admiration. “Plenty tall. Plenty strong. Young. All good things. You best of all those captured. When I am rich, I shall pay dowry for good wife. Best quality wife. See? All good things happening.”
Caelan looked at the forest. His heart ached for his little sister. Perhaps he should tell them about her. Alone, she would die. If taken captive, she would be enslaved and sold, but she would be alive.
“Not too young,” the Thyzarene chattered on, gloating. He took out his smelly salve and began smearing it on Caelan’s cuts. The wound in Caelan’s face stopped throbbing, and suddenly the pain was bearable.
Caelan sucked in a deep breath and refused to feel grateful.
“Too young, go too cheap,” the Thyzarene said. “No profit there. Always trouble with little ones. Easier when they die. You just right.”
Caelan’s throat closed off. He said nothing about Lea.
The Thyzarene yanked on Caelan’s chains. “You come. Come! We have far to go.”
Feeling the unaccustomed clanking weight of the shackles and all their shame, Caelan did as he was told. Following Raul and Gunder, who were also chained, Caelan walked past the dead, and looked down at their beloved faces for the last time. Anya and Tisa, Surva, Old Farns ... his father.
He jerked to a stop. “My fault,” he whispered, staring at his father’s sightless eyes. “I—I’m sorry I wasn’t the son you wanted—”
The Thyzarene pulled him onward. “Come. You come now!”
Bound and helpless, Caelan was taken to where the dragons milled and bugled, sniffing the air and snapping restlessly. His owner put him astride Kuvar and chained him to the beast’s harness.
And when it lurched, lifting into the air with a mighty beating of its leathery wings, Caelan looked down at the forest where he had abandoned his sister. He should have ignored the desire to play hero and stayed with her. He knew that now. As long as he lived, he would live with the chains of that guilt on his soul.
Once again he could see her tear-stained face, could hear her desperate plea ringing in his ears. “Caelan!”
He shut his eyes and wept.
PART TWO
Chapter Twelve
Four years later
FLAMES BURNED HIGH in the central fire pit, throwing off intense heat. Hundreds of fat white candles blazed along shelves built high on each wall of the sanctum. The smell of melting wax mingled with the more pungent aroma of burning incense.
The gathered sisterhood of the Penestricans entered the sanctum in a double line. Their chanting rose and fell like the ocean tide. As they entered, the women parted in opposite directions to line the rough-hewn walls. Each sister stood veiled in black. Each held a skull in her hands. The tops of the skulls had been sawn off to form crucibles filled with a mixture of soil and female blood.
The chanting rose in intensity. At the entrance a woman robed in black appeared. Her pale narrow face revealed nothing except concentration. It was ageless, unlined, yet gaunt as though a lifetime of challenges had drawn her down to only the essentials.
She was the Magria, supreme mother within the sisterhood. Their chanting beat within her like her own pulse.
For three days she had fasted in preparation for the visioning. She had lain in the sweat chamber, forcing all impurities from her body. Now she stood emptied, ready. Her mind was clear. She had no hesitations.
Behind her, the deputy Anas untied the lacings of the Magria’s robe and pulled it off her shoulders, leaving her naked. The intense heat struck her skin, and the Magria drew in a quick breath.
She walked forward to the sand pit that surrounded the fire. The sand was hot enough to burn the bare soles of her feet. The Magria did not flinch. In her state of heightened awareness, physical pain only served to clarify the visioning. She could have walked across live coals had it been necessary.
The chanting continued, rising in a frenzy around her. She could feel the collective force of the sisterhood around her, sustaining and strengthening her for what lay ahead.
She lifted her hands high in supplication to the stone image of the goddess mother in its niche on the opposite wall. The chanting ceased in abrupt unison, and all was silent. The Magria closed her eyes and reached into the stone box next to the fire pit.
“Within the power of the goddess mother, we call forth these children of the earth,” she said. “Let them tell us their truth. Let us be worthy enough to understand it.”
Her fingers entwined among the knot of writhing snakes inside the box, and she lifted them out. A dozen or more in number, they hissed and coiled about her wrists, but none of them struck her.
The Magria held them high for a moment, then tossed them upon the sand. “Truth-sayers, speak!” she called out.
Retreating from the sand pit, she climbed a tall dais overlooking it and seated herself on the stone chair.
The serpents writhed and slithered across the sand. They were active in the heat, hungry. But none of them made any effort to crawl out of the shallow pit.
Watching, her mind empty with anticipation, the Magria clutched the arms of her chair and waited in silence. She considered the lines drawn on the sand by the snakes, finding the pattern disturbingly clear.
As she had expected ... but she must wait. It was not yet time for interpretation.
Without warning, crimson filled her vision, coating all that she saw. Blood ... or the scarlet hue of rubies. The jewels blazed before her as though a hand had tossed a thousand of them across the sand. They reflected the firelight, glittering with life of their own. One of the snakes opened its mouth wide, fangs unfolding. It gulped down an egg-sized ruby, the jewel bulging through its length.
The Magria swayed in her chair and moaned.
Around her the walls ran with blood. It pooled on the floor, then ran in streams into the pit where the sand soaked it up.
Feeling the power, the Magria moaned again. Her heart pulsed stronger and stronger. The veiled sisters began to chant again, very soft and low, while the flames hissed and blazed.
The snake continued to eat the rubies, faster and faster, gorging itself on them until its length was swollen and lumpy. At last it lay still and sated, its mouth open. Another snake began to eat the jewels that remained.
The Magria swayed in her chair, biting her lip to hold back her cries. She must be strong. She must hold the vision until it was finished. But this one was very powerful, far more so than she had expected.
Fear lay on her like sweat. Around her blood puddled at her feet, welling up between her toes, staining her skin with its warmth. The wet, heavy scent of it filled her nostrils.
The second snake was still gobbling rubies. So few of the jewels remained unconsumed ... so few.
Across the sand pit, the remaining serpents rolled themselves together into a writhing wad. When they abruptly separated and slithered apart, the Magria saw there were now only seven.
One
was colored a rich green. Another was blue; another gold; and yet another black. The fifth was striped with crimson bands. The sixth was speckled gray and brown. The seventh was white, its skin loose, stretching. The Magria saw that it was shedding its skin. The others surrounded it, coiled and hissing, their forked tongues flickering in and out as they waited.
The Magria felt pain inside her chest as though anticipation had drawn it too tight. She forgot to breathe.
Then the gold-colored serpent moved away from the black snake that companioned it. The crimson-banded serpent approached the gold one, but it veered away. The green and blue snakes surrounded the gold one, but the black serpent intervened and drove the gold serpent back toward the one with crimson bands. Gold and crimson entwined themselves together, and the black serpent retreated. Green and blue faced each other, rearing high. The green shook rattles on its tail in warning. The blue flared out a hood. Swaying with mutual menace, they struck in battle, lashing and coiling about each other in a fury.
Meanwhile, the pale molting snake emerged wet and glistening. It was five times larger than any of the others. It looked like none of the others, white as death, an unholy thing that seemed to grow larger while the others fought.
Then the gold serpent, lying so still around the one with crimson bands, tightened its coils and began to squeeze. When the crimson-banded one struggled, the gold one struck at the vulnerable spot at the back of its head.
Pain speared the back of the Magria’s skull. With a scream she threw herself back in her chair.
The gold serpent raced across the sand, pursued by the green and the blue. The black snake tried to follow but found itself cut off by the gray speckled one. The two fought furiously until at last the black twisted free. It reared up, seeking the gold serpent, but before the gold serpent was round I he white snake of death uncoiled its mammoth, sluggish body. It rose up, stretching high above the dais itself. And it swallowed the Magria.
* * *
Hours later, she awakened on the stone of revival, the granite smooth and cool beneath her back. Around her stood the rough walls of the small, private chamber cut into the rock just beyond the sanctum. The air was cool and refreshing. She could feel dried sweat on her skin. Her body seemed weightless, as though only her spirit anchored her to the stone. Exhaustion had melted her bones to nothing.
Someone came to her and laid a cool cloth across her forehead. The Magria could smell restorative herbs scenting the water that had moistened the cloth. She closed her eyes to seek the multiple points of relaxation. Cool hands continued to minister to her. Soothing hands.
After a short time, the Magria opened her eyes and looked up into the face of her deputy.
She forced open her lips, felt them tremble. “Anas,” she whispered.
“Gently, “Anas soothed her. She spread a blanket across the Magria and smoothed its folds. Then she washed the Magria’s face gently with cool clean linen. “Take your time. I have brought wine for you.”
The Magria nodded, sitting up, and Anas brought the cup to her lips. The Magria drank deeply of the golden liquid. It was dry, yet rich with flavor, supremely restorative.
She sighed, feeling strength flow back into her veins. But her fear and disquiet did not lessen. Taking the cup, she gestured Anas away.
The deputy folded her hands within her sleeves and stepped back. Well trained, she waited with serene eyes.
The Magria pushed away the blanket and climbed off the revival stone. She leaned cautiously against it for moment until she had tested the strength of her legs. She was drained entirely. She longed to sink back into oblivion and sleep for a thousand years.
Then with a blink, the Magria’s memory returned. She recalled the vision and its terrible message. Her mouth went dry, and when she tried to sip more wine her teeth chattered against the cup.
“There is no hurry,” Anas said. “Rest longer, Excellency, until you are stronger.”
The Magria turned her head sharply to look at the deputy. “Did you see it?” she demanded. “Any of it?”
Anas hesitated, then lowered her gaze. “I saw blood,” she admitted.
The Magria hissed and slammed down her cup. “Anything else?”
“No, Excellency.”
The Magria glared at her and said nothing. After a moment Anas raised her eyes and met the Magria’s steadily.
“You know the danger of that,” the Magria said, deliberately letting anger fill her voice.
Anas did not flinch. “I could not withstand all of it. Blood seeped from the walls. It ran among us, filling the floor. The hems of the sisters’ robes were soaked with it.”
The Magria turned away to hide her own fresh rush of fear. “Did anyone else see this?”
“No. All remained veiled.”
Relief steadied the Magria. That at least was a mercy. She was in no mood to conduct a purge. Not now when there was so much to do. “The sisterhood has grown lax,” she said, keeping her voice harsh. The tone masked much, and she did not intend for Anas to know anything other than what she chose to reveal. It was not easy to come to terms with a vision of her own death. She needed time for that, time that she did not have.
When she turned back to the deputy, she was in command of herself again. Her gaze was icy, and this time when she raked it across Anas, she had the satisfaction of seeing her deputy frown.
“Forgive me, Excellency,” Anas said. “I alone transgressed.”
“You have been trained better than this.”
“Yes.”
The Magria studied her, critical and still angry, but finding new shades of meaning in what had transpired. Anas was making no excuses, no justifications. That meant there was no deceit involved.
“You did resist.”
Anas nodded, looking troubled. “With all my strength. I know it is forbidden to share a vision. I know the dangers.”
The Magria narrowed her eyes. Yes, Anas knew the dangers very well. Her predecessor had been a fool who let driving ambition overcome caution. She had interfered in several visionings, until the day one of them killed her. Watching a visioning occur unveiled, yet resisting the temptation to share in it, was the final stage of training for a deputy. Until a sister passed successfully, she could not be considered a true ally, or an eventual successor to the Magria.
Anas had always been levelheaded and intelligent. She let patience temper her ambitions, which was the foundation of wisdom. She had much potential, and the Magria liked her.
If Anas said she could not resist, then that meant she had tried very hard. She must be afraid, although she hid it well. The Magria studied the deputy and found the skin around her eyes a bit tighter than usual. Her serenity was impeccable, but proving hard to maintain.
Satisfied, the Magria ceased to blame Anas for the mistake. The vision had been extremely strong, and that meant they had little time in which to act.
She glanced at the exit that led back to the sanctum. “Are they waiting?”
Anas shook her head. “I dismissed them. You have been unconscious for nearly six hours.”
“Ah.” More evidence of the power of this vision. And its truth. The Magria walked back into the sanctum, feeling the grit stick to the salve that Anas had smeared on the burned soles of her feet.
Anas followed, carrying a robe folded neatly over her arm. The Magria ignored the unspoken hint. She was not yet ready to be clothed. Robes were artifice and concealment. She wanted to think without either restriction.
Climbing the dais on legs that remained weak, she sank onto the stone chair with a faint sigh and frowned at the sand pit below.
All lay quiet. The candles had burned out, leaving the sanctum plunged in shadow. Anas moved about without haste, lighting fresh ones. Only cold ashes remained of the fire. The serpents had been left in the sand pit. They were ordinary brown snakes again, restlessly seeking prey.
The Magria extended her hand, and a small pale mouse appeared on her palm.
She released it int
o the sand pit. The snakes sensed it at once and turned. The mouse scampered back and forth in increasing panic, then froze, whiskers quivering, as the first snake reached it.
We are mice, the Magria thought, turning her gaze away from the creature’s destruction. Our time is dwindling quickly.
She stared at the mutilation scars on her arms, remembering the past when her old dugs had been firm and ripe, when her body had been strong and young, when she had felt the five powers coursing through her, sustaining her where she had no wisdom.
“Excellency,” Anas said softly. That one quiet word revealed her worry.
The Magria turned to her. “No, I am not slipping back into the void,” she said wearily. “Fear not.”
“You are troubled.”
The Magria pushed aside her emotions. “Stop hinting. I shall tell you soon enough. I must.”
Anas betrayed herself with a tiny smile. She had always possessed poise beyond her experience. And now that the Magria had not reprimanded her for having shared in the visioning, it seemed her natural confidence was returning.
She said nothing else, but she was waiting. It was her place to be told first, ahead of the sisterhood. She would expect the whole truth, not just part of it. That was her right, as well as her responsibility, for being the deputy.
But the Magria had no intention of sharing everything. Until her fear was mastered, she did not dare.
“At last, I have been shown the future of our world,” the Magria said. “The world approaches ... chaos.”
Anas blinked. “This is hardly unforeseen,” she said impatiently. “Death is coming to the emperor. There are few in the world who have known anyone but him as its center.”
“He will die soon. This final incarnation will not be as long as the others,” the Magria said firmly.
“Then the rumors that say he will find the means to bargain anew for his life are false?”
“Yes.”
Anas drew in a satisfied breath. “Ah.”
“The laws of time have been bent as far as possible, and the shadow gods are impatient to end the bargain. They will claim him soon.”
Reign of Shadows Page 15
