by Marc Turner
She was still feeling disorientated after her journey to the forest along the threads of the Spider’s sorcerous web, a voyage of scores of leagues completed in as many heartbeats. It was not an experience she wished to repeat—as if her body had been pulled apart and whisked away on a gale born of the Furies themselves. Arriving battered and shaken in the forest, she had been thrown back together by the goddess with unseemly haste. It felt to Romany as if her heart had rematerialized in her mouth. More disturbing still, her waistline appeared to have filled out noticeably from how she remembered it. The Spider’s idea of a joke, no doubt.
To ensure Romany’s arrival was not witnessed, the goddess had deposited her a considerable distance from her destination. The trek had been uphill, naturally, and the priestess’s legs were aching from the climb. Forced to hitch up her robe to avoid it dragging in the dirt, her ankles and shins were being scratched bloody by knots of nettleclaw. After what seemed an eternity she arrived, breathing heavily, at the outskirts of the dead city where Mayot Mencada was holed up. The Spider had called this place Estapharriol, which meant “refuge” in the language of the people who once lived here—an unfortunate choice of name, considering the city’s history. All that remained of the buildings were crumbling walls and mounds of rubble, interspersed with trees. A few trunks even sprouted from the middle of roads, leaving the flagstones round them cracked and buckled.
The layout of the ruins indicated the buildings here had been clustered tightly together. They were small too, smaller than the quarters of Romany’s servants—acolytes, she corrected herself—at the temple. No sign of marble either, just some coarsely veined white stone that reflected the sunlight with a dazzling glare. Sweat trickled into the priestess’s eyes, and she wondered if there was a bathhouse in this godforsaken place. Hardly likely, she conceded, for she had yet to see even a single building with its roof intact.
The trees thinned out as she approached the center of the city, and she found herself longing for some shade. The air ahead was filled with the sound of rushing water. Romany came to the first of dozens of stone channels snaking between the ruins, each half filled with water and narrow enough for her to step over. It was a while before she worked out what she was looking at: the River Amber, split into scores of tiny watercourses and redirected through the city. One of the streams had overflowed its channel, flooding the ground to either side. Rather than wade through the muck, Romany decided to circle round. Looking back from a short distance upriver, she saw the watercourse was blocked by the corpse of a dusken deer. Behind it had collected the bodies of scores of coral birds and ruskits.
So it has started, then.
Romany could now sense the invisible strands of death-magic all about. Where they brushed her skin she felt a chill that cut through the stifling heat. The air stank of rot, and she shook out a perfumed handkerchief and held it to her nose. She saw her destination then, rising above the treetops: a vast domed structure beside a densely forested hill, an eighth of a league away. To have survived the millennia, the building must once have been a place of powerful magic, though what significance it had held to the people who used to live here she could not say—the Spider had proved typically frugal when it came to sharing her knowledge of the city.
A quarter of a bell later, Romany stood before the dome. The base of the building had been sculpted to resemble a rocky shore pummeled by waves. Snaking through those foaming waters were the curls of some huge, barbed sea serpent, while higher up the priestess saw a carving of a three-masted ship in full sail. The image stirred an uncomfortable recollection of the one time, five years ago, when she had been reckless enough to surrender the sanctity of dry land …
Grimacing, she pushed the memory aside.
The reason for the dome’s longevity was readily apparent in the whiff of decaying sorcery that bled from its walls. Not death-magic this time, but … something else. The power appeared to have seeped out into the rest of Estapharriol, for the buildings surrounding the dome were more intact than the ones on the outskirts of the city. Romany followed the wall of the dome east until she came to an arched entranceway. Stepping through, she found herself in a corridor. A breeze blew into her face. To either side, the walls were pockmarked with an apparently haphazard arrangement of holes. As the wind entered and exited the openings, it made a rhythmic hissing sound like the lapping of waves. Romany’s stomach heaved.
After a dozen paces the passage opened out onto an immense, gloomy chamber. Light filtered through star-shaped openings in a roof so high the priestess half expected to see clouds passing beneath. Around the sides of the dome were the remains of tiered stone seating, while in the center was a square dais with steps leading up to it on all sides. At each corner of the base was a ketar tree, apparently growing from stone. A false floor then, Romany surmised, for she could see no roots aboveground. Over the dais, the trees’ bare branches intertwined to form a tangled canopy. The floor of the dome was covered in leaves that rippled in the wind.
On a rusty throne near the middle of the dais sat a shrunken, white-haired old man dressed in black robes. His gaze followed Romany as she crossed to stand at the foot of the steps. He might have been expecting her arrival for all the reaction that showed in his bloodshot eyes. She could tell from the stench of sweat that bathing was a lost art to him. He also needed a new tailor, judging by the way his robes swallowed his gaunt frame. With his left hand he stroked a leather-bound book that rested on his lap. Death-magic oozed from its pages.
Romany forced a smile and said in the common tongue, “Ah, Lord Mayot, I believe.” She doubted he merited the honorific, but—as with all men—he would be easily swayed by flattery. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Mayot was so long in answering, the priestess had begun to look round for a chair. “Who are you, woman?”
“A worthy question. Alas, modesty forbids me from revealing my identity. Think of me only as … a friend.”
“A friend,” Mayot repeated, speaking the word as if it were new to him. “It appears you have me at a disadvantage then, friend. For while you seem to know who I am, I know nothing of you.”
“A grievous blow to my pride.”
“I take it our meeting here is no coincidence,” Mayot went on. “A strange place indeed for a chance encounter, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Irrefutable logic, my Lord. My congratulations—”
Mayot’s right arm snapped out, and a wave of grainy black sorcery shot from his hand toward Romany.
She stiffened, no time to react …
As it was, her magical wards were not unduly troubled, channeling the mage’s power away to leave her standing unscathed. She heard an explosion behind, followed by the sound of grinding stone. The leaves on the floor had been thrown up in the wake of the sorcery, and they now started floating down again, scorched black by Mayot’s death-magic.
Romany sniffed. “Such deplorable manners,” she scolded the old man. “And such foolishness, too, to strike at me before I have even stated my cause.”
Mayot’s expression showed neither surprise nor remorse. “I think an explanation is called for if you wish to continue this conversation in a more civil fashion. Now, who sent you? Avallon? The Black Tower?”
Romany recalled the names from her discussions with the Spider. “Does my accent sound to you like that of someone from Erin Elal?”
“I’ll ask the questions. How did you find me?”
“Why, through that, of course,” the priestess said, gesturing to the book in his lap.
“Explain.”
“You cannot be blind to the magic radiating from that thing, nor the effect it is having on the forest outside. Did you think your meddling would go undetected?”
“Meddling?” Mayot said softly.
“Well, if I may be blunt, your clumsy attempts to unlock the Book’s secrets have proved less than successful to date, am I right?”
The mage’s left eyelid began to flutter. “Care
ful, woman.”
Romany had to admire his self-control in the face of her provocation, yet at the same time it made her curious to see how far she could goad him before his composure cracked. “You are finding that the passages are blurred or unintelligible, yes? That the language defies comprehension? That you read some sentences only to discover you have forgotten the words before you reach the end?”
“And you are offering to help, I take it?”
The priestess smiled her most endearing smile, only to see it fall on stony ground. “Precisely. To read the Book of Lost Souls is to traverse a great maze. You might wander for years and still not find what you are seeking. To decipher even the simplest section will take more time than you have.”
“Time?” Mayot said. “I have all the time I need.”
“Would that were so. Alas, I am not the only person to have been alerted by the Book’s … reawakening. Your next visitor may not prove as genial as I am.”
“Then he will die at my hands.”
Romany rolled her eyes. The arrogance of men! “And if Shroud himself has taken an interest? Sent his servants against you?”
Mayot took the bait. “Now why would he do that?”
“Perhaps because he felt threatened.”
The mage’s eyes glittered. “The Book would give me such power?”
Romany made no response. Instead she put on an exaggerated frown. Let the old man think he had deduced something she would rather have kept secret.
Mayot studied her for a long moment, then continued, “And you expect me to believe that you would just surrender this power to me? Why? What do you stand to gain?”
“Perhaps in promoting your interests, I further my own.”
“Which are?”
“Not your concern, my Lord.”
Mayot considered. “You say it would take centuries to learn the Book’s secrets. How is it, then, that you claim to know them?”
A fair point, but Romany was ready for it. “Not know them, merely how to unlock them.”
“Nevertheless, the question stands. I sense an immortal’s hand in this.”
Not a muscle twitched in the priestess’s face. “You flatter me.”
“That’s not what I meant, as you well know.”
Romany unleashed the voice she reserved for her most troublesome acolytes. “Do not presume to tell me what I do and do not know.” An evasion, of course, but all part of the game. Her caginess would do nothing to allay Mayot’s suspicions, but doubtless she’d already done enough to catch this particular fish on her hook. All she had to do now was wait for the old man’s ambition to reel him in.
Sure enough, it was the mage who at last broke the silence. “I assume this help of yours involves me handing over the Book to you.”
“Not at all. You need only lower the wards you have placed round the dais. A few moments—”
Mayot’s chuckle cut her off. “Ah. Now I understand.”
“No, you do not!” Romany said, stamping her foot. “If I wanted the Book for myself, would I not take it before I delivered its power to you?”
“I see no reason to put that to the test.”
“And if I should decide to dismantle your defenses myself?”
The mage clasped the Book to his chest. “If you could, you would have done so already.”
Not true, but battering down the old man’s shields would serve only to advertise her presence here as clearly as Mayot had heralded his. “That would hardly be a good way to build trust between us, my Lord. Trust we will need if we are to work together in this.”
The mage snorted. “You expect me to trust you?”
“I don’t see that you have any choice. Without my aid you will still be wearing your eyes out on page one of that thing”—she nodded at the Book—“when Shroud taps you on the shoulder.”
“So you say.”
The priestess tutted her frustration. Spider give me strength! Could the old man not see the Book was useless to him without her aid? Did his stubbornness eclipse even his avarice? Too arrogant to know he is outmatched, too proud to accept help when it is offered. But these were only the opening exchanges in the game, and Romany had countless other moves to confound him with.
The first of which was indifference.
“It would seem,” she said, “that you have yet to grasp the true gravity of your predicament. I will leave you to reflect on my offer. Perhaps by the time I return—”
“You cannot leave, woman. Not now. Not knowing what you do.”
An empty threat, but all the more irritating for that. “I said I was coming back, did I not? In the meantime, I think I will take a bath.” The priestess looked round. “Where are your servants?”
“Servants?” Mayot squinted at her. “I have no servants.”
Romany stared at him.
* * *
Holding a hand out to the wall for support, Parolla followed the spiral staircase down into blackness. It had taken her longer than expected to dispel the sorceries that barred the entrance to the crypt. The high priest’s defenses demonstrated a level of sophistication that spoke of days of careful crafting, an almost feverish zeal. Parolla’s hands had trembled as she undid his work, her excitement building as each layer of wards peeled away. What could the high priest be so anxious to keep hidden from prying eyes? After years of searching, could Parolla dare to hope her quest was nearing its end?
Her breathing sounded harsh in the confines of the stairwell. She had taken one of the wall torches from the temple, but its light was beginning to dwindle, as if the flames were being smothered by the weight of darkness below. The stairs became increasingly cracked and worn, and she was forced to slow her pace. A short time later the steps came to an end, and she drew up.
The closeness of the stairwell was replaced by yawning emptiness, and Parolla stood at the brink of it. The light from her torch penetrated no more than a dozen paces beyond a narrow precipice. To her right, a forest of pillars rose from the gloom below and disappeared into blackness above. The nearest pillar, less than a score of armspans away, was covered in carved images. Parolla held out her torch and peered at them, only for the flames to gutter and die.
Shadows rushed in from all sides.
Muttering an oath, Parolla tossed the torch over the precipice and started counting. She reached five before it hit something—the floor of the crypt, no doubt—with a muted clatter. Drawing her cloak about her, she waited for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. A faint glow came from far below and to her right, its source obscured by the pillars. Parolla paused, considering. There were no obvious ways down to whatever lay beneath, but the high priest would not have gone to the effort of sealing this place off if it was inaccessible. And since she hadn’t seen any passages leading off the stairwell during her descent …
Lowering herself to her hands and knees, she groped blindly along the vertical rock face below her until she discovered a gash hacked into it. Twisting around, she swung her legs out over the ledge. Her left boot scuffed stone until she found the first precarious foothold. The second was farther down than she would have liked, and little more than a scratch in the rock.
Whispering a silent prayer to the ether, she began to descend.
By the time her feet touched solid ground again, both her fingers and her nerves were scraped raw. She turned and put her back to the wall. The glow she had noticed earlier was now in front of her: a rectangular doorway of pale light, fifty paces away. To either side, rows of pillars, each as wide as Parolla was tall, faded into darkness. A sound came from her right, and she looked across, but saw nothing. She tilted her head and listened. All was quiet, save for the pounding of blood in her ears …
No, there it was again—a noise like the flap of leathery wings. Bats? Parolla let out a breath, silently berating herself for her skittishness.
She edged forward, fragments of stone and shattered floor tiles cracking underfoot. There was a dusty dryness to the air that soon coated the inside
of her mouth, and she raised a hand to her lips to deaden the sound of a cough. Shapes took form in the shadows ahead—two huge statues flanking an altar of similar scale. From the altar pulsed echoes of death-magic. Its stone sides were covered with carvings. She walked round to the other side where the light was brightest, then moved closer to inspect them. An orgy of bloodlust was being acted out by a throng of animal-headed figures wearing enraptured expressions. The light playing across the carvings gave the impression of movement, as if the souls of the figures were trapped within the stone.
This is no crypt, Parolla realized. She was standing on sanctified ground. It had to be another temple, but to which god? And why had Shroud built his own shrine over it? She turned to examine the statues that flanked the altar. Both were unmistakably male. Standing on a mound of skulls, the figure on the left was so tall that its shoulders and head were lost in the darkness above. Its right hand clutched air where a spear must once have been. Nothing remained of the second statue save for the figure’s lower torso and legs, around which were curled tongues of stone flame. Its upper body had been hewn away from left shoulder to right hip. What hand could have inflicted such a blow? More importantly, who would dare deface a god’s image in his own temple?
Parolla turned to the rectangular doorway from which the light came.
There was an explosion of noise from the darkness round her. Something brushed her face.
She threw herself to the left, rolled, then rose on one knee and flung out her right hand toward the source of the sound. Death-magic erupted from her fingers. The sorcery split the air between the two statues before rumbling on into the heart of the temple.
