Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  The novice pushed herself upward and managed to crawl a few feet farther along the gallery, forcing herself not to look. She could not shut out the sounds, however, the wet, gurgling noises, the sucking sounds. There was no further sound from Narda.

  How could Boq’urak’s High Ones lend themselves to such a rite? How could they let themselves be used in that fashion? Had her own Mentor, Master Varn, let that happen to him?

  The thought of her esteemed teacher lending his body to be used in that obscene manner made her reel sideways, until she fetched up against the stone parapet again.

  If you faint, they’ll find you. You’ll be punished. The same thing might happen to you. You have to get away. Away from the temple, away from Verang, away from Amaran. Get away, away, away, away from that thing!

  That thing, the Incarnate … Had it discovered her? She couldn’t stop herself from looking down, through another hole in the stonework.

  The chanting was now at its height. Plumes of reddish smoke filled the air, curdling and thickening as they wrapped tendrils around the body of the now fully transformed priest. He was enormous—the body of the god

  nearly eclipsed the black stone altar. With a last, obscene plunge of His torso, He stiffened, then a shudder rippled through the giant frame. The tail lashed like an angry cat’s.

  Boq’urak reared back, straightening, and Thia could see Narda’s body. Her throat was a bloody ruin, and huge puck-ered circles oozed red along her sides. Her parted thighs were scarlet.

  The god raised His head, and for the first time Thia saw the countenance of the being she had been trained to worship above all.

  Boq’urak’s face was wide, with a frill of flesh where the priest’s brows had been, extending across His face to shield slits that had replaced His ears. The god had eyes, two huge, staring, lidless eyes that seemed to see everything. No nose. A sucker appendage with a single tooth served as the creature’s mouth. The facial skin was lighter than the body, a pale gray.

  Thia stared into those eyes, and knew that Boq’urak saw her. Saw her, and knew her for who she was.

  She was dead, and she knew it, but her body refused to believe. With a gasp, the novice scuttled through the doorway and, scrambling to her feet, ran like a hunted animal.

  Her mind was whirling, and she barely retained sense enough to check the doorposts for the secret signs. Her flying feet carried her up steps, down tunnels, up more stairs.

  She turned the corner into the hallway leading out of the ziggurat, breath sobbing, feet like two lumps of ice— —and crashed full-force against a solid, unyielding form.

  Her mind gibbered and teetered on the edge of utter madness for a moment, then she realized the newcomer was human.

  She staggered back, gasping, and looked up, ready to babble explanations and apologies.

  “Master!” she cried. “Oh, thank Boq’urak!”

  Master Varn stood gazing at her, his dark brows drawing together in concern. “Thia! Child, where have you been?”

  “I … I …” She dragged in a deep breath, marshaled her wits, forced her mind to cast off its panic and work again.

  She made the proper obeisance of a novice to a High One, then plunged into the ritual response, grateful not to have to think about what she was saying. “Master, this unworthy one begs forgiveness. I am late to supper. Assign me penance, that I may redeem myself and cast off my sin.”

  He was staring down at her, and his eyes, behind his hooded lids, were filled with a mixture of exasperation and humor. “Thia, child! What shall I do with you? Late again!

  Do you know how many—”

  He broke off as Thia grabbed his sleeve, clutching it in both hands, twisting. “Master Varn, do you know what they’re doing down there? They killed children! And Narda—”

  She stopped, gagging, one hand pressed to her mouth.

  Master Varn stared down at her, his black eyes intent.

  “What? What are you saying?”

  “It’s true, I saw it!” Thia whispered. She was shaking and her knees threatened to buckle. Master Varn put a steadying hand on her shoulder, and gratefully, she rested her forehead against his chest. His warmth steadied her, comforted her.

  “You saw?” his voice was strained. “Tell me what you saw, child.”

  “A monster,” she whispered into the folds of his robe, whimpering at the memory. “Horrible.” She raised her head.

  “We have to stop them.”

  “I understand,” he said. “We must—” He broke off, eyes widening, then narrowing. His entire body stiffened and he blinked several times. Then his gaze once again fixed on her.

  Thia gazed up at him, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the fact that it was winter and the ancient stones were as cold as well water. “You, you believe me, don’t you?”

  “Yes I do,” he said steadily. “I know you, child. You could never lie to me.”

  “Have you ever seen … it?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “No, of course not.”

  He’s lying. Thia knew it immediately. How could I have been so stupid? Of course he’s seen it! She felt betrayed.

  Only her realization that she was in terrible danger kept her from collapsing into tears. She bowed her head, hiding her face against his robe, thinking fast. He’s a priest of Boq’urak. They say Boq’urak can communicate His wishes

  to His priests. Boq’urak is Incarnate even now. Could He be communicating with Master Varn?

  Whether or not the Incarnate was sending instructions to her Master, she couldn’t take the chance that Varn would let her leave, after what she’d admitted to seeing. I have to get away!

  Just then her Master wrapped both arms around her, holding her tightly, rocking her. Once she had longed for such an embrace from him. Now, she shuddered with revulsion.

  He was whispering softly, so softly that the novice could barely make out the words. “Child, child … what shall I do with you?”

  Thia gulped, forced herself to think clearly. I must get away. She raised her head and looked up at him. “Master, we can leave together. Fetch your cloak. I will wait here.”

  Gently, she pulled back, and he released her.

  Thia smiled shakily at him. “Hurry, Master!”

  He hesitated, and for a moment Thia thought he was going to turn away. Then he shook his head. “No. You must come with me.” He took a step toward her.

  Thia took a step back.

  His eyes narrowed as he took in her reaction. “Child, calm yourself. You trust me, yes? Come, I will take you to a place where you will be safe, and we can talk.”

  He extended his hand, smiling reassuringly.

  He was lying, and Thia knew it as surely as she knew the sun would not rise without the predawn sacrifice of the Chosen each day. She shook her head and backed away farther.

  “I’m afraid. It was horrible.”

  “I know,” he said, speaking truth. He hesitated, then repeated, “Child, come here …” Thia realized that he was torn, truly torn, between his duty to the god and his genuine affection for his protégé.

  She stood there, wondering what she should do. He was between her and the way to freedom, the corridor that led outside, to the open air, to the postern gate that led away from the temple courtyard, to the path that was the shortcut down the mountain to Verang.

  A brief memory flashed into her mind. Once, in the streets of Verang, she had seen two streetboys fighting, and the smaller one had disabled the other in a most decisive manner …

  Thia took a step forward, her hands going to the skirts of her habit, still partially kilted up. She took another step.

  Varn smiled, his mouth curved upward, but there was no warmth in his eyes. “We will talk, child,” he said.

  Thia took another step—

  —and then her foot flashed upward with all her strength in a hard, swift, kick. Her scrunched-up toes buried themselves in the space between her Mentor’s legs, bunching his robe around her. For a sec
ond her foot was encased in warmth and softness.

  Then she leaped backward, in time to see Varn’s eyes roll back in his head. The High One dropped to his knees, then rolled over on his side, gagging and writhing in agony.

  “Master Varn, I’m so sorry, please, please forgive me …”

  Thia fell to her own knees, wondering if she had killed him.

  But he was still breathing, though he did not seem aware of her or her babbled apologies. The novice made the Sign of the Incarnate over his gasping form, then began to pray.

  “Boq’urak Incarnate, save thy servant, heal him, bless him, let him not know pain, only thy blessed succor—” Realizing what she was saying, Thia stopped, shook herself, and scuttled backward. What was she doing? Praying to that … that thing? That obscenity? Never again! Not if they sacrificed her a thousand times!

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, edging around her fallen Mentor. “Farewell, Master.”

  Grabbing up her skirts, she began running again. Corridors and doorways flashed by, until she was at the portal leading to the courtyard. She eased the big door open and slipped out, into the yard where patches of frozen slush made her feet burn as she stumbled and slid through them.

  Across the courtyard, dodging into the blessed shadows, she scurried to stay out of the torchlight. Thia shivered as she felt the first lash of the wind.

  Even the mountains seemed to bend down and look at her, making her feel hemmed in as she wrestled with the latch of the postern gate. Surely the god would not let her get away!

  Surely she would be struck down at any moment in a blast of fire—or perhaps He would turn her to stone, as a lesson to other erring novices.

  Through the postern gate, now, and the pathway down the mountain stretched before her. No alarm yet sounded. She was outside at night, and that alone was an offense worthy of being declared tomorrow’s Chosen and being offered to the god to ensure the sunrise.

  Freezing, snow-laden air assaulted her shaven pate, her bare feet. The first storm of the season had arrived. Pulling up her hood and hunkering low against the blast of the wind, Thia began to run again, her arms wrapped around her, holding her warmth in, holding her life to her. It was all she had … and who knew how long Boq’urak would choose to toy with her, permitting her to remain alive?

  Perhaps it would be better just to sink down into the deepening snow, stay still for a very few minutes and let the blizzard work its will. It would be a brief, merciful death, compared to what the High Ones would do to her.

  But something in Thia’s nature would not allow that.

  While she lived, she would fight to keep on living.

  Her jaw tight with resolve—and to keep her teeth from chattering—Thia trotted on, down the path, down the mountain.

  She did not look back.

  Khith

  The ruins of the Ancients stood deep within the Sarsithe Jungle, surrounded by monstrous trees that seemingly challenged the clouds. The ruins were so old that trees had grown and spread amidst them, and the roots of the forest giants cradled, clenched, and, in some cases, crushed the strange building materials of the Ancients. Gnarled gray roots stretched down like talons to enclose the opalescent material of the cracked domes. Broken spires shimmered with bands of oil-slick color amid the lacy green curtains of selshir leaves. The caved-in domes and the ruined spires seemed to sprout from the soil and the broken paving like giant fungi.

  None of the Hthras, even Khith, who had been studying them for nearly thirty years, knew who those Ancients had been. They had left no images of themselves. They were not Hthras, that was certain—the dimensions of their buildings, their doorways, their furnishings, proved that. Even a tall human could walk into one of the ruined domes without stooping. Khith was tall for a Hthras, yet the scholar stood barely half the height of one of those vine-tangled doorways.

  Khith’s people lived in the giant trees, avoiding the ruins as forbidden. But Khith was … different. Had always been different. Ever since it had reached the age of responsibility— though not maturity, for Khith had never developed a sexual attraction for another Hthras, and thus remained in the neuter phase—the scholar had made frequent trips into the places other Hthras shunned, searching out the secrets of the ruins.

  Unlike most of its people, Khith enjoyed solitude. The scholar’s father had been a trader who did most of his trade with humans, and as a result, Khith had spent more of its childhood years interacting with human children than with its own kind. The ruins fascinated the scholar; their mysteries beckoned the young Hthras into defying one of the most basic tenets of the Hthras culture—that the ruins of the Ancients were forbidden ground.

  The Hthras authorities had spoken to the young scholar several times, cautioning it against such investigation. Once, the scholar had even been summoned to a meeting of the Council of Elders.

  “The Ancients had great powers, but they were reckless, and at the end, wicked,” First Elder Nkotha had admonished, shaking a bony digit at the younger Hthras. “They unleashed such destruction as has never been seen, according to our legends. There are even hints that they caused the Great Waste that lies to the east of the Sarsithe. Before their time, that land was a garden. Now it is death for any who walk there for more than a handful of days.”

  Khith stared at the Council of Elders, fascinated. “How could that happen? The Great Waste is larger even than the Sarsithe! And our forest is larger than the islands of Pela and Taenarith put together. The Ancients’ sorcery must have been as far above our magic as we are above the animals of the forest! How could they control such power? Elder, if we could but solve their mysteries—”

  “Control … that is the point, youngling!” old Nkotha broke in, pounding a veiny fist on the table. “They had no control! They unleashed what they did not understand, and could not control! We Hthras will not make that same mistake … we will not!” Nkotha sank back in her seat, panting, and her attendant bent over her solicitously.

  “Nkotha is the wisest among us,” Second Elder Sthaal declared. “We are determined never again to delve into those forbidden things, lest the fate that befell the Ancients become ours. Cease your investigations, youngling!”

  With an aching heart, Khith had bowed its head and spoken the words the Elders wanted to hear. “I shall obey, Elders. I respect your wisdom.”

  And, for many years, Khith had kept its promise. The scholar had gone back to live with its people among the treetops, in their cities of bell-shaped dwellings Hthras Growers had ripened in their nurseries. Hthras knew plants, knew growing things, as no other creatures did. Rather than maim or destroy the jungle to accommodate their species, they cultivated, coaxed, and “convinced” it to do their bidding.

  But after another handful of years had passed, years of frustration when none of the unmated Hthras caught its eye, Khith’s curiosity about the Ancients proved more than it could conquer, and one day the scholar went out for a walk … and never returned to the treetops. Instead, Khith stole back to the ruins and resumed its studies there.

  The Hthras scholar had always been good with the magic of its people: herb lore, healing, a little farseeing, magics to sooth, confuse, or frighten. But the Ancients had delved into so many powerful magics! Deep in vaults beneath the ruins, the Hthras scholar found ancient texts, some crumbling, others miraculously preserved. Khith spent days laboriously copying the most decaying tomes. Slowly, the Hthras worked at deciphering their language, puzzling out their letters and numbers, slowly piecing together words, phrases, and finally reading the ancient texts. It took the Hthras scholar nearly two years to learn to read the language of the Ancients, and longer still to be able to understand and put into practice what it had so painstakingly translated.

  At first Khith had maintained some discreet ties with other Hthras villages, trading with them for food and supplies, but then, sensing the disapproval of the Council of Elders and realizing it was under observation, the scholar went underground, literally. The domes a
nd structures still visible on the forest floor represented only a small part of the Ancients’ city. Beneath the ground were networks of chambers and seemingly endless tunnels. There were also many record storerooms and several libraries. For the past half-year Khith had ventured out mostly at night to search the jungle for herbs and food.

  The scholar had been content with its search for knowledge. Content … until the dreams had started.

  Dreams held great import for the Hthras. And every night for the past tenday, Khith had dreamed of jaws in the night, of teeth tearing, of trying to run from an unseen foe while weighted down with invisible chains.

  Khith knew that such dreams should be taken seriously …

  but these warnings were so vague, so formless. It was not enough for the scholar to sense danger approaching—Khith needed to know what the danger was, and who presented it.

  Reluctantly, the scholar had realized that it must find out what those ominous dreams portended.

  So it was that one afternoon Khith sat perched atop a tall stool in one of those underground chambers where the Ancients had practiced their version of alchemy. The scholar frowned as it stared uneasily at a bowl of oily black liquid resting on the high table before it.

  Hthras foretelling spells usually caused the worker to dream in highly symbolic terms of danger. Such dreams could be useful, but they required interpretation, and they were never precise.

  But the spells of the Ancients were different.

  Khith had found this spell in a crumbling tome, and it had been extremely difficult to translate the fragmentary and vermin-chewed pages. And even when it had determined the proper ingredients, there was something missing—the correct proportions. For that, Khith had to experiment, trusting instincts honed by years of experience in brewing potions, tisanes, infusions, and teas.

  This brew was the strongest it had ever made, the most distilled. Khith stared at the concoction, thinking perhaps that knowledge wasn’t worth the risk. The scholar wasn’t sure exactly what the effects might be, but it knew lian roots were a powerful hallucinogen. There were tales among the Hthras of magic workers who had taken potions to farsee, only to leap to their deaths from their homes in the forest giants, thinking themselves winged or invulnerable.