The Verdant Passage

by Denning, Troy

  Inside Tithian’s mind, Agis found his memory screen isolated by a vast plain of silent, white emptiness. Whatever the woman’s message, it had put the high templar on the alert, and he was now carefully suppressing his memories. For a moment, the noble worried that Tithian had somehow detected his presence, but realized this could not be. If that had happened, dozens of templars would be rushing to arrest him.

  “I didn’t mean to imply that I would take your man’s place,” Agis said. “I intend to show him better ways—”

  Tithian raised a silencing hand. “He’s quite touchy about his expertise,” the templar said, taking Agis’s arm and walking him toward the ziggurat. “I’ll have a young gladiator sent to your estate as a gift. He should keep the scavengers off your land.”

  Agis locked eyes with the high templar. “This has nothing to do with your farm manager,” he said, changing approaches. “You just don’t trust me.”

  As he spoke, he sent a black snake of guilt slithering across the empty plain around his probe. Soon, the noble saw a mountainous form looming on the horizon. It was a flat-topped pyramid with sides as black as night and as smooth as ice. With a start, Agis realized that the pyramid was something Tithian had seen recently, something that weighed heavily on his mind.

  Glassy black balls began rolling off the pyramid, threatening to crush the snake-probe. Grimacing at the energy it required, Agis attached wings to his serpent, and it lifted off the white plain. For a moment he wondered if the avalanche had been a counterattack from Tithian. When the balls reached the bottom of the pyramid, however, they kept going without regard for the fact that they had missed him. A black shaft appeared in the plain, and the balls rolled into it. Agis dropped his winged snake closer and saw that the hole was lined by obsidian bricks.

  A boiling mass of memory came shooting out of the shaft. Agis found himself staring into the sunken black eyes of a small, haggard man wearing a golden diadem—Kalak. Fearing Tithian had lured him into a trap, Agis turned his probe away and flapped its wings with all of his flagging strength.

  The snake started to carry him out of Tithian’s mind, but the noble paused when Kalak’s voice spoke in a conversational tone. “You saw the shaft in my tunnel?”

  Agis turned his probe in the pyramid’s direction. He saw the king’s shriveled form standing next to the obsidian structure. Kalak ran his gnarled fingers over the glassy surface, his eyes fixed on Tithian, who now stood before him. It was not a trap, but another memory.

  Tithian nodded. “Yes, my king.”

  “Good. During the games commemorating the completion of the ziggurat, you must place the obsidian pyramid over the shaft you passed, but only when the last match of the day begins,” Kalak said. “Make it look like part of the contest.”

  “What about the throne and the balls?” Tithian asked. “Should I place them in the arena as well, Mighty One.”

  “No!” Kalak hissed, scowling as though he would kill the high templar. “Don’t touch anything else. The globes and the throne stay with me!”

  “As you command,” Tithian replied. “Forgive me for asking. Is there anything else?”

  Kalak nodded. “When the last game begins, I want you to lock all the gates to my stadium.”

  “Until when?”

  “Don’t worry about opening them—”

  In the memory, Kalak’s form stopped speaking in midsentence and faded away. Tithian faced Agis’s flying snake, then the black pyramid rose off the white plain and sailed toward him. Now completely certain that the high templar had discovered his presence, Agis changed his snake to an arrow and shot across Tithian’s mind like a bolt of lightning.

  An instant later, he broke contact with the high templar.

  “A man in my position can trust no one, not even his friends,” Tithian said, continuing the conversation where it had left off only a moment earlier.

  Agis was in no condition to follow Tithian’s words, for he had all but exhausted himself inside the high templar’s mind. He stumbled and nearly fell, then felt his friend gripping his arm to prevent him from tumbling into the seats below.

  “Easy,” Tithian said. “I wouldn’t want you to fall.”

  Agis blinked several times. “Thanks for your concern,” he said, only a little sarcastically. When he glanced to both his right and left, he saw no sign of the guards he had expected the high templar to summon.

  “Why aren’t you arresting me?” Agis demanded, still leaning against the wall ringing the terrace.

  “Why should I?” Tithian asked, giving Agis a forbearing smile. The templar pulled the noble away from the wall, then gently turned him so that he faced the immense ziggurat. “Tell me, Agis, why do you suppose Kalak is having that thing constructed?”

  “You’re the one who’s building it,” Agis said bitterly, recalling all his slaves whom the high templar had confiscated. “You tell me.”

  Tithian shrugged. “If I knew, I would,” he said warmly. “The king hasn’t even told me what it’s for. I’ve shown you all that I know, and frankly, it scares me.”

  Agis rolled his weary eyes. “Save your pathos for someone else,” he said. “I know you better than that. The only life you’re concerned with is your own.”

  “Even to me, the possibilities of what Kalak’s plan might mean are horrifying. What does he need forty-thousand people locked in a stadium for?” Tithian countered. “Of course, if I wasn’t going to be one of the forty-thousand, it might be less horrifying, but that’s hardly relevant. I’m in this along with everyone else.”

  Agis frowned. “What are you saying?”

  Tithian raised his brow in a satiric look. “I think you’re intelligent enough to figure it out—and if not you, then certainly your friends who do not like to show their true faces in public.”

  Though he was shocked to discover that Tithian knew of his tentative association with Veiled Alliance, he tried not to show his surprise. “Assuming I do know someone who might be interested in Kalak’s plans, why did you show me the pyramid, and why do you want the king’s enemies to find out about it?”

  Tithian took Agis’s arm. “I want to survive,” the high templar said, guiding the noble toward an exit. “To do that, two things must happen. First, Those Who Wear the Veil must tell me where they hid their amulets. If I don’t find the last one soon, Kalak will kill me. Second, they must stop whatever the king has planned for the games. I’m going to be there, too. I’ve seen no reason to think he intends to spare his high templars.”

  “And what will you do in return?”

  “Anything I can without getting myself killed,” Tithian answered. “To start with, I’ll allow Sadira to speak with my slave, Rikus—but only after I’ve recovered the amulets.”

  Agis stumbled. Though it was difficult, he refrained from asking how Tithian knew of Sadira. Obviously the high templar had a spy—either close to him or high in the ranks of the Alliance.

  “Apparently you’re still fatigued from the exercise of your powers,” the high templar said, chuckling at Agis’s clumsiness. He paused at the gate through which the noble had entered the stadium. “Would you like to use my litter for the trip home?”

  “No offense,” Agis said, “but I’d rather crawl on my hands and knees.”

  As the noble stepped into the tunnel, Tithian caught him by the arm. “By the way, there’s one thing you should know about my proposal.”

  “What?”

  “It isn’t a truce,” Tithian said, releasing the noble. “Watch yourself.”

  TEN

  DECISIONS AND PROMISES

  IT WAS DUSK IN THE ANIMAL SHED. THE BEAMS OF the descending sun rained down upon the roof of stretched hide, setting the whole interior ablaze with crimson light. In their pens, vicious animals paced, scuttled, or slithered back and forth impatiently, roaring, and yowling and clacking their mandibles in anticipation of the evening meal.

  “Be quiet out there!” Rikus stormed, knowing that his command was futile even as
he gave it.

  It does no good to make noise, the gaj informed him. The feeders won’t come faster.

  I don’t care about the feeders, the mul replied. I just want some peace.

  Rikus sat on a cushion of rags in one corner of the pen, gingerly poking at the deep bruises he had received while cudgel-sparring with Yarig earlier. The dwarf had fared little better. Also covered head-to-toe in purplish marks, he sat in the opposite corner of the pen, rewrapping the leather thongs that bound the head of his warhammer to its shaft.

  The young templar who had replaced Boaz allowed his charges to keep their weapons at night. He realized that fighters who took care of their own equipment would have more confidence in it. He also knew that, if the four gladiators wanted to escape, their weapons would be of little use against the magic-wielding templars whom Tithian had stationed around the compound after Sadira’s escape.

  Rikus winced as he probed his side and felt the cartilage shift between two ribs. “Were you trying to kill me today, Yarig?” the mul joked.

  “Why would I kill a friend?” the dwarf demanded, his square jaw set in its customary seriousness. “That makes no sense.”

  “You have no business complaining about how Yarig fights,” Neeva interjected. She sat in the center of the pen, using a piece of curved antler to chip a new blade for Rikus’s short sword.

  When the mul did not answer, the woman continued, “Serving wenches brawl harder than you’ve been fighting lately.” She pressed the point of the antler against the obsidian edge she was shaping. A tiny chip popped loose and tumbled onto a pile of similar shards. “If you don’t get your mind off that scullery girl, we’ll both suffer more than a few bruises in the games.”

  “We’ll win our contest,” Rikus growled. “Don’t you worry about that, Neeva.”

  The mul offered no further argument. There was no denying that be had been preoccupied with thoughts of Sadira over the past few days. He felt responsible for the half-elf’s fate, yet unable to aid her. The conflicting emotions filled him with guilt and interfered with his concentration.

  Gradually Rikus realized that the din in the animal shed had reached a fever pitch. The increasing tumult usually meant the feeders had arrived, but it still seemed too early. A moment later, the mul heard murmuring voices approach. The other three gladiators continued to work, but he rose and stepped toward the iron gate just as six men wearing black cassocks stepped into view. Rikus recognized only one of them, a sharp-featured man with a long tail of auburn hair: Lord Tithian.

  No food, Rikus! complained the gaj.

  The feeders will come later, Rikus answered. Be patient. Leave me to speak with these people.

  The gaj withdrew its presence and remained quiet.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve come to return us to our cells?” Rikus asked.

  “You can’t be serious. The least I can do for Boaz is let his punishment stand,” Tithian replied. “Actually, I’ve come to speak with you. My new trainer tells me your performance has been pitiful since Sadira’s escape.”

  “I’m still sore from fighting your gaj,” Rikus said, trying to avoid the topic of the slave girl. The less the high templar knew about his feelings for her, the better. “I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

  Neeva gave the mul a chiding glance, but did not rebuke his statement.

  “In that case, you probably wouldn’t be interested in hearing what happened to the wench,” Tithian said sarcastically.

  “Of course I would!” Rikus growled. Sensing that he had shown his opponent an opening, he added, “I owe her a debt of honor.”

  “Honor is an overvalued commodity,” Tithian said coldly.

  “It’s all a slave has, my lord,” Yarig said, not moving from his corner. “Knowing what happened to Sadira might help Rikus’s fighting.”

  “Well spoken for a dwarf,” Tithian replied, stepping forward to peer toward Yarig.

  It occurred to Rikus that he could reach through the cage and snap the high templar’s neck. The thought was such a pleasant one that the mul allowed himself to savor the imagined feel of his owner’s spine cracking in his hands, but he made no move to attack. Rikus still wanted to win his freedom in the ziggurat games.

  The mul’s predatory expression was not lost on Tithian, who stepped back. “My guards would kill you in an instant.”

  “They might,” Rikus allowed, smiling slyly. “And they might not. What happened to Sadira?”

  The high templar chuckled. “First, you must tell me what the Veiled Alliance wants with you.”

  Rikus ran a hand over his hairless scalp. “I didn’t know that they wanted anything with me,” the mul replied. An image of Sadira came unbidden to his mind. Was the sorceress tied to the Veiled Alliance somehow? “Those Who Wear the Veil are not the sort to fix the games,” the mul added quickly.

  Tithian looked to one of his subordinates, an emaciated young man with bulging brown eyes. “Is he telling the truth?”

  The young man nodded. “He also knew she was a sorceress.”

  Realizing he had been tricked, Rikus shot his arm through the cage.

  “Mindbender!” the mul hissed, closing his fingers on the astonished fellow’s cassock. Swiftly he pulled the youth to the gate and slammed his face into the bars. As the other templars moved forward to help, Rikus clasped his free hand on the mindbender’s larynx. “I’ll rip out his throat.”

  The young templar began trembling. “Stay back,” he begged, barely choking out the words.

  Yarig and Neeva moved to Rikus’s side. Anezka hid in the shadows, probably hoping to avoid the punishment that was sure to follow Rikus’s brash act.

  The other templars looked to Tithian, who calmly removed a small jar from his pocket. It contained a purple caterpillar. “Don’t kill him, Rikus.”

  The mul stared at the worm, but did not release the frightened templar. “Keep your part of the bargain.”

  Tithian feigned a look of disappointment. “Have I ever broken a promise, to you?” When Rikus did not counter him, the high templar continued. “I’m not sure how, but a friend of mine bought her. There’s no need to fear on her account. Agis of Asticles cares for his slaves the way most men care for their children.”

  Rikus smiled, then patted the templar on the cheek and shoved him away. “Lucky boy.”

  Tithian put his jar in a pocket, then stepped away from the pen. “By the way, the mul’s little outburst will mean a week of half-rations for you all.”

  Anezka threw Neeva’s chipping antler at Rikus’s head. He knocked it aside, narrowly avoiding losing en eye. The mul was getting tired of being attacked by the mute halfling, but he could understand her anger.

  As soon as the templars were gone, the gaj said, Your female—Sadira—is not safe, Rikus.

  The mul smashed his callused fist against the stone wall. He barely noticed as blood began to stream from his knuckles. “Tithian was lying?” he asked aloud.

  Tithian did not lie, but he spoke only some of his thoughts, the gaj answered. Agis has your female, but Tithian has a watcher in Agis’s burrow. He is looking for her veiled friends.

  “The Alliance?”

  “What are you talking about, Rikus?” Neeva demanded.

  He explained what the gaj had told him.

  “Sadira in the Veiled Alliance?” Yarig scoffed. “It’s impossible.”

  “Then where did the girl learn her sorcery?” asked Neeva.

  The dwarf scratched his bald head. “It’s impossible,” he growled stubbornly. “We would have known.”

  What does Tithian want to do with Sadira’s friends? Rikus asked the gaj.

  Kill her, the gaj replied.

  Rikus cried out in anger, leaping up to grab the mekillot ribs that served as the ceiling of their pen. The effort tore at his bruised cartilage, but he did not let go. He swung his legs upward and kicked at one of the thick ribs, attempting to break it.

  “What are you doing?” Yarig demanded.

  “Es
caping,” Rikus groaned.

  Before the feeders come? asked the incredulous gaj.

  The mul kicked at the ceiling again.

  “What about the games?” Yarig demanded. “You can’t just forget them!”

  “This is more important,” Rikus gasped, cringing at the pain in his ribs.

  As he lowered his legs to prepare for another kick, Neeva grasped his waist. “Let me do it,” she said. “You’re too weak to break through a straw roof, much less a mekillot rib.”

  “You’ll help me save Sadira?” Rikus asked, astonished.

  “Would it change anything if I said no?”

  When Rikus did not answer, Neeva jumped up and grabbed the overhead grid “That’s what I thought,” she said, swinging her legs toward the ceiling. She smashed a rib with each foot, opening a hole as wide as the mul’s shoulders.

  Yarig watched their efforts with a perplexed and hurt look.

  As Neeva dropped back into the fighting pit, Rikus said, “You know, Yarig, you and Anezka could come with us. After we warn Sadira, we’ll join a slave tribe somewhere in the desert. We’ll be free.”

  “Free?” the dwarf echoed. His eyes clouded over, and Rikus could see that he was struggling with an internal conflict.

  Anezka stepped to her partner’s side and took his hand. Yarig looked at the mute. “Is that what you want, Anezka?”

  The halfling nodded eagerly.

  Yarig looked at the floor and took a few deep breaths. “You go ahead,” he said. “I can’t go with you. I just can’t.”

  Anezka’s wild eyes betrayed her disappointment, but she shook her head and clung to the dwarf’s arm.

  “Go on!” Yarig ordered. “There’s no reason for you to stay.”

  The halfling stayed at her partner’s side.

  Neeva glanced at the pair with the closest thing to a sympathetic expression Rikus had ever seen on her face. “Yarig, just this once, can’t you change your mind? If you don’t go, neither will Anezka.”

  “I can’t help it,” Yarig answered. “She’s free to go, but I’ve got to fight in the ziggurat games. It’s my focus.”