Aiovost frowned, doubt and hope and fear warring upon his face.
“What is this?” said Aiovost. “This is a trick, a…”
“Kneel!” roared Kalgri, the Voice’s fury thundering through her words. Some of the nearest Kaltari sank to their knees, awed terror upon their faces. Another warrior, stupider than the others, stepped towards her, drawing a scimitar from his belt.
Kalgri’s slash cut through his sword, his arm, his chest, and then his other arm, and the warrior fell in pieces to the ground.
The Voice shivered with pleasure at his death, and fresh power flooded into Kalgri.
“I said to kneel!” she thundered.
This time the Kaltari fell to their knees as one. Even Aiovost, perched atop his rock.
Kalgri strode into their midst, her cloak whispering about her legs. She waved the immaterial sword over the heads of the kneeling men, the Voice twitching with pleasure at their fear.
“Rejoice,” she said, pointing the sword at Aiovost, “for your gods have come among you in the flesh. Your visions are true. Your prophecies are correct. The end of the world is nigh, and the princes of the void come to take the earth. Those who follow the lords of the night shall be rewarded. Those who dare to oppose them shall perish in fire. Are you among the faithful?”
The Kaltari shouted their agreement.
“We are!” said Aiovost. “We are the devoted servants of the lords of the night.”
“Good,” said Kalgri. “For the princes of the void require your services. Our foes are afoot, plotting against us, daring to oppose our return. For their insolence they must die. Will you heed the call of your gods? Will you slay our foes?”
Again the Kaltari shouted in agreement.
“We shall spill their blood!” roared Aiovost.
“They travel to a place called Silent Ash Temple,” said Kalgri, “and we will kill them before they reach it.”
A ripple went through the Kaltari.
“The Emissary dwells at Silent Ash Temple,” said Aiovost. “Her powers are terrible, and…”
“Fool,” said Kalgri, pointing at him. “Do you fear the servant of a false god?”
“No, of course not, great lady of the void,” said Aiovost in sudden fear. “We do not fear the servants of false gods. But the Emissary is a witch of great might, and I…I fear we are not strong enough to oppose her sorcery.”
“No,” said Kalgri. “I suppose not.” She smiled. “But what if I gave you the power to oppose the Emissary?”
“Great mistress?” said Aiovost.
“The lords of the void can now return to this world,” said Kalgri. She gestured at the standing stones atop the hill. “You can feel their presence, hear them whisper to you, in the place where the walls between the worlds are thin. You shall be their vessel. You shall let their power enter you and fill you, and you shall be their instrument in this world.”
“Yes,” said Aiovost. “Yes! I volunteer. Let me be the first to receive the blessings of the true gods!”
“As you wish,” said Kalgri, dismissing the sword of the nagataaru. The Voice’s power entered her legs, and she jumped, hurtling over the assembled Kaltari to land at the foot of the boulder. “Let volunteers come forward!”
The Voice roiled within her like a storm, and she was close enough to the hill to hear the keening moan of the crack between the worlds.
Other than Aiovost, only four men came forward. Perhaps the Kaltari were wiser than she thought.
“Kneel,” said Kalgri, and Aiovost and the other four men obliged. Kalgri reached for the power of the Voice, and the nagataaru screamed within her, its shout sinking into the crack within the standing stones.
And something beyond the crack answered.
The circle of stones erupted in a veil of shadow and a column of swirling purple flame. The Kaltari warriors murmured, and fear went over the faces of Aiovost and the other kneeling men.
“Do you freely choose to become vessels of the princes of the void?” said Kalgri. “Do you accept this of your own will?”
That was the key. It was easy for a nagataaru to possess a willing host. Involuntary possession was much harder. Callatas had spent decades developing the necessary spells, and Kalgri had seen the bloody carnage that year after year of his failed experiments produced. In fact, that was how Kalgri had become one with the Voice. She had once been nothing more than a slave woman who had murdered her way to a position of authority in Callatas’s household. Callatas had taken her and tried to force the Voice into her flesh. At first Kalgri resisted, but then the Voice whispered in her mind, promising power and might if she but accepted the spirit into her flesh.
She had feasted upon death ever since.
“Yes,” said Aiovost, and the other men followed suit.
The Voice shouted, and the crack atop the hill blazed with ghostly flame. Five hooded wraiths of purple fire and writhing shadow erupted from the maelstrom and flowed down the slope. Aiovost and the other men flinched, and the wraiths shot forward and poured into them, filling their mouths and noses and ears.
The men fell, screaming and thrashing, purple fire burning around their limbs, tendrils of shadow coiling and flickering around them. Kalgri watched, and through the senses of the Voice she felt the summoned nagataaru sinking into their flesh like water poured into a glass. The Voice commanded its vassals, its knights of the netherworld, and the summoned nagataaru hailed their master, eager to kill in the mortal world at last.
Aiovost recovered first and rose to his feet, his eyes burning with purple fire and shadow.
“Great mistress,” he rasped, speaking with the double voice of possession, the nagataaru’s snarling fury laid over his normal voice. “I will kill for you, great mistress. I see clearly now. How we shall feast upon the world!”
“Behold!” roared Kalgri as the other possessed men got to their feet. “Your gods have come! They walk among you clothed in mortal flesh! Will you not follow them? Will you not kill in their name?”
The Kaltari cultists surged to their feet, brandishing weapons and cheering.
They wouldn’t have cheered nearly as loudly if they knew what Kalgri had in mind for them.
Before the dawn came they gathered their supplies and marched, making for Silent Ash Temple.
Chapter 17 - Silent Ash Temple
Five days after leaving Drynemet, Caina and the others came to Silent Ash Temple.
“Gods,” said Caina, staring at the side of the mountain. “I wasn’t expecting something like that.”
“It is,” agreed Nasser, “a most impressive sight.”
Caina had anticipated something like the temples of the Living Flame she had seen in Istarinmul and Cyrioch and Rasadda, a square building beneath a dome. Or perhaps a collection of huts around a shrine, clinging to the side of the mountain like barnacles latched to the hull of a ship.
She had not expected the sprawling edifice of courtyards and halls carved from the living stone of the mountain that rose before her. Silent Ash Temple had an outer courtyard and an inner courtyard, both courtyards encircled by long colonnades of stone. Domed towers rose from the corners of the courtyards, and in the center of the temple stood a high fane of weathered stone, topped a tall domed tower crowned with a watch fire. Caina gazed at the pillars and towers, and saw the reliefs covering their faces, stylized, abstract designs of swirling lines and intricate geometric patterns. She noted that each of the towers had been carved with a specific sigil, a pyrikon ring wrapped around a seven-pointed star.
The ancient sigil of the Princes of Iramis.
Ballistae also waited atop the outer colonnade. The temple looked deserted, but someone had kept the war engines oiled and ready.
Caina stopped at the top of the stairs and waited for the others to catch up. A massive switchback stair cut its way back and forth down the side of the mountain, rising a thousand feet from the narrow trail below. The stairs ended in a broad terrace of worked stone before the temple’s gate
s. Caina crossed to the edge of the terrace. A low stone wall, about two feet high, guarded the edge of the terrace.
Beyond was absolutely nothing. It was a thousand-foot drop to the jagged rocks below. To the north Caina had an absolutely breathtaking view of the Kaltari Highlands, the rugged brown hills stretching away in all directions. She stared at it for a moment, a cool breeze blowing down the mountain to tug at her cloak. The temple and the terrace and mountain together combined to create a solemn, stately beauty.
Nasser and Laertes reached the terrace first, both men sweating and leading their grumbling donkeys.
“Heights, friend Ciaran,” said Nasser, wiping his forehead, “clearly do not trouble you.”
“Considering the amount of time I have spent fleeing over rooftops,” said Caina, “it would be inconvenient if they did.” She looked at Silent Ash Temple. “That temple. It is Iramisian, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Nasser. “To the best of my knowledge, this was once a school for the loremasters of Iramis. An…academy, for want of a better word, where apprentice loremasters studied before undertaking their final trials and oaths at the Towers of Lore in Iramis itself.”
“Why didn’t Callatas destroy it?” said Caina.
“Some of the surviving loremasters fled here after Iramis burned,” said Nasser. “Callatas slew them all. With some help from the Huntress, I believe. After that he let the academy stand empty.”
“Another little trophy to his power,” said Caina. “Like that mural Markaine of Caer Marist painted in the Tarshahzon Gardens, or that ghastly banquet Callatas holds on the anniversary of the fall of Iramis.”
“Precisely,” said Nasser. “After the academy stood empty for some decades, the Emissary took up residence here. It soon became a site for pilgrims.”
Caina gazed at the silent temple. “Did the Iramisians revere the Living Flame?”
“I do not believe so,” said Nasser. “From what I understand, the Iramisians revered a sovereign high god, and believed that all lesser gods were merely imperfect images of him. Or so I understand. I never closely studied theological distinctions.”
Laertes shrugged. “I always offer up a coin to the gods of war before going to battle. Seems foolish not to.”
Caina turned as the others joined them. Both Martin and Strabane were sweating from the long climb up the stairs, but Claudia was wheezing, one arm gripping Martin’s for support.
“Gods, I hate stairs,” said Claudia. She shook her head and sighed, stepping away from Martin. “Look at you. You’re not even breathing hard. How do you stay fit?”
“I spend a lot of time,” said Caina, “running from men who are trying to kill me.”
Laertes barked a laugh. “A fine motivator.”
“I would say the place looks abandoned,” said Claudia, catching her breath, “save for the fire atop the tower. And those ballistae. Is there a watchman or a doorwarden? I do not want to get shot.”
“Never fear,” said Nasser, gesturing towards the outer colonnade. “I suspect our presence is already known.”
An old man in the orange and yellow robes of a monk of the Living Flame emerged from Silent Ash Temple, moving with a limp and leaning upon a cane. He was Anshani, with dark skin and wispy white hair and beard.
The monk stopped a dozen paces away. “Welcome,” he said in Istarish. “Might we know your names?”
“Greetings,” said Martin, stepping forward. “I am Martin of House Dorius, the Emperor of Nighmar’s Lord Ambassador to the court of the Padishah of Istarinmul.”
The old monk offered a polite bow. “I am Karzid, the abbot of Silent Ash Temple. I welcome you in the name of the Living Flame, Lord Martin of the Empire. Your coming was foretold.” His eyes turned to Caina. “As was yours, Balarigar.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“You do not seem surprised,” said Karzid.
“No,” said Caina. “There are two explanations. One, that you are a spy or an assassin, and have laid a trap for me here.”
Karzid smiled at that. “Or?”
“Or the Emissary warned you of our coming,” said Caina.
“You are not skeptical?” said Karzid. “Sometimes men come here to test the Emissary’s powers, believing her a fraud or delusional.”
“I have encountered oracles before,” said Caina, thinking of the Surge in New Kyre. “I imagine those who question the Emissary might…regret it.”
“They do,” said Karzid.
“You kill them?” said Claudia.
“No,” said Karzid. “The Emissary simply tells them the truth, and some truths are hard to bear.”
“Yes,” said Caina. The Surge had warned her of Corvalis’s death, though she had not realized it at the time.
“The Emissary wishes to speak with four of you,” said Karzid. “The Balarigar.” He pointed at Nasser. “The lord of glass and dust.” His finger shifted to Martin and Claudia. “The Lord Ambassador and his wife the sorceress.”
“I suppose I will stay here and tend to the animals,” said Laertes.
“Just as well,” said Strabane. “I have no wish to speak with fortunetellers, lest they bring evil down upon my head.”
“You can take your pack beasts into the outer courtyard,” said Karzid. “My brothers will bring you food and drink. Balarigar. Please, follow me.”
Karzid led Caina, Claudia, Martin, and Nasser through the colonnade and into the outer courtyard as Laertes and Strabane took the donkeys in hand. The outer courtyard was an empty expanse of paved stone, the pillars and walls adorned with more of the elaborate Iramisian designs. Monks in orange-yellow robes went about their business, some of them scrubbing the floors, some teaching novices, others praying on their knees. Karzid led them through the inner colonnade and into the central courtyard, and Caina stopped and looked around in wonder.
She was in a garden.
It was a garden of stunning beauty, with trees and flowering bushes dotting the grass here and there. Paths of white stone wound their way among the trees, and a clear pool occupied the central third of the garden, a stark contrast to the vivid colors of the flowers. Statues rose upon marble plinths, some of them in Istarish style, others Anshani or Kyracian or even Nighmarian. Caina had seen some beautiful gardens within Istarinmul since her banishment, but all of them seemed like pale imitations of the garden of Silent Ash Temple.
“This is beautiful,” said Claudia.
“Maintained by slaves, I expect,” said Caina.
“No,” said Karzid. “In the honor of the Iramisians who built our sanctuary, we do not keep slaves. For all men are made in the image of the Living Flame, and for one man to hold another in bondage is blasphemous.” He bowed. “I will leave you to your audience with the Emissary. Remember that her words are the truth.”
Karzid bowed once more, and left them alone in the garden.
“Well?” said Martin. “Where is this Emissary?”
“Let us take a walk,” said Caina, and she took one of the paths of white stone, the others following. The garden seemed deserted, with no sign of any monks. Yet Caina felt the faint tingle of potent sorcery, similar to the aura she had felt around the Surge at the top of the Pyramid of Storm.
Caina followed the path around a tree, and saw the woman working.
She was not that old, no more than her late thirties of early forties. She looked Anshani, with brown skin and graying black hair, and wore a ragged robe similar to those of the monks, save that her robe was soiled with dirt and sweat. The woman knelt next to a bed of flowers, some wrapped bundles and potted flowers waiting upon a nearby stone bench. and hummed to herself as she dug holes with a trowel.
She radiated powerful sorcery.
Caina stopped a few paces from the woman.
“Well,” said the woman in Istarish, not looking up from her flowers. “Well, well, well. Nasser Glasshand himself. I already answered your questions and did you a favor.”
“You did indeed, madam,” s
aid Nasser with one of his grand bows. “And loaned me a weapon, as well. Which I did return, as I recall.”
“That you did,” said the woman, tamping down the earth around a flower. “But this time you brought someone else to ask questions for you. Very clever.”
“Your flattery is music to my ears,” said Nasser.
The Emissary laughed and straightened up. “Help me up, will you? My knees grow weary.” Nasser stepped forward. “Not you. The demonslayer. I would like the demonslayer to help me up, please.” She turned her head towards Caina. “I want a look at you.”
After the Surge and Samnirdamnus, Caina had expected the Emissary’s eyes to burn with furious power. Yet the woman’s eyes were an unremarkable shade of brown. Caina extended a hand, and the Emissary took it and stood. The sorcerous aura of the Emissary’s power washed over Caina, strong and potent, and the brown eyes seemed to dig into her.
“Ah,” murmured the Emissary. She was a few inches taller than Caina. “Thank you. Shouldn’t spend so much time on my hands and knees.” She rubbed her back for a moment. “Gets sore. I am not what you expected, am I?”
“I confess not,” said Caina. “Are you a sorceress?”
“I suppose so,” said the Emissary. “According to a certain definition of the term, anyway. I do not cast spells, and I know no arcane formulas as the ambassador’s wife does. Yet I have power nonetheless.”
“Then you are truly the Emissary of the Living Flame?” said Caina.
“The monks believe so,” said the Emissary. “In the past, those with my power led armies to conquer empires and remake the world. I have no such ambition. I merely offer the truth to those who seek it. A smaller number than you might think.”
“Not really,” said Caina.
“You may not think so,” said the Emissary, “once you hear what I have to tell you.”
Would the Emissary refuse to lend them the valikon? “You know why I am here, then?”
“I believe so,” said the Emissary. “But do you? I would like to hear it from your own lips.”
Ghost in the Hunt Page 24
