Shadow Of Sanctuary tw-3

by Robert Lynn Asprin

  'My Dear Prince,' Molin poured another goblet of fruit tea and signalled the mute to bring a stronger libation for the next round. 'My Dear Prince, while I would never hesitate to lay down my life for you or the Empire should, gods forfend, the need ever arise -none the less, I assure you, I am not about to make the supreme sacrifice at this time. There is nothing in the most sacred tomes of ritual dictating the nature or rank of the ten who must be slain -save that they must be undeformed and alive at the start.'

  At that moment there were shouts outside Molin's larger window and the all-too familiar sound of the gallow's rope snapping another neck.

  'Very simply, my Prince, cancel these daily executions and by the Ten-Slaying I'm sure we'll have our quota.'

  The Prince blanched at the thought of Sanctuary denizens whose activities so exceeded the norms of this none-too-civilized place that his judges would condemn them to death.

  'They would be bound and drugged, of course,' Molin consoled his Prince, 'as is part of custom, if not tradition. Our hierarchy has suffered the discomfort of having the wrong man survive,' Molin added quickly, without mentioning that they had also suffered the inconvenience of losing all eleven to their wounds before the ritual could be completed. The hierarchy had acquired an immense practicality over the generations when its own interests were concerned.

  Kadakithis stared blankly into the corners of the room; he had stared briefly out the window but the busy gallows had not brought the peace of mind he sought. Molin entertained hopes of getting new quarters in the near future. The mute offered them a fresh goblet of the local wine - a surprisingly potable beverage, given its origins. But then the priorities of the populace were such that the wine should be far better than their cheese or bread. Molin himself offered the strong drink to the Prince.

  'Molin -I cannot. If it were just the Dance... well, no, not even then.' The Prince squared his shoulders and simulated a stance of firm resolve. 'Molin, you are wrong - it would not be fitting for a Prince of the blood. I mean no slurs, but I cannot be seen consorting with a temple slave at a public festival.'

  Molin considered the refusal; considered taking Vashanka's role himself- he'd seen the temple slave in question. But he had been honest with the Prince; it was of the utmost importance that the child be properly conceived.

  'My Prince, I do not ask this lightly, any more lightly than I informed my brethren in Ranke of my decision in this matter. The slave is of the best Northern stock; the rite is held in strictest mystery.

  'The Hand of Vashanka rests heavily on your prefecture, my Prince. You cannot have failed to notice His presence. The daily auguries show it plainly. Your own Hell Hounds, the very guardians of Imperial Order, are not immune to the dangers of Vashanka's unbridled presence!'

  The High Priest paused, staring hard into Kadakithis's eyes, forcing the young governor to acknowledge the rumours that flew freely and were never disputed. Molin could trace his ancestry to the god in the time-honoured way, but what about Tempus? The Hell Hound bore Vashanka's mark, but had been whelped far beyond the ken of the priesthood.

  'Who are we to channel the powers of the gods?' the Prince responded, his gaze unfocused, his manner uncomfortably evasive.

  Molin drew himself up to his full height, some finger-widths taller than the Prince. His back straightened as if the beaten gold headdress of his office balanced on his brow. 'My Prince, we are the channels, the only true channels. Without the mediation of a duly consecrated hierarchy the bonds of tradition which make Vashanka - mayHisnamebepraised - our God and us His worshippers would be irreparably sundered. The rituals of the temple, whose origins are one with the God Himself, are the balance between mortal and immortal. Anyone who circumvents the rituals, for any reason however well-intentioned ... anyone who does not hearken to the call of the hierarchy in its needs subverts the proper relationship of god and worshipper to the damning harm of both!'

  Again the experienced Imperial Hierarch stared down on the young, awestruck Prince. Molin was only half-conscious of overstating the case for stringent observation of the rituals. Vashanka's displeasure when He was not properly appeased was extensively documented. The rituals were all intended to bind a capricious and hungry deity.

  The crowd outside Molin's window raised its voice and shut down their conversation; the day's verdicts were being proclaimed. There would be two more hangings on the morrow. Kadakithis started when his name was used to justify the awful punishments the Empire meted out to its criminals. He shrank back from the window as a huge black crow landed on the sill, swivelling its head in a lopsided start of dark-curiosity. The Prince shooed it back to the gallows.

  'I will do what I can, Molin. I will speak with my advisers.'

  'My Dear Prince, in matters regarding the spiritual well-being of the Imperial Presence in Sanctuary, I am your only trusted adviser.'

  Molin regretted his burst of temper at once; though the Prince gave him smooth verbal assurances, the Vashankan priest was now certain that the Hound Tempus would know by sundown.

  Tempus: a plague, a thorn, a malignancy to the proper order of things. A son of Vashanka, a true-son no doubt, and utterly unfettered by the constraints of ritual and hierarchy. If even a fraction of the rumours about him were to be believed; if he had survived dissection on Kurd's tables ... It could not be believed. Tempus could not be so far beyond the hierarchy's reach.

  Well, Molin thought after a moment, I'm a true-son too. Let the Prince run to him in sweating anxiety. Let him consult with Tempus; let them conspire against me - I'll still succeed.

  Generations of priests had bred generations of true-sons to Vashanka. The god was not quite the blood-drinker he once was.

  Vashanka could be constrained and, after all, Molin's side of the family was far bigger than Tempus's.

  He watched the Prince leave without feeling panic. The crow returned to the window-ledge as was its daily custom. The bird cawed impatiently while Molin and the mute prepared its feast: live mouse dipped in wine. The priest watched the bird disappear back to the Maze rooftops, staring after its flight long after his wife had begun to shout his name.

  4

  Seylalha stood perfectly still while the dourfaced women draped the sea-green froth around her. The women would not hesitate to prick her sharply with their bodkins and needles, though they took the greatest of care with the silk. They stepped back and signalled that she should spin on her toes for them.

  Deep folds of material billowed out into delicate clouds at her slightest movement. The texture of the cloth against her skin was so unlike the heavy tatters of her usual attire that for once she forgot to watch the intricate dance-language other instructors a; they discussed their creation.

  The time must be drawing near; they would not dress her like this unless it was almost time for her marriage to the god. The moon above her cell was a thin crescent fading to blackness.

  They got their instruments and began to play. Without waiting for the sharp report of the clatter-sticks, Seylalha began to dance, letting the unhemmed ends of the silk swirl out to accompany her as she moved through the hundreds of poses - each painfully inured in her muscles. She flowed with the atonal music, throwing her soul into each leap and turn, keenly aware that this meaningless collection of movements would become her only, exquisite plea for freedom.

  When she settled into the final frantic moments of the dance the sea-green silk was caught in her flying hair and lifted away from her body until it was restrained only by the brooches at her neck and waist. As she fell into the prostrate bow, the silk floated down, hiding the rhythmic heaving of her exhausted lungs. The clatter-sticks were silent, without nagging corrections.

  Seylalha separated her hair and stood up in one graceful movement. Her teachers were motionless as well as speechless. Never again would she be the bullied student. Clapping her own hands at the quiet women, Seylalha waited until the nearest one crept forward to unpin the twisted silk and accompany her to her bath.

&
nbsp; 5

  It was inky night and even the light of two dozen torches was insufficient to guide the procession along the treacherous, rutted streets of Sanctuary in safety. Molin Torchholder and five other ranking members of the hierarchy had excused themselves from the procession and waited in the relative comfort of the stone-porch of the still incomplete Temple of Vashanka. Behind the priests a great circular tent had been erected. The mute women could be heard tuning and conversing with their instruments. As the bobbing torches rounded into the plaza the women were silenced and Molin, ever-careful with his elaborate headdress, mounted a small dais on the porch.

  The girl, Seylalha, shrouded in a cloak of feathers and spun gold, clutched the side-rail of the open platform as six bearers recruited from the garrison struggled with the rough-hewn steps. She lurched violently to one side, spilling the luxuriant cloth almost to the ground, but her dancer's reflexes saved her from an ill-omened tumble. Ten felons from the city dungeons, drugged into a stupor, clambered past - oblivious to the past and present as well as the limited future. Their white robes were already soiled by numerous falls in the muddy streets but none had seriously injured himself.

  At the rear of the procession, wearing another mask of hammered gold and obsidian, Prince KLadakithis groped his way to the tent. He glanced at Molin as he passed though their masks made subtle communication impossible. It was enough, for Molin's purposes, that the Prince himself was entering the tent. He tied the cloth-door of the tent closed and braced three crossed spears against the lintel.

  The Hell Hounds formed an outer perimeter - the Hell Hounds save for Tempus whom Molin, with self-congratulations, had had assigned to other duties in the palace; the man might not do as he was told, but he wouldn't be near this ritual. The Hounds held their drawn swords before them; they would administer the coup de grace should anyone leave or enter the tent before sunrise. Molin reminded them of their obligations in a voice that carried well beyond the unfinished walls.

  'Those Ten whom Vashanka destroyed have been disgraced and remain unworshipped to this day; their very names have been unlearned. But the wraith of a god is far stronger than the spirit of a mortal man. They will feel their deaths again and converge upon this site seeking an unwitting or feeble mortal whom they can usurp and use against their brother. It is your duty to see that this does not occur!'

  Zaibar, captain of the Hell Hounds, bellowed his comprehension of Molin's order.

  6

  The women, and they were all dressed as women though Seylalha knew some of them were the eunuchs who routinely guarded her, crept forward to remove the heavy cloak from her shoulders. She shook the cramped silk and knotted her fingers in anticipation. A partition of fine netting separated the musicians from the other participants in this drama, but their sounds were familiar and oddly soothing. The carpet on which she had always danced lay slightly to one side of the centre of the tent and behind the carpet was a mound of pillows to which the burly 'women' directed her. The white-robed men were invited to partake of a banquet laid out on a low table and fell over each other rushing to the sumptuous food. The masked figure who stood apart from the rest and seemed distinctly uncomfortable under his splendid robe was led to a separate table where only stale bread and water had been laid and an ugly, heavy short-sword awaited him.

  So, that was the god, Seylalha thought, as the mask was lifted from his face. He was weak-chinned - but what civilized man did not show the stains of his rich foods and soft bed? He was, at least, a whole man. The man-god would not look at her, preferring to watch the darkest, least penetrable recesses of the tent. Seylalha knew fear for his curiously absent passions. Sliding off the cushions she struck the first position of her dance, expecting the musicians to lift their instruments.

  But the musicians reached for their clatter-sticks and the eunuchs guided her rudely back to the cushions. She shook their hands away, aware that they dared not hurt her, but then her attention, and the attention of everyone in the tent, was riveted to a newcomer, a more appropriate man-god who had eased out of the darkness and held an unsheathed dagger in his left hand.

  He was tall, massive, etched with the harsh lines of a rough and feral man. The one whom she had mistaken for the man-god embraced the newcomer with hearty familiarity. 'I was afraid you wouldn't show up, Tempus.'

  'Both you and He had my word. Torchholder is a canny man; he distrusts me already -T could not walk in right behind you, my Prince.'

  'She is beautiful...' the Prince mused, glancing to Seylalha for the first time. 'You've reconsidered? It would be for the best if you did ... even now. Her beauty means nothing to me. None of this means anything to me except that it must be done and I must do it.'

  'Yes, you're the one to do it... though she is more tempting than I would have thought possible.'

  The chiefmost of the gowned eunuchs moved to separate the men, giving the interloper a stiff punch on the shoulder. Seylalha, who could read the language of movement, froze in terror as the feral stranger turned, hesitated and plunged the dagger deep into the eunuch's chest all within the space of a few heartbeats. The other 'women' who saw little more than a blur of movement, wailed and groaned in terror as the dead eunuch collapsed to the rough ground. Even the white-robed feasters ceased their eating and became a frightened knot of sheep-like men.

  'It will be as I warned you, my Prince - not merely the Ten but all the others. If you've no taste for bloodshed it would be best if you depart now. My men await you. I will do my father's work.'

  'What of Zaibar? I knew nothing about that until Molin addressed them.'

  'They did not see me; it is unlikely they will see you.'

  The one who had been called the Prince slunk into the darkness. The other retrieved his dagger from the corpse.

  'Our Imperial Prince is not one for rituals of bloodshed and violence,' he said to everyone in the tent. 'He has asked me to take the role of my father in his stead. Would any here gainsay my right to act for Vashanka and my Prince?'

  The question was purest rhetoric. The bloody corpse was testimony to the price of gainsaying this intruder. Seylalha wrenched a heavy tassel from one of the pillows and shredded it behind her. She clung to the belief that her life had been an arrow directed to this night, her dance would be her salvation; but that belief was shaken as the eunuchs who had ruled her for so many years cowered in fear and the feasting men made a doomed attempt to find hiding places.

  With an unpleasant smile the man-god strode to the table where he ripped a mouthful of bread from the loaf, drained the beaker of salted water and lifted the crude sword. He shifted it once or twice in his hand, his fingers adjusting to its awkward balance. With the same smile still on his lips he advanced towards the terrified men in white.

  Screaming, despite the drugs, they raced through the tent as he winnowed through their numbers. The wisest, least drugged, plunged through the netting into the company of musicians. The man-god stalked his ersatz-brethren as if the darkness did not exist and with a vicious determination that bespoke his acceptance of the role. He shoved the shrieking women aside with his free hand and delivered the final strokes with the bloody sword. The killing completed, he set about gathering the heads of his enemies and placing them in a gory heap on the banquet table -a task made no easier to do or watch by the edgeless sword he wielded.

  Still kneeling among the pillows, Seylalha drew the sheer silk tightly around herself, twisting the loose ends about her arms until she had become a sea -green statue, for the cloth did nothing to conceal her beauty and little to conceal her pale, quivering fear. When the blood-smeared stranger who was more god than man had placed the last trophy upon the table he vented his divine violence on the woman-garbed eunuchs. Seylalha pulled the pins from her hair; the honey-brown cascade covered her eyes and hid her from the sight of the guardians lying butchered on the ground. She took fistfuls of hair and pressed them against her ears, but that was not enough to block the knowledge of how the half-men had died. As she
had done so many times as a child and as a woman, she began to rock back and forth, keening softly to gods whose names she had long since forgotten.

  'It is time, Azyuna.'

  His voice broke into her prayers. His hand clamped over her wrist and drew her inexorably to her feet. Her legs shook and she could not remain upright except through his hold on her. When he shook her slightly she only closed her eyes tighter and swayed limply in his grasp.

  'Open your eyes, girl. It is time!'

  Obedient to the outside will Seylalha opened her eyes and shook back her hair. The hand that gripped her was clean. The voice that commanded her had something of that forgotten wild land of her birth in it. His hair was the same colour as her own, but he was not a man come to claim his bride. She hung from his grip as mute and fearful as the quiet women behind the torn netting.

  'You are obviously the one to make Azyuna's pleas - however little you resemble her. Do not force me to hurt you more than I must already!' he whispered urgently, leaning close to her ear, his breath as warm and thick as blood. 'Or have they not told you the whole legend? I am myself, I am Vashanka - we both grow impatient, girl. Dance because your life depends on it.'

  He flicked her wrist and sent her sprawling to the blood-dampened carpet. She brushed her hair away with a forearm made red from his grip. The man-god had shed the sombre clothing he had worn for the killing and stood near the pillows in a clean gold-worked tunic, but the crude sword still hung by his thigh - a rusty blush on the white tunic to mark where its cleaning had not been complete. She read the tension in his legs, the minute extension of his left hand towards the sword-hilt, the slight lowering of one eyebrow and remembered that the dance was her freedom.

  Seylalha brought one hand through the tangled mane of her hair, pointed two fingers to her musicians. They struck a ragged, jarring chord to mark their own apprehensions but the tam-bourist found her throbbing drone and the dance began.