Though all knew of the Portal’s existence, few in the Temple knew where to find it. Tamaros turned off a main corridor and walked into what appeared to be a blind wall. Angling to his left, he found a small corridor, barely wide enough for an ordinary-sized man to fit between the walls without turning sideways. This corridor was quite long, at least fifty paces. At the end were two steps that went down and two more that went up, and then there was a door. Opening the door led him into a small and windowless closet.
This closet did not appear on any of the plans used in the building’s construction. Prior to the gods’ blessing, this little cell was known jocularly as Petra’s Folly, Petra being the name of the chief builder. The story went that Petra had realized at the last moment that his plans were incorrect, that he was going to have space left over, and that he’d tossed in this closet in order to fit in all the rest of the pieces of the gigantic puzzle that was the Temple of the Magi.
The chief builder always denied this vehemently. He had been inspired to add the closet, he said, having seen it in a vision. Nobody believed him, naturally, until the day when the other three Portals were created. On that day, King Tamaros had walked straight to this tiny closet, though he had never been there before, and announced that this was the Portal of the Gods. Petra was exonerated. He was regarded with awe by family and friends and never quite trusted from that day on.
The rector of the Temple school was honored to escort the King to the Portal. He removed the wizard lock that guarded the door. The servants entered from time to time to clean the small room, sweep the floor, dust the altar, and make certain mice were not nesting in the mattress, but otherwise the room was kept sacrosanct.
The rector, asking the King’s pardon, preceded His Majesty into the cell, looked it over carefully to make certain all was neat and proper. Tamaros endured this delay patiently. Time always seemed to slow for him when he entered the Portal. In the palace, the minutes poured past him in a rushing torrent. The moment he entered the Portal, the torrent slowed until it seemed he could delineate each separate drop as it fell into the dark pool of the irrecoverable past.
The room smelled of candle wax and old roses. One of the servants had scattered rose petals over the bed linen. The rector frowned at such frivolity, but Tamaros was pleased. The smell of roses always brought his loved wife to mind. Novices entered behind the rector. One carried a jug of water for the King’s refreshment. One held a chamber pot and laving dish for his ablutions. These they set down with utmost care, trembling with mortal dread at being so near their King, and fearful of making an unseemly racket. Tamaros gazed upon the young people with such a benign and kindly eye that they were warmed and comforted and asked for his blessing as if he had been their own father.
And then they were gone, a flock of lambs herded to the door by the shepherding rector, who lit thick beeswax candles and asked if there was anything else the King desired. Upon being told that there wasn’t, the rector closed the door. Tamaros locked the door from the inside, using a magical key provided by the Most Revered High Magus Reinholt, a key that would enchant the door, keep it locked until Tamaros himself opened it.
The King spent long moments standing in the center of the small room, allowing time to slow still further until finally the seconds ceased to drop. The pool became still and placid, its surface not marred by a single ripple.
The peace, the quiet entered the King’s heart and his soul. He sat down upon the bed and looked around the small cell with fondness and affection, as a man looks around his home after returning from a long and dangerous journey.
“I would be glad to stay here for the rest of my days,” Tamaros said, his gaze lingering on the altar, which was very plain and simple, a square table made of rosewood, with symbols representative of the four elements carved at each of the four cardinal points.
A noble family had donated the altar from its own private chapel, which was being redecorated in the modern style. The altar—centuries old, perhaps—had been crudely carved by a craftsman with more love than skill. The nobleman had spoken of the altar disparagingly, had considered chopping it up for firewood, but had then reflected that perhaps this might offend the gods. The magi had accepted the gift, treated the altar with the reverence it was due, polishing it with fine oils and giving it a place of honor in the main sanctuary. Tamaros, coming to see it, had felt strangely drawn to it. He had requested it be moved to the Portal, where it fit as if it had been made to order.
A dish of oil stood next to the altar, along with a soft white cloth. Tamaros knelt before the altar. Dipping the cloth in the scented oil, he began to polish the altar wood, his first offering to the gods. As he worked, the worries and anxieties, the petty quarrels, the serious intrigues, the grabs for power, the betrayals, the disappointments flowed from him into the cloth and were rubbed into the wood. The wood absorbed them, as it absorbed the sweet oil.
Tamaros rose from his task, refreshed and cleansed, the cares of the world no longer soiling his soul.
What would they do if I refused to come out? he found himself thinking, and he smiled to imagine his old friend Reinholt’s consternation. The thought was tempting, very tempting. He could abdicate the throne in favor of his elder son. Helmos would make a good king.
Would make. He was too young yet for such heavy responsibility. And yet, Tamaros reminded himself, you were King when you were barely older than Helmos.
Tamaros allowed himself to dream, all the while knowing it was nothing but a dream. He would never abdicate, would never do that to his people, would never do that to his sons. How could anyone count upon the crown if it were seen to be nothing more than a hat to be put on or thrown off at a whim? He would bear this burden until the day the gods released him, permitted him to join his beloved, who waited for him in the rose-colored dawn of a new life.
Tamaros felt a great weariness. Between conferences with ambassadors and meetings with his advisors, he had not slept well for months. He lay down upon the bed, luxuriated in the fact that for a few days at least no one would disturb his rest.
He sank beneath a still pool covered over with rose petals.
The small child sat in an enormous chair at an enormous table, waiting for something. He was not quite sure what. He had been deposited there, in the chair, and ordered vaguely to behave, whatever that meant. The table was loaded with food and drink, all he wanted. Some of the most delicious tidbits, however, were too far for him to reach. He stood up in the chair and climbed onto the table, in an attempt to secure the sweetmeats, but they still remained—inexplicably—beyond his grasp.
His parents were there somewhere. He caught glimpses of them occasionally, as they hurried past, in and out of the room, loving, in a vague and preoccupied way. They were extraordinarily beautiful, his parents. Or at least so he imagined. He could never truly see them as they came and went, with barely a glance for him.
They never said a word when he stood on the chair or climbed upon the table, though he might well have tumbled down and cracked his head. He returned to the huge chair—his feet didn’t touch the floor—and thought that he should ask his parents to give him the longed-for confection. He knew that if he had it in his possession, it would make him happy. He would never want anything else. He said as much to his parents, the next time they passed by, in a rustle of silk and lace and jewels, smelling of rosewater.
To his awe and delight, they stopped and gazed down upon him from their great height.
“You are a good child. We take pleasure in pleasing you. But are you certain this is what you want?”
“Yes, yes, I am certain!” he cried, and wriggled in the too-large chair.
“It is sweet upon the outside, but bitter to the taste in the center. Do you still want it?”
“Yes, I want it!” He would avoid the center, never come near it.
“There is a reason it has been placed out of your reach. It may be too rich for you to digest just now. With work, you could reach it yourself
.”
“I tried! I cannot! I have earned it! Why do you show it to me if you will not let me have it? It’s not fair!”
His parents hesitated, considered.
“It is true you are one of our favored children. You have always been good and obedient. Very well. The sweet shall be yours. If you would heed our caution, we advise you to lock it away and not indulge yourself in it just yet.”
He promised he should do as they wished, but even as he took hold of the wonderful sweetmeat, he realized he was hungry, so very hungry. Empty and hollow inside. Only this could satisfy him.
His parents lingered, an air of anxiety about them. He had what he wanted and that was enough. Eventually, they departed. He was barely aware of their going. He held the treat in his hands and gazed at it with delight, thinking how all the other children would love him for this and do him honor.
Tamaros woke slowly, woke from a dream that had been both immensely satisfying and vaguely disquieting. He sat up in bed— somewhat surprised to find that he was in bed and not in a tall chair. Stupid with the heavy sleep, he sat in the darkness, unable to see, not quite comprehending where he was. The sleep fog gradually dissipated, the dream receded, and he knew, he remembered.
Effectively blind, he rose to his feet and groped through the darkness. The cell was small, there was not much furniture—a chair, a writing desk, the altar. He knew where each piece stood in relation to the others and so found his way to the desk with relative ease. His hands located the candle in its stand, found the tinder and flint beside it.
The candle flame had drowned in its own wax, apparently. The candle had not been out long, the wax was still semiliquid and warm to the touch. He cut a small channel in the side of the candle to allow the wax to drain, then lit the candle. The flame burned clearly, brightly.
The flickering flame was reflected four times in a lustrous diamond pyramid, constructed of four triangles whose base formed a quadrangle at the bottom, came together in a point at the top. The pyramid was large, the base approximately the length of Tamaros’s hand. The diamond pyramid stood as tall as a hand and a half. It had been carved from a single stone.
No one could have entered the Portal. Only he could unlock the magic enchantment protecting the door. And, in any case, no one would have dared disturb the King in his sacred meditations. Tamaros gazed at the diamond in reverent awe. The diamond was a gift from the gods, as in his dream. He touched the diamond gingerly with a trembling finger.
The stone was smooth, hard, cold as ice to the touch, without flaw. As he touched it, images formed in his mind, images of an elf holding a segment of the pyramid, a dwarf holding another segment, an ork holding yet another segment, and a human—himself—holding the last. He saw elves, orken, dwarves each undergoing the Transfiguration. He saw the four quarters of the diamond pyramid separate, then come together, united, to form a perfect, flawless structure.
“Sweet outside, bitter in the center.”
The warning voices echoed from his dream. Tamaros tried to understand, but he could not. The diamond was whole and at the same time it was segmented, each segment equal, none receiving a larger share than any other.
Tamaros sank to his knees and with glad tears coursing down his cheeks, he thanked the gods. He spent the next two days in prayer and thanksgiving, and when he emerged from the Portal, he bore in his hands the diamond pyramid, which he called the Sovereign Stone, for it came from the gods, sovereign rulers of them all.
By the Sovereign Stone’s grace, each race would have the right to create Dominion Lords of that race. These Dominion Lords, the most wise and learned of every race, would unite to ensure that the continent of Loerem would always be at peace.
As to the “bitter” inside, there was no “inside” that Tamaros could see. When the time came, the pyramid would split into four equal quarters, leaving nothing in the center.
Children Should Be Neither Seen Nor Heard
News of the Sovereign Stone whispered through the palace before Tamaros ever left the Temple. Following a day of prayerful thanksgiving, the King sent word that a meeting of the Dominion Lords, the heads of the orders of the Revered Magi, and the ambassadors of the other races was to be convened that very night. The Dominion Lords and the ambassadors or their representatives came in haste, the magi gathered. The conclave was held in a meeting room in the Temple. All waited in eager expectation for the King. Those who had seen him when he emerged from the Portal reported that he seemed to have shed twenty years of worry and anxiety.
He had placed the sacred diamond in a velvet bag, keeping it from the eyes of the curious. Bearing the gemstone, King Tamaros entered the meeting room. So radiant did he look, so exalted, and, at the same time, humble, that the men and women in attendance smiled with joy and began to applaud, certain that whatever had pleased their King and given him back his youthful vigor and health must be to their liking.
Tamaros placed the velvet bag containing the Sovereign Stone upon the table.
“A gift from the gods,” he said simply, and, opening the bag, removed the diamond. “The Sovereign Stone.”
All exclaimed over its beauty, but, when Tamaros proceeded to tell them of its use as he understood it from the gods, the smiles began to slip away.
The diamond pyramid gleamed brightly in the light of the oil lamps but not brightly enough to hide from Tamaros the fact that the gods’ gift was not being welcomed with universal rejoicing, as he had thought it surely must. He gazed at the people gathered around the table, those whom he considered his friends, his most trusted advisors, and he saw doubt, uncertainty, and, in some cases, outright dismay.
“What is this?” he demanded, and his voice rose in his anger and disappointment, carrying quite clearly to those who had gathered outside the sealed meeting room, unabashedly eavesdropping. On hearing the King’s voice shake with anger, the curious—mostly young acolytes and novices—looked guilty and hurried away. Others—mainly the lay servants, who were there because they knew they would be well paid for their information—put their ears more closely to the cracks in the woodwork.
After a half hour of listening to the conversation inside the meeting room the spies ran off to make their reports. So it was that Silwyth heard exactly what had transpired in that meeting, from a young woman in his pay. The first moment he could snatch from the prince’s presence, he returned to his room, where he wrote a hurried letter to the Shield of the Divine, a letter that left the palace on its way to the elven Portal before Tamaros and the Sovereign Stone ever left the meeting room.
The letter was brief and closed with this:
Lord Mabreton is already talking of the elves refusing to accept the Sovereign Stone, for, he says, what need do the elves have of it? If the stone was truly good and powerful, our own ancestors would have brought it to the Divine. We do not need to accept alms from the humans.
My lord, fearing that this may also be your response, I beg you to consider this: perhaps the gods have given the stone to the humans in order that it may be kept out of the hands of the Divine! He should accept it. But he should not receive it. Please think on this, my lord, and send me your instructions.
“Where have you been?” Dagnarus demanded, giving the elf a sharp look when Silwyth entered his room later that evening. “I wanted you.”
“I was taken with a sudden indisposition, Your Highness,” Silwyth replied. “I beg your forgiveness.”
“I was most seriously annoyed by your leaving,” said Dagnarus coolly, who guessed that something was going on.
“I am sorry to have upset Your Highness. In return, perhaps you would like to hear news of your honored father. News that you will find to be of interest, for Your Highness knows well that I am no tongue-wagging gossip.”
“I know that well, Chamberlain,” said Dagnarus gravely, for Silwyth spoke the truth. The elf never gossiped or spread rumors. The information he brought the prince on a consistent basis was always accurate.
“A diamo
nd that big must be very valuable,” said Dagnarus.
“Indeed, Your Highness,” said Silwyth.
The prince and his chamberlain were not the only people in the palace talking of the Sovereign Stone. Dunner had attended the meeting and reported to the dwarven ambassador, who had—after all—been persuaded to stay the seventy-two hours, provided he and his twelve bodyguards were not forced to remain “imprisoned” in the castle. The dwarves pitched their tents on the plains outside the city, changing their location every day.
Dunner was enthusiastic over the idea of dwarven Dominion Lords. He described the ceremony of Transfiguration, which he had seen Helmos undergo and which had profoundly impressed him.
It did not impress the ambassador.
“Bah!” he said scornfully. “This stone is worthless to us. As if any dwarf would permit himself to be turned into solid rock! And all for what? To earn some sort of magical power? Our wizards have too much magic as it is, in my opinion. No dwarf would do such a mad thing.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Dunner, looking down at his twisted leg as he tried to rub away the incessant pain. “I’m not so sure. I think we should accept it.”
The orken Captain heard the news on his boat, while he was out fishing, one of his people having swum out to inform him. The Captain listened, nodded once, and said laconically, “Bring me the rock.”
The ork obeyed. He went directly to the palace, where one of King Tamaros’s courtiers spent a very bad twenty minutes attempting to make the ork understand that the orken portion of the Sovereign Stone would be turned over to the very highest personage in the orken hierarchy, during a most elaborate ceremony designed to honor the gods and not before.
“Ceremony!” The Captain grunted in displeasure when the ork returned empty-handed. “Why bother with another assnumbing ceremony? No need to bore the gods with long-winded talk. The gods have done what the King wanted. The gods have given him this rock. What more is there to say to them?”
Well of Darkness Page 16
