Gil Trilogy 2: Scion's Lady

by Rebecca Bradley

  The far door opened; I hoisted myself up with the help of the table and peered through the shadows. Valsoria herself, with a tray in her hands. I grunted with further realization. So this was the secret room, the forbidden sanctum of the Divinatrixes of Vassashinay, and I was surrounded by Naarhil texts of unthinkable antiquity, inherited from ancient Vizzath. Under other circumstances I'd have been hopping with joy and demanding a reading-lantern. These circumstances made me nervous; very, very nervous.

  Nodding affably at me but keeping silent, the Divinatrix laid her tray on the table. It held a decanter of rare blue crystal and marvellous workmanship, badly chipped and lacking one of its handles. The two beakers were also beautiful and damaged, and matched neither each other nor the decanter. Stretching to reach the decanter, the Divinatrix poured a good measure of wine into each beaker, then turned and climbed like a small child into one of the high-backed chairs. She had still not uttered a sound. Politely, I passed her one of the beakers.

  "You honour me greatly, Divinatrix," I said carefully in my approximated Vassashin.

  "I think," she answered in Gillish, "that I am the one who is honoured. Sit down, Prince of Gil and Sathelforn and Miishel."

  I stayed on my feet. "Not really of Miishel, Reverend Madam."

  "Why not Miishel, my dear?" she said. The mesh of wrinkles that mapped her face moved in a smile of surprising charm. "Why not Miishel and the whole of the known world? Aye, well, and the unknown world also."

  "I have no idea what you're talking about," I said primly.

  "Have you not? I think you do. Sit down, Scion of Oballef. You and I have a few matters to discuss. And by the bye, there are a dozen armed guards outside the door who will ensure we are not disturbed."

  I hesitated and then sat down with a beaker in my hand, reflecting that Valsoria was taking no chances on my good nature (not that I would dream of damaging a dear little old lady who was just over half my height), and also thinking how pleasant it would be if the things she wanted to talk about were the same things I wanted to talk about. The release of Calla and Verolef. Shree's safety. Why she had drugged me to bring me to this room, when all she had to do was invite me—I'd been panting to see it anyway. Valsoria, however, perching on the edge of the chair with her feet dangling just above the floor, had other ideas.

  "I am told you are a great scholar of religious practices, Tigrallef. May I call you Tigrallef? Were you impressed with our Oracle, our humble little cult of the fire-gods, may they feed for ever?"

  "Oh yes," I said. "Very impressed."

  "You don't have to be tactful, child. You were not at all impressed, nor should you have been. You know there's no real magic in Vassashinay—except you."

  "Me?"

  "Oh yes. I know about the Harashil, my dear, perhaps more than you know." She regarded me quizzically, no doubt watching for signs of surprise or knowingness, so I was careful to look as blank as I could with such a pounding heart. She sighed and went on. "The Harashil, Tigrallef. I know it has been inside you since you broke the glass which your misguided ancestor renamed the Lady in Gil, and it is waiting for you to complete the prophecy."

  "Oh, you mean the Lady. That's all rumours and folklore, madam," I said cheerfully. "I'm surprised that an experienced fleecer like yourself should take them seriously."

  "An experienced fleecer like myself," she said, smiling over the rim of her beaker, "can tell very well when someone is lying. Look around you, Tigrallef."

  "Thank you. I already have."

  "Look again. The writings in this room have been passed down from Heretrix to Heretrix in an unbroken chain, from the time the Empire of Vizzath fell and the Naar departed these shores, until now. It is a long, long time that we have been waiting for your return, more than two thousand years."

  "How very patient of you," I said politely. "I suppose you can read the texts?"

  She looked gently wounded. "I can read them."

  I stood up and walked over to the nearest scroll-rack and chose a scroll at random. It was thickly covered with dust; as soon as I picked it up, it crumbled away into a multitude of dirty yellow flakes.

  The Divinatrix sighed. "Some of them have not been read for many centuries."

  "Apparently not." I returned the fragments to the rack and shook the dust from my fingers, clucking my tongue. "There has been something lacking in your order's stewardship of this treasure, madam. Not that I'm complaining—this is nothing to do with me."

  "Tigrallef, it is everything to do with you." Again, that charming smile.

  I refused to be charmed. My dismay was growing at how much she knew—this priestess was no ordinary provincial milcher. How could I have underestimated her so badly? How could I have shut my ears to the Lady's warnings? I saw suddenly that Valsoria was a dangerous woman, a devious and powerful woman with her own dark magic, rooted in Vassashinay's dark past, and it made her more dangerous than the Frath Major could ever have dreamed of being. A ruthless woman, as well. I thought of the fates she'd ordered for the Sherkin garrison—I thought of Shree and sensed time dribbling away like the sands of the Pleasure, feeling a terrible coldness settling in my belly. It was pointless to continue feigning ignorance; time to take the offensive. I pushed the coldness away and pulled myself together and looked down at the Divinatrix severely.

  "This is fascinating, Divinatrix, but I'm more interested in other matters—and if you know about the Harashil, you also know that it's unwise to displease me and that your weapons cannot harm me. I demand that you return my people to me at once and give us safe passage to the harbour."

  "Your people?"

  "My wife the Princess Rinn, the Miisheli delegation and their guards, the Satheli envoy and his aides," my throat dried suddenly, "plus my colleague, the memorian Selki of Gil, and that Gilwoman who wanted to leave with us. Oh, and her child." I finished my wine in a gulp and set the beaker down with a determined click.

  Valsoria's small monkey face wrinkled amiably. "You don't need to worry about your wife and the others from the Miisheli ship. I sent them down the mountain hours ago; the ship is afloat again, and they should be on board already, preparing to set sail, and if they haven't picked up the plague, they should be quite safe. Your wife was not happy about leaving you behind."

  So Rinn was out of my life. I silently wished her well and forgot her. "And the others?"

  "The Sherkin warlord, Carrinay and her child?" Valsoria furrowed her brow as if she were trying to remember something that would be helpful to me. "Verolef, you mean? Your child?"

  I tried to cover my startlement at the cost of a little dignity, by stumbling on the edge of the carpet.

  She twirled the shaft of the crystal beaker between her palms. "Your son, the Kalkissann, also called the Scion Verolef," she went on. "A lovely strong child, you must be proud of him."

  At least an equal nonchalance was called for. I refilled Valsoria's beaker, then my own, and sipped in the style of a wine-assessor in a tax year. Then I said, "What makes you think he's mine?"

  "Why, would you disown him? Tigrallef, how could you?" She looked genuinely shocked. "I'm sure, when you and I have come to an arrangement and you get to know the child, you'll be happy I didn't feed him to the blessed fire-gods."

  "What," I repeated through tight teeth, "makes you think he's my son?"

  "You drink your wine, my dear, it's not the local fruitpiss, it's imported. And I know Verolef is your son because I was midwife to Carrinay when he was born."

  "So?"

  "Well—it was not an easy birth. It was hours and hours, and I truly thought poor Carrinay would die before it was done—you men don't know what suffering is, great overgrown children that you are—and when Carrinay was weak and wandering in her mind from the agony, there was one name she called upon, over and over. Yours, Tigrallef."

  "Mine?" I sat down, to disguise how weak my knees had gone. "She called for me?"

  Valsoria grinned. "Sometimes she called for you, sometimes she wept f
or you, and sometimes she cursed your name—which proved to me that you were the child's father, for I've been midwife at many births through the years, and the father is often reviled at some point as the true cause of all the suffering. Quite right, too. And so, when I heard your name on Carrinay's lips—a name I had already heard in connection with the drowning of Sher, and the breakage of a certain piece of antique glass—I knew that this baby was a Scion, a twig of the Naar, the son of the prophesied one; and that someday the Harashil would bring you here to seek its own. And that, Scion, is why I preserved his precious little life."

  "Instead of feeding him to the fire-gods."

  "Quite."

  "To lure me to Vassashinay."

  "Absolutely. And here you are."

  "And now I'm here," I said, "what do you propose to do about it?"

  "We'll have a little talk about that." Valsoria beamed and settled herself comfortably in the oversized chair. "Pour yourself some more wine, Tigrallef. And some more for me, if you'd be so kind."

  Valsoria talked for a long time in a pleasant and motherly manner. I heard her out. When she was finished, I said: "No."

  She looked pained. "You cannot deny the Harashil in the end. My dear, it's been prophesied."

  "Prophecies," I said firmly, trying to sound as if I were quoting some ancient authority, "are made to be broken."

  "Not this one."

  "Especially this one, And anyway," I could feel myself becoming heated, "do you know what happened to the Frath Major of Miishel when he tried to play the same sort of game? Go take a look in his chamber—that miserable pile of dust is the Frath Major."

  "I know, child, I was watching through the wall. I didn't give him that room just because it had carpets on the floor."

  "And knowing that, you'd still be foolish enough to—"

  "Tigrallef," she interrupted gently. "Tell me something. Is the Harashil speaking to you now?"

  With a start, I realized that the Lady had been so quiet since I'd wakened in this room that I'd temporarily forgotten she was there. "Yes, she is," I said.

  "It, not she. Is that how you see it in your mind? As a woman? I suppose old Oballef's responsible for that. It was a shining serpent to the Naarlings of Vizzath, you know, and a fiery skull in Fathan—and I have good reason, Tigrallef, to think it will take your form next, when the two of you become one. And no, it is not speaking to you now. It is losing patience. You won't hear much more from the Harashil until you're willing to complete the affirmation, and the two indeed become one."

  "What makes you think that?"

  She tried to look modest, with only middling success. "You see, child, the Frath Major was badly advised by his tame scholar, whereas I—I am the Heretrix of Vizzath. And unlike the Frath Major, I know what I'm doing."

  "You'll make a very small pile of dust, Divinatrix."

  "Not at all, my dear. I wouldn't dare try to summon or control the Harashil—yet. It cannot be controlled—yet. But to a certain extent, it can be distracted."

  I caught my breath. I was starting to think that Valsoria could do precisely what she claimed: that she could force me to meld with the Harashil, and then she could use the resulting entity for her own purposes, which were roughly the same purposes envisioned by the unfortunate Frath Major, except she was better informed. Who could tell what arcane powers, fiendish protocols, potent spells, were laid out in the hundreds of crumbling scrolls around us? If Valsoria could keep the Lady quiet for as long as she had, then she obviously knew a thing or two I didn't.

  "You seem very confident," I said.

  "I should be, dear child. I spent the last five years seeking out and mastering the necessary texts."

  "But how can you be sure you're understanding them correctly? Or that they're not corrupt? The scrolls must be over two thousand years old."

  This was said just to needle her, but I could swear a shadow of uncertainty crossed her face. She was still for a moment, then sat forwards abruptly and dribbled a few drops of wine on the floor. "That's for the fire-gods, may they feed for ever—if they exist. Now, we've talked long enough, many people are waiting for us. What is it to be? Will you command the Harashil of your own free will, or do I need to persuade you?"

  I sighed, suddenly weary. What, I asked myself, was so attractive about ultimate power, that had these people queuing up to get it? "You can try to persuade me, Divinatrix, but it won't work. No matter what you do to me, I will not complete this prophecy."

  "I think you're forgetting the Caveat."

  My interest sharpened for a moment. "No, I'm not forgetting it, though I'd appreciate knowing what it warns against. Breaking the glass, perhaps?"

  "No, my dear." She slid from her chair and started to patter across the floor, beckoning for me to follow. "It warns against not completing the prophecy."

  * * *

  39

  A TEPID DAWN was just breaking when Valsoria and I emerged from the processional door. As we stepped into the courtyard, we were hit by a veritable tide of sound, the roar of a large crowd in an extremity of fear and despair, and I was reminded of my dreams of the drowning of Iklankish. Valsoria and I stopped to listen, Valsoria because she chose to, me because the two large Vassashin scraggers I was fettered between also stopped. Several veiled Daughters were standing nearby.

  "Listen to that," said Valsoria, pleased. "I should think they're nearly ready."

  The roar faded, dwindling to one faint, clear voice that seemed to be repeating a single phrase over and over again; I strained my ears to catch it, but the crowd quickly picked it up and the massing of so many voices obscured the words.

  Valsoria suddenly seemed to be in a hurry. She beckoned to one of the Daughters, who came closer and knelt in front of her. "Is everything in order, child?"

  The woman nodded.

  "Good. Ten minutes more," said Valsoria, "and then get started. But tell Lorosa she must be firm, there must be no panic."

  The Daughter hurried across the courtyard towards the main gate. Valsoria smiled up into my face.

  "I must leave you now, Tigrallef, but these two will take care of you. I will see you presently."

  She vanished through the processional door. My minders waited for a few moments and then followed, not stopping in the little foyer but pressing directly on through the carven doorway with its burden of ancient glyphs, and down the long hot corridor to the buried amphitheatre. Even before we reached the arched inner portal, I could detect the pungency of masollar in the air.

  The amphitheatre, empty of people, was full of an uneasy, flickering light. Oil-lamps had been placed all around the edges and down the ramps, defining the segments of the fan, dimming the crimson glow from the lava well. Only the platform beyond the bridge was still in darkness, as if the light did not dare to penetrate the deeper mysteries of the Sacellum.

  The minders, big silent men whose clothing smelled of fish, marched me to the bottom of the ramp and pulled me down between them on to the first tier of benches. We were barely seated when the floor began to shake and a deep rumble reverberated through the amphitheatre. All three of us were tumbled to the floor, my head glancing off the stone parapet of the lava well on the way. Through the whirling stars and flashes of coloured light, I could see motes of gold sparking and shifting, just starting to coalesce into shimmering clots of a deeper, richer gold. "Are you there?" I whispered. Silence. A moment later, I felt myself being hauled back on to the bench, and the lights faded further into my head.

  The mountainquake had loosened my minders' tongues. They sat nervously on either side of me, talking across me in a form of Vassashin so colloquial that I had trouble following it, picking up only the gist of what was said: six dancers in the camp since sundown—Tiv thrown alive into the fire—served him right, the great fat fleecer, for trying to corner the market in greasefish last year—astonishing omens from the fire-gods—clouds of smoke like giants in battle—voices from the vents up the mountain—voices of the blessed dead—B
oran's great-aunt Dava, no doubt about it—salvation coming closer—but the outlander who escaped?—never fear, the sea-gods would get him if Sanvil's crew didn't—the Divinatrix—the Kalkissann—

  They were interrupted there, which was irritating. My ears had pricked up at the talk of the outlander (Chasco?) and were gaping at the mention of my son, but chanting voices and shuffling feet were becoming audible at the entrance to the amphitheatre. My minders shut their mouths and sat up very stiffly.

  I looked behind us and saw red-robed Daughters coming through the portal in double file, singing as they walked; but instead of taking places on the benches, they turned to file along the edges of the amphitheatre until they lined the whole arc of it from one side to the other. After them came a mob of the common people of Vass, who hesitated fearfully on the threshold of this holy place and then spilled down the ramps to fill the benches. I saw Coll take a place two tiers behind me, and behind him Lillifer, the Burgher of Vass, and a few of the worthies who had come to the Sacellum with Rinn's party, but there were far more incomers than could ever have been quartered in the Sacellum. I realized that the gates must have been thrown open to admit the refugees camped outside. Valsoria was wagering everything on one throw of the sticks.

  Last of all, when the people, more than a thousand at a rough estimate, were packed into the benches as tightly as the seeds in a pomegranate, three more Daughters came through the portal. The first two, side by side, wore red surplices; the third—my heart thudded to see her—wore a black surplice. Calla! I jumped to my feet and shouted to her over the echoing din of the crowd, but my minders jerked me back and held me down in my seat until I stopped struggling. When the three Daughters came to the bridge, a few feet away, I peered desperately at Calla's hands for any message—but her hands were clasped against her chest, and she averted her veiled face.