He raised the scepter high, and the sun gleamed on the crystal at its tip, but the dark heart was not illuminated. Then with a last fierce look he turned and marched into the shadows.
“Oh happy day,” muttered Neeps.
Thasha elbowed him. “His scepter,” she whispered. “There’s a drawing of it in the Polylex, or of one just like it. Something blary special, it was. Oh, what was its name?”
Pazel sighed. Thasha owned a copy of the most dangerous book ever written: the forbidden thirteenth edition of The Merchant’s Polylex, the mere possession of which was punishable by death. Earlier editions, and later ones, were to be found in every ship’s library and seamen’s club; they were simply huge (and untrustworthy) one-volume encyclopedias. The thirteenth, however, was crammed with the darkest secrets of the Arquali Empire. But the book was more frustrating than useful, for the author had hidden those secrets in over five thousand pages of rumor and hearsay and outright myth. It was a wonder that Thasha found anything within its pages. The priest’s scepter, now—
A terrible thought came to him suddenly. He gripped Thasha’s arm.
“What if he’s a mage?” he said, looking from one face to another. “What if he can keep evil from entering the shrine? All evil?”
Neeps and Fiffengurt paled. Even Hercól looked alarmed. Thasha seemed to have trouble catching her breath.
“In that case …,” she stammered. “Well. In that case—”
She was interrupted by a burst of song from the Mzithrini women. It was a frightful sound, nearly a shriek. At the same moment the men raised their glass pipes and began to whirl them overhead by the straps, faster and faster, until they became mere blurs of color in the sunlight. Astonishingly, although their orbits crisscrossed endlessly, the pipes never collided. And from them came a hundred eerie notes, high other worldly howls, like wolves in caves of ice. It was the summons to the bride.
Thasha turned and looked back at her father. Isiq raised a trembling hand, but she was too far ahead of him to touch. She looked at each friend in turn, and longest at Pazel, who was fighting an impulse to shout, Don’t go in there. Then she left her entourage and walked quickly to the steps.
The men fell back, still whirling their pipes, and so did the chorus of wailing women. And as Thasha climbed the stair a new figure emerged from the shrine. He looked to be in his thirties, nimble and straight, with a martial air about him: indeed he wore a kind of dark dress uniform, with a red sun pendant on his chest.
“Prince Falmurqat the Younger,” said Hercól.
“He’s not young enough if you ask me,” growled Fiffengurt.
“A capable officer, according to Chadfallow’s informants,” Hercól continued, “but a reluctant one. Above all things his father desired a soldier-son, but until the Treaty raised the prospect of ending the long war, the son refused to have anything to do with the military. I gather he paints quite beautifully.”
“You’re a lucky girl, Thasha,” said Pazel.
“And you’re an idiot,” she said.
Behind the man came his parents, Falmurqat the Elder and his gray princess, and with them another Mzithrini holy man. This one was old, but not as old as the Father, and dressed not in black but a deep blood-red.
Thasha and the prince met exactly as planned, on the step below the boy with the silver knife. The singing ceased; the men stopped their whirling display. Thasha looked utterly serene now: she might have just climbed the steps of her own house on Maj Hill in Etherhorde. Without a word she lifted the knife from the boy’s knees, turned and raised it to the watching thousands, and replaced it. Then she curtsied before her prince, and he bowed in turn.
Thasha held out her hand, palm upward, and the prince studied it for a moment, smiling curiously. He spoke a few words in a voice meant for Thasha alone. Then he took up the knife and pricked her thumb.
Instantly the red-robed cleric held out a small clay cup. Thasha let seven drops of blood fall into the milk it contained. The cleric swished it seven times. And laughed—a deep, almost manic laugh. He raised the cup high.
“Mzithrin!” he boomed. “The Grand Family! Brothers and sisters of Alifros, learn but this one word in our tongue and you learn the essence of the Old Faith. None stand alone! None are worthless, none sacrificed or surrendered, every soul has a destiny and every destiny is a note in the music of the several worlds. Before us stands Thasha Isiq, daughter of Eberzam and Clorisuela. What is to be the destiny of the Treaty Bride? I look into this milk and cannot see the gift of her blood. Has it ceased to exist? Only a simpleton could think so—only a heretic or a fool! So I ask you: can it be the fate of Thasha Isiq to vanish, dissolved in our gigantic land?
“We of the Old Faith do not believe it. The blessed milk in my cup has not destroyed her blood. No, her blood has changed the milk, irreversibly and forever. The milk we tint red is a bond and a vow. Drinking it, we are changed: a part of this daughter of Arqual enters us, and remains. Blessings on your courage, Thasha Isiq! Blessings on our prince! Blessings on Mighty Arqual and the Holy Mzithrin, and all lands between! Blessings on the Great Peace to come!”
The crowd erupted. All that had been said until this moment left them confused, but they knew what peace was, and their cry was a surging roar of hope and excitement and remembered loss. Beaming, King Oshiram looked at his new ambassador. Smile, Isiq! One would think you were at an execution, you queer old fellow.
“But the time to drink is still a moment off,” shouted the red-robed cleric, over the lasting cheers. “Enter now, Thasha of Arqual, and be wed.”
4
A Sacrifice
7 Teala 941
Seven thousand candles lit the shrine’s interior: green candles with a sharp camphor scent. The place was smaller than Pazel had imagined. When the king’s retinue, the foreign royals and dignitaries and Templar monks were all seated on the little stools brought in for the occasion, and the Mzithrinis (who considered chairs unnecessary, but not unholy) were seated cross-legged on the floor, there was scarcely room for the wedding party itself.
But squeeze in they did. Thasha and the prince stood on a granite dais; their families and closest friends stood below them in a semicircle. All save Pazel: as the holder of the Blessing-Band he merited a place on the dais, where he could tie the ribbon to Thasha’s arm at the required moment.
One way or another, of course, that moment would never arrive.
The last of the invited guests were still filing in past the Father, who glared like a fury, now and then making threatening bobs with his scepter. The guests, all cultured and important people, were not so awed by the man as the great throng outside. Some hurried past him with a shudder. A few rolled their eyes.
Last of all came Arunis. Pazel held his breath. The sorcerer looked exactly like what they had all once taken him for—a thickset merchant, rich and rather tasteless, dressed in dark robes as expensive as they were neglected. He wore a little self-mocking smile and kept his pudgy hands folded before him like a schoolboy. Less than a day had passed since those hands had worked spells of murder aboard the Chathrand.
“Kela-we ghöthal! Stop!”
The Father brought his scepter down like a nightstick, square against the mage’s chest. Arunis halted, blinking at him. Pazel saw Thasha glance up in fear. The Father was chanting in a rage: Pazel heard something about a devil’s chain and a Pit of Woe. Aya Rin, he thought helplessly, this can’t be happening.
Every eye in the shrine focused on the two men. Arunis smiled timidly, like an obliging citizen at a military checkpoint. He made a wobble with his head, as folk of Opalt do when they wish to show either goodwill or confusion, or both. The Father answered with a growl.
Arunis dropped his head. He shrugged, his lower lip trembling, and even those who knew better saw him for an instant as a good soul, one used to being last in line, one who had never dreamed he would be lucky enough to witness history in the making but who even now would give it up rather than cause any trouble. He turned to go.
But as he did so he glanced once more at the Father.
Their gazes locked. Arunis’ cold eyes glittered. Then quite suddenly the Father’s ferocious glare went dull. Like an automaton he took the scepter from Arunis’ chest and stepped back, waving him through the arch. Smiling, the mage scurried inside.
Pazel closed his eyes. If he had been turned away! Oh, Thasha! We thought of everything but that!
He was so relieved that he barely noticed the ceremony itself—the monks’ recitation of the Ninety Rules, the song of the Tree of Heaven, some baffling Simjan custom involving an exchange of horsehair dolls. But he noticed other things. Prince Falmurqat was smiling genuinely at Thasha—the poor dupe. And the Father, who had come forward into the shrine, seemed to have recovered both his hawklike gaze and his wrath. But he never directed these at Arunis—indeed, he seemed to have forgotten the man altogether.
Stranger still, one of the aspirants beside the Father kept turning to look at Pazel himself. It was one of the mask-wearers—man or woman Pazel could not tell. And of course he did not know if the gaze was kindly or cruel, or merely curious. But why should a young sfvantskor be curious about him?
Then he caught Thasha’s eye, and saw her courage and clarity, and even a hint of the mischief that was hers alone in all the wide world. And suddenly his fear for her leaped out, like a predator from the grass, and he could think of nothing else. Stop it, stop the ceremony, get her out of here!
It was time: Thasha and her groom were kneeling down on the stone. Once more the cleric raised the knife and cup. Falmurqat held out his thumb, and seven drops of his blood were added to the milk already tinted with Thasha’s own.
“Drink now,” said the cleric, “that your fates be mingled, nevermore to be unbound.”
He sipped, and handed the cup to Falmurqat the Elder. The cup made its way around the dais, everyone taking a tiny sip. But when Pazel’s turn came, he froze—furious, horrified, his brain on fire. The cleric prodded him, whispering: “Drink, you must drink.” The Mzithrinis stared with the beginnings of outrage. Thasha flashed him a last look, impossibly fearless. He drank.
The guests breathed a collective sigh, and the cup moved on. Pazel took the Blessing-Band from his pocket and held it in plain view. Thasha and her betrothed drank last. The cleric took the cup again.
“Now, beloved Prince. What would you avow?”
Prince Falmurqat took Thasha’s hand, and stroked it ever so gently with his thumb. He was about to speak when Thasha wrenched her hand away.
“Your Highness, forgive me. I cannot wed you. This marriage is a tr—”
She got no further. At the back of the congregation Arunis made a furtive gesture. The lethal necklace tightened. Thasha reeled, clutching at her throat.
Pazel dropped the ribbon and lunged to catch her. Pacu Lapadolma screamed. Eberzam Isiq leaped onto the dais, shouting his daughter’s name. The cleric dropped the sacred milk.
Pazel held her to his chest, hating himself, hating the world. No answer but this one. No other door to try. He whispered to her, kissed her ear. Falmurqat watched in speechless horror. Thasha writhed and twisted, her face darkening with every beat of her heart.
“Away! Give her air!” Dr. Chadfallow was battling forward. Behind him, wrathful and suspicious, came the sorcerer.
Thasha’s struggles grew so violent that Pazel almost lost hold of her. He was flat on his back, arms locked desperately around her chest, face buried in her shoulder. Then all at once her struggles ended. Her eyes widened in amazement, then dimmed, and her head fell back with an audible thump against the stone.
Pazel surged upright, raising her, choking on his tears. “You Pit-damned devil!” he shouted. “You killed her this time!”
None knew who he was accusing—the boy was clearly hysterical—but from the gaping crowd Arunis babbled in protest.
“Not I! Not with that little squeeze! Look for yourselves! The chain is loose!”
Few heeded the raving merchant from Opalt (by now everyone was shouting something), but to Thasha’s friends his words meant just what they had prayed for: an instant when the very power that had laid the curse was consciously holding it at bay. Pazel’s hand shot out, caught the necklace and snapped it with one brutal wrench. The silver sea-creatures Isiq had had fashioned for Thasha’s mother—naiads and anemones, starfish, eels—flew in all directions. The necklace was destroyed.
But Thasha lay perfectly still.
Pazel spoke her name again and again. Dr. Chadfallow felt her bloodied neck, then bent an ear swiftly to her chest. A look of pain creased the surgeon’s face, and he closed his eyes.
Utter pandemonium broke out.
“No heartbeat! No heartbeat!” The cry swept the shrine. Already guests were spilling out through the arches, taking news of the disaster with them. A vast howl rose from the mob outside.
“Annulled!” shouted the Father, raising both his scepter and the ceremonial knife. “Without a marriage the Treaty of Simja is annulled! There is no peace between the Mzithrin and cannibal Arqual! I saw death, did I not tell you, children?”
“There must be peace, there must!”
“There won’t be!”
“We’ll be killed! They’ll punish Simja for sure!”
“Death! Death!” screamed the Father.
“Get that blade out of his hands!” shouted King Oshiram.
“Where is the monster?” bellowed Isiq. “Where is he, where’s the fiend who slew my Thasha?”
But Arunis was nowhere to be seen.
Falmurqat the Elder took his son by the arm. “Let us away!” he said bitterly. “This is all a deception, and an old one at that. To marry off a convulsive, one not long for the world, and thus to shame the enemy when she expires.”
“Hush, Illoch, what nonsense!” cried his wife.
But the old prince paid no heed. “Some of us read history,” he said. “Huspal of Nohirin married a girl from the Rhizans. She died of seizures in a month, and the Mzithrin took the blame. This pig admiral must have counted on his girl lasting a bit longer, that’s all.”
Pazel thought the worst had come. Isiq would fly at the man; the insults would reverberate beyond the shrine, beyond Simja; in hours or days there would be sea-battles, by week’s end a war. But Isiq did not react at all, and with immense relief Pazel realized that the older prince had used his native tongue. But what if that changed?
Switching to Tholjassan, he looked up at Hercól.
“We’ve got to get her out of here now.”
Hercól nodded. “Come, Eberzam! We must do as Thasha would wish, and bear her to the Chathrand. A proper burial at home in Etherhorde must be hers.”
“But it’s months, months away,” Isiq wept. “Her body will not last.”
“There are remedies,” said Chadfallow quietly.
Isiq turned on him savagely. “Want to pickle my daughter like a herring, do you? False friend that you are! Never again shall you touch one of mine!”
“Steady, Isiq, he’s a doctor,” said the king.
“What do you know of him?” roared Isiq, making the crowd gasp anew. “Fatuous fool! What do you know of any of this? Puppets on strings, that is all I see around me! Little helpless dolls, twitching, dancing to the hurdy-gurdy.”
New gasps from the onlookers. “Do not touch him!” shouted Oshiram, for the guards were already starting for Isiq. No tragedy could excuse such words to a sovereign, in his own realm and before his peers; men had been executed for less. Only the king himself could pardon Isiq, as everyone present knew.
“But she must go to Etherhorde,” wept Pacu Lapadolma.
“Indeed she must, Your Excellency,” said one of the Templar monks. “Only this morning she put it in writing, when we inscribed her name in the city register: Though my body rot in transit, let me be buried at my mother’s side on Maj Hill. She was quite insistent on that point.”
To this Isiq made no rebuttal. Someone spread a cloak upon the floor. Gaping, the admiral wat
ched Hercól lift Thasha’s body and place her on the cloth.
Pazel felt a hand on his elbow. He turned, and to his amazement found himself face to face with the sfvantskor he had caught stealing glances at him during the ceremony. Below the white mask the lips trembled slightly.
“The Father was right. There’s evil on your ship. Are you part of it?”
It was the voice of a young woman, speaking broken Arquali, and whispering oddly as though trying to disguise her voice. Nonetheless Pazel felt certain he had heard it before.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Turn away before it’s too late. You’ll never belong among those who belong.”
“What did you say?”
She made no answer, only turned her back and fled, and then Neeps was tugging at his arm.
“Wake up, mate! It’s time to go!”
Pazel’s mind was in a whirl, but he knew Neeps was right. Bending, he seized a corner of the cloak on which Thasha lay. Hercól, Neeps and Fiffengurt already had their corners. Together they lifted her body, and amidst fresh wails from the onlookers bore her down the aisle and out through the arch.
The sun blinded them. Isiq followed on their heels, weeping: “For naught, for naught! My morning star—”
Before they reached the bottom step they heard King Oshiram above them, ordering his guards to form a phalanx before the corpse-bearers. “To the ship! Drive a wedge if necessary! Let no one hinder them in their grief!”
The palace guard did as they were told, and the stricken mob gave way as the men and tarboys rushed Thasha back toward the city. Most were too shocked even to give pursuit. Pazel knew their paralysis would not last, however. And what then? The crowd may go mad, Hercól had warned them. It can happen, when the world seems poised to collapse. Would there be a revolt? Would they try to seize her body, steal a piece of her garment or a fistful of hair, bury her with the martyrs of Simja?
The others might have had similar thoughts, for all four ran as quickly as they could. When Pazel glanced back he saw that the admiral was falling behind.
The Ruling Sea Page 6
