by Dave Smeds
"The Oracle of Struth, the frog god," Deena whispered to Toren.
Immediately in front of the statue, separating it from the throng, was a broad, rectangular pool. One by one, worshippers approached a tiny dais and cast coins into the water. As they did so, the supplicants asked questions, some of which Deena translated for Toren. A farmer asked if the danger of frost had ended. A merchant wanted to know if the price of iron would drop soon. A middle-aged matron asked what her new son-in-law should do to prosper in his trade. None were answered. But when a small boy demanded, rather insistently, to know if he would travel to faraway places when he was older, a reply came.
"Yes."
The deep voice made Toren jump. The meaning penetrated far more directly than any common sound could. It seemed to come from the head of the stone frog, yet at the same time, it came from all directions. There was no need for translation. A murmur ran through the crowd, and the boy, grinning with self-importance, stepped down from the dais and headed for the exit.
The supplicants came from all walks of life, from nobles in embroidered finery to beggars in rags. Toren and his companions did not join the line; they waited near the entrance, observing for the better part of an hour. Toren grew restless, but Geim told him to pay attention, to try to see a pattern to the oracle's actions.
At first, it seemed that there was none. About one in five petitioners was answered, some at length, more often with a simple yes or no, with no direct relationship between the amount of money thrown, or the sophistication of the question, and receipt of an answer. But over time, Toren saw that larger offerings did increase one's chances. And once, something unusual happened.
A man in the livery of a Calinin high family came forward, dropped several gold pieces, and said, "Who is my lord's hidden enemy?"
"He who sleeps with your lord," the oracle replied.
The man blanched, then nodded knowingly. Then, as he stepped off the dais, the frog god spoke again.
"Bide with me for a time."
The man jumped, then both he and the rest of the crowd turned toward a curtained alcove behind the statue. The cloth parted, held by a stunningly beautiful woman. She beckoned the petitioner, who burst into a smile and walked quickly into the passageway. Men left behind licked their lips and watched with envious glances.
"I don't understand," Toren said.
"That man has just been favored with the hospitality of Struth," Geim said. "I'll explain later. It's time we went inside. We'll use a less public route."
They left the way they had come. They continued along the wall and around a corner into an untrafficked alley. Geim stepped up to a small door and rapped four times.
The peephole opened, then the door. A drelb stood there. He greeted Geim and Deena by name, spoke a few words, and made way for them.
"He says I'm to go to the high priestess," Deena told Toren. "You and Geim are to wait in the Wine Room." They continued on. The dwarf remained by the door.
They passed through a small anteroom into a garden of lush trees, vines, and fronds. Deena vanished down one path, while Geim led Toren down another between a series of pools-deep rock grottoes stocked with exotic fish, and shallow ponds spotted with lilies and water grass. Frogs croaked. The garden ended in one large, clear pool of flat tile, in which four women waded, each as lovely as the one in the oracle's hall. They smiled and waved at Geim, who waved back.
The temple itself ascended in many tiers, artfully accented with balconies, stairways, columns, hallways, and patios, trellises of flowering vines, and stained glass windows. It did not fit with the houses of religion elsewhere along the street.
As they walked down a well-lit hallway panelled in wood and decorated with framed paintings, an elderly woman servant handed Geim a key. She continued on without a word, towels in her hand, heading for the pool as if drying the bathing women had been her sole duty.
Geim unlocked a door near the end of the corridor. They stepped into a small room. The scent of incense and wine greeted them. Fine tapestries lined the walls. Along the side opposite the door sat a row of wine barrels, with a smaller cask on a stand in front. Cushioned divans abutted the two side walls, stacked with abundant plush pillows. In the center of the room stood a glass table whorled into an intricate statue of an octopus, its outstretched tentacles providing occasional flat spots on which empty goblets were cradled.
"This is one of the reception rooms," Geim said. "One of the places the lucky supplicant to the oracle might be entertained. Each one has its own decor." He picked up a pair of goblets, went to the small cask, and filled them with an amber wine. A rich, fruity bouquet kissed the air. "I have a very fond memory of this room," he added, turning off the spigot. His eyes sparkled. "The hospitality of the priestesses of Struth is legendary, and they deserve their fame."
"They're prostitutes?"
Geim rolled a tiny mouthful of wine across his tongue. Toren did likewise, and realized for the first time that winemaking was a type of art, and that he was sampling the work of an adept.
"You might call them that. The priestesses provide incentive for certain people to visit the oracle. Struth is a gatherer of information. The more influential the supplicant-the closer to positions of power-the more likely he is to be invited within the walls. There he enjoys the attentions of a priestess, and she, in turn, encourages him to unburden his heart, tell her his inner worries. It's more than sex. The priestesses are sorceresses. By the time a man has been with one for a few hours, her particular kind of magic makes it difficult for him not to reveal his entire life story. Struth knows more about the inner workings of the empire than any living creature. The crown prince of Serthe himself is a frequent visitor. But even if providing sex to strangers is part of their calling, it would be wrong to dismiss them as mere whores. They are proud of what they do. They do it for the frog god-the goddess, as they call her."
Toren massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to absorb all the information. "You were a supplicant once?"
"In a way. I was fortunate enough to have been in Headwater five years ago when Struth decided to learn more about the Vanihr. A man came to me in a tavern and hinted that, should I care to show my brown face and yellow hair in front of the oracle, it might be worth my while. I was certain he was playing a game with me, but after he left, curiosity got the best of me. I came to the temple and found, much to my delight, that the invitation was genuine."
Geim swirled the wine in his goblet. "I have never determined just how Struth knows which petitioners have useful information, and which do not. There is a great deal about her I don't know. She is subtle. Most people in this city have no idea how she selects her guests. They offer her money, and think it is her whim when she ignores them. A few who know the way of it have enjoyed these rooms more than once for the offering of a single copper erron."
"And you?"
"Struth saw that I was a resourceful person, and enlisted me. I have served her in various capacities ever since. When the time came to fetch you, it was obvious that sending a Vanihr would be helpful. I was the logical candidate." He sipped deeply. "I have, in fact, visited some of these rooms in the past few years, but only because a particular priestess took a liking to me. Whenever I have useful information, I render it freely, in consideration of the food, the shelter, the purpose Struth has given me."
"And does that purpose fulfill you?" Toren asked. As he spoke it startled him to realize how much he needed the answer.
Geim scratched his head, drank the last of his wine, and refilled the goblet. "As I said on the mountain, it is better than wandering. Struth plays the game of life at a level most beings are unaware of. To be part of it is always… interesting."
"Do you trust her?"
He frowned. "She protects her own, and she keeps her word. I know she will give you back your totem, as promised."
"When?"
"Probably today. She will probably summon you as soon as Deena finishes her report, and I give mine. No doub
t she will return it to you then."
****
Toren was on his third goblet when they heard a light, tentative knock on the door. Geim gave permission to enter. It was Deena.
She said something to him. He nodded. "My turn," he said to Toren, and left. Deena stayed.
Toren gestured at the cask, and lifted his goblet, but she declined the offer. She stared at the tiles.
"Is something wrong?" he asked.
"The high priestess can be… intimidating." She smoothed out the cuffs of her riding breeches. She refused to meet Toren's eyes. "She sees things whether you want them seen or not."
"You were talking about me?"
"Of course. That was the point. She wanted to know a few details of the journey… and she wanted to know what I thought about you."
"What did you tell her?"
"The truth. As I said, she has a way of dragging it out."
"Apparently so do the other priestesses." Toren realized she was embarrassed, so he offered the chance to divert the topic.
"Did Geim tell you about them?"
"Yes."
"High Priestess Janna's methods are not so visceral," she said.
Toren raised his brows. "I didn't mean to imply that they were."
"You didn't. I just wanted to be clear." She raised one delicate eyebrow. "Do you have whores in the Far South?" Disdain tinged her voice when she uttered the term.
"They're rare, but the occupation exists. Geim told me something of your practices as we rode through the mountains. Our customs are more strict, because of our totems."
"How so?"
Toren gladly accepted the opportunity to compare cultures. It reminded him of their evenings of talk on the way through the Wood. "A boy must always know who his father is, in order to know which totem to receive. Married couples do not stray. Those who are not married have more choice, but a woman is not permitted to have more than one partner per month, so that if she conceives, she will know the sire. A woman must be infertile to be a prostitute; if a fertile woman is caught selling her body, she is sterilized."
Deena's eyes widened. "How?"
"I'm told it's not pleasant. Sometimes it is fatal."
She shuddered, poured herself some wine after all, and gulped it.
"I'm sorry," Toren said.
"It's not your fault. I asked you to tell me." She coughed. "What happens to an orphan? Who will pass on the totem?"
"Preferably a grandparent, so that the totem would be almost the same. If I do not return before my son comes of age, that's what will happen. Or if my father is dead by then, one of my brothers will take my place."
"What about the boy's mother?"
"Mothers give totems to daughters, fathers to sons. If a boy has no living male relative, he goes outside the family for adoption. It is better to receive any totem than none. Likewise, it is a great tragedy if a man never passes his on. His life experiences are lost. A man who has only daughters will pay very dearly to adopt a son of a man who has many boys. Fortunate is the man with many sons; not only can he pass on his totem many times, but he can make great bargains. My own father was a lucky one. I am his fourth son. I might have easily been given the totem of my father's friend, for whom I am named, but that Toren finally had a son shortly before I came of age."
"I would have thought that you'd be named after one of your ancestors," Deena said.
"It would be confusing, with all those generations in one's head, some of them with the same names. It happens anyway. No need to worsen it."
Deena toyed pensively with the tip of one of the glass octopus's tentacles. "You think about your son a great deal, don't you?"
"How can I not? I am a Vanihr. My son is my immortality."
****
There was another knock. Geim stepped in, accompanied by a tall, buxom, high-cheeked priestess in a diaphanous gown. The cloth rustled as she walked, a faint, alluring whisper that drew attention to her supple outlines, and to the hint of nipples pressing against the gauze. Toren smelled magic accentuating her seductiveness, but declined to interfere with the spellweaving. She spoke to him in a mellifluous voice. He did not understand the words.
"This is Yari," Geim translated. "She will take you to the high priestess." When Toren did not respond immediately, Deena jabbed him in the ribs.
He jumped up and followed Yari out, only vaguely aware of Deena's jealous observation.
Yari led him through sumptuous rooms and across an exquisite patio to the rear of the temple complex, his eyes locked on the supple twisting of her waist. It was as if he were being pulled with a tether like a pack beast. It was now easy for him to understand the allure of the priestesses of Struth.
They came to a dome, a pale, marble hemisphere three times the height of a man at the apex, featureless and unadorned, save for a doorway. Yari indicated he should step inside.
The interior was a single chamber containing only two semicircular divans. The latter faced each other, about three paces apart, plush and soft, the off-white upholstery matching the hue of the polished marble floor. A woman sat in one.
It seemed as though he had been transported into the midst of an ocean. Outside, visible through transparent walls, swam a bewildering array of fish. Strands of kelp wafted in the current. Elsewhere a sea turtle peered in. Echoes of waves and high-pitched songs of sea creatures filtered through at an almost subliminal level. The perfection of the illusion was broken only by the rectangle of the entrance.
Yari stopped at the threshold. She smiled and withdrew, closing the door. Once shut, it showed no seams, as if none had ever existed.
Toren turned to the woman on the divan. She rose. The top of her head crested no higher than his upper chest; she must have weighed less than half of what he did. She wore her hair in a neat bun. She wore a jacket, close-fitting leggings, and sandals-a handsome outfit, but not in the least suggestive. Yet, as she reached out a hand to him, she struck him as far more seductive than Yari, though as far as he could tell, she dispensed no sorcery to enhance her charm. The brilliant blue of her jacket, her black hair, and her tan flesh presented a vivid spot of color against the austere background.
"Deena was right. You are handsome. Come. Let me look at you more closely." She used Mirienese, Deena's language.
He walked forward, still marvelling at the ocean outside. "Deena said that?"
"Not in those exact words. But she is… impressed." She gestured at the divan opposite her, and sat down. "I am Janna, High Priestess of Struth. I bid you welcome in the name of the goddess."
"It was an invitation I couldn't refuse," Toren said sarcastically.
"Indeed," she said kindly. "Geim and Deena inform me that you understand why we had to abduct you."
"They've told me about the Dragon. I believe them when they say he is a threat-perhaps even to my people. But I have yet to be told precisely why I have the means to help you."
"Really?" she asked. "You haven't discovered new things about yourself in the past weeks?"
"Well, yes," he admitted. "But nothing that would allow me to kill a dragon."
"What you can do with training may surprise you." She held out her palms. "Give me your hands."
After some hesitation he did as she asked. Her eyes bore into him. He felt her presence come… closer. "Be at peace," she said, and he relaxed. Soon she disengaged.
"Struth was right. You are an astounding candidate."
"I haven't agreed to help you," Toren reminded her.
"Yes. That is the question. But it needn't be answered now. It is your turn to make requests."
Instantly Toren held up his bracelet. "I want my totem back."
"Of course. For that, we must see Struth."
She stood and walked to the center of the chamber. She held her hand out over the floor, and uttered a single word. With his recently developed senses, he saw a glow of power extend from her palm into the marble.
A square hole opened in the floor, revealing a set of stairs. "Fo
llow me," she said.
They descended a straight flight of over one hundred steps, guided by an eerie cerulean werelight of no apparent source. At the bottom they emerged into a chamber so large that the glow from the tunnel would not reach the far corners of the room. The blackness also hid the ceiling. Toren smelled an essence that he identified as frog. Water dripped loudly; the drops echoed, as if across a vast empty space.
"Mistress, we have come," Janna called.
"Welcome." The word reverberated in Toren's mind. Out of the dim recesses of the cavern there took shape an enormous amphibian. Shortly thereafter the werelight spread outward from the tunnel entrance, and he realized that the statue of the frog in the amphitheater was not, after all, larger than life. Here was its model.
"I am Struth."
Each of her bulging eyes was as wide as Toren was tall. She could have gobbled him up like an insect. She towered above him, awesome and intimidating, her smooth green skin rendered grayish and shadowy by the werelight. Toren found it hard to respond to a being whose very eyeblinks frightened him, but he kept the tremor out of his voice. At last he had before him the proper target of his anger. "I am here to collect something that is owed to me," he said.
"I apologize for my methods. I couldn't afford a refusal. You are the best candidate I have found."
"For what purpose? Why me?" Toren asked.
"Of all the people alive in the world today, your energy pattern most closely matches that of the great wizard, Alemar Dragonslayer. With proper training, you may be able to use his talismans to near their full potential. I speak in particular of the gauntlets that were retrieved from the Eastern Deserts by the great wizard's descendants, Alemar and Elenya of the House of Olendim, which were made specifically to fight the children of Faroc and Triss."
Toren tapped his foot against the stone, skeptical. "You're going to keep my ancestors, then, force me to do your bidding?"
