Ashar followed the giant to where the Oracle was struggling to rise. “Leko wessnos brelisaa.” The giant spoke with a broken cadence in a language Ashar had never heard, but when Rorekk pointed at the coffer, he understood. Rescue the stones.
A moment later, the thud of a heavy object slammed against the iron door. The shouts of angry men slithered under the crack. The rusted pins holding the hinges to the stone wall jolted in a crumble of mortar and stone.
The pounding grew louder and more determined. At first Ashar thought it unlikely the warriors could break through the iron door, but the weight of whatever they had found to use as a battering ram and the incessant pummeling was wrenching the hinges from the wall.
Ashar knelt by the Oracle and removed the stones from the box. He wrapped them in fur and pushed them deep into a leather satchel. He looked up as Rorekk lifted the Oracle into his arms as if the holy man weighed no more than a child.
Ashar followed the giant through the portal. He looked back at the dust from the commotion on the other side of the door. The pounding was punctuated by the profane shouts of the men. Above the rest, he heard the distinctive rasp of Drakkor’s voice.
“Kill them and bring me the stones!”
The Oracle’s limp arm was draped over the giant’s shoulder. The fingers moved, and the old man’s hand grasped the giant’s leather vest. He was alive! Ashar thanked the God of gods and Creator of All Things.
A wondrous realization came in the midst of chaos. My destiny is beyond what I have imagined. With the thought came the sobering reality of how ill-prepared he was to survive in the world beyond the temple.
He had the strange sensation that the chunk of marble was still in his hand and the fighting had only begun.
CHAPTER 43
The portal opened to a circular antechamber with no windows and no door. Tallow candles with double wicks in a ring of wrought iron sconces gave the room an orange glow.
Rorekk’s shadow rippled across the hip of the vaulted arch as he crossed to a circular mosaic on the floor in the center of the room. “Em’ot fesloc dants.”
“I don’t understand,” Ashar said, failing to understand the words or glean meaning from the movement of the giant’s head and eyes.
Stand close to me. The meaning of the giant’s words appeared in the bluish glow somewhere inside his head. He hurried forward and pressed against a leg as massive as a tree. Until that moment, Ashar had not realized how huge the giant was. He glanced up to see an amused smile on Rorekk’s broad face. Ashar realized he was staring with his mouth agape. He snapped it shut with a silly smile.
The tumult of pounding from the other room rumbled into the antechamber. It grew louder as the bottom hinge broke away and the bottom corner of the door twisted partially open. One of the bandits dropped to his belly and struggled to slither through the opening.
The floor beneath Ashar’s feet began to move. He clutched the leather satchel to his chest and grabbed Rorekk’s leg to keep from falling.
The abrasive grind of stone on stone joined the cacophony resounding from the walls of the chamber. The mosaic circle on which they stood stuttered downward. Even in the dim light, Ashar could see that a shaft had been cut through the solid rock.
Their descent into the catacomb below the holy sanctum was swift and ended with a violent jolt that knocked Ashar to his knees. Rorekk cradled the Oracle in his arms and spoke to him in soft whispers. He seemed oblivious to the wound in his side that was still bleeding. Rorekk stepped through an opening in the wall, and Ashar followed.
The moment Ashar stepped off the stone disc, it rumbled upward. He could see it was lifted by a complex mechanism of cogged wheels and iron-strapped timbers that rose from a pit filled with water. The slab bunged into the hole in the floor, hiding the secret of their disappearance.
The masonry of fitted stones opened to a natural cavern. The air was damp and pungent with the biting smell of sulfur. The muted sound of distant shouts was joined by the tranquil music of water dripping into pools. Fingers of stone reached from the blackness above; others rose from the floor. As they emerged from the man-made passage, Rorekk nodded toward a brazier of glowing coals.
“H’crot e’kathe,” he said over his shoulder as he continued forward, his strides long and confident.
Ashar followed his eyes to the torches. He grabbed one and laid it on the glowing red coals of a brazier. The suet-soaked rags burst into yellow flame.
Ashar ran to catch up. Shadows raced past him on the walls as the torchlight passed through the enchanted forest of calcium spindles. The path had ascended slowly from the time they entered the cavern, but now it rose abruptly and threaded its way around an underground lake. The water glowed with a strange luminescence the color of gingko in early spring. Water gurgled from a tumble of rocks on the far side and fell, frothy white, to the lake below.
The warm light in the cavern cooled and brightened as the trail rose steeply up a fall of rock. Ashar saw daylight beyond.
Rorekk adjusted his arms around the Oracle. He never faltered, and his pace never slackened. He stepped from boulder to boulder as if the rocks were a stairway made for giants. Perhaps it was. The rocks were slick with moisture and moss. Ashar fell twice and dropped the torch. Rorekk did not look back.
When they emerged from the caverns, it took a few moments for Ashar’s eyes to adjust to the light. The sun was still in the sky, even though it was beginning to sink behind the Mountains of Deepmore. They had climbed higher than Ashar had thought.
Rorekk gave Ashar a moment to catch his breath, then continued along the trail. Ashar threw the torch aside and hurried after him. The path wound upward through a thicket of brush to the base of the monolith of stone.
The sheer wall erupted from the hogback ridge and rose a thousand cubitums to a perpetual swirl of clouds, the sign that Oum’ilah was present. At least that’s what Master Doyan had taught. The thought sent a ripple of pain to his stomach, where it collided with a sudden pang of hunger, reminding Ashar he had not eaten in two days.
Ashar climbed to the top of a boulder that looked like the shell of an enormous turtle. He had a mostly open view of the village and temple below. It was a great distance and hard to see any detail in the fading light. Numerous fires punched holes in the blue twilight. Smoke hung over the ridge in a dusky pall. There was a large fire in the central court. Silhouettes moved back and forth through the flickering light. It appeared that the bandits were sorting votaries into groups and rounding up pilgrims who had come to the temple on the wrong day.
Ashar could hear the cries of agony, even at the great distance. There will be more blood spilled before the night is over. Drakkor’s promise pounded in Ashar’s head. Only those who bow will be allowed to live. Ashar understood. Only the fainthearted, the sympathizers, the traitors to Oum’ilah willing to bow to evil. Ashar could not condemn those who were too frightened to resist, those who would do what they needed to do to spare their lives. The outrage twisted his heart until the screaming came from within, an anguished cry of lost innocence. The man who called himself Blood of the Dragon had taken the temple. The purge of the righteous had begun.
Ashar started up the trail, but turned around when an impression pulled him back. Where is Celestine? He stopped breathing and narrowed his eyes, hoping to penetrate the fading light. His eyes flitted among the moving shadows in a desperate search, but he could not find her.
Then the flowing white of her gown caught his eye. A flicker of light in the darkness. She was running east, to where the trail to the Tears of God left the courtyard. She is alive! He thanked the God of gods in a silent prayer. When he opened his eyes, he saw two men chasing after her. Talons of fear gripped him. We have to go back!
“Master Ashar?” Rorekk’s thick voice was urgent.
Ashar turned from the horror below and caught a glimpse of the giant as he vanished behind a
tumble of boulders.
“I have to go back!” he yelled. “Do you hear me?”
His voice was swallowed by the sounds of angry shouting. Not from the village below—closer! He whirled around. Torches emerged from the black hole at the entrance of the cavern. The warriors had found the hidden passage. There was no going back. The realization pounded through his chest like a war lance.
The pale, pure face of Celestine filled his mind. Terror constricted his throat. He turned to where Rorekk had disappeared. A glimmer of sunlight on the clouds that shrouded the summit of the monolith caught his eye, and it was as if the light spoke to him. He stared into the clouds that marked the hiding place of Oum’ilah.
He is taking us to the hallowed fane.
“The hallowed fane is sacred, not secret.” Ashar could almost hear Master Doyan’s voice. His lessons on the subject were intended to dispel the mystery of the most holy of holy places. The orthodox story was that the hallowed fane had been built by the Navigator and the people who had come with him. A Blessed Sage, long since passed away, was often quoted as having said that the holy fane was the altar built by the First Man and already there when the Navigator came.
He was so close to the sheer rock wall he could not see the top of the mountain. Even if he could have seen it, the mystery was hidden by the clouds. The wondrous anthology of stories, mythos, gossip, and speculation was vivid in his mind. For Ashar, with his inquisitive nature, creative disposition, and abundant imagination, it could hardly be otherwise. Was today the day the mystery would unfold?
What was it that glimmered through the wisp of clouds in the sun’s last golden light?
He was jolted back to the harsh reality by the shouting of the bandits and the clamoring of iron.
CHAPTER 44
Dusk was slipping into darkness by the time the Raven to the King reached the Tavern at Leviathan Deeps. In contrast to the quiet, cold blue of twilight, the tavern was clamorous, crowded, and warmed by firelight.
The Tavern at Leviathan Deeps was a tumble of buildings where the track to the village crossed the King’s Road. It stood a stone’s throw from the banks of the inland sea that stretched eastward to Stone Island.
According to local lore, the rocks and the rough-hewn timbers of the tavern had once been part of a fortress that kept sea monsters from coming ashore at the narrow bridge of land that divided the south from the north. There was hardly anyone who called it “the Isthmus” in spite of the name of the village. For most, the narrow neck was simply “the Narrows.”
As he reached for the tavern door, the Raven was struck by how foolish he was to be lured to this place by nothing more than a note given to him by an old woman on the road to Village Isthmus. She had appeared suddenly, mumbled incoherently, and then stuffed a scrap of parchment into his hand. It was scribbled with charcoal and hardly readable.
Come to the tavern at the crossing. I know what you seek.
Giving the cryptic message any credence conflicted with his instincts, but his errand was urgent. If he succeeded, he’d have a power greater than kings. If he failed, he’d likely lose his life.
Even as his heart thumped faster, he felt a strange sense of calm. Intuition? Destiny? Curiosity? He couldn’t be sure. He gripped the hilt of his sword and stepped inside the tavern. He stood by the door and looked for the stranger he’d come to meet.
It was impossible for an emissary of the king or a person bearing the sigil of the Peacock Throne to move among the common folk asking questions without igniting a flurry of gossip as quickly as a firebrand in a field of dry grass at high summer.
An emissary of the king traveling without the protection of kingsriders had cause to be wary. As one privy to the king’s secret cult of mystics, even more caution was required. Vanity had not allowed a completely convincing disguise, but he had exchanged most of his elegant wardrobe for the less-striking attire of a nobleman. Perhaps it would be enough.
His errand was one of unusual sensitivity. He needed to move freely and make his inquires without stirring significant curiosities. But traveling alone on the King’s Road was dangerous, whether or not he was an emissary of the king, so a pair of kingsriders followed at a distance with orders to rendezvous at a prearranged location every third day. They had missed their last appointment.
The Raven searched the faces of the tavern patrons for a telltale look. A signal. A subtle gesture from the one who sent the message. The tables were mostly occupied by common folk, mostly travelers stopping for the night, a few soldiers, and some who had the look of highborn nobles. Peasants from the village crowded around tables at the far end where the roof was so low a normal man would need to stoop.
Likely local folks who gather every night to dull the pain of labor with cheap ale, the Raven mused. Ale, home-brewed by the innkeeper, was available for meager coin. It was bitter and tasted bad, but after two gulps, the taste didn’t matter. It loosened tongues and enlivened the burden of living.
Anything to brighten the sparsity of their meager lives, the Raven thought.
The clamor grew louder as he shouldered his way toward the rear, but no one looked his way or showed him any interest. He stood by the door with his back to the wall. He noticed a band of men at a large table by an alcove at the back. Big men mostly. Swarthy. Unkempt, yet strangely disciplined. They carried weapons not often seen. Some wore armor. Not the tempered metals of the kingsriders but iron, leather, and brass.
Brigands? Drakkor’s men? The Raven shuddered at the thought of what the ruthless bandit had done to an entire march of kingsriders.
The men huddled over a leg of pork, black bread, cheese, sugared apples, and jackfruit. They took flagons of wine from the tavern wench and waved her away. The biggest of the men sat with his back to the door. At a nod from the man across from him, he turned and looked at the Raven. It was a hard look. Intense, cold and unnerving.
The Raven held his eyes. Was this the stranger he was sent to meet? Tiny claws of fear pricked his neck, but the man nodded cordially and turned again to his companions.
A woman hurried from the kitchen with a flagon of ale. Her movement caught his eye. She looked at him as if he were a wild creature let in by mistake. The message in her eyes was clear: I am the one you are here to meet. Her face was ashen and her lip trembled. She was a sturdy woman, plumpish with a bodice tight and low, and older than most of the girls who served the room. She glanced about as if someone was watching, then turned away to fill a woodsman’s mug.
The woodsman got an eye full when the woman leaned down, and he muttered a crude remark. He was a churlish fellow, drunken, disheveled, and dirty from the mountains. His tunic bore the sigil of a minor house, or a league of huntsmen, perhaps.
The woman glanced up at the Raven as she poured the ale. The mug filled too quickly, and the liquid spilled over the top. The woodsman laughed and clutched the woman in a handful of cloth and flesh and pulled her to him.
She tried to keep her balance, but his hand was tight and his arm strong. She stumbled and landed in a clumsy sprawl across his lap. The flagon fell to the wooden board and burst into shards. Spiced ale spilled across the table, sending the man’s companions leaping to their feet in an eruption of toppled benches and foul cursing.
The foolery brought a wave of laughter, but it was quickly swallowed by the tumult of voices, the song of the jongleur, and the rattling of copper and tin.
A woodsman groping a tavern wench was not an uncommon sight in a tavern on the King’s Road. Given different circumstances, the Raven would hardly have noticed, but the look she had given him could not be mistaken. This is the woman who sent the old crone with the note. She has something to tell me. But how can she know what I am after?
The Raven circled to a small table in a corner on the other side of the room. He kept his eyes on the woman. She watched him but was distracted by the groping hands of the woodsma
n. Whores were common in many alehouses along the King’s Road, but she did not have the look of one. In times past, whoring was shamed and hidden in dark corners, but under the reign of Orsis-Kublan, the boundaries between right and wrong had been badly blurred. Depravity in the royal house was a persistent source of gossip, providing tacit approval to whatever bad behavior the common folks pursued.
More an innkeeper’s wife than a tavern wench. The Raven knew more than one innkeeper who had become wealthy by obliging a wife and brood of children to cook and clean and serve and, if required for extra coin, behave a bit unseemly. He tried to imagine what she knew and why she’d called him here.
The Raven felt sorry for the woman, whoever she was, but his sympathy passed quickly. He was on an errand of great importance, but it was not the anxious, gray face of the king that drove him. His thoughts vacillated between the promise of power if he succeed to the promise of death if he failed. But he was a stargazer, and the heavens foreshadowed his triumph.
The woman pushed the woodsman’s hands aside and tried to recover whatever dignity remained. “I’ve got to mop up the mess, m’love,” she said with a spurious smile, glancing up to capture the Raven’s eyes again. “I pray you let me go.” The woman flirted but without disguising her disgust.
How was it possible this woman knew he sought the secret of endless life or that he was Raven to the King? At best, she was merely an innkeeper’s wife. “I know what you seek,” the note had said. Was it an offer to help. Or was it a trap?
Two of the king’s mystics had already died. Killed by one of their own? No one knew. Another had not been heard from since he left for the north. Which among us would murder another for the sake of the prize? The answer was unsettling.
The king had shown them the fruits of failure with the execution of the alchemist. There were few men for whom greed did not trump loyalty, or for whom power was not stronger than any bond of brotherhood.
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