[Age of the Five 03] - Voice of the Gods

by Trudi Canavan

  She was also wary of breaking anything she uncovered. Using magic, she first blew dirt and dust aside, then she lifted away the rubble and boulders she had uncovered until she had to stop and blow away more dirt.

  A channel now stretched from where the handholds met the rubble to the far wall. Temples tended to be symmetrical in design so if anything lay buried here it was probably in line with the handholds and the passage above it.

  The writing on the bones was never far from her thoughts. If only a mortal might take the Scroll, then something must prevent an immortal. Whatever that was, it must be powerful. And dangerous.

  Pausing to rest earlier, she had lifted her light higher to examine the slab of wall above her and discovered something else. She could see beyond it in one corner. What remained of the roof was covered in cracks. Unlike the cracks in the passage that ran in the same direction as the crevice, these cracks formed radiating patterns. At the center of one was a small crater.

  Emerahl was sure they were impacts from some magical attack. There were none on the walls, however. Whoever had made them had attacked the roof specifically, perhaps in order to cause the collapse which had filled the crevice’s floor.

  As she blew aside more dirt a smooth stone surface appeared. She shifted away more rubble and uncovered what might be a domed roof.

  “You’ve found it!” Yathyir exclaimed.

  “Looks like it,” Emerahl agreed.

  “I’ll tell the others.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him to wait, but decided against it. It wouldn’t hurt for the Thinkers to watch her finish uncovering this and know the care she had taken. Not that Barmonia would ever acknowledge it.

  As she continued lifting away rubble, more of the dome appeared. Soon footsteps echoed in the hall. She turned to watch as the five Thinkers climbed down the wall.

  Barmonia picked his way over to her, looked down at the dome and scowled.

  “Yathyir was probably a bit premature,” she said, shrugging.

  He looked at her, eyebrows arching, then turned on his heel.

  “Continue,” he ordered.

  She rolled her eyes. Turning back to the hole she had made, she resumed shifting dirt and rubble. The dome was large, so she concentrated on removing the debris on one side. An edge appeared. She cleared more and uncovered a wall. Finally the top of an arch appeared. Remnants of a wooden door still hung from a hinge and rubble had tumbled into the structure.

  “Halt!” Barmonia barked.

  She stopped. He climbed down to the opening and thrust his torch inside. Interior walls were illuminated. He climbed back out again.

  “Continue.”

  Suppressing a sigh, she cleared the opening. When the entrance was uncovered, Barmonia barked at her to stop again. He moved past her and looked inside, then turned back.

  “We’ll do the rest by hand.”

  The other Thinkers followed him in. Ray paused beside her. He glanced up at the steep slope of rubble on either side.

  “Your hard work is appreciated, Emmea,” he murmured.

  She smiled. By you or your secret benefactor?

  He looked up. “It’s unnerving. This crevice and the cracks in the passage run the same direction as the escarpment. I can’t help thinking the city is slowly falling down into the lowlands.”

  Emerahl looked at him in surprise, realizing he was probably right. If he’s right, this is a silly place to hide a treasure. But to be fair, the priest of Sorli probably didn’t know this was going to happen.

  Ray moved inside the building. Following him, Emerahl paused in the entrance as she saw that the Thinkers were clearing rubble away from a large stone box with their bare hands. Barmonia was grinning broadly and she could sense intense anticipation and excitement. She took a step inside…

  …then stopped. A familiar feeling had come over her. Her skin prickled, but it took a few seconds for her to recognize why.

  This room is a void!

  A void. Here of all places. Was this part of the reason no immortal might take the scroll? With no magic, she could not protect or heal herself. But neither could a mortal.

  Yathyir had paused to look at her. She forced herself to step over the fissure, all the while watchful for some trap that might spring from the walls, ceiling or floor. The thought of the slab of wall hanging above was suddenly much more discomforting.

  Emerahl looked down at the box. It was the shape of a coffin. Barmonia leaned over and blew the dust from the surface, revealing glyphs.

  “What does the script say, Emmea?” Ray asked.

  She moved forward and traced her fingers over the carvings. “It says: ‘Even that which has no flesh may die.’”

  “A tomb for a goddess,” Kereon said.

  “Well at least this time we won’t be disturbing a corpse,” Barmonia said lightly. Bracing his hands against the edge of the box, he pushed. Nothing happened. Ray joined him and the lid slowly slid aside with a dry, scraping sound.

  The men drew in a collective breath of awe and greed.

  The torchlight reflected from precious metals and gems. A tangle of chains, vessels, bangles and weapons filled the box, but it was the gold object in the center that demanded attention.

  A gold scroll, Emerahl thought. I suppose parchment would have rotted away.

  It lay open, the “parchment” artfully curved in a way real skin would not have. The rods at either end were a twisted mess of elaborate trimming, patterns and projections, studded with gems. The runes were also decorated, some so much that the shape of them was distorted.

  “It’s beautiful,” Kereon breathed.

  No, it isn’t, Emerahl thought. It’s garish and overdone.

  “What does it say, Emmea?” Yathyir asked.

  Making herself ignore the sheer ugliness of the object, Emerahl focused on the script. She nearly groaned aloud.

  “It rhymes. It’s poetry. Very bad poetry.”

  “But what does it say?”

  Emerahl paused to read. “It’s a history. It tells how the goddess was grieved by the deaths of other gods and…that’s interesting. It says she helped kill them, and felt a terrible guilt.” She paused to read more. “She gave her priest all the secrets of the gods. Here it says she bade him record them in an indestructible form. Then…Well!”

  “What?” Barmonia demanded.

  Emerahl looked up at him and smiled. “Then she killed herself. Here. In this very place. Do the gods become ghosts, I wonder.”

  Yathyir looked around nervously and the others smiled.

  “And the secrets?” Ray asked.

  “The scroll doesn’t describe them,” she told him, frowning as she realized it was true.

  The Twins are going to be disappointed, she thought, feeling an unexpected bitterness. And I’ve put up with the Thinkers for nothing. At least it won’t matter if Ray destroys the scroll. It’s worth only what money the gold would fetch if it were melted down.

  “Let’s take all this out,” Barmonia said. Everyone fell silent as he bent to pick up the scroll. He grunted as he lifted it.

  “It’s heavy,” he said. “Yathyir?”

  The young man’s eyes widened and he held out his hands for the scroll. “Yes?”

  “Not this, you idiot,” Barmonia growled. “Climb back up and bring us something to carry it all in. Packs would be best. Empty packs.”

  As Yathyir obediently hurried out of the building, Emerahl followed him. She stepped outside and breathed a sigh of relief as magic surrounded her. Nothing bad had happened to her. Perhaps whatever trap had been set for immortals had long ago deteriorated.

  “Emmea?” Ray called.

  She turned to see him staring at the remnants of the wooden door, still half buried.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He pointed at the door. “What does this say?”

  Forcing herself to step back inside, she turned to the door and saw that large glyphs had been carved into the surface. She felt a chill.r />
  “It says: ‘Beware, immortals,’” she told him. “There’s more.”

  He cleared away more of the rubble, revealing the rest of the message.

  “Beware, immortals. No magic lies within. Enter and know your true age.”

  She felt a smile tugging at her lips. No magic. A void. Whoever had carved this had believed immortals couldn’t exist within voids. They probably imagined that, without magic to sustain them, immortals would revert to their true age.

  That would be an impressive, though ghoulish, sight. She turned away so Ray would not see her smile. It’s nice to know gods and their priests don’t always know everything.

  But still, she longed to get out of this place and into the sunlight, and away from these selfish, arrogant men. Tonight she would dictate as much of the poem as she could remember to The Twins. Tomorrow…tomorrow she would congratulate the Thinkers and start the long journey back to familiar lands.

  31

  Danjin stared at the cover of the platten and slowly realized he was awake. The two men opposite him were conscious but their attention was elsewhere. Gillen looked more alert than he had for any of the journey so far, rubbing his hands together in excitement and anticipation, while Yem was even more subdued than usual. The warrior had worn a constant frown since they’d left the fort and Danjin suspected he was caught between sympathy for the servants that had escaped oppressive clan rule and outrage that the Pentadrians had subverted them.

  Danjin looked at Ella. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow.

  Ultimately I have to trust her and the wisdom of the gods. If this tough stance on associating with Pentadrians wasn’t needed we wouldn’t be ambushing a village with the help of the local warriors.

  The platten slowed. Ella moved abruptly to open the flap of the cover.

  “We’re here.”

  Danjin felt his stomach sink, but said nothing. He heard the sounds of doors slamming and distant shouts. Angry and frightened voices surrounded the platten as it slowed to a stop.

  Ella smoothed her circ, then looked at Yem, Gillen and Danjin.

  “Stay close,” she said, then pulled the flap wide and stepped out.

  Danjin followed, then Yem and Gillen. Men and women milled around the platten. When they saw Ella their eyes widened and they quietened. A few faces betrayed dismay and alarm. Others showed amazement and curiosity.

  Looking along the street, Danjin saw warriors ushering people toward the growing crowd. Men, women and children emerged from houses, some dressed in their nightclothes. From another direction came a large group of locals. From the sweat on their brows Danjin guessed they had been gathered from homes and farms further from the village center.

  As the crowd swelled, Danjin looked closely at the people. In the torchlight the physical characteristics that marked them as Dunwayan or Southern Ithanian were heightened. Pentadrians varied from pale to dark-skinned, and their builds could be as varied, so it was easier to identify them simply as those that didn’t look Dunwayan. He judged the crowd to be a quarter Pentadrian.

  A group of Dunwayan warriors, their faces almost black from tattooing, surrounded the villagers. The gray-haired clan leader, Gret, stepped forward. He made the sign of the circle.

  “We have brought the occupants of all of the local farms and homes,” he told her. “Some may have evaded us.”

  Ella nodded. “Who leads this community?” she asked, her voice ringing out above the noise of the crowd.

  A discussion followed. Danjin made out enough to understand that an elder of the village spoke for the village when dealing with the local clan. The man came forward.

  “Who leads the Pentadrian community?” she demanded of him.

  He hesitated, but Ella had already turned away from him.

  “Servant Warwel, come forward.”

  Silence followed. People exchanged nervous glances. Ella’s eyes moved over them and stopped.

  “You can walk, Servant Warwel,” Ella said warningly, “or be dragged. It is your choice.”

  A man moved forward. He was tall and walked with dignity. His expression was grim and resigned. He stopped a few steps from Ella and returned her stare silently.

  “People of Dram, you have been deceived. This man and those of his ship were sent here by the leader of the Pentadrians, Nekaun,” Ella said, turning to meet the eyes of the village elder. “Their ship was not wrecked accidentally. It was wrecked deliberately so that they might gain the sympathy of Dunwayans. They were then to settle here and befriend as many Dunwayans as possible in order to convert them to their own religion.”

  She looked out over the crowd. “They have succeeded far too easily. I see many here who have been corrupted by their influence. I also see many who were then lured out of service to their clans with promises of freedom. Clans whose warriors had fought for them but a few years ago. Fought those who invaded our lands in order to enslave us.” A murmur of protest rose, but Ella raised her voice. “They may have used gentler methods this time, but do not doubt that their intention is the same. This is—was—just another invasion. They came here to separate you from the Circle of Gods, abusing your generosity and preying upon your weaknesses in order to do so.”

  She paused to scan the crowd silently for a moment. “It is a pity you all allowed this to go as far as it has. I see some here who did not allow themselves to be corrupted, but who remained silent out of fear or greed. I see very few here who were powerless to protest or act and I will speak in their defense. As for the rest of you: it is up to I-Portak to decide what is to be done with you, Pentadrian and Dunwayan alike.”

  Turning to Gret, Ella nodded. “They are yours to deal with.”

  The clan leader barked out orders and warriors began to move people along the road out of the village. Danjin noted that the old warrior was making a good show of following Ella’s orders with distaste. Every time a crying child was herded past, Gret looked at Ella pointedly. She ignored him, her expression stern and disapproving.

  “Where are you taking us?” someone called.

  “To Chon,” a warrior replied.

  “Let us go back to our homes for clothes,” one woman begged of a warrior. “We’ll freeze to death like this.”

  “My cures,” an old man croaked. “I won’t make it without my cures.”

  “What will we eat?”

  “My mother is sick. She’ll never make it to Chon.”

  Gret turned to one of his companions. “Get someone to take the woman and the old man back to their homes.”

  At once several other voices rose pleading for the same opportunity.

  “No,” Ella said. “Take a few and the rest will demand the same. Keep the prisoners here and send a few warriors to the houses to gather blankets, food and clothing for all.”

  Gret’s eyebrows rose, then he nodded at his companion. “Do it.”

  Danjin felt a chill run down his spine. Surely a delay now would be better than deaths along the road…

  Ella turned to Danjin. “Find out what the old man needs and fetch it,” she murmured.

  “Yes, Ellareen of the White,” he replied.

  He hurried away and started looking for the old man. Circling around the crowd, he looked back to where Ella stood. She held her head high and was staring loftily down her nose at her prisoners. He felt his stomach sink a little.

  She’s only doing that in order to intimidate them into obedience, he told himself.

  But they will remember it. They will tell others how cold and uncaring Ellareen the White is. How cruel and inflexible the White’s justice was.

  He shook his head. She has to do this. She can’t override Dunwayan law. And if she was without pity she wouldn’t have sent me to find the old man’s cures.

  Then why did he feel as if he wasn’t watching an act? Why did he suspect that Ellareen hadn’t tried to persuade the Dunwayans to treat the village with some sympathy because she didn’t want to?

  Why did she disturb him
sometimes?

  Sighing, he turned away, found the old man and pulled him aside to question him.

  The Sanctuary was not as impressive as the Temple in Jarime. There was no huge White Tower or Dome looming over all, just a wide stairway and a single-story façade of welcoming arches, then a jumble of buildings rising up the hillside behind.

  Perhaps that’s the idea, Mirar mused. They don’t want to intimidate visitors; they want them to feel welcome.

  The winds had not taken them as far as Genza had hoped, so they had had to travel the rest of the way in a platten. The litter that he and Genza had ridden in from the ferry port stopped and the carriers lowered it to the ground. As Genza rose, Mirar followed suit. She smiled.

  “Welcome to Sanctuary, Mirar of the Dreamweavers.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gesturing for him to follow, she started up the stairs. They passed through one of the archways into a wide, airy hall full of black-robed Servants and ordinary people.

  “This is where we greet all visitors to the Sanctuary,” Genza told him. “Servants listen to all, from the lowest beggar to the wealthy and powerful, and direct them to whoever can best meet their needs.”

  Mirar noted that some of the visitors were talking boldly and confidently to the Servants. Others were tentative, waiting nervously to be approached or keeping their gaze lowered as they talked. Sensing distress, Mirar found a Servant patting the shoulder of a crying woman.

  “Do you think you could find my daughter?” he heard the woman ask.

  “We can only try,” the Servant replied. “Are you sure her father took her?”

  “Yes. No…I…”

  A laugh drew his attention to a richly dressed man crossing the hall in the company of a male Servant.

  “…like to present gifts to the Elai as well. After all, they sank the ships that were…”

  Elai sinking ships? He resisted the urge to look back at the man.

  “This is the main courtyard,” Genza said. “From here passages lead to all areas of the Sanctuary.”