by Dave Duncan
"But there is a problem, Thorian," I mumbled, having some difficulty moving my Adam's apple.
"There are innumerable problems, but the gods will provide. You have been eager to tell me to trust the gods. I have done so, and here I am. Now you will help me. Won't you?"
His hand tightened. I managed an infinitesimal nod and was allowed to breathe again.
There was, after all, no way I could stop him. The trapdoor was already closed, and he would not let me open it. Perhaps I could talk him out of it later. Perhaps I was not supposed to.
I felt a strange sense of inevitability settle over me. I am an observer. This is my talent, my duty, my destiny, and now I sensed that I could do nothing else but observe, and see what happened. Events had moved far beyond my feeble abilities to control them.
History had the bit between its teeth.
I went to help Thorian. Between us, we managed to push the chest onto the trapdoor. We found one that was only half full, and somehow we lifted that on top of the first. I thought I had wrecked my back forever. Thorian bulged all over more than I had imagined was possible, causing me to wonder how Balor could serve the city if he had a severe hernia.
And finally we laid half a granite statue on the top of the pile. The priests would have to cut their way in with axes. It would take them days. We would not be disturbed from that direction.
Still rubbing my back, I took the lantern and stalked off to inspect the temple attic. There was an astonishing collection of statuary and other junk in that first gallery. I wondered how the floor supported it, and then remembered that the stone was solid below me, all the way down to bedrock.
The second gallery, on the west, was more open. I saw huge heaps of moldering vestments that seemed like dangerous firetraps. Probably such garments were just too transcendentally holy to be destroyed. Carpets, also, in rolls. Piles of tables and chairs, many broken. There were mysterious cupboards so tightly wedged in that no one could have opened them in centuries. Indescribable filth encrusted everything. I peered up at the roof and saw swallows' nests packed like pebbles on a beach. I looked for bats, and wasn't sure.
Near the end of that gallery, though, I came to an open space. Here I found signs of recent habitation—a couch with fairly clean linen, a table with remains of food on it, a couple of chairs. This, I decided, had been Gramian Fotius's lair. Seeing several more silver candlesticks, all thickly coated in spilled wax, I lit some to gain more light. All I achieved thereby was to make the darkness darker.
"Look!" Thorian said at my elbow. He pointed to the couch, and the floor beside it. "Blood, not very old. This is where she died."
I made a croaking noise. Thunder rumbled on cue.
There was a hairbrush near my feet, and also a cloth that could have been a swath, discarded by someone who preferred to store his clothes on the floor.
"And come and see this." Thorian carried his lantern farther, dissolving the darkness before him until he reached the corner. Then he lifted the light to reveal a solid timber workbench large enough to seat a phalanx of soldiers, had it been a dining table. Hot colors of gold and bronze flamed under the lantern, giving us our first solid evidence of the planned deception. Here was the armor of the god, shining back at our lights in a thousand flames and sparkles—helmet and breastplate and fauld, greaves and vambraces and gauntlets. The style was foreign to anything I had ever seen in use, but Balor was always depicted in such antique trappings.
Thorian lifted the sword and tested its balance. The hilt flickered with gems. He grunted approvingly, felt the edge with his thumb, and nodded. Then he lifted the helmet and tried it on his head. That also was inlaid with gold and silver and a constellation of fine gems. It seemed to fit him comfortably—and he did look startlingly like Balor in it. Anyone would, I told myself.
"Think he … you, that is … think a man could stand in all that?" I asked.
"I could stand in it! I could fight all day in it. It is beautifully made. Very, very old, but superb craftsmanship. I have never seen finer, not even in the palace in Polrain. It would be wasted on that unspeakable Fotius." He laid the helmet reverently back on the bench. "Much of the original leather has been replaced, of course. Even the replacements seem old, but it is all supple and well cared for. Beautiful."
The bench was littered with rags and the air smelled of oil. Fotius had been kept busy. I glanced around uneasily at the waiting dark. Somehow this was turning out to be too easy. Where was the drama? Where was the villain? The food and the signs of recent activity made it seem that he had barely gone away—that he would be back any minute.
I hoped he was not already above us, with Shalial.
Thorian moved on, and his light quarried more wonders from the gloom—a bundle of clean-looking cotton garments had obviously not been lying among the rest of the filth for more than a few days, or perhaps hours. I went over to inspect them, and realized that they were padding, to be worn under the armor.
Then a headless, silver woman turned out to be a gown on a wooden mannequin. That also was too clean to have been there long. And there was the matching headdress …
By now we were in the north gallery, and the junk became sparser, mostly consisting of lighter things that had been moved out of the way—furniture, largely, and boxes of scrolls. Partway along the gallery, I came to an opening with a staircase leading up into the central column. I consulted the map in my head and decided it must be almost directly under Maiana, slightly to one side. I lifted my lantern to see.
All the roofs in the temple were more than twice as high as a man is tall, and this alcove was no exception. The steps ran fight up to the ceiling, which itself must be the floor of the House of the Goddess. As Thorian had said, it must also be a trapdoor, or the construction made no sense. I walked part of the way up and saw a massive handle and two huge bronze bolts. The gleam of the metal said that they had been cleaned and oiled recently.
"Well?" boomed a voice behind me, and I jumped. "Well, Trader of Tales, shall we go up and inform the lovely Shalial of the change in plans?"
I was reluctant. "What's on the east side?"
"More of the same, plus a very smelly chamber pot. One big pigpen! Move!" Thorian was very eager to meet Shalial again.
"Shouldn't you bring Balor's sword along, in case she already has company?"
"The trapdoor is locked from this side, Omar. Balor's armor is on this side. I do not anticipate finding Fotius on the other. That's called strategic thinking."
Annoyed at losing the argument, I ran up the stair with Thorian close behind me. When my head touched the stone, I surveyed its wide expanse with dismay. "This is impossible!" I said. "Jaxian was right! Two men can never lift this."
"It is pivoted, you mudhead! See? There are chocks set in the walls. Now pull those bolts or let me at them."
I crouched until I was almost prone on the steps, reaching for the bolts. I heaved on the first. It slid easily. I switched hands, tried the other, and that gave me no greater trouble. So I pushed my shoulders against the cold, smooth granite above me. I suppose Thorian was lifting, also, but I pretended that I was doing it all by myself. The giant slab was so massive that I had to strain every sinew to start it moving, but then it turned by itself, lifting off my back, perfectly balanced at its center. Light poured into my eyes, momentarily blinding me, and I gagged at the rank odor of burning pitch.
When the stone had tilted roughly parallel with the angle of the stairs, the counterweight struck the chocks and it came to a shuddering halt. The whole temple seemed to tremble. Still blinking, I straightened up to survey the House of the Goddess.
Leafy fronds had been piled into a couch near the center. The heap was not high enough to sit on in comfort, but Shalial Tharpit was sitting on it anyway—leaning back gracefully on straight arms, legs outstretched, one perfect ankle crossed over another, regarding me with her dainty chin slightly tilted and a wary, quizzical expression in her gorgeous dark eyes.
"Are you
sure you wouldn't rather be married to Dithian Lius?" I asked politely.
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25: The Tamarisk Grove
Forty or so great torches flamed and smoked in sconces all around the walls, but lightning blazed in through the door in white lilac, flashing shadows where none had been before, and we seemed to plunge back into darkness right after, in contrast.
Thunder crashed at the same instant, loud enough to scramble a man's brains. The storm was directly overhead. It was a monster. Rain roared steadily on the golden roof. Outside the arch, it sprayed up from the granite platform like silver grass. The air was cool for the first time since I arrived in the Spice Lands.
I scrambled out from under the slab and straightened up, carefully adjusting my meager attire over my extremely flat belly, while running a hand through my artfully tousled curls and donning my best award-winning smile. Shalial would have that effect on anyone with hair on his chin or any hope of ever having hair on his chin or any memory of ever having had hair on his chin. Thorian emerged on hands and knees, rose impressively, and then went through the same performance exactly. He managed to include a few ripples that I could not.
As Jaxian had predicted, she had been left nothing much but a wisp to cover herself. There was plenty of it floating around in the gusty air, but it was transparent as a thin mist. Her limbs and body glowed through it. Her hair had been dressed in ringlets, and she wore a homed coronet of silver. Nothing more. She looked understandably chilly, and beautiful as Ashfer herself.
I could not understand why the chamber was not jammed with gods.
"I do think you have come to the wrong address, milords,'' she said evenly. She seemed strangely unwilling to be rescued. Rather miffed, even.
Flash! I had overlooked Maiana until that moment, when the sudden play of the lightning on her silver skin made her seem to step forward. The Passionate One dominated the great chamber. She was a goddess of fire and light as her jewels and metal played with the torches—starry heavens folded into woman's form. It was very pretty and yet I did not feel the presence of the goddess there. My eyes returned to the lovely Shalial.
Crash!
Torchlight danced in sconces all around the walls as the wind whipped their flames into a mad dance. Some of them had blown out completely, trailing smoke and an eye-watering reek of pitch. A curtain of silver rain stood over the doorway. Flash! Lightning normally illuminates the whole world, yet I saw nothing but rain outside, and more rain beyond that.
"You may remember me. I am Omar. My friend goes by the name of Thorian. We have come to rescue you."
Shalial raised an eyebrow disbelievingly. "And what if I do not wish to be rescued?"
"He lies," Thorian grunted. He strode across and sank to his knees before her. She regarded him with an obvious distrust that he deflected with an obvious self-confidence. "I did not come to rescue you, milady. I am come to aid Zanadon in its hour of need. I am Balor."
Shalial pursed her lips. "Indeed? But your face has been well hammered, you bear sword scars, and as you came in, I thought I detected the marks of a good lashing on your back." Flash! "Can the god of war lose a battle? Who defeats him? Have the other gods been ganging up on you, milord?" Crash!
There was the problem I had tried to explain to Thorian—how could so damaged a man ever hope to pass as a god?
He shrugged. "My helmet will conceal my face. Perchance when I issue orders, the absence of a tooth or two will show, but I suspect this adds an appropriately minatory quality to my grimace—grown men shall weep at my smile. None of the wounds to my body will show through armor. You may know of them, but none else. I shall be a god in public. For you I shall be a man."
She seemed to suppress a shiver. "It is true that I am expecting divine company this evening, but I am not certain that you fit the description. Did you bring your credentials?''
"I call on the weather as my witness. Is not the climate auspicious for a war god's wooing?" Crash! went the thunder. Huge yellow flames streamed from the torches; their fumes nipped my eyes and made me want to cough. Rain hammered mercilessly on the roof. Romantic?
Shalial had to shout over the din. "Perhaps so, but if it foretells our future life together, then the neighbors may complain of the noise."
She turned her head to look at me with a poise miraculous in one so young and in such peril. She must know what had happened to Squicalm and Belhjes; I could only assume that she was now privy to the conspiracy—but had she consented to Fotius? Had she ever set eyes on him?
I had withdrawn a few paces, and settled down crosslegged to witness Thorian's courtship. On my first visit I had seen this great hall as an untroubled sanctuary of peace, but now the blinding flashes and the jarring booms of thunder were unsettling. It was still virtually empty, with just the three of us and an open trapdoor and a heap of herbage marring the perfection of the huge expanse. I had a sense of floating slightly above events, of being a watcher rather than part of the picture. But Shalial wanted to include me. She was smiling at me.
"I think Omar may have better qualifications. I have it on excellent authority—his own—that he is the son of the Holy Rosh." A tingle of amusement brightened her eyes. Flash!
My heart began to race. I had never even considered such a possibility, but I would certainly be able to play the role of Balor more convincingly than Gramian Fotius ever could. True, I was no warrior. True, I lacked the bulk and muscle of either Fotius or Thorian, but I am a passable figure of a man, and I am experienced in dramatic simulation. I have been many things in my time—pot mender, clothes maker, warrior, mariner, landowner, pauper, mendicant, politician … the list is so long that even I have forgotten half of it.
But I had never been a god.
Shalial turned back to Thorian and caught him in a scowl. "Half a god is better than no divinity, milord. And he lacks the obvious bodily damage that mars your form. I believe he has all his teeth, for example."
Thorian shot me a very threatening glance. The rutting season was under way. He was besotted with her, and had been so since the first moment he set eyes on her, in her father's house.
"Put him in Balor's armor and he would disappear. He would fall over! The helmet would come down to his shoulders."
"Splendid! Then no one could see his face."
"You are very brave, Shalial," Thorian said. "Courage is the first requirement of a man. It is the finest adornment of a woman."
She winced slightly and then recovered her marble-cool poise. "I did not truly believe you that first night, milord. I admit it and apologize for doubting you. But today His Holiness explained to me, and my father was there and he agrees."
"What exactly did they explain to you?"
"That many centuries have passed since Immortal Balor was last summoned, and in these lesser times he may not answer our appeal. He has been given three chances. If he does not come before dawn, then it will be necessary to provide a substitute. The danger to the city is extreme, and the army needs leadership. The problem is, are you that substitute?"
"I am a great deal better man than the one they have chosen."
"Mm? You will pardon my consideration of possible bias in your assessment?" Flash! Crash!
Thorian smiled at her, but that may have been a poor move, because it showed his broken and missing teeth. Kneeling before her, he began to talk, shouting over the storm.
"Lady, let me tell you of myself. Thorian is not my true name, but I am a true warrior, and of noble birth. My father was cousin to the king of Polrain. I was about fifteenth in line to the throne, although that matters little. My family owns wide estates, although that does not matter much either now. I am twenty-four years old, and unmarried. I had begun to make my name known outside my clan, but that again is now of no import.
"I was wounded at Gizath, when the flower of my homeland perished before the Vorkans. My father and brothers were among the fallen, and they feast now with the brave in the halls of Sztatch. Truly
, I acquitted myself without shame to my exemplars, but I shall not boast of my exploits. I acquired this wound you see. For many days I hovered near death. As soon as I was well enough to sit a horse, I resolved to continue the struggle against the invaders. I managed to catch up with them, and pass them, and I came to Zanadon in the belief that here would be the final stand. On arriving in your country, I rode up to a party of soldiers to offer my service to your city. I was disarmed, sapped, and enslaved."
Shalial had tucked her legs in under herself and hugged her arms tight around her. Perhaps she was feeling the chill. Perhaps she felt threatened. But she was intent on Thofian. I sighed to myself and abandoned my mad dreams of being a god.
Flash! Maiana seemed to twitch. Crash !
Thorian continued. "Shalial Tharpit, you are without question the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Accept my love, and I will put your happiness before my life, my body, my wealth, and all else that I hold dear. I swear this by my true name, by my honor and exemplars. Accept me as the Balor you seek, and I shall serve your city for your sake. I shall be avenged upon the Vorkans, for the souls of my brothers and those of my name friends. I know more of warfare and this enemy than anyone in Zanadon. I can lead your army to victory—of this I am certain. And when the war is won, then I shall take you back to my homeland and unite with you in marriage. You will rule our lands at my side, honored always as my lady and my one true love. For you I will forsake all others, and this above all I swear."
It was an impressive speech, and she was moved. Color had risen in her face, and she could not meet his eye. But she was a brave woman, and she spoke with courage.
"Milord, you honor me greatly, and I doubt nothing you say. Had you made such a speech to me three nights ago, then I might well have accepted you, crazy though that may seem, considering that we were strangers. But you forget that now I am sworn to the goddess of this city. I am High Priestess of Maiana, and I can no longer consider marriage with any man, however noble his line or pure his heart." She blinked away a tear. "Forgive me, milord. You come too late. What you suggest can never be."
