They reached a large round-roofed hovel, far larger than the others that were scattered about the forest. She motioned for him to enter and she followed.
Danamis stopped immediately and saw a green glow of tree fungi in the roof space of the intertwined boughs above. It illuminated the windowless space of the roundhouse and revealed dozens of mermen lying near to one another as if asleep. But they were not. Their arms moved, they rubbed their heads, rolled over, and Danamis could see one who lay near him thrusting a fistful of myrra leaf into his mouth. Danamis turned and looked at Citala, not comprehending what he was seeing. She lowered her head, turned away and exited. Danamis reached out and touched her arm.
“What are they doing?”
“That is the truth of myrra. Most of our men do this every day. Lost to their senses even as landsmen succumb to their wine. They are as slaves. It is the she-mer—and our young—that fish and weave and work. Our warriors idle their hours in there. That is since your father began trading with us.”
“But what does your father do to stop this?”
“Did you not see him in there? With the others?”
With this latest revelation Danamis felt unable to offer any words to her, either of explanation or comfort. He could not return her stare.
“Danamis, my people will not survive another generation living like this. There is another mer settlement near the island of Piso, but their numbers are less than ours. We are dying a slow death. A death your house has hastened.”
Danamis finally turned back to her. His eyes were welling with tears. Tears for everything that had happened. “What would you have me do? Can you not see I have lost all? There will be no more myrra anyway. Not from me.”
She raised her chin. “I mentioned a new arrangement between us. If I can convince my father. But I need to know you are a man who will stand by his word—and fight even unto death. As I would. There may be a way for you to gain your ships and for me to gain my people a future.”
Twenty-Eight
“FAILED?” THE MAGISTER’S reply sounded plaintive, almost despairing. But he repeated it, this time with his composure regained. “Failed? What has she told you, woman?”
Lavinia raised her eyebrows. “Magister, we do not speak together as such. My gift doesn’t work in that way.”
Kodoris looked to see where Lavinia’s servant was standing. Hopefully, out of earshot. He took two steps closer to the canoness, a picture of maidenly composure and beauty. He folded his arms, perhaps unconsciously, as he wanted to throttle her for her infuriating aloofness. “Then tell me what it is you do know. What has happened? You said a day ago they were closing in to take him.”
A group of greyrobes shuffled across the courtyard a short distance from where they stood, leading whiterobes across from the monastery to the Temple Majoris for instruction. Kodoris waited until they had passed. The mood of the brethren had not improved in the past week and whispers throughout the Ara monastery carried far. Why had Brother Acquel done what he had? Where were the missing greyrobes? Kodoris turned back to Lavinia.
“Well?”
Lavinia toyed with her jet black hand mirror that dangled from a red ribbon. “I hear her thoughts, not her voice, Magister. The better when she consciously directs them to me. They tried to abduct him at the harbour. She failed.”
“And what of Flauros and his party? What does she tell you of them?”
Lavinia pushed out her rose-red lips ever so slightly, eyes barely concealing amusement. “Flauros is with her… protecting her.”
Kodoris shook his head in frustration. The High Priest had in the past two days experienced an unexpected spell of clarity and was asking what progress had been made in finding the greyrobe. In ending the threat of exposure. He had procrastinated. “So… they will try again and capture him?”
“No. I sense she is returning now. To Livorna.”
The loud inhalation of breath by the Magister made her draw back, raising the mirror to her bosom protectively.
“I have not given her permission to return!”
Lavinia shook her head in vague regret. “She never listens to what I say. I’m not surprised she pays no heed to you. She didn’t like what our father said to her and, well… he went away.”
Kodoris swallowed. “You must tell her to try again! We need to bring that boy back here.”
“But Magister, they have already departed. They are somewhere on the road in Torinia now.”
Kodoris shut his eyes hard, teeth clenching. And then Lavinia began to giggle in her childlike way. He opened his eyes and grasped her arm. “You find this all amusing!”
Lavinia checked herself but a smile remained on her face. “No, Magister. But she is so very angry with herself. Because she failed.”
Kodoris released her, his hand shaking.
“Do not fear, Magister. She believes that the greyrobe is returning here too. You see, she saw him briefly. She touched him briefly. He is seeking answers like you. And he thinks the answers are here at the Ara.”
Kodoris looked at the young woman again. For the past few days, he had begun questioning his wisdom in making use of the sisters and their gifts. It was a decision made rashly in the shadow of the terrible events, he knew that, but there was something else to these creatures that seemed less than good. Perhaps even less than holy.
The loud slap of sandals on the flagstones brought Kodoris around and he gave a quick tug to cinch the purple velvet belt of his robes as a novice hurriedly approached and bowed his head.
“Magister, the Principals are awaiting you at the Night Stair.”
Kodoris turned back to Lavinia, his voice a honey-coated caltrop. “Canoness, you will inform me of any further developments—without delay.”
Lavinia giggled again, the jet mirror covering her mouth.
THE BRETHREN STOOD side-by-side at the foot of the Night Stairs which connected the dormitories to the choir archway of the Temple, the cowls of their robes raised over their heads. Kodoris approached and gave them a nod of respect.
“Brethren. Are we ready to proceed?”
They were ancient priests, far older than Kodoris, and their dark and wizened faces looked like tiny shrivelled dolls’ heads, lost as they were in the voluminous woollen hoods. Kodoris worried that they would be unable to negotiate the steps down into the cellars below the Temple. But as the new member of the Grand Curia of the Nine, he was beholden to these two for their guidance—and the keys. He had been itching to glimpse the Black Texts since Brachus had told him of their existence. That itch had now turned to panic in light of the tidings from Perusia by way of Lucinda. He had to know more—to see more—to understand what was at stake.
One of the Nine, a Saivonan named Dromo, rasped out a reply. “It has been more than a few years since any of us have ventured down there. You are the first new Principal to even ask. But I have not forgotten the way.”
Kodoris bowed and then retrieved two torches from the wall mount, where the wide stone staircase led downwards, under the very nave of the Temple. “I shall light the way,” he said. The three descended and Dromo moved up to walk by his side. The other Principal followed silently behind.
This area of the cellars was known to all: vaulted ceilings held up by massive stone columns and dozens of wall niches for the remains of more important brethren, a large round ossuary for everyone else and for those bones so ancient that no monk could even put a name to them. At one end of this undercroft a single torch burned in an iron sconce at the foundation walls. Here a semi-circular chapel was carved out around the petrified remains of the pagan tree hacked down by Elded. An ancient axe hung on the stones, the one that tradition said the saint himself had wielded. The jagged stump, four feet in circumference, was now rock-like, blackish-brown with age. The little party gave it no heed but rather turned halfway down the length of cellars, and through an archway leading to a tunnel carved out of the earth and stone and left unlined for centuries. Dromo’s first key opened a thi
ck studded oak door and they passed through, the darkness held at bay by Kodoris’s torches.
The tunnel continued, gradually sloping downwards, deeper under the Temple foundations and the Ara plateau. Several ancient doorways, some now bricked up, lay on either side. They came to another locked door, blocking their progress, and this too was opened. A few yards beyond, the tunnel abruptly ended. There were now two doors on either side. One was magnificently wrought, bronze and copper fittings and studs covering it. The other less so. Plain iron straps and petrified oak, a gap at top and bottom. It was this door that Dromo now opened. And as he opened it outwards, Kodoris saw that behind it lay yet another door. And this was far grander and stronger. Kodoris saw the lock mechanism that stood proud of the stout wooden planks: a heavy forged contraption, intricate and secure. Dromo dropped his hood and held up the last remaining key in the glow of the torches.
The key turned without effort and Kodoris heard the ratchets click the bolt open. Dromo gave him a wink. “There’s at least a pint of hog fat greasing that lock.”
Kodoris wondered how the silence of the locksmith had been assured given the significance of what lay beyond. Had the Curia used the same method as he had in Elded’s tomb? Dromo lifted the latch and they entered, Kodoris first. The chamber was not large nor was the stone ceiling very high. It was almost claustrophobic. Out of the earth and stone walls had been hacked shelves upon which lay small bronze caskets, each easily shifted by a single man. Kodoris counted rapidly: fifteen. The other Principal now threw back his hood and stepped forward, placing a wrinkled hand on one of the boxes.
“Behold. The Black Texts.”
Kodoris rammed one tallow torch into an iron stand and handed the other to Dromo. He moved next to the other and flicked the latch securing the lid. He opened it and peered inside. He saw more than a dozen vellum scrolls lying within.
“I assume you read both Old Valdurian scripts,” remarked Dromo.
Kodoris reached in and pulled one out. It was not brittle as he had expected but still supple after centuries. He unrolled it and read, its borders decorated with sinuous foliage of green, yellow, and blue. It was an epistle of Elded among the merfolk, his teachings to them. He seized another and opened it. This one was an intricate map of what looked like Maresto and Saivona—he could tell from the shoreline. It indicated all areas of settlement, both human and mer, and where temples had been founded. He placed it back and took out another. This one was an account by Elded’s contemporary, Saint Alonus, telling of his conversions of both mer and men in the east and how they had cast out the old gods.
He closed the lid and stood there, stunned by the enormity of these little scrolls.
“Is it what you expected to see?” asked Dromo.
Kodoris didn’t reply. He moved to the next casket and opened it. A long scroll, dark brown, found its way into his hand. His eyes widened as he read. Nothing less than a history of the wars against the followers of Belial, the cutting and burning of worship trees, the valour of mer and men fighting together against the heathen. And then he found what he had been looking for. It was a wide scroll of the finest bleached vellum, delicately inscribed and illuminated. It bore the laws of Elded, given to him by the one true Lord of the Heavens. Ten laws. He read them, carefully. As he read the final three commandments he muttered a prayer and blessed himself. It was fire without flame. Enough to burn the One Faith to a cinder.
He turned to Dromo. “All of the Nine know of these? For centuries gone by? Have you studied these scrolls?”
The two Principals of the Grand Curia looked at each other. “It is enough to know they are declared heretical,” replied Dromo. “Few if any in our lifetime have bothered to read them. Our task is to safeguard them.”
“They are the words of the saints? Of Blessed Elded and his chosen companions?”
Dromo gave him a look of bemusement. “They are the words of the Saint. But delivered after Elded’s mortal mind failed him. We cannot destroy them but we must not obey them either… to defend the Faith.”
Kodoris knew that Acquel was in possession of some of these truths and that, like a small hole in a sack of grain, the breach in the Faith would quickly grow bigger. “You bear the knowledge that the Lawgiver was half-merman and yet none of the Nine have bothered to learn the secrets these contain?”
“No,” said Dromo. “The question is… why are you so interested, Magister?”
HE BURNED FOR her. She knew that. And she had tempted him, returning his kisses. But she had not taken him to her bed. Not yet. A small but sharp push with her mind had been sufficient to deter him, for now. Lucinda watched Flauros as he built a fire for them. He was dependable, even ruthless, when required. Handsome as well. And though she could bend men’s minds to her will, this only worked one man at a time. As she had already seen, a strong sword arm was often also required. He caught her stare and gave her a wink before leaning over the kindling with his tinderbox. They had made it back to the ruins where the ox of a soldier Demedrias had tried raping her. For an instant the memory enraged her. Berithas had dealt with him though, protecting her. Through her.
In the uplands of Valdur, summer was beginning to die away. The horses behind them whinnied as the flames took hold of the wood and sent out warmth to kill the chill in the clear night air. Flauros had draped her with a blanket and, comfortable enough on the ground, she now watched the fire crackle into life. Flauros seated himself opposite on a square slab of ancient temple ruins. He pulled his cloak about himself and set to watching her, a look of amused curiosity on his face.
“So, then, it is the Old Faith for you,” he said as he threw a branch on the fire. “And yet you have chosen to confide that little heresy to the captain of the Temple guard.”
She smiled a knowing smile. “I confided in a man whose heart I read well. A man who is sick of the lies and hypocrisy of the priesthood.”
“The Temple pay their guardsmen well and have never required holy orders for those who sign for the service. For me, the Faith was never a consideration.” He waggled a stick of firewood at her before tossing it into the rising flames. “How is it you can reach into a man’s mind and control it? Or speak with someone who is far away as if they were in the same room? By what power or charm?”
She placed her hands upon her knees and sat up straight. “It is a gift. A gift of the Redeemer. The one who the craven priests call the Deceiver. Berithas.”
Flauros poked at the fire with the toe of his boot. “The same Deceiver as was struck down by Elded after being revealed by Saint Dionei? Ironic that, considering the abbey you come from.”
“I would say poetic retribution. And useful for my struggle.”
Flauros chuckled quietly. “A cuckoo in the nest, eh?”
“If you will. But Berithas works through me to restore the old ways. To bring back the Tree of Life. Restore the old gods to their proper place. See the power of earth, tree and stone renewed. And show the sky god for what he is—powerless and uninterested in the affairs of men.”
Flauros leaned back on his slab and patted it. “Well, here is one temple already thrown down. The others will not be so easy though. If you are discovered they will cut out your living heart and burn you.”
She nodded. “They would. But Berithas will not let that happen. Nor will you. There is a path that the Redeemer has revealed to me. One which has a part for you to play.”
“And what makes you think I will join with you and turn against the One Faith?”
“Because, Flauros, you already have. I can see it in your heart—and your mind.”
He bristled slightly, back arching. “I do not like you doing that.”
“Why? Because I can see that you desire me?”
“You don’t have to look into my mind to see that. What is it you want me to do? Find that greyrobe and kill him for you? Take his amulet?”
Lucinda’s eyes widened. “No, no, not that. Berithas has told me that the greyrobe is a seed we must nurture.
But we must return to the Ara to do that, among other things.”
Flauros frowned. “I will not be your pawn in this plan. If I am to follow you and stand with you then… I will need to know everything.”
Lucinda stood up and let the blanket slip off of her shoulders. “For that you will need to swear to Berithas and to the Old Ones whom he serves—Belial, Beleth, and Andras.” She moved around the fire and came to him, the satin dress she wore shimmering in the firelight. He reached out and pulled her in, burying his face into the mound of her womanhood and gripping her buttocks.
“And there will be rewards,” she said, soothingly. She pulled his face away gently, tilting his chin upwards. “You must hear Berithas if he will speak through me.”
She reached up and undid the first few ties of her dress and unlaced the ribbon of the neckline of her chemise. She bared her shoulder and Flauros stood up slowly, holding her at her waist. He saw the livid red scar that lay underneath her collarbone near where the curve of her bosom began.
“What? Have you been burned? Branded?” His eyes squinted in the light to make out the mark and he raised a hand to her shoulder. And then he saw the wound pulse and begin to glisten, the lips opened.
Flauros went rigid, his mouth moving wordlessly. Lucinda took him by his hands and squeezed.
“Do not be afraid. If you would have me then you must have Berithas. And hear his words.”
And as the voice spoke, like the sound of a gently bubbling fountain, reassuring him, he began to understand everything.
Twenty-Nine
CITALA STOOD CLOSE by bare-chested Danamis as she addressed her father and the elders in the sacred circle. Danamis found it difficult to judge mermen by their faces since it seemed what features they had moved little with any emotion except perhaps anger. For his benefit, she addressed them slowly in Valdurian, assuring him that the elders would understand.
“We have talked many times before,” she began, “of leaving this place to return to the old settlements on Valdur. By letting Danamis live we can make that happen.”
The Guns of Ivrea Page 28
