Nikol and Michael fought when they were cornered, ran when they were outnumbered. The cleric had taken to carrying a stout staff, which he learned to swing with clumsy effect, if not skill. He fought for Nikol's sake, more than his own. Plunged into despair over the chaos he saw in the world, he would, if he had been alone, gone the way of so many others before him.
Nikol credited him with keeping her alive during the dark days before the Cataclysm. Now it was she who returned the favor. Her love alone bore him along. Michael even ceased to ask Mishakal's forgiveness when he bashed a head. Eventually, after many months of weary travel, they reached their destination.
"The Great City of Xak Tsaroth, whose beauty surrounds you…" Michael whispered the inscription on the fallen obelisk, traced it with his hand on the broken stone. His voice died before he could finish reading. He lowered his head, ashamed to be seen weeping.
Nikol patted his shoulder. Her hand was roughened, its skin tough and calloused, cracked and bleeding from the cold, scarred from battle. But its touch was gentle.
"I don't know why I'm crying," Michael said harshly, wiping his hands over his cheeks before his tears froze on his skin. "We've seen so many horrible sights — brutal death, terrible suffering. This" — he gestured at the fallen obelisk — "this is nothing but a hunk of stone. Yet, I remember…"
His head sank into hands, hurting sobs wrenched him. He thought he'd prepared himself. He'd thought he was strong enough to return, but the devastation was too much, too appalling.
From this point, long ago, one could have seen the city of Xak Tsaroth, heard its life in the throbbing, pulsing cries of its vendors and hawkers, the shrill laughter of its children, the rush and bustle of its streets. The silence was the most horrible part of his homecoming. The silence and the emptiness. They told him Xak Tsaroth was gone, sunk into the ground on which it had been built. He had not believed them. He had hoped. Bitterly, he cursed his hope.
Nikol pressed his arm in silent sympathy, then drew away. His grief was private; she did not feel that even she had a right to share in it. Hand on her sword hilt, she kept watch, staring out over the ruins that surrounded the obelisk, peering intently into the shadows beyond.
Gradually, Michael's sobs lessened. Nikol heard him draw a shivering breath.
"Do you want to keep going?" she asked, purposefully cool and calm.
"Yes. We've come this far" He sighed. "It's one thing to see strange cities lying in ruins, another to see one's home."
Nikol climbed on the obelisk, used it as a bridge to cross the swamp water. Michael, after a moment's hesitation, followed after her. His feet trod over the inscription:
THE GODS REWARD US IN THE GRACE OF OUR HOME.
Grace. The land was barren, almost a desert, its trees charred stumps, its flower ing plants and bushes nothing but soft ash. There was no sign of any living being, not even animal tracks.
Michael looked out over the ruins of the city's outskirts. "I can't believe it," he said softly to himself. "Why did I come? What did I expect to find here?"
"Your family," said Nikol quietly.
He looked at her in silence a moment, then slowly nodded. "Yes, you're right. How well you know me."
"Perhaps we will find them" she said, forcing a smile. "People might live around here still."
Nikol tried to sound cheerful, for Michael's sake. She did not believe herself, however, and she knew she hadn't fooled Michael. The quiet was oppressive, perhaps because it was not true quiet. A thin undercurrent of sound disturbed the surface. She could tell herself it was the wind, sighing through the broken branches of dead trees, but its sorrow pierced her heart.
Michael shook his head. "No, if they survived, which I doubt, they must have fled into the plains. My mother's people came from there. She would have gone back to find them."
Nikol paused, uncertain of her way. "You know, I could almost think that Xak Tsaroth IS haunted, that its dead do lament"
Michael shook his head. "If any of the dead walk these broken streets, it is those who are unable or unwilling to pass beyond, to find the mercy of the gods."
What mercy? Nikol almost asked bitterly, but she bit her tongue, kept silent. Their relationship over these past hard months had deepened. Love was no longer the splendid, perfect bridal garment. The fabric was worn, now, but it fit better, was far more comfortable. Neither could imagine a night spent outside the refuge of the other's arms. But there were several rents and tears in the shining fabric.
The terrible things they'd seen had left their mark upon them both. When these cuts were mended, they would serve to make the marriage stronger, but now the arguments were growing bitter, had inflicted wounds that were still tender and sore to the touch.
"It's midafternoon," she said abruptly. "We don't have much time if we're going to make use of the daylight to aid our search. Which way do we go?"
He heard the chill in her voice, knew what she was thinking as well as if she'd said it.
"Straight ahead. We will come to a large well and, beyond that, the Temple of Mishakal."
"If it's still standing…"
"It must be," said Michael firmly. "There we will find the answers to your questions and to mine."
The remnants of what once had been a broad street took them to an open, paved courtyard. To the east stood four tall, free-standing columns that supported nothing; the building lay in ruins around them. A circular stone wall, rising four feet above the ground, had once been a well. Nikol stopped, peered down, and shrugged. She could see nothing but darkness. Michael ran his hand over the low wall.
"We used to come out of temple classes and sit on this wall and talk of our plans — how we would go forth and, with the help of the gods, change the world for the better."
"Obviously, the gods weren't listening." Nikol gazed around. "Is that the temple?" She pointed.
Now it was Michael who bit his lips on the words that would have precipitated yet another quarrel.
"Yes," he said instead. "That is the temple."
"I see IT escaped the destruction unscathed," Nikol stated, her tone bitter.
Michael walked toward the building that was so familiar — its beautiful white stone shining pure and cold — and, at the same time, so alien. Perhaps that was because he missed the sight of the other buildings, now lying in rubble; missed the crowds of people strolling about the courtyard, meeting at the well to exchange the latest news. He ascended the stairs, approached the large, ornate double doors that led into the temple. Made of gold, the doors gleamed coldly in the winter sun. Michael pushed on them.
They did not open.
He pushed again, harder. The doors remained shut fast. Stepping backward, he stared at them in perplexity.
"What's wrong?" Nikol called from her place, guarding the foot of the stairs.
The doors won't open," Michael answered.
They're barred, then. Keep a look out, will you?" Nikol climbed the stairs, studied the doors. "But they should be easy to pry apart — "
They're not barred. They couldn't be. They had no locks on them. The temple was always open… "
This is ridiculous. There must be a way inside."
Nikol shoved at the doors, leaned her shoulder against them. The temple doors did not move.
Nikol stared at them, frustrated, angry. "We have to get inside! Is there another way?"
This was the only entrance."
"I will enter, theni" She drew her sword, was about to thrust it between the doors.
Michael laid his hand upon her arm. "No, Nikol. I forbid it."
"You forbid it!" Nikol rounded on him in fury. I'm the daughter of a Knight of Solamnia! You dare to give me orders, you who are nothing but a — "
"Cleric," finished Michael. "And now not even that." He touched the holy medallion around his neck, the symbol of the goddess. He looked at the temple sadly. "She will not open her doors to me."
"Now is not the time," came a voice.
Nikol drew h
er sword. "Who's there?" she demanded.
"Put your weapon away, Knight's Daughter," said the voice meekly. "I mean you no harm."
A middle-aged woman dad in threadbare clothing sat at the foot of the stairs. She sat very still; the dark shadow of a broken column had hidden her from view. Perhaps that was why neither Michael nor Nikol had noticed her until now. Nikol sheathed her sword but kept her hand on the hilt. The Cataclysm had not destroyed magic-users, or so rumor had it. This seemingly harmless woman might be a wizardess in disguise.
They both descended the stairs, walking slowly, warily. Nearing her, Nikol saw the woman's face more clearly. The sorrow etched on the aged and wrinkled skin was heartbreaking. Nikol's hand slipped from her sword's hilt. Tears came to her eyes, though she had not cried in all the long months of weary journeying.
"Who are you, Mistress?" Michael asked gently, kneeling beside the woman, who had not moved from where she sat. "What is your name?"
"I have no name," said the woman quietly. "I am a mother, that is all"
Her clothes were thin. She had no cloak and was shivering in the chill twilight. Michael took his own cloak from his shoulders, wrapped it around the woman.
"You cannot stay here, Mistress," he said. "Night is coming."
"Oh, but I must stay here." She did not seem to notice the cloak. "Otherwise, how will my children know where to find me?"
Nikol knelt. Her voice, which had been so strident when she was arguing with Michael, was now soft and low and filled with compassion. "Where are your children? We'll take you to them."
There," said the woman, and she nodded toward the destroyed city.
Nikol caught her breath, looked at Michael. "She's gone mad!" she mouthed.
"How long have you been waiting here,A Mistress?" he asked.
"Since that day," she answered, and they had no need to ask which day she meant. "I have never left them. They left me, you know. They were supposed to meet me here, but they didn't come. I'll keep waiting. Someday, they will return."
Nikol brushed her hand across her eyes. Michael gazed at the woman. He was at a loss to know what to do. He couldn't leave this poor, mad creature here. She would surely die. But it was obvious that she would not go without a struggle, and the shock of that might well kill her. Perhaps, if he could draw her thoughts away from her tragedy…
"Mistress, I am a cleric of Mishakal. I have returned to the temple in search of the disks that were kept here. You said that now is not the time to enter. When will the golden doors open?"
"When the evil comes out of the well. When the blue crystal staff shines. When dark wings spread over the land. Then my children will come. Then the doors will open." The woman spoke in a dreamy voice.
"When will that be?"
"Long… long." The woman blinked dazedly. The mists of madness parted, and she seemed to return to reality. "You seek the disks? They are not in there."
"Where, then?" Michael asked eagerly.
"Some say… Palanthas," the woman murmured. "Astinus. The great library. Go to Palanthas. There you will find the answer you seek."
"Palanthas!" Michael sat back on his heels, appalled. The thought of more months of traveling, of venturing back out into the savage land, came close to driving him to the pathetic state of this pitiable woman.
But Nikol's eyes shone. "Palanthas! The High Clerist's Tower, strong bastion of the Solamnic Knights. Yes, THAT is where we will find answers. Come, Michael," she said, rising briskly to her feet. "We can get in an hour's journeying before sunset."
Michael stood reluctantly. "Are you sure you won't come with us, Mistress?"
"This is my place," she said to him, fingering the cloak. "How will they know where to find me otherwise? Thank you for this wrap, though. I will be warm now, as I wait."
He started to go, felt a strong tugging at his heart. Turning, he stared at her. Suddenly, she seemed very familiar. Perhaps he'd known her — a friend, a neighbor.
"How can I leave you?"
She smiled, a strange, sad smile. "Go with my blessing, child. Someday, you, too, will return. And when you do, I will be waiting."
Part IV
The great seaport city of Palanthas, built by dwarves, fabled as far back as the Age of Might, was, according to swift-flying rumor, one of the few cities to come through the Cataclysm almost unscathed. Michael and Nikol, to their astonishment and disquiet, found themselves two drops in a steadily flowing stream of refugees, flowing toward what was purportedly a rich, safe harbor.
Located in western Solamnia, on the Bay of Branchala, the Cityhome, as it was known among its inhabitants, was governed by a noble lord under the auspices of the Knights of Solamnia, whose stronghold — the Tower of the High Clerist — guarded the mountain pass that kept goods and wealth flowing from Palanthas to the lands beyond.
But, though the city's walls and pavement, its tall towers and graceful minarets, may have survived the Cataclysm without damage, the disaster opened cracks within its population. These cracks had always been there, but the rifts had been covered by wealth, reverence for the gods, respect for (and fear of) the knights.
Now, almost a year after the Cataclysm, wealth had ceased to enter Palanthas. Few ships sailed the sea. Beggars, not gold, came pouring through the gates. The city's economy collapsed beneath the weight. Here, as in other places throughout Ansalon, the people looked for someone other than themselves to blame.
Michael and Nikol, along with numerous other fellow travelers, arrived at the city of Palanthas in midmorning. They'd heard rumors in abundance, some good, but many more dark — tales of beating, looting, murder. Mostly, they'd discounted them, but rumor had not prepared them for the sight that met their eyes.
"May the gods have mercy," said Michael, staring in pity and horror.
Throngs of people — ragged, wretched — crouched on the road outside the walls. At the sight of new arrivals, they surged forward, begging for anything that might, for a moment, relieve their misery and suffering.
Michael, sick at heart, would have given them all he owned, but Nikol, her face pale, her lips pressed tight, steered him with a firm hand through the grasping, wailing mob that surrounded the city gates.
The gates stood open wide, people pouring in, shoving their way out. The guards kept traffic moving, but did little else. One of them, however, eyed Nikol, and the weapon she wore, with interest.
"Hey, you. Mercenary. The Revered Son's looking for swords," said the guard. "You can earn yourself a meal, a place to sleep." He jerked a thumb. "Head for Old City."
"Revered Son?" Michael repeated, in disbelief.
"Thank you," said Nikol, catching hold of her husband and dragging him away. Outside the walls, they could hear the disappointed cries of the beggars.
Inside the walls, things were not much better. People lay sleeping in doorways or on the bare, cold pavement. Evil-looking men drifted near, saw Nikol's sword and Michael's stout staff, and drifted away. Two slatternly women caught hold of them and tried to drag them into a tumble-down hovel. The city stank of filth and death and disease.
They were loathe to stop and ask anyone directions. Nikol's father had visited Palanthas often, however, and had described the layout of the city, which was like a gigantic wheel. The great and ancient library stood in the city's center, known as Old City, along with the palace, the homes of the knights, and other important structures. They made their way through the wall that separated Old City from the New. Here the streets were not as crowded, almost empty. The air was cleaner, easier to breathe.
Michael and Nikol hurried forward, certain that the library must be a haven of peace in this wretched city. They had barely passed through the Old City wall when they discovered why the streets had been deserted. All the people — and there must have been hundreds — were gathered here.
"Where's the library?" Michael asked, peering over the heads of the crowd.
"There," said Nikol, pointing to the building the mob surrounded.
"Hush!" she said, glaring at him. "The Revered Son is speaking."
"Over here!" Nikol drew Michael into a grove of trees that bordered one of the broad avenues of Old City. From this vantage point, both could see and hear the speaker, who stood upon the very steps of the Great Library of Palanthas.
"Do you know what is behind those walls, good citizens? I'll tell you! Lies!" A man pointed an accusing finger at the large, elegant, columned building behind him. "Lies about the Kingpriest!"
The crowd gathered around him muttered angrily.
"Yes, I've seen them, read them with my own eyes!" The man tapped those eyes, remarkable only for the fact that they were squinted and sly-looking. "The great Astinus" — the voice was poisoned with sarcasm — "writes that the Kingpriest called down the wrath of the gods by making demands of them! And who had a better right? What man has lived who was as good as that man? I'll tell you the real reason the gods hurled the fiery mountain upon Istar!"
He paused, waited until the crowd hushed.
"Jealousy!" he breathed in a stage whisper that carried clearly through the chill air. "They were jealous! Jealous of a man more godly than the gods themselves! They were jealous and afraid that he might challenge them. And so he might have! And he would have won!"
The crowd roared its approval, with an undercurrent of anger frightening to hear.
"But, though he is gone," continued the man, clasping his hands in pious grief, "some of us have vowed to carry on, to keep his memory alive. Yes," he cried, raising his fist to heaven. "We defy you, gods! We are not afraid! Drop a fiery mountain on us if you dare!"
Michael stirred restlessly, opened his mouth.
"Are you mad?" Nikol whispered. "You'll get us killed!" Taking hold of his medallion, she tucked it down the front of his blue robes, hiding it from sight.
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