Finally, it began to settle down to a mere catastrophe. The fires continued to burn, but the ruins now surrounded them in such a manner that they would not spread much farther. Again, Mendeln knew that this could be no coincidence.
Uldyssian looked past Mendeln, who at the same time sensed what lay behind him. As he turned, the rest became aware of the mass of figures filling the streets. The bulk of Toraja’s remaining citizenry stood before Uldyssian and his flock and in that crowd Mendeln noted a variety of emotions.
A grand figure in flowing red and golden robes separated from the crowd. He wore a scarf over his long, bound, silver-colored hair and an intricate gold ring in one nostril. The sunburst design of the ring indicated his high status. The man was lanky and appeared old enough to be the brothers’ father. In his left hand he clutched a tall staff with markings etched in silver running along its length.
“I seek the stranger from the high lands, the Ascenian called Uldyssian.” “Ascenian” was, Mendeln’s party had discovered early on, the term the jungle folk used for the pale inhabitants of such regions as Seram and Partha. The actual meaning was lost even to the locals, but it had come to mean anyone with skin and looks akin to the sons of Diomedes.
Uldyssian did not hesitate to reveal himself, although a few of his converts gave verbal protest at this. Their fear for him was not unwarranted; in addition to the leather-padded soldiers Mendeln noted among the newcomers, there were certainly representatives of the mage clans in the vicinity. They were keeping discreet, though, for although Mendeln knew that they were there, not once did he see anyone who resembled one of the powerful spellcasters. They had their own, internal matters with which they sought to deal; Uldyssian was not yet a problem to the jaded masters in Kehjan.
But after tonight, Mendeln suspected that they would be reaccessing their stand.
“Uldyssian, son of Diomedes, stands before you with empty hands,” Mendeln’s sibling replied, with the same respectful formality.
The elder nodded. “I am Raoneth, Councilor Senior of Toraja. Speaker for the people—” He paused, obviously noting the many darker faces among those following Uldyssian. “—but not for all, it seems. There are many known to me among those who stand with you, Ascenian, a fact that is a marvel and a concern. I was told that only the lower castes found your word of interest and that you promised them the riches of those whose stations are well above…”
“I promise the same thing to everyone,” Uldyssian interjected, his tone only slightly hinting of the anger Mendeln knew he held against those who had spread such rumors to the Councilor Senior. “The chance to achieve what we were meant to be, regardless of our birth! I offer something more than even kings can attain, Lord Raoneth, if one will just listen! I offer what the Triune—and the Cathedral—would never desire for their flocks…independence from their utter mastery!”
Raoneth nodded again. His thin lips pursed and it was evident that he did not entirely like or dislike what he had heard. “The Triune has these past nights been accused of dire crimes, the least of which are too horrendous for me to declare openly here, Ascenian! I have proof from sources as well that you are a danger to the lives of those over whom I watch—”
“You want more damning proof of the Triune’s crimes, Councilor Senior? It lies within those ruins, preserved despite the collapse.”
For the first time, Lord Raoneth looked uncertain. Mendeln, too, was impressed. If he understood his brother as the other did, then even though Uldyssian had let the temple finally fall, he had still shielded the inner chambers from the tons of tumbling stone. An astonishing feat and one done for good reason, it now seemed.
“Perhaps that may be the case,” Raoneth finally went on. “But that does not in itself excuse the case against you, Uldyssian, son of Diomedes.”
“Uldyssian’s no villain!” came a voice that sounded much like Romus’s.
Something flew out of the dark, aiming right for Lord Raoenth’s unprotected forehead. The Councilor Senior had only time to gape as the projectile reached him—
And halted just before it would have shattered his skull.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Uldyssian muttered, sounding incredibly exhausted. The makeshift missile—a sharp, apple-sized fragment from some corner of the temple—crumbled. A pile of soft ash formed at Raoneth’s sandaled feet.
“By the—” the elder man began, then clamped his mouth. Mendeln suspected that, like many Torajians, he had likely been about to call upon the Three…Mefis, Bala, and Dialon. It had been pure reflex, though, Lord Raoneth not radiating any of the darkness that true converts of the Triune would have. He had been an innocent dupe like the rest…
“I’m sorry,” Uldyssian repeated. He turned toward his followers. Although his eyes swept over the entire throng, his brother had no doubt that the one who had used his power to hurtle the missile now felt as if Uldyssian’s entire focus was upon him. “Let that never happen again. This isn’t the point of the gift we have. To fight for the truth, yes, to fight for our right to be what we are destined to be, yes, but not for mayhem and murder…then we’re no better than the Triune.”
He returned his gaze to the Councilor Senior, who only now looked up from the ash. To his credit, Lord Raoneth’s momentary gaping when he had seen his death approaching had given way again to determination to protect his city and his people.
Uldyssian spoke before the other man could. “We’re leaving Toraja, my lord. For the rest of the night, we’ll camp beyond the walls. Tomorrow, we’ll be gone. I came here to try to do some good, but that good’s now mixed with something you and I both find distasteful. That’s not what I want…that’s not what I ever want.”
The Councilor Senior bowed his head slightly. “You are beyond my power, Ascenian. For you to leave Toraja in no more devastation than what has been wrought this night…I can only thank the stars. No soldier shall raise a weapon to you or those who choose to follow you out, not if they do not wish to answer to me. I will brook no more bloodshed.”
“One thing only, Lord Raoneth.”
The man looked wary.
“The Triune is no more here. If it grows in Toraja again—like a weed can—I’ll return.”
Once more, Raoneth pursed his lips. “If the evil is as you said, that weed I will personally pluck clean from my city’s soil.”
That appeared to satisfy Mendeln’s brother. Uldyssian did not look at his followers. He merely started toward Lord Raoneth and they, in turn, flowed behind him. The larger mass that had accompanied the Councilor Senior quickly gave way, hundreds of eyes watching with as many emotions as the converts—several of them once friends, neighbors, and family—passed through. The Torajians among Uldyssian’s flock eyed their fellow locals with equal intensity, although in their case they radiated the determination of the newly converted. No one was going to tell them that they might have chosen wrong.
The Councilor Senior bowed his head again as Uldyssian reached him. The latter nodded in turn. Neither spoke, words now past use. Mendeln surreptitiously eyed the Torajian leader. Raoneth was an interesting figure himself; ghosts flocked around the man, but whether family or foes, there was not time enough to determine. That so many did was all that mattered; it bespoke of Raoneth’s strong presence. Had the man chosen to follow so many of his citizens in accepting the gift within, Mendeln suspected that Raoneth would have quickly become one of Uldyssian’s most promising candidates so far.
And perhaps that is good reason to be glad he did not join, the younger brother considered. Raoneth had been a leader; he might chafe at having to follow.
The crowd continued to give way. Even among the soldiers, there was a mix of expressions. Some looked full of distrust, others full of curiosity.
We will grow in numbers, it occurred to Mendeln. Likely, Uldyssian knew this as well. We will grow in numbers even before we leave this throng behind. There would be others, too, who would sneak out during the night to join the camp beyond the walls. Mendeln c
alculated that not only would all the lives lost tonight be gained back, but that ten times that quantity would be added yet.
“So many,” he murmured.
“Yes. So many,” Uldyssian replied. At that moment, whatever their own personal changes, the brothers understood one another absolutely. They both acknowledged the growth of what Uldyssian had started, acknowledged that each day would bring more and more into the fold.
And both knew, as well, that all those added souls might yet not be enough…that everyone here and everyone to come might simply end up dead.
Four
There was no flaw to the Prophet, not that any could see. He looked so young to his followers, yet his words were wiser than those of any ancient sage. His voice was pure music. He had not the trace of stubble on his young countenance, one barely seeming out of childhood. Those who had the privilege of seeing him close always came away with the impression of handsome, almost beautiful features, yet, their descriptions would have varied based on their own preferences. All would have agreed, though, that his hair, which fell well past his shoulders, was the gold of the sun and that his eyes were a luminescent mix of blue and silver.
He was slim and athletic in the manner of an acrobat or dancer. When the Prophet moved, it was with such grace as even a sleek cat could not match. He was clad in the silver-white robes of the Cathedral of Light, his feet sandaled.
At the moment, the Prophet stood in his glory, having just completed a sermon to more than three thousand eager pilgrims. Behind him, a choir of some two hundred—all of them as perfect in face and form as humans could be—sang the closing praises. The audience remained enraptured, as always. Although the sect had other locations elsewhere, the prime cathedral just north of the capital had a constant flow of newcomers mixing with the local worshippers. After all, here was where the Prophet himself lived. Here was where one could hear his personal words.
I must change that, he thought as he accepted the homage of his followers. All should know my words personally. Perhaps through a sphere held high by the priests of each location during sermons…
He locked away the notion for another time, his own interest on a matter far removed from his present circumstances.
The mortal Uldyssian ul-Diomed and his ragtag followers were on the move again.
Long, golden horns blared as he finally turned from the dais. The choir shifted their singing to mark his departure, never once missing a single note. The members were from all castes, all races, but in their joyous harmony one would have had great trouble telling any of them apart.
He was met by two of his senior priests, Gamuel and Oris. Oris had her hair bound back and although she looked old enough to be his grandmother, her expression could not hide her attraction and love for him. The Prophet could see still how the oval face had once rivaled any of the young ones in the choir, but as with the singers, he had had little interest in the female priest then or now. He was also certainly not inclined toward any male aspect, such as broad-jawed Gamuel’s. No, only one being—one female—had ever stirred his passions so…and she was now anathema to him.
“A rich, magnificent speech as usual,” Oris cooed. Despite her demeanor around him, she was one of the most able of his servants. Besides, the Prophet could hardly blame her for her admiration. She was only human, whereas he was so much more.
“It sounds so terribly redundant to agree with her on this subject, but, I fear I must again, Great One!” added Gamuel, bowing low. He had once been a warrior and stood half again as wide as his master, but no one doubted which of the two was the more powerful. The Prophet had chosen Gamuel for his role because, in the remotest manner possible, he had been the one mortal most reminding the Prophet of his true self.
“It was good,” their master conceded. By the priests’ standards, all of his speeches were perfection, but even he had to admit that there was a bit more to this one than many previous. Possibly that had something to do with the current flux; the status quo of which he had become used to suddenly no longer existed. In truth, that both infuriated…and enticed…him.
“One sensed the mood shift when you spoke of the Triune,” Oris went on, her mouth wrinkling as she pronounced the last word. “There are new rumors of trouble concerning them and some fanatic from the Ascenian regions.”
“Yes. His name is Uldyssian ul-Diomed. He has caused the temple much trouble in Toraja. We should hear official word of that very soon.”
Neither priest registered much surprise at this knowledge. They had both been around long enough to understand that the Prophet was privy to things that they could never even imagine. Still, he always had them report whatever they heard just as a matter of form. There was always the remote chance that something might escape his notice.
Gamuel shook his head. “So near. Will this…this Uldyssian…seek to war against the Cathedral, too?”
“You may assume that, my son.”
“Then, we should move against him—”
The Prophet gave the priest the sort of look that a father gives a naive but favored son. “No, good Gamuel, we must move with him.”
“Holy One?”
But the Prophet said no more. He strode away from his top acolytes toward his private quarters. No one followed in his wake, the glorious master of the Cathedral of Light insisting no servants ever attend him unless summoned. No one questioned this quirk; they were all too enthralled by his holy presence.
For ceremony and the sake of his acolytes’ concerns, helmed guards kept watch at the elegantly carved, twin doors. The six stood as statues as he neared.
“Be at peace,” he told them. “You are dismissed for the evening.”
The senior guard immediately went down on one knee. “Holy One, we shouldn’t be leaving our posts! Your life—”
“Is there anyone here who could possibly threaten it? Is there anyone I should fear?”
They could not argue with him there, for all knew that the Prophet wielded powers unbelievable. He could defend himself far better than they could. Even the guards understood that they were for show, yet their devotion always made them hesitate to leave.
“Go with my blessings,” the ivory youth declared, adding a beatific smile to encourage them to depart. “Go, knowing that you are all in my heart…”
They flushed with pride even as they grudgingly obeyed. The Prophet did not watch them leave. He walked directly to the doors, which flung open by themselves to admit him and then swung tightly shut once he had passed through.
There was little in the way of furniture in the otherwise sumptuous chamber the robed figure entered. A plush, down couch was where his followers assumed the Prophet slept…those who assumed that he slept at all. Beyond that stood several crested, marble stands atop which perched an enviable collection of the finest vases and glass sculptures from throughout the world of Sanctuary. Fresh garlands of flowers draped the walls and vast, tapered rugs with the most intricate, handcrafted patterns covered much of the shining marble floor. The walls also bore magnificent paintings of the natural beauty of every imaginable land, each personally dictated to the various artists by the golden-haired figure.
But above lay what most of those with the rare privilege of entering the Prophet’s private sanctum thought the true focus. An immense mural covered the ceiling from end to end, each portion of it filled with fantastical images. Creatures thought only myth, landscapes almost surreal, and most of all, a host of exquisitely rendered, ethereal beings flying about through the use of vast, feathered wings sprouting from near their shoulders. The figures were male and female and all clad in gossamer robes; each had features that would have been the envy of the most beauteous princess or dashing prince. To the careful onlooker, it was evident that they were not merely part of the scenery, but rather that they were the ones molding it.
They were angels, as humans portrayed them at least. The Prophet, more the wiser, acknowledged the artisan’s exceptional attempt, but an attempt was all it truly wa
s. A mere mortal could not have grasped the true essence of such beings. A mere mortal could not conceive of creatures who were not exactly physical in nature, but instead harmonic resonances.
Yes, a mere mortal could not conceive of angels as they truly were, but the Prophet could.
After all, was he himself not among the greatest of angels?
It happened in a flash of brilliant light a thousand times quicker than a blink. The chamber shook and it was as if a violent wind current erupted from the very spot upon which the gold-tressed figure stood. Gone in an instant was the Prophet, who, for all his perfection, was a mere shadow of the awesome truth. In his place stood a looming, hooded figure with vast wings of flame. Within the hood there was no face, instead a radiance—formed from the blending of both light and sound—so wondrous that it would have been almost blinding to most humans. What appeared to be long, silver hair draping around it was also no more than pure light and sound mixing together.
He was clad in breastplate and robes, the former a shimmering copper, the latter as if sewn from the very rays of the sun. In mortal terms, what had been the prophet seemed now some divine warrior, and in truth, he had faced many a harsh battle against the demons of the Burning Hells.
So many, in fact, that the angel, Inarius, had finally spurned the eternal war between the High Heavens and their monstrous foes and set about finding a place for himself far from the struggle. With him he had taken others of like mind, all weary of winning this victory and losing the next, over and over and over.
I SEARCHED FOR PEACE AND WAS GRANTED ITS ILLUSION…Inarius thought bitterly. I FOUND MY SANCTUARY AND NAMED IT THUS…
But his mistake had been, long before founding Sanctuary, to ever accept the entreaties of a pack of demons also no longer caring which side won. He had compounded that error by falling for the seductions of their leader, whose every words had mirrored his own resolution. It was because of the comingling between the two—and among their followers as well—that Sanctuary had become not only a refuge, but a necessity.
Scales of the Serpent Page 5
