by Greg Keyes
XV
Beneath the Temple
The sudden weakness did not pass, but neither did it worsen, and Ghe smiled grimly. He had been reborn to go where the River could not, and it seemed that this held true, even here, in the heart of his impotency. His vision remained viable, but only just so, and he relied more heavily than ever on the ghost of the dead boy, straining for sound, the touch of air moving on his skin—the senses of the blind.
The tunnel he traveled in debouched into a large chamber, devoid of furnishings but thrumming faintly, faintly. Ghe knew that he must be feeling the water being drawn up the great central well of the temple, further evidence that he approached his destination. By feel and faint sight he found a passageway, cemented shut with bricks. Though he was weak, still he was not as weak as a mere Human Being, and the ancient bricks were rotten, returning to the mud from which they were formed. Wishing now that he had at least a blade or bar of metal, he set to work pushing, tearing, prizing them apart. When the first hole appeared, an appalling staleness breathed through the aperture; whatever space he was digging into was sealed, as well.
He widened the hole enough to crawl through and slithered in, lubricated by the coating of muck on his body. He lowered himself gently to the stone floor, having already made more sound than he wished, wondering what wards this place held, if he had already triggered some alarm.
He had dug into a hall, its floor marbled, but with a low, vaulted roof. He could stand upright in it, but reaching fingers could touch the ceiling. The hall was wide, however, twenty paces or more, and the walls were stuccoed with faint images. He approached and tried to make them out, but his vision was too dim, his sense of color gone entirely. Shrugging, he passed on, removing his shoes, for they squeaked and squished with the moisture in them. The stone beneath his toes was smooth, cool, and still he could feel the hum of rushing water somewhere ahead.
The hall soon widened and deepened, the floor sloping away from him, and he saw that he was entering a chamber filled with water; at least its paths were, for what he saw resembled a city of canals, each building isolated from the others by a trail of water less than a full step wide. These miniature buildings were also of stone—most seemed to be composed of marble, granite, or striated sandstone. Ghe had learned each of these and their properties as a Jik, that he might know how each might be climbed, which were easiest to drive spikes into, and so forth. Puzzled, he moved on, until his toes encountered the still water, and then a sudden tingle rushed up his leg, much like what he felt bathing in the River, but somehow stronger, more forceful. He bent and touched the surface, and his fingers came away dry.
Smokewater, he thought. The Ghost of the River.
He recalled the hall where he had been reborn, the sunken place where the Blessed were placed. The smokewater contained them there, but it had not contained him, only given him puissance. He felt the raw power thicken in him as he waded into the dry fluid, but his vision improved only a fraction. The River’s power was here but not his sentience.
If smokewater was a prison for the Blessed, then what was imprisoned here! But he believed he knew, both from memory and from hints in the Codex Obsidian. He approached one of the islanded structures and took the handle of its brass door.
The door opened easily, never protesting, and Ghe peered inside.
A man rested in the small space, or, at least, what remained of one. His bones lay jutting through rotten finery, a rusted iron scepter ringed by the disarticulated finger joints that had once held it. Ghe stared at the remains curiously. What king was this? Hezhi might know, would probably be able to read the ancient glyphs that patterned the tomb, recount some of the man’s deeds. None of this really mattered to him, however, and with a small bow, he stepped back to close the door.
The bones shivered, blurred, and he realized suddenly that a nearly invisible shroud lay over the skeleton, a translucent film. This was now oscillating, wavering like the air above a stove or a fire. A tendril reached out tentatively to touch him, and he let it, wondering what it would do. A thin pain, a burning, started on his flesh where it touched him, and the shroud suddenly scintillated, glowed, tremors of color running through it. The bones themselves remained still.
He stepped farther back, brushing away the mist that touched him, and when that did not work, he disengaged it with his power. He could now see the simply knotted heartstrings, glowing above the dead king, the sort he had come to associate with ghosts. It had been clear, drained, and yet now with just a hint of his own power, it lived faintly.
These are not tombs for their bodies, he understood suddenly, but for their ghosts.
To trap them. To keep them from wandering or returning to their source. If the River could give him such power, what might it not do with a body and soul made to contain his will, the body of an emperor? This was the priesthood’s way of making certain that such would never occur. The River’s anger at that was distant from him, and so he did not fly into a rage as he had in the library. But what he saw confirmed his growing certainty that the priesthood worked against the River, not for him, and that they had been doing so for a very long time.
Staring at the fading ghost, it occurred to him that it could be tethered to him, just as the boy was. He could take the knowledge of an ancient king with him on this quest, use it to read the old hand and thus the enigmatic inscriptions all around him. Indeed, perhaps the solutions to all of the mysteries he sought to unravel lay here, in these tombs. But a strong instinct argued against that. The smokewater had so weakened these souls that to bring one to full sentience might drain him of power. Its touch had been so supremely hungry—what if it became the master of his body? A runner could usually gauge how far he could run, a jumper how far he could jump, and the same sense of ability made Ghe suspect that devouring the ghosts of these ancient Waterborn might be more than he was presently capable of.
So he moved on, brushing the tombs of kings with his hands, wading thigh-deep in water that did not dampen him. All here were dead: men, ghosts, River. As he advanced, he wondered what had brought him to this place. Understanding, surely, but understanding of what? What exactly did he seek? He hoped that the answer would be evident when he found it, that it did not lie in one of the many tombs. If it did, how would he discover it, by searching each and every one?
Perhaps he sought the priestly library, but he was certain most of those books were in hands he could not decipher easily or quickly. Of course, Ghan could, if he took one away. But how would he even know which one to take? In the end, he might have to gamble with a dead king anyway.
Perhaps he sought something more basic than books. The River wanted Hezhi back, but more, he wanted free of his shackles. Was there some way for him to overthrow the temple itself, compromise its power? That would be worth seeking, if he only knew what that might be, what valve he might adjust. It seemed unlikely that such a thing existed; more probably the entire structuration of the temple was responsible for its function; the bits of architecture he had read in preparing to converse with Hezhi had suggested as much. Certainly the fountain was involved, the flow of water up and into the temple, cascading down its stepped façade. And the Codex had suggested that the temple was in some way like She’leng, whence the River flowed. No, this was all too complicated for him. Still, he had to know what was here. Perhaps the River could sort some sense into it when he left the stultifying effects of the temple.
The hall of the dead ended at last, steep steps rising from the smokewater, and he set foot to their treads, padding upward carefully. He could hear the water now, not merely feel it and, at last, a few moments later, see it as he emerged into a grand hall, lit by a dim phosphorescence. As feeble as the light was, however, the walls and high ceiling picked up every bit of it and turned it back to his eye; for every surface of the room was mirrored with cut glass. The mere presence of his form awoke a million eyes that fluttered and blinked, his reflection passing through each facet.
And of c
ourse, the water. It rushed in a solid column from floor to ceiling, and he knew that it continued up through the many tiers of the temple until at last it emerged from its summit and streamed down the four sides like the water at the four corners of the world. He stared awestruck, despite himself. It had the appearance of a column of jet and silver, there was no spray, no spume; each drop went where directed, up and farther up still, like blood pumping through an artery. If he could sever such an artery—
“Who is this?” came a voice, but Ghe could not see from what throat it issued; he knotted his muscles, prepared to spring in any direction, but a long moment passed and still he saw nothing, scanning what he could see of the room again and again. It was a high voice, the voice of a priest, certainly. Slowly, very cautiously, Ghe sidestepped to his left, moving around the room’s fountain core, until he saw the speaker at last. It was a boy, perhaps thirteen, perhaps younger or older by a year. He wore a black robe and his head was shaven. In his hand, limply, he held a golden chain, and a shadow was bunched at the end of it, a quivering murkiness.
“Who is this?” the boy repeated. Ghe pinched his mouth, wondering what to do: strike instantly or stay his hand, see what he might learn? Reluctantly he decided on the latter. It would give him a chance to close the intervening space, and surely there was more here than it seemed. He trod carefully, wary about placing his weight without first testing for a pit or some other trap; he had heard stories of the many ways in which the priesthood guarded its treasures. The Jik would plan such traps, and when it came to death, the Jik were inventive.
“I am no one,” Ghe replied softly. “Just a mouse scurrying in these corners. I mean no harm.”
The boy looked amused. He settled down on the edge of the dais on which he stood. Ghe could see more clearly now, could make out that the dais held all manner of objects: weapons, books, a rack of painted skulls, chests and boxes. The light was coming from there, as well; a wrought-iron lantern that burned quite dimly, with no flickering, as if its glow did not issue from any flame. Perhaps, like everything here, it was only the ghost of flame.
“Sit, be comfortable,” the boy enjoined. “I rarely have anyone to speak to, and thou must have questions, if thou comest here.”
“I have questions,” Ghe acknowledged. “But I would not bother you with them.”
“Thou bother me not at all,” the boy answered, as Ghe peered more intently at what crouched, leashed, at the boy’s feet. The dark shape confounded him, refused to resolve into any recognizable form. The boy’s accent was more than old-fashioned; it was nearly another language, and Ghe had to concentrate intently to understand him. He moved closer, since he seemed to have been invited to.
When he was ten paces away, the boy waved him back. “It would be well if thou approach no closer,” he said. “Mine dog is known to bite.”
Ghe nodded to show that he understood, but he did not sit, as instructed, preferring to stand so that he might quickly respond to a threat, if need be.
“Thou came in through the crypts,” the boy observed. “I have the right of it, have I not?”
Ghe saw no point in denying this and so nodded.
“Here, give me something to call thee. It need not be thy name.”
“You may call me Yen,” Ghe answered, wondering too late if the boy might not know of that identity.
“Art thou unsighted, Yen? I sense a blindness about thee.”
“I am blind.” It dawned upon Ghe that the boy himself was without sight, his pearly orbs never focusing on anything. If the boy thought him blind—perhaps sensing his ghostly thrall—then why argue?
“It seemed that it should be so. They say that only the blind can come here.”
“Why is that?” Ghe asked.
“My father made it so,” the young man replied, smiling.
“Your father, the River?”
The boy chortled. “Thou does not know where thee beest? No, my father is not the River. Not he.”
“Do you guard this place?”
“Thou lack persistence,” the boy said. “Thou wouldst know of my father.”
“I have no wish to be rude.”
“Trespassing is always rude, thou, but mind that not. I am the keeper of this place, and its guardian in that sense.”
“What do you guard?” Ghe asked, eyeing the treasure behind the boy but playing his role as a blind man.
“Baubles, bangles. Mostly this place, as I said.”
“But who do you guard it from?”
“Thee, I suppose.”
“I don’t want anything here,” Ghe lied.
“No, I suppose thou merely took a wrong turning. It is a common mistake, and many make it,” the boy mocked.
“I was curious, nothing more.”
“Come,” the boy said, a bit of anger creeping into his voice. “Tell me why thou art here. It matters not what thou sayest, save that I am bored and wish to speak with someone.”
It matters not what thou sayest. Ghe caught the threat in that. Was this boy merely delaying him, as more priests came? But he had heard no alarm, felt no odd play of power. Though it was like peering through a mist, he had occasional glimpses of the guardian’s heartstrands, and they looked strong and strange, and he seemed confident, as if understanding that he needed no aid. And then there was the shadow at his feet, pulsing with malevolent force. If he could feed on them, or better, capture them, what might he not learn?
“Very well,” he relented. “I have come seeking the secret of the temple, I suppose. Seeking how it holds the River senseless here.”
“And dost thou have thine answer now?”
“No. This place was mentioned in a book that was read to me, but now that I have reached it, I know no more than I did.”
“Fortunate that thou hast encountered me, then. I know this place well.”
Ghe hesitated barely an instant. “The book speaks of a mountain far away.”
“She’leng, the source of the Changeling.”
“Changeling?”
“Another name for the River. Yes, there is such a mountain, which thou namest She’leng. And what dost thou think that has to do with this place?”
“It was built to resemble that mountain,” Ghe answered, once again wondering at the antiquity of the boy’s speech. No priest he knew spoke in such a manner, save in incantations, and never did it flow so smoothly from their lips.
“Very good. And thou wouldst know why?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Imagine,” the boy said, clasping one knee between his hands, leaning back and staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, “Imagine … Wert thou ever sighted? But of course thou wert; I can sense it. Imagine then, in thy sighted days, standing before a mirror. Imagine now, another mirror behind thee, just precisely behind thee. What is it thou seest?”
“Myself, I suppose, reflected into infinity.”
“Indeed. Now suppose thou art stupid, like a blue jay or some other noisy bird. Hast thou ever seen them fly against glass, accosting their own reflection?”
“No, but I can imagine it.”
“A truly stupid bird might batter itself into senselessness against a mirror. Caught between two, it would be a virtual certainty.”
“You say that the River is such a stupid bird? That the mountain and this temple are like mirrors, facing one another?”
“Well, I only offer a little story. The truth is much more complicated, I suppose. The River flows on past this temple, is aware beyond it. But in a sense, a part of him is fooled into thinking this place is his point of origination, his womb, and that—though he knows it not—is what he truly seeks: return to his ancient home. He cannot see this temple because he confuses it with the mountain, and for him the distance between is somewhat meaningless.”
Ghe remembered his dream, the dream of completeness long ago, when the River was an endless circle, content. He was aware that he sought his ancient state but thought to reachieve it by growing larger. But if part of hi
m were fooled into a dream of contentment …
“So he feels the water rushing through the temple—”
“And believes that it is himself, flowing out from his source. It confuses him, but the nature of the wyrd is that he does not know he is confused.”
Ghe nodded his head. “That may be so. But there is more.”
“Oh, certainly. A thousand ancient songs—lullabies, if thou wilt—are pooled here, and over time such songs lie upon one another and gather strength. A thousand blocks of incense are burned, and priests are made so that the River cannot see them, either. But those things are just ornament, paint, gilding. I have given thee the very essence.”
“And this was all done by the Ebon Priest?”
The boy laughed. “The Ebon Priest is actually quite lazy, but he knows how to set others at a task. Thou wilt not see him here in the midst of this drudgery he created for us all. I suppose he laid out the plan but left others to refine the details. What thou seest is more my creation than his, in many ways.”
Ghe narrowed his eyes. Was this man lying? He seemed only a boy, and yet Ghe already knew better than that.
“You are the Ebon Priest’s son?”
“His bastard, yes. Thou—you knew that.”
“I do now, I suppose. Then you have been here for some time.”
“You have an engaging talent for understatement.”
As they had been speaking, the boy’s strange speech had gradually altered, until now he spoke with Ghe’s own soft dialect. That was somehow much more unnerving than hearing him speak in the ancient, incantive tongue.
“You have been here since the First Dynasty?”
The boy shrugged. “Now and then I sleep. I was sleeping when you arrived, but my pet, here, awakened me.” He tugged playfully on the golden leash, and the darkness quivered a bit.
