“I’m afraid! Don’t even talk to me anymore!” Sobbing, she pulled on her boots, ran across the chamber, and went out.
Dursoris wanted to go after her. He began to move but then lay back and swore quietly, thinking. He looked again at the warm tapers burning lower, flickering, and then, as he stared at them, burning out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“You’ve heard?” Cyrodian asked his brother the following morning.
“Yes.” Elad did not pause with his knife.
“Then what do you intend to do?”
“First of all—” sipping his tea, then wiping his lips and chin—“I think we’d better face some facts. Sit, brother. Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“As you please. But—sit.” Elad gestured.
Cyrodian dropped awkwardly into a chair, sprawling his legs. He poured himself a goblet of wine and stamped his feet impatiently on the tiles.
“At the rate her train will make—” Elad spoke in a low, careful tone “—it will take Mother at least till dawn tomorrow to reach Teplis.”
“And? So?”
“We can take another trail and reach the oracle first. Hear her wisdom, make our own decision. It’s the only choice we have, brother, short of waiting here for Yta to return in two days.”
Cyrodian flexed his fists. “The oracle will tell her to keep the throne.”
“Very likely she will, yes.”
Cyrodian scowled and studied his brother’s placid face. Something was peculiar about his reaction to all of this. “Then we must ride at once.”
“There is time for breakfast.”
Cyrodian got to his feet. “No. We must ride at once.”
Elad pushed himself from the table, pressed his stomach, and emitted a controlled burp. “Dursoris, as well,” he suggested.
Cyrodian stared at him.
Elad explained. “I don’t want him here by himself while we’re away from court. No telling what kind of trouble he might cause. This is how we convince him.”
“He won’t come willingly. Not with us.”
“Certainly he will. Our threat weighs heavily upon him. He’ll think that during the ride he can convince us with logic and law. Maybe he will, Cyrodian. What do you think?”
Cyrodian absently lifted his left hand to his sword.
Elad shook his head strictly at him. “None of that. I want to be king—I will be king—but—” He stopped and looked out across the low wall of his balcony, where it showed the skyline of the capital and the clouds of early morning beyond the roofs of temples and banks. “If we’re lucky, the weather may lift yet. It will be a pleasant journey.”
Cyrodian mumbled something, but his brother ignored it.
“Call the servants,” Elad told him. “Rouse Dursoris. I don’t want to waste any more time.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Delios made port at Athad that afternoon, tying up at the northern docks. Adred disembarked and entered the capital, with its endless tall towers and walls, huge fountains, escarpments of temples and public and government administration buildings, its wide boulevards and squares and gardens filled with everyone. He had been away for more than four months, hoping in his absence to live down the two disappointments that had seen him leave: his father’s death early in the year and a silly-serious love affair with a nobleman’s daughter.
It was raining. Despite that, Adred found his spirits rising, anticipating seeing Dursoris and Orain and the mothering Queen Yta. He stopped at a public bathhouse (as he had promised himself he would), and then took rooms in the Indura, which provided lodgings a few blocks from the palace. He visited his banking house and was greeted there by old friends of his father’s; while withdrawing forty in long gold, Adred told them how things were with Count Mantho in the uplands. (Old-timers still referred to Kendia as the uplands, although the state and its immediate surroundings had ceased to be foreign long ago, and business with the traders there had been done on good terms since the second year of Evarris’s reign.)
The rain was a downpour by the time Adred reached the palace. He waited for a moment beneath the propylon set before the east wall’s pedestrian gate, then dashed on through and across the brick patio to the small inner courtyard. Roofed walkways edged the gardens there, and Adred followed one, sidestepping puddles the best he could. As he jogged up the steps to the wide front portico, thunder boomed from high beyond the Bithitu Temple, and Adred glanced back, expecting to see lightning. Under the portico roof, he shook the rain from his hair, then took the last few steps to the entrance doors; at the top, he paused to scrape the mud from the bottom of his boots, adding wedges of drying muck alongside those of others who had entered this morning.
A servant in the reception area greeted Count Adred and requested that he wait for a moment while Princess Orain was informed of his arrival. The palace seemed uncommonly quiet—there were still many in mourning, no doubt—and Adred noticed the long rows of black cloth that still hung against the stone walls of high-ceilinged entrances and hallways. When the servant returned to conduct Adred upstairs, the count inquired about Evarris’s funeral and learned what he had already surmised, that he had arrived too late.
Directed, on the third floor, toward Orain’s apartment, Adred moved down the corridor, reaching inside his shoulder cape to take out a package he had brought for young Galvus. A gift from Kendia: a book of the humanistic philosophy of Radulis. He had no doubts what Prince Cyrodian would do with such “anti-militarist, anti-expansionist, humanitarian trash” should he find his son reading it.
Orain was standing in the center of her receiving chamber, waiting nervously, as Adred walked in. He closed the door behind him, undid his cape and dropped it onto a chair, then merely stood there, feeling awkward in the gray room and looking with puzzlement at Cyrodian’s wife.
“Orain?”
She ran to him abruptly, her naked feet slapping on the stone. Adred, surprised, held out his arms, and Orain hurried into them and embraced him strongly.
“Thank the gods you’re here!”
“Orain, what—”
She began to sob. Adred held her close for a moment, self-consciously dropping the Radulis on the chair beside his cape. He took Orain’s shoulders in his hands and gently pushed her away. Looking her in the eyes: “What’s happened? Orain, what’s wrong?”
“All I’ve been doing is crying and crying,” she confessed. “Adred, they’re going to cause a civil war!”
“Who? Who is?”
“The princes! Elad and Cyrodian—Dursoris! They’re going to be at each other’s throats!”
“Tell me what’s happened. Where are they now?”
“They’ve ridden off to the Oracle at Teplis. Yta’s gone there, too. She left this morning; they followed. Oh, Adred! They all want the throne; they were just waiting for Evarris to die!”
“Come here. Orain, come here. Sit down. Have some wine.”
“I can’t drink any wine.”
“Did you have any breakfast? Lunch?”
“I can’t eat.”
“Here. Sit. Now, drink some wine. Go on. It’ll calm you.”
As she did so, he rang a bell on one of the tables to alert a servant and told that one to have Orain’s plate brought in. He watched her carefully until the servant returned, then made Orain eat some lunch, and he insisted on her drinking a full goblet of wine. As she ate, she told him, clearly and succinctly, all that had happened within the past few days.
Adred was surprised. What had he returned to?
“Mother!”
Galvus knocked on the outer door, then came in and said a bold hello to his Uncle Adred. Bold, because now he was the man of the palace, for a day or two, and had some very real knowledge of what was occurring.
Adred gave him the Radulis, and Galvus was ecstatic.
“But keep it to yourself,” Adred warned him. “If anyone around here finds you with it, they’ll probably have my head.”
“Do you k
now how long I’ve wanted a copy of this?” Galvus asked. “Did you find it in Kendia?”
Adred nodded. “Just read it with patience, Galvus. The world won’t change overnight. Radulis gets carried away with himself sometimes, but neither the prophet nor the gods are going to come down and start a new world.”
Orain spoke. “Galvus, would you leave us now, please?”
“Yes, Mother.” He told Adred, “She still wants to protect me from everything.”
“Of course she does,” Adred smiled. “Don’t blame her.”
“Oh, I don’t. Thank you for the book. Thank you very much.”
“You’re more than welcome. We’ll talk later.”
When he had gone, Orain asked, “What do you think of all this, Adred?”
He stared into her face for a long time. He listened to the rain. He thought then of the Dursoris he had known, the princes he had known, the Yta he had known. He was drinking wine, Orain’s wine, on an empty stomach, and he was becoming light-headed.
“What, Adred?”
Her face, as gray as the rain-dampened shadows, but as warm and close and tearful as memories that are good memories.
Perhaps because of the wine, perhaps because Orain was close and near, perhaps because Galvus was the only man of blood in the palace, Adred remembered himself and the robed scholar on the Delios, that morning when the birds had wheeled in the sky, arced down, dipped into the sea, and died.
“Surely this is a bad omen.…”
“Adred?”
“A bad omen, isn’t it, Orain?” he said. “What else can the oracle say? It’s surely a bad omen.”
Athad, the capital, which had seemed to him large and colorful and full of every sort of vitality, every memory, able to manifest everything to him, had shrunk to the gray sound of rain within the closeness of Orain’s chamber.
CHAPTER NINE
The day was wet. Rain fell, and the ride was a long one. To pass the time, Dursoris whistled and hummed songs. Cyrodian amused himself by making snide comments and crude jests at the expense of anyone and anything that crossed his mind. Elad turned increasingly agitated as the day wore on and at times moved his horse ahead of his brothers’, hoping to relieve the congestion in his soul by putting distance between himself and them. Forebodings gripped him—memories, fears, and adumbrations.
Their road passed across field and by riverbank, through woodlands and forests. Late in the afternoon, as the three followed a dark forest path to the base of Mount Teplis, Elad found himself thinking of Bithitu, the Prophet. A story. How Bithitu had met Archas, the demon-king, in a forest two thousand years ago and had tricked Archas into picking up two pine needles for every one he dropped—thus distracting the demon from causing trouble in the world.
For a time, at least.
Elad glanced at his brothers and wiped the rain from his wet face, and he wondered if Archas, the demon-king, had ever had any siblings.
* * * *
The Temple of the Oracle was situated high on an outcropping of Mount Teplis. Flat stone stairs, cracked and lined by fallen pillars, led to the entrance way. There was no door; the temple itself was a cave decorated with tapestries and old statuary. A well-worn brick walkway led into the cave; it stopped short where a fissure in the earth, perhaps an arm-length wide, divided the front of the cave from the Oracle’s dais deeper within.
Tall braziers of smoking incense ringed the dais. Oil lamps and fatty candles cast the only light. The oracle herself—a nameless entity, supposedly immortal, but surely replaced upon death by priests from her diminishing cult in the capital—sat in the cross-legged umhis position, slim hands folded upon her lap. She wore a heavy white robe. Neither her face nor her hair was distinct; the oracle wore a large bronze mask, one side cast and decorated in a male aspect, the other in a female aspect. Fumes from the burning incenses played about her, swirling in a dry mist. Flames of candle and oil lamp glowed through the smoke, played in colors upon the strange bronze visage.
Elad stood in front of Cyrodian, with Dursoris to one side. The first prince of Athadia had never before visited the oracle, nor did he know many who had, save his mother. Should one offer a prayer? Money? Should one bless oneself or demean oneself? Was the fissure a test? Should he leap it to prove that he was worthy of approaching the oracle?
“Stand,” said a metallic voice, interrupting Elad’s uncertainty. “Stand where you are, Prince Elad. I know you, and I know why you have come.”
Elad glanced back at his brothers; wary, he clenched his hands together. They were warm and damp in their gloves.
“You wish the throne,” said the oracle.
Elad moved forward one step.
“Speak.” Clearly a woman’s voice, yes, though hollow because of the metal mask and the echoes in this old cave.
Elad asked the woman, “Will…I gain the throne?”
The oracle moved. The brothers could hear the intake of her breath. Fumes swirled at her command. She lifted her arms, the white sleeves of her robe dropped down her forearms, and all three princes saw the amulets and ornamental pieces she wore.
“The throne means wealth greater than gold, Prince Elad. Spiritual gold weighs far more than earthly gold, and its burden is greater than the burden of earthly riches. I tell you this: As each human being has three selves—body, spirit, and undying soul—so do you have three enemies. Your first is a mirror; your second, a blade; your third, a foreign countenance. Mirrors betray depth while having no depth. Blades have two sides, two edges, and one point. Countenances are masks for the minds beneath. The foolish man accepts all three as they present themselves, not as they truly are.”
Elad was perplexed. Neither Cyrodian nor Dursoris said anything. Elad passed from wonder and tension to annoyance and doubt. “I don’t understand what you mean. Explain yourself.”
“I speak for the gods; the gods do not explain. You must explain for yourself. I tell you of you. All is not what it seems to be; what things seem to be is not all. It is not the mirror’s reflection that is real, but that which it reflects. It is not the sword that slays, but the man behind it. It is not the face that speaks, but the one within who gives voice. This is how our spirits abide in the world of things, prince of Athadia. Temper your sword. See beneath your mirror. See the truth of the faces you look upon.”
Elad grew angry. “Speak plainly!” he cried. The mask, the flames, the mists…words, and words, and words…the resonant voice, metallic and hollow…and pine needles, even pine needles.… “Tell me what I came to know!” he yelled, stepping ahead, the toes of his worn boots now at the edge of the fissure. “I didn’t come here for lessons in…poetry!”
“You came to learn if you will have the throne.”
“Tell me, witch!”
“You came to learn if Queen Yta’s heart is too great a price to pay for her throne.”
“Tell me what I want to know, damn you!” He was perspiring; his skin itched from the fumes; his hair was damp and matted to his head, and sweat was dripping in a wash down his face.
“Shall I tell you that the future holds only truth, Prince Elad? Shall I tell you that already blood grows on your hands? Shall I tell you that four shall become three, and three two, and two one, and the one—”
“Tell me what I wish to know!”
Now Dursoris stepped forward. “Calm yourself, brother. This is of the gods.”
But Cyrodian slapped Dursoris on the shoulder. “Of the gods, hell! She’s just another priest hiding inside an idol. Yta owns her, Elad. She’s playing with you. You gave her the dice, and now she’s weighed them to her own—”
Elad grunted and drew his sword, teetering on the edge. The flames…the fumes…the voice.… He waved his blade behind him, gesturing Cyrodian to silence, and stared into the Oracle’s bronze mask. “Tell me!”
“Already the future takes hold of you, Prince Elad,” came the low, unstartled voice. “You do not know yourself; how then can I tell you things that otherwise yo
u may wish to know?”
“Speak to me of the truth, damn you, damn you!”
“The mother raises the child,” spoke the oracle woman, spoke the misted, flame-reflecting, smoke-hidden mask, “but the child is not the mother, and the mother is not the child. When animals breed, they bear animals of a kind; when man and woman breed, they bear animals of all kinds. Each man and woman has many animals in his and her soul.”
“I want the truth!” Elad screamed. “No more poetry!”
“I speak the truth, Prince Elad. Listen with more than your ears.”
“You’re telling me nothing! Nothing!”
“There is no throne you may not have, prince, if mother’s blood is the price you are willing—”
Elad shrieked. Reckless, guilty before the crime and with the shadows of the forest in his heart, he leapt the narrow fissure, jumped up the steps of the dais, and in a sweeping, even movement brought up his sword and placed the keen point beneath the chin of the oracle’s mask.
“There is a throat here,” he growled. “You are mortal. You speak of blood—”
“Elad!” Dursoris howled. “This is outrageous! You cannot—”
Cyrodian grabbed his younger brother by the arm and held him in a strong grip.
“Tell me!” Elad grimaced. The sweat came down his face, pain and anger were inside him, and his head ached. He stared into the oracle’s mask, saw the old gray eyes behind the bronze slits, and heard the nervous respiration from the labored breast. “You’re not a goddess. You’re a woman, an old witch, and you’re drunk on fumes and smoke! You listen to me! If you have any truth in you—if you read the future truly—then for the sake of your own future, tell me mine, and let it be the truth. Or your future ends here.”
His arms tingled. The blade shivered in his grasp. He had become someone else, or some second Elad within him, until now held in check, had come free with strength all the greater for having been contained for so long. You do not know yourself.…
“Tell me, now,” Elad whispered, feeling the trembling of the throat beneath his sword point, seeing the old gray eyes under the mask water with emotion.
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