by K J Taylor
Beyond the drapes, a short passage led to the single chamber that made up the inside of the Temple. It was huge inside, made all in the same yellow stone as the outside. But it was full of gold as well. Gold discs, representing suns, had been placed at intervals along the walls, and more gold had been inlaid into the elaborate friezes that were carved everywhere. There were no seats; only brightly woven mats on the floor, and an altar at the far end. Light shone down in two beams from the ceiling and bathed the golden statue that stood there. It was a smaller version of the giant impossibility that made up the Temple—a slender, smiling man, holding a large copper dish in his outstretched hands, just above the altar. Pale flames flickered inside it.
Laela walked toward it as if in a dream, ignoring Oeka completely. The statue seemed to be waiting for her, its shining face locked in that distant, enigmatic smile.
A shape stepped in her way. “Welcome,” it said.
Laela jerked to a stop. “What the . . . ?”
The stranger was a man—bald, wearing a yellow kilt. His skin had been covered in gold paint, so for a moment he looked like a living version of the statue behind him.
“Who are yeh?” Laela said unceremoniously, almost resenting the interruption.
The man smiled and folded his hands together. “I am Ocax,” he said. “I am a priest of Xanathus.”
He was speaking griffish, Laela realised. “I’m Lady Laela,” she said. “Chief advisor to King Arenadd.”
Ocax ignored her. He had seen Oeka, and now he stepped closer to her and knelt, laying his head on the ground.
Oeka looked bewildered for a moment, but quickly recovered. “Rise, human,” she said.
Ocax rose, but kept his head bowed. “Mighty griffin,” he said. “Herald of Xanathus. I am not worthy to speak to you.”
“You may speak,” said Oeka. “So, human—you are a priest of this Temple?”
“I am, Sacred One,” said Ocax. “It is my task to bring oil to fuel the sacred flame, and to accept the offerings of those who come to worship.”
Oeka glanced at Laela. “This is a mighty temple. Did your kind build it alone?”
“No, Sacred One,” said Ocax. “The power of great Xanathus bound these stones together and blessed them with his grace.”
“Then you have pleased him,” said Oeka. She paused. “I am Oeka, of Tara. My human is Master of Wisdom.”
Ocax finally looked at Laela. “A worthy human to have your favour, Sacred One.”
“Thanks,” said Laela, by now thoroughly uncomfortable. “I came t’see the Temple.”
“It is a modest thing, compared to the great Temple in the capital,” said Ocax.
“I’ve never seen a temple this big or magnificent,” said Laela, and she meant it.
Ocax smiled. “Thank you, Lady Laela. Have you come here to pay homage to Xanathus?”
Laela glanced at Oeka. “Uh . . . yeah. Sure.”
The priest looked keenly at her. “Do you know Xanathus?”
Laela thought of the dream where she’d talked to Gryphus. “I think so.”
“Then come forward and know him better,” said Ocax.
Laela went closer to the altar, as he gestured her to. “Xanathus is a sun god, isn’t he?”
“The sun god,” Ocax corrected. “The only sun god. He may have other names in other languages, but he is the sun, the day and the light. He is life, he is love. There is no other.”
Laela thought of Arenadd’s frightened ramblings. “Then he’s Gryphus,” she said confidently. “This is his place.”
Ocax smiled. “Long ago, a strange people came to Amoran. They were pale-faced and spoke a strange language, but they revered the sun, and when our ancestors saw that they knew that they were a blessed people. They taught them the ways of Xanathus. Those people carried his teachings to their new home.”
“Cymria!” said Laela. “So the Southerners learned about Gryphus here.”
Ocax pointed at the altar. “See that symbol? Do you know it, Laela of Tara?”
It was a circle, with three curling lines that met in the middle and spread outward. Laela stared at it and laughed in disbelief. “I’ve seen that! It’s carved on the door of the temple in Sturrick! That’s Gryphus’ . . .” She trailed off.
“Xanathus’ symbol,” Ocax said solemnly. “The sun’s symbol. We have revered it for thousands of years.”
Laela kept her eyes on the gold-inlaid sunwheel, and felt as if all she knew were unravelling. Arenadd had been right—this was Gryphus’ place. All these people belonged to him. Amoran was a huge country—she’d been told that plenty of times. So much land, and so many souls, all Gryphus’ own. No wonder Arenadd couldn’t bear to be here.
She looked up at the eerily smiling statue, and thought of the crowned, bearded man from her dream. Could they possibly be the same person?
If they were, then what would they think of her?
Laela suddenly felt afraid. She was a Northerner. She had promised her soul to the Night God. And here she was, before the altar of Gryphus. Did he hate her? Did he want her gone from his lands, like Arenadd?
Ocax had been watching her. “Do not be afraid, Laela,” he said, as if he were reading her mind. “You are one of his children.”
Laela glanced at him. “I’m a Northerner.”
“But you do not have Northern eyes,” said Ocax. He smiled and touched her cheek. “I have never seen such eyes as yours. They are as blue as the sky. Like the eyes of Xanathus.”
“My mother was a Southerner,” said Laela.
“Then you are a child of Xanathus,” said Ocax. “Women are sacred to him; they give life, as he does.”
“But my father was a Northerner,” said Laela. “I figured since I was halfway Southern an’ halfway Northern, I could choose my own god.”
“And which god have you chosen, Laela of Tara?”
Laela hesitated. She had been going to say the Night God, but something stopped her.
“If you spoke to Xanathus, you would know which god was yours,” said Ocax.
Laela shook herself. “The gods ain’t exactly known for bein’ talkative.”
“But Xanathus can speak to you,” said Ocax. “Here, in this Temple. If you wish it.”
“How?” Oeka interrupted.
Ocax bowed to her. “There is a ritual, Sacred One,” he said. “A rite which calls Xanathus to speak. If your human would like to, she can perform it. I will help.”
“That is a matter for my human to decide,” said Oeka.
“What ‘ritual’ is this?” said Laela. “How’s it work?”
“It is simple enough,” said Ocax. “All you need do is cast a certain herb into the sacred flame. I will perform the chant, and before long, Xanathus will appear to you.”
Stuff and nonsense, thought Laela. But she couldn’t help but be curious all the same. She looked at the golden statue, and then at the priest. He had an odd, twitchy look about him and his eyes were bloodshot, but she didn’t believe that he would ever try to assassinate anyone. Vander had told her a few things about the priesthood in his home country, and nonviolence was supposedly one of their most important principles.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s do it.”
The priest smiled. “Wait for me.”
He went away through a door hidden behind the statue and returned a few moments later holding a small, woven bag. Laela stood close to the altar as he asked her to, her hand resting on Oeka’s head.
“You should stand back, Sacred One,” said Ocax. “A griffin does not need to breathe in the holy smoke.”
Oeka huffed to herself and moved away.
“Now.” Ocax gave the bag to Laela. “Take this, and cast it into the flame. Do not be afraid.”
“Right.” Lael
a opened the bag and peered inside. It was full of something dried and shredded—it looked vaguely like meat.
“Fungus,” said Ocax. “Gathered from the rocks in the Valley of the Wind. It has magical properties.”
Laela sniffed it and grimaced; it didn’t have a very strong smell, but for some reason it made her head spin. “So I just throw it in the bowl there?”
“Yes. The smoke will open your mind and allow Xanathus to speak to you.”
“It ain’t dangerous?”
“No.” He smiled. “I have done this many times. It was this ritual that first called me to become a priest.”
“All right then.” Laela reached over and tipped the entire contents of the bag into the flame. The dried fungus went up at once, but the oil soaked into it and made it burn slowly instead of vanishing. At once, smoke began to rise from the bowl—thick, yellowish smoke.
Ocax looked horrified. “You were only supposed to throw in a pinch!”
“Sorry—” Laela began, but in that instant the smoke hit her nostrils. It poured into her lungs, and in a heartbeat it had spread through her entire system. She turned to Ocax, asking for help, but she couldn’t tell where he was. Her head began to spin. She turned around, wide-eyed. Her head felt as if it were growing larger and larger, floating toward the ceiling. Everything around her had turned yellow, full of tiny sparks like pollen. Oeka wasn’t there any more, but that didn’t matter; Laela had forgotten all about her. She’d forgotten about Arenadd, too, and Yorath, and home. Everything fled out of her mind in an instant, and she was flying, suspended in a delicious cloud of sweet yellow fog.
She grinned; her mouth seemed to be out of her control and wanted to do nothing else.
Humming inanely to herself, she turned to see if the altar was still there. It was, and the statue was still there, too. Only now, it was moving.
Laela squinted at it. “Here, why are you movin’?” She giggled. “Are yeh bored? Want t’come out an’ get some air an’ that?” She giggled again and couldn’t make herself stop.
Very slowly, the statue straightened up. In its hands the bowl had become a ball of pure golden flame, so bright it hurt to look at.
Laela stopped giggling. She backed away. “What . . . ? No . . . stop . . . I don’t like this . . .”
The statue came toward her, its golden feet clanging on the stone. The face had lost its distant smile. Now it was alive, moving and changing its expression.
Laela tried to back away further, but her feet suddenly refused to move. The light hit her face, burning straight through her eyes and into her skull. She threw up her hands, trying vainly to protect herself. “No! Stop! Stop it! Go away! Help!”
The statue halted. She could hear it breathing; deep, rumbling, metallic breaths. Laela, it said.
Laela turned her head away. She was trembling in fright. “Leave me alone.”
Laela, the voice said again. Look at me.
It was impossible to disobey. Laela raised her head and saw those blank blue eyes, staring straight at her. “No . . .”
Laela, said the statue. My child. Do you know me?
“No,” said Laela. “No, I don’t know . . . I don’t . . .”
The statue raised a golden hand, holding it out. It was glowing with heat. Then perhaps you know them.
Laela turned, and saw a point of light in the fog—three points of light, growing brighter. The fog moved around them, gathering inward as if the lights were drawing it in. Forming shapes.
Laela saw the first of them emerge, and her entire body went cold. “You . . .”
The ghostly shape of Bran smiled at her. “How’s my little girl then, eh?”
Laela reached out to him. “But you’re . . .”
“. . . with Gryphus now,” he said. “Laela . . .”
She looked at the fog beside him and saw another shape. A woman’s shape. And on his other side, a man. The woman had long hair and a kind face, but there was no smile on it. Something had left a deep and terrible slash in her throat, and blood had soaked into the front of her gown.
The man who was with Bran looked more like a boy to Laela, but that was probably because of his eyes—they were round and bright blue, like a child’s. His hair was blond and tousled, and his face peppered with freckles. But he, too, had a ghastly wound on his throat, and his face was as pale as death.
Bran came closer, reaching out with a pale but still big hand. “Laela,” he said. “These two wanted t’come see yeh.”
Laela cringed at the sight of them. “Why?”
Bran put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “This is your mother, Laela.”
The woman smiled sadly. “Laela. My little Laela. How you’ve grown.”
Laela stared at her, more frightened than anything else. “Mother . . . ?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
“I never knew yer name,” Laela mumbled.
“Flell,” said the woman. “I am Flell. Flell of Eagleholm. Lady Flell.”
“Lady?” Laela blinked. “Dad, yeh never said she was a . . .”
“I was a griffiner,” said Flell. “At Eagleholm. Like my parents.”
Laela looked at Bran. “Why didn’t yeh tell me, Dad? Why . . . ?”
“It was too painful t’talk about,” said Bran. “I didn’t think . . . didn’t see how it would help yeh t’know it.”
“Laela,” said Flell. She moved away from Bran and came closer, her feet making no sound on the floor. “Laela.” Her hand reached out. It was soaked in blood. “Laela, my sweet daughter . . .”
Laela wanted to get away from her. “Why are yeh here, Mother? What d’yeh want?”
“I want to know why,” Flell whispered.
“Why what?”
“Why you’re here,” said Bran.
“Why you’re worshipping the Night God,” said Flell.
“Why you’re with him,” said the boy.
“Arenadd is my King,” Laela told them boldly. “An’ he’s my friend.”
“Laela,” said Bran. “He murdered your mother.”
Laela faltered. “What . . . ?”
Flell put a hand to her throat. “He killed me in Malvern,” she said softly. “As I tried to defend your cradle from him.”
“No,” said Laela. “Stop it.”
The boy shoved his way forward. “Don’t you understand?” he sneered. “The man you’re living with killed your entire family. Your mother. Your grandparents. Your uncle.” His expression twisted. “I’m your uncle, ashamed to admit it though I am.” He touched his throat and added, half to himself, “He killed me in the Sun Temple.”
Laela stared at him. “Who are yeh?”
He drew himself up. “I am Lord Erian Rannagonson.”
“Erian . . . ?” Laela laughed weakly. “This is stupid. I ain’t got no uncle, an’ certainly not Erian Rannagonson.”
“You miserable little traitor,” Erian snarled. He turned on Flell, pointing accusingly at her face. “I told you! I told you when I first saw the squealing little brat in your arms. Told you to smother it before it grew up. But you didn’t listen, and now it’s grown up into the Dark Lord’s lap-dog. A shame on our entire noble line!” He put his hands to his throat, squeezing until blood oozed over his fingers. “By Gryphus, I’m glad I died rather than see our father’s blood defiled by being mixed with that filth.” And he spat.
Each word felt like a stab to the heart. For a moment, all Laela could do was gape in horror, but the Northern ferocity that had come from her father rose up inside her, and she went hot with rage. “Now look here!” she yelled. “I never got no say in who my dad was, any more’n you did.” She sneered. “An’ them’s fine words comin’ from a bastard anyway, Erian.”
Bran and Flell laughed uproariously at that. Erian gap
ed, and then scowled and turned away with a curse.
Flell became serious. “Laela,” she said. “There’s no shame in your heritage. I loved your father with all my heart, and I believe that he loved me. But listen to me now. We were allowed to come back to speak with you so that we could warn you.”
“You’re in danger, Laela,” said Bran. “Terrible danger.”
“What d’yeh mean?” said Laela. “What danger? Oeka can protect me if anythin’ . . .”
Flell touched her shoulder, but she couldn’t feel it. “Don’t you understand? You, Laela, are the last of the line of Baragher the Blessed. The only descendant of Lord Rannagon, who the Dark Lord killed in Eagleholm. His mistress commanded him to destroy all his surviving relatives—and that included you.”
“After Rannagon, he killed his son, Erian,” said Bran. “Then his daughter. An’ her daughter . . .”
“Me?” said Laela. “He was meant to kill me? But he didn’t . . .”
“No.” Bran looked away. “Not you. I saved yeh. Carried yeh away from Malvern before he could finish it.”
“You’ve got to get away from him, Laela,” said Flell. “Run away. Never let him find you! If he ever realises who you really are, he won’t rest until he’s killed you.”
Laela’s fists clenched. “No,” she said. “I won’t.”
They stopped at that. “Laela, he’ll do it,” said Bran. “Yeh don’t know him like we do. Yeh haven’t seen what he can do.”
“I have,” said Laela. “I’ve seen it.”
“Then get away!” said Flell. “For gods’ sakes, save yourself!”
“No,” said Laela. “I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t hurt me. Never. Not for anythin’. I know it.”
Erian returned. “You don’t know anything, half-breed. He’s a murderer.”
“He’s—”
My child. Listen. Gryphus’ voice rose above them all, deep and powerful. Light glowed all around, and the statue appeared again, standing with the three ghosts. You do not understand, he said. You see the world with Southern eyes. Your nature is of the day. You are the Risen Sun, the last survivor of the sacred blood. My grace is on you, as it is on all your family. You alone can stop him.
