Elves: Once Walked With Gods
Page 9
‘Move. Now. Disperse.’
The Tais came after her, fanning out into a chevron behind her. She heard muttered curses and insults. One ula turned and stood his ground. Katyett walked on.
‘Move or fall. Your choice,’ said Katyett. ‘I will walk to my temple unhindered.’
‘Time changes, TaiGethen. I name my right to stand here. You cannot touch me. Not any more.’
Katyett shook her head, dropped to her haunches and swept the ula’s feet from under him. He fell onto his side and rolled onto his back. Katyett stood astride him.
‘Wrong,’ she said.
The TaiGethen filled in around her, pushing back any who might come to his defence. The ula bunched his fists. Katyett sniffed.
‘I don’t want to hurt you. But if that’s what it takes to stop you, that is what I will do.’ She leant down towards him. ‘You are foolish if you think you can threaten the TaiGethen. Yniss guides us. Yniss keeps us for greater tasks. You are simply in the way. An impediment to be moved.’
‘There are too few of you. Not enough to stop what is coming.’
‘Go home, ula. Look to your real enemies. Those within your ranks who desire war and care nothing for your soul.’
Katyett stepped over the ula and reached down a hand. He looked on it with contempt and pushed himself quickly to his feet. Around them, the crowd had closed in, menacing, chanting the names of Tual and Lorius.
‘The time when you can tell me what to think and what to do is gone. Remember that.’
Katyett turned away from him and breasted through the crowd once more, ignoring the resistance, the shoulders turned into her chest and the feet seeking to trip her. In their midst, only one ula had displayed any courage, misplaced though it was. Unfortunately, one was enough.
When she broke through the front rank of the crowd, Katyett saw Pelyn deploying her Al-Arynaar across the temple apron. She stood on the steps just behind them. Katyett trotted up to join her, turning to look down on the gathering from which a little impetus had been taken.
‘Where’s the priest?’ asked Katyett.
‘Still on her way here from the beetle. Or hiding out somewhere until we can organise some calm, if she has any sense.’
‘How do we disperse them?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Pelyn. ‘I will not fire on them and I will not strike them with even the flat of a blade. I know some of these people. Ordinary folk. Woodworkers, bakers and potters. We can’t attack them.’
‘Then we must speak to them.’
‘Think they’ll listen?’
‘Not to me,’ said Katyett. ‘I appear to be of the wrong thread today.’
Pelyn spared her a wry smile. ‘All right. I’ll do what I can.’
‘Talk like Takaar. Engage them.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
Katyett glanced up to the heavens. Cloud was moving in fast, bearing new rain. Those intent on firing the temple would have seen it too.
‘Tais,’ she said, confident the chanting crowd would not hear her. ‘Like in the chamber, watch the torches. Intercept when you must.’
Pelyn raised her hands.
‘Please. Please. Respect the piazza. Let me speak.’
Her voice was lost in the chanting and the howling of the crowd. Katyett clicked her tongue and the TaiGethen turned to her.
‘Call. Like Takaar when he raced to save his Tai, my friend, lost now on Hausolis.’
Katyett paused then raised her face and hands to the sky, leading her warriors.
‘Jal-e-a! Jal-e-a!’
Over and over, they called her name. Their voices joined, rose and resonated. Reverberating against the faces of the temples around the piazza and echoing into the canopy, where Cefu carried it to the heavens. A haunting sound, capturing the ear of every elf gathered before them. When the last echo of the TaiGethen voices had died away, there was relative silence. Pelyn nodded her thanks.
‘Lorius and Jarinn left the Gardaryn together. Friends just as when they entered but on two sides of a debate. No one denies the passion Takaar inspires—’ she glanced quickly at Katyett ‘—but passion must not be allowed to degenerate into violence and hate. Whatever Takaar’s crimes in your eyes, does this make Yniss and his temple a valid target? We are all the subjects of Yniss.
‘I am Tuali; my Al-Arynaar before you are drawn from every thread. Remember what Lorius said. The harmony must remain. Reduce this to a fight between threads and we risk wiping ourselves out. Just like before, when Takaar rose to save us.
‘Whatever our personal grievances. Whatever we believe the Ynissul to have done while hidden behind the coat-tails of Takaar, we cannot, must not descend into mindless conflict. We must not desecrate the places of our gods. If we rip down temple walls we are all truly lost.
‘I ask you, as your sister, as the leader of your Al-Arynaar, as a Tuali happy to work with every thread to bring our race prosperity and happiness, to disperse. Go to your homes. You really want to destroy a temple? I don’t think so.’
She paused. There were catcalls, there was insult and there was abuse of the Ynissul. But it was not concerted. However, the crowd did not move. Not a single one turned away. And the agitators saw they had not lost their hold just yet.
‘Disperse,’ said Pelyn. ‘We will not allow any damage to be caused to this or any other temple. Extinguish your torches and stopper your oil. The Al-Arynaar and the TaiGethen are sworn to protect Yniss from those who threaten it. Attack this temple and you attack Yniss. You also attack us. We have no wish to harm any of you but we will do what we must.’
Unease swept the crowd and Katyett wondered whether Pelyn had misjudged her last words. But they seemed to have the desired effect. Those with no real desire to face Yniss’s elite began to break away.
But then the first drops of rain began to fall.
And someone threw a torch.
Chapter 9
Trust is a powerful ally and a deadly enemy.
Jarinn and Lorius were bustled through the back of the Gardaryn. With them ran Olmaat and his TaiGethen cell. Comforting. The sounds of the city were haunting, like the rainforest before a hurricane struck. Full of echoes and aggression.
Outside the Gardaryn in the small delivery yard, Al-Arynaar were gathering. Olmaat paused to speak to one of them, an iad that Jarinn didn’t recognise. She was Gyalan by her slight build, frightened and angry.
‘There’s trouble already at the temple piazza,’ she said.
‘Are we clear to the river moorings?’ asked Olmaat.
‘Only the south-eastern bank. Take the route above the spice market, head through Beeth’s Retreat. It’s quiet there. Most of the trouble is brewing harbourside or on the Ultan bridge, what’s not herding towards the temples anyway.’
‘Good,’ said Olmaat. ‘Katyett should still be inside. Speak to her. Tell her about the temple piazza. We can’t afford desecration. Not of any temple. This isn’t a time to anger the gods.’
‘They are already angry,’ said the Al-Arynaar.
‘No,’ said Jarinn and Lorius as one. Jarinn moved to the iad and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Our gods issue us with challenges, such that we may prove ourselves worthy of living in this paradise. What happened inside the Gardaryn is not an act against the gods. Yniss blesses the independence of every elf to make his or her decisions. That is part of our strength. What neither Yniss, nor Tual, nor Beeth, nor Gyal will accept is wanton destruction of hallowed building and earth. That is what Olmaat rightly fears. And it is what you must stop.’
Jarinn could see the doubt on her face and he smiled as warmly as he could.
‘This is a worrying time. A time of change. I fear the consequences but I must face them, as must Lorius. We remain friends, merely on opposite sides of a fierce debate. Remember that. The removal of Takaar’s law does not necessarily render the harmony broken. Only elves can do that.’
‘Jarinn is right,’ said Lorius. ‘I merely seek a new way to maintain and st
rengthen what we already have. We will never be enemies. The day that happens, when priest fights priest, all hope will be lost. Have faith. Pray to your god. And do the work of Yniss who blesses us all.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, managing a weak smile.
‘Go,’ said Olmaat. He turned to Jarinn and Lorius. ‘My priests? This way.’
He and his Tai moved out of the yard, their footfalls making nothing more than a whisper on the cobbles. In comparison, Lorius and his boots seemed to ring out to all who wanted to find them. The pace was necessarily slow. Lorius had problems with both of his knees and Jarinn’s arthritis was always worse at times of particular stress.
Overhead, clouds were gathering. Another deluge was very close. The air was close and hot. The tallest trees of the canopy reached up, greedy for it to start. The hoots and calls and chitters of myriad species exhorted Gyal’s tears to fall. Thunder rattled high above, booming through the heavens.
Olmaat turned left into the wide Avenue of Gyaam. Ahead, the expanse of the spice market beckoned. It only operated every tenth day, and never when the Gardaryn was in session. A few elves could be seen looking at displays in the shops that bordered the stone-flagged and pitch-marked marketplace, and that was strange enough.
‘I would have thought spices the least of their concerns right now,’ muttered Lorius.
As rain began to fall, footsteps could be heard behind them. Running fast. Olmaat stopped and turned, ready in an instant. Jarinn turned too and smiled.
‘Hithuur,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re safe.’
The tall gaunt scripture scholar lived at Aryndeneth, rarely travelling to the city. He had come to the temple a broken ula. His family lost to the Garonin. Only in Yniss had he found solace and he was a fervent student. Jarinn suspected his aspirations went further than a reader of the Aryn Hiil, the core text of the Ynissul faith.
Hithuur had never said but surely he wanted to be accepted as one of the Silent. There was a passion in his eyes and a determination in the set of his body and the questions he asked. And he did not seek the love of another iad. He clung to the belief that his family was still alive, one day to be found and freed.
‘I had to know you would be safe,’ said Hithuur, trotting up while gathering his shirt collar against the rain.
‘I am with Olmaat. How much safer can I get?’
Hithuur did not smile. ‘You’re running into trouble if you go through the spice market. I have a safe place just to the north.’
The rain fell in stair rods, bouncing from the cobbles and setting up a roar on domed and steep-pitched roofs all around them. Olmaat set himself between Jarinn and Hithuur.
‘What’s the problem beyond the market?’ asked Olmaat.
‘We’ve had information that—’ Hithuur looked briefly at Lorius ‘—elves of other threads want to kidnap you. Use you as currency in a power struggle. They all know the limited ways you can leave the city from the Gardaryn. You should lie low, High Priest Jarinn. We can move again when passions falter.’
‘It makes sense, Olmaat,’ said Jarinn, feeling the edge of anxiety and the full force of sadness filling him. ‘See, Lorius? Your plans are poorly thought out.’
‘Where is this place?’ asked Olmaat.
‘The Hausolis Playhouse.’
‘A major public building,’ said Olmaat. ‘Surely you could have found something a little more obvious? The lawn of the temple piazza perhaps.’
Hithuur’s face darkened a shade. ‘It has significant benefits. Not least that it is closed during the grieving period for Jilad Kantur. And from the rear, no one overlooks those arriving or leaving. It is secure.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Olmaat. ‘Tai. A hundred paces ahead. Left and right. Quick and silent.’
Olmaat’s Tai turned north. At the corners of a side street, they swarmed up the sides of houses as fast as most elves could run. Scaling tiled roofs designed to channel the heaviest of rainfall into gully, gutter and storm drain as if they were climbing an easy flight of stairs. Jarinn watched them go, a smile on his lips despite the situation, the rain and the pain in his joints.
‘They are something to behold,’ he said to Hithuur, looking across at the adept. Hithuur turned to him, his expression one Jarinn could easily mistake for worry. ‘Something wrong?’
Hithuur tried a smile. ‘No, no. Just regret that I am not good enough to be one of them.’
‘But you will make a fine addition to another order,’ said Jarinn. ‘You are meant for great things.’
Olmaat gestured his charges before him and followed along behind. The front of the playhouse bordered an area of gardens. They were a popular gathering place where people ate, drank and watched entertainment provided by a legion of jugglers, singers and minstrels before the main event.
With the theatre dark while they grieved for their principal actor, the lawns were empty of the revellers who would shelter under leathers when the heaviest rains fell. Jarinn approached at a half-trot; it was as much as his arthritis would allow. He saw Olmaat’s Tai emerge from the shadows on either flank and disappear to the left and right of the playhouse. Olmaat held up a hand. Jarinn, Lorius and Hithuur stopped.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Jarinn.
‘Nothing,’ said Olmaat. ‘I need to be sure we aren’t observed.’
He moved on at some signal Jarinn did not see, heading to the left of the main doors, whose great double latches were carved in the shape of masked dancers. The shadows were deep here. Behind the playhouse were its workshops and stores. Timber stacks rose against high wooden walls beyond which was cleared waste ground, ear-marked for warehousing and a new marketplace for fine wooden and stone goods.
Hithuur was right: the rear access was secure. But you had to get there unseen too. Olmaat stopped in the yard, in the lee of the playhouse and spoke to his Tai. One of them scaled the gates and headed into the waste ground. The other pulled open the rear door and vanished inside. Olmaat gestured the others to him. The rain battered against the playhouse and drummed high from the stone flags that paved the yard.
Jarinn wiped his face. A pointless reflex. More rain ran down his face. He shifted his bare feet to keep them warm in the puddles in which he stood.
‘Hithuur,’ said Olmaat. ‘What will my Tai find inside? What will I see?’
Hithuur nodded. ‘The staging area is behind this door. It is clear and empty. Directly ahead is the auditorium. The curtains are drawn, and beyond them steps up to the stage. We’ll be safe here. There is food and others are coming to ensure we get to Aryndeneth safely.’
‘High Priest Jarinn does not need greater numbers,’ said Olmaat. ‘He has the TaiGethen.’
The door to the playhouse edged open. Olmaat’s Tai emerged.
‘It is empty,’ she said. ‘The auditorium is silent.’
Olmaat nodded and led them inside. Jarinn had never been back-stage at the Hausolis Playhouse though he had been on the stage a number of times, normally called from the audience to take prayers or speak from the Aryn Hiil. Here, the space echoed. Parts of sets were leant against walls and there were a few chairs and a couple of tables looking lost in the middle of the floor.
Directly ahead, the curtains were closed and still. Beyond them, the oval stage was surrounded by benches on the ground floor and two tiers of balcony seating above. It was a wonderful place. Warm and light and full of emotion. Much of the emotion hung in the air even now. But that wasn’t what Olmaat was sensing. The TaiGethen was sniffing at the air. He gestured his Tai towards the curtains.
‘Olmaat?’
Olmaat raised a hand. ‘A moment, my priest. Something smells wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There is something in here not of the rainforest.’
‘Hithuur?’ Jarinn turned to his adept.
Hithuur spread his hands. ‘I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.’
‘Olmaat?’
‘Something is not right.’
r /> Jarinn felt suddenly tired. ‘Do what you must. I’m going to sit down. Lorius?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
The two priests walked towards chairs and a table a few yards to the right of the curtains.
‘Hithuur?’ Jarinn beckoned his adept.
‘It’s more comfortable in the auditorium.’
He moved towards the curtains. Olmaat tensed. Jarinn felt suddenly vulnerable and frightened but still couldn’t place why.
‘Olmaat?’ he said a third time.
Olmaat’s Tai stepped back through the curtains.
‘The floor of the playhouse is empty,’ she said, moving back to Olmaat.
Hithuur broke into a run. There was noise behind the curtains. Slapping impacts like people landing after a jump. Olmaat’s head snapped round. The curtains were dragged aside. Six figures stood in the space. Not elves. Strangers. Blink-lives. Jarinn stopped, halfway to his seat. The blink-lives had no weapons but spread their hands, palms up. He could hear murmuring.
‘Takaar betrayed us!’ yelled Hithuur, standing by the strangers. ‘He killed my family. The harmony is dead.’
Olmaat’s Tai launched herself at the blink-lives. A jaqrui throwing crescent whispered out and chopped deep into the neck of one,who toppled back grabbing at his ruined throat as his life bled away. She took a sword from her back and thrashed it through the waist of another. An arrow from the depths of the auditorium took her through the throat.
Olmaat did not attack. Instead he turned and began sprinting towards Jarinn.
‘Run!’ he shouted. ‘Get out, get out!’
Jarinn gaped. More figures were rushing up behind the line of strangers. There was a tightness in the air. Hithuur’s words hung in his mind, a blade to the heart.
‘The new order will sweep Takaar’s law away,’ shouted Hithuur. ‘You are the old way, Jarinn. And Lorius will be the first martyr of the Tuali.’
Jarinn backed away. Olmaat was nearly on him, still shouting at him to go. There was a whine in his ears and his body felt as if it had been plunged into hot water. There was a rush of energy, like his soul flaring. He felt confused. He stared at the strangers. The four remaining moved their hands together.