by Anthea Sharp
20
The sunlight was folding into the reddish hue of late afternoon when Bran and Mara stepped out of the inn together. They had left only empty rooms behind them—nothing to give any clue to their whereabouts or destination.
If all went well, their activities that evening at the Temple of the Twin Gods would go unnoticed, but Bran had long ago learned to plan for the worst. There was every chance the priests would discover them, or the city guard. He’d already planned the most secretive route back down to the harbor, and had paid extra for the ship’s captain to keep a dinghy moored beside the far pier. Whatever the hour, he and Mara would be able to reach the Pridewell, hopefully unnoticed, and remain under cover until they were well away from Parnese.
They moved through the streets in silence, and reached the Temple of the Twin Gods as the lowering sun struck bronze sparks from the windows of the palace above. Bran led the way to the arched entrance beneath the flame-bearing twin, but, to his dismay, the priest on duty moved to block their entrance.
“Only true believers are allowed to enter this evening,” the priest said. “Come back tomorrow if you wish to pray to the Twin Gods.”
“But we are devout followers,” Mara said, stepping forward and making the gesture she’d shown Bran—two fingers touching the middle of her palm.
The priest’s stance relaxed. “You must be new to the gathering. Next time, wear your medallions openly and no one will stop you from entering.”
“Our medallions.” Mara lifted one hand to her throat, then turned to Bran, her expression urgent. “You did bring them, did you not?”
“No—you said you would.” He did his best to sound aggrieved. “I specifically remember you saying you’d make sure we had them.”
She set her hands on her hips. “By telling you not to forget! What are we to do now?” Her voice turned pleading and she looked at the priest. “Perhaps you might let us in, this once? I promise we’ll wear them next time.”
The man shook his head. “I’m sorry, but the rules make no exceptions. Next time, don’t forget your medallions. It’s that simple.”
He waved them away, and slowly Bran and Mara retreated down the stairs.
“The sun’s about to set,” she said, grasping his sleeve. “Now what?”
“Around the corner.” He whisked her into the shelter of the nearest wall. “I’ll cast the rune of invisibility, and we must hurry back before they close the doors. Go before me, and I will hold your shoulder.”
Expression anxious, she nodded. “Draw on my wellspring, too.”
“If necessary.” He closed his eyes, summoned his power, and spoke the rune: “Ucenima.”
Blue light flared, then faded to the fog-like shadow that signaled the spell was cast. He squeezed Mara’s shoulder, and she moved forward, steps quick and silent on the broad red stone. In the light of the setting sun, the temple seemed washed in blood.
They were several paces away when the priest guarding the flame entrance stepped back into the dimness of the temple. Slowly, the tall arched door swung closed. Bran heard Mara’s quick intake of breath, and he matched his pace to hers as she hurried forward to the archway beneath the sword-bearing Twin God.
That door was already swinging closed. Holding Mara against him, Bran flung them sideways through the narrowing gap. They nearly crashed into the second priest, and Bran wrenched them around in the parody of a dance, barely avoiding the woman.
He and Mara collided with the wall just inside the door, and she gave a soft gasp at the impact.
“What was that?” The priest turned in a circle, peering about the temple.
Her gaze landed on them, and Mara stiffened in Bran’s arms. He pulled more power from his wellspring, and the priest’s attention slid over them like a coin across a grease-coated table.
“Are you jumping at shadows again, Doria?” her companion asked.
“I thought I heard something.” There was an edge to her voice. “You know the importance of the ceremony tonight. We can’t be too careful. No one must know the power of the relic except those sworn to the Twin Gods.”
“The wardens will ensure there are no infiltrators,” the first priest said. “Now, lock your door. I don’t want to be late, and you know we must go together.”
Scowling, she slid a heavy bar across the door, locking it in place with a key made of the same dark iron. The other priest gave the bar a shake and then, apparently satisfied, the two of them turned and went into the main temple.
Still holding Mara against him, Bran adjusted his vision to the lack of light. He watched as the priests made their way behind the altar and opened the small door Mara had spotted there. It closed behind them with a thud that echoed softly through the large space.
For several heartbeats, he and Mara stood unmoving. Then, carefully, he let the spell of invisibility dissolve. He might need to recast it later, but it would take as much power, or more, to maintain the rune as they moved about the empty temple, and he was mindful of the cost to his wellspring.
Mara stepped away and, eyes wide, nodded to the altar area. Silently, they walked past the rows of empty benches. The cold, watchful stares of the Twin Gods followed them as they approached.
It was simple enough to step over the low railing surrounding the altar, though Bran’s senses were alert for any hint of alarm. They passed the huge painting, and he heard Mara let out a relieved breath once they were beyond the Twin Gods’ view.
The door was decorated with scarlet and gold filigree, and at first glance there was no obvious handle. He felt about for a moment, recalling that one of the priests had reached to the right before the entryway opened.
There—his questing fingers found a small lever set into the wall. He toggled it, and the door sprang open a bare inch.
Mara was ready, though, and caught the panel, coaxing it wider. The two of them peered inside to see a short hallway illuminated by a red-shaded lamp mounted at shoulder height on the stone wall.
He paced carefully forward, one hand on his sword. There seemed to be no immediate danger, but his nerves sang with the need for caution. They were going deeper into enemy territory now, and the risks mounted with every step.
Satisfied the passageway was safe, he beckoned Mara to join him. She pulled the door closed with the handle mounted on the back side, and the latch clicked back into place. The lever on their side of the doorway was easier to spot. He was glad they weren’t trapped there, sealed in the inner recesses of the temple.
The passage led a short distance, ending in another door. From beyond came the sound of chanting, and Bran frowned.
“Invisibility rune?” Mara whispered.
“Not yet. But stay back.”
This door had a regular knob—no need to hide it from curious eyes, he supposed. Anyone who came this far into the building presumably knew the secrets of the Temple of the Twin Gods.
Excruciatingly slowly, he turned the handle and cracked the door open, just wide enough to give him the sliver of a view.
A cloying scent filled the air, and the chanting voices were louder, though he still could not make out the words.
More importantly, though, he jerked as the sense of the Void’s presence hit him like a physical blow. It was nearby, and his pulse leaped with readiness. This time, he would destroy that darkness once and for all.
Luck was with them; the door opened into a small, cloistered hall providing a reasonable amount of cover. The Twin Gods were fond of their arched hallways, and he was glad of the fact. Nodding at Mara, he opened the door wide enough to slip through, and held it open for her to follow.
She moved into the shadow beneath the nearest arch. He silently closed the door and followed.
From there, they had a view of the room beyond. It was filled with roughly two dozen priests and acolytes garbed in black robes. At the far end of the room stood an altar, a red-robed priest on either side of the raised stone plinth.
It was much smaller than the altar in
the main temple, though the painted visages of the Twin Gods looked down upon the gathering with the same pitiless gaze.
Most important of all, however, was the cloth-covered object in the center of the altar. It was roughly the size of his two fists placed together. The air around it shivered with the Void’s power, and it was all Bran could do to keep from drawing his sword and leaping forward.
The red-robed figure on the left held up his hands, and the chanting ceased.
“True worshippers of the Twin Gods,” he called, “behold the Esfera! A mighty relic handed down from warden to warden since the founding of the temple—and now the repository of the Twin Gods’ power.”
With a flourish, he pulled away the cloth to reveal the item beneath. It was a sphere of deep red stone set upon an ornate golden stand—and it pulsed with malevolence.
Could the priests not feel the threat? Bran glanced at the man who’d revealed the Esfera, and shivered. These humans were playing with power far beyond their comprehension. A dark force that would destroy their world utterly.
The Void was strong, and growing stronger. He was only surprised it had not yet acted.
“Who will be the first to receive the Esfera’s blessing?” the priest asked, sweeping his gaze over the gathered worshippers.
Several of them fell to their knees, and the priest on the other side of the altar pointed to a woman near the front.
“Violetta Ramundi,” she said. “In gratitude for your service to the temple, you have been chosen. Rise and approach the altar.”
Tears of gratitude streamed down Violetta’s cheeks as she stood and went forward. The first priest used the cloth to pick up the Esfera, avoiding touching it with his bare skin, and a prickle of unease went up the back of Bran’s neck.
Beside him, he felt Mara tense. She glanced up at him, dismay in her eyes. Whatever was about to occur, it would not bode well for the chosen victim.
And there was nothing they could do to stop it.
He’d promised not to leave a trail of blood and mayhem behind—but his chest burned with the need to act. Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to stillness.
“Set your hands upon the stone,” the priest said, holding the Esfera toward the woman. “The Twin Gods will mark you as their own.”
Mara shuddered, her throat moving as she swallowed. Bran briefly brushed a hand across her shoulder, silently urging her to be strong.
Before the altar, the woman reached forward and touched the red stone housing the Void.
The lamps lining the walls guttered, flames flickering desperately for air. The woman screamed, a sound equal parts agony and ecstasy. And within the Esfera, the hungry power of the Void grew as it eagerly drained the woman’s life force.
“Enough!” The priest pulled the stone away. “Violetta’s soul has touched the power of the gods—she must be taken away to recover from encountering the divine.”
He nodded at two black-robed priests, who quickly gathered the limp woman up and carried her out of the room—fortunately in the opposite direction from where Bran and Mara stood.
Dark power flickered around the Esfera, and Bran wondered if the humans could see it. By the look of dread on Mara’s face, it seemed she could.
“We can’t let it take another,” she said softly.
He gave a short nod, then drew deep on his wellspring. He must incapacitate the priests. Taking a step forward so he could see the entire room, he lifted one hand.
“Lornatala!” he cried, hoping the simple rune of slumber would work.
Thank the moons, the magic leaped in a wave over the crowed. The gathered worshippers all slumped down where they stood, fast asleep.
All except the red-robed priest who still held the Esfera.
He jerked his head toward their hiding place, his fanatical gaze locking with Bran’s.
“Infiltrators!” he shouted. “Take them!”
There was no one awake to respond.
“How long will it last?” Mara asked softly.
“With so many, I must keep the power channeled,” Bran admitted. “The force of the initial casting was diluted by the number of people affected.”
“So when your wellspring runs out, they’ll wake up?” She caught his arm. “Draw upon mine.”
“Not yet.” He gave a sharp nod toward the priest, who was stumbling toward them, the Esfera in his hands. “We must take the Void first.”
Bran drew his sword and, ignoring the fear pressing heavily on his chest, stepped forward to meet his ancient enemy.
21
Anneth let Lily tow her about the large hall of Castle Raine, smiling as her companion exclaimed over the ornate silver candlesticks and the tempting array of food spread out upon the refreshment tables. Her uncomplicated delight was contagious, and Anneth felt the last bits of her apprehension melt away.
She would not be discovered—the illusion spell would hold until well after dark. Meanwhile, here she was, attending a human ball.
Perhaps she ought to write her own study of her time amongst the mortals, so that in the future some other inquisitive Dark Elf could benefit from what she’d learned. It could join the handful of similar scrolls in the Hawthorne Court library. Perhaps she would title it A Visit to Raine.
The notion pleased her, and that warm glow, plus Lily’s enthusiasm, carried her along for some time before Anneth realized something was wrong. Despite the lilting music drifting down from the balcony on one side of the hall, despite the cheerful babble of conversation, something darker moved through the crowd.
Anneth turned a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the sensation.
“Look over here!” Lily exclaimed. Oblivious to Anneth’s preoccupation, she took her arm and pulled her to a table filled with wooden tankards brimming with amber liquid. “It’s my father’s ale—you must try some.”
Lily scooped up two of the tankards and pressed one into Anneth’s hands then watched her with an expectant look.
Anneth obediently lifted the ale to her mouth. It smelled like dusty bread and honey, and tasted the same, with a slight tingle upon her tongue.
“Very good,” she said. “More refreshing than the blackberry wine my—”
She caught herself before saying anything more. Too many listening ears surrounded her.
“Geary’s Ales are renowned throughout Raine,” Lily said with a satisfied nod. “Shall we get some food? Others are filling their plates.”
Anneth wasn’t particularly hungry, but she took her place behind Lily in yet another line. As they moved down the table, she selected a few tidbits—a stuffed mushroom cap, a slice of fruit—but mostly she contemplated the other guests.
Was she simply imagining that slight edge of threat present in the great hall?
Perhaps so. Humans and Dark Elves were different, after all. Still, she would not assume that everything was as it seemed. Her hand went to her waist before she realized she hadn’t brought her dagger. And her bow, of course, was safely secured with Ondo in the forest.
She might not have her weapons, but she did have her wits. And, hopefully, a bit of magic, should anything go awry.
She and Lily found a place at one of the crowded tables and enjoyed their food.
“It’s probably not what you’re used to,” Lily said, brandishing a piece of cheese, “but the cheese is excellent.”
“It’s all quite delicious,” Anneth assured her. “And the castle has to feed so many—clearly the kitchens have done a fine job.”
The musicians in the balcony overhead struck up a fanfare, and those seated at the tables sprang up so they could see what was happening at the end of the hall.
“It’s the king and prince,” Lily said, craning her neck. “Oh, I wish I had your height. What do you see? Don’t you think Prince Owen is incredibly handsome?”
Anneth watched the two finely dressed men, the older one using a cane, step onto the dais. The younger man, presumably the prince, held his father’s elbow as the king took his
seat in the ornate throne dominating the space. Once he was settled, the prince moved to the smaller throne on his father’s right.
Mindful of Lily’s question, Anneth studied the prince.
He was somberly dressed, with a plain silver circlet placed over his thick brown hair. His green eyes flicked over the crowd, and for a moment he seemed to gaze directly at her. Then his attention moved on, and she took a breath.
“Well?” Lily demanded.
“He is very handsome,” she said. Provided one found mortals’ strange, round-pupilled eyes and blunt features fascinating instead of outlandish.
Which she did.
“I think he looked at you,” Lily said, with a smug note in her voice. “He could tell you’re a prin—”
“Have you spotted your sister yet?” Anneth interrupted.
“Oh!” Lily belatedly covered her mouth with her hand, then glanced about. “No, I haven’t seen her—she’ll probably come late and leave early. But I think the dancing’s about to begin. Come to the floor with me. Do you remember how to waltz?”
“I hope so.”
As it transpired, though, the first dance was not a waltz. Servants moved the tables back while someone Lily said was the dancing master organized the guests into a series of concentric circles. Anneth took hands with Lily and the older gentleman on her other side, and they stepped back and forth, circled left and right, then wove in and out of the other dancers.
It was quite easy to follow the dancing master’s deep-voiced instructions, and by the time the dance finished, everyone was flushed and smiling.
“Clear the space,” the dancing master called. “Ladies numbered one through eight, make ready and line up here.” He indicated a spot beside the dais.
At the mention of yet another queue, Lily and Anneth shared a quick look. Anneth could see her companion holding back laughter. She felt a similar amusement, along with gratitude that formal events at the Hawthorne Court were never quite so unwieldy.
“After this first group of eligible young women finishes, we will take a break for general dancing,” the dancing master continued. “And now, ladies and gentlemen of the land, please welcome His Highness Owen Mallory, Crown Prince of Raine!”
