by Giles Carwyn
Brophy followed Arefaine and the emperor’s body across the bridge to the island on the far side. Once they were on the bridge, the path changed from simple cobblestones to an elaborate mosaic depicting scenes from the ancient past.
The bridge represents the mythical dragon that Oh fought and learned his magic from. The beast was said to have swallowed him whole. Oh slew the dragon by absorbing the sacred fire within its belly and emerged as the world’s first mage. I expect the legend is purely metaphorical, as is the bridge itself. The beast represents the barbarism of our ancient past and the sacred fire is the knowledge it took to tame it. The rising and falling of the bridge represents the difficult spiritual and physical paths Oh endured while in the belly of the beast.
Their way passed through the dragon’s enormous carved head and entered a narrow valley alongside a short waterfall where a modest river plunged into the sea. The impressive May Dragon trees closed overhead like a canopy. Their trunks twisted toward the sky, sprouting thick clumps of star-shaped leaves.
The path grew steeper as it continued through the trees alongside the stream. Brophy spotted a stone building overgrown with ferns and vines hidden back among the trees. Risking a look back, he realized they had passed several others that he hadn’t even noticed. The temples were obviously weathered and ancient, but still breathtaking in their size and majesty.
This is the Valley of the Temples, Arefaine sent to him. I grew up here. Father Lewlem and I used to walk this path and I would play among the May Dragon trees.
Some of the temples were huge, trying to reach for the tops of the trees. Others were tiny shrines tucked in between the larger buildings.
There is a temple for each and every emperor that ever lived. The most recent emperor’s temple is only half finished. If you look to the left and deeper into the forest, you will see another half-finished temple. That one is dedicated to me.
Brophy looked ahead, trying to see more temples through the trees.
And beyond that bend is the Opal Palace.
Brophy looked up and spotted a single black stone tower peeking through the vegetation ahead of them. He gradually saw more and more of it as the path turned a corner and the valley opened into a huge clearing. The palace filled the entire valley from side to side, butting up against the sheer cliff faces. A dozen towers thrust like spears at the sky from the midst of the tightly packed architecture, rising above the sides of the valleys. Some of the spires were so tall that they were lost in the low-hanging clouds. Brophy stared at the sheer size of it.
Keep walking.
Brophy realized that he’d paused, and quickly started his feet moving.
If you think this is majestic, wait until you see Efften. Her silver towers can be seen from twenty miles away. But the wonders that we create together will be ten times as grand. We will light a beacon to call home all descendants of the great race.
Brophy’s gaze fell from the towers, and he noticed that the Path of Oh ran straight through the center of the magnificent palace, neatly parting it like the narrow valley parted the mountain. Beyond the Opal Palace, the path became stairs that switchbacked farther up the mountain and finally disappeared into the rough mouth of a distant cave.
That was the cave the emperor told him he must visit. That was the cave where he must listen closely for the Voice of Oh.
Chapter 4
Baedellin!”
Astor ran through the crowd of weeping ones, knocking them aside. He grabbed the young girl and spun her around. The child’s face was covered in grime, lank hair hung over her pitch-black eyes. Her mouth hung open like a panting dog’s, showing the gap where her baby teeth had fallen out.
Astor sighed, letting go of the soulless child’s arm. His heart raced, still aching in his chest from the sudden rush and crash of hope.
The girl wasn’t Baedellin. The child couldn’t have been more than five or six. She was a foot shorter than his sister. How could he have thought it was her?
He left the cluster of weeping ones where he had found them in a side street near Donovan’s Bridge and headed down the hill. He had spent the last three days looking for his father and sister. He knew he was grasping at straws, but there was nothing else to do.
He had been cautious at first, afraid the weeping ones would attack again. But they had been dormant ever since the Summer Fleet passed through the locks, and sailed into the Great Ocean. Every last one of the Summermen had gone, leaving behind a horde of the soulless corrupted standing around like abandoned toy soldiers.
He didn’t even know what he would do once he found his family. Would he be better off not seeing the black streaks down their cheeks? How could seeing that emptiness in their eyes make anything better? Shara assured him that the weeping ones were not lost, that they could be cured. But Astor could scarcely hope it was true . He needed to see Baedellin’s face, needed to look into his father’s black eyes and see for himself that they were truly gone before he could move on.
Is this what it’s like to be defeated? he thought. Everything he cared about had been destroyed, but he couldn’t help sifting through the ashes looking for scraps of what once was.
Galliana had come with him the first day he went searching. They spent the whole time fighting, and she had been kind enough to leave him alone ever since. She’d wanted to leave for Faradan days ago, but she stayed with him out of loyalty, waiting for him to find his family, or perhaps to simply accept the truth. After all those years, Ohndarien had finally been defeated. She was a dead city, as empty and lifeless as her citizens.
He sighed and retraced his steps in his mind. He had been to all the obvious places. Most of the weeping ones were still in Clifftown, where the battle had been fought. Others were scattered along the most direct path between the Citadel and the locks. Baedellin and his father weren’t anywhere along the major route, so they had to be somewhere else, tucked aside in some room somewhere. It could take weeks for him to search the city alone, and he still might not find them.
Astor leaned against a wall and slid down into a crouch. He pressed his palms against his eyes and massaged his head. He was hungry, tired, and still sore from the battle. He and Galliana had found a little food in the woods, but not much. Tonight he would try to convince her to head north without him. He knew it in his heart; he wasn’t going to leave Ohndarien. No matter what the future would bring, he would stay in Ohndarien and face it. He would rather die in his home than live anywhere else.
Astor pulled his hands away from his face. He looked down the street and saw someone walking toward him with slow, hesitant steps. He was on his feet in an instant, the Sword of Autumn in his hand. The figure was cowled in white, with a cloth wrapped around his face like a Physendrian. The stranger held up his hand in greeting.
“That’s close enough,” Astor shouted. “Who are you?”
The man reached up and unwound the cloth from his face. Astor winced at the sight of him. Pale lank hair framed his white face, and red eyes glimmered behind pudgy cheeks. His skin hung loose below his chin and neck, as if he’d recently lost a lot of weight.
Shara had mentioned something about meeting an albino in the Summer Seas, but he couldn’t remember what she’d said.
“How did you get in here?” Astor demanded.
The pasty-white man continued walking forward and smiled. Astor blinked.
“Greetings, stranger. It is good to see another free man in this tomb of slavery.” The albino’s voice was high and light like a child’s.
A slight chill scampered up Astor’s spine, and he opened his mouth to speak, but forgot what he was going to say.
The stranger walked up and extended his hand. Astor took it, and they shook. The stranger’s grip was feeble, his flesh clammy.
“You’re a Kher, aren’t you?” he asked the stranger.
“Yes, I am.”
“What are you doing here?”
“That doesn’t matter right now.”
Astor nodded. Of
course. He was right. That didn’t matter at all.
“What matters is that I must find Shara-lani as soon as possible,” he continued. “Do you know where she is?”
Astor started to shake his head, but it was very hard to complete the motion.
“I haven’t seen her,” he said, his tongue feeling thick.
The man nodded. “You have seen her. And you must help me.”
Astor found himself nodding.
“Shara is about to die,” the man said, his childlike voice seeming out of place coming from such a man. “I am the only person who can save her. Her and a great many others.”
“She’s gone to Ohohhom to stop Arefaine,” Astor said. “She’s getting a ship at Torbury, up the coast in the Narrows.”
The albino let out a small, disappointed breath. “That is as I feared.”
“I’m sure Shara can take care of herself,” Astor said. He blinked, feeling like he should say something else. Or ask something. Hadn’t he wanted to ask this man something?
The stranger nodded at the Sword of Autumn. “That is a fine blade.”
“It is one of the Swords of the Seasons.”
“Brother Brophy held this sword for a time, yes?”
Astor nodded.
“And they say the legendary Scythe wielded it through his final stand. Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“It can slay the corrupted?”
“Yes. Very little else can.”
“Amazing. May I see it?” The Kher held out his hand.
Astor hesitated, opening his mouth to speak. Again, he found no words. But he handed the blade over.
“It is truly extraordinary,” the albino said, tucking the blade into his belt beneath the voluminous cloak.
Astor watched him, said nothing. He blinked.
“I’m looking for my sister,” he finally said.
“I am sure you will find her, young Astor,” the stranger said. “I must leave you now. I have urgent business elsewhere.”
Astor nodded. The albino shook his hand again and headed back down the hill.
Astor turned and walked in the opposite direction. He would have to start a meticulous house-by-house search. That was the only way to find them.
Chapter 5
Brophy reached the end of the cavernous hallway and placed his hands against the smooth black walls. They were slightly greasy to the touch, as if the masonry had been oiled to make it shiny. The walls glistened in the steady light of oil lamps muted with alabaster hoods so pale and thin that the cool light shone through. The glossy walls rose so high the ceilings were lost on the shadows. Hundreds of servants and attendants worked in the palace, constantly cleaning and polishing, but the opulent hallways were always empty.
The Opal Palace reminded Brophy of a story that he had loved as a child, about a castle of ice. In that story a young girl’s tears had melted the castle and revived the wondrous garden hidden beneath it. What would a child’s tears do in this place? Would they even be allowed to fall?
Brophy ran his fingers along the curved stone in front of him. It had to be the base of one of the towers Brophy had seen from outside, but he hadn’t been able to find an entrance to any of them. He remembered back to his days as a captive in Physendria’s Catacombs and imagined finding the hidden mechanism that would allow him to open a secret door into the towering spire that hid all of Ohohhom’s secrets. Maybe there was a massive gem like the Heartstone hidden up there somewhere. If any city needed a heart, this was the one.
Giving up his search, he headed back down the hall and tried the first set of double doors he came to. They were unlocked. Inside was yet another empty banquet hall that could seat hundreds. A line of about ten young women were down on hands and knees, busy polishing the intricately carved legs of the banquet chairs. They all froze the moment Brophy walked in. He immediately felt guilty as they turned toward him and placed their foreheads on the ground.
Arefaine had left him alone in the Opal Palace for the better part of a day and he’d been treated the same everywhere. He was allowed free rein over the palace, city, and gardens. No one challenged him wherever he went, but they all stopped in his presence, prostrated themselves, and refused to rise until he’d continued on. Arefaine had warned him about the Ohohhim customs, but they bothered him much more than he thought they would. He felt as if he was being constantly watched, judged, and found wanting.
Arefaine had explained that those at a certain level in the divine queue could only be addressed by others of like station. Since Arefaine had set Brophy’s place just behind her own, that meant that there were perhaps three people who were allowed to talk to him. At first he found the whole business rather silly, but the Ohohhim took it so seriously that it soon became chilling. Arefaine had urged him to simply nod politely and continue on his way, but he couldn’t help trying to make eye contact, trying to find some connection with these strange little people.
Brophy approached the nearest servant girl and knelt down next to her. “I am sorry to interrupt,” he said to the back of her hood as she lay with her face to the floor. “But could you tell me how to get into one of the towers. I’d like to see the view from up there.”
“Please…” the young woman’s voice caught in her throat, and she struggled to continue. “My humble apologies, but this is not done.”
“Not done? I’m not allowed to go up there?”
“Please, Father. I am so sorry, but there is no way, no path into the towers.”
“You can’t get inside? There are no stairs, no passageways?”
“My apologies, but it is so.”
Brophy laughed. “Then what are they for?”
The girl cringed lower, saying nothing.
Brophy gritted his teeth at the sight of her utter subservience. He nearly yanked her to her feet and threw back that black hood to make sure there was a face beneath it. He wanted to shake her until she cried out or fought back, anything to prove she was human.
Clenching his fists, he took a deep breath until the images faded from his mind’s eye. The black emmeria boiled within him, turning the slightest annoyance into a mortal insult. There was never a respite from it, but he was getting better at letting it go. His sudden rages were fading, becoming easier to control. More and more, they felt like an old wound that had healed, but refused to stop hurting.
“Never mind,” he told her. “You’ve done well.” He wanted to touch her on the shoulder to reassure her, but he knew that would only make things worse. He kept his hands at his sides.
He rose to leave and the girl spoke again.
“They are there for grace.”
“Excuse me?”
“I am sorry, Father. You asked a question. The towers are there for beauty, to honor the sacred Twelve. Decorum follows grace, grace follows dignity, and dignity follows inner peace—”
“And inner peace leads to the Voice of Oh.” Brophy finished the adage that he had heard many times since he’d been here.
“Yes, Father.”
“Thank you,” Brophy said, nodding politely and leaving the room. He wished Shara were here. He would love to see her kidnap those poor girls and carry them off to Ohndarien to train them as Zelani. They deserved better than this.
He slipped through the double doors into the vast hallway. A heavyset man in rough-spun gray robes stood a few yards away examining one of the oil lamps. His features were covered with a hood, but his slender hands showed his age. Brophy wondered if he’d left a fingerprint somewhere, and they’d sent an expert to wipe it off.
Brophy approached the man, preparing to nod politely and move on his way.
“You would like to see the view?” the man asked. He pushed back his cowl to reveal a wide face and friendly eyes. His curly black hair was twisted into a long braid that draped over his shoulder before disappearing beneath his cloak. He had the soft, potbellied body of a man who spent more time studying than laboring.
Brophy stopped and stared at
him, shocked that he had spoken. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Would you like to see the view of the palace,” the old man repeated. “From above?”
Brophy stared at the stranger, trying to gauge his intentions. “Yes,” he finally said. “I would.”
“Then follow me.”
The old man paused as if waiting for Brophy to grab his sleeve. Brophy ignored the gesture, and the old man turned back and gave him an unreadable glance. After only a moment’s hesitation, the old man started walking and Brophy joined him. They continued on, side by side.
“Where are we going?” Brophy asked.
“First the gardens. There is something I would like to show you.” The old man’s voice was very calm and serious, but somehow less formal, less stiff, than the other Ohohhim. It reminded Brophy of the tone Scythe took when they’d first met, back when the mysterious assassin was pretending to be a Vizai merchant.
“Are you a monk?” Brophy asked, noticing how crude his clothing was compared to everyone else.
“I am Dewland, high priest of Oh,” the man said. “Monks are allowed to seek the Voice of Oh in solitude high in the mountains. Priests must walk a more complicated path.”
“You were Arefaine’s teacher. She told me about you.”
He nodded. “I am surprised that she mentioned me.”
“She said you taught her how to overcome her bad dreams.”
“I did what I could,” he said, turning from the main hallway and heading toward a pair of open double doors in the distance.
“I have heard you will begin the search for the next emperor soon.”
“Yes. In a few days the priests of Oh will gather at his cave and begin a pilgrimage throughout the land looking for a newborn child whose heart has been touched by Oh’s wisdom.”
“How will you know this child when you see it?”
The old priest looked over at him and shrugged. “I have no idea. But I am certain that all will be made clear when the time is right.”
