by Glen Cook
He did. He came back perplexed. “Someone kept horses here.”
“Anyone else come on horseback?”
“A few. High-caste Deceivers from afar. Yesterday and today.”
“That’s not fresh. Is there a regular guard?”
“No one comes here but us. No one dares.”
“Somebody did. And it looks like they stayed awhile. That’s a lot of manure for a casual visit.”
“I have to tell the others. This will mean purification rites if the temple was profaned.” As we ascended the steps to the temple, he said, “You noticing will be a point in your favor. No one else did.”
“You don’t see what you don’t expect to see.”
The temple was poorly lighted inside. Just as well. It was ugly in there. The architects had dreamed some of my dreams, then had re-created them in stone. Narayan collected several jamadars, told them what I had found. They fussed and cussed and grumbled, spread out to see if the infidels had defiled their temple.
I wandered.
They found where the invaders had done their cooking. The place had been cleaned but smoke stains are hard to erase. The stains suggested that someone had camped there for a long time.
Narayan sidled up, gave me his grin. “Now would be a good time to impress them, Mistress.”
“Like how?”
“By using your talent to find out something about whoever was here.”
“Sure. Just like that. I’ve maybe got enough skill to find their latrine and garbage pit.”
He eyed me, wondering how I could know they had had one, then reasoned it out. There was no garbage or human waste around. “That could tell us a lot.”
One of the jamadars told us that now they were looking they had found plenty of evidence of an extended occupation. “One man and one woman. The woman slept near the fire. The man stayed near the altar. They don’t appear to have bothered that. Mistress? Would you look?”
“An honor.” I did not immediately understand how they knew a woman had slept near the fire. Then one produced a few strands of long black hair. “Can you tell anything from this, Mistress?”
“Yes. She didn’t have naturally curly hair. If it was a she.” Some Gunni men let their hair grow long. Shadar and Vehdna tended toward curls. Vehdna men wore their hair short. But everyone at this end of the earth had black hair, or very dark brown when it was clean.
Swan was a real curiosity with his golden locks.
My sarcasm did not escape my companions. I said, “Don’t expect me to see the past or future. Yet. Kina comes to me only in dreams.”
That even startled Narayan.
“Let’s see the other place.”
They showed me where the man had slept. Again, they had determined sex by length of hair. They had found one strand three inches long, fine, a medium brown. “Hang onto those hairs, Narayan. They could be useful someday.”
Deceivers scurried around seeking more signs. Narayan suggested, “Let’s find that pit.”
We went out. We wandered. I located the place. Some lowlife candidates to the cult got to open it. I wandered while I waited.
“Mistress. I just found this.” A jamadar offered me a small animal figure someone had made by bending and braiding and twisting strands of grass, the kind of time-killing thing people do when they have nothing to do. But the man looked disturbed.
“It’s just something somebody did for the hell of it. It has no power. But if there are more around I’d like to see them. They might tell us something about whoever made them.”
Less than a minute passed before another turned up. “It was hanging from a twig, Mistress. I guess it’s supposed to be a monkey.”
I had a brainstorm. “Don’t move anything. I want to see them right where they are.”
Over the next few hours we found scores of those things, some made of grass, some twisted from strips of bark. Someone had had a lot of time and nothing to do. I knew a man once who did that with paper and never realized he was doing it.
Most of those things were stick figures, monkeys hanging from twigs, four-legged beasts that could have been anything. But a few of the four-leggers carried riders. The riders always carried twig swords or spears.
I must have made a noise. Narayan said, “Mistress?”
I whispered, “There’s something important about those things. But I’ll be damned if I understand what.”
Someone found a whole mob of figures where someone had sat on a rock leaning against a tree making them and maybe daydreaming. It was a little clearing about ten feet across. A stump stood in the middle.
I knew I was onto something the instant I arrived. But what? Whatever, it stayed way down below consciousness. I told Narayan, “If there’s anything to be learned, it’s here.” I whispered again. “Get everybody back to what they’re supposed to be doing.” I perched on the rock. I pulled some grass and started twisting a figure. The men went away. I let my mind drift into the twilight state. Wonder of wonders, dreams did not intrude.
Minutes passed. More and more crows dropped into the trees. My interest must have been too obvious.
Were they watching to see if I found out something? Like maybe something about those who had been staying here? Ah! The birds had more to do with them than with the Deceivers. They were not omens—in the sense the Stranglers hoped. They were messengers and spies.
Crows. Everywhere and always, crows, seldom behaving the way crows should. Tools. Their sudden interest suggested they feared I would learn something I ought not. Which meant there was something.
My mind leaped from stone to stone across a brook of ignorance. If I did discover something I had best not be obvious.
Realization.
The clearing felt familiar because it recalled a place I had lived. If that stump represented the Tower, whence I had ruled my empire, then the scatter of stones might represent the badlands I had created so the Tower could be approached along just one narrow, deadly path.
Patterns emerged. They were almost imperceptible, as though put there by someone who knew he was watched. Someone surrounded by crows? If I let my imagination loose, that scatter of rocks, debris, and twisted figures did make a fair representation of the Tower’s surroundings. In fact, a couple of sticks and a scatter and a boot scuff and a little soil pushed into a mound described a situation that had existed only once in the history of the Tower.
I had trouble pretending calm and indolence.
If the rocks and twigs and such were significant, so must be the creatures of grass and bark. I stood up for a better view.
One thing jumped right out.
A leaf lay at the foot of the stump. A tiny figure sat upon it. A lot of care had gone into creating that figure. More than enough to make the message clear.
The Howler, my then master of the flying carpet, was supposed to have been killed by a fall from the heights of the Tower. I had known that was not true for some time now. The message had to be that the Howler was somehow involved in current events.
Whoever set this up knew me and expected me to visit the grove. That should mean that someone knew what I was doing. That someone must have access to what the crows reported but was not their master. Else there was no reason for such an elaborate and iffy means of passing a message.
There was more.
Many great sorcerers had been involved in the battle where the Howler was supposed to have died. Most of them were supposed to have been killed. Since then I have discovered that several had fled after faking their deaths. I checked the figures again. Some were identifiable as representing some of those sorcerers. Three had been crushed underfoot. Those known to have been destroyed?
I gave it all the time it needed and still nearly missed the critical message. It was almost dark when I spied the clever little figure carrying what appeared to be a head under its arm. It took a while after that to understand the significance of the figure.
I had told Narayan that we do not see what we do not expect to see.
&n
bsp; A lot of things fell into place once I realized that the impossible was not impossible at all. My sister was alive. I saw a whole new picture of what was going on. And I was frightened.
And, frightened, I missed the most important message of all.
38
Narayan was not in a pleasant mood. “The whole temple has to be purified. Everything has been defiled. At least they committed no willful sacrilege, no desecration. The idol and relics remain undisturbed.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. All the men had long faces. I looked at Narayan over our cookfire. He took my look for a question.
“Any unbeliever who found the holy relics or the idol would have plundered them.”
“Maybe they were afraid of the curse.”
His eyes got big. He glanced around, made a gesture urging silence. He whispered, “How did you know that?”
“These things always have curses. Part of their rustic charm.” Pardon my sarcasm. I did not feel good. I did not want to spend any more time hanging around the grove. It was not a pleasant place. A lot of people had died there, none of them of old age. The earth was rich with their blood and bones and screams. It had a smell, psychic and physical, probably pleasing to Kina.
“How much longer, Narayan? I’m trying to cooperate. But I’m not going to hang around here the rest of my life.”
“Oh. Mistress. There will be no Festival now. The purification will take weeks. The priests are distraught. The ceremonies have been moved to Nadam. It’s only a minor holiday usually, when the bands break up for the off-season, and the priests remind them to invoke the Daughter of Night in their prayers. The priests always say the reason she hasn’t come yet is we haven’t prayed hard enough.”
Was he going to dole it out in driblets forever? I guess no one of any religion would have spent much time explaining holidays and saints and such, though. “Why are we still here, then? Why aren’t we headed south?”
“We came for more than the Festival.”
We had indeed. But how was I supposed to convince these men I was their messiah? Narayan kept the specifications to himself. How could the actress act without being told her role?
There was the trouble. Narayan believed I was the Daughter of Night. He wanted me to be. Which meant that he would not coach me if I asked. He expected me to know instinctively.
And I did not have a clue.
The jamadars seemed disappointed and Narayan nervous. I was not living up to expectations and hopes, even if I had discovered that their temple had been profaned.
In a whisper, I asked, “Am I expected to do holy deeds in a place no longer holy?”
“I don’t know, Mistress. We have no guideposts. It’s all in the hands of Kina. She will send an omen.”
Omens. Wonderful. I had had no chance to bone up on omens the cult considered significant. Crows were important, of course. Those men thought it wonderful that Taglian territory was infested by carrion birds. They thought that presaged the Year of the Skulls. But what else was significant?
“Are comets important to you?” I asked. “In the north, last year, and once earlier, there were great comets. Did you see them down here?”
“No. Comets are bad omens.”
“They were for me.”
“They have been called Sword of Sheda, or Tongue of Sheda, Sheda-linca, that shed the light of Sheda upon the world.”
Sheda was an archaic form of the name of the chief Gunni god, one of whose titles was Lord of Lords of Light. I suspected the Deceiver cult’s beliefs had taken a left turn off the trunk of Gunni beliefs a few thousand years ago.
He said, “The priests say Kina is weakest when a comet is in the sky, for then light rules heaven day and night.”
“But the moon…”
“The moon is the light of darkness. The moon belongs to Shadow, put up so Shadow’s creatures may hunt.”
He rambled off into incomprehensibility. Local religion had its light and dark, right and left, good and evil. But Kina, despite her trappings of darkness, was supposed to be outside and beyond that eternal struggle, enemy of both Light and Shadow, ally of each in some circumstances. Just to confuse me, maybe, nobody seemed to know how things really lay in the eyes of their gods. Vehdna, Shadar, and Gunni all respected one another’s gods. Within the majority Gunni cult the various deities, whether identified with Light or Shadow, got equal deference. They all had their temples and cults and priests. Some, like Jahamaraj Jah’s Shadar Khadi cult, were tainted by the doctrines of Kina.
As Narayan clarified by making the waters murkier he got shifty-eyed, then would not look at me at all. He fixed his gaze on the cookfire, talked, grew morose. He was good at hiding it. No one else noticed. But I had had more practice reading people. I noted tension in some of the jamadars, too.
Something was about to happen. A test? With this crowd that was not likely to be gentle.
My fingers drifted to the yellow triangle at my belt. I had not practiced much lately. There had been little time. I realized what I had done, wondered why. That was hardly the weapon to get me out of trouble.
There was danger. I felt it now. The jamadars were nervous and excited. I let my psychic sense sharpen despite the aura of the grove. It was like taking a deep breath in a hot room where a corpse had been rotting for a week. I persevered. If I could take the dreams without bending I could take this.
I asked Narayan a question that sent him off on another ramble. I concentrated on form and pattern in my psychic surroundings.
I spotted it.
I was ready when it happened.
He was a black rumel man, a jamadar with a reputation nearly rivalling Narayan’s, Moma Sharra-el, Vehdna. When we’d been introduced I’d had the feeling he was a man who killed for himself, not for his goddess. His rumel moved like black lightning.
I grabbed the weighted end on the fly. I took it away before he recovered his balance, snapped it around his neck. It seemed I’d played this game always, or as though another hand guided my own. I did cheat a little, using a silent spell to strike at his heart. I wasted no mercy. I sensed that that would be an error as deadly as not reacting at all.
I would have had no chance had I not sensed the wrongness gathering around me.
No one cried out. No one said a word. They were shaken, even Narayan. Nobody looked at me. For no reason apparent at the moment, I said, “Mother is not pleased.”
That got me a few startled looks. I folded Moma’s rumel as Narayan had taught me, discarded my yellow cloth and took the black. No one argued with my self-promotion.
How to reach these men without hearts? They were impressed now, but not indelibly, not permanently. “Ram.”
Ram came out of the darkness. He did not speak for fear of betraying his feelings. I think he might have stepped in if Moma’s attack had succeeded, though that would have been the end of him. I gave him instructions.
He got a rope and looped one end around the dead man’s left ankle, tossed the rope over a branch, hauled the corpse up so it hung head down over the fire. “Excellent, Ram. Excellent. Everyone gather round.”
They came reluctantly as the summons spread. Once they were all there I cut Moma’s jugular.
The blood did not come fast but it came. A small spell made each drop flash when it reached the fire. I seized Narayan’s right arm, forced him to put his hand out and let a few drops fall on his palm. Then I turned him loose. “All of you,” I said.
Kina’s followers do not like spilled blood. There is a complex and irrational explanation having to do with the legend of the devoured demons. Narayan told me later. It has a bearing only because it made the evening more memorable for those men once they had the blood of their fellow on their hands.
They did not look at me while they endured my little ceremony. I used the opportunity to hazard a spell that, to my surprise, came off without a hitch. It turned the stains on their hands as indelible as tattoos. Unless I took it back they would go through life with one h
and marked scarlet.
The jamadars and priests were mine, like it or not. They were branded. The world would not forgive them that brand if its meaning became known. Men with red palms would not be able to deny that they had been present at the debut of the Daughter of Night.
Nowhere did I see any doubts, now, that I was what Narayan claimed.
The dreams were powerful that night but not grim. I floated in the warmth of the approval of that other who wanted to make me her creature.
Ram wakened me before there was light enough to see. He and Narayan and I rode out before the sun rose. Narayan did not speak all day. He remained in shock.
His dreams were coming true. He did not know if that was what he wanted anymore. He was scared.
So was I.
39
Longshadow had fallen into a permanent rage. The wizard Smoke, a trivial little nothing, was stubborn. He was determined not to be enslaved. He might die first.
A howl echoed through Overlook. The Shadowmaster glanced up, imagined mockery in the cry. That bastard Howler. He had pulled a fast one somehow. No one else could have freed Shadowspinner. Treachery. Always treachery. He would pay. How he would pay. His agony would go on for years.
Later. There was damage to be undone. There was that damnable little wizard to be broken.
What had happened at Stormgard?
The obvious assumption was that the Lifetaker character had been her. Dorotea Senjak had been in Taglios. Of that there was no doubt. But she did not have the powers to battle Shadowspinner to a draw while ensuring the defeat of his armies.
Who had that been with her, bearing the Lance? The real power?
A flicker of fear. He dropped his work, climbed to his crystal chamber, looked out on the plain of glittering stone. Forces were moving. Not even he could grasp them all. Maybe that had not been her. Maybe she was gone. The tamed shadows had seen no sign of her for some time. Maybe she had gone north again after taking her revenge. She’d always wanted to rule her sister’s empire.
Was there an unknown player in the game? Were Lifetaker and Widowmaker more than phantoms conjured by Senjak? The shadows thought some power was guiding her. Suppose Lifetaker and Widowmaker were real beings? Suppose they had put the notion into her head to create imitations so everyone would believe them unreal, actors, till it was too late?