Ebaan clapped twice. The canyon and the surrounding mountains were replaced by a monumental palace standing in the middle of a wide open space as hot as an oven, yet as frozen as ice. The palace rose in ever-expanding stacks of marble and golden cupolas, reaching up to the base of a giant dome three hundred feet above ground. The center dome stretched to a height of five hundred feet, and was decked with hundreds of white marble statues cast inside alcoves of the blackest onyx. Swirls of jade ran through the purple marble, and between every statue stood a gold mask harboring a boisterous laugh. A rhythmic thud rose slowly from within the strange building.
“Ah, we are just in time. Come, let me show you what Metranos is all about.” Ebaan led Ahiram up a set of steep stairs. “Let me be your guide and disclose to you how I make my money. I am sure you will find it very instructive.”
They stepped onto a large circular plateau framed by nine immense arches along the edge.
“Where did this place come from? This is astounding.”
“Metranos is a space where reality and the Arayat mix. I won’t pretend to explain to you how this works, but six hundred years spent here will teach anyone a few tricks.”
The space inside each arch was filled with a blinding white light.
These are portals of sorts, Ahiram concluded.
Long queues of people streamed out of the light and into the plaza. Joyful and merry, they talked excitedly as they strolled along one of the nine majestic avenues leading to the nine doors of Metranos. Almost everyone they met was sipping from a mug, a tall cup or a bottle, and vendors everywhere were selling food and drinks. Ebaan and Ahiram joined the crowd, and the Silent realized with astonishment that the pavement of the boulevard was made of gold and silver.
“Nine open portals,” Ebaan said, matter-of-factly. “Metranos is accessible from nearly every known kingdom now. We’ve expanded beyond the local market of Mycene.”
“What for? You’re already rich beyond anything imaginable.”
“I’m rich in gold, but I do lack a few essential things.”
“Such as?”
They were nearing one of the entrances. It was so wide, Tyleen’s entire herd of five thousand sheep could have comfortably passed through it. Its massive double doors were gleaming black. A blind arch was etched on each of their surfaces, and inside every arch, an ornate mullion separated two images of hideous gargoyles. The one to the left had a wolfish smile as it looked down on the crowd walking in, while the one on the right seemed caught in an eternal, hateful scream. Suddenly, their eyes shifted and they snarled. Two guests collapsed before reaching the door. The ground around them liquefied and silently absorbed their bodies before regaining its solid consistence.
“The Temple sends me spies on a regular basis, such as these two unfortunate souls that I just sent to the Arayat. Those two hideous creatures you saw up there … what? You thought they were artistic rendering? They’re two of the critters the Temple uses to protect certain parts of the Arayat. I stole them from Baal, tortured them for many long years and trained them to do my bidding instead.”
“So they protect you from Baal?”
They ascended a crystal staircase in which large formations of lapis lazuli gleamed under the light.
“Their primary function is to prevent anyone from leaving Metranos without my permission.”
They were about to pass through the door when Ebaan stopped Ahiram. “Here is my first lesson: Time. Time, which is so punctilious out there, becomes in Metranos, how shall I say it? Frivolous? Unpredictable? Playful? Take your pick. But never forget time when you’re having fun.”
“I noticed that time behaves strangely here,” Ahiram said.
“Indeed, you did. Most of these happy tourists will not. They will be busy enjoying themselves in Metranos.” Ebaan smiled. “Here is one good reason why you should kill me: Every hour you spend in Metranos will cost you three days of your life.”
Ahiram frowned. “You mean if someone spends one hour in here, they will have aged by three days?”
“More or less,” Ebaan replied, yawning. “More or less. But who is counting when you’re having so much fun?”
“How long do people stay in Metranos?”
Ebaan shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I don’t keep track. But the organized touristic tours—the Temple knows about them, of course—usually lasts four weeks.”
Ahiram stopped walking. “But that’s …” he quickly calculated, “that’s at least five years of anyone’s life.”
“Five years and seven months, give or take a few days. Many of the wealthy tourists stay longer. Follow me, you haven’t seen the best part.”
“But if they can’t leave, how can they pay you? I don’t see them carrying bags of gold.”
“Metranos does not trade in gold, my friend.” He smiled. “I suggest you make up your mind in the next couple of hours if you want to meet the dwarfs in two weeks’ time.”
“Why did you toy with time?”
Ebaan creased his forehead. “Toy with time? You’re sorely mistaken. I don’t control time. I am powerful, but not that powerful. If I could control time, I would have an hour last a whole year, not three days … more fodder for the Arayat, and more power to me. Did I mention to you that I am an evil man worth killing? Let me show you inside Metranos. I am sure you are going to thoroughly enjoy yourself.”
He wants me unhinged so I do his bidding, Ahiram thought. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and emptied his mind. Patience allows a Silent to gain control of a conversation with a foe and direct it to a suitable end. By quoting the third verse from the fifth chapter of the Book of Siril, dedicated to the virtue of patience, Ahiram was repeating a technique Commander Tanios had drilled in him.
“Do not recite these quotes like mindless parrots,” Tanios would say. “Use them as anchors to focus, gather your thoughts, and make your next move. These quotes are as much of a weapon as your darts. Use them.”
“After you,” he said softly.
Ebaan cocked his head sideways and smiled an inscrutable smile. “As you wish,” he replied.
They walked in. “Welcome to Metranos’ palace. Behold the largest open hall in any palace across all sixty-two kingdoms,” Ebaan intoned. “Nothing comes close to it, not even the halls of the dwarfs in Andaxil or the greatest castles of the giants. Nothing compares to Metranos Palace.”
Ahiram stood speechless. The interior of the castle was one large pentagonal room. The Silent figured it must have been at least fifteen hundred feet in diameter. Ebaan led him to the center. He looked up and saw a dome that stood five hundred feet overhead. It was made of jasper and crystal, and the light that seeped through it was a brilliant green.
All around him, hundreds, possibly thousands of spherical rooms were neatly organized in concentric circles. Throngs of people stood in line before each of them. Everywhere Ahiram looked, he saw only buoyant spirits of folks who knew they were enjoying something special, something only a select group of people would get to do. They ate, they drank, smiled, strolled, and waited in line. Loud laughter crackled through the palace like the screams of a mad peacock. Ahiram looked up and saw more of the same structures set on a spiraling wide balcony that rose to the very top of the palace.
“Over three thousand game rooms,” Ebaan commented. “Three thousand games,” he boasted. “Even if you were able to play a game every hour of the day and night for four weeks, you would only play 672 games. No one has ever managed to visit every game room. I see you’re worried. Please don’t be. I didn’t invent that many games. You run out of ideas very quickly. The same game is played in multiple rooms. But, the game master makes all the difference, you know.”
“Game master?” Ahiram felt dizzy.
“Yes, of course. These game rooms will not run themselves. Years ago, I created sentient game rooms. Unfortunately, they would lock up the players, refusing to let them leave. I had to destroy them … with the tourists still inside. We lost so
many potential slaves for the Arayat. Bad for business. Come with me now,” he added, his excitement rising. “So much to see, so little time.”
He started walking and Ahiram was compelled to follow. They circled past overflowing game rooms and went up to the second level. Ebaan cut through impatient tourists waiting their turn. By Ahiram’s estimate, there were at least one hundred thousand people in the palace. His mind reeled at the thought of so many people losing years of their lives.
“Indeed,” chuckled Ebaan as they drew closer to a discreet door inside a dimly lit alcove. “One hundred thousand is close enough.”
“You read thoughts?”
Ebaan snorted. “Six hundred years, no, less than half of this would teach you how boring we are. How predictable. No. I cannot read your thoughts. No one can, actually, but there are creatures out there,” he said pointing ahead of them, and Ahiram understood Ebaan meant the Arayat, “who are pretty good at fooling you into thinking they can.” The Lord of Metranos opened the narrow door and motioned for Ahiram to follow. “Let me show you the Arayat.”
“Your game masters, how can they survive if every hour here is like four days out there?” Ahiram asked.
“Excellent question! You have risen in my esteem. I am about to show you how I operate Metranos. You’ll understand soon enough. All the game masters are cursefeeders from the Arayat, so the rule of one hour being equivalent to three days, that rule does not apply to them,” Ebaan explained. “I pay the Temple a hefty tax and they let me use some of their cursefeeders here. Their blood is still feeding curses in the Arayat, but better do it here than be tethered to a pole in the Spell World, right?”
They had been walking inside a narrow corridor that suddenly gave way to a marble-covered platform overlooking a wide rectangular room, which must have been two hundred feet long by sixty wide. The back of the room opened to a shimmering landscape of rolling hills whose flora oozed a strange green liquid.
“Is this—”
“The Spell World? Indeed, it is. Wide open by my own will, like a gaping wound in the side of a huge beast. The Temple cannot close it, neither can the tajéruun. Only you can, if you kill me.”
Ahiram looked into the large room, repulsed and fascinated. A small river of the thick green liquid flowed down the middle of the covered space. To the right, thousands of bandaged figures filed in from the Arayat, grouped in forty queues. Each of these wretched figures had a translucent tube, thick as a finger, tied to the back of their necks. They moaned softly as they moved forward, their heads slumped, their feet shuffling the ground.
Across from them, on the opposite side of the greenish flow, men and women stood softly weeping, in another set of forty queues. About a hundred armed soldiers pushed and prodded them with long poles while three slave masters walked along an elevated platform that ran the length of the room, cracking whips. Ahiram could tell the folks in these queues were drugged, for their movements were slow and they lacked focus. About one hundred and sixty laborers, two per queue, worked with the efficiency of spiders. Those handling the folks leaving the Arayat would grab the person at the head of the queue, and deafly yank the tube from their backs. They would bend the dripping tip of the tube and wrap it tightly with a thin rope that they would then tie to a dangling hook and yank twice on. The tube would lift, and disappear through a hole in the roof above.
On the opposite side, the other eighty laborers would catch a tube dangling from a hole in the roof, release it from the hook to which it was tied, insert the blunt hollow end of a long needle into the tube and allow some of the green ooze to drip to the ground. Then, in one deft movement they would shove the needle down the back of someone’s neck. The recipient would let out a low moan, stiffen his body for a quick moment, then slump back and resume shuffling his feet as he drew closer to the Arayat.
Ahiram felt as if he had stepped into a waking nightmare.
Ebaan laughed. “Isn’t it beautiful? And to think that I, Ebaan, have been the maintainer of peace, the provider of joy and happiness for all of these people.”
“Is this how you free the slaves from the Arayat?”
“Come, come now,” Ebaan continued in a soothing voice. “Don’t get upset. I am freeing these poor souls, while the others have agreed to take care of the debt they owe me by paying a small visit to the Arayat. This is the most lucrative part of my business. The Temple does not care whom I tether to the Arayat. As long as I keep or increase the number of curse feeders, I can do as I please.”
Ahiram was at loss for words. “But those who have lost loved ones … we’re talking thousands here. Surely the people’s malcontent will—”
“Bring about the next war,” completed Ebaan in a jovial tone, as if he and Ahiram were discussing their next touristic destination. “Eventually, enough people find out,” he added conspiratorially, “to create a resistance that will rise to fight the Temple and … the Temple always ends up with more fodder for the Arayat. And then the cycle begins anew. I’ve lived through three of these heroic—and very lucrative—insurrections.”
“But why?” Ahiram pleaded. “This is sheer madness.”
Ebaan shrugged. “The Temple’s primary objective—and you of all people should understand this—is to keep the Arayat in order. Not your world, this world. My world. That’s what matters. The Temple will go to any length to protect it.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? They say the Temple’s duty is to prevent anyone from opening the Pit. I say more power to them. Let them keep that Pit closed, by all means, and if I can help in some small way, I’m happy to do it. Only, I am now wearing thin and I would like to go. But hey, your world churns, providing the Temple with a constant source of slaves because folks like to reproduce. So long as the Temple allows enough of you to live and reproduce, all is well. Baal uses a small portion of the people that live in your world to feed the Arayat and keep it happy. The Arayat, in turn, gives Baal the source of the power it craves, and I,” he added bowing, “I am a fluke, an error, an oddity that occurs from time to time. Yes, there were others like me before, and yes, there will be more like me in the future. The Temple knows that, and is accommodating. They leave me be, knowing well that I will either be absorbed by the Arayat …” Ebaan shivered, “or find a way to die. In the meantime, the Arayat is fed, curses are created, and the world goes on the way the world has always gone on.”
“And the Temple does not object to this cruelty,” Ahiram said. It was not a question, but rather, an affirmation.
“The Temple? The priests of Baal love it. You see, this constant change in blood apparently raises healthier, stronger curses.”
“So people pay you to free their loved ones, and those who are indebted to you pay with their life … and the cycle continues.”
“I cannot hide anything from you, my friend. But enough talk. You have been here half an hour already. We have less than one and a half hours for me to show you my three favorite games and for you to kill me. Oh what fun we’re going to have!”
“The Arayat is not what you think it is. It is not what you don't think it is either. Well, it is and it is not, or rather, it is not and it is. Whenever you think it is dreadful and gloomy, it becomes loads and loads of fun, and whenever you expect it to be fun-filled and enjoyable, it becomes dreadful and gloomy. So whenever members of the court ask for my opinion before taking a stroll into the Spell World, I advise them to take a slave that will cheer them up, and a second one to keep them sane. I tell them to listen to the first slave and slap the second when the Arayat is dreadful and dead, or slap the first and listen to the second when it is cheerful and loads of fun. That way, no matter what, they will feel right at home in the Arayat.”
–Soliloquy of Zuzu the Hip, Jester at the Royal Court of Tanniin.
Ahiram and the prince stood now at the highest tip of the wide spiraling platform that ran along the interior perimeter of Metranos Palace. The Silent peered over a wrought-iron railing painted bright red an
d topped with polished mahogany.
“Don’t worry, if you fall you won’t die,” the prince whispered. “I have a strict policy against suicide—it ruins the merchandise, so anyone who tries to jump from the edge of this spiral will end up in the Spell World. Everyone knows it and, therefore, my marble below is immaculate. Come this way, you don’t have a moment to lose.”
He led him to the only game room on that level. It was larger than most with a marble wall and a double-sided door. A long line of customers snaked down the path as far as the eye could see.
Ebaan cut through. “Excuse us, we’re the cleaning crew,” he said. Ahiram was amazed to see him morph into a tired old man. “This one’s in training,” he said, pointing to the Silent. “Excuse us.”
“How is it that you’re unhooked from the Arayat?” an elderly woman cried out. Her voice, scratchy and brittle, grated Ahiram’s ears. “Are you runaway slaves? Did Ebaan let you loose for one of his amusing hunts?”
“Nah,” replied the old, tired Ebaan, “We’re hooked all right, but no sense in showing our tubes to the clients; we might spook’ em.”
Satisfied grunts answered him and the crowd parted.
“You tell that crow if you see him, I’ve been waiting here for two weeks now,” hollered a decrepit man, who seemed to have lost all his teeth. “It’s a scandal. Unacceptable!” Seized by a coughing spell, he hacked away as if he was trying to spit out his soul.
“I’ll tell him, and he’ll be sure to get back at you,” Ebaan replied.
Ahiram shivered. Back at you? he thought. Not back to you?
He’s baiting you, rang Sheheluth’s voice, dim and distant. You’re falling in his trap. Keep—
A roar from inside the game room interrupted the voice. Old Ebaan, with Ahiram in tow, walked in, and the prince reverted to his flashy youthful form. Slabs of the finest Quinselian pink marble covered the walls, and gold molding and dentil crown turned the game room into a hall fit for a king’s palace. In the center stood a table on an elevated platform. Along its curved end and facing the crowd, six evenly spaced stools were bolted to the ground. Their green and translucent bases gleamed in the diffused light seeping from the floor, and thick, dark-khaki velvet cushions were plopped on the seats. Ebaan motioned to Ahiram and they walked between two rows of expectant clients, sitting on golden chairs. They reached the back of the strange space where he pushed aside a thin black silk curtain, and they joined a large group of spectators silently standing in the relative darkness. The Silent ended up squeezed between his mystery host and a short, wheezing woman.
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 25