Certain undeniables about the situation kept gnawing at me. No matter how I played the scene out in my mind, any rescue ended seaward. By the time the ritual started, the guards and their dogs would be back at their posts, so a quick escape up the stairs was out of the question. If we fled to the back tunnels, the wraiths surely would hunt us down, and even if they didn’t, we would be faced with the difficult problem of finding another way out. No… the trick would be to break out and make our getaway across the open water, before a pursuit could be organized, and then disappear amidst the maze of honeycombed rock walls. With the stone ghost riders on hand, that task could be trivial. Without them, a breakout seemed impossible. We could still head for the waters, but the leviathan would be waiting. Maybe I could convince him to let us pass. I quickly dismissed the notion.
I knew what I had to do. Padding softly and wrapped in Holly’s elderkin cloak, I retraced my steps back through the tunnel to the sunless bay and the boats. The wide passage made it easy to avoid bumping into anyone and those traversing it were far too caught up in conversations about the sacrificial ritual to notice my passing. “Who will it be this time?” they asked one another. An elderly woman commented: “My favorite part is the thrashing, with the body still in its mouth.” I wondered what these same people might be talking about after it was all over: “Did you see that crazy Pip run in and try to save the girl, and then get eaten?”… perhaps.
When I reached the divide in the tunnel, hints of smoked fish on a steady breeze beckoned me towards the wharf. I only met a handful of mariners along the stretch of tunnel that led there, and they were easily avoided. At the bay, I first made my way to an old, abandoned-looking shack that leaned heavily to one side. Its crooked and splintered door hung open, supported by little more than a sliver. Set atop a high rocky outcrop, the shack provided a wide view of the wharf. On the other side of the bay, smoke billowed out of the pipe chimney of a slightly less dilapidated shack – the source of the fishy smell.
Activity in the bay had dropped to only a few scattered hands. I slipped into the shack and rummaged about. The place was a wreck, but I did manage to find a tinderbox, a rusty old fisherman’s knife, and some lamp oil in a collapsed cupboard. By the time I snuck a peek out through a broken window, the remaining dockworkers were all heading for the other side of the bay. They disappeared inside the smoking shack.
I snuck down to the waterline, unhitched the smallest dory on the pier, climbed in and quietly began rowing out of the bay. A dog barked at me from in front of the smoking shack, but no one took notice except to shush him.
With quiet strokes, I paddled along the coast to the mouth of the great stadium’s inlet. No one seemed to notice. Even as I rowed to shore, nearing the arch, I did not have a plan beyond creating options for myself. My head started racing. If the Bound Ones did not show up, I would have to create a distraction to draw people’s attention away from Holly and Bobbin. Then, I imagined, using the cloak, I just might be able to slip past the onlookers and the guards, cut my friends loose and make them disappear with me. Holly and Bobbin would vanish right out from under their noses. That was a Kabor move, so bold and unthinkable it just might work. I only hoped that we could all squeeze together tight enough to fit under the cloak.
The only real distraction I could think of was to set the rowboat on fire and launch it across the mouth of the cove with a firm push. With all eyes on the burning boat, I could attempt my disappearing act. That was it. That was my plan. Nothing else sensible even came to mind. Sure, I tried to come up with a legal argument that would hold water, something I could just blurt out that would bring official process down to bear on the heinous ritual. In thinking it through though, it became evident that Harrow regarded their own laws and customs as the only ones worthy of consideration. Harrow would find some way to justify the sacrifice of two harmless Pips to a hungry whale. The reasons did not matter. All that ever matters is that Harrow gets what Harrow wants.
To hide the boat from prying eyes, I brought it ashore and dragged it under a raised part of the walkway. I gently placed the oars inside and then doused the boat’s interior with the lamp oil I had taken.
There was nothing left to do but wait and watch as the masses poured into the stadium to claim their seats. The event was shaping up to be standing room only. It would not be long before the stadium filled to capacity. Indeed, as I sat and watched, the golden doors soon slammed shut with a loud clang.
Serving men and women, showing exceptional poise and grace, kept everyone of status comfortable. Beer, wine, and steaming appetizers were made available to all of the affluent. The masses, on the other hand, formed long lines around small serving booths that suddenly sprung into existence throughout the common stands.
When the ceiling torches finally dimmed and the last of the highborn took to their seats, the drone of casual conversations escalated to a dull cheer. Musicians were the first to spill out onto the stage, dressed in sharp black and bright white, attended to by an entourage of chair and instrument bearing Glooms to help them set up.
As the musicians took their seats and warmed their instruments, the crowd murmured on. I crept a little closer to get a better view, and found good cover just back of the arch. Finally, the conductor stood in front of his band. He raised his hand high; a hush came over the crowd. And when he lowered his hand, the air resonated with the beginnings of a lively mariner tune.
The crowd “oohed” and “awed” later on when acrobatic dancers tumbled onto the scene, rolling and throwing themselves about the stage. They topped off their performance with a series of springing dives into the cove. All in all, they were nearly as talented as the Flipside performers.
Next, the crowd marveled at twin, scantily clad contortionist sisters. While balancing upside-down on one hand, each held a bow with one foot and drew a bowstring with the toes of the other, legs impossibly bent backwards. They released their arrows at one another. The crowd gasped. The blunted shots collided in mid-air and stuck together, then dropped to the floor as one. The audience went wild with applause.
Songs, dances and more feats were offered up to the crowd in the plenty before the music subsided and an intermission was announced. The aroma of steamed shellfish filled the air as a new wave of vendors fought their way through the common stands to pawn beverages and niblets, no doubt for exorbitant prices. During that time, Bound Ones cleared the staging area.
It was time for the main attraction.
Chapter XXVIII
Ritual of the brilliant
A slim, well-poised man stepped out onto the stage. He stopped, and turned only his head to smirk at the crowd. A buzz of expectation electrified the air, building to a dull cheer. They knew him well. With his back to the audience, the man strolled casually to the central platform. He was not overly tall for these parts – the height of a normal man, well groomed and finely dressed, all in light blue save for his white, frilly shirt.
“Lord Marlin!” cried members of the crowd, sporadically.
“Lord Rhyale!” cried one vocal woman, high and clear above the rest. At that prompting, one of the more handsome noblemen in the stands stood up and waved to the crowd. A Tor Lord, no doubt, by the looks of him, so tall and proud, puffing out his chest. More wooing women cried out his name in chorus. Lord Rhyale waved to them all before reclaiming his seat.
All eyes soon returned to Lord Marlin, who displayed a talent for showmanship. The crowd adored him, which might strike one as odd at first because he, in turn, was quite dismissive of his audience. It was his game and they knew it. They had to be louder to get his attention.
“Marlin… Marlin… MARLIN… MARLIN!” they chanted, and continued chanting. There were no more “Lord Rhyale’s” to be heard. “Ogres!” bellowed over the chant, and many smiled or chuckled at that.
When it seemed the cavern roof would collapse from the sheer volume of noise, sudden flames sprung up from the edge of the stage and the central platform. Swaying, colored li
ght filtered up from the bottom of the two small pools. Marlin, facing the sea, threw his arms up into the air as though reaching to the sky beyond the stone. The chanting turned roar, and the longer he stood there soaking in the fame, the more deafening the roar of the crowd became. He turned to face them, and was met with wild screams. A faction began to chant his name again. It grew louder and more rhythmic as it spread from end to end. At last, they were his. All eyes on him; all minds bent to his will.
Marlin raised one hand and waved it slowly around the room. His loyal subjects gave him silence.
“Thank you,” he said at last, tossing them one small morsel of the recognition hungered for. The lord’s voice was strong and carried with it an air of refinement. “I want to thank you all for coming out tonight,” he began. “Twice a year, Harrow comes here to pay tribute to the glorious Karna and her messenger, and to honor our best and our brightest. Twice a year, you bear witness to the abandonment of flesh as the mind ascends to become one with the divine. For this, I thank you all.”
The crowd cheered high praise, and then dampened to a hush again.
“We have a spectacular evening planned for you,” and then he paused, “…and an absolutely brilliant line-up!”
The audience applauded, and Marlin went on to introduce himself – as “Lord Marlin of Ogres” no less – and followed with eloquent words for his noble kin. Among them sat Taeglin and Taradin, dressed in rich purple robes. They were next on his list, followed by the many Tor Lords, their Ladies and even their mistresses.
“Taeglin, Keeper of the Iron Tower and the Crown,” started Marlin. Taeglin sipped red wine from a rich goblet and raised it in toast, to himself no doubt.
“And his father of old, the founder of this brave city of Harrow, I give you Taradin, Vicegerent of Harrow, and the First King of Fortune Bay!” Taradin lifted a boney hand in acknowledgement of the lord’s introduction, but remained mostly out of sight. Tall, slender serving girls attending to him competed for his attention, and a step back stood two Red Maidens, on guard and holding firm their pole arms. The crowd was less than enthusiastic at the calling of Taradin’s name and that of his son of sons. Nonetheless, the Lich King drew many a stare.
Then there was Lady Gilirain of Limbo, Ambassador Crulerion – a Gloom, and of course handsome Lord Rhyale of the Western Tor. Then there were Ladies Barra and Ganadra, and Grenna. After Marlin said Grenna’s name, he paused for a brief moment; just long enough to mouth the words of her less than flattering, non-official title. I had heard of her. “Grenna the Sea Bitch,” many said. She was as haggard in appearance as her name implied, with long, knotted hair and greenish, wrinkled skin – reminiscent of a bog queen. The empty air seemed to resonate with her unspoken title. And lastly, even visitors of note from Gan made attendance: “Lady Elise Faelin accompanied by Lord Sevaleyr the Crystal Grey.” There were others among the nobles, ladies and gentlemen of various sorts, the likes of which he brushed over with a single statement of introduction: “…and the other fine Ladies and Gentlemen in attendance.”
Some of the highborn afforded a weak wave to the crowd as though it were a chore; others raised a hand dismissively. Only Lord Rhyale stood high and mighty among them, one strong arm raised high and mighty in-and-of itself. His eyes scanned the audience for attractive young women, and he basked in the splendor of their suggestive remarks, exaggerated poses and crazed admiration. One overly excited girl flashed him some skin when he looked her way. Those beside him smirked, or shook their heads, or whispered to one another. Rhyale raised an eyebrow, smiled and nodded to the girl.
Taradin remained subdued among his noble kin, withdrawn in the shadows of his private booth, away from prying eyes. He wore a dark purple hood atop his long robe. Back when he had entered, many eyes followed him until he was seated and out of sight.
Marlin called back the crowd’s attention.
“Let us begin with a glorious memory from the past,” he said. The charismatic lord strolled this way and that way as he spoke, pointing to individuals in the crowd and nodding his head.
“Some of you, yes you, and you, you too, may recall a small group of brilliant little Outlanders who graced our hall some years ago. They came upon us from a little-heard-of village in the marshes. You may also recall that Karna’s Messenger was especially pleased with that year’s harvest of fine minds. Although barely a morsel to the physical being of Karna’s great vessel, the sweet nectar of their intellects was fit for the divine!”
The crowd cheered, and many chanted: “WE LIVE FOR GLORY!”
My stomach dropped. A terrible thought crossed my mind, watching the events unfold from behind the arch. I mouthed the words. “Who? When?… Mother? Father?”
Marlin continued to inform his townsfolk. “Today we have a special treat to refresh that knowledge and close the festival. Giants of the Tor, Men of Harrow, Gropers of Dromeron Odoon,… Grenna,” the crowd laughed, “lend me your hands for the one and only.” He looked down to a card, carried in his hand. “Bobbin Numbit!”
From the back hall, a giant, muscular man pushed Bobbin out onto the walkway. The man wore only a white loincloth with black and gold trim, together with a wide bead necklace – deep blue and white. The Pip was bound, gagged and frightened. He looked like a scared rabbit, and a well-fed one at that.
“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be young again?” Marlin asked the crowd.
“FOREVER YOUNG!” came the reply.
Lord Marlin pulled another card out of his vest pocket and read from it. “Bobbin Numbit is an innkeep’s son. He is twelve years old. He knows every rumor this side of the Outlands and every story that ever passed through the most popular inn on the bog! Karna has a sudden interest in those quaggy waters. Let’s hear it for Bobbin!”
The crowd applauded. Some blew whistles at that point and others rang bells or banged sticks together. Bobbin was “led” to centre stage.
Nervously, I scanned seaward for Gariff and Raven. It had been hours. I looked to the sky-ceiling of the Dim Sea and to the openings in the rock walls, hoping to catch a glimpse of a gliding cloaker. But there was nothing. I needed to act soon, but not before seeing Holly, not unless absolutely necessary.
“Before we move on to deliver our first gift, I’d like everyone to think back to the message that Karna’s Messenger blessed us with at the Opening Ceremonies a few days ago. You all heard it, loud and clear.”
The crowd did not respond. “Oh, come on now!” cried Marlin.
Taeglin stood up from his chair amidst the nobles, swishing his goblet of wine and slurring his words. “I will help them, Lord Marlin of Ogres,” he said. Taeglin beckoned the audience with open arms, and bellowed out. “Seek the stones with fire inside, the spark that never dies!” he cried.
“HE KNOWS THE WAY!” answered the crowd.
“Take what is ours!” cried Taeglin.
“IT’S WHAT WE WANT!” answered the crowd.
Taeglin raised his goblet again to the audience in approval, drank deep, and nearly missed his seat when he sat down. In return the audience, suddenly warm to the rightful heir and already under the spell of consumed spirits, cheered Taeglin on.
I began to piece together the role that I had played in the events unfolding in front of my eyes and the role of the leviathan as well. Karna’s Messenger – the leviathan – had gone so far as to command Karna’s subjects to dig up the bog for stones that I had told him about. And that isn’t all I told the leviathan – I told him everything. The chain of disasters seemed to lead straight back to me, to the conversation I had with the White Whale. Did I do this?
The announcer took over where Taeglin left off. “Harrowians, what do we want?” he said.
“SPARKS!” cried the crowd.
“Why do we want them?” he cried back. A long pause followed. “IT IS…” He led the audience on, rolling his hand at them in tight circles.
“KARNA’S WHIM!” answered the crowd. Lord Marlin nodded in satisfacti
on.
“Thank you,” he said.
Apparently, that was enough. Unbelievable, I thought. “Karna” tells them what they want, commands them to get it, and then calls it his “gift” to them. How wonderfully convenient.
Lord Marlin reached into his pocket again. This time he pulled out a plain iron chain and held it up for all to see. The audience gasped in amazement.
“Behold! The first reward of Karna’s Whim!” On the chain, Holly’s SPARX stone dangled for all to see, sparking green fire.
“Who leads the path to rejuvenation!” he cried.
“WE DO!” rang out a great many voices. The crowd roared, clapping their hands, ringing their bells, blowing their whistles and beating on their small drums.
Next, Marlin pointed to Bobbin. “That one is big on knowledge, but he makes a small, rather round morsel.” Bobbin shook his head frantically. The crowd laughed.
“So, we are going to double it up for you tonight, folks! Lend me your hands once again, this time for the lovely, wonderful, street smart and full-of-spunk, Holly Hopkins!”
My heart sank. A sickening feeling swelled inside me. Holly was shoved and dragged out to the central platform in the same manner as Bobbin. They had her dressed in elegant, white, ridiculous evening wear. I crept in closer for a better look – nearer to the arch.
Marlin took out another card to read from, then put his arm around Holly’s shoulder. He dangled her stone in front of her eyes. “Recognize this, my dear?” he said.
Holly’s angry response was muffled and restrained. She had been bound and gagged just like Bobbin.
The host continued on. “Holly here works at the same inn as Bobbin and has the same perfect memory. That’s right my countrymen. A perfect memory! Apparently, she’s a real know-it-all.”
“And… she knows everybody’s secrets – including where to find the sparking stones.” Marlin shook his head slowly, and shook one raised finger at her as well. “But she won’t share her secrets with us, folks.” The crowd booed.
SPARX Incarnation: Order of the Undying (SPARX Series I Book 2) Page 24