What little hope he’d been able to build up within himself faded when they stepped through the great doors. The familiar fresh feeling and Sourceless light filled the temple, but there were no devotional images or statues here. Nothing to suggest the cult of the White Mother held sway here at all. Only simple carvings adorned the walls, simple reliefs carved delicately into the stone of the walls themselves. Outlines of men and women wearing featureless masks, and above them, the shape of a person neither man nor woman whose mouth was sewn shut. They were led into a large empty room. Platters of food and jugs of water had been left on the floor. The mage gestured toward the food.
“Eat and rest. Your people will be cared for until you return to them.” Then the door was pulled shut and the humans were left alone. Traven ignored the food. He walked over to Jenus.
“Jenus?” he asked in a hushed voice, as if fearing being overheard. “The others are wondering what the plan is and why you’re waiting so long to get us out?”
“Waiting so long . . . ,” Jenus answered, confused. Did his men really think he could save them from this hopeless situation? Actually, it was hopeless when they first took us; now that we’re in their capital we’ve reached a whole new level of shit.
“I’ve told them you’re waiting to learn more about the four-arms so we can report back to King Ansyl. . . . But when, sir? We’ve watched you walking next to that savage mage day after day, not giving an inch. Refusing to answer any of his questions, refusing to ask for help. But please, Jenus, we’re not as strong as you.”
Jenus felt like a fraud. They had taken his fugue as stubborn resistance. He fought with himself for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to tell Traven the truth. But no. He couldn’t bring himself to extinguish this last spark of hope in his friend. “Be strong, Traven. We can’t give in. Not now, not ever. We’ve seen things we thought only existed in storybooks. We are the best Sacral has to offer and we will be up to the task. Just tell the others to be strong and follow my lead. I’ll move as soon as I can.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll tell the others.”
The mix of fear and genuine gratitude in Traven’s voice was as disturbing as anything to Jenus. Even Traven, one of his closest friends, had no idea what or who Jenus really was. He even called me sir in a private conversation.
A few hours later, the Gling’Ar returned for the prisoners. Their hands were not bound this time. Jenus found it inexplicably insulting that they should consider the threat posed by Sacral’s Warchosen and mages so minimal that they made no effort at all to limit their movements. They walked deeper into the strange temple and were shown to what must be a throne room. The room took the carving motif further. Every wall, every pillar, even the three empty thrones that stood at the far side of the room were shaped like the naked bodies of many different races, males and females both, like statues twisted together into the desired shapes, each bearing the same featureless oval mask that totally obscured their faces. The wall behind the thrones was a roiling mass of more of the same statues, each one with a hand outstretched, as if in desperate plea, toward the central throne.
The Gling’Ar dropped to their knees, except for the mage, who bowed deeply. The Sacral prisoners stood in confusion as two people walked into the room from a side door and took their places on the thrones. The first was, hardly surprising, a Gling’Ar. He wore the heaviest suit of blackened metal armor Jenus had ever seen. If any proof of the Gling’Ar’s strength was needed, the simple fact of being able to walk in such heavy plate was ample proof. He carried an axe in two of his hands that was large even by Gling’Ar standards. Its reddish-hued blade hurt Jenus’s eyes to look at, and he was forced to turn away.
The second man who came in was human. He wore a long dark-gray robe, and his skin was so pale he almost looked like a skeleton in the depths of his hood, but there was no doubt he was human. Jenus felt a sliver of hope return at the sight of him. The strange man took his place on the central throne and Jenus was sure he was looking at the ruler of the underground realm. And he’s not a Gling’Ar!
The third throne remained empty. The mage turned to the humans and hissed. “Bow if you value your lives. Bow before the Dead King and Warchief Sonum!”
The Dead King?! Fear and confusion filled Jenus. The man in front of him was a children’s story brought to life. It can’t be. The king threw back his head and laughed at the humans’ reactions.
“Now, now, Masul, you know I don’t care about the formalities—I never have. Stand, all of you, please.” He looked over the humans and his eyes latched onto Jenus.
“So who is it that leads an army to attack my people unprovoked?” The Dead King’s voice had lost its warmth, its humanity. It was as cold as a grave, and hearing it, part of Jenus started to believe. He swallowed hard, not fully trusting his voice.
“I am Jenus Chenton. I lead the people of Sacral.”
The Dead King’s tone was accusatory. “You have come far from your home, human. You have come far to make war on innocent people. The Gling’Ar have done nothing but defend themselves against the constant encroachments of the Abolians and you would give them aid? You would kill in the name of those bloodthirsty fools and that traitorous White Bitch you serve? Champion?”
Jenus clenched his jaw. Pride and anger won out over fear, at least for now. “My people do not kill the innocent. We were too trusting of the emissaries sent to us and we were misled. The Abolians saw us as an easy way to ensure their city was not attacked for a time, and to do so without wasting a single man of their own. And to answer your question, no, I am no longer champion of the White Mother. I have been cast out of the temple’s service. Though that does not end my responsibility to my people here.”
The Dead King stared at him for a moment, then an aura of powerful magic enveloped him. “I hadn’t expected her champion to be such an impious son of a bitch. But I guess it’s fitting, since I don’t think she ever believed in anything but herself,” the king said, as if to himself. “I like you more already, Champion.” He stood up and started to pace back and forth in front of the thrones. “Your people really are innocent and overly trusting, Jenus. You were misled and not only by the Abolians who are even now laying siege to Sacral, but by the twisted whore you thought to serve.”
Sacral under attack? How could I not have seen it before? We sent away a full third of the army and even the Lightbringer!
Jenus dropped to one knee. “Your Majesty, if what you say is true, then we have a common enemy. Please allow us to return to Sacral and try to save our homeland.”
“You still aren’t thinking clearly, human. It would take you months to get back to Sacral, and by then the issue will have been decided long since. For all my vaunted power, I was never able to master Ansyl’s trick of bending space. . . . In any case, you are right when you say we have a common enemy, but the Abolians are not it. They are irritating, I admit, but their obsession with expansion gives all the other kingdoms of the North pause when they think about conquest. None dare weaken themselves too much with the Abolians around. They’ve been trying to make gains against the Gling’Ar for years, but they know every soldier they send out into the woods doesn’t come back. They just fed you some story to get you to rush out here to their rescue and destroy a good portion of Sacral’s army without losing a single man of their own. A weak ploy, I must say, and one that shouldn’t have worked had another not been using the Abolians and their predictable behavior for their own purposes.” He paced back and forth in silence, then turned back to look at Jenus. “No, human, you haven’t been listening. Your enemy is your very own goddess.”
Jenus was so tense he thought it a wonder his shoulders didn’t split.
“I know you’re dying to run off and help, young warrior, even if it means months of walking. But trust me when I say there is nothing you can do. The enemy you face is hiding among your own people. Possibly even some of the survivors we brought here today, though we will fix that soon enough.”
“It’s all right, Sonum. You can put him down. Jenus is no threat to us.”
The warchief looked at the Dead King and nodded before dropping Jenus in a heap on the floor. He did not return to his seat, though; he stood over Jenus with his axe at the ready.
“Jenus, you are in no position to make any threats. This is my city, and I have welcomed you here as an alternative to killing all of you—a choice I can reverse at any time. But don’t think I’m not sympathetic to your situation. As you can see by the vacant seat here, one of my colleagues is away. Away in Sacral to be precise. I sent Rahz and his Crows to take care of our mutual problem. He will cut out the heart of the perverse religion you Sacral sheep have followed for so long, and if I’m not mistaken, he will also help with your Abolian problem. Rahz has a soft heart deep down, you see, and I’m sure he won’t be able to pass up the chance to help those in need. Or he won’t be able to pass up the chance to test himself against the Abolians and show off a little.” He waved his hand. “Either way, the result should work to Sacral’s advantage.”
The Dead King closed his eyes for a moment. “From what I’ve been able to see, your countrymen have acquitted themselves admirably so far. Your king did not survive the first day of fighting. Not that I could have let him live, you understand. He was as much under the influence of the Bitch as any of the priests, though he may not have known it himself. Still, he died bravely giving every last sliver of his strength to hold off the attackers. I had expected Rahz to take care of him, but that happily proved to be unnecessary. I have yet to decide if I’m going to get involved further. I built Sacral, after all.” He stopped and looked at Jenus for a moment before continuing. “Yes, that much of your legends is true. It is my magic that keeps the water rising from the depths in that desolate place, my magic that hardened the stone of the houses and walls so that they stand as if new after all these centuries. The valley you call home was every bit as barren as the rest of the Wastes before I took up residence there. Retaking Sacral is something I’ve thought about a lot over the centuries, but now that the time is here, I find myself unsure. Revealing myself to the world would create a whole host of new complications for my friends and me. I also find myself enjoying living in relative anonymity underground. There are those who suspect I’m still around, of course, but to give them proof? And as much as I wouldn’t want to see Sacral fall into Abolian hands, I’m not sure I want to support the decedents of the very people who took it from me in the first place.”
The Dead King looked around at the prisoners from Sacral. “The other problem we have is that the existence of this city and the true nature of the Gling’Ar tribes are very closely guarded secrets. Secrets that many thousands of lives depend upon.” Jenus opened his mouth to speak, but a raised hand by the Dead King forestalled him. “I might be inclined to trust the word of an honorable man such as yourself, Jenus. But I simply cannot extend that trust to several thousand unknown individuals. The fact that all of you were sworn to uphold and defend my greatest enemy just reinforces that argument.”
“So we are prisoners?” growled Jenus.
“Think of yourselves as involuntary guests. You will not be locked up, but you will not be permitted to bear arms or to pass beyond the city limits. You will all be provided with houses. We have space in abundance in Ischia. If your people have a craft other than that of war, they will be welcome to practice it. The mages who accompany you will have their talents shackled but will not be treated any differently than the others.”
Jenus tried to protest again, knowing full well how devastating it was for mages to be parted from their natural ability.
“I am sorry, Jenus. I learned my lesson a thousand years ago when I was betrayed by the very goddess who now claims the first city I built. As Rahz would say—never trust the living.”
“But you’ll leave us free to wander the streets?”
The Dead King nodded. “I cannot trust you all to keep quiet about what you have seen, but I don’t hold any ill will toward you. Nor is having you in my city the danger you perceive. Believe me when I say you cannot hope to harm us here. My guards do not sleep or tire, my own Chosen are far beyond you, though you do have a fair measure of potential. Nor, as I said, will any of you be permitted to carry weapons. Your sword will also be taken.”
“The Lightbringer was entrusted to me by my king!”
“Lightbringer? Hah! As good a name as any it has borne over the ages.” He waved away Jenus’s protest. “The sword was never your king’s to give away, or the Bitch’s, either, for that matter.”
Jenus gritted his teeth to keep his temper under control. There was little doubt that the Dead King was keeping a lot of the details to himself, but his words rang true. Jenus had already realized that his own abilities were undiminished though his goddess’s influence had been severed days earlier. The priests had all found themselves powerless in the end, their link to the goddess cut off by Gling’Ar magics. But Jenus . . . Jenus was unchanged. He had always been a reluctant champion, despite the priesthood’s insistence that he should be grateful. The only explanation was that his abilities had always been his own, not the gift of some motherly deity. He had been chosen to serve her not as a reward or because of some vague destiny, but because he offered an opportunity for the ancient woman to create a powerful champion without expending any of her own strength. It was what he would expect of someone who would pull herself to godhood over the corpses of her companions. The fact that some of those corpses still walked around changed little.
Before he knew it, Jenus and his surviving officers were led to an empty street not far from the temple/palace and released. Their bonds were simply cut and the Gling’Ar waved toward the large houses lining the street. “Choose your new homes, humans.” Then they walked off without another word.
A head appeared at an upstairs window, and a Sacral soldier cried out in greeting. Men and women Jenus recognized streamed out of houses and rushed to welcome him and the officers. Any semblance of military order was gone. While some of these people were soldiers, far more were drovers, craftsmen, cooks, and laborers. They were scared and confused, and not one of them was prepared to answer Jenus’s questions before they got some answers themselves. It took time before everyone was settled down and Jenus was able to make sense of what he was being told. While he and the officers were meeting the Dead King, the rest of the Sacral army had been marched to this empty section of the city and settled into homes. Shortly thereafter, iron-masked slaves marched through the street stacking food and supplies at the door of each occupied home.
They really mean to keep us here, Jenus thought numbly. Home felt so very far away. He was helpless in front of the Dead King and his men. He shook his head—there was no choice. He rounded up his officers and tried to ensure some sort of order was maintained and that all his people were settled and comfortable.
“We’re going to be here for a while. The Dead King and the Gling’Ar don’t mean us harm, but they aren’t going to let us go either.” There were cries at those words that were quickly hushed by others eager to hear the rest. “In the meantime, we are guests—not prisoners. We have been promised accommodation and supplies, which I am glad to see have already been given. We have been offered the chance to work our crafts and take part in the markets of the city. In exchange, we have been asked not to bear arms or disturb the peace of Ischia.”
He was interrupted by more grum
bling, from the soldiers this time. “The warriors among us will continue to train and prepare for the day we are to leave and return home. I will lead the training myself each day. For the rest of you—make the most of your time here. I beg you all to abide by the Dead King’s rules for as long as we reside here.”
“But how long are we going to be here?” came a cry. “My husband and my children are back in Sacral!” came another.
Jenus held up his hands and silence gradually returned. “I am no happier than the rest of you. My place is in Sacral just as much as yours is. But we are alive. And we are being given the opportunity to prove ourselves to those we wronged. Yes, we did wrong them! Though we didn’t know it at the time. In the meantime, we are being given more freedom than I ever could have hoped for. So again I ask—please make the best of your time here.”
The crowd slowly dispersed until Jenus was left alone with Traven. “You really think the Dead King will let us go?”
“I do, my friend. I have to believe it. That belief is the only thing keeping me standing right now.”
Though never bright, the huge cave that housed Ischia gradually grew darker as hours passed. Jenus guessed that night must be falling in the world outside and the cave’s magical lighting must be mirroring it. At least there’s some way of keeping track down here. He settled into the surprisingly large and comfortable home that he’d chosen for himself. The solitude and quiet were welcome. Many of his countrymen had decided to share homes, despite the abundance of space available to them. They needed the support and proximity of their friends. But Jenus couldn’t wait to get away from them and their hopeful looks.
The Bones of the Past (Books of Dust and Bone) Page 27