He strode through the vast expanse of the Royal Library. Shelves of wood, brass, and steel occupied the enormous building in neat rows, with what had to be tens of thousands of leather-bound books, scrolls, and sheaves of parchment wrapped in neat ribbons. The rows of shelving stretched easily seventy paces across and rose at least half the distance to the high-vaulted arched ceiling.
The smell of old, dust-covered books hung thick in the library, reminiscent of the House of Need in Malandria. The Beggar Priests' collection couldn't approach the vast wealth of knowledge stored here, however. The Hunter had never imagined that there could be so many books.
He followed the scribe's directions through row after row of shelving until he found the indicated section. The books here were covered in a thicker layer of dust than the volumes in the front of the library. He scanned the meager collection of tomes on the shelf. He recognized a few—An Emperor's Folly: The Fall of the Malandriatus and The Heroic Exploits of Agarre Giantslayer among them—but most were unknown to him.
The works of Taivoro sat on the lowest shelf. He crouched for a closer look and scanned the faded lettering on the threadbare, aged books. The titles proclaimed such works as The Red-Breasted Nightingale and Paradise in Her Eyes, most of which the Hunter knew to be ribald and risqué. The sort of volumes Graeme, his alchemist friend in Voramis, would have loved.
He flipped through the first few pages of each book. The stories were rich and varied: from forbidden romances to comedic battles to dramatic tales of bravery, each with bawdy jokes and erotic encounters sprinkled liberally throughout. He found himself blushing at some of the more lascivious scenes and lustful innuendos. Voramians weren’t shy about their sexual appetites, practices, and inclinations, but the Hunter found the vivid imagery a cut or two above even the wildest orgies in Upper Voramis. Taivoro certainly had a way with words.
As he read, he found his thoughts returning to Bardin, the former Illusionist Cleric that had taken him into his pitiful shelter in Malandria. The man had used a special cipher—the Taivoran shift, he'd called it—to find hidden messages encoded in an ancient work of the mad playwright.
Sorrow filled his chest and brought a lump to his throat. Bardin had died at the hands of Toramin, a demon masquerading as a nobleman and leader of the Order of Midas. The Hunter hadn't been able to prevent the man's death but had avenged it.
With effort, he pushed aside the maudlin thoughts and reached for the next book. His eyes scanned the pages in search of a hidden message, though nothing leapt out at him. The illustrations atop each page no doubt contained information of value—as he'd discovered when Bardin deciphered them—but not what he sought. He found tales of warriors and beautiful princesses, silver-tongued rogues, star-crossed lovers, and giantslayers, yet not the tale of the journeyman bard the Sage had mentioned.
His frustration mounted with every new book. His hands trembled as he reached for the last Taivoro volume on the shelf. This has to be it.
The book told the tale of three brothers, each cleverer, stronger, and better-endowed than the last. Blacksmith, soldier, and baker, but no bard.
Damn it! The Hunter slammed the book shut and jammed it back in place on the shelf. He stalked through the shelves back toward the scribe sitting at the front desk.
"Are those all the Taivoro works you have?" he demanded.
The pudgy, beady-eyed man looked up at him with disdain. "I'm sorry, is our collection of erotic literature not up to your standards?"
The Hunter resisted the urge to drive his fist into the man's fat face. "Is there one about a journeyman bard?" he asked through clenched teeth.
The scribe raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You're talking about The Singer and His Muse?"
The Hunter shrugged. "I don't know. How many of his works are about a bard?"
"Just the one," the man replied in a sharp tone. "But it's an incredibly rare volume."
The Hunter narrowed his eyes. "Rare?"
"Indeed." The scribe's nod set his jowls wobbling. "In fact, it's nearly impossible to find anywhere on Einan. According to the histories of Taivoro, only three copies of the original manuscript were ever made."
The Hunter's gut clenched. Nearly impossible to find. The words echoed in his mind. It couldn't be over. He couldn't have come all this way, only to fail so close to reaching his goal.
"I doubt even the Vault of Stars contains a copy."
Vault of Stars? Where had the Hunter heard that?
A memory of Master Eldor—the first time he'd met the old Elivasti, decades earlier—flashed through his mind. "You are one of the best to ever pass through the halls of Kara-ket. When you first came, you had no memory of who you were or why you carried that weapon. Thanks to the volumes in the Vault of Stars, you have learned more of your past."
"What is the Vault of Stars?" he asked the scribe.
The man raised an eyebrow. "You don't know?"
"If I did," the Hunter growled, barely restraining his temper, "do you think I'd be asking?"
"No need to be snippy about it." The scribe clucked his tongue. "The Vault of Stars is the largest collection of books on the world of Einan. If the Lecterns are to be believed, it contains an original or direct copy of every book ever written. But I expect that's simply hyperbole. The Master's Temple is nowhere near large enough to contain such a vast wealth of knowledge."
The Master's Temple. The Hunter glanced out the library window at the massive Master's Temple in the distance. Kiro, the Master, was god of virtue and nobility. His priests, the Lecterns, collected wisdom the way a miser collected gold coins. It was said only the Secret Keepers had knowledge to rival theirs.
The Hunter forced a pleasant smile. "Thank you. You have been most helpful."
"Good luck getting in there!" the scribe said with a shake of his head. "None but High Lecterns and the Grand Lecterns even know where it is, much less have access to it."
The Hunter shrugged. "Oh, well. I suppose my quest for the book will go uncompleted. I bid you good day." With a little bow, he strode from the library and got as far away from the irritating scribe as he could.
* * *
The Master's Temple was far larger than the Hunter had imagined.
He’d seen his fair share of magnificent buildings—the towering Palace of Justice in Voramis, the monolithic Black Spire in Praamis, the high-spired heights of the House of Need in Malandria, even the enormous Serenii temples in Kara-ket. None of them came close to the grandeur of the temple before him.
The Master’s Temple was more than just a single building. Four stately marble towers surrounded the primary building, a rectangular white construction that stretched nearly a thousand paces, spanning the entire breadth of the Court of Judgement, the massive square in the temple district of Vothmot. The exterior was covered in elaborate arabesques, and the swirling, rhythmic, interlacing lines of foliage and tendrils lent it an air of timeless majesty only enhanced by the building’s enormous size. An ornate stained glass window dominated the entire west-facing wall of the temple, rising more than a hundred paces high. The white marble façade gleamed with such brilliance that it almost hurt the eyes. The opulence contrasted sharply with the simplicity of the Master’s Temple in Voramis.
The Court of Judgement was a marvel in itself. Instead of a paved stone plaza like in Voramis, Vothmot’s temple square was covered in pristine white marble to match the Master’s Temple. A never-ending parade of grey-robed Beggar Priests moved through the square at a steady pace, wiping away the dusty prints left by the boots and sandals of those flowing in and out of the temples. They attended the cleanliness of the square with devotion bordering on fanatic, as if this was how they best served the Beggar God.
By comparison with the Master’s Temple, the rest of the gods’ houses were paltry things. The statues guarding the entrance to the Temple of Derelana seemed worn by age and weather, and the voices of the Choir of Purity in the Maiden’s temple sounded oddly discordant. The Illusionist Clerics ca
vorting in their wild, mad dance before the Temple of Prosperity wore robes more ragged and threadbare than usual. The beggars and lepers sitting on the broad stone steps before The Sanctuary, temple to the Bright Lady made the temple’s plain brick exterior seem crude by comparison.
The Hunter lounged on the lip of a fountain bubbling merrily in the heart of the Court of Judgement, nibbling on the herb-and-salt-crusted flatbread and soft white cheese he’d purchased. He had to admit the Vothmot cooks were bloody good. He hadn't eaten anything this tasty in weeks.
For the last hour, he’d had watched people flow in and out of the Master's Temple. Most wore the rich green-and-silver velvet robes that marked them as Lecterns, servants of Kiro. However, a steady stream of pilgrims in humble, rough spun garments entered through a postern gate. Evidently, people flocked from all around Einan to witness the beauty of the temple’s stained glass window and pay homage to the Father of the gods.
No guards stood outside the Master's Temple, but the Wardens of the Peak patrolled the square in force. Though their mirrored metal plate armor and curved swords were intended to dissuade criminals, their presence made it difficult for the Hunter to get in and out unseen.
His plan was simple and straightforward: he'd sneak into the Master's Temple and find the Vault of Stars. If necessary, he'd convince a High Lectern to give him access. The plan had worked well enough in Malandria. This time, he wasn't injured or hallucinating, so he should have no problem pulling it off. Given the size of the temple and the scribe's comment on the vast amount of storage space needed for the books, the Hunter expected the Vault of Stars would be built beneath the ground level.
“Talk about easy, eh?” The voice of his inner demon had a mocking edge. “Just get in and find the Vault, simple as that?”
The Hunter shrugged. Pretty much. Unless you have another suggestion that doesn't involve walking in the front door and killing everyone until they tell me what I want to know.
“Always have to do things the hard way,” the demon sneered. “So much power, yet you refuse to wield it.”
I've seen what happens when people try to control that power. It twists them, turns them into monsters.
“And are your precious humans any better? Give them even a modicum of control over others, and what do they do with it? Do they seek to make life better? No, they do everything they can to not only maintain that control, but to extend their dominance. They are no better, no matter what you tell yourself.”
Perhaps you are right. The Hunter leaned back in his chair. He had seen the terrible things men and women did to each other in the name of greed, power, and lust. Murder, theft, blackmail, treason—these were the tools humans used to achieve their goals at the expense of others. Yet there is one thing you're forgetting, the one thing that separates the humans from Abiarazi.
“And what is that?” the demon's voice demanded.
Humans seek to rule the world, but the Abiarazi seek to destroy it. The demons would unleash destruction across all of Einan in the name of Kharna. They would wipe out everything I hold dear, as they have so many times in the past. And that is why I will not let them succeed.
“How noble and heroic!” the voice mocked.
The Hunter clenched his fists. I never claimed to be anything other than what I am. But I will not see my world turned to ash by the Great Destroyer.
Chapter Six
For another hour, the Hunter remained seated on the fountain, eating more of that marvelous flatbread and cheese and sampling the wines of Vothmot, his eyes fixed on the temple and the guards patrolling the square. The Wardens passed once every ten minutes, but he had no doubt they'd increase the frequency of their patrol once night fell. A glance at the sky told him he had at least an hour or two until sunset. The Court of Judgement around him seemed to be quieting down as the final pilgrims trickled out of the square for the evening. With a grunt, he downed the last of the cheese and climbed to his feet.
He wouldn't go back to Divinity House until tomorrow. It would be a waste of time to cross the city again, and he had no reason to check up on Hailen. The boy would be as safe in Madame Aioni's care as in his. Given everything that had happened in the last weeks, perhaps more.
Time to explore the back streets around the temples and see if they offer a better way in. The Court of Judgement matched the grandeur of the temple facades, but the alleys running behind and beside the temples always concealed secret entrances. Even if he couldn't find a door to go through, he ought to be able to find a way to get up onto the roof of the Master's Temple. Upper-floor windows tended to be left unguarded, especially in temples. No one would be foolish enough to break into a temple and risk the wrath of the gods. He, however, had no reason to fear the gods.
If they were going to strike me down, they would have done so long ago.
They nearly had, thousands of years before. He and the rest of the Bucelarii, the half-human offspring of the Abiarazi, had been rounded up and herded to Khar'nath, the flaming pit into the fiery hell. Only the Beggar God's pleading had convinced the rest of the gods to spare their lives. In all his years on Einan, the gods hadn't once interfered in his business. He doubted they'd start now.
Yet, despite his skepticism, he couldn't quite deny the presence of the gods. He'd wanted to write them off as nothing more than human imagination—after all, he'd told Father Reverentus long ago in Voramis, mankind created the gods to bear the blame for everything that went wrong in their lives. But the things he'd seen—the Ritual of Cleansing in the House of Need, the portal into the fiery hell in the Serenii tunnels beneath Voramis, and the power of the Dolmenrath in the Advanat Desert and again beneath Kara-ket—he couldn't deny the possibility that the gods existed.
That thought unsettled him to no end as he strode through the square. If the gods existed, it meant that the priests' claims of "divine plans" and "destiny" could hold merit. He had no desire to be the pawn in anyone's game, not man, demon, or god.
Someone bumped into him, a youth little more than a boy. He mumbled a hurried apology before hustling off into the crowd.
The Hunter watched him go with a raised eyebrow. Interesting. He'd hardly felt the boy's hand reach into the inner pocket of his cloak and pluck out his purse. He's good.
The Hunter had never mastered the thieves' skills of lifting purses or picking locks, but he'd spent enough time in Lower Voramis to have encountered more than his share of light-fingered criminals. Most were young boys, though a few young girls made thieving their trade of choice as well. Smaller, quick-fingered children made the most effective, and most innocuous, pickpockets.
Nearly twenty years earlier, on a journey to the city of Praamis to establish the Lord Anglion persona, he'd seen a young girl snatch a purse from a merchant's belt with breathtaking dexterity. The paunchy man had no idea he'd been robbed until he went to pay for his wife's expensive bolt of silks. The Night Guild employed some truly skilled thieves.
This youth could have been the best of them. He didn't look back once as he slithered through the crowd, moving away from him at a pace that appeared unhurried but covered ground quickly. He made toward a small side alley that no doubt served as his escape route.
Unfortunately for the boy, he'd picked the wrong pocket.
The Hunter had caught the youth’s scent: sandal leather, cloves, and the strange spice the people of Vothmot called yenibahar. The smell would lead him through the thick press of people, but the Hunter had his target within his line of sight. He skirted the crowd at a rapid stride and tracked the boy's movements from the corner of his eyes. He ducked down an adjacent alley and ran the twenty paces to a small intersection, then cut to the left. Leaning against the wall, he drew a long, sharp dagger and waited.
The youth appeared less than a minute later. He was so busy digging through the contents of his stolen purse that he didn't notice the Hunter waiting in the shadows. He let out a terrified yelp as the Hunter snagged his collar, slammed him into the wall, and pressed t
he edge of the dagger to his throat.
"Not bad," the Hunter growled. "You're quick, but you chose your target poorly."
The boy fixed the Hunter with a wide-eyed stare, but no fear mingled with his shock. "Hey now!" he protested. "What's the meanin’ of this? I’m just here mindin’ my own business—"
"And counting my imperials." The Hunter snatched the purse from his hands and hefted it. "I ought to turn you over to the Wardens. Is the penalty for theft the same here as it is in the south?"
The youth’s face—a face with a small nose, slim cheeks, and close-set eyes, with a layer of grime to cover it all—hardened but he said nothing.
“Or maybe I can just take your hands myself.” The Hunter lowered the dagger and pressed it against the boy’s wrist. “Right or left, your call.”
A hint of fear flashed in the youth’s eyes, but he didn’t cry out or cringe. A tough one, the Hunter thought. But life on the streets has a way of hardening anyone.
The Hunter fixed him with a long, hard glare. "But maybe today's your lucky day."
"Is it now?" The thief’s words held a derisive tone which failed to completely conceal his unease.
"Yes." The Hunter nodded and lowered his dagger, though he didn't release the young man’s collar. "You know your way around these parts, yes?"
"Course," the boy said with a shrug. "But everyone in Vothmot knows the Court of Judgement well enough."
"I don't need everyone. I just need one clever someone who can show me an easy way into one of the temples."
The thief’s eyebrows rose. "What would you be wantin' with the temples, eh?"
The Hunter tapped the youth’s nose with the tip of his dagger. "How badly do you want to know?"
"Fair point," the youth replied. His eyes darted between the blade and the Hunter's face. "Any temple in particular, or any one'll do?"
Darkblade Guardian Page 50