by Blake, Bruce
Despite his desperate need for rest, nightmares disrupted his repose. Faces of the dead stared back at him in the dark, their penetrating gazes accusing him of their deaths. The first innkeeper, the children by the creek, the serving girls and patrons of the last inn; their dead eyes glared at him, condemned him.
The young woman from the caravan all those seasons ago visited him, too. She smiled when she saw him, the glint in her eyes hinting at something Kuneprius longed for in secret but would never know. But the mirth on her lips melted away, leaving a scowl in its wake, then pain, and finally blood.
Kuneprius jerked in his sleep, moaned, but the nightmare wasn’t done with him. One more remained to lay blame at his feet.
Thorn.
The gray man strode into his dream, full of smiles and enthusiasm and vigor. A nod of his head brought light to the darkness. He waved his hand and flowers bloomed. He danced in a circle and birds of many colors took to the sky.
Such beauty; a welcome relief to Kuneprius’ sleep after the stench of blood and death had permeated it. But the respite proved short-lived. The flowers wilted, the birds fell to earth, and the sky dimmed to night. Thorn’s energy faded with the light, his shoulders drooped with the dying flowers.
And the evenstar shone overhead.
Ine’vesi glowed brighter than Kuneprius had ever seen, the intensity of the evenstar a palpable thing. It bombarded Thorn, its heat making his flesh sag on his limbs like wax melting from a taper. Ine’vesi’s glare drove the Small God to his knees, head hung forward in defeat.
Kuneprius himself appeared next, walking into the scene with a measured gait. He’d never watched himself like this in a dream, observing as though he were someone else.
Light flashed on an object in his hand: a long knife with a curve to it and a wicked edge. He stopped behind the kneeling Thorn, stared at the Small God for a time before raising his hands skyward and throwing his head back in a gesture of reverence to the priest in the sky. In front of him, Thorn trembled but did nothing to protect himself. He merely kneeled in his place, ready to accept his fate.
Dream Kuneprius lowered his arms, faced the Small God. He placed one hand on Thorn’s forehead, tilted his head back, and brought the blade to his throat, his expression blank, unreadable. His arm jerked and the knife’s edge opened Thorn’s throat, sending bright red blood fountaining into the air.
Kuneprius woke with a gasp, the tang of musty canvas on his tongue, and sat upright fast enough to send a jolt of pain through his back. His gaze flickered around the inside of the covered wagon, lit from the outside by the sun, but found nothing except the same coils of rope and boxes of supplies he’d seen when sleep overtook him.
How long did I sleep?
The hard ground clattered by under the wooden wheels, the solid axle transferring every bump and rut through the boards beneath him, rattling Kuneprius’ teeth. He panted through his nose, trying to regain a sense of well-being as sweat cooled on his brow. No surprise to him, the calm he yearned for eluded him, leaving him to wonder if he’d ever experience comfort again.
And if he ever truly had.
When the beating of his heart slowed to a reasonable pace, Kuneprius rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, wiped his forehead on his sleeve. The fabric of the robe the Brothers gave him to replace his filthy clothes with was rougher than his shirt had been. Despite having lived most of his life in such a robe, he missed the softer touch of the shirt. He flexed the toes of his bare feet, expecting to relish the lack of footwear but finding he missed the manner in which the boots had contained his feet.
It’s not the clothing and footwear I miss.
The rumbling in the floorboards smoothed out. The sensation of movement continued, but the rattle and clatter disappeared and Kuneprius’ teeth ceased juddering in his mouth. He stretched out, reaching for the canvas covering the wagon to pull it aside and see what had changed, but his knotted muscles prevented him, and he found himself with his cheek pressed to the floor once again.
He lay on his front, listening, trying to vanquish the last remnants of the nightmare clinging to his mind. All those he’d seen were dead, and he blamed himself for their deaths, but what about Thorn? What did the horrendous end to his dream mean?
Is he dead?
If so, the Brothers wouldn’t be going to Teva Stavoklis. But what if they weren’t? It occurred to him Thorn may have died and they’d taken Kuneprius as part of a caravan making its way back to the Green to kidnap another Small God.
He shuddered and forced himself to sit again. Outside, the sounds of water came to his ears; horses’ hooves splashed in it, wooden wheels shushed through it. It should have made sense, but sorting through it proved impossible. The sound meant something, but what?
He closed his eyes, imagining the procession making its way through water. Across a creek or river? Through a swamp or bog? Neither seemed right. The path was too smooth, the sound continuing too long.
Moving more slowly this time to protect his fatigued body, Kuneprius inched his way to the side of the wagon. He rested and drew three long breaths before reaching out and lifting the edge of the yellowed canvas, peeking through the opening.
Water.
It stretched on as far as his vision. No one walked beside the wagon, no other horse or wain traveled at his side. Not trees, no rocks, no land. Water and nothing else.
With the canvas pulled aside, the briny scent of the sea found its way to Kuneprius’ nose. He inhaled, the scent reminding him of the shore where they’d found Thorn. But that wasn’t where they were. They rode atop the water without sinking, which meant only one thing.
This was the inland sea he gazed upon, a body of water he’d never seen. The sun sparkled and glinted on its gentle waves, each of them dispersing a horse-length from the wagon. Kuneprius opened the canvas wider and leaned out, ignoring the pain it brought.
In front of his position, a line of wagons and wains stretched on toward a watery horizon with no apparent end. He struggled his body into a different position to look back. A similar procession of vehicles followed his wagon, but behind them he saw the shore of the Windward Kingdom. No road led to the water’s edge through the driftwood and stony expanse leading to it, yet the caravan had passed and now traversed the fabled water bridge. None but the Brothers knew how to locate it, for it lead to their most holy of places: Teva Stavoklis.
Two thoughts occurred to Kuneprius, the first bringing with it a sliver of hope.
Thorn is alive.
The second followed quickly behind, quashing hope with dread.
Alive to be sacrificed.
Kuneprius slouched back inside the wagon, the canvas falling into place to block the sun and the briny odor of the sea. He hugged his knees to his chest, pressed his face against his legs and allowed despair to take him.
***
Improbably, sleep found Kuneprius again, and the rest of the voyage passed while he was unaware of it doing so. When he awoke to the canvas separating him from the outside world being thrown aside, the day had finished and night had come. Darkness filled the wagon and the muted rush of water greeted his ears. Where the covering lay open, the light of a torch flickered across the face of the man looking in. He recognized Brother Ianix, a man ten turns of the seasons his senior, whom he’d known his entire life.
I’ve known most of the Brothers my whole life.
Where once he experienced comfort amongst these men, a sense of family and belonging, Kuneprius now suspected his life had been a lie, nothing more than a result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A child of the wrong mother. Where would he be now had a woman not of the order of the Goddess birthed him? Might he have had a normal life?
“It is time, Kuneprius.”
Brother Ianix pulled the canvas open wider, gestured for him to make his way out, but he hesitated.
“Time for what?”
Ianix chose not to reply; they both knew the answer.
“High Priest Kristeus
awaits you. Everyone awaits you.”
Ianix offered his hand, but Kuneprius didn’t take it at first. The urge to crawl away and curl himself up in the farthest corner of the wagon tugged at him, but it would do him no good. If Kristeus wanted him, nothing could hide him from the High Priest’s will.
The offered hand remained, patiently waiting, so Kuneprius took it. Brother Ianix gave a gentle tug, pulling him to his feet while steadying him. He’d set a short ladder against the side of the wagon, an act Kuneprius might have seen as an insult at another time, but was glad of while his body ached and complained with every movement.
As he emerged, the muted rush of water he’d heard within grew to a dull roar. A briny tang filled the air and a cool mist touched his face; he licked it from his lips and tasted the salt of the sea.
Brother Ianix’s hand remained on Kuneprius’ elbow and the man smiled at him. His eyes shone with an adoration and respect he’d never seen in them the times they’d shared the mess hall or the prayer room. The expression made him tremble.
“Come.”
Ianix pulled at his elbow, guiding him away from the wagon. The closed space behind the canvas had given him a measure of safety, if the comfort he desired eluded him. Now, outside it, the immensity of his surroundings left him awe struck.
The roar of water emanated from everywhere at once as a circular water wall rose around them. The darkness made it difficult to tell where it ended and the sky began, the only demarcation between the two being the twinkling of the Small Gods staring down from above. Kuneprius diverted his gaze from them, afraid of their judgement.
This is why Kristeus wants me. I’m to be punished for my actions…my sins.
He gulped hard and scuffled his feet, attempting to stop Brother Ianix from dragging him toward the ornate temple filling the center of the opening in the sea. His legs were yet too weak to halt him.
The temple was a wonder of a kind Kuneprius had never seen. A spire rose skyward, its domed roof topped by a slender needle at least as tall as two men. Though the darkness dulled its sheen, he thought both roof and adornment might be fashioned of gold, an incredible expense equalled by the skill needed to create it. A moat surrounded it, the water filling it drawn from the walls of sea encircling this amazing location. From what he understood, this place of worship and tribute had stood since before the Goddess banished the Small Gods, making it as old or older than Draekfarren castle, as old as history itself.
As they approached the building along a stone bridge wide enough to accommodate two wagons abreast with room to spare, Kuneprius peered over the edge at the water below. It swirled and eddied, black in the darkness, but the sheen of the Small Gods reflecting on its surface hinted at its flow. What he realized shocked him.
The water moves away from the temple, not toward it.
His gaze followed the water’s course, drawing his eye to the wall of the sea protecting the temple. At first, he thought of nothing but how it was possible for the wagons to find their way down here. The water wall stood taller than the temple’s spire, taller than any tree or building Kuneprius had ever seen, perhaps as tall as some mountains.
Then he realized it did not cascade down from the Inland Sea above, but flowed upward, away from the temple, as if called to the sky by the evenstar himself.
Kuneprius blinked hard, thinking it a trick played on his eyes by lingering exhaustion, but the water continued its course, defying the laws of nature and finding its way up and up and up.
Brother Ianix led him through an arched doorway as wide as the stone bridge, and the spectacle disappeared from sight to be replaced by another wonder.
No walls separated one part of the temple’s interior from another. Instead, it was a single great room. In Kuneprius’ estimation, the distance from the entrance to the far end measured as much as the lengths of two hundred horses, with its width equal in size. Stones of many colors made up the floor, their shapes similar to each other but different enough he suspected viewing the colorful floor from overhead would reveal a pattern or depiction, and he wondered what it might be.
Brother Ianix continued leading Kuneprius across the great room toward a group of robed Brothers gathered in a circle. Though he knew he should pay attention to them because they would decide his fate, curiosity drew his eyes upward to the ceiling, searching for a viewing gallery from which to observe the floor’s design.
He forgot his search when he realized the temple’s great room lay open to the sky.
But what of the spire and its needle?
Astounded, Kuneprius thought he might be mistaken; perhaps an accomplished artist had painted a likeness of the night sky on the inside. It took but brief observation for him to note the way the Small Gods twinkled; Ine’vesi stood out amongst them, glowering down on him. He forgot the ceiling’s anomaly, the evenstar’s judging glare forcing his awareness back to the fate awaiting him.
He peered ahead over Brother Ianix’s shoulder as they neared the circle of Brothers. Kuneprius couldn’t see into the ring, but one thing stood out above their heads.
The clay head of the golem.
A shuddering breath found its way into Kuneprius’ chest and he averted his gaze to his feet, bare toes visible in the black sandals. It took great effort to control his breathing, which wanted to shorten to fearful pants, but he forced his lungs to fill before he released the air again, attempting to use the technique to keep fear from overpowering him. If the golem stood within the circle, then it made sense the man who’d controlled him would be there, too, the man waiting to call Kuneprius before the Small Gods to be judged and sentenced: High Priest Kristeus.
A thumping startled him and it took a moment to recognize the sound of his heart beating in his ears. Without thinking, he counted the beats.
One. Two. Three.
He glanced up and saw they’d almost reached the circle, looked back down to his feet. His heart raced.
Seveneightnineteneleven…
Not so long ago, he’d have been pleased to remember his numbers, but not now. For every heartbeat he counted, he lent the number to each person left dead in their wake. Each beat he noted brought him one closer to his last.
Brother Ianix slowed and stopped, squeezed his elbow. When Kuneprius looked up in response, Ianix nodded toward the circle. He didn’t want to look, but couldn’t stop himself.
The Brothers closest to them had stepped aside, transforming the ring into a horseshoe, at the center of which stood Kristeus, dwarfed by the clay abomination standing at his side. The High Priest stared toward Kuneprius, a smile on his lips, but the golem glared past him, through him, the dead, blank eyes giving no hint they saw anything. Seeing the monstrosity again brought a shudder across his shoulders. He diverted his gaze to the altar in front of them, its sight making him forget the clay abomination.
The altar seemed out of place in the huge, elaborate room. Instead of being made of marble or gold, jewels or jade as befitted the temple, it was fashioned of plain stone and rotting wood, held together by clay and lengths of hemp rope. The materials used to build it meant nothing when Kuneprius saw Thorn bound and gagged on top of it.
He stood at the edge of the horseshoe, refusing to move despite Ianix’s prompting at his elbow. His head moved back and forth slightly, denying this was happening.
“All hail Kuneprius,” Kristeus intoned, breaking the silence. His clear, loud voice startled Kuneprius as it bounced and echoed from wall to wall. “Our Brother, the savior of the Small Gods.”
Thorn didn’t move. The gray man’s chest rose and fell as tough he still drew breath, but the motion was slight. Concern for the Small God so gripped Kuneprius, it took a moment for the High Priest’s words to penetrate his consciousness. When they did, he raised his eyes, looked from priest to golem and back, unsure he’d heard what he thought he heard.
“S…savior?” His lips trembled as he spoke. He’d thought nothing could be worse than facing punishment from the brotherhood and the Small G
ods. Could he have been wrong?
“Come.” Kristeus gestured for Kuneprius to enter the horseshoe, but he didn’t move. “You are a favored son of those who watch from the sky. Come take your place at my side.”
Brother Ianix prompted him more forcefully and his still tired legs could resist no longer. He stumbled forward a step and would have fallen if not for the hands on either side catching him under the arms and holding him up. The two helpful Brothers at the mouth of the horseshoe took him from Ianix and led him toward the altar, the High Priest, the monster. Kuneprius shook his head and resisted, sandals scraping the floor.
“No, I—”
“You helped bring this…” Kristeus waved a hand at Thorn, “this thing to us. Your efforts have provided the fodder we need to fulfill the prophecy and restore the evenstar and his brethren to their rightful places as rulers of this world. Hail Kuneprius!”
“Hail!”
The voices of the Brothers combined as one, the immensity of the room multiplying their enthusiasm to the point of deafening. Kuneprius winced, both at the volume assaulting his ears as well as at what they thought he’d done.
The two helping him brought him to stand between the High Priest and the golem before returning to their spots. They left him close enough to Thorn he could have reached out and stroked the Small God’s forehead, wiped stale sweat from his ashen brow. He raised a shaking arm, intending to do just that, but stopped himself when the clay man’s heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder. Kuneprius let his arm fall back to his side.
“The God Ine’vesi has whispered in my ear,” Kristeus said, directing his words not to Kuneprius alone, but to the entire group. “He is pleased with you, Kuneprius, and wants to honor you.”
The words registered, but he didn’t move his gaze from Thorn. Being closer confirmed the Small God still lived; his chest drew shallow breaths; his flesh, though pale, radiated warmth; his eyelids fluttered but remained shut.
Wake up, Thorn. Wake up and use your magic. Save us both.
Kristeus had gone silent and, for an instant, Kuneprius feared he might have pleaded aloud. His eyes flickered away from the Small God to the robed men but none of them gaped at him as though he’d committed sacrilege of the highest order. He drew a breath, the stink of clay strong in his nostrils.