The Dragonstone

by Dennis L McKiernan

  By this time, the man and woman had reached the base of the ladder, and now many of the other women started down, though some stayed on the banquette.

  The woman turned to Egil. “Well?”

  “Indeed, Lady, send someone to fetch our companions, for ’tis the Dylvana who should speak of our mission.”

  “Dylvana? An Elf?”

  At Egil’s nod, the woman turned and commanded, “Maftûh ilbauwâbi!” As the portcullis began clanking the rest of the way upward, she motioned to a young woman and said, “Kawâm, Jasmine, jâb iljauz khârij.” The acolyte bowed to the elder and spun on her heel and hastened toward the rising bars and the passageway beyond. “Kânmâ fiz ‘ân!” the older woman called out after her, then she turned to the foursome. “I told her to be not afraid, for she may think the Dylvana a djinn.”

  As the elder woman gave her attention to the foursome, Ferret asked, “Are all of you priestesses of Ilsitt?”

  At the naming of Ilsitt, on each hand the woman ritualistically touched forefinger to thumb to make small circles, as did all the women within earshot, as well as the sword-bearing man. “Indeed we are. All but Burel, here.” She turned a hand toward the big man. “Though he is a keeper of faith as well.”

  Delon stepped forward. “We are forgetting our manners. My Lady, may I present Lady Ferai of Gothon, Lady Aiko of Ryodo, Master Egil of Fjordland, and I am Delon of Gûnar.”

  As they were introduced, Aiko and Ferret pulled down the scarves veiling their faces. The priestess inclined her head to each, her eyes showing some surprise at Aiko’s golden hue and tilted eyes.

  “I am—” She turned to the man and spoke rapidly in Sarainese.

  “Abbess,” he replied.

  “I am Abbess Mayam, and this is Burel, who has no title, though his father was known as, um”—again she turned to Burel—“yâ sîdi? Yâ sîdi Ulry?”

  “Sir,” rumbled Burel, leaning on his sword. “He was Sir Ulry, of Gelen.”

  Behind them they could hear camels complaining at being coerced through the tunnel. Shortly Jasmine appeared, hauling a string of four of the recalcitrant beasts behind, followed by Arin tugging four more, and then came Alos after, four grumbling camels in his wake, the old man complaining as well. As the last camel emerged, the portcullis was lowered in its track to bottom out in socket holes in the stone.

  Arin and Alos were introduced to Mayam and Burel, the abbess clearly dazzled by the diminutive Dylvana, though she tried to conceal her fascination.

  “You must be hungry,” said Mayam. “Come let us go to a place where, after vespers, we can sup and talk, and you can tell me why you have journeyed here.”

  At a nod from Arin, the abbess turned to the waiting women and spoke in Sarainese, and acolytes came forward to take the camels away. Then the abbess and Burel led Arin and her companions angling across the great, sheer-walled basin as twilight began to fall. And nearly all the women followed.

  Ahead, they could see a great portico, with columns carved into the vertical face of the looming wall. Soon it was clear that this was their destination. As they drew closer it also became clear that this was not a full portico, but instead was sculpted in high relief. Two acolytes bearing tiny oil lamps emerged from the central opening, a doorway into the stone, and they set the lights upon free-standing pedestals, then went back inside.

  Toward this light Mayam led them, until Arin and her companions were close enough to see carved in the red stone lintel above the doorway the words:

  “Ah, luv!” cried Delon, grabbing Ferret about the waist. “You were right!”

  And he took her up and spun ’round and ’round and kissed her soundly on the lips.

  Of a sudden he stopped turning and set her down, puzzlement in his eyes. And then he kissed her again, this time gently and long. Surprised, at first she stood rigid, then less so, then melted into his embrace and clasped him tightly. Finally, lingeringly, he released her, and held her at arm’s length and looked at her in wonderment, just as she looked stunned at him.

  And in that moment there came a horrid, prolonged howl, as if some hideous creature were loose within the bounds of the great basin.

  * * *

  Alos screamed and bolted for the doorway, and Aiko’s swords flashed into her hands. Egil drew his axe from his belt and turned this way and that, seeking the direction of the yowl but failing as echoes slapped and reverberated among the high rock faces. Delon gripped his rapier, and a dagger was in each of Ferret’s hands. Arin held her long-knife, her eyes searching for foe.

  “Oh, my,” declared Mayam, as the drawn-out juddering cry diminished, the echoes dying as well, “I should have warned you.”

  “Warned us?” hissed Aiko, yet searching for foe.

  “Put away your weapons. There is nothing to fear. It is just our demon.”

  Arin looked at the abbess, the Dylvana’s eyes wide. “Your demon?”

  “Indeed. Though its roots are true, the demon itself is entirely false. Its terrible roar nothing but a many-chambered horn blown by great bellows driven by a rather large weight raised by a windlass and dropped. Twice a day we sound it: at eventide and in the mid of night.” The abbess glanced at Arin and winked. “It keeps the zealots of Rakka out of the maze altogether…as well as others.”

  Arin sighed and sheathed her weapon, as did the rest. Then the Dylvana said, “Would that we had known the peril was false.”

  Aiko shook her head and tapped her chest. “The peril is not false, Dara.”

  The abbess looked at the Ryodoan and said, “Indeed, I do agree. Yet it cannot enter here.”

  * * *

  They followed Mayam through the doorway and into the temple, Burel coming last. They passed through an entrance hall—a narthex—and stepped into a large oval nave, a high-vaulted ceiling above the chamber of worship, a polished floor below, the place aglow with the soft yellow light of sconced candles ringing ’round. Benches sat against the smooth curve of wall, arcing to left and right. At the far end they could see a high altar, a circle of life carved upon its outward face—the symbol of Ilsitt, of Elwydd in her many names. In the center of the floor another circle of life was inset into the stone. Mayam paused at the entrance and bowed in obeisance, her forefingers touching her thumbs to make small circles. Beyond the altar, two acolytes knelt at each side, their voices low, pleading. Mayam started across the space, stepping wide of the circle of life embedded in the polished stone, as did those who followed her. As they approached the altar, they could hear someone hissing and babbling: it was Alos, huddled down against the floor behind, gibbering of demons and monsters and Trolls, while the acolytes speaking in Sarainese tried in vain to soothe him.

  * * *

  “Well, someone should have told us it was nothing but a horn,” snapped Alos, glaring ’round the great stone table. “Scaring people half to death like that, springing such a thing upon them unannounced.”

  They waited in an alcove somewhere beyond the sacristy behind the altar and nave. Egil and Arin sat side by side, his fingers interlaced with hers, both gazing about, surveying the room, though there was little to see. Aiko sat opposite Alos, staring impassively at the oldster, her disgust lying just below the surface of her gaze.

  Ferai and Delon also sat on opposite sides of the table from one another, their eyes would meet and then glance away, avoiding contact, as if frightened by what a kiss had revealed.

  And drifting through the stone passageways, they could hear the evensong carols as the followers of Ilsitt celebrated their faith.

  Egil smiled and looked at Alos and shook his head. “It was a startlement, indeed, Alos, coming unexpected as it did.”

  “Unexpected?” said Burel, entering. From the nave the sound of singing went on.

  “The demon horn,” replied Egil.

  “Oh, that. As Mayam said, it keeps the Fists of Rakka at bay.” He stepped from the chamber into a side room, and they could hear a dipping and pouring of water, and the clang of a kettle on
a grate. Above these sounds he called out, “But horn or no, it did not stop you from coming.” Shortly he returned, bearing a tray of cups, only to disappear again.

  “How did you create such a device?” asked Delon, raising his voice.

  “We didn’t,” Burel called back. “The abbess tells me it was here when the Order of Ilsitt first came. When they discovered what it did, they put it to use at need.”

  Delon looked at the others ’round the table and raised his hands in question. Arin murmured, “No doubt the abbess or someone will tell us how this came to be.”

  Still the evensong caroling came drifting inward, and now Burel began to sing in underharmony, his voice a deep baritone.

  When the song came to an end, silence fell. The ceremony ended. Burel stepped back into the chamber, this time bearing a second tray on which rode a steaming pot of tea and a jar of honey. He set the tray down and began filling cups and passing them around the table. As he passed a cup to Alos, he said, “I am sorry the demon horn frightened you, but it is our—how shall I say?—our unrevealed weapon. We carefully foster the rumors of a demon-haunted maze, and the horn gives credence to the tales.”

  “Well,” grumped Alos, “you should have found a way to tell us.”

  Burel shook his head. “We did not know you were coming until our lookouts spotted you afar. Even then we knew not who you were—still do not, for that matter. Ordinarily, the only ones who know the truth, as well as the way, are our supporters outside.”

  “Supporters?” asked Ferret.

  “Followers of Ilsitt, luv,” said Delon, “or so I surmise.”

  At mention of Ilsitt, Burel’s fingers formed the ritualistic circles. “Yes, worshippers of the Lady.”

  “Elwydd,” murmured Arin.

  Wide-eyed, Burel looked at the Dylvana. “Indeed, though it has been long since I’ve heard that name, and then only because it was the name given Her by my father, or so I was told.”

  The big man passed the honey ’round the table to sweeten the tea. Each took a small portion of this rare treat, except Alos, who glopped in three spoonfuls.

  “You say your lookouts spotted us from afar,” said Egil, “yet in this maze with all its twists and turns, how is that possible?”

  Burel jabbed a thumb toward the ceiling. “From the rim above, there are places where sections of the trail can be seen, especially in the last few miles.”

  “Ah,” said Egil, taking up his cup.

  As they settled back to sip the brew, Burel said, “I meant to ask, did you erase all sign of your passage through the maze? It would not do if the Fists of Rakka or others of like mind could follow the path.”

  “We set no fires, pitched no tents,” said Egil. “And camels’ feet are soft on the land, and they left no track on the stone. I think we left no traces.”

  “Did you clean the way of your camel dung? Or that of your own? Bring it with you?”

  Wordlessly, Egil shook his head.

  “Then you must do so on your way out,” said Burel. “That which now lies along the way as well as any new-made.”

  Egil glanced about at all the others and then nodded.

  They drank tea in rebuked silence, none saying aught.

  Moments later, however, Mayam strode into the chamber, the abbess bearing a tray of breads and a steaming tureen of soup, spoons and bowls on the tray as well.

  Soon all were served and as they ate, Mayam said, “Vespers tonight were particularly suffused with joy. Visitors to this temple always create such a stir, though they are usually adherents and not strangers such as you.”

  “This temple,” said Delon, “it has always nurtured your faith?”

  Mayam canted her head. “It was created in a time no one remembers and crafted by unknown hands for purposes unrevealed. Centuries agone, some adherents of my order discovered it. It had been long abandoned. Yet the symbols of the Lady were in the floor of the nave as well as on the high altar when we found it.

  “At the time of the bloodletting, we retreated here.”

  Aiko frowned. “Time of the bloodletting?”

  “Slaughter of the worshippers of Ilsitt,” Burel growled.

  Aiko’s eyes narrowed, but she said no more.

  “You say that there are yet adherents who live outside the maze?” asked Ferret.

  Mayam smiled. “Indeed. Without them, we would be hard-pressed to live here. They bring us supplies to help see us through. Our gardens can only provide so much.”

  “Gardens?” said Ferret. “But what do you do for water?”

  “Ah, that.” Mayam smiled. “There is a lake hidden in the stone, or so we deem, for our wells never run dry.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  They ate in silence for long moments, and then Delon said, “Except for you, Burel, I’ve seen no other men. Are they—?”

  “I am alone,” said Burel.

  Delon smiled. “With all these women….”

  Burel shrugged.

  “Ordinarily,” said Mayam, “there would be no men whatsoever. But Burel is a special child. Raised here in the sanctuary of the labyrinth.”

  “But surely, Burel, you have been elsewhere,” said Ferret. “To the city of Aban, or the like.”

  Burel shook his head. “I have never been beyond the iron of the portcullis.”

  Egil glanced from Burel to the abbess and back. “There is a tale here for the telling.”

  “Indeed,” replied Mayam. “Yet although it is Burel’s tale, I think I must do some of the telling, for I was a witness, whereas he was not yet born. But it will wait until after your own tale is told. How did you learn of the trail through the labyrinth? And what is it that brings you here?”

  Arm sighed. “It is a long twisting path we have followed, and not just the one through the Demon’s Maze. Let me begin at the beginning, at a campfire in Darda Erynian when I first beheld the green stone.”

  “Green stone!” exclaimed Burel. A look of surprise passed between Mayam and him.

  “Know you of this thing?” asked Arin.

  Mayam turned up a hand. “Perhaps we do. Tell your tale and we shall see.”

  * * *

  It was near mid of night when Arin finished her accounting of all that had befallen, starting with her vision in Darda Erynian, and ending with the journey through the labyrinth.

  Mayam sat in silence for a while. Then she looked at Alos asleep, the oldster’s head cradled in his arms on the table, his snores sounding softly in the alcove. “It is late,” said the abbess, “and you have journeyed far. Tomorrow will be soon enough for us to tell you what we know. Yet this I will say: Burel would seem to be the one you seek—the cursed keeper of faith in the maze. And the green stone of your vision is the cause of his bane.”

  CHAPTER 53

  In spite of her late bedtime, Aiko arose just ere the first light of day. She donned her leathers and boots and helm, and took up her swords and shiruken and stepped from the acolyte cell assigned to her last night by the abbess. Like the small chamber and all else in this place, the hallway beyond was cut through red rock, and she turned leftward for the archway leading outside. Emerging into the great basin, she made her way toward a place where the light would fall whenever the sun cleared the eastern rim, for she would have its golden rays discover her drilling in the way of the sword. But she found she was not alone in her desire, for Burel was already there, dressed in a metal breastplate and helm and breeks and boots, his great sword cutting the cool shadowed air of the dawn.

  Aiko stood in the semidarkness and watched awhile as the big man, light on his feet, danced and whirled and thrust at imaginary foe or cut in great rounding sweeps, wielding his weapon as if he had been born to the steel. Even so, Aiko frowned at his exercise, for it spoke of ignorance of battle. He seemed adept at handling the blade, but not in the ways of war.

  So as not to take him unawares, Aiko began whistling a tune as she strode out across the flat toward him, and Burel stopped his spinning and stood
awaiting her.

  As she came before him she said, “I thought that only I would be up early to drill at kinmichi, yet I find you already at practice.”

  “Kinmichi?”

  “The way of the sword.”

  “Oh.”

  Aiko stretched and turned and moved her head from side to side while Burel watched. “It would not do to pull a muscle or have a cramp in mere practice,” she said. “In war, one does not always have the luxury of loosening up, but drill is an altogether different matter.”

  Burel grunted noncommittally, though he watched carefully, as if noting each and every detail.

  Finally, Aiko stood still, her eyes closed, her breathing deep and regular. “I am now visualizing the drill,” she murmured, as if speaking any louder would break her concentration.

  Burel nodded, but remained silent.

  Then Aiko exploded into action, her swords appearing in her hands as if they had somehow been there all the while. And she spun and whirled, her blades humming through the air, cutting high and slicing low, thrusting and backing and cross-blade blocking, driving forward in running flèches, battering, parrying, retreating, crouching, leaping, striking, ducking, dropping to her knees and all the while her steel singing hissing songs of death—swords, daggers, shiruken, appearing, disappearing, lethal weapons always in hand…

  Whuff! The air exploded from Burel’s lungs with the wonder of it all, and he watched in awe as she gyred and fled and charged and stood, her blades but a blur.

  At last she stopped, her steel once again tucked away.

  Burel drew a deep, shuddering breath. “That was magnificent,” he said. Then he looked at his great sword. “I could never do such.”

  Aiko nodded. “Your weapon is meant for battle against heavily armored foe and generally in single combat.”

  Burel nodded. “Have you experience with such weapons?”

  Aiko turned up a hand. “They were part of my training.”