Standing up, she left the room.
Corintus sighed. That’s what I was afraid of, he thought. Soon, she will realize the greatest battle for an Empyrean is to live without a blade in each hand. To best your enemy with a blade is hard, but to best your will by your own hand is harder still. Now, we shall see of what mettle you are truly made, Amaréya. And may the gods have pity on us.
“Do not go to Tirkalanzibar. Under no circumstance, should you set foot in this maddeningly confusing city. Tirkalanzibar is a nightmare hiding behind empty promises, a spider's web pretending to be a haven and a refuge. If you must transit through this accursed city, blindfold your eyes, cover your ears and do not breathe until you are out in the open, away, far away from Tirkalanzibar.”
–Memoir of Alkiniöm the Traveler.
While Corintus spoke to Amaréya, Tamri—the soloist who had helped Bahiya save Hiyam during the Games of the Mines—ran as fast as her silver, open-toed heels allowed. Her mistress, Sarand the Soloist, had summoned her into the Arayat.
“I have need of your counsel, daughter, in a matter that cannot wait,” she had told her. Tamri ran for she feared her mistress more than the Pit itself. Reaching the main entrance to the Adorants’ wing, she sang the “Elikan”, and the marble double-door silently opened. Adorants used magic in social settings to control, manipulate, and subdue the minds of men. One of their techniques, known as arayin, or transposition, consisted of a quick mental shift from this world to the Arayat world where they called on a specific spell or curse, then switched back. Elikan was one such spell that protected the main door of the Adorants’ wing in Babylon. Since arayin spells were weak and limited in range, they were ideally suited for use in social settings and for localized effects such as opening or closing a door. For more potent magic, the Adorant used other ways, which required them to enter the Spell World, and this is where Tamri was headed.
Outside, the Temple of Marduc—as Baal was known in Babylon—blotted the setting sun. Sarand would not have interrupted our communal meal if this matter was not urgent, Tamri thought. Urgent and evil.
Tamri reached the end of the third balcony, which graced their wing, and stepped onto the stony pathway that ran the length of the inner garden. Across the way, she glimpsed the Meridian Gate as it glittered in the dying light of the day. According to ancient lore, Sureï had set this gate in place as a final defense against the Pit, and there it still stood. Tamri wrapped her scarf around her bare shoulders as Babylon was uncharacteristically cold for a summer night. Shivering, she wished she had time to change from the flowing silk dress into warmer attire. I will be cold in the Arayat anyway. Nothing can keep me warm there. An imperious wind whipped her ankles as she passed between two rows of tall statues. High priests stood to the left facing the Adorants to her right, as if each consecutive pair of statues were about to embrace and dance. The base of each priestly statue was cut into black onyx while the statues of the Adorants rested on pink marble stones. A chiseled face lined each dark stone, and in the rays of the setting sun, the faces seemed to be alive, contorted in pain, as if they were caught inside the stone itself. Tamri shivered, No wonder we call them the Kerta pillars.
She left the inner garden through the Meridian Gate, and climbed two flights of stairs to a side door and walked into the Temple of Marduc. Two of her sister Adorants stood barefoot with arms outstretched before the altar of Baal, while three Shogols, spell herders, performed the ritual of purification. Even though they were in their thirties, they looked much older. They are deathly pale. They must have spent several weeks in the Arayat. I can barely last one day there. Tamri looked across Baal’s massive altar and gave a start. A Kerta priest looked at her, his eyes glittering beneath his thick gray cowl. What is he doing here? Kertas do not worship Marduc. The sound of her silver shoes on the marble floor suddenly became deafening. I cannot believe it. That lousy Kerta touched my mind. She closed her eyes and let out an inner sigh—which could only be heard in the Arayat. The touch disappeared instantly. He will have a lingering headache. Who does he think he is?
Directly behind the main altar, an eight-foot-wide, silver plate, cut in the shape of an arched doorway, hung inside a recessed alcove. Smooth as a mirror and cold as death, it absorbed the faint reflection of the candles. Tamri stood in front of it and did not see her reflection either. Taking a deep breath, she sang an inner song, a song that resonated inside the Arayat. The silver plate flashed a bright light and Tamri walked forward, hands outstretched. Her fingers touched the plate and the metal liquefied, turning into a frigid, gray pool. When Tamri walked through the pool, she emerged in the Arayat looking like a sunflower.
“Come hither, daughter.”
Obeying her mistress’ command, Tamri flew over rolling hills that oozed a thick green substance, then down into a steep yellow canyon covered by a bubbling silver mist. The spellflow is as thick as syrup tonight. The Shogols must be seeding a new field of curses. Emerging from the canyon, she felt a stronger tug and crossed a vast plain in minutes. A brilliant speck appeared on the horizon and grew steadily into a fearsome creature. Tamri shuddered. This was Sarand’s appearance in the Spell World: a shattered millennial oak as dry as dead bones, fused with the upper iron body of a three-headed dragon. Sarand was the Soloist, the leader of the Adorant and a favored daughter of Baal. A high-ranking servant of Baal taking the form of a three-headed dragon may have led some to suspect Sarand of secretly serving Tanniin, the dragon-god. Still, since no one could control their appearance, no one took umbrage.
The middle head turned in her direction. “So you have come, daughter,” it said. The other two heads stayed motionless and gazed at a spot hidden by a ridge.
Tamri wanted to bow, but her sunflower persona performed a pirouette. “Yes, as soon as I heard your summons, Your Ladyship.”
The dragon cocked his middle head. “I seek your advice in a troublesome matter, daughter. Follow me.”
Inwardly, Tamri shivered. Sarand was not to be trifled with. The Soloist’s powers rivaled those of the High Priest Sharr. Endowed with a superior intellect, she was learned, cunning, and remorseless. Sarand was known to relentlessly pursue her goals with the patience of a spider and the strength of a tigress. She was a formidable magician, one who could easily challenge and perhaps overtake Sharr as the head of the entire order of Baal. From her Adorants, she demanded complete submission and blind obedience. She would often muse and call them her butterflies who feed a giant spider, which is how she saw herself; as a spider who brings all into subjugation to Baal, lord of rain and sunshine.
Dutifully, Tamri followed her mistress. Have we stopped moving? she wondered after a while. We are not getting closer to the ridge.
As if reading her mind, Sarand explained, “I have placed an Elongation Spell to protect this spot. It will take longer to cross. What I will show you is for your eyes only.”
An Elongation Spell in the Arayat? Normally, this spell is used against advancing armies to demoralize or fatigue them before they reach the line of battle. Suddenly, Tamri realized the danger she was in. I will not be able to cross back. Sarand can leave me here to die, or worse, to be slowly absorbed by the Spell World. She wanted to flee, but Sarand’s grip was iron-fisted. Like a butterfly caught inside a net, Tamri was forced to follow. After a long agony, they broke free and crossed over the ridge into a gray plain.
“Gray?” asked Tamri, forgetting her worries. “I have never seen a gray plain in the Arayat.”
“The closer to the Pit you are, the lighter the Arayat becomes. Normally, no creature raised outside of the Pit ventures here; it is too dangerous.”
Tamri wondered how Sarand knew these things and whether her mistress had gone near the Pit. A wave of terror choked her.
“Look up ahead, daughter, what do you see?”
Tamri inhaled sharply, which led her sunflower representation to perform a few turns.
“Stunning, are they not?” said the dragon’s middle head.
&n
bsp; Beyond them, thousands upon thousands of Whisper Spells formed a huge, continuously circling tower over a spot Tamri could not yet see. Whenever a Shogol noticed a failed spell, they would starve it to death and let the Arayatian ground reabsorb it. Occasionally, a defective spell would evade detection until harvest time. Destroying a broken, full-grown spell was a dangerous and time-consuming process. Instead, the Shogols moved these useless spells to a deserted corner of the Arayat. Most of these spells would eventually die, but some have taken on a life of their own. A Whisper Spell was a failed spell that looked like a headless bird; these spells came in all sizes and shapes, and were recognizable by the swirl of color along their underbelly and their dark gray wings. Like parrots gone mad, they whispered garbled words without ceasing, as if they were trying to undo the incantation that had brought them into existence. No one knew why these broken things perdured or why they flocked together. Owing to the vastness of the Arayat, the Temple had never bothered with them, considering them inoffensive magic trash.
“I have never seen anything like it,” whispered Tamri. “I have seen a flock of Whisper Spells, but never this … gathering. Why are they all here? What is attracting them?”
“Excellent questions,” hissed the dragon. “Come and see.”
They descended onto the plain, flying below the broken spells. “Do not look up, daughter,” snapped Sarand. “In proximity to one another, these broken spells can combine in unexpected and deadly ways.”
“They can do that?”
“It is rare, but it can happen. I brought you here out of dire necessity.”
Tamri relaxed. Perhaps, she does not want me dead after all.
The three-headed dragon looked up and screamed. Tamri winced, for the scream was a modulated, high-pitched screeching sound. Like concentric waves pushing away thousands of small fishing boats, Sarand’s scream forced the Whisper Spells to scatter. “That ought to do it,” said the dragon in a slur. “Tell me now, what do you make of this?”
Tamri looked down and saw a wide black patch in the gray vastness where a monstrous plant lay. It looked like four palm leaves, each the size of a mountain with edges sharper than the sharpest blade.
“Do not go any lower, but examine this spell. Tell me what you see.”
Tamri shuddered. “This spell is not made by human hands. Its roots are throbbing red, which means it is sourced from the depths of the Spell World, beyond mortal reach. A Pit Spell,” she whispered. “This spell is the work of the Pit. It has four parts, equally distributed, which means it is universal. Its size shows its strength and the sharp edges are meant to break through a counter-spell. The color tells me it is curse-filled. Its hatred is overwhelming. I do not understand, Your Ladyship. I thought the Pit was closed. Did a creature of the Pit manage to escape?”
The dragon’s three heads produced a sharp click. “The Temple has, shall we say, visitors from the Pit. It has kept them in the Arayat from before the closing of the Pit. They are held behind a series of curses that Sureï created. Our current leader, in his arrogance and stupidity, has released an urkuun.” Tamri stiffened, then nearly panicked. Calling Sharr arrogant and stupid was a declaration of war. She is going to challenge him soon. “Do you know what an urkuun is, daughter?”
Tamri needed all her self-control to stay focused. Standing in front of this monster in the Spell World and listening to her mistress speak of the urkuun as nonchalantly as one might speak of a lazy summer day was too much to bear. She struggled to contain her emotions and stay recollected, for Sarand was unforgiving.
The dragon grunted, “An urkuun is a like a scream that all listeners are bound to memorize and imitate. It turns you into a willing copy of itself, as much as your nature allows. The urkuun needs no army. Its staunchest enemies become its willing soldiers.”
“Why did Sha—”
“Careful, daughter,” snapped the dragon, “do not utter anyone’s name in the Arayat. The Spell World can seize on your intent and tag a curse to the name, and it will drain life from you to feed that curse.”
Tamri chided herself. She knew this. “My apologies, Your Ladyship; it will not happen again. Why did our leader do this?”
The dragon-oak tree shook under a boisterous laugh. “Because he is a coward. He fears the Seer.”
“The Seer? Is he among us?”
Please, enough, thought Tamry. As the dutiful daughter of a high-ranking soldier of Baal, she had joined the Adorants. Her brother was a commander of the High Riders, and her family had been in the military service of Baal for as long as anyone could remember. But this, nothing had prepared her for this.
The dragon grunted. “Yes, he is, but he is not a worthy foe of the urkuun. Most likely, the Seer has no clue how to use the Letters of Power and we could scoop him up the way a tiger snatches a baby lamb. The High Priest of Babylon has gone mad.”
“We know how to stop an urkuun, don’t we?”
“Our leader thinks the four orders of Baal combined can control the beast. He is a fool. Only a spell-storm could overpower an urkuun.”
Tamri blanched. “A spell-storm? Thousands upon thousands of spells bound by a curse of anger so strong that once released, it must run its course. It would wipe out—”
“Three or four kingdoms. I know,” replied the dragon dismissively. “Now, daughter, focus on this spell. What else do you see?”
Confusion, anger, and bewilderment threatened to cloud Tamri’s judgment, but her fear of Sarand overcame all other sentiments and she regained her composure. She inspected the four sides of the spell but nothing came to mind. Tamri knew the cardinal rule of magic: Nothing should be observed unless it comes to mind. She let her gaze glide up and down, waiting for a signal, but quickly abandoned her search. Instead, she focused on the root of the spell. At first she saw only blackness and the feeble, red throbbing light. She was about to move away when something caught her attention. The light … Tamri gasped.
“Excellent, daughter. You saw it then.”
“I don’t understand. How could this be?”
“What do you think it is?”
“A … hole in the … fabric of the Spell World. It is like saying there is a hole in the heavens. This hole, it is like a void sucking away the fabric of the Spell World.”
“Very observant, Daughter. There is a hole close to the roots, which the red light hides. Someone inflicted a deadly wound to this spell and pierced the Arayat. In your estimation, could you and the priestess of Baalbek have done this?”
Sarand’s question confused Tamri. “Done this? You mean when I helped the High Priestess fend off an attack against her daughter?” At last, Tamri understood why Sarand summoned her to this place. After the Game of Gold, she related to Sarand how she had lent Bahiya a hand. She had relayed the incident to Sarand, who saw it as routine cooperation between a Methodical priestess and an Adorant.
“I do not believe so, Your Ladyship. We were hard-pressed and barely survived the onslaught. No, most certainly not.” Tamri carefully avoided pronouncing Bahiya’s name. Instead, she called her by the order of priesthood Bahiya belonged to. “The Methodical priestess could not have caused this.” Realizing what she had just said, she looked at her mistress. “She fought the urkuun?”
The dragon snickered. “Do not commit a man’s mistake, my daughter. Their inflated sense of self led them to dismiss a woman simply because she is a woman; as if a bramble would dismiss a pine tree for being a pine tree. The Methodical’s priestess strength is buried deep within her soul where she has kept it hidden from sight. She knows the deep things of the Arayat.” The three heads nodded, and the middle one grinned a bone-chilling, metallic grin. “You did very well, my daughter. I have underestimated you.”
Seeing the glint in the beast’s eyes, Tamri shivered. “Thank you, Your Ladyship.”
“Indeed, none of us has the wherewithal to destroy a spell of this magnitude, let alone create a hole in the Arayat. But clearly, the urkuun has directed this all-encompassi
ng spell against someone.”
“But you just said, Your Ladyship, that no one can withstand the might of the urkuun.”
“Unless …”
Tamri saw Sarand look at her with expectant eyes. The Soloist had an answer in mind and she expected her Adorant to know it. “Unless,” Tamri continued slowly, “unless the Seer is alive.”
“Indeed,” said the dragon as she smiled a murderous smile. “Unless she is in our midst.”
“She?” asked Tamri, confused, “the Methodical priestess?”
“No, daughter, I mean the Seer, the female Seer, the one who holds the key to the Pit. You are exhausted, daughter. Let us leave the Arayat for now. I have much thinking to do.
The following morning, a caravan carrying Hayat and Jabbar waited for the High Riders to complete their inspection before admitting them into Tirka—short form of Tirkalanzibar, City of Caravans. Tirka was set in the eastern foothills of the low Mitanian Chain on a narrow plateau. It overlooked the dusty lowlands of Uratu—Kingdom of Caravans. Tirka, the millennial city, stood behind a forty-foot wall, which the High Riders had manned for the past three hundred years.
The city benefited from clement weather and good pasturage. The Aliferaaz River, which took its source sixty miles northwest, became a forty-foot-wide channel by the time it reached the city. The Tirkanians had created specialized barges to ferry the caravaners east to Kapor, the last outpost before the desert. From Kapor, they could follow a safe transit to the Kingdom of Marada. The barges continued south to Sargussal, which offered a shorter but far more dangerous crossing to the land of the giants.
Arfaad, the newly appointed commander of the High Rider division, opened the door to his apartments and stepped outside. Even though the sun was still on the horizon, the air was warm and dry. The raging cacophony rose from the city below and hit him like a fist. Human shouts tried desperately to rise over the braying of camels, like survivors trying to stay afloat on tumultuous waves. He stepped onto the parapet and gazed at the sea of tents, which occupied the interior of Tirka. Apart from the High Riders barracks and the three hundred and fifty large water basins, there was no other building in the city. A chaotic mishmash of colorful tents prevailed. Some were barely large enough for a man and his horse, while others were wide enough for an entire caravan. Tirka was a city without streets and a city without rest; a place where caravans came and left all hours of the day and night.
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 27