A Deliverer Comes

by Jill Williamson

  The squawk of a bird drew Qoatch’s gaze up. Beams crisscrossed into the walls at the apex of the pyramid, creating perches for dozens of birds.

  Abaqa led them to the bottom. A group of men sitting along one front row were chanting and beating on circular animal-skin drums. As Qoatch drew nearer, he got a better look at the cistern. It was a shallow circle, as wide as an average giant was tall. It had an outer rim of masoned rock no more than a hand’s breadth deep that was covered in bird droppings. Inside, a shrouded form had been laid out as if on a funeral pyre. The red-stained rock beneath the body brought a jolt of realization over Qoatch. This was no cistern but a basin to contain blood flow.

  It was an altar.

  Abaqa bade them sit in the front row opposite the drummers. Here they waited. Heat from the fires warmed Qoatch’s face, clouds of gnats swarmed, and the smell of boiled blood hung in the air. Twigs from evergreen trees had been placed in the fire pits and gave off a smoky, fragrant scent. In the Veil, Dendron remained at King Barthel’s side, but some two dozen of his shadir flitted over the altar, curious, it seemed, and somewhat eager.

  What would Jazlyn make of this? In the past five days Qoatch had learned much of the king’s plans to take over Armania. The man had allies in that realm—including one in Castle Armanguard itself. There was even a mantic who still had evenroot. King Barthel had many plans for Shanek. He meant to use him to transport evenroot from his Armanian ally, to teach him the new magic, and to distract Rosâr Trevn from the real attack.

  Qoatch had passed all he’d learned to Jazlyn through the common Cherem, who had told him that his Great Lady had found the king’s harvest of new root and was having it loaded on the ship. Qoatch hated being apart from her and hoped she took care with King Barthel’s guards.

  Abaqa spoke, and Harton translated. “This temple houses many spirits, including the male ancestors of our people.” The giant pointed to the apex where the birds were perched.

  Giants continued to stream inside and take seats wherever they could find a place. Before long the structure was packed with onlookers.

  A hush fell over the crowd on Qoatch’s right. A man had entered and was descending the steps toward the altar. He wore an ornate headdress and a heavy black cape made of feathers that swept over the steps behind him and sent up a trail of dust.

  Master Harton translated Abaqa’s whisper. “This is Duu Ovdog. He is the . . . kholoi?” Harton grimaced. “The word translates as voice, but I suspect he’s some kind of priest.”

  Duu Ovdog reached the bottom and began to circle the platform. His headdress was like a warrior’s helmet, covered in shiny black feathers. A veil of black tassels across the brim cast his face into a murky shadow. He carried a scepter made of bone. The top had been decorated with black tassels tipped in feathers and bone shards. He removed a flask from his belt, drank from it, then spat into the nearest fire, sending up a cloud of flame and smoke.

  Movement on the other side of the altar drew Qoatch’s attention—the man’s dark skin. What was one of King Barthel’s men doing over there? Abaqa would surely rage if one of his guests were caught so near the altar.

  Something about the man’s face made Qoatch look more closely. He knew him, though not from King Barthel’s guard. The familiarity continued to nag. Qoatch was staring hard when the man met his gaze. The face registered surprise, then vanished.

  The act so startled Qoatch that he wanted to stand and see if the man had ducked behind the cistern. Ridiculous, of course, with such a shallow altar. Where had he gone? Had Qoatch been seeing things? Might they be burning some kind of hallucinogen in those fire pits?

  Duu Ovdog approached the next fire, again drank from his flask, and spat into the flames, creating the same effect as before. The flask must contain some sort of alcohol.

  Qoatch glanced down his row and caught sight of the familiar man. Only he wasn’t fully there. He was transparent, nearly sitting on top of Filkin Yohthehreth, who did not seem to notice the invasion in the slightest.

  The trespasser was fully inside the Veil. It could not be possible, though Qoatch, being a seer, knew the truth. The Veil made the man’s skin look strange. Grayish.

  As Duu Ovdog spat into the third fire, the answer came to Qoatch just as the familiarity in the man’s face clicked into place. This must be the boy Grayson. He had aged a great deal since Qoatch had traveled with him back in Rurekau. Yes, he was positive he was looking at the same person.

  Duu Ovdog spat into the fourth fire, then stretched his scepter toward one of the entrances and said, “Beleg abja.”

  “He said to bring the sacrifice,” Master Harton translated.

  Murmurs in the crowd drew Qoatch’s attention away from the boy turned man. Two giants dragged an elderly man down the steps. He was pale—one of the Puru people. The way his body sagged between the giants made Qoatch believe he was unconscious, but as they reached the platform, Qoatch saw that the old man’s eyes were open, roving about in obvious terror. His wrists were bound before him, and he seemed incapable of movement. The giants laid him on his back in the cistern beside the shrouded, much larger body. Each giant drew a dagger, took one of the old man’s hands, and slashed their blades across his wrists.

  The old man’s eyes continued to move—Qoatch thought he heard him moan—but still he did not struggle. In the Veil, the shadir swept up to the old man and circled him, crooning as his blood seeped onto the rock bottom of the cistern.

  The giants climbed down, and Duu Ovdog positioned himself outside the cistern, by the feet of the two bodies.

  “Avakh beleg tsusny!” he yelled, his voice rough and deep. He knelt, closed his eyes, and began swaying from side to side, chanting words Qoatch could not understand.

  “Accept this blood gift,” Master Harton whispered, translating the priest’s words. “Great sky, open. Release to us the spirit of Nogoon mi Huj.”

  Duu Ovdog lifted his scepter over his head and shook it. The leather tassels, bits of bone, and feathers clicked together as the priest repeated the chant.

  Qoatch glanced down the row. Grayson was still there, watching. Oddly, Qoatch saw no shadir in the Veil other than those loyal to Dendron. Whatever magic the Jiir-Yeke possessed, it did not involve shadir.

  Duu Ovdog spoke and Master Harton said, “Nogoon mi Huj, come to me.”

  “What’s happening?” King Barthel asked Abaqa.

  “He speaks from this world into the next,” Master Harton translated. “Soon the earth spirit will enter his body and conduct the soul trade.”

  Two birds swooped down and circled over the altar.

  “The spirits are descending,” Harton translated.

  Duu Ovdog’s chanting picked up speed, and while he remained on his knees, his swaying became a dance. He flung his staff out like a whip as if spurring on a horse. The drummers continued to pound and chant. Even the crowd joined in. The sound grew to a fevered pitch.

  The atmosphere and temperature changed. Something flickered in the Veil where Duu Ovdog knelt. Something that exuded coldness. The priest seemed to glow with a dark and unworldly presence. The radiance existed only in the Veil, however. No one else could see it, except perhaps Grayson. A shadir, likely, but different from those Qoatch had seen.

  The thick, cold presence drew energy to itself. Fear gripped Qoatch, and he knew that no hope existed in this horrible world. Whatever creature had been summoned had draped a shroud of darkness over everyone.

  Duu Ovdog stood, and all at once the crowd fell silent.

  “A spirit has entered him,” Harton whispered.

  The priest walked stiffly around the altar. His eyes appeared black, his breathing labored. As he stared out over the crowd, people averted their gaze. Abaqa studied the ground. The headman looked almost frightened as Duu Ovdog drew near their seat.

  “It’s forbidden to look a kholoi in the eyes when a spirit is inside him,” Harton whispered. “Bad things can happen to you.”

  Before the priest reach
ed them, however, he spun around and dropped to his knees. He began chanting, dipped his staff into the cistern, and swirled it around like stirring a kettle. When he raised it again, the feathers on the end were coated in blood that dripped back into the altar. He shook the staff, sprinkling the old man’s blood over the shrouded body and chanting. When this was done, he held his arm steady, parallel to the floor, and gave a single, guttural command.

  A black bird gave a long screech and soared down from the beams. It perched on the priest’s wrist. Qoatch had expected to see a gowzal, but this was a raven.

  “Blood quenches the spirit’s thirst,” Harton said. “The spirit will help Duu Ovdog release the soul of the shrouded man.”

  “How?” the king asked.

  “The spirit will accept a trade. It will catch the soul of the dying and use its life force to bring back the soul of the dead.”

  Qoatch shuddered. He had seen some deplorable things in all his years serving the priestesses in Tenma, but this . . . He wanted to flee.

  Duu Ovdog shouted and Harton said, “Release to us the spirit of Nogoon mi Huj!”

  The priest reached out with his free hand, grabbed the screeching raven’s head, and jerked.

  Qoatch and Master Harton both jumped.

  The bird went silent. The priest released it, and it fell, dead, into the cistern.

  Duu Ovdog tipped back his head and howled like some kind of animal. Then he cackled madly, began to gyrate, and flailed his arms. He dropped his scepter, eyes filled with fear—or maybe it was pain. His breathing grew rapid, and suddenly he collapsed.

  The two giants who had carried in the old man ran forward and helped the priest stand. They brought him to the floor on Qoatch’s right. There he sat down, cross-legged, eyes closed.

  A squawk pulled Qoatch’s attention back to the altar. Something in the bowl moved. Something black. The raven hopped up on the shrouded corpse and stretched its wings over the bodies. But it was no longer a raven. It was larger, had a fur body, feathered wings, and the head of a rat. A gowzal. Qoatch sensed a hint of that same darkness that he’d felt in Duu Ovdog when the spirit had entered him.

  The gowzal flapped its wings and took flight. The crowd of giants cheered as the creature soared overhead and flew out one of the entrances.

  Had they turned the raven into a gowzal? Trapped a spirit inside?

  When Duu Ovdog had somewhat recovered, he retrieved his scepter from the ground, drank from his flask, and spat into the nearest fire pit. The crowd grew silent as he repeated the steps he had done before, preparing for another sacrifice. A group of guards swarmed the cistern, carried away the bodies, and left a new shrouded form in their place.

  When the guards returned, this time they led in a young woman with fiery orange hair. They were about halfway down when Grayson appeared in their path, three steps ahead. He was hidden in the Veil, but just as the guards reached him, he entered the physical realm.

  The crowd gasped. Grayson grabbed the woman around the waist, and they both vanished, leaving the guards alone.

  Cries of astonishment rang through the audience. On the floor, Duu Ovdog yelled at the giant guards, who looked around, dumbfounded.

  “That man looked Kinsman,” King Barthel said, standing.

  “He was the one called Grayson,” Qoatch told the king.

  Dendron vanished, and the king turned to Qoatch. “Grayson? He is a child.”

  “Root children grow faster than normal,” Qoatch said.

  Duu Ovdog and his guards ascended the stairs, but before they reached the exit, three other guards ran inside. Everyone began yelling.

  “The captives are gone,” Harton translated.

  Duu Ovdog left. Some of the guards followed. One ran down to Abaqa mi Niseh, who lifted his hands and yelled foreign words to the crowd.

  “He’s asking everyone to sit in silence,” Harton translated.

  When Abaqa mi Niseh finished talking to the audience, he stalked toward King Barthel. “The intruder stole our sacrifice,” he said. “He also released the others, including the Puru you brought us. He looked like your people. Have you betrayed us?”

  “That was not one of my men,” the king said, “but I know of him. He’s called Grayson, son of Jhorn. He is from Armania, those settled around the lake in the southeast.”

  “Your enemies,” Abaqa said. “He is our enemy as well. Such crimes are an act of war.”

  “I would welcome your help in an attack against Armania,” King Barthel said. “And I’m happy to send you twenty new Puru people to replace those he took away.”

  “That is good,” Abaqa said. “I will consult the ancestors. For now, your presence has upset Duu Ovdog. You have seen one sacrifice. Now you must leave.”

  “I understand,” the king said. “I thank you, Abaqa mi Niseh, for inviting us here. I will do all I can to bring Grayson to Justness for defiling your temple. I look forward to partnering with you in an attack against his king.” He bowed his head, pensive.

  Abaqa returned King Barthel’s head bow, then stalked away.

  “Let’s go,” the king said. “I want some distance between us and this temple before we make camp.”

  Grayson

  Grayson popped into the council chambers and instantly lost his grip on the woman he’d rescued. Sosovik rushed forward and took her in his arms.

  “What is wrong with her?” the queen asked.

  “They gave her something to drink so she couldn’t move,” Grayson said. “Someone call the healer.” He thought better of that. “I’ll go.”

  “Why not carry her straight to the infirmary?” the queen said.

  That was a better idea. Grayson reached for the woman, but Sosovik turned away. “She must go to the physician,” Grayson said in Puru. “She’s sick.”

  “Nu mokto,” Sosovik said. “Pam nu sewa.”

  His sister? Grayson drew in a deep breath, wearied by all his traveling. “I will take you both.” He wrapped his arms around Sosovik, the woman between them. He popped to the infirmary and explained to the physician as best he could, then returned to the council chambers and fell into a chair at the table. Three of the young children were giggling as they chased one another around the table. The rest were playing on the floor. The Puru women were lined along one wall.

  King Trevn pulled out the chair beside Grayson and sat down. “That last one took a while,” the king said. “What happened?”

  Grayson told the king how he had tracked the hunters to the village in hopes of finding the queen’s missing Puru children. He described the temple pyramid, the Puru captives in the pit, the new ones in the wagon, how he’d brought them to Armanguard, then gone back to the pyramid and witnessed the sacrifice, how Barthel Rogedoth had been there, and how Grayson had rescued the orange-haired woman in the middle of the ceremony.

  A vein in the king’s neck pulsed. “Didn’t I tell you not to carry anyone through the Veil until I gave you leave?”

  Grayson cowered. “You had me carry Lady Islah, so I thought—”

  “My wife asked you to find the Puru children when she first came to Armanguard? And you’ve been at it ever since? Working entirely on your own?”

  “Yes, sir,” Grayson said. “I report to the queen whenever I have new information.”

  “And when did you last report new information?”

  Grayson winced, certain he was about to get the queen in more trouble. “Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday,” the king said with a glance at his wife.

  “I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” the queen said.

  The king released a pent-up sigh. “I sensed you were hiding something,” he said. “Perhaps I should re-crown you Queen Regent, and I will be your consort, since you seem to think yourself above me.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “I specifically forbade you from looking for the Puru children, and all this time you had Grayson looking, behind my back. House Hadar has a word for that type of behavior. Can yo
u guess it?”

  Mielle shook her head.

  “Treason,” the king said.

  Grayson shrank back in his chair. He didn’t like hearing the king and queen fight and wished they’d do it elsewhere. Some of the Puru children looked afraid.

  “He was only to look on his free time,” Mielle said. “And I planned to ask your advice once I knew something worthwhile.”

  “Even if I hadn’t told you to drop the matter of the Puru orphans,” the king said, “Grayson is the prophesied Deliverer. You put him at risk by sending him all over the continent.”

  “It’s heroic, what he can do,” the queen said. “He saved many lives today.”

  “I take no issue with his heroism, but you should have told me you’d already asked him to find the orphans. And you shouldn’t have sent him into Jiir-Yeke territory. Barthel Rogedoth may have seen him!”

  “How was I to know where the Jiir-Yeke territory is or where Rogedoth would be? Besides, the way Grayson moves, he’s practically invincible. What could possibly happen to him?”

  “That’s just it. We don’t know. For you to take his life into your own hands and decide for yourself how you would risk him—for you to ignore my order and break the agreement I made with the Puru people—it’s completely irresponsible.”

  The queen folded her arms and said nothing. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  The king looked at Grayson, his glare softening. “You’re too important to risk. From now on you take orders from me alone. Is that clear?”

  Grayson looked to his lap. “Yes, sir.”

  “Mielle, take these people to the great hall and see them fed,” the king said. “You and I will discuss this later.”

  “Of course,” she said, a little stiffly. “But I cannot communicate with them. Not without Grayson’s help.”

  “Grayson,” the king said, “explain to our Puru guests that they are to go with my wife to eat food. You will join them shortly.”

  Grayson quickly explained the king’s wishes to the old woman, who eagerly urged the women and children to follow the queen out the door. When they were gone, the king leaned back in his chair and set one ankle over his opposite knee. Grayson braced himself to be punished.