by Conner, Jack
Davril did not subscribe to any gods, not really—or he had not. Events in Asragot had made him wonder. For if indeed the Lady had been real . . .
Word circulated of his coming. The girls of the city doted on him, as he was a handsome lad, tall and straight and finely featured, with curly red-gold hair and clear blue eyes, and he was the youngest son of the Emperor besides. The girls flocked to balconies and rooftop gardens and showered him and his procession with flowers. Seeing their blushing faces, Davril laughed, feeling the rhythm of the horse’s hooves beneath him. Several of the girls tried to catch his eye, but he didn’t want to mislead them. Alyssa would be waiting for him.
He brought his procession toward the mountain that rose from the middle of the city, and slowly the streets steepened, then began to wind about the mountain itself, which was such a symbol of the city that the hour was often spoken of in terms of where the mountain’s shadow fell; the Tower of the Emperor is upon the Jade Ziggurats meant it was nearly sundown, for instance. Many of the palaces and mansions of the city jutted from the rock of the mountain, and from the high points one could face the west and see the glittering blue expanse of the sea, stretching on forever. The graveyard of the Asragotians.
Davril’s procession passed through various checkpoints and then to the Palace, a great structure of red and gold that burned under the afternoon sun. In the courtyard before the Palace, Lord Husan, Emperor of Qazradan, and his four older sons waited with all attending staff. Horns blew, flowers were thrown, and goblets of wine passed around. Here at last a celebration commenced, half planned, half impromptu, and later Davril remembered little of it. His brothers and his sister Sareth surrounded him, congratulating him in his first campaign, and he bore it all quietly.
“You defeated them to a man, I heard,” his father said, when he came round. He was a medium-tall man with a dark, well-trimmed beard, and though his face was deeply etched with age and life, his blue eyes twinkled. “And lost not a single one of ours.” Davril had sent runners ahead to inform his father of his coming and to let him know what to expect.
Davril smiled gamely. “Yes, I’m afraid I sent them fleeing into the sea. I don’t think it was me that did it, though. I think they caught a look at the General.”
General Hastus, who was within earshot, raised an eyebrow. “Most likely,” he said. As tall as Davril’s father, he was broader of shoulder, with a long silver beard that he had combed into a thousand curls. His eyes were gray as the sea during a storm, and his laugh as loud as breaking waves.
The merriment fled for a moment, as Hastus and the Emperor regarded each other soberly.
“What do you think could account for such a thing, this mass suicide?” the Emperor asked, his voice low. The two were old friends, as well as being more or less equals. The General’s wealth rivaled even the Emperor’s, after all.
Hastus stroked the curls of his beard. “Delusion,” he said. “Delusion and madness and gods.”
The Emperor nodded but did not look convinced.
“I saw the sign of the Worm,” Davril said, his voice sober. The memory of Asragot’s emptiness disturbed him profoundly. “In the Lady’s pyramid. It was set just above her bed.”
Hastus grunted. “The Worm is dead. If he ever was.”
“Oh, he was,” the Emperor said. “Lord of ancient Sagrahab, then lord of the spires of Nagradin, though Sagrahab is no more, and Nagradin lies sunken.”
Hastus raised his glass. “May it stay that way.”
At last the celebration died down, and the Emperor asked Davril to accompany him to his room. Still weary and begrimed from traveling, Davril followed his father up the countless steps to the Emperor’s chambers atop the highest tower of the Palace. Sudden anxiety filled the young man, and he had to stop himself from running his hands through his hair or clearing his throat.
When they reached the Emperor’s chambers, Davril nonetheless smiled to see their extravagance; he had rarely been invited here before. The finest silks and tapestries hung from the walls; the thickest, most plush carpets lay strewn upon the floor; the most heady incense filled the chambers and intoxicated the mind; the most comely courtesans sprawled on the couches—or would have, had the Emperor desired it. It was all silks and gold to Davril.
The Emperor ushered him to the terrace, where Sedremere was laid out before them, glittering all the way to the sea. Davril had to catch his breath at the sight. This high up, the city was more beautiful than ever.
“Amazing,” he said. The wine still ran through his head.
“Yes.” The Emperor clapped him on the back. Pride shown in the older man’s eyes. “You’ve turned into a fine young man, Davril.”
Davril wanted to wave the compliment away, but that would have been an insult. “Thank you, Father. But the Asragotians . . .”
“I know. Nevertheless, you led our army forth and returned, with all due tribute and more, and with no undue mishaps—at least, on our part. We cannot be held accountable for the superstitions of others. A remarkable feat at your age.”
“You give me too much credit.”
The Emperor spoke his next words softly, but with an air of great importance. “I think, Davril, it’s time you accompanied your brothers and I on the Great Journey.”
Davril blinked. Some of the warmth left him. “But I’m only fifteen . . .” Typically a prince must be seventeen or older to accompany an emperor on one of the Journeys, the thrice annual pilgrimage to the Great Tomb in the heart of the mountain.
The Emperor nodded gravely, but his eyes were kind. “You were never content with being the youngest. You learned to ride and spar and shoot much earlier than any of your brothers, and I know you’ve been studying battle strategy since you could read.”
That was true enough, but Davril had never thought to be rewarded with such an honor. For some reason, the idea frightened him.
“You’re ready,” his father said, squeezing his shoulder. “We will do it tomorrow night.”
Davril nodded, feeling numb and elated at the same time.
Strange notes reached him on the wind, which parted and rose as the notes flooded over the terrace, ghastly and surreal: singing—strange, eerie, inhuman warbling, wafting in from the River. Davril suppressed a shudder.
His father grimaced. “They’ve been more excruciating than usual the last few days.”
“How do you mean?”
Lord Husan gestured toward the wide, short River and the awful temple that stood on an island among the tributaries and marshes at its source.
“The singing,” he said. “They’ve been at it nonstop since the day before yesterday.” He shook his head. “It started right when the tide began to rise unexpectedly.”
Davril raised his eyebrows. “The tide?”
“Yes, it was the strangest thing. Great waves breaking against the shore. Went on for hours. And there was a smell in the air, like sulfur and seaweed. My councilors say it was likely a volcano rising from the sea, far away, pushing waves toward us. In any case, the Lerumites must have taken it as an omen, and they’ve been at their devotions nonstop since then.”
Davril stared toward the ocean, then the dark temple up the River. The population of Asragot vanishes into the surf. A month later something rises from the sea, and the Lerumites sing . . . For a moment he entertained the notion that the events were connected, and this time he did shudder.
Seeing his look, Lord Baerad Husan IV, as his father was formally known, nodded judiciously. “Beware of them, Davril. Beware the fish-priests of Lerum.”
This Davril did not need to be told. In a city of a thousand cults, there was only one he truly feared.
He frowned. “I think . . .”
“Yes?”
“I think I’ll take myself to the House of Light.” He gestured toward the shore, where the ancient tower stood, a thick black fang against the crimson sea, its uppermost chamber blazing with a red light. It was the Temple to Asqrit, and it served as a lighthouse for
the harbor of Sedremere. Some said that light at the very top was the Jewel of the Sun itself, though on this Davril was skeptical. “The priests there maintain a library that has many old works . . . They may know something more about the Worm. About what happened in Asragot.”
“Please yourself,” the Emperor said. “But know that we are safe. Safe from Him.”
Davril could not contain a look of surprise. “Safe from the Worm? But how is that possible?”
His father smiled sadly. “Tomorrow night you will find out.”
Chapter 2
“And they all just vanished?” she asked. “Amazing.”
Davril nodded. Word of the uncanny events in Asragot had spread throughout the city faster than a bird could fly, and she would have gotten a first-hand account.
“The whole city-state,” he confirmed. “All gone.”
Alyssa shuddered. “How awful.” Just a few months his junior, she looked lovely with the westering sun casting golden light across the massive affair that was his bed, sparkling on her likewise golden head, shimmering off the diamond necklace he’d given her that dripped between her small high breasts. She’d come to him that morning, as soon as she could slip away from her father’s mansion along the River, and she and Davril had spent the day together.
It was only reluctantly that he turned his eyes away. The shadow of the Tower of the Emperor was once more reaching toward the Jade Ziggurats. “What happened in Asragot is bizarre,” he said, “and who knows what it might mean? But somehow I can’t seem to focus on it at the moment.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Tonight . . .”
A restless joy filled him. As he stood on his terrace and looked out over the wonderful white-washed spires and domes of the massive city, sniffing the spicy scents wafting up from the markets, feeling the warmth of the sun baking into the stones under his feet, he felt like a god, or how like a god should feel. Off to the west, the sea glittered invitingly. He smiled and spread his arms. All thoughts of the strange disappearance of the Asragotians slipped from his mind.
“You seem so happy,” Alyssa said, and, turning, he could see the flush in her cheeks.
“I am,” he said. “Tonight I actually do it. Go into the Tomb.”
“So young!” She smiled, and he didn’t have to wonder why; she imagined herself wed to the youngest prince ever to go on the Great Journey. He didn’t disillusion her. She was General Hastus’s daughter, and Davril had known her all his life. He’d had other lovers, but somehow he had always known it would be her he would marry.
Suddenly her look of pride faded.
“What is it?” he asked, leaving the balcony.
“I’m excited for you, Davi, really I am. Only the Tomb—what’s in it?”
He lowered himself beside her and cupped her face in his palm. Her skin was so smooth. “No one knows save my father and brothers. Tonight I’ll find out and—well—officially I’ll be a man.”
She closed her blue-green eyes. “Davril, I’m so proud of you, but aren’t you afraid?”
“What’s there to fear?”
Her whole body trembled. “Everything! I know you must’ve heard the rumors, that there’s a reason that the Great Tomb was placed on the lowest level of the Royal Catacombs—that there’s a reason its door is kept sealed year round.” She held his gaze. “It’s keeping something in.”
“Well, it will open tonight, and nothing’ll come out. You’ll see.”
“Something waits inside. It’s what they all say. Haven’t you heard the legends? Urai wasn’t the only one. Many of the princes and emperors who’ve ventured inside over the years have also gone missing.”
Davril’s older brother Urai, a soft-spoken lad who had enjoyed teaching a younger Davril the joys of art and reading, had never come back from his own first pilgrimage six years ago.
“May be,” Davril said, trying to keep the sadness from his voice, “but I will return. I’ll come back to you.” In a softer voice, he added, “I look forward to it.”
Hope shone through the fear in her eyes. “Promise you will. And promise you’ll return . . . the same.”
He knew what she meant. Though it was rarely spoken of, it was common knowledge among those in the highest circles that sometimes the emperors and princes who did return from the Journey did not return as they’d left.
“I’ll come back just as you see me now,” he said.
Someone rapped at the door and Salbrind, Davril’s elder brother, entered, flanked by his servants. “It is time,” Salbrind said, ignoring Alyssa’s nudity. “The sun sets. You’d best get ready, Davril.”
Davril cinched his belt and straightened his tunic. “I’m ready now.”
Tonight he would find out a great many things, chief among them why Urai had not returned, but also why his father did not fear what had happened in Asragot—why he did not fear the Worm.
Trying to contain his nervousness, Davril accompanied Salbrind once again to the sumptuous royal apartment of the Emperor, where heady incense smoldered in golden holders shaped like phoenixes, the intoxicating smoke pouring from the birds’ beaks. The phoenix was the sacred symbol of the Asqrites, the religion to whom the imperial family ostensibly subscribed. It was said that the Great Phoenix, Asqrit, the sun, died every day at sundown but was reborn every dawn.
The apartment lay deserted save for the emperor and his sons. There were no servants, no courtesans, no advisors. None must overhear their talk, nor witness their acts tonight. The Emperor stood to receive his sons, and his dark eyes glittered with vigor as he looked each of them in the eye, his gaze harsh and penetrating. When at last he settled on Davril, the young prince tensed so rigidly he thought he might faint. But before his father’s gaze moved on, the Emperor nodded and sort of smiled, and Davril breathed easier. His father and he had always gotten on well, and he knew it was largely because of this favor that he was permitted to join the Journey tonight.
Distracted though he was, Davril did pause to wonder where his oldest brother Milast could be. He was the Heir, after all.
“Sons, I know you’re all abuzz over what has happened in Asragot,” the Emperor said. “The whole empire trembles with the news of its emptying. What can it mean? What can it portend? Put that aside. Whatever it means, it’s less important than what we do tonight. I want you focused. Our task constitutes the salvation of our very empire, and don’t you forget it, so let us get on with this. The Great Journey awaits.”
Davril opened his mouth to ask a question, then thought better of it. None of his brothers had said anything their father had not solicited.
The Emperor’s gaze went to him. “What concerns you, Davril?”
“Nothing, Father.”
“No? Speak out.”
“Well, if I may ask . . . what awaits us—in the Great Tomb, I mean?”
The Emperor’s face hardened. Frightened beyond all measure, Davril clamped his mouth shut and lowered his own gaze to the floor.
The Emperor laughed, and Davril looked up. Lines of merriment etched his father’s face, and his great, booming chortle filled the room. Hearing it, Davril’s brothers laughed, too, and soon he joined in out of sheer relief.
“We go to visit our great good fortune,” their lord father said. “And to pay it homage.”
Turning grim, he stalked through the door. The eldest prince present—there were four of them, not counting the absent Milast—followed, then the next in line, and so on. Baffled, but relieved, Davril took up the rear. They marched down the high grand corridors of the Palace, and massive braziers elicited fire from the inlaid gold that shone in mosaics and railings and window frames. Gold, diamonds, jade, ivory and warm amber filled Davril’s vision.
His father found a grandiose stairway and descended, his sons just behind. Down and down they went, through the thirty-three levels of the Royal Palace, each more lovely than the one before, yet not one servant, not one other person, did they see. All who dwelt in the Palace would keep behind locked
doors tonight. For no reason were any servants or courtiers to emerge, no matter what sounds they might hear, no matter what strange sensations might overcome them.
The Emperor and his sons descended below ground level, into the ever-expanding catacombs, carved out of the living stone of the mountain the Palace was built upon, and great monuments and sepulchers reared all around. Some of the mausoleums were more temple than resting place, and on many hung flowers and gifts, sacrifices of goats and sheep. These were the beloved dead, the great emperors of antiquity, and the catacombs, at least the upper levels, were open to the public several days a week, accessible not through the Palace but through entrances lower down the mountain. The royal family passed those levels, delving deep into the bowels of the mountain. Here the torches and braziers were fewer, and darkness hung like a pall over all save the little lurid blobs of red. Coldness gripped Davril, and moisture dripped on him from above. Firelight struck crimson off the vague and oddly sinister faces of the statues and bas-reliefs. Often he fancied he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned he saw nothing.
Gone was his confidence. Perhaps it was the darkness, or Alyssa’s fear transferred to him, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he wanted to get this thing done and return to his soft warm bed with the girl he loved. Actual terror crawled beneath his skin. Where are we going?
They descended to the final level, reserved solely for the Great Tomb, where the only light issued from a second round of torches (the first had burned out) taken from the wall of the penultimate level—torches lit and left for them by now-absent attendants. Even as he took his new torch, Davril noticed a tremor in his hand. He hoped no one else saw. They emerged into the grand cavern of the lowest level, where all was darkness—a heavy, oily, living darkness that seemed to fill Davril’s lungs and mind, and turn his legs to jelly. He swallowed, tried to laugh, and noticed his older brothers, who presumably had made this trip before, glancing around with equal or greater anxiety.