The benison signaled to the priests in the lead of the procession, who again formed their double line, and the benison, the head cleric, and the catafalques began the long march to Terreanfor.
They passed through the swell of the crowd without breaking their gaze from the path before them. Even if they had, they would most likely never have noticed the man at the edge of the crowd of onlookers, watching the procession with an uncharacteristically pleasant expression on his face.
A face that was somehow much more opaque than it had been the last time he stood at the foot of the Scales, in the light of the full moon.
21
The noise of the crowd had long died away by the time the funeral procession and the invited dignitaries arrived at the basilica in Night Mountain.
Each of the guests had been required to leave their retinues at the mountain pass that guarded the entranceway into the Earth basilica; twenty regiments of Sorbold guards were present for the purpose of ensuring cooperation in this matter.
The Bolg king and the Lord Cymrian had, by virtue of proximity, been paired up in the procession, and so walked uneasily beside each other, following the line of priests in the multicolored vestments.
“Why did she not come?” Achmed asked as they descended into a ravine in the rocky crags, a winding open tunnel that left rock walls towering above on both sides.
Ashe smiled to himself, watching the floor of the pebble-strewn trail.
“She had more important things to attend to.”
The priest in front of them turned around and glared angrily at them both but said nothing. The two sovereigns fell into an awkward silence.
At the opening of the cave that led into the basilica itself, the procession came to a halt.
The two golden symbols that had preceded the funeral parade were brought forward to a place in the ravine where the sky was clearly visible overheard, and placed flat on an enormous ceremonial slab, on which oil was then poured. The guests waited while fire was kindled by the sun, then transferred to four small lanterns that would serve to light their path down into the darkness of the Earth cathedral.
Achmed glanced around at the dark walls as the procession descended into the passageway leading to the basilica proper. The earth, dry and stony at the exterior from contact with the heat of the upworld, quickly grew cool and moist as they traveled deeper in. The distant, dim light at the head of the procession cast occasional shadows in which the walls of the passage could be seen, smooth and trim, unlike cave walls, and gloriously colored by nature in random swirls, difficult to appreciate in the dark.
As the funeral procession moved deeper within Night Mountain, the sound from the world above disappeared, replaced by the slow, melodic song of the Earth. The deep timbre of it was subtle, so rarefied that most of the dignitaries could not even hear it; Achmed could tell because, unlike them, his breathing and heartbeat began to keep time with its rhythm, his footsteps marking cadence in an effortless synchronicity. Among the others, only Ashe seemed to have picked up on the pulse.
Ahead in the distance, light flickered off the passageway walls. The line of clergy, pallbearers, and mourners slowed their steps as they approached the dancing shadows; the dignitaries, relegated to the rear, came to a virtual halt, waiting to pass into the actual basilica.
Finally the funeral procession moved through a high archway into a vast, circular antechamber.
The dimensions of the room were intermittently visible in the reflected light that flickered in one of the three semicircular alcoves that were hollowed into the walls at each of three quarters of the circle. That alcove, directly across from what appeared to be another archway, twice the size of and to the right of the one they came in, radiated heat and light from a leaping flame that burned with the intensity found only in the pure fire of the Earth’s heart. The tiny flamewell of moving light cast bright fireshadows around the antechamber, and a short distance into the basilica beyond the tall archway.
Across from the hallway in which they stood was another alcove from within which a deep, gurgling splash could be heard. The evanescent light glimmered momentarily on the bubbling underground stream that formed a low fountain, rising up from the ground and then back upon itself, to rise again a moment later.
As the procession came into the antechamber, a gust of wind, stale and heavy with the scent of wet earth, whipped from the final alcove, passing over them, trapped within the circular walls of the anteroom.
Paeans to three of the other elements, Achmed noted, looking around for the traditional fourth, ether, but seeing no alcove devoted to it.
At the head of the procession, a gesture was made. The four small lanterns were extinguished.
It was time to enter the basilica itself.
Slowly the funeral procession turned to the right, and passed through the large archway. Nielash Mousa, as the benison of Terreanfor, led the way, followed by the priests, the Patriarch, the catafalques, the mourners, and the dignitaries, into the cathedral proper, a place that only rarely was seen by anyone other than the benison and the chief priest.
As they stepped through the opening into the mammoth basilica, the song of the Earth grew louder, more distinct; it took on the muted tones of the mines, the ringing of distant hammers, the hollow whistling of uncountable caves, the slow sound of roots growing deeper with time. Within Terreanfor the song had a voice, a deep, slow melody that sang like the quiet chanting of a choir of monks in a dark monastery.
The thought made Achmed shudder involuntarily.
The unpleasant memory vanished instantly, squelched by the overpowering solemnity that was present in the utter darkness.
Backlit by the weak light from the flamewell in the basilica’s antechamber, he could see that the mammoth cathedral was filled with statuary, carved from the living earth itself. Beyond pillars that reached to a towering ceiling, the height of which was too tall to be seen, a great menagerie of animals stood, life-sized sculptures of elephants and lions, gazelles and tirabouri that seemed to move in the shadows, their eyes fixed in stony silence. A closer examination revealed that the pillars were shaped in the aspect of trees, in which Living Stone birds could just be seen at the edges of the light, gleaming in the deep, rich colors of the earth.
As he passed a gargantuan pachyderm, silently marveling at the lifelike wrinkles in its stone hide, Achmed thought back to the early days after he, Grunthor, and Rhapsody had emerged from the Earth’s belly into this new and unfamiliar world, a place to which those who had left the Island after them had refugeed, then conquered, and finally decimated with their foolish war and petty grudges. They had found much of the last history of their dead homeland, and the stories of what came to pass afterward, in the Cymrian museum of Haguefort, lovingly tended by the historian Stephen Navarne, one of the very few of his lineage that Achmed actually liked.
Stephen had proudly shown the three of them etchings of the five great basilicas that had been built to honor the Elements. Patiently he had named them all, though in many cases his translations of the Old Cymrian were incorrect–Abbat Mythlinis, the cathedral shaped like a great wrecked ship and built into the sand at the edge of the sea north of Avonderre, known in the common language as Lord All-God, Master of the Sea; Vrackna, the circular basilica in Bethany, fashioned to look like the sun, surrounding another, larger well of flame from the Earth’s core, called Lord All-God, Fire of the Universe; Ryles Cedelian, the wind cathedral, where eight hundred-seventy-six bells tolled in the bell tower, sanctifying the ground with their windy music, known as Lord All-God, Spirit of the Air, though Achmed knew its literal translation to be Breath of Life; and Lianta’ar, the largest basilica of all, which stood in the holy city-state of Sepulvarta, towered over by an ether-tipped spire beneath which the Patriarch held services — Lord All-God, Light of the World.
He thought back to what Stephen had said about Terreanfor as he enthusiastically displayed the renderings of the peaks of Night Mountain, the only representatio
n of the cathedral in his collection, since Terreanfor itself was hidden away.
This is the only non-Orlandan basilica, the church of Lord All-God, King of the Earth, or Terreanfor. The basilica is carved into the face of the Night Mountain, making it a place where no light touches, even in the middle of the day. There is a hint of the old pagan days in Sorboldian religion, even though they worship the All-God and are a See of our religion. They believe that parts of the earth, the ground itself, that is, are still alive from when the world was made, and the Night Mountain is one of these places of Living Stone. The turning of the Earth itself resanctifies the ground within the basilica. It is a deeply magical place.
Walking now beneath the soaring stone trees, past the immense statues of creatures honed from the living rock, Achmed could agree with the late duke’s assessment.
By the time the procession had traveled deep enough into Terreanfor to move beyond the garden of animals and into the inner sanctum, where the statues were now stone renderings of soldiers, Achmed noted another light ahead, though a cold one that did not burn like fire this time. Closer examination showed that some of the rocks that were housed within the Earth cathedral were glowing on their own with a kind of phosphorescence he had seen only in his travels through the Earth; the element of ether, finally, he thought.
When he and Ashe were passing beneath the upraised blades of two stone swordsmen flanking the central aisle, the procession stopped.
Up ahead he could barely make out the movements of the pallbearers, who were positioning the linen-wrapped bodies on the altars of Living Stone, from which most of the song of the Earth was emanating. The vibrations of the song, soothing but with an undertone of pain, lulled him as first the Patriarch, then the benison, began to drone the funeral rites in Old Cymrian, the common tongue of the Island of Serendair, now a dead language used only in religious ceremonies.
Oh our mother the Earth, who waits for is beneath the everlasting sky, shelter us, sustain us, give us rest.
How long the ceremony lasted Achmed had no idea; it seemed like moments later, and an eternity as well, when the procession began to move again.
The benison led the clergy, pallbearers, and mourners deeper into the profound darkness, past the altars of Living Stone that hummed with the same mellow, orotund vibration of the sonorous earth all around them.
Deep within his soul, Achmed felt a painful tug, a desire to remain within the dark walls that in the light would shine green and rose, purple and blue with pure, undiminished life. There was a power here, a deep, elemental essence that spoke to both of his bloodlines, his mother’s Dhracian love of the deep earth, his unknown father’s kinship as a cave dweller. It was all he could do to spur himself to keep pace with Ashe, whom he could barely see in the dark.
The line processed to a tall, straight stairway that stretched up into the darkness beyond the altars. As they mounted the stairs, the air became warmer, lighter; a gray haze began to fill the space before them.
“This must be the stairway to the sepulchers,” Ashe murmured as the darkness began to diminish.
Achmed merely grunted, wishing the endless ritual would end, so that the colloquium they were to convene afterward to discuss Sorbold’s future could get under way.
Finally they ascended to a landing, a wide open floor with a low, vaulted ceiling above it. Light, more present in this area, was provided by a host of the glowing rocks Achmed had seen earlier.
Two scaffolds lay in the center of the floor of this open room, attached to ropes and pulleys that hung from the ceiling above, in which dark rectangular holes could be seen.
The benison intoned his concluding rites, the ceremonies of burial similar to those performed in the Patrician church of Roland, but with elements of the ancient ways, the more pagan touches that Stephen had long ago commented on. When he had finally finished, he turned to the assemblage.
“My children, the right of committal to our mother the Earth is concluded. There is only now the interment, the ascension of the bodies into their individual sepulchers in the royal crypt above us. If you wish to leave now, the acolytes will escort you back to Jierna Tal, where a funeral banquet will take place, after which we will convene the colloquium. If you would like to ascend to the viewing area of the sepulchers by way of the Faithful’s Stair,” he added, pointing to a tiny doorway in the wall near the scaffolds, which were already being drawn up toward the ceiling on the ropes, “you are welcome to witness the final burial rites. Please note that the Faithful’s Stair is quite winding and close; if you are in ill health or uncomfortable with tight spaces, I gently suggest you return to Jierna Tal at this point.”
The dignitaries, most of them in the throes of claustrophobia, hurried after the departing acolytes and into the air of the upworld.
Except for the Lord Cymrian and the Firbolg king, who looked at each other questioningly, then together made a quick path for the archway that the benison had indicated, and darted up the steps.
The benison had not exaggerated the tightness of the turning stairway. Achmed’s shoulder, and all of Ashe’s right side, brushed the curving walls as they climbed in ever-shortening spirals. As they ascended, the air around them grew warmer, the ground was distinctly drier, less alive.
“This was ill considered,” Achmed muttered after the thirteenth full turn around the staircase’s axis. “I really have no need to see the sepulchers; I was merely curious as to what it was going to take to haul the Crown Prince up into his tomb.”
“Perhaps they have a few dray horses and an elephant on the upper floor to help,” Ashe suggested, curling his shoulder in to avoid the continuous abrasion he was suffering from the wall.
“If there is more than another full rotation, I’m turning back,” the Bolg king declared, climbing with a deliberate gait. “For all I know this staircase could lead all the way to the top of one the peaks in–
Ashe heard Achmed’s voice choke off abruptly.
“What is it?” he asked as the Bolg king stopped.
Achmed never answered him. Instead, he took a few halting steps forward, staring all around him.
Stepping into the upper burial chapel of Terreanfor, which housed the individual mausoleums of the monarchs of Sorbold, was like stepping into a living rainbow.
The chapel was small in girth, but tall in height. Thin supports of stone that connected with the ceiling and were decorated with statues of men, most likely legendary figures from Sorbold history, judging by their heavy facial features. The statues demarked sections of the tomb, almost invisible in the rest of the walls.
Which were made entirely of exquisite stained glass.
The Bolg king took another step into a gleaming patch of rosy light adjacent to a glimmering blue that pulsed gently as a cloud passed overhead in the sky beyond the window walls.
His mismatched eyes scanned the panorama of glorious color around and above him, drinking in the beauty, the artisanship, of a thousand years’ time and scores of generations of craftsmen’s labor which had combined to produce a paradise doused by the afternoon sun, facing west.
“A lovely final view.”
Ashe’s voice was muted to his ear. Achmed shook off the words almost without effort, lost in the majesty of the rainbows which had solidified into place along the mausoleum’s walls and in the domed ceiling.
His conscious mind, a distant second to the workings of his aesthetic senses, made note of two things.
First, he could see that each of the individual sepulchers of Sorbold’s royals had its own window, flawlessly rendered, depicting a stylized representation of that monarch’s life. Leitha was immortalized, a beautiful, rotund woman in rich garments, one hand scattering bread to the nation’s poor, the other stalwartly bearing a sword. Clearly the windows had been commissioned and all but completed many years before; they were probably begun at the time of her birth. The sheer artistry of it and the others that commemorated the lives of her ancestors took his breath away.
&n
bsp; Second, from within the burial chapel he could see outside the windows that would seal the tombs of the empress and her son several shaded outlines, moving back and forth in front of the windows, bending down, then contacting the other side of the glass, carefully applying the final touches, the death weights, the last historical record for posterity, immortalized in sand and ash heated with minerals until it formed shiny shards of magnificent color for history to remember when all who knew them in life had joined them in death.
Glass artisans.
22
As he scrambled up the side of the western mountain that contained the windows of the tomb, Achmed rethought his position on retinues. While it was true that coming alone to the funeral, and the fray that would undoubtedly erupt afterward, had already conveyed the message he had intended, he made note that the presence of one aide would have saved him from needing to attend to all his errands himself, and spared him from being late to the colloquium.
By the time he crested the mountaintop the sun was hanging low in the sky, turning the land around him the color of blood. He shielded his eyes, looking for the glassworkers who he had seen as shadows outside the windows while in the crypt.
Most of them were gone.
Those that remained were, for the most part, packing up their tools and their materials, packing brightly painted wagons, preparing to descend from the mountaintop before nightfall. Achmed noted that this cadre was composed of both men and women, dark of hair, eye, and countenance, all dressed in the garb of nomads, each wearing a multihued sash or belt as a sign of whatever clan they belonged to, though they did not all seem to share the same ethnic background. Most of them were slight, wiry, of a similar build to his own. The men were uniformly clean-shaven and shorn. Like the men, the women wore their hair short, so at first it was hard to distinguish them. They called to each other in a tongue unknown to him as they tied their equipment onto their pack animals and loaded the three wagons that were with them.
Requiem for the Sun Page 27