Silent Hall

by NS Dolkart

  Oh, Bandu. He had nearly struck her. Oh Gods, he could have killed her! Poor, beautiful Bandu! Psander’s scroll had been right: he was a monster. How could he ever protect Bandu from himself? If this happened every time she made him angry, then how many fights, how many arguments before he lost control? Sooner or later, his ancestral evil would get the better of him.

  He had to tell her. She would understand – she had to. He was dangerous. Surely, after this, she would want to leave him. The thought filled him with pain. He clutched the tree trunk, bowed his head, and wept.

  She would be worried about him. He had to get back to her. Where was he? In the starlight, nothing seemed familiar. He wasn’t even sure which way he’d come.

  Criton carefully climbed down the tree, thinking wryly that Narky would be excited to hear about his flight. Now, which way was the camp? The fire had been little more than a pile of glowing embers by the time Bandu had asked him about marriage. He would not be able to spot the light from this distance. Criton left the tree and walked out into the darkness. Somewhere around here was that brook he had leapt over. Why couldn’t he hear it now?

  He never found the stream. He wandered about in the dark, getting ever more worried and frustrated with himself, as the night grew cold and windy. The wind was blowing out of the mountains, but it was more than just that. The rainy season would be coming early this year. By the time Criton gave up on finding the brook, he could no longer point in the direction of the tree either. He curled up on the ground, using a rock for a pillow, and drifted in and out of an uncomfortable sleep.

  He awoke still in the dark, feeling something wet against his side. Oh Gods, what was that?

  “Keep me warm,” Bandu said. “The water is cold.”

  Bandu! How had she found him?

  “I’m sorry I ran away,” Criton said.

  “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry too. Keep me warm.”

  Criton put his arms around her, and wondered at her cold, wet little body. She had found him. Somehow she had followed his trail from the camp, swum through the brook, and tracked him down here, all in the dark.

  “How did you do that?” he asked. “How did you find me?”

  “I find you anywhere,” she said. “Keep me warm.”

  25

  Hunter

  Hunter could not sleep. It was not his fault – the clansmen had mobbed him. They had wanted to keep the horse, and they knew that it was Hunter whose purse held the islanders’ gemstones. There was no other way – it was them or him. The first man had screamed as Hunter’s blade slipped beneath his upraised arm and plunged into his chest. The second man had thought he could pounce on Hunter before he had freed his blade, but Hunter had slammed the rim of his shield into the man’s throat and retrieved his sword while the second man choked to death with a crushed windpipe. The others had backed off then, and Hunter had led the packhorse away, looking warily over his shoulder. Two men dead, over a packhorse.

  Hunter had trained hard for war. He had thought it would bring him glory and status and his father’s respect. But Father was dead now, and there was no glory in killing strong men for the sake of an animal and some rocks. Those men had been fathers too.

  The others never asked Hunter about his meeting with the mountain clan. They were glad to have the packhorse back, and they accepted his word that two men were dead with a kind of casual acknowledgment. To them, killing was what Hunter did.

  Glory. How foolish he had been! There was no glory in killing fathers. The only thing Hunter had experienced that even resembled the pride he had imagined he would feel after a battle, was the way he had felt when he had rescued Criton from the Boar of Hagardis. When the boar was dead and Criton was still alive, then he had felt proud. He had done something. But as often as he told himself that those two men’s deaths were not his fault, the fact remained that they had died, and he had killed them. If he had not gone back for the horse, those two men would still be alive, and Hunter would still be able to sleep at night.

  He wanted to go home, back to the life he had had before, back when he had still known nothing about pointless death. He would pretend that glory still existed, and that his sword and armor were worth more than just the blood they could help him spill. Why couldn’t he have stayed and been drowned along with his father? He could have died a happy fool, drowning in single-minded idiocy.

  Oh Father, he thought, you were right to be worried about me.

  The Oracle had promised his father that Hunter would have a long and meaningful life. Meaningful. If the Gods could fulfill a prophecy like that, They could do anything.

  What now, though? Phaedra had said the Gods were still watching them – was there any hope of a rebirth for him? He thought enviously of the way Narky had burned his crossbow, but he knew deep inside that he could never throw away his weapons. The others expected him to protect them, and besides, he was just as attached to his blade as he was to his limbs. But was the sword a part of him, or was he a part of it?

  After more days of travel than Hunter could bother to count, they came to the city of Anardis. The city was abuzz with action: it seemed that every man in sight was engaged in the work of building a city wall. Stones were piled everywhere, and young boys were struggling to push barrows full of them to the places where the men were working. A few of the men looked up and noticed the islanders, but they only pointed to one side and went back to their toils.

  “Gate’s that way,” one of them said helpfully.

  The islanders turned and followed the direction they had pointed in, though Narky protested at the waste of time. “Why should we find the gate,” he asked, “when we can just walk through a wall? There are plenty of places where there’s no barrier yet.”

  “It’s a matter of respect,” Phaedra told him. “They’re working hard on that wall. You don’t taunt them by stepping through it.”

  Narky shook his head in exasperated wonder. “If you say so.”

  There was only one man at the gate, a somewhat rotund elderly man leaning on a staff.

  “Go away,” he said. “We don’t want wanderers here.”

  “We’re looking for a place to rest from our travels,” said Hunter, “and for my friend to heal from her injuries.”

  The old man looked them up and down. “Look here,” he said, “you’re those cursed wanderers of Tarphae, aren’t you? Your island is gone, so you go about the land, bringing bad luck with you wherever you go. I hear you slew the Boar of Hagardis, and brought your bad luck to the prince of Atuna while you were at it. We don’t need your luck here. Our city’s had enough bad luck as it is.”

  “What city is this?” Phaedra asked, her face a mask of innocence.

  “You’ve come to the once-great Anardis, girl. Great once more, as the king would have it. Time will tell, as to that.”

  “That same Anardis where Elkinar’s Temple can be found?”

  “Of course.” The old man eyed her suspiciously.

  “Thank the Gods!” Phaedra exclaimed. “I have heard that the priests of Elkinar might be able to lift our curse. Where is His temple?”

  “Inside,” the man said warily. “Who told you that Elkinar’s priests would lift your curse?”

  Hunter wondered how she would get out of that one. He was not disappointed.

  “Our curse can be lifted only through rebirth,” Phaedra said confidently. “If anybody can lift the curse without killing us, it will be the priests of Elkinar. Please, let us in to see them.”

  The old man scratched his head. “Well, all right,” he said. “I suppose they’ll know what’s best. But don’t overstay your welcome, or you’ll be very sorry.”

  “That’s a new rumor,” Criton said once they were within the gates. “Who’s been telling people we’re cursed?”

  “The Gallant Ones,” said Narky. “Nobody else would have gone around calling Tana the ‘Prince of Atuna.’”

  “Or blamed us for his death,” Hunter pointed out.

 
; “But how did you know what to say to him?” Criton asked Phaedra. “Who is this Elkinar? What kind of God is He?”

  “He’s the God of the Life Cycle,” Phaedra answered. “Birth, life and death are His domain.”

  “Oh, just that?” said Narky, raising an eyebrow.

  The Temple of Elkinar was not hard to find. It was a large building in the heart of the city, across from the king’s palace. There were no windows in its sides, but the temple was crowned by a terrace, and from a distance one could see several trees and bushes growing there. Wisps of smoke rose from between the greenery, creating a strangely ominous effect. The plants were clearly very much alive, but Hunter still half expected them to go up in flames at any moment.

  They helped Phaedra off her horse and she limped to the door, supported by Hunter and Narky. The door to Elkinar’s Temple was built into one of the building’s corners, and as they approached it, Hunter noticed for the first time something odd about the building’s shape: the temple had only three sides. They were not approaching a normal corner, but rather the tip of a triangle.

  The door was half open, held ajar at such an angle that its edge completed the triangle’s point. They ducked through, and found themselves in a chamber filled with pillars. Each of the pillars was hollowed into a chimney, and the devotional lamps nestled within lit the room with an orange glow. The oil inside the lamps had been infused with some sort of spice, the smell of which permeated the chamber. Even with the door open, the atmosphere was suffocating.

  “What is this place?” Criton asked. “It reminds me of something.”

  “Of the womb, perhaps,” said a voice from up ahead. An elderly priestess was refilling one of the lamps with oil. The jug in her left hand shook somewhat as she replaced the lamp and moved onto the next.

  “You have never been here before,” she continued. “Welcome. I am Mother Dinendra, the senior servant to Elkinar. Have you brought a tribute to the God? Do you have a request of Him?”

  Hunter found that the others were all looking at him. “Our request is for Phaedra to be healed,” he said. “If you can help us, we will gladly pay an appropriate tribute.”

  The priestess nodded, her eyes still on her work. “And what ails the young lady?”

  “A broken ankle,” said Phaedra. “It’s been a few weeks since I broke it, but I still can’t walk.”

  Mother Dinendra put down her oil jug and took up the lamp she had been filling. She turned to look at them. “My eyes may be failing me,” she said, “but you look like islanders! Where do you come from, that you would visit Anardis and its temple?”

  “We come from Tarphae,” Narky said. “But we’re not cursed,” he added hastily.

  The priestess nodded and smiled. “Except with broken ankles,” she said.

  She handed Criton the lamp, saying, “Hold this,” and disappeared between the pillars, returning a few moments later with a low stool. She lowered herself carefully onto its seat, and motioned for Phaedra to show her her foot.

  “Does this hurt?” she asked, touching her ankle carefully. Phaedra winced. “How about this?”

  After a close inspection, the priestess shook her head. “It is healing,” she said sadly.

  “Then what’s the problem?” Narky asked.

  Mother Dinendra let go of Phaedra’s ankle and looked up at him. “It should have been set before it began to heal. I can try to set it now, but that will involve rebreaking it, and even then it won’t be the same as if it had been set properly to begin with. In a few weeks, you should be able to walk again. But you will always have a limp, and I doubt you’ll ever be able to run, or dance, or climb stairs without holding onto a wall.”

  “Oh,” said Phaedra. She looked dazed. “Oh.”

  “You should plan on staying with us for a few weeks,” Mother Dinendra suggested. “Travel isn’t good for an injury like this.”

  Phaedra nodded absently. “Do you have any rooms where we could stay?” Criton asked.

  The priestess chuckled awkwardly. “I would recommend the inn across the square,” she said. “We servants of Elkinar sleep down below in the catacombs, as we call them. The air is heavy, there is no light, we do not keep fires, and the rooms are small and cold. There is an expression: Elkinar’s servants live in the light, work in the womb, and sleep in the tomb. It is not a place for you.”

  “This is a life you chose?” Narky asked. “Why?”

  “For some of us, it is devotion,” Mother Dinendra said. “Some have more practical considerations. I confess I am of the latter kind. I joined the Temple of Elkinar to escape from the nobility. The king is my nephew, you see. My children would have been noblemen, but Elkinar’s servants are forbidden from ruling, and their children follow in their line. Mine have scattered, though my grandson Taemon is a junior priest here. It is a better life than that of a noblewoman. The Temple sheltered me in its catacombs for a long time, until one by one all my seniors died and left me in charge. No matter. It is too late for my family to drag me into anything, and if they try, I can pretend to be senile. With every year that passes, I pretend less and less.”

  Mother Dinendra smiled at this little piece of self-deprecation. Hunter did not believe her for an instant. This woman was no more senile than he was.

  “Let me set that ankle for you as best I can,” the priestess said to Phaedra, “and I will have to send you on your way. If I do not finish with these lamps, Father Sephas will think I really am losing my mind.”

  She led them into a second chamber, this one better ventilated and better lit due to a number of angled shafts in the ceiling. There was a table here, and a few chairs, but the room’s greatest feature was that it was lined on all sides with rows upon rows of shelves, most of them covered in scrolls or books. Mother Dinendra pulled a bucket of water from underneath the table, then tottered over to the far wall and pulled a sack from the bottom-most shelf. She lugged this to the table before retrieving a shallow, wide-lipped bowl from right above where the sack had been. Then she pulled over one of the chairs and sat down with some satisfaction.

  “Damned fool,” she said suddenly, rising to her feet again. “Forgot the rags.”

  A large pile of rags had been shoved into one corner of the room. Mother Dinendra gathered some of these and returned to the table. She poured a white powder from the sack, added water, and spent the next few minutes mixing plaster. Finally, she motioned with one plaster-covered hand to a chair.

  “Sit,” she said to Phaedra.

  When she had done as commanded, the priestess handed her the bowl and rags, pulled her chair closer, and sat down with relief. She patted her knee, and Phaedra placed her foot on it. Mother Dinendra grasped her ankle in both hands.

  “This is going to hurt a little,” she said.

  Judging by Phaedra’s reaction, it hurt more than a little. The elderly priestess grimaced and commenced dipping rags in the plaster and wrapping them around Phaedra’s ankle. It was messy work, and by the time she had finished, her smock was covered in white droplets and more than a few handprints.

  “There,” she said finally. “Now let that set for some twenty minutes, and I’ll be back when I’m done with the lamps. Do you read? Good. Then you won’t lack for entertainment.”

  She left them and returned to the dark smoky chamber of the building’s entrance.

  “Maybe Psander can do something when we get back,” Phaedra said hopefully. “Hand me one of those books, will you, Hunter?”

  Hunter looked about him, more than a little overwhelmed. Codices, scrolls and papers were stacked every which way, separated by bags and jars of this and that, and the occasional candle.

  “Which one?” he asked.

  “How about that big black one over there?” She pointed to a black leather bound codex that lay on one of the lower shelves. He handed it to her.

  “Oh!” she said, upon opening it. “It’s annotated!”

  “Oh?” Criton asked.

  “How thrilling,” sai
d Narky.

  “Well, it’s not magic,” Phaedra admitted, “but it’s definitely interesting. Listen to this: ‘When They started over, the Gods created water, wind and earth.’ Why does the scroll begin thus? Chalinos says, ‘Because in Their first creation, the Gods created wind and earth before water, and all the earth blew away.’ Belerphon says, ‘Because when the Gods created Their first world, it was so filled with love, joy and perfection that it exploded. The second time, the Gods built the world of sturdier stuff.’ Polina says, ‘Because when They created the first world, the Gods argued so violently over its contents that it grew dangerous and chaotic, and They had to abandon it and start anew.’”

  “Is this supposed to make sense?” Narky asked.

  “Shush, you,” Phaedra scolded. “All of Elkinar’s sages are weighing in on the same sentence! So much wisdom gathered in one place!”

  “What original scroll are they all commenting on?” Criton wondered aloud. “Does it mention God Most High, do you think?”

  Phaedra shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. It’s a scroll called ‘The Second Cycle.’ I imagine it goes on to talk mostly about Elkinar.” She flipped forward a few pages. “Yes, it gets to Him almost immediately.”

  Narky snorted. “It doesn’t sound like it does anything immediately. Can’t they just let the original speak for itself?”

  Hunter gave him a look. “You want an annotated scroll without any annotations?”

  “I’d prefer a few pictures,” Narky said, “but that would be a good start.”

  “You’re stepping awfully close to blasphemy again,” Phaedra warned him.

  “I’m not mocking Elkinar!” Narky protested. “It’s these sages who are wasting everybody’s time.”

  “I’m sure there’s a plain copy of ‘The Second Cycle’ around here somewhere,” Phaedra told him. “It must be a very central work, if there’s so much commentary on it. Go find it and stop interrupting me.”

  “And how am I supposed to find it?” he asked. “By smell?”