Silent Hall

by NS Dolkart

  Scypho looked as if the very thought tired him. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose that would be all right.”

  They put up the tent against one of the shack’s outer walls. There was only barely room for four to cram in there, but Hunter volunteered to sleep outside this time. Criton was glad to have shelter for once. The islanders had slept out in the elements on the way down, and let the children sleep in the tent. It was easier to fall asleep, knowing that he would not be covered in dew the next morning.

  Criton awoke to the sound of Hunter sharpening his sword outside. “Morning,” Hunter said, as they all stumbled out of the tent. “Scypho’s out buying us horses.”

  “Great,” said Narky. “I can’t wait to get out of here. This place is depressing.”

  The children were less sullen. They spent the morning on the beach, laughing and trying to see how far they could follow each receding wave without getting caught by the next one. Criton went and sat on a stone at the edge of the sand, watching them play. He envied them.

  “They’re sweet,” said Phaedra, noticing his gaze but misinterpreting it. She came over and sat beside him. “Are you ready to be a father?”

  He looked away. “I don’t know what it is to be a father.”

  Scypho returned shortly before noon, leading a single horse. “My friend will try to find you three more by tomorrow,” he said. “You’ll have to suffer my company for another day.”

  They ate a midday meal, after which Criton asked about the wizard’s tower.

  “It’s dedicated to Mayar, just like you say,” the old man confirmed. “They have guards there day and night to make sure nobody goes treasure-hunting. Only my God’s priests are allowed up there, to gather sacrifices for festivals and special events.”

  “Sacrifices?” asked Phaedra. “What kind of sacrifices?”

  “Whatever they can find,” said Scypho. “Furs, papers, scrolls, little carved statuettes – whatever the guards dig up, the priests burn it on the altar and scatter the ashes on the sea. It’s amazing how many scrolls and things that dangerous old wizard had up in his tower. I always knew he was trouble, but now we know that he had a whole library full of blasphemies! Good riddance.”

  Phaedra looked horrified. “They burn scrolls?” she gasped, clutching her elbows as if suddenly cold.

  Scypho looked at her sharply. “Of course they do, girl. The Tidefather protected us from that wizard for many, many years, and now the wizard’s gone forever. I’d say a proper set of sacrifices is the least we can do.”

  “He was supposed to be an expert on dragons,” said Criton, feeling sick.

  “Dragons, yes,” Scypho agreed. “The great lizards who thought they could fight the Gods. I’m glad I never had to live in those evil days.”

  “When is the next sacrifice?” Criton asked.

  “We’ve completely lost track of time,” Phaedra explained hurriedly.

  “The Storm Festival is next week,” Scypho said. “Five days, really. I used to prefer the Rain Ceremony, but now I look forward to the Storm Festival every year.”

  Criton nodded. The Storm Festival was the only one of the Sea God’s festivals worshipped at the seashore instead of at the church of Mayar. Criton still remembered how Ma’s husband had grumbled about having to stand cold and wet on the docks while the priest of Mayar made his prayers. He had complained about it, the cruel bastard, all while keeping his wife and Criton trapped in the house, unable to even see the docks from their window.

  But Mayar’s church would be inside the city somewhere. For Scypho, the Storm Festival would be the only one of Mayar’s festivals that he did not have to worship alone.

  “Five days,” said Phaedra. “So they’ll be building the seaside altar soon?”

  “They will,” Scypho said. “Probably tomorrow, or the next day.”

  “And the sacrifices?” asked Criton, his heart sinking, “When do they usually gather those?”

  Scypho shrugged. “I don’t know. Soon. That young priest, Pellos, usually gets them.”

  “Does anyone know where all the children went?” asked Hunter suddenly. “We’d better make sure they don’t drown.”

  “Yes,” said Scypho. “Go, all of you. It’s been a tiring morning, and I need some rest.”

  They left him there and walked back onto the beach, where all seven children were playing harmlessly in the sand.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Hunter told Criton, “and it’s too dangerous. We are not trying to rescue a pile of scrolls straight out of the hands of guards and priests and practically Mayar Himself.”

  “I can’t believe they burn it all,” said Phaedra, shaking her head with a stunned expression.

  “I’m with Hunter on this one,” said Narky. “We might not be happy about what they’re doing, but the answer is not to get ourselves killed. We’ve had a lot of close calls. We shouldn’t press our luck.”

  “You’re right,” Phaedra admitted. “But I still don’t like it.”

  Criton said nothing. Now he knew better than to ask Hunter or Narky for help. But one way or another, he would not stand by and watch his heritage destroyed.

  He passed the next morning in agony, while Hunter and Scypho went to buy the rest of the horses. In the meantime, Narky and Phaedra watched the children and talked, and Bandu tried to pull Criton into the tent to make love. He didn’t go. He was feeling too tense, and besides, afraid though he was to say so, he was put off by her size. She was growing so quickly now, her body barely resembled the one he had grown used to. And they were, at best, halfway through this. He knew it was wrong, but what could he do about it? He felt the way he felt.

  Bandu was insulted and hurt when he rebuffed her. She kept repeating, “Why you don’t want me?” He had no answer for her, so instead he fled.

  He walked uphill toward the tower for a time, then turned around and headed for the city gate. He had just arrived and was trying to decide where to go next when out stepped a man dressed in blue-gray robes, an empty sack thrown over his shoulder. This must be Pellos, the priest charged with sacrificing Criton’s family history to the Sea God. Criton had to stop him.

  “Excuse me,” he said, stepping into the priest’s way. “My wife is pregnant. Could you bless our baby?”

  Pellos looked at him with surprise and alarm. Criton was surprised himself. Where had he come up with that?

  “I am on an errand,” said the priest. “I will make sure to come by when I have finished.”

  “I’m afraid she’ll give birth soon,” said Criton. “Please? It’ll only take a minute or two. We’re staying with Scypho.”

  “Oh, very well,” Pellos sighed. “Lead the way.”

  Criton brought him back to the hut by the sea, frantically trying to think of a plan. When they arrived, he found Phaedra and Bandu outside the tent, conferring with each other while Phaedra worked on adjusting a spare dress for Bandu. He wondered what Bandu had been telling Phaedra about him.

  “Gods, man,” said Pellos, with surprise and irritation. “This girl is yet months away from giving birth!”

  “Is she?” said Criton, looking to Phaedra for help. Please distract him, he tried to tell her with his eyes, please, please distract him.

  “She miscarried once, at about this time,” Phaedra lied, her eyes acknowledging Criton’s request. “He worries a lot.”

  “You worry?” said Bandu, confused. “That is why you don’t want me?”

  “Well,” the priest sighed, “I suppose I can bless your baby anyway. Come here, girl.”

  Bandu refused. She refused! “I don’t want bless,” she said.

  “Stay,” said Phaedra to Pellos, “we’ll talk her into it. Criton, I don’t think your presence is helping.”

  Thank you, he thought at her, and slipped away around the hut. As soon as the priest was no longer within sight, he began to run toward the tower. He suspected he had only a few minutes before Pellos disentangled himself from Bandu and Phaedra and came to collect the sa
crificial relics. Criton closed his eyes, trying to picture exactly what the priest looked like. Yes, he thought he had it right.

  When he looked down at his hands they were several shades lighter and a good deal smaller than before. He touched his face, and it felt right, at least. Now for the hard part. He had become an expert at transforming himself, but it would take an illusion to turn his ragged clothes into Mayaran robes. At illusion, he was a complete amateur. Still, if he could not do this, what was his magic good for?

  He concentrated, thinking about the robe and trying to let his imagination extend itself out into the world. It worked, sort of. He did not think he had the color quite right, and his tunic did not rustle the way a robe ought to, but he thought this would probably do. He strode forward, silently praying to God Most High that the guards would not notice his mistakes.

  There were half a dozen of them scattered around the ruins, looking bored. “Here he is!” cried one, and hopped to his feet.

  “What have you found?” Criton asked him, trying to sound businesslike.

  The guard gave him a funny look. “Are you all right? You don’t sound normal.”

  Criton coughed and smiled and hoped that his racing heart was not audible. He might have looked right enough, but his voice and accent were all wrong!

  He coughed again and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he rasped, hoping that this would mask his terrible attempt at a Parakese accent. “Been like this all day.”

  “Oh,” said the guard, still looking unsettled. “Well, the pile is over there, but you should have brought something to put it in. We found a few sculptures this time, and some precious stones, and of course more scrolls. You won’t be able to carry it all in your hands.”

  Fool! Criton thought. How could he have forgotten that the priest had been carrying a sack?

  “I’ll make two trips,” he whispered. “I’ll bring the sack next time.”

  “Right,” said the guard. Criton wished he wouldn’t look so concerned. He suspected the guard would watch him walk back toward the town until he was out of sight.

  He went to the pile of dug-up items and began collecting scrolls in his arms. There were five or six of them, some bulkier than others, and they fit poorly there. “I’ll be back,” he said, and hurried away as nonchalantly as he could.

  He had not gone more than four steps before a scroll fell from his arms. As he bent over to retrieve it, another fell, and another. The guard with whom he had just spoken rushed over to help him, but when he handed the last scroll back to Criton, his hand passed straight through a piece of imaginary robe. The guard blinked, unsure of what he had just seen.

  “Thanks,” said Criton, and fled as quickly as he could.

  To his relief, the guard did not follow. Criton practically flew down the hillside, and nearly cried out when he saw the real Pellos coming toward him. The priest was looking down at his own feet as he climbed up the hill. Criton dropped his illusion at once and transformed back into his usual human shape, hurriedly stuffing scrolls into his tunic.

  “Hello,” he said, when the priest looked up at him. He tried to use magic to look less lumpy, but the scrolls slid down toward his legs and he had to put his hand on his stomach and stand perfectly still to avoid letting them tumble onto the ground.

  “How did you get all the way up here?” the priest asked with irritation, stopping to look up at him.

  “Went for a walk,” Criton answered, completely unsatisfactorily.

  “Your wife refused to let me bless the baby,” Pellos said angrily. “You and that dirty girl completely wasted my time.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Criton. Why wouldn’t the priest walk on? “Anyway,” he said, “thank you for trying.”

  “Huh. Right,” the priest said suspiciously. But he continued on his way.

  Criton gathered up the scrolls and ran. His chest burned and his legs seemed to be moving faster than they were meant to, but he did not stop until he reached Scypho’s little house, coughing and panting. Scypho and Hunter had apparently returned with the horses, and Hunter was fastening a new saddle onto the empty elven horse while Phaedra gathered the children for their first meal of the day. Criton stuffed the scrolls into one of the horses’ saddlebags and waved his arms wildly at Phaedra.

  “We have to go!” he wheezed. “Now!”

  “Why?” asked Hunter, but when he turned around and saw Criton, his eyes widened in horror. “What did you do?”

  Criton shook his head. “We have to go,” he repeated.

  “All right, let’s go!” Hunter cried, turning to shout at the others. Bandu came hurrying out of the tent, and Narky ran out of the house. Criton helped Bandu onto a horse, then snatched up Tellos and placed him in front of her.

  “Ride upriver,” he said. “Keep away from the tower.”

  The others had all gathered round by now and were trying to figure out how they could mount four islanders and six children all onto the four remaining horses. “I can take two,” said Hunter, “one in front and one behind. Narky, can you do the same?”

  “Wait!” cried Phaedra. “Where’s Delika?”

  Criton lifted Temena onto his own horse and looked around. Delika was still standing at the edge of the sand, looking out to sea. The burning in Criton’s chest became a sudden deathly cold. His theft had not gone unnoticed. A wall of water towered above the shoreline, dark and angry, dwarfing the little hut that lay before it. And then it crashed.

  48

  Phaedra

  Delika screamed and ran for the horses as the water rushed toward them. Phaedra wanted to help, but she had already mounted the elvish horse with Rakon in front of her, and there was no practical way to be of use. “Go!” Criton shouted at her, and Phaedra kicked the horse without looking back again.

  The horse did not get far before the water reached it, crashing against its legs and belly. Phaedra felt the swirling waters clawing at her legs, trying to drag her off the horse and under the murderous waves. She clung fiercely to the reins, her arms on either side holding Rakon in the saddle. For now, the horse stood firm.

  She thought she heard cries around her, but she could not make out the words over the roar of the ocean. With a last tug at Phaedra’s leg, the waters drew back toward the sea, preparing for a second, more devastating wave. Phaedra gave her mount a frantic kick and it sprang to life, cantering away from the beach as directed.

  It was lucky this empty horse knew no terror. The other horses had gone completely wild, galloping away from the ocean without paying the least attention to their riders’ direction. Phaedra saw Hunter’s mare take him and two children off toward the tower, while a gelding charged upriver past Phaedra, carrying only Temena on its back. Phaedra gasped. That was Criton’s horse.

  The second wave struck with a crash even louder than before. Phaedra looked back in search of Criton, just in time to watch Scypho’s shack get swept away.

  She kicked her horse into a gallop, and still Mayar’s fingers reached out for her, snatching at the horse’s tail and dragging at its feet. Ahead and to her right, Hunter was trying to turn his horse toward the river and away from the tower and its guards, two of whom were firing arrows at him from Parakese crossbows while the others mounted horses in pursuit. At last Hunter prevailed over his mount, pulling hard on the reins while Caldra clung to his back and Adla bounced perilously in front.

  Narky, also up ahead, looked back toward Phaedra. “There he is!” he cried.

  Phaedra turned to find Criton breaking out of the water, a sputtering Delika in his arms. He flew upwards, already far behind them, but still the sea would not let him and Delika go. It reached for them, waves crashing higher and higher, and a large tangle of seaweed wrapped itself around his ankle and made to pull him down.

  “Keep going!” Criton shouted, when he saw Phaedra looking. He had no disguise on, and the golden scales on his arms flashed in the sunlight. He shifted Delika under one arm, clawing at the seaweed. In the distance, the
sea battered against the walls of Parakas, crowning its battlements in foam.

  “Hold on,” Phaedra told Rakon, and rode after poor Temena, who had completely let go of her reins and was hanging onto her saddle for dear life. Phaedra’s elvish steed did not fail, and with a lucky grab, she caught hold of the other horse’s reins.

  When she had time to look again, Criton had escaped the sea’s grasp. The limp seaweed still dangling from his foot, he soared skyward out of reach before finally turning toward Temena and his horse.

  Phaedra had only just begun to feel relief when a splash of water struck her from the side. She turned back and stared. The Parek had overflowed its banks, its waters surging out toward her. The river was flowing backward. Phaedra shuddered and pulled away from the Parek into a sodden apricot orchard, watching fearfully as the mounted soldiers neared her, with the angry priest of Mayar at their head.

  “Heathens!” Pellos cried. “Traitors! Cursed in the name of Mayar! You will pay for what you’ve done! Scypho will pay for hosting you!”

  Phaedra looked into his face, his youth turned ugly with rage. Didn’t he know? Scypho had already paid for helping them. He could pay no more.

  Hunter was turning his horse back around to come to her aid, but it was no good: the tower guards were already between him and Phaedra.

  “Stay back!” Phaedra yelled at them, bringing the elvish horse to a stop. “Or I’ll tear your souls from your bodies and feed you to the waves.”

  The priest ignored her, but the guards pulled back on their reins. “A witch!” breathed one of them.

  “Ride on,” commanded Mayar’s priest. “There are no more witches and wizards.”

  “But she’s an islander,” protested another. “Who knows what they still have over there?”

  “She’s just a girl trying to scare you,” Pellos insisted. “I have stood beside her and spoken to her. She’s no witch.”

  The guards looked encouraged. “Fool!” Phaedra shouted frantically. They were so close! “I only distracted you while my friend stole your sacrifices! You say there are no wizards now? Well, look there!”