by Scott Rhine
“Is that like a lawyer?” asked the boy.
“More like a grave robber with a conscience,” explained Bjorn. “They put the dead to rest, and make sure cemeteries are in good repair. In exchange, they take a token price from the coffins and sometimes the families of the deceased. In big cities they even perform funeral services. I’ve heard of this Owl. He looks like an aging rat dressed in rags, but he’ll do right by us. He knows how to wrap up members of the Forge holding the holy dagger, and he may even carry a little Kiateran soil to sprinkle on top.”
“New money,” said Tashi, nodding his agreement. Coins were often worn or shaved over time; therefore, new money had the most metal—the best possible trade for services.
“Anything else that anyone wants to add before we conclude our first pointThey puBrent.
“What’re you two going to do while the three of us are unmoving lumps?” asked Bjorn, still uncertain.
“After we clean up this mess and put together a traveling pack for Tashi?” The boy shrugged.
“I’ll teach him to play cards,” offered Zariah
After the Somnambulists left, all weapons in the room, borrowed and otherwise, were placed in a pile beside the Door. All normal doors to the temple were barred until the advocate for the dead arrived. Zariah led them to the semi-private banquet hall reserved for important guests. The men feasted on leftovers finer than any meal they’d experienced.
Brent found a wheelbarrow and moved the bodies of his allies first, reasoning that he might lose any food eaten during the gory process. He wrapped everything of Ekvar’s he could find in a sheet by the front door. Zariah removed the spear from the body for him with savage exuberance. She followed Brent as he struggled to reunite Nigel with his errant head. He reached the body first, and Zariah lurched to prevent him from picking up the scroll fragment in the actor’s hand. However, an invisible force bounced her backward from the boy.
“A master? You are a master?” she shrieked, knowing the binding prevented her from harming the boy directly. “Put that down before you kill us all!”
Brent read over the words on the scroll, moving his lips and squinting. There seemed to be something under the letter. He held the scroll up to the light of the Halls of Eternity. Shadows in the shapes of the letters stretched down to touch the hem of Nigel’s cloak. “It’s connected.”
“No!” Zariah pleaded.
The edge of the cloak was weighted. Anyone could see that when Nigel walked. What Brent knew now was that it was weighted with reclaimed pieces of the book of the Bards. He saw the title appear inside the cloak’s lining. Brent donned the cloak himself before anyone else could see the writing that had appeared. He refolded the scroll of Binding and replaced it in the cloak’s pocket. By way of trade, the boy wrapped the actor’s body in his old cloak. Zariah drop-kicked the severed head to him, and he caught it before the first bounce. He blanched at the blatant hatred seething in this woman.
Once the pieces were reunited, Brent felt he should say something profound for the actor’s funeral. Still standing in front of the Door, he peeked inside his new cloak. It read, “Even the spheres in the heavens move to the harmony of music.”
Hearing the commotion, the men finished their meals and came to the base of the Door. Tashi saw Brent kneeling and did likewise. The boy sang a simple funeral dirge, and when he finished, the body of the actor vanished.
“How?” asked Bjorn, blinking.
“He was a High Priest of the Bards. The boy wears that mantle now. When they pass, they pass into memory alone and leave no trace on the earth,” said Tashi.
Brent looked down at the simple cloak, raising his eyebrows. “Mantle, huh?”
“It should protect you from Zariah and any mind tricks this place has while we slumber,” said the sheriff, as if this sort of transition happened every day. Yawning, he lay down to bed.
Bjorn brought a pillow for his injured arm and reclined next to the sheriff. The dragon leaned down and breathed on them before returning to stone. The healing sleep began.
****
Zariah sat within the circle of candles, the temple in utter silence for the first time in decades. Brent had allowed her to change into a simple house gown and collect her most important belongings. In exchange, he gathered leather packs and traveling gear for his companions. Everything was quid pro quo with this strange child. His sense of balance and fair play were highly acute. The seeress intended to use that against him at the first opportunity. No doubt the messenger birds had been sent, and rescue was just a matter of time. She took copious notes during her reading of the cards to let Sandarac know everything she could about her captors and their intent.
The boy stood opposite her, observing without comment. To reward his long silence, she explained, “Each of the cards represents an idea or a tool of the gods. Some can have different meanings based on context or position. Like words, yes? By examining how they are arrayed, one can predict one’s fortunes or even change them if one is especially wise.”
“Nothing tells the future, my master has told me as much. Even the gods are blind to this,” Brent said matter-of-factly.
Zariah raised an eyebrow. “True. But a very clear picture of what is can tell one what is highly likely. Think of the cards as a watchtower for the empire.”
“Why were the cards locked in a chest?” asked Brent.
“Each placard is intricately hand-painted, like a portrait suitable for framing. The deck is valuable in its own right, not just for what it tells me.”
Brent nodded. “Like books.”
“Indeed. Like books, most valuable to those who can read them,” she said in a distracted fashion, closing her eyes. “Cut the deck, and I’ll perform a reading for you and yours. Then I’ll do one for myself.”
Brent picked only the top three cards to move to the bottom. “Where is my master?”
Zariah cleared her mind. Her passive receptive powers were still there, even if their capacity was diminished. A god-gift could never be taken away from the faithful. “The first card represents you.” She turned over a card with two children exchanging a cup. “This card normally represents memory. As a person, it may mean that you are here as a witness to record all that passes, the cup waiting to be filled with knowledge and experience.”
Brent said, “Or it could refer to the fact that I am now high priest of the School of Bards, the Way of Mnem.”
The claim shook her, but she tried to continue smoothly. “The second represents your master.” She turned over a card containing a blazing sun of power. “No, this wasn’t here before. There was no Sun in play. He was the beggar monk before.”
Brent said, “People are what they are. Perhaps the words used to describe them have changed. He passed through the Doors again. Tashi said he went to the Holy Mountain.”
“What do you mean again?”
“That’s my master’s business. I accept that now he’s the Sun. Perhaps that is merely how I view him. I am satisfied with the reading so far. Gon.”
“You don’t get it. Passing through the portals has shuffled the deck. Everything is different. Anything could happen.”
“How is that different than any other day?” asked Brent. “If the cards are going to bother you this much, we don’t have to play.”
“No!” she blurted. Turning the third card, she announced. “This is the card that crosses you, the Hungry Ghost. Kragen?”
“I thought all the cards had numbers.”
“They do. Except the Archetypes.”
“What are they?”
“Very important, they almost never turn up,” she muttered, turning the next card. “Past is the Prisoner. A literal sentence or a vice he cannot escape. Present is the King of Swords, great battle, many difficult roads to travel on a quest. He runs from Sandarac. Future is . . .”
“Leave that card,” demanded Brent.
“But the reading,” Zariah protested.
“I only care about now. Where is he
going on this road? Is he already on the road to close the final Door?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” explained Zariah, scribbling more notes. “The spirits must be circumspect.”
“Just turn over the answer card,” he insisted. Zariah began to explain the rules again, but he replied, “Whose turn is it?”
It was the incongruity of the most influential woman in the hemisphere arguing with a child like an equal that made her give up and flip the next card. “The Mute. This one was supposed to be ours in a few days. It must be a duplicate. Every side needs a complete set to try for the College of Wizards. Extras are normally weeded out this late in the game. What’s happening?” She stared at it. Their side had nearly a full hand of Archetypes. She itched to turn over the Future card.
“He’s looking for someone who can’t talk?”
“It’s a metaphor, I think. I mean, sometimes it’s literally a person who cannot speak. I don’t know anymore. The message is for you because this is not like any reading I have ever done,” she said, puzzled.
There was a knock at the gigantic front door of the sanctuary. “Somebody call for a gravedigger? Where is everyone?”
Brent rose and said, “I have to take care of this. You can go ahead and take your turn now. Thank you for the money.” Zariah had given him a stack of silver coins from her treasury to pay for the burial and services.
The boy took the wheelbarrow filled with a shrouded corpse to the front of the Temple of Sleep, where he met a scraggly-faced man with dark circles under his eyes. He looked like a tramp. Zariah returned all the cards to the safety of their wooden case strapped to her belt. As she slipped the final card in, she peeked. What she saw in her hand made her scream. “Never! After all I’ve done, the South will never win. After what they did to me, the Twins must suffer. Serog!”
She knocked candles over in her haste.
“I can come back later, if it’d be better,” said Owl in a folksy-but-polite manner. He didn’t see the dragon, but was familiar with the madness of grief.
The dragoness snapped awake. “Daughter?”
Brent caught a whisper of the emotion and caring, but not the exact word. “A moment. She hasn’t had a good day. She’s not herself.”
Zariah stormed up to the huge beast. “Forces are shifting. That cursed priest is ruining everything. The Twins must be stopped.”
Eyes full of pain, the dragoness explained, “I lost long ago, dear one. When I regained you, it was my one consolation. Don’t take that from me as well. Follow the old codes and you’ll live. As long as there is life, there’s hope.”
“As long as the South has life, I have no peace. As long as the gates of Zanzibos stand, I hate. As long as the sands of my desert don’t eat their bones, I may not rest!” Zariah shrieked, her eyes bulging and mouth nearly frothing. The two sleepers remained unconscious. Brent began to worry.
“Not herself,” said Owl, guffawing. “That’s an understatement. Can’t you tell she’s possessed?”
Brent considered the predicament. “Can you get rid of the spirit without hurting the woman?”
Owl considered for a moment. “It’ll cost you extra.”
“I’m bound,” the dragoness told her. “As are you. I beg you. Obey.”
Zariah shrieked in rage at the top of her lungs. “I’ve had enough of your rules, Mother-goddess. Enough! The men who used me like a pack animal and raped me every day of my life after destroying the country I loved won’t be allowed to win this conflict. Never! Not while I draw breath. I will change the outcome.” So saying, Zariah lifted Bjorn’s sword.
“As much gold as you can carry. Quickly!” said Brent.
Owl nodded and raised an iron, six-armed holy symbol. “Foul spirit, I cast thee out from this holy place.”
Zariah twitched but did not put down the weapon.
The dragon, who Owl had not yet noticed, whispered, “Stop, both of you, please.”
Owl continued, more forcefully. “You, who live no more, depart from the shores of the living. Leave the habitations of men and return no more.”
“I don’t listen to men,” croaked Zariah, in obvious pain. She plunged the blade through Bjorn’s chest. “You were going to do the same to me.”
“No,” said the dragon, returning to stone. She couldn’t bear to watch it again.
“What’s her name?” muttered Owl out of the corner of his mouth.
Brent couldn’t help comparing the gray and black bristles on the tramp’s face to the back of a warthog or a hedgehog. “Zariah the bd, student of Abu Nirah, the last true worshipper of Serog,” said the boy.
On her knees, the frothing, incantation-wracked Zariah pulled the blade loose and turned toward Tashi.
Owl bellowed, “Zariah, thrice named, be gone from this place and wander the waste places forever. In the name of the Traveler, be gone!”
The one known as Zariah fell across Tashi’s body and began convulsing. Brent raced up to disarm her, and held her down to prevent damage to the woman’s body or Tashi. After several minutes of impotent rage, the struggle continued, neither side winning. What neither boy nor man realized was that, apart from her long-time host body, Zariah would effectively perish. What was obvious to all was that this spirit was fighting with everything she had and would not go gently.
Brent asked himself what his master or a good lawyer would do. Eventually the boy said, “Serog is in a lot of pain. I don’t like to see anyone suffer. If you leave now, I promise that I’ll free her by sundown.”
The high priestess turned a stretched grimace toward him, decided that there was no lie hiding in that face, and surrendered, hoping that her death for a good cause might harm her enemies more than a continued life of bondage and misery. “Done.” Her body went slack and the wind blew from the Door toward the Inner Sea. This time the odor was sulfurous and foul.
Chapter 17 – Dispossessed
Tashi woke
to strange circumstances, healed of most of his bruises and armor-induced lesions. “Did I miss something?”
The stone dragon sat immobile.
“I only turned my back for a moment,” began Brent. “She was possessed . . . evil . . . hated men.”
“Of course,” said Tashi, rolling the unconscious woman off him gently and regaining his holy myrtle staff. As an afterthought, he added, “Not your fault.”
Brent checked Bjorn for signs of life before removing the bells and handing them to Tashi. “If you’re ever surrounded by Somnambulists, shake those and they won’t be able to see you. It’s magic.” The former executioner looked unconvinced but placed them around his elbows nonetheless. Meanwhile, Brent explained the exorcism and introduced Owl.
“My apprentice, Tatters, is outside. We can take care of this corpse and the one out by the hay bales as part of the package,” said the gravedigger.
“Sven,” the boy guessed sadly.
“That would be fitting. Label the grave ‘the Stone Monkeys.’ But make it fast. The truce is broken,” said Tashi. Noting the holy symbol, he asked, “Are you a walker of the Path?”
Owl shook his head sadly. “I know that it works, but the following is hard. I only know the funeral rites, and the cleaning.”
Tashi nodded. “A good man at your business, too, I see. The gods are going to have a lot of cleaning up to do before this is through. Be off to your duties, and we’ll talk after the ceremony.”
When the gravedigger was gone, Tashi disappeared into the treasure vault. Brent moved the last of the traveling gear he’d packed up for the survivors into the pile by the door. They had one backpack extra now with Bjorn gone. Tashi huled Owl’s gold payment beside the pile. When they finished, Brent admitted, “To get Zariah’s spirit to leave, I had to promise to free Serog.”
Tashi rubbed his temple. “That was unwise and potentially damaging to the cosmos.”
“She can’t stay here,” began Brent.
“Go on.”
“As long as she stays, I think the
Door can be reopened. Without her, this whole place would collapse. It’s already falling apart in places,” argued Brent. “Closing this Door could be her penance.”
“A good point. Where do we send her where she can do no harm?” asked Tashi.
Brent whispered. “I think she should be with her last daughter, out to sea. They’ve both been through a lot. What could she hurt way out there?”
Tashi moved the unconscious woman to the top of the heap of treasure bags while he pondered this.
Having no better idea, Tashi eventually agreed. Standing before the dragon, Brent addressed her first. “Serog, your daughter broke the truce. As penance for that, you must agree to shut this Door when you leave as permanently as you are able and never open it again.”
“Agreed, when I leave,” Serog hissed so softly only the two could ever hear. “You, lawyer, have played me fair.”
Tashi continued. “As penalty for shedding of innocent blood in this holy place, we of the holy orders revoke your guardianship of this shrine, and command you never to return again. We condemn you to wander the Inner Sea. You shall live free from the pain of this crime as long as you never touch the shores of men again.”
Wind howled through the room. “I curse you, sheriff. I hold you responsible for the loss of all I held dear these last four decades. There will be a reckoning.”
Tashi remained motionless. “Say the word or face trial by your peers.”
The wind sped up to gale force as the Door squeezed steadily shut. Loose papers and blankets whirled around in small cyclones. The bell overhead rang fiercely and repeatedly.
“Say it!” said Tashi, anchoring himself and the boy in place.