“And what about the champion, then?” Lord Graush shouted. “He should be out there!”
“We don't know who he is,” Apiris pointed out. “It might be that General Balinus is the divine champion, my lord. Or perhaps this Vrai Burrai is, or someone else. The champion could be right here in this room, for all we know. We have no way of telling who it might be, without the gods' guidance.” He gestured, a wide, sweeping gesture that was meant to take in the entire chamber.
It seemed to Duzon, though, that when the gesture ended, Apiris' hand was pointed straight at him, Duzon of Snauvalia.
He blinked. Odd thoughts began to bubble through his head, vague and half-formed.
The divine champion could be anybody, Apiris said.
It could be him.
The gods were no longer saying who the champion was; perhaps mortals could decide for themselves.
Perhaps that was why Duzon had always been filled with ambition and no idea how to use it. Perhaps he really was meant to be the champion.
Perhaps the gods had intended him to be the champion. Perhaps it was divine inspiration that had brought him to be in this chamber, hearing what was said, seeing the Archpriest's gesture.
“I say we should find out,” Lord Graush proclaimed. “You, Archpriest, you ask your magicians and priests, find out if any of them might have any clues. Kadan, you ask your soldiers. The old stories say the champion's supposed to be an unbeatable warrior, a man who never tires – you ask if anyone fits that description.”
Apiris glanced at Granzer.
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Granzer said.
“Very well,” Apiris sighed.
The remainder of the session was mundane and dull, and Duzon barely listened. He was lost in his own thoughts, thoughts of potential glory.
The divine champion, defender of the Domdur – he, Lord Duzon of Snauvalia, might be the man!
He left the chamber at a brisk walk, with his head high and his eyes bright. His cloak swirled about him dramatically and the plume in his hat bobbed handsomely, as always, but more from habit than any conscious attempt to maintain his usual style. He was too busy thinking about how he might present himself to claim the role he was surely meant to play to worry about his appearance.
Behind him, Apiris waited until the chamber had emptied before gathering himself up for the walk back to the Great Temple.
He hadn't argued with them; he tried not to, nowadays. The whole thing was absurd, though. Find the divine champion? Nonsense! There was no more divine champion. How could there be a champion when there were no oracles to guide him?
But he had said he would make inquiries, so he would make inquiries.
Chapter Twelve
Danugai, high priest of Biekedau, knelt on the cold stone floor before the ornate blue-and-gold shrine of Samardas, god of wisdom, and prayed for the restoration of the oracles. He had been at this task for several minutes when he heard the discreet cough.
He sighed, raised his head, and asked, “Yes?”
The young priestess wearing the red armband of a temple messenger stepped forward and silently held out a folded piece of paper. Danugai accepted it and rose, brushing off his knees as he did. He looked inquiringly at the messenger.
“From the Great Temple in Seidabar,” she said. “Demishin received this, just a few minutes ago.”
Demishin was one of the temple magicians, one of those who kept the Biekedau temple in instantaneous contact with every other temple beneath the Hundred Moons. Danugai looked at the note and saw the symbols for “urgent,” “private,” and “highest level possible“ on it.
He frowned. “Go,” he said, waving the messenger away.
She bowed, then turned and hurried away through swirls of incense, back to her post in the crypts.
Danugai unfolded the paper and read the message. It was in Demishin's handwriting, of course, but signed, “for Apiris, Archpriest, by his command, on the last day of Orini's Triad in the year of the gods' favor 1104.”
The gist of it was simple enough, and easily satisfied. Danugai crossed the sanctuary, beckoning to his waiting secretary, and a moment later both men were seated in the high priest's office while Danugai dictated a notice to be posted in the temple refectory.
That evening Vadeviya and Mezizar read the notice.
“Apiris, Archpriest of the Great Temple at Seidabar, Spokesman of the Gods and Speaker to the Gods, Councillor to Her Imperial Majesty Beretris Queen of the Domdur and Empress of the Domdur Domains, has requested that any priest or other person possessing information regarding the identity or whereabouts of the Divine Champion immediately forward that information to the Imperial Council at Seidabar.”
Vadeviya frowned, and glanced questioningly at Mezizar. No words were needed to convey his query.
Mezizar thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I leave it to you,” he said. “You spoke with him. I only saw him as a baby, more than twenty years ago.”
“He told me not to tell anyone,” Vadeviya replied. “He was quite definite.”
“And the Archpriest asks you to tell the Council,” Mezizar replied. “Who will you obey?”
Vadeviya considered that for a moment.
“Danugai requests,” he pointed out, “while Malledd told me, very definitely.”
“That's a point,” Mezizar agreed. “But did he have the authority to tell you what to do? You know as well as I do that a request from the high priest, especially one made on behalf of the Archpriest, while not an order, is not to be taken lightly.”
“Malledd was selected by the gods themselves, before the oracles fell silent,” Vadeviya said. “That does give Malledd authority. The Archpriest was chosen by mortals after the silence began, but is nonetheless the ultimate religious authority in the Empire. So the question becomes, which is the higher authority?”
He stood silently, considering this, for so long that Mezizar grew impatient. “And?” he demanded.
“And judging by the old tales, taking everything into consideration, I would choose the divine champion over the Archpriest,” Vadeviya said. “But it's not an easy choice. I'll want to think about it some more.”
“What shall I tell Dirwan and Talas when they read this notice?” Mezizar asked, naming the other two surviving priests who knew that the gods had in fact chosen their champion twenty-two years before.
“Tell them to leave it to me,” Vadeviya said. “I accept full responsibility. They're to say nothing until I've had a chance to think it over.”
Mezizar stared at his companion for a moment, then nodded.
“As you say,” he said. “Think carefully.” He lifted his plate and headed for the table where the temple cooks waited with the evening meal.
Vadeviya thought carefully. He thought as he ate his supper, and later in his chamber. He thought about it the following morning, and the day after.
But with each passing day, he thought about it less and less.
Two triads had passed without incident, and without word of the champion, when Danugai, overcome by curiosity, made his way down into the dim stillness of the crypts seeking Demishin.
The magicians generally worked in tiny dark rooms with thick stone walls, where nothing would distract them; messengers brought them food and drink, as well as carrying messages and instructions in and out. Demishin's room was virtually indistinguishable from the rest; Danugai found it barren and uncomfortable, but Demishin seemed perfectly at home there.
“What word from Seidabar?” Danugai asked, when Demishin had shaken off the last effects of his trance.
“Nothing much,” Demishin replied. “Reports of continuing trouble in the east. The Empress' health remains poor, but has not worsened. No one speaks openly of the succession, though Princess Daunla reportedly made a tactless remark about poor Prince Maurezoi at a recent wedding.” Princess Daunla was the wife of Prince Zolous, the younger of the Empress' twin sons, and mother of all six of Beretris' surviving grandchildren; P
rince Maurezoi, the sickly only child of the older twin, had died a few years before at the age of nine.
Danugai took no interest in palace politics. “Has the chosen of the gods been located?” he asked.
“Not that I've heard,” Demishin said. “If anyone knows where he is, they aren't telling us magicians.”
Danugai frowned.
“There may not be a divine champion any more,” Demishin pointed out.
Danugai admitted that that might be the case, then turned to go. He stroked his beard thoughtfully as he made his way back up the stairs.
That evening he called together a dozen of the senior priests in the lesser sanctuary. Each of them stacked three or four of the red velvet prayer cushions to make an improvised chair, and settled comfortably in a group around the altar of Samardas. The sun was down, but a hundred candles burned behind the altar, providing plenty of light and warming the incense-scented air.
Danugai took his place directly before the altar, sitting cross-legged on his cushions. He reviewed the situation quickly, then said, “I have been thinking that perhaps we should post a notice out on the plaza. Perhaps some layperson knows something.”
“How would a layperson know anything about the divine champion?” a middle-aged priestess named Medei asked.
“That does seem to be something only an oracle would know,” Talas agreed, with a glance at Vadeviya. Talas had himself once been an oracle of Vevanis, one of the three oracles who had described where the new champion could be found, twenty-two years before.
“Perhaps someone asked an oracle, just out of curiosity, who would be the next divine champion,” suggested one of Danugai's secretaries from the left side of the altar.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Vadeviya said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “We usually charged three vierts for a private talk with an oracle – more, of course, if there were several questions or the conversation ran more than a few minutes. I'm sure there were dozens of people in Biekedau who handed over three vierts to ask, just out of curiosity, who would be the Empire's chosen defender twelve years later. And of course none of them ever mentioned the incident, and obviously the oracles who answered all these questions are among the dead or departed, not those who remain among us.”
The secretary looked uncomfortable, and Danugai sighed.
“As I understand it, the Archpriest merely requested that anyone in the temple who had such information pass it on,” Mezizar said. “He didn't order you to make a great search.”
“True enough,” Danugai said, “but great things are not accomplished by doing no more than necessary. Yes, it's probably futile, I know that, but it's such a small effort – is there any reason not to post a notice in the plaza?”
Mezizar hesitated; he and Talas glanced at Vadeviya.
Vadeviya cleared his throat.
“Well, actually, sir,” he said, “I believe there are reasons not to.”
Danugai looked at him, annoyed. “Oh?”
“Yes. Please think about it. If you post such a notice, then word will spread from here to Yildau in a matter of days; everyone will know that we are seeking the divine champion. They will surely wonder why we are looking for the defender of the Empire. They will assume that we, in fact, know something we aren't telling them. They will quite reasonably conclude that we are looking for the defender of the Empire because the Empire needs defending, that for the first time in two hundred years the Domdur are facing a menace we cannot handle without divine assistance. Furthermore, sir, they will remember that we can no longer rely on divine assistance – for twelve years, after all, we have been utterly without divine guidance.”
“Um,” Danugai said thoughtfully.
“Do you really want to remind everyone that the gods have apparently abandoned us? That the temples no longer provide them with the aid their ancestors enjoyed?”
“You have a point,” Danugai conceded.
“I'd think that if the Imperial Council wants us to do more than we have, they'd tell us to,” Talas said.
“That, too, is sound,” Danugai admitted. He thought for a moment as the others waited.
“Very well, then,” the high priest said at last. “You've convinced me. We have done as we were asked, and need do no more.” He clapped his hands together. “Then we're done here, and let us all go about our business. My thanks to you all.” He rose.
As the priests made their way out of the sanctuary Dirwan stepped up beside Vadeviya. “I thought you were still considering,” she said.
“I am,” Vadeviya said. “But I know a bad idea when I hear one, and posting a notice in the plaza is a bad idea.”
“It's not just that you don't want word to reach Grozerodz?”
“Not entirely,” Vadeviya said, with a grimace. “The reasons I gave are sound enough; our friends in Grozerodz are one more I chose not to mention.”
Dirwan smiled at him. “If and when you reach a final decision, you'll tell us?”
“Of course,” Vadeviya said, smiling back.
And for the next few days he would sometimes find Mezizar or Talas or Dirwan looking at him inquiringly; on occasion one or another of them even ventured to ask if he had made up his mind yet.
Thus, while Vadeviya continued to think the matter over, no word of the search for the divine champion escaped the temple at Biekedau. A few hints perhaps seeped out into the streets of the city, but not even the vaguest rumors reached Grozerodz.
Chapter Thirteen
The guesthouse smelled of pine and woodsmoke, and perhaps there was a lingering trace of blood. It was an odor the Nazakri did not care for – but it was better than the stench of nightwalkers. He had been living with the reek of death for the last two seasons. The arrival of winter had lessened the stink, but not eliminated it.
He was about to return to it; he took a deep breath of the cool air of the guesthouse, then pulled his fur cloak more tightly about him and stepped out onto the verandah.
A light snow had fallen sometime during the day, covering the rows of corpses with a thin layer of white, concealing their bloated, rotting flesh. The snow would doubtless remain undisturbed until the sun vanished completely below the mountains and the light faded from the western sky; the nightwalkers could not move in sunlight, and their flesh was as cold as that of any other cadaver.
The snow hid their differences, making one dead body indistinguishable from the next; Rebiri could not tell which were the nightwalkers he had brought with him from Matua, and which were the people the nightwalkers had slaughtered when they captured the guesthouse the night before.
They were all nightwalkers now, of course. The nightwalkers Rebiri had brought up the road from Matua had marched in, knives drawn, an hour or so before dawn, and had butchered everyone in the place. The Nazakri and his living followers had followed them in, and Rebiri had walked through the place, the black end of his staff held out before him, reanimating each of the dead in turn with one of the dark spirits he had captured in the Govyan caves.
He had wanted to be sure he got them all before the sun rose, so he had hurried inside while the killings were still going on. As he stood on the verandah he could still remember the sounds he had heard as he began the resurrections – the distant screams, the cold laughter of the nightwalkers, and even the sharp, sickening crunch of the knives punching through flesh and bone.
There had been twenty-three people in the guesthouse, in all. Those twenty-three dead now lay in rows on the hillside below the verandah, side by side with their killers.
Rebiri Nazakri looked down at them with satisfaction.
His army was growing. He had over two hundred nightwalkers now, and despite desertions and other problems he had more than ninety living men, as well. About a third of those men were standing guard over the corpses; the nightwalkers were vulnerable when paralyzed by sunlight, and the wizard did not care to lose any to whoever might happen along.
He wasn't about to let them lie in the guesthouse, though – the sm
ell would be too much.
And of course, it was unlikely that anyone who happened along would know the secret of destroying a nightwalker. The old horror stories were surprisingly and pleasantly vague about it. Rebiri had learned it from the nightwalkers themselves, not from the legends: so long as a nightwalker's brain and heart remained attached to each other, no matter how badly mutilated the brain and heart and body might become, the nightwalker would survive. Break the last link between heart and brain, though, and the black essence would escape and revert to its mindless, harmless state, while the physical remains would be just so much dead flesh.
It seemed odd that the old stories never explained this. Oh, one might describe how a hero lopped the head off a nightwalker, another how a nightwalker's heart was cut out, but the general rule was never given.
But then, until Rebiri Nazakri had discovered how to use the New Magic to create them, nightwalkers were rare. Even before the gods taught the Domdur how to protect the dead and keep the black spirits deep below ground, it had been an unusual happenstance for one of the wandering spirits to stumble across a suitable host body. Without a body, they were incapable of any coherent thought, unaware of their own identity. Nightwalkers had happened occasionally; no one had ever made them.
Until now.
The last sliver of sun had vanished, and the red sky behind the mountains was beginning to fade. As Rebiri watched, a shadowed lump of ground jerked suddenly, and a hand thrust up, flinging aside the snow that covered it.
Then the hand fell lifelessly back as the lingering daylight touched it.
Rebiri was unconcerned. In a moment, as night drew on, that nightwalker, and all the others, would rise, ready to do as he, Rebiri Nazakri, warlord of Olnami, commanded.
And what he would command was simple – the nightwalkers were to march up the mountain to the next stop on the road west, killing anyone they encountered who refused to join Rebiri's growing rebel army. Each Domdur sympathizer thus killed would be raised as a nightwalker and added to their growing army.
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