“Ho, Onnell,” said the man next to him – Bousian, one of his friends from Grozerodz. The seven of them who had made it through training together tended to stick together, and the others had come forward, ahead of the main body, to accompany him as he bore the regimental standard.
Two of the nine volunteers from Grozerodz were not among the marching soldiers, however; Vorif had broken a leg during training and would be sent home once he could walk again, while Gaur had deserted, vanishing into the labyrinthine streets of Seidabar's Outer City.
“Look up there,” Bousian said.
Puzzled, Onnell turned and looked where Bousian pointed, not knowing what to expect; was there an odd conjunction of moons showing through the clouds, perhaps?
Then he saw the man with the glowing staff, hanging in the air above them, and he almost dropped the regimental banner. He caught himself in time and kept walking, with the easy amble they'd been taught that let everyone keep up and didn't tire a man out. He shouldn't have been so shocked; after all, he'd seen New Magicians back in Seidabar, during his training.
He hadn't expected to see any out here in the middle of nowhere, though – not until they reached Drievabor, where the Gogror Highway crossed the Grebiguata River, and where they would join General Balinus at his camp outside the city. He was supposed to still have a couple of New Magicians with him, despite rumors that the rebels had killed a few and others had deserted.
But surely, they weren't anywhere near the Grebiguata yet; who was this, then? Was the Imperial College sending out more magicians to help in the coming battle?
“Who's that?” asked Timuan, the youngest of the Grozerodz contingent.
“I don't know,” Onnell answered.
A nearby soldier wearing the insignia of the Third Seidabar Regiment overheard, and replied, “It looks like old Vrai Burrai himself to me.”
Someone laughed, but another man shushed him. “Seriously,” he said, “it does look like Vrai Burrai!”
A moment later the figure swooped down out of the sky and landed somewhere up ahead, out of sight beyond the other standard-bearers and their friends.
“We'll know soon enough,” Onnell told Timuan.
They had both been in the army for a good many triads now, and had learned how fast and efficiently news spread. The flying man, whoever he was, had presumably landed to talk to the officers at the very head of the column, ahead of the standard-bearers. It was absolutely inevitable that everything said would be overheard by the sharp ears of nearby soldiers, and the news would be passed back along the column within minutes.
Sure enough, the report arrived even before the New Magician was well off the ground again.
“It was Vrai Burrai,” Onnell told Timuan and Bousian and a dozen others. “He's with an entire company of men who claim to be the divine champion. Lord Kadan's sent them all forward with us, to give them a chance to prove themselves.”
Timuan blinked and looked puzzled. “But Malledd the smith is the gods' champion,” he said. “Everyone knows that.”
“Everyone in Grozerodz,” Onnell said. “Nobody around here knows it.”
“Well, but... shouldn't we tell them?”
Onnell shrugged, and the regimental banner wobbled dangerously. “Malledd doesn't want anyone talking about it,” he said. “I'm going to keep my mouth shut. Besides, how do we know that old priest wasn't lying, all those years ago?”
“Well, but...” Timuan persisted.
“Forget it, lad,” Bousian said. “If the gods want their champion here, Malledd will be here. Until then, let these other folks make fools of themselves if they want.”
“They'll be riding past us any time now, supposedly,” Onnell said. “We can get a look at them, anyway.”
In fact, it was almost an hour and a half later, and Onnell had long since turned the banner over to a former carpenter from Duvrenarodz, when the foot soldiers crowded over to one side to let the horsemen pass. The seven from Grozerodz watched in silence.
When the last horse had ambled by, the men turned eastward and resumed walking.
“Watch where you step,” Bousian remarked.
“I hope we won't be seeing too many more horsemen,” grumbled Orzin, for whom Bousian's warning had come a second too late.
“I wouldn't think so,” Onnell said, “not if that lot is the best the Empire can do! Half of them could hardly stay in the saddle, from the look of them. And why were half of them in uniform and half of them not?”
“I liked the one in front, with the plumed hat,” Timuan said.
“He was all right,” Onnell grudgingly admitted. “He could ride, anyway, and had some meat on his bones.”
“Watch where you step,” Bousian repeated.
Chapter Twenty
The temple porch was cool and pleasant, shaded by its high roof of heavy slate over ancient oak but open to the slightest breeze. Malledd lowered his pack to the marble floor and stood for a moment, just enjoying the sensation of being out of the sun.
All around him, the priests and people of Biekedau were going about their business. White-robed men and women stood by each of the three doors and by several of the immense pillars, answering questions and directing visitors, or simply watching; the visitors, dressed in a wide variety of colors and styles, came and went, or milled about, talking among themselves. Whenever a group seemed uncertain, or began to impede traffic, a priest would approach and ask if he could help.
Malledd watched this bustle for a moment, then looked out over the town. The temple stood atop Biekedau's highest hill – but Biekedau had no really high hills. The land here was flatter than around Grozerodz, the buildings taller, so Malledd's view was somewhat limited.
A dozen white marble steps led down from the temple porch to a plaza paved in grey and red stone; half a dozen streets radiated from that plaza, lined mostly with two- and three-story buildings built of yellow brick or gray stone, many of them replete with gargoyles and other fancywork, all of them far grander than the humble structures of Grozerodz. By looking down the streets between the buildings Malledd could see, in the distance beyond the town, red and blue sails moving on the Vren River; by standing on his toes, he could even glimpse the glitter of sunlight on water.
Before he returned home, he promised himself, he would go down to the river and follow the River Road half a mile upstream, to the Lower Falls – he hadn't seen them in the summer, free of ice, since he was a young boy. From town, one couldn't see the Lower Falls, or hear their rush at all; the river wound its way around too many hills, and any sound that might have carried so far was lost in the hum of voices and footsteps and cartwheels.
Maybe someday, he thought, he might even follow the river to the Upper Falls, sixty miles upstream. Or perhaps he could go the other way, to the Illazi Sea, hundreds of miles downstream. He had never seen the sea, and couldn't quite imagine a body of water so large the far side couldn't be seen.
But any such journeys wouldn't be made any time soon. Today he was here to speak to Vadeviya, and then to head home to Anva and the children. He turned away from the plaza, picked up his pack, and marched up to the central door.
“May I help you, sir?” asked a priestess, looking up at him.
“I need to talk to the priest Vadeviya,” Malledd said.
Startled, the priestess glanced at her fellow doorkeeper. The young priest hesitated, then said, “I'm not sure whether Vadeviya is available at present.”
“If he's not, I'll wait,” Malledd said.
“Could I ask what this is about?”
Malledd frowned.
Most people, of course, didn't come to the temple's front door looking for a specific priest; they came seeking a particular sort of magic, or the shrine of a particular god, or a counselor, or a priest to officiate at a function of some sort. Malledd knew that – but surely, some people must arrive here looking for specific priests! Relatives, old friends, lovers...
Well, perhaps such people came to some othe
r entrance to the temple complex. Or perhaps Vadeviya was notoriously unsocial. At any rate, Malledd didn't care to spend his time arguing about it. He had an obvious way to end any disputes, and he would not have come at all if he were not willing to use it.
“Just a moment,” he said, lowering his pack. He loosened the drawstring, reached inside, and found the ivory letter-case.
“Here,” he said, opening the case and handing over the letter. “Read this. Then find me Vadeviya.”
The priest accepted the letter and read it carefully. At first his expression was puzzled; then, as he neared the end, it transformed to astonishment. His hand began to tremble.
When he had finished he looked up.
“You are the son of the smith of Grozerodz?” he asked. “The one in the letter? It's true? The divine champion, here in Biekedau?”
Malledd frowned, and wondered whether he might have been too hasty in displaying the letter. “I am Malledd, son of Hmar,” he said, “and that message was left with me when I was an infant.” He held out his hand for the scroll.
The priest handed it back and said, as he bowed, “I am honored, sir! Come with me; we'll find Vadeviya.” He turned and led Malledd into the temple, leaving the priestess gaping in surprise.
Malledd tucked the letter back into its case, then with the letter-case in one hand and his pack in the other he followed the priest into the cool dimness of the temple's central sanctuary, an immense circular hall beneath the great dome. The exterior of that dome, above the slate of the surrounding roof, was gleaming white marble, but the inside was gray from centuries of incense and candle- smoke, and the air in the sanctuary was even now sweet and thick with smoke. The shrines on every side, each with its kneeling worshippers, were indistinct in the haze, as if seen in a dream rather than in hard reality, but Malledd could see that they shone with gold and jewels. Candles flickered behind colored glass, and plumes of incense spiraled lazily upward in intricate patterns, streaked with sunlight from the ring of windows far above.
Malledd had seen this chamber before, of course, but he only remembered actually entering it once, almost ten years earlier, when he and Anva had come to pledge themselves at the marriage altar. Dremeger's shrine, where he made his annual obeisance, was in one of the side-galleries, not even the lesser sanctuary at the rear. This central hall, dedicated to some of the most important deities, was far more impressive than the other rooms, and Malledd looked about with interest.
The priest paid no attention to any of their surroundings, but led the way directly across the sanctuary to a small door to the right of the marriage altar, just beyond the statue of Vevanis. As the priest fumbled with the latch, Malledd looked up at the image of the god of love and duty. What, he wondered, did Vevanis want a man to do when love and duty were in conflict? Malledd loved Anva, but didn't he have a duty to the Empire? The call had gone out for smiths; was he right to ignore it?
The left-hand statue was that of Vevanis' wife and sister Orini, and there was no question what she would prefer – as goddess of passion she would want Malledd to stay home with Anva, where he belonged...
Or would she? Hadn't she, along with the other gods, chosen him to fight for the Empire?
Then the door opened, interrupting Malledd's thoughts, and the two men stepped through into a cool stone corridor. The priest led the way down the passage, past closed doors on the right and windows overlooking a sunny courtyard herb garden on the left, to a side-passage. At the end of this he knocked on the right-hand door and waited.
“Come in.”
The young priest swung the door open, hesitated, then stepped aside and let Malledd enter.
Vadeviya was sprawled comfortably on a window-seat; Malledd knew him instantly, though his hair and beard were now entirely grey. The old priest turned his attention from the outside world to the doorway and saw Malledd. For a moment his expression was blank; then recognition dawned, and he smiled.
“Malledd!” he said. “Come in, come in! What can I do for you?”
“You can answer a few questions, I hope,” Malledd replied, stepping into the room. The sun through the great many-paned window had warmed it; where the sanctuary and the corridors had been cool, this little room was almost hot.
“I hope so, too,” Vadeviya said. He glanced past Malledd at the young priest in the doorway. “Malledd, do you want Helizar here, or should he return to his duties?”
“Doesn't matter to me,” Malledd said.
“You can go, Helizar,” Vadeviya said, with a gesture of dismissal. He glanced at Malledd. “Does he know who you are?”
“He read Dolkout's letter.”
“Ah. Helizar, be so kind as to close the door on your way out, and to close your mouth, as well. Tell no one of my guest, neither his presence nor his identity.”
Helizar bowed and departed, and Vadeviya smiled. “I can't resist the temptation to keep you all to myself, you see,” he told Malledd. “It'll make Mezizar and Helizar and Talas and Dirwan so very jealous.”
Malledd snorted. “If they're fool enough to be jealous of a conversation with a smith, they're fools indeed. Anyone who wants to could walk the ten miles to Grozerodz and visit me at the forge.” He dropped his pack to the floor.
“Ah, but they don't know that,” Vadeviya said. “And besides, priests do not leave the temple grounds without the High Priest's permission.”
“You had permission, six years ago?”
“Oh, certainly. I have Danugai's full support for my studies. Of course, I didn't mention why I wanted to go to Grozerodz, merely that I wished to go.”
For a moment, then, the two men were silent; Malledd was trying to think of some graceful way to bring the conversation around to the questions he wanted to ask, and nothing was coming to mind. He hated to seem like an ignorant peasant; after all, he could read and write, and he knew a skilled trade. But he knew he was out of his depth here; a glance around the room made that obvious. There were shelves on three sides, stacked with scrolls and codices; there was a large writing table holding an inkwell, a rack of quills, and several sheets of parchment. Vadeviya was obviously a scholar.
“You wanted to ask me something?” Vadeviya said, breaking the silence.
“Yes,” Malledd said. “About the war in the east.”
“I thought that might be it.” Vadeviya turned and lowered his feet to the floor. “What would you like to know?”
“I would like to know what is actually happening,” Malledd said. “The reports that have reached Grozerodz are obviously either lies or incomplete. We are told that a single wizard, using black magic, has raised an army, and after a full season of open warfare, this black magician has not been defeated, and the Imperial Army is marching east to fight him!”
Vadeviya nodded, then stood up. “That's essentially correct, yes.”
“One man? The Imperial Army to fight one man?”
“Rebiri Nazakri is no ordinary man, Malledd, any more than you are. And he's not alone in his insurrection. There are always malcontents, and he's gathered them from all the eastern part of the continent – Olnamia, Govya, Matua, everywhere.”
“But still, aren't there garrisons? Aren't there magician priests?”
“Certainly, but Rebiri Nazakri's magic is powerful and strange. It's not like our traditional magic at all; it seems somewhat like the New Magic in some regards, but in others it's completely unfamiliar, and it's far more powerful than anything Vrai Burrai or the others at the Imperial College can do.”
Malledd frowned. “What can this wizard do, then, that's so formidable?”
Vadeviya sighed, then turned to look out the window again.
“You understand that we have been asked, by the Imperial Council, not to reveal this to anyone outside the government and the priesthood?” he said. “That I've already said more than I should by admitting the Nazakri's magic is unknown to us?”
“I suspected as much.”
“But you want me to tell you more anywa
y?”
Malledd hesitated, then said, “Yes, I do. Dolkout's letter requires you to, if I ask you.”
“I know,” Vadeviya said. He sighed.
“Well?”
“Nightwalkers,” the priest said.
Malledd blinked. “What?”
The old priest turned to face him again.
“Nightwalkers, I said. Rebiri Nazakri has learned how to create nightwalkers, how to make corpses walk and fight under his direction.”
Malledd felt suddenly cold, even in the overheated little study. He had heard the rumors, but he hadn't believed them. He hadn't wanted to believe them.
“Nightwalkers are a myth,” he said. “A story to frighten children.”
Vadeviya turned down a hand. “I wish they were,” he said.
“There haven't been any nightwalkers for centuries!” Malledd insisted.
“So far as we know, you're right, there hadn't been,” Vadeviya agreed. “Not until this Nazakri found a way to make them.”
“The gods destroyed the nightwalkers! My mother told me the story.” He didn't mention that she had done so because his sister had terrified him with tale after tale of nightwalker horrors.
Vadeviya nodded again. “That was my understanding, as well. You see why we do not want this news spread, Malledd? Look at how you've reacted, and imagine the panic if everyone were to learn that an ancient childhood terror had been brought to life. But these are not the same nightwalkers that fought Zobil and the rest eight hundred years ago, Malledd – they're new nightwalkers, men and women Rebiri Nazakri raised from the dead with his dark magic.”
“The gods permitted this?”
Vadeviya sighed, and settled back on the window seat.
“Malledd,” he said, “we don't know what the gods permitted. We don't know anything about the gods any more, not since the oracles fell silent.” He gestured at the surrounding shelves. “You see all these books, Malledd? Do you know what these are? Do you know what I do all day?”
Touched by the Gods Page 17