by David Drake
***
“Halt!” ordered the officer of the guard. The Blood Eagles in front of and behind Cashel and Tenoctris clashed their boots down on the flagstones. Cashel didn’t see why soldiers had to do everything with flash and noise, but it wasn’t his place to tell them their business.
The guards were with Tenoctris. Cashel figured that if he needed help, it wasn’t something a bunch of soldiers could give him. Garric had agreed.
Temples weren’t a part of Cashel’s life before he left Barca’s Hamlet less than a year before, so he hadn’t had any clear notion of what the Shrine of the Prophesying Sister would look like. It turned out to be a trim little semicircle of pillars with a tile roof, built into the rocky slope. It looked down on Carcosa Harbor and what Garric had said was the oldest part of the city.
It all seemed pretty old to Cashel. The millhouse where he’d grown up dated from the Old Kingdom, but that was home; he’d never thought of it as being ancient, the way he did Carcosa’s crumbling city walls and the weed-grown hills that once were buildings.
The two hired bearers set down the sedan chair in which Tenoctris sat reading a scroll. One man wiped his forehead with the dangling ends of the kerchief he wore as a sweat band. “It’s heavy work,” Cashel said in sympathy.
“Yeah, but she don’t weigh nothing,” said the bearer. He patted the seat back. “All the weight’s in the chair, and that’s a right plenty when the road’s so steep they cut steps.”
“We’re there, then?” Tenoctris said, looking around brightly while her fingers rewound the book. It was a simple leather scroll wound on sticks of plain wood without the gilding and decoration some books had. It looked old, though, and if Tenoctris was choosing to read it now, it was probably important.
“Yes, milady,” said the palace servant who’d been the party’s guide up the path’s steps and switchbacks. “The Shrine of the Prophesying Sister.”
The roofed portion of the building was small, but Cashel could see that the rock had been dug out deeply beyond. A stern-looking man with a full black beard came from the doorway and bowed to the newcomers. Instead of priestly robes, he wore a pair of gray tunics—plain but of cloth tightly woven by a skillful craftsman.
Cashel grinned as he helped Tenoctris out of the chair. Ilna’d approve of the tunics, both of their workmanship and their simplicity.
“Lady Tenoctris,” the bearded man said, ignoring Cashel as well as the guards and attendants, “it’s an honor to greet a scholar of your stature! I’m Horife or-Handit and I’ve written a little work debunking the superstitious belief in prophecy. I’m sure you won’t have read it...?”
He bustled toward them, apparently expecting to push past the soldiers. The officer of the guard grabbed a handful of Horife’s beard and jerked him back. The priest—he was a priest, wasn’t he?—gave a startled squawk.
“I’m afraid I haven’t read your book, Master Horife,” Tenoctris said. A faint smile was her only acknowledgment of the way the guards had handled the fellow. “My reading is sadly out of date, which I regret. I used to wonder what it would be like to live an active life. Now that I’m living one, I find I have very little time to read, my greatest pleasure when I was a poor scholar.”
“Ah,” said Horife, smoothing the beard which the soldier had released when he stepped backward. “Well, of course, I didn’t think you had....”
Though he’d certainly hoped it.
Horife cleared his throat and continued, “In any case, Lady Tenoctris, I’m happy to welcome you to the Shrine of the Prophesying Sister. Ours is, I’m proud to say, the oldest continuously-used religious structure in Carcosa.”
He raised his right hand with the index finger extended. “Now, I know what you’re thinking—that the Temple of the Lady of the Sunset is older, but in fact that temple has been rebuilt seven times since its original construction. The excavated portion of our shrine dates back to the pre-dynastic settlement of the area. The—”
“Excuse me, Master Horife,” said Tenoctris, politely but firmly. “While this history would be interesting in its place, we came here hoping to enter the structure and examining it. Would that be possible?”
“It sure would,” growled the officer of the guard, who’d been promoted from the ranks. He was a scarred veteran, bald when he took off his helmet. “And if you’d like Master Fuzzy here to stop chattering in your ear, you just say the word and you won’t see him again. All right?”
“What?” said Horife angrily. Then he must have realized what the soldier meant—and that he did mean it. “Oh my goodness!”
“I’d like Master Horife to come with us quietly,” Tenoctris said with her faint smile. “I’d like him to be able to answer any questions we have.”
“I’ve got a question,” said Cashel. He guessed he sounded like he was offering a fight; which maybe he was, if he’d heard what he thought he had. “You’re a priest, right? And your shrine tells the future, that’s what prophesy means, Sharina told me. So how did you write a book that says it’s superstition?”
Horife blinked and turned to Tenoctris. “Pardon me, milady, but who is this person?”
“My companion, Cashel or-Kenset,” Tenoctris said dryly. “I’ve never in our association found his judgments to be flawed. I’m sure that’s more important to a scholar like you, Master Horife, than the fact he’s Prince Garric’s closest friend from childhood.”
Horife gaped at Cashel, his eyes lingering longest on the thick, polished length of the quarterstaff. Cashel wasn’t even angry. Horife was a puppy; he didn’t know how to behave, but you don’t kick puppies.
“Ah,” said Horife. “Master Cashel, I assure you that no one could be more faithful in the preservation and restoration of this wonderful cultural icon than I am. I’ve spent years....”
His voice trailed off as he realized that he wasn’t answering the question. Starting over, Horife said, “The basin in which Carcosa lies is an ancient volcanic crater, you see. Gas seeps through cracks in the rock and into the cave that was the original sanctum of the Sister. I, ah, describe this fully in my book. The gas induces, ah, dreams which, ah, conventionally religious people have believed were prophetic.”
Horife cleared his throat. “Ah, in recent generations there haven’t been gas flows of the strength of those in the past, but if you’d care to enter the sanctum I’d be delighted to show you the cracks?”
“Yes, we would,” Tenoctris said. To the officer of the guard she added, “I don’t believe that Master Horife will be a danger to us, sir, and space inside is obviously limited.”
“You’ve got that right,” the soldier said, probably referring to both Tenoctris’ statements. “Siuvaz, you’re the smallest. You go in with them and the rest of us’ll stay out here. Just take your sword.”
A soldier who wasn’t any taller than Ilna handed his spear and shield to his fellows, then took off his helmet as well and drew his sword. Cashel didn’t see much need for a guard, but there probably wasn’t need either for his quarterstaff, which he was going to take anyway. “Go ahead,” he said to Horife.
The priest led them into the pillared porch. He paused and gestured to the floor, a mosaic of simple white rosettes on a black background. “When I became director, that is priest...,” Horife said, “of the shrine, I had the garish modern pavement taken up and restored the pattern which we found on the lowest level.”
Tenoctris nodded and gestured him on. Horife bowed, then bowed again to Cashel when he recalled that Cashel was a person. He entered the square anteroom.
As Cashel followed Horife, he glanced at the black and white marble and wondered what the garish decorations had been. He liked pictures; they were the best part of living in cities, it seemed to him. Of course, to Cashel there weren’t many other good parts about cities.
Horife pulled back the curtain of white linen which separated the anteroom from the tunnel in the back. It’d started as a natural cave, but it’d been squared up and the walls polished
a long time ago. Somebody’d even cut fluted half-columns to either side of the opening to look like pillars.
“The curtain was black when I was appointed,” Horife said in a disgusted tone. “I’m sure it’d been black for generations, but that’s quite wrong. Rank superstition!”
Tenoctris looked about her with a bright, quizzical expression. When wizards spoke their incantations, the spells gave off a kind of light that anybody could see; but Tenoctris was able to view the raw forces with which she and other wizards worked. It was like being able to see the wind, not just watching trees move. Judging from her smile, she wasn’t finding anything that bothered her.
“Now here,” said Horife, “is the sanctum and the incubation couch.”
He drew in his lips at a thought, then added for Cashel’s benefit, “That is, the couch where the petitioner sleeps in order to receive dreams from the goddess, according to tradition. In some periods the priest recounted his dream to the principal, but as far back as records go there are examples of the principal himself sleeping in the sanctum. Either practice is quite authentic.”
“I’d like to go in, please,” said Tenoctris. She started forward, but Cashel held her arm gently till the priest had hopped in ahead of them. Cashel followed him, letting the little soldier bring up the rear.
It wasn’t likely anything was going to happen. But things did happen sometimes, to sheep and to people besides. Cashel liked to be in the way of trouble if there was going to be any.
When you got in a double pace, the cave swelled to the size of a peasant’s hut or a bit more. The inner walls had decorative carving, but the workmen hadn’t had to open them out the way they’d done the entrance. This was hard rock, not limestone that dripping water could eat away. Cashel wondered if a bubble had cooled in lava back when Carcosa had been a volcano.
Wax candles burned in wall sconces, lighting things better than Cashel would’ve guessed. The black rock shone like polished metal and reflected each flame into many.
Across the back wall was a couch carved into the rock. Cashel judged he could lie there without knocking his head, but Garric—who was a hand’s breadth taller—would have to bend his knees to fit. Not that either of them were likely to try.
“Now,” said Horife, kneeling beside the end of the couch raised for a headrest, “if you’ll look here, milady—run your fingers across the stone here if you will, that’ll show you better. And Master Cashel too, if you’d like.”
Tenoctris obediently sat on the couch, then bent to touch the floor with her fingertips. Cashel could see that there were little cracks all across the bottom of the chamber, like the glazing on an old pot. Frowning, he ran his hand over the wall. So far as he could tell, that was solid. He didn’t want to be in here if there was a cave-in. They were well up the hill, but there was still enough rock overhead to squash them flat if it landed on them.
The soldier, Siuvaz, was looking around the same as Cashel was; there was no way for an enemy to come at them except by the way they’d entered. Cashel tried to figure out the reliefs carved into the walls, but no matter how he held his head the glint of light on the glassy stone kept him from being sure what he was seeing. It wasn’t anything ugly or sick, anyhow. Some of the things he’d seen since he started to travel made him wonder about people, Duzi knew they did!
Horife was talking to Tenoctris about gas entering the chamber through the cracks in the floor. Cashel didn’t see what that had to do with having dreams, let alone seeing the future, but so long as Tenoctris was happy it didn’t matter. There was a funny smell in the room with maybe a hint of sulphur, but nothing so bad it even made his nose wrinkle.
Tenoctris got up from the stone couch. Cashel offered her a hand to grip if she wanted, but she ignored it. Nobody likes to be treated like they’re helpless, and Tenoctris was pretty spry except when she was completely exhausted.
“I think we’ve seen what we needed to, Master Horife,” she said. “Your shrine has interesting resonances, but there’s nothing here that need concern Garric.”
Except how you’re going to make it hold more than a double handful of people, even if you do it out front, Cashel thought, just like Liane said. But that was no concern of his.
An earthshock threw Horife off his feet; Tenoctris bounced back onto the couch. When Cashel instinctively braced his staff against the sidewall to stay upright, the iron buttcap sparkled with red wizardlight. Rock squealed like ice cracking under enormous weight.
Cashel lifted Tenoctris and cradled her in his left arm. She was moaning faintly. He hoped she hadn’t been badly hurt, but you couldn’t tell with old people.
The cracks in the stone floor had widened. Smoke poured out of them, but it wasn’t just smoke: it glowed with the same unearthly color as the sparks Cashel’s staff had struck from the wall.
Siuvaz stood groggily, rubbing his eyes with his left hand. He’d hit the wall hard and dropped his sword, which he didn’t seem to have noticed yet.
The strands were merging into something with the head of an enormous snake. It was between Cashel and the only exit from the stone chamber.
Horife was on all fours, shaking his head to clear it. He looked up and saw the serpent of wizardlight, growing increasingly solid as the vapors from deep in the earth congealed into its body. Horife screamed and sprang like a sprinter toward the exit.
The creature of smoke struck, sinking its glowing fangs into the priest’s torso. His arms and legs shot straight out. Cashel expected Horife to scream, but only a froth of spittle came out of his mouth.
Cashel tossed Tenoctris to the soldier. “Get her out!” he shouted, his voice echoing louder than the rumbling aftershocks.
Cashel didn’t wonder whether the passage was blocked, whether Suivaz would obey, whether the half-stunned soldier would even be able to catch the wizard so casually thrown to him. He didn’t wonder about anything, just did the only thing that might help—slamming his quarterstaff endwise into the serpent’s flat head.
The staff’s ferrule struck the glowing smoke. A roar of blue wizardlight flung Cashel into the wall behind him. He didn’t notice hitting the rock, but both his hands tingled where they gripped the staff.
The serpent of smoke jerked upright, releasing its victim. Horife bounced off the ceiling and dropped to the floor. His limbs were still rigid and his face was turning black. The serpent didn’t show any injury, but it’d felt the stroke; now it wove slowly side to side as it watched Cashel. Its head was as long as a horse’s but wedge-shaped and much broader at the back.
“Ready!” Suivaz shouted, hunched over Tenoctris whom he held in both arms.
The iron buttcap Cashel struck with the first time still glowed red hot from the impact. He rotated his staff a half turn and shouted, “Go!” He struck again, his quarterstaff a battering ram crashing into the serpent’s skull.
Azure thunder surrounded him. He didn’t feel the staff strike, but the stone floor was no longer beneath his feet. He was falling and his lungs burned. He fell for a lifetime until—
A figure stepped through the fiery darkness to face him. A woman, Cashel thought, though it might have been a boy; she wore a shift of some shimmering material.
“Who are you?” he said. His throat felt like it’d been rasped.
“I’m Kotia,” she said, her voice more clearly female than her form. “I’ve come to find a champion. Will you follow me and do my will?”
The serpent had disappeared. So had the cave and anything but the sparkling whirlwind encircling them. “I want to go back to my friends!” Cashel croaked.
Kotia shrugged. “You can come with me or you can stay and die,” she said. “You can’t go back. If you choose to stay, I’ll find someone else. There are many souls in this place.”
Her eyes narrowed as she examined Cashel again. With for the first time a touch of emotion she added, “Though you would be very suitable.”
Cashel paused, his big hands squeezing hard on the quarterstaff. He didn’t
know what being Kotia’s champion would mean; but he did know about death, at least from this side of existence, and the rest could wait at least a little longer.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”
Kotia reached out a hand. Cashel took it in one of his. Together they stepped through the wall of wizardlight.
Chapter 7
Cashel stepped out of a cave in a hillside, coughing and wheezing. His eyes watered from the bitter smoke. He blinked and rubbed his eyes with the back of his left wrist. When he opened them again, he got his first look at an unfamiliar valley.
The sides were steep, particularly the opposite wall. Everything had a jagged rawness, though the slopes were green with shrubs and spiky grasses.
Kotia lay crumpled at the entrance to the cave, in the middle of a many-sided figure. Words were written around the outside in the curvy letters of the Old Script. Cashel couldn’t read them, but he’d helped Tenoctris often enough to be able to recognize the shapes.
So Kotia was a wizard. Well, it wasn’t a surprise, given what she’d plucked him out of.
Thinking about that, Cashel looked back into the cave. The smoke was disappearing swiftly, vanishing like frost in the sunshine rather than drifting out in a haze that spread through the still air.
Cashel clenched and unclenched first his left hand, then his right, working out the numbness. His fingers tingled a little, but his grip was back to full strength. He checked the buttcaps of his quarterstaff. The iron of both showed a dull rainbow discoloration and was warm to the touch, but it hadn’t been blasted away by the wizardry it’d channeled back in the shrine.
Cashel didn’t know where he got the power that filled him when he faced wizards. He didn’t think about it, didn’t want to think about it.
But he was glad it was there. Especially when he stood between his friends and evil.
Kotia was beginning to stir. Cashel squatted close by but he didn’t touch her. Wizardry was just as hard work as breaking rocks, and the incantation that’d brought the girl to Cashel’s side must have wrung her out. She’d recover by herself; and anyway, there was nothing Cashel could do to help.