She sat back on her heels. Why did she feel this pang of the heart at the sight of blood on his sleeve? Empathy was a part of healing, but this—this was something more. And was it not a betrayal of everything she had been before, everyone she had loved before, that she should feel anything but hatred and loathing? If he had saved her life, that had been duty to his Empress who for some reason wanted her alive; had he been commanded to kill her, she would have assuredly been dead. So she reasoned—but all along she knew that reason was no part of what she felt. “Is it that you mistrust me? But I helped the others—”
“What is allowed to them is not permitted to me. Even Rivanon and Morquant have not come so far down this road. Your offer is generous but may not be accepted.”
“But why?” she insisted. “Why is it denied you? Why should you not be healed like the other men?”
“Because I renounced it long ago. Healing, and many other things besides.” He rose to his feet, stood looking down at her with that unfathomable glance. “You do not understand yet—it’s not necessary that you should—but I could not be what I am and accept what you offer.”
The horses who had emerged through the partly open door much sooner than Winloki had expected them. She was sure the Furiádhin had called them; there could be no other explanation. Once mounted, they did not travel far that day, only until they found a little stream gurgling down from the higher slopes, where they might refresh themselves and water the horses.
On this side of the mountain, there was no stain on the land, and the weather was warmer. “We will rest here for a few days,” said Camhóinhann. “There will be game for the hunting, and forage for the horses. By that time it will be safe to ride them.”
“It is only practical,” Dyonas agreed. “We will travel more speedily afterward.”
In the morning, when Winloki went to examine Rivanon’s wounds to see if they were healing properly, the acolyte surprised her by speaking up. “You asked me before what Goezenou wanted of you, and I did not answer. I think, perhaps, that I should have done so.”
She glanced warily over her shoulder, to see if anyone was listening. “In the catacombs, there at the end, I thought he would kill me.”
Rivanon shook his head. “Oh no, Princess, I think that he meant to rescue you—he has always imagined himself greater than he is.” Then he fell silent and the silence stretched out so long that Winloki began to fear he had decided not to speak after all.
“Few know this,” he said at last, “but Goezenou was the first to hail Ouriána as a goddess. Because of that, he believed he would also be first among her servants. When she chose Camhóinhann instead—” The acolyte lowered his voice, leaned so near that his pale face almost touched hers. “He does not mean to be passed over a second time. He knows you fear him, and would ingratiate himself if he knew how.”
She had been kneeling, but now she sat down on the ground, all of the breath driven out of her. “He thinks that I—that I will someday—”
“It is what we all think, Princess.”
In its own way, the idea was far more terrifying than any of the fates she had ever imagined for herself at their hands. “Even Dyonas and Camhóinhann? They think I will be—a goddess?”
He shrugged. “Who can tell what Dyonas thinks? As for Camhóinhann, he is different from the other Furiádhin.” He dropped his voice again. “The nature of his bond with the Empress is different, too.”
Winloki’s mind was still spinning; it was hard to form a coherent thought. “In what way different?”
“While the others glory in her worship, his bond is one of pain. I believe it is the stronger for that, but—” Rivanon frowned and shook his head. His face suddenly looked weary and very much older inside the black hood. “I should not speak of these things. I have said too much already.”
“I would never betray you,” she protested. She knew that it was wrong to press him—dangerous for him, perhaps even dangerous for her—but her desire to know more about Camhóinhann was stronger than ever. Returning to the task of bandaging the acolyte’s hand, she could not resist saying, “You must know I would never repeat anything you told me in confidence.”
“I did not think that you would. But there may come a time when, remembering I was indiscreet, you might wish to chastise me yourself.”
It was, of all the things he had said, the most horrifying, the most bewildering. What does his Empress mean to make of me? Does she think she can re-create me in her own image? Winloki was certain she would rather die a horrible death than allow Ouriána to do any such thing.
The kingdom of Reichünterwelt was a place of ceaseless activity but very little hurry. When Prince Tyr offered to escort his father’s “guests” through the workshops of King Yri’s artisans, Sindérian and the Skyrran princes readily assented. To be shown what few other humans had ever seen was, they agreed, too good an opportunity to refuse—particularly under the aegis of such a guide.
“And it is not,” she said, “as though declining his offer will hasten our departure from Yri’s realm by as much as an hour. Courtesy, on the other hand, may gain us much.”
Prince Ruan apparently thought otherwise, so they left him behind with the faithful Aell in attendance and accompanied the dwarf prince with a pleasurable thrill of anticipation.
The living quarters of the dwarves were warm and dim like burrows, but their artisans always made a bright light to work by. Forges, potteries, and glasshouses were hives of industry; in the workshops of goldsmiths, silversmiths, and jewelers were created items of timeless beauty.
“Some of these masters,” said Prince Tyr, “will spend years—nay, sometimes even decades—designing, casting, and perfecting a single exquisite item.”
Sindérian had seen such artifacts before, treasures of royal houses with the patina of age on them. But here the metal was bright from the fire: silver candelabra like branching trees, golden drinking vessels shaped into basilisks, mermaids, and griffons; sea serpent necklaces with emerald or ruby or diamond eyes.
They lingered longest among the jewelers. In one such shop, Prince Tyr explained, the artisans were crafting funeral jewelry. “We never bury our dead without some fine and precious thing to honor them. And the stones that embellish these grave gifts have special significance: garnet and topaz for kings and queens, beryl for a prince, amber for a princess…the list is long, for every craft and every occupation has its own stone.”
They moved on to other chambers, where dwarf women were no less busy than the males: carving delicate ivory brooches, illuminating manuscripts with letters of gold leaf, doing fine needlework. Others made musical instruments or intricate toys. And though they visited no workshops of weavers or dyers that day, evidence of such work was everywhere. Tapestries of many colors adorned the walls; floors were covered with rugs of exquisite weaving.
“Not all of these things we make for trade with the other dwarf kingdoms,” said Prince Tyr. “Much is made for the love of fine craftsmanship, and that reason alone.” And Sindérian had a vision of level upon level of storerooms and treasuries under the earth, all of them filled with marvelous handicrafts.
What must it be like to live only to create beautiful things? She felt, momentarily, a bitter stir of envy—not for their riches, certainly, but for their splendid isolation, for their orderly, useful lives, far from the brutality of war. What must it be like to not spend a lifetime healing broken bodies—to make and not to mend?
She was still pondering this question when King Yri sent for her after dinner, specifying a private audience. Much surprised by his invitation—and more than a little apprehensive—she shook her head when Prince Ruan offered to accompany her, and followed the small page sent to escort her, out of the room and down a dim hallway. Arriving at the same audience chamber where the King had received her before, the dwarf youth bowed her through the door, then left her to cross the vast expanse of floor alone.
As she approached the dais, a familiar voice spoke in
her mind, causing her heart to soar. Yet her spirits plummeted again at the sight of the white owl perched on an arm of Yri’s throne. As pleased as she was to be reunited with her father, there had been some satisfaction in believing him free while the rest of their party remained captive.
“The hawks on Penadamin told me of a bird that was not a bird,” said the King. He gestured with a hand heavy with rings. “So I sent for your owl—or, should I say, the wizard Faolein?”
The owl fluttered up from his perch on the throne and landed on her shoulder. You need not worry to see me here. The King and I have had a lengthy conversation. I believe we understand each other very well.
“Perhaps,” said Sindérian, biting her lip, “I should have told you before—”
“You might have trusted me with the information—but you were not to know that,” answered the King, more kindly than he had spoken at any time before. “But as pleasant as it is to bring you and your father together, that is not why I sent for you. Seat yourself on the top step—you are tall enough, we may speak together quite comfortably. I mean to tell you something of those you follow.”
As soon as she had seated herself at his feet, he continued: “Since taking the underground road through the catacombs, Ouriána’s priests leave a chain of disturbances wherever they go. It began when they sacrificed a horse outside the Doors of Adamant, in order to gain entry.”
“So that was how it was done,” said Sindérian under her breath. “I did wonder.”
The King gave her a sharp look under his tufted white eyebrows. “And would you shed blood to follow after them—if I were to release you? For though you would be forced to backtrack two days before you came to the doors again, the catacombs are a swifter road than any that goes over the mountains.”
She shook her head in emphatic denial. “My companions and I, we all have blood on our hands—I wish I could say otherwise—but whatever it is that opens those doors and feeds on death…No, I would not strike a bargain with that.”
“You are wise,” said the King. “In that much at least you are wise.” He leaned forward, gripping the arms of his throne. “Travelling through the hill country…perhaps you felt a presence there, ancient and malign? Perhaps, too, you recognized what it was?”
“I think it was a durathagh, one of the Old Earth Powers,” she answered tentatively.
“Yes. And there is another one, even stronger, within the catacombs. What do you know of them?”
She tried to remember, but there was little to recall. “They were once worshipped as gods; men made sacrifices to them. Beyond that, we know very little about them on Leal.”
“When they were worshipped as gods they were very powerful,” said the King. “In this age, they can do comparatively little without creatures like ourselves to serve as their eyes, ears, and hands. Perhaps it was always so. And they are particularly drawn to young people whose powers are just beginning to unfold—that combination of potency and ignorance, power and vulnerability, is naturally attractive to them. The young woman with the Furiádhin had a very narrow escape—but you need not fear,” he added, as Sindérian started up from her seat. “She did escape, in full possession of her own mind and will. Others were not so fortunate—or at least not all who entered by the Doors of Adamant succeeded in reaching the Doors of Corundum and returning to the surface. Your own danger would be less; nevertheless, there are some bargains which never should be made. The road through the catacombs is not for you.
“But we were speaking of the durathagi,” he said as she settled back on the top step. “Of the one in the catacombs I know, alas, too much. Dwarves made the tombs—not of our own will. For many hundreds of years, our stonecutters toiled there, slaves in fact if not in name. The distant ancestors of the Men of the north were also slaves, but of a lower sort, and the kings who ruled in those days squandered their lives as you or I would spend small coins, carelessly. But when the civilization that enslaved us degenerated, dwarves and Northmen joined together to win our freedom. Yet we never forgot that it had been Men who made slaves of us in the beginning.”
“There is nothing of this in our own lore,” she said with a thoughtful frown. “Your memories, it seems, are far longer than ours.”
“That is because our records are written in stone. Then, too, we are a long-lived race. For us, not so many generations have passed. We may live as long as the greatest wizards, but not so long as the Faey. Alas, we bear few children, and our numbers remain small. It is the same with wizards, is it not?”
She shook her head. “We bear as many children as ordinary Men, though not all of them are born to magical gifts.” She was beginning to suspect that there was some purpose to this rambling conversation, though what that purpose was remained obscure.
“Yet your own line breeds true, does it not?”
She glanced at Faolein, uncertain whether she ought to answer. Tell him, said the owl. What harm could there be in reciting our family history? He appears to like you. He may like you better for confiding in him. Confidences win trust.
So Sindérian took a deep breath. “When my father was young—as wizards reckon these things—he married a woman who possessed no magic. Wizards had been born in his family for six generations, but the children of that particular marriage were ordinary in every way. When the last of them died, he wished for a child who might outlive him, one who might inherit his gift.
“My mother had reached a similar conclusion. She was also a wizard, with a lineage to match Faolein’s, but she had lived all her long life at the Scholia. Faolein and Shionneth wed for the sole purpose of creating a child. Not a thing easily accomplished, even by wizards, when mother and father had each lived for more than a century. Yet magic eventually proved stronger than nature, and Shionneth gave birth to me. It was, I fear, a somewhat cold-blooded union.”
He ran a hand through his white beard. “Like a marriage between two royal houses, in order to produce an heir.”
“I am no princess,” she said, more amused by the idea than otherwise.
“Are you not? But the Master Wizards rule on Leal. And your Pendawer prince—does he not view you as an equal?” he asked with a sly smile.
That sobered her. She had never considered whether Prince Ruan’s intentions were honorable or not, she had been so busy rejecting him: first out of loyalty to Cailltin, later because she knew that encouraging him would be selfish, even cruel.
“It is a very small island,” she said with a frown. “And the children of wizards must make their own way in the world. We inherit nothing by right of birth.”
“I think you are wrong,” he replied. “Like all the children of Men you have inherited a harvest of grief. Ill days are coming; what will you do to avert them?”
She almost said: What will you do? But she swallowed the words. What right had she to challenge him, when Men had brought their world—and his—to the brink of ruin?
“I will do all that I can,” she said fiercely, knotting her hands into fists. “I will do whatever it is in me to do, no matter the cost.”
Afterward, she spent a restless night—if night it was—unable to sleep, trying to fathom the true purpose behind her lengthy audience with the King. He was old and he was subtle. Had he meant to learn something from her, or to convey some wisdom she was too young and too ignorant to comprehend? If Faolein, who had listened to the entire conversation, knew what it meant, he did not choose to enlighten her.
She rose, heavy eyed and out of sorts, as soon as she heard the servants moving around in the room outside the bed, the sound of firewood being stacked on the hearth.
Over breakfast in the adjoining chamber, she told the men a little of her conversation with King Yri. They had naturally been surprised to see her come in with the owl on her arm and had pelted her with questions.
“It seems you were right when you told us not to attempt to deceive him,” Prince Ruan said. “With every bird—and probably every beast—on the mountain spying on us…”
“We might have guessed when we saw how Prince Tyr and the others controlled our horses,” said Skerry. “How many of them, I wonder, have this affinity for creatures feathered and furred? But at least we know now why the birds failed to warn Faolein that the dwarves were near.”
“And I know how King Yri exchanges news with the Ni-Féa,” said Ruan, his silvery eyebrows drawing together. “For my grandmother also talks to birds.”
There was no time to say more, for a pair of dwarves entered the room, announcing King Yri. Appetites fled and everyone rose at once. No one doubted that the King had finally reached a decision, or that they would soon learn his intentions.
Four stout dwarves carried him in in a chair and put him down by the hearth, where the firelight lent a ruddy glow to his normally waxen features. “It could be said with some justice that the quarrels of wizards and magicians affect us all,” he began. “Nevertheless, I have decided not to involve myself in yours. Your arrival on my doorstep was unfortunate, and perhaps I was not wise to summon you here, but it is too late to undo that, much as I might wish it.”
His pale eyes moved grimly from one fallen face to the next. “You are to leave at once, and my son and his servants will take you to the surface. From there, it is up to you where you go and what you do.”
Sindérian was sorely disappointed. She had hoped for more; she had believed it was well within King Yri’s power to do more. And if this was to be his decision, he might have reached it sooner, she thought bitterly. The time she and her fellow travellers had spent in the dwarf realm would surely cost them dearly.
25
When he died, they buried him deep. He had thought that death would be balm to his troubled spirit. He had thought that in dying he would leave behind the terrors and humiliations of the flesh. But in the necrotic darkness of the grave he experienced torments unspeakable.
A Dark Sacrifice Page 27