Slave in the City of Dragons (Dinosaurs and Gladiators Book 1)

by Angela Angelwolf

  Tol’zen grimaced. “You saw a corruption of an ancient ceremony,” he said. “Don’t judge us by Kro’tos’ perversions. But I would leave them to it, as ignorant as all this superstition is, if they would keep the ceremony as it was. As it was meant to be. Now, though … we’ll see.”

  “Do you have the power to change it?”

  He smiled cryptically. “We’ll see.” And he said no more, but led her onward up the steps.

  Pashera mentally kicked herself. As much as it lifted her heart to talk to her mother, she should have asked the Throne of Heart’s Desires to end the Pakaian. That would have been something.

  Where the ziggurat topped out was expansive, with room for many structures including the base of the giant globe. At the base of the giant cradle holding the globe were a collection of altars and enclosed areas that Tol’zen called gardens. He led the way to one side of the cradle holding the giant white globe. Again, he found a hidden door; again he led her inside. This was a stairwell, well-lit by small windows. But it was very dusty and obviously unused.

  Tol’zen led her onward, up the stairs. By the time they reached the top, her legs ached, and she gasped for air. At the top was a door. Tol’zen cracked it open and peered through. “It’s dark,” he said. “Good. Welcome to the Temple of Earth’s mystery of mysteries.”

  He brought her inside and found the lights. This time, a huge space lit up. They were inside the globe itself.

  “This is a map of our planet,” Tol’zen said. “Our world.” The globe was divided into distinct sections of blue and brown and green. If Pashera had to guess, she’d say they were pieces of colored glass laid into place and held by some unknown means. The top and bottom of the globe were white. Mountains – they had to be mountains – projected from the ground, and rivers tracked lazy courses across the green parts of the globe.

  “There is the great salt lake,” Tol’zen said. “It’s the inland sea now, but they never updated the globe, even though they’ve had nearly a thousand years to do it. There is Guadalquivir, see, right on the slopes of the Holy Mountain? “

  Pashera shook her head. “If this is what the world looks like, why don’t we fall off?”

  “I’ll explain gravity another time,” Tol’zen said. He explained that the globe rotated slowly to match the rotation of the world, another concept that Pashera had trouble getting her head around.

  At the center of the huge open space that was the globe, on a raised platform, was a large stone. It was black, but twinkled with inset quartz or some other sparkly stone. A broad staircase led up to the stone. Tol’zen led the way up the stairs.

  “This is the Megalith of Augury,” Tol’zen said. “It fell from the heavens a long, long time ago. It can foretell the future. The problem is, it doesn’t tell the future clearly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We place a hand inside this crevice here,” Tol’zen pointed to where the stone had a natural cleft. “Ask a question. The stone will put a symbol or image on your hand. You can then interpret what you will from the symbol, or the temple priests will interpret it for you … for an additional fee.

  “Oh yes, the money,” Tol’zen said. “There is a long wait to use the Megalith, of course. The priests restrict access. Outside this door are rows of guards and ranks of officious priests. And a supplicant must get through all of them.

  “To speed the journey, one must take many temple courses, all which cost a great deal of money. They’re supposed to make you ask better questions, but of course, it’s all about the money. That’s why the nickname for this place is the Megalith of Money.

  “That’s one reason,” Tol’zen said with a wink, “that I enjoy doing it for free. All those guards out the front entrance, and they’ve apparently long forgotten the back door.”

  “There are some other things you should know. The stone may answer the question you should have asked rather than the one you did ask. Also, this prophecy could take place any time within the next few months. Finally, a prophecy doesn’t have to come true, though it usually does.”

  Pashera looked at him curiously.

  “A warrior is about to go to battle,” Tol’zen said. “He asks if he will survive. The Megalith puts a picture of his own bloody face on his hand. He stays home, and because he doesn’t die, the prophecy is no longer true.”

  “Has that actually happened?”

  “It happened often enough that warriors are now forbidden from consulting the Megalith about such things,” Tol’zen said. “It was very bad for morale. Also, consider – since a warrior isn’t in the battle, his friend might die. There is more than one way to change a future.”

  “Does it hurt?” Pashera asked. “To get the symbol on your hand.”

  “Yes,” Tol’zen said. “But the pain only lasts a little while. And the symbol fades. When it fades completely away, you can come back and ask again. Or just use the other hand.”

  He showed her his right hand. There was a faded blotch on his palm – she couldn’t make out the picture.

  “What was it?” she asked.

  “I came here a month before I went on my quest,” he said. “I was receiving advice from a number of people. All three are very smart. And they all contradicted each other. So, I asked, “who should I listen to?”

  “The image,” he said, looking at her strangely, “was a woman. Someone I had never seen before. The image … was you.”

  Pashera was thunderstruck. “That’s why you captured me,” she blurted out.

  “Yes,” Tol’zen said. “And I think it has set both our futures on the right path.”

  Pashera kept her mixed feelings to herself. She looked at her own hand. What would the Megalith tell her?

  “You first,” Pashera said. Without hesitation, Tol’zen stuck his left hand in the stone.

  “Will my campaign against the sky pirates be a success?”

  The huge stone glowed, as if leaking light from a million little pores. There was a hissing noise, and more light, intense light, shone from the crevice. Tol’zen twitched, but made no other noise. He withdrew his hand.

  There, on the palm, in the raised red of burned flesh, was the symbol of a tower, struck by a lightning bolt and splitting in two.

  “That’s very specific to the plan I have to take the sky pirate fortress,” Tol’zen said. “But if I remember correctly, the temple seers say a falling tower means disaster.”

  He looked at his hand thoughtfully.

  “Disaster for the sky pirates, maybe,” Pashera said. That seemed to cheer up Tol’zen.

  Her left hand trembled as she put it forward into the crevice. Tol’zen stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “One more thing,” he said. “You don’t have to say your question aloud. But it must be true. It must be from the heart.”

  Pashera kept her mind purposely blank as she put her hand in the crevice. Then she thought: “Will I be free?”

  The rock glowed. Light shot out of the crevice. The pain was searing – like burning wood pressed against her flesh. Pashera had steeled herself for it, but she still gasped. Then it was over. She withdrew her hand.

  On her palm was a red symbol, a sword in a circle. The sword dripped something that was probably blood.

  She looked from her newly imprinted palm to Tol’zen. “That’s not much of an answer.”

  “What was your question?”

  She didn’t want to tell him, but finally said: “My freedom.”

  “Ah,” he said, smiling and nodding in a way that infuriated her. “You and your obsession with freedom. There are a lot better things than that you know. Anyway, that doesn’t seem like much of an answer, does it? Maybe,” and here he tapped the side of his head, “maybe it answered another question. A more important question. One that might have to do with the upcoming battle against the sky pirates.”

  They heard noise in the distance, and Tol’zen froze. “More supplicants coming to solicit the Megalith. We must hurry.”

  He le
d the way back down the stairs, across the floor, and they closed the hidden door behind them just as they heard voices coming into the great globe. Tol’zen led the way down the stairs to outer door.

  But Pashera had already figured out what the symbol meant. She’d get her freedom, all right. But she’d have to win it. And pay for it in blood.

  Back on the top of the ziggurat, he led her down a different staircase. This one also was obviously disused. They had to be careful, as the surface of the steps cracked and crumbled under their footsteps, though the basic path seemed sound.

  “The priests restrict access at every level,” Tol’zen said. “That means there are many unused paths.

  Halfway down the ziggurat, they reached a broad, open, wooden terrace. Tol’zen stopped here. He reached into one of the pouches of his sash and pulled out two pieces of cloth. He handed a gold piece of cloth to her and indicated she should pull it over her head.

  She looked at him, agog. He now wore a mask of some kind of demon. Judging from the leaf and wood motif, it was a forest demon.

  “Who are we supposed to be?” she asked through the mouth slit.

  “I am the forest spirt Essreld; you are the animal spirit Muban,” he said.

  “These masks aren’t going to fool anybody.”

  “On the contrary, they’ll do just what they’re supposed to do.”

  Tol’zen explained that the disciples of the Temple of Earth were more open about their ceremonies than the adherents of the Temple of Science. They didn’t mind people watching their mystery ceremonies.

  “That’s the problem,” Tol’zen explained. “If they think I’m interested, they’ll show up on my front door. Oh, they’ll be all kindness and good intentions. But that’s just so I won’t slam the door in their face. And once they get their hooks in, they’ll never leave me alone.” He shrugged. “I showed a little interest as a boy, went to ceremonies with my mother, took some of the early initiate rites. Even though it ended in a huge argument with the head priest, they still pester me at least once a year.”

  “What was the argument about?”

  He shrugged again. “It seems odd to me that this religion styles itself as the guardian of Earth, but our people barely venture beyond the borders of our valley.”

  He led the way to the edge of the terrace. “Still, they believe in all the huggy-feely forest stuff that your primitive tribe does. You might find it interesting.”

  He lay down to peer over the edge of the terrace, and indicated that she lay down beside him. The rough wood of the shingles that formed the floor of the terrace itched her skin, but she tried to focus on the view in front of her.

  There were many groups below, but the closest one was some kind of initiation ceremony for young saurian females. Priests wearing golden, three-horned masks waved thuribles of incense over the prone bodies of young females. There was lots of chanting about eggs. Pashera DID find it fascinating, because a similar human blessing ceremony would have included ritual painting of breasts, talk about the nourishing mother’s milk, and so on. The saurians had none of that. No wonder that, with rare exception – and she looked at Tol’zen – they were a cruel and unfeeling race.

  The ceremony went on. Words drifted up on the wind. “By the water and the word … love is power, and also discipline.” Then the wind changed and the words were muffled again. Libations were passed around and poured on the ground. An elaborate dance was performed. The initiates chanted and Pashera felt herself getting drowsy.

  Then, one of the initiates below spotted Tol’zen and Pashera on the terrace. The initiate alerted her companions. At least half fell to their knees and started alternately prostrating themselves praying to the spirits on the rooftop.

  “Back up slowly,” Tol’zen said. “Keep low.”

  He stood up and made complicated signs with his arms and hands. Now, more of the people below pointed to the roof or fell to their knees.

  When Pashera was far enough back from the edge, Tol’zen lifted her up by set her on her feet. “We must move quickly now,” he said, leading the way.

  “Won’t they catch us?”

  “No, they’ll have to find one of the higher-level priests to get permission to come and check out this terrace. Being on this level is forbidden,” Tol’zen removed and tucked away his mask, and held out a hand for hers. “By the time that happens, we’ll be long gone. And that’s good for the priests,” he smiled at her mischievously. “What’s a religion without mysteries and miracles?”

  On the far side of the ziggurat, Tol’zen led Pashera down stairs on a flying buttress that ended in a copse of trees. The decline was steep and they had to trot in order not to fall forward. She fell into his arms at the end.

  He then led her in a twisting route through the trees. He stopped under the boughs of a tree laden with fruit and picked some, handing it to her. “I always eat their apples,” he said. “It’s one of my traditions. This fruit is also supposed to impart wisdom, but I think that’s just another money-maker.”

  He showed no nervousness during their snack, and Pashera tried to let go of her fear that a crowd of angry fundamentalist religious zealots would come tearing through the woods after them. Tol’zen had obviously done this before; it was familiar ground for him.

  Tol’zen called them apples, but the fruit was golden-yellow in color and affected Pashera like no apple she had ever eaten. Coming into the orchard she had been exhausted. Now, she felt energy flow through her veins again. She felt better than she ever had in her life. She mentioned this to Tol’zen.

  “Yes, the apples are very good for fatigue,” he said. “I’ll bring some more along.’ He picked more and stuffed them into pockets of his sash.

  “These apples are supposed to have healing powers, but the priests are parsimonious; most of the fruit rots on the ground,” he said. “Eat as much as you like.”

  After two apples, Pashera felt she was ready to leap into the tree-tops, or perhaps jump out of her skin. Tol’zen laughed at her sudden energy. But she could see felt refreshed, too.

  When they finished the apples, he led her on a twisting trail that brought them behind the animal pens. A trail alongside a barn dropped lower and lower. When it turned back perpendicular to the first leg of the trail, it was now a tunnel. Light peeked through gaps in the twisted branches that formed the roof of the tunnel. But after five minutes of walking, it became a real underground tunnel. Tol’zen felt around on the rocks and moved something that scraped; lights came on down the rest of the tunnel.

  “I rigged these up when I was young,” Tol’zen explained. “Otherwise my sister wouldn’t come. She was afraid of the dark.”

  The tunnel began to incline. Up they went, but still no daylight. Finally, the tunnel ended in a chipped, broken stairwell clogged with leafy debris.

  Tol’zen led her up the stairs. The doorway at top was open, but choked with plant growth. He used his knife to cut a path, and led her out amongst tall towers the color of azure. The towers were so sky-blue that she couldn’t see where the tops of the towers ended and the sky began.

  No … they were more than that. As Pashera watched, lights pulsed across the towers. Not just lights. They were patterned to resemble stars. Constellations!

  “The towers change color throughout the course of the day,” Tol’zen said. “They turn a deep purple by nightfall. And the stars on them move … sometimes slowly, sometimes they dance.”

  “Where are we?”

  “The Temple of the Star Folk,” Tol’zen said. “Once, the richest, most power temple in all Guadalquivir.”

  Pashera looked around. They were rich temples indeed – she could see the precious metal filigree inlaid around the doors of the temple towers. She could see pearl and marble extravagances, and even the pathway stones were festooned with exquisite etchings.

  But few of the stones remained visible. The grounds of the towers may have once been a garden, but now it was a tangled jungle. The slowly changing star patterns
on the towers were an odd counterpoint to the untidy thicket surrounding them.

  “No one lives here?” Pashera asked.

  Tol’zen pointed. “That way is the front gate. There is a small tower near it that contains all those who still serve in the Star-Folk Cult. There aren’t a lot of them, but it’s gotten a nostalgia quality lately.

  “If you’re interested in them, perhaps you can check them out at the Carnival of Cults at the summer festival,” he said. “But it’s a failed religion. We only keep these towers around to remind us that the Remnant were fooled completely and utterly -- so that it never happens again.”

  Pashera looked at the thick woods around them. “Are there animals here?”

  “Oh, there are all sorts. Ryvers, aye, those nasty things. And worse. Smeangs. Chikkerath. Doom callers. Night smilers. Who knows,” he sighed. “I’ll petition the King’s council to burn this place clear of brush as soon as we’ve wrapped up the war against the sky pirates. It needs to be done now and again.”

  The sun was in early afternoon now. Tol’zen insisted that they lunch here among the towers. He pulled out some wrapped meals and fruit from his sash, and shared his wineskin. He seemed to relish the picnic in the semi-wild, and her company.

  But while she enjoyed time with Tol’zen, the strangeness of this place sent shivers up her spine. She was glad when he finished and announced they should move on.

  This time, he led her up the slope to the back wall of the Temple of the Star-Folk. It was hopelessly overgrown. It was easy to climb some trees and make their way over the wall.

  But at the top of the wall, Tol’zen pointed off in the distance. “There is the Time Fortress, and the Cogitorium. We’ll avoid that. You never know what mental pickpockets like Thal’tos will pick up. Our destination is that way.” And he turned and pointed further up the mountain.

  “Where are we going?” Pashera asked.

  “To the Temple of the Devouring God,” Tol’zen said. He smiled at her wild-eyed look of panic. “And something else I want to show you. Something very special.”