About her liaison with the Hisser to complete their military aid pact, Fost discovered it meant little to him. He knew she had had other lovers when they were apart. He himself had stayed far from celibate while tracking her across the continent; what was one more lover between them? If one of Moriana's lovers wasn't human, he was more nearly so than the hornbulls Moriana's sister had imported for her own wayward pleasures, on the advice of the ever-helpful Erimenes. 'Tell me of the gods, Oracle,' Fost asked abruptly. The small man smiled. 'You wish a discourse on theology?' 'No, but I think I'd better have one just the same.'
Oracle sat for a moment, rocking back and forth. Outside, the afternoon sun had sent the residents of High Medurim scurrying to shelter to escape the glare of heat. Here in the marble precincts of the Palace it was cool, and a stick of incense smouldered in a corner of the cubicle taking the sting from the smell of Oracle's nutrient pool next door. Fost's eyelids turned heavy in spite of the coolness. He and Moriana had arrived only the day before, a long and dusty ride on the heels of arduous battle. Emperor Teom had reckoned the menace on the frontier serious enough for his personal attention, but with that settled and the Zr'gsz massacred, he had felt the precarious civil unrest in his capital called for a prompt return. This resulted in little time for rest for any of them.
The humming of the savants next door had a soporific effect, too. Fost found himself trying to follow their sing-song reading, their education of Oracle.
'To theology,' said Oracle. 'Best begin with the Dark Ones, since everything does begin with them. No, don't shudder.' He shut his eyes and spoke in a low, rhythmic voice like an incantation. 'In the beginning was the Dark, single and undivided, holy. And the Masters dwelt within darkness and nothingness and all was at peace, for all was One, and this was the blessed rule of Law.
'Then Perfect Dark was disturbed by Light, and the Oneness became Two. And the Masters of the Void set to destroy this defilement. But a mistake occurred, even then indicating Perfection had been lost. The Light was not destroyed; it was dispersed. Bits of Light were scattered across the face of the Dark. And some cooled and became Matter, and some of these specks of filth began to quiver with Life, the ultimate perversion. And so was Chaos born.
'And it came to pass that Gods rose up in opposition to the Dark, Gods favoring Light and Matter. First one, then two, then many; and so the efforts of the Masters to return all things to Unity were thwarted by the accursed, the Lords of Light and Chaos. Many were their numbers, and their names were legion.
'But the Masters of the Void, who do not suffer their names or numbers to be known, gave their only begotten son to the Universe, that it might one day be returned to the rule of Law and Darkness, and the great struggle was commenced.'
Oracle paused, took a deep breath he hardly required, then opened his eyes.
'This was taken from the preamble to Gospels of Darkness. The Library has translations going back to the First Migration. It is one of the most ancient of texts. I take it you've not seen or heard this before?' Despite the coolness, drops of sweat stood out on Fost's forehead. 'No, I've never come across that.'
'It's peculiar, given your lust for knowledge, that you've shied away from the subject of religion,' said Oracle. 'Also revealing.' 'I suppose. What about the Three and Twenty?'
The little man rubbed his chin. It gave Fost an eerie feeling since it was among many gestures Oracle had copied from him in trying to perfect the humanity of his simulacrum. It was like shaving in a mirror and seeing a hand hold a razor to a stranger's face.
'The first thing to understand,' said Oracle, 'is that the Twenty-three are ladies and lords of Chaos, and few generalities can be made about them. It is written in old, old tomes that once humanity's gods each had a single attribute: war, birth, lust, fire, water. Worship in such a fashion is rare today, although you find traces of it among the Thailint and Dyla savages, and the more debased cultures of the Northern Continent. On the other hand, each of the Three and Twenty represents several principles and has several attributes. With a few exceptions, of course, since these are first and foremost Chaotic deities. This disparity betwen old religion and new tends, I believe, to support a thesis I formulated before you came to High Medurim.' Oracle cocked his head to one side to see if Fost still listened. He did and asked, 'And what's this theory of yours, Oracle?'
'I do not believe humanity is native to our world.'
Fost's eyebrows rose. Though Oracle smiled indulgently at his attempted interruptions, he held relentlessly to his subject of the confusing and confused array of gods and goddesses.
'I'll discuss my theories of how humankind came to this world with you later. But bear with me for a short while longer.
'Chief of the Three and Twenty is generally held to be Jirre. Jirre's the goddess of both Creation and Destruction, a typically Chaotic contradiction. But this contradiction may be only apparent. Her devotees argue that Creation and Destruction are two sides of the same coin, hence only one goddess is required. Another way of viewing it is the Dualist philosophy, which holds that Twoness, not Oneness, is the natural order of things. That accounts for the creation of Light in the first place. Of course, the doctrine raises unanswered questions of its own since Light and Dark are but two faces of the same coin.
'But I see your eyelids drooping. I fear I bore you like that discursive old fart, Erimenes.' Oracle spoke faster to hold Fost's attention. 'You're already familiar with Ust, the Red Bear; Gormanka of wind and wayfarers, your patron of couriers; Somdag Squid-face. There are others, of course, less commonly known.'
'Wait, wait, wait.' Fost held up both his hands in despair. 'This is going too fast for me. I'm not sure I can work through the contradictions in all you're telling me.'
'I told you that these are lords and ladies of Chaos. In a nutshell, Justice, alone of the attributes of Chaos, is immutable but takes many forms. Law always takes a similar form but its nature changes according to what best serves the ends of the Elder Dark. I admit it doesn't make much sense, even to me. But it is often said that expedience is an attribute of Law and Darkness, and Justice cannot be expedient.' Fost stretched, yawned.
'You're the one doing the talking, but my throat's as dry as dust,' he said. 'Thanks for the lesson.' Oracle arched a pale eyebrow.
'The lesson's far from complete,' he said, 'but I perceive the chamberlain, the one you always think of as "the slug," approaches along the corridor. He doubtless means to drag you to another rehearsal or lesson in protocol. As always, it was a pleasure speaking with you. I look forward to our next session together.'
'I'd look forward to it more,' said Fost, rising, 'if we could talk about something less unnerving and more coherent.' But the image of the little, fat man was gone, leaving Fost alone with the smell of incense, the sound of mumbling savants, and the petulant pit-pat of the chamberlain's sandals coming down the hall.
CHAPTER THREE
The thick stone walls of the temple muffled the bustling sounds from without as they muffled the oppressive heat. Fost and his companions wandered along the cool flagstone-paved aisles, glimpsing here and there priests robed in the color of the deity they served, or worshippers laden with small offerings to plead their petty cases, seeking the mending hearts or the winning of good luck for themselves and bad luck for their enemies.
'What I want to know,' said Erimenes the Ethical, laying a long, vaporous blue finger beside his beaky nose, 'is why the Temple of All Gods, by rights the fairest in all the Sundered Realm, should be so prodigiously ugly.'
Fost laughed, winning him a dirty look from a pinch-faced priest in a white and yellow robe. The pillared hall swallowed the sound without a trace, however, so that only those nearby heard. It might have been that among the deities whose likenesses were housed here were those who did not disapprove of voices raised in laughter.
'You can thank the Northblood Barbarians for that,' he said. Ziore tilted her head, partly in respect for the sundry deities and mostly to hear his word
s, which were spoken now with decorously lowered voice. He saw Moriana looking on with apparent interest, and his heart lifted. There were times since the battle when she seemed to be drifting into another world, a world divorced from this one. Anything that captured her interest and took her away from her own problems merited his approval. That Ziore likewise appeared interested also heartened him. The nun's ghost and Moriana had become closely linked in a way that he could not truly fathom. Their emotions merged into something beyond telepathy. If Ziore smiled, that communicated directly to Moriana's mind.
He nodded polite acknowledgement to a statue of Ust the Red
Bear as they passed. The god was one of Fost's patrons, entrusted with guarding the Realm Roads, and he felt an obligation to pay slight obeisance since he had called upon Ust so many times in the past. In spite of his reflexive invocations of the bear god, he wondered if it did any good. He had no proof one way or the other, yet the hetwoman of the Ust-alayakits, Jennas, believed in the god. The time he had spent with Jennas getting through the Rampart Mountains and crossing the length of the Sundered Realm had instilled in him a healthy respect for – if not belief in – Ust. Jennas had predicted this War of Powers long before he had seen the signs forming. Whether her knowledge came from shrewd insight into the ways of man or true revelation by Ust, Fost couldn't say. Either way, Jennas was a superior woman of rare courage and even rarer abilities.
'The barbarians knew only a few of the Wise Ones when they invaded nearly five thousand years ago. Like most barbarians who pride themselves on virile vigor and their superiority to effete civilized folk, the first thing they did on conquering Medurim was to settle down to emulating the Medurimin citizen in earnest. They somehow decided that gods prefer ostentation. So, they rebuilt the Temple of All Gods according to their own ideas of splendor fitting for a house of deities.' Fost waved a scarred hand. 'These are the results of that wild, misguided fit of building.'
They looked about. Some of the statues stood free on pedestals, while others were sheltered in alcoves, the gods' and goddesses' preferences determined by their devotees. But the statues mostly predated the barbarian dynasty and were not what captured the eye.
In his youth, the unschooled and half-wild street urchin named Fost thought that the Temple was ugly. From the outside, its hewn granite blocks were set in massy tiers appearing to form crude steps in the ultimate shape of a pyramid. Now that Fost was grown and had seen other architectures offered by cities in the Realm, he knew the place was an eyesore.
Inside was no better. High up, where the tiers jutted together, crossed and criss-crossed a spiderweb of struts and supports of wood and iron. The Temple's original plan called for the stepping-in to continue until the ranks of stone met. Planning exceeded expertise in construction. The huge blocks were poorly balanced and would fall if the building had continued upward as intended. The Emperor Gotrag II had ordered his artificers to roof over the partially finished upper structure. The lofty courses were dangerously unstable, as a result, and the latticework of joists and struts grew more complex with every passing year. Should one single succeeding Emperor fail to add bracing, the Temple roof would certainly collapse.
'But whoever heard of square columns?' demanded Erimenes on a rising note of outrage. The genie whirled about in a tight vortex of blue mist as he pointed out the offending supports. Ziore wavered nearby, her substance lightly mingling with his and giving the philosopher silent approbation. 'And who saw fit,' he continued, 'to build them of alternate blocks of rose granite and whatever that ghastly chartreuse stone is?'
'It's a type of limestone,' explained Fost. 'And in answer to both the other questions – the Northern Barbarians.' Ziore looked puzzled and slightly pained.
'Forgive my asking, Fost, but I thought the Northern Barbarians founded High Medurim, and that the residents were descended from them.' She bit at her non-existent lip, fearful of giving offense. Fost laughed.
'They did; I'm descended from them, just as you and Erimenes and Moriana are mostly descended from the Golden Barbarians. The Golden Barbarians have achieved a static society while the Northern ones have locked themselves into a cycle of renaissance and regression; every few centuries they work themselves up to the level of barbarism, then they fall to fighting and knock themselves back to savagery. They call it progress.'
They stopped in front of an alcove containing still another of the seemingly endless statues of a goddess. It was a conventional enough rendering of a lovely, slender woman bearing sword and lyre. Fost was struck by the resemblance between the chiselled stone features and those of the illusion Moriana had brought forth in the Black March. The exiled Sky City princess had duplicated well, never having set foot in this Temple before. If she had duplicated, Fost found himself thinking.
Wordlessly, Moriana slipped the strap of the satchel containing Ziore's jug from her shoulder and handed it to Fost. She stepped forward and fell to her knees in front of the statue, placed a sprig of blue wildflowers at the statue's feet and bent her head in prayer. Fost held his breath, half-expecting and half-dreading some sign. But the statue remained stone.
Moriana finally uttered a small sigh and rose. 'The goddess thanks you, milady,' came a voice behind Fost.
Fost turned to see a stout, short man dressed in green and gold, with a fringe of gray hair hanging lank from the base of his bald head. Around his neck rode a gold chain supporting a medallion struck with the signs of sword and lyre. His eyes shone surprisingly green and youthful from a leathery, seamed face. 'It's I who have come to thank her,' Moriana said.
The priest's brow knit, then his face underwent a remarkable migration of lines and wrinkles that eventually sorted out into a broad beam of joy.
'But you, Princess Moriana, are the one who called her down to succor our folk at the Black March!' He dropped to his knees and reached an arthritic hand out to catch the hem of her gown and raise it to his lips. He fumbled a moment, uncertain when he found no skirt, then took the hem of her suede tunic and kissed it instead.
'This is the happiest day of my life! All my devotions are rewarded. I come at last into the presence of one truly touched by blessed Jirre!' Great tears of happiness rolled down his round cheeks. Even Fost, skeptical of priests and politicians, was moved by the intensity of the emotion displayed.
Tears gleamed at the corners of Moriana's eyes as she reached down and helped the little priest to his feet.
'You need not kneel to me,' she said. Fost thought she was going to tell him it hadn't been Jirre at all but rather an illusion she had summoned to confound the Zr'gsz. But her eyes caught Fost's, a corner of her mouth quirked upward, and she said nothing.
'They cried at the portal that you were within,' the priest babbled in rapture. 'But I did not dare hope. Joy, joy!'
'Wait a minute,' Fost said. 'Who was crying at the portal that Moriana was within?' 'The mob.'
Fost swallowed. He exchanged bleak looks with Moriana. There was no need to ask which mob it was. News of the way Moriana had brought the battle to a conclusion had preceded the returning army by a full day. Coming between that news and the first tired riders had been the tidings borne by Zak'zar of Kara-Est's destruction and Moriana's lineage. When Moriana had entered High Medurim, she had been beset by two masses of people, one throwing flower petals and naming her holy and the other naming her witch and traitor to her kind. It was even rumored old Sir Tharvus wandered the streets dressed in a mendicant's rags and egged on the violent taction. He had lost brothers in battle and blamed Moriana. If a mob truly gathered at the Temple door crying Moriana's name, she and her companions were in danger.
As the priest hopped from one foot to the other pleading to be told what troubled the holy lady, Fost corralled a worried-looking woman in white and red. He found that, as he had dreaded, half those thronging the Temple screamed for Moriana and the other half screamed for Moriana's blood.
'But won't the ones who call you savior protect you from the others?' asked Ziore.
'More likely the two factions will pull her apart in a tug of war,' Fost answered grimly. 'It's happened before.' He had lost his own parents to a riot many years ago when the mob rose up in rage at learning the dole was to be cut to cover the expenses of celebrating Teom's ascension to the Sapphire Throne.
'If I must face them, then I shall,' she said, tossing back her hair. 'Where's my sword?' Moriana walked toward the front of the hall.
Fost seized her arm. Her eyes blazed as she spun on him, but she neither broke his grip nor fried him with a lightning bolt.
'You won't defeat the Dark Ones by getting yourself torn to pieces on the Temple steps,' he pointed out.
'What would you do? Do you want me to cower among the statues until the mob rushes the gates and drags me out? If I must die, I'll do it on my own two feet, with my head held high.'
Fost knew it wasn't bravado speaking. She had gone to what seemed certain doom in the Sky City and the Circle of the Skywell to face the Demon Istu himself. She had succeeded in slowing the Demon's pace long enough for many of her subjects in the City to escape; not once had she wavered in front of that black, soul-sucking being. 'No need,' he said. 'Where are the Wardens of the Temple?'
Grasping the peril of the situation, the portly priest gathered up his skirts and hustled off in search of one of the brown-robed custodians of the Temple. Two figures soon returned, both tall, both with brown hoods drawn well up and closed to cover their faces. They carried faded leather satchels containing ceramic jars slung over their shoulders. They paused for a moment listening to the battle raging on the other side of the vast structure, and then hurried off through the puddles and refuse that desecrated the interior of the Temple. They slipped through a side door and made their way through the city's alleys.
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