A Parliament of Owls

by Beth Hilgartner

  “Will you know when it arrives?” Arre asked. “Do you have that kind of mental contact with it?”

  The Ythande Councilor’s face, never overly expressive, went stiff as a fresco.

  Arre raised her eyebrows. “Forgive me. I didn’t intend to ask a rude question.”

  Lady Khycalle shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. We of Ythande have learned not to speak of our abilities. No doubt it comes of sharing a border with the intolerant Amartans. I will know. She is a bird; she has no language; but at times, for a brief span, I can see through her eyes. I will know when she comes to the mages’ school.”

  Arre sighed explosively. “I hope Torres listens,” she said fervently.

  “I hope this isn’t some elaborate trap or test,” Owl said. “Lady Khycalle, do you think our enemy can plant false images in my mind? It’s hard to put this into words, but I have such a sense that she—he—is aware of me, and is allowing me to see her.”

  “You are strong, Lord Owl, and well trained. I think that you would know if there were no truth whatever in an image forced upon your Gift. But Hassyth is old, and very, very strong. It is likely that he is aware of you; and it is more than possible that he is permitting you most of these glimpses for his own purposes. Our enemy is a creature of the shadows. If he could—as they say—keep you entirely in the darkness, you would never see him—or her—at all. So I think there is truth in what you see; but there is also possibly some furtive purpose to Hassyth’s letting you see it.”

  “Do you mean that this might be a feint toward the mages, the true purpose of which is to lure Arre to her death?” Cithanekh asked.

  “It need not be one or the other, Councilor Cithanekh. In the depths of Ythande, there is a predator; it is related to the spider—but larger. It sets snares for its prey: a web, like many spiders; but it also digs a pit, which it covers with a fragile mesh of web and forest litter. It has venom; it bites the prey that becomes caught in the net. But it also lines its pit with brambles upon which it has carefully slavered. We call it khasf’heth, and we use the verb form of that word also to mean preparing for every contingency. Hassyth khasf’hethyn. It is one reason why he is so dangerous.”

  “So,” Arre said slowly, “will he have anticipated your sending your kestrel with a message?”

  The Ythande Councilor shrugged again. “If Hassyth were omniscient, he would already have won. We do not often send our—familiars—away from our presence; perhaps it is too bold a move to have occurred to our enemy. I am sure that Owl is right, and that it would be unsafe for you to go yourself. So: this is—as they say—the best as we can do. I will send you word when my kestrel delivers your message.” With a graceful gesture she took her leave.

  After the Ythande Councilor had left, Cithanekh turned troubled eyes on Owl. “What do you suppose Rhydev is up to with my brother? You don’t suppose he really loves him, do you?”

  “Rhydev or Ancith?” Owl responded. “Ancith is probably in love; I mean, Rhydev can be tremendously compelling. But I can’t imagine the Azhere Councilor loving anyone—least of all a callow youth with an inflated idea of the degree of respect to which his breeding entitles him.” He heard the bitterness in his tone and added, “I’m sorry. He’s your brother and you are fond of him. But I’m not immune to his unrelenting contempt.”

  Cithanekh managed a wry smile. “I know. I wish you two got on. You know, I thrashed him once for calling you a guttersnipe.”

  “Happen that was a mistake!” Owl retorted, the rapid cadence of the Slum cant invading his voice. “I am a guttersnipe! But I dinna see aught to be ashamed of in that.”

  “You do see, though, what he’s up to?” Arre put in. “Rhydev, I mean. Ancith is Anzhibhar. Once Rhydev feels his hold on the boy is secure, he’ll try to make him Emperor.”

  “Oh yes, I see,” Cithanekh said bitterly. “He tried much the same trick with me.”

  Very softly, Owl asked, “And why didn’t it work on you?”

  Cithanekh considered before he answered. “You know, I’ve never viewed my Anzhibhar heritage as anything but a liability; it keeps people from accepting me for myself. Rhydev began his attempt to...influence me by flattering my bloodlines; he kept talking about how I wasn’t adequately revered for my Royal Blood, and so on. But I’ve always thought that it’s perverted to honor people for what they can’t control—like the blood in their veins, or how much money their ancestors stole from the poor—rather than for the choices they make: loyalty, integrity, commitment to the commonweal.”

  “Idealistic to the core,” Owl commented fondly. “No wonder Rhydev couldn’t do anything with you.”

  Cithanekh slipped his arm around Owl’s shoulders and hugged him. “You’re a fine one to take that tone about idealism, Owl.”

  Arre got to her feet. “I’d best be off,” she said. “Good night, my dear idealists—and Lynx.”

  They murmured their farewells and she was gone. As the door closed behind her, Lynx rose. “Do you need anything more from me tonight?” she asked them.

  “No,” Owl said.

  “Then, if you have no objections, I shall do a little hunting. May I take Marhysse with me?”

  Cithanekh mentally reviewed the duty schedules. “She’s off duty tonight. She’s free to go with you if she chooses—but don’t press her.”

  “I understand,” Lynx said. “Good night.”

  As the door closed, Owl leaned into Cithanekh’s embrace. “If you were Emperor, Cithanekh,” he murmured, his lips brushing his lover’s ear, his fingers playing tantalizingly in the hair at the back of his head, “would I be able to influence you?”

  “Oh, yes,” he breathed as he took Owl’s face in his hands and kissed him gently. “But why would you bother?”

  Owl smiled. “For something to do? To demonstrate my power over you?”

  Cithanekh’s second kiss was considerably more urgent; as he felt Owl respond, he chuckled. “Power over whom?”

  “Quite,” Owl whispered.

  Chapter Twelve—Blood Rites

  Lynx heard the faint click and spill of the ysmath bones as she approached the open door of the bodyguards' staff room. She slipped into the room and took stock: Rhan and Yrhenne were casting the bones while Marhysse, Khofyn and several others looked on. She had come past Yrhazh and Cezhar, on duty in the entry hall. There were wineglasses and coffee cups scattered haphazardly around the room, but no one was obviously drunk. She eyed the spill of bones on the table and said softly, "That will be hard to beat."

  Yrhenne nodded sourly. "Rhan's had the Windbringer's own luck all evening. What did you do, anyway? Promise them your firstborn?"

  Rhan smiled primly. "It's merely the reward of virtue."

  "Ha!" Marhysse snorted. "You wouldn't recognize a virtue if it bit you."

  "If it bit him," Khofyn pointed out, "it wouldn't be a virtue."

  "Do you want to take my place, Lynx?" Yrhenne offered. "Maybe you can break Rhan's streak."

  Lynx shook her head. "I'm going out. I want to look for someone." She shot a glance at Marhysse. "Come with?"

  Marhysse set her coffee cup down with a decisive click and moved away from the table.

  "And is that all you're going to say about it?" Khofyn protested.

  Lynx nodded and started toward the door, but Marhysse relented slightly. "If we have any luck, you'll hear about it then."

  In the entry hall, Cezhar looked them over. "How late will you be?"

  "Give us three hours before you start to worry," Lynx told him. "We're going to the Temple District."

  Cezhar bit his lip, and Marhysse brushed his cheek lightly with two fingers. "You're not supposed to start worrying for three hours, Cezh."

  "Where do we start looking? Dark Lady or Horselord?"

  "Have some faith in us," Marhysse laughed.

  "Dark Lady," Lynx told him, "if it becomes necessary."

  Cezhar smiled a little wryly. "I suppose I should be grateful you're not taking Owl with you."

/>   Lynx raised an eyebrow. "If Owl were going, he would be taking me—and you would have to be grateful for that. We'll return before your watch ends."

  They slipped out into the shadowy passage. Both women moved with the same silent purpose, graceful as hunting cats. After a moment Marhysse said, "Are you going to tell me who we're looking for?"

  Lynx smiled faintly. "You dislike surprises?"

  "Right."

  "I want a good look at the Dark Lady's High Priestess, Thyzhecci. I do not wish to talk with her, but I want to see her—and observe her. And it is possible that there will be other people present about whom we should know."

  "Wait. Present at—" She broke off. "It's moon-dark, no? But they won't let any but the high initiates in to the rites."

  Lynx raised both eyebrows. "No, they won't—if we seek admittance in the normal way."

  Marhysse shook her head. "I wish you hadn't told me that."

  "But you said you dislike surprises."

  "Right; but even forewarned, I'm not liking the idea of breaking into the Dark Lady's Temple."

  Lynx shrugged. "You needn't come."

  Marhysse's pained look was her only comment as they made their way through the dim palace corridors. At the gate, the Imperial Guards on duty noted their House livery and nodded to them; they nodded politely back and slipped out into the streets.

  Even though the hour was getting late, the streets were not quiet. Aristocrats in party-finery strolled through the wide boulevards, or rode in sedan chairs from one gaily lighted house to another. Voices and laughter drifted on the evening breeze, mingled with subtle perfumes and the aroma of rich foods. Passing through the Temple Gate, Lynx and Marhysse left most of the carousers behind. There were still some people on the streets, but they moved with more purpose, with less chatting and frivolity, and the two women blended right in. Lynx led them along the main boulevard toward the Dark Lady's Temple, but instead of following the boulevard to the main entrance, she took Marhysse down a side street that ran between the main sanctuary and the complex that housed the sect's servants and lay sisters. The rear wall of the sanctuary loomed on their right like the shoulders of some sleeping giant. The cloister wall on the left was not as forbidding, pierced as it was by occasional narrow, iron gates that gave a view of paths, gardens, dormitories and the other buildings necessary to the life of the sect. The cloister was silent and dim; only a few lamps were lit in the buildings, and no one seemed to be up and about. The third gate they came to was ajar. The windows of the gatehouse beside the entryway were warm gold with lamplight. Within, two Temple Guardsmen were engrossed in a game of khacce; Lynx slipped silently through the narrow opening and into the shadows. Marhysse followed without a word. The guards did not look up from their game.

  Within the cloister, the paths made a maze, but Lynx chose her way without hesitation. Marhysse followed, questions gathering in a faint frown, as Lynx led her to the lay sisters' chapel. The lofty room was dim, lit only by the glow from the tall incense brazier at the foot of the altar steps. The air was thick with the heavy, scented smoke. Lynx paused within the chapel to let her eyes adjust to the darkness; then she padded softly up one of the side aisles to a small door beside the altar, Marhysse silent at her heels. Lynx tried the door handle carefully. It was locked. With a noiseless sigh, she drew out a set of picklocks and went to work. After several tense minutes, she eased the door open and the two women slipped through. As Lynx closed the door behind them, the darkness became absolute.

  "Now what?" Marhysse breathed.

  In answer, Lynx kindled the stub of a candle. Its feeble flame showed them the walls of a narrow corridor and a flight of stone stairs leading down. "This passageway leads to the main sanctuary," Lynx told her quietly. "There is a hidden room for the Voices of the Oracles. At moon-dark it should be empty. Come on."

  "How—" Marhysse began, but Lynx shook her head and started off.

  The passage, though narrow and rather damp, was well kept and easy to follow. After some distance, they came to a flight of stairs leading upward. There was a railing set into the stone wall. Lynx laid one finger over Marhysse's lips, guided her hand to the railing and snuffed the candle. In the utter darkness, the two women felt their way upward. After what seemed like a story or so, the stairway began to spiral; the steps were narrow and steep, and the women moved even more carefully. They also began to hear the muffled sounds of chanting and temple bells. The sounds grew more distinct as they ascended, and the utter, velvet darkness began to thin. Without warning, they completed a turn of the stairway and found themselves in a chamber, a small stone room with a carved grille for one wall. Dim light, incense and the sounds of chanting filtered through the stonework. Lynx scanned the room carefully before she moved, swift and noiseless, from the stairway to the stone grille. Marhysse followed, and found that the grille was placed on the wall beside the high altar, affording a good view of the priestesses' robed forms as they moved through the rite.

  For the moon-dark liturgy, the priestesses wore hooded robes of heavy, dark material. From their position above and to the side of them, it was not possible for Lynx or Marhysse to see faces. As the priestesses went through the ancient, almost dance-like patterns of the rite, their pale hands made graceful, sacred gestures, moving like birds against the shadowed, smoky darkness. The chanting, muffled and arcane sounding, was punctuated by shivery, high temple bells, or the ominous deep note of the great gong, which was placed at the side of the altar, nearly directly below Lynx and Marhysse's vantage point. Marhysse turned to Lynx with a question forming on her lips, but Lynx raised an imperious finger and shook her head warningly.

  The rite wound on. The chanting changed in character, becoming more urgent, more compelling; the gong spoke more frequently; and the priestesses put a different incense—one with an acrid bite under its fragrance—onto the coals. The worshipers (the few Lynx and Marhysse could see) fell prostrate. The lights, except for the glow of the incense brazier, were extinguished as the gong spoke its warning. Then, sweet and high, other voices answered the chanting. A clear thread of sweet melody wound its way through the heavy, reeking silence; and three priestesses, robed in white and carrying tall, beeswax candles, led their High Priestess to the altar. Thyzhecci's robes were a rich cream color, heavily encrusted with seed pearls, and she was veiled head to foot in netted silver silk, spangled with tiny, glittering gems. As she took her place at the altar and added her clear and ringing voice to the chanting, the attendant priestesses set their candles in holders behind the High Priestess, and lit the remaining candles until Thyzhecci and her raiment glittered like the moon itself. The worshipers remained prostrate. The three attendant priestesses bowed to their Lady at the altar and went out again. They returned a moment later, leading another veiled figure.

  This one was a child, a thin girl of perhaps eleven; and the veil—silver net, but shot with scarlet embroidery and set with garnets and carnelians—was all she wore. The child moved in a dreamy, disconnected way that spoke of drugs; her eyes were open, but incurious, as she was brought to the High Priestess. Thyzhecci placed both her hands on the child's head; as she began to chant, all other voices fell silent and the curiously inflected words were suddenly clear in the smoky stillness.

  "'If thou givest consent, child, thou shalt be chosen to strive against the encompassing Darkness;

  'If thou art willing, child, thou shalt be consecrated by the Moon to the darkest of fates;

  'If thou but embrace the Moon's decree, and relinquish thy blood and honor, thou shalt live eternal in the Lady's memory."

  Thyzhecci's hands moved to cup the girl's chin; she raised her face so that the child's blank, wide eyes stared into her own. "Dost thou givest consent, child, that thou shouldst be chosen for the Lady's purposes?"

  "Yes, I consent." The girl's voice was clear, but mechanical, as though she had been drilled thoroughly but was not attending to what she was promising.

  "The Lady hears and accepts thy con
sent. Art thou willing, child, to take upon yourself this honor?"

  "Yes, I am willing."

  "The Lady hears and honors thy willingness. Art thou prepared to embrace the sacrifice of self and soul to the Lady's purpose?"

  "Yes, I am prepared to sacrifice myself to the Lady's purpose."

  "Child, thou hast been chosen for this purpose, and thou hast given consent and sworn thy willingness and preparedness. Thou art utterly acceptable for the high purpose the Lady intends. For the last time I ask: Art thou fully consenting, truly willing, and utterly prepared to fulfill your high calling on the Altar and to give yourself up—soul, mind and body—to the Lady's purpose?"

  "I am," the child said.

  With swift grace, Thyzhecci removed the girl's veil, swept her up and laid her down upon the altar. The three attending priestesses moved forward, binding the girl's hands and feet with pale, silvery cords. The chanting swelled into an urgent, almost hungry, crescendo, and Thyzhecci took a silver sickle and a worked gold bowl from a side table. Marhysse stirred uneasily beside Lynx, but the other woman laid a firm, restraining hand on her shoulder. Wait, she mouthed, and laid a warning finger across her lips.

  Thyzhecci laid the bowl and the sickle on the altar and at a gesture, the three attending priestesses came forward to remove her long, jeweled veil. The High Priestess raised her head to gaze upward while the chanting became more and more frenzied. Lynx stared down into the woman's cold, exultant face, memorizing her features. Then, to the accompaniment of chanting, and the thunder of the gong, Thyzhecci slit the child's forearm from elbow to wrist, and caught the blood in the bowl. The attendant priestesses moved forward. One took the bowl from the High Priestess while the second held another bowl at the child's other wrist. Thyzhecci paced around the altar to make the second cut. The third attendant priestess looked up toward the stone grille; her eyes glittered savagely, and for an instant, Lynx was not sure whether she was looking at a woman or a man.

  As Thyzhecci wielded the sickle a second time, Marhysse turned away in horror. Lynx gripped her shoulder and gave it a small shake. Then she gestured to the stairway. They fled the sanctuary as swiftly and as silently as they could. Even in the underground passage, Lynx would not let them speak.