Well of Darkness

by Margaret Weis

  “Captain,” said King Tamaros, striving for patience, “the Sovereign Stone indeed belongs to the orken. When you see it and touch it, you will feel its magical power and you will know how to use it to help your people. Since it is a gift from the gods, we must honor the gods with ceremony and prayer, just as you do before you set sail, to assure that the gods grant you a swift and a prosperous voyage.”

  The Captain was impressed. He had heard that King Tamaros was a wise human, but he had discounted that until now. He was surprised that Tamaros knew about the orken prayer ceremony, surprised that Tamaros appeared to respect it. The Captain was also surprised to find that what the human said made sense.

  “Very well,” said the Captain, grudgingly. “When is this ceremony?”

  “It will be held tomorrow,” said the King. “In the Temple.”

  The Captain frowned. He would miss the tide, but he supposed it could not be helped. There would always be another tide, however; upon that the orken could count.

  “I will be there,” he said. “Provided the omens are good. If not”—he shrugged—“I will not be there. And now, I need food to fill my belly.”

  Once more, ripples marred the surface. Concern on every face, except for those of the dwarves, who were chuckling into their beards. The elf actually permitted himself to think about smiling.

  “It is not yet time—” King Tamaros began.

  “Bah!” The Captain had had enough.

  Already frustrated by the doltishness of humans, he was not going to be starved into the bargain. He turned on his heel and stalked out, intending to return to the orken part of the city, where he would be fed, no matter what time it was.

  The next morning, while he was breaking his fast—dining on fish offal soup and hardtack—the Captain sent for the local shaman to read the omens. The shaman came at once, her skin glistening from the rain, for a steady downpour was deluging the city of Vinnengael.

  Seating herself without ceremony opposite the Captain, the shaman accepted his offer of soup and ate heartily, with the slurping sounds that indicated her approval of the meal. Shoving her bowl to one side, to indicate she was finished, the shaman, whose name was Morga, began to read the omens.

  “There was thunder in the night,” she said. “That is a bad sign. But the boats that went out fishing this morning returned with an excellent catch—four full barrels. Four dolphins accompanied them, rubbing up against the sides of the boat. An albatross circled the main mast four times. These are all good signs.”

  The Captain nodded, to show he was aware of this. “So what do you think, Shaman? Should I go to the ceremony? Should I receive this rock? I do not like the thunder in the night, nor yet the rain that pours upon us like the gods pumping out their bilge.”

  “Thus I read the omens, Captain,” said Morga. “The thunder and the rain are indeed bad, but, since our catch this day was good, the bad omens are not meant for us. If they had been, we would have cast out our nets and brought them in empty. The omens say you should attend the ceremony. Now, for this rock. It will, so you say, be divided into four parts. We have four dolphins, the four circles of the albatross, the four barrels of fish. The omens say that—as of now”—she emphasized the words—“you should take the fourth part of this rock.”

  “As of now?” The Captain regarded her dubiously.

  “We must be watchful, Captain,” Morga cautioned. “The rain continues to fall. The omens are subject to change. We must make certain that the thunder is not meant for us.”

  “Of course. You will come with me to the ceremony,” said the Captain.

  “Aye, sir,” replied the shaman.

  The ceremony was fully as long and as boring as the Captain had expected. Not only that, but he was forced to sit on a raised platform near the altar, which meant that the hundreds of humans who would be on hand to witness the ceremony would stare straight at him. The only entertaining part so far had been an altercation between himself and the magus who was in charge of the ceremony, about whether or not the shaman was to remain at his side.

  The magus said that the shaman’s presence was not wanted, she was not a dignitary, there weren’t enough chairs, and she could not stand, not when the King was seated—all arrant nonsense, of course. The Captain glanced around the stage, spotted a table and a massive oak chair next to it. Since no one was using the chair, he hefted the chair, lugged it across the stage, and plunked it down beside his own chair. Motioning, he ordered the shaman to sit.

  The magus nearly fainted. The chair belonged to the Most Revered High Magus! No one else could use it! He must put it back!

  The Captain was angry. A chair was a chair. One placed one’s ass in it. Was the ass of this magus something special that it required a special chair? Did this magus consider his ass better than the ass of the shaman?

  This brought uproarious laughter from the dwarves. Indeed, the dwarven chieftain was forced to retire to the wings of the stage where his bodyguards slapped his back to help him recover his breath. The young princeling grinned and, at a stern glance from an attendant elf lord, ducked his head to hide his grin in his frilled collar.

  The Most Revered High Magus arrived on deck.

  “The shaman may use my chair and welcome,” Reinholt said graciously. “I am honored to be able to offer it to her. Another will be brought for me.”

  This foolishness settled, the doors were opened and the lords and ladies of the court, plus as many of the common people as could be allowed, filed inside. The building began to stink of humans, and the Captain resigned himself to his fate, pleased that he had thought to rub his own skin with fish oil to obviate the stench.

  The Captain dozed through the prayers and the speeches, waking only now and then to glance at the shaman to see if there had been any omens of note. Each time he looked at her, she only shrugged, rolled her eyes, and shook her head. No omens. But then what did one expect, cooped up inside a building, shutting out the natural elements, which spoke clearly to those who knew how to listen. The Captain could hear the rain beating like war drums upon the Temple’s roof.

  Did the humans really expect the gods to take time off from their work sailing the vessel of the world to listen to all this? With no hand at the wheel, the ship of the world would have wandered aimlessly or run aground or smashed up against a lee shore. The orken know and respect the fact that the gods are busy. When the orken speak to the gods, which they do only by the most dire necessity, they keep it short.

  The Captain dozed off again.

  He woke to the shaman’s elbow digging into his rib cage.

  He sat up straight, alert. King Tamaros stood before the altar, where rested the rock, covered by a purple velvet cloth trimmed in gold. The princeling, Dagnarus, stood beside his father at the altar. The King reached out his hand and plucked off the velvet cloth.

  The Captain was impressed.

  The humans had termed this a “stone,” which he equated with “rock”—a word which seemed to irritate the humans when he used it. A better term would have been “jewel.” If only the humans had said they were giving him a jewel, he might have taken this matter more seriously.

  The Sovereign Stone was truly one of the most beautiful jewels the Captain had seen in his long lifetime. A perfect pyramid, the diamond’s smooth sides danced with rainbows.

  The shaman sighed and smiled and nodded. So far, the omens were good. Very good.

  But still it rained. The Captain remained watchful.

  King Tamaros held his hand over the Sovereign Stone. His prayer was short and to the point. The Captain approved it.

  “I, Tamaros, King of Vinnengael, call upon the gods to divide this, the Sovereign Stone, that by its division we four races may be one.”

  The Captain felt the power of the gods surround the King. Awed, the Captain held his breath. The shaman lowered her head in reverence. There came a sound as of bells chiming, four different notes, all sublime. At each stroke of the bell-like chime, a split occu
rred in the stone. The pyramid opened, like a flower. Four crystal points glittered in the light of the altar candles.

  The audience sighed. Those onstage were overawed, even the elves, who made no attempt to hide their wonder.

  King Tamaros offered a prayer of thanksgiving—which the Captain again approved, feeling it was no more than the gods deserved. The king lifted one of the diamond points from the altar and, holding it high, so that all could see, said in a strong voice, “The gods give this part of the Sovereign Stone to our friends and brothers, the elves.”

  He handed the diamond point to the princeling.

  Dagnarus’s eyes were wide. He was very pale with the solemnity of the ceremony and the weight of his responsibility. Accepting the diamond, he turned, and with slow and solemn step, he carried the diamond to the Shield of the Divine.

  So moved was the Shield that, smoothing his robes, he sank to his knees.

  “In the name of the Divine, I, the Shield of the Divine, accept the Sovereign Stone. May our ancestors carry our thanks to the gods for this gift.”

  The princeling took the next diamond point to the dwarves.

  The dwarven chieftain did not kneel. Dwarves bend the knee to no one, not even the gods. The dwarven chief eyed the crystal askance; dwarves are very leery of magic. He wanted it, mainly because the others were each receiving a portion and also because it was his by right. But he was loath to touch it.

  The audience began to murmur. The princeling’s cheeks flushed red. He glanced at his father from beneath his lashes to see what might be done. The Most Revered High Magus gave a gentle, remonstrative cough, completely lost on the dwarf, who, accustomed to thundering hooves, would react to no less a signal than a horn blast. At length, the dwarf solved the problem by making an abrupt gesture with his hand, a gesture that passed the diamond off to Dunner of the Unhorsed.

  Dunner smiled at the princeling; obviously he liked the boy. The Captain noted this and chalked up a mark in the princeling’s favor. Dagnarus smiled when he handed the crystal to Dunner, who received it in the name of his chief with a bow of his head and fervent, almost incoherent thanks to the gods. Dunner—the Captain saw—held the diamond tightly, as a drowning ork holds on to the lifeline. A tear trickled down the dwarf’s weathered cheek and was lost in his beard. Dunner stared straight ahead, but it was obvious he saw nothing of what was happening. The dwarf chieftain nodded, relieved.

  Now it was the turn of the orken. The Captain rose to his feet, a formidable, powerful presence. Dagnarus carried carefully the diamond point, brought it to the Captain, who paid little attention to the human child. The Captain stared intently at the diamond jewel. Unlike the dwarf, the ork longed to pick up the precious object, to claim it in the name of his people, but the question of the bad omens had still not been answered. The rain was falling even harder outside. He looked at the shaman.

  She sat in the chair of the Revered High Magus, a tight fit, for she was an orken female of a husky build, and gazed long at the crystal. She could hear the rain, the building seemed to shake with it. At length, lifting her eyes, she looked at the Captain, sighed, and gave a nod.

  The Captain took the diamond into his hands.

  “Thank you, gods,” he said, and sat down.

  Someone in the audience, overwrought, giggled.

  The Captain held the jewel gingerly, as he might hold a sea urchin, fearful of hidden barbs. He had felt magic before in holy objects—in the stones thrown forth from the sacred mountain. Such stones are revered by the orken. They are worn as amulets, carried aboard ships, and used in healing. He had never felt the power as strongly as in this wondrous jewel, which sent a tingling sensation—odd but not unpleasant—from his hands through his arms, to his heart and from there to the rest of his body. He felt exhilarated and suffused with energy, uplifted. If he had wished it, he could have flown into the air with the grace of a seabird. Visions raced past the backs of his eyes, too many to comprehend. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he would be able to distinguish among them, but he couldn’t do that yet. He had to watch for the omen, the final omen.

  The last portion of the jewel would go to the humans, represented by Crown Prince Helmos, Lord of Sorrows. Dagnarus took the last quarter of the diamond and carried it to his brother. The child was beautiful, the crown prince a comely man. There was little family resemblance in reality, but the audience wished there to be and they cooed and sighed as the brothers stood facing each other. Dagnarus smiled up at his older brother, who smiled down fondly upon him.

  Dagnarus lifted the Sovereign Stone. Helmos reached to take hold of it.

  No one could say, afterward, what happened. Helmos’s palms were wet with sweat, causing the stone to slip. Dagnarus said that his arms were beginning to tire from the strain of being so careful with the diamond, causing his hand to jerk unexpectedly.

  No one was to blame, said King Tamaros. It was an accident, nothing more.

  As Dagnarus handed his brother the Sovereign Stone and as Helmos reached to take it, the crystal point sliced into his flesh.

  The cut was small. Most people in the audience never saw it, never noticed that anything was amiss, for Helmos covered his fumble well, while Dagnarus steadied the diamond to keep it from falling. Several drops of blood stained the jewel, however; blood visible to the Captain and his shaman, if no one else.

  Swiftly, under cover of his speech thanking the gods and also thanking King Tamaros, who had interceded with the gods on behalf of all those present, Helmos wiped the blood from the stone on the sleeve of his tunic, where the stain was lost amidst the rich pattern of embroidery. The ceremony proceeded, Helmos saying everything that was gracious and proper. Not even the Most Revered High Magus had noticed the slip.

  The shaman had seen it, however. She turned to the Captain, an exultant gleam in her eyes. She nodded vigorously several times and even reached across to clout him violently on the upper forearm, an extremely rare expression acknowledging a victory or some other event worthy of congratulation.

  Outside the rain poured down steadily, thunder rolled. The Captain paid the storm scant attention. He could take his quarter of the Sovereign Stone home to the orken land with a clear conscience.

  The bad omen had come, but it had come to the humans.

  The Captain hoped to leave with the next tide, but there was still the possibility of one more ceremony. He considered trying to avoid it, but the Captain had been present at the incident. By orken law he was a witness and might be called upon to tell what he had seen.

  A grand celebration was held in the palace following the Gifting, as it was being called. The Captain and the shaman had little use for human celebrating, which was not celebrating as far as the orken were concerned. Any orken party that did not end with bloodshed and mayhem was considered a dismal failure. The Captain and the shaman were eager to return to their own people, where they could eat a proper meal and fling the empty flagons at the heads of their neighbors. But the Captain had a duty to perform first. He made his way through the crowd—which parted before him with alacrity, the fish oil was ripening—and confronted King Tamaros.

  Having no time to waste—the Captain was exceedingly hungry—he grasped hold of the shoulder of a courtier who was monopolizing conversation with the King and flung the man to one side.

  “King Tamaros,” the Captain said, his voice cracking among them louder than the thunder, “when do you kill the boy?”

  “What?” King Tamaros stared at the Captain in perplexity. “What are you talking about, Captain of Captains?”

  “The boy.” The Captain jerked a thumb toward the princeling. “When do you kill him?”

  His mother, the Queen, who was seated nearby, gave a scream and clutched the prince, who wriggled, embarrassed, in her grasp. “The monster!” she cried. “Call the guards!”

  Tamaros cast her a glance, which silenced her, and turned to the Captain.

  “You must explain yourself, Captain.”

&nb
sp; “When do you kill him?” the ork said for the third time, speaking even more loudly. He had forgotten that the King was deaf. “Now would be best, but perhaps you want to wait until he has a full belly.”

  “Captain, you must be mistaken. I have no intention of killing my son,” said Tamaros.

  Humans. A stickler for words.

  “Well, the priests, then,” said the Captain impatiently. “When do they kill him? If they want us as witnesses”—he gestured to the shaman and himself—“then they had best do this fast. I sail with the next tide.”

  “No one is going to kill my son,” said King Tamaros, and his voice had a hard edge. He took hold of Dagnarus, who had squirmed out of his mother’s grasp. Tamaros encircled the boy protectively with his arm. He had never loved his son as much as he loved him at that moment, or perhaps until that moment he had never before realized how much he did love the child of his old age. “I don’t understand, Captain. How did you conceive such a strange idea?”

  “Not a strange idea,” the Captain replied patiently. One had to deal with humans as one dealt with little children. “The omens for you are very bad. Blood spilt between brothers. You must kill one or the other to ensure stability. I assume that you will kill the younger, who has not yet cost you so much to raise and who is, therefore, of less value to you than the elder.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Captain,” said King Tamaros, stiffly polite, his tone formal and cool. “But we humans are civilized. We do not kill our children. May your voyage be safe and prosperous.” Tamaros turned away.

  The Captain regarded the King in astonishment, finding it difficult to believe that even humans could be so obtuse.

  “Did you not see the omen?” the Captain cried, but King Tamaros did not appear to hear him.

  His Majesty’s guards stepped between the King and the Captain, suggesting that it was time the orken left, he’d had as much to drink as was good for him. The Queen was screaming in a shrill voice that she’d never encountered such barbarians and would someone please make these repulsive monsters, who stank of fish, leave her party. Tamaros kept fast hold of Dagnarus, fearful perhaps that the Captain might seize the boy and carry out the death sentence himself.