The Sleeping God

by Violette Malan

  Parno doubled over, gasping, as Dhulyn poked him in the solar plexis with stiffened fingers, and stepped around him to shut the door against the cooler air of the corridor. “You’ve forgotten the Green Shadow.”

  “Well, I was trying to, yes.” Parno dragged in a ragged breath, fully aware that he didn’t sound as lighthearted as he was pretending to be. “Unlike some overeducated Outlanders of my acquaintance, I don’t like to dwell excessively on the negative. As I said before, evil defeated, Tarkin restored, Mercenaries luxuriating in well-appointed baths of Carnelian Dome-no, I see no difficulties here.”

  Dhulyn sat down on the cedar wood bench just inside the door and pulled up her right foot, but made no other attempt to remove her boot. “I hope you’re right,” she said. “But, somehow, I’m not so sure about evil’s being defeated.” After a moment she looked up, her eyes still focused inward. “Zelianora tells me that other than the bump on his head, Tek-aKet has no injuries.”

  “And so?”

  Dhulyn sighed, shutting her eyes. “Why are you being so stubborn? If his arm was not broken, why did the man scream when I touched him?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Has anyone noted the color of his eyes?”

  From his vantage point three steps down from the Carnelian Throne, Telian-Han watched the select group of Houses, which included all the High Nobles and quite a few of the Lower, mill about the throne room, noting who spoke to whom, and which House courteously ignored which. His post today, as on many an audience day, was Tarkin’s Runner. He was here to fetch anything that the Tarkin might want from elsewhere in the Dome, or to run with any message. It was always his favorite post, to stand almost on a level with the Tarkin himself, with strict orders to listen to any discussion Tek-aKet might have with any of his guests-the Tarkin would sometimes quiz him on the talks he’d overheard, using it as part of Tel’s training. Tel once again thanked the Caids that he hadn’t, after all, sent to his father asking to come home.

  He knew there were some among the staff and Carnelian Guard who hadn’t thought that well of Tek-aKet Tarkin, who’d maybe been a bit pleased when he was gone. But there were few-very few-who had found they actually preferred Lok-iKol Tenebro. For the last three days the halls and corridors had been filled with smiling faces, Rab-iRab, the Tarkina’s lady page, was practically dancing in her work, and altogether everything, Tel thought with satisfaction, was once again as it should be.

  Today he was so happy that he wasn’t really listening very hard to the conversations behind him. After the first few they were pretty much the same. The first House into the room had been Fen-oNef Penrado, no surprise there. His support for Tek-aKet Tarkin had been unwavering. The second was unexpected. It was Jor-iRoj Esmolo’s daughter whom rumor had promised to Lok-iKol. Either the rumor had been false, or the Esmoloso was anxious that Tek-aKet believe it so. After that bit of excitement, the conversations had been boringly repetitious. If everyone was so glad to see Tek-aKet in what they all referred to as his “rightful place,” how had it been so easy for Lok-iKol Tenebro to sit in it?

  Tel stood straighter to attention and pricked up his ears. Old Fen-oNef was approaching the throne again, and since he’d already paid his respects, this meant that he had some other business with the Tarkin, business that might require the Tarkin’s Runner.

  “My lord Tarkin,” the old man was saying. “I see there are no Jaldeans present this afternoon.”

  A little surprised, Tel glanced around the room. No, there weren’t any of the recognizable dark brown robes. How had he missed that?

  “They are saying, my lord, that the Jaldean Shrines are shut, and petitioners are being turned away.”

  “Is this so?” The Tarkin sounded tired. Tel hoped the audience would be over soon.

  “My men tell me that one of the shrines has been broken open by discontented believers, and found empty, not a priest or acolyte in sight.”

  Tel carefully kept his face from showing his surprise. He knew that Lok-iKol had stopped supporting the New Believers as soon as his particular friend the priest Beslyn-Tor had become ill, but he hadn’t been aware just how far the fortunes of the Jaldeans had fallen.

  “My lord.” Old Fen-oNef was still speaking. “If you would take the frank advice of an old ally, let me remind you what your father would have done in these circumstances.” Fen-oNef waited for the Tarkin’s nod before proceeding. Old family friend he might be, fool he was not. “Once or twice it seemed that the Houses had lost confidence in Nyl-aLyn Tarkin.” Here the old man smiled, brushing back his long mustaches with the back of his hand, but Tel managed to keep his face straight. He knew that with his “once or twice” Fen-oNef referred to the near-rebellions that Tek-aKet’s fierce father had suppressed. “At those times, you may remember,” the old man continued, “your father held a Ceremony of Dedication, where each House reaffirmed its loyalty and support. Why not do the same? If nothing else, it is a marvelous excuse for a banquet.”

  At this Tel did smile, almost squirming at his post in excitement. He’d been too young to be a page when Tek-aKet became Tarkin, but a Dedication was almost as good as an Anointing.

  “An excellent suggestion, Fen,” Tek-aKet said, his hand straying up to his left cheek. Tel frowned. He’d seen that gesture once or twice already, and if the Tarkin’s head still pained him, this audience should be cut short.

  “It will take some organization, I know,” Fen-oNef said. “But I’m sure Gan-eGan has left able assistants, and, if I may, I would advise this as soon as possible.”

  The Tarkin tapped his mouth with the first two fingers of his right hand as he considered this. “I agree,” he said finally. “Preparations can begin immediately, but I would suggest the ceremony itself wait for the arrival of the Mesticha Stone. That should serve to quell any fears felt by the Jaldeans and appease their faction.”

  The Tarkin and the Penradoso went on speaking, but their words were drowned by the buzzing in Tel’s ears. The Mesticha Stone? Tel had almost forgotten about it, even though he himself had helped the Steward of Keys arrange with a representative of the Jaldeans for the Stone’s arrival. One of the small rooms behind the throne had been designated as the artifact’s resting place, though as yet no changes had been made.

  But it had been Lok-iKol who had asked for these arrangements, not Tek-aKet. He risked a glance over his shoulder at the Tarkin. What did Tek-aKet know about this? How did he know?

  It wasn’t until after the evening meal that Telian-Han decided he would, after all, speak to someone about what he’d overheard.

  Mar looked up from her book when Rab-iRab Culebro led a younger, male page into the receiving room of the Tarkina’s suite. She and Rab had become friends over the last few days, finding that they had oddly much in common, seeing that their backgrounds were so distinct. Rab was from the Tarkin’s own House, and had grown up in a country Household, riding and roughhousing with her three older brothers, living the life that Mar had lost when the sickness had taken her parents. There was no snobbery about her, however, and Rab had been indignant when Mar had told her of the reception she’d had in House Tenebro.

  “One of those Tenebro girls came to be a lady page with us last year,” Rab had said. “Zelianora Tarkina gave her a three-month trial before sending her home. She won’t tolerate any of that type here.” Rab had welcomed her Tarkina back with laughter, and not a few tears, and had embraced Mar willingly, all the more so as her fellow senior page had left to be married some few weeks before the night of terror.

  Of course, it didn’t hurt that Rab had been much impressed by Mar’s adventures. “It reminds me of the Tale of Evanian the Carver,” she’d said. “I hope your life has every bit as good an ending.”

  It was the same excited but serious look that Rab-iRab was wearing now.

  “Mar,” she said, barely waiting for the door to close behind them. “Is the Tarkina still asleep?”

  Zelianora had come back from the audience in th
e throne room exhausted, her emotional resources worn to thinness by all that had happened in the last half moon. Now that she was finally enjoying a deep and satisfying sleep, Mar was reluctant to wake her, and said so.

  “This is Telian-Han,” Rab said, indicating the younger boy. “He’s one of the Tarkin’s pages.”

  Mar smiled at the boy and he smiled back, though the frown that drew down the corners of his eyes did not go away. “Can your message wait until the Tarkina awakens?”

  “It’s not a message, Lady Mar,” the boy said, clearing his throat as his voice croaked. “It’s something that happened in the throne room this afternoon. Something that worried me.”

  “It won’t seem like much,” Rab said. “But it made me think of something you’d told me in your adventures. How the Wolfshead said that a scout’s report should include everything, even the details that don’t seem important because you can’t tell what’s important until you have all the details.”

  Mar looked from one young face to another. The boy was definitely frightened, and desperately hiding it. Rab’s flushed cheeks showed her excitement, but her eyes were steady and serious. These two lived here with Lok-iKol, Mar reminded herself. And with whatever Lok had become. They’d been having their own adventures.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Maybe together we can decide what to do.”

  Mar could tell from the practiced way he told the story that Tel had given this a great deal of thought. What she couldn’t see was why the boy was so frightened.

  “The Mesticha Stone is an important artifact,” she said. “And it would take time to prepare a Dedication Ceremony in any case, so why not wait for it?”

  “It was the way he said it,” Tel said. “It… I’d heard him, the other one, say it just about exactly the same way. The same tone in his voice, the same words. Even the part about ‘appeasing the Jaldean faction.’ Tek-aKet Tarkin never cared about appeasing Jaldeans,” the boy said, his lip curling. “And even less so now, from what we’ve been told. It was as if I was hearing Lok-iKol speaking with the Tarkin’s voice.”

  Lok-iKol or something else. Mar fought to keep the sudden surge of fear from her face.

  “What color are the Tarkin’s eyes,” she asked.

  “Blue,” said both pages in unison.

  “And are they still blue? They don’t seem green?”

  The two pages looked at one another, looked back at Mar and shook their heads, confusion evident on their faces.

  Mar was not reassured. “I don’t think we’ll go to the Tarkina with this,” she said finally. “Not quite yet anyway.” Gun had gone to the Library, and might not return tonight if he found something useful among the books and scrolls. That left only one person she could take this to. Mar rose to her feet and set down the book she’d been reading. “Let’s find Dhulyn Wolfshead.”

  Dhulyn Wolfshead had turned the corner from the outer courtyard into the passage that led to the rooms she and Parno had been given close to the Tarkina’s suite when she heard the unmistakable footsteps of her Partner behind her.

  “I thought you were there for the rest of the day, challenging all comers,” she said as he caught up with her.

  His pipes bleated a mournful note as he tucked them closer under his elbow, freeing his other arm to slip around her waist as they continued down the corridor.

  “Pah,” he snorted, a feigned disgust wrinkling his lips. “As if there’s any contest when the Tarkin’s own Chanter gets involved. The woman does nothing all day but play. Small wonder she can best the rest of us.”

  “There, there, my soul,” Dhulyn said, grinning. “There’s plenty you can do better than she.”

  “As I hope to be proving to you in a few minutes,” he said, squeezing her closer and brushing his lips against her cheek. Dhulyn hugged him closely in turn, sighing as the muscles in her neck and shoulders relaxed.

  “How long do you think we’ll stay,” she asked him.

  “Well, at least let’s get paid,” he said. “Or do you find you simply can’t take the luxury of fires, feather beds, and regular baths a moment longer?”

  Dhulyn smiled at the undercurrent of laughter in his voice. “It isn’t that,” she said. “And you know it.”

  Parno nodded without speaking, and held his tongue until they were at the door of their rooms. “We must stay and keep watch, in case there’s reason. So you told me this morning, and I agreed. But there’s something we should do,” he said, “so as to be ready when the time for leaving comes.”

  “I believe we did that, too, this afternoon,” she said, trying to make him laugh, “and unless I’m mistaken, we’re about to do it again.”

  “Never you fear,” he said, smiling and shaking his head. “We’ll never go short, not so long as we’re both alive, and I, at least, have breath enough for my pipes. But there is a place here where a Brother of ours fell. Let us visit it while we have the chance.”

  Dhulyn pressed her lips tightly together. “You are right, my heart. Bring your pipes, and I will fetch my sword.”

  Parno patted the bed with his free hand. “I didn’t mean we should go right now.”

  This time Dhulyn laughed out loud. “Oh, yes, you did.”

  Dhulyn set the oil lamp down and crouched to touch the dark stain on the flagstones deep beneath the oldest tower of the Carnelian Dome. To her left was the Onyx Walk, to the right the long corridor stretching down to the old summer kitchen. She frowned and straightened once more, touching a similar dark stain on the wall. Her brow cleared. “This one,” she said.

  “Died on his feet,” Parno said. “Good lad,”

  “So may we all,” Dhulyn said, leaning her shoulder against the wall to one side of the bloodstain. “Tell me,” she said, beginning the ritual, “how did you first know our Brother Hernyn Greystone the Shield?”

  Parno made himself comfortable against the wall on the other side of the stain. “I knew him when he was only Hernyn Greystone,” Parno began. “And he was a sorry sight when I first laid eyes on him, let me tell you…”

  The exchange of story and anecdote that made up the Mercenary’s Last Farewell did not take very long, even though Dhulyn and Parno tried to remember everything they had seen Hernyn say or do.

  “We stand now where our Brother stood at the last,” Dhulyn said finally. “And we say farewell to Hernyn Greystone the Shield, who gave his life for ours. Farewell, Hernyn, we stood together in Battle, and we will stand together again in Death.”

  “In Battle and in Death,” Parno said, lifting his pipes into position, and fitting the chanter to his lips. The melody that he played then was not traditional, but one of his own making, and Dhulyn thought that if he had played it in the guardroom, he might have beaten even the Tarkin’s piper, in spite of all her practice.

  When the final notes died away, they stood a moment or two longer in respect for the music, and their fallen Brother, before Dhulyn gave the bloodstained wall a final salute, touching her fingertips to the bloodstain, and then to her own forehead. Holding hands like children, they retraced their steps to the upper floors.

  They had not yet reached the first staircase when Dhulyn hesitated between one step and the next, holding Parno back with a tug on his hand. He caught her eye, and nodded; he’d heard it, too.

  “That was not the last dying away of the pipes’ music,” he whispered. “There’s no echo so long as that.”

  “Speak again,” Dhulyn called, her voice pitched carefully so as not to echo too much in the deserted stone passages. “Speak that we may find you. Do you need our help?”

  Again there came the low moaning that had first caught at Dhulyn’s ears. There was, indeed, something of the mournful notes of the pipes in the sound.

  “This way,” Parno said, as he turned to go back the way they came. They were not far on the other side of the narrower passage that led to the old kitchens when they found a series of rooms, roughly the size appropriate for storage, the bolts on the outside of the doors showing
evidence of what had been stored there. The man making the sound was in the third room.

  He cowered away from them, pushing himself with his feet into the corner of the cell and covering his eyes against the brightness of the lamplight. It took a few minutes, along with some gentle words, for his eyes to adjust enough to allow Dhulyn to coax his hands away from his face.

  “He hasn’t been here long,” Parno said, joining her after a quick look into a pail in the far corner of the cell. “But I’d say no one’s been near him in a few days.”

  Dhulyn nodded, pulling her small emergency flask of water out of her belt pouch and holding it to the man’s lips.

  “Can you speak, Grandfather,” she said as gently as she could.

  The prisoner worked his lips, licking at them and swallowing. “Mercenary,” was the word that finally found its way out of his mouth.

  “That’s right, sir,” Parno said, squatting down next to the old man. “Can you tell us who you are?”

  Suddenly the old man grabbed Dhulyn by the front of her vest, his gnarled fingers tangling in the bits of lace and ribbons. “Did you see him? Has he found you?”

  “Who would that be, sir?” Parno said.

  “The Sleeping God,” the old man said, subsiding once more into his corner, one hand still clutching Dhulyn’s vest.

  They became aware that the torn and stained robes the old man was wearing had once been the dark brown of a Jaldean priest. Their eyes met over the prisoner’s head.

  “You’ve seen the Sleeping God?” Dhulyn asked, just as Parno said, “Does he have green eyes?”

  “I thought he was, do you see? I thought he was. I thought I was helping him. Helping him to awaken because his time had come.” The old man subsided. “I thought he was the God. At first. I thought I was touched by the God.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Beslyn-Tor.” He looked around, his eyes clearing. “Have I been sick? This is not my hermitage.”