The Sleeping God

by Violette Malan

  Dhulyn handed Parno the long dagger from her left boot. She still had her holdouts hidden, but there were no more weapons that someone else could reach easily. They both knew that this was precaution only. So far as they knew, Tek-aKet Tarkin-if this was Tek-aKet Tarkin-had no reason to harm her. But they both knew of many people killed by those with no known reason to harm them.

  Parno, her dagger still in his left hand, brushed something off her shoulder with his right. “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

  “Come out alive, and in my right mind,” she said, giving him the smile she saved only for him. The smile that had no wolf in it.

  He laughed without making a sound and stepped back from her.

  “In Battle,” he said, touching his fingers to his lips.

  “Or in Death.”

  Dhulyn slid through the barely opened door and waited, listening, while Parno pulled it shut and latched it behind her. She could see at once that things were not as Zelianora Tarkina had left them. Dhulyn had expected the room to be dark, the windows shuttered. The Tarkina had left her husband tucked up in the bed, shivering and semiconscious. This man was standing at the window, shades thrown open to the early evening.

  “You sent for me, Lord Tarkin?”

  “I sent for you.” The tone was ambiguous enough that Dhulyn could not be sure whether it was question or statement. The man turned to face her.

  She took a step toward him, and then another. With the light behind him, his face was shadowed and she couldn’t be sure… She took another step. And stopped, repressing a shiver as the hair on her arms and the back of her neck stood up. There was no doubt. The man’s eyes were green. Whatever Zelianora thought she had seen, it was gone.

  “What is it, then?” she asked.

  “You take a very informal tone with your Tarkin.”

  “But you’re not the Tarkin, are you? Mine or anyone else’s.” she said, strolling casually closer, fingers reaching automatically to tap the place on her hip where her sword hilt should rest. Could she keep him from hearing the noises in the anteroom?

  “What am I, then?”

  Dhulyn frowned. She would almost swear the question was asked in earnest. “You best know that yourself.” She moved still farther into the room, beginning to circle around to the right, keeping his attention on her, and away from the door.

  “Will you tell me something? I am curious.” He turned to follow her, stepping away from the window and into the room.

  “You are capable of curiosity, then?”

  “I am capable of worlds.”

  Dhulyn wanted to snort in disbelief, but found she couldn’t. “Ask.”

  “How was it known, so quickly, that Tek-aKet was not here? With the others, with Beslyn-Tor, with Lok-iKol, no one knew.”

  A sensible question. How did you catch me? A very sensible question. Would the Green Shadow understand the answer?

  “They had no one close enough,” she told him. “No one who knew them well enough to see a change.”

  “No one who could see me?”

  “No one who could see you,” she agreed. It didn’t know about Dal, then, or Gun; nor was she about to tell him. She stepped around a long padded bench, still moving toward him. They were only a few spans apart, almost close enough, and she was eyeing the precise spot on his neck where her blow should land.

  “What do you want?” she asked. Keep him talking, keep his attention from what she planned.

  “Nothing.”

  “Your actions say otherwise. Have we no common ground? Can we not negotiate?”

  The thing that possessed Tek-aKet closed its eyes. “Common ground.” Its voice, Tek’s and yet not Tek’s, trembled with some unnameable emotion. “Too much shape.” The eyes opened, bright as gemstones. “All things here have shape. Everything. Shapes. Edges. Start, stop. Here, even I have shape. Even I. Can you send me back, Seer? Can you or any of your kind do more than force me to a different shape? You ask me what I want. Give me nothing.” The right hand rose up and, fingers curled, tapped it on the chest. “Make this nothing. I want NOTHING.”

  She blinked, and shifted her gaze. The far end of the bench, the end closest to the Shadow… shimmered like the air above a fire. It was not there, then it was. She blinked again and shook her head. A fog grew out of nowhere and swallowed the bench, and the Tarkina’s room, and the world, leaving a curious emptiness. A NOT.

  Dhulyn stopped walking. A corridor formed around her and dissolved as she stepped forward onto a beach… the Tarkina’s bedroom again with the Green Shadow who inhabited the Tarkin looking at her… the hold of a ship… a window, a mirror-no, a window, the night sky cut and a green fog spilling down. The corridor again with the fog, a cloud like hot dust eating the air, consuming all that lay before it, making NOT.

  Advancing toward her.

  This was death coming. Now. Death was now. No battlefield. No sword in her hand. No hot rush of blood, heart pounding in her ears. A slow dissolve, the world like crystals of ice slowly melting and becoming not water, but nothing, nothing at all.

  NOT …

  Why had she never Seen this? Never this Vision?

  The world changed again. Not a Sight. A memory. A dark-skinned man, his teeth white in the darkness of the hold as he smiled at her where she stood over the corpse of the careless slaver, that same slaver’s sword in her hand. “Come with me,” the smiling dark-skinned man had said, “and I’ll teach you to use that thing.” Suddenly that sword was once again in her hand, the memory sword, her first sword, that Dorian the Black had let her keep, and taught her how to use. Sharp, clear, its edges well-defined and solid. She brought the sword up in a salute, and then brought it down and up again, in the sweep she would use to clear space before her when she was being crowded. The blade passed through the stones of the corridor before the dissolve could reach her, cutting them cleanly and leaving a sharp, distinct edge. A gap like a firebreak.

  The fog was on the other side, and, now that she was focused, now that she was armed, she could see the two spots of green that were the eyes. She smiled, lifted her left hand and made a beckoning motion.

  She was back in the Tarkina’s bedroom. Back with the Green-eyed Shadow before her. But this time she knew what to do. Her breathing steadied, and she fell into the first position of the Wading Crane Shora.

  Focus. Like light through a lens. Sharper. Cast out all noise, all smells. See only the strike. When you strike, with blade or with hand, with stave or with elbow, you strike through, not at. The blow does not stop at the target, but goes through. See nothing but the target. See only the strike.

  SEE the Strike.

  SEE the Fall.

  Parno spit out the piece of nail he’d chewed off his thumb. Strain his hearing as he might, no sound came from inside the room. He’d thought he could hear some conversation at first, if he hadn’t imagined it. After all, this was the Tarkina’s bedroom, the walls and door were practically soundproof-

  Was that a thump? He shook his head. He didn’t care what he’d agreed to, he was going in. He drew his sword, unlatched the door, grabbed up Dhulyn’s sword in his free hand, and kicked the door open.

  Dhulyn was dragging Tek-aKet’s unconscious body toward the bed. One of the clothes presses was open and a number of silk scarves had been pulled out, their colors spilling over the thick rugs.

  Parno frowned, blinking. For an instant the far end of the padded bench that stood between him and Dhulyn had looked somehow melted and blackened. Then it had appeared whole again. He stepped forward to examine it more closely and found that his initial assessment had, after all, been correct. The end of the bench was melted and fused like glass, as was a large section of carpet and floor under it.

  “Since you’re here, you can help me tie him up.”

  Parno looked around. “It was the Shadow?”

  Dhulyn gave him a look that would turn wine into vinegar, and Parno felt his muscles unknot, felt the grin spread across his face. Only the re
al Dhulyn could look at him like that. He sheathed his sword, tossed hers on the undamaged end of the bench and grasped the Tarkin’s wrists.

  “On the bed, I thought,” Dhulyn said. “We’ll have to keep him comfortable, and he’ll have less leverage lying down.”

  “Facedown?”

  “And feed him how?”

  Parno shrugged again. The fact was that Dhulyn had far more experience with keeping prisoners-or being kept prisoner, than he had himself.

  “What if Tek, the Tarkin I mean, comes back to his senses?”

  Dhulyn pulled a final silk scarf around the unconscious man’s head and secured it as a blindfold over the eyes.

  “Always supposing that’s possible, that Zelianora actually did speak to her husband, and not the Shadow.” Now it was Dhulyn’s turn to shrug. “We’ll explain to him why he’s tied up.” She walked back over to the damaged section of the floor. “Does this look at all familiar to you?”

  Parno squatted beside her. “How do you mean?

  “Does it not remind you, in a small way, of the Dead Lands?”

  Parno pursed his lips in a silent whistle.

  After checking the ties one last time-better careful than cursing, is what Dhulyn always said-they came out into the anteroom to find Gun and Karlyn-Tan waiting for them. The former Steward was wearing a politician’s face, telling nothing, but the young Scholar had his lower lip between his teeth.

  “What now?” Dhulyn asked. Parno smiled. Someone was going to regret creating that edge of exasperated impatience in her voice.

  “It’s Beslyn-Tor,” Gun said, shooting a glance at Karlyn and waiting for his nod to continue. “He’s left. Just got up and walked out.”

  “What do you mean ‘walked out?’ ” Parno asked. When he’d seen the old Jaldean priest that morning, it was all the man could do to find a chair with his backside. “Who’d he go with?”

  “No one,” Karlyn said. “It seems he simply walked away. The guard at the gate included it in his usual report at the transfer of shift, but had no orders to stop him or to report it earlier.”

  “Of course he didn’t.” Parno could have kicked himself. “The man could barely walk to the door unaided. Who thought he could walk out the gate?” He turned to Dhulyn. “Was he shamming all along?”

  She was shaking her head, slowly, her eyes looking at but not seeing the tables and chairs of the Tarkina’s anteroom.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Just before we arrived. Perhaps ten minutes ago, a little more.”

  “What color were his eyes?” she asked. Parno looked to Karlyn, but the man was shaking his head. That was a detail no one would have thought to check.

  The silence lifted Dhulyn’s eyes to meet Parno’s.

  “We’re going to have to leave him tied up,” she said, indicating the inner room with her chin. “No matter who he is.”

  Twenty-three

  DHULYN LEANED AGAINST the wall behind Zelianora Tarkina, watching the familiar faces around the table. She and Parno could have had seats at the table as well-and maybe Parno would have liked that, she thought, looking sideways at him out of the corner of her eye-but she felt more comfortable on her feet, where she could watch everyone and move quickly, should it prove to be necessary.

  They were in the private council chamber in the north tower of the Carnelian Dome. Zelianora Tarkina sat at one end of the oval table, to the right of Bet-oTeb, present as the official representative of her absent father. The Tarkina was pale, and there were lines around her lips that had not been there last night. In no other way did she show the fear and worry that she must have been feeling. The Tarkin-to-be was a copy of her mother, down to the rigidly straight back and the frown line between the eyebrows. On Bet-oTeb’s left was Dal-eDal, Tenebroso in all but name, with Karlyn-Tan leaning against the wall behind him, which put the former Steward directly across from Dhulyn herself. To Dal’s left was Cullen of Langeron, and the Racha bird Disha paced back and forth upon the table itself, pausing every now and then, turning her head to watch the person speaking.

  And to round out the circle of those who knew about the Green Shadow, Gundaron and Mar-eMar sat together at the end of the table farthest from the Tarkina and Bet-oTeb. Dhulyn narrowed her eyes. They were never far from one another, those two, and Dhulyn wasn’t at all sure how she felt about that. She told herself it was none of her business. Mar had made herself very useful to Zelianora and her pages, and whatever had brought her to Gotterang in the first place, she now seemed well placed in the Tarkin’s court. Gundaron had pledged himself to the Tarkina also, Dhulyn had heard. All she knew for certain was that the boy was looking thinner than was good for him. He also looked older, more thoughtful, as well he might. But he still had trouble meeting people’s eyes.

  “The Shadow has left the Tarkin, then?” Dal was saying. “Can he tell us anything?”

  Zelianora Tarkina had been murmuring something to her daughter, but at this question she raised her head and looked around the table, taking in each face in turn. Now Dhulyn could see the exhaustion in the woman’s eyes, held at bay by the firmness of her mouth. The Tarkina shook her head.

  “He is Tek-aKet, of that I’m certain, and Dhulyn Wolfshead agrees,” she said. “But his mind still wanders.”

  Dhulyn cleared her throat. “It was the same with Beslyn-Tor. He could not focus for more than a few moments at a time.” The Tarkin had been moved to his own chamber, where Corin Wintermoon stood guard beside the bed. She’d been warned not to untie the Tarkin, no matter what was said, or who requested it-and to be especially suspicious if the man became lucid. Now that they knew the Shadow could revisit former hosts, they could not afford to leave Tek-aKet unbound. Though, Dhulyn admitted to herself, it was all too likely the creature could destroy any restraints holding it, if it didn’t mind the cost to the body housing it.

  “The Tarkin will know things about the Shadow,” she continued, turning to Zelianora and Bet-oTeb. “Just like the Jaldean did. Things that could help us. We must question him, even if his mind is wandering.” She could understand that their first concern would be for the father, the husband, the leader of Imrion. But they hadn’t seen the Green Shadow, or spoken to it. Hadn’t see the NOT that it would make of their lives and their world, if they did not find it and destroy it.

  Bet-oTeb spoke up, her clear child’s voice startling. “Can’t we-could we not find a Healer? Somewhere? I have heard that there are Marked among the Cloud People. Would they be willing to help us?”

  Dhulyn was pleased that the child who was to be the next Tarkin spoke of willingness to help, rather than of forcing. That boded well for everyone’s future, if they all came out of this alive, and in their right minds.

  “There is a Healer in the Trevel settlement,” Cullen said. Disha shrugged her wings and walked up the table toward him in her peculiar rocking gait. “Disha says that if she leaves now, she can be back before nightfall, but the Healer, even if she’s found quickly and is willing to come,” he spread his hands. “It would take more than half a moon for someone to get here from the mountains.”

  “I would be very grateful if you would go,” Bet-oTeb said, addressing the bird directly. Disha opened and closed her wings with a snap, hopped to Cullen’s shoulder where she butted his cheek with her head as if she were a cat, and from there launched herself out the open window next to Dhulyn.

  “I don’t think we have half a moon,” Dal said. “The Houses are already beginning to ask questions. If Tek is not able to take part in the Dedication Ceremony, they may very well ask for the Carnelian Throne to be set to the Ballot, and if that occurs, we must ask ourselves how likely it is that Bet will be chosen as Tarkin.”

  “And where will that leave us?” Bet-oTeb asked.

  Dal shrugged. “At the moment we are holding secure. As Dhulyn Wolfshead suggested, we’ve let rumors be spread that Beslyn-Tor is stricken with an illness that spreads on the touch. People are asked to report if they’ve seen him,
without trying to capture him themselves. I think a good many people will be happy to do just that, especially since the rumor carries word of a reward.”

  “There are still those among the New Believers who may hide him,” Karlyn-Tan said.

  “That’s so,” agreed Dal. “But most of the Houses are with us-either really with us, or holding off to see what happens next, depending on their spirit. The conservative faction of the Jaldeans, the Old Believers, are also making overtures toward the Tarkin, now that it’s obvious the New Believers have lost so much of their former power. But if Tek-aKet does not regain his health, and a Ballot is demanded… ” Dal lifted his shoulders and spread his hands. He turned his eyes toward Parno, leaning against the wall within touching distance of Dhulyn.

  “We would lose our leverage, our ability to act freely against the Shadow,” Parno said. “We stand in a position of strength only so long as we can be seen as acting on the Tarkin’s orders. Without him, we have no authority.”

  Dhulyn looked between the two men. If it was left to Dal, she realized, there would always be a connection between them, no matter what Parno thought.

  “He must be made well again,” Zelianora said. “There must be a way.”

  “Gundaron of Valdomar,” Dhulyn said, turning to look down the length of the table. “Have your researches told you anything that could help us?”

  The boy glanced quickly at Mar before he spoke. “I’m afraid I know of nothing that might help the Tarkin,” he said. His voice, though quiet, was trained for the lecture hall, clear and carrying. “At least-there are several indications that this is not the first time we’ve been visited by this Shadow. The very oldest texts, those which date to the times of the Caids-we always thought they were legends really, myths, but many of them speak of a time of great peril, a time when the world itself was in grave danger. Texts speak of floods and earthquakes, but there’s one of the Eshcaidath scrolls-” Here the boy sat up straighter, gaining poise and confidence from the familiarity of reporting on his researches, and looked at Dhulyn, waiting for her nod of recognition before he continued. “It speaks of an ‘undoing’, a kind of dissolving, of large areas of land where there seemed to be no land, and where beasts and men died blue, as if their breathing had stopped.”