The Dark Remains

by Mark Anthony

  With that, Melia led the way down a side lane paved with white stone. There was nothing for the others to do save follow.

  As they went, Aryn noticed one dome that rose above all others in the Second Circle, and which rivaled the dome of the emperor’s palace that loomed above them in the First. This dome was not gold, like so many in the city, but was rather painted blue so that it seemed to merge with the sky. Aryn wondered which god was honored by this temple, which was so much grander than the others. However, it was not toward this dome that they walked.

  When they stopped, it was before a temple that, while lovely, was far smaller and plainer than those around it. Its columns and cornices were unadorned, and it was without windows. A narrow door was the only opening.

  Melia regarded the others, her amber eyes now sharp and clear. “It is best that you empty your minds of petty thoughts and wants before you enter here. There is no room for fear, anger, or desire in the realm of Mandu. It is because he seeks nothing that he is ever dying. And it is because he seeks nothing that he is ever reborn.”

  “Perhaps he should seek to build a few more windows in order to save on candles,” Durge muttered, but a glare from Melia caused the knight to clamp his mouth shut. Aryn had to resist the urge to hug the practical knight. Instead, they followed Melia through the door and into the temple beyond.

  37.

  Evidently Mandu the Everdying was little more popular in Tarras than in the Dominions. The main space of the temple bore only a handful of worshipers. There was not much furniture—a few wooden benches where one might kneel in prayer, a bare marble altar, and, in the dim nave of the temple, carved of milky stone, a likeness of the god as tall as two men, gazing forward with serene, empty eyes.

  A priest rushed toward them, tugging at his ill-fitting white robe to keep it from falling off his skinny shoulders. He was a young man, with a homely but cheerful face and a large, crooked nose.

  “Your Holiness, Melindora! So the vision Mandu sent my master was true—you have come.”

  Melia glided forward. “Tell me, acolyte, do you make it a habit of doubting the power of Mandu and the wisdom of your master?”

  The young man’s eyes bulged. “Never, Your Holiness! Of course Mandu is all-powerful and my master is most wise. I only meant to say—”

  “—that you are going to bring wine for your weary guests who have traveled far, then lead them to see Orsith at once,” Melia finished for him.

  The young priest gaped at her.

  “Wine,” Melia prompted with a pleasant smile. “Then Orsith.”

  Aryn forced herself not to laugh; the young man was clearly having a bad enough time as it was. Yet she could see the mirth in Melia’s amber eyes. It was clear the lady was not angry.

  All the same, the priest acted as if his god had appeared before him in a blaze of wrath and glory. And perhaps that wasn’t so far off the mark, for Melia had once been a goddess herself—a fact of which the young man seemed quite aware. He hastily brought them wine, slopping some of it on the floor and wiping it up with the hem of his robe.

  Only as she drank did Aryn realize she was indeed terribly thirsty; she wondered why she hadn’t noticed it sooner. Her eyes flickered to Mandu’s peaceful stone visage, but before she could wonder more the young priest beckoned them toward a door.

  “This way, Your Holiness. He is waiting for you.”

  When they stepped through the door, they found themselves standing in an utterly empty room. It was difficult to tell how large the space was, for floor, walls, and ceiling were all white. There seemed to be no distinct way to define where one plane ended and another began, and the light was a silvery glow that emanated from nowhere and everywhere at once.

  “Welcome,” a dry, warm voice said.

  Aryn looked up and saw the room was not entirely empty. An old man floated in midair in the center of the room, cross-legged, hands on knees. His robe, hair, and flowing beard were all the same silver-white as the stone walls. However, his wrinkled cheeks were a dark, coppery color, and his small eyes were as brown as nuts.

  Melia stepped forward, beaming. “Orsith. It is a joy to see you again.”

  The old man smiled; it was one of the sweetest expressions Aryn had ever seen.

  “My dearest, the joy is mine. But you must forgive me that I do not come down to greet you more warmly. I am in the second day of a Stillness, and I have yet one more day to remain here. Even speaking is a bit of a violation, but I suspect Mandu will forgive me under the circumstances.”

  “Oh, I’ll see to that,” Melia said. “And don’t worry, I shall come to you.”

  With that the small woman rose into the air, until she sat cross-legged like Orsith, hovering a few feet from him.

  Falken let out a snort. “Show-off.”

  Lirith moved closer, wonder on her dusky face. “Forgive me, Orsith, but may I ask how you do it?”

  “Do what, lovely one?”

  “Float without touching the floor.”

  The old man shrugged bony shoulders. “I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest idea. I simply sit as still as I can and think about nothing at all, and after I while I notice that the floor has quite fallen away from me.”

  Lirith smiled and nodded, as if this meant something to her, but Durge frowned, furrows digging into his forehead.

  “And where are we to sit?” the knight grumbled.

  Orsith smiled. “Why, you may sit anywhere, my serious fellow.”

  “But there is nowhere to sit,” Durge said.

  Orsith cocked his head. “Well, that’s odd. And here I was thinking there was everywhere to sit.”

  Aryn laughed, then sat cross-legged on the floor.

  “Yes, that’s it, my dear,” Orsith said. “And what striking eyes you have. Have you seen the blue pearls in the emperor’s palace? There are no more than a dozen in the world. But drab pebbles they seem compared to your eyes. The emperor will have to throw them out the moment he sees you.”

  Aryn gasped. She felt Lirith squeeze her hand as the witch sat down beside her. Falken followed suit, then finally Durge. The Embarran’s knees creaked alarmingly.

  “Orsith,” Melia said, “there is much to talk about. It has been so long since I have seen you.”

  “I believe my beard was considerably shorter and blacker the last time you were in Tarras.”

  Sorrow flickered across Melia’s face. “So it was, Orsith. But we will have to speak about the passing years another time. Right now you must tell me everything you know about poor Ondo.”

  Now the humor in Orsith’s expression was replaced by gravity. “I fear it will take little enough time to tell you what we have learned. Usually Mandu prefers to remain apart from the arguments and rivalries of the other gods, but even He has been forced to become involved by what has happened. I have been sending good Landus—the acolyte who brought you to me—out into the city to be my ears and eyes. But all Landus has heard is what I have heard in my heart, and what you no doubt have heard as well—the clamor of all the gods and their followers speaking at once.”

  Melia nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard it, like the roar of the ocean.”

  “It seems each temple has accused all the others of spying, plotting, and dissembling,” Orsith went on. “Which, of course, is not so very far from the truth. This is Tarras, after all. Yet for all their machinations, it seems none of the temples knows who committed this monstrous deed. And it is not only Ondo who has been taken from us. Seven priests and priestesses, all from different temples, have been slain. Nor is there any pattern to these awful deeds. For all we can tell, the slayings are utterly at random.”

  “No offense, Orsith,” Falken said, “but haven’t there always been strong rivalries among the various temples?”

  “There have. Although Mandu has rarely taken part in such activities, it is hardly uncommon for the gods to forge schemes, create alliances, and break them again in an effort to gain more followers or greater standing in the city. And
I fear that a few of the less scrupulous temples have resorted to foul methods on occasion. This is not the first time the blood of priests has been spilled. But never, in all the two-thousand-year history of Tarras, has there been anything such as this. A god is no more.”

  Melia clenched her small hands into fists. “But what is the Etherion doing about it?”

  “Sadly, they are doing little,” Orsith said. “Save to argue and cast accusations.”

  “The Etherion?” Aryn said. “What’s that?”

  Falken answered her. “It’s the combined assembly of the temples of Tarras. It’s where the priests of all the temples meet to discuss important matters. Or to bicker, as the case may be. Did you see the great blue dome on the way here? That’s the Dome of the Etherion.”

  “I seldom leave the temple anymore,” Orsith said, “yet I did go to the Etherion three days ago, to the most recent assembly. However, nothing was accomplished, save the flinging of rumors and intimations. It seemed as if every priest was shouting that this was all a plot hatched by some rival god to steal worshipers or prestige from his own.”

  Durge let out a snort. “These gods and priests of yours sound like a bunch of children quarreling in the castle bailey.”

  “You’re not far off there,” Falken muttered.

  “Why do the gods not band together rather than fling mud at one another?” Durge went on. “Surely together they could find the perpetrator of this crime.”

  “A fair question, good soldier,” Orsith said, “but I doubt the answer to it will please you. You see, for all the anger and accusations in the Etherion, there was a stronger, deeper current I felt while I was there, flowing through all who were present. It was fear.”

  Lirith nodded. “Of course. If whoever did this has the power to slay a god, what’s to stop him from killing again?”

  Now Aryn understood. “The other gods must be afraid that if they try to find the murderer, then they might be the next victim. And if the gods are afraid, the priests must be terrified.”

  Orsith nodded. “There is truth in what you say, my dears, although it is not quite so simple. The history of alliances and rivalries among the gods of Tarras is a vast and turbulent ocean, and mortals can do no more than skim along its surface and hope they are not pulled beneath.”

  Melia chewed her lip. “Even to us nonmortals, it’s not always that much clearer. I had hoped the Etherion might work together to find Ondo’s murderer, but I confess I feared it would not happen.”

  “Was anyone mad at Ondo?” Falken said.

  “Oh, many of the gods were angry at Ondo,” Orsith said. “He was not the most powerful, yet he was the patron of the guild of goldsmiths. That meant all the working of gold into jewelry and ornaments was under his control. And many gods favor gold for the adornment of their priests and temples.”

  Falken scratched his chin with his gloved hand, but if he thought this information important he did not say.

  “Well,” Melia said, her eyes shining hotly, “if the Etherion cannot be made to take action, then I shall simply have to appeal to another power in this. I will request an audience with Emperor Ephesian.”

  Orsith shook his head. “And you will be refused, dearest. Yes, even one such as you. The emperor has closed the gates of the palace out of mourning for Ondo.”

  “Out of a desperate desire to hide is more like it,” Falken said. “I’m sure the emperor is shaking in his bed even as we speak, wondering if he’s going to be the next to go. The Ephesians were always cowards.”

  Orsith nodded. “Alas, it seems that is a trait all nineteen have had in common.”

  “Nineteen?” Durge said. “You mean there have been that many of them?”

  “Indeed,” Orsith said, “the current Ephesian is the nineteenth of that name to hold the scepter. It has been a long dynasty.”

  “But why hasn’t the dynasty been overthrown? Why put up with nineteen weak and cowardly emperors?”

  “Because,” Orsith said, “it is better than nineteen strong and cruel ones.”

  Once again Durge was at a loss to answer.

  “Now what?” Falken said, gazing at Melia.

  She bobbed gently in the air, arms folded. “I don’t know. We’ll have to find a place to stay. I need time to think.”

  With that, Melia drifted gracefully downward, her feet alighting softly on the floor. However, getting Durge upright was a less elegant task and required a solid tug on Falken’s part. At last the knight stood, his expression a mixture of indignation and embarrassment that was somehow quite charming. Aryn kissed his craggy cheek, much to his further chagrin. They bid Orsith farewell with a promise to return soon, leaving him to float in the air.

  “So where to?” Falken said to Melia as they paused at the main door of the temple.

  “Perhaps good Landus could recommend a respectable hostel where we might stay.”

  The young priest, who had guided them back to the door, bobbed his head. “Of course, Your Holiness. All the hostels are in the Fourth Circle. I believe you might find the House of Nine Fountains to your liking.”

  “No!” the small woman cried out, her body going rigid.

  Aryn stared at her, as did the others. The lady’s face had drained utterly of blood.

  Landus gulped. “Forgive me if I have offended, Your Holiness. If that hostel is not to your liking, then—”

  Falken pushed the young priest aside. “What is it, Melia? What’s wrong?” The bard gripped her shoulders. For a terrible moment she was as a statue, then she slumped against Falken, clutching his tunic and sobbing.

  “It’s Geb,” she said in a choking voice.

  Aryn had never heard the name before. “Geb?”

  “The Rat God,” Landus said. “The god of thieves and beggars. But—”

  “What is it?” Falken said.

  However, even as Melia spoke the words, Aryn knew what had just happened.

  “He’s dead,” Melia said, her voice quavering. “Geb has been murdered!”

  38.

  Durge did not like Tarras.

  The knight could not deny that it was a large city, or that it was ancient, and he supposed it must be called magnificent. Its five encircling walls were high and thick, and their design would afford excellent defenses—for if invaders breached one barrier they would have four more between them and the center of the city. In addition, the city’s military appeared disciplined and well trained, and its markets were prosperous and filled with exotic goods. Even the climate was favorable: warm yet not sweltering, with cooling breezes off the sea.

  However, as they made their way back toward the Fourth Circle, Durge knew he would trade it all for his manor of cold, gray stone on the windswept moors of Embarr. There was something wrong about this city, with its multitudinous cults and bickering gods, its spice-heavy air, its crowded streets and dim grottoes. He wasn’t certain exactly what it was, but he could see it in the walls, which for all their ponderous strength were covered with a fine web of cracks, patched and repatched countless times over the centuries. And he could see it in the eyes of the people who passed them on the street: a deep yet somehow hollow look. This was a weary city.

  No, not weary. Bored. It has dwelled here too long in the hot sun; it has seen again and again everything time has to offer. This city is bored, and its people as well.

  Durge knew this was a perilous thing. When men were bored, they would commit rash and foolish acts to experience, even for a moment, some new sensation. He had seen men drink and wench themselves to death out of boredom; and he had seen them go to war and kill for the same reason.

  And if an entire city was bored?

  “Are you well enough to keep walking, Melia?” Falken said once more, as they passed through an archway back into the teeming streets of the Fourth Circle. “Lirith and I can go ahead to the hostel and send a litter back for you.”

  Melia’s regal visage was hard. “I told you I will not ride in a litter, Falken. What comfort wil
l soft cushions give me now that two of my brothers are no more? I will walk to the hostel on my own feet.”

  They turned onto a side street that was made nearly a tunnel by buildings that leaned together overhead. The sun did not reach there—just the blue-white glow of used light, reflected again and again from high above. Only as his eyes adjusted from glare to gloom did Durge see them: a gray woman holding a child, drifting toward them.

  Durge stumbled, and he was certain his heart had stopped beating. How could they be here in this hot, foreign city so far from the frozen plains of Embarr?

  “Durge?”

  A hand on his wrist. He knew it was only the warmth of human flesh, but it felt like a hot brand.

  “Durge, are you all right?”

  It was Lirith. He looked at her, and she must have seen the fear in his gaze, for she snatched her hand back, a look of horror blossoming in her own dark eyes. But his fear was not for her and her witch’s touch. He looked back down the street.

  The ice melted in his chest; blood and breath returned.

  They were close now, woman and child, close enough that he could see they were not ghosts. The woman wore a robe of pale gauze that fluttered around her like mist, and her skin was rich and dark beneath the ashes that stained her cheeks and brow. The infant wrapped in swaddling cloth in her arms was as dark as she, its tiny face marked with ashes as her own. The woman bent her head over her child, humming a soft song as she passed.

  I am well, my lady, Durge started to say, but at that moment Melia moved toward the woman in gray.

  “I do not recognize your robes,” Melia said in gentle tones. “May I ask whose cult you follow?”

  The woman looked up from her infant and smiled. “It is no wonder you do not recognize my garb, mistress. The one I follow is new in this city. She is named Tira, who is called the Child of Fire.”

  Durge heard both Lirith and Aryn gasp beside him. Even he felt a twinge deep inside, and had it not been so many years since such feelings had been lost to him, he might have thought it to be joy. As a rule he placed little stock in gods, but then seldom had he journeyed with one. And there had been something about the girl, a peace that was strange but compelling as well.