by Mark Anthony
“You can take that as a no,” Falken said. “How about some of that wine, Aryn?”
She hastily poured two cups for the bard and lady.
Durge started to sit, seemed to get momentarily tangled in his pants, then hastily stood again. “I find it puzzling that Emperor Ephesian would turn you away, Melia, given your … er, your stature here in Tarras.”
“Ephesian would never turn me away,” the lady said. “He wouldn’t dare! He knows what I did to his greatgrandfather, Ephesian Sixteen.”
Aryn gulped. “And what was that?”
Melia’s lips coiled in a smug smile. “Let’s just say he never sat on his throne again without using an extra cushion.”
“I don’t understand,” Lirith said. “If Ephesian respects you, Melia, why weren’t you granted an audience?”
Falken answered. “Because that little wart in expensive clothes—excuse me, I mean the Minister of Gates—wouldn’t even let us into the First Circle. Nor would he relay our message to the emperor.”
“But Melia,” Aryn said, “couldn’t you have just, you know, tampered with the minister?”
“I’m afraid that’s frowned upon here in Tarras, dear. A god tends to get touchy when you meddle with one of his followers. There’s such competition for disciples in the city that everyone gets a bit possessive. And the Minister of the Gates wore the emblem of Misar.”
“Misar?” Durge rumbled. “Who is that?”
Melia let out a pained sigh. “The god of bureaucrats. So believe me when I tell you Misar is a stickler for rules. Much as I would have liked doing so, I couldn’t try anything to influence that horrid little man.”
“So now what?” Lirith asked.
“Now I must see if I can find other means of getting a message to Ephesian. If I can, then …”
Melia’s words faltered, and she lifted a hand to her brow.
Falken moved to her side. “The headache again?”
She gave a shallow nod. “Do not fear. I am certain it will pass as quickly as the others.”
Aryn gave Lirith a concerned glance. Since when had Melia been getting headaches?
Falken helped Melia into a chair, then looked up at the others. “I would be pleased to hear that the rest of you had better luck than we did.”
Unfortunately, they had not. Together, Aryn and Durge related their foul and fruitless trek into the sewers beneath the Fifth Circle.
“All of the followers of Geb are in hiding,” Aryn said in finish to their tale. “They’re afraid they’ll be killed now that they’re without a god. I suppose I can’t blame them. But we didn’t find anything at all helpful.”
“I did find this,” Durge said. He tossed a gold coin into the air and caught it again. “I saw it as we made our way through one of the more malodorous passages. Although I confess, it seems odd to find money in a sewer. Nor does it do us any good.”
“Odd indeed,” Falken said. “May I see that, Durge?”
The knight handed him the coin. Falken turned it over in his hand. “It’s blank—there’s no imprint on either side.”
Durge nodded. “I imagine it has been worn smooth by time. Most likely it has lain there for centuries.”
“Maybe.” Falken handed the coin back to Durge.
“What about you, Lirith?” Aryn said. “What did you learn from the goldsmiths?”
Lirith pushed the kitten from her lap and stood. “That if Ondo is anything like his followers, then nearly everyone in the city would have motivation for murder.”
They listened as Lirith recounted her numerous unpleasant conversations on the Street of Flames. When her words trailed off, she looked once more out the window. She gripped her gown, knotting the fabric in clenched hands.
Aryn moved to the witch. “What is it, Lirith? Something’s wrong, something you haven’t told us.”
At last Lirith turned back, her dark eyes grim. “I was attacked on my way back here.”
They all listened with growing horror as Lirith told how a man in a black robe—a man she had glimpsed as they disembarked from the Fate Runner—had thrown a knife at her before fleeing.
“I don’t know why he ran,” Lirith said, gazing at her hands. “Surely he meant to kill me, but for some reason he fled before he could throw his second knife.”
Aryn knelt beside her and placed her good hand atop Lirith’s.
Melia moved toward them, her expression grave. “Did you not … sense anything, dear?”
Lirith sighed. “I believe I did sense another presence, but I couldn’t be sure. You see, there was … something else I saw in the Weirding just before I was attacked.”
Aryn felt Lirith’s flesh go cold beneath her hand.
“What is it, sister?” she gasped.
Lirith looked up, her eyes haunted, and Melia nodded.
“You’ve seen it again, haven’t you?” Melia said.
Aryn gripped tighter. “What does she mean, Lirith? What did you see?”
Lirith licked her lips, then spoke words that made Aryn’s breath cease in her lungs.
“I have seen a tangle. A tangle in the threads of the Weirding.”
41.
Two days later, Durge awoke to cool silver light.
At first he could not tell whether it was late or early. Darkness never seemed to fall in this city, not completely; even in the deep of night, the white buildings reflected the light of the moon, the stars, and numberless torches, imparting a paleness to the air so unlike the inky, impenetrable nights that fell upon the Dominions. Durge did not like the eerie citylight; it made him think of ghosts.
But they are not here, Durge of Stonebreak. Nor are they anywhere save beneath the hard soil of Embarr, and well over a score of years buried at that.
However, if that was so, why had he seen them so clearly in Ar-tolor? Maere and little Durnem, looking just as he remembered, except blanched of all color, all life. And so sad; he had never remembered her looking so sorrowful, even when he told her the king had ordered him on patrol of the northern borders, that he would be gone all the summer and the autumn—but no more—and that he would return to her with the first snow.
Promise me one thing, she had said, pressing her hands to his cheeks. All the king’s knights are so somber, as if the price to win their swords was their smiles. Promise me that you won’t come back grim like them.
It had seemed such an odd request, but never had he refused her anything.
I swear it by my heart, Maere.
However, he did not return with the first snow. A large band of wildmen had moved south with the coming of winter. It was Falken Blackhand who had warned Embarr’s king, and that was how Durge first met the ancient bard. Durge’s patrol was given the task of sending the wildmen fleeing back north. It wasn’t until Midwinter’s Day that he finally returned to his manor at Stonebreak. And he found two fresh graves waiting for him, one large, one small.
Bless them, Yirga, the reeve’s wife, had said in answer to his numb silence. The fever took not one but both. I think the gods did not wish mother and child to be apart. It is a mercy, it is. Oh, bless them, bless them.
Durge had said nothing, but he knew Yirga was wrong, that the gods knew nothing of mercy. He had knelt beside their graves as soft snow fell, and for the last time in his life Durge had wept. He wept long and bitterly, pounding at the frozen soil until his bare hands ran bloody, as if he were burying his own heart there with them.
And, for all these years, he thought he had. Maere had made him promise not to become grim, but she had broken her part of that vow by leaving him. So Durge had become a good and solemn knight in service to King Sorrin of Embarr, and he had put aside joy, love, and other such frivolous things. That was, until …
Durge shut his eyes and once again saw the way Aryn had stared at him two days ago. Memories of ice and sorrow melted under the heat of a fire so long banked he thought it had gone utterly to ashes. But there was yet a spark.
He sat up in bed, sweating.
This had to cease at once. Aryn had stared at him because he looked a fool, that was all. One so young and fair could never find him worthy of attention.
True, there were men who turned their gazes from Aryn due to the condition of her arm; but they were not fit to marry dogs, let alone a woman of high station. And there were other men who, like Durge, thought nothing about her arm, except that perhaps because of it she had found a quiet strength to match her beauty.
“Foolishness and fancy,” he whispered under his mustaches. “What is wrong with you, Durge of Stonebreak? These days if you are not drifting in thoughts of the past, then you are picturing futures that can never be.”
Perhaps the same malady afflicted him as Lady Melia. Several times again over the last two days she had become caught in reveries of long ago. Durge could see that Falken was worried, but the bard seemed not to know what to do. Nor did Melia seem aware of her behavior, which was perhaps the strangest fact of all. For Durge had never known another—man or woman—who appeared as assured and in control of her faculties as Lady Melia.
The light had brightened a fraction. Early then, not late. Morning was coming, still an hour away across the sea, but he knew he might as well rise. He stood and clothed himself in his new trousers and vest, grudgingly admitting the garb was practical for the climate. Only as he moved to the door did he notice that Falken’s bed was empty. He stepped into the larger room beyond.
“Good morning, dear.” Melia stood beside a table, using a silver pitcher to fill a pair of cups with a pink liquid. “Would you like some margra juice?”
Durge had absolutely no idea how to answer that question, as he had never heard of margra juice before, but he did not wish to insult the lady. He nodded and accepted a cup.
“You’re up early,” Falken said. The bard sat in a chair, strumming a soft tune on his lute.
“As are you,” Durge said. As he often did, he marveled at the way the lute seemed a part of Falken’s body. Sometimes it was as if the bard spoke with the mellow tones of the instrument as much as with his own voice.
“I’m glad you’re up and ready,” Melia said. “I learned during the night that a meeting of the Etherion has been called. It will commence at dawn.”
Durge frowned. “My lady, surely I would have heard if a messenger came to our rooms during the night, yet I heard no such thing.”
Melia only smiled and poured herself a cup of juice. Durge knew it was best not to press for further explanation. Much as he favored reason, he knew it did not always apply where Melia was concerned. He settled for drinking his juice. It was cool and sweet, and the cup was empty before he knew it.
“More?” Melia said, and Durge nodded. It seemed he liked margra juice after all.
They reached the gate of the Second Circle just as sunlight touched the highest domes in the city, setting them ablaze.
“We’d better hurry,” Falken said, eyeing the sky. “Didn’t you say the Etherion assembled at dawn? We don’t want to be late.”
“Actually,” the lady said, “we do.” She walked at a stately pace through the archway.
Durge glanced at Aryn and Lirith, but they shrugged; neither knew what Melia was talking about. The ladies had arisen and dressed hastily, yet both looked lovely. They had coiled their hair high atop their heads, as was the fashion for women in this city. Of course, as pale as she was, Aryn would never be mistaken for anything but a woman of the northlands. However, with her dark, burnished skin, Lirith could easily have passed for a high lady of Tarras.
Falken groaned. “Please, Melia. It’s far too early in the morning to be enigmatic.”
“But it’s really very simple,” she said. “Only the priests and priestesses of the lesser temples will arrive at the Etherion precisely at dawn. To arrive late signifies that one is so confident or all-knowing that one does not fear missing anything important. And the later one arrives—”
“—then the more important one is?” Aryn said tentatively.
Melia laughed. “Well, at least the more important they believe they are, dear. And sometimes, in Tarras, that’s all that matters.”
This made no sense whatsoever to Durge. “I do not see how someone can be important merely by believing that he is. If I believe I have armor when I do not, it will hardly prevent a man from sticking a sword in my belly.”
Melia patted his cheek. “You might be surprised, dear.”
They were not alone as they passed through the airy streets of the Fourth Circle. Men and women clad in robes of myriad hues moved toward the blue dome that towered above all others.
As they went, Aryn and Lirith bowed their heads toward one another. Their lips did not move, yet all the same Durge had the feeling they were speaking. Their first evening in the city, when Lirith told them of the magic tangle she had seen, Durge had not had the faintest idea what she was talking about. However, Aryn had blanched as if a cold wind had struck her, and Melia and Falken had given knowing nods.
In the time since, Lirith had been far more subdued than usual, speaking little, and then usually with Aryn. Durge’s knowledge of witches was scant, yet logic did tell him one thing: It seemed far beyond coincidence that Lirith’s tangle should be greater here in Tarras, the city where gods were being murdered. Certainly the two had to be connected; as for how, that was leagues beyond Durge.
What concerned him more—because he might actually do something about it—was the man who had made an attempt on Lirith’s life. Why had he been spying on them at the docks? And why did he want to harm one of their number? Durge didn’t know. Yet all the same, he found himself wishing his greatsword wasn’t back at the hostel.
Be watchful, Durge of Stonebreak. Sure as the sun must set, there is danger ahead of you this—
His thoughts were shattered by the high, clear sound of a child crying.
Durge glanced up; the others had moved slightly ahead. They did not seem to hear the child’s cries. He shuddered. Was it the ghosts again, only no longer silent?
He turned, then breathed a sigh as he saw the source of the wailing. It was no ethereal child, but a mundane boy of perhaps four or five winters. He stood on the side of the street, black hair tousled, tears streaming down his round face. Had he lost track of his parents? As he cried, the boy flapped his arms, his hands lost inside long, dangling sleeves.
Durge frowned. It wasn’t just the sleeves that were too long. The blue robe the boy wore was far too large for him, slipping half over his shoulders and pooling around him like water on the street. The robe was clearly intended for a grown man. In fact, it looked like the robe some of the priests they had passed earlier had worn. But then why was this weeping boy wearing it? He gazed around himself with large, bewildered eyes, then his flood of tears gushed anew.
There was something odd about the child and his too-large robe. Durge started toward him.
“Durge!” a voice called behind him. “Come on!”
He jerked his head around. It was Aryn. The others were some way ahead of him now. She motioned for him to hurry.
Durge glanced back. A woman had approached the boy now and was speaking to him in a consoling voice, no doubt asking him if he knew the name of the street he lived on. Satisfied, Durge hurried after the others.
However, it was some time before the sound of the child’s grief faded completely from his ears.
42.
The light of the sun was just creeping over the wall of the First Circle below when they passed between two towering pillars of white marble into the Etherion.
They moved along a broad hallway. Then the walls fell away to either side, and Durge stumbled to a halt, gripping a stone balustrade for support. For all their skill, he knew the engineers of Embarr could never have constructed the likes of what he saw before him.
The space beneath the dome of the Etherion was vast—so impossibly vast an entire castle might have fit within, leaving room to spare. So far was it from the place they stood to the opposite side that the moisture on the
air was visible as a faint haze. The dome soared above their heads, as blue as it was on the outside, so that it seemed they were looking at a vivid sky. Round windows were cut near the base of the dome, and golden sunlight rained down. Birds flitted back and forth across the lofty heights.
The Etherion formed a great circle, and its walls were lined with colonnades of marble veined with crimson. Durge counted seven levels or tiers, each supported by a row of columns, and between each pair of columns was a kind of alcove in which onlookers could gather. The alcoves in the bottom tiers were small and cramped, providing only standing room, while those in the topmost tiers were large and open, appointed with chaises where priests or priestesses might recline while watching the proceedings. Evidently higher meant more important in the Etherion just as in Tarras itself.
“Look at Durge,” Aryn said with a smile. “A bird could fly into his mouth. I believe he’s struck with awe.”
Falken laughed. “More likely he’s trying to figure out how the Tarrasian engineers built this place.”
“I imagine they had some help in the matter,” Lirith said, casting her dark gaze toward Melia.
“Come,” Melia said. “My alcove is this way.”
Durge managed to wrest his attention from the marvel of the Etherion. “Your alcove, Melia?”
She shrugged. “Well, I suppose I would have to share it with Tome, if he were here. After all, it was reserved for the Nine of us. Although it was always a bit cramped if all of us showed up at once.”
Melia’s alcove was located on the sixth tier up, only one below the highest, on the side opposite the great archway that led into and out of the domed space. The alcove was large and furnished with comfortable chairs and tables of polished wood. However, all were covered with a thick layer of dust. How long had it been since Melia had last been to Tarras? Before Durge could ask, the small woman flicked her hand, and the dust was gone. Had he only imagined it then?
Deeming it best not to inquire, Durge sat with the others, although he chose a seat nearer the alcove’s door than the balcony overlooking the Etherion. Should anyone enter, Durge did not wish to be caught unawares.