by Mark Anthony
“You see, centuries before this, the three Great Stones—the Imsari—fell to Eldh, where they were found by the dark elf Alcendifar. With his craft, the dwarf bound the powers of ice, fire, and twilight into the Stones, and then he hid them away, for he was jealous of their beauty, and he did not want the eyes of others to steal it away.
“With his new wisdom, Mohg knew that if he could gain the Imsari, he would have the power to break the First Rune, which was named Eldh, and which the Worldsmith had bound into the Dawning Stone at the beginning, so that the world would know permanence and never fade. Once he broke the First Rune, Mohg would be able to reforge Eldh in his own image, an Eldh where he was master and all others—men and gods alike—were his slaves.
“But first Mohg required servants. He knew that to fight men he needed a man of his own. Now, somewhere in the mists of time, men had come into Eldh, into the far north of the world in Toringarth. They were like the men of Moringarth, but taller, paler, and barbaric in manner.
“In the guise of an old, blind seer, Mohg went to one of the chiefs of these barbarian tribes, a man named Berash, who was as bold, arrogant, and foolish as a man could be. With sweet words and promises of power, Mohg convinced Berash to trade his living heart for one of iron, and in so doing Berash became dread and powerful indeed—a being known ever after as the Pale King—but also Mohg’s eternal servant.”
Falken paused in strumming his lute. “I think you all know the rest of this story. Mohg seduced thirteen of the New Gods and bound them in undying flesh, and they became the Necromancers. The Necromancers went forth into Eldh and discovered Alcendifar’s hiding place. They wrested the Imsari from the dwarf, slew him, and returned to Imbrifale, to give the Great Stones to Berash that he might present them to Mohg himself. But when the Pale King rode forth from Imbrifale—”
“He found an army waiting for them,” Aryn said, her eyes shining. “Ulther of Toringarth and Elsara of Tarras had forged an alliance, and together they drove the Pale King back into Imbrifale and took the Imsari from him.”
“That’s right,” Falken said. “In a desperate gamble, Ulther and Elsara both sent armies to Shadowsdeep. Ulther arrived first, and he smote the Pale King with his sword Fellring, which had been enchanted by the blood sacrifice of three fairies. Both Fellring and the Pale King’s heart shattered. Ulther would have died himself then, for all his army had perished, but at that moment Elsara rode into the vale with the army of Tarras, and the tide of the battle was turned. The Necromancers fled back into Imbrifale with their fallen master. Elsara had saved Ulther.”
“She loved him, you know.”
All looked at Melia. The lady petted the kitten, a secret smile on her lips. “Ulther journeyed from Toringarth all the way to Tarras to warn the empress of the Pale King’s coming. At first she denied his request for an alliance, saying she cared nothing for wars in the frozen north. However, Ulther persisted, and at last Elsara agreed. But it was not only because she had come to believe in the peril he described. It was because she had come to love him, even as he loved her.”
Falken set down his lute. “If that’s true, then their love was never requited. Their peoples would never have accepted a marriage between a barbarian king and an empress of the south. But when they created the kingdom of Malachor, to keep watch over the gates of Imbrifale, each gave a child to the new kingdom: Ulther’s daughter and Elsara’s son were married, and their heirs ruled over Malachor until …”
Falken’s voice faltered, but Lirith knew what he had been about to say. Until that kingdom fell.
“Wait a moment,” Durge said in his rumbling voice. “We know the Pale King was defeated in the War of the Stones. However, you have yet to tell us of his master. What became of Mohg?”
Falken picked his lute back up. “It’s a story few know, for while the War of the Stones was fought here on Falengarth where all could see, the war against Mohg took place on the shadowy borders of the Twilight Realm, where no man may tread, save perhaps the Maugrim in their time. However, just as the armies of north and south allied themselves against a common foe, so did the Eldhari and the Nindari.”
Lirith sat up straight. “You mean the Old Gods and the New Gods worked together?”
Melia nodded. “It’s true, dear. We did. I can’t say we understood one another very well, but we all knew it was the only way to save Eldh from Mohg.”
“Together, all the gods created a trap,” Falken said. “They wove a shining illusion of the three Imsari and the Dawning Stone. In his lust, Mohg raced toward what he perceived as the keys to his victory. But even as he grasped for them, they dissolved into shadows, and he knew he had been tricked. However, it was too late. In following the illusion, Mohg had stepped outside the circle of the world. With powerful runes, the Old Gods bound the circle, imprisoning Mohg beyond the borders of Eldh. Forever.
“The trick was not made without sacrifice, however, for it was said that a few of the Old Gods wove the spells of illusion to the last moment, and they were shut outside the circle of the world with Mohg.”
A sharp pain pierced Lirith’s heart. Could one really love something so much one would abandon it? The thought was beautiful, but so terribly sad.
“What happened to the rest of the Old Gods, Falken?” she asked.
“Their time was over. The world of men held no place for them. They faded into the Twilight Realm, and the Little People with them.” He cast a sidelong glance at Melia. “But then, as we learned last Midwinter’s Eve, while they are mostly forgotten, the Little People are not entirely gone.”
Lirith had not been there, but Aryn had told her the tale, how tall, radiant fairies had carried Beltan’s wounded body into the great hall of Calavere, and how queer figures had gathered the dead feydrim in twisted arms and carried them away. But then, the feydrim had been Little People once, before they were corrupted by the magic of the Necromancers.
“So the fate spoken by the witch Cirsa came true,” Aryn said.
Falken cocked his head. “How so?”
“It was because of Ulther and Elsara’s love that the Pale King was defeated and that he did not give the Great Stones to Mohg.” The young woman smiled, pressing her left hand to her breast. “ ‘Love shall yet defy you.’ ”
Falken cast a startled glance at Melia, then looked back to Aryn. “Perhaps you’re right at that,” he said gruffly.
Lirith sighed. She might have thought the bard would tell a lighter tale as an antidote to their somber mood. Yet this one had been appropriate in its way. Once again she found herself wondering who could possibly murder not one god, but two. A dragon had nearly slain Mohg, but then only by his own willing participation. Whoever had murdered Ondo and Geb must have incredible power—enough to threaten all the world even as Mohg had once done.
But the Old Gods had banded together with the New Gods to save the world. Was there even the slightest chance they might be able to help again? After all, if the Little People could return from the Twilight Realm, why not them? She opened her mouth to ask Falken—
—and a scream came forth.
A dark thing fell onto her lap with a plop, then wriggled across the gauzy fabric. It was a spider: black, shiny, and large as a coin. She leaped to her feet, and the spider fell to the floor.
The spider started to scramble away, but Durge stood and placed his boot over it. There was a wet sound. However, terror still surged in Lirith’s veins.
“It is only a spider, my lady,” the knight said, his brown eyes grave. “There is nothing to fear.”
The others gazed at her in confusion. Lirith knew she was going to have to explain. She reached into her gown and pulled out the Mournish spider charm. Then she told them of the dreams she had been having, of the golden spiders, and the hungry thing lurking in the shadows. However, she did not tell them of Sareth. He was not important, she told herself, although that was a lie. But he was secret, and so she said nothing of his place in her dreams.
Melia touche
d her arm when she finished. “I can see to it you sleep tonight without dreams, dear. If you’d like that.”
Lirith gave a stiff nod. She started to slip the Mournish charm back beneath her gown, then with a jolt memory came to her. “Melia,” she said, “this reminds me of something I wanted to ask you after I visited the goldsmiths. I completely forgot about it after the attempt on my life.” She held out the Mournish charm. “When one of the goldsmiths saw this, she called me a follower of Sif, and she said I would never have the golden amulets I had wanted.”
“I can see how she might have thought that, seeing your charm,” Melia said. “Sif is the arachnid god. Spiders are sacred to him.”
Aryn glanced at Melia. “Was the temple of Sif represented at the Etherion the other day?”
“No, they weren’t in attendance.”
Falken snorted. “Like half the temples in the city. I suppose they’re as afraid as—”
“By the steel of my greatsword!”
As one they gaped at Durge. It was unusual enough for the solemn knight to interrupt another, but for the Embarran to utter an oath was nothing less than astonishing.
“What is it, Durge?” Lirith managed.
The knight’s mustaches twitched. “Melia,” he said, “tell me, what sort of robes do the priests of Sif wear?”
Melia’s expression was puzzled. “They wear robes of dark gray, with pale gray threads woven into them. They’re meant to look like spiderwebs, I believe. But why do you ask?”
“Because now I know who the murderer is.”
46.
Despite the balmy night air drifting past the curtains, Aryn felt cold. Durge’s statement had struck them all like a slap in the face. She cast a glance at Lirith, then spun a quick thread along the web of the Weirding.
What on Eldh is he talking about, sister? Neither Melia nor Falken has managed to discover who killed Ondo and Geb. Durge can’t possibly know who the murderer is.
Lirith’s reply crackled back across the Weirding like lightning. If that is what you believe, then you underestimate him. Durge has seen much in his life, has endured much that you cannot even imagine. He is a wise and intelligent man, as well as a philosopher of science, and you do both him and yourself a disservice by so carelessly doubting him. Sister.
Aryn gasped. The sharpness of these words stung her like cold needles. What had she done to provoke such a rebuke? She never said Durge was stupid. She pulled her gaze from Lirith. Falken stood behind Melia’s chair, hands on her small shoulders. Both bard and lady regarded Durge seriously, and Aryn winced. Perhaps Lirith was right, perhaps she was horrible to doubt Durge. It was clear that Melia and Falken did not.
As if by a spell, memories came to Aryn like a bundle of small paintings she could hold in her hand, each one depicting a moment when she had been cruel to Durge, or had laughed at him. Or, perhaps worst of all, had simply ignored the knight.
No, not like small paintings. Like cards.
You have forgotten about one who bore pain for you.
Was Durge the one the old woman had meant? Aryn recoiled but could not cast down the hand of memories she had drawn. What was wrong with her? No man could be kinder, stronger, truer than the craggy-faced Embarran. Why was it so hard for her to see good in him?
Perhaps it is simply that you do not want to see it, sister. After all, he is more than old enough to be your father.…
“Who is it, Durge?” Melia said, her voice tight.
“It was only just now that it all made sense to me,” the knight replied in his rumbling voice. He glanced at Lirith. “It was the spider, my lady.”
“What does this have to do with spiders?” Falken said.
“Everything,” Durge said. “I cannot speak to your dreams, Lady Lirith, or of the visions beheld by the witches of Tarras. However, I do know what I have witnessed with my own eyes. Three days ago, as we departed the Etherion, only moments before the priests of Vathris were slain, I glimpsed several priests who I had not seen participating in the discourse. They were moving quickly, as if they did not wish to be seen. And they wore dark gray robes woven with pale gray threads.”
Melia stood up, and the kitten fell with a yowl to the floor, extending its feet only at the last moment to catch itself.
“Priests of Sif.” Her amber eyes flashed. “You believe Sif is the murderer.”
Durge nodded. “From all we have learned, it can be the only answer. We know from Lirith’s visit to the goldsmiths that Ondo had refused to make the amulets of gold the arachnid god desired for his priests. We also know that, recently, the followers of Ondo were robbed of some of their gold. It is my belief that, thwarted in his desire, Sif determined to gain the gold by any means possible. First he murdered Ondo, casting the goldsmiths in disarray. Then he murdered priests of various temples in order to sow chaos and confusion, to make sure the Etherion would not work together to discover him. Finally, he plotted with another god to steal from the guild of goldsmiths.”
“Geb,” Aryn said, the pieces falling into place in her mind. Lirith was right; she should not have doubted Durge. “That’s why you found the gold coin in the sewer.”
“So I believe,” Durge said. “Only it was not a coin that I found, but a slug. I should have known it immediately, given its smooth faces. I use slugs made of lead in my alchemical work. But gold slugs are used in the making of jewelry. Geb’s followers must have stolen the gold and transported it through the sewers beneath the city, dropping the slug in their haste.”
Falken ran a hand through his silver-shot hair. “Wait a minute, Durge. If Sif made a deal with Geb to steal Ondo’s gold, why did he turn around and murder Geb? It wouldn’t make any sense to murder his partner in crime.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Durge said. “Unless Geb betrayed Sif and kept the gold for himself. After all, Geb is the god not just of beggars, but of thieves as well.”
Falken slapped his gloved hand to his forehead. “Of course! That’s why Geb’s followers are in hiding. They should have been out in force, using the death of their god to gain sympathy and charity, but instead they’ve hidden themselves deep in the sewers. They don’t want the guild of goldsmiths to find out they were in league with Ondo’s murderer, and they don’t want Sif to take out his revenge on them as he did their god, or to find out where they’ve hidden the gold.”
Melia paced before the window, her small hands clenched into fists. “I should have seen it! Sif ever was a spinner of webs.” She moved to Durge. “Thank you,” she said simply, and the knight bowed low before her.
“There’s still one thing I don’t understand,” Lirith said. “You told us yourself, Melia, that in all the history of Tarras one god has never slain another. So how did Sif manage to murder both Ondo and Geb?”
“I don’t know,” Melia said, her eyes glittering like sparks on copper. “But I intend to find out. Let us go to the temple of Sif at once. I’m going to give those priests—”
A sharp knock at the door interrupted Melia. Falken opened it, and a gangly young man rushed through, stumbling as his toe caught the hem of his simple white robe.
“Landus!” Aryn blurted, then winced at her rudeness. But while Landus wasn’t the last person she might have expected to come tumbling through their door, he certainly had to be near the bottom of the list.
Durge steadied the acolyte with strong hands. The young man hastily untangled his robe and looked up. As he did, Aryn sucked in a breath. The last time she had seen Landus, his broad face had been full of good cheer. Now his visage was strangely hard, his kind brown eyes glassy and sunken.
“What’s going on, Landus?” Falken said.
The young acolyte struggled for words. He must have run from the Fourth Circle all the way here. “It’s … it’s Orsith.”
Melia lifted a hand to her throat, the blood draining from her face. “Landus, what is it? Tell me at once that Orsith is well.”
“I’m … I’m sorry, Your Holiness.”
Me
lia slumped back into her chair, limply, like a piece of cloth cast down.
“I felt a chill come over me a short while ago,” she said softly. “I thought it only the night air. But it wasn’t the air, was it?”
She looked up at Landus, and the young acolyte’s face was a mask of sorrow.
“No, Your Holiness, it was not.”
47.
The countless temples of the Second Circle glowed in the pearly light of the moon. To Aryn, they looked like houses of bones shining in the night.
The streets of Tarras were not so busy as during the warm hours of the day, but even in the coolness of midnight they were far from empty. Torches lit the way for drunken revelers to stagger from one feast to another. Music and laughter drifted out of glowing windows, although somehow the sound was more sinister than merry. From time to time cries echoed through the city, but whether they were made in pain or ecstasy was impossible to tell.
Just before they left the Fourth Circle, a man in fine clothes had stumbled before Aryn. He vomited onto the street, laughed, then staggered on. Durge started to move after the man, to rebuke him, but Aryn tugged his arm. Melia had not stopped moving.
The Third Circle had been quiet, for it lay under the watchful eyes of the Tarrasian military. The temple district through which they passed was neither silent nor as raucous as the lower circles of the city. Still, it was clear that many gods favored the shadows of night to the bright sun of day. Incense rose on the air, along with the murmur of chanted prayers.
They passed one temple whose doors stood wide open. Light spilled down the steps like molten gold. Above the door, a frieze depicted a leering, goat-legged god. In one hand he held a naked maiden, in the other a pretty young man.
Aryn’s gaze drifted past the doors. The temple was filled with the smoke of braziers, so that it was hard to be certain what it was she was seeing. But the floor of the temple seemed to writhe as if alive with serpents. Then a night breeze spun the smoke in circles, and she saw not serpents, but arms and legs, tangled together into a living, undulating knot. Moans rose on the air like fractured prayers. They were sounds of pleasure. Or torture.