by Mark Anthony
“The chimpanzee?” Grace crossed her arms. “Yes, that has to be how they did it—that’s the delivery vector they were using for the gene therapy, and that’s how they made the gorleths. Which would mean—” She gazed at the knight. “Oh, Beltan …”
Travis moved closer. “What did they do to him, Grace?”
Beltan’s visage was solemn. “They were trying to make me into a killer.” He turned away, hands clamped together. “I guess they didn’t know I already was one.”
What was Beltan talking about? Travis looked at Grace.
“I don’t think we need to worry. I don’t see any outward morphological changes. And the fairy … I think all it did was heal him. He’s still our Beltan.” She smiled. “Just a little better than before.”
But that wasn’t entirely true. Beltan looked well enough. More than well. Before, Beltan’s face had always been rough and homely in a good-natured way, his handsomeness a secret that shone forth only when he smiled. But now it was as if Travis could see that part of him whether Beltan was smiling or not. Only there was something else, something that dimmed that light.…
A shadow blocked the sun. Vani stepped into the mouth of the alley. When had she gone?
“Here.” She held out a bundle of clothes. “Put these on. Then we must go.”
Travis eyed the garments. “You didn’t steal these, did you?” It seemed like people were always stealing his clothes for him on Eldh.
Vani’s gold eyes flashed. “You cannot wear your Earth garb here. It will attract undue attention.”
Travis sighed. Stolen all right.
Moments later they were dressed. Grace wore a simple shift of pale green, but she looked regal all the same. Vani wrapped a yellow cloth around herself. It hid her black leathers, but it could not disguise the sleek power of her movements. Travis and Beltan both wore long white shirts that came to their ankles.
Vani handed Travis a cloth sack. “Use this for your things.”
He stuffed his mistcloak into the sack, then transferred the few other items from his backpack: his gunfighter’s spectacles and Malachorian dagger, and the drawing of the sword Deirdre had given Grace. He cinched the sack’s rope and slung it over his shoulder.
“Can you walk?” Grace said to Beltan.
The knight nodded. “It’s odd, but I think I can. Although a pot of ale would give me strength.”
“We have no time for ale.”
“Nonsense,” Beltan said. “There’s always time for ale.”
Vani moved to the mouth of the alley. “We must find my brother at once.”
“But how do you know he’s here in Tarras?” Travis said. “You haven’t talked to him in months.”
“I saw the markings on a wall near where I took—that is, where I found the clothes.”
Travis frowned. “You mean you know your brother is here because he’s a vandal and likes to write on walls?”
“They are arcane signs, Travis, used by my people to signal one another of our presence. To the dwellers of this city, they would look like scratches, nothing more. Now come.”
66.
Melia was dancing again.
Lirith stood in the doorway of the lady’s room, hand to her mouth. The coppery light of afternoon shone through the window’s sheer curtains. They had all been trying to rest, for none of them had slept after their visit to Sif’s temple last night, not after witnessing the murder of the arachnid god. Aryn had finally fallen asleep, but rest eluded Lirith, so she had gone to Melia’s room. There were some things she wanted to ask the lady. Things about spiders.
Falken stood just inside the door, watching Melia. The small woman danced on a red carpet in the center of the room, placing her feet in precise positions, the rings on her toes gleaming. She murmured a soft, mournful song that once again reminded Lirith of the music of the Mournish.
Lirith glanced at Falken. “How long has she been like this?”
“I’m not certain,” he said softly. “She retired to her room about an hour ago. I’ve only been here a few minutes.”
Melia spun in a circle, bowed, then began the circle again. It was the same dance Lirith had witnessed before, in the shrine of Mandu in Ar-tolor. However, there was an urgency to it that had not been there the last time.
Lirith clutched the spider amulet at her throat. “What is she doing, Falken?”
“I think she’s reenacting her mystery.”
“Her mystery?”
“Yes, the story of how she became a goddess.” The bard tore his gaze from Melia. “Each of the New Gods has a mystery—a story around which their cult is centered. Like Vathris, who slew the white bull, and a red river of blood poured forth, quenching his parched kingdom. Or Jorus Stormrunner, who was thrown into the sea to die, only he was transformed into a horse and rode the waves back to crush his enemies.”
“Or like Tira,” Lirith said.
Falken lifted a hand to his chin. “Yes, I suppose you’re right at that. Like Tira, who was burned in fire, and who ascended with a star into the sky.”
“But what’s Melia’s mystery? I don’t know it.”
“Listen,” the bard said.
Only as he said this did Lirith realize that Melia was no longer singing. Instead she spoke, her voice a singsong chant that rose and fell in time with the motions of her feet, her hands.
“… that I shall marry him not, my sister. For last night I heard him, drunk on wine and boasting with his men at table. It was he! It was he who slew our people, who spilled their blood upon the ground. It was he who took our mother and father from us. It was he who tore our brothers limb from limb and scattered their bodies for the vultures.”
Melia’s movements changed, reversing the circle, and her voice changed at the same time, growing higher, softer, as if it were another who spoke. And perhaps it was.
“But his word is law, Melindora. You dare not refuse him, or he will murder us both and what few of our people remain. He has chosen you, and nothing you might do would make him change his will—save only if you were made a woman by another man. But no man will touch the one he has chosen. To do so would be death.”
Again Melia’s voice and direction changed.
“No man will touch me? Very well, my sister. Then no man will I lie with, and no man will I marry, and no man will save me from this murderer’s bed. There, do you see him, so beautiful and brilliant? Ever has he been my companion. I shall marry the moon, my sister. I shall dance a dance of joining in his pale light, and by it I will be his wife.”
Lirith gazed at Melia in wonder. How could a young woman, grief-struck at being forced to marry the warlord who had slain her family, wed the moon instead? Yet that was why they were called mysteries. If desire was great enough, sometimes the impossible happened, and a god or goddess was born.
“Lirith?” a cool voice said. “Falken? What are you doing here? Last I recalled, this was my chamber.”
Melia stood hands on hips, wearing a frown.
Falken sighed. “Dear one …”
Those words were enough. Melia looked down at herself, then glanced back up, her amber eyes startled.
“I was … I was gone again, wasn’t I?”
Lirith did not hesitate. She rushed forward and caught the woman in a fierce embrace. “You were so brave to refuse to marry him.”
Melia stiffened, then melted into the embrace. “Or foolish, dear. And yet the gods do have a way of preserving fools. But all that is so long ago. And whatever the source of my memories, they are gone now, in the past where they belong.” Gently, she pushed Lirith away.
Falken’s mien was thoughtful. “Yes, Melia, all that was indeed a long time ago. And yet it seems it is as real for you as what is happening now.”
Melia turned away. “And at times even more real.” She turned back, her eyes clear now. “I do not know the source of my spells, Falken. They come without warning and are gone as quickly. But I know now I am not alone in them.”
“What?�
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“Last night, I held counsel with my brothers and sisters. Those who would talk to me, at least. I suppose we are like a great, tangled family, and as in any family not all of us are on speaking terms. Especially now.”
Lirith wondered how Melia could speak with the other gods without even leaving the hostel. But then, couldn’t anyone speak to the gods in secret silence? It was called prayer. And Lirith had a feeling Melia’s prayers were paid a bit more attention than those of the average worshiper.
“What do you mean, Melia?” Falken said.
She moved to the window. Outside, brilliant light gleamed off gold domes. “It’s not just me. Many of the gods have been reliving their mysteries. And the experience is even more profound for them, for I am no longer a goddess. It is not just fear that is causing silence on the part of the gods. It is confusion. Many of the gods are so lost in dreams of ancient days that they no longer answer the prayers of even their highest priests.”
“That would help to explain the chaos in the Etherion,” Lirith said, thinking over Melia’s words. “It sounds as if the priests aren’t receiving any guidance from their gods. That makes them frightened. And fear tends to make people angry and defensive.”
Melia smoothed the folds of her white shift. “I believe you’re right, dear.”
Falken let out a sound like a low growl. “So, not only is someone murdering gods, they’re also making sure none of the other gods do anything about it by casting them under some sort of spell that entangles them in dreams of the past. But who could do such things?”
Melia moved toward the bard. “I don’t know, but this has gone on quite long enough without any comment from the emperor. I don’t care whom I have to tamper with, I am getting into the First Circle to see him today.”
They found Aryn and Durge in the main room. Madam Vil had sent up a pitcher of chilled margra juice, and by his pink lips Durge had drunk most of it himself.
“What’s going on?” Aryn said, blue eyes startled.
Falken shot the young baroness a wolfish grin. “I believe we’re going to see the emperor.”
Minutes later they walked through the crowded streets of the Fourth Circle, making their way to the city’s main avenue. Melia moved with swift purpose, and people scrambled to get out of her way. Lirith couldn’t blame them. Better to stand in the path of a herd of wild horses, she reasoned.
“How peculiar,” Aryn said next to her.
Lirith gave the young baroness a questioning glance.
“Over there, in the fountain.”
Lirith followed Aryn’s gaze. Across the plaza, in the bubbling waters of a large, tiled fountain, an elderly man and woman splashed about, robes hiked up above their knobby knees, laughing with glee. Two small children stood outside the fountain, arms crossed, frowns of displeasure on their round faces.
Lirith stopped to stare. “But that doesn’t make sense.”
“I know,” Aryn said with a laugh. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I think they’ve gotten things mixed up.”
For some reason, Aryn’s words troubled her. Where had she heard them before? Then she remembered the wine vendor, his eyes confused as he looked at the wine he had poured on the street.
I keep mixing everything up, I do.…
Energy buzzed through Lirith. Something was going on here, something important.
A shadow touched Aryn’s brow. “Sister—what is it?”
Lirith started to answer, then movement caught her eye. Two men stood in the dim mouth of an alley. There was a flash as coins were exchanged, then one of the men stepped onto the street, a wooden cup in his hand. The man downed the contents of the cup, then let it fall from his fingers as he moved across the plaza. He leaned against a wall and slid to the ground to sit, joining a score of men and women who had done the same.
Lirith bent and snatched up the cup the man had discarded—the cup she was certain had contained a draught of the Elixir of the Past. She sniffed the residue, then coughed and tossed the cup back down. Her nose had detected cheap wine and a handful of common, bitter herbs—nothing else. There was no magic in this potion, nothing that could cause people to see visions of things that were no more.
But if that’s true, sister, then what is causing them to drift in the past?
Her eyes moved again to the wall. Like the others, the man now stared at the sun with empty eyes, flies crawling on his face, a smile on his purple-stained lips.
A touch on her arm drew Lirith’s gaze around. Aryn wore a confused expression. However, before she could speak, Durge drew close to them.
“My ladies, Melia and Falken continue on. We should not fall behind.”
“Aryn, Durge,” Lirith said, her words urgent, “have you noticed anything odd since we arrived in Tarras?”
The knight stroked his mustaches. “You mean besides indoor plumbing and gods being slain?”
Lirith forced herself not to groan. “Yes, Durge, besides those things.”
Aryn shrugged, but after a moment Durge nodded.
“Now that you mention it, my lady, there was a boy I saw. It was in the Fourth Circle. He was crying in the street.”
“That’s not strange, Durge,” Aryn said. “Children often cry.”
The knight sighed. “Especially, I find, when I am near. But there was something odd about this child. He was wearing the robe of a priest. A robe clearly intended for a grown man.”
A chill crept up Lirith’s spine despite the balmy air. What did Durge’s story mean? She wasn’t certain, not yet, but there was one thing she did know. It wasn’t only the gods in this city who were getting tangled in the threads of time. It was their followers—the people of Tarras—as well.
And you yourself, sister.
Again she thought of Corantha, and memories welled up, thick and dark. Lirith pushed them aside. She would not become a slave to the past, not like the people who leaned against the wall.
“Come on,” she said. “We’d better not make Melia wait for us.”
They had just reached the bard and the amber-eyed lady when Aryn spoke—in Lirith’s mind rather than with words.
We are being followed, sister.
Lirith spun a quick thread out to the Weirding. Yes, there it was … like a shadow trailing after them.
Aryn’s voice came again. Do you think it’s the one who tried to harm you?
Lirith probed. The presence of the man in the black robe had filled her with foreboding, but this shadow was like that other she had glimpsed from time to time on their journey south to Tarras. Its presence did not fill her with fear but rather curiosity.
She thought about it a moment. Then she brushed her hand against Durge’s and used the connection to bring her thread close to his.
Durge.
She felt surprise and dread. Of course, the last time she had touched him like this she had stolen his memories away from him. But all she wanted to do was give him a message, and to do it without speech that could be observed or overheard. She pressed her hand harder to his.
Please, Durge. Don’t pull away. We’re being followed. Behind us and to the left. There, in the shadow behind that stack of clay jugs. Do you see it?
Lirith used the Weirding to form the image for him, then felt understanding. She released the thread and heard a sigh beside her. However, when she glanced at Durge, his face was already resolute. He had strapped his greatsword to his back today, and his fingers twitched as if eager to draw it.
Ahead, Melia and Falken turned down another street. Lirith, Aryn, and Durge followed. As soon as they rounded the corner, the Embarran moved into action. He drew his massive blade and pressed himself to the wall.
Help me, sister, came Aryn’s voice.
At once Lirith understood what the young woman was trying to do. Aryn had the power but not the skill. Lirith reached out invisible hands, guiding the young woman’s. Together, they wove the threads of the Weirding into a shimmering curtain before them. In a heartbeat it was do
ne. Anyone gazing at them would see only a blank wall.
They waited. Then a figure clad in a black robe came into view, moving with stealth. When the figure was even with them, Durge stepped through the spell of illusion.
Their shadow tried to move, but the knight was too fast. His greatsword flashed, and the point came to a rest an inch from the other’s heart. Their stalker froze. Aryn and Lirith stepped forward as the last of the illusion unraveled.
“Show yourself,” Durge rumbled.
The figure hesitated, then lifted two brown hands and pushed back the hood of the robe. Lirith gazed into eyes the color of old copper coins, and her heart ceased beating.
“Greetings, beshala,” the man said in his deep, chiming voice, a bemused expression on his sharply handsome face.
Aryn gasped, and Durge let out a grunt.
“I recognize you,” he said, lowering his greatsword. “You’re that Mournish fellow, the one who took us to his grandmother’s wagon at Ar-tolor.”
Sareth opened his mouth to answer, but before he could Melia and Falken approached.
“There you are,” Melia said. “We haven’t time for dawdling if we’re—” Her amber eyes alighted on Sareth. “Oh, I see you were distracted.”
Falken studied Sareth’s visage. “So, who’s your Mournish friend?”
Lirith tried to speak, but now her heart seemed to have fluttered up into her throat. Beneath her gown, her skin broke out in a sweat.
“Sareth!” a woman’s voice called.
They turned, searching for the source of the voice.
“Sareth!”
The call was closer this time. Sareth turned around, then his eyes went wide, and he threw back the robe.
“Vani!” he called.
Finally Lirith saw her—a woman wrapped in yellow, her skin and eyes as coppery as Sareth’s, moving toward them with swift, sinuous grace. Now the sweat made Lirith’s skin clammy. The woman was absolutely beautiful. To Lirith’s dismay, the woman threw herself into Sareth’s arms, and the Mournish man caught her in a tight embrace, his eyes glowing.
“Vani,” he murmured, and the love was plain in his voice. “How can this be? How is it you are here?”