by Jack Massa
For the most part, the fire flowed readily. But whenever she brought it to her heart, she felt the blockage, the fish hook, like an icy stone. Touching that place with her mind awakened the fear and despair. Each time those feelings arose, Glyssa confronted them fiercely, affirming that she was an Iruk warrior, and fearless.
The Phoenix Queen sailed on, traversing the North Channel and emerging into the open sea. The sailing season had arrived in these northern waters, and they frequently sighted other vessels—fishing boats from the coastal towns, a few freighters from the Tathian Isles, cranocks out of Gwales. On Wilhaven’s advice they steered clear of all craft—and, being outfitted as a raiding ship, were themselves never approached.
The wind stayed fair from the east or south east, and with the repaired bottom and mostly mild seas, there was minimal need for bailing. This fact cheered the Iruks considerably. The mates worked in shifts, six hours on and six off, with three of them crewing the boat at all times. Lonn arranged that he and Glyssa were always on duty together, so when they went to sleep in the hold below the rear deck, they could huddle together and share warmth. Lying between him and another of her mates, rocked by the sea, Glyssa found a deep sense of safety and contentment. She had worried a bit that her initiation and training by the witch might pull her away from my klarn. Instead, she found her connection to them, and her awareness of the klarn-soul, seemed to grow stronger.
When they had been nine days at sea, the weather changed. The wind shifted to the north east and white clouds blew across the sky. Wet snow flew for half a day, and then a freezewind came. Once the boat rose onto the ice with no trouble, the change was welcomed by the voyagers. For the three days it lasted, the ice brought faster sailing, and eliminated the need for bailing altogether.
Frequently, Glyssa met with Amlina in her cabin. The witch would practice the magical exercises with her, and listen as Glyssa described her experiences. Amlina expressed relief that Glyssa had not sunk into trance again, and had no more encounters with the spirit entity. In general, she spoke encouragingly, claiming that Glyssa was progressing well.
Aside from those visits, Glyssa seldom saw Amlina. The witch remained in her cabin, coming out on deck only briefly to take the air and exchange a few words with Lonn or Wilhaven about the condition of the boat and the progress of the voyage. Draven, or sometimes Glyssa, brought Amlina hot food and tea in her cabin, but the witch, always abstemious, seemed to have even less appetite than normal.
During the day, the head of Queen Meghild rested in its bowl on the witch’s shelf. But at night the queen would emerge from the depths of her repose. Then the cabin hatch would creak open and the shining eidolon rise to walk the decks, the pulsing light of its body a weird counterpoint to the witchlight on the sea. Sometimes the queen would greet the Iruks, call them her crew and her dears, speak to them of the sea or the stars. But more often, the eidolon walked as though in a trance, staring out to the horizon with a lost and distant air.
Glyssa found the eidolon fascinating. But increasingly, the sight of the queen unsettled the other Iruks, especially Karrol. Whenever she was on duty and the eidolon appeared, Karrol would look away, and could usually be heard to mutter how she would be happy when this voyage was over.
For his part, Wilhaven roamed the decks both night and day. He slept in short snatches, in his little enclosure by the foredeck, and appeared whenever an extra hand was needed for bailing or reefing the sail. Sometimes he took the helm, to relieve Lonn or Karrol. More often, he perched himself on the foredeck, beside the phoenix figurehead, singing softly and playing his harp.
Late one night, when both moons were high and the sea exceptionally quiet, Glyssa stood on watch and listened to his playing. Queen Meghild had been at the prow with Wilhaven for some hours, but had recently retired. Now the bard strummed a mournful tune and sang in his honeyed baritone. The words were in Gwelthek, but Glyssa clearly perceived the mood of yearning and lament.
Suddenly, she heard other voices, wild and eerie, sounding from the sea as if in answer to the bard’s song. Peering over the rail, Glyssa saw snouts and dark heads bobbing in the waves, and glimpsed eyes that shone with intelligence. Brinda, who shared the watch, stood beside her at the rail and shook her head, mystified. Whatever these creatures were, the Iruks had never seen their like before.
Glyssa ran to the foredeck, where Wilhaven continued to sing amid the strange accompaniment.
“Do you hear them?” she cried. “Can you see them?”
“Sure,” the bard said. “The myro you mean.”
“They are myro!” Glyssa exclaimed. The Iruks had heard tales of the dolphin people from Tathian sailors in the taverns of Fleevanport. But they had never known whether to believe them.
“Do you not have dolphin people in your southern seas?” the bard asked.
“Indeed no. They are wise, are they not? Sentient?”
“Oh, aye. And they seem to like the harp. They have sung with me before, on other voyages.”
Enchanted, Glyssa gazed over the bulwark. “What are they singing?”
Wilhaven chuckled, “Sure, I cannot tell. A few mages and sea priestesses are said to know their language, but not I.”
The chortling and whistling about the prow grew louder now and … insistent.
“I think they want you to keep singing,” Glyssa laughed.
“Well then,” the bard raked his fingers over the strings. Then a thought struck him. “Why don’t you ask them what they would like to hear?”
“I? But I don’t know their speech.”
“You are training to be a mage, aren’t you? Perhaps they will converse with you. Speak to them with your thoughts, and listen, not with the ears, but the heart.”
Glyssa hesitated. She thought the idea absurd. And yet, the myro were so lovely, their voices so plaintive, she felt enticed to try. She shut her eyes, took two deep breaths, and cleared her mind as the witch had taught her.
Lovely dolphin people, what are you saying?
She felt a quiver around her heart, and then the keening voices resolved themselves into words. Eyes still shut, Glyssa heard her own voice repeat the words to Wilhaven. “We are the people of the sea. We want to hear your music. A happy song, a laughing song. No sorrow under these round moons, in this bright sea.”
She opened her eyes to find Wilhaven gazing at her with delight.
“Aye then, to be sure, we mustn’t disappoint our audience.”
He struck up a lively tune, and sang merrily in Gwelthek. Glyssa clapped her hands, imagining young men and girls in Gwales, dancing to such a tune in their fire-lit halls. Out on the sea, the myro whistled and giggled. Their glistening heads rose on the waves. Then one jumped clear of the water, it’s dolphin body twisting in the air before splashing back down. Another performed the same trick, and then another, leaping in wild joy at the music.
When the song ended Glyssa shook with laughter. Through eyes wet with tears she watched the myro swim away. Their voices came to her mind again, and she translated them for the bard.
“We thank the air-singer for his song. Farewell for now. Farewell.”
“Air-singer?” Wilhaven crowed with delight. “Sure, and I like that title for myself. I believe I will use it from now on.” He set down his harp and regarded her brightly. “I thank you, Lady Glyssa, for interpreting the speech of the myro.”
“Oh,” Glyssa shrugged. “I only said what I thought I heard in my mind.”
“Aye, it is proper not to boast,” Wilhaven allowed. “Still, I recognize and honor your blooming talent as a mage.” He paused a moment, twisting his mouth. “That piece I was singing before? It is the beginnings of my song about Queen Meghild’s last voyage. It was in my mind that the tale would concern three powerful women: Meghild herself, Amlina the witch of Larthang, and Beryl the Archimage of the East. But now I begin to think a fourth woman will figure prominently: Lady Glyssa of the Iruk folk.”
Fourteen
The Temple of
the Sun had always been the largest and grandest in Tallyba. But since the Archimage had come to power and abolished all of the other gods, the vast gold and white edifice had been expanded and rebuilt four times. It was now the most imposing structure by far in all of Nyssan.
The dome itself would have covered a fair-sized town. Beneath the dome, six concentric chambers—high-ceilinged, painted with murals—led to the enormous central arena. Around the arena rose eleven galleries supported by pillars of orange marble. In the middle of the spotless white floor, a circular fire-pit ninety feet wide was set directly below a ninety-foot opening in the dome.
At noon, when a shaft of sunlight fell through that opening, illuminating clouds of cedar smoke, Beryl began her long-anticipated rejuvenation. The Archimage crossed the arena in measured steps, through the crowd of attendants and musicians who waited in silence. Dressed in bronze-colored robes and a turban that shone like a ruby, she stopped at the edge of the blazing pit, lifted her arms in wing-like sleeves, and began to chant.
Temple clergy stood on a half-circle of steps behind the fire-pit. Among them was Zenodia, second-ranked priestess of the sun and assistant to the temple treasurer. She was a stout young woman, dressed in an orange robe, the skin of her face and hands dyed red. Wisps of orange hair hung below the shaved crown of her head. Her calm eyes and neutral mien gave no hint of the smoldering hatred in her heart.
She watched tight-lipped as Beryl’s brash voice invoked the power of the Sun, singing verses that rose and fell, punctuated now and then by beating drums and clashing cymbals. Zenodia’s eyes widened as the queen smashed glass trinkets on the stone lip of the furnace, spawning jagged creatures of light that howled and screamed as they leaped into the fire. With each rolling verse, each drog destroying itself, the power in the arena grew, until Beryl herself seemed made of jagged light—a terrible, pulsing incarnation of the Sun.
At the appointed time, one row of priests and then the next marched down to the edge of the pit to add their offerings. When Zenodia’s turn came, she dutifully slipped the ceremonial razor from her robe, held up her arm and cut herself, letting the blood drip into the fire—adding one more to her many scars.
When all of the clerics had given their blood, the ritual approached its culmination. Bound with chains, its eyes masked, the white-maned and tawny-furred lion was wheeled in on a cart decorated with flowers. Feeling the heat of the flames, the great cat tensed and shuddered, roaring plaintively. The attendants stepped back as Beryl approached the cart, a gilded sword in hand. The drums beat faster.
With a shrieking ululation, Beryl called upon herself, the divine and invincible Sun. She gripped the lion’s mane and twisted the head, exposing the throat. Screaming, she hacked with the sword again and again, the lion bellowing, its blood splashing onto Beryl’s arms and chest.
Zenodia looked away, trembling with rage. How long? she thought bitterly. How long must my people suffer the abominations of this foreign tyrant?
Sucking in her breath, Zenodia suppressed her emotions, forced herself to watch the unfolding blasphemy. Beryl, exultant, drank from a chalice filled with lion’s blood, then poured the rest over her head. The Archimage stood with her back to the furnace, her body glittering with ruby witchlight, as the lion’s carcass was butchered and skinned. High priests placed the steaming pelt over her shoulders and fastened it there with gold brooches. Beryl lifted the lion’s dripping head in one hand, the gold sword in the other. Flinging her arms wide, she proclaimed herself the invincible Sun.
“I live forever!” she shouted. “I rule over all!”
Orange light burst from her, unbearably bright. A gasp of awe fled through the arena, and all present shielded their eyes.
* O *
Late that afternoon, Zenodia left the temple complex through a postern gate. A black cloak covered her priestly robe, its pointed cowl concealing her face. Her head still ached from the aftereffects of the ceremony. Her heart still seethed with rage. She walked alone down the grand avenue of the citadel, past imperial offices, storehouses, scriptoriums, and barracks. Behind her on the hilltop stood the palace complex, Beryl’s Bone Tower at the center, dominating all.
Zenodia passed through the Gates of the Sun. As she descended across the city, well-appointed shops and stone houses with walled gardens gave way to poorer quarters. The avenue ended in a maze of narrow streets and cramped alleys. She was nearing the harbor now, and the smells of smoke and grime mixed with the rank air of stagnant water. As dusk settled, men and women hurried home to lock their doors. Zenodia marched on with calm determination. Her hooded black cloak, with its implication of magical prowess, protected her from thieves and cutthroats.
At last she approached a boarded shop-front on a dank, cobbled street. She rapped sharply on the door. A peephole slid open and hostile eyes stared out at her. She pulled back her cowl.
“Zenodia,” she said. “I must see her.”
The door opened and a bald, pot-bellied man bowed stiffly as she entered. “How went the great ceremony?”
“Successfully, it seems, for the tyrant.”
The man grimaced and held a finger to his lips. “Shhh! Not so loud.”
“Sorry,” Zenodia whispered. “I am heartsick with anger. I must see Mawu.”
The man, who wore a baker’s apron, gestured to a doorway at the back of the shop. “She is here. Go through, my sister.”
Zenodia proceeded to the back room of the bakery. Past racks of trays and bowls and the yawning mouth of the oven, she stopped at the far wall and opened what appeared to be a tall cupboard. Bending low, she crept inside and descended a curling staircase of ancient brick.
She entered a low-vaulted chamber that smelled of incense and mold. A single lamp cast faint illumination over wood benches and a makeshift altar. Above the altar hung an ancient, forbidden banner—the silver crescent of Tysanni, the lost moon.
The survival of the banished gods across Far Nyssan was an open secret. Even here in Tallyba, their outlawed cults still abided in hidden chambers and dim cellars such as this. The Archimage was known to be aware of their existence. It was assumed Beryl found it more convenient to let the cults survive in these squalid circumstances, rather than attempt to stamp them out altogether—thereby increasing the people’s hatred and possibly inciting rebellion.
As for Zenodia, she had lived with the hatred from earliest childhood—like a canker exuding poison. Her grandfather had been a high priest of Tysanni. Her family had lost everything in the religious purges. She had grown up in impoverished exile, listening to tales of the rich and dignified world her people had lost to the tyrant. Gifted with intellect, she had studied diligently, learned all she could of the forbidden mysteries, as well as the state-approved religion of the Sun. She had entered the priesthood at nineteen, won appointment to the great temple in Tallyba, and in eight short years rose to her current rank. From the start, her intention had been to position herself close to the seat of power, to find some way to undermine and eventually topple the Archimage.
Zenodia had believed that her hatred for Beryl could not grow any stronger. But today, on seeing the sacred lion butchered, the queen drenched in its blood, prancing about in its skin, the canker had burst, flooding her with new poison.
“Welcome, daughter.” A hunched figure sat at the edge of the first bench, facing the altar. She spoke without turning around. “I foresaw your coming.”
Zenodia ran to the front of the vault, dropped to her knees. “High Priestess, I must speak with you.”
“I know. I listen.” Mawu was old and small, with braided white hair, skin dry and wrinkled. A faded tattoo adorned her forehead—the crescent of Tysanni.
“The rites went as expected,” Zenodia said, choking back the poison. “Now it seems the queen has achieved her regeneration—and will be even harder to defeat.”
“Yes, daughter. But as you say, it was expected.”
“But the oracle—”
“The oracle makes no g
uarantees.”
For more than three years, Zenodia had placed all of her hopes on an oracle delivered by the high priestess. It seemed to indicate that Beryl could be destroyed by another witch of Larthang. Zenodia, and others in the cult, had believed that the prophecy referred to Beryl’s student, Amlina. When Amlina had disappeared from the palace, stealing the Cloak of the Two Winds, that hope seemed to die. But when Beryl had pursued the young witch, and returned many days later in a clearly weakened state, the hope had flared again.
“I know,” Zenodia said. “And what the oracle sees may manifest in many ways, at unexpected times. But after the atrocity I witnessed today, I am so sick with grief and anger. I do not believe I can bear to live in this world.”
Mawu’s hand reached down and clasped the younger woman’s wrist. “Courage, child! And patience. The gods gave their blood to create this world. So must we live in the world they made. That is our duty.”
“I know. Forgive me, High Priestess … If only I could still believe there was hope.”
“Hmm.” The ancient head nodded. “Would you like to consult the oracle then?”
“Yes. If I may.”
Zenodia assisted the old woman to rise. Together they assembled a brazier on the altar, and placed a bronze bowl above it on a tripod. While Zenodia added charcoal and lit the brazier, Mawu collected vials and dried herbs from a cabinet. She filled the bowl with a mixture of cactus juice and wine, and uttered prayers as she crumbled and sprinkled in the herbs.
Soon the mixture was simmering. Zenodia knelt before the altar and waited. The high priestess bent over the bowl, hands braced on the edge of the altar, and inhaled the vapors.
Presently, she coughed and sputtered, and Zenodia knew the oracle had come.
“Who are you?” Zenodia spoke the ritual question.
“I dwell in the night and I watch. I see the circling of the moons, the crossing of the winds, the rise and fall of souls. What would you ask of me?”