The Road to Hell # Hell's Gate 3

by Weber, David

  The qualms he sometimes felt were just echoes of the foolish things Drand had said about the sea needing its balance.

  But Drindel did have the nightmares. At the frazzled edges of the euphoria, where he couldn’t tell real from phantasm, he sometimes saw his father. The Drand in those fever dreams wore the body of a great shark with a pale gray, almost white, skin, and it swam from sea to sea, looking for him.

  That one couldn’t possibly be real. But Drindel was careful never to embark on too small a boat or come too close to the side of a larger vessel. Starving sharks could do quite a lot to get at meat. Especially if his Talent let the flare of the Call get too loud.

  Fortunately, this time he was summoned to Othmaliz, to the City of Tajvana, and that meant no more boats. Safe inland travel would bless him all the way to Tajvana’s magnificent confluence of seas.

  * * *

  Drindel Usar picked up a tourist packet at a train station hub during the transfer to the morning train that would take him most of the rest of the way to Tajvana. From the pictures, Tajvana was a massive place.

  He couldn’t actually read much of the descriptions that went with the pictures, but the pictures were really all he needed to know. His orders always came in a code he’d been suffered to learn along with the basics of his letters.

  Uromathia did not abide ineptitude in its servants.

  But when Drindel hadn’t wanted to learn more, he’d been allowed to stop his studies there. The Service instructor might have called him a fool to his face and spat at him for quitting, but what did he know?

  The instructor’s slight Talent in Mind Healing had been applied, quite properly in Drindel’s opinion, to easing the challenge of code-based studies. That hardly made the man qualified to judge the value of the supposed literacy he also wanted to teach!

  The instructor had never even seen an ocean, nor, after a disdainful look at Drindel, expressed any interest in visiting one.

  Maman always said that if a thing actually mattered, everyone would be talking about it anyway, so there was no need to hurt your head learning to puzzle out words on a paper.

  Drindel bent his thoughts to his work in Tajvana. It was a city built for seaborne commerce: oceans to the north, oceans to the south, a twisting strait connecting them, and inlets scattered nearly everywhere. Water meant sharks. Perhaps not the biggest, and perhaps not all the species of sharks, but there would be at least a few waiting for him and he’d Call more.

  The fear in his stomach eased a bit. This might be a simple assignment after all.

  He boarded his train and eased into a comfortable seat. A quick riffle through his luggage produced a pleasant breakfast from Maman’s parcel, and he leaned back and let his Talent go. Perhaps some sharks would try to fight up riverways until the lack of food and heavy currents forced them back. He didn’t care. It felt too good.

  Around lunchtime, Drindel finally tapered back on his Talent and dug into Maman’s sack for more food. There was salted fish and the good thick bread she did best. He chewed with pleasure.

  Perhaps the Tajvana job would rank among his favorites too.

  It couldn’t be the best though. Surely nothing could ever top that ocean prison with the very efficient warden. Drindel had only had to really work to Call the sharks for a few days. After that the warden used the condemned prisoners to keep Drindel’s listeners used to legged prey. Well-fed sharks stayed and fed even better any time an escape was attempted.

  If Drindel could stand just on this side of Tajvana’s strait and not need to cross over while Calling, it would be an entirely safe job. It’d be just like the way he’d stood on the nice rocky beach mainland while Calling every great monster he could to that island prison. The shoals and reefs were surely bare of other fish by now, but if the warden had kept his word those sharks still weren’t hungry.

  Yes, that’d be good. Drindel promised himself he’d find a way not to get on a boat at all this time. Maybe there’d even be a big crowd. Some mass of people to get bitten, tasted, and spat back out—where it didn’t matter who died and who didn’t. I could just Call, fill the beach waters with fins, and walk away.

  Or the people could be on boats even. Big sharks could overturn boats, and skiffs for sure. Maybe even some smallish ships if the sharks’re really hungry and the big big ones.

  Swimmers’re always easy, but how do I get ’em in the water after a Call? Unless it was night…

  Drindel pondered some more, trying to guess who his targets might be.

  The instructions in the orders this time were odd. He was to present himself as a new acolyte for a religious sect and follow whatever directions they gave him. The Order of Bergahl. The tourist packet had a picture of a robed man wearing cloth-of-gold with the letters matching the sect’s name included in its caption. He might be the boss. Drindel shrugged to himself. If he was, someone would say so.

  Drindel opened up the last packet from Maman and had a nice sandwich.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Darikhal 10, 5053 AE

  [December 29, 1928 CE]

  The Seneschal of Othmaliz stood breathing in the incense, listening to the majestic music of organ and woodwinds, and the bathed in the glorious polychromatic chiaroscuro light pouring in through the Temple of Taiyr’s stained glass dome and managed—somehow—not to curse.

  It wasn’t easy.

  He held the golden staff of his high office in his right hand, but he would vastly have preferred a dagger. The memory of the previous day’s insult burned deep within him, like poison, and there was only one way that poison might be purged. Yet today he had no choice but to absorb yet another insult, yet another affront to the dignity of his office, and yet another nail in the coffin of the Order of Bergahl authority here in its own city.

  He’d considered—considered long and hard—pleading illness and remaining closeted in his apartments with his personal Healer. No one would have believed it for a moment, and that would have been fine with him. It would have been one way to repay at least a little of the calculated insult he’d been offered in the Emperor Garim Chancellery during that travesty of a wedding. Unfortunately, he’d discovered—or perhaps rediscovered—just how much he truly feared those Ternathian barbarians. The unspeakable Zindel had the bit well and truly between his teeth at the moment. The Seneschal wouldn’t put it past the emperor to send his personal armsmen to drag a recalcitrant cleric to the temple. After all, he’d stood there and smiled while his bitch of a daughter used her godsdamned bird to terrify and humiliate him in front of the entire Conclave!

  Still, he would probably have dared Zindel’s wrath—no, he told himself, he would certainly have shown his steel by defying the Calirath tyrant—if not for the message from Chava Busar.

  The Seneschal knew that at least half of Tajvana was waiting, agog to see how Chava would react to the Coronation now that he’d had thirty-six hours to recover from the shock of that oversized cutcha’s scandalous, bizarre betrothal and wedding. However pleasant he might have forced himself to appear in the Chancellery, no one could doubt the bitter bile he’d swallowed as Zindel and his daughter brazenly circumvented the clear intent of the Articles of Unification. He was a proud man, Chava Busar, and one who had agreed to subordinate his own empire to this worlds-wide monstrosity the Conclave had forged only after the interests of his own dynasty had been safeguarded. Whatever he might have chosen to show on the surface, the abrupt destruction of those safeguards in a flagrant reading of the treaty’s literal language rather than its obvious intent, must have struck him like the cut of a whip.

  The Order’s ears were everywhere, and the Seneschal knew the betting was over three-to-one that Chava would change his tune here at the Coronation. That he would denounce the entire proceedings, denounce the treaty itself, and storm back to Uromathia. After all, he had scores—hundreds—of Uromathian jurists who could provide him with any number of precedents to base that defiance upon. And if they couldn’t find the precedents they needed
, they could certainly have manufactured them in the ensuing day and a half.

  But the betting was wrong. The Seneschal’s new friend hadn’t shared all of his reasoning with him, but the Uromathian emperor had suggested—rather more forcefully than the Seneschal was accustomed to—that it was essential the Coronation proceed. Personally, Faroayn Raynarg considered it anything but essential, and he’d been very strongly tempted to tell Chava that. But only tempted. Given the last day or so’s events, the necessity of an alliance with someone like Chava, someone with the wherewithal and…intestinal fortitude to defy even the fabled Calirath Dynasty, had reasserted itself in the clearest possible way.

  And it was obvious from Chava’s message that whatever position he might adopt for public consumption this day he had no intention of acquiescing in the Calirath tyranny. In the fullness of time, he would take back what was rightfully his, and in the process the Seneschal and Order of Bergahl would take back what was rightfully theirs, as well. But for now, for today, they must bend their necks and bear the unbearable—with a smile, gods damn it!—if they would preserve the freedom of maneuver to strike back when the time was ripe.

  At least his part in the proceedings would be relatively brief. Of course, he’d have to stand here, lending his official countenance and blessing to the travesty, for hours before he would be able to escape. But despite his prestige as the senior prelate of Bergahl, and despite the fact that Tajvana was Bergahl’s own city, he would have no active part in the coronation itself. He would simply join all of the other senior priests and priestesses in bestowing a final, parting blessing upon the newly crowned and consecrated Emperor of Sharona.

  He was grateful for that, and yet the reason for it was simply one more insult delivered to both himself and Chava, for the Articles of Unification specified that the ancient Ternathian coronation rites would be extended to the Empire of Sharona. It was preposterous! Outrageous! Yet Zindel had been inflexible upon that point. He’d flatly refused to accept the planetary crown the fawning fools of the Conclave were so eager to place upon his head unless everyone else on the entire planet accepted the Ternathian ceremony. And under the terms of that ceremony, only the clergy of the Double Triad would be permitted to officiate in the coronation itself.

  Ecumenicalism stretched only so far as suited the Caliraths, it would seem.

  He felt his teeth grinding together and made himself stop, then stiffened as the temple’s massive, magnificently sculpted portals swung open at last to admit His Imperial Majesty Zindel XXIV, Duke of Ternathia, Grand Duke of Farnalia, Warlord of the West, Protector of the Peace, Wing-Crowned, and by the gods’ grace, Emperor of Ternathia.

  Zindel chan Calirath was a tall, powerfully built man, with the sheer force of Calirath personality even the Seneschal had to admit was formidable. Yet in that moment, as he walked slowly down the temple’s long nave, between the packed pews, his appearance was shockingly at odds with the magnificently garbed onlookers crowded shoulder to shoulder to witness this pivotal moment in history.

  He wore a plain shirt of white linen, its full sleeves gathered at the wrists by cuff bands of Calirath green. His breeches were of the same green, yet they were also starkly, almost brutally plain, and instead of the elegant court shoes every other occupant of that temple wore, his feet were encased not in shoes, not even in boots, but in plain, calf-high rawhide sandals, and more rawhide served as a belt. He was bareheaded, with no attendants, no servants. The golden-stranded black hair of his dynasty gleamed in the sunlight pouring through the temple dome, his only diadem, and he carried no dress sword, no dagger, no jewelry beyond the golden marriage bracelet around his left wrist and the emerald signet of the House of Calirath on the second finger of his right hand.

  The music had stilled as the temple doors opened. There was no magnificent fanfare to play Zindel down the nave. There was only silence, and the quiet, clear slap of the soles of his sandals on the polished marble floor of the temple.

  The Seneschal curled a mental lip of scorn. Why, Zindel might have been any menial, a mere servant. For that matter, the staff of Tajvana Palace was better garbed than he! But did he show any awareness of that? Of course not! And yet, Raynarg reflected, was that not the ultimate statement of arrogance? It said, as clearly as if he had shouted it into the witnesses’ faces, that he—a Calirath!—had no need for mere finery, no need for the trappings of power. He could come before them dressed like this, and still they would bow their heads before him and submit to his mastery.

  Zindel walked alone through the ringing silence to the rail about the temple sanctuary, passing his watching wife and daughters, seated in the temple’s front puke, without even acknowledging their presence. He bent his head reverently, raising his hands, the first three fingers of each spread to signify the presence of the Double Triad, then folded those hands—fingers still spread—across his breast, fingertips touching each shoulder, and sank to his knees before Chezdahn Myrkosah, High Priest of Vothan and the senior cleric of the Ternathian Empire.

  Myrkosah was an old, old man, yet his spine was straight, his silver hair still thick, his beard immaculately clipped. His robes were far less ornate than the Seneschal’s splendor, cut in a style which was—literally—thousands of years old, yet he wore them with an assurance that, like the plainness of Zindel’s clothing, was its own form of arrogance, Raynarg thought bitterly.

  “Who comes before the gods to seek their blessing?” Myrkosah intoned. Like every Ternathian cleric, he possessed a rolling, powerful voice that filled the temple like a living thing.

  “My name,” the kneeling emperor replied, “is Zindel.”

  “And why are you here, Zindel?” Myrkosah asked.

  “To take up my burden.”

  “What burden?”

  “The burden of service,” Zindel said, his deep voice even more powerful than the high priest’s, and yet somehow hushed, almost humble.

  “And who calls you to assume that burden?”

  “The people of Sharona.”

  “And by what right do you answer that call?”

  “I am the son of the House of Calirath, descendent of Halian and Erthain the Great.”

  “And what service do you offer to the people of Sharona?”

  “The service of heart, of mind, of body, of spirit, and of Talent,” Zindel replied unflinchingly, lifting his head to meet the priest’s searching gaze.

  “And what is your duty to the people of Sharona?”

  “To stand between.” The words came out levelly, almost softly, yet they reached every ear in that temple. “To stand between evil and its victims, between darkness and light. Between right and wrong. Between my people and their enemies…and between the people I am sworn to protect and death.”

  “And will you meet that duty?” Myrkosah’s level voice was the very balance scale of the gods, and Zindel chan Calirath’s nostrils flared.

  “With my life. Chunika s’hari, Halian. Sho warak.”

  “Will you pledge that upon the Winged Crown? Upon the Sword of Erthain? Upon the altar of the Double Triad and under the eye of the gods themselves?”

  “I will so pledge.”

  “Then we will hear your oath, Zindel,” Myrkosah said, and the High Priestess of Shalana and the High Priestess of Marnilay joined him.

  They formed a triangle about the kneeling emperor, reaching out their arms, fingers spread in the presence of the Double Triad as they held the Winged Crown of Celaryon above his head. It was over forty-eight hundred years old, that crown—a heavy, angular thing of thick gold plaques and the outstretched wings of a falcon, forged by the goldsmiths of Farnalia to commemorate the treaty binding their land to Ternathia. It had been used in every coronation of every Ternathian emperor or empress in all those long, dusty millennia, and now—as they held it above his head—their fingers hummed with a silent vibration only they could perceive.

  They stood a moment, and then Myrkosah said, “The gods are listening.”

  Z
indel drew a deep breath. This was an oath he’d sworn before, and unlike the watching Seneschal, or Chava Busar, or anyone beyond the House of Calirath and the high priest and high priestesses standing about him at this moment, he knew what that oath truly meant. It was not a simple formality, not a mere promise.

  Much of Sharona—perhaps most of it—believed that Erthain the Great was mere legend, a figure of myth created by the Calirath Dynasty to justify its claim upon the imperial power. But the emperors and empresses of Ternathia knew better than that. Zindel knew better than that, and he remembered every time he’d cursed that “legendary” ancestor, for Erthain had been the very first Calirath to possess the Calirath Talent, and his Talent had been a tsunami. The secret records of the House of Calirath had not recorded what Erthain had Glimpsed in the moment his Talent awoke, but they did record what he’d done about it, and five thousand years of Caliraths had bound themselves to that same unforgiving, merciless oath.