By all the gods, it was slickly done.
Yasmin stepped forward, her face beaming. She was reaching out to wrap her arms around my neck when I said, «No.»
«'No' what?» she asked.
«No to everything.» I pulled away from her. «This is all too piking convenient.»
«What are you talking about?» Her smile collapsed. «Why are you acting like a berk?»
«My father,» I said, gesturing toward him. "After twelve years, he just shows up here in the Court of Light. He has a plausible explanation for everything – why he never came back, how my mother would be happy that he consorted with other women – and he even tells us it's perfectly all right to be lovers if we want. Isn't that neat? Isn't that glib? One little secret clears away all the shadows.
«Well, I refuse to believe it,» I continued. «I would refuse to believe it if I heard it in Sigil, and I certainly refuse to believe it when it's delivered here in the Hall of Tests. Niles Cavendish is my father. I know that so deeply in my heart, all the waters of the River Styx couldn't wash the knowledge away. I've longed to be someone else's son, but I'm not – I don't have that choice. Neither does Shekinester.»
I waved my hands to dismiss the people in front of me. «Go back to the goddess now. Tell her I'm my father's son. I won't say I've made my peace with that, but it's time to stop denying the truth.»
Both the others opened their mouths as if they intended to argue; but no words came out. The expression on my face must have told them debate was futile. For a moment, the two exchanged glances… and then my father simply dissolved into copper-colored sparks that fell to the ground like rain.
«An illusion, of course,» I murmured. Turning to Yasmin, I said, «He was never here at all, was he?»
«He visited our court long ago,» came the answer. «He is elsewhere now.»
The voice was not Yasmin's – it was still female but deeper, impossibly golden. No human throat had ever spoken with such soft power. In the blink of an eye, Yasmin's body flared to a brilliant white, so dazzling I had to avert my eyes. The image thinned and lengthened, twisting and turning in spirals around me, until I was ringed by a snake of white fire, its tail stretching around and around in ever-widening circles. A fierce heat beat against my face; but I managed to stammer out, «Shekinester?»
«Only one of Her daughters,» the flaming serpent replied. «You have passed our Mother's tests. Be glad.»
«What about my friends?»
«They are being tested too. If they are weak, they shall fail.»
«I'd like to help them,» I said.
«You cannot. In this place, all souls stand alone.»
The naga's blazing face sizzled close to mine, too blindingly bright for me to make out any features. With the speed of a cobra striking, her head darted forward, directly at me; but instead of a bite, I felt the kiss of fiery lips on my cheek. Light flared from all directions… and abruptly, I was standing near the center of a large stone chamber, high-ceilinged and devoid of decoration.
There was only one source of illumination in all that great wide space – a pillar of snow-white flame, burning in the very heart of the room. I stood at the base of a flight of low stone steps, leading up to the fire like the ascent to a tabernacle.
Surrounding me, filling the chamber to the very walls, stood an army of the undead. Simple zombies, their skins hanging in loose and rotting sags… skeletons with bony faces in perpetual grins… a cloudy congregation of ghosts, specters, haunts, and wraiths, as thick as midnight fog… vampires, pallid and mesmerizing, standing shoulder to shoulder with lich sorcerers, their fleshless fingers a'glitter with heavy-jeweled rings… and of course, scattered throughout the dark company, the baleful bonfire eyes of wights.
From reflex, my hand dropped to my side. It touched my father's rapier, restored to me now that the testing was over; but I let my fingers relax, and did not draw.
«Okay,» I called to the assembled horde. «Hands up all those who feel as uncomfortable as I do right now.»
I thought I saw a zombie lift its arm, but it might just have been rigor mortis.
* * *
With a rattle of bones and armor, a death knight stepped from the front row of watchers. It wore chain mail, covered with a tabard that had once been pure white linen; but a fuzzy black smut had grown over the cloth, powdering out whatever emblem this knight had fought for in life. The creature's face was skeletal, with the orbit around one eye raggedly smashed away – probably a death blow from a mace, sending this once-noble warrior to an uneasy afterlife.
When the knight spoke, its voice had the chilling tone of a crumbling mortuary. «Now,» it said, «you must enter the Arching Flame.»
«The Arching Flame?» I looked back over my shoulder at the pillar of fire. «That flame?»
«You have passed the easy tests,» the creature said. «Now you must be purified.»
«If that involves incineration, I'd rather not.»
«The flame does not burn those who are true to themselves. It cleanses. It restores.» The knight turned its head toward the brightness. «I would enter it myself if I could.»
With a wave of my hand, I said, «Be my guest. I'll sign over my ticket.»
The knight's sword whipped out of its scabbard so fast the blade was a blur. Its tip pointed directly at my throat. «Take care,» the knight whispered. «Take care your flippant tongue does not start you down the road I have traveled. It is Shekinester's will that you enter the flame. If you defy the goddess… but I shall not let you do that. Damned though I am, I will not permit you to suffer such a curse.»
The creature stepped forward and I had to retreat, backing away hurriedly from that sword. The weapon's blade was fuzzed thickly with the same black smut that covered the knight's tabard – fungal rot from a corruption that should have returned to the soil long ago. I leapt toward a gap in the front row of monsters… but suddenly, a phantom flickered into existence to fill the space, milky and groaning.
«No escape, mortal,» the death knight said behind me. «Shekinester wishes you to enter the flame. Whatever we might have been in life, we are hers now. She has given us relief from the raging insanity that affects others of our kind. In thanks, we do her bidding within this chamber.»
I looked out at the decaying company. Their faces did not twist with rage or regret, the two great anguishes of most undead; I saw only resolve, a determination to fulfill their duty to Shekinester and her flame.
«All right,» I shrugged. «Into the fire I go.»
Tossing a rakish wave to the knight, I ran up the steps and did a half-gainer into the heart of the blaze.
19. THREE FOPS IN THE FOREST
If I could remember what happened within the Arching Flame, I'd try to describe it. Heaven knows, I could peel free drinks for the rest of my life, just telling the tale to Sensates who wanted to know what it felt like to stand within that withering blaze. All that remains in my mind, however, is a brief moment of light, sensed not just with my eyes but with my skin, as if every inch of my flesh could see the brilliance that pierced me to the bone. My clothes vaporized in an instant, every fiber bursting into dusty smoke…
…and then I lay naked under a night sky, the chill of snow beneath me. Clouds drifted across the darkness, but only a few: high wisps and tatters slipping along the starless black.
I sighed; and my breath turned to steam, drifting straight up on the calm air. For one brief moment, I was content to watch it mist away to nothingness… then the cold against my backside finally bit into my consciousness, and I dragged myself to my feet.
Before me stood the chapel to the nagas, the small stone building just outside of Plague-Mort. Snowflakes now dusted its roof, and nestled in the cracks of its crumbling masonry; but nothing else had changed. The surrounding forest had lost some of its dense foliage, the trees too disheartened to keep hold of their leaves now that the snow had come; and the rustle of small creatures scurrying through the darkness had grown quiet in the ti
me we had been gone. Winter had descended, true winter… a time of peace and resignation, no matter how the cold shivered against my skin.
«Oh good,» said a pleasant female voice. «You're awake.»
A few yards away, Zeerith had coiled herself into the bole of an ancient elm, her tail draping down the tree's rough bark. It disconcerted me to stand unclothed in front of her cherubic teen-aged face; but she showed no sign of embarrassment herself. I suppose she must have looked upon me with the same indifference a human feels to see a dog naked. Then again… «Aren't you cold down there?» she asked from her perch. «I came up here to get away from the snow.»
«It would be nice to have some clothes,» I told her. «Something warm.»
Her brow furrowed for a moment, and she closed her eyes. The air filled with a barely audible buzzing, both a sound and a tangible prickling against my skin. I looked down and saw motes of white dust drifting out of the night, floating up to my body and settling down with the softness of feathers. More and more of the tiny specks swept from the darkness, until they began to clump together in downy swatches that quickly warmed with my body heat. Still the dust streamed in; it thickened into a matted layer as cozy as brushed felt, but lighter than the finest linen. Almost as an afterthought, the covering of dust partitioned itself into separate garments, pants, shirt, jacket, gloves, and all of an utterly pure white.
«Feet,» Zeerith said, still concentrating intensely. I lifted one foot, then the other, to give the inflooding stream a chance to coat me with dense white boots, lighter than my old ones but as tough as metal plate. When those were done, I thought the outfit was finished; but the flow of dust simply shifted to my head, fashioning itself into a warm cowl that covered my hair and the back of my neck. I had the suspicion that Zeerith had shaped it to resemble a cobra's hood: a young naga's attempt to make a «legger» look less like a pathetic monkey.
«Well,» I said when the dust had stopped pouring in, «you seem to have mastered the knack of magic fast enough.»
«My father's been helping me,» she answered. «He's, um, insistent I learn my lessons quickly.»
«He looked like the kind to be strict,» I agreed. «Where is he now?»
«Prowling the woods. He's impatient to get back to his own territory, but I wouldn't leave till I knew you were all right.»
«I appreciate that,» I assured her. «And what about my friends?»
«Mother Shekinester will test them in Her own time,» Zeerith said. «If they survive the flame, my uncles and aunts will carry them back here. My relatives may not like leggers, but if your friends pass the Mother's tests, my family will be honor-bound to provide that much help.»
«What happens,» I asked reluctantly, «if my friends don't pass Shekinester's tests?»
«They still enter the flame,» Zeerith replied. «They just don't come out. The fire… it burns the soul as well as the body; there's nothing left.»
«Does that happen often?»
«I don't know. I've asked my father a great many questions, but some he refuses to —»
«Zeerith!» shouted a voice from the forest. «It's time to go.»
«But, Father…»
«You wished to ensure the legger's safety. You have done so. I see no reason to waste further time in such a creature's presence.»
Zeerith gave me an apologetic look, but I simply smiled. «Fathers take some getting used to,» I said.
* * *
After they had gone, I took stock of myself. If the Arching Flame had «purified» me, I could detect no obvious difference. True, I felt superbly limber, free from the twinges and stiffness one gets from sleeping on the floor of an umbral hut; but why jump into a pillar of fire, when I could get the same relief from eight hours in a decent bed? At the moment I didn't feel hungry or thirsty either, although days might have passed since I last put something in my stomach… still, you'd expect that visiting a goddess might have more profound effects than a good meal. Perhaps the blaze had burned away intangible imperfections – the «plugs of butter congealing in my heart», as one dour Athar doctor warned me – but I had no way of perceiving such hidden cleansings. Suffice it to say, I felt good but not supernaturally blessed… which left me wondering what I should do next.
November had told us the chapel held a portal to Sigil, and its key was the image of a serpent. I could make such a picture easily enough – rip off bark from the nearest tree and use a sharp stone to scratch out a drawing – but did I want to run back to Sigil before my companions returned? The thought of leaving without them turned my stomach: Niles Cavendish's son did not abandon his friends. On the other hand, did I dare waste precious time waiting for them when Rivi might be running rampant in the streets of my home?
And how much time had I lost already? The nagas had kidnapped us at night, it had been daytime at the Court of Light, and now it was night again. That meant at least twenty-four hours… but it could have been much more, depending on how long the nagas had kept us paralyzed and how long I'd been unconscious after going through the flame.
As I debated the question, my gaze roamed around the dark clearing and lit on something that reflected the white of my clothes like a mirror. When I investigated, I found my father's sword thrust into the frozen earth, almost a foot of its tip dug into the soil. The nagas must have brought it with them as they carried me to this place; but I found it hard to imagine either of them gripping the hilt by mouth and plunging it into the ground so forcefully. Perhaps Shekinester herself had transported the rapier here: a hint from the goddess that it was time for me to do battle.
Wrapping my fingers around the sword's pommel, I pulled up tentatively, just to test how firmly the blade was implanted in the soil. It slid out of the ground as soft as a whisper, as if the weapon was pushing itself free and I was simply holding on. When I looked at the tip, there wasn't the slightest fleck of dirt on the metal, nor any of the nicks and notches you'd expect from ramming a honed length of steel into the frozen forest floor. Indeed, the sword gleamed sharper than I'd ever seen before; and it occurred to me that I'd been wearing the rapier when I jumped into the flame. Just as the fire had scorched away my little aches and pains, it must have refined any minute imperfections in the weapon, leaving it sharper, more lethal, more magical than ever.
I laughed softly, then lifted my head to the sky. «You think you had a great sword, Father… you should see mine.»
* * *
Five minutes later, I was putting the last touches onto a sketch scratched into a punky piece of oak bark. To make the image of a snake, I might have got away with a mere squiggly line – portals are seldom picky – but I had my pride. The picture showed a cobra ready to strike, its body raised, its hood flared, its fangs dripping venom… which is easier said than done, when your only drawing implement is a 4B wedge of limestone.
In the dim light I stared at the sketch, trying to decide if it needed something else or if adding more would clutter things up – the perennial dilemma of every artist – when I heard a rustling in the woods. Immediately I sprinted for the chapel, where I could hide in the blackness of the doorway… and where, if worst came to worst, I could use my drawing to flee through the portal to Sigil.
Silent moments passed, and I began to wonder if I'd been spooked by some porcupine, late for hibernation. Then, as hushed as an owl in flight, two nagas entered the clearing. The one in front, a huge female with fangs so white they glowed, carried her head warily; her tongue flicked in and out constantly, left, right, left, as if she were certain that trouble must be lurking close by. Behind her, the other naga was smaller, with the fresh-hatched face of a boy scarcely older than Zeerith. He showed none of the caution of the other – in fact, he sported a beaming grin, suggesting he was enjoying every second of this adventure away from home.
Clinging to his neck, like a child riding a pony, sat Wheezle. The gnome wore on over-long robe cut in Dustman style; but instead of a somber gray, this garment was as white as the face of a moon. Even in
this starless night, the cloth shone and shimmered as if it had been peeled off an unusually generous ghost.
The front naga hissed sharply, and stared in my direction. Belatedly, I remembered that I too was dressed in purest white – not the best sartorial choice for someone hiding in shadows. «It's all right,» I called quickly. Stepping from the darkness, I said, «I'm a friend.»
«Honored Cavendish!» cried Wheezle with delight. He hopped from his perch on the young naga and ran forward, his arms wide. I was so astonished to see him on his feet again, I didn't react; so when he reached me, he wrapped his arms around my knees and squeezed in warm embrace.
«You can walk again!» I marveled.
«He has passed through the flame,» the older naga said. «Why should you doubt that it healed him? Do you think the sacred fire is weak?»
«No, no,» I answered quickly. «I've been through the flame myself, you know.»
The naga blinked once, then she grudgingly nodded her head. «You are to be congratulated for passing Our Mother's test.»
«And you passed too, Wheezle.» I squatted and returned the little gnome's hug. «Your legs are really all right?»
«Better than that, honored Cavendish. My memory has returned.»
The boy-naga made a scoffing sound. «Why not? Shekinester's stronger than the stupid old Styx.»
«And look,» said Wheezle. «Look at this.»
He held up his wrinkled old hand and made a circling gesture with his thumb. A ring of blue light flared into existence where the tip of his thumbnail traced through the air, then sprang up a few inches and dropped like a hoop around his index finger. With a small rattling noise, it disappeared again.
«What was that?» I asked.
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