Cyrodian’s breath came in gusts of wind. He said, “Bandits—” and shook his head. “I never —” He seemed to lean back, and his hands, hairy paws, lifted on the air. “Lovers?”—in a wholly perplexed, disbelieving voice.
Orain shuddered. Her knees gave and she dropped to the floor. She threw her arms upon Dursoris’s breast. “Why didn’t you just kill him?” she shrieked at Cyrodian. “Do you hate me that much? Did you have to mutilate him? Did you have to torture him?”
“What are you—?”
“Did you have to torture him?”
Swaying on his feet, Cyrodian let out a massive roar. “Lovers!” he bellowed.
“Stop him!” Adred yelled to the Khamars. “Name of the gods!”
Cyrodian was around the bed in a lunge. Orain, her arms across Dursoris, head bent, cackled with laughter. Cyrodian’s hands settled on her head; with a powerful wrench, he forced her face up.
Adred winced, expecting to hear him break her skull.
“Lovers?”
Sorrowful, half-mad cackle of laughter.
Now Galvus moved, and Adred flung out a hand to keep him where he was.
The Khamars came on, hands on swords. “Prince Cyrodian—”
“Lovers!” And to his wife’s sobs: “Whore! Whore! Whore!”
“Prince Cyrodian!”
He twisted her head; Orain gurgled and fell back. Cyrodian grabbed for her hair. She shrieked.
But as the prince lifted his arms and made fists, a Khamar moved straight at him and pushed a longsword between him and Orain.
“Run!” Adred urged Galvus. “Get Elad! Hurry!”
Cyrodian faced the Khamar, ignoring the dangerous blade. “Whore!” he yelled into the guard’s face.
The other three Khamars surrounded him and coaxed him away from the princess.
Galvus threw open the door and hurried down the hall with quick, receding footsteps.
Each Khamar now drew his sword and held it out at Cyrodian.
The first said, “You will not touch her, my lord.”
“She’s a whore!” Cyrodian yelled at him, bending forward.
“Stand away!” the Khamar ordered him. “Prince Cyrodian! Stand away imme—”
Cyrodian, more than a head taller and twice the soldier’s bulk, swung his fists and caught the guard on the side of his head. The man fell backward, grunting and dropping his weapon. The steel skipped on the stone floor as he landed on his back, his armor clattering.
The remaining three moved in, their points aimed at the prince’s chest.
“Get her!” one of them called.
Adred reacted. Incredulous, watching himself as though he were someone else, some outside observer, he instinctively bent low and scuttled to Orain. He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her away. Stood her up. Leaned her against a table.
She drew in a long breath and stared at her husband.
He said, “Whore!” and to the guards: “Stand away from me, I’ll kill you all!” But he didn’t challenge the points of their weapons.
Adred held onto Orain and pressed her face into his shoulder. He stared, frightened, at the immense Cyrodian, at his rage, huger than the rage of gods.
Noise, now, and a shadow in the doorway. Adred looked. Cyrodian, growling, turned his head, expecting more guards.
“Brother.… Cyrodian.…” And drunken laughter.
Galvus held behind, moving only when Elad advanced on unsure legs, a wine jug swinging in his right hand.
Cyrodian watched him with hot eyes.
But Elad ignored him and instead crossed the room to Dursoris’s bed and stared down. He hiccupped and smiled, still swaying.
Orain trembled against Adred as though she were broken, the life draining from her, running out.
“What?” Elad asked Cyrodian, looking up with a flushed face colored by the candlelight. “Have they named you, brother? Did they discover the blood on your sword?”
“Liar!” Cyrodian roared.
“Hold him!” Elad cried out to the Khamars. “I want a thousand swords on him! A thousand guards!”
“Coward!”
But already more Khamars were coming down the outside corridor. The thunder of their boots grew and the metal noise of their armor, and then they appeared in the doorway, a blotting crowd of shadows, watching. Some drew weapons.
Elad’s head dropped low. He hiccupped again and sniffled, whispered to himself, then looked up to face Cyrodian’s anger. “Murderer,” he whispered, irrevocably.
Orain sobbed.
“Murderer,” Elad said again. “Oh, gods, brother, what crimes have we done? What crimes have we done?”
One of the Khamars glanced at him.
“Take him,” Elad ordered the guards. “He drew the knife. Now take him! I want him in chains! Remove him to the prison!”
“Liar!” Cyrodian howled. “Traitor!”
His arms shot out; one Khamar, surprised, was caught in the throat by a heavy fist and fell, gasping.
Those in the wide doorway moved in, swords up. In a moment, they were crowded around Cyrodian, their blades aimed at his face, throat, heart, belly.
“Both of you, whores!” Cyrodian yelled, spittle flying. “I gave you the throne, traitor!”
Chains—brought by the Khamars summoned by Elad. Chains—looped over Cyrodian’s head, wrapped tightly to pin his monster arms. Chains, binding his wrists and chest, though he struggled and, struggling, moved into three sword points; though he bellowed of liars and bandits, whores and traitors.
Chained, and driven from the room, spurred with swords.
“Liar! Liar! Murderer! Whores!”
Bellowing, he was moved down the corridor and down and down, into the ancient prison beneath the palace of his mother, to make his place with sewer rats and all of the decay there, to wait with the ghosts there, in darkness.
The whisper of candles.
The sobs of Orain.
Adred, shaking, continued to hold her.
Elad fell to his knees, crouching, dropping the wine jug to the floor so that it spilled. Elad, sobbing—mouth agape, tears running down his face—and moaning. “I did not want this!” He clawed at the blankets of Dursoris’s bed. “Brother—live! Live! I did not want this! I do not want this throne!” Gasping, sobbing in a man’s naked voice: “Brother, live! I did not touch you! I did not touch you! Come awake and live! Let me touch your—hands! Oh, gods, I do not want this throne!”
* * * *
Dawn, gray at the window.
Tapers burned low, some extinguished.
The servant girl crouched above the bed, still applying the damp cloth to Dursoris’s brow.
Sotos, alone with her in the stillness, watched.
Watched.
Listened.
Placed hand to forehead, neck, breast, mouth.
Sotos, tired, pushed away the servant’s hand. “No more. He is past all that.”
Dawn, gray at the window.
Tapers burned low, some extinguished, smoking.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Queen Yta arrived with her train late in the morning and learned from Abgarthis and Sotos, from Elad and Orain and Count Adred, from tens of servants and Khamars, what had happened—confirming the oracle’s words to her.
She ordered that a special High Council be convened.
Early in the afternoon, Yta, robed, crowned, sceptered, sat upon the mighty throne of Athadia and faced the son brought in chains before her, guarded by twenty guards. And she confronted her first son, dressed in the crimson and gold and blue. She faced her wings of the High Council, the Priton Nobility to her right, the Priton Common Administration to her left.
“For the plotted crime of fratricide, and for the plotted crime of sedition against this throne of Athadia, Cyrodian dos Evarro edos Yta, second-born prince of this empire, holder of the title of General Rank Crescented in the Imperial Army of the empire, is hereby ordered executed, his head to be severed from his body, his head to be exhibi
ted on the west wall of the city, his body to be buried in an unnamed location, on the fifth morning following the immolation of his brother, the murdered Prince Dursoris, third-born son of this empire.
“For the plotted crime of sedition against this throne of Athadia, for the murder of a religious oracle—which is a state offense of the first list—and for the crime by association of the murder of his brother Dursoris, Elad dos Evarro edos Yta, first-born son of this empire, is hereby ordered to assume the kingship of this state and empire, effective immediately upon my own renunciation of the throne, crown, and scepter of imperial Athadia. No greater punishment can I offer than for Prince Elad to rule this throne of blood for which he has shown such unseemly desire. And may the high gods have greater mercy upon him, in his days of trial, than they have bestowed upon me.
“I, Yta of Athadia, widow of the late crowned king of the empire, Evarris dos Othis ak Athadia, do hereby abdicate my rule, renounce this throne, and grant this crown and scepter to the new monarch of state, Elad, king of Athadia. Prosper and grow wise. Rule forever, my son, in the name of all the gods.”
Yta removed the crown and stood.
She placed the crown upon the seat of the throne.
She leaned her scepter against the arm of the throne and stepped down.
At the bottom of the dais stairs, Yta approached Elad, who was unable to control his sobs, and embraced him, kissed him thrice, knelt low on one knee before him, and spread out her arms.
“Prosper and grow wise. Rule forever, my son, in the name of all the gods.”
The High Council stood as one, stunned, and repeated the call of succession.
Yta walked out of the throne room.
Cyrodian, grim and silent, was escorted away by the Khamars.
The councilors stood, all silent, for the entire afternoon, as Elad stood, silent, at the base of the throne before deciding, at twilight, to ascend and sit, crown himself, and take up his heavy imperial scepter.
PART TWO
A LAMP IN A STORM
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Erusabad, on the other side of the world, across the wide Ursalion Sea, far from Athad, where West becomes East.
A great city, Erusabad, its history etched in every brick and stone. A crossroads, a port, a city of paths, of businesses, of merchants; city of people and animals; city of prayers and curses; city of windows and lights, of taverns and monuments, of gardens and rivers; city of money lending and thievery; city of sailing ships at rest; and city of a thousand crowds, of voices, of robes and sandals and rings and jewelry, of perfumes; city of faces, hands and feet; city of arts; city of crimes; city of loneliness, city of lovers, a drug, a wineskin, an overflowing vessel, the crossroads of a thousand thousand souls and a thousand thousand wants and hopes, a city of hearts and dust, the city of cities. Erusabad. City, metropolis, home, port, pathway.… With accents and beliefs, with people and peoples, ships and commerce, temples and rooms and inns and libraries. Holy City—elusive and real. City of many cities—cities within one great Erusabad city. City piled to the edge of the waves, city pushed into the fields and land. Foundation. Maker of turbulence, owner of souls, dealer in lives. City between two empires, sharing both, clashing with both, groaning beneath the weight of both. City of East and West, city of West and East. Holy City—uncertain…savior, judge, orphan, warrior, harlot.… City of songs—songs of the docks, songs of the temples, songs of the lost and the damned—city of a two-edged sword, city of no repose, city of destiny: aye, of empire, and a destiny.…
When Erusabad, the Holy City, the foundation of Bithitu’s religion, came to be regarded as a city holy to the eastern peoples, as it long had been to the peoples of the West, the throne in Athadia chose not to challenge or regard as adversaries the barbarians who—with their money, their goods, their businesses—did not (incidentally) happen to worship the Lamp and the Ring. Salukadians, were the eastern peoples, named after a desert somewhere at the end of the world, as ethnically diverse and as numerous and strong as the diverse peoples of Athadia. And if the eastern peoples in Erusabad worshiped crude animal gods instead of the mature, wise divinities of the West, so be it; if they had no prophet but only a king, if they looked upon Erusabad as a sanctified city because their religion taught them that “the world began in the West”—then so be it. Athadia would not go to war with a people whose money was stamped with an animal’s head rather than a god’s.
When, five hundred years before the reign of King Evarris in Athad, the eastern peoples began to intrude upon an Erusabad that had become westernized, there was dissension, there was antagonism, there were mobs in the streets, there was racial hatred. All was temper and sharp edge. Fair sons and dark daughters did not woo; East and West clashed; merchants stole goods from one another, bankers cheated bankers, and riots took place on ships docked in the harbors. But as the city grew—as its commerce grew—it became evident that some form of order must result from the anarchy. Resident advisers from Athad held council in the same building, at the same tables, as ministers from the eastern world. These ministers began to rule together, developing codes of behavior, drafting laws, and establishing byways for interaction. They decreed that the River Usub would divide northern, Athadian Erusabad from southern, Salukadian Erusabad.
City of many cities—cities within one great Erusabad city. City piled to the edge of the waves, city pushed into the fields and land. Maker of turbulence, owner of souls, dealer in lives. City between two empires, sharing both, clashing with both. Holy City—uncertain—city of a two-edged sword, city of no repose.…
In the Temple of Bithitu on the far north side—a temple many times changed since its original inception two thousand years earlier—priests and high priests looked back upon a glorious history but wondered of the future when they watched out their windows and saw visitors from across the bridges: dark-haired, olive-skinned, black-eyed women dressed in pearls and rose-scented sandals and transparent gowns, walking the same streets that Bithitu himself once had walked, but saying their prayers to nine animal gods instead of one savior.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As a young priest, one just admitted to elevated service in the Church of Bithitu, Thameron had much time to himself, for regulations held that new ministers just enfolded should have time for contemplation and thought, time to walk the world in their robes and sandals and rings, to listen to and communicate with the people of the world, and time later to discuss these things of the world with church elders as they continued their indoctrination into the church’s position on all matters.
Barely eighteen summers old, zealous and strong, filled with the light of the Lamp, Thameron was somewhat overwhelmed with his new white robes and blue sandals and golden rings, his persona of priest. Six years of study and discipline had brought him to this door. An orphan, left to the world when his father died, Thameron had become a ward of the state and, through the draw of the state lottery, had been removed to the Church, just as other homeless children had been removed to schools or businesses or military service. He had not loved the Church then, when he first had entered it. Adolescence was upon him; he had yearned for a free life. But stern discipline and thoughtful communion had brought him around; he had journeyed through fear and uncertainty to at last realize that the Church was good, that Bithitu was the Prophet of the Light, and that he himself—Thameron, an outcast, lost and unloved—could do much good for the world. Six years of diligent occupation at lessons, with no tolerance for play or frivolity, had earned him at last his white robes, while it had taken others seven, eight, or more years to accomplish the same.
The Prophet Bithitu shows the way and the path. He is the way and the path to the eternal favor of all the gods.
Thameron followed a strict schedule that he had drawn up for himself. He arose at dawn, with his brethren in the dormitory behind the temple. An hour of fasting and prayer followed, and then morning devotions: a single-file march past Muthulis, the Chief Priest of the Temple, wh
ile each young man bowed and whispered purities before taking breakfast. Breakfast, as always, was meager, with prayers and silent offerings as heavy as sauces. But following the meal, young priests were left on their own until midday. Most took to walking the grounds of the temple, where a large park had not yet been taken over by the city for new apartments; others retreated into the silent world of the vast temple library. Some, in pairs or groups, went into the streets to spread the light of faith in all directions. And some few held jobs, employment in businesses or in the homes of the advantaged, by which they earned money to bring to the coffers of the prophet.
Thameron habitually spent his mornings alone, in the streets, in the poorest sections of northern Erusabad. Bithitu himself had gone to the poor, the aged, the whorish and gambling, the diseased and lost of humanity, to administer first to them, to teach them of the light within themselves. Thameron himself, lost and orphaned, had been saved by Bithitu; now he would save others by the aid of Bithitu.
The sum of all humanity that ever was, is, or ever will be cannot equal and cannot comprehend the goodness and love of Bithitu our Prophet.
As he walked the streets, Thameron smiled at everyone he passed and wished them morning graces. Many of the wealthy or the poor, the guilty or the most devout, would stop him and reach into their purses to make offerings. One of the ways the church judged the success of the young priests’ ministries was by how much money each brought to the coffers each evening.
Today Thameron visited the tenements and taverns down by the docks. These were the poorest sections of the city, but when Thameron looked upon the dirty streets, the broken people, the refuse and the contamination, the hunger and the meanness, he saw only the work of Bithitu to be done.
There was an apartment house on the corner of Dock and Miet Avenues where pimps, thieves, and other criminals resided, and Thameron came here once a week, unafraid of being robbed or harmed. The thieves and other criminals looked forward to his visits. For Thameron did not speak in platitudes; he did not live alone in some high room of the temple and look down from a balcony a few times a year during festivities. He came into the streets, into the gutters and alleys, to talk, listen, advise, chastise, purify, demand, and encourage. He did not apply the prophet’s teachings here as he would a hammer on an anvil, for the prophet was very far away for these men and women. Thameron brought only himself and the silent knowledge that Bithitu was within him, and that in time—at the right time—Bithitu would reveal himself to each of these men and women. To force Bithitu or any philosophy or hope upon them could do only harm; to let them accept naturally, a little at a time, from the single light deep within themselves, was the way of patience and guidance.
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