Seylalha had reasoned, as well, that if she did not want to become one of those mutilated women who had trained and taught her she’d best get a child from her bedding with the god. Legend said Vashanka’s unfulfilled desire was to have a child by his sister; Seylalha would oblige the god in exchange for her freedom. The Ten-Slaying was a new-moon feast; she bled at the full-moon. If the god were man-like after the fashion of her clan-brothers, she would conceive.
She knelt on the soft bed-cushions they provided her, rocking back and forth until tears flowed down her face; silent tears lest her guardians hear and force a drugged potion down her throat. Calling on the sungod, the moongod, the god who tended the herds in the night and every other shadowy demon she could remember from the days before the slave-pens, Seylalha repeated her prayers: “Let me conceive. Let me bear the god’s child. Let me live! K-eep me from becoming one of them.”
In the distance, beyond walls and locked door, she could hear her less fortunate sisters speaking to each other on their tambours, lyres, pipes and clatter sticks. They’d danced their dance and lost their tongues; their wombs were filled with bile. Their music was a mournful, bitter dirge—it told her fate if she did not bear a child.
As the tears dried she arched her back until her forehead rested on the soft mass of her hair beneath her. Then, in rhythm to the distant conversation, she began her dance again.
Chapter 3
MOLIN PACED AROUND the marble-topped table he had brought with him from the capital. The mute who always attended him hid in the far corners of the room. Molin’s wrath had touched him three times and it was not yet high-noon.
The injustice, the indignity of being the supreme priest of Vashanka in a sink hole like Sanctuary. Construction lagged on the temple: inept crews, unforeseen accidents, horrendous omens. The old Ilsig hierarchy gloated and collected the citizenry’s irregular tithes. The Imperial entourage was cramped into inadequate quarters that shoved his household together. He was actually sharing rooms with his wife—a situation neither of them had ever desired and could no longer tolerate. The Prince was an idealist, an unmarried idealist, whose belief in the bliss of that inconvenient state was exceeded only by his naivety with regard to statecraft. It was difficult not to enjoy the Prince’s company, however, despite his manifold shortcomings. He had the proper breeding for a useless younger son, and only the worst of fates had brought him so perilously close to the throne that he must be sent so depressingly far from it.
In Ranke, Molin had a fine house—as well as rooms within the temple. Rare flowers bloomed in his heated gardens; a waterfall coursed down one interior wall of the temple drowning out the street-noises and casting rainbows across this very table when it had resided in his audience chambers. Where had he gone wrong? Now he had a tiny room with one window looking out to an air shaft that must have sunk in the cesspools of hell itself and another one, the larger of the two, overlooking the gallows. Moreover, the Hounds were elsewhere this morning and yesterday’s corpses still creaked in the breeze.
Injustice! Indignity! And so, of course, he must clothe himself in the majesty of his position as Vashanka’s loyal and duly initiated priest. Kadakithis must find his way to these forsaken quarters and endure them as the priests did if Molin was to acquire better lodgings. The Prince was late—no doubt he’d got lost.
***
“MY LORD MOLIN?” a cheerful voice called from the antechamber. “My Lord Molin? Are you here?”
“I am, my Prince.”
Molin gestured to the mute who poured two goblets of fruit tea as the Prince entered the room.
“My Lord Molin, your messenger said you wished to see me urgently on matters concerning Vashanka? This must be true, isn’t it, or you wouldn’t have called me all the way out here. Where are we? No matter. Are there problems with the temple again? I’ve told Zalbar to see to it that the conscripts perform their duties…”
“No, my Prince, there are no new problems with the temple, and I have turned all those matters over to the Hounds, as you suggested. We are, by the way, in the outer wall of your palace—just upwind of the gallows. You can see them through the window—if you’d like.”
The Prince preferred to sip his tea.
“My purpose in summoning you, my Prince, has to do with the upcoming commemoration of the Ten-Slaying to take place at the new-moon. I wished certain privacy and discretion which, frankly, is not available in your own quarters.”
If the Prince was offended by Molin’s insinuations he did not reveal it. “Do I have special duties then?” he asked eagerly.
Molin, sensing the lad’s excitement, pressed his case all the harder. “Extremely special ones, my Prince; ones not even your distinguished late Father, the Emperor, was honoured to perform. As you are no doubt aware, Vashanka may His name be praised—has concerned Himself rather personally in the affairs of this city of late. My augurists report that on no less than three separate occasions since your arrival in this accursed place His power has been successfully invoked by one not of the temple hierarchy.”
The Prince set down his goblet. “You know of these things?” he asked with open-faced incredulity. “You can tell when the god’s used His power?”
“Yes, my Prince,” Molin answered calmly. “That is the general purpose of our hierarchy. Working through the mandated rituals and in partnership with our God we incline Vashanka’s blessings towards the loyal, righteous upholders of tradition, and direct His wrath towards those who would deny or harm the Empire.”
“I know of no traitors …”
“… And neither do I, my Prince,” Molin said, though he had his suspicions, “but I do know that our God, Vashanka—may His name be praised—is showing His face with increasing frequency and devastating effect in this town.”
“Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do?”
It was difficult to believe that the vigorous Imperial household had produced so dense an heir; at such times as this Molin almost believed the rumours that circulated around the Prince. Some said that he was at least as clever and ambitious as his brother’s advisers feared; Kadakithis was deliberately botching this gubernatorial appointment so he would have to be returned to the capital before the Empire faced rebellion. Unfortunately, Sanctuary was more than equal to the most artfully contrived incompetence.
“My Prince,” Molin began again, snapping his fingers to the mute who immediately pushed a great-chair forward for the Prince to sit in. This was going to take longer than anticipated. “My Prince—a god, shall we say any god but most especially our own god Vashanka—mayHisnamebepraised—is an awesomely powerful being who, even though He may beget mortal children on willing or unwilling women, is quite unlike a mortal man.
“A mere man who runs rampant in the streets with his sword drawn and shouting sedition would be an easy matter for the Hounds to control—assuming, of course, they even noticed him in this town …”
“Are you saying, my Lord Molin, that such a vagrant is ploughing through my city? Is that why you’ve called me here, really? Does my suite harbour a viperous traitor?”
It must be an act, Molin decided. No one could attain physical maturity with only Kadakithis’s apparent intelligence to guide him. He had attained maturity, hadn’t he? Molin’s plans demanded it. He was known to have concubines, but perhaps he merely talked them to sleep? It was time for a change of tactics.
“My Dear Prince, as hierarchical superior here in Sanctuary I can flatly state that the repeated incidents of divine intervention, unguided as they are by the rituals performed according to tradition by myself and my acolytes, constitute a severe threat to the well-being of your people and your mission to Sanctuary. They must be stopped by whatever means are necessary!”
“Oh… oh!” the Prince’s face brightened. “I believe I understand. I’m to do something at next week’s festival that will help you get control again. Do I get to bed Azyuna?”
The light in the young man’s eyes reassured Molin that th
e Prince did understand the purpose of a concubine. “Indeed, my Prince! But that is only a small part of what we shall do next week. The Dance of Azyuna and the Divine Seduction are performed at the festival each year. Many children are born of such unions, many serve their ersatz-father with great dignity—I myself am a son of the Consort. But, under extreme circumstances the Dance of Azyuna will be preceded by the most sacred recreation of the Ten-Slaying itself. Vashanka—mayHisnamebepraised—rediscovers His traitorous brothers plotting to overthrow the divine authority of Savankala, their father. He slays them on the spot and takes Azyuna, at her insistence, to bed at once as his consort. The child of such a union—if there were any—would be well-omened indeed.
“My Prince, the auguries indicate that such a child will be born here in Sanctuary—of all places—and our God’s activity here would lend belief to this. It is imperative that such a child be born within the strictures of the temple; it would be fitting if the child’s natural father were you …”
The Prince turned the colour of the fruit tea, though his complexion quickly levelled off at a unique shade of green. “But Molin, that’s general’s work killing surrendered officers of the enemy. Molin, you don’t expect me to kill ten men, do you? Why, there aren’t more than ten Vashankan priests in this whole city.” I’d have to kill you. I couldn’t do it, Molin—you mean too much to me.”
“My Dear Prince,” Molin poured another goblet of fruit tea and signalled the mute to bring a stronger libation for the next round. “My Dear Prince, while I would never hesitate to lay down my life for you or the Empire should, gods forfend, the need ever arise—none the less, I assure you, I am not about to make the supreme sacrifice at this time. There is nothing in the most sacred tomes of ritual dictating the nature or rank of the ten who must be slain—save that they must be undeformed and alive at the start.”
At that moment there were shouts outside Molin’s larger window and the all-too familiar sound of the gallow’s rope snapping another neck.
“Very simply, my Prince, cancel these daily executions and by the Ten-Slaying I’m sure we’ll have our quota.”
The Prince blanched at the thought of Sanctuary denizens whose activities so exceeded the norms of this none-too-civilized place that his judges would condemn them to death.
“They would be bound and drugged, of course,” Molin consoled his Prince, “as is part of custom, if not tradition. Our hierarchy has suffered the discomfort of having the wrong man survive,” Molin added quickly, without mentioning that they had also suffered the inconvenience of losing all eleven to their wounds before the ritual could be completed. The hierarchy had acquired an immense practicality over the generations when its own interests were concerned.
Kadakithis stared blankly into the corners of the room; he had stared briefly out the window but the busy gallows had not brought the peace of mind he sought. Molin entertained hopes of getting new quarters in the near future. The mute offered them a fresh goblet of the local wine—a surprisingly potable beverage, given its origins. But then the priorities of the populace were such that the wine should be far better than their cheese or bread. Molin himself offered the strong drink to the Prince.
“Molin—I cannot. If it were just the Dance… well, no, not even then.” The Prince squared his shoulders and simulated a stance of firm resolve. “Molin, you are wrong—it would not be fitting for a Prince of the blood. I mean no slurs, but I cannot be seen consorting with a temple slave at a public festival.”
Molin considered the refusal; considered taking Vashanka’s role himself—he’d seen the temple slave in question. But he had been honest with the Prince; it was of the utmost importance that the child be properly conceived.
“My Prince, I do not ask this lightly, any more lightly than I informed my brethren in Ranke of my decision in this matter. The slave is of the best Northern stock; the rite is held in strictest mystery.
“The Hand of Vashanka rests heavily on your prefecture, my Prince. You cannot have failed to notice His presence. The daily auguries show it plainly. Your own Hell Hounds, the very guardians of Imperial Order, are not immune to the dangers of Vashanka’s unbridled presence!”
The High Priest paused, staring hard into Kadakithis’s eyes, forcing the young governor to acknowledge the rumours that flew freely and were never disputed. Molin could trace his ancestry to the god in the time-honoured way, but what about Tempus? The Hell Hound bore Vashanka’s mark, but had been whelped far beyond the ken of the priesthood.
“Who are we to channel the powers of the gods?” the Prince responded, his gaze unfocused, his manner uncomfortably evasive.
Molin drew himself up to his full height, some finger-widths taller than the Prince. His back straightened as if the beaten gold headdress of his office balanced on his brow. “My Prince, we are the channels, the only true channels. Without the mediation of a duly consecrated hierarchy the bonds of tradition which make Vashanka—may His name be praised—our God and us His worshippers would be irreparably sundered. The rituals of the temple, whose origins are one with the God Himself, are the balance between mortal and immortal. Anyone who circumvents the rituals, for any reason however well-intentioned … anyone who does not hearken to the call of the hierarchy in its needs subverts the proper relationship of god and worshipper to the damning harm of both!”
Again the experienced Imperial Hierarch stared down on the young, awestruck Prince. Molin was only half-conscious of overstating the case for stringent observation of the rituals. Vashanka’s displeasure when He was not properly appeased was extensively documented. The rituals were all intended to bind a capricious and hungry deity.
The crowd outside Molin’s window raised its voice and shut down their conversation; the day’s verdicts were being proclaimed. There would be two more hangings on the morrow. Kadakithis started when his name was used to justify the awful punishments the Empire meted out to its criminals. He shrank back from the window as a huge black crow landed on the sill, swivelling its head in a lopsided start of dark-curiosity. The Prince shooed it back to the gallows.
“I will do what I can, Molin. I will speak with my advisers.”
“My Dear Prince, in matters regarding the spiritual well-being of the Imperial Presence in Sanctuary, I am your only trusted adviser.”
Molin regretted his burst of temper at once; though the Prince gave him smooth verbal assurances, the Vashankan priest was now certain that the Hound Tempus would know by sundown.
Tempus: a plague, a thorn, a malignancy to the proper order of things. A son of Vashanka, a true-son no doubt, and utterly unfettered by the constraints of ritual and hierarchy. If even a fraction of the rumours about him were to be believed; if he had survived dissection on Kurd’s tables … It could not be believed. Tempus could not be so far beyond the hierarchy’s reach.
Well, Molin thought after a moment, I’m a true-son too. Let the Prince run to him in sweating anxiety. Let him consult with Tempus; let them conspire against me—I’ll still succeed.
Generations of priests had bred generations of true-sons to Vashanka. The god was not quite the blood-drinker he once was.
Vashanka could be constrained and, after all, Molin’s side of the family was far bigger than Tempus’s.
He watched the Prince leave without feeling panic. The crow returned to the window-ledge as was its daily custom. The bird cawed impatiently while Molin and the mute prepared its feast: live mouse dipped in wine. The priest watched the bird disappear back to the Maze rooftops, staring after its flight long after his wife had begun to shout his name.
Chapter 4
SEYLALHA STOOD PERFECTLY still while the dourfaced women draped the sea-green froth around her. The women would not hesitate to prick her sharply with their bodkins and needles, though they took the greatest of care with the silk. They stepped back and signalled that she should spin on her toes for them.
Deep folds of material billowed out into delicate clouds at her slightest movement. The te
xture of the cloth against her skin was so unlike the heavy tatters of her usual attire that for once she forgot to watch the intricate dance-language of her instructors as they discussed their creation.
The time must be drawing near; they would not dress her like this unless it was almost time for her marriage to the god. The moon above her cell was a thin crescent fading to blackness.
They got their instruments and began to play. Without waiting for the sharp report of the clatter-sticks, Seylalha began to dance, letting the unhemmed ends of the silk swirl out to accompany her as she moved through the hundreds of poses—each painfully inured in her muscles. She flowed with the atonal music, throwing her soul into each leap and turn, keenly aware that this meaningless collection of movements would become her only, exquisite plea for freedom.
When she settled into the final frantic moments of the dance the sea-green silk was caught in her flying hair and lifted away from her body until it was restrained only by the brooches at her neck and waist. As she fell into the prostrate bow, the silk floated down, hiding the rhythmic heaving of her exhausted lungs. The clatter-sticks were silent, without nagging corrections.
Seylalha separated her hair and stood up in one graceful movement. Her teachers were motionless as well as speechless. Never again would she be the bullied student. Clapping her own hands at the quiet women, Seylalha waited until the nearest one crept forward to unpin the twisted silk and accompany her to her bath.
Chapter 5
IT WAS INKY night and even the light of two dozen torches was insufficient to guide the procession along the treacherous, rutted streets of Sanctuary in safety. Molin Torchholder and five other ranking members of the hierarchy had excused themselves from the procession and waited in the relative comfort of the stone-porch of the still incomplete Temple of Vashanka. Behind the priests a great circular tent had been erected. The mute women could be heard tuning and conversing with their instruments. As the bobbing torches rounded into the plaza the women were silenced and Molin, ever-careful with his elaborate headdress, mounted a small dais on the porch.
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