Mystic Warrior

by Tracy Hickman

  Next to him, Galen was dimly aware that Maddoc had continued to rail against the sky.

  “Damn you for what you have stolen! Damn you for my life!”

  17

  Visions of Smoke

  Encompassed by the nine towers with their banners flying in the evening breeze, the center of Vasskhold looked much as it had during the ancient rule of the Mad Emperors. The broad Avenue of Tears passed through the Broken Gates—the only name anyone could remember for the passage. Pilgrims would choke this passage each day, emerging from the gates in a river until they came to the Pentigal. In reality, it was the intersection of three roads, rather than the five the name implied, but no one questioned the juncture’s imperious nature, however, as it was the true crossroads of Vasska’s rule. Here all roads in Hrunard were said to end—at the very foot of the Temple of Vasska.

  Pilgrims would stand for long moments before the still reflecting pool, lost in awe. The mirror image in the water seemed to elongate those blackened spires that remained towering above them. The toppled spires and shattered stone gave testament to the fall of the city four hundred years before. The damage, however, did not detract from the magnificence of the central keep, the soaring heart of the city.

  Nor would the damage be too long-lived. Scaffolding stood against the Temple’s surface. Nearly three hundred pairs of hands, a mixture of Pir craftsmen and devout pilgrims, each day struggled to lift the broken stones from the base of the structure back into their former positions—or into positions better suited to the Temple’s new purpose. With as much speed as the stoneworkers could manage, the ancient keep was being reshaped in the image of the Pir Drakonis.

  These same pilgrims would then walk between two great colossi. These ancient statues once represented the images of Thon and Kel, the brothers of legend who had forged the city. With hammer and chisel, however, the Pir Drakonis had eradicated them: their heads had been reshaped into two of the aspects of Vasska. The dragon heads looked down at the pilgrims from atop the bodies of men now long- and, so far as the pilgrims were concerned, gladly forgotten.

  Within the Temple doors, the pilgrims were once again struck by the majesty of the building itself. The main entrance brought them into the first of four naves: enormous open spaces of worship that towered overhead to intricate arches of incredible workmanship.

  At the transept, the nexus of the four naves, stood the Iconograph. It was a massive iron structure, nearly sixty feet in height, representing all the different aspects of Vasska peering outward from its center axis. All the history of the Pir Drakonis was said to be represented in its intricate workings. Great oak beams radiated from its base. The pilgrims would each wait enraptured for their solemn turn at the great spokes, to push the Iconograph in its constant revolutions, to whisper their prayers and supplications to the Dragonking, and to keep the eye of Vasska on all parts of his domain at once.

  Far above the Iconograph, part of the ceiling was missing, a casualty of that war so long ago, but it had been reworked with long arches. These met directly over the transept, forming a partially completed dome. It was the central feature of all Kath-Drakonis throughout Hrunard. The Vasska Dome, though not yet completed, promised to be the greatest and most magnificent of them all.

  Through the glass and still-empty panes overhead, the pilgrims’ eyes could rise even farther to the top of Kel’s Keep, a tower which, even missing a full quarter of its original height, still inspired tears in the true believers. Every pilgrim knew that tower as the home of Vasska and its portal into the mortal realms.

  Still they would come and weep for joy as they pushed against the smooth oaken beams and turned the Iconograph as it rumbled in its eternal revolutions.

  To them, this was holy ground.

  Tragget passed quickly by the pilgrims, giving them little heed as they struggled against one another to get out of his way. An Inquisitor of the Pir was not someone to be hindered. They separated before him as he walked purposefully through the first grand nave. He took little notice of the magnificent building or its inspiring surroundings. The prayers of pilgrims were of no interest to him. His purposes were his own—as was warranted by his office.

  He smiled to himself momentarily. No doubt the pilgrims thought he wanted a turn at the wheel in another example of the Pir clergy stepping to the head of any line. Let them think what they will, he thought as he turned right and quickly walked to the side of the nave.

  Two Pir monks who stood watch parted quickly at his approach. The doorway they guarded was invisible to any untrained eye, crafted as it was to blend into the intricate architecture of the nave itself. He stepped quickly through the opening, closing it immediately behind him.

  His mind took little notice of the wide landing of the spiral staircase he had trod numerous times before. The stairs spiraling up to his right were old friends. He instinctively knew the halls, chambers, rooms, and spaces to which they led overhead. But they were not his destination yet. He turned to his left and descended the steps.

  He passed two more similar landings before following the exit of the third. The rumblings of the Iconograph overhead had actually increased the farther down he walked. Now the squealing sound grew louder with his every step down the hall. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware of the arrow slits staggered on either side of the wall—and the eyes that were watching him from the darkness behind them. It was of no concern to him; it was not his death that they sought.

  The iron door at the end of the hall had no latch, for it could not be opened from this side. Tragget did not lessen his stride, for he knew the unseen eyes would take care of it for him. Indeed, as he approached, the iron door screeched as it opened wide.

  The deep rumbling sound assaulted him through the open doorway. In the center of the room, the iron shaft from the Iconograph above rotated in its mountings. A large wooden wheel was attached to the shaft, its thick vertical pegs meshing with those of a vertically mounted wheel. Behind this a more intricate collection of wheels, meshed pegs, and broad leather bands swung in purposeful motion.

  “Pir Mondrath!” Tragget shouted. It was impossible to be heard otherwise in the room. “My scribe gave me instructions to report here at once. The Lady’s instructions were—”

  “The Lady is below,” Mondrath returned, his voice booming through the thunder in the room. “She said you were to join her. I’ve brought the cage up. You may descend at your pleasure!”

  “Descend? No one is allowed below except the High Priestess—”

  “Actually, Lord Inquisitor, lots of people go down,” Mondrath replied in his booming voice. “It’s just that the High Priestess is the only one who ever comes back up!”

  “You’re sure she asked that I join her below?” Tragget responded. He was shivering despite the stifling heat in the room.

  “Yes, Lord Inquisitor! She was most emphatic!”

  “Then let’s get this over with.”

  “What?” Mondrath shouted, putting a hand to his ear.

  “See you shortly!” Tragget shouted.

  “We’ll see!” Mondrath shouted back with a wicked smile. He pointed to an archway past the screeching wooden cogs, then stepped over to the maze of cogs and pulleys.

  Tragget walked down a short arched hall into the adjoining room. A flaming brazier illuminated an ironreed cage suspended by a thick rope over a roughly chiseled opening in the floor. The rope passed up through a smaller hole in the ceiling. Tragget snatched a torch from an iron framework and lit it in the brazier. He then quickly stepped through the open side of the cage, latched the latticework door behind him, stuck the lit end of the torch out through the ironreed, and held tightly to the woven bars with his free hand.

  Mondrath glanced down the hall, gave Tragget a nod, and then pulled a large wooden lever. The Inquisitor heard the squealing of the leather belts against wood pulleys as the cage began its descent toward the heart of the beast.

  The beast? he thought darkly. Yes, the Temple of
Vasska was something of a beast after all and not unlike the Dragonking himself. The Temple was the center of the faith. It was toward his great tower that all Hrunard turned, from beyond the visible horizon, in their prayers and recitations. The exterior was at once magnificent, awe-inspiring, and terrible in its colossal size. In all the public places, it was alluring, compelling, and powerful.

  But get too close—get down into its veins—and you find just how cold its heart really is. The stained, rough-hewn walls of the lower corridors lacked any of the pretenses to glory or beauty that one might find above. There was a palpable blackness that flowed through its corridors that thickened with each step. Get to its heart, Tragget knew, and you find mystery more frightening than any children’s tale. It was the beating heart of that chill secret that had sustained the Pir over the centuries.

  It was the same mystery that drew Tragget into the darkest reaches beneath the Temple.

  Smoky torch in hand, he dropped past labyrinthine halls. The cage’s shaft was carved straight down through the ancient halls of the original tower. He passed the levels where long-dead priests once spent their days in worship of the forgotten Rhamasian gods. He left behind him the halls that once quartered the Mithanlas army in their last desperate attempt to hold the city. He descended past untold rows of cells in the dungeon, now gaping open in testament both to their ancient use and their current abandonment. Spirits of the long-dead seemed to linger here. He left them all behind . . . his focus on a destination that descended below them all.

  The shaft plunged ever downward. Soon he passed even the lowest depths of the old tower, into the carved rock of the mountain roots themselves. A chill radiated from the nearby walls. They were slick and glistened in his torchlight, their hewn surfaces glazed over in leached limestone and sediment from occasional cracks on either side.

  The shaft at last broke through the ceiling of a cavern—one last antechamber to cross. The cage slowed perceptibly as it neared the bottom. Mondrath was good at his job. It came to a stop just a foot above the cavern floor. Another iron brazier, like the one above, burned to one side of the shaft, and beyond it Tragget could see a slick staircase ascending into the darkness. In former times that long and treacherous path would have been the only means of reaching this place. It was a path he hoped never to have to take . . . and at the same time he was fearful that he would not have the opportunity to take it at all. To climb the fearful distance he had just descended would have been torturous, but few there were who entered this place that lived long enough to face that prospect.

  In any event, he knew his path lay in the opposite direction.

  Tragget remembered his training as a Talker. It was one of the Rules of Five, the primary tenets of the Dragon-Talkers, never to approach a cavern with light. He snuffed his torch in a sand trough next to the stairs, then set it carefully by the brazier. Then, reluctantly, he took a breath and turned around.

  His eyes slowly grew accustomed to the darkness and shapes began to emerge against the dim red light coming from the opening before him. The stalactites and stalagmites rimming the cave brought to his mind the image of razor teeth. The glazed stone flooring seemed to be a slick tongue arching slightly down toward the dark gullet at the back. It was like walking into the mouth of a dragon, he thought. A premonition, perhaps, for those who were brought here with more finality of purpose—and for whom a torch to ascend would not be needed.

  He stepped gingerly toward the gullet at the back of the antechamber. He could see already the steady red light beyond.

  Down the long throat, he thought. Down to the heart of the beast.

  He emerged into a colossal cavern. The narrow passage opened onto a great peninsula of stone, jutting out over a black and unplumbed abyss. At the end of the peninsula, however, lay a large, flat expanse atop a pillar of stone. Four columns of red light shone upward, shuttered behind iron housings. Silhouetted against this light, Tragget could see the back of the throne. It seemed dwarfed by the enormity of the space around it.

  The Throne of the Seer. Edana’s throne.

  He stepped quickly across the crest of intervening stone. No matter how carefully he trod, his booted footfalls echoed loudly against the distant walls.

  A shadowed hand extended from the throne, signaling him to stop.

  Tragget obeyed at once. He tried not to breathe.

  The arm signaled him to continue.

  Tragget moved forward once more, this time with far more care. At last, he stood next to the throne.

  Edana sat calmly, her eyes almost sleepy in her repose. She gazed out between the dim, illuminated beams.

  “It is all right, son,” she said calmly. “Vasska is nearly asleep.”

  “You should never call me that . . .”

  “Who is there to hear?” Edana chuckled as she gestured into the darkness. “Where else could you call me mother?”

  Tragget looked down. He could not take his eyes away from the horror sleeping across the gulf before them. “P-please, you know that we can’t—”

  “No? How about just ‘Mom’ then, eh?” Edana chortled.

  The mammoth form of Vasska, Dragonking of Hrunard, lay in an immense hollow of rock atop a vast stone pillar. Its curled body lay entirely in shadow, beneath the level of the shuttered fires. It was a terrible darkness against darkness: a palpable horror that lurked just beyond Tragget’s ability to see. The Inquisitor was gripped by the ridiculous desire to open wide one of the shuttered lamps and throw a stark beam on this shadowy, lurking menace, but he knew better than to give in to it. The light was not meant to shine on the dragon, it was meant to illuminate other things.

  He had seen Vasska before—but never this close.

  “You sent for me . . . M-m-mother?” Tragget spoke quietly, his mouth suddenly dry.

  “Ah, now isn’t that much better?” Edana replied. Her voice was far away, as though she were distracted by other thoughts. “Mother and son: just as though we were real people with real, little lives. Yes, I sent for you. Vasska is nearly asleep. Then we can begin.”

  “High Priestess—”

  Edana raised her finger.

  “M-mother . . . it is forbidden for me to even—”

  “I will determine what is forbidden, son.” Edana smiled slightly. “You are a Dragon-Talker, are you not? I trained you myself. I would think you would appreciate the opportunity to practice the art on an actual dragon. Besides, I thought you should be here to read the smoke tonight.”

  “I may be a Talker . . . b-but I am not a Visionary,” Tragget said as he shuddered involuntarily. He could not seem to control his stuttering. “I d-do not know the art.”

  Edana glanced up at him. “I think you may not need much training tonight, my boy. The smoke has been most— But wait! It is starting!”

  Tragget’s eyes remained fixed on the black mass below. The darkness shifted perceptibly. The dim form of the immense dragon shrugged to the hollow sound of scales scraping against the rock. So mammoth was the beast that Tragget, in the dim ambient light of the cavern, could not make out where it ended and the darkness of the abyss began.

  “There!” whispered Edana. “See!”

  Smoke curled upward from the shifting blackness, wisps emitted from the dragon’s nostrils as it slept. It wrapped around itself in the stillness of the cavern, twisting and turning, separating and recombining. It writhed like a living thing.

  Tragget swallowed. The dreamsmoke of the dragons. The first of the Dragon-Talkers had discovered its prophetic qualities more than four centuries earlier. Since that distant time, it remained the hidden heart of the Pir Drakonis’s power.

  It was the darkest and most closely guarded secret of the Pir Inquisitas—a secret which, though he had known about it, he had never witnessed.

  “Watch carefully, boy,” Edana murmured. “Watch and learn.”

  The smoke wove in and out of itself, rising higher into the cavern above. In moments, the curls and eddies drifted into the uptur
ned light of the hooded fires, exposed in sharp illumination against the blackness beyond.

  The smoke twisted in on itself as though from some unseen current of air.

  Tragget caught his breath. His words were but a breath. “A man!”

  “Yes.” Edana smiled thinly. “The man I seek. The man who has appeared in the smoke each week since Fivemonth. And his clothing, what do you notice?”

  Tragget squinted at the shifting smoke. “A commoner . . . no, a fool. He wears a fool’s cap.”

  “A symbol for a liar,” Edana corrected. “He is a liar . . . a keeper of secrets . . . a pretender.”

  The smoke broke into two figures.

  “Who . . . who is that?” Tragget’s words nearly caught in his throat.

  “That is you,” Edana said smoothly. “See? The figure wears robes that are too large for him. It is you.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t want to see any more,” Tragget said as calmly as he could. He knew the color had drained from his face.

  “Do not fear the dreamsmoke, child.” Edana’s words were as much a command as an assurance. “There is more concerning you.”

  Tragget heard a second, hearty exhalation from the dragon. A wide fan of smoke arched upward into the light. Demons danced among the eddies, then dissolved. Warriors congealed, only to die and dissipate in battle. There was a winged woman . . .

  Then there was Vasska. The fan of smoke formed into the likeness of the great dragon, arching above the two figures. The ephemeral wings spread wide in the red upturned light. The head condensed atop a curling neck of smoke. It craned down menacingly over the two smoky figures, its jaw hanging wide as though to eat them.

  The fool figure reached out for the robed figure. It held a long, smoky knife over its head, ready to plunge it into the figure of the smoke-dragon. At the last moment, however, the robed figure turned. It reached out with its hand, plunging it into the chest of the fool, tearing out the fool’s heart. The fool shriveled up, its own smoke drawn suddenly into the robed figure.