The Gods Return

by David Drake

  She cocked her head to look at Amineus. He must have felt her foxlike sharpness, but he didn’t turn to meet it.

  “But it is not your tree that has the power, elder,” she said. “The tree has grown here because of the power of the temple in its center. And you fear it.”

  “The temple is very old,” Amineus said softly. “Its walls were mud brick. They’ve been gone, crumbled to dirt, from long before records. And the records of the priesthood of the Tree, the questions and responses, go back to the age before the age before the Old Kingdom.”

  He stopped and turned to face the three of them. “I didn’t lie to you, Master Cashel,” he said. “We know nothing about the temple beyond what you yourself see. And if you prefer to think that I would not act respectfully to a site of ancient worship if I didn’t fear it, then you go ahead and believe that. But you’re wrong.”

  Cashel felt uncomfortable. He wasn’t sorry for having brought the business out in the open, but it now seemed that the priest hadn’t had any bad intention in not wanting to discuss it.

  “I don’t think that, sir,” he said. “You’ve showed yourself polite to us, for which we thank you.”

  “Yes,” said Amineus, “but perhaps less forthcoming than a man in fear of his life should be to his rescuers, eh? My pardon to all of you.”

  He turned again and gestured with his left hand. “Milady,” he said. “This is the oracle itself.”

  Cashel hadn’t known what to expect. There was an aspen grove in Cafardstown, three days north of Barca’s Hamlet. Folk said that if you slept in it, the Lady would speak to your dreams in the rustling of the leaves. Cashel had never seen the grove or cared about it one way or another, but he knew folk who’d made the journey.

  Some said they’d got their answer, too. Widow Bassera had asked the trees to pick between her suitors, then married young Parus or-Whin instead of a settled man her own age. The match had worked out well, but Bassera was a clever one who might’ve decided to get the Lady’s support for the choice her own wits had made.

  Here at Dariada. . . .

  A flat stone was set into the ground. It was polished black granite an ell across, not local limestone like the foundation of the old temple. Though the stone had been cut to be round, the surface was etched with many figures inside each other, from a triangle up to something with more sides than Cashel could count with both hands.

  Describing the Tree would make it sound like the stands of mangroves that Cashel had seen in his travels. That was nothing like what it really looked like, though, because these individual boles were as thick as the trunks of live oaks.

  Slanting up from the nearest trunk was a branch thicker than Cashel could’ve spanned with both arms. From it a seedpod hung almost to the ground in front of the granite slab. This pod was huge, bigger than Cashel in every dimension. Its casing had turned a brown as dark as walnut heartwood, and the seam running from tip to stem was almost black.

  That seam had started to split open at the top. Inside the pod was the face of a man with his eyes shut. It was the same deep brown as the casing around it.

  “I’ve brought you to the oracle, milady,” Amineus said, turning his hand toward the pod. “The querent always asks his—or her—own questions. We of the priesthood merely make the administrative arrangements.”

  “Thank you, Master Amineus,” Liane said. She seemed a little taken aback. “Which . . . which of us is to do the questioning?”

  The priest shrugged. “That’s up to you,” he said. “I’ve already explained that the oracle refused to tell us—the priests of the Tree—anything beyond the fact that the Worm will come to Dariada regardless of what we wish or do.”

  “All right,” said Liane with a crisp nod. “Rasile, this is your business properly.”

  To the priest she added, “Master Amineus, is there a form she’s to use in addressing the oracle?”

  Amineus shrugged again. “The Tree will speak if it chooses to,” he said.

  Rasile stepped onto the slab, placing both feet carefully within the triangle that was the innermost of the forms. Before she could speak, the eyes within the pod opened.

  I thought it was a statue, Cashel thought. A carved statue. . . .

  “What have I to do with a Corl?” said the wooden head. “Other than kill it as an affront to the world that is given to men, that is. Or do you think that because you are a wizard, you can force me to speak?”

  “If you know my heart . . . ,” said Rasile, standing as straight as the joint of her hips permitted. Cashel had seen the wizard’s face when she confronted a wyvern that had just torn a muscular Corl chieftain to dollrags. Then too she’d shown a fierce certainty that though she would die, she would die fighting. “Then you know I claim no power over such as you.”

  The face—the Tree—laughed. “I will not harm you,” it said. “But step away, Corl. You have no part in my world.”

  Rasile bowed, then hopped onto the bare ground without touching the slab again. Liane, delicately but without hesitation, stepped into her place.

  The Tree laughed again. Its voice was a deep baritone. It reminded Cashel of stormwinds booming through a hollow log.

  “Greetings, Lady Liane,” the Tree said. “Another time I would speak with you, but now as the world of men nears its end I will talk to your champion instead. Cashel or-Mab, come face me.”

  “Sir,” said Cashel, stepping onto the granite. He held the staff crossed before him at waist height. It wasn’t a threat, but it showed he didn’t intend to be pushed around.

  Cashel knew the Tree’s sort. He was the Tree’s sort; which he guessed was why it’d called for him.

  “My father’s name is Kenset, sir,” he said. “Not Mab.”

  The Tree’s laughter boomed. The carven face was handsome, but its lines were just as hard as the wood it was shaped from.

  “Your father was a weakling,” the Tree said harshly. “He made bad choices and drank because he regretted them. Your mother Mab, though . . . she is not weak. Nor is her son. Ask me what you want to know, Cashel son of Mab.”

  “Sir,” said Cashel. Without really thinking about it, he pivoted the quarterstaff to stand straight up beside him, gripped in his right hand. “There’s a Worm loose in the world, now. How do we kill it, please?”

  “No man living can kill the Worm, Cashel,” the Tree said. Its words were rumbling like distant thunder. “In times more ancient than you can imagine—”

  The eyes looked from Cashel to the women beside him, just like they were in a human face instead of a wooden one.

  “More ancient than even Lady Liane has read of in the oldest books. In those times lived a hero named Gorand. He was the champion of his people as you are of yours, Cashel. He vanquished the Worm when fools let it into the world of men.”

  “Yes sir,” Cashel said. He was speaking like the wooden face was another man; but it talked like another man, and anyway that was the polite thing to do. “Can you teach me to do what Gorand did? To beat the Worm?”

  The Tree boomed another peal of laughter. “No, Cashel, I cannot,” it said. “That is a thing not even you can learn. You must rouse Gorand and convince him to banish the Worm for you. To banish it for mankind, as he did before.”

  Cashel didn’t say anything for a moment, making sure that he understood what he’d just been told. He caught Liane out of the corner of his eye: her mouth opened like she was going to speak, but she closed it again. Rasile reached out and touched her arm. Both women were looking at him.

  “Sir,” said Cashel, “how do I find Gorand and rouse him? Please.”

  The Tree had said that Cashel couldn’t learn to fight the Worm. Cashel wasn’t sure that was true, but that didn’t matter if there was another way to get rid of the creature. If the Tree said to rouse Gorand, that meant it thought they could do it. All they needed now was to learn how.

  There was no point saying that Gorand was long dead. The Tree knew that, had told them that.

&nbs
p; “There is a stele in front of the Office of the Priests,” the Tree said. “On the reverse of the stele are carved directions to reach Gorand. But I cannot tell you how to convince Gorand to return to help you, Cashel son of Mab. The people of this world repaid Gorand with evil for his good, and the people of Dariada worst of all. Gorand was a citizen of Dariada, and they treated him ill.”

  “I’m sorry for that, sir,” Cashel said. “A man like you say Gorand is, though, he won’t let that keep him from doing what he needs to do.”

  Sure, there were people who’d cheat and do all manner of low things to the folks who helped them; it’d happened to Cashel and he’d seen it happen to others. But you couldn’t hold it against everybody.

  “Do you think so, Cashel?” the Tree said. Cashel thought it might laugh again, but instead there was something else in the tone that he couldn’t place. “That’s for you to convince him, then.”

  The eyes of the wooden face closed; the mouth settled back into grim silence. Cashel stepped off the slab.

  Liane’s face worked with frustration and a touch of anger that she was trying to conceal. “The stele’s worn smooth!” she said. “Any information there was lost ages ago. Perhaps—”

  She looked from the pod to Amineus.

  “—we can speak to the oracle again?”

  “Milady,” said the priest, “you’re welcome to speak to the Tree as much as you wish. But as you saw, the Tree was unwilling to answer you even once.”

  “It’s all right, Liane,” Cashel said. He stretched with the quarterstaff, but he didn’t spin it as he might’ve done in another place. There was room here, but it didn’t seem, well, respectful. “He knew what he was doing. The Tree did, I mean. We’ll go look at this stele. You think he meant the slab out in front of the door here?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Liane sharply. That wasn’t like her, but she wasn’t used to being off on her own this way. By now, Cashel was. “That’s a stele, the stele. And I did look at it. The image on the obverse is clear, but the legend on the reverse has been completely worn away.”

  The priest was watching. He seemed even more worried than before. He probably hoped the three of them were marvels who never doubted what to do next. Seeing that they were human after all put him right back where he’d been before they came, frightened and despairing.

  “Warrior Cashel is correct,” Rasile said calmly. “We must trust the oracle.”

  She dipped her head to Amineus. “Thank you, wise one,” she said. “We will examine the stone outside your gate again. I think we will find that the stone is not as blank to a wizard as it might be to a layman—”

  Her tongue wagged toward Liane.

  “—no matter how wise that layman is.”

  Liane’s face went hard for an instant; then she stepped forward with her arms spread, managing to sort-of hug both Cashel and Rasile. “Thank the Lady!” she said.

  Cashel figured they could all agree with that.

  AH, YOUR HIGHNESS . . . ,” said Lord Tadai, looking around the room in which Sharina had told him to meet her. “Wouldn’t we be more comfortable discussing this religious problem, ah, elsewhere?”

  No, I wouldn’t, Sharina thought grimly. Obviously.

  They were in the little chamber off the bedroom of her suite, intended for the maid or manservant who’d normally be attending a noble at night. There was only room for a cot, a wash stand with a chest of ease beneath it, and ordinarily a rack holding additional sheets and blankets for the main bedroom.

  Sharina’d had the rack replaced by the chair in which she now sat; a cloak hung over the back of it. She gestured Tadai to one end of the cot and said, “We won’t be here long, milord,” she said. “There’ll be a one more—ah, here he is. Master Dysart, close the door behind you, if you will.”

  Liane’s deputy seemed more like a coney than a mouse: plump, soft, and timid. That can’t have been true—well, he was plump enough—but nonetheless Sharina felt a pang at Liane’s absence. Even though Dysart had to be competent to hold his position, she still missed her friend’s presence and advice.

  “Before we proceed to the matter of Scorpion worship . . . ,” Sharina said.

  Dysart was still standing, though he’d pulled the door to. It was very quickly going to become close in this small chamber with three people and the flames of a two-wick oil lamp.

  “Please sit, Master Dysart,” Sharina snapped, gesturing to the other end of the bed. She had no right to be irritated with the man for being afraid to do the obvious without permission, but the night’s business had disturbed her.

  She cleared her throat. “There’s another matter you need to know as my closest advisors,” she said. “Master Burne, you may come out now. Master Burne helped me—”

  The rat squirmed from behind a fold of the cloak. He rose to his hind legs, bowed, and hopped to Sharina’s lap. Both men kept blank expressions, but Lord Tadai had stiffened to leap up before he caught himself.

  “A new pet, Your Highness?” he said in a neutral voice.

  “Not exactly, milord,” said Burne. “Though it’s probably better if most people think that’s what I am. Otherwise they’ll start whispering that the princess is a wizard herself, you know, and there’s no telling where that will end.”

  “By the Lady,” Tadai said quietly.

  “Master Dysart, do you have any comment?” Sharina asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “I defer to Your Highness’ judgment,” the spymaster said. He didn’t shrug, but there was a shrug in his tone. “If I might suggest one thing?”

  “Just speak, Master Dysart,” Sharina said, her voice again sharper than she’d intended. “We all want to get out of this closet as soon as we can.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Dysart said, making a seated bow. “A gold chain or the like around the . . . around Master Burne’s neck might be useful to prevent an accident with your guards or the palace staff.”

  Sharina looked at the rat. “Oh, he’s right, I know that,” Burne said disgustedly. “You wouldn’t believe the prejudice—”

  He paused and wrinkled his whiskers. “Well, you probably would,” he said. “And to tell the truth, I find my fellow rats a rather unsavory crew—though there are rough diamonds among them, I assure you, gentlemen. Still, I think a ribbon will be satisfactory, don’t you? Because chains chafe my fur. Yes, a nice ribbon of bleached linen will do admirably.”

  “Now that we’ve seen Master Burne,” said Tadai with a flick of his perfect manicure, “perhaps we can remove to more a comfortable meeting place, Your Highness?”

  “We’re here because I’m afraid of being overheard,” Sharina said, “by scorpions. There are suddenly a lot of scorpions in Pandah—”

  “Yes indeed,” said Tadai. He might not have interrupted Princess Sharina at a formal council meeting, but she’d noticed that the prefect had a tendency, despite his formal politeness, to disregard things that a woman said. “That’s why I requested a meeting, Your Highness. The infestation of scorpions in concert with the new worship, that is.”

  “City Prefect Tadai,” Sharina said in clipped syllables. “Will you please listen to me?”

  Tadai’s face became very still. “Your Highness,” he murmured, dipping his head.

  “Burne believes that the scorpions are communicating with one another,” Sharina resumed. “Ordinarily if I wanted to speak to you without being overheard I’d go out in the middle of a park, but we couldn’t possibly avoid such small eavesdroppers there. It should be possible to keep this room clear for the time we’ll be here.”

  “I know they talk to each other,” the rat said. “It’s arm signals, a regular little semaphore with their pincers, and they can see each other in what’s the dark to you or me. Now, though, they’re saying more than the usual, ‘This is my patch,’ or ‘I’m too big for you to eat.’ ”

  He shook his head in disgust. “I’d say that scorpions didn’t have any more society than a pile of rocks does,” he said, �
��but at least rocks don’t eat each other.”

  “Are you saying that scorpions are intelligent, Master Burne?” Dysart said. He carried a document file of heavy black leather, much like Liane’s collapsible traveling desk. Unlike his mistress, he kept the case locked while he was in conference.

  “Them?” Burne jeered. “You could have a more intellectual conversation with the lamp up there.”

  His muzzle twitched toward the simple pottery appliance hanging beside the door. Because the suite’s wealthy occupant was never expected to look into this alcove, the lamp’s only decoration was a leaf pattern impressed around the filler hole on top.

  “But whoever’s sending the beasts here must be pretty intelligent,” he added.

  “The same person who’s behind the scorpion worship, presumably,” Tadai said. He raised an eyebrow in question. “There’ve been hundreds of people stung by the creatures in the past few weeks. That’s not serious—”

  “Not serious?” Sharina said in amazement.

  Tadai waved a hand. “Your Highness, we must keep the matter in proportion,” he said. “There’ve been that many knifings in the dives that the drovers and rivermen frequent. And soldiers, I’m afraid. For the most part a scorpion sting is merely unpleasant.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” said Dysart. He stretched out his right leg and pointed to a welt the size of a thumbnail just above the inside of his ankle. The swelling was red, but the center was dead white. “It’s numb, is all. Though I’d rather it hadn’t happened.”

  For an instant Dysart’s eyes rested on Burne, grooming the base of his tail. He continued, “We made a sweep of the offices after this happened and found seven more, but they keep creeping back in the nighttime.”

  “Is it possible that the priests of this new scorpion god control the scorpions themselves?” Tadai said, frowning in concentration. “That they have real power, in other words?”

  “I think . . . ,” Sharina said, pausing to consider how much to say. If Liane were here, she’d discuss her dreams fully; but though Sharina trusted these men’s ability, she didn’t care to disclose her secret fears to them. “I think that there’s someone or something beyond the priests. I think if we question a priest, though, we’ll get . . . closer to the source of the plague.”