Song of the Risen God

by R. A. Salvatore

  “You will see,” he promised. “And Scathmizzane upon Kithkukulikhan has already delivered the divine throwers.”

  “The divine…” she began, at a loss.

  “You will see,” he said again, motioning at her more emphatically.

  She walked past him, never releasing his stare from her own.

  “When the city is taken, you and I will discuss with Scathmizzane your treatment of Augur Matlal,” he whispered ominously. “Perhaps if you perform well in your tasks, Glorious Gold will prove merciful. Ever does he seem more generous when walking a field covered with the broken bodies of the children of Cizinfozza.”

  The attendants of the golden mirror turned it, catching the reflection of its sister mirror in the east. Tuolonatl stood before it, staring at her reflection as the handlers made the final adjustments.

  She waited for Ataquixt to come through before taking the next magical step, and indeed, made him go first. She needed him beside her at that time, and if Pixquicauh came to realize that need, he would no doubt arrange to remove the mundunugu scout.

  Soon after, Tuolonatl stood at the edge of the magical barrier of golden light, a one-way barrier that prevented the humans from looking at the gathering xoconai army but did not hinder her view to the east at all.

  She saw the towers, the high wall, the solidity of this great human city. It had been designed and constructed for the sole purpose of defense. She saw the mast poles of the many ships in the river outside the northern wall, and the thin lines of smoke from the cooking fires of a thousand homes outside this western side of the wall alone.

  It was as large as any of the cities of Tonoloya, and more fortified than the strongest of them. She had fought only one war in Tonoloya that had involved taking a fortified city, one not a tenth the magnitude of this one, and though she had won that battle, the losses had been staggering, so deep at one point that her attacking forces had abandoned ladders and instead just climbed the piled bodies of their dead comrades to at long last get over the wall.

  Tuolonatl tried not to think about the fact that, even when Ursal was taken, the xoconai forces had hundreds of miles left to go. Every dead mundunugu or macana here would make that journey more difficult.

  “Organize your legions quickly, Commander,” Pixquicauh called to her. “It has already begun.”

  She turned to look at the high priest and respond, but she lost her voice instead, for a long line of augurs accompanied Pixquicauh—more than Tuolonatl ever would have guessed to be this far east, more than she had ever seen in one place before. Three teams of a dozen macana soldiers accompanied them, each escorting a heavy cart drawn by oxen and bearing a giant crystal, much like the great crystal obelisk in the field atop Tzatzini, except that these crystals were translucent and thickly flecked with dark gray, almost black gems.

  “Divine throwers?” Tuolonatl whispered under her breath.

  12

  HOLY SANCTUARY

  The world was a wider place than she had ever imagined, and despite the death, the danger, the approaching army, Aoleyn could not help but be charmed, full of wonderment and excitement, as the ship moved along the Masur Delaval, the great river that emptied, she was told, into a sea vaster than anything she had ever seen.

  She had crossed the continent, thousands of miles, and had seen varying terrain—mountains, rivers, a desert to every horizon—and villages the like of which she had never known. She had seen a great mountain lake drained onto a desert below, revealing the structures of a long-lost, magnificent city. But still, nothing had prepared Aoleyn for Ursal, the throne of Honce-the-Bear, and no river she had crossed or rafted upon could compare to this, the Masur Delaval, a powerful and wide waterway lined with villages on either side.

  “It is quite amazing, isn’t it?” Sister Elysant asked, coming up beside her at the prow of the large sailing ship—another wonder to Aoleyn—now four days out from Ursal.

  “I do not understand it,” Aoleyn admitted. “The river flows away from the city, but there is no lake, and no river flowing into the city.”

  “The rivers feeding Masur Delaval are underground, beneath the bedrock of the city,” Elysant explained. “It was not always this way, but those rivers were dug deeper and covered with stone by the builders of Ursal.”

  Aoleyn stared at her curiously.

  “To withstand a siege,” she explained. “You can trap the king in his city, but getting in is another matter, against those high walls. And you can’t starve him out, not with a large waterway full of fresh water and fish beneath his dungeons.”

  Aoleyn wasn’t sure that she understood—what was a siege, after all?—but she accepted the explanation with a nod.

  “The Masur Delaval is more than that, too,” Elysant went on. “As we move past Palmaris in the north, perhaps this very day, the water becomes salty.”

  Aoleyn shook her head, not understanding.

  “The water of the sea, the great Mirianic,” Elysant explained. “When the tide comes in, the waves can make the northern parts of the river run backwards, carrying the salty water of the sea. And the huge fish, too, some bigger than this boat.”

  “I would like to see this ocean,” Aoleyn said, after she had digested all of that.

  “Oh, you will, and soon. We’ll go out of Masur Delaval and into the Gulf of Corona, then around a peninsula and to the sheltered inlet that will take us to the docks at the base of the cliff that holds Saint-Mere-Abelle.”

  “The church,” Aoleyn said, recognizing the name.

  “So much more than a church,” Elysant said, leaning forward over the rail, her gaze cast ahead longingly. “The Abellican Order has been building that monastery for centuries.” She looked back at Aoleyn, who was trying (unsuccessfully, she realized) to look as if she understood.

  “Hundreds of years,” Elysant explained. “They just keep adding and adding to it. More rooms, more tunnels, more towers. It is the greatest structure in Honce—perhaps in the whole world.”

  “Like Ursal?” Aoleyn asked.

  “Ursal is a great city, no doubt, but no building there can match Saint-Mere-Abelle—not the castle, not Saint Honce, not both together if you made each ten times larger! You will see, my friend.”

  They said no more, Aoleyn moving to the rail and staring ahead once more, feeling the droplets of the cold spray kicked up by the prow. She wanted very much to see the ocean, to see this St.-Mere-Abelle, to see everything in all the world.

  She wanted to leave the xoconai army behind, leave the Ayamharas Plateau and all that she had known in the lands south of Loch Beag behind. Far behind. This had been her dream for as long as she could remember, because she knew there was a world out there, a big and wonderful world full of adventure and surprises, beyond the mountains holding the great lake, beyond Fasail Dubh’clach, the Desert of Black Stones.

  She thought of Bahdlahn and felt a pang of regret. She had wanted him beside her on this journey—she still wanted him beside her. She wondered, not for the first time and not for the last, whether she had been too hasty in dismissing him.

  But again, she came to that place of resolve and reminded herself that she had set Bahdlahn free of any romantic entanglements as much for him as for herself. Perhaps more for him, for he needed to grow, to learn who he wanted to be instead of becoming the image of someone else’s desires.

  She hoped he was safe, was sure that he was, with Khotai and Talmadge looking out for him. She hoped that he was seeing wonders as great as those that filled her eyes. She thought of Catriona, and it occurred to her that perhaps she and Bahdlahn had become something more than friends—she had seen the way the woman had looked at him, after all.

  Aoleyn felt a pang of jealousy at that but then just laughed at herself. She nodded, thinking of the two of them again, and hoped, sincerely, that Bahdlahn had found more than friendship with Catriona.

  Because she hoped that he was happy, that he was filling his mind with wonder, his eyes with beauty, his heart with
warmth.

  She hoped, too, that she would see him again. Her life would be better if she saw Bahdlahn again.

  * * *

  Aoleyn barely closed her jaw those last two days of the voyage, although she barely spoke a word, so overwhelmed and overjoyed was she at the sight of the ocean, its great, dark waters so wide and wild, with huge swells that lifted the boat effortlessly. She had been told about the Mirianic repeatedly, but words could not do justice to the truth of the ocean—the sight, the smell, the feel, the sense of power.

  The ship stayed close to the shore on the right-hand side, the south, then turned south around towering cliffs and into a long inlet that brought them in sight of St.-Mere-Abelle, high up on a huge cliff. The monastery looked as if it had grown right out of those high rocks, with walls, square buildings, and high towers all visible.

  The extensive docks, down here at sea level, were right beneath those cliffs, with only a single large door cut into the sheer rock face. Aoleyn didn’t know much about battle, particularly about large-scale fights, but even she could see that no attackers could come against the monastery from this approach without suffering incredible losses.

  That notion gave her hope, even more than the walls of Ursal.

  The ship slid in to the long wharf, where attendants were on hand to catch the mooring lines and tie her off.

  Aydrian, Brother Thaddius, and Elysant came up to Aoleyn as she watched the Ursal soldiers talking with a trio of men who came out to greet the ship. All were dressed in Abellican garb.

  “You need to trust in me here and allow me to do the speaking when we are brought before the father abbot,” Thaddius told Aydrian and Aoleyn—mostly Aoleyn, she understood. “The father abbot is a good and generous man, but he isn’t likely to be welcoming to Aydrian Boudabras.”

  “Aydrian Wyndon,” the man corrected.

  “Let us hope he agrees,” said Thaddius. “And you, my friend,” he added, addressing Aoleyn, and then he paused and sighed, looking at her bare midriff, her gemstone belly ring clearly visible. “You carry upon your body Ring Stones you should not have.”

  “They are not your Abellican Ring Stones,” Aydrian said.

  “So you and she claim. Will Father Abbot Braumin agree?”

  “I have never seen one of your Abellican monks on Fireach Speuer,” Aoleyn replied indignantly, her voice rising. “Nor are there any stories of your Church in or about the crystal caverns where I found these stones. Now you would claim them as your own?”

  Thaddius looked to Aydrian and the two shared a shrug.

  “Let me speak,” Thaddius reiterated, and Aoleyn noted Aydrian’s nod.

  “Keep your calm, my friend,” Elysant told Aoleyn. “For your own sake. This is a powerful order of powerful people. They are not evil, but they are protective of the world they know.”

  “Viscenti,” Aydrian said, and Aoleyn looked over at him, then followed his gaze to the captain of the ship, who was speaking with a middle-aged man, very slender, with angular features, dressed in fine Abellican robes.

  “You know Master Viscenti?” Thaddius said, but he caught himself immediately. “Of course you do.”

  “Yes, it seems a lifetime ago,” Aydrian agreed.

  The captain motioned them over and the crew moved aside, allowing the four down the ramp to the docks first.

  “I am without words,” Master Viscenti said, shaking his head and staring at Aydrian.

  “I did not ever expect to return to Honce at all, let alone Saint-Mere-Abelle,” Aydrian replied.

  “Perhaps you would like a tour of the graves of the thousands killed the last time you were here.”

  Aoleyn saw the pain on Aydrian’s face. The man closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and it seemed to her for a moment as if he might simply topple over.

  “It is good that he came,” Brother Thaddius chimed in. “For he … we come bearing news that Father Abbot Braumin must hear, and hear soon.”

  Viscenti snapped a glare over at the younger monk, but his sharp visage softened almost immediately. “So I am told,” he replied. He looked back to Aydrian. “I am sorry to hear the news of your mother’s passing. Long will the bards sing of the heroics and heart of Lady Jilseponie. I am sorry for her loss, but I have no condolences to offer to you.”

  Aydrian nodded.

  Viscenti’s eyes went to Tempest, the legendary sword hanging on Aydrian’s hip, then back to meet Aydrian’s gaze, silently conveying his demand.

  To Aoleyn’s surprise, Aydrian unbuckled his belt and removed the sword, handing it over to the monk. Then Aydrian opened his robe, displaying the gorgeous, gem-encrusted breastplate. He began unfastening the shoulder straps.

  “My helm remains in my locker, Captain,” he said. “If you would be so kind as to have one of your crew go and gather it for Master Viscenti.”

  Before the captain even motioned, a nearby Allheart ran back up the plank.

  As Aydrian removed the breastplate, Master Viscenti reached his free hand back and a second monk placed a red gemstone into it.

  Aoleyn watched carefully as the skinny monk clasped the gem in his fist, then brought the hand closer to his mouth as he recited some sort of prayer. He opened his eyes and looked at Aydrian, his gaze moving up and down. He started to turn for Aoleyn but stopped at Brother Thaddius, his eyes going wide, as he seemed to only then take note of the man’s walking stick, set with six magical stones.

  “Brother Thaddius?” he asked breathlessly.

  “Darkfern,” Aydrian said.

  “I have two stories to tell,” Thaddius explained. “One, of my adventures with Sister Elysant—view her robe and her staff. A tale of Saint Belfour.”

  The monks were all excited about that, the two behind Viscenti shaking their heads and murmuring prayers.

  “And one of the west, the far west,” Thaddius finished. “Farther west than we even knew existed, from what I can tell…” He stopped there, abruptly, but it took Aoleyn a moment to realize this, for her attention was then on Master Viscenti, whose attention, obviously, was wholly on her. He stared at her, eyes roaming up and down.

  She knew the red gem he had called to. He was seeing her jewelry, and with more than a passing interest.

  “How dare—” he started.

  “They’re not Abellican stones,” Thaddius said. “It is an entirely new—”

  Viscenti waved him to silence. “Remove them, every stone,” the master demanded, though whether he was speaking to Aoleyn, to Thaddius, or to the brothers behind him, Aoleyn didn’t know—nor did the others, she realized.

  “Master, please!” Thaddius tried to intervene, but two Allheart Knights flanked him immediately, crowding between him and Viscenti and leaning into him, forcing him back.

  Aoleyn felt the rage building inside of her. A stamp of her foot would shock them all with lightning and throw them aside. A gust of wind would blow them away! A fireball would—

  “At ease, I beg of you,” Aydrian whispered into her ear.

  “They will not,” she said through gritted teeth, and loud enough for Viscenti and all the others to hear.

  “Temporary,” Aydrian assured her. “As with my sword, and this.” He removed his breastplate and handed it over to the nearest soldier. “You understand their caution.” He held up his hand to keep the Allhearts back, buying time.

  “I understand that they are claiming that which does not belong to them,” Aoleyn flatly stated.

  She saw the anger flash in the sharp-featured master’s eyes, and he mouthed the word heresy.

  “Tell me which are magical,” another voice, that of Elysant, whispered into her ear. “I will remove them for you, gently, and on my word as your friend and companion, I will fight beside you to get them back.”

  “Aoleyn, please,” Aydrian said.

  Aoleyn pushed away her anger. They needed this alliance, for the sake of all the world. The gemstones were a part of her, but one that she had to relinquish if there were to be any hope of
getting these priests to help in the greater cause.

  The young witch nodded, her hand going to her belly ring to remove the stones. She moved her foot out, allowing Elysant to easily access her magical anklet.

  Master Viscenti looked her up and down again with the garnet when Elysant had moved to his side with all of Aoleyn’s jewelry, then nodded. “Now we go to Saint-Mere-Abelle,” he said.

  “I know every stone, intimately,” Aoleyn warned. “I will have them back, every one.”

  “You are in no position—” he started to respond, but Aydrian stepped toward him, shaking his head and whispering something Aoleyn could not hear.

  The monk looked around Aydrian at Aoleyn, his face full of doubt.

  “It’s true,” she heard Aydrian say. “You do not understand the generosity and good faith you have just been given.”

  Master Viscenti turned on his heel and started for the lone door into the cliff at the back of the docks, the monk escort and Allheart Knights flanking the newcomers and pointedly separating Aoleyn and Aydrian from Thaddius and Elysant.

  Into the tunnel they went, under several heavy portcullises, which all lowered behind them, and through several sets of reinforced iron doors, all flanked by sentry monks. Aoleyn didn’t have to ask what the small holes scattered about the stone walls might be. She had never heard of murder holes, of course, given her background, where no structures remotely like this one could be found, but it was easy enough for her to figure out the purpose—particularly when she heard people behind those walls, shadowing their movements.

  They came into a side chamber a long while later, and to a circular metal staircase that climbed up through the ceiling and far up into the heights.

  It was not a direct line, and it took the troupe nearly an hour to at last exit onto the vast grounds within the castle-like monastery of St.-Mere-Abelle. There, they were met by a dozen monks and were separated, with Aydrian led into one building, Thaddius and Elysant moving with Master Viscenti toward what appeared to the huge main chapel of the place, and Aoleyn taken to a different building altogether, one that was dark and dirty, with barred windows and shackles hanging on the walls.