Chapter 8

Cathan could only stare at his sister and the mask she wore. He felt like the world had dropped away beneath him, leaving him hanging above a yawning chasm.

“Blossom?” he asked.

The crossbowmen shifted, glancing at one another, then over at the swordsman Cathan had put down. The man groaned as Rath and Tancred helped him up, then limped forward, cradling his injured hand in the other. The side of his face, where Cathan had clouted him with the cudgel, was a purple mess, and his eye had swollen shut. The other was sharp, however, and glinted as he looked first at Cathan, then at Wentha.

“You know him?” he growled. His voice was harsh, made mushy by his mashed face.

“Of course I do,” Wentha replied. “Look at him. Closely.”

Scowling, the ruffian turned and did as she asked. A bloodstain at the edge of his mask grew larger. Then he started, his eyes meeting Cathan’s. He swore with great skill. “The Twice-Born! What in the blue Abyss is he doing here?”

“Rescuing me,” Wentha said, her mouth crooking slightly. She glanced at her sons. “I thought you said no one saw us leave.”

“I said I didn’t notice anyone,” Tancred replied. “Once we were past the curtains, how was I to know?”

The ruffian cursed again. “You mean he followed you? Gods damn it, what if he’s not the only one? You could have led half the imperial court to us!”

“I don’t think—” Rath began.

“Shut up, boy,” the ruffian snapped, then raised his hand to his men. “Scatter. Back to the hole.”

Rath stepped forward, his hand straying toward his sword, but stopped as two crossbows swung toward him. He turned a sulky look on the ruffian, saying nothing more.

“What in Paladine’s name is going on?” Cathan finally managed to ask.

Wentha opened her mouth to answer, but the ruffian raised a hand. His men were backing away, melting back into the mist. Two took the other one Cathan had knocked out, each with an arm about his shoulders. The lead ruffian shook his head, his long black hair swaying.

“Questions later,” he said, catching his sword when one of his men lobbed it his way. He gestured with it, at the fog. “Right now, we need to disappear.”

Wentha took Cathan’s hand. Her dark eyes pleaded with him, through the holes in her mask. “Come on,” she said. “If the Hammer finds us, we’re all dead.”

What in the gods have you gotten into? Cathan asked, aiming the question at both his sister and himself. But he got no answer—only a wrenching pain as Wentha yanked him toward her, then began to run.

Mist and shadow flowed past them, and then the towering shapes of the ziggurats. They turned a corner, then another, and soon he had no idea which way he was pointed any more. He lost sight of the others—the ruffians’ injured leader, his nephews, everyone but Wentha, who held his wrist tightly, her slipper-shod feet making no sound against the cobbles. He clomped along behind in his hard boots, feeling like an ox in a Micahi glassblower’s shop.

Suddenly there was something in front of them, and he stumbled to a stop just in time to avoid barreling into Wentha. Ahead, half masked by the fog, was the Vanished Wall: ancient, huge stone blocks rising anywhere from waist-high to ten feet, the top crumbling and crusted with mortar. The swordsman was here already, along with Rath and several of the crossbowmen. Tancred and the others hurried up behind, making no sound.

The leader of the band was studying a statue, set in a recess in the wall. It was headless and armless, clad in segmented armor no man had worn in seven centuries. The plinth at its feet simply proclaimed KELOSTIS, a name Cathan didn’t recognize. There were relics like it all over Chidell, remnants of times forgotten to all but sages. But the ruffian paid the plinth close attention, his good hand resting on one of the statue’s sandaled feet as his men watched behind, crossbows ready.

“Who—” Cathan began.

Wentha put a hand over his mouth. “Later.”

The ruffian studied the statue a moment longer, then reached up, as high as he could, and touched the buckle of the forgotten warrior’s belt. It moved inward, a quarter-inch maybe, with a faint click. Then, with a low rumble, statue and pedestal alike rose up from the ground and swung outward. The ruffians’ leader stepped aside, then leaned forward when it was done.

There was a hole in the ground where the plinth had stood, wide enough for a man to fit through. Cathan leaned forward, seeing iron rungs, dark with rust, descending into the gloom. Then, suddenly, a grotesque face appeared: hook-nosed and ruddy-cheeked, with a shiny pate and a long, braided beard the color of granite. It wore a white mask, too, and regarded the ruffians’ leader critically, then looked past him.

“You’re back early,” the creature in the hole noted. “Did something go—Reorx’s hairless cheeks! Is that who I think it is?”

Cathan looked away, but it was too late: The strange man had recognized his eyes. Wentha tightened her grip on his wrist—whether to comfort him or to make sure he didn’t run away, he wasn’t sure.

“Not now, Gabbro,” said the swordsman. “Let us down before the Hammer sees us.”

The ugly face turned white, looked around. “The Hammer? Here?”

“Gabbro. Let us down.”

The creature hesitated a moment longer, then nodded and clambered out of the hole. He was stunted, perhaps four feet tall, and nearly as broad, with stout legs and bare, well-muscled arms. He held a war axe large enough to cut a man in two.

Cathan gaped. He knew of dwarves, but had never seen one before. The church had driven them out of Istar in the time of the first Kingpriests. The dwarf—Gabbro—turned narrowed eyes on him, daring him to say a word.

“You’ll see stranger things soon enough,” Wentha whispered.

The crossbowmen were descending the iron ladder, moving with swift assurance down the rungs. Rath and Tancred went after them, more slowly.

“Bringing the Twice-Born down into the Puridas with me,” said the swordsman, shaking his head. “I must have lost my mind.”

“It will be all right, Idar, you’ll see,” Wentha said, and nodded toward the hole. “All right, Cathan. It’s your turn.”

Cathan blinked, overwhelmed. How deep did the hole go? What was at the bottom? Or who? Gabbro swung out his arm, a mocking gesture of invitation. Idar gave him a steely look. Wentha pushed him forward slightly.

Swallowing, Cathan started down the rungs, leaving Chidell behind.

“There are tunnels like this all over the empire,” Wentha whispered to Cathan as they waited at the bottom for Idar and Gabbro. A distant rumble shook the walls, bringing down tiny showers of dust—the statue, far above, grinding back into place. “Under every city, and a lot of the countryside, too. They say you can walk most of the way across the empire without ever seeing the sky.”

“Not quite,” said the dwarf, jumping down the last few feet to land with a grunt beside them. “But we’ll get there someday, the way things are going.”

Cathan glanced around, amazed. The passage was cramped, with a ceiling low enough that he had to stoop down to keep from cracking his head on the shoring timbers. A muffled thud, and a louder oath, told him Rath had missed one.

“What kind of place is this?” he asked. “Why have I never heard of it before?”

“Because you’re the enemy,” said Idar, climbing down from above him. His injured arm kept him moving slowly. “If the Hammer knew about the Puridas, there’d be none of us left. Which only makes having you down here with us that much more insane.”

Cathan threw up his hands. “Down where? Will someone tell me where we are?”

“The Puridas?” Idar said again. “The Forgotten Places. The only shelter left from the holy church.” The last two words dripped venom.

“All of us who’d be hunted down by your bloody Hammer if we showed our faces in the open,” added Gabbro, even more viciously. “Dwarves, gnomes, men who follow heathen gods… short of the High Sorcerers, anyone the Kingpriest or the ones before him declared enemies of the empire. Idar here and his family were worshippers of Zivilyn—till the thrice-damned Hammer came for ‘em. Now there’s just him left.”

“Enough, Gabbro,” said Idar, his face grim. The bloody mark on his mask had bloomed huge, but had finally stopped getting bigger. Idar turned to Cathan, studying him intently. “We only wanted to pray to the Tree of Life. We weren’t evil… but your knights didn’t care. We were still heathens, fuel for stake and flame.”

Cathan bowed his head. Zivilyn was one of the gray gods, neither dark nor light. The church had begun to hunt down those faiths just before the war against the mages. He could only imagine what had happened since; if Beldinas said the war against darkness was all but over, it couldn’t be good.

“They aren’t my knights any more,” he said heavily, then looked at Wentha. “And what about you?”

“Not everyone above loves the church,” Idar replied. “Though it seems that way these days. Your sister has been good enough to help us before, in Lattakay. She’s given us gold, helped people escape into the Puridas… whatever she could. She’s one of the best friends we have.”

Cathan’s eyes widened. Wentha looked back, calm and composed. “You?” he asked. “Why?”

She looked at her sons, then at Idar, who sighed and nodded. “Come with me,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

The wine had filled Tithian’s head with bees: not angry bees—no, that would come in the morning—but summer bees, fat and slow, humming pleasantly as they flew about his mind. He sat back against the cushioned wall of Lord Dejal’s hall, watching the performers through blurred eyes. They were acrobats now, lithe women who could leap and twist and tumble in ways that made him regret his vow of chastity. Judging by the smiles on his men’s faces—big, dreamy grins that matched his own—they were thinking the same. A few of them would probably break that vow tonight, forcing him to reprimand them in the morning. A few always did, on nights like tonight.

It was a good evening, he decided, draining his goblet, then holding it up for a servant to refill. He’d slept poorly in Losarcum. The place held too many bad memories, and he woke several times each night with thoughts of fire and melting stone and dying screams roiling in his mind. But coming to Chidell had improved his mood. He was back in civilization again, back in lands where water was not scarce, and the sun and wind weren’t hateful things. The Kingpriest also seemed in a good mood—Tithian glanced at Beldinas, who sat across the room, glowing.

His cup was full again, and he drank deeply, watching the tanned, lean, beautiful women leap and roll and twist. More bees joined the swarm, bringing with them thoughts of slender legs, wrapped around his waist. The air smelled of orange blossoms and myrrh.

He had only one regret, and that was Cathan’s reaction tonight. Not that it had come as a complete surprise—Cathan had been through with the knighthood the moment they left Losarcum the first time, so long ago. But he’d hoped, in his heart, that things might have changed. His old master was a different man now, grimmer, sadder than he remembered. It was like the time Tithian had returned to the small town in Gather where he’d been born, and saw the church where the priests had raised him with other orphans. In his memory, it had been a grand, majestic place, rivaling anything short of the Great Temple. When he went back fifteen years later, though, it had seemed tiny and plain, a shadow of what he’d expected.

Tithian found the bottom of his cup again, and raised it once more. The servant that came to him, however, was not a cupbearer. She was a messenger girl, tall and slender, maybe twenty, with buttery skin and red lips he couldn’t take his eyes from… he shook his head, suddenly wishing the damned bees would stop buzzing and let him think.

“His Holiness bids you attend him,” she said, looking at him doubtfully. “If you will come with me.”

Tithian looked toward the Lightbringer. The serene, glowing face nodded at him, the Miceram winking on his brow. With some difficulty Tithian got his feet under him and made them take him across the room, in as straight a line as possible. He dodged the floor a couple times when it tried to rise up and strike him.

“You are drunk, Grand Marshal,” said Beldinas, as he drew near. There was no reproof in his voice—but no amusement, either.

Tithian drew himself up straight, feeling the stares of Dejal and the others surrounding the Kingpriest. “I apologize, sire,” he said sincerely. “The vintage here is stronger than I expected.”

“I need you sober,” said the Kingpriest. A glowing hand reached out and touched his cheek.

The bees went away. Just like that—no surge of light, no holy power flowing through the air, no invisible chimes and roses. One moment, the room was wobbling about him, and then everything grew sharper. He blinked, amazed. “Holiness…”

“Did you think I could only heal disease?” Now there was a trace of amusement in the Lightbringer’s voice. “I need your help. Where is Cathan?”

Brow furrowing, Tithian glanced around. There was no sign of the Twice-Born anywhere. It had been at least an hour since he’d last seen Cathan. And the other MarSevrins were gone, too.

“I don’t—I don’t know, Holiness,” he said, taken aback.

“Do not be ashamed, Tithian,” Beldinas declared. “I did not notice until just now, either.”

“Perhaps he retired.”

The Kingpriest shook his head. “He is not in his chambers. Neither are Lady Wentha, or young Rath and Tancred.”

“I will find him,” Tithian said, feeling a rush of dread he couldn’t explain. Surely no ill had befallen them… ?

He scanned the room, looking for those of his men who might still be clear-headed. There weren’t many—just a couple Seldjukis who didn’t drink because of oaths to their branch of the church, and an old knight called Xenos who had sworn off wine for his health. Well, he thought, they’ll have to do.

“We’ll find him, sire,” Tithian declared. “He probably hasn’t gone far.”

“Thank you, Grand Marshal,” Beldinas said, “but I can find him well enough. I only ask your protection.”

You? Tithian nearly asked, but stifled the word—though he was betrayed by the confused expression on his face. He felt the Kingpriest’s eyes bore into him.

“I told you,” said Beldinas, “I do more than just heal disease.”

The Lightbringer performed the ritual in a small room deep within the ziggurat, away from the feast-hall. There were two candles on silver sticks, and frescoes on the walls: battling dragons of blue and gold, painted in a romantic style popular three centuries before. The floor was red tile, arranged in spirals. Beldinas stood in the middle of the room, head bowed, while Tithian’s four sober knights—by the gods, he would have some harsh words for his men tomorrow—lurked at the chamber’s edges.

“Palso fit mideis,” he prayed, spreading his hands before him. “Lonfam ansinfud si lasdam sporium.”

The lost shall be found. Send me a servant to follow its trail.

The power flared around him, sun-bright. Tithian caught a ruby flash from the Crown, then had to turn away, as twin stabbing pains found their way deep into his skull. Furiously, he wiped tears from his cheeks, then made himself look again.

Beldinas’s aura was coursing around him, running down his arms and pouring from his hands. It spilled out of his body, becoming liquid as it fell… thick water that collected in globules like quicksilver. Moonlight flashed within it as it ran together, forming a shape: long, sleek, four-legged. It was a hunting dog, its skin made of rippling platinum, its eyes empty and white.

Like Cathan’s, Tithian thought with a shudder.

The beast of silvery light stood alert, poised for its master’s command. The Kingpriest stepped back, his shoulders bowing. Tithian started toward him, but Beldinas waved him off.

“I will recover,” he said. “This is a yethu—a hound of the gods, smarter and finer than any bred on earth. It can track a hawk on the wing, but it will not remain in this world long. Move quickly, Grand Marshal, and find Cathan before ill befalls him.”

The dog, the yethu, looked at Tithian. Its tail wagged happily, throwing off sparkling droplets. Tithian stared back, but felt his eyes shift away. The white eyes frightened him. He turned instead toward Beldinas.

“Go,” said the Lightbringer.

Sighing, Tithian nodded to the hound. With a happy bark—a gonglike ringing—it turned and bounded out of the room. Tithian followed, his men close behind.