“Stuff the relics-and the accursed Man of Gold, which is neither a man, nor gold, and which does not work anyway-into an Ahoggya’s furry arse, throw the temple libraries in after them, and set the lot afire!”
Harsan had astonished even himself. His fingers shook, and he felt a sudden dread of losing control and becoming as he had been under the Mihalli’s awful spell. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
Lord Durugen sat speechless, for once shocked into silence. Prince Eselne straightened up, and for a moment Harsan feared that the next words he would hear would be a call for the impalers and their stake.
Then Eselne began to laugh.
“Hai, a Zrne cub leaps snarling upon its foes, no matter their size!” he chortled. “Ah, priest Harsan, would you assault Avanthar and lay waste to the temples of the Gods-and both on the same afternoon? Would that my soldiers were as brave as you!” He choked, broke off to spit a Mash — seed out into the night, and gasped for breath.
“What would you have then, boy?” Lord Durugen inquired with ominous gentleness.
“Only a place in some peaceful temple-a monastery, an academy of learning, I care not-somewhere. A place in which to work, to fulfill my Skein of Destiny, to study, to learn. No more.”
“Aha, Lord Durugen!” Eselne crowed. “Oh, let us grant him this-agree to accept his written deposition regarding the relics, find him such a post, and trouble him no longer! His courage demands it.”
The High Adept’s face was stiff and cold. “Easy for you, mighty Prince, who possess the artifacts and the Man of Gold, whatever it may be. Easy for the Imperium, but not so for us. We have a right to this youth; we took him in, nurtured him, trained him, gave him the skills he would now bury in some rustic shrine!”
“Nonsense. He will warble the tune your grey-robes taught him. But not, mayhap, exactly as you and I would have him sing! Release him-a noble act upon our parts, and noble action is the sole salvation of all creatures, as the Scrolls of your Priest Pavar say, though I am damned if I can recall just where!” He gestured out beyond the railing, toward the world that slumbered there in the darkness. “Do you not have a temple post someplace, the sort of thing this priest Harsan wants? Let us not be too harsh with our taskmastering!”
Lord Durugen’s face wore the expression of one who has just bitten into a pebble. “No-yes-oh, have it your way. “I suppose so. If you insist. There is a librarianship in Penom-”
“A stinking city, a sinkhole of swamps and insects and disease!”
“Thraya, then. A teacher died there recently, of that new plague.”
“Too remote-and not the sort of place where real research is done. The Monastery of the Sapient Eye, dear Lord Durugen! Prior Haringgashte grows no younger.”
“Well, Well,” Lord Durugen cleared his throat, coughed, and made to rise. “An Imperial Prince decrees. So be it.”
“Would you return to the Chakas, priest Harsan?” Eselne inquired.
Before he could reply, another voice asked, “Or may I suggest yet another Skein?” Lord Taluvaz Arrio stood there. No one had heard him come up in the darkness. They all turned about to look.
“And what might that be?” the High Adept asked in sceptical tones.
“Livyanu, great masters. As a member of the venture sent jointly by the Temples of Lord Thumis and Lord Karakan to explore the southern continent.-Or perhaps a post with your expeditionary force in Tsolei?” He glanced down at Harsan. “New things, learning, the ancient seat of Llyani wisdom-doors that only I can open for you within the archives of our temples! No threat to the interests of the Temple of Thumis or to those of Prince Eselne, either one. Out of harm’s way: no Skull Prince threading needles of revenge. No more of players and games.”
He gave Harsan a meaningful look.
Here was a possibility, a new idea. What Taluvaz Arrio offered did promise knowledge, adventure, and excitement. More, it would give him peace from the storms that had cast him up upon the shore here at Avanthar.
But then longing for the sweet, green canopy of the Chakan Inner Range welled up within him: the Monastery of the Sapient Eye-Zaren-his Pe Choi friends-his home. Too, there was Itk t’Sa’s mission, embedded within his heart like a gem set in a ring.
He was tom.
He considered for a moment. The others watched. Then he drew a ragged breath and said, “The Chakas, my Lords.-Thank you, anyway, Lord Taluvaz.”
The Livyani bowed. Prince Eselne lumbered up to his feet, very much like the Chlen-beast with which the palace wags compared him. So, even more stiffly, did Lord Durugen. Kashi had risen, and its ruddy moonlight transformed the sculptured columns of the gallery into a jungle of tangled ochre vines. It was time to go.
Tlayesha met Harsan and took his hand. She said nothing, but he thought that she must have heard.
The great citadel still rippled with life and motion, even at this hour of the night. The Tunkul-gong of the Temple of Lord Ksarul sang down through the arched halls and high-vaulted ceilings, calling the faithful to the Service of the Investiture of Indigo. Every sect had its own shrine here, and each of the ten Gods and ten Cohorts was served in accordance with ancient custom and ritual. Throngs of courtiers swept up and down the staircases: nobles on their way to an entertainment, stewards intent upon privy missions, foreign emissaries gawking and gaping at the wonders displayed, soldiers, servants, lackeys, scribes. A hundred, a thousand, meetings and assignations and whispered trysts in the golden, lamplit shadows.
The statues in the Hall of Eminent Rememberings were dark-looming collossi above them as they passed: noble Emperors whose blank stone eyes looked beyond the world to gaze upon the Gods, heroic generals, stem ecclesiastics bearing the cryptic symbols of their sects.
Prince Eselne halted. A young woman had detached herself from a crowd of chattering comrades and was coming toward them. She wore a skirt made of strips of emerald and purple, a collar of green beryls, a silver tiara from which iridescent Kheschchal-plumes drooped down to sweep the floor behind her. Delicate silver chains glittered at her wrists and ankles, and her intricately coiffed tresses were powdered with silver as well. Her full, rounded breasts sparkled with artful patterns of dusted gold.
“Lady Misenla,” Eselne said heartily.
“Mighty Prince, Lord Durugen, my Lords.” The woman was little more than a girl, yet her face struck Harsan as old, clever, and altogether too lovely to be believed.
Lord Durugen saluted her brusquely, bid his companions goodnight, and stalked on by. The Prince motioned Harsan and the others to stay.
“My Prince, highest one, who is most dear to all of the Empire, let me introduce you to certain new friends.” The priestess’ eyes glowed yellow topaz in the lamplight. “General Kadarsha hiTlekolmii; his house-wizard Eyloa; General Karin Missum-men say that his ferocity in battle makes him truly ‘The Scarlet Death,’ as his nickname denotes; Lord Kutume; Lord Shenesh…” She named several more.
“Some I know already.” Prince Eselne waved a hand to include them all. They were Prince Mirusiya’s “New Men,” companions of his army days drawn along to the zenith of glory by Mirusiya’s own advancement. If Misenla had befriended these, then there would be more realignments and subtle shifts within the kaleidoscope of Imperial power.
Harsan, however, had eyes only for one in Misenla’s entourage. Eyil.
She stood in the rear of the group, in conversation with the shave n-skulled, gigantic soldier Misenla had called Lord Shenesh. Eyil was staring at Harsan. Neither moved.
Misenla raised one artful brow. “Oh, la, I had forgotten that your friend there-what is his name? — knows this lady, the priestess Eyil hiVriyen.”
Harsan could smell the fusty cushions of Eyil’s litter upon the road to Bey Sii, the scent of her limbs, the perfume of her hair. It was as though no time had passed at all.
“Harsan…” Eyil said.
He moved toward her. He could not help it.
“Mighty Prince, I had meant to bring her to your quarters tomorrow,” Misenla was saying. “She had so wanted to see this priest, this hero of yours. Something about a useful connection between her clan and his new one. Is it not to be the Clan of the Grey Cloak?”
“I-we have not yet quite decided,” Harsan managed.
“I am sure that he would be happiest in that clan,” Eyil murmured. Her eyes never left Harsan’s. “My clan and the Grey Cloak are old friends, though we differ upon various minor religious matters.”
Small, urgent fingers reached through from behind to encircle Harsan’s arm. Tlayesha said, “Even so, perhaps
