some icy substance that gave off a faint white glow. Animal symbols etched into its rim represented the Gods of the Upper Circle.
The priestess drew closer and he heard the hesitation in her footsteps. Perhaps she was wondering whether to reach out and pluck his arm, maybe even guide his elbow forward. He didn't wait for her to come to any decision but lurched off again, down the steps to the small shrine. Every visitor to the cavern would take a thimble-sized cup of polished brass and drink the ice-cold water. Legend said it had been blessed by the Gods and was the source of their remarkable abilities, but there had never been any mages among the clans and no one knew for sure.
Venn knew; his time in the Land had revealed much of its workings and he was in no doubt about what lay behind his people's abilities, yet as he knelt at the edge of the basin he felt his breath catch. With ponderous movements he took up a cup and drank. His throat tingled at the sharp chill of the water as he swallowed and began to murmur a prayer he'd not spoken in years. The prayer tasted bitter, but he knew Jackdaw needed the delay.
'It is there.' He caught the faint whisper in his ear. Jackdaw sounded out of breath, but Venn couldn't tell whether the man was simply drained by the exertion of his spell or if it was an effect of turning himself to shadow. 'I need only a few moments to turn the spell to our purpose.'
Venn had to force himself not to shiver. In this form the craven mage was no figure of ridicule. As a shadow, Jackdaw reminded him disturbingly of Rojak, Azaer's most favoured disciple. Something in his voice reminded Venn that they had found no trace of Rojak's body – not even his enchanted gold chain, which should have been untouched by the flames that had obliterated the city of Scree.
He put the thought from his mind and continued the prayer. Rojak had ordered him to give his people a king, and in a few moments, Jackdaw would have added to the spell on the water, opening his people to change, to ambition.
Let them choose a new path. Venn thought, adding his own blessing. Let them hope to be more than just entertainment, let them strive for something new. A king they will wish for, a new-born prince they will find.
'It is done,' Jackdaw said softly in his ear. Venn gave a fractional nod of the head and spoke the final words of the prayer. He rose and turned to discover the priestess standing close by with a proprietorial air.
Here is the reward you've been seeking all these years. Do you remember the tale of Amavoq's Cup? How deeply will you drink of this poisoned chalice?
Venn looked past her as she glanced down at the basin as though expecting a miracle to be thrown into her lap. His eyes were fixed on the far wall, where the holy words of his people had been carved in the rock. All eyes were on him and sudden silence reigned in the cavern, except for the faint hiss and pop of sap in the braziers. Keeping his movements unnatural and jerky, Venn made his way to the long stretch of wall that bore the holy words and sank to his knees before them, staring up.
'Why are you here?' croaked a voice on his right.
His face blank, Venn turned to look at the stooped figure addressing him. His guard dog, the priestess, stood behind him, almost as close as Jackdaw as she staked her claim. She said nothing, but Venn could feel her poised to strike. The old man was a windspeaker, one of the revered priests whose years of service had taken them beyond prayer to a place where they could hear their God's voice on the wind. She would not challenge one so senior, but Venn knew she would pounce on anything she could to regain control of the situation. Ambition could tear down mountains.
He slowly focused upon the windspeaker. With both hands gripping a gnarled staff, the priest scowled and repeated his question.
Windspeaker, if you hear words in the rushing of air you'll see the hand of Gods in my actions. Men such as you taught me to recite the tale of the Coward's Mirror by heart. Before the end I will perform it for you, as a final chance to avoid your own foolishness.
'I have been sent,' Venn whispered eventually.
'Sent by whom?'
'The Master.' Venn paused, giving them time enough to glance over at the chapel of Death where a dozen gold-leaf icons bearing His face shone in the firelight. 'A bearer of tidings; of darkness past and a path to come.'
Lap it up, you old bastard. Time for you to choose; hesitate here and she'll step around you. You'll fall behind and another will be remembered as the one who attended at the moment in history.
A tiny sound behind Venn told him he was right. While the old fool dithered, the warrior-priestess had no such doubts. Deceived as she was, the priestess had no fear of the future and as she strode past, a soft sigh escaped the old man's lips. Venn followed in her wake, leaving the windspeaker behind as an irrelevance.
He lowered his head in prayer, the holy words a powerful presence ahead of him. A king for his people was Rojak's last order to him. They would not accept any king other than one they chose themselves, but Venn had learned much from the twisted minstrel. Jackdaw's magic had opened the way, and a Harlequin's skills would lead them through.
'No king to rule you, no mortal lord to command you.' The last line of the holy words made the clans think they were special, that they were blessed. His contempt tasted as bitter as the prayer had.
'Listen to me well, for I am a guardian of the past,' he said in a cracked and raw voice, as though he had been silent all those years since last he had visited that place. It was the Harlequin's traditional opening to their audiences.
He waited, sensing the priests gather. He felt a hand on his shoulder and Jackdaw channelling magic through him. A shudder ran through his body and continued down into the ground below. All around he heard whispers of fear and wonder as the priests felt the ground tremble beneath their feet.
'I speak to you of peace – and of a child. Flawed is our Land; imbalanced and imperfect, yet perfection must exist for us to recognise the shadow it casts. Such perfection can be found in the face of a child, for a child knows nothing of fear. Armed only with the divine gift of life their souls are unstained, their hearts unburdened.
'Let the penitent among us raise up a child to remind us of the innocence we once possessed. Let the penitent speak with the voice of a child and have no use for harsh words or boastful manner. Let the penitent see the tears of a perfect child as they repent of their sins, weeping for the loss of innocence. What greater service can there be than the service of innocence?'
In the forest, two figures shared a look, their breath cold against the snow. Shrouded against the last light of day they were nothing more than indistinct darkness, hunkered down by the broken stump of an ancient pine. One of the figures had a hand stretched out before her, a glassy, stylised skull resting in her bare palm. Her sapphire eyes flashed in the darkness.
'This is what we have come to observe?' asked the man. His voice betrayed no anger, but from his sister there was no hiding the note of scepticism.
'Every tapestry begins with a single thread. I would know the pattern he weaves while there is still time to act.'
'Our time is best served unpicking threads?'
'Our time is limitless, Koezh,' she replied, cocking her head as though straining to catch the last of the Harlequin's words before returning the Crystal Skull to a pouch at her waist, 'and the purpose has perhaps already revealed itself.'
'The child.'
She inclined her head. 'The fall of Scree showed Gods could be driven off, evicted from a place and a population, however temporarily that was. If the temples are emptied and the congregation turned against their Gods, those Gods are left weak and exposed.'
Koezh understood. 'In times of trouble folk turn to the past for comfort, and the Harlequins are the keepers of history. If those keepers begin to tell stories of a child of peace when the horns of war have sounded across the Land, the faith of the people will be not destroyed, but diverted.'
Zhia smiled, and her elongated teeth shone in the twilight. 'Perhaps our time has at last come.'
CHAPTER 2
