'He's an idealist,' said Furlthia. 'Those sorts never have a good end. The sooner we can be rid of him, the better.'
'No, no, no!' Anglhan stopped and gripped the mate's shoulder tightly. 'He's an idealist for sure, but he's not a fool. Sometimes a stupid man can be impossible to trick, but a man who is clever can trick himself. Aroisius thinks he has us where he wants us, and we might as well let him believe that.'
'He doesn't have us where he wants us? His men got the Nemurians, the crew and the landship. That doesn't look promising to me.'
'But he as much as admitted himself that he needs me for something, otherwise I've no doubt I'd have had my throat slit or been pushed over this cliff already.' He started walking again, his pace as brisk as his bulk and the unsteady footing would allow. 'When a man wants something, he becomes vulnerable.'
'What do you suppose that could be?'
'I don't know yet, but I have a few ideas. Did you see those chieftains of his? I'm guessing that most of these rebels follow them. Half of them had hillmen blood in them, you could tell by their squinty eyes and flat noses. I'd bet you a night with my sister that they're interested in something other than the liberation of Salphoria.'
'You don't have a sister.'
Anglhan waved away the comment.
'Aroisius must be offering them something else, and I would think that Askhan gold has something to do with it. And what did Reifan say? They've been raiding into Ersua. Some Askhan, a rich one at that, has got his grubby little fingers all over this pretty girl, I'm sure of it. I think Aroisius is playing a dangerous game, and he might not even realise how dangerous it is.'
'That doesn't sound like something we should get mixed up with,' Furlthia said. 'Rebels on one side, Askhans on the other, and who knows who else, and us stuck in the middle? Perhaps we should just cut our losses and get out of here as soon as we can.'
'Furlthia, you have such a narrow view sometimes! Aroisius isn't going to let us go anywhere until he's sure he has us on some kind of leash. And he's right about that gold; some of it should end up in my pockets. All I have to do is wait for the right moment.'
'I'm giving you fair warning, that's all. I'll watch your back for the moment, but I don't want any part of any rebellion. And I want even less to do with any Askhans.'
Anglhan treated Furlthia to his most paternal smile as they reached the valley floor.
'You worry like a whore that hasn't been paid yet. Stick with me, Furlthia, and I'll make you a rich man.'
'And if it all turns to a pile of shit?'
'Then you'll have to run fast to keep up with me.'
Temple
As immobile as a statue, Lakhyri listened to the chants of his inferiors. He sat upon a chair of blood red stone, bone fingers gripping its arms, eyes closed. Around him the worshippers knelt on the stone floor, naked in their spiral-cut skin, their cadaverous bodies swaying back and forth in time to the incantation, their voices nothing more than husky whispers. The high priest's heart beat slowly in tune with the eternal rhythm, his breaths shallow, chest unmoving.
He listened; to the rasping chorus as a whole; to each of the fifty voices. His ears sought out any imperfection, any stutter or slip, any mispronunciation or variation in tone. He detected none. The flawless monotony was satisfactory.
Yet still he felt nothing. No tingle of life force in his body. No sense of the swirling energies that bound the world together. The chanting dome was empty of all except the fleeting beats of life contained within the chests of his followers. The essence of creation, the invisible force that sustained his existence and bound his immortal masters to this world, was absent.
While he listened, Lakhyri strained his mind, probed the recesses of experience and thought to divine some reason why the source of the eulanui's power was fading. His search was in vain. Never before had he encountered such a thing. It perturbed him.
The gong sounded and the chanting ceased immediately. Lakhyri did not move while his minions pushed themselves wearily to their feet and shuffled out of the hall.
He sensed the pulse of life at the doorway, a blur of heat and light in the grey existence he occupied. He opened his eyes and saw one of the younger acolytes kneeling there, eyes fixed on the ground, a clay tablet held out in one hand.
'Bring it.' Lakhyri's tomb-dry voice echoed around the hall. The youth hurried across the chamber, eyes downcast, and placed the tablet in Lakhyri's lap. The boy withdrew with a quickening patter of feet.
The high priest picked up the tablet. The clay was still wet. A frown creased his leathery brow as he read the message it contained. He rose to his feet and strode out of the hall, the tablet grasped in his claw-like grip.
He ascended the winding ramp to the temple's highest level. The chamber here was small, barely fifteen paces across. Inside stood his two hierophants: Asirkhyr and Eriekh. Their eyes betrayed their worry. Between them, the youngest member of the temple lay upon an inclined stone bed. He stared at the ceiling blankly.
'Do it.'
The hierophants nodded. They lifted small, wicked daggers from niches in the side of the stone slab. The boy did not flinch as Asirkhyr began his work, slicing the point of his knife into the boy's forehead. Eriekh began at the youth's chin. Blood trickled as they carved, dribbling down the boy's cheeks and neck and running in crimson threads down the table, following the rusty stains of many generations.
The hierophants cut circles and swirls into the adept's flesh, through skin and fat but never touching muscle. His face now a mask of blood, the boy continued to stare straight ahead. The circles and spirals joined and flowed together, every part of the youth's face was contained within a loop or arc of the lines.
Satisfied that their work was done, the hierophants stepped back and Lakhyri approached. He placed his hand across the boy's face, palm down, covering his eyes.
'Speak to me.'
Lakhyri lifted his hand. Where he had touched the boy the flesh began to shift. Blood bubbled up from the wounds and skin crawled into new patterns. The boy began to pant and his eyes were suddenly alert. There was a crack of bone and one cheekbone erupted through the skin. The boy gave a choked cry, but only his eyes moved. The cheekbone flowed like molten metal and settled back beneath the flesh. There were more snaps and splintering noises as the youth's chin and brow reformed. Tears welled up in his brown eyes until they clouded over. When the mist drained away, the eyes were darker, so dark that it was hard to tell where iris and pupil met.
Still covered with a sheen of blood, the boy's face was now that of an old man, with a patrician nose and high cheeks. The blistered lips rippled and muscles tensed.
'I am here.' The voice was hoarse and had an odd metallic ring to it. Blood trickled from the corners of the mouth when it spoke.
'I have heard that the succession is under threat,' said Lakhyri. He raised the clay tablet in front of the thing on the slab.
'It is nothing. Aalun has questioned the wisdom of Kalmud remaining heir. Lutaar has denied him any right to speak of it again. We work to restore Kalmud's health. It will not be an issue for long.'
'The life web in which we sit is failing. Something is wrong. The succession cannot be broken. Do not forget your loyalties. If you cannot perform your duties, we will not perform ours.'
'The matter will be dealt with. You have my assurance.'
'Convey a message to the king. Remind him that our bargain is with him and him alone. He understands the consequences of failure.'
'I will remind him.'
'Go.'
Flesh burned and blood boiled as the apparition withdrew. The boy, his faced restored, lurched and screamed. The hierophants grabbed his shoulders and forced him to lie back on the slab. After a while, the youth's shrieks stopped and his eyes fixed on Lakhyri.
