The Shadow's heir

A shape stepped in her way. “Welcome,” it said.

Laela jerked to a stop. “What the. .?”

The stranger was a man-bald, wearing a yellow kilt. His skin had been covered in gold paint, so for a moment he looked like a living version of the statue behind him.

“Who are yeh?” Laela said unceremoniously, almost resenting the interruption.

The man smiled and folded his hands together. “I am Ocax,” he said. “I am a priest of Xanathus.”

He was speaking griffish, Laela realised. “I’m Lady Laela,” she said. “Chief advisor to King Arenadd.”

Ocax ignored her. He had seen Oeka, and now he stepped closer to her and knelt, laying his head on the ground.

Oeka looked bewildered for a moment, but quickly recovered. “Rise, human,” she said.

Ocax rose, but kept his head bowed. “Mighty griffin,” he said. “Herald of Xanathus. I am not worthy to speak to you.”

“You may speak,” said Oeka. “So, human-you are a priest of this Temple?”

“I am, Sacred One,” said Ocax. “It is my task to bring oil to fuel the sacred flame, and to accept the offerings of those who come to worship.”

Oeka glanced at Laela. “This is a mighty temple. Did your kind build it alone?”

“No, Sacred One,” said Ocax. “The power of great Xanathus bound these stones together and blessed them with his grace.”

“Then you have pleased him,” said Oeka. She paused. “I am Oeka, of Tara. My human is Master of Wisdom.”

Ocax finally looked at Laela. “A worthy human to have your favour, Sacred One.”

“Thanks,” said Laela, by now thoroughly uncomfortable. “I came t’see the Temple.”

“It is a modest thing, compared to the great Temple in the capital,” said Ocax.

“I’ve never seen a temple this big or magnificent,” said Laela, and she meant it.

Ocax smiled. “Thank you, Lady Laela. Have you come here to pay homage to Xanathus?”

Laela glanced at Oeka. “Uh. . yeah. Sure.”

The priest looked keenly at her. “Do you know Xanathus?”

Laela thought of the dream where she’d talked to Gryphus. “I think so.”

“Then come forward and know him better,” said Ocax.

Laela went closer to the altar, as he gestured her to. “Xanathus is a sun god, isn’t he?”

“The sun god,” Ocax corrected. “The only sun god. He may have other names in other languages, but he is the sun, the day and the light. He is life, he is love. There is no other.”

Laela thought of Arenadd’s frightened ramblings. “Then he’s Gryphus,” she said confidently. “This is his place.”

Ocax smiled. “Long ago, a strange people came to Amoran. They were pale-faced and spoke a strange language, but they revered the sun, and when our ancestors saw that they knew that they were a blessed people. They taught them the ways of Xanathus. Those people carried his teachings to their new home.”

“Cymria!” said Laela. “So the Southerners learned about Gryphus here.”

Ocax pointed at the altar. “See that symbol? Do you know it, Laela of Tara?”

It was a circle, with three curling lines that met in the middle and spread outward. Laela stared at it and laughed in disbelief. “I’ve seen that! It’s carved on the door of the temple in Sturrick! That’s Gryphus’. .” She trailed off.

“Xanathus’ symbol,” Ocax said solemnly. “The sun’s symbol. We have revered it for thousands of years.”

Laela kept her eyes on the gold-inlaid sunwheel, and felt as if all she knew were unravelling. Arenadd had been right-this was Gryphus’ place. All these people belonged to him. Amoran was a huge country-she’d been told that plenty of times. So much land, and so many souls, all Gryphus’ own. No wonder Arenadd couldn’t bear to be here.

She looked up at the eerily smiling statue, and thought of the crowned, bearded man from her dream. Could they possibly be the same person?

If they were, then what would they think of her?

Laela suddenly felt afraid. She was a Northerner. She had promised her soul to the Night God. And here she was, before the altar of Gryphus. Did he hate her? Did he want her gone from his lands, like Arenadd?

Ocax had been watching her. “Do not be afraid, Laela,” he said, as if he were reading her mind. “You are one of his children.”

Laela glanced at him. “I’m a Northerner.”

“But you do not have Northern eyes,” said Ocax. He smiled and touched her cheek. “I have never seen such eyes as yours. They are as blue as the sky. Like the eyes of Xanathus.”

“My mother was a Southerner,” said Laela.

“Then you are a child of Xanathus,” said Ocax. “Women are sacred to him; they give life, as he does.”

“But my father was a Northerner,” said Laela. “I figured since I was halfway Southern an’ halfway Northern, I could choose my own god.”

“And which god have you chosen, Laela of Tara?”

Laela hesitated. She had been going to say the Night God, but something stopped her.

“If you spoke to Xanathus, you would know which god was yours,” said Ocax.

Laela shook herself. “The gods ain’t exactly known for bein’ talkative.”

“But Xanathus can speak to you,” said Ocax. “Here, in this Temple. If you wish it.”

“How?” Oeka interrupted.

Ocax bowed to her. “There is a ritual, Sacred One,” he said. “A rite which calls Xanathus to speak. If your human would like to, she can perform it. I will help.”

“That is a matter for my human to decide,” said Oeka.

“What ‘ritual’ is this?” said Laela. “How’s it work?”

“It is simple enough,” said Ocax. “All you need do is cast a certain herb into the sacred flame. I will perform the chant, and before long, Xanathus will appear to you.”

Stuff and nonsense, thought Laela. But she couldn’t help but be curious all the same. She looked at the golden statue, and then at the priest. He had an odd, twitchy look about him and his eyes were bloodshot, but she didn’t believe that he would ever try to assassinate anyone. Vander had told her a few things about the priesthood in his home country, and nonviolence was supposedly one of their most important principles.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

The priest smiled. “Wait for me.”

He went away through a door hidden behind the statue and returned a few moments later holding a small, woven bag. Laela stood close to the altar as he asked her to, her hand resting on Oeka’s head.

“You should stand back, Sacred One,” said Ocax. “A griffin does not need to breathe in the holy smoke.”

Oeka huffed to herself and moved away.

“Now.” Ocax gave the bag to Laela. “Take this, and cast it into the flame. Do not be afraid.”

“Right.” Laela opened the bag and peered inside. It was full of something dried and shredded-it looked vaguely like meat.

“Fungus,” said Ocax. “Gathered from the rocks in the Valley of the Wind. It has magical properties.”

Laela sniffed it and grimaced; it didn’t have a very strong smell, but for some reason it made her head spin. “So I just throw it in the bowl there?”

“Yes. The smoke will open your mind and allow Xanathus to speak to you.”

“It ain’t dangerous?”

“No.” He smiled. “I have done this many times. It was this ritual that first called me to become a priest.”

“All right then.” Laela reached over and tipped the entire contents of the bag into the flame. The dried fungus went up at once, but the oil soaked into it and made it burn slowly instead of vanishing. At once, smoke began to rise from the bowl-thick, yellowish smoke.

Ocax looked horrified. “You were only supposed to throw in a pinch!”

“Sorry-” Laela began, but in that instant the smoke hit her nostrils. It poured into her lungs, and in a