The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (28 page)

‘Who would worry our most powerful mage?’

Sir Arite looked grave. ‘He doesn’t want to make an enemy of anyone who can wield the sort of power expended in Hale last night. Whoever it was, I gather they could have levelled the entire district.’

‘Gods,’ Natai breathed, feeling a chill run down her neck.

‘And that’s not the only news.’ The knight’s eyes narrowed and his voice fell to a whisper, as though his news was too terrible to be spoken in normal tones. ‘Whoever wielded that power - it wasn’t just against the high priest. It fought a being of near-equal strength - magic such as few mortals possess - and it killed them.’

 

A dull note of pain thrummed through her body. Every sensation was overlaid and muted by a heavy blanket of aching which weighed her down. There was a distant, unidentifiable sound ringing in her ears. As Legana drifted through the empty dream of near-wakefulness she felt something missing, a hole inside her that spoke of something too terrible to remember.

An involuntary twitch in her leg suddenly brought the pain in her side back into focus, sharp and hot. Her lips parted with a gluey jerk as she moaned. The ringing in her ears became more insistent; a spiky, wet feeling that reached all around her head and dug its claws into her neck. For a while Legana lay motionless, unable to hear her own whimpers, until the pain in her side subsided a little and she chanced a look at the Land.

It was difficult to open her eyes. It felt like a long-forgotten movement that required her full force of will to achieve, and when at last she succeeded, she saw little; just a shadowy blur of yellow, and the suggestion of lines that might indicate the shape of a room. Taking too deep a breath she moaned again and a spark of fear flared in her heart. The pain was an aside; what frightened her was the fact she could hear neither breath nor moan, though she could feel the air slide between her tender lips.

The blur ahead changed all of a sudden as a dark shape moved into her field of vision. It eventually resolved into the form of a man, a tonsured priest, standing over her, although the dimness remained and her head began to hurt when she tried to make out the details of his face. She saw a bearded jaw moving, but still heard nothing. In panic she tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness broke over her and she slumped back in agony, feeling tears fall freely from her eyes in a way they had not since childhood.

The priest placed his hands on her shoulders to indicate she should keep still before gently lifting her head and putting a sodden cloth to her mouth. A few wonderfully sweet drops of water trickled into her mouth and Legana summoned all her remaining strength to swallow them. He squeezed the cloth and a little more appeared on her tongue - somehow she fought those down as well, but that was all she could manage. She sagged onto his cradling hand.

The priest nodded approvingly and put the cloth out of sight before placing a hand on her chest. His lips began to move and Legana’s blurred vision swam as a warmth began to spread over her body. The sensation was alien and alarming, but something inside her recognised it as healing magic. The part of her that was touched by a Goddess screamed in fear at another God’s magic, but the human side overruled it and as she sank back into unconsciousness, the pain faded far enough into the background for sleep to claim her. A few moments later she felt nothing at all.

 

A steady rain was falling on Byora’s granite buildings, streaking walls with dark tears and filling the gutters with a swift stream of dirty water. The Duchess of Byora ignored the patter of water on her hood and watched the rain fall for ten minutes or more instead of touching her heels to the horse’s flanks and setting off down the street.

‘This rain will cool tempers, don’t you think, Sir Arite?’ she said at last.

The blond man only gave a perfunctory nod in response. He looked more concerned by the effect the rain was having on his boots than the state of the city beyond. The duke smiled amiably at his wife, doing a reasonable job of concealing his anxiety to everyone but Natai, the person he was trying most to encourage. She returned the smile, glad of the effort he was making, however transparent. He was the only one who hadn’t tried to dissuade her from this journey, the only one to look beyond his own safety and see the necessity.

This was the first time the duchess had ventured out of her palace since the news of the terrible happenings in the religious district had come in the previous morning. That there were reportedly mobs of penitents roaming the city was not her concern; she would not let them cow her. Above her the Ruby Tower looked forbidding in the overcast morning light. The stepped levels of the tower were adorned with shards of red slate, designed for the light of a summer evening. Now it merely served to highlight the grimness of the black mountain walls behind it.

‘Captain Fohl?’ Natai said to the commander of her guard. ‘Lead the way, if you please.’

The captain saluted, while behind him the new sergeant didn’t bother to wait for the order as he started off, two squads of her guards falling in behind his horse. Natai felt a flicker of amusement at Fohl’s expression when he saw the men were already moving, his Adam’s apple bobbing as a rebuke went unsaid.

The captain was neatly turned out as ever, but today he looked comical to her, with his pale hair poking limply out from his gold-trimmed helm and pallid skin stretched over a weak face. Compared with the muscular bulk of Sergeant Kayel, Fohl looked fragile, almost pathetic.

It was reassuring to see Kayel at the head of her guards as they moved towards Hale. The man was a born leader - and more than a little intimidating. Natai knew that Fohl was easily offended, and would have had any other sergeant whipped for the impudence Kayel showed, but even the arrogance of pure Litse blood couldn’t overshadow the fact that Fohl was simply afraid of the man.

It was Prayerday morning, the day for High Reverence at the temples, and the duke and duchess had established a tradition of attending prayers at the temples of both Ushull and Death long ago. Now the eyes of the city would be watching them. The situation had not improved, and Natai knew it would take more than rain to change that - even the savage deluges that regularly scoured Byora’s streets - but she refused to hide from her people.

Hale was reportedly a boiling ant’s nest of activity and tension, a situation not helped by the fact that a band of penitents had decided to search two of her agents. The men had been carrying weapons, of course, and they had decided to flee rather than be arrested for impiety. A mob had stoned them to death and now their heads were on display at a crossroads Natai had to pass to reach the Temple of Death.

At her command the whole column of nobles and troops set out, Sergeant Kayel setting a brisk pace from the front with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword and his head constantly turning to scan the surrounding street. The duchess saw a range of reactions from the people they clattered past. Some scurried into their homes and barred the door while others began to follow the soldiers behind her. Natai felt a moment of irritation; she couldn’t see their faces as they followed.

‘Ganas,’ she called to her husband, and he immediately urged his horse closer and leaned over to better hear her. His ceremonial uniform and sword echoed those of the Ruby Tower Guards - prettier, but no less functional.

‘Do you think they’re following just to see a fight, or are they on our side?’ she asked softly.

When he shrugged she heard the clink of hidden metal. Most of her subjects assumed Ganas was simple, weak-minded even, because she ruled Byora rather than he. The Litse couldn’t comprehend his lack of ambition, any more than the foolish women from the White Circle had not accepted that she didn’t struggle against a husband’s oppression. She was simply better at ruling than he was, and few people gave him the credit for acknowledging that and accepting it. Few men were strong enough to do such a thing. They were a good team.

‘Given the choice, they’ll pick us,’ he said in the mellifluous accent of the city, ‘but I doubt many will follow us into Hale. Too dangerous.’

Sure enough, as they reached the religious district their escort hung back and watched nervously. There were three gates into Hale: two spanning the two largest roads from Eight Towers, where the well-off citizens lived in the shadow of the Ruby Tower, and a third in the wall separating Hale from Breakale, where the majority of the citizens lived.

The Queen’s Gate was the one she commonly used on Prayerday, following the road around in a long loop to visit the temples of Ushull, Death and Belarannar before a last quick prayer at Kitar’s temple - that was her own small tradition, one that had continued long after she’d given up hoping the Goddess of Fertility would answer her prayers.

If the onlookers had been hoping for drama at the first confrontation, they were sorely disappointed. A dozen or so penitents were waiting by the gate, but Kayel completely ignored their efforts to block the path. Clearly they were hoping to get in the way and force the guards to either strike first or back down, but Kayel urged his horse on, oblivious to their presence, and the men had to jump out of the way or be trampled.

Once inside the district, Natai forced herself not to stare around at the faces watching them, but she felt a small flicker of fear when she realised how many grey-clad penitents of Death were congregated on the streets - and they weren’t the only ones. Hale was a community in its own right, a small, self-contained town perched on a ledge of high ground some two-thirds of a mile across. Not all of the inhabitants were clerics, but they were all connected to the business of worship, and if Natai was being blamed for High Priest Lier’s death, they would all side against her.

‘Ushull, Tsatach, Nartis, Belarannar, Ilit - most of the major cults have been recruiting,’ Ganas commented so softly only Natai could hear. ‘Let us be glad the Temple of Karkarn here is too small to be of any real significance.’

She nodded and kept her eyes on the road, her unease growing with every passing minute. Threatening groups of hooded figures stood and watched them from the side-streets, some actually following the horses closely enough to provoke disquiet. The silence that followed her party as they continued into Hale was profound.

It reminded Natai of a dream she’d had as a child: surrounded by faceless figures as motionless as statues, the clouds racing past above them, while the leader of her tormentors, a giant swathed in white, pointed an accusing finger at her. No matter which direction she faced, she couldn’t escape the weight of that gesture. Now, with the clerics and their mercenaries watching her, Natai felt a similar oppression. The journey to the Temple of Ushull was a brief one, but to Natai it seemed to take an hour or more.

Like many of Ushull’s temples this one was open to the elements, but the builders had clearly tried to evoke Blackfang Mountain here, putting a thirty-foot-tall obelisk studded with crystal and obsidian shards in the middle of the oval temple, pushing up through the upper level, which in turn was supported by four great pillars that signified the quarters of the Circle City - Byora, Akell, Fortin and Ismess. Ushull was technically an Aspect of Belarannar, and as a result, the temple was exactly a foot smaller than the Temple of Belarannar in length, width and height.

Tradition dictated that Natai should kneel below the steady drip of the shrine dedicated to Kiyer of the Deluge first, letting water splash onto her forehead before offering a silver level and a prayer for another week without a flood.

Afterwards she would place a freshly picked flower before the shrine at the other end of the upper level, a gift to Parss, Ushull’s capricious child, who casts boulders down the slopes. The last of Ushull’s three Aspects had his shrine on the lower level, a squat lair made out of clay which was kept as hot as a baker’s oven. There she would need to add another lump of coal to the fire to appease Cambrey Smoulder, the dormant destroyer under the mountain. That done, she would speak a prayer with one palm placed against Ushull’s obelisk and leave a second silver level while Ushull’s priests maintained the drone of prayer from their aisles opposite Cambrey’s shrine.

Before Natai reached the temple she saw Kayel, who had gone ahead, had been stopped by a party of animated priests. There were faces watching them all around, most ominously from the temple itself, where no one was engaged in worship as far as Natai could see. The wind had been growing stronger during their journey and now it whipped across the district with an impatient ferocity, drowning out the conversation ahead. All around her Natai felt and saw a burning resentment; anger smouldered like Cambrey deep under the mountain.

Cambrey or Kiyer?
she wondered as the column of troops stopped and her guards at last faced the penitents on all sides.
Cambrey grumbles and blusters, but is slow to anger; Kiyer strikes with the fury and speed of an ice-cobra.

As though in answer to her question a boom of thunder rolled over the city, the distant rumble that all Byorans had grown up listening out for. For a moment, all faces turned east, towards the mountain.

Natai shivered instinctively. Blackfang was not a flat tabletop, as most imagined, but a crazed mess of jagged rock and stagnant pools left by the rain. A storm might simply provide a soaking - or it might turn the uninhabitable wasteland of Blackfang into something entirely more frightening. When the rains were heavy enough, a torrent of water would sweep down, scouring the streets of everything as Kiyer of the Deluge claimed her sacrifices and dumped their remains in the fens a few miles past Wheel, the quarter’s most westerly district.

A sudden flash of movement made her turn back. She heard Ganas grunt in surprise and stare up at the mountain with a puzzled look on his face. Captain Fohl said something, but the words were jumbled and confused. Unbidden, her horse turned away from Ganas and a sudden pressure closed about her chest and throat, squeezing the breath from her body.