Crimson Fire (20 page)

“That depends on whether or not you ever grow up.”

“I see. So you think I’ve just been sulking for four months.” “Haven’t you?”

“You,” she said in a
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rm but relatively calm tone, “are so

arrogant you take my breath away.”

“Good. As long as you’re breathless, you’re not talking.” “I’m not asking you for anything I haven’t earned,” she hissed. “You’ve earned nothing yet,” he said crisply.

“Oh, yes, I have. I’ve learned all you’ve taught me, as pain- ful as it was for you to drop those crumbs of information. All I’m asking you is to treat me as a partner.”

“Then act like one. Stop acting like a child and remember that it wasn’t up to me to bring you here.”

“I won’t forget that. You won’t let me. It shows through in your every sneer.”

They turned down Byrnestrat and walked on in stiff silence

for some time. The sheer nerve of him made her so angry she couldn’t speak. No doubt Gwydion was reveling in that. The city seemed to re
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ect her mood—silent and withdrawn. Of course, Gwydion would translate that as sulking. So she made an effort and spoke in a neutral tone. “What’s that up ahead?” she asked, gesturing to a huge complex of gray stone.

He answered quickly, obviously relieved to be talking again, “That’s Cirice Garth, where the Archpreost lives, and where most of the church business is carried out.”

She studied the gloomy building. “I wouldn’t like to live in there.”

“I doubt they would let you in. Women aren’t allowed. And if they did let you in, I don’t think you’d come out again alive. The dungeons of the wyrce-jaga are there.”

“That’s a cheerful thought—for you, anyway,” she said sourly.

“Believe it or not, it’s not a cheerful thought for me at all,” he said quietly.

Before she could reply, he pointed off over the river to their left, “Perhaps you’d like to live there.”

She followed his gesture and gasped. Before her stood a beautiful building of gleaming white stone with a sloping timber roof inlaid with bands of gold and silver. Four graceful towers as delicate as crystal rose from each corner. The entire shining edi
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ce rested on a island in the middle of the river. A bridge, well-guarded by men in helms of gold, spanned the riverbank to the island.

“Is that the palace?” she asked in an awed tone.

“Yes. That’s Cynerice Scima. Just on the other side of the bank is Byrnwiga, the Bana’s palace. It’s empty at the moment, of

course. The tournament to decide the Warleader is
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ve months away. We turn here to get to Ealh Athelin.”

Reluctantly she tore her eyes away from the palace as they turned west down Flanstrat and
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nally came to Ealh Athelin, the largest church in Corania.

To her surprise it was not made of stone. It was made of thousands and thousands of carved and polished interlocking pieces of light and dark wood with a series of sloping roofs of different heights, grouped around a large square tower. The tower rose, up and up, reaching to the sky, until she felt dizzy trying to see the top. A walkway ran around the huge building, enclosed by a low wall and topped by an arcade. Protruding from the gables were animal shapes carved with delicate preci- sion—dragons, boars, horses, serpents, and eagles. Some had tusks and claws of gold; others had scales or manes of silver. Some had eyes of ruby, and others had eyes of sapphire. She found her eyes drawn time and again to one dragon shape that hovered over the main entrance. The dragon was rearing up, gold-inlaid wings outspread, with its sinuous neck stretched out and its ruby eyes glittering
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ercely down at her, challenging her to enter.

Stone steps led up to the huge, wooden main doors, which were shut, signaling that a service was in progress. A num- ber of people were milling around the arcade and on the front steps waiting for the next service. At last the doors opened and people came streaming out, all with the rune of Lytir marked on their foreheads, drawn in bull’s blood. The church emptied out, and the waiting crowd was let inside.

The church was shadowy, lit only by rows of torches set in brackets at intervals around the large, inner sanctuary. The

central square was huge, the roof rising up and up until the ceil- ing was lost in the shadows. Eight round wooden pillars held up the roof, intricately carved with shapes of bird and beast. Row upon row of wooden benches
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lled the square, all facing a raised wooden dais on which a large, square stone altar rested. A silken banner of white
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owed over the altar, the rune for Lytir, the One God, stitched in gold thread.

On the left of the altar stood a drinking horn set in an ivory holder. To the right an empty golden bowl rested. A gleaming knife lay at the front, and four fat, white candles burned in each corner. Intermittent rustlings came from a deep pit at the foot of the altar.

Gwydion and Rhiannon quietly took a place on a bench near the back of the sanctuary. Suddenly, for no apparent rea- son, she felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck, and goose bumps rose swiftly on her arms. She turned, glancing over her shoulder to try to locate the source of her unease, and almost gasped aloud.

The Golden Man was exactly as Gwydion had described him.

He was tall and broad-shouldered. His skin was tanned to a golden brown. His shoulder-length honey-blond hair shone brie
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y in the light streaming through the doors. He wore a tunic of
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ne, white cloth, belted at the waist with a golden chain. His form-
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tting breeches were also white, and he wore calf-length boots tied with golden laces. His red cloak was lined with white fur and fastened at the neck with a ruby-studded golden brooch. He was clean-shaven and had heavy-lidded amber eyes, the eyes of a hawk, of a bird of prey. His eyes darted over the sanctuary and caught her staring at him. He smiled slowly at her. She
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ushed and jerked her eyes back to the altar.

Incredibly, Gwydion had not noticed. He was frowning down at the
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oor, lost in some personal abstraction. She nudged his ribs sharply. He turned to her, his brows raised. Without a word, she cut her eyes to the left and Gwydion caught sight of the Golden Man as he walked down the center aisle and took a seat in the front row.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” she murmured.

“It is. I can’t believe we found him so quickly,” Gwydion said, studying the back of the Golden Man’s head. He glanced down at her, a smile
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ickering across his face. “Maybe my luck has changed with you at my side.”

“He saw me staring at him.”

Gwydion shrugged. “That’s all to the good. I want him to notice us.”

“He noticed me all right. If he notices me like that again, we’re in big trouble.”

Gwydion stiffened, looking swiftly over at the Golden Man, his eyes lit with some strong emotion that Rhiannon could not identify. “Well now,” he said softly, “that’s something I hadn’t considered.”

“Well, don’t,” she said sharply. “And don’t tell me that’s part of your plan or I will leave here this minute, do you understand?” He looked down at her, searching her wide green eyes and accurately reading her panic. Surprisingly, he reached over and took her cold hand in his. “I didn’t bring you to Corania to give you away,” he said quietly. “Or to let you be taken from

me. That’s not going to happen. I promise you.”

Before she could reply, a man dressed in a robe of green with a golden medallion around his neck rose and lifted his hands for silence. Remembering her lessons, she knew the green robe

meant the man was a Byshop. When the crowd was quiet, the Byshop intoned, “Praise now to the Guardian of Heofen, the power of Lytir and his Mind-Plans, who fashioned the begin- ning of every wonder.”

As one, the crowd responded, “Eternal Lord.”

The Byshop continued, “He made
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rst heaven as a roof.” “Holy Creator,” the people replied.

“Then made he Middle-Earth, as a dwelling place for men.” “Master Almighty,” came the response.

The Byshop stood there for a long moment, head bowed. Two men in robes of bright yellow came up and stood on either side of the pit, both holding lighted torches. One man held his torch upright, the other held his torch pointed down. Then the Byshop stripped off his robe and stood before them, clad in a loincloth, his feet bare. He picked up the knife and the bowl from the altar and jumped into the pit. From the pit came an enormous bellow, as man and bull fought each other. The crowd was silent, straining forward. The bull gave a
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nal, anguished scream, then all was quiet. At a signal from one of the torch- bearers, another man in yellow strode up to the pit, lowered a ladder into it, and the Byshop emerged, the knife clutched in his hand and the bowl full of blood.

The crowd cheered as the man handed the knife and bowl to a waiting preost, then put back on his robe. He took the bowl again, and at his signal, people lined up in the aisle, waiting their turn to be marked with the blood on their foreheads.

The Golden Man rose and unhurriedly made his way to the front of the line. He knelt, waiting impassively for the Byshop to dip his
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ngers into the bloody bowl and mark the rune of Lytir on his forehead. This done, the Golden Man returned to

his seat, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. Gwydion nudged Rhiannon, and she reluctantly rose to her feet and took her place in line, with Gwydion behind her. They did not speak, but waited their turn, slowly moving forward to the front of the altar. Surreptitiously, as they neared the front of the church, she eyed the Golden Man, but his head was still bowed.

When she reached the altar, she knelt and refused to shud- der as the Byshop smeared a bloody print on her forehead. She rose and turned to go back to her seat, when she saw that the Golden Man had lifted his head and was looking straight at her. Pretending not to notice, she made her way back to her place, but her legs were trembling from what she had seen in the Golden Man’s eyes. Gwydion was a pace or two behind her, and he took her elbow and helped her back up the aisle, standing close.

“Did you see that?” she whispered. “Gwydion, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“No. We stay. And don’t worry. Everything’s going to work out perfectly.”

Up in front of the altar, the Byshop lifted his hands to lead them in the traditional closing melody.

“He hung on a windy tree with spear wounded.

Offered to Donar, Lytir, abandoned.

Into the depths he descended And conquered Sceadu,

The shadow of Death, Lytir, our God.

He died and lived and wisdom got.

Our mighty King, Lytir, our God.”

The service was
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nally over. The Golden Man rose and stood talking to the Byshop, accompanied by two companions. One of the men had light brown hair, dark eyes, and a pleasant, open expression. The other man, a wyrce-jaga dressed in a black robe with green trim, had sharp features, pale gray eyes, and lanky blond, tonsured hair.

Gwydion did not move from his place and tugged her back as she began to rise. “What?” she demanded shortly. She wanted to get out of there.

“Stay here a minute. I’ve got to think.” “About what?”

“About a way to bring us to his attention.”

“I have his attention. I thought you noticed that.”

“I did,” he said shortly. “We have to get into his household.

I thought you understood that.”

She did understand that. And she knew what would hap- pen to her if they did. The thought made bile rise in her throat. It was strange that she should feel so repelled by the Golden Man. He was handsome and sensual and she should have felt desire, but she did not. She felt ill. “I can’t. You’ll have to go in alone. I can’t do it.”

“Do you really think I’d sell your body to get into his house- hold?” he asked in an appalled tone. “Is that the kind of man you think I am?”

Well, yes, she did think he was that kind of man. But she knew better than to tell him so. Instead she answered his ques- tion with one of her own. “Then what do you plan to do?”

His mouth hardened as he realized what she was think- ing. “I’m trying to think of something,” he said evenly. “Some way for him to be indebted to us. A reason for him to treat us well—and keep his hands off you.”

“That’s going to have to be a good reason.”

“I know. That’s why I have to think about it.”

Idly, her eyes roved over the sanctuary and out the open doors. The carving of the dragon above the outside of the doors cast a long shadow across the steps. Suddenly, she had an idea. “How about saving his life? Or at least the life of one of his friends?”

“That would do it,” he said dryly. “But how?”

She nodded toward the doors. “That dragon outside. The neck is stretched out so that the head hovers over the doors. It’s made of wood, and it’s probably very heavy. If that neck broke while someone was standing under it . . .”

He considered her words for a moment. “It’s risky. The timing would have to be perfect.”

“Then you’d better be as good a Shape-Mover as you say you are,” she said.

“I am,” he replied absently. “I’ve already loosened it con- siderably. Come on.”

They rose, casually making their way up the aisle and out the doors. Gwydion’s eyes were unfocused as he brought the power of his mind to bear on the wooden
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gure. She took his arm to steady him. They made their way down the steps, not even glancing up at the poised dragon’s head. Then they stopped, pretending to examine the carvings on the posts hold- ing up the arcade.

She waited tensely. The Golden Man and his two com- panions came out the main doors and stood there for a brief

moment, talking among themselves. It was only a moment, but it was long enough. “Now,” she hissed at Gwydion, just as the Golden Man and the wyrce-jaga began to move down the steps. There was a tremendous crack as the dragon’s head broke free from the carved neck and began to tumble through the air to the ground below, heading straight for the other companion, who had been moving more slowly. The man looked up at the sound but did not move, stunned by the sight of the dragon hurl- ing down at him. With a shout, Gwydion leapt up the steps and pushed the man out of the way. The head crashed down and splintered into hundreds of fragments right on the spot where the man had been standing.