Stalking Darkness (11 page)

The Dalnans came first, with Valerius playing Dalna. Seated beneath an arch of laurel and ivy, the irascible drysian was uncharacteristically resplendent in a green robe heavily embroidered with gold and carried a ceremonial staff wrought in ivory and gold. Someone had managed to tame his wild hair into some semblance of order beneath his circlet, but his beard bristled as aggressively as ever as he glared out over the crowd.

“I’m no Dalnan, of course, but I don’t think Valerius presents a particularly comforting figure as the Maker,” Seregil murmured, eliciting chuckles of assent from several of the other guests, including Alec.

Astellus would serve as Sakor’s guide on his journey to the Isle of the Dawn. A plump blond priestess dressed in a simple blue and white tunic and broad-brimmed hat played this role, complete with wayfarer’s staff and wallet.

Grey-backed gulls, living emblems of the Traveler, rose up from the fountain courts of the temple and circled overhead as she was carried forth.

Illior was also being played by a woman. She sat stiffly in her flowing white gown and serene golden mask, right palm raised to display the elaborate circular emblem that covered her palm.

The three groups met at the center of the square to await the final contingent. Horns sounded again. A squadron of cavalry in ceremonial scarlet and black advanced from the entrance of the Temple Precinct, followed by the royal family.

“Is that her? Is that the Queen?” Alec whispered, craning for a better look. “That’s her.”

Grey-haired and solemn, Idrilain sat her charger like the warrior she was. Her golden breastplate was emblazoned with an upraised sword and the crescent of Illior; an empty scabbard hung at her side.

With her rode the Consort Evenir, her second and much younger husband. Behind the royal couple came her sons and daughters. Among these rode Klia, resplendent in the dress uniform of the Queen’s Horse.

Alec’s hand rose to the silver brooch holding the ornamental cloak at his shoulder as he watched her in the distance. Until now he’d seen her only as another cheerful, mud-spattered soldier, someone who’d treated him like a comrade, never standing on ceremony. Watching her now—among her true kind and against the pageantry of the ceremony—was like seeing a stranger.

The procession advanced at a stately pace to the steps of the temple, where Idrilain dismounted and strode up to stand opposite Old Sakor and the other priests, her consort and children behind her. From this point, the ritual proceeded in the modern tongue.

Idrilain’s voice was clear and steady as she spread her arms and performed a chant hailing Sakor as Protector of the Hearth and the Sword of Peace.

“Let not the darkness come upon us!” she cried at its conclusion.

The massed crowd took up the cry, repeating it in a great voice until Valerius stepped forward and raised his staff in both hands. When the crowd quieted again, he sang the Song of Dalna, his deep, resonant voice carrying well in the open air.

Alec knew this song well. When the crowd repeated the closing line, “The Maker has made all, and nothing can be lost in the hand of the Maker,” he joined in gladly, ignoring the glances he attracted from Kylith’s other guests.

Astellus and Illior helped Old Sakor to his feet and the assembled priests commenced a low keen. “Who shall keep watch?” the priests of Sakor sang. “Who shall guard the Flame?”

Masked Illior answered, reciting the revelation of the Afran Oracle. “So long as a daughter of Thelatimos’ line defends and rules, Skala shall never be subjugated.”

The Queen stepped forward and was exhorted by Old Sakor to keep watch over her people through the long night and the new year to follow. Bowing solemnly, she pledged herself and her generations to the guardianship of Skala and was given the Sword of Gerilain and a large firepot. When she turned, holding both aloft, the crowd erupted into cheers of assent.

The last of the day’s light was fading from the western sky as two priests led out a black bull. Handing the firepot to Phoria, Idrilain raised the sword in her right hand and placed her left on the animal’s brow, pressing gently as she spoke the ritual greeting.

The bull snorted and twisted its neck, nicking the edge of her mantle with the tip of one horn.

A restless murmur rippled through the crowd like wind across a barley field; an unwilling victim was a poor omen.

The animal showed no further sign of resistance, however, as the priests pulled its head back and Idrilain slashed its throat. Dark blood spurted out, steaming in the cold air, and the animal collapsed without a struggle. Idrilain extended the blade to Old Sakor, who dipped a finger in the blood and anointed his forehead and hers.

“Speak to your people, O Sakor!” she intoned. “You who pass away from all living things and return renewed. What is your prophecy?”

“Let’s see what they’ve come up with this year,” someone murmured. “You mean it’s not real?” Alec whispered to Seregil, rather shocked.

Seregil gave him a hint of the crooked smile. “Yes and no. Divinations are gathered for months from all the major temples around Skala. They vary in form from year to year, but they’re generally quite supportive of current policy.”

Standing before the Aegis, Sakor faced the people and raised his hands.

But before he could speak, a sudden wind gusted through the square, billowing robes and snatching at cloaks and scouring dust and dead leaves up in little whirlwinds. Banners whipped loose from the fronts of boxes. Shield gongs swung on their long chains, clashing ominously against the pillars of the temple.

Startled from their evening roosts, gulls and doves burst into the air again in a flurry of wings, only to be met by scores of ravens. Swooping out of the surrounding gloom as mysteriously as the wind that bore them, the black birds attacked in a frenzy, stabbing with thick beaks, tearing with taloned feet.

The spectators below watched helplessly as black wings beat against white or brown; upturned faces were spattered with blood and sticky scraps of feathers. Then startled cries rang out as broken bodies plummeted down around them.

In the temple, Idrilain stood with sword drawn, fending off scores of ravens that dove at the sacrificial bull. Phoria and her brothers and sisters leapt to her aid, driving the carrion birds off.

Beside them, Valerius laid about with his staff. Even at this distance Seregil and Alec could see the crackling white nimbus that glowed dangerously around its ivory head. The Illioran priestess, still inscrutable behind her mask, raised her hand again and a brilliant, multihued flash blazed out, leaving inert mounds of black feathers scattered in its wake. Soldiers closest to the temple ran back up the steps to assist the Queen, while others tried to maintain order as thousands wailed and screamed and sought to flee.

A thick cloud of ravens circled the square now, diving and slashing like hawks. Others flocked boldly on railings and temple pediments. One large bird flapped down to perch on the edge of Kylith’s box and seemed to regard Alec thoughtfully with one black, unblinking eye.

Seregil raised his hand in a warding sign and Alec saw his lips move, although it was impossible to make out the words over the chaos around them. The raven uttered a mocking croak and flapped away.

Then, as quickly as they’d come, the baneful black horde retreated, pursued by the surviving gulls. The doves had been no match for their attackers; soft brown bodies lay scattered around the precinct by the dozens.

As the noise of the birds subsided, a new and ominous sound boomed forth from the temple.

The Aegis of Sakor, untouched by any hand, rang with a low, shivering roar. In front of it, the flames of the alter fire flared from yellow to deep bloodred.

Four times the Aegis sounded, and then four times again.

“Hear me, my people!” cried Idrilain. “Sakor speaks, sounding a call on the Aegis itself. Attend to the prophecy!”

The multitude stood motionless as Old Sakor was helped forward again, swaying visibly as he raised a trembling hand.

“Hear, O people of Skala, the word of Sakor,” he called in his reedy old man’s voice. “Make strong your walls, and let every sword be whetted. Guard well the harvest and build strong ships. Look to the east, O people of Skala. From thence comes thine enemy—” He paused, and the trembling seemed to worsen. “From thence—“

He sagged heavily against Valerius for a moment, then straightened and took a step forward unaided. In a voice of star fling clarity, he cried out, “Prepare you in the light, and in the shadow. From thence comes the Eater of Death!”

“The what—?” Alec looked to Seregil again, but found him white-faced and grim, one gloved hand clenching the side of the rail where the raven had perched.

“Seregil, what’s wrong?”

His friend sat up abruptly, as if waking from an evil dream, and warned him off with a discreet but emphatic hand signal.

“We have heard your word, O Sakor!” said the Queen, speaking into the silence that still gripped the crowd. “We shall be prepared!”

Another roar of acclaim went up as Old Sakor was carried down the stairs of the temple to begin the long march to the waterfront in the lower city. There, accompanied by Astellus, he would set sail ostensibly for the Isle of the Dawn to be reborn and return on the morrow in the guise of a much younger priest.

The altar fire dwindled and went out and a hundred deep-throated horns sounded from the roof of the temple, signaling for every fire in the city to be extinguished.

The remaining priests joined the procession while the Queen took her place before the altar to begin the sacred vigil.

“What a remarkable performance!” said Lady Youriel with an uneasy laugh. “I think they rather overdid it this year, don’t you?”

“Most impressive,” Kylith agreed lightly as servants appeared at the door of the box with lightstones on long wands to assist their departure.

“But I suspect Lord Seregil has something equally impressive planned for us at his gathering. Will you two share my coach?”

Seregil rose and bent over her hand. “Thank you, but I think we’ll wait here until the crowd thins a bit, then ride back.”

“Games in the dark, eh?” She brushed his cheek with her lips, then Alec’s. “I’ll meet you at Wheel Street.” Seregil sat motionless for some moments after the others had departed, resting his elbows on the rail.

“What’s the “Eater of Death”?” asked Alec uneasily. “It sounded like a threat, or a warning.”

“I’m sure it was,” Seregil muttered, gazing down into the square. It was full dark now, and the moon and stars shed pale brilliance over the city, casting the world into sharp contrasts of silvery light and inky shadow. Lightwands bobbed here and there in the hands of those wealthy enough to afford them, and faint laughter and cries of “Praise the Flame!” echoed up to them as people jostled each other in the darkness.

Something in his friend’s face made Alec still more uneasy. “Any idea what the priest meant by it?” he asked.

Seregil pulled his hood up against the night’s chill as he rose to go. Alec couldn’t see his face as he replied, “I can’t say that I do.”

T
he Wheel Street house was already full of music by the time they returned. Alec handed his dark cloak to a servant at the entrance and followed Seregil into the hall. A number of guests were already enjoying the wine and food. Each had been presented with a brightly ribboned lightwand upon arrival and these provided a cool, shifting light as people danced or strolled about the room.

A flurry of applause greeted them as Runcer gravely announced their arrival from his station by the door.

“Welcome to my home on this dark, cold night!” Seregil called out. “For those of you who’ve not yet met my companion, allow me to present Sir Alec i Gareth of Ivywell.”

Alec made a graceful bow and quickly scanned the room for familiar faces. Kylith’s party was there, but there was no sign yet of Nysander or the Cavishes. In a far corner, however, he spotted a knot of officers in the green and white of the Queen’s Horse Guard. Klia’s friend and fellow officer, Captain Myrhini, saluted him with her lightwand from their midst and Alec waved back, wondering if Beka was with her.

He was just heading over to find out when Seregil slipped a hand under his arm and steered him off toward a group of nobles.

“Time to play the gracious hosts.”

Together, they made a circuit of the room, moving smoothly from one conversation to another, most of which centered around the omens at the ceremony.

“I thought they rather overdid the thing this year,” sniffed a young nobleman introduced as Lord Melwhit. “What doubt is there that war is coming? Preparations have been going on since summer.”

A grave, blond woman turned from a conversation with Admiral Nyreidian and greeted Seregil in Aurenfaie.

“Ysanti maril Elustri, Melessandra a Marana,” Seregil returned warmly. “Allow me to present Sir Alec. Lady Melessandra and her uncle, Lord Torsin, are the Skalan envoys to Aurenen.”

“Ysanti bek far, my lady,” Alec said with a bow. “Ysanti maril Elustri, Sir Alec,” she returned. “Lord Seregil is instructing you in his native language, I see. There are so few nowadays who speak it well.” “And fewer still who speak it so well as you, dear lady,” added Seregil.