The Dark Remains (38 page)

Bless them
, Yirga, the reeve’s wife, had said in answer to his numb silence.
The fever took not one but both. I think the gods did not wish mother and child to be apart. It is a mercy, it is. Oh, bless them, bless them
.

Durge had said nothing, but he knew Yirga was wrong, that the gods knew nothing of mercy. He had knelt beside their graves as soft snow fell, and for the last time in his life Durge had wept. He wept long and bitterly, pounding at the frozen soil until his bare hands ran bloody, as if he were burying his own heart there with them.

And, for all these years, he thought he had. Maere had made him promise not to become grim, but she had broken her part of that vow by leaving him. So Durge had become a good and solemn knight in service to King Sorrin of Embarr, and he had put aside joy, love, and other such frivolous things. That was, until …

Durge shut his eyes and once again saw the way Aryn had stared at him two days ago. Memories of ice and sorrow melted under the heat of a fire so long banked he thought it had gone utterly to ashes. But there was yet a spark.

He sat up in bed, sweating. This had to cease at once. Aryn had stared at him because he looked a fool, that was all. One so young and fair could never find him worthy of attention.

True, there were men who turned their gazes from Aryn due to the condition of her arm; but they were not fit to marry dogs, let alone a woman of high station. And there were other men who, like Durge, thought nothing
about her arm, except that perhaps because of it she had found a quiet strength to match her beauty.

“Foolishness and fancy,” he whispered under his mustaches. “What is wrong with you, Durge of Stonebreak? These days if you are not drifting in thoughts of the past, then you are picturing futures that can never be.”

Perhaps the same malady afflicted him as Lady Melia. Several times again over the last two days she had become caught in reveries of long ago. Durge could see that Falken was worried, but the bard seemed not to know what to do. Nor did Melia seem aware of her behavior, which was perhaps the strangest fact of all. For Durge had never known another—man or woman—who appeared as assured and in control of her faculties as Lady Melia.

The light had brightened a fraction. Early then, not late. Morning was coming, still an hour away across the sea, but he knew he might as well rise. He stood and clothed himself in his new trousers and vest, grudgingly admitting the garb was practical for the climate. Only as he moved to the door did he notice that Falken’s bed was empty. He stepped into the larger room beyond.

“Good morning, dear.” Melia stood beside a table, using a silver pitcher to fill a pair of cups with a pink liquid. “Would you like some
margra
juice?”

Durge had absolutely no idea how to answer that question, as he had never heard of
margra
juice before, but he did not wish to insult the lady. He nodded and accepted a cup.

“You’re up early,” Falken said. The bard sat in a chair, strumming a soft tune on his lute.

“As are you,” Durge said. As he often did, he marveled at the way the lute seemed a part of Falken’s body. Sometimes it was as if the bard spoke with the mellow tones of the instrument as much as with his own voice.

“I’m glad you’re up and ready,” Melia said. “I learned during the night that a meeting of the Etherion has been called. It will commence at dawn.”

Durge frowned. “My lady, surely I would have heard if a messenger came to our rooms during the night, yet I heard no such thing.”

Melia only smiled and poured herself a cup of juice. Durge knew it was best not to press for further explanation. Much as he favored reason, he knew it did not always apply where Melia was concerned. He settled for drinking his juice. It was cool and sweet, and the cup was empty before he knew it.

“More?” Melia said, and Durge nodded. It seemed he liked
margra
juice after all.

They reached the gate of the Second Circle just as sunlight touched the highest domes in the city, setting them ablaze.

“We’d better hurry,” Falken said, eyeing the sky. “Didn’t you say the Etherion assembled at dawn? We don’t want to be late.”

“Actually,” the lady said, “we do.” She walked at a stately pace through the archway.

Durge glanced at Aryn and Lirith, but they shrugged; neither knew what Melia was talking about. The ladies had arisen and dressed hastily, yet both looked lovely. They had coiled their hair high atop their heads, as was the fashion for women in this city. Of course, as pale as she was, Aryn would never be mistaken for anything but a woman of the northlands. However, with her dark, burnished skin, Lirith could easily have passed for a high lady of Tarras.

Falken groaned. “Please, Melia. It’s far too early in the morning to be enigmatic.”

“But it’s really very simple,” she said. “Only the priests and priestesses of the lesser temples will arrive at the Etherion precisely at dawn. To arrive late signifies that one is so confident or all-knowing that one does not fear missing anything important. And the later one arrives—”

“—then the more important one is?” Aryn said tentatively.

Melia laughed. “Well, at least the more important they
believe
they are, dear. And sometimes, in Tarras, that’s all that matters.”

This made no sense whatsoever to Durge. “I do not see how someone can be important merely by believing that he is. If I believe I have armor when I do not, it will hardly prevent a man from sticking a sword in my belly.”

Melia patted his cheek. “You might be surprised, dear.”

They were not alone as they passed through the airy streets of the Fourth Circle. Men and women clad in robes of myriad hues moved toward the blue dome that towered above all others.

As they went, Aryn and Lirith bowed their heads toward one another. Their lips did not move, yet all the same Durge had the feeling they were speaking. Their first evening in the city, when Lirith told them of the magic tangle she had seen, Durge had not had the faintest idea what she was talking about. However, Aryn had blanched as if a cold wind had struck her, and Melia and Falken had given knowing nods.

In the time since, Lirith had been far more subdued than usual, speaking little, and then usually with Aryn. Durge’s knowledge of witches was scant, yet logic did tell him one thing: It seemed far beyond coincidence that Lirith’s tangle should be greater here in Tarras, the city where gods were being murdered. Certainly the two had to be connected; as for how, that was leagues beyond Durge.

What concerned him more—because he might actually do something about it—was the man who had made an attempt on Lirith’s life. Why had he been spying on them at the docks? And why did he want to harm one of their number? Durge didn’t know. Yet all the same, he found himself wishing his greatsword wasn’t back at the hostel.

Be watchful, Durge of Stonebreak. Sure as the sun must set, there is danger ahead of you this
—

His thoughts were shattered by the high, clear sound of a child crying.

Durge glanced up; the others had moved slightly ahead. They did not seem to hear the child’s cries. He shuddered. Was it the ghosts again, only no longer silent?

He turned, then breathed a sigh as he saw the source of the wailing. It was no ethereal child, but a mundane boy of perhaps four or five winters. He stood on the side of the street, black hair tousled, tears streaming down his round face. Had he lost track of his parents? As he cried, the boy flapped his arms, his hands lost inside long, dangling sleeves.

Durge frowned. It wasn’t just the sleeves that were too long. The blue robe the boy wore was far too large for him, slipping half over his shoulders and pooling around him like water on the street. The robe was clearly intended for a grown man. In fact, it looked like the robe some of the priests they had passed earlier had worn. But then why was this weeping boy wearing it? He gazed around himself with large, bewildered eyes, then his flood of tears gushed anew.

There was something odd about the child and his too-large robe. Durge started toward him.

“Durge!” a voice called behind him. “Come on!”

He jerked his head around. It was Aryn. The others were some way ahead of him now. She motioned for him to hurry.

Durge glanced back. A woman had approached the boy now and was speaking to him in a consoling voice, no doubt asking him if he knew the name of the street he lived on. Satisfied, Durge hurried after the others.

However, it was some time before the sound of the child’s grief faded completely from his ears.

The light of the sun was just creeping over the wall of the First Circle below when they passed between two towering pillars of white marble into the Etherion.

They moved along a broad hallway. Then the walls fell away to either side, and Durge stumbled to a halt, gripping a stone balustrade for support. For all their skill, he knew the engineers of Embarr could never have constructed the likes of what he saw before him.

The space beneath the dome of the Etherion was vast—so impossibly vast an entire castle might have fit within, leaving room to spare. So far was it from the place they stood to the opposite side that the moisture on the air was visible as a faint haze. The dome soared above their heads, as blue as it was on the outside, so that it seemed they were looking at a vivid sky. Round windows were cut near the base of the dome, and golden sunlight rained down. Birds flitted back and forth across the lofty heights.

The Etherion formed a great circle, and its walls were lined with colonnades of marble veined with crimson. Durge counted seven levels or tiers, each supported by a row of columns, and between each pair of columns was a kind of alcove in which onlookers could gather. The alcoves in the bottom tiers were small and cramped, providing only standing room, while those in the topmost tiers were large and open, appointed with chaises where priests or priestesses might recline while watching the proceedings. Evidently higher meant more important in the Etherion just as in Tarras itself.

“Look at Durge,” Aryn said with a smile. “A bird could fly into his mouth. I believe he’s struck with awe.”

Falken laughed. “More likely he’s trying to figure out how the Tarrasian engineers built this place.”

“I imagine they had some help in the matter,” Lirith said, casting her dark gaze toward Melia.

“Come,” Melia said. “My alcove is this way.”

Durge managed to wrest his attention from the marvel of the Etherion. “
Your
alcove, Melia?”

She shrugged. “Well, I suppose I would have to share it with Tome, if he were here. After all, it was reserved for the Nine of us. Although it was always a bit cramped if all of us showed up at once.”

Melia’s alcove was located on the sixth tier up, only one below the highest, on the side opposite the great archway that led into and out of the domed space. The alcove was large and furnished with comfortable chairs and tables of polished wood. However, all were covered with a thick layer of dust. How long had it been since Melia had last been to Tarras? Before Durge could ask, the small woman flicked her hand, and the dust was gone. Had he only imagined it then?

Deeming it best not to inquire, Durge sat with the others, although he chose a seat nearer the alcove’s door than the balcony overlooking the Etherion. Should anyone enter, Durge did not wish to be caught unawares.

After a few moments, someone did enter: a servant bearing a pitcher of wine and five cups. Another servant brought a bowl of some pale green fruit Durge did not recognize.

“Melia,” Aryn said, “are you going to address the Etherion?”

“I don’t think so, dear. At least not today.” She handed the young baroness a cup of wine. “I’m afraid I’m something of an outsider these days. It’s my intention simply to listen and find out what the various temples believe. And who knows? Perhaps those who plotted against
Ondo and Geb will stumble in their speaking and reveal themselves, as the guilty so often do.”

Durge considered that a slim chance, although he did not say so. One who slew gods could not be an amateur.

Only about half of the Etherion’s alcoves were filled; the others were empty. No doubt many priests feared to leave their temples with the murderer still at large in the city. After all, it was not only gods that had been slain.

“It looks as if the discourse is about to begin,” Melia said. “Let’s listen.”

She moved to a gilded horn, shaped like a kind of trumpet, that protruded from the wall, and removed a cover that capped its mouth.

From his position near the door, Durge craned his neck so he could see over the balustrade. The white floor of the Etherion, far below, was empty save for a dais of creamy stone, triangular in shape. Three figures stood upon the dais, as did a pedestal topped by a gold orb. In addition, a trio of gold horns—similar to the one on the wall of Melia’s alcove—protruded from the pedestal. Again Durge wondered what they could be for. If they were trumpets, then they were facing the wrong way, for their larger ends faced outward.

“Who are those people?” Aryn whispered to Melia.

“They are the three Voices of the Etherion,” Melia said quietly. “They are selected anew each year to lead the discourse. One is selected by the temples of the two lowest tiers, one by the two highest tiers, and the other by those in the middle. Thus are all the temples represented.”

Aryn opened her mouth to ask more, but at that moment one of the three on the dais raised a hand and spoke. He was a tall priest, with shaggy black hair and, even from a distance, black eyes that glinted fiercely.

“I said the Etherion will come to order!”

Durge would have thought the man’s voice would be lost in the vastness beneath the dome, but somehow it
seemed to come booming into the alcove. Despite the force with which his words were spoken, priests and priestesses continued to speak with one another and to move between the various alcoves and tiers, holding spontaneous meetings.

Falken let out a snort. “I’m not sure coming to order is something the Etherion knows how to do.”