Alec executed a perfect bow. “I believe he’s rescheduled all arrests until tomorrow, my lady.”
Well done, Sir Alec, Seregil thought to himself with a smile.
From the corner of his eye, he saw several of the others exchange discreet glances. Most of Rhíminee knew he’d been taken from his villa in chains only a few weeks before. Kylith had deftly removed any tension surrounding the incident by making light of it.
“Seregil, you’ll sit there by Lord Admiral Nyreidian,” she said, waving him to a seat beside a portly, black-bearded noble. “He’s overseeing the outfitting of the Queen’s privateer fleet and I know you’ll want to hear all about it. Sir Alec, you sit here between us so that we may renew our acquaintance. But first you must be properly introduced—Lord Admiral Nyreidian í Gorthos, Lady Tytiana ë Reva and Lady Breena ë Ursil of the Queen’s court, Sir Arius í Rafael, and my very dear friend Lady Yriel ë Nikiria.”
Pausing, she placed her hand over that of a uniformed woman on her right. “And this is Captain Julena ë Isai of the White Hawk Infantry, the newest addition to our little salon.”
Seregil eyed the captain with discreet interest; she was rumored to be Kylith’s latest paramour.
“My friends, you all know Lord Seregil í Korit,” she continued. “And this charming young man is Lord Seregil’s protégé, Sir Alec í Gareth of Ivywell. His late father was a knight of Mycena, I believe.”
Alec’s spurious pedigree elicited the hoped-for lack of interest. Leaving him to stumble charmingly along through Kylith’s courtly flirtations, Seregil turned his attention to the other guests, where more interesting game was afoot.
“I expect war will be a relief for Phoria,” Lady Tytiana was saying. As Mistress of the Queen’s Wardrobe, she was a valuable and generally reliable gossip. “She’s still under a bit of a cloud, you know, after that horrible business with the Vicegerent’s suicide— Oh, Lord Seregil, forgive me. I didn’t mean to be indelicate.”
“Not at all, dear lady.” Seregil flicked a crease from his black mantle. “My name was cleared, so my honor is no more blemished than usual.”
A ripple of laughter went round the little circle. He’d cultivated his reputation as a charmingly dissipated exile carefully over the years. While his distant relation to the royal family granted him access to most of the more fashionable salons, it was generally supposed that his foreign birth and dilettante ways kept him safely outside the complex intrigues of the city. As a result, he was taken lightly but told a great deal.
“As I was saying,” Tytiana went on, “I shouldn’t wonder that she’d be relieved to go off to war. Nothing like a few victories to improve one’s popularity. And just between ourselves, Phoria could use some goodwill among the people, even without that other unpleasantness. An heir apparent with no offspring is always—awkward.”
“She’s a fine cavalry commander, though,” said Captain Julena.
Admiral Nyreidian leaned back and laced his fingers over his considerable paunch, “True, but she’ll be at a disadvantage unless the Plenimarans are foolish enough to attempt overrunning Mycena. Plenimar is a naval power, always has been. I’ve advised the Queen so and she agrees. The lower city defenses are being built up as we speak.”
“Only yesterday I overheard Queen Idrilain ordering two hundred wagonloads of fine red clay from Piorus to slake the slopes below the citadel,” Lady Breena chimed in. “That’s not been done since her great-grandmother’s day.”
“Surely they wouldn’t be so bold as to attack Rhíminee directly?” Seregil ventured over his wine.
Nyreidian cast a rather patronizing look his way. “They’ve done it before.”
“So you are preparing to meet them on their own terms. It must be an enormous undertaking.”
“I believe I’ve seen every sailor, fisherman, and pirate that ever sailed between here and the Strait of Bal!” the admiral replied. “The harbor’s alive with them. And investors, too. Privateering is a lucrative venture. Have you considered backing a vessel, Lord Seregil?”
“Sounds like an interesting mix of patriotism and profit. Perhaps I should look into it.”
“Vessels are getting scarce already, I must warn you. Every shipbuilder in Skala has all the work he can handle, refitting old ships and building new. But the real trick is to find a decent captain.”
“And yet war has not been officially declared. How can the Queen send out privateers without giving provocation? Surely she doesn’t mean to precipitate a conflict?”
Nyreidian stiffened perceptibly. “I’m sure our Queen does nothing without the best interests of Skala in mind.”
“But of course,” murmured Seregil. “The fact that the Queen has entrusted you with this undertaking is ample proof of the gravity of such measures.”
Alec breathed a sigh of relief when Kylith turned her attention to her other guests. His repertoire of invented history was slim and he was out of his depth for small talk. Luckily, no one else seemed particularly interested in him.
Seregil was still busy with the fat admiral, so he leaned his elbows on the rail to watch the spectacle unfolding before him.
The tiers of viewing boxes where he sat stood at an angle on the south side of the square, just in front of the Dalnan temple grove. Across the square another set of tiers partially obscured the fountain courts and delicate, brightly colored archways of the Temple of Astellus. The Temple of Illior was hidden by the back wall of the box to the east.
Cordoned-off pathways between the four temples quartered the broad square. Black-robed festival goers were already packing the open areas and crowding into the courtyards and porticoes of the other temples. Gulls wheeled overhead, mingling with flights of brown doves from the Dalnan grove.
Before him, the black Temple of Sakor stood massive and stark against a riotous sunset. Broad bars of light spilled out between the square pillars of the portico, silhouetting the gongs that hung between them.
Inside stood an altar of polished black stone. A great fire burned on it, illuminating the huge golden shield that hung suspended just behind. This, Seregil had explained earlier, was called the Aegis of Sakor. It was twenty feet high and its sunburst device was set with hundreds of smooth-polished rubies that seemed to pulse with life in the flickering firelight.
An honor guard was massed in formation on the broad stairs in front of the temple; somewhere in those faceless ranks Beka Cavish was standing watch with her regiment. He envied her just a little. The soldier’s life seemed an uncomplicated one to him; no pretending, no disguise—just honor, duty, and the bravery to stand by your comrades in battle.
“I suppose they do not celebrate the Sakor Festival with such display in Mycena?” Lady Kylith remarked, breaking in on his thoughts.
“No, my lady,” Alec replied, raising his voice for Seregil’s benefit. “Even the Harvest Home at the end of Rhythin isn’t a patch on this.”
“Lord Seregil will have explained to you, I am sure, about the extinguishing of the flames?”
“Yes. I imagine this will be an uncomfortable night.”
“The soldier’s vigil is very weary.” Kylith cast a regretful glance in Julena’s direction and Alec guessed the captain would be going back on duty soon. “But for the rest of us, it’s a merry time. Moonlit parties, blind games, and chases. It’s a fine night for lovers, as well. They say half the people born in Rhíminee can count back from their birth to this night.”
Her perfume drifted over him as she leaned closer. “And who will be keeping you warm in the darkness, hm?”
A sudden fanfare from the temple spared him the necessity of a reply.
A hush fell over the crowd as a long procession of priests filed out from the interior of the temple. Chanting and playing reed flutes, si strums, deep-throated horns, and timbrels, they formed themselves into two ranks flanking the Aegis. The skirling music had an ancient, mournful sound.
“The Song of Passing, sung in the original Konic tongue,” Seregil whispe
red. “Most of this ceremony dates back at least a thousand years.”
At the end of the chant, an ornately robed figure was carried forward on a litter, face covered by a golden sun mask, an unsheathed broadsword lying across his knees.
“That’s the oldest of the Sakor priests, dressed to represent the dying god,” Seregil went on. “He brings the great Sword of Gërilain.”
“Was it really hers?” Alec whispered. Gërilain was the first of Skala’s hereditary queens instituted by the prophecy of Illior six centuries before.
“Yes. The Queen’s reinvested with it each year.”
When Old Sakor had been positioned in front of the altar, a priest stepped forward and addressed him in the same ancient tongue.
“She’s imploring Sakor not to abandon the people,” Seregil interpreted. “This next part goes on and on, but the gist of it is that Sakor appoints the Queen as their guardian and gives her the sacred firepot and sword.”
As predicted, Sakor’s reply took some time. The lower portion of the sun mask was constructed to amplify his voice, which was rather thin and creaky. When this dialogue was completed, horns sounded and the grand procession began.
Contingents of priests emerged from the other temples, each bearing a figure representing their patron deity on a litter.
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 Thelátimos’ 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 Gërilain 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 t
housands 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 startling 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.