The Silver Serpent
Chapter 35|Resonance
Aspin sighed as he looked at the precarious switchback running down the side of the cliff. He had been traveling blind in the days since leaving the Ramsgate. He had no idea where the girl was, and signs were few in this rocky land. He had seen evidence of the passing of a great number of people, but they were too many and headed in the wrong direction. He wondered what they were about, and it concerned him more than a little, but his task was too important for him to allow himself to be diverted. He supposed he could try and send a message, but it was risky this close to the Ice Reaches. He preferred to pass across this country like a shadow. He hoped that he was heading in the right direction, but hope was all he had. That, and the bond he shared with his quarry.
He checked the sun where it hung high above the distant, snow-tipped peaks. Time was difficult to estimate in the mountains, but he could make a general estimate. This would be as good a time as any to rest.
He turned to retrieve his water skin when he felt a tremor. It was as if the world had… shifted ever so slightly. He froze, fearing that the ledge was about to give way beneath him. He felt it again, and realized that it was not a physical tremor, but a wave of energy that seemed to come from beyond the snow-capped peaks. The direction in which he was headed. He waited.
It struck him. A blinding wave of pure energy. His mind screamed in exquisite agony, and he crumpled to the ground.
Lerryn tensed as they approached the village. Several dirty men with shaggy black beards and unkempt hair stood outside the log stockade, spears held in white knuckled grips. They eyed him with looks varying from caution to outright hostility.
“Do not draw your weapons unless I give the command,” he instructed his comrades. Nearby, a group of indecently-dressed women farmed a muddy patch of garden. They pretended to ignore the newcomers, but eyed the group with sidelong glances.
They reined in at a safe distance from the gate and, in accordance with Malgog custom, waited to be greeted. The men continued to stare. Several heartbeats later, one sauntered into the village, returning with a wizened old man, his long hair and beard showing only faint signs of what had undoubtedly been hair as black as the others. He wore baggy pants and tunic, typical of Malgog. As a sign of his office, he wore a string of swamp lizard claws around his neck. Lerryn counted nine claws. This man had led the village for more than thirty-six springs.
Leaning heavily on his staff, the man made his way over to Lerryn. “You may dismount,” he said, his strong voice incongruous with his frail body.
Lerryn climbed down, and made a show of slowly removing his sword belt and laying it on the ground in front of him.
“My name is Lerryn van Altman, First Prince of the Sword of Galdora. I offer you this gift.” He reached into his tunic and withdrew the pouch he had secreted there earlier.
The old man cackled, showing a full mouth of ragged, yellow teeth. “And what use have we of your money in this place, young Highness? The Malgog have no commerce anymore.”
“You misunderstand, Esteemed One.” He loosened the drawstring and opened the bag. “I offer you herbs from my homeland. Ground and used in a poultice, they help prevent wounds from becoming infected. Brewed in a tea, they have, shall we say, certain other benefits for an older gentleman.” He raised his eyebrows
“And what might those be?” The man’s eyes said that he already knew the answer.
“Let us just say, your wife will be very pleased if you accept this gift.”
The man laughed again. “My wife is less than twenty springs old, Highness. I daresay she will not be pleased. I, however, gladly accept your gift.” He nodded to one of the armed villagers who hurried over to accept Larris’ gift. “As you obviously know our customs, you are aware that now is the time that you should state your business.”
“Esteemed One, I am in search of an ancient relic,” Larris said. “I have traveled far.”
“I know where Archstone is,” the old man interrupted. “What relic do you seek?.”
“The relic I seek is a remnant of the war of the Frostmarch.” Lerryn held his breath, hoping the response would be the one for which he longed. He breathed a sigh of relief when the man smiled.
“A pilgrim are you?” The old man sounded delighted. “You have come to see our relic. Yes, come this way.” He turned and headed into the village.
Lerryn signaled for Karst to follow him. The others could wait with the horses. Inside the rough stockade was a cluster of stick and mud huts. A pig scurried underfoot, and ran away squealing. He wondered if Karst was feeling at home.
“An amazing relic it is, but no one remembers that it was brought here.”
Lerryn’s heart danced. The prophecy had led them to this place. Soon, he would lay his hands on the Silver Serpent. So great was his excitement that he scarcely heard the old man continue.
“We once had a small temple to house the relic, but with the clan wars, it was not safe. You understand, no? It has been many years since we had a pilgrim. Perhaps this is a good omen for us. This way! It is in the cave.”
Lerryn’s excitement grew as he caught sight of a small cave set in the side of a hill. An old woman sat in front of it tending a smoky fire. She wore a dress of animal skins and a necklace of bones. Of course they would have a witch guarding a relic of such power. The woman looked up, her eyes wide in surprise.
“We have a pilgrim,” he said. “A pilgrim!”
If the witch was impressed, she did not show it. “You may leave your offering on the altar,” she said in a raspy voice, indicating a flat stone at the center of the cave entrance. The old man turned to Lerryn and gestured for him to enter the cave.
Lerryn fished a gold coin from his belt pouch and dropped it onto the altar. He was certain that he could have come up with something more useful to these people than gold they would likely never get to spend, but he would not wait a moment longer than necessary. The moment was at hand.
The old man, who still had not told them his name, drew a flaming brand from the campfire and joined them. “It is just a ways back.” He led the way into the cool, musty darkness.
The cave bent to the left, and as they turned the corner, the light glinted off of a metallic surface. Lerryn’s heart raced.
The torch cast a faint circle of light around and in front of them. The flickering glow fell upon a battered bronze breastplate.
“The breastplate of Karnis the Good, greatest Malgog hero of the Frostmarch. The forces of ice pinned the Lothan army against a sheer cliff, threatening to overwhelm them. King Mardid looked at this breastplate, and saw a vision of how to defeat the enemy. Karnis and his clansmen scaled the cliff in the dark of night, and assaulted the enemy’s right flank. Only Karnis survived, but their attack opened the way for the Lothans to fight their way free. They say the tears Karnis wept for his fallen clansmen fell upon this breastplate and gave it the power to meet one’s need in his most desperate hour. Is your need great?”
Lerryn felt the bile rise in his throat. He forced himself to stand straight, though his knees felt like they would buckle. He could not believe it. The disappointment was almost more than he could bear.
“That cannot be…” Karst shut up when Lerryn cuffed him on the back of the head. His dark eyes fixed Lerryn with an evil glare.
An anguished scream from behind them saved Lerryn the trouble of speaking an insincere word of thanks. He spun around, drew his sword, and sprinted back to the mouth of the cave, Karst right behind him.
Emerging in the gray light, he almost fell across the witch woman, who lay writhing on the ground. She held her hands pressed to her temples and her lips were drawn back in an agonized grimace. Bloody scratches marred her cheeks where she had clawed her face. A frightened villager knelt beside her, looking at Lerryn with uncertain eyes.
“Highness!”
Lerryn turned to see Bull beckoning to him. He sprinted over to his party, and stopped short when he saw Xaver on the ground, in
a similar condition to that of the witch woman. His vizier’s eyes were opened wide, and his breath came in labored gasps. Lerryn dropped to his knees next to Xaver. He had seen his share of battlefield injuries, but never anything like this invisible malady.
“What is it? What can I do for you?” The others stood in a semi-circle behind them, leaning over to stare at the struggling man.
“Found…” Xaver gasped, “…found it.”
“No, we did not,” Lerryn said. The admission seemed to burn his tongue. “It was just an old…”
“No!” Xaver grabbed Lerryn’s tunic with both hands. “Someone else.” He closed his eyes and fell back to the ground, squeezing his eyes shut. “Another.”
Lerryn did not want to believe what he was hearing. How could Xaver know? He was dimly aware that Karst had detached from their group and mounted his horse. As the sound of hooves pounding the soft turf rang in his ear, Xaver opened his eyes again.
“Lerryn,” he wailed. “We were wrong!”
“With all due respect, Prelate, Aspin must be reined in. For too long he has gone his own way, doing the gods know what. And now, when he is needed, we cannot find him.”
Denrill inspected the back of his hands and waited to be certain Taggian had finished his diatribe. All due respect? That would be something new from Taggian. After an adequate silence he spoke.
“And that, Proctor Taggian,” Denrill explained with more patience than he felt he owed the insufferable man, “is precisely why I cannot ‘rein him in.’”
“You could contact him by way of…”
“I am perfectly aware of the capabilities of aciash smoke. You have seen me use it. Are you suggesting that senility is encroaching upon my faculties?” Taggian shook his head, but the expression on his face indicated that he at least suspected the prelate was losing his mind. “Excellent. Now that we have established that I am not mentally impaired, I shall remind you of the potential danger of sending such a message, depending upon Aspin’s location when the message is received.”
“So he is in a precarious location?” Taggian moved to the window and looked out over the Vatanian cityscape. The man fancied himself clever, but he had no subtlety. That he had risen to proctor was, in Denrill’s estimation, an indictment of the entire order of sai-kurs.
“I have already told you,” Denrill said, his voice clearly indicating his fatigue, “that I do not know where he is. I can assure you, and those whom you purport to represent,” he added, ignoring Taggian’s frown, “that his task is of critical importance.”
“Permission to sit?” His attention to protocol was belied by the fact that he was already settling into the chair opposite Denrill’s desk when the prelate flicked his hand toward the seat. “Prelate, I understand that you have heard rumors from the west of, shall we say, curious activity.” No one within the order had thus far been willing to consider the possibility of a second frostmarch. “But we have a situation between Kyrin and Galdora, a situation in which Aspin is uniquely qualified to intervene.”
“Proctor, we have more pressing issues than another round of the constant friction between Nadrin and the Van Altmans.”
“Both princes of Galdora are missing. You cannot convince me that Nadrin had nothing to do with it. Nor can you convince the King, for that matter. Kyrinian troops are massing on Galdora’s northwest border. War could break out at any moment.” Taggian rearranged his robes, shifted in his seat, and leaned toward Denrill. “We need Aspin. Your trust in him, though I am certain that it is well-founded, has become a source of concern for many of the order.”
Denrill slapped the tarwood desk with the flat of his palm. “You forget yourself, Proctor. I will execute my duties as I see fit, and at this moment, I see fit to permit Aspin to continue his work.”
“But Prelate, the Kyrinian situation is urgent…”
“You are correct, Taggian. It is urgent, and requires the attention of one of our most experienced and influential Sai-kurs.” The look on the other man’s face said that he already knew who that someone would be. “I have your orders here, Proctor.” Denrill drew a stack of folded and sealed parchments from his desk and handed them to the confused-looking Taggian.
“What are the others for?” he asked, shuffling through them and looking increasingly ill as he read each name.
“It seems that a number of urgent situations have come to my attention in the last few days. If you will do me the kindness of delivering these orders. I believe these are all men with whom you work closely?” These orders would scatter nine of Taggian’s most ardent supporters, and Denrill’s most vocal detractors, across Gameryah for three moons or more. It would not quash their dissent, but it would buy him time and a measure of blessed peace.
His satisfaction was short-lived. A humming sensation filled the room. He turned toward the window and was struck full in the face by a wave of energy that knocked him backward. He crashed into his desk and fell to the floor. He sat there, the wind knocked out of him.
Taggian appeared at his side. The proctor looked like he was about to vomit. He bent down and took Denrill by the upper arm, and carefully helped him to his feet.
“Are you in need of attention, Prelate?” he asked. “I will send for a mender.” Denrill couldn’t tell whether the frown on Taggian’s face was out of concern for his health, or out of fear of the strange phenomenon they had just experienced.
Before Denrill could answer, the door flew open and Almate bustled into the room. A large patch of ink stained the front of his robe. Obviously, he had been taken by surprise as well. “Prelate, are you all right?” So great was the clerk’s worry that he did not even acknowledge that he had burst into a meeting of two superiors.
“We are both fine,” Taggian answered for the two of them. “You may go now.”
“My Lord?” Almate turned his attention to Denrill.
“I am fine, Almate. Thank you for your concern.” When his secretary did not leave, he paused and stared. The soft lines of his florid face seemed to fade away against his rust-colored hair. “Is there something else?”
“I…uh. That is… What was that, my Lord?” Almate looked as if he were going to sick up.
“We shall certainly find out. You are dismissed.” Denrill inclined his head toward the door. Without waiting for Almate to leave, he turned and straightened his desk. “You are both excused, Taggian.”
“But Prelate, I…”
“I am sorry. Did I mumble?” The scuffling sound of the proctor’s hurried departure soothed his frayed nerves a touch. Only when he heard the door close did he cease the pretense of working, and let the papers fall from his hands. Placing his palms flat on the smooth wood of his desk, he leaned forward heavily, and took a deep breath.
“Aspin,” he whispered, “where are you?”
The sweet scent of amalino root filled Eramon’s nose as he sprinkled it into the brazier. He watched as the blue smoke drifted up, wending its way up the steeply angled ceiling and spiraling out through the hole in the center. Behind the brazier hung a curtain of deepest crimson, dividing the Hall of Sacrifice from the Sanctus, the ceremonial abode of Arscla, God of fire. He knew that it was all superstition, but he loved being a priest. The ornate temple, the fine robes, and the theatrical elements of the ritual appealed to him. What was more, in a city of this size a priest of Arscla was always well-fed, and had no shortage of altar boys from which to choose, though some of the more provincial clergy preferred beggar girls or orphans.
He turned to address the single worshipper, a merchant from the look of him, who knelt on a cushion in the center of the floor. Why did they always choose the center, Eramon wondered. Why not one of the cushions to the right, left, or the back? For that matter, why did they keep so many kneeling cushions in the hall? Kyrinians were not known for their devotion.
“You may approach the Sanctus,” he intoned, holding his hands out to receive the sacrifice. “Sacrifice” was perhaps no longer the most precise word.
The temple had long ago done away with the practice of animal sacrifice, though some of the rural priests still held to the old ways.
The merchant proffered his offering: a square of raw meat, rolled in spices. The sacrifices were prepared early in the morning by novices, and sold to worshipers for two silver crowns. It made for a tidy profit for the temple, but the adherents had no other choice. Their own meat offerings were, by temple decree, unclean and unworthy for sacrifice. Eramon took the piece of meat and turned back to the brazier, his mouth watering at the thought of the tasty meal it would make after it had been roasted. Unless, of course, the worshiper spent too long at the altar and the meat burned. Hoping that would not happen, he skewered the offering and laid it across the brazier, where it began to crackle and smoke, emitting a most pleasing aroma.
“Almighty and most munificent Arscla,” Eramon intoned, raising the offering high. “A humble worshiper approaches your altar.” When the merchant remained rooted to the floor, he cleared his throat and inclined his head toward the waist-high wooden rail, two spans wide, that stood just in front of the brazier. “The unworthy one bows humbly before your divine and magnificent presence.”
The paunchy fellow scurried forward, red coloring his cheeks. He snatched the round, flat silk hat from his head to reveal a thinning pate of short, black hair. He tucked the cap into his finely-tooled leather belt. He dropped awkwardly to his knees, propped his elbows on the rail, and opened his hands, palms up.
“Holy Arscla,” Eramon continued, “hear the prayers of this, your faithful servant. May this humble sacrifice be pleasing in your sight.” With more drama than was strictly necessary, he dropped the offering into the fire. It cracked and sizzled, sending a column of fragrant white smoke drifting upward.
“Most gracious and, um…munifical… Arscla,” the man had no gift for language. “My enemies are…”
The man ceased his prayer when a column of brilliant orange flame, as wide as the brazier, shot upward, pouring out of the hole in the ceiling with an angry roar. Heat seared Eramon’s face, and the entire Sanctus shone with an unearthly brilliance. The chamber was alive with an energy he had never felt.
“What is happening?” Eramon whispered. He wanted to run, but his legs would not respond to his mind’s commands. He scarcely noticed Arscla’s lone adherent jostle him in his hurry to escape the searing pillar.
With an audible rip, the curtain was split asunder, revealing the faceless statue that represented the fire god. Reflecting the brilliant firelight, it almost seemed alive.