The captives heard nothing but the occasional curses of their captors going about their business on the deck above and the wash of the waves against the hull of the ship. In four days at sea they had been fed twice— a ration of coarse bread—but as they had access to all the water aboard ship, they lacked nothing for their thirst.
Queen Alinea had been able to nurse Ronsard back to his senses. With her kind ministrations and the help of Durwin’s healing power, the knight swore he felt better by the hour. Alinea insisted he remain reposed on his bed, but cheered by the nearness of his friends, Ronsard largely ignored her pleas. They had much to talk about and much to tell.
“It gives me no pleasure to say it, my lady,” said Ronsard, leaning upon his elbow, “but I fear for the king. Nimrood is a crafty snake; his plots are beyond reckoning. However, we may be certain there is mortal danger for any within his grasp.”
“He has induced Prince Jaspin to join his schemes of treachery— though little enough encouragement was needed there,” said Theido.
“And I have heard it voiced far and wide that Nimrood raises an army, though who—or what—would fight for him, I cannot but wonder. In Elsendor there are rumors of a Legion of the Dead.”
“No! It cannot be true,” gasped Alinea. “Oh, it is too horrible to contemplate.”
“He has the power to do such things?” asked Trenn.
“He has,” said Durwin, “and we do not have the means to stop him . . . ourselves.”
“We will find a way,” said Theido. His eyes kindled with fire against the wicked necromancer. “Nimrood will be stopped. My life is my pledge.”
“If only my arm had the strength to hold my sword,” moaned Ronsard. His stony features fought against the pain his companions could see hovering there; he sought to rise.
“Please, good Ronsard, you must rest while you can,” said Alinea, pressing him back down with her hands gently on his shoulders.
“Alas,” wailed Ronsard, “even if I could wield a sword, I have none in this time of need.”
“Soon—too soon, I fear—there will be no lack of blades, but of hands to hold them. You will have your chance, Ronsard. Only content yourself till then, and pray your strength recovers.” Durwin spoke softly and peered deeply into Ronsard’s clouded eyes. The knight shook his head, and his eyelids fluttered weakly. He laid his head back and slipped off to sleep moments later. “Would that I had such power over our enemies as I have over the wounds of brave knights.” Durwin sighed.
Trenn looked at the hermit with wide eyes full of awe. “There is power enough, I’ll warrant, for many purposes. Perhaps you could charm this Nimrood to sleep as you did Ronsard just now.”
“Would that I could. But no, the power that remains in me is of a healing kind—though it may be turned for other purposes in time of need. If I were to think of harming someone, even the evil Nimrood, this last remnant of my power would desert me instantly. It is a law of this healing power.” He paused, deep in thought, and then continued excitedly. “But what may be done with drafts and potions and the mixing of rare earths—that I may still do! Oh, I have been so slow. Gather round quickly! I have a plan!”
In a little while the captives heard the click of a key in a lock and the sound of rusty bolts thrown back. There was a rattle as chains dropped free and a blinding glare as the cargo door was opened wide, sending a shaft of light flooding into the hold.
A rough voice announced, “Get back! Get back! Ah, I trust my passengers are enjoying their fine quarters?” The voice was that of Captain Pyggin, whose portly form could now be discerned descending the steep stairs, followed by two of his ruffians. “Give them their food,” he ordered one of the men. The other stood guard.
“By Zoar! I’ll—,” swore Trenn, jumping to his feet. The guard’s long knife flashed in his hand in an instant.
“Make no threats you care not to die by,” warned Pyggin. “My men are less civilized than I. They kill to pass the time.”
Trenn backed away slowly. “What do you want, pirate?” asked Theido carelessly.
“Only to wish you well, my fine friends.” He cast a lustful eye over Alinea’s comely form. “We reach our destination in two days’ time.” He waved his hand, and the sailor carrying the food set down an iron pot and tossed a couple of loaves onto the filthy floor of the hold.
Pyggin turned to leave. “Enjoy your meal!” He laughed perversely and climbed the steps. The guard watched them with hooded eyes, daring anyone to try to rush upon him.
Then he was gone, and darkness returned as the door slammed shut. The locks and chains were replaced, and they heard the derisive call of Captain Pyggin through the lattice. “Two days—mark them well. They’ll be your last.”
“To think I paid him for our passage,” muttered Trenn when Pyggin had gone.
“He but takes us where we want to go,” observed Durwin.
“Yes, though not in the fashion we desired,” replied Theido. “But much can happen in two days’ time.”
26
The last light of day splashed crimson into the sky and tinted the edges of lingering clouds violet and blue. Quentin walked easily, though nervously, between Mollena and Toli. Ahead of them loomed the graceful silhouette of the Ariga temple.
Mollena was dressed in a long flowing robe of white, edged in silver, and her gray hair was pulled back straight to hang down her back. Quentin gazed upon her as he walked, thinking that something of the woman she must have been was revived in her this night. She appeared much younger than her years, her skin smoothed, the wrinkles eased with a radiance he had never seen in her countenance.
“Yes, it is Mollena and no other,” she replied to his wondering glance. Her eyes twinkled brightly as they approached an avenue of torches leading to the temple entrance.
Quentin, embarrassed and enjoying it at the same time, said, “You are beautiful tonight, Mollena.”
She laughed. “You say that now because you have not met our young women.”
Quentin realized with a wince that he would not be meeting any young women at all—he and Toli had made plans to leave in the morning. His gaze slid from Mollena’s laughing mouth to Toli’s deep-set dark eyes. He, like Quentin, was dressed in a sky-blue mantle that covered a white tunic embroidered with silver at the neck. Toli looked like a Pelagian prince with his brown skin and gleaming black hair. For all the trouble they had faced in getting him to give up his rough skins, Toli appeared quite used to such finery.
Quentin, though, was too nervous to enjoy himself—except in fleeting moments when he forgot what was about to happen. For he was about to be presented in a special temple service given in his honor. Quentin was to receive a special gift, as Yeseph had explained it; he was to receive the Blessing of the Ariga.
What that might be, Quentin could only guess.
“Here you are,” said Yeseph. Quentin did not see him at first. He was gazing up at the sweeping lines of the temple’s narrow, finger-thin central tower. People dressed in the same simple elegance as Mollena and Yeseph streamed into the temple. “Follow me—and I will lead us to our places.”
Quentin obeyed mutely. He was much too busy taking in all the sights and sounds—a chorus had begun singing as they entered the vestibule of the temple.
Yeseph led them along quickly. Quentin could see through the spaces between the great hanging tapestries they passed that the sanctuary of the temple was already mostly filled with worshippers. They moved around the semicircular auditorium and arrived at a side entrance where three men in long white robes waited with a half dozen young men carrying large candlesticks of burnished gold.
One of the priests, for so Quentin took them, held out a white robe for Yeseph, who slipped it on over his other garments. “Now,” he said, “we are ready. Quentin, you follow me and do as I instructed you earlier. Mollena, you and Toli may take your places in the front row. You may watch from there.”
The three priests, or elders, turned and formed a single line. Ye
seph stepped into file behind them and Quentin behind him. The fire bearers stood on either side of them, forming, Quentin thought, an impressive procession.
Then they were moving down a wide aisle toward a raised platform, behind which hung a great golden tapestry that glittered bright as the sun in the light of hundreds of candles.
There were seats arranged in a semicircle on the platform behind a large stone altar. Upon reaching the final step, the elders went to their seats and the fire bearers placed their candles in the receptacles around the altar. Yeseph took a seat near the center of the circle, and Quentin sat at his right hand.
“Listen carefully and do as I say,” Elder Yeseph instructed. “There will be an invocation—a calling of the One to hear our prayers. Then Elder Themu will deliver a short message to our people. When that is done, it will be our turn. We will enter into the holy place. I will lead; you will follow.”
Quentin nodded his understanding, and the choir began a short verse, which was followed by one of the elders ascending to the device Quentin had taken for an altar—it was a large stone cube set in the center of the platform with steps at the rear, allowing the speaker to climb to the top. Around it in a circle burned the candles placed by the fire bearers.
“Mighty Perun nim Perano, King of Kings, you who ever hear our prayers, hear us now . . .”
The invocation continued, and to Quentin it seemed somewhat similar, and yet very different, from the invocations he had heard in the temple at Narramoor. Similar in the style of speech and the words used, but very different in the way in which it was delivered. There was no fear, no self-consciousness or ostentatious display of humility. The elder spoke simply and with assurance that his voice was heard by the god, as it was heard by the hundreds who filled the sanctuary. Quentin shifted nervously in his chair, a little unnerved by the idea that the god was actually listening to them, watching them.
Quentin imagined that he could actually feel the god’s presence and then surprised himself when a real surge of emotion welled up within him in response to his imaginings.
He puzzled on these things as the ceremony moved along its determined course.
Quentin started to his feet at Yeseph’s example as the words of Elder Themu’s message died away in the vast hall. He had daydreamed through the entire speech—it seemed like only moments since he had been seated, and yet he had a vague recollection that there had been more singing and the reading of the sacred text. But it all ran together in his mind as one brief event. Now he was standing and moving toward the stone with Yeseph.
“My good friends,” said Yeseph to the congregation. Quentin looked out at the hundreds of bright eyes glittering in the light of the candles. All he saw were the eyes. “We have come tonight to confer upon this young man, a sojourner among us, the Blessing of the Ariga.” Nods of approval rippled through the auditorium. “Attend us now with your prayers.”
Yeseph signaled the fire bearers, who came forward, each carrying a candle in a shallow bowl.
The fire bearers filed to the rear of the platform, followed by Yeseph and Quentin and then the remaining elders. As they approached the wonderful golden tapestry, two of the fire bearers stepped up and drew the tapestry aside, and Quentin saw a narrow doorway.
Yeseph entered the doorway, darkened but for the flickering glow of the candles, and they passed through a short corridor into an inner chamber.
The chamber was much like the inside of a tomb, thought Quentin. Bare. Cut out of smooth stone with a stone ledge running the length of the farther wall. No symbols or ornaments were to be seen as the fire bearers silently began placing their candles about the room.
Quentin heard the gentle splash of water and saw at one end of the oblong room a small fountain playing peacefully in a hollow bowl set in the floor.
The elders took their places along the stone ledge, and Yeseph drew Quentin toward the fountain. “Kneel, Quentin.”
Quentin knelt down before the fountain and felt the smooth stone cool against his legs. In the quiet he heard the breathing of the elders behind him and the burble of the fountain dancing in its bowl. Then Yeseph, standing over him, said, “This is a place of power, the center of the Arigas’ devotion, for in this room each young Ariga received a blessing when he came of age.
“They received many blessings throughout life, but this was a special one, delivered not by the elder or priest, but by Whist Orren, the Most High God himself.
“This special blessing they carried throughout life, and it became a part of their life. They did not earn it, nor did it require a ritual of purification or obedience. The blessing is a gift of the god. All that is required is a true heart and a desire to receive it.
“Now then, is there any reason why you should not receive the Blessing of the Ariga?” Quentin, his eyes focused on the fountain while Yeseph had been speaking, turned to look into the elder’s kindly eyes.
“No,” he said softly. “It is my desire to receive the blessing.”
“Then so be it,” said Yeseph. Raising his hands above Quentin’s head, he began to speak. “Most High God, here is one who would be your follower. Speak to him now, and out of your wisdom and truth, give him your blessing.”
Again Quentin was struck by the bare simplicity of the prayer—an unadorned request, spoken with calm assurance.
Yeseph stooped to the fountain and cupped his hands in the water. “Drink,” he commanded, offering Quentin the water.
Quentin took a sip, and Yeseph then touched his forehead with damp fingertips. “Water is the symbol of life; all living things need water to live. And so it is the symbol of the Creator of Life, Whist Orren.
“Close your eyes,” Yeseph instructed and lifted his voice in an ancient song.
At first Quentin did not recognize the words; the elder’s quavering voice echoed strangely in his ears as it reverberated in the stone chamber. Yeseph’s song seemed to swell, filling the chamber, and Quentin realized the others were singing too. It was a song about the god and his promise to walk among his people and guide them in his ways. Quentin found the song moving, and as the simple melody was repeated, he recited the words to himself.
Gradually Yeseph’s song died away, and Quentin heard a voice. Was it Yeseph’s or another’s? He could not tell—it could have been his own. The voice seemed to speak directly to his heart, to some part of him that he carried deep within.
Quentin then entered a dream.
In the dream he still knelt upon the cool stone floor, but around him lay a bright meadow of limitless size. The lush green valley shimmered in honeyed light. The light itself seemed to emanate from no single source, but rather hung over the meadow like a golden mist.
The air smelled of pine and the lighter fragrance of sweet grass. Overhead the sky formed an arc of delicate blue iridescence, which fairly rippled with subtle shades of changing color, yet appeared always the same. No sun roamed the sky, but the heavens, as the whole of the valley, seemed charged with light.
A crystal brook burbled close by, joyfully offering up its music to his ears. The water seemed alive as it splashed and danced along, sliding over the smooth, round stones.
An air of peace breathed over the scene, and Quentin felt a surge of joy spring up like a fountain inside him. His heart tugged within him, as if struggling to break free and soar aloft on light wings of happiness.
The voice he had heard before called him again, saying, “Quentin, do you know me?”
Quentin looked around somewhat fearfully. He saw no one nearby who might be speaking to him; he was utterly alone. But the voice continued.
“In the still of the night you have heard my voice, and in the depths of your heart you have sought my face. Though you searched for me in unholy temples, I cast you not aside.”
Quentin shuddered and asked in a small voice, “Who are you? Tell me, that I may know you.”
“I am the Maker, the One, the Most High. The gods themselves tremble in my presence. They are shadows, fain
t mists tossed on the breeze and dispersed. I alone am worthy of your devotion.”
As the voice spoke, Quentin realized he had heard it many times before, or had so longed to hear it—in the dark of his temple cell when he cried out alone. He knew it, though he had never heard it this clearly, this distinctly, before.
“O Most High, let your servant see you,” Quentin pleaded. Instantly the peaceful meadow was awash in a brilliant white light, and Quentin threw his arm across his face.
When he dared to peer beneath his arm, he saw the shimmering form of a man standing before him.
The man stood tall, with wide shoulders, rather young, but his features bore the stamp of a wise, seasoned leader. The man’s form seemed to waver in Quentin’s gaze as if Quentin were seeing a reflection in the water. The man appeared solid enough, but his outline grew fuzzy at the edges as if made of focused beams of living light, or clothed in an aura of rainbowlike luminescence.
But his face held Quentin’s attention. The Man of Light’s eyes gleamed like hot coals, and his face shone with the radiance of glowing bronze. Quentin could not remove his gaze from the dark, fathomless depths of the man’s burning eyes. They held his in a sort of lover’s embrace: strong yet gentle, commanding yet yielding. Hunger of a kind Quentin could not name burned out from those eyes, and Quentin felt afraid for presuming to exist within the sphere of the radiant being’s sight.
“Have no fear,” said the man. The tone was unspeakably gentle. “Long have I had my hand on you and upheld you. Look on me and know in your heart that I am your friend.”
Quentin did as he was bid and experienced a sudden rush of recognition, as if he had just met a close friend or a brother who had been long absent. His eyes filled with tears.
“Please, I am not worthy . . .”