The Pearl Saga - Mistress of the Pearl Part 40

And then he took her hand in his. "Don't lose your faith now. You have been through so much, overcome so much."

"But there are so few of us and so many of them," she said. They were alone in the darkness and the silvery rain. No one could hear them, no one could see them. They were as cut off from the abbey as they were from the rest of the world.

The Nawatir's head lifted. "I was born in fire, bred for battle. There is Dragon spoor in my veins, there is potent sorcery in my cloak and in my steed." He put his arms around her, and thunder rolled down on them. "Ah, you are trembling. I am not afraid, Inggres, and neither should you be."

And then she did the unimaginable, the unforgivable. She kissed him.Krystren's Journey Krystren, rolling her cube of worn red jade between her fingers, found herself in a dense stand of trees.

Six days ago she had lost sight of the ocean. This was not a problem, for she had been born inland, and had been a girl of teenage years when she had first caught sight of the sea. Unlike her brother, Courion, she had not lost her heart to it, nor could she quite fathom by what mysterious mechanism he had done so.

Crouching down in deep green shade, she flicked away leaf mold and brittle Marre pine needles so that she could redraw for herself the map of the northern continent she had memorized before setting out on her journey. Her slightly curved forefinger made complex designs on the forest floor. She did not need to do this. She knew where she was and in which direction she needed to go in order to arrive at Axis Tyr. Nevertheless, she liked the discipline of physically drawing the map, seeing with her eyes as well as with her mind the countryside that lay before her. To the northeast was a small chain of rising hillsides beyond which lay the Great Phosphorus Marsh and, just to the east of that, the capital city. Almost directly north was the southern sh.o.r.e of Blue Bone Lake, into which Three Fish River emptied on its downward snaking path from the waterfall known as Little Rushing high in the Djenn Marre mountains.

A noise came to her, soft and moss-moist, barely more than an undertone, and she lifted her head, her pulse racing. She remained still, the branches moving gently into sunlight and out again, sparking pinpoints like diamonds across the moist ground, the gnarled tree roots, her knotted shoulders.

She listened hard, expecting voices, but she heard no voices, at least none speaking a language she knew. It might have been the wind rustling through the long, swaying boughs, but it wasn't. It might have been a pair of birds, busily nest-building, but it wasn't. It might have been foraging mammals, but it wasn't.

What was it, then?

She sent out a mind-feeler first south, then east. Nothing. She swept it around to the north, then the west, found it there.

The trouble was, it found her at the same time. Whatever was there was instantly aware of her mind-feeler and grabbed hold of it. Krystren was so stunned that she was unable to retaliate or even to defend herself. She felt herself being reeled in, and by the time she recovered sufficiently to break off the mind-feeler, she was already in the grip of the thing.

Only it wasn't a thing at all. She was in the grip of a wraith-quite the most beautiful wraith she had ever seen. He had a long, slender face with high cheekbones and a cleft chin, and curious, upturned eyes.

His body was similarly slim-broad of shoulder and narrow of hip- with muscles that were lithe and elastic, rather than puffed and tightly bunched. His demeanor was confident without being in the least bit smug. In sum, he had the appearance of someone entirely at one with his surroundings.

"Who are you?" the wraith demanded.

By Yahe's grisly teeth, she could see clear through him!

"More to the point," he said, examining her tattooed forehead and ears. "What are you?"

"Sarakkon," she said.

"Ah, yes. I knew that." The wraith gave a crafty little smile. "I wanted to see whether you would tell me the truth." He continued with his examination. "Krystren, is it? Krystren, second daughter of Coirn, of the House of Oronel."

"We are first daughter."

"Ah, yes. That's right. First daughter Koroneth died when she was a babe of three."

She felt all the breath go out of her. "You can read the kaldea!"

"On males, it's a belt of knotted sea grape. Females, however, are forbidden to wear the kaldea, andso their tattoos tell the family tale." He c.o.c.ked his head, his glittering eyes more curious than ever. He was pale blue, and aqueous, so that what could be seen through him was rippled and somewhat distorted. "A long way from the Great Arryx, aren't you?"

"You have us at a disadvantage, sir," she said. "You know all about us while we know nothing about you."

"I know hardly enough about you, Krystren of the Oronel. No, not nearly. But perhaps you are right."

He tapped a watery forefinger against a watery lip. "My name is Bryn. I am Hagoshrin."

"Do you think us ignorant of the legends of Miina that we would believe you for even an instant?" she said at once. "Hagoshrin are huge and hideous, with tentacles and claws as large as our arm." She sniffed heavily. "They stink, as well."

"I am what I am," he said. "It matters not whether or not you believe me."

"And in any event," she said quite breathlessly, "if memory serves, Hagoshrin cannot lie."

"That is absolutely correct," Bryn said, "we cannot lie." "But you are not Hagoshrin!"

Bryn threw his head back and laughed. It was an eerie kind of sound, like the midnight wind soughing through a graveyard, but curiously not an unpleasant one for all that. "Here we have something of a conundrum," he said. "But why not? Today seems full of such puzzles. For instance, I had no idea that Sarakkon could use their minds as you do." "They can't," Krystren said. "Not as a rule, anyway. But we are Onnda."

"That you may be," Bryn said, "but neither Onnda nor Sintire have learned to use their minds as you do."

Krystren was about to tell him that no amount of cajoling on his part would get her to reveal the secrets taught to her by the crifica, when without warning he swept her off her feet. Grasping a low branch, he swung them up so swiftly she thought she had left her stomach behind. All this with appalling ease. Though he looked lighter than air, his strength was impressive.

As he took to the trees, he wrapped one hand over her mouth. "Silence now."

Higher and higher they climbed, as he leapt from limb to limb, zigzagging his way into the upper reaches of the Marre pines until they reached the summit, as it were, of the forest. On the tallest tree they crouched, as the Marre pine leader swayed this way and that in the wind so that Krystren felt as if she was back on the wrecked Oomaloo, taking rough seas at full sail.

Bryn twisted them around so that they were facing south, and with his free arm pointed down through the sunlight, the maze of tree branches, needles, leaves.

"Behold they that cometh," he whispered, taking his hand from her mouth.

And she saw them, a small band of armed Sarakkon and robed sau-romicians. They stood shoulder to shoulder like a living wedge within a craft that scudded low over the rocky rising terrain.

"They have found us," she whispered.

Bryn shook his head. "They are for the moment unaware of you. They are on their own journey to the north."

"What is that craft?" she whispered, for the vehicle was like none she had ever seen before. It flashed and coruscated in the sunlight, seemed wispy, virtually disappearing in the shadows.

"Look closely," Bryn said. "Witness the sauromicians' necromancy."

Krystren squinted slightly, shading her eyes, and concentrated on the fast-moving craft. She gave a little gasp, for she could see now that the vehicle was eye-shaped, and it seemed to ripple and pulse as if it were alive. And indeed is was alive, after a fashion, for it was composed of alternating layers of smoke and swarms of crawling, buzzing warrior-beetles, the blue-black armor of their thoraxes, the oversize scissorlike pincers glinting and flashing in the sunlight. In the shadows, they turned a deep matte black, merging with the other shadows of the forest while the smoke drifted about in misty camouflage.

"Where are they going?" she asked.

"I believe they are making another pilgrimage to the Abbey of Five Pivots." Bryn looked at her, hisglittering eyes for an instant solidifying to a deep and l.u.s.trous umber. "But the only way to know for certain-"

"-is to follow them."

"Yes, Krystren of the Oronel. I will take you if you wish it."

In an instant, her mind was made up. Her brother could wait a day or two. Her curiosity was piqued; she had to know what the Sintire were up to. And she wanted to know more about this odd-looking wraith. She nodded.

His fierce smile somehow warmed her heart.

Bryn fed her as they went north-nuts and dried berries mostly, but also little bits of things she could not immediately identify, though by the way she was immediately restored she knew they were protein-aceous and nutritious. Cold water she received from the deep, finely woven baskets of air plants that existed near the treetops. Their shoot-like tendrils and paper-thin petals caressed her cheeks as she sipped the nectar. Bryn himself seemed to require neither food nor drink, but she did not want to dwell on his eating habits, for she remembered that Hagoshrin-if that was truly what he was-were supposed to subsist on the bones of other species.

The strange and unsettling craft kept up a steady pace all through the long afternoon and into the evening, save for once when the Sintire disembarked. They produced a small idol of Abrasea and went down on their knees, the soft ululations of their prayers echoing through the cathedral of trees.

It was not until perhaps an hour after dark that the vehicle finally slowed, coming to rest on a flat outcropping of pale schist. There, beneath the watery light of three moons, the smoke swirled itself into the shape of a rounded dwelling while the warrior-beetles fanned out in a protective circle around it.

High above, Krystren and Bryn hung in the treetops for a time before settling somewhat lower in the topmost crotch of an ancient Marre pine. While she watched, back braced against the tree trunk, he wove three branches together to make something that resembled both a bower and a hammock shot through with moonslight. He sat back in it, gestured for her to join him.

"It's perfectly safe," he said, "and it has the added advantage of keeping the sound of our voices from reaching those below."

Cautiously, she crept into it, testing with every step, and found it soft and dense, the layers of needles formed from the complex weaving a comfortable and comforting cradle. Bryn watched her with his intense, curious gaze as she a.s.sured herself of the efficacy of his handiwork.

"I hold you blameless for not trusting me," he said, as she settled in beside him. "Nowadays it is wise to be cautious."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"Why shouldn't I help you? I do not like the sauromicians, I do not like that they have entered into an agreement with the Sintire."

"You know so much about the Sarakkon."

"You Sarakkon were frequent visitors to Za Hara-at once upon a time."

"But that was eons ago." She frowned. "You were at Za Hara-at?" "In those days, we all inhabited the northen continent, Sarakkon included. Then came the war with the Sintire, who wanted to usurp the Ramahan power, who wanted to end Miina's reign and replace Her with the epicene abomination Abrasea. With our help, and the secret help of the Onnda, the Ramahan drove them from the northern continent, repelled them when time and again they tried to regain the continent by ship. It was the Onnda's hope that the Ramahan would not banish all Sarakkon to the southern continent, but Miina's Law had been broken, all Sarakkon had to pay the price." He shrugged. "That was also a long time ago."

Krystren stared at Bryn with astonishment. "If you are telling the truth-"

"I always tell the truth, Krystren of the Oronel."

She took a breath. "If so, then you are telling us a piece of our own history we did not know. It is not taught among the Onnda."

"Because Miina in her fury wiped it from your memory." Bryn shifted slightly. "But believe me when I tell you that those Sintire who have made a pact with the sauromicians know."

The Sintire prayers to Abrasea rose to them, dark and haunting, through the gloom."How could they?"

"The sauromicians used their necromancy to restore their memories."

Krystren said nothing. Nevertheless, Bryn knew the question she wanted to ask.

"The sauromicians killed young Ramahan and while their bodies were still warm removed their brains.

I see the look of disgust on your face, Krystren of the Oronel, and I share it. But this vile ritual is in accordance with the basic principles of necromancy, which uses the unique energy released by the dying to power its spells. And so this necromancy is doubly diabolical, for the spirits of those killed are thus trapped within the evil spells, enslaved, forced into the service of the sauromicians."

As Bryn's words took on power, his form appeared even more insubstantial. "An interesting point to remember: sauromicians prefer not to kill their victims themselves. If they do, they cannot use them, cannot trap their energy. Their spirits escape. They must convince others to murder or impel their victims to kill themselves."

"What a life to be born into." There was a bitter taste in Krystren's mouth. "But in truth not so very unfamiliar, for in many ways it parallels the regimented mind-set of the Sintire, whose life is in the service of the hermaphrodite Abrasea. The reaver-nourisher deity requires of its supplicants a highly ritualized existence. The High Cathedral is known to us. It is presided over by the Ardinals, the high priests.

Normally, they do not stray far from the High Cathedral, which they are pledged to protect with their very lives. The fact that a number of them are here on the northern continent is an exceedingly ominous sign."

"Tell me about the High Cathedral."

What was it about Bryn that made her feel safe and secure? High above her head, soft, cushiony wads of clouds came alive in the moons-light. She could smell the scents of the forest, along with the bitter metallic tang emanating like a dangerous undertow from the small party in their necromantic smoke dwelling and their guardian swarm. But where were the insects, the birds? At last she decided to go on.

"As you may know, the Onnda are divided into seven Bloodlines. The Bloodlines, in turn, are divided into ciths. We were sent by my cith chieftain to observe the workings of the High Cathedral.

"It is located at the lowest point of the Axetl River basin. It is guarded not only by Sintire but by packs of carna, vicious, flesh-eating reptiles that congregate in the thick mud at the mouth of the river basin."

"And yet you eluded them all."

She touched him briefly with a tendril projected by her mind. "Yes, of course," he said.

"Inside, the High Cathedral is womblike, oven-hot even on the coolest nights of winter," she continued. "It consists of a vast globular oratory dominated by an enormous statue of Abrasea. All around the idol, a forest of crimson candles burns constantly. Acolytes tend them day and night, for each candle is replaced before it can gutter and go out. "We entered through one of five smoke holes in the roof and lay on one of many rough-hewn rafters that crisscross the s.p.a.ce just below the ceiling. Even from that height there is the scent of an incense that is a derivative of oqeyya. Behind the idol, there is a low doorway, so un.o.btrusive as to be all but invisible, that leads to a warren of small cubicles, living quarters for the Ardinals, as well as a larger chamber for meetings and discussions.

"The Ardinals' rule is absolute, their word is Law, for they speak with Abrasea's voice as oracles.

There is a pulpit made of a magnificent polished slab of kingga from which they preach the Word of Abrasea. There will be no other G.o.d but Abrasea. Abrasea will destroy all those who do not give themselves over to Abrasea. Eternal agony awaits all those who do not embrace Abrasea. They say these things over and over in hypnotic fashion until it becomes grooved into the brains of the faithful."

Bryn's eyes continued to glitter with his absorbed listening. "And what goes on when the pulpit is empty, when the faithful have departed? What transpires in the warren of chambers off the oratory?

What is the real work of the Church of Abrasea?"

"That is precisely what our cith chieftain wanted to find out."

Krystren had turned over on her belly, the better to keep the smoke dwelling in view. She saw a figure emerge. It was sauromician archon.

He wore a black cloak, deeply cowled. Around his neck was a thick mineral chain. From it hung whatappeared to be a small dagger that shone transparent in the moonslight. Bryn identified him as Varda.

Varda stood for a moment, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. She did not have to use her skill to fathom his intent. He scanned the moonslit forest in every direction, and when he tilted his head back, when she saw his one pale eye, she held her breath. After what seemed like ages, he turned and stalked back into the smoke dwelling.

"Mark that eye well," Bryn told her, "for it was taken from the newly dead and thus possesses necromantic power."

"What sort of power?"

"It can see in the dark. It can see shadows."

"He did not detect us."

"As you discovered for yourself on the island of Suspended Skull, necromancy is deeply flawed," he said. "In this, your mind ability can counter the power of the necromantic eye."

She rolled over to look at him. She knew he wanted to know more about her mind-skill.

"What did you discover in the bowels of the High Cathedral, Krystren of the Oronel?" *

She decided this was a question she could answer. "The Church of Abrasea is an autarchy. It was created to control the population. The concept is as evil as its implementation is simple. Everyone must attend oratorio, everyone is accounted for; everyone is told what to think, what to do, everything is controlled. But we also discovered something else, a deeper, hidden personal agenda. There burns within the Ardinals the obsession to move beyond the borders of Axis Tyr."

"Toward what end?"

"They covet the lost secrets of Za Hara-at."

She fell asleep in Bryn's arms while he watched over her. In the hours after midnight the forest was usually shimmering with industrious nocturnal life. That night, save for the occasional flurry of wind that dipped and lifted the branches, all was silent. It was as if a dead zone had arisen ghostlike from the moldering ground, inside which no living thing dared to be.

Necromancy, unlike sorcery of any sort, was a finite resource. That is to say, a necromancer needed a periodic supply of the dying to renew and sustain his power. Without death, he slowly lost strength and withered away. The trouble was he was exceedingly persuasive, enticing others to commit for him the one act he could not perform himself. That was altogether unsurprising, for evil was glamorous. It held out the promise of love, wealth, influence, whatever was your deepest desire. Glamor was difficult to resist. It cajoled and bedazzled. And so the sauromicians were never without dupes, never without victims, one by one tossed into shallow graves, their deaths as unremarked as their lives had been.

All this Bryn turned over in his mind as he held Krystren. He listened to her soft breathing, felt her heartbeat, the pulse of blood through her body, and he was filled with sorrow, for she was being sought by the very party that was encamped on the forest floor. And if they found her, they would surely find a way to extract every secret she carried inside her head. He could not allow that, no matter the cost.