When the Heavens Fall (7 page)

Nevertheless, she could not linger.

With a last look round to ensure she had no more unwelcome company, she strode toward the temple.

The building cast a shadow black as night, and as Parolla stepped into it her limbs felt cramped and heavy as if old age had placed a hand on her shoulder. Closer now, she saw two statues flanking the arched doorway, worn down over the centuries to amorphous swellings of wind-bitten rock. To the left of the opening, a man was slumped against the wall, his eyes rolled back in his head. He wore a tattered kalabi robe, and the soles of his bare feet were crisscrossed with bloody lacerations. An empty bottle was in his right hand. Parolla wrinkled her nose as she passed, for the cloying smell of juripa spirits could not mask the stink of sweat and putrefaction.

She stepped through the doorway and entered a corridor that opened out into a dark chamber. Smudges of light lined the walls to either side, the glow of the torches almost entirely smothered by shadows. The noise of the
jadi
crowds outside had dropped to a whisper, and not a sound reached Parolla from within the gloom ahead. Death-magic swirled round her on unseen currents. She felt something within her stir in answer. Digging her fingernails into her palms, she waited until the sensation diminished.

The light from the wall torches dwindled as she plunged into the blackness. To either side figures knelt on the floor. Some had their foreheads pressed to the stone; others watched her as she passed. Bones were scattered on the ground, as if a handful of worshippers had died in the act of prayer and been left to rot where they fell. Among the bones were scraps of clothing, a rusted belt buckle, an empty scabbard, even the occasional coin.

Amid the gloom, deeper shadows were congealing. When they brushed Parolla's skin, her power rose in answer.

“Curb yourself,” a voice said. “Within these walls sorcery is forbidden to all but the anointed.”

Parolla halted. Footfalls approached, and an old man wearing gray robes shuffled into view. His eyes were filmed over in blindness, and the skin of his face and hands was covered in liver spots. His straggly white hair had been shaved at the left temple to reveal a tattoo of a snake. As Parolla peered at the serpent, its tongue flickered out.

The priest must have sensed her attention, for he said, “It is a bedra cobra. Do you understand its significance, I wonder?”

“I know something of Terenil customs—that is your tribe, is it not? The year of the snake was, what, thirty years ago?”

“Twenty-eight.”

Making the priest just a few years older than Parolla herself. “You display it like some badge of honor.”

A cough shook the man's skeletal frame. “And so it is. What better proof could there be of my devotion to the faith?”

“And this is how you are rewarded for that devotion? Your body broken, your days cut short in return for a lifetime spent in your god's service?”

“
My
god? Not yours?”

“A slip of the tongue,
sirrah
.”

The priest grunted. “My reward will come in the next life, as you well know.” He raised a palsied hand. “The surrender of this decaying flesh is a small price to pay for an eternity at the Lord's right hand. Death is the one constant in our lives, the one certainty.” He turned his empty gaze on her. “Even for you,
jezaba
.”

Parolla tensed. “You know me?”

“I know what you are. How could I not? I am a priest of Shroud.”

He was watching her intently, and she forced herself to take a breath. So what if he recognized her? There was no way he could know her true purpose here. “Then why,
sirrah,
” she said, adding a note of steel to her voice, “have you not shown me the honor I am due?”

The blind man was still for a few heartbeats before bowing his head a fraction. “Why are you here?”

Parolla looked round. Blurred figures had gathered just beyond the limits of her vision, and she could hear their ragged breathing, sense their cold stares as a tension in the air. Had the priest summoned them as witnesses to their conversation?
Better and better.
She turned to the blind man. “I have heard tales of this temple on my travels. Pilgrims speak of it with awe, yet even their words fail to do justice to its majesty.”

The priest started coughing again.

“From the power in this place,” Parolla went on, “one would think the temple were newly sanctified. Yet I sense an unfamiliar taint to the death-magic that surrounds us.” It felt stronger here than it had outside the temple. And it appeared to be coming from … Parolla looked down at the floor. “Is there a crypt here?”

“It has been sealed off,” the blind man said. “Access is forbidden, by order of the high priest.”

“Forbidden? To me?”

“To all who are not anointed in the faith.”

Parolla let the silence draw out. “Would you brand me as an outsider then,
sirrah
?” she said at last, raising her voice to carry to those watching. “Am I no different to you than one of the unhallowed?”

“Of course you are, but—”

“There is something in the crypt you do not wish me to see?” Then, before the priest could respond, “You think the faith holds any secrets from me? Or that I cannot be trusted to keep them, perhaps?”

The blind man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “That judgment is not mine to make.”

“Where is your
mekra,
then? I wish to speak with him.”

“Regrettably, the high priest is away from the temple at present.”

Of course he is, you fool. Why do you think I am here today of all days?
“Where is he?”

“A ceremony at the Tebala Shrine in Kontynan. He will return by nightfall tomorrow.”

“By which time I will have left Xavel.”

“Perhaps when you next visit the city…” The priest's voice trailed off.

Parolla left a pause for uncomfortable thoughts. “How do you suppose your
mekra
will react when he hears what happened here? When he hears that you insulted me, then dismissed me as if I were no more than a thief come to steal from your collection plate? For he
will
be told.”

“He will not condemn me for obeying his instructions.”

“Would you stake your life on that?”

As if seeking support, the old man shifted his milky gaze to the silent figures clustered round. No one stirred. The swirling darkness closed in on Parolla again, and this time when her power rose she made no effort to hold it back. A shadow settled on her vision.

The priest took a step back.

“My patience is wearing thin,
sirrah
.”

He hesitated an instant longer before nodding to Parolla's right. When he spoke his voice was gruff. “The entrance to the crypt is protected by the high priest's wards.”

“I can deal with those.”

“No doubt. Just be sure to replace them when you have passed through. The defenses were created as much to prevent something getting out as to stop someone getting in.”

“Meaning?”

“To enter the crypt you must relinquish the protections afforded by this temple.” The priest gave a thin smile. “I fear I cannot guarantee your safety.”

*   *   *

Majack steamed in the evening heat. Ebon rode with head bowed as he followed the Merchant's Road through the Low Quarter. Just another traveler arrived from the wastelands. The city rang to the sound of hammers as people boarded up doors and windows in readiness for the Day of Red Tides, less than a week hence, when thousands of stoneback scorpions would sweep in from the east. As the prince passed, a dour-faced merchant paused in his hammering to nudge his wife, and the two of them stared at Ebon, their expressions wary. Probably just noticing the blood and the dust, he told himself. He'd never commanded the same affection as his father, even before the spirits took him, and after his years of isolation the townsfolk were as likely to recognize Vale as they were their future king.

Ebon rubbed a hand across his eyes. During the ride from the forest the babbling of the spirits had been unrelenting, and two bells in the saddle had left him yearning for even a moment's respite.
Like a chorus of the damned.
What was it that tormented them so? Were they trying to communicate with him? At times when he listened he thought he could make out individual words, yet how could that be when he did not know the language? Why did it always seem as if comprehension hovered just a hairbreadth beyond his grasp?

Vale must have sensed his disquiet, for a strained silence had fallen between them.
He fears, as I do, where this will lead—a return to the days of darkness.
Ebon had no words of reassurance to give. When the spirits last possessed him, they had stayed for almost three years, and he didn't know if he had the strength to go through that again. It would be harder this time too, he suspected. The spirits seemed … closer … somehow, as if whatever barriers existed in Ebon's mind between him and them were already being whittled away. He could
feel
their madness seeping into him. Were they what he was destined to become?

Gods, I must find a way to halt this downward spiral.

Vale had moved ahead, cursing as he tried to clear a path through the crowds, and Ebon kicked his horse forward to join him. Together they skirted the smallest of the city's four marketplaces. In the shadow of one of the countinghouses, the beggars and doom criers were out in force, keeping up a constant wail like a funeral dirge. Music to match Ebon's mood. His gaze was drawn to a woman sitting with her back to a wall. She wore a robe the same color as her sun-blistered skin, and the black tears tattooed on her cheeks marked her as an initiate of the Watcher. Her eyes had been sewn shut, yet still she turned her head to follow Ebon as he rode past.

On the far side of the marketplace, the road leading to Wharf Bridge was choked with people. Ebon's horse was being jostled on all sides, and it snorted its unease. From the prince's elevated position he could see that on the bridge a cart had lost a wheel, spilling melons and sandfruit to the dust. The people nearby fell upon the fruit like a flock of redbeaks, only to scatter again when the driver of the cart—a snowy haired Maru—waded among them brandishing a club. A girl was knocked to the ground, blood streaming from her shattered nose, and the rumble of the crowd swelled in anger. Moments later the Maru was hoisted aloft by a dozen hands and hurled shrieking over the bridge's railing. His cart and the remainder of its contents followed.

“About time,” Vale said.

As Ebon crossed the bridge he looked over the railing. There was no sign of the Maru, but his cart was visible, drifting a stone's throw away. The prince covered his nose with a sleeve. A sewer must have burst somewhere upriver because the waters of the Amber ran thick with scum and stank like a week-old corpse. Floating among the rushes that clogged the shallows were the bloated bodies of scores of animals and birds. The air throbbed with flies, and a cloud of the insects swarmed round Ebon's head wound. He swatted them away with one hand, but more soon took their place.

Reaching the opposite bank, he squinted east. He could just make out the crystal towers of Amarixil's Shrine in the Marobi Quarter, even convinced himself he could see Lamella's house beside it. Another time he might have gone there first, but his father's cryptic summons demanded his presence. Duty first, always. Spying a patrol of Pantheon Guardsmen, he requisitioned it as an escort. The streets became wider as they traveled farther into the city, and the speed of their progress increased. There were more stares from the people now, hostility in them. Ebon bore them in silence. Eventually the palace came into view above the roofs of the buildings ahead: first its black towers, then its crenellated battlements, like a row of jagged teeth.

A sixth of a bell later, he rode into the gatehouse and sent a guard to inform the king of his arrival.

Ebon dismounted. The muscles of his thighs and back were sore from his time in the saddle. He left Vale to stable the horses and headed for a nearby fountain. Cupping his hands to hold the water, he drank until his stomach ached, then washed the dust and dried blood from his face. The sight of his reflection brought a furrow to his brow. A day's stubble cast a shadow on his chin and jaw, but a darker shadow lurked behind his cold blue eyes.
As if the spirits were staring back at me.
He needed to speak to Mottle before the King's Council convened. What had the mage sensed at the forest? Did he know the voices were back? If so, Ebon needed to make sure of his silence.

He followed the ramparts round to the east and entered the Dawn Gate at the foot of Pagan's Tower. A soldier stepped from the guardhouse to challenge him before moving aside with a hasty salute and a muttered apology. Inside, the coolness of the vaulted stone corridors made Ebon shiver. He kept his gaze on the floor, anxious to avoid the eye of anyone who might slow him with questions. At the Hall of Paths he took the arched portal that led to the East Wing. Its architrave had been sculpted to resemble a row of fangs, making it appear to Ebon that he was stepping into a dragon's maw. Beyond, the passage ran arrow-straight into the gloom.

The sounds of the palace faded behind until the only noise was the tread of the prince's footsteps.

It was years since he had last ventured into this section of the fortress. Running his hand along the wall, he could find no cracks or joints, as if the entire building had been carved from a single piece of rock. Over the years a handful of servants had disappeared in this labyrinthine part of the palace, though whether they had become lost or fallen victim to something prowling the leagues of corridors was not known. Ebon had always smiled at the more lurid tales of their fates, yet today he found himself grateful his destination lay but a short distance ahead.