White Wolf (39 page)

“Why did you let her steal the Gray Man’s crossbow? You went through many dangers to bring that here.”

“You are full of questions today. I have one for you. Why is the priestess still hungry, when her servant promised her a meal some time ago?”

Weldi grinned and bowed low. “It is coming, Ustarte. I shall run all the way to the kitchen.”

Ustarte’s smile faded as soon as he had left the room. She felt terribly tired. The magic needed to maintain the cloak of confusion over the temple took a heavy toll on the aging priestess. It had been such a simple spell two hundred years ago, using merely a fraction of her power. It was merely a matter of reshaping and blurring refracted light so that the red stone of the temple appeared to merge with the towering mountain of rock from which it had been carved. Only in the brightest moonlight did the spell fade sufficiently for men to be able to observe the vast building. Even then the gates were strengthened by spells which—when activated—caused immense forces to build up in metal. Swords would stick to shields, battering rams could not be swung. Men in armor would feel as if they were wading through the thickest mud. Ustarte knew that no castle on earth was completely impregnable. The Temple of Kuan did, however, come close. No one could enter uninvited.

Her legs rested, she eased herself to her feet and returned to the window.

Ustarte sighed. Closing her eyes she concentrated her power, reaching out until she could feel the life forces of the travelers flickering around her, gossamer moths drawn to the light. Gently she examined each of them, coming at last to the youth. His heart had failed. Poison had entered his bloodstream, carried there by the filthy sword blade and small sections of cloth from his tunic, which had been driven into his body. Staying calm and focused Ustarte sent a bolt of energy into the still heart. It flickered, then failed again. Twice more she pulsed energy into the stricken muscle. It began to beat—but irregularly. Ustarte’s spirit flowed through Rabalyn’s lymphatic system, boosting it with her own life force. The adrenal glands, overworked and undernourished, had also failed. These too she worked upon. The eerie howling of a wolf cut through her concentration momentarily. Ignoring it she continued to replenish Rabalyn’s energy. The dead youth was alive once more and would survive until she could work on him inside the temple.

The moon was beginning to rise.

Ustarte drew back from Rabalyn and pulsed a message to Weldi. He was climbing the lower stairs, carrying a tray of food for her. Leaving the tray upon a step he ran back to the Inner Hall, summoning four priests, clad in yellow robes, who were dining there.

Together they made their way swiftly through the corridors and halls of the temple, pushing open the gates, and running across the open ground toward the travelers.

The travelers—all except Druss and Khalid Khan—were taken to an antechamber on the first floor of the temple. There were chairs and leather-cushioned benches here, and a wondrously fashioned table of twisted metal, upon which had been set fruit and goblets of sweet juices. Nian sat on the floor, running his hands over the undulating metal of the table. Jared knelt by him. Garianne lay down on a couch. Diagoras moved to a high window and leaned out, gazing down upon the valley below.

“Druss and Khalid are still there,” he told Skilgannon. “It looks like Orastes is asleep at the axman’s feet.”

Skilgannon joined him. Priests had gathered round the giant beast and were struggling to lift it. The door behind them whispered open. Skilgannon turned. An elderly man, with small, button eyes, bowed to the company. He shuffled forward, his long white gown rustling on the terra-cotta flooring.

“The lady Ustarte will be with you presently,” he said. “She is engaged at present with your companion, Rabalyn.”

“He is dead,” said Diagoras. “She can bring him back to life?”

“He was dead, yes, but had not yet passed the portals of no return. Ustarte’s magic is very strong.” Garianne rolled to her feet, a wide smile on her face.

“Ho, Weldi! It is good to see you.”

“And you, Sweet One. I told the priestess you would come back to us.”

The elderly priest moved to the table where Jared and Nian waited. “You will not remember me,” he said. “We played in the inner gardens when you were young.” Jared looked uncomfortable and merely shrugged. Nian looked up at the old man.

“There is no beginning,” he said, running his fingers along a length of metal in the center of the table.

“It is one piece, interwoven again and again. Very clever.”

“Yes,” said Nian. “Very clever.”

Weldi turned to Skilgannon. “Please rest here for a little while. You will each be assigned rooms later, after Ustarte has spoken with you individually.”

“And the axman?” asked Diagoras.

Weldi gave a crooked smile. “The beast would not leave him. So we have sedated it. It will remain asleep while you are guests here. Druss will be with you presently. Khalid Khan refused our invitation. He has returned to his people. Is there anything you require in the meantime?” Skilgannon shook his head. “Very well then, I shall leave you. The door at the far end of the chamber leads to an ablutions chamber. Its workings are not complicated. The main door leads out into the main temple. The passages and tunnels are very much like a maze to those who do not know the paths. I would therefore request you remain here until Ustarte calls for you. That may be an hour—perhaps a little longer.”

“We wish to go to the gardens,” said Garianne. “It is very peaceful there.”

“I am sorry, Sweet One. You must remain here. I do not have happy memories of the last time you wandered free.” Garianne looked crestfallen. “I still love you dearly, Garianne. We all do,” he said.

After he had left Garianne returned to the couch and lay down once more. “Found it!” said Nian happily. He had squirmed under the table and had his hand on a section of folded iron. “Look, Jared! I found the join.”

Druss joined them. He seemed in better spirits as he strode to a deep chair and stretched himself out in it. “Rabalyn is alive!” he said.

“We heard,” Diagoras told him. “This is truly an enchanted place.”

“Everything here is good,” said Garianne. “No evil—save that which comes in from the outside,” she added, staring at Skilgannon. “Ustarte can read the future here. Many futures. Many pasts. She will take you to the Vanishing Wall. There you will see. We saw. So many things.”

“What did you see?” asked Nian.

Garianne’s gray eyes clouded over, and her face hardened. Closing her eyes again she lay down.

“I don’t care much for magic,” said Druss. “But if it saves the boy I’ll put aside my doubts.”

“You are looking better, Old Horse,” said Diagoras. “You have color in your cheeks again.”

“I feel more like myself,” admitted Druss. “The pain in my chest is less now, and I have a little strength flowing back into my limbs. They gave me a drink of something when first I entered. Cool and thick, like winter cream. Tasted fine, I can tell you. I could do with another.”

Diagoras moved back to the window. The moon was high and bright over the mountains. Skilgannon joined him. “There was something odd about that Weldi,” said Diagoras.

Skilgannon said nothing, but he nodded. “You saw it too?” persisted Diagoras.

“Yes.”

“I can’t quite put my finger on what was wrong about him.”

“I saw nothing threatening,” said Skilgannon. “He moves oddly. But then he is old and may have crystals in his joints.”

“For me it was the eyes, I think,” said Diagoras. “You don’t often see that red gold color. In fact I have never seen it—save in a dog or a wolf. Sometimes a horse.”

“He is an odd-looking man,” agreed Skilgannon.

“Good news about Rabalyn, eh?”

“Let us hope there is more good news to follow,” said Skilgannon, idly stroking the locket around his neck.

18

Just over two hours later Skilgannon was led to a room on a higher level. As he followed the slow-moving Weldi he saw several other priests moving along the corridors. They passed a dining room. Through the open door Skilgannon saw a large group of people sitting and eating. “How many of you are there?” he asked Weldi.

“More than a hundred now.”

“What is it you do here?”

“We study. We live.”

Climbing another set of stairs they came to a leaf-shaped door. The wood was dark, and there were gilded inscriptions upon it that Skilgannon could not read. The door opened as they approached. Weldi stepped aside. “I shall return for you when your visit is concluded,” he said.

Skilgannon stepped inside. The room was large, the ceiling domed. The plastered walls had been adorned with paintings, mostly of plants, trees, and flowers, against a background of blue sky. There were also real plants here, in earthenware containers. In the lantern light it was difficult to see where the real greenery ended and the paintings began. The sound of tinkling water came to him. Stepping further into the room, he saw a tiny waterfall bubbling over white rocks to a shallow pool. There were many scents in the air, jasmine and cedar and sandalwood. And others more heady. He felt himself relax.

Moving past the waterfall the room narrowed, then widened again, leading out onto a balcony above the valley. Here, in the moonlight, he found Ustarte. The shaven-headed priestess was leaning on an ebony staff, tipped with ivory. He stood for a moment, transfixed by her beauty. Her features were Chiatze, fine-boned and delicate. Her large, slanted eyes, however, were not the deep golden brown of that race. In the moonlight they shone like silver, though Skilgannon guessed them to be blue. He bowed low. “Welcome to the Temple of Kuan,” she said. The music of her voice was extraordinary. He found himself suddenly speechless in her company. The silence grew. Angry with himself Skilgannon took a deep breath.

“Thank you, lady,” he said, at last. “How is Rabalyn?”

“The boy will survive, but you will need to leave him here with us for a while. I have placed him in a protective sleep. There was a great deal of sepsis, and gangrene had begun. He will need a week or more before he can rise from his bed.”

“I am grateful. He is a courageous lad. And you brought him back from the dead.”

Ustarte looked at him and sighed. “Yes, I did. But I cannot accomplish what you would ask of me, Olek Skilgannon. This is not the Temple of the Resurrectionists.”

He stood silent for a moment, struggling with his disappointment. “I did not really believe that you could. The one who sent me to you is evil. She would not wish me to succeed.”

“I fear that is true, warrior,” said Ustarte, softly. She gestured to a table. “Pour yourself a goblet of water. You will find it most refreshing. The water here has enhancing properties.” Skilgannon lifted a crystal jug and filled a matching goblet.

“Shall I pour for you, lady?”

“No. Drink, Olek.”

Raising the goblet to his lips, he paused. Her laughter rang out. “There is no poison. Would you like me to taste it first?”

Embarrassed, he shook his head, then drained the goblet. The water was wondrously cool. In that moment he felt like a man who had crawled across a burning desert and had discovered an oasis. “I never tasted water like it,” he said. “It is as if I can feel it flowing through every muscle.”

“As indeed you can,” she said. “Let us go inside. My old legs are aching and tired. Give me your arm.”

Together they moved back to the garden room. By the light of the many lanterns he saw that her eyes were of a dazzling blue, flecked with gold. He helped her to a weirdly carved piece of furniture. It seemed a cross between a chair and a stool. She slowly knelt upon it, then handed him her staff. He laid it down close to her, then, lifting his scabbard from his back and placing it on the floor beside him, he sat himself on a high-backed chair opposite her.

“So, why did the Old Woman send you here?” she asked.

“I have been giving that a great deal of thought,” he said. “Almost from the moment she sent us on this quest. I think I know the answer—though I hope I am wrong.”

“Tell me.”

“First I have a question of you, lady. If I may?”

“You may.”

“Is it true that you grew a new hand for one of Khalid Khan’s tribesmen?”

“The body is a far more complex and wonderful piece of machinery than most people realize. Each cell contains details of its master plan. But to answer your question simply: yes. We helped him to grow a new hand.”

“Some years ago was a man brought to you whose face had been cut away?” Even as he asked the question Skilgannon felt the tightness of fear in his belly.

“You are speaking of Boranius. Yes, he was brought here.”

“A shame it was you healed him,” he said, bitterly. “The man is evil.”

“We do not pass judgment here, Olek. If we did would we have allowed you inside?”

“No,” he admitted.

“When did you suspect Ironmask was Boranius?”

“Something inside me said he was alive. When we couldn’t find his body after the battle, I knew. Deep down, I knew. Then when I heard of Ironmask I wondered. But then Druss told me he was not mutilated, he merely had an ugly birthmark. Only when I heard of the tribesman with the discolored hand did the thought reoccur. The fear of it has been growing in my mind ever since.”

“That is why the Old Woman did not tell you. She knew you feared this man, and yet she desired you to go after him. She guessed that—once set upon this road—you would not let Druss tackle the evil alone. Was she wrong?”

“No, she was not wrong. Though how Druss can tackle him with a ruined heart I do not know.”

Ustarte smiled. “There is nothing wrong with Druss’s heart—though Heaven alone knows why, considering his love of alcohol and red meat. He contracted an illness in a village south of Mellicane. It attacked his lungs and put great strain upon his heart. Any ordinary man would have taken to his bed for a while and given his body the opportunity to rest and defeat the virus. Instead Druss marched around the country seeking his friend. He exhausted himself and put his heart under enormous strain. He has been given a potion that will eradicate the . . . illness. Tomorrow morning he will be strong again.”

“And the twins?”

Ustarte’s smile faded. “We cannot heal Nian. A year ago perhaps. Six months ago even. Tumors are now erupting all over his body. We cannot deal with them all. He has less than a month to live. We will reduce the pressure on his brain, and he will be himself for a while. Not long, though, I fear. Maybe days. Maybe hours. Then the pressure will increase again. The pain will swell. He will fall into a coma and die. It would be best if he stayed here, where we can administer potions to quell the pain.”

“This will break Jared’s heart,” he said. “I have never seen two brothers so close.”

“They were conjoined for the first three years of their lives. That creates a special bond,” she said. “I performed the operation that separated them. Part knowledge, part magic. It is the magic that is killing him now. In order for them both to survive I had to reengineer Nian’s life codes. They shared a single heart. I manipulated his genetic foundations, causing his body to create a second heart. This manipulation resulted, finally, in the mass of cancers that are now killing him. It grieves me greatly.”

Skilgannon did not understand much of what she told him, but he could see the anguish in her face. “You gave them a chance at life,” he said. “A life they could not have enjoyed without your help.”

“I know this, though I thank you for saying it. What else do you wish to ask of me?”

“What of Garianne?”

“I cannot help her. She is either possessed or insane. You know, of course, that she is in the thrall of the Old Woman.”

“I know.”

“Then you know also her purpose on this quest?”

“She is here to kill me.”

“Do you know why?”

He shrugged. “It is what the Old Woman wants, ultimately. That is reason enough. I doubt she will attempt an assassination until Boranius is dead. I will deal with that when it happens.”

“You will kill her.”

“To save myself? Of course.”

“Ah, yes, of course. That is what warriors do. They fight. They kill. They die. Do you know where Garianne was born?” she asked, suddenly.

“No. She does not take well to questions.”

“That is because she was tortured and abused for some weeks by vile men. They wanted information. They wanted pleasure. They wanted pain. But that came after. Garianne was a normal, healthy young girl. She lived with her family and her friends. She dreamed of a future in which she would be happy. Like all young people she built fantasies in which her life was enriched by love and success, fame and joy. Her tragedy was that she had these dreams in Perapolis.” Skilgannon shuddered, and could no longer gaze into Ustarte’s blue and gold eyes. “When the Naashanite soldiers first breached the walls, Garianne’s father—a stonemason—hid her beneath some rocks behind his workshop. She lay there terrified all that day, listening to the screams of the dying. She heard people she loved begging for their lives. Old men, women, children, husbands, fathers, sons, and daughters. Priests, merchants, nurses, and midwives, doctors and teachers. The loveless and the loved. When night fell she was still there. Only now she was not alone. Her head was filled with voices that would not go away. They just carried on screaming.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. “You must hate me,” he said, at last.

“I hate no one, Olek. Long ago hatred was burned out of me. But I have not yet finished the story of Garianne. I shall not tell you of the horrors she later suffered, when captured by Naashanite troops. When she was brought here there seemed no hope for her. We did all we could to restore some semblance of normality to her. What you see now is a result of our best efforts. She ran away, and somewhere came under the sway of the Old Woman. She managed to give her purpose. She gave her a goal. It may even be that this goal will give her back her life. You see, Garianne believes that the ghosts will find peace when they have been avenged. The ghosts will sleep when the Damned is dead.”

“And will they?” he asked.

“I wish I could say. If the ghosts are real then perhaps they will find peace through revenge. I have never believed that revenge brings peace, but then I have never been a ghost. If her mind is unhinged it may be that completing her mission will free her. It is doubtful—but possible. So you see, if you do kill her you will merely be completing the horror for which you are so aptly named.”

“A fine set of choices,” he said, rising from the chair and gathering up the Swords of Night and Day. Swinging the scabbard to his shoulder, her bowed to her. “I thank you for your time, lady.”

“Those blades are of evil design, Olek. Eventually they will corrupt your soul. They carry as much responsibility for Perapolis as you yourself.”

“My chances of defeating Boranius are not good. Without the Swords of Night and Day they would be nonexistent.”

“Then do not fight him. I do not have the skill to bring back Dayan. Others will. The code of her life is contained in the hair and the bone you carry. There are those who could activate that code. They might also have the skill to draw her soul back from the Netherworld to reinhabit a new body.”

“Where would I find such people?”

“Beyond the old lands of Kydor, perhaps. Or deep in the Nadir steppes. The Temple of the Resurrectionists does exist. I believe this. There is too much evidence to ignore. Leave Boranius behind. Leave Garianne behind. At least then your quest will be wholly unselfish.”

“That would also mean leaving Druss and Diagoras behind. I cannot do that. What of Druss’s friend, Orastes? Can you bring him out of the beast?”

Ustarte lifted her hand and peeled off her glove. Then she drew back the sleeve of her silk robe. Skilgannon stared at the soft, gray fur which covered her arm, and the talons that glinted on the end of her fingers. “If I could do that for Orastes, would I not do it for myself?” she asked him. “Go now, warrior. I wish to speak to the Legend.”

There were thirty-three windows and three doors in the citadel. The Nadir shaman, Nygor, checked each one of them before retiring to his pallet bed on the fourth level. The ward spells on the main doors were the simplest to reenergize, for here he had hung an ancient relic, the withered hand of Khitain Shak. The dried bones retained much of the power the legendary priest had wielded in life. The windows were more tiring and time-consuming. Some were wide, others mere murder holes—slits through which archers could shoot down on enemies below. Each of these needed a fresh spell daily, fueled by a drop of Nygor’s blood. The wounds on the palms of his hands were troubling him now, itching and irritating. This annoyed him.

For a few days he had managed to use the blood of the stupid woman Ironmask had brought to the citadel. But then the Naashanite had lost his temper and killed her. A waste. He could at least have allowed her to live until Nygor’s hands healed. The child would do. Ironmask would have none of it. He wanted the girl alive until Druss the Axman was in his power. Then he would kill her in front of the Legend. “Can you imagine,” said Ironmask, “how sweet that will be? Druss the Invincible. The Captain of the Ax. The Victor of Skeln. Trussed and chained, and watching the slow death of the child he had come so far to rescue? It will drive him mad.”

“I think you should just kill him, lord,” warned Nygor.

“You have no understanding of the exquisite,” Ironmask had told him.

This was obviously true. Nygor took no enjoyment at all from the suffering of others. Death was sometimes necessary in the pursuit of knowledge. Now, at sixty-one, Nygor was close to understanding the secrets he had yearned for decades to unlock. He had mastered the Meld, one of the greatest of the ancient spells. The concentration needed for the creation of Joinings was prodigious. Soon he would unravel the mysteries of rejuvenation. He would have achieved this by now had it not been for the Old Woman, and her constant seeking for ways to kill him. He could feel her power even now, pushing at the ward spells, tugging upon them, ever searching for a gap in his defenses.