The Dragonstone (44 page)

“Oh, I suppose I do,” Ferret replied, “if only to call upon them in oaths now and then. It’s just that in my life they seem to hold no sway.” She turned to Arin. “What about you, Dara? Do you worship Adon or Elwydd? Pray to them? Make offerings? Do you think that following a particular religion, that believing in a god or gods makes you a better person?”

Arin smiled. “Nay, Ferai, I do not. Adon Himself says that deeds, not faith, mark the goodness of a person.”

“You’ve spoken to Adon?” asked Delon. “Seen Him?”

“Nay, I have not,” replied Arin. “But there are those who indeed have.”

Delon blew out a breath. “Adon. The God Himself.”

Arin shook her head. “He does not claim to be so. He says that the true gods are far above Himself, Elwydd, Gyphon, Garlon, and the others.”

“Even the gods are ruled by the Fates,” intoned Egil. “Or so my people say.”

Ferret turned to Egil. “Then those above Adon and the others, those are the Fates?”

Egil turned up the palms of his hands. “You’ll have to ask someone other than me, lass, for I don’t know.”

They drifted onward, and then Delon said, “What do you suppose the cursed keeper of faith in the maze thinks of religion and gods? And why do you think he’s cursed?”

*   *   *

Some seventeen days after they had fled the city of Pendwyr, they sighted a coast ahead. The setting sun lent an orange cast to the land, but along the stretch the stone itself was dun colored, and not the red expected.

Ferret groaned. “Oh, no. The door on Old Nom’s card is in rock the color of blood.”

“Perhaps this is not Sarain,” said Delon.

“Even if it is, Delon, mayhap it is as thou hast suggested,” said Arin. “Mayhap the red stone is inland.”

“The thing to do,” said Egil, “is to find a port city and see where we are. Whether or not this is Sarain, let us find a scholar to translate the runes on Ferret’s drawing. If the scholar can read them, then we might know, or perhaps he can advise us, where we need next go.”

Arin nodded, then turned to Alos. “Canst thou find us a port city?”

Alos snorted. “Not immediately. But perhaps she can.” The oldster pointed southward along the shore. There in the near distance fared a small dhow, her sails blooming orange in the light of the setting sun.

*   *   *

They swung the ship to starboard and closed with the dhow, though it was deep twilight ere they overtook the craft. It was a fishing boat crewed by three, and they cast down their knives and threw up their hands in surrender.

“Heh,” cackled Alos. “They think we are pirates.”

Arin showed the crew her own empty hands, attempting to convince them that they had little to fear. Then she and the others tried all the languages they knew—and between them, Ferret and Delon proved to know many—to no success. Finally Alos snapped, “Here, let me,” and called out, “Sarain?”

The fishermen nodded and bowed, and gestured toward the coast.

Then Alos called out, “Chabba?”

And the crew of the dhow pointed to the south.

“Well and good,” cried Alos, and saluted.

Then the oldster sat back down at the helm. “South we go. The port city of Aban is on the border.”

As they swung away from the dhow amid gestures and calls of farewell, Aiko turned to Alos and said, “That was clever of you,
ningen toshi totta.
”

Alos looked at her, then growled, “I’m a drunkard, not stupid.”

*   *   *

Two days later in early morn they came to the gape of a great bay, its waters faintly colored by the outflow of the distant River Ennîl, according to Alos, the border between Chabba and Sarain. Into the sound they fared, sailing easterly most of the day, the waters darkening with each nautical league as they came closer to the estuarial flow. Just after dawn they sighted the wide mouth of the river and up the slow-moving stream they sailed, its waters muddy with orange-laden silt. Some ten miles inland they arrived at last at the port city of Aban, with its docks to the left and right. They chose the piers larboard, for those were the ones in Sarain.

*   *   *

A hot golden sun rose through the midmorn as Arin and her companions trudged uphill along the narrow, twisting streets of Aban, the ways crowded with horses and camels and people moving to and fro. The men for the most part were black haired and brown skinned and swathed in robes, though some wore other garb—especially those men who rode horses, with their lavish cloaks and capacious shirts and wide-legged pantaloons, the latter tied tightly at the ankle on the outside of the boot. Bright turbans adorned the men’s heads, that or red fezzes with black tassels hanging down.

Women were there, too, or so the comrades surmised, for the females were covered from head to toe with voluminous robes and only their eyes and hands could be seen. Some of these moved through the streets without speaking in groups of three or more, while others rode singly in enclosed litters, borne by burly men.

“You were right, Delon,” said Ferret, pointing to signs above shops and inns as she and the others walked along the streets of Aban. “The writing, the letters: some of them look to be the same as the symbols in the inscription on Old Nom’s card.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions, luv,” replied Delon. “The lettering in Hurn is nearly identical. I think we’ll have to wait until we can find someone who can read what you’ve written.”

“When we find the Golden Crescent,” said Egil, “we’ll
ask the innkeeper to translate it for us. That should prove quickly enough whether it’s Sarainese or not.”

“If it’s not Sarainese,” wheezed Alos, panting with the effort of walking uphill, perspiration runnelling down his face, “then as Dara Arin said, we’ll sail on to Hurn, eh?”

“As soon as we’ve restocked the ship,” said Egil. “You and I will see to it when we’ve settled in.”

Alos nodded. “And we’ll get some charts, too, right? At least of the Avagon.”

Aiko looked at the oldster. “I thought you were quit of us, Alos.”

Alos glared at the Ryodoan, but then his gaze softened. “There’s no taverns in Aban. Damnfool religions and their damnfool beliefs.”

“Ah,” said Aiko, and then fell silent.

Following the harbormaster’s directions, along the ways they fared, and often street urchins or mendicants or merchants would approach them to plead for alms or to sell various wares. But one look at Aiko with her yellow skin, or at Arin with her pointed ears, or at both with their tilted eyes, and the beggars and haranguers would back away, muttering and making signs.

Soon they reached their destination, a gilded crescent on a sign outside announcing the name of the hostel. The innkeeper nervously assigned them rooms, apprehensive at these women in the group—two exotics and another, all of them wearing men’s clothes and none having the decency to cover her face. Infidels all.

“Here,” said Ferret, pulling out her sketch of Nom’s card, the page cut free from the logbook. “I have something to show you.”

But before she could unfold it, Aiko reached out and stayed her hand. “No, Ferai,” said Ryodoan. “Not here. Not now. Not him.”

“Wha—?”

“My tiger says no.”

“Tiger? Oh.”

Ferret refolded the parchment and tucked it away.

*   *   *

“Where did you get this,” hissed the ‘
âlim.
The scholar quickly folded the vellum shut and slid it back across the
table while looking ’round the interior of the great library to see if any nearby students had seen the sketch.

Ferai stood before him, flanked by Arin and Aiko, the Ryodoan’s swords sheathed. At the entry stood Delon. Of Egil and Alos there was no sign.

Ferai took up the parchment and glanced about also. Scattered at tables here and there, young men ducked their heads, embarrassed at being caught staring at exposed female faces, faces out in the open for any and all to see. Foreigners, they were—foreigners and infidels—and even though Aban was a port city, seldom did naked-faced outland females venture within; when they did, it seems the whole city would stir with the news. But these were not merely naked-faced females, oh, no, for two of them were pale skinned, and one was yellow! And two had tilted eyes, while one had pointed ears. They were northerners, outlanders, Elves, djinn, peries, succubi, houris, demons, angels, seraphim, cherubim, or any number of other such beings, depending upon one’s theology, or teachings, or upon experience itself.

“It was a drawing on a card,” said Ferret.

“I would not go waving it about, if I were you,” murmured the wisp of a man, his nut brown features taut with alarm.

“Why?” asked Ferai, lowering her own voice.

“Because it is proscribed.”

“Proscribed?”

“Shhh,”
shushed the scholar, looking about. Then he whispered, “It represents a forbidden religion.”

Ferret whispered back: “Forbidden? Why?”

“Because it is associated with demons.”

Arin cleared her throat. The man flinched, and he did not look directly at her, she of the slanted eyes and tipped ears. The Dylvana murmured, “Tell me, scholar, what says the inscription?”

“Come, let us go to a place where we may talk freely,” sissed the ‘
âlim.

He led them through the stacks, pausing long enough to select a particular roll from among many, each ensconced in its own pigeon hole. Then, motioning them to follow, he stepped to a small chamber, brushing in past a hanging
bead curtain. Delon, following, at a word from Ferai, stood ward at the chamber entry.

Inside the room stood a table equipped with inkpots and quills, and with several chairs ranged ’round. The man gestured for them to sit, and as they did so, he asked, “Who are you, and why have you come to me?”

Aiko and Ferret looked to Arin, and she said, “We came to these archives seeking aid, seeking knowledge.”

The man snorted. “There are any number of scholars herein. Why me?”

Arin glanced at Aiko, and the Ryodoan said, “I chose you, sage, for you are safe.”

“Safe?”

“So I was told,” answered Aiko, touching her chest.

“Who sent you?”

“None,” replied Arin. “We came on our own.”

For the first time, the ‘
âlim
looked her squarely in the face, as if seeking a sign that she spoke truly. Arin gazed back at him, and he lowered his eyes.

“This knowledge you seek, why do you want it?”

Now Arin hesitated, but Aiko nodded, and the Dylvana said, “We follow a rede in the hopes of diverting disaster.”

The scholar nodded, then asked, “And what does the sketch have to do with the rede?”

Again Arin glanced at Aiko, and again the golden warrior nodded. Arin sighed, then said, “We are not certain, yet it may be a vital link to something we seek.”

Silence fell within the chamber, the sage considering what he had heard. Finally, as if he had made up his mind, he said, “You were fortunate to have chosen to come to me, for I am one of the few who will not report you and the knowledge you seek to the
imâmîn
of the Fists of Rakka.”

“Fists of Rakka?”

“An arm of the ascendant religion in Aban. They believe they know the one true way.”

Ferret raised her eyebrows. “The one true way?”

The sage glanced at the doorway and then intoned, “There is no God but Rakka. Fear Him and obey Him, for
He is the Lord of all.” The scholar sighed. “It is but one of many ‘one true ways.’”

Aiko grunted, then asked, “What has this to do with our mission?”

“Just that the thing you seek is but another ‘one true way,’ though this one has been driven into hiding.”

Ferai unfolded the sketch and slid it across the table to him. “These symbols, are they Sarainese or Hurnian?”

“Hurnian?” The sage took up the paper. “Ah, yes, I see; to the untutored eye they are much the same. No, no, the inscription above the door, it is written in Sarainese and it names a place: Mikdash Hamavokh—the Temple of the Labyrinth.” He slid the sketch back to Ferai.

Arin leaned forward. “And this temple, what dost thou know of it?”

“Just that it is said that decades past the
niswân imâmîn min Ilsitt
took refuge there from persecution.”

“Nis-nis—” Ferret paused and shook her head. “What did you just say?”

“Niswân imâmîn min Ilsitt,”
replied the sage. “It means the women priests of Ilsitt.”

“Ilsitt?”

“She is a goddess and goes by many names: Ilsitt, Shailene, Elwydd—”

“Elwydd!” exclaimed Arin.

The sage nodded.

“Is she also named Megami?” asked Aiko.

The sage shrugged. “Perhaps. Though I’ve not heard that name before.”

“What about this god Rakka?” growled Ferai. “Does he go by many names as well?”

“Indeed,” replied the scholar. “Rakka, Huzar—”

“Gyphon?” interjected Arin.

Without looking at her, the sage nodded.

Arin exhaled a long sigh, then said, “This Temple of the Labyrinth…how do we find it?”

The scholar took up the large vellum scroll and rolled it open upon the table and sat inkpots at each corner to hold it flat. It was a map. He stabbed a finger down to the parchment. “Here is Aban, and here”—he slid his finger
in a straight line across the map—“to the east lies this maze, and somewhere within is the temple.”

“Maze?” Ferret frowned. “But this section of the map is blank.”

“Not quite,” said the sage, pointing to a faint irregular boundary. “This is its extent.”

Inscribed within the faded tracery were added Sarainese symbols:

“What do these mean?” asked Ferret, pointing to the ornate characters.

“Um,
Mevokh Hashed
—the Demon’s Maze.”

“Demon?”

“A number of years past, it is said that the labyrinth became haunted by a demon. Sent there by Rakka to punish the unbelievers, or so claim the Fists of Rakka.”

Ferret looked at Arin. The Dylvana merely turned up her hands. Then Arin said, “This maze, this labyrinth, what is it?”

“A great area of entangled canyons,” replied the scholar. “Cut by rivers long past, say some; land fractured by wrathful gods shaking the world, say others; a realm broken by great stones from the sky, claim others still. As to which of these are true, or if it is something else altogether, I cannot say.”