The Dragonstone (48 page)

*   *   *

“Well, someone should have told us it was nothing but a horn,” snapped Alos, glaring ’round the great stone table. “Scaring people half to death like that, springing such a thing upon them unannounced.”

They waited in an alcove somewhere beyond the sacristy behind the altar and nave. Egil and Arin sat side by side, his fingers interlaced with hers, both gazing about, surveying the room, though there was little to see. Aiko sat opposite Alos, staring impassively at the oldster, her disgust lying just below the surface of her gaze.

Ferai and Delon also sat on opposite sides of the table from one another, their eyes would meet and then glance away, avoiding contact, as if frightened by what a kiss had revealed.

And drifting through the stone passageways, they could hear the evensong carols as the followers of Ilsitt celebrated their faith.

Egil smiled and looked at Alos and shook his head. “It was a startlement, indeed, Alos, coming unexpected as it did.”

“Unexpected?” said Burel, entering. From the nave the sound of singing went on.

“The demon horn,” replied Egil.

“Oh, that. As Mayam said, it keeps the Fists of Rakka at bay.” He stepped from the chamber into a side room, and they could hear a dipping and pouring of water, and the clang of a kettle on a grate. Above these sounds he called out, “But horn or no, it did not stop you from coming.” Shortly he returned, bearing a tray of cups, only to disappear again.

“How did you create such a device?” asked Delon, raising his voice.

“We didn’t,” Burel called back. “The abbess tells me it was here when the Order of Ilsitt first came. When they discovered what it did, they put it to use at need.”

Delon looked at the others ’round the table and raised his hands in question. Arin murmured, “No doubt the abbess or someone will tell us how this came to be.”

Still the evensong caroling came drifting inward, and now Burel began to sing in underharmony, his voice a deep baritone.

When the song came to an end, silence fell. The ceremony ended. Burel stepped back into the chamber, this time bearing a second tray on which rode a steaming pot of tea and a jar of honey. He set the tray down and began filling cups and passing them around the table. As he passed a cup to Alos, he said, “I am sorry the demon horn frightened you, but it is our—how shall I say?—our unrevealed weapon. We carefully foster the rumors of a demon-haunted maze, and the horn gives credence to the tales.”

“Well,” grumped Alos, “you should have found a way to tell us.”

Burel shook his head. “We did not know you were coming until our lookouts spotted you afar. Even then we knew not who you were—still do not, for that matter. Ordinarily, the only ones who know the truth, as well as the way, are our supporters outside.”

“Supporters?” asked Ferret.

“Followers of Ilsitt, luv,” said Delon, “or so I surmise.”

At mention of Ilsitt, Burel’s fingers formed the ritualistic circles. “Yes, worshippers of the Lady.”

“Elwydd,” murmured Arin.

Wide-eyed, Burel looked at the Dylvana. “Indeed, though it has been long since I’ve heard that name, and then only because it was the name given Her by my father, or so I was told.”

The big man passed the honey ’round the table to sweeten the tea. Each took a small portion of this rare treat, except Alos, who glopped in three spoonfuls.

“You say your lookouts spotted us from afar,” said
Egil, “yet in this maze with all its twists and turns, how is that possible?”

Burel jabbed a thumb toward the ceiling. “From the rim above, there are places where sections of the trail can be seen, especially in the last few miles.”

“Ah,” said Egil, taking up his cup.

As they settled back to sip the brew, Burel said, “I meant to ask, did you erase all sign of your passage through the maze? It would not do if the Fists of Rakka or others of like mind could follow the path.”

“We set no fires, pitched no tents,” said Egil. “And camels’ feet are soft on the land, and they left no track on the stone. I think we left no traces.”

“Did you clean the way of your camel dung? Or that of your own? Bring it with you?”

Wordlessly, Egil shook his head.

“Then you must do so on your way out,” said Burel. “That which now lies along the way as well as any new-made.”

Egil glanced about at all the others and then nodded.

They drank tea in rebuked silence, none saying aught.

Moments later, however, Mayam strode into the chamber, the abbess bearing a tray of breads and a steaming tureen of soup, spoons and bowls on the tray as well.

Soon all were served and as they ate, Mayam said, “Vespers tonight were particularly suffused with joy. Visitors to this temple always create such a stir, though they are usually adherents and not strangers such as you.”

“This temple,” said Delon, “it has always nurtured your faith?”

Mayam canted her head. “It was created in a time no one remembers and crafted by unknown hands for purposes unrevealed. Centuries agone, some adherents of my order discovered it. It had been long abandoned. Yet the symbols of the Lady were in the floor of the nave as well as on the high altar when we found it.

“At the time of the bloodletting, we retreated here.”

Aiko frowned. “Time of the bloodletting?”

“Slaughter of the worshippers of Ilsitt,” Burel growled.

Aiko’s eyes narrowed, but she said no more.

“You say that there are yet adherents who live outside the maze?” asked Ferret.

Mayam smiled. “Indeed. Without them, we would be hard-pressed to live here. They bring us supplies to help see us through. Our gardens can only provide so much.”

“Gardens?” said Ferret. “But what do you do for water?”

“Ah, that.” Mayam smiled. “There is a lake hidden in the stone, or so we deem, for our wells never run dry.”

“Ah, I see.”

They ate in silence for long moments, and then Delon said, “Except for you, Burel, I’ve seen no other men. Are they—?”

“I am alone,” said Burel.

Delon smiled. “With all these women….”

Burel shrugged.

“Ordinarily,” said Mayam, “there would be no men whatsoever. But Burel is a special child. Raised here in the sanctuary of the labyrinth.”

“But surely, Burel, you have been elsewhere,” said Ferret. “To the city of Aban, or the like.”

Burel shook his head. “I have never been beyond the iron of the portcullis.”

Egil glanced from Burel to the abbess and back. “There is a tale here for the telling.”

“Indeed,” replied Mayam. “Yet although it is Burel’s tale, I think I must do some of the telling, for I was a witness, whereas he was not yet born. But it will wait until after your own tale is told. How did you learn of the trail through the labyrinth? And what is it that brings you here?”

Arm sighed. “It is a long twisting path we have followed, and not just the one through the Demon’s Maze. Let me begin at the beginning, at a campfire in Darda Erynian when I first beheld the green stone.”

“Green stone!” exclaimed Burel. A look of surprise passed between Mayam and him.

“Know you of this thing?” asked Arin.

Mayam turned up a hand. “Perhaps we do. Tell your tale and we shall see.”

*   *   *

It was near mid of night when Arin finished her accounting of all that had befallen, starting with her vision in Darda Erynian, and ending with the journey through the labyrinth.

Mayam sat in silence for a while. Then she looked at Alos asleep, the oldster’s head cradled in his arms on the table, his snores sounding softly in the alcove. “It is late,” said the abbess, “and you have journeyed far. Tomorrow will be soon enough for us to tell you what we know. Yet this I will say: Burel would seem to be the one you seek—the cursed keeper of faith in the maze. And the green stone of your vision is the cause of his bane.”

I
n spite of her late bedtime, Aiko arose just ere the first light of day. She donned her leathers and boots and helm, and took up her swords and shiruken and stepped from the acolyte cell assigned to her last night by the abbess. Like the small chamber and all else in this place, the hallway beyond was cut through red rock, and she turned leftward for the archway leading outside. Emerging into the great basin, she made her way toward a place where the light would fall whenever the sun cleared the eastern rim, for she would have its golden rays discover her drilling in the way of the sword. But she found she was not alone in her desire, for Burel was already there, dressed in a metal breastplate and helm and breeks and boots, his great sword cutting the cool shadowed air of the dawn.

Aiko stood in the semidarkness and watched awhile as the big man, light on his feet, danced and whirled and thrust at imaginary foe or cut in great rounding sweeps, wielding his weapon as if he had been born to the steel. Even so, Aiko frowned at his exercise, for it spoke of ignorance of battle. He seemed adept at handling the blade, but not in the ways of war.

So as not to take him unawares, Aiko began whistling a tune as she strode out across the flat toward him, and Burel stopped his spinning and stood awaiting her.

As she came before him she said, “I thought that only I would be up early to drill at
kinmichi,
yet I find you already at practice.”

“Kinmichi?”

“The way of the sword.”

“Oh.”

Aiko stretched and turned and moved her head from side to side while Burel watched. “It would not do to pull a muscle or have a cramp in mere practice,” she said. “In war, one does not always have the luxury of loosening up, but drill is an altogether different matter.”

Burel grunted noncommittally, though he watched carefully, as if noting each and every detail.

Finally, Aiko stood still, her eyes closed, her breathing deep and regular. “I am now visualizing the drill,” she murmured, as if speaking any louder would break her concentration.

Burel nodded, but remained silent.

Then Aiko exploded into action, her swords appearing in her hands as if they had somehow been there all the while. And she spun and whirled, her blades humming through the air, cutting high and slicing low, thrusting and backing and cross-blade blocking, driving forward in running flèches, battering, parrying, retreating, crouching, leaping, striking, ducking, dropping to her knees and all the while her steel singing hissing songs of death—swords, daggers, shiruken, appearing, disappearing, lethal weapons always in hand…

Whuff!
The air exploded from Burel’s lungs with the wonder of it all, and he watched in awe as she gyred and fled and charged and stood, her blades but a blur.

At last she stopped, her steel once again tucked away.

Burel drew a deep, shuddering breath. “That was magnificent,” he said. Then he looked at his great sword. “I could never do such.”

Aiko nodded. “Your weapon is meant for battle against heavily armored foe and generally in single combat.”

Burel nodded. “Have you experience with such weapons?”

Aiko turned up a hand. “They were part of my training.”

Burel frowned. “Even though I can easily handle my father’s sword, I have had no mentor to tell me whether what I do is right or wrong. —Will you teach me what you know?”

Aiko smiled. “I will do more than that, Burel. I will teach you other weapons as well.”

“I already know the bow,” said Burel. “The women here have taught me, albeit my skill can be honed. And though I would gladly learn other weapons, I need especially to learn this sword, for I have a task to do.”

“But a quick foeman can defeat such a sword.”

“Surely,” said Burel, nodding. “By arrow cast or thrown dagger, by sling or dart or perhaps even by one of those star-blades you bear.”

“Yes, Burel. A missile weapon will indeed do in a swordsman, if the missileer gets the chance and has the skill. But I am speaking of single combat with hand-held blades, neither foe casting. More often than not, quickness and craft will defeat your blade.”

“Oh?”

“Let me show you. —Take up the sword.”

Aiko drew one of her daggers as Burel hefted his blade.

“Swing at me,” said Aiko.

“What?”

“Swing at me,” she repeated. “Cleave me in two.”

“Lady, I will not.”

“If you expect to learn, if you want me to be your mentor, you must do as I say. Now swing at me and fear not, for I will evade.”

Gritting his teeth, Burel took a half-hearted cut through the air.

Aiko easily stepped away. Shaking her head, she sheathed her dagger. “You do not want to learn.” She started to turn away.

“But I do want to learn,” said Burel through gritted teeth. “I just don’t wish to kill my teacher.”

Aiko faced him and captured his gaze with her own. “Then you must trust me.” Again she drew her dagger.

Taking a deep breath, Burel stood long moments staring at her. Then he hefted his sword, and this time the blade hummed as it cut through the air and past Aiko, and viper quick she stepped in and tapped his neck with the flat of her steel as the two-handed blade carried onward.

“Dead man,” she said, resheathing her dagger. And in that moment the sun burst over the lip of the scarlet basin, shedding its golden light down and in.

*   *   *

On the bed pad in their acolyte cell, alone for the first time in weeks, Arin and Egil, lost in one another, made gentle love again.

*   *   *

In an adjacent cell, Ferret sat with her back to the wall, her head in her hands, wondering at this inchoate feeling deep inside her, wondering what to do.

*   *   *

In his own cell, Delon fingered his amulet in reverie.
Ah, Ferai, my sweet Ferai, I’ve sung about amour all my life, yet I’ve never known its touch. Is this what it’s like? Am I truly in love?

*   *   *

On his pad in yet another acolyte cell, Alos snored away, the oldster weary from the long trip. Too, he was weary from being startled awake in the mid of night by the howl of the demon horn, and, shrieking, had started to scramble beneath his bedding ere he remembered that it was but a bellows-driven chambered contraption. The oldster had shouted into the hallway about not being able to get any sleep and how could they do such a thing to their guests? But moments later he was snoring again.