Mortals & Deities (6 page)

Striding through the pristine white corridors of the Temple, Elith felt as if something nestled in the back of her skull. A lump? Reaching a hand to the base of her ponytail, she rubbed her neck. Her fingers found nothing, of course. Whatever the Revered Father had done to her, the feel of a bulge was no more than her imagination. Still, she could not shake the sensation that something nestled there.

She passed two slaves as she walked the Back Hall, their white robes pristine in the sunlight of the early morn radiating in through the large, arched windows that ran down the left side of the hall. Each bowed low, bending at the waist so their upper bodies came parallel with the marble floor, as was proper. She spared them little notice. Instead, she let her gaze wander out the windows as she continued to the High Priest’s private chambers.

For the first time in a long while, she took in the beauty they offered. A grassy expanse ran down to a rocky shoreline. White waves crashed over boulders, throwing a spray of mist high into the air. The endless waters of the Great Ocean raced the vast blueness of the sky off into the distant horizon. Seabirds, white as her own hair, danced on the wind and dove into the water in search of a meal. With the windows thrown open, the salty breeze wafted through the hall, invigorating her. The islands of Komar, and more precisely the Temple of the Priests of Fatint, had been her home her entire life. The sadness of leaving threatened to overwhelm the excitement of her quest. This struck her as odd. Why should she care whether she stayed or left?

A shovel does not take notice if it is used on one side of the road or the other.

She remembered when these
emotions
had crept into her mind two winters past. At first, she had been frightened of them. She saw them as a weakness—Humans had emotions. Anger, frustration, excitement, pride, lust. All could be used against the wielder if one knew how. And her instructors had taught her how to use them all. Until recently, however, she had never experienced them. It was a secret she held close without understanding why. The priests always treated her well, gave her a purpose, training, and all that she needed. Still, they taught her to be cautious. To follow their direction and the teachings of the Twelve, yes. Yet, cautious above all else. And it was this caution that nagged at the back of her mind to hold the fact that she felt doubts, fears, and—

Her mind pulled up the image of Jarill standing before her, a thin red line of blood encircling his throat. The image laughed. Did it not care that it was dead? Jarill’s image laughed the guarded laugh of one not used to the privilege. The one he and the other slaves used when alone. The feeling of loss crept back into her and she tried to rid herself of it. To run and hide from it.

Yet, how can she run from her own mind?

A scream welled up from deep inside her over what she had done to Jarill and the others, squatting on the point of release. She wanted to laugh at herself for having these absurd thoughts! They were not the first Humans she had sent to the Aftermore.

Why does she have these feelings?

Suddenly, she found herself looking at a painting her mind told her she should not be seeing. The gods Bathane and Mash’ayel stood with blue fire shooting from their outstretched hands enveloping Saphanthia, the Goddess of Wisdom, who cowered between them. The painting depicted the story from the Book of the Twelve when the deceitful Bathane and the war mad Mash’ayel imprisoned Saphanthia for her disobedience. The story had always disturbed her, more so for the fact that the Book of the Twelve never spoke of her escape. Though Elith knew the goddess must have, for she was still worshiped and free with her gifts of wisdom to her followers.

Though the story bothered her, she realized it was not the actual painting she should not be seeing, it was its location. Glancing around, Elith noticed that during her fight with her own thoughts she had passed the High Priest’s audience chambers. Retracing her steps, she took a side corridor and soon stood in front of a set of wooden double-doors. She picked up the small silver bell from a side table and rang it once, returning it when done. One of the doors cracked open, and a dark-haired youth of about ten stuck out his head.

The young boy was beautiful, as were all of the High Priest’s personal attendants. He wore an almost translucent white robe cut to accentuate the thinness of his boyish frame and unblemished olive skin—a skin tone that named him a local of the Komar Isles. Big green eyes, uncommon for a Komarian, looked up at Elith before the boy spoke. “His Highest do be expectin’ ya, Shikalu.”

Elith frowned at the boy. Though the Priests worked hard to quell the local accent from the slaves who worked in the Temple, this boy’s remained thick.

No doubt his beauty helps the Highest overlook the boy’s speech. It is not the boy’s voice that has him working as one of the Highest’s personal attendants.

No, the boy’s accent did not cause her grief. It was what he had called her. Shikalu—
assassin
. It was the title she had held since childhood, since the priests began training her. It was never more than that before. Just a name. Still, with Jarill’s accusing eyes boring into her from the back of her mind, the title mocked her now. She fought back the taint of her new emotions—they weakened her, gripping her spirit tighter and tighter. The desire to scream almost overwhelmed her once more.

Redirecting her thoughts, she looked at the boy. He
was
pretty, and she knew his duties to the High Priest included more than answering the door. Questioning the Priest’s “habits” was another new thing that had developed with her emotions. Why she even gave it a thought was beyond her. It was not like she needed to look for a weakness to exploit amongst those she served!

Or, does she? Have the priests trained her too well?

She gave a knowing smile to the boy and glided past him.

The room beyond could only be described as lavish, not that she had much experience outside the Temple. Still, compared to many of the other priest’s quarters—not to mention her own bare room—the Highest lived in comfort. She entered the audience chamber, the first room of the large complex used by the High Priest. Plush carpets covered the marble-tiled floor. Deep lacquered wood, both carved and gilded, warmed the area. A large desk sat to one side and cushioned armchairs created a sitting area around the main fireplace on the other. Bookshelves lined the back wall, flanking a set of double doors that led deeper into the apartment.

A young girl, of an age of the boy who had answered the door and dressed in the same almost see-through robe, crouched next to the biggest chair that sat before the fireplace. She held a silver tray on her palms in front of her, as if she were a small table. A plump, blotchy white hand leaned over the table and returned a golden goblet to the tray before the hand stroked the girl’s long, black hair with a gentle touch.

Frowning to herself, Elith crossed the room and stood between the large chair and the unbearably hot fireplace. Looking down at the High Priest—his silk robes stretching to cover his extended belly, his bald head lightly powdered, his eyes bloodshot from drink even at this early aurn—she was thankful she was not required to prostrate before this man. She was one of the few on this Plane that did not. He scowled up at her and she knew he resented her for it. A slip of a smile came to her as she inclined her head. “The Revered Father bade her to attend you, Highest.”

“Aye. So he did.” A pasty smile pulled his multitude of chins up. “Please, sit yourself, child.” He removed his meaty hand from the girl next to him long enough to wave it toward a chair, then knitted his hands together in his lap. “These are exciting times and there are some things the Revered Father would have you know before you leave the Isle.”

Walking to the chair indicated, Elith pulled her Ratave staff from its small pouch on her back before sitting. Willing the end to form a small point, she used it to clean the dirt from beneath her fingernails. She did this often when the Highest spoke to her. It seemed to offend him. For some reason, this pleased her.

Eyeing her work, the priest grimaced. “Must you do that now, child?”

Pausing with the sharp tip under her nail, Elith looked into the man’s bloodshot eyes and smiled. When the man did not look away, she shrugged and withdrew it. Willing it to return to the blunt state, she laid the Ratave staff on her lap.

“Thank you.” The priest did not sound grateful at all. Still, after picking up his wine cup, he continued. “The Revered Father has been awaiting the reappearance of the Mah’Sukai onto this Plane for a long time. It is what you have trained your whole life for.”

“She knows this. Though, she does not know why.” It shocked her that she voiced that question. Chastising herself to silence, she relaxed her face.

“The
why
is not for you to know!” The Highest jabbed his cup at her, causing a splash of red to spill onto the floor. “The Mah’Sukai must be brought here. To this temple. Alive and unharmed. That is all you need to know. You have the entire resources of the Priests to aid you in this.” His eyes licked her slim frame. “Though you may not have to force him to accompany you. You may be able to
entice
him to come of his own free will.”

The statement took Elith aback. “Of his own free will? How is she to do that?”

A wicked grin spread across the High Priest’s puffy lips. “Why do you think that
she
was trained in more than just killing?”

The urge to reach out and slap his fat, splotchy face took hold of her. Never before had she desired to strike out at one of her masters, yet this time his words cut deep. The shock over her desire to hit him stayed her hand as much as her self-control did, and she sat there staring at him.

Continuing to chuckle, he set his goblet back onto the tray the young girl held and returned to petting her hair. The girl gazed up at the priest with a look of pure reverence. “The Mah’Sukai is power. More power than anyone has wielded in millennia. Only the Father knows how to tap into this power. And only with an unspoiled Mah’Sukai.” Noticing the red stain on the floor in front of him, the priest frowned. “Once you find this Mah’Sukai, you must ensure he is safe and unharmed. His future lies with the Priesthood.” The priest waved a hand, and the boy who opened the door ran up with a towel. Dropping to his knees, the boy started sopping up the spilled wine. The Highest’s eye lingered on the bent over form of the young boy while he continued to speak. “You may convince him of this, my child. Or, you may need to bring him along without his consent. Either way, you will see that he reaches us unharmed.”

When the boy finished cleaning the floor, the priest gave him a tender smile and the boy glowed. The Highest waved a hand for him to leave, though his eyes followed the boy across the floor with a look more lewd than a man should give any child. “The Father’s time with us may be eternal…Mine is not.” When he returned his gaze to Elith, a faraway, zealous look had taken hold of the priest. “Yet, of the hundreds of my predecessors who desired to be with the Father during this time, it is I who hold this position now. I, who will help him rise and walk with the gods!”

Little of what the priest said made sense to Elith. Though she trained her entire life with a single goal—a goal driven deep within her—she had never been told the
why
of it.
Why
was this Mah’Sukai needed?
Why
must he be brought back here?
Why
did not the Father—the Revered Father, with all his knowledge and power—
why
did he not snatch up the Mah’Sukai and bring him here himself?

Why
are these questions plaguing her mind? She is a tool! A tool to be used as her master wills.
Where
do these doubts come from?

With her mind in turmoil, Elith found it hard to concentrate on the Highest’s words. The man stood and walked to the far side of the room, returning with a small box. Reseating himself across from her, he set the box in his lap and opened the lid. “The Father has seen fit to bestow another item from the last Age of Power to you—like the Ratave staff you wield so well.”

Looking down at the black staff, she ran her slim gray fingers over it, feeling the power tingle into her hands. “She is honored.”

The priest withdrew a piece of black cloth folded into a neat square, and held it out to her. “This is a Shadow Cloak. As long as you have this around you, and you are not in direct light, you will be almost invisible.”

Reaching out, Elith took the folded cloth and let it fall open. It was indeed a cloak—ties ran up the front, a hood capped the top, and two long sleeves draped down the sides—yet the material was nothing like any she had ever seen. It felt as soft and thin as silk, yet with the strength of steel.

As she stretched it, the Highest tsked. “Do not handle it so, child! The Shadow Cloak is designed to protect you from sight, not harm. It is irreplaceable. If you rip it, it may no longer work as intended.” Folding the cloak, she set it onto her lap over her Ratave staff. “Use that wisely, child. Once you leave the Temple, you will be in the lands of men. We priests have protected you. Nurtured and educated you, aye. Still, we have hid you and kept you safe from the other races.”