Silent Hall (34 page)

Criton nodded. The Storm Festival was the only one of the Sea God's festivals worshipped at the seashore instead of at the church of Mayar. Criton still remembered how Ma's husband had grumbled about having to stand cold and wet on the docks while the priest of Mayar made his prayers. He had complained about it, the cruel bastard, all while keeping his wife and Criton trapped in the house, unable to even see the docks from their window.

But Mayar's church would be inside the city somewhere. For Scypho, the Storm Festival would be the only one of Mayar's festivals that he did not have to worship alone.

“Five days,” said Phaedra. “So they'll be building the seaside altar soon?”

“They will,” Scypho said. “Probably tomorrow, or the next day.”

“And the sacrifices?” asked Criton, his heart sinking, “When do they usually gather those?”

Scypho shrugged. “I don't know. Soon. That young priest, Pellos, usually gets them.”

“Does anyone know where all the children went?” asked Hunter suddenly. “We'd better make sure they don't drown.”

“Yes,” said Scypho. “Go, all of you. It's been a tiring morning, and I need some rest.”

They left him there and walked back onto the beach, where all seven children were playing harmlessly in the sand.

“I know what you're thinking,” Hunter told Criton, “and it's too dangerous. We are
not
trying to rescue a pile of scrolls straight out of the hands of guards and priests and practically Mayar Himself.”

“I can't believe they burn it all,” said Phaedra, shaking her head with a stunned expression.

“I'm with Hunter on this one,” said Narky. “We might not be happy about what they're doing, but the answer is not to get ourselves killed. We've had a
lot
of close calls. We shouldn't press our luck.”

“You're right,” Phaedra admitted. “But I still don't like it.”

Criton said nothing. Now he knew better than to ask Hunter or Narky for help. But one way or another, he would not stand by and watch his heritage destroyed.

He passed the next morning in agony, while Hunter and Scypho went to buy the rest of the horses. In the meantime, Narky and Phaedra watched the children and talked, and Bandu tried to pull Criton into the tent to make love. He didn't go. He was feeling too tense, and besides, afraid though he was to say so, he was put off by her size. She was growing so quickly now, her body barely resembled the one he had grown used to. And they were, at best, halfway through this. He knew it was wrong, but what could he do about it? He felt the way he felt.

Bandu was insulted and hurt when he rebuffed her. She kept repeating, “Why you don't want me?” He had no answer for her, so instead he fled.

He walked uphill toward the tower for a time, then turned around and headed for the city gate. He had just arrived and was trying to decide where to go next when out stepped a man dressed in blue-gray robes, an empty sack thrown over his shoulder. This must be Pellos, the priest charged with sacrificing Criton's family history to the Sea God. Criton had to stop him.

“Excuse me,” he said, stepping into the priest's way. “My wife is pregnant. Could you bless our baby?”

Pellos looked at him with surprise and alarm. Criton was surprised himself. Where had he come up with that?

“I am on an errand,” said the priest. “I will make sure to come by when I have finished.”

“I'm afraid she'll give birth soon,” said Criton. “Please? It'll only take a minute or two. We're staying with Scypho.”

“Oh, very well,” Pellos sighed. “Lead the way.”

Criton brought him back to the hut by the sea, frantically trying to think of a plan. When they arrived, he found Phaedra and Bandu outside the tent, conferring with each other while Phaedra worked on adjusting a spare dress for Bandu. He wondered what Bandu had been telling Phaedra about him.

“Gods, man,” said Pellos, with surprise and irritation. “This girl is yet months away from giving birth!”

“Is she?” said Criton, looking to Phaedra for help.
Please distract him,
he tried to tell her with his eyes,
please, please distract him.

“She miscarried once, at about this time,” Phaedra lied, her eyes acknowledging Criton's request. “He worries a lot.”

“You worry?” said Bandu, confused. “That is why you don't want me?”

“Well,” the priest sighed, “I suppose I can bless your baby anyway. Come here, girl.”

Bandu refused. She refused! “I don't want bless,” she said.

“Stay,” said Phaedra to Pellos, “we'll talk her into it. Criton, I don't think your presence is helping.”

Thank you,
he thought at her, and slipped away around the hut. As soon as the priest was no longer within sight, he began to run toward the tower. He suspected he had only a few minutes before Pellos disentangled himself from Bandu and Phaedra and came to collect the sacrificial relics. Criton closed his eyes, trying to picture exactly what the priest looked like. Yes, he thought he had it right.

When he looked down at his hands they were several shades lighter and a good deal smaller than before. He touched his face, and it
felt
right, at least. Now for the hard part. He had become an expert at transforming himself, but it would take an illusion to turn his ragged clothes into Mayaran robes. At illusion, he was a complete amateur. Still, if he could not do this, what was his magic good for?

He concentrated, thinking about the robe and trying to let his imagination extend itself out into the world. It worked, sort of. He did not think he had the color quite right, and his tunic did not rustle the way a robe ought to, but he thought this would probably do. He strode forward, silently praying to God Most High that the guards would not notice his mistakes.

There were half a dozen of them scattered around the ruins, looking bored. “Here he is!” cried one, and hopped to his feet.

“What have you found?” Criton asked him, trying to sound businesslike.

The guard gave him a funny look. “Are you all right? You don't sound normal.”

Criton coughed and smiled and hoped that his racing heart was not audible. He might have looked right enough, but his voice and accent were all wrong!

He coughed again and shook his head. “Don't worry about it,” he rasped, hoping that this would mask his terrible attempt at a Parakese accent. “Been like this all day.”

“Oh,” said the guard, still looking unsettled. “Well, the pile is over there, but you should have brought something to put it in. We found a few sculptures this time, and some precious stones, and of course more scrolls. You won't be able to carry it all in your hands.”

Fool!
Criton thought. How could he have forgotten that the priest had been carrying a sack?

“I'll make two trips,” he whispered. “I'll bring the sack next time.”

“Right,” said the guard. Criton wished he wouldn't look so concerned. He suspected the guard would watch him walk back toward the town until he was out of sight.

He went to the pile of dug-up items and began collecting scrolls in his arms. There were five or six of them, some bulkier than others, and they fit poorly there. “I'll be back,” he said, and hurried away as nonchalantly as he could.

He had not gone more than four steps before a scroll fell from his arms. As he bent over to retrieve it, another fell, and another. The guard with whom he had just spoken rushed over to help him, but when he handed the last scroll back to Criton, his hand passed straight through a piece of imaginary robe. The guard blinked, unsure of what he had just seen.

“Thanks,” said Criton, and fled as quickly as he could.

To his relief, the guard did not follow. Criton practically flew down the hillside, and nearly cried out when he saw the real Pellos coming toward him. The priest was looking down at his own feet as he climbed up the hill. Criton dropped his illusion at once and transformed back into his usual human shape, hurriedly stuffing scrolls into his tunic.

“Hello,” he said, when the priest looked up at him. He tried to use magic to look less lumpy, but the scrolls slid down toward his legs and he had to put his hand on his stomach and stand perfectly still to avoid letting them tumble onto the ground.

“How did you get all the way up here?” the priest asked with irritation, stopping to look up at him.

“Went for a walk,” Criton answered, completely unsatisfactorily.

“Your wife refused to let me bless the baby,” Pellos said angrily. “You and that dirty girl completely wasted my time.”

“I'm sorry,” said Criton. Why wouldn't the priest walk on? “Anyway,” he said, “thank you for trying.”

“Huh. Right,” the priest said suspiciously. But he continued on his way.

Criton gathered up the scrolls and ran. His chest burned and his legs seemed to be moving faster than they were meant to, but he did not stop until he reached Scypho's little house, coughing and panting. Scypho and Hunter had apparently returned with the horses, and Hunter was fastening a new saddle onto the empty elven horse while Phaedra gathered the children for their first meal of the day. Criton stuffed the scrolls into one of the horses' saddlebags and waved his arms wildly at Phaedra.

“We have to go!” he wheezed. “Now!”

“Why?” asked Hunter, but when he turned around and saw Criton, his eyes widened in horror. “What did you do?”

Criton shook his head. “We have to go,” he repeated.

“All right, let's go!” Hunter cried, turning to shout at the others. Bandu came hurrying out of the tent, and Narky ran out of the house. Criton helped Bandu onto a horse, then snatched up Tellos and placed him in front of her.

“Ride upriver,” he said. “Keep away from the tower.”

The others had all gathered round by now and were trying to figure out how they could mount four islanders and six children all onto the four remaining horses. “I can take two,” said Hunter, “one in front and one behind. Narky, can you do the same?”

“Wait!” cried Phaedra. “Where's Delika?”

Criton lifted Temena onto his own horse and looked around. Delika was still standing at the edge of the sand, looking out to sea. The burning in Criton's chest became a sudden deathly cold. His theft had not gone unnoticed. A wall of water towered above the shoreline, dark and angry, dwarfing the little hut that lay before it. And then it crashed.

D
elika screamed
and ran for the horses as the water rushed toward them. Phaedra wanted to help, but she had already mounted the elvish horse with Rakon in front of her, and there was no practical way to be of use. “Go!” Criton shouted at her, and Phaedra kicked the horse without looking back again.

The horse did not get far before the water reached it, crashing against its legs and belly. Phaedra felt the swirling waters clawing at her legs, trying to drag her off the horse and under the murderous waves. She clung fiercely to the reins, her arms on either side holding Rakon in the saddle. For now, the horse stood firm.

She thought she heard cries around her, but she could not make out the words over the roar of the ocean. With a last tug at Phaedra's leg, the waters drew back toward the sea, preparing for a second, more devastating wave. Phaedra gave her mount a frantic kick and it sprang to life, cantering away from the beach as directed.

It was lucky this empty horse knew no terror. The other horses had gone completely wild, galloping away from the ocean without paying the least attention to their riders' direction. Phaedra saw Hunter's mare take him and two children off toward the tower, while a gelding charged upriver past Phaedra, carrying only Temena on its back. Phaedra gasped. That was Criton's horse.

The second wave struck with a crash even louder than before. Phaedra looked back in search of Criton, just in time to watch Scypho's shack get swept away.

She kicked her horse into a gallop, and still Mayar's fingers reached out for her, snatching at the horse's tail and dragging at its feet. Ahead and to her right, Hunter was trying to turn his horse toward the river and away from the tower and its guards, two of whom were firing arrows at him from Parakese crossbows while the others mounted horses in pursuit. At last Hunter prevailed over his mount, pulling hard on the reins while Caldra clung to his back and Adla bounced perilously in front.

Narky, also up ahead, looked back toward Phaedra. “There he is!” he cried.

Phaedra turned to find Criton breaking out of the water, a sputtering Delika in his arms. He flew upwards, already far behind them, but still the sea would not let him and Delika go. It reached for them, waves crashing higher and higher, and a large tangle of seaweed wrapped itself around his ankle and made to pull him down.

“Keep going!” Criton shouted, when he saw Phaedra looking. He had no disguise on, and the golden scales on his arms flashed in the sunlight. He shifted Delika under one arm, clawing at the seaweed. In the distance, the sea battered against the walls of Parakas, crowning its battlements in foam.

“Hold on,” Phaedra told Rakon, and rode after poor Temena, who had completely let go of her reins and was hanging onto her saddle for dear life. Phaedra's elvish steed did not fail, and with a lucky grab, she caught hold of the other horse's reins.

When she had time to look again, Criton had escaped the sea's grasp. The limp seaweed still dangling from his foot, he soared skyward out of reach before finally turning toward Temena and his horse.

Phaedra had only just begun to feel relief when a splash of water struck her from the side. She turned back and stared. The Parek had overflowed its banks, its waters surging out toward her. The river was flowing backward. Phaedra shuddered and pulled away from the Parek into a sodden apricot orchard, watching fearfully as the mounted soldiers neared her, with the angry priest of Mayar at their head.

“Heathens!” Pellos cried. “Traitors! Cursed in the name of Mayar! You will pay for what you've done! Scypho will pay for hosting you!”

Phaedra looked into his face, his youth turned ugly with rage. Didn't he know? Scypho had already paid for helping them. He could pay no more.

Hunter was turning his horse back around to come to her aid, but it was no good: the tower guards were already between him and Phaedra.

“Stay back!” Phaedra yelled at them, bringing the elvish horse to a stop. “Or I'll tear your souls from your bodies and feed you to the waves.”

The priest ignored her, but the guards pulled back on their reins. “A witch!” breathed one of them.

“Ride on,” commanded Mayar's priest. “There are no more witches and wizards.”

“But she's an islander,” protested another. “Who knows what they still have over there?”

“She's just a girl trying to scare you,” Pellos insisted. “I have stood beside her and spoken to her. She's no witch.”

The guards looked encouraged. “Fool!” Phaedra shouted frantically. They were so close! “I only distracted you while my friend stole your sacrifices! You say there are no wizards now? Well, look there!”

The guards followed her finger with their gazes, and gasped in terror when they saw Criton flying toward them. “Wizards!” cried one. “They're all wizards!” They fled back toward the tower.

Pellos looked frightened as well, but he did not turn around. “My God has killed wizards before,” he said, “and He will kill wizards again. Die, abomination!”

He spurred his horse, and Phaedra panicked. She grabbed at her saddlebags, snatching up the first object she could find. It was a small copper pot. Pellos was nearly at her, his arm already outstretched to drag her off her horse. With a grunt, Phaedra swung her pot at the priest's head.

Pellos had only just caught her by her other arm when the pot slammed against his temple. He let go and fell from his mount with a lifeless thud, landing face down in the muddy grass. Phaedra wobbled, but she caught onto the elven horse's makeshift saddle with one hand and managed to steady herself.

Rakon, who had somehow not fallen despite Phaedra's flailing, turned round so that he could stare up into her face. “You hit him!” he said. “You hit him, and he fell over!”

“Well done,” Hunter called from up ahead, his face displaying unguarded relief. He could never have helped her, Phaedra realized with a shock. With Adla in the saddle in front of him, it would have been disastrous to even try drawing his sword.

At last Criton and Delika arrived, drenched and subdued, and took their place on the horse with Temena. Bandu had gotten quite a head start on the rest of them, but now that Phaedra had time to look, she saw her some distance ahead, waiting for them. Criton glanced over at the Parek, which was still flooding its banks, its water creeping ever closer to them over grasses and tree roots.

“Let's get out of here,” he said. “They'll probably send an army after us if they can.”

By the time they stopped, most of the children were crying. The seawater had stalled a few miles west of Parakas, and the waters of the Parek flowed gently here, as if blissfully unaware of the chaos that awaited them.

“It's all right,” Phaedra told the children. “We're safe now.”

Her words did no good, of course. They were crying
because
they were safe.

“Everything's going to be all right,” Criton echoed uselessly.

Tella looked up at them, her eyes still full of tears. “The old man…”

“He's in his God's hands now,” Phaedra said, though her heart ached. “Many sages say that's the best kind of death.”

“That's right,” said Narky, holding his reins in one hand and awkwardly patting Tella on the head. “He's probably happy now. Happier than he was, anyway.”

Tella looked skeptical, but she stopped crying.

Narky turned to Criton. “Well, I hope those scrolls were worth it,” he said. “We're never going to be safe near the water again.”

“They're worth it to me,” Criton answered defiantly. In his mind, he had just rescued his ancestors themselves. Phaedra could see it in his eyes.

“Let's get a little farther from Parakas,” she suggested, “and we'll see what you got out of there.”

They cut north, away from the Parek. With five horses, the travel was not nearly as difficult as before. It became even easier when they came across one of Atel's roads. Shortly before sundown, they came to an inn marked with the God's mule symbol. The inn's middle-aged proprietors stared at them when they stumbled in through the door, but being true followers of the Traveler God, they took Hunter's money without question and showed them to their rooms. The beds here were enormous, large enough that the entire bedraggled party was able to fit into two of them. Phaedra fell asleep almost immediately.

The innkeepers made a fine breakfast. As a girl Phaedra would have found it bland and simple, but these days even bread and unsalted mutton seemed outright luxurious. Well satisfied after a good meal, they set out that morning at a more leisurely pace.

When they stopped to give the horses a rest, Criton gave Phaedra the smallest of the scrolls to read aloud.

“An Experiment in Biocontingent Luminescence,” she read. “The intent of the experiment was to identify the biocontingent triggers with greatest amplitude and longevity. To this end, fifteen Phalasean lanterns of varied colors were set at three-foot intervals along the walls of a darkened room, with exposed side facing out toward the wall. A separate trigger was utilized for each of the lanterns, including name trigger, intent and proto-intent triggers, Parakian trigger, neohessionic trigger and diffuse simian biothermal trigger. A full list is reproduced below...”

Phaedra looked up from her reading. “Try this one,” Criton said hopefully, handing her another scroll. “They can't all be like that.”

She hoped he was right. How devastating it would be for him if the papers he had rescued were nothing but a collection of wizarding experiments!

“By Caruther,” she read, at the top of this second scroll. “Being a Discourse on the Dragon Knight, His Prophecy, and the Controversy Thereof.”

“That sounds more promising,” said Hunter.

Phaedra nodded. “Much has already been written about the famed Dragon Knight, Hession son of Pilos, who explored the world nearly a century ago in search of the Dragons' Prisoner. For the purpose of this discourse, a brief summary will have to suffice.”

“This story is boring too,” Tellos complained.

“Go play with sticks,” Criton suggested.

“Criton is right,” Bandu said. “Bring sticks and I show you.”

Bless her. Phaedra gave Bandu a grateful look and read on.

“As we know, the war between Gods and dragons put an end to all but the weakest of the flying lizards. Prior to the war, however, relations between the two sides were known more for their cold distaste than for any bitter hatred. The dragons worshipped their own God, whom they saw as lord above all others, and tolerated the other Gods as younger, weaker cousins to their own.

“The incident of the Dragons' Prisoner, taking place a mere decade before the war, was at one time thought to be a catalyst for the subsequent events; more recent research casts doubt on this notion, suggesting rather that the imprisonment involved a cooperation between several Gods and dragons, and may have been the last significant piece of cooperation ever to occur between these two camps.

“To this day, it remains a mystery what crime the Prisoner committed. Salemis of Hagardis had been a most venerated prophet of God Most High prior to his sudden fall from grace. Though the crime remains unknown, its consequences suggest that it was deeply transgressive, considering the list of those who came forward to punish him for it. As well as the entire Draconic Council, the Gods Pelthas (Justice), Caladoris (Mountains) and Magor (Wilderness) are specifically mentioned as co-conspirators in the Prisoner's downfall.

“But most mysterious of all is the fact that although Salemis was vanquished and imprisoned, not a single source mentions his prison's location, nor was his death recorded. It is this fact that inspired the ill-fated Dragon Knight to commence his quest.

“Though Hession son of Pilos traveled the world over in search of Salemis and his prison, inspiring many a song and legend, his journey began and ended in his hero's abandoned home, a cavern now known as the Dragon Knight's Tomb. Many claim that by the end of his journey the knight had gone insane with his failure, rendering his final words to his assistant the ramblings of a dying madman. We will discuss this possibility shortly, but it is incumbent upon us to review the exact words recorded by the squire, and dissect their potential meaning:

Let he who is fatherless find his true sire

And he with no wishes fulfill his desire

Let she who is darkest bring light to the people

And she with no church raise skyward her steeple

For I see the end now to all things once planned

When he who was murderer rescues the damned.

This prophetic poem, thankfully preserved, is subject to varied interpretation, with religious sources claiming–”

“Hold on,” said Narky, interrupting. “Hold on a second. Is it just me, or could that whole thing be us?”

“What?” said Hunter.

Phaedra reviewed the poem again. “I don't see how.”

“‘He who was fatherless?' That's Criton!”

“Maybe,” said Phaedra, trying to stifle her annoyance, “but can I keep reading? Even if –
especially
if – you're right, the sages' interpretation can do us a lot more good than just wildly speculating on our own.”

“Read,” said Criton, waving her on.

“All right, where was I? Oh, here. This prophetic poem, thankfully preserved, is subject to varied interpretation, with religious sources claiming that it was a reiteration of mythological events long past, while the faction of academics now called the Blasphemous Clairvoyants emphatically insisted that the Knight's words were spoken as a true prophecy of things to come, and that its first line referred to some future hero and not, as the priests imply, to the Knight himself in his arrival in the afterlife.

“There has also been much debate over the number of subjects described as ‘he' and ‘she' in the Knight's verse; in particular, whether the verses refer to five different people or to a primal pair of man and woman who must remake the world after ‘all things that were planned' come to pass. For the most part, the Blasphemous Clairvoyants coalesced around the Theory of Five, while priestly sources promoted the more eschatological Pair Theory. It is my proposal that, considering the evidence I have presented elsewhere of sometimes intentionally shoddy and misleading work by priestly scholars, the religious authorities are most likely in error, if not participating in an act of deliberate obfuscation.