The Dark Queen (6 page)

All the while, Fordus had the strangest sense that something was running beside him. From
the corner of his eye, he saw it, a black spot coursing over the moonlit desert floor. It
stayed at the margins of his vision like a specter, like the dark moon rumored by
astronomers and mages. No matter how quickly he moved, the darkness kept precise pace.

Something in Fordus's fears told him that it was his , dream in pursuit, that somehow the
golden warrior on the sunbaked ledge had ridden his thoughts into the waking world to
follow him, to run him down. He would not have that. His strides lengthened.

Across the desert they ranged, runner and shadow, their swift path turning toward the
sunrise. Suddenly, as the full sun breasted the horizon, the shadow lurched toward Fordus.
With a cry, he wheeled to meet it, throwing axe ready in his hand. The shadow loomed above
him, transparent and faintly faceted, no more visible than heat wavering over the cooling
sands. He saw, in its swirling depths, a pair of amber eyes.

Lidless and lifeless. Reptilian. Never breaking stride, Fordus charged at the enemy. The
shadow closed around him, blinding him, then suddenly it was sunlight and sand again, he
was sailing in midair over a dune, the shadow was gone, and the ground had fallen away
beneath him, just like in his dream. Softer sand cushioned his fall, but it began to swirl
beneath him as he tried to scramble to his feet. Clumsily, helplessly, he spiraled lower
and lower into a funnel of slick sand, a whirlpool delivering him into a dark hole, a
central pit. In the heart of that pit, the morning sunlight glinted on a bulbous green
eye, several sets of clicking antennae, and a huge set of widely opened mandibles.
Springjaw! Fordus thought frantically, groping for another axe as the creature scuttled
toward him hungrily.

From his vantage point in the lofty tower, the Kingpriest watched a meteor plummet through
the distant sky above the Tower of High Sorcery, dropping out over Lake Istar, where it
crumbled and collapsed into the water like dust sprinkled from the heavens. Like dust.

The ruler of Istar turned from the window. His private chambers were as spare as a novice
monk's. So he insisted, despite the flattery of the attendant clergy and the growing
temptation to surround himself with beautiful things. A single cot and a threadbare rug
lay in the center of a vast and

vaulted room. By day, the chamber was austere, but lovely in the subtle light that shone
through the opalescent windows. But it was night now in Istar, and by night the Kingpriest
saw shadows. At night, if he gazed too long into the graceful garden below the tower
window, he saw the trees as things with daggers, and the streams and fountains blackened
and thickened under the silent moons. No. He would not look into darkness, would not think
on his ... transgressions. Better to sit here by a cheery fire, to sift the dustthe opal
dustthat would eventually bring his joy. The windows had told him about the opals long ago
as he walked in private meditation along the outer passageway, the huge, encircling hall
of the tower. Alone, his white hood raised above immaculate white robes, the Kingpriest
had been praying, but the prayer passed into a curious reverie in which he remembered his
early days of priesthood, a candlelit chamber in the novices' quarters . . . A girl. An
auburn-haired chambermaid. His hands trembled at the memory. So lost was he in a dream of
ancient lust that he did not hear the windows speak at first. But the words intruded at
last on his thoughts, and, startled, he looked toward the sun-struck clerestory, where the
surface of the pink, opalescent windows whirled with unnatural light. Like calls to like,
they told him, each window speaking in a voice of different pitch and timbre, until it
seemed as though a choir sang the words into his baffled hearing. “Like calls to like,
indeed,” he whispered in reply, when the corridor had settled into expectant silence.
“Water to water, and stone to stone.” He did not know why he had thought of water and
stone. Furtively, he glanced up and down the hall. Perhaps someone was weaving deceptive
and illegal magic to make him seem the fool... Seem unsuitable. Two windows at the bend of
the hall widened and darkened, as though the corridor itself were watching. Like calls to
like, they repeated, strangely and absurdly, as the great scholar ransacked his memory of
ancient scroll and codex for any mention of speaking windows, of omen and sign and
portent. His memory returned to the girl, to the candlelight pale on her bare skin. In the
corridor, the windows promised him that auburn-haired girl. Her, or another just like her.
It was time, they urged him, to take a bride. She was approaching, the windows told him.
The Kingpriest's bride. Soon the time would come, in ceremony and ritual, when he could
call her forth, anchor her errant spirit in a new, lithe body. When the time was right,
they would teach him the chant, the arcane somatic movements. But for now, he should
gather the material components. The dust of a thousand glain opals. It seemed an obscure
command, and yet, lulled by the prospects of the young girl, he vowed to comply, to
gather. There in opalescent light he took a firm, unbreakable oath, and twenty years
later, when he ascended the throne of the Kingpriest, he set about fulfilling his duty to
the swirling, disembodied voices. The stones would house his approaching bride, some god
had promised him, through the translu- cency of opals. The sounds of the city faded into
the darkness and the approaching morning. Sleepless and eager, the Kingpriest sat on the
edge of his cot, black dust sifting and tumbling through his pale, anticipatory fingers.
The young man slipped through the dark Istarian alleys, his movements silent and veiled.
Twice he lurched into shadowy doorways, standing breathlessly still until a squadron of
soldiers rattled by on the moonlit street, Lunitari spangling their bronze armor with a
blood-red light. Winding his way through the intricate streets of the city like a burglar,
he passed the School of the

Games. Silently, anonymously, he continued past the Banquet Hall and the Welcoming Tower,
once festive buildings now muted with night and the recent news of an Istarian defeat. He
stepped into the moonlight here, and the red glow tumbled onto his dark skin, his
green-gold eyes, the short, well- kept beard. His hair was cut in the dark roach of
Istarian servitudethe topknot extending from nape to widow's peak. His wide mouth fell
into a secret mocking smile. They said Fordus had put it to the Kingpriest. Put it to him
well in the grasslands to the south. Who- ever Fordus was. Now those vaunted legions,
decimated and lead-erless, camped by Istar's outer walls with their backs to the cold
stone, their garbage piling up around them, had orders to defend the city at all costs. It
was ludicrous. They heard the march of rebels in the wind and confused the low stars on
the northern horizon with a thousand rebel campfires on the plains. They saw Fordus's face
under every lackey's hood. Still, Istar was far from beaten. The army that this Fordus had
crushed, though formidable, was not a tenth of the Kingpriest's power. Already the city
echoed with new tidings, with the rumor of military movement in high places, of
counterattack and reprisal. When the young man was halfway across the Central Court, a
third patrol approachedslowly, with a clatter of gruff voices and new, ill-fitting armor.
The young man crawled catlike beneath a broken wagon abandoned not a hundred feet from the
main entrance to the Great Temple. He held his breath again until the last of the soldiers
passed, muting his thoughts in case a cleric traveled with them. When the courtyard was
once again clear, he peered through the cracked spokes of the wagon wheel at the dome of
the Great Temple glittering in moonlight, red as the helmets and breastplates of the
patrolling soldiers. As he watched, the bell in the lofty tower swayed and tolled the
fourth hour since the turn of night the last hour of darkness. Vincus was somewhat early;
the call to First Prayer was not for several minutes. He would have to wait until the
clerics began their silent, ritual movement toward chamber and candlelit chapel. Then,
when most of the residents' thoughts wool-gathered in peasant rite and pretty ceremony, he
could cross the open courtyard undetected. Vincus crawled up into the tilted bed of the
wagon and, lying back in the sour straw, lifted and then settled his seamless silver
collar so that it did not clank against the wood. The bright heavy circle was marked only
by the common lettering of his name. Vincus was a temple slave, and not a contented one.
For a year now, he had served as silent go-between in the usual tower intrigues, and in
one case, he abetted the out.-and-out treason of an eccentric, superstitious priest from
the westa man strangely attuned to weather and seasons and growing things, more pleasant
to him than any of those mush- faced, white-robed sycophants. But in the end, all sides
were the same to Vincus. All sides but his own. Daily, patiently, he awaited an
opportunity either to steal enough to pay off his father's debts or somehow to break the
silver collar, the sign of Temple slavery that neither smith nor armorer would dare
loosen. If he were free of that collar, he could flee into the city shadows, let his hair
grow back and lose himself among the narrow side streets and alleys and winding sewers he
knew so well. His chance would come. Not tonight, but soon, he knew. Meanwhile, this
hiding place was odorous, but at least it was comfortable. He had waited in far worse
surroundings: in the dark rat-infested cellar of an ale-house, in the cobwebbed rafters of
a foul-smelling tannery, once even neck-deep in oily harbor water, clinging for his life
to the treacherously barnacled side of a moored ship. The ship had been the worst, for
Vincus was no swimmer, and the barnacles had cut and savaged his hands. With that memory
in mind, the wagon bed seemed suddenly more than sufficient. Scarcely an hour from now,
while the clergy droned and murmured in the first foolish rite of the day

and the hard-hatted soldiers drowsed at their assigned guard posts, he could cross the
courtyard virtually unnoticed. Slipping from shadow to shadow, he could scale the outer
wall, stroll through the garden to the braided green silk rope dangling from the high
window that would be left open for him, and there, in the shadow of vallenwood branches,
scramble up the tower wall like a burglar. For wasn't that what he was? A thief of secret
thoughts? Vincus laughed silently and closed his eyes, rustling into the soft, makeshift
mattress. He could drowse now, for his days on the streets of Istar had taught him to
sleep with a strange vigilance. Soft sounds three blocks away tumbled like dreams through
the edge of his senses, and Vincus took note of each of them: the low chuckling of a
pigeon stirring in sleep, the scuttling of a rat amid the offal in an alley. The sound of
a dagger drawn from a gilded sheath. Instantly, Vincus's golden eyes popped open. His
right hand slowly reached to a fold in his tunic, where he kept his homemade leather sling
and six stones. Once again motionless, assured his weapon was there, he turned his head
with agonizing slowness to the slit in the wagon's side, where the boards had long ago
shrunk and parted. From there he watched the mouths of the alleys, listening for metal on
metal again, for a clue to the sound's direction in the directionless dark. He fought down
his fearful imaginings. Perhaps it was another patrol, this time with dogs or Irda or
minotaur. Or a ghost. After all, the city was said to be deep with the roving dead. Maybe
an evil god, set on a cruel and arbitrary hunt. Hiddukel of the broken scales. Chemosh of
the undead, his yellowed skull agleam in torchlight. Vincus closed his eyes, banished all
the fears. Had the kindly Vaananen not taught him that such gods could not prosper against
him? Kick them in the backside, I will, he thought. And send them packing to the Abyss.
You are safe, Vincus, he reminded himself. You have not come this far to be abandoned.
Your chance will come. Finally, he heard the dagger replaced, the sound scarcely in range
and nearly lost in the clatter of hoofbeats from a passing rider. Traveling away, Vincus
thought. Whoever it is. Traveling toward the School of the Games. He relaxed, staring past
the foul straw up into the city sky. Faintly, through the ash and smoke and torchlight, he
caught a glimmer of stars in the northern sky. Bright Sirrion floated through the
constellated harp of Branchala, as though the old planet played accompaniment to this sly
nocturnal business. It was curious tidings Vincus had gathered tonight for Vaananen at the
Temple. Dissent in the ranks. First threat to the rebels. Try as he mightand Vincus was
shrewd and inventivehe could not piece together a story out of the fragments he had heard.
An Istarian mercenary captain, an augurer, and a seller of salt in the Marketplacethree
conversations had spawned three versions of a rumor. Each story seemed somehow linked with
the others, sharing a common substance like the facets of a crystal, but again like
facets, each shed diverging and fractured truth. But it was not Vincus's job to piece
together the evidence. Calmly and silently he waited to deliver it, while the fiery old
planet passed through the starry harp and the last hour of the night turned into the first
of the morning. The tower bells tolled that first hour, and the city of Istar wakened
slowly in the early morning dark- ness. In the corridors of the great marble temple,
dozens of white-robed figures filed down the shining steps from the Outer Tower toward the
Sacred Chamber, the underground sanctuary in which the Kingpriest and the principal
clerics of Istar greeted every new day with First Prayer. The torches that lined the
stairwell and the corridors smoked and sputtered, and among the clergy were many who
nodded or shuffled sleepily, wrested from hard sleep and comfortable beds by ritual
demand. At other places in the temple and in the city, more clergy gathered in similar
ceremony, but those in the Sacred Chamber were the chosen, the elite whose service to
Istar had spanned years, decades in some cases, even the reigns of several Kingpriests. At
an hour more daylit or in a place less secure, the guards might have counted the white
robes that

entered the chamber that morning. Had they done so, they would have found that four of the
number were missing, and that the infirmaries of the temple accounted for only three of
the absent clergy. But the hour was early, the guards as drowsy as the celebrants. The
bronze-armored sentries nodded and blinked and closed the doors to the chamber at the
appointed time, never knowing that one whose presence was expectedthe cleric Vaananen of
Near Qualinestihad chosen not to attend the morning's ceremonies. Instead, Brother
Vaananen remained in his meditation chamber, stirring the fine white sand in his rena
garden. Vaananen was a westerner, and therefore seemed quite austere to some of the others
in the brother- hoodmainly the Istarians who were spoiled by the city's soft ways and easy
living. He was a tall, spare man, with long black-and-silver hair, which he kept clubbed
neatly at his neck. His eyes were moss green and seemed to fill his entire face. Vaananen
smiled frequently, but always in secret, under his ample hood. He was a disguised druid
working among the clerics, a man whose solitary pursuits made for few friends. All the
better. His druidic masters had set him in Istar with the purpose of salvaging any ancient
texts from the Kingpriest's destructive edicts. Secretly, painstakingly, Vaananen copied
what he could find, translating from rune and glyph into the common alphabet, and
smuggling the new-made books out by silent courier and under other covers and titles. Of
late, he had found new things to do as well. Vaananen's chamber was sparely and
beautifully appointed: a small carved cot, a handmade teak table and copy desk, an
exquisite stained glass lamp, and the rena gardena simple, ten-foot-square recession in
the floor, filled with sharp-grained white sand and punctuated with cacti and three large
but movable stones, each of which represented one of the moons. The secret of the garden
was an old sylvan magic, perfected among the elves who, in the Age of Dreams, brought the
sand into the forest to build the first of the renas. These elves had also known the true
meaning of the stones: that the black stone was augury, foretelling with the fractured,
fitful light of divination, while the red stone told the past, its vision warped by the
many versions of history. The white stone showed the present, showed what was happening
someplace, usually unknown, a hundred feet or a thousand miles from the reader. Moving
slowly, carefully over the bright sand, Vaananen stirred circles with one foot. He bent,
hoisted the red stone, and set it beside the white. Then, seating himself on the black
stone, he stared across the broken expanse of sand, reading the fresh geometry of dune and
ripple, the violet shadows cast by the stones. The rena garden was now only a relaxation
tool among the human clergy of Qualinesti. Absorbed and tamed into the Istarian theocracy,
it was little more than a sedative, its true ancient powers forgotten. Now the sand and
the abstract positioning of the stones were supposed to calm the mind for contemplation,
create a serenity in much the same way as, say, growing flowers or watching a waterfall.
Vaananen stared intently at the red, lava-pocked stone. Sedative, indeed. The Istarian
brothers did not know the half of it. He passed a hand over the large, squat cactus in the
center of the sand, feeling its aura of moisture and expectancy. Rain. Rain within the
hour. But still no rain in the desert. Slowly he stood, pacing softly about the garden,
his eyes on the center of the square, where the combed dunes spiraled tightly like a
whirlpool around the three glyphs he had drawn in the sand. Rolling up the white sleeves
of his robe, Vaananen rubbed off a patch of concealing potion on the inside of his left
wrist and focused on the red oak leaf tattooed there. He had hidden this mark from his
comrades for the six years he had served with the Kingpriest's clergy.