The Last Hour of Gann (13 page)

Meoraq bore it a
reverent witness, keeping his own company as the rooftop over the temple-district filled with on-lookers. Although they kept a respectful distance, every backwards glance showed Meoraq more priestly robes: acolytes, monks, scribes, oracles and even the young candle-wards came to stare until it seemed there could not be a man left in the rooms beneath his feet.

Hours passed, each one marked by the tolling of bells throughout the city, not quite in sync with one another. It began to rain, dampening not only the fields below—the sweet, green smell of freshly-wetted manure billowed up at once and Meoraq breathed it in, still thinking of fields, of farms, of life—but the enthusiasm of many of those watching. Braziers all across the city roof began to gutter and die, breaking the perfection of the ring they had so briefly formed, but some stayed regardless of the discomfort. Meoraq was one of these. There would always be rain and he would always have days when he had to walk through it and nights when he had to sleep in it, but this fiery arm might never come again and he still had not determined its meaning.

As he meditated, one of the acolytes was jostled suddenly forward by the crowd, stumbling hard against Meoraq’s back. Meoraq spared his immediate bows and apologies a distracted grunt, but the damage was done. With a few shouts and clapped hands, the courtyard was cleared of all but the highest members of the priestly caste. The next man who drew near to speak apology was the abbot, whose name escaped Meoraq for the moment, but who seemed an amiable sort, for one of his caste.

They watched the fire together in comfortable silence. The rain and the wind both grew stronger, making the gesticulations of the flame wilder and more desperate even as it began to die down.

“It seems to be beckoning,” the abbot remarked.

Meoraq acknowledged him with a grunt, but his interest intensified. It did look like a beckoning arm now, less like the clutching one he had first imagined it to be.

“How far away would you say the fire burns?” asked the abbot.

It was a fair question. Meoraq was one of perhaps a hundred men in Xheoth this night who had ever been beyond the city’s walls. To speak in measurements of distance had only the most abstract meaning to most citizens, but this man had surely made pilgrimages
in the past to be in a position of such authority now and so Meoraq considered the question fairly.

“The shadow of the Stepped Rise
stands before it,” he said at last. “And is not illuminated by it. It could not be less than thirty spans.”

The
other man grunted thoughtfully. “To see a flame at thirty spans…What city lies in that direction?”

“Tothax,” Meoraq replied at once. He knew every city that fell within his circuit well, and quite a few others that did not. Tothax, he knew better than most. He had received an urgent summons to that city half a year back, a summons not merely for a Sheulek but for Meoraq himself,
and refusing to name the charges. This had so annoyed him that Meoraq deliberately made Tothax his last stop upon his circuit and he made certain the courts of Tothax knew it. Indeed, upon his arrival in Xheoth, he had found another summons waiting for him, even more tersely worded than the last. And if there was a reason why he had perhaps overstayed himself in this city many days after the last dispute had been heard and the last trial judged, there it stood. He was a Sword of Sheul, greatest of the warrior’s caste, a Sheulek. He took orders from his father and from God and no one else. He would move on in his own time, and he fully intended to make himself obnoxious in the House of whoever wanted him so damned badly right up until the last lick of autumn.

Ah, but t
hen it would be home, home to Xeqor and House Uyane. Familiar faces. A bed more myth than reality. His father’s company in the evenings, and perhaps his brothers’ as well, if they were home from their own duties. Well…Salkith would be there; he was a governor’s guard and entitled to a room in their barracks, but he preferred to sleep at home where he could punish those who joked about his infamously slippery brain instead of force himself to laugh along. Nduman was a Sheulek with his own circuit and his visits were infrequent enough, but he was also keeping a low-born woman and several children in Vuluth, outside of conquest and without formal marriage, although he thought it a great secret. Thus far, their father had seemed strangely inclined to tolerate this, but Rasozul was lord of Uyane and steward of the bloodline and could not ignore the scandal forever. As for Meoraq himself, he was what he was: the eldest son of a legendary man, the heir to a glorious name and a proud House of Oracle Uyane’s own lineage, a servant in the favor of great Sheul, and a man who was perhaps not as humble as he’d ought to be. He was working on that.

“Tothax,” the
abbot mused, bringing him roughly back to himself.

“If somewhat to the north.”

“So it is not Tothax that burns.”

“No.” Regrettably. “There is nothing there that should burn for so long.”

“Without moving,” agreed the abbot, tapping the back of one hand broodingly with his fingertips. “A plains-fire would move in this wind.”

“And swiftly die
in this rain,” added Meoraq. His clothing was now plastered unpleasantly to his scales. “And no plains-fire would ever burn so tall.”

“Yet still it burns. And beckons.”

Meoraq grunted.

“It is a true sign of Sheul, then.”

“So it would seem.”

They watched. Another hour was tolled and the fire waved, feebly but still with some life, as it slipped lower and lower.

“He has set a mighty banner,” the abbot remarked. “But for whose eyes, I wonder?”

Meoraq flattened his sp
ines. The elderly priest gazed benignly straight ahead and did not acknowledge his narrow glance.

“I should have journeyed on to Tothax many days ago,” Meoraq admitted at length.

The abbot bent his head at a polite angle, flexing his spines forward with interest. “Perhaps the message is meant for you.”

“Perhaps.” But now he felt certain it was. Meoraq had trained a lifetime to hear Sheul’s voice and feel His touch. Now he saw His waving arm. It would be a foolish thing to pretend he did not know what it meant.

Or what he had to do.

“I leave for Tothax immediately,” he said. And naturally, it was raining. “I require provisions for the journey.”

“Name them and be met, honored one,” said the abbot mildly. “Shall you take a bed until the morning?”

“No.” Meoraq turned away as the burning arm, its work done, finally slipped behind the horizon and returned the night to uninterrupted black. “Sheul has lit His lamp for me at this hour. I can only trust it is the
hour He wishes me to follow. It would seem I have lingered too long already.”

“We shall pray for you
,” said the abbot, bowing. The other priests remaining on the rooftop bowed as well. “Go in the sight of Sheul and serve Him well.”

* * *

Meoraq descended the stair and beckoned indiscriminately to the crowd of youths and low-born priests still clustered in the upper halls hoping for a glimpse of the miraculous fires. Several came forward at once. He took the first to reach him for his usher, made his few demands to the others, and allowed himself to be led back to the room he had been given for his own upon his first night’s arrival. He did not have many preparations to make, but it was the polite thing to give the temple’s provisioner time to arrange his supplies so that they would be at the temple gate when he did leave. Rushing out at once only to wait around where all could see him would only embarrass Xi’Xheoth and those who lived there. Meoraq knew he was not always as patient as he ought to be, but he tried not to be rude. Sometimes he tried.

The boy bowed in ahead of him and lit the lamp, then waited, his small head pressed to the fl
oor and back stiff with pride at being made usher for so prestigious a guest. Meoraq dismissed him with a silent tap to the shoulder and, knowing that little eyes would be on him and little ears listening, kept his back to the door until he heard it shut and catch.

He was alone.

“Fuck,” said Meoraq, and gave the cupboard where he ought to be sleeping even now a solid kick. He hit the supporting framework rather than the lower door as he’d intended, so that instead of a resounding thump as his boot struck home, he damned near broke a toe. He swore again, limping over to the simple chair provided for his simple needs.

It was raini
ng. It would be raining. Thirty days he’d passed in Xheoth and it had not rained once in all that time. Thirty days, but now he was leaving and the water poured out of the sky as from a cattleman’s pump.

He sat there in his soaked leather breeches and the city-soft tunic the priests had given him while his own was laundered, dripping puddles on the floor, and cursed the rain, which did no good. He had dry clothing in his pack, but could see no point in donning it only to have it drenched ten steps out of the city gate. The rain fell and he
would just have to walk in it as just punishment for staying so long in Xheoth.

“A refinement to my sense of humility, I suppose,” muttered Meoraq, gla
ncing heavenward. “And I thank You for it, O my Father. It is so comforting to know that You take so personal an interest in the improvement of my character.”

Sheul did not reply. Not here, at any rate, although it might be raining even harder outside.

Meoraq tightened his bootstraps and loin-plate and finally glared at the table where his weapons awaited him. The abbot had requested, as all of them did, that he not go armed within Sheul’s House. Meoraq’s usual reply to this was that all the world was Sheul’s House and he went where directed ever-ready to do Sheul’s work, but having the right to be an arrogant ass whenever the whim took him did not make it an obligation and this abbot was a better man than most.

He put his
travel-harness on over his wet tunic and clipped the great hook of his beast-killing kzung at his hip. Its weight was an immediate comfort to him. Next came the long, wide samr, sheathed and slung across his back to be drawn against those whose crimes either did not merit or could not wait for trial. Last of all, his honor-knives, the slender sabks, buckled high on his arms. They were meant only for the arena in the sight of Sheul and frequently used in the wildlands for all manner of menial work. If his years of service had taught Meoraq nothing else, it had taught him that one could not skin a saoq with a blade as long as one’s arm. If Sheul saw it as disgrace, He had never let Meoraq know.

A soft knock upon his door. A familiar sound these past many nights. Not a priest.

“Enter,” Meoraq called without turning. “And stand.”

She had already taken her first steps
toward him. Now they faltered to a stop. Her voice was as hesitant as her footsteps. “Sir?”

“Sheul calls and I go to answer. You have done well in your service to me,” he added, damned generously. “Go in my favor.”

She retreated one step, but only one. Her hands clasped, trembling, at one another. “Have I offended you, sir?”

She had not. Nor had she gone to any great effort to please him. Indeed, she had done little to make any impression on him whatsoever. She hadn’t even told him her name.

Nor should she, in all honesty. She was not a friend to him, only one of the many women who came to the temple after being turned away by their husbands for want of children. They haunted the halls of the temples in every city, veiled shadows in the shape of women, offering themselves in solemn rituals in the hopes that Sheul’s sons would heal their wombs. She did not come to him for pleasure and he should not expect to find any in her.

She was neither young nor beautiful, but Meoraq had been compelled to
have her all the same when he had passed her in the hall, returning from his first judgment in this city. As Sheulek, he had the right to any woman he was given to desire, but it was this one who lit the spark in him that night and every other night that she came to him. The marks of many Sheulek before him scarred her from neck to mid-arm, but she had not burned for Meoraq and his own did not stand among them.

He had not decided
yet how this made him feel. His masculine pride was, in truth, somewhat insulted, although he knew it was Sheul who had the ultimate judgment over each mortal coupling and therefore His will that she not conceive of him, but only receive Meoraq’s fires. If that was enough to heal her barren womb, so be it. If not, well, Meoraq didn’t particularly want her haunting the halls at House Uyane anyway. Sheul had blessed him at each coupling, sometimes twice, but the sex itself had been as unpleasant as sex could be. Her way of bending silent and motionless beneath him disturbed him. He had given her permission to move, to speak, even to struggle, but she did nothing except to whisper her prayers and drift away when it was over.

Now she seemed dismayed at his leaving, as if it were some failing of hers that drove him out from the city in the dark hours of night. That if she had been more winsome, or if her worn flesh had just been fresher, he might stay and give her the children Sheul had thus far denied her.
That she had displeased him, shamed herself, failed God.