The Shadow's Heir (The Risen Sun) (25 page)

She didn’t feel homesick herself. She missed Yorath, but she was happy enough in Amoran. Then again, she hadn’t lived in the North long enough to be that attached to it. Not enough to remember every detail of it after the months she’d been away.

That evening, tired out from the heat and suffering from a sudden fit of wistfulness over Yorath, she curled up on her bed and idly played with the other keepsake she’d brought. It was the note that had been with the gem, and she ran her fingers over the crude, faded letters, trying yet again to decode them. She’d learnt more about reading and writing on the voyage, and knew quite a few Northern words by now, but somehow none of these looked familiar. She knew the letters but not the words they made.

She tried sounding some of them out instead, talking to herself in an undertone.

“‘D . . . deee’? ‘Deeeeaah’? ‘Efff’? ‘Arr’? Oh, blow this for a game of soldiers.” She put it down and sighed. Was she really so stupid that she still couldn’t read? Yorath made it look so easy. She sighed again and wondered how he was. Did he miss her, too?

She moped for some time before she realised she was doing it, and dragged herself out of bed to make herself stop. She hadn’t seen Arenadd since the night they’d arrived—it was probably time she went to see how he was doing.

Oeka came after her. “Where are you going?”

“To see Arenadd,” said Laela. “Just makin’ sure he’s goin’ all right. An’ t’see if he wants any advice.”

Oeka clicked her beak. “You never stop trying to fuss over him, do you?”

The griffish term she’d used translated literally as “act like a brooding mother.” Laela scowled. “He’s so immature sometimes, he needs someone t’do it. Who else is gonna say no to him if it ain’t me?”

“I should not argue,” Oeka conceded. “You have a power over him I cannot understand.”

“Yeah, it’s called mutual respect,” said Laela. “Yeh might’ve heard of it.”

She ignored the guards outside Arenadd’s chambers and strode in without bothering to announce herself.

Arenadd was there, alone. He was slumped on a couch with his head back, staring at the ceiling. When Laela called his name, he barely moved.

“Hey,” she said, coming closer. “It’s me. Wake up.”

Very slowly, Arenadd dragged himself upright. His face was ghastly. Once his skin had been pale. Now it looked grey, and glistened with sweat. His eyes were dull, his expression slack and lifeless.

Laela felt her insides twist. “Ye gods, yeh look horrible! What’s wrong? Are yeh sick?”

Arenadd coughed. “Oh, hello.” His voice was low and weak.

Oeka nudged her human hard in the hip. “Laela, you should find a healer. He looks as if he is dying!”

“Arenadd, should I go and get someone?” said Laela. “Do yeh need . . . ?”

“Just get me some water,” Arenadd croaked.

She found a jug on the table and filled a cup for him. He fumbled with it as if he barely had the strength to hold on to it. But once he’d drunk the contents, he looked slightly better.

“There,” said Laela. “Better now?”

“A little,” said Arenadd.

“So what’s up?” said Laela. “I didn’t know yeh could get sick.”

Arenadd raised his eyebrows. “Neither did I.”

“Have yeh seen a healer?”

“The Emperor suggested it, but I refused,” said Arenadd. “I can’t let them find out what I am.” He shuddered. “And they wouldn’t be able to help me anyway.”

“Then what are yeh gonna do?” said Laela.

“I don’t know.”

Those simple three words sounded so unnatural coming out of Arenadd’s mouth that Laela didn’t know what to say.

Arenadd didn’t seem to notice. He grimaced and pressed his hand into the scar in the middle of his chest, where Erian Rannagonson’s sword had impaled him all those years ago. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he groaned.

Laela stepped closer, reaching out. “Are yeh all right?”

“It hurts,” Arenadd gasped. “It won’t stop hurting . . . ever since we got here . . .” He slumped again, breathing rapidly.

Laela knelt beside him, casting a desperate glance at Oeka. “Do yeh have any idea why it’s happening?”

Arenadd managed to pull himself up again. “It’s Gryphus,” he said. “He’s here . . .”

Instinctively, Laela glanced over her shoulder. “What d’yeh mean?”

“He’s here,” Arenadd repeated, his voice riddled with pain. “This is his place. His land. The sun’s so bright here. It’s unbearable.” He gasped again and made a noise that sounded almost like a strangled scream. “Oh, Night God help me, why did I come here? I’m surrounded by sun worshippers; they’re all full of
his
light, I feel like I’m going to be sick whenever I go near them.” His eyes darted wildly, as if expecting to see enemies in every corner. “He doesn’t want me here. He wants me gone. He’s protecting this land against me. He’s taken—”

Laela grabbed his hands. “Stop it. Arenadd, stop it. Calm down. Just breathe. In an’ out, slow like. C’mon. It’s gonna be all right.”

He breathed deeply and began to look calmer. “I’ve lost my powers, Laela.”

Laela could feel how cold his skin was. “What? What d’yeh mean?”

“I feel stronger at night,” said Arenadd. “Last night I tried to go into the darkness . . . where I’m strongest.” He stared at the ceiling. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get there. The way . . . just wasn’t there any more. I don’t know if I’m even immortal here.”

Laela felt sick to her stomach. “What about Skandar? Is he . . . ?”

“Hah.” The sound was half laugh, half cough. “Skandar doesn’t even know I’m like this. He’s been off this whole time, enjoying himself. He’s had thirty-seven different females since we’ve arrived here.” He coughed. “I counted.”

Laela had to laugh. “At least he’s keepin’ his end of the agreement. Arenadd—” She lost her grin very quickly. “Are yeh serious? Do yeh really think yeh ain’t immortal here?”

Arenadd nodded weakly.

“Well, for gods’ sakes, we’ve got t’get out of here!” said Laela. “We’ve got t’get yeh home an’ away from this damned place, before somethin’ goes really wrong.”

Arenadd pulled on her arm, using it to drag himself to his feet. “No,” he rasped.

“Arenadd—”

“
No.
I’m not leaving.” He breathed in shakily. “Not until my business here is done. I won’t leave without my . . . without my brothers. My sisters.”

“Screw them!” Laela yelled. “You’re more important than them, damn it, an’ if—”

“No.” Arenadd waved her into silence. “No. If I leave now, this whole . . . thing will be for nothing.”

“But what if you die?” said Laela, almost plaintively.

“I’ve survived worse,” said Arenadd. He was trembling slightly as he stood there. But his voice sounded as confident as always when he said, “Thank you for helping me up. But please don’t tell anyone about this. I trust you, Laela.”

“Lips are sealed,” said Laela. “Oeka, can yeh keep this to yerself, too?”

The small griffin had been looking on uncertainly. “You will know if I do tell anyone else,” she said.

Laela supposed that would be the best she could get out of her. “How much longer are we gonna stay here?”

“I’m not sure,” said Arenadd. “But I think”—he winced again—“the Emperor won’t be suspicious if I want to hurry things along. He’s a generous man. So, how are you enjoying yourself?”

Laela wasn’t fooled. “I like it fine here.”

“Good. Well . . . you can go now. Get some rest.”

“Don’t yeh need me to—”

“No, no. I’ll be fine. Go on.”

Laela gave him a nervous and unhappy look, and left the room with Oeka skittering along after her.

•   •   •

A
s Laela disappeared, Arenadd had a sudden, wild urge to call her back. He said nothing. Exhaustion and pain gripped him, and he turned to slump back onto his couch, but paused when he noticed something on the floor. It looked like a scrap of old cloth—Laela must have dropped it on her way out. Arenadd picked it up.

Every bone in his body screamed in protest when he sat down. He felt as if they could shatter at the slightest impact. His entire body felt hideously fragile.

He waited until the pain died down, telling himself again and again that the day was nearly over. Night would come soon—blessed, cool night. All he had to do was hold on until then.

When he felt a little better, he examined the piece of cloth, wondering vaguely why Laela had been carrying it.

There was writing on it. Arenadd squinted at it. It took him a few moments to realise why it looked so odd—it was written in Cymrian. He hadn’t read anything that wasn’t in his own language in a while. Parts of it were smudged out, but he managed to decipher the gist of it.

“‘How are you?’” he read. “Something, something ‘not very’ . . . ‘come and see you’ . . . ‘I love you very much’?” Arenadd chuckled to himself. A note from Yorath, no doubt. Odd that he would write it with charcoal on a piece of cloth, though. And why would he have written it in Cymrian?

Uncertainty wormed its way inside him. He knew Yorath’s handwriting, and this wasn’t it. These words did look like they’d been written by someone educated, though, even though the crude materials made them look messier than they might have.

He examined the signature at the bottom. Someone had put a thumb print over it, but he thought he could guess at it . . .

The feeling of uncertainty twisted and became cold.

I know this handwriting,
he thought.
I
know
it.

He looked at the signature again, and felt the coldness spread over his entire body.

Arren.

The piece of cloth crumpled in Arenadd’s hand. “I wrote this,” he whispered.

But why? And to who?

24

The Sun Temple

T
he next day came, and Laela’s new necklace came with it. The jeweller was shown in just after she’d finished breakfast and presented his latest piece of work with a bow and a proud smile.

Laela took it eagerly and examined it with wonder. It was all in silver, as she’d asked. The stone had been set into a magnificent amulet in the shape of three snakes, their bodies all entwined and their heads pointing outward to form a rough triangle. Even the little loop that attached the whole thing to the chain was a small snake.

The stone glittered, seeming smaller but somehow more precious in its new home.

Laela took off the heavy golden creation Inva had brought her that morning, and replaced it with the amulet. It felt wonderfully cool against her skin, and she grinned and touched it. “It’s beautiful.”

The jeweller looked very pleased at that, and even more so after Inva had given him his payment, which Laela thought looked like a lot of money. She didn’t care.

Even Oeka looked impressed when she came out and saw the snake amulet. “A very fine thing indeed,” she remarked. “The human did fine work.” She sat on her haunches and idly groomed her tail-feathers. “So tell me. It is our third day of doing what we please. What did you think we should do today?”

“Dunno,” said Laela. “We’ve seen the marketplace an’ the palace”—she doubted she’d ever see that much gold again for the rest of her life—“I ain’t sure what we’d want t’see next.”

“We have not yet seen the great Sun Temple,” said Oeka. “It is said to be a magnificent sight.”

“Oh!” Laela fiddled with the amulet. “Of course! I’d forgotten. I’ve got t’see it before we go. What about you, then? Are yeh up for it?”

“I would be very interested to see it,” said Oeka.

“Well then, that’s where we’ll go,” said Laela. “Inva, we’ve decided we’d like t’go see the Sun Temple today. That okay?”

Inva smiled slightly and bowed. “I would be glad to show you the pride of this city, my lady. When would you like to go?”

“Now, of course,” said Laela. “Before it’s too hot out there. C’mon, let’s get goin’!”

“Certainly, my lady.”

Laela followed Oeka out of their lodgings, with Inva close behind. The slave looked cheerful today, and Laela had to ignore the urge to try to make conversation with her—it never worked. Even so, she’d decided that she rather liked her reserved attendant.

Outside, the city was bustling, as always. By now, Laela was used to people staring at her, and she ignored them.

Inva had brought a small portable shade-cloth with her, and as they left the shelter of the marketplace, she moved closer to Laela, holding it over her head. The long tassels that hung from it helped keep away the flies, and Laela made sure to keep pace with it, grateful for the shade.

The city was built on a hill, but while in the North important buildings were usually built on high ground, in Amoran, they were lower and closer to the river—where it was cooler. But the great Sun Temple of Instabahn was on the highest ground in the city—the closest to the sun. Laela saw it well before they reached it—a weird, irregular shape against the wide-open desert sky. It didn’t look like a building at all. In fact, it looked like something else she knew.

She halted. “Is that . . . wait, that’s a . . .” She rubbed her eyes. “That’s a giant . . .
man
. What the . . . ?”

“It is a statue, my lady,” said Inva. “Made in the likeness of the great god Xanathus. It’s said to have taken a hundred years to build.”

Laela only just heard her. As she walked on up the hill, the sheer size of what she was seeing slowly stripped away all sense of reality. There was no way it could be real. Human beings couldn’t make something like this . . . no. It was impossible.

The statue wasn’t really a full representation of the great sun god—only his chest, shoulders and head, thrusting upward out of the ground as if the rest of him were somewhere under the earth. The huge hands, shaped to include elegant, tapering fingers, were cupped outward, holding the entrance to the Temple between them like an offering. The arms were part of the front wall, and the shoulders made the roof. The colossal head reared into the sky, as high as the Council Tower at Malvern. It was bald, made from smooth, sand-yellow stone. The features were wide and benign; the lips set into a haunting smile. The eyes—too big for the face—were two enormous blue gems that glowed in the sunlight.

Laela, staring up at it, was struck by a sudden, irrational fear. Accepting that something this huge could exist was almost too much, and for a moment she fought the urge to run away, or to bow her head rather than look at it any more.

“This,” said Inva, from somewhere far away, “is the great god Xanathus. The Lord and Father of Amoran and all its people.”

Laela breathed deeply. “Xanathus . . .”
Gryphus.

“He has another name in your land, my Lady,” said Inva.

“Yes,” Laela said, very quietly. “He does.”

Beside her, Oeka had lain down on her belly. “By the sky,” she breathed. “What magic is this?”

“Gryphus’ magic,” Laela told her, without thinking. But inside she believed it. She looked at the entrance, and then at Inva. “Can I go inside?”

Inva averted her eyes from the massive stone face. “You can, my lady, provided that your griffin goes with you. I will wait outside.”

Laela paused. “What, you ain’t comin’ with us?”

“It is forbidden, my lady,” said Inva. “Slaves may not go in.”

Laela frowned. “Wait here, then.”

There was no door on the arched entrance to the Temple. Instead, heavy yellow drapes had been tied back to reveal the dark space beyond. Laela hesitated for a moment, but Oeka had already gone in. Laela followed.

Beyond the drapes, a short passage led to the single chamber that made up the inside of the Temple. It was huge inside, made all in the same yellow stone as the outside. But it was full of gold as well. Gold discs, representing suns, had been placed at intervals along the walls, and more gold had been inlaid into the elaborate friezes that were carved everywhere. There were no seats; only brightly woven mats on the floor, and an altar at the far end. Light shone down in two beams from the ceiling and bathed the golden statue that stood there. It was a smaller version of the giant impossibility that made up the Temple—a slender, smiling man, holding a large copper dish in his outstretched hands, just above the altar. Pale flames flickered inside it.

Laela walked toward it as if in a dream, ignoring Oeka completely. The statue seemed to be waiting for her, its shining face locked in that distant, enigmatic smile.

A shape stepped in her way. “Welcome,” it said.

Laela jerked to a stop. “What the . . . ?”

The stranger was a man—bald, wearing a yellow kilt. His skin had been covered in gold paint, so for a moment he looked like a living version of the statue behind him.

“Who are yeh?” Laela said unceremoniously, almost resenting the interruption.

The man smiled and folded his hands together. “I am Ocax,” he said. “I am a priest of Xanathus.”

He was speaking griffish, Laela realised. “I’m Lady Laela,” she said. “Chief advisor to King Arenadd.”

Ocax ignored her. He had seen Oeka, and now he stepped closer to her and knelt, laying his head on the ground.

Oeka looked bewildered for a moment, but quickly recovered. “Rise, human,” she said.

Ocax rose, but kept his head bowed. “Mighty griffin,” he said. “Herald of Xanathus. I am not worthy to speak to you.”

“You may speak,” said Oeka. “So, human—you are a priest of this Temple?”

“I am, Sacred One,” said Ocax. “It is my task to bring oil to fuel the sacred flame, and to accept the offerings of those who come to worship.”

Oeka glanced at Laela. “This is a mighty temple. Did your kind build it alone?”

“No, Sacred One,” said Ocax. “The power of great Xanathus bound these stones together and blessed them with his grace.”

“Then you have pleased him,” said Oeka. She paused. “I am Oeka, of Tara. My human is Master of Wisdom.”

Ocax finally looked at Laela. “A worthy human to have your favour, Sacred One.”

“Thanks,” said Laela, by now thoroughly uncomfortable. “I came t’see the Temple.”

“It is a modest thing, compared to the great Temple in the capital,” said Ocax.

“I’ve never seen a temple this big or magnificent,” said Laela, and she meant it.

Ocax smiled. “Thank you, Lady Laela. Have you come here to pay homage to Xanathus?”

Laela glanced at Oeka. “Uh . . . yeah. Sure.”

The priest looked keenly at her. “Do you know Xanathus?”

Laela thought of the dream where she’d talked to Gryphus. “I think so.”

“Then come forward and know him better,” said Ocax.

Laela went closer to the altar, as he gestured her to. “Xanathus is a sun god, isn’t he?”

“
The
sun god,” Ocax corrected. “The only sun god. He may have other names in other languages, but he is the sun, the day and the light. He is life, he is love. There is no other.”

Laela thought of Arenadd’s frightened ramblings. “Then he’s Gryphus,” she said confidently. “This is his place.”

Ocax smiled. “Long ago, a strange people came to Amoran. They were pale-faced and spoke a strange language, but they revered the sun, and when our ancestors saw that they knew that they were a blessed people. They taught them the ways of Xanathus. Those people carried his teachings to their new home.”

“Cymria!” said Laela. “So the Southerners learned about Gryphus here.”

Ocax pointed at the altar. “See that symbol? Do you know it, Laela of Tara?”

It was a circle, with three curling lines that met in the middle and spread outward. Laela stared at it and laughed in disbelief. “I’ve seen that! It’s carved on the door of the temple in Sturrick! That’s Gryphus’ . . .” She trailed off.

“Xanathus’ symbol,” Ocax said solemnly. “The sun’s symbol. We have revered it for thousands of years.”

Laela kept her eyes on the gold-inlaid sunwheel, and felt as if all she knew were unravelling. Arenadd had been right—this was Gryphus’ place. All these people belonged to him. Amoran was a huge country—she’d been told that plenty of times. So much land, and so many souls, all Gryphus’ own. No wonder Arenadd couldn’t bear to be here.

She looked up at the eerily smiling statue, and thought of the crowned, bearded man from her dream. Could they possibly be the same person?

If they were, then what would they think of her?

Laela suddenly felt afraid. She was a Northerner. She had promised her soul to the Night God. And here she was, before the altar of Gryphus. Did he hate her? Did he want her gone from his lands, like Arenadd?

Ocax had been watching her. “Do not be afraid, Laela,” he said, as if he were reading her mind. “You are one of his children.”

Laela glanced at him. “I’m a Northerner.”

“But you do not have Northern eyes,” said Ocax. He smiled and touched her cheek. “I have never seen such eyes as yours. They are as blue as the sky. Like the eyes of Xanathus.”

“My mother was a Southerner,” said Laela.

“Then you are a child of Xanathus,” said Ocax. “Women are sacred to him; they give life, as he does.”

“But my father was a Northerner,” said Laela. “I figured since I was halfway Southern an’ halfway Northern, I could choose my own god.”

“And which god have you chosen, Laela of Tara?”

Laela hesitated. She had been going to say the Night God, but something stopped her.

“If you spoke to Xanathus, you would know which god was yours,” said Ocax.

Laela shook herself. “The gods ain’t exactly known for bein’ talkative.”

“But Xanathus can speak to you,” said Ocax. “Here, in this Temple. If you wish it.”

“How?” Oeka interrupted.

Ocax bowed to her. “There is a ritual, Sacred One,” he said. “A rite which calls Xanathus to speak. If your human would like to, she can perform it. I will help.”

“That is a matter for my human to decide,” said Oeka.

“What ‘ritual’ is this?” said Laela. “How’s it work?”

“It is simple enough,” said Ocax. “All you need do is cast a certain herb into the sacred flame. I will perform the chant, and before long, Xanathus will appear to you.”

Stuff and nonsense,
thought Laela. But she couldn’t help but be curious all the same. She looked at the golden statue, and then at the priest. He had an odd, twitchy look about him and his eyes were bloodshot, but she didn’t believe that he would ever try to assassinate anyone. Vander had told her a few things about the priesthood in his home country, and nonviolence was supposedly one of their most important principles.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

The priest smiled. “Wait for me.”

He went away through a door hidden behind the statue and returned a few moments later holding a small, woven bag. Laela stood close to the altar as he asked her to, her hand resting on Oeka’s head.

“You should stand back, Sacred One,” said Ocax. “A griffin does not need to breathe in the holy smoke.”

Oeka huffed to herself and moved away.

“Now.” Ocax gave the bag to Laela. “Take this, and cast it into the flame. Do not be afraid.”

“Right.” Laela opened the bag and peered inside. It was full of something dried and shredded—it looked vaguely like meat.

“Fungus,” said Ocax. “Gathered from the rocks in the Valley of the Wind. It has magical properties.”

Laela sniffed it and grimaced; it didn’t have a very strong smell, but for some reason it made her head spin. “So I just throw it in the bowl there?”

“Yes. The smoke will open your mind and allow Xanathus to speak to you.”

“It ain’t dangerous?”

“No.” He smiled. “I have done this many times. It was this ritual that first called me to become a priest.”

“All right then.” Laela reached over and tipped the entire contents of the bag into the flame. The dried fungus went up at once, but the oil soaked into it and made it burn slowly instead of vanishing. At once, smoke began to rise from the bowl—thick, yellowish smoke.

Ocax looked horrified. “You were only supposed to throw in a pinch!”