“Er...Master Joraz? Your pardon?”
The monk blinked, coming out of his
trance and back to the firmament of reality.
He was sitting comfortably in full lotus, hands folded on his knees, and
– more out of habit than need – breathing deeply, enjoying the cleansing rush
of the winter air. The winter’s chill
was no longer oppressive; now he found it refreshing. Stimulating, even.
When he opened his eyes and looked
down, he recognized Cayless. Unlike him,
she was wearing a heavy cloak against the renewed blizzard that was blanketing
the capital in white for the third time in a week. Also unlike him, she was struggling to keep a
look of shock and dismay off of her face.
He had to think for a long moment to realize what was causing it. When the answer struck him, he said, “Ah,”
and stepped down out of the air. During
his meditation, he had, it seemed, drifted up into the sky again, and had been
floating at about the level of Domus Casia’s rooftrees.
He wasn’t certain why it happened
without conscious volition, but he found it amusing rather than alarming. Some sort of exaltation had suffused his
mortal essence. Out of idle curiosity,
as he touched down he felt for the substance of the air, and stopped his
descent just above the level of the snow drifts that dotted the garden. He found that, by dint of concentration, he
was able to walk above the snow without disturbing a flake of it.
When he glanced at Cayless again,
she looked even more aghast than before.
“What?” he asked, taken aback by her frown.
“You said you weren’t a caster!” she
exclaimed, clutching the cloak more tightly around her throat.
“I’m not.”
“Then how...” she shivered
violently. “How are you doing that?”
Joraz shrugged. “I seem to have been afflicted by a certain
lightness of being.”
“I don’t even know what that means!”
the elf-woman objected.
“Me neither,” he grinned. “Were you looking for me?”
She nodded. “Can we talk inside?”
“If you like.”
Moments later she was shaking the
snow from her mantle. Bending over, she
flicked heavy clots of flakes from her braided hair. When she was finished, she threw the monk an
accusing glance. “You’re dry.”
Joraz nodded.
“Why aren’t you wet? Or covered in snow?”
“It didn’t land on me,” he replied
reasonably.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t want it to.”
“Magic!” she snapped.
“If you say so,” Joraz shrugged.
Cayless opened her mouth, a retort
burning on her lips. Then she closed it
again.
“Problem?” he asked.
“Flying with magic is unnatural,” she muttered. “Even so, it’s pretty common around
here. But flying without magic – that’s…it’s just…”
“Birds do it all the time,” Joraz
said reasonably.
“You’re not a bird!”
“If you say so,” he repeated,
grinning at her consternation. “Look, if
you like, I’ll take you flying some time.
I know some very unnatural places.
No magic, I promise.”
“I’ll have to think about that,” the
elf-woman replied in a tone that implied, You’ll
see me dead first.
Joraz kept smiling. Neither said anything for a long moment. Finally, Cayless’ eyes widened. “Oh!”
“There it is,” he nodded.
“Visitor!” she yelped. “You’ve a...somebody wants to see you!”
“Just me?” Joraz frowned.
“No, all of you,” the elf-woman
admitted. “But Colonel Mastigo and his
apprentice aren’t back yet, and the master and mistress are abed, and Karrick
has left the House for...er...he’s at the...”
“Where else?” Joraz sighed. “So it’s just me, then?”
Cayless nodded.
“Who’s here?”
“Domina
Latentra. The Queen’s number-one
handmaiden. The one that…who didn’t turn
out to be a dragon, like your friend’s daughter.”
It was all he could do not to
laugh. Ara was a dragon. “Where is
h…she?”
“I put her in the mistress’ private
dining room,” Cayless replied. “There’re
tea and cakes, too,” she added somewhat irrelevantly.
“Thank you. Let’s go hear what she has to say.”
“Me?” the tattooed woman squeaked.
“Surely,” he shrugged. “This is Amorda’s house. She should have ears she trusts at any
meeting within its walls.”
Cayless didn’t look too happy at his
invitation. He was about to carry on
down the hall when the elf-woman put a hand on his arm. He turned back to her. “Yes?”
She appeared flushed. “You...um...you might want to put something
on.” She cast a meaningful glance down.
Joraz wrinkled his nose,
puzzled. Then he realized that he’d been
meditating in his loincloth. “Right,” he
sighed, changing course for his bedchamber.
♦♦♦
“Where is Thanos?” Ara asked,
looking at the monk strangely. They
hadn’t spoken at any great length, and she was clearly uncomfortable bringing
her information, whatever it was, to him.
“Traveling,” Joraz replied
shortly. “He took Valaista with
him. And Breygon is...ah, otherwise
engaged.” He spread his hands. “I’m all that’s left.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“Breygon?” The monk laughed. “Not for a few hours at least. I hope.”
“I meant Thanos,” she replied
flatly.
“A couple of days.” He leaned forward, lifted the tea-cozy, and
filled her cup. “Why? Has something pressing come up?”
“No,” she replied, sounding a little
miffed. “No. But...”
Joraz waited.
Ara snorted heavily. “He asked me to look into something for
him. I’d assumed it was urgent. And now I’ve completed the task, and I find he’s
hared off somewhere.” She seemed
agitated.
Puzzled by her obvious discomfiture,
the monk sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “What was the task, if I might inquire?” he
asked politely.
“Research.” She tapped a manicured nail impatiently on the
tabletop.
Joraz cocked an eyebrow; that she
was only denting the wood was a mark of restraint. Her nail could probably have punched through
the beechwood, he knew, if she’d been of a mind to try. “On what subject?” he asked.
“The Labyrinth. Caecusacrum
Mirosata, in the elves’ tongue; the Hidden Temple of Miros,” she replied
stiffly. “The Servants of Miros have no
hint of its secrets among their records, or so their high priestess, that
Castrana woman, claims. Perhaps she’s
even telling you the truth. But even if
they are, they do not have access to the various libraries at the Palace. In particular, Tîor’s Bookshelf.”
“What’s that?” Joraz asked, suddenly
interested.
“The ancient magister’s own
library,” Ara replied. “It’s in his
observatory at Arx Magnificus, the royal residence. As one of the ancillulae, I can make use of it whenever I like. Thanos asked me to do so, to see if I could
find anything out about the Labyrinth before you lot attempt to penetrate it.”
Joraz found that his fingers were
trembling with anticipation. “And did
you?” he asked eagerly. “Find anything
out, I mean?”
“Fragments,” the dragon replied,
shaking her head in frustration. “Bits
and pieces. Nothing concrete or
consistent, even. Just...scraps.”
“Anything’s better than nothing,”
the monk urged. “Even scraps. Are you sure you covered everything?”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Well, there are a lot of books, I
presume. You couldn’t read them all in
only a few day–”
She cut him off. “I didn’t have
to read them all. I mindswept them to
find which, if any, spoke of the Labyrinth, or of the worship of Miros, or of
her secrets.” She snorted. “Then I simply read the ones I found.”
Joraz whistled in admiration. “That’s a spell?”
“A good one,” Ara smiled. “One of Kalestayne’s old students devised
it. It’s called ‘Kalena’s
Swiftsearch’. Tricky, but worth the
effort.”
“And it helped you find...?”
“As I said, bits and pieces,” Ara
sighed. “Geography, architecture,
legends, magic. And traps.”
“Traps?” Joraz exclaimed.
“Oh, yes,” the dragon growled. “Danger piled upon danger. That place has been keeping would-be thieves
out since the Darkness.
“Most of it’s simply a matter of
misdirection, I suspect,” she went on, assuming a scholarly air. “The entrance to the catacomb, for example;
it’s near the pyramid, not beneath it.
It can only be opened by a benediction from a priest of Miros. There are ways around that sort of thing if
you’re a clever thief; scrolls, for example, or spelltiles.”
“We were invited,” Joraz mused. “I imagine they’ll open it for us.”
“Likely enough,” Ara agreed. “And they’ll doubtless see you through the
great doors, too, that lie within; and as none of you serve the darkness,
you’ll probably not have to worry about the ‘divine breath’, either.”
The monk’s eyebrows rose. “And that is...”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “It lies just beyond the great doors, and
keeps servants of the Uruqua out of the Labyrinth.”
“Couldn’t that be tricked, too?” he
asked.
“Possibly. Depends on how it’s triggered. In any case, you’re none of you evil, so you
shouldn’t need to worry about it. At
least, that’s what my research suggests.”
He nodded, a little perturbed. “What else?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Are you planning on taking notes, or am I
going to have to repeat this when Thanos returns?”
Joraz grinned. “You’re the scholar, not I. Are you telling me you didn’t prepare a
summary?”
Ara snorted and slid a sheet across
the table at him. He picked it up and
gave it a cursory glance. “Oh, my,” he
said after a long moment.
“Indeed.”
“An angel? Really?”
“That’s what the book said,” Ara
replied curtly. “An angel, ‘just beyond
the breath’. Although the term...it
translates directly as ‘shining herald of divinity’.”
“And that means ‘angel’?” he
exclaimed.
“That’s one possible
interpretation,” the dragon replied, clearly frustrated. “The elves write scholarly works in
poetry. It’s maddening. And divine beings are not my area of
expertise. Even this much I had to
cobble together out of bits and pieces of other texts, and I don’t understand
the half of it.”
“You could always come with us, and
find out in person,” he suggested only half-jokingly. “We could use your help.”
“And throw away my disguise?” the
dragon snorted. “Thank you, no. Besides, Venastargenta charged me with
safeguarding the Queen. He’d be…annoyed,
if I abandoned that duty to go crawling around a catacomb with you lot.”
“ ‘Annoyed’ doesn’t sound too bad,”
the monk observed.
“The last time Venastargenta was
‘annoyed’ at someone,” Ara said flatly, “he levelled a mountain range.”
Joraz blinked. “Really?”
She nodded. “Mons Sanguinus,
in Ensher. It was the lair of
Hagastyllax Verileikkuri. Hagastyllax the Bloodrender. The puna
who killed his son’s lifemate, Cymballinostyra, in true battle. It was only a few years ago.”
“Gods,” the monk breathed. “And Venasta killed this…Hagastyllax, did you
call him?”
“No, he just obliterated his lair.” She snorted approvingly. “Along with most of the surrounding
countryside. He left Haga to
Svarda. That’s his duty, as Styra’s
mate; to slay her slayer, in True Battle.”
“That seems appropriate,” he nodded. “Sorry, what does ‘poona ’
mean, then? Is it some sort of curse?”
“Puna,”
she repeated, enunciating carefully.
“It’s short for Punainen lohikäärme. Red dragon. Haga
is probably the oldest and foulest red in Erutrei.” She smiled grimly. “But Svarda will settle him. Sooner or later.”
Joraz scratched his head. “Well, if you can’t come with us, then I
suppose we’ll have to find out about this ‘divine herald’ the hard way, won’t
we? What else?”
“Prose,” Ara snorted. “The archives are full of it, all in bits and
pieces. Meaningless fragments. Here’s one: ‘Life’s legend reliving, and
offspring attending / All bitter pain ending – in glory, depart’.”
“That sounds vaguely familiar,” the
monk mused. “What does it mean?”
“Something to do with instructions
for navigating the Labyrinth, I’d imagine,” she replied. “It was a skald who penned that particular
scroll. He seemed to think that piece
important. He refers to other scraps of
the same poem all throughout his discourse on the Labyrinth. Vigilant misers growing richer and wiser,
that sort of thing.” She frowned. “It sounds familiar to me, too, now that you
mention it.”
Joraz, for lack of anything better
to do, sniffed his tea. He pushed it
away. “This is all a
little...vague. We were hoping for
something more definite than disjointed verses.”
“Like what?” Ara laughed
mockingly. “An architect’s plan? A parcel of keys and passwords?” She tapped the parchment emphatically. “Trust me, this is all there is. The Servants
have been keeping secrets since before the Holy Mother walked the earth, and
they’re so good at it that their own legitimate successors, like Castrana,
can’t breach their vaults without your help.”
She laughed darkly.
“Besides, I know this stuff is
genuine. One of the scrolls I found had
fallen behind a cabinet; I only noticed it because the Swiftsearch spell made it shine like quickspark. It was buried under a stack of census reports
from King Allarýchian’s reign.”
The monk raised his palms. “Who?”
“He died a thousand years ago,” Ara
sighed. “My point is, these documents
hadn’t been disturbed in an age. If
there was anything more to be found at the palace, I’d’ve found it.”
“I wonder if there’s anything more
at the College,” Joraz mused aloud.
“You’re welcome to look. Or Thanos can. If he’s not too busy preparing his testimony
for the Queen’s inquiry.”
“I haven’t heard of any inquiry!”
Joraz exclaimed.
“There’s sure to be one, as soon as
she returns. Or sooner, if your friend’s
uncle manages to prod Landioryn into acting.”
She grimaced. “Could happen. Landioryn’s a good man, and a good commander;
but around the palace he can’t decide which fork to use unless his mother tells
him first.”
“All right.” Joraz squared his shoulders. “So, I guess we’re on a schedule in that
regard, too. Thanos won’t be of much
help in the Labyrinth if he’s cooling his heels in a courtroom. What else was
there?”
“Bits and pieces, as I said. The whole place seems designed to keep out
interlopers, but to let ‘true servants of Holy Miros’ pass unmolested. No surprise, really; according to legend,
much of their wealth is concealed below.
Treasure, books, and assorted bric-a-brac.”
“Enchanted things?” he asked, mildly
curious.
“Of course,” she replied
disdainfully. “They’re an order of
mage-priests. They support themselves by
enchanting items to order. But I’m not
talking about talking clocks, glowing swords and fire-wands. The Labyrinth is reputedly home to artefacts
of terrible power. Things that had to be
buried not to safeguard them from thieves, but to protect the world from their
might.” She shrugged. “Makes sense, I suppose; no brigand or
second-story man would dare the kind of death-traps the place is full of simply
to purloin something he could nick from a drunken mage’s haversack.”
“So, it’s heavily defended,
then.” He ground his teeth. “Wonderful.”
She nodded. “As I said, there’re a great many traps,
misleading devices, defensive spells.
And of course, guardians.”
He perked up at that. “What sorts of ‘guardians’?”
Ara shrugged. “Apart from the ‘shining herald’, I’ve no
idea. The Servants are all casters, so
probably constructs. Maybe summoned
elementals, or…other things.” She shook
her head. “There’s certainly no shortage
of power to sustain that sort of magic.”
Joraz raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“Right, right,” she muttered. “I forgot to mention that.
“The Labyrinth’s home to the Putealis Mirifucus,” she explained, leaning forward and tapping the
parchment. “The Font of Wonders. It’s said to lie below the pyramid; its
waters flow from some source beyond Anuru, and they wash throughout the
Labyrinth.”
“Is that like the ‘Well of Stars’?” Joraz asked,
confused.
“No!” Ara exclaimed.
“No, no! It’s something entirely
different! The Well of Stars is the
source of all magical might in Anuru; it produces pure, unadulterated
power. The Font of Wonders is a trickle
by comparison; it’s just water from another world, that happens to bring that
world’s magic with it.” She grimaced. “And because it leaps from world to world,
the magic is a little…unpredictable.”
“That sounds risky,” the monk muttered.
“That’s an understatement. But one of the ancient priest-archmages among
the Servants supposedly learned how to concentrate and maximize the potency of
the waters,” the dragon explained. “It’s
where their arcane power originates. Why
they’re so powerful here, in the capital.
Anyone can tap into it, apparently...if you’re willing to risk it. If the Servants haven’t been able to get to
it, then the Font hasn’t been monitored.
The flood could’ve gone wild again.
“And besides,” she shrugged, “you can only access the
power if you’re a true servant of Miros.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just what it says. When Ceorlinus mentioned the Labyrinth in one
of his plays, he said ‘only a True Servant of Miros may pass the Adamant
Guardian; only a True Servant of Miros may approach the Hidden Temple
“ ‘Adamant Guardian’?” Joraz
exclaimed.
Ara nodded. “I thought you’d fix on that one. That’s why I said that you should expect
constructs.”
“I hope you don’t have to be a ‘true
servant of Holy Miros’ just to survive the place,” the monk said darkly. “Because none of us qualifies.”
“I don’t know,” Ara replied. “But I would imagine that an honest prayer to
the Mistress of Magic and Dragons would not be out of line, especially in such
a sacred place.”
“Maybe we should get down on one
knee, and ask her for the Eye,” Joraz
muttered.
“Maybe you should,” the dragon
snorted primly. “According to one
historian, ‘the most perilous of gifts may only be sought at the feet of the
dragon throne’.”
“ ‘Dragon throne’? That sounds like the Starhall!”
Ara shook her head. “That quote was very specific. The writer was talking about the Hidden Temple
“So there’s a throne in the temple?”
Joraz mused.
“There must be. Unless it’s a metaphor for something.”
Joraz snorted a laugh at that. “That wouldn’t surprise me at all.” He tried the tea again. It held no attraction for him. “You said,” he mused, “that an ancient
archmage had learned how to harness the power of the otherworldly water. From the ‘font of wonders’.”
“Yes.” Ara, unlike Joraz, appeared
to like the tea, draining her cup and holding it out for a refill. “His name was Aboshat of Krimm. He was both an archmage, and the archpriest
of Miros for many years. He completed
the design of the Labyrinth, tying its disparate elements together.”
“You seem to know a lot about him,” Joraz noted
blandly.
“He was powerful and influential, and a famous mage,”
Ara replied. “Plus, he taught at the
College. Such people have a hard time
keeping a low profile.” She shivered
slightly. “He was supposedly fascinated
by the discoveries of Tîor and his son Xîardath. About the Void.”
“That’s not good,” Joraz muttered,
recalling Fifth Child.
“No.” She grinned feebly. “Although he did have a lighter side, it
seems. One skald wrote a song called
‘The Bishop’s Bath ’. It contains verses about Aboshat’s bathtub,
and how it was hidden in the Labyrinth along with the other artefacts belonging
to the Servants. Because of its
‘terrible power’.” She giggled. “He seemed to be implying that Aboshat used
it infrequently, and left a ring whenever he did.”
Joraz pursed his lips. “After what I’ve seen, I’m not going to balk
at a magical bath,” he chuckled.
“Although I might check it for traps before I scrub up.”
“Use hot water if you do,” Ara
advised. “Cold is bad, it seems. Part of another poem I found states that
‘Without the hidden temples gates / The dry bones clack and skitter / The
heartless cold cannot be tricked / but he can be bought for glitter’.”
“And that means...?”
“Again, no idea. Just a piece of doggerel connected to the
Labyrinth. There’s another one, too: ‘If
thou would’st the future know / Then dare the caverns deep below / There, to
descry thy heart’s desire / Seek out the ancient sage of fire’.”
“At least it rhymes,” Joraz complained. “Is there any point in asking what the ‘sage
of fire’ is?”
The dragon shook her head. “Nothing
else I found even mentioned it.”
“Maybe he sits on that throne you
mentioned.”
“I don’t think so,” she replied
pensively. “I found another quote – one
that says that ‘only the Divine Servant of Holy Miros may sit the Throne of the
Hidden Temple
The monk’s eyes widened. “At least that confirms that there’s a throne
at the temple! So, maybe this ‘sage of
fire’ is a divine being, who serves Miros!”
“Maybe,” Ara sighed. “Or maybe it’s the ‘shining herald’. Or maybe the two phrases have nothing to do
with each other. Or maybe they have
nothing to do with the Labyrinth at all, and were just scribbled up by some
harp-tinkler trying to amuse an audience.”
“I wonder,” Joraz pondered aloud,
ignoring her, “if this fire sage…if he’s the one who guards the Eye?”
“There is more there than just the
Eye of Hîarhala,” the dragon said gravely.
“Its power is immense, true; according to legend, it breaks all
protective charms. Its bearer can see magic. And, according to one writer, destroy it.”
“It sounds like a terrible weapon,”
the monk murmured. “No wonder the
Servants locked it away.”
“It’s still only one weapon of
many. Many things, as I said, were
secured below.” She perked up
suddenly. “That reminds me. As you can imagine, it was hard enough
digging up a word here and there about the Labyrinth. But there was this, too.” She tugged a small, torn page out of her
scrip and smoothed it onto the table’s surface.
Joraz examined it closely. It looked like a drawing, badly faded. “What is it?”
“An inked stamping made from a
woodcut,” the dragon replied. “It’s a
common way of making penny copies of popular paintings. I found it among a list of works of art
belonging to the Servants. Art that was
supposedly hidden in the Labyrinth for safekeeping.
“That’s not the point, though. It’s who
it is that’s important.” She tapped the
picture. “Look closely.”
“It looks like trees,” he muttered. “And a woman playing a...is that a
harp?”
“Yes. A ‘great harp’, according to the elves.”
The monk shrugged. “Who is she?”
“I can only make out the title – Cantora Magnifica – but if my guess is
right,” Ara gloated, “then it’s Amalux Semiferia. The half-elven skald who took the elf-realm
by storm in the centuries following the Darkness. Nearly two thousand years ago.”
“That sounds familiar, too,” he
frowned.
“It should,” Ara snorted. “As ‘Amalux Cantor’, she penned half the
songs the common folk sing.” She looked
up at him, frowning. “You still don’t
understand, do you?”
“No.”
“She was famous for more than just
her songs.” The dragon tapped the
picture again. “If this is really Amalux
Cantor, then that is –”
“Morning!” Breygon said cheerily,
padding into the dining hall and struggling to force his head through the neck
of his blouse. “There any tea?” Then he noticed Ara, and bowed perfunctorily. “Brother.
Welcome, again, to Domus Casia.”
Ara nodded.
Joraz checked the tea-pot. “Empty.”
The half-elf nodded. “Tua!” he shouted. He turned back to his friend and their guest,
who was eyeing him speculatively.
“What’d I miss?”
Joraz barked a laugh. He kicked a chair towards his colleague. “You’d better sit down.”
♦♦♦
