‘Who are you? Why are you here?’ Corerr called as he trotted forward to place himself between Venn and the cave entrance. Under the bearskin Venn’s dyed-black clothes were just visible, clearly marking him as not belonging to any of the clans.
Venn didn’t respond, preferring to wait for a grander audience. One face had already appeared at the cave entrance, his lined cheeks and lank, wispy hair illuminated by the weak light. Corerr took another step forward, peering anxiously into the gloom of Venn’s snow-capped hood. In the twilight he would be able to make out that Venn wore no mask, yet he had a blood-red teardrop falling from his right eye, the same teardrop that Harlequin masks bore.
Venn kept his eyes on the cave entrance, knowing Corerr wouldn’t have the courage to do anything more than look. At last another face appeared, this time that of a woman. She loomed over the first by at least half a head. Venn saw her mouth move. She was speaking softly to her companion, while never taking her eyes off Venn. He took that as his cue to abruptly move again, causing Corerr to yelp in alarm and almost fall over backwards. As Venn closed on the cave mouth he recognised the woman with eyes like polished cairngorm. Even after the long years of his absence she retained the bearing of a warrior-queen.
‘Venn ab Teier? Merciful Gods, is that really you?’ Corerr twittered in sudden shock and scrambled to walk alongside Venn. ‘Your face, your clothes -where have you been? What happened to you?’
Venn walked forward, careful to let the man’s words drift over him without reacting. The other priests hadn’t moved or spoken; the man was positioned slightly in the lee of one brazier, as though ready to hide behind it, and the priestess stood with hands entwined at her breast, as if falling naturally back into the conventions of piety learned decades before. Her hair was greying and crow’s feet marked the corner of her eye, but for all that she looked a younger woman, one whose heart hadn’t been broken by this wilderness.
Her half-mask was covered in obsidian shards, as his father’s had been, but hers, crucially, also lacked the tear-trails of moonstone signifying high rank. He held his breath and focused directly on her right eye, letting the glazed look fall away for the barest moment. He saw her reaction, though it was so slight he doubted she was even aware of it -only someone looking for it would have seen that flicker in the eye, but to a follower of Azaer it was enough.
Ambition in a place such as this . . . you must hate them as much as I do
.
After a moment, the priestess stepped to one side and offered Venn the path into the cavern. He shuffled forward, eyes vague as he ignored the icons and prayers painted on the rough stone walls either side of the passage and started on the downward slope, breathing in the incense-laced air of his boyhood.
He continued in silence, feeling as if he were being towed by some unseen rope. So focused was he on the image he was presenting that he found himself jerking to a halt at the far end of the tunnel as it suddenly opened out into an immense space. His eyes were still glazed over, but in his peripheral vision he spotted movement in the dim light of the cavern. He listened to the priestess catching up behind. It wouldn’t do to let his herald fall behind. Herald: the word reminded him of Rojak’s rasping, plague-ravaged voice and those final whispered commandment of twilight’s herald: ‘
Give them a king
.’
You’re right, minstrel. These people want a king - they need a king -but I am not it. I can only lead them to one worth breaking their bonds for. Is that not our master’s way anyway? To show a man the path and let him choose it himself?
A large natural pillar at the centre of the cavern dominated his view; its rough sloping sides studded with glinting quartz and stained by long rusty streaks. At points on the pillar some industrious priest had hacked or drilled holes to insert wooden beams that now protruded directly out some eight feet in all directions. From those hung shallow brass braziers like those by the cave entrance, once decorated but now as battered by the years as the priests who tended them. The hum of quiet chanting and a haze of incense filled the air, bringing back more memories of his father; of long days and nights in prayer that had left him drained and exhausted when he returned home.
The cavern stretched two hundred yards from left to right of Venn’s vantage point. At its widest, directly ahead of Venn, the cavern floor ran for fifty yards until reaching one of the twelve open chapels dotted around the wall. Those were dedicated to the Gods of the Upper Circle, but there were many more shrines beside these. The holy words of his people dominated the cavern from one end: foot-high characters cut into the rock with such precision only magic could have achieved it.
Even with his back to them Venn could feel their presence. Their creation had signalled the end of the Age of Darkness, the return of the Gods to the Land and to their mortal servants. Their message had enslaved the Harlequin clans and bound them to these frozen mountains. He resisted the urge to turn and look at them; his mission led him elsewhere first.
At the base of the pillar was the smallest and meanest of the cavern’s shrines, little more than a trickle of water that ran down a natural channel and collected in a carved hollow. The inside of the hollow was coated in some icy substance that gave off a faint white glow. Animal symbols etched into its rim represented the Gods of the Upper Circle.
The priestess drew closer and he heard the hesitation in her footsteps. Perhaps she was wondering whether to reach out and pluck his arm, maybe even guide his elbow forward. He didn’t wait for her to come to any decision but lurched off again, down the steps to the small shrine. Every visitor to the cavern would take a thimble-sized cup of polished brass and drink the ice-cold water. Legend said it had been blessed by the Gods and was the source of their remarkable abilities, but there had never been any mages among the clans and no one knew for sure.
Venn knew; his time in the Land had revealed much of its workings and he was in no doubt about what lay behind his people’s abilities, yet as he knelt at the edge of the basin he felt his breath catch. With ponderous movements he took up a cup and drank. His throat tingled at the sharp chill of the water as he swallowed and began to murmur a prayer he’d not spoken in years. The prayer tasted bitter, but he knew Jackdaw needed the delay.
‘
It is there
.’ He caught the faint whisper in his ear. Jackdaw sounded out of breath, but Venn couldn’t tell whether the man was simply drained by the exertion of his spell or if it was an effect of turning himself to shadow. ‘
I need only a few moments to turn the spell to our purpose
.’
Venn had to force himself not to shiver. In this form the craven mage was no figure of ridicule. As a shadow, Jackdaw reminded him disturbingly of Rojak, Azaer’s most favoured disciple. Something in his voice reminded Venn that they had found no trace of Rojak’s body -not even his enchanted gold chain, which should have been untouched by the flames.
He put the thought from his mind and continued the prayer. Rojak had ordered him to give his people a king, and in a few moments, Jackdaw would have added to the spell on the water, opening his people to change, to
ambition
.
Let them choose a new path
, Venn thought, adding his own blessing.
Let them hope to be more than just entertainment, let them strive for something new. A king they will wish for, a new-born prince they will find.
‘
It is done
,’ Jackdaw said softly in his ear. Venn gave a fractional nod of the head and spoke the final words of the prayer. He rose and turned to discover the priestess standing close by with a proprietorial air.
Here is the reward you’ve been seeking all these years. Do you remember the tale of Amavoq’s Cup? How deeply will you drink of this poisoned chalice?
Venn looked past her as she glanced down at the basin as though expecting a miracle to be thrown into her lap. His eyes were fixed on the far wall, where the holy words of his people had been carved in the rock. All eyes were on him and sudden silence reigned in the cavern, except for the faint hiss and pop of sap in the braziers. Keeping his movements unnatural and jerky, Venn made his way to the long stretch of wall that bore the holy words and sank to his knees before them, staring up.
‘Why are you here?’ croaked a voice on his right.
His face blank, Venn turned to look at the stooped figure addressing him. His guard dog, the priestess, stood behind him, almost as close as Jackdaw as she staked her claim. She said nothing, but Venn could feel her poised to strike. The old man was a windspeaker, one of the revered priests whose years of service had taken them beyond prayer to a place where they could hear their God’s voice on the wind. She would not challenge one so senior, but Venn knew she would pounce on anything she could to regain control of the situation. Ambition could tear down mountains.
He slowly focused upon the windspeaker. With both hands gripping a gnarled staff, the priest scowled and repeated his question.
Windspeaker, if you hear words in the rushing of air you’ll see the hand of Gods in my actions. Men such as you taught me to recite the tale of the Coward’s Mirror from heart. Before the end I will perform it for you, as a one final chance to avoid your own foolishness
.
‘I have been sent,’ Venn whispered eventually.
‘Sent by whom?’
‘The Master.’ Venn paused, giving them time enough to glance over at the chapel of Death where a dozen gold-leaf icons bearing His face shone in the firelight. ‘A bearer of tidings; of darkness past and a path to come.’
Lap it up, you old bastard. Time for you to choose; hesitate here and she’ll step around you. You’ll fall behind and another will be remembered as the one who attended at the moment in history
.
A tiny sound behind Venn told him he was right. While the old fool dithered, the warrior-priestess had no such doubts. Deceived as she was, the priestess had no fear of the future and as she strode past, a soft sigh escaped the old man’s lips. Venn followed in her wake, leaving the windspeaker behind as an irrelevance.
He lowered his head in prayer, the holy words a powerful presence ahead of him.
A king for his people
was Rojak’s last order to him. They would not accept any king but one they chose themselves, but Venn had learned much from the twisted minstrel. Jackdaw’s magic had opened the way, and a Harlequin’s skills would lead them through.
‘
No king to rule you, no mortal lord to command you
.’ The last line of the holy words made the clans think they were special, that they were blessed. His contempt tasted as bitter as the prayer had.
‘Listen to me well, for I am a guardian of the past,’ he said in a cracked and raw voice, as though he had been silent all those years since last he had visited that place. It was the Harlequin’s traditional opening to their audiences.
He waited, sensing the priests gather. He felt a hand on his shoulder and Jackdaw channelling magic through him. A shudder ran through his body and continued down into the ground below. All around he heard whispers of fear and wonder as the priests felt the ground tremble beneath their feet.
‘I speak to you of peace -and of a child. Flawed is our Land; imbalanced and imperfect, yet perfection must exist for us to recognise the shadow it casts. Such perfection can be found in the face of a child, for a child knows nothing of fear. Armed only with the divine gift of life their souls are unstained, their hearts unburdened.
‘Let the penitent among us raise up a child to remind us of the innocence we once possessed. Let the penitent speak with the voice of a child and have no use for harsh words or boastful manner. Let the penitent see the tears a perfect child as they repent of their sins, weeping for the loss of innocence. What greater service can there be than the service of innocence?’
In the forest, two figures shared a look, their breath cold against the snow. Shrouded against the last light of day they were nothing more than indistinct darkness, hunkered down by the broken stump of an ancient pine. One of the figures had a hand stretched out before her, a glassy, stylised skull resting in her bare palm. Her sapphire eyes flashed in the darkness.
‘This is what we have come to observe?’ asked the man. His voice betrayed no anger, but from his sister there was no hiding the note of scepticism.
‘Every tapestry begins with a single thread. I would know the pattern he weaves while there is still time to act.’
‘Our time is best served unpicking threads?’
‘Our time is limitless, Koezh,’ she replied, cocking her head as though straining to catch the last of the Harlequin’s words before returning the Crystal Skull to a pouch at her waist, ‘and the purpose has perhaps already revealed itself.’
‘The child.’
She inclined her head. ‘The fall of Scree showed Gods could be driven off, evicted from a place and a population, however temporarily that was. If the temples are emptied and the congregation turned against their Gods, those Gods are left weak and exposed.’
Koezh understood. ‘In times of trouble folk turn to the past for comfort, and the Harlequins are the keepers of history. If those keepers begin to tell stories of a child of peace when the horns of war have sounded across the Land, the faith of the people will be not destroyed, but diverted.’
Zhia smiled, and her elongated teeth shone in the twilight. ‘Perhaps our time has at last come.’