Two of the soldiers obeyed blindly, dashing toward the palace walls. Another hesitated a moment, then threw himself behind a cart for cover. The fourth was frozen to the spot; he raised his halberd in defense, the polearm shaking.
The titan of Living Stone slammed him into the palace wall as if he were no more than a pile of rags. A sickening crack resounded through the streets as his body hit the wall, the reverberation of bones shattering.
The animated statue did not pause; it gained speed along with its footing, quick strides blending into a running gait. It hurried down the streets toward the battlements, melting into the darkness, heading for the open ledges of sandy mountain crags that ringed the city of Jierna’sid.
Numb, Talquist rose to a stand and stared into the shadows, trying to find some sign of the titan, but seeing nothing but night and torches that had burned down to the stalk-joints. He continued gazing into the distance until the leader of the squad knelt before him, the two surviving soldiers behind him, bearing the shattered corpse of the fourth.
“M’lord?”
“Yes?” Talquist answered distantly.
“What was that?”
“A bad idea,” the emperor presumptive murmured, running the toe of his boot along the edge of the great earthen sword that had been ripped from the statue’s hand. The clay rim cracked and tumbled like sand onto the stones of the street.
He continued to watch the empty street. “And a terrible waste. A harvest of living earth that is about to crumble to dust, unused.” Finally he turned, as if shaking off sleep, and looked down at the body at his feet.
“You,” he said to the two soldiers who carried their dead compatriot, “take him to the monastery at Terreanfor. Leave him on the steps.” He looked directly at the leader. “Are all the holy men back in the monastery and the manse?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Good. Once you have left the body, return to the barracks. The acolytes will attend to his burial. Speak to no one of what you saw, on pain of execution. Tell the others as well. If word returns to me on this matter, I will know from whence it came.”
“Yes, m’lord.” The soldier bowed and hurried to catch up to the other two.
As soon as the soldiers were out of sight, Talquist went to the gates of Jierna Tal and summoned his captain of the guard.
“Have the monastery and the manse been prepared with oil and magnesium?”
The captain nodded silently.
“Good. There are three soldiers headed there now with the body of a fourth. As soon as the soldiers have deposited the body on the steps of the monastery, light the oil.”
The captain swallowed, but showed no other reaction. “If they somehow dodge the explosion?”
“Drive them back inside with arrow fire.”
The captain, accustomed to such orders, merely nodded. “The holy men as well? Should they survive the flames, that is.”
Talquist shook his head. “They are dead already. The poison from their meal has no doubt taken effect by now. I just want there to be no witnesses, and no trace. There will not be; magnesium burns hotter than the flames of the Underworld. A tragic fire; the benison will doubtless be greatly aggrieved. Perhaps he will take pains to make certain his followers have safer lodgings hereafter.”
The captain of the guard bowed and withdrew.
Talquist continued to stand in the square of Jierna’sid throughout the night until morning came. He scanned the rising mountain peaks for any sign of the titan, but saw nothing more than the pink rays of dawn spilling light onto the vast desert below, heard nothing but the autumn breeze whistle through, no words of wisdom hidden in its whine.
When the square at the Place of Weight was at last truly empty, when the light in the regent’s tower in Jierna Tal finally was extinguished, and nothing remained but the tiniest glow from the streetlamps that had burned down to the wick bases, the sexton of Terreanfor and his two surviving acolytes crept cautiously from the shadows, trembling as they had been for the last few hours.
They stood in silence and watched the flames light the distant sides of Night Mountain, knowing that it was their manse burning. Finally Lester touched the sexton’s arm with a hand that shook.
“What do we do now, Father?” he whispered. His voice sounded far younger than his years.
Lasarys stared at the leaping flames, lost in thought. Finally his eyes met those of the young priests-in-training.
“We must go to Sepulvarta, to the holy city,” he said softly, glancing about to be certain they were not seen. “The benison is there; we must find Nielash Mousa and tell him of the terrible sights we have witnessed. But we must go carefully; Talquist has spies everywhere.”
“Sepulvarta is a week by horseback,” Dominicus said in a low voice. “How will we make it there, crossing the desert without supplies, without aid? We will surely die, or worse, be discovered.”
“Not if we are discreet and careful,” answered Lasarys. “Talquist believes we are dead. In the eyes of the world, we must be—at least until we can speak to the Blesser of Sorbold and inform him of what happened this hideous night.”
He pulled up the hood of his cassock in the bitter sand wind; a moment later the others followed his example, and his lead, out through the dark alleys of Jierna’sid, into the vast desert beyond.
19
In younger days Gwydion Navarne had loved the winter carnival.
The feast was a tradition begun by his grandfather and continued by his father for the dual purposes of celebrating a secular holiday with the people of his province and gathering with the leaders of the two religious factions, the Filidic nature priests of Gwynwood and the adherents to the faith of the Patriarch of Sepulvarta, to observe their common rites at the time of the winter solstice. The fact that the event had traditionally fallen on or around Gwydion’s birthday had counted among his reasons for considering it special, at least when he was a young child. When he was somewhat older, especially after his mother’s murder when he was eight, he began to realize that even a party of tremendous merriment could be more of an obligation than a chance for enjoyment, at least where the host was concerned.
His father, Stephen Navarne, had loved the carnival even more than he had. There was something about the arrival of First Snow that made Stephen’s already jolly nature even more cheerful. Gwydion recalled fondly the sound of the traditional trumpet volley on the morning when the first cold flakes appeared, signaling that winter had begun. The thrill in Stephen’s aspect was infectious, even to habitually grumpy household servants, who preferred a few more moments of sleep to the joy of being blasted out of bed by the duke’s horn at something that could not be avoided, like the coming of snow. On the morning of First Snow they could be seen bustling around with a new energy, smiling at each other, laughing even as they went about their tasks.
The winter carnival in Stephen’s time was the event of greatest goodwill in the year, when religious acrimony, land disputes, and other matters of contention were put aside for the sake of harmony, friendly competition, and good fun. On the day of First Snow, the year’s official contest was announced, revels of differing sorts—a treasure quest, an ice-sculpture challenge, a poetry competition, a footrace with a unique handicap—along with traditional sport and games of chance, awards for best singing, which Lord Stephen insisted upon judging himself, comedic recitation and performance dance, as well as folk reels, man-powered sleigh races, snow sculpting, and performances by magicians, capped finally by a great bonfire. It was an enormous undertaking, an expensive endeavor, a revel without peer, and a source of renewal for the spirits of the people of the central continent.