The chanting stopped.
For a moment, silence reigned in the street. Then the temple acolyte said, “Say now what differences you beheld, if any you did.”
And a man with a birthmark as dark as a splash of wine across his nose said, “I saw a flight of dragons, only there was a crimson dragon in the middle. Before, there was none.”
The acolyte nodded wisely. “Bachel’s Ears have heard you. What else?”
A girl—no more than ten, with tresses like spun gold—said, “An obelisk of stone with a black tip and gilded carving. The carving glowed, and I heard a voice speaking words I did not understand.”
The acolyte nodded again. “You will present yourself to Bachel at the morning hearing, and she will speak to you the meaning of your vision.”
“As it is dreamt, so it shall be.”
Murtagh continued to listen while the cultists confessed their dreams. He wondered how many of them spoke the truth and how many were inventing details for a chance to impress their neighbors or please Bachel. But perhaps that was unkind of him. The villagers seemed entirely sincere and convinced of their experiences.
They would be, he thought. He tried to imagine what it was like to grow up in Nal Gorgoth, being constantly questioned about your dreams, and if the dreams were of a like with what he and Thorn had experienced the past night…He shuddered.
Then a woman emerged from within the group. She was of middling age, with hair that hung in tangled skeins, and her face was drawn and dolorous, as if she’d been up the whole night fretting. She wrung her hands, the fingers twisted like roots.
“Hear me!” she cried.
The white-robed acolyte eyed her with something akin to disgust. “Speak and be heard, O Dethra.”
The woman sobbed and shook her head before continuing. “I did not dream as was right and proper. My mind was empty all the night until just before waking. Then an image filled my mind, and I saw the white mountain with—”
The faces of those listening hardened, and Murtagh saw no charity in their expressions.
“Enough!” cried the acolyte. “Do not poison our minds with your false visions. You are unclean, Dethra.”
“I am unclean!” she shouted, tears streaking down her cheeks.
“You are unworthy!”
“I am unworthy! Punish me! Let me atone!”
With a thunderous scowl, the acolyte pointed at her. “Dethra! You cannot regain favor in the Eyes of Bachel until you purge this heresy from your being. Go to the temple and confine yourself to the Azurite Room until such time as Bachel sees fit to bring you to the realm of the Dreamer.”
The woman cried out with terror and collapsed onto the ground, where she shook and gibbered incomprehensibilities.
The white-robed acolyte stormed forward. He grabbed Dethra by the arm and dragged her toward the temple.
The crowd parted before them, men and women alike watching in stony silence. At the front of the group, the golden-haired girl chewed on her thumb, her eyes round and solemn.
In an undertone, Murtagh said to Thorn, “Is that woman most afraid of confinement or atonement?”
Or Bachel?
It was an unsettling thought. With Thorn close behind, Murtagh followed the acolyte back to the temple and watched as the man hauled Dethra into the building.
CHAPTER VI
The Court of Crows
“There you are, Rider,” said Grieve with heavy disapproval as he strode with a hurried pace toward Murtagh and Thorn. He made a bow so slight, it was more of a nod. “Dragon Thorn. Bachel will grant you audience now. The both of you.”
Murtagh gestured at the temple. “Do you mean for us to go in there?”
“Of course. Bachel awaits you in her presence chamber.”
Murtagh raised his eyebrows. “Alas, Goodman Grieve, I’m sorry to inform you that the doors of your temple are far too small for Thorn to pass through. Unless you mean for him to break them apart.”
The flicker of irritation that crossed Grieve’s face was satisfying. “I do not,” he said stiffly. “Dragon Thorn, an atrium exists behind that will suffice if you will fly to it. Thence you may access the presence chamber.”
Murtagh hesitated, glancing at Thorn. Do you want to chance it?
The dragon growled and, to both Murtagh and Grieve, said, I will go so far as the atrium, but no farther. If Bachel wishes to speak with me, then she may come to me.
Grieve’s scowl deepened. “You risk offending the Speaker, Dragon Thorn.”
Thorn sniffed. So be it. With a sweep of his wings, the dragon jumped into the air. His body blotted out the sky for a moment, and then he was above the temple, and there he hung, like a great crimson bat, before folding his wings and dropping out of sight behind the peak of the building.
In a mild tone, Murtagh said, “I’m afraid that no one can tell a dragon what to do, not even a Rider.”
A grunt from Grieve, and he turned and walked with his lurching stride toward the temple’s shadowed entrance.
Alert and curious, Murtagh followed, hand on hilt.
Deep between the faceted pillars, a pair of blackened oak doors stood open. The wood was chiseled with runes and inlaid with threads of gold that traced the same branching pattern carved into the face of the temple. The air within was noticeably warmer and thick with the smell of brimstone. Murtagh felt moisture collecting on his skin, tiny droplets of sulfurous dew.
They moved through a short passage lit by oil lamps. Then the way opened upon the atrium. It was large and square, with four raised pools—overgrown with reeds and floating moss—at the corners, while in the center stood a giant sculpture, nearly as tall as the surrounding roofline. The statue was made of black stone, and it was all angles and shards and misjoined edges, but when taken as a whole, there was a shape amid the chaos. He felt as if he ought to recognize it, but the truth eluded him, like a name or a face that he couldn’t place.
Thorn had landed next to the statue and was looking at it as if he meant to knock it over with a swipe of his tail.
“What is that?” Murtagh asked.
Grieve continued trudging on and didn’t turn to look. “A depiction of dream.”
Unease made Murtagh pull his cloak tighter. What do you think? he asked Thorn.
An abomination.
It’s a nightmare, that’s for sure.
As Murtagh continued after Grieve, Thorn said, If they are so foolish as to attack you, I shall rip apart the building from top to bottom.
Murtagh smiled, comforted. Good.
On the other side of the atrium, another passage doglegged to the south. It ended at a tall lancet doorway large enough for Thorn to pass through. Ironbound doors of dark oak stood open, and past them, a great space echoed.
The chamber seemed part throne room and part inner sanctum. In its center sat a brazier of hammered copper, ten feet across and laden with a bed of smoldering coals. From it, smoke and incense—rich with the scent of sage, pine, and cedar—thickened the air, although they could not obscure the underlying taint of brimstone, which seemed stronger, more concentrated there within the temple. Beneath the brazier, a heavy cast-iron pipe joined the bottom of the metal pan to the floor.
An open-roofed pavilion, made of angled stone, ringed the brazier. From the pavilion uprights, sculpted dragon heads extended over the coals, like gargoyles on the cathedral in Dras-Leona.
The ceiling was lost in shadow. The floor glinted with pearlescent chips of a vast multicolored mosaic that swirled in ways Murtagh’s eyes found difficult to follow. Blood-red banners hung from the walls, their edges tattered, the fabric mildewed and moth-eaten.