Zeheft is Burning part two
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His feet took him down the long, stepped terraces, through orange, palm and olive groves, and at last into the palatine itself. White-walled, garden-roofed villas and demi-palaces shimmered in the sun. Slaves carried water, pulled weeds, swept pathways, exercised hounds, groomed horses, plied to and forth from the markets, but of the Atlantan nobility there as no sign. They drowsed through the afternoon heat, and only came alive again in the evening cool, when a single celebration could command a whole avenue.
The canyon-like alleys of the palatine led down, and down again, eventually to the quayside, but Soran was not going so far. The harbor was a glittering blue-green carpet beneath him, and he could smell the fishmarket when he turned right into the shade of palms and cedars, and stepped into the cool, fragrant twilight of the Temple of Mayat.
Vast expanses of white marble and obsidian, onyx and alabaster, defied the heat. Lapis lazuli and gold filigree delighted the eyes, and the dim, cool air was fragrant with joss. Priests moved like wraiths in the shadowed alcoves between the columns, but they knew him on sight, and did not approach.
Like any common man, Soran cast off his cloak, weapons and sandals. He left his belongings on a pink marble bench to the left side of the portico, and -- like any commoner -- he washed hands, face and feet at the long alabaster fountains. The water smelt of roses and jasmine. Its chill was welcome, and he wet his hair, plastered it back from his face, before he turned into the passage which meandered into the heart of the temple.
Acolytes, priests and lay brothers prostrated as he passed them; no one stood in his way, nor asked his business. It was many years since Soran had last cared to visit the Temple of Mayat, but nothing here had changed. Nothing was allowed to change.
The passage grew dimmer, the further he walked; only an occasional lamp lit the way. The temple was cut deeply back into the hillside, and the air was soon chill indeed. A great arched, golden gate, forged around the disk face of Helios, closed off the sanctum, but it was never locked. The mechanism was intricate, with six latches and bolts. He remembered them all. Though no one offered to help him, no one questioned his right to step through into the vault.
Few people outside the temple ever entered here; it was the place of high priests, seers, oracles, all of whom desired utter silence and privacy. The rock chamber was lit by many candles which warmed it just a little above an icy chill. An altar commanded the east wall, adorned with the symbols and sigils of Mayat. She was the goddess of justice, fairness, compassion, clear thinking and reason -- and there was no better place, Soran thought wryly, for the soul of an oracle to be trapped and imprisoned.
Fauos had called it an enchanter’s net, but Soran would have called it a web. Two candles, each as thick as his forearm, burned to either side, and a bronze urn stood directly before it, waiting for the sacrificial offering -- flowers, fruit, wine. Blood. At the back of the altar was a vast gold and platinum framework wrought in the shape of a tree. And draped over its boughs was the web in which Iridan, Oracle, had been trapped.
Made of gold filaments, sparkling with crystal shards which made Soran think of the Eye of Helios itself, the web seemed to shimmer and shift, passing in and out of focus while the candlelight refracted off the stones. The mortal eye was fooled into seeing it where it was not, and being blind to where it was. Soran shivered at the sight of it, and rubbed his arms.
He had seen it before, but as a child he had assumed it was part of the paraphernalia dedicated to the worship of the goddess, or perhaps a mere decoration. Now, he knew differently -- and it was knowledge no priest would ever have shared with him.
An unearthly cold seeped into the marrow of his bones, and he cleared his throat, hunting for his voice. “Iridan?” He spoke in a bare whisper. “Iridan, Oracle, are you here? The witchboy bade me come here … and if you are the Oracle, you’ll know this. Faunos Phinneas Aeson, the last Prince of Zeheft, bade me speak with you.”
For a long moment there was only crypt-like silence, in which his own voice sounded hoarse and unpardonably loud, though he had only whispered. And then a murmur rustled around the vault, thin and insubstantial, less a voice than a rush of air which somehow made words.
“Ask thou a question; shalt thou, then, hear
Some answer, some truth -- to thy joy … or thy fear.”
Soran groaned audibly. “Gods, is it to be riddles? I know who you are! You’re Iridan, who was trapped here, and they won’t free you because they need your vision. But you must know me, Oracle. I’m not one of them. I came here for very different reasons, and if you have even a hundredth part of the vision they say, you already know.” He glared at the web, the net. “Will you speak to me? They say you watch all things. This is true?
“All lives of men pass before mine eye…
I, who cares neither for the truth, nor the lie.”
“Speak plainly with me,” Soran muttered. “You know damned well I was with the witchboy!” Silence. “I don’t suppose,” he said icily, “you would be decent enough to give me a plain answer if I asked you where in Hados he’s gone?”
The loudest sound in the vault was Soran’s own breathing, but the air stirred through the net, making the candles stutter, and he heard the ethereal whisper.
“The ocean is wide. The drowned lands
“Cradle many souls, many hearts, between tender hands.”
For a moment Soran blinked at the web, where the crystals shone more brightly. “Are you telling me the witchboy has taken a ship bound for the outer realms?” Again Iridan said nothing, as if a clue were all he was prepared to offer. He had set Soran the hunt of his life. He already knew Faunos was on a trading galley, and the ship was heavy under cargo; Keffek would have had no reason to invent what he had said.
So the galley was on her way out to trade, not inbound, trying to make harbor in Vayal. More than a thousand islands and islets had been mapped, and as many more had not yet been, and might never be charted. If Faunos wanted to hide, Soran might search for a lifetime and not find him. He groaned his frustration to the vault and summoned patience.
He pressed his face into both hands and said, “Do you know what the Zeheftiman told me? Where you listening?”
“All do I hear, and all, never forget ..
Past, present, future -- all are one, and yet…”
Soran pounced. “Then you know Faunos told me that Vayal will be drowned, as surely as Zeheft and the outer realms.” The Oracle made no response. Soran’s voice rose. “Answer!”
“Ask thou a question -- and, if I can
Answer, I shall speak to thee, mortal man.”
The Oracle’s riddling speech had begun to probe like splinters under Soran’s fingernails. “Will Vayal be drowned, damnit?”
“The ocean is mother, father and kin…
All things shall, anon, her embraces sleep in.”
His mouth dried out to sand. “So Faunos spoke the truth. He has books, Iridan, ancient books that teach the histories, the magicks, the prophecies. You never told this to my father or the priests of any temple. Why did you not tell them?”
“A thousand times have I whispered rare secrets; but they
Hear only the truths they desire me to say.”
“They’re such fools,” Soran said, angry, bitter and sad at once. “Iridan -- straight answers, if you can speak them. I’ve no time to riddle with you, and I need to know, not to guess. You you understand? Did Fauos lie when he told me of the Power? Three foci, he said, with the Power to hold back the sea. Is this the truth? Or is it just the dream of a mad old man and an outcast boy?”
Turn page to Chapter Eighteen conclusion...
Return to Chapter Seventeen...
[page back]
His feet took him down the long, stepped terraces, through orange, palm and olive groves, and at last into the palatine itself. White-walled, garden-roofed villas and demi-palaces shimmered in the sun. Slaves carried water, pulled weeds, swept pathways, exercised hounds, groomed horses, plied to and forth from the markets, but of the Atlantan nobility there as no sign. They drowsed through the afternoon heat, and only came alive again in the evening cool, when a single celebration could command a whole avenue.
The canyon-like alleys of the palatine led down, and down again, eventually to the quayside, but Soran was not going so far. The harbor was a glittering blue-green carpet beneath him, and he could smell the fishmarket when he turned right into the shade of palms and cedars, and stepped into the cool, fragrant twilight of the Temple of Mayat.
Vast expanses of white marble and obsidian, onyx and alabaster, defied the heat. Lapis lazuli and gold filigree delighted the eyes, and the dim, cool air was fragrant with joss. Priests moved like wraiths in the shadowed alcoves between the columns, but they knew him on sight, and did not approach.
Like any common man, Soran cast off his cloak, weapons and sandals. He left his belongings on a pink marble bench to the left side of the portico, and -- like any commoner -- he washed hands, face and feet at the long alabaster fountains. The water smelt of roses and jasmine. Its chill was welcome, and he wet his hair, plastered it back from his face, before he turned into the passage which meandered into the heart of the temple.
Acolytes, priests and lay brothers prostrated as he passed them; no one stood in his way, nor asked his business. It was many years since Soran had last cared to visit the Temple of Mayat, but nothing here had changed. Nothing was allowed to change.
The passage grew dimmer, the further he walked; only an occasional lamp lit the way. The temple was cut deeply back into the hillside, and the air was soon chill indeed. A great arched, golden gate, forged around the disk face of Helios, closed off the sanctum, but it was never locked. The mechanism was intricate, with six latches and bolts. He remembered them all. Though no one offered to help him, no one questioned his right to step through into the vault.
Few people outside the temple ever entered here; it was the place of high priests, seers, oracles, all of whom desired utter silence and privacy. The rock chamber was lit by many candles which warmed it just a little above an icy chill. An altar commanded the east wall, adorned with the symbols and sigils of Mayat. She was the goddess of justice, fairness, compassion, clear thinking and reason -- and there was no better place, Soran thought wryly, for the soul of an oracle to be trapped and imprisoned.
Fauos had called it an enchanter’s net, but Soran would have called it a web. Two candles, each as thick as his forearm, burned to either side, and a bronze urn stood directly before it, waiting for the sacrificial offering -- flowers, fruit, wine. Blood. At the back of the altar was a vast gold and platinum framework wrought in the shape of a tree. And draped over its boughs was the web in which Iridan, Oracle, had been trapped.
Made of gold filaments, sparkling with crystal shards which made Soran think of the Eye of Helios itself, the web seemed to shimmer and shift, passing in and out of focus while the candlelight refracted off the stones. The mortal eye was fooled into seeing it where it was not, and being blind to where it was. Soran shivered at the sight of it, and rubbed his arms.
He had seen it before, but as a child he had assumed it was part of the paraphernalia dedicated to the worship of the goddess, or perhaps a mere decoration. Now, he knew differently -- and it was knowledge no priest would ever have shared with him.
An unearthly cold seeped into the marrow of his bones, and he cleared his throat, hunting for his voice. “Iridan?” He spoke in a bare whisper. “Iridan, Oracle, are you here? The witchboy bade me come here … and if you are the Oracle, you’ll know this. Faunos Phinneas Aeson, the last Prince of Zeheft, bade me speak with you.”
For a long moment there was only crypt-like silence, in which his own voice sounded hoarse and unpardonably loud, though he had only whispered. And then a murmur rustled around the vault, thin and insubstantial, less a voice than a rush of air which somehow made words.
“Ask thou a question; shalt thou, then, hear
Some answer, some truth -- to thy joy … or thy fear.”
Soran groaned audibly. “Gods, is it to be riddles? I know who you are! You’re Iridan, who was trapped here, and they won’t free you because they need your vision. But you must know me, Oracle. I’m not one of them. I came here for very different reasons, and if you have even a hundredth part of the vision they say, you already know.” He glared at the web, the net. “Will you speak to me? They say you watch all things. This is true?
“All lives of men pass before mine eye…
I, who cares neither for the truth, nor the lie.”
“Speak plainly with me,” Soran muttered. “You know damned well I was with the witchboy!” Silence. “I don’t suppose,” he said icily, “you would be decent enough to give me a plain answer if I asked you where in Hados he’s gone?”
The loudest sound in the vault was Soran’s own breathing, but the air stirred through the net, making the candles stutter, and he heard the ethereal whisper.
“The ocean is wide. The drowned lands
“Cradle many souls, many hearts, between tender hands.”
For a moment Soran blinked at the web, where the crystals shone more brightly. “Are you telling me the witchboy has taken a ship bound for the outer realms?” Again Iridan said nothing, as if a clue were all he was prepared to offer. He had set Soran the hunt of his life. He already knew Faunos was on a trading galley, and the ship was heavy under cargo; Keffek would have had no reason to invent what he had said.
So the galley was on her way out to trade, not inbound, trying to make harbor in Vayal. More than a thousand islands and islets had been mapped, and as many more had not yet been, and might never be charted. If Faunos wanted to hide, Soran might search for a lifetime and not find him. He groaned his frustration to the vault and summoned patience.
He pressed his face into both hands and said, “Do you know what the Zeheftiman told me? Where you listening?”
“All do I hear, and all, never forget ..
Past, present, future -- all are one, and yet…”
Soran pounced. “Then you know Faunos told me that Vayal will be drowned, as surely as Zeheft and the outer realms.” The Oracle made no response. Soran’s voice rose. “Answer!”
“Ask thou a question -- and, if I can
Answer, I shall speak to thee, mortal man.”
The Oracle’s riddling speech had begun to probe like splinters under Soran’s fingernails. “Will Vayal be drowned, damnit?”
“The ocean is mother, father and kin…
All things shall, anon, her embraces sleep in.”
His mouth dried out to sand. “So Faunos spoke the truth. He has books, Iridan, ancient books that teach the histories, the magicks, the prophecies. You never told this to my father or the priests of any temple. Why did you not tell them?”
“A thousand times have I whispered rare secrets; but they
Hear only the truths they desire me to say.”
“They’re such fools,” Soran said, angry, bitter and sad at once. “Iridan -- straight answers, if you can speak them. I’ve no time to riddle with you, and I need to know, not to guess. You you understand? Did Fauos lie when he told me of the Power? Three foci, he said, with the Power to hold back the sea. Is this the truth? Or is it just the dream of a mad old man and an outcast boy?”
Turn page to Chapter Eighteen conclusion...
Return to Chapter Seventeen...
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