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Evening shadows pooled like dark, still water along the terraces, and a sea wind had risen out of the south. Its fingers reached into temple and palace, chill and welcome. Soran was tired. Even after a long, cool bath and massage, his limbs ached. A dozen abrasions smarted on knees, elbows, ankles, and tonight they annoyed him like a swarm of mosquitoes. He had eaten without tasting the food -- fish, crabs, fruit -- and the wine tasted heavy in his mouth.
Sunset would be bloody, and his mood had begun to darken as he watched the first flushes of scarlet and crimson begin to gather in the west. A column of horsesoldiers had left just after the games, and not long after midnight everyone in Vayal would see the smoke from Zeheft. It would be in every nostril, cloying, impossible to escape for bondsman and priest-king alike.
He was sitting on a long marble bench above the terraced pool, brooding on the city, the harbor, the future. All trace of the storm was gone and the sea was calm, heaving gently like a cauldron of molten lead.
Footsteps were sharp, echoing back off the thirty-six columns of the palace’s south vestibule, and a glance over his shoulder made Soran’s pulse quicken. It was Baobo, hurrying along with a scribe in tow, and if the smug look on the man’s heavy-jowled face was anything to go by, the news was all good.
Soran set down the wine cup and stood. Silk rustled about his limbs as the breeze picked up the short tunic, and his skin prickled. Silk always felt like the touch of a lover, and tonight the word meant only Faunos.
“My lord.” Baobo knelt and the lowly scribe prostrated. “A man arrived minutes ago from a town in the hills just east of the old city. They’ve seen your Zeheftiman, and they know where he is.”
“They’re sure?” Soran’s eyes were hard on him.
“They described him perfectly. The red hair, the Keltoi features and complexion, the fine rings in his ears and nipples, the way he moves like a dancer.” Baobo swallowed. “My lord, there is more, and it’s not news you’ll relish.”
Soran hissed a breath through his teeth. “Your baboons have injured him?”
“No, my lord.” Baobo shifted on his knees, uncomfortable on the marble flagstones.
“Stand.” Soran beckoned him to his feet. “And if it’s bad news, for gods’ sakes make it brief.”
The soldier heaved himself to his feet and appeared to steel himself. “My lord, the young man’s looks aren’t Keltoi. They’re Zehefti. The people who saw him won’t go near him, for fear of being struck blind, or losing their wits, or turning to stone.” He met Soran’s eyes grimly. “They saw him work the Power.”
Disbelief twisted through Soran. “They’re wrong. They don’t know what they saw.”
An edge in his voice made Baobo duck his head. “You’re … probably right, my lord, but they swear they know that they saw. There was an accident in the street -- the Zehefti was trapped under a wagon. It would have taken three men to lift it off him, and that slip of a youth lifted it away, as if it were a sack of goose feathers.” He shuffled awkwardly, taking a pace backward as if he feared Soran’s fury. “My lord, I’m sorry … it’s what they say. What they saw.”
“And it will be for me to decide,” Soran growled. “I’m the witchfinder. Not them, and not you.” He took a long breath. “It’s possible it’s not the same man at all. What else did they say of him?”
Baobo pitched his voice carefully. “That he fled over the hill in the direction of what used to be the harbor and marketplace. He had come into the village looking for a physician. He said he had a friend, injured, too weak to be moved. And they saw a mark on his hip, or perhaps on his arse. It might have been a birthmark or an old brand -- the shape of a sea eagle, my lord. Does it mean anything to you?”
It did. Soran’s mouth dried. He swallowed on a sore throat and looked away. The birthmark confirmed the man’s identity, there could be no mistake. But it would not have been the first time that townspeople had panicked over nothing. He had known halfwits from the villages see witchboys behind every bush, and a handful of the young men who had been reported were not even Zehefti, nor even Keltoi, but only had something of their look.
“Get a saddle on the fastest horse in the stable,” he said grimly, “and send a messenger to my father. Tell him … I’m working tonight. There’s a mystery to be solved in the ruins before the fires are set.”
The captain bowed. “I’ll tell the divine Azhtoc you’ve gone for the witchboy.”
“You’ll say nothing of the kind,” Soran snapped. “There’s no evidence other than the inane babble of a couple of moronic peasants from an outland village. However, I have a vested interest in this individual, and it pleases me to go and find the evidence -- if any such thing exists -- myself. You’ll tell my father no more and no less than I told you.”
“My lord.” Baobo fell back to his knees. “I’ll have them saddle the tall white stallion. He’s the fastest, though he’s a demon to handle --”
“I can handle him.” Soran was already moving, heading back to his apartment to change. If he was headed out on witchfinder’s business, he would wear the amulet of his office, and his weapons, the tools of his trade. He knew the horse Baobo meant. The animal was half wild, but he was like the wind. Baobo had no love for horses. He had come up out of the infantry, his siblings were sailors, and like most people he had a healthy respect for any stallion, wild ones in particular.
As he stepped into the vestibule he heard the soldier shouting for a stableman and an acolyte. The horse would be saddled in minutes, and the young novitiate would take the message to Azhtoc. Not that Azhtoc would be interested until the ‘mystery’ had been investigated, and a witchboy delivered to the vaults for questioning.
Even then, Azhtoc had an interest in only one specific witchboy. Until or unless Soran had clasped the manacles upon the One foretold in the prophecy, the priest-king of Vayal remained indifferent.
When the day came, he would execute the One with his own hand, in a ritual designed by long-dead priests -- it would be Helios, clad in the flesh and bones of his vessel on earth who struck the blow for the liberation of the City of the Sun, and all of Vayal would rejoice.
The apartment was lit softly with many lamps. The sun had dipped down and the south-facing rooms were already dim. The sea wind was lively, and the air cool, fragrant with joss. Lydias was absent, more than likely arranging a dinner Soran would not be here to eat. For once, he threw open the great carved chests and looked to his own needs.
Heavy sandals and cloak, the harness for his swords, the same kind of leather loincloth he had worn on the court, and around his neck, the thick gold chain of the amulet. It was solid, weighty in his hands, too familiar, and overfilled with memories. The pleading faces of too many young Zeheftimen looked out of the dark corners in his mind.
With an intense effort of will he thrust away the images and hung the amulet about his neck. It was a circle set into an oval, with the sun-star shape of Helios stamped into both its surfaces. The weight was wickedly familiar on the back of his neck, shifting there as he caught his hair up to bind it --
And it was then that memory stirred.
His brain had been faithfully recording sounds, smells, feelings, while his mind flew high as eaglehawk, wafted out of his senses by the thrill of the Zeheftiman, the freeman virgin lover. Yet the mundane things were still there, filed away in musty corners, if only he cared to peer into them. Some angel -- or demon, he allowed -- jogged his memory, and once its spur was sunk into his flesh and smarting, he could not ignore it.
Evening shadows pooled like dark, still water along the terraces, and a sea wind had risen out of the south. Its fingers reached into temple and palace, chill and welcome. Soran was tired. Even after a long, cool bath and massage, his limbs ached. A dozen abrasions smarted on knees, elbows, ankles, and tonight they annoyed him like a swarm of mosquitoes. He had eaten without tasting the food -- fish, crabs, fruit -- and the wine tasted heavy in his mouth.
Sunset would be bloody, and his mood had begun to darken as he watched the first flushes of scarlet and crimson begin to gather in the west. A column of horsesoldiers had left just after the games, and not long after midnight everyone in Vayal would see the smoke from Zeheft. It would be in every nostril, cloying, impossible to escape for bondsman and priest-king alike.
He was sitting on a long marble bench above the terraced pool, brooding on the city, the harbor, the future. All trace of the storm was gone and the sea was calm, heaving gently like a cauldron of molten lead.
Footsteps were sharp, echoing back off the thirty-six columns of the palace’s south vestibule, and a glance over his shoulder made Soran’s pulse quicken. It was Baobo, hurrying along with a scribe in tow, and if the smug look on the man’s heavy-jowled face was anything to go by, the news was all good.
Soran set down the wine cup and stood. Silk rustled about his limbs as the breeze picked up the short tunic, and his skin prickled. Silk always felt like the touch of a lover, and tonight the word meant only Faunos.
“My lord.” Baobo knelt and the lowly scribe prostrated. “A man arrived minutes ago from a town in the hills just east of the old city. They’ve seen your Zeheftiman, and they know where he is.”
“They’re sure?” Soran’s eyes were hard on him.
“They described him perfectly. The red hair, the Keltoi features and complexion, the fine rings in his ears and nipples, the way he moves like a dancer.” Baobo swallowed. “My lord, there is more, and it’s not news you’ll relish.”
Soran hissed a breath through his teeth. “Your baboons have injured him?”
“No, my lord.” Baobo shifted on his knees, uncomfortable on the marble flagstones.
“Stand.” Soran beckoned him to his feet. “And if it’s bad news, for gods’ sakes make it brief.”
The soldier heaved himself to his feet and appeared to steel himself. “My lord, the young man’s looks aren’t Keltoi. They’re Zehefti. The people who saw him won’t go near him, for fear of being struck blind, or losing their wits, or turning to stone.” He met Soran’s eyes grimly. “They saw him work the Power.”
Disbelief twisted through Soran. “They’re wrong. They don’t know what they saw.”
An edge in his voice made Baobo duck his head. “You’re … probably right, my lord, but they swear they know that they saw. There was an accident in the street -- the Zehefti was trapped under a wagon. It would have taken three men to lift it off him, and that slip of a youth lifted it away, as if it were a sack of goose feathers.” He shuffled awkwardly, taking a pace backward as if he feared Soran’s fury. “My lord, I’m sorry … it’s what they say. What they saw.”
“And it will be for me to decide,” Soran growled. “I’m the witchfinder. Not them, and not you.” He took a long breath. “It’s possible it’s not the same man at all. What else did they say of him?”
Baobo pitched his voice carefully. “That he fled over the hill in the direction of what used to be the harbor and marketplace. He had come into the village looking for a physician. He said he had a friend, injured, too weak to be moved. And they saw a mark on his hip, or perhaps on his arse. It might have been a birthmark or an old brand -- the shape of a sea eagle, my lord. Does it mean anything to you?”
It did. Soran’s mouth dried. He swallowed on a sore throat and looked away. The birthmark confirmed the man’s identity, there could be no mistake. But it would not have been the first time that townspeople had panicked over nothing. He had known halfwits from the villages see witchboys behind every bush, and a handful of the young men who had been reported were not even Zehefti, nor even Keltoi, but only had something of their look.
“Get a saddle on the fastest horse in the stable,” he said grimly, “and send a messenger to my father. Tell him … I’m working tonight. There’s a mystery to be solved in the ruins before the fires are set.”
The captain bowed. “I’ll tell the divine Azhtoc you’ve gone for the witchboy.”
“You’ll say nothing of the kind,” Soran snapped. “There’s no evidence other than the inane babble of a couple of moronic peasants from an outland village. However, I have a vested interest in this individual, and it pleases me to go and find the evidence -- if any such thing exists -- myself. You’ll tell my father no more and no less than I told you.”
“My lord.” Baobo fell back to his knees. “I’ll have them saddle the tall white stallion. He’s the fastest, though he’s a demon to handle --”
“I can handle him.” Soran was already moving, heading back to his apartment to change. If he was headed out on witchfinder’s business, he would wear the amulet of his office, and his weapons, the tools of his trade. He knew the horse Baobo meant. The animal was half wild, but he was like the wind. Baobo had no love for horses. He had come up out of the infantry, his siblings were sailors, and like most people he had a healthy respect for any stallion, wild ones in particular.
As he stepped into the vestibule he heard the soldier shouting for a stableman and an acolyte. The horse would be saddled in minutes, and the young novitiate would take the message to Azhtoc. Not that Azhtoc would be interested until the ‘mystery’ had been investigated, and a witchboy delivered to the vaults for questioning.
Even then, Azhtoc had an interest in only one specific witchboy. Until or unless Soran had clasped the manacles upon the One foretold in the prophecy, the priest-king of Vayal remained indifferent.
When the day came, he would execute the One with his own hand, in a ritual designed by long-dead priests -- it would be Helios, clad in the flesh and bones of his vessel on earth who struck the blow for the liberation of the City of the Sun, and all of Vayal would rejoice.
The apartment was lit softly with many lamps. The sun had dipped down and the south-facing rooms were already dim. The sea wind was lively, and the air cool, fragrant with joss. Lydias was absent, more than likely arranging a dinner Soran would not be here to eat. For once, he threw open the great carved chests and looked to his own needs.
Heavy sandals and cloak, the harness for his swords, the same kind of leather loincloth he had worn on the court, and around his neck, the thick gold chain of the amulet. It was solid, weighty in his hands, too familiar, and overfilled with memories. The pleading faces of too many young Zeheftimen looked out of the dark corners in his mind.
With an intense effort of will he thrust away the images and hung the amulet about his neck. It was a circle set into an oval, with the sun-star shape of Helios stamped into both its surfaces. The weight was wickedly familiar on the back of his neck, shifting there as he caught his hair up to bind it --
And it was then that memory stirred.
His brain had been faithfully recording sounds, smells, feelings, while his mind flew high as eaglehawk, wafted out of his senses by the thrill of the Zeheftiman, the freeman virgin lover. Yet the mundane things were still there, filed away in musty corners, if only he cared to peer into them. Some angel -- or demon, he allowed -- jogged his memory, and once its spur was sunk into his flesh and smarting, he could not ignore it.
Turn page to Chapter Fifteen part two...
Return to Chapter Fourteen...
