As he turned, a rain of stones fell on the walkway almost at his feet. He leaped sideways, but not quickly enough to avoid an explosion of sharp pebbles as stone met stone and several of the rocks cracked. One fragment hit him just above his eye, drawing blood. He hardly felt the sting.
Somewhere in the press of battle he had lost track of Skerry. There were bodies everywhere, Skyrrans and Eisenlonders alike, and he could only hope that his cousin’s was not among them. When he brought his sword crashing down on the helmet of an opponent, the blade, which was already notched, shivered into splinters. He tossed it aside, caught up a bloody axe from the slackened grip of a dead barbarian, and hewed to right and left.
There came a brief lull, one of those welcome moments in the ebb and flow of battle when it was possible for Kivik to catch his breath. The men around him had beaten back a flood of opponents and managed to upset one of the Eisenlonders’ ladders. Those on the bottom rungs who had survived the fall were struggling to erect it again.
Then one of the captains—Roric or Haestan, he could not be certain which—gave a breathless whoop of joy, and somebody else flung out an arm, pointing. At first, Kivik saw nothing but a blur of wings above the field of battle, then he realized with a lift of his heart that it was one of his own messenger hawks sent out days before. Taking this for an omen, someone behind him gave a hoarse cheer.
A flight of arrows from archers down on the field went singing through the air. The bird turned, describing a beautiful curve across the sky, and by some miracle avoided being hit. Kivik held his breath. Then another flight went up, more accurate than before. One arrow clipped a barred grey wing, another struck full in the feathered breast. There was a brief flutter, and the hawk dropped like a stone.
It landed in the ranks of the Eisenlonders, where whatever messages it had been carrying were lost.
6
It was a hot summer night on Phaôrax, and a ghastly full moon shone down on Ouriána’s capital city of Apharos—that city of spires and steeples and dagger-pointed towers, comfortless and cruel to all but a favored few. The air hung heavy and breathless in the narrow streets; no hint of wind stirred the banners hanging limp outside the nobles’ tall houses or the trees in the palace gardens on the promontory. Even the waters of the bay were sluggish in the heat, and the hundreds of ships and boats tied up by the docks could scarcely be seen to rock. Yet a slow, simmering excitement continued to build as the night wore on.
For this was the eve of the Faldhalüra, the Rites of the High Summer Full Moon, and the city was electric with the knowledge that shortly before daybreak the Empress herself would walk barefoot through the streets, on her way to bathe in the sea and call up prodigies and portents for the coming year.
By an hour before sunrise, crowds of early risers had gathered outside the New Temple, eager to catch a glimpse of their goddess-incarnate and bask in her presence.
A bell clanged somewhere within the precincts of the temple: once, twice, three times. Breaths bated, hearts trembled, as a door of beaten brass swung open. A thousand sighs went out together when Ouriána appeared in the opening and stepped down to the rough cobbles.
She wore only a white linen shift that left her arms uncovered from wrist to elbow, but her beauty shown out more splendid and terrible than ever. Without crown, scepter, or necklet to set it off, it was somehow more primal, the response it evoked more visceral. Her skin glowed and her unbound hair was a curtain of silken fire hanging past her knees. Her eyes were like gates into unfathomable mysteries; few dared to meet her gaze as she passed.
Like a sphinx or a leopardess she stalked through the city, and crowds of eager worshippers fell in behind her.
They followed her from the temple to the south gate, then outside the walls and along the shore. For a time, rounding the promontory, the footing grew rocky and difficult. While Ouriána flowed on ahead, unscathed and oblivious, those who followed stumbled often, scraping toes and knees, bloodying their palms on the shingle in their eagerness to rise and not lose sight of her. At last they came out on an isolated stretch of beach where pearls, old coins, and bright bits of jade sometimes washed up, offerings from the sea to the Empress-Goddess.
The moon was a great ivory globe veined with crystal, hovering just above the silvery water. From the perspective of those watching, it looked as if the gap between moon and sea had narrowed to inches, that any of the larger breakers coming in might drench her pale face with spray. With exquisite timing, the Empress had arrived at the precise moment for the rite to begin.
A hush fell over the crowd. One slow step at a time, Ouriána waded out into the water until she stood knee-deep in the little wavelets, her linen skirts soaked in brine and her long red hair floating like kelp behind her.
Just as the rim of the moon touched the ocean, the Empress lifted her arms and called out three words in a thrilling voice. The sea turned as clear as glass from horizon to horizon, then the waters went roaring out with a terrible rush and hurry. They reached the lowest tidemark and still continued to sink, until it looked as though the moon were drinking down the sea.
Those watching felt a shock of horror, never doubting that the moon would swallow the ocean dry without their goddess’s intervention. And Ouriána, standing aloof and implacable, looking out over acres of wet sand, allowed them to experience that terror to the fullest. She inhaled their fear and awe like incense, she drank it in like wine.
A sense of great forces striving for mastery crept over the waiting throng. The earth seemed to pant beneath their feet, the cosmos to reel around them. At any moment, they believed, the stars might go out like windblown candles, the foundations of the earth crumble and send them all tumbling into the void.
And still the sea retreated, farther and farther, until none could see its nearer edge. Some wept or cried out for mercy; no few threw themselves facedown in the sand and lay there shuddering.
Then Ouriána raised her arms again. It was impossible to hear what she said over the distant noise of the waters, but for a timeless moment the night went utterly still. Then the tide came rushing back as quickly as it had gone out, crashing on the beach in a froth of white foam and a cloud of spray—not one eyelash farther than the previous tideline.
The people set up a quivering but enthusiastic cheer. The rite had been successful, their prayers and offerings had been found acceptable, and by the grace of Ouriána they were spared for another year.
By the time the Empress finally waded back to shore, day was breaking in the east. The crowd parted reverently to let her pass. Her bath in the sea had changed her profoundly. No less beautiful, she had such a freshness about her that she might have been born that very morning. Her face was bright with a savage innocence; her eyes had taken on an astonishing luminescence. And all along the beach, men and women reached out to touch the sandy hem of her gown, a damp tendril of her hair—hoping to be renewed as she had been renewed, to be lifted above the sorrows and the cruelties of their daily existence, if only for an hour.
On the other side of the city, Maelor woke with an aching head, a dry mouth, and a queasy stomach, after a typical night of little sleep and feverish dreams. Bleary-eyed, the old astrologer shuffled about the shabby attic room with its dusty clutter of mystical odds and ends, preparing himself for the day ahead.
For all that he was such an abstemious man, it was not surprising if people sometimes mistook him for a drunkard.
He splashed water on his face, nibbled a hard rind of cheese, finger-combed his straggly hair and beard.
Squinting sideways, first out of one eye and then the other, it seemed to him that the strands of hair dangling to either side of his face had grown thicker and darker, that his beard was less wispy than it had been the night before. Reality had become fickle of late, constantly shifting and reshaping itself, capable of endless permutations. Unfortunately, the changes never seemed to last very long.