“I shan’t,” I said. “I never have.” That wasn’t strictly true. At one time I did, but I had learned.
“Then that is all I can tell you,” said Teldra.
“All right,” I said. “Thanks. Let’s go.”
And we went, for several paces, until we reached doors that made Morrolan’s look diminutive, and there we stopped, because, unlike Morrolan’s, these didn’t open as we stood before them.
“Maybe we’re supposed to say something,” I suggested.
“Maybe we aren’t supposed to go in,” said Teldra.
I studied the massive doors, and the corridor behind me. “Last time I was here,” I told her, “there was a sort of fog in the hallway. Now there isn’t. Do you suppose it means something?”
She shook her head; the sort of head shake that comes in answer to a question one doesn’t know the answer to. I cursed under my breath, and, just because I couldn’t think of anything else to do, clapped at the door.
Nothing happened.
“Too bad, Boss. She’s not home. Guess we’d better—”
“Shut up, Loiosh.”
I then pushed at the door, because I’d have felt stupid if they opened inward and weren’t secured. It didn’t work, leaving me feeling stupid. The doors were filled with designs, all white-on-white, abstract designs reminiscent of embroidery from my ancestral homeland. All very nice. There were no handles on the doors. The space between the doors was wide enough to admit a pry-bar, or a knife blade, but I didn’t have a pry-bar, or a blade with me that wouldn’t snap from the weight of those doors. On the other hand, I had some spare knives. I pulled a stiletto from my boot, and was about to insert it between the doors when Teldra said, “Vlad.”
I turned my head without moving the knife. “Yes?”
“Are you quite certain that breaking in is a good idea?”
“You’re afraid I’ll offend her?”
“Well, yes.”
“You don’t think killing her will offend her?”
She showed me a smile. “Vlad, we both know you have no intention of killing her.”
“Do we know that, Boss?”
“Well, Teldra does, at any rate.”
I turned back to the door, slipped the knife in, put some pressure on it, and promptly snapped the blade. The sound was dull and, like our voices, didn’t echo. I stared at the hilt and the inch and a half of of blade left in my hand, shrugged, and discarded it. It made more of a thump than a clatter as it fell to the floor.
“Okay,” I said. “Next idea.”
“You could pray to her,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “But what if she answered?”
“Do the gods answer, when you pray?”
“Sometimes. I’ve had her answer once, at any rate, and maybe twice. Or there may be other occasions I’m forgetting
about. That’s the sort of thing I’d like to forget. How do we get in here?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “You’d know better than me; you’ve had personal contact with her.”
“Yeah. From which I know nothing except—” I put my face up against the door and yelled, “Verra! It’s me, Vlad! You’ve had your joke, now open the bloody damn door.”
The door began to swing inward. The last time I’d been here, the doors had opened outward. At least, I think they did. But this time they opened inward, and mists and fogs rolled out; the mist that had been in the corridor last time was now in the room.
“You can get the same effect with dry ice,” I told Teldra.
“What’s dry ice, Vlad?”
“It is an Eastern secret for keeping things cold. I learned of it from Valabar’s.”
“Witchcraft?”
“I guess so.”
She nodded. “Shall we go in? I believe we’ve been invited.”
“Yeah, sure, all right,” I said, and stepped into the fog.
I walked forward with more confidence than I felt. I walked a long time, reminding myself that distances seem greater when you can’t see, and the room was plenty big without help.
“Wall, Boss.”
I stopped and cursed under my breath. Then I said, “Verra—”
There was a chuckle that seemed to come from all around me, and the fog cleared away and vanished—not going anywhere, just thinning out until it was gone, a process that took about five seconds. I was standing at the far end of the room; Verra sat on her chair, or throne, or dais, about twenty yards to my left and behind me. I made my way to the front of it and, while Teldra made some sort obeisance, I said, “What was that all about?”
She gave me an ironic indulgent look, if you can imagine such a thing. On the throne on the dais (all of white), she looked even taller than she was. She wore a hoodless robe that was mostly pale red with black embroidery. Her fingers were long and had an extra joint to them. Her hair, this time, was shoulder-length and wavy: a subdued brown with red highlights, and very thick, so it seemed to have an iridescent quality. Her eyes didn’t glow, but it seemed like they ought to have.
She was my God—insofar, at least, as I had one. When I was a child, my grandfather had spoken of her, but given few details of the sort that might be useful, and my father never mentioned her at all, but it had been impressed upon my young mind that one made the proper observances at the proper times of the year. More than that, her power and presence were so deeply ingrained in me that all through life my thoughts would flash to her briefly at times of danger, or in moments of despair; and even in moments of great joy or triumph I would think of her, sending her my gratitude and the hopes that I would not be punished for enjoying my happiness.
When I had first met her in person, so many years ago, the shock had been so great that I couldn’t assimilate it. At other times, I had felt her presence, but didn’t know how often this feeling was only supplied by my imagination, and how often she had truly been with me. There were occasions, such as my one experience as a soldier of the line, when I could not imagine how I had survived without her having some hand in the matter, but she had never told me she actually did. Of course, I hadn’t asked, either.
To know her as real—that is, a flesh-and-blood individual with whom I had spoken—was something I could never reconcile with the idea of a presence watching over me; perhaps watching me at times I didn’t want to be watched. I had buried my own reactions, only to have them emerge as hatred some time later when she had visited misfortune upon my head, or maybe allowed misfortune to visit me, whichever. Since then I had tried not to even think of her, but in this I had failed, and now here she was, and to rescue my friends, I had to destroy her.
“Well?” I said. “Why the games?”
“An odd question,” she said. I had forgotten the peculiar sound her voice had: not exactly an echo, but more as if there were two of her speaking, mostly in unison, but sometimes they’d fall a bit out of synchronization. She continued, “How can you complain of my treatment of you, when you are only here to assassinate me?”
“There is that,” I agreed. “Goddess, may I be permitted to put a question?”
“Very well, assassin,” said the Demon Goddess.
“Was this all your doing?” And, for a second, I actually had made Verra look astonished. Then the expression was gone. I continued, “The last time, if you recall—”
“Yes, Taltos Vladimir, I remember. But no, this was none of my doing. I did not arrange this, nor expect it. I did not expect you to arrive here; I did not think you would be able to do so without my assistance. Tell me, how did you manage that? I can’t believe the Issola standing next to you accomplished it for you.”