“I suppose being scattered thinly through every temple in Mefis and outside it was the reason why it took these so-called Advisers so long to find our equivalent of Nestlings and Fledglings, which we call acolytes,” Baket-ke-aput said with a grimace. “And because they were spread about the temples, and the summons came, not all at once, but over days and weeks, it took us longer to realize that these so-called ‘advisers’ were making off with every child and adolescent that was god-touched.”
“Nothing like this had ever happened before?” Kaleth asked, in tones that suggested he knew that it hadn’t.
Baket-ke-aput shook his head. “Never. What need had the Great King of those who were untrained or half-trained? I know that I asked why they were being taken, and I was told that since there were no more Jousters, the untrained were going to be learning to act in concert, as the Altan sea witches could. This was meant to give Tia a weapon equal in magic to what Alta had. And since Haras priests do use magic—when they have it—in combat, I thought no more about it.”
Lord Ya-tiren pursed his lips. “Even though these were the youngest, and untrained, and not the experienced and trained?”
Baket-ke-aput closed his eyes, as if in pain. “To my shame and sorrow, if I thought at all, I was simply glad that the ones called were those whose untrained or half-trained abilities we could afford to do without. And to be honest, we didn’t, any of us, think that there was anything wrong. After all, these were the Great King’s advisers who had issued the orders! Why would they do anything to harm Tians, especially consecrated youngsters?”
“We soon found out differently,” said another priest, bitterly. “We did not see the young ones at all after a time. Some parents began to make diffident inquiries. Still, there was no sign of them, no rumors, and no one within the Palace would talk about where they had been taken.
“And then, one terrible dawn, the bodies began to turn up—thrown by night into Great Mother River!” Baket-ke-aput looked sick. “That was when we realized how wrong we were.”
“What?” Ari exclaimed, turning white.
“Bodies,” said Baket-ke-aput succinctly. “The bodies of the god-touched that we had allowed the minions of those advisers to take. Something in the Palace, or wherever those demons are working their evil magic, was killing them—the youngest and weakest first.”
Kiron felt sick. Kaleth only shook his head.
“This is what I feared,” he said quietly. “When I stopped being able to See what lay within Tian lands, I feared there were Magi there now, and that somehow they had wormed their way into the Tian King’s good graces.”
Another priest, considerably younger than Baket-ke-aput, who wore the amulet of Thet about his neck, leaned forward. “We should never have known, had they not been so greedy about draining so many of the children of their power until they died,” he said bitterly. “There were too many for the crocodiles to take them all, and so we found some of them. That was when I made to approach the Great King, and as soon as I was given audience, I knew that I should say nothing. Not only was there a shadow upon him, but he looked to be as he had been in the full flower of young manhood. And so did the three advisers.”
“That has a familiar taste to it,” Lord Khumun said, with controlled anger in his voice. For some time now, Kiron had been a little concerned about the older man. Being forced to flee his own land had taken something out of him. But now—now the old warrior was back. And Kiron was relieved to see it. “So did the Magi of Alta, and our rulers, when our Winged Ones began to be taken.”
The Thet priest looked angry, and resolute, and just as much a warrior as Lord Khumun. “I know the forbidden spells that can give one a second youth, though I am sworn never to use them; it is the business of those of Thet to be upon the watch for shadow magic and the powers of darkness. We know these spells so that we may combat them; I knew the signs of what was happening. Those children had been killed so that their power might be absorbed and their years might be stolen and given to the Great King and his advisers.”
Every time those words were spoken, Kiron felt colder. Bad enough to be profiting magically from the deaths of fighters in combat, but to murder children . . . !
“You said nothing,” Heklatis said shrewdly. “Else you would not be here. And do not feel guilt; if you had confronted them, I think none of you would be sitting here now.”
The Thet priest Pta-hetop nodded. “I made some excuse, some trivial request, and fled the abomination, before they realized that I knew them for what they were.”
“And Pta-hetop, here, wisely began by telling his own priests what was happening, then they in turn spread out by ones and twos to the rest of us,” Baket-ke-aput continued. “It was the gods’ own will that he went softly and secretly, rather than trumpeting the abomination to the world and being cut down for it.”
Pta-hetop shook his head, and his expression, already mournful, saddened further. “It was cunning—and perhaps the gods gave me warning. I knew there were no Thet priests strong enough to take those jackals of darkness in their own lair. When you cannot fight, you must flee, for you cannot fight on another day if you are dead.”
Baket-ke-aput nodded—and so did Lord Khumun, Lord Ya-tiren, and Kaleth. “It took us but a single night and day to organize our flight. And since Pta-hetop was the good childhood friend of Hokat-ta-karen, the remaining Haras priest for what was left in the Jousters’ Court, and knew he could trust Haraket, he told Haraket and the dragon boys with him also, and asked if they could aid us in any way.”
“There was nothing left for us in Mefis—and priests are not accustomed to defending themselves,” Haraket pointed out. “We are. So—” He shrugged.
“I had some few acquaintances among the Bedu, as does Haraket, and we managed to gain their aid,” Baket-ke-aput concluded. “They told us of Sanctuary, but warned that we might not be well received here. We said we would take our chance that you would accept us. That is the whole of the sorry tale.”
That was not the whole of it, Kiron was sure. How they had smuggled themselves out, the long and terrible crossing of the desert, even with the help of the Bedu—that would fill a hundred scrolls, he was sure. But it was not, at the moment, as important as what had been imparted.
“But the god-touched children—” someone said from the darkness. “Why—”
“Why did we not rescue them?” Baket-ke-aput asked, savagely, his eyes flashing anger. “Because by the time we had organized ourselves, and knew what the advisers were about, we had found the last of the bodies. The eldest of the children. There are no more. We failed them, we failed in our duty to them, and we might just as well have set a knife to their throats ourselves. Now, shall I pound the ground and weep and strew ashes on my head, or will knowing that I know my guilt and know that I can never expiate it satisfy you?”
It had been a very long time since Kiron had heard that level of bitterness in anyone’s voice . . . and the last time, it had been Ari, crying out, I do not make war on children!
“We will build a shrine for them,” Kaleth said into the heavy silence. “You will give us their names, and we will build a shrine to them in the river cave, where the sand cannot etch the names away, nor time erode them. They will have in the afterlife all that they should have enjoyed among us. They will not haunt this side of the Great Sky River as hungry ghosts for much longer.”