The Pontifex held the two sea-dragon teeth aloft.
“Do you know what these are, Torkkinuuminaad?”
The rubbery eye-folds drew back. The narrow eyes were yellow with rage. “You have committed the most terrible of all sacrileges, and you will die in the most terrible of agonies.”
“So you do know what they are, eh?”
“They are the holiest of holies! You must return them to the shrine at once!”
“Why did you have Dr. Huukaminaan killed, Torkkinuuminaad?”
The khivanivod’s only answer was an even more furiously defiant glare.
He would kill me with his magic, if he could, thought Valentine. And why not? I know what I represent to Torkkanuuminaad. For I am Majipoor’s emperor and therefore I am Majipoor itself, and if one thrust would send us all to our doom he would strike that thrust.
Yes. Valentine was in his own person the embodiment of the enemy: of those who had come out of the sky and taken the world away from the Piurivars, who had built their own gigantic sprawling cities over virgin forests and glades, had intruded themselves by the billions into the fragile fabric of the Piurivars’ trembling web of life. And so Torkkinuuminad would kill him, if he could, and by killing the Pontifex kill, by the symbolism of magic, all of human-dominated Majipoor.
But magic can be fought with magic, Valentine thought.
“Yes, look at me,” he told the shaman. “Look right into my eyes, Torkkinuuminaad.”
And let his fingers close tightly about the two talismans he had taken from the shrine.
The double force of the teeth struck into Valentine with a staggering impact as he closed the mental circuit. He felt the fall range of the sensations all at once, not simply doubled, but multiplied many times over. He held himself upright nevertheless; he focused his concentration with the keenest intensity; he aimed his mind directly at that of the khivanivod.
Looked. Entered. Penetrated the khivanivod’s memories and quickly found what he was seeking.
Midnight darkness. A sliver of moonlight. The sky ablaze with stars. The billowing tent of the archaeologists. Someone coming out of it, a Piurivar, very thin, moving with the caution of age.
Dr. Huukaminaan, surely.
A slender figure stands in the road, waiting: another Metamorph, also old, just as gaunt, raggedly and strangely dressed.
The khivanivod, that one is. Viewing himself in his own mind’s eye.
Shadowy figures moving about behind him, five, six, seven of them. Shapeshifters all. Villagers, from the looks of them. The old archaeologist does not appear to see them. He speaks with the khivanivod; the shaman gestures, points. There is a discussion of some sort. Dr. Huukaminaan shakes his head. More pointing. More discussion. Gestures of agreement. Everything seems to be resolved.
As Valentine watches, the khivanivod and Huukaminaan start off together down the road that leads to the heart of the ruins.
The villagers, now, emerging from the shadows that have concealed them. Surrounding the old man; seizing him; covering his mouth to keep him from crying out. The khivanivod approaches him.
The khivanivod has a knife.
Valentine did not need to see the rest of the scene. Did not want to see that monstrous ceremony of dismemberment at the stone platform, nor the weird ritual afterward in the excavation leading to the Shrine of the Downfall, the placing of the dead man’s head in that alcove.
He released his grasp on the two sea-dragon teeth and set them down with great care beside him on the ground.
“Now,” he said to the khivanivod, whose expression had changed from one of barely controllable wrath to one that might almost have been resignation. “There’s no need for further pretending here, I think. Why did you kill Dr. Huukaminaan?”
“Because he would have opened the shrine.” The khivanivod’s tone was completely flat, no emotion in it at all.
“Yes. Of course. But Magadone Sambisa also was in favor of opening it. Why not kill her instead?”
“He was one of us, and a traitor,” said Torkkinuuminaad. “She did not matter. And he was more dangerous to our cause. We know that she might have been prevented from opening the shrine, if we objected strongly enough. But nothing would stop him.”
“The shrine was opened anyway, though,” Valentine said. “Yes, but only because you came here. Otherwise the excavations would have been closed down. The outcry over Huukaminaan’s death would demonstrate to the whole world that the curse of this place still had power. You came, and you opened the shrine; but the curse will strike you just as it struck the Pontifex Ghorban long ago.”
“There is no curse,” Valentine said calmly. “This is a city that has seen much tragedy, but there is no curse, only misunderstanding piled on misunderstanding.”
“The Defilement—”
“There was no Defilement either, only a sacrifice. The destruction of the city by the people of the provinces was a vast mistake.”
“So you understand our history better than we do, Pontifex?”
“Yes,” said Valentine. “Yes. I do.” He turned away from the shaman and said, glancing toward the village foreman, “Vathiimeraak, there are murderers living in your settlement. I know who they are. Go to the village now and announce to everyone that if the guilty ones will come forward and confess their crime, they’ll be pardoned after they undergo a fall cleansing of their souls.”
Turning next to Lisamon Hultin, he said, “As for the khivanivod, I want him handed over to the Danipiur’s officials to be tried in her own courts. This falls within her area of responsibility. And then—”
“Majesty!” someone called. “Beware!”
Valentine swung around. The Skandar guards had stepped back from the khivanivod and were staring at their own trembling hands as though they had been burned in a fiery furnace. Torkinuuminaad, freed of their grasp, thrust his face up into Valentine’s. His expression was one of diabolical intensity. “Pontifex!” he whispered. “Look at me, Pontifex! Look at me!” Taken by surprise, Valentine had no way of defending himself. Already a strange numbness had come over him. The dragon-teeth went tumbling from his helpless hands. Torkinuuminaad was shifting shape, now, running through a series of grotesque changes at a frenzied rate, so that he appeared to have a dozen arms and legs at once, and half a dozen bodies; and he was casting some sort of spell. Valentine was caught in it like a moth in a spider’s cunningly woven strands. The air seemed thick and blurred before him, and a wind had come up out of nowhere. Valentine stood perplexed, trying to force his gaze away from the khivanivod’s fiery eyes, but he could not. Nor could he find the strength to reach down and seize hold of the two dragon-teeth that lay at his feet. He stood as though frozen, muddled, dazed, tottering. There was a burning sensation in his breast and it was a struggle simply to draw breath.
There seemed to be phantoms all around him.
A dozen Shapeshifters—a hundred, a thousand—
Grimacing faces. Glowering eyes. Teeth; claws; knives. A horde of wildly cavorting assassins surrounded him, dancing, bobbing, gyrating, hissing, mocking him, calling his name derisively—
He was lost in a whirlwind of ancient sorceries.
“Lisamon?” Valentine cried, baffled. “Deliamber? Help me—help—” But he was not sure that the words had actually escaped his lips.
Then he saw that his guardians had indeed perceived his danger. Deliamber, the first to react, came rushing forward, flinging his own many tentacles up hastily in a counter-spell, a set of gesticulations and thrusts of mental force intended to neutralize whatever was emanating from Torkkinuuminaad. And then, as the little Vroon began to wrap the Piurivar shaman in his web of Vroonish wizardry, Vathiimeraak advanced on Torkinuuminaad from the opposite side, boldly seizing the shaman in complete indifference to his spells, forcing him down to the ground, bending him until his forehead was pressing against the soil at Valentine’s feet.