“One to be admitted,” said the Door, heavily.
The Book (titles were shortened, for convenience’ sake) nodded and rang a small silver gong that sat on her desk.
Another Kenkari, the Keeper of the Soul, entered from a side room. The Book rose respectfully to her feet. The Door bowed. Keeper of the Soul was the highest rank attainable among the Kenkari, A wizard of the Seventh House, the Kenkari who held this title was not only the most powerful of his clan, but also one of the most powerful elves in the empire. The Soul’s word, in times past, had been enough to bring kings to their knees. But now? The Door wondered.
The Soul held out his hand, reverently accepted the box. Turning, he laid the box upon the altar and knelt to begin his prayers. The Door told the maiden’s name and recited all he knew of the young woman’s lineage and history to the Book, who jotted down notes. She would record the details more fully, when she had time.
“So young,” said the Book, sighing. “What was the cause of death?” The Door licked dry lips. “Murder.”
The Book raised her eyes, stared at him, glanced over at the Soul. The Soul ceased his prayers, turned around.
“You sound certain this time.”
“There was a witness. The drug did not take complete hold. Our weesham has a taste for fine wine, it seems,” the Door added, with a twisted smile. “She knew bad from good and wouldn’t drink it.”
“Do they know?”
“The Unseen know everything,” said the Book in a low voice.
“She is being followed. They have been following her,” said the Door.
“Here?” The Soul’s eyes flared. “Not onto the sacred grounds.”
“No. As yet the emperor does not dare send them here.” The words as yet hung ominously in the air.
“He grows careless,” said the Soul.
“Or more bold,” suggested the Door.
“Or more desperate,” said the Book softly.
The Kenkari stared at one another. The Soul shook his head, passed a trembling hand through his white, wispy hair. “And now we know the truth.”
“We have long known it,” said the Door, but he said it quietly, and the Soul did not hear.
“The emperor is slaying his own kin for their souls, to aid him in his cause. The man fights two wars, three enemies: the rebels, the humans, the Gegs below. Ancient hatred and mistrust keeps these three groups divided, but what if something should happen and they should unite? That is what the emperor fears, that is what drives him to this madness.
“And it is madness,” said the Door. “He is decimating the royal line, lopping off its head, cutting out its heart. Who does he have slaughtered but the young, the strong, those whose souls cling most stubbornly to life. He hopes that these souls will add their strong voices to the holy voice of Krenka-Anris, give our wizards more magical power, strengthen the arms and wills of our soldiers.”
“Yet for whom does Krenka-Anris speak now?” asked the Soul. The Door and Book kept silent, neither daring to respond.
“We will ask,” said the Keeper of the Soul. He turned back to the altar. The Keeper of the Door and the Keeper of the Book knelt alongside, one to the Soul’s left, the other to his right. Above the altar, a pane of clear crystal permitted them to see within the Aviary. The Keeper of the Soul lifted a small bell from the altar, a bell made of gold, and rang it. The bell had no clapper, made no sound that living ears could hear. Only the dead could hear it, or so the Kenkari believed.
“Krenka-Anris, we call to you,” said the Keeper of the Soul, raising his arms in appeal. “Holy Priestess, who first knew the wonder of this magic, hear our prayer and come to give us counsel. Thus we pray:
The three knelt before the altar in profound silence, each waiting for the response. No word was spoken aloud. No flame flared suddenly on the altar. No shimmering vision appeared before them. But each heard the answer clearly in his or her own soul, as each heard the clang of the tongueless bell. Each rose up and stared at the others, faces pale, eyes wide, in confusion and disbelief.
“We have our answer,” said the Keeper of the Soul in awed and solemn tones.
“Do we?” whispered Door. “Who can understand it?”
“Other worlds. A gate of death that leads to life. A man who is dead but who is not dead. What are we to make of this?” asked Book.
“When the time is propitious, Krenka-Anris will make all known,” said the Soul, firmly, regaining his composure. “Until then, our way is clear. Keeper,” he said, speaking to the Door, “you know what to do.” The Keeper bowed in acquiescence to the Soul, knelt a final time before the altar, then left upon his duty. The Keeper of the Soul and the Keeper of the Book waited in the small room, listening with inheld breath and fast-beating hearts for the sound that neither had ever thought to hear.
It came—a hollow boom. Grillwork made of gold, fashioned in the form of butterflies, had been lowered into place. Delicate, lovely, fragile-seeming, the grille was imbued with magic that made it stronger than any iron portcullis that served the same function.
The great central door that led inside the Cathedral of the Albedo had been closed.
19
Haplo raged inside a prison cell that was open and airy and wide as the world. He tried helplessly to batter his way through bars that were flimsy as strands of silken spiderweb. He paced a floor compassed round by no walls, he pounded on an open door, guarded by no guards. Yet a man who’d been born in a prison knew no worse prison than that in which he now found himself. By setting him free, by letting him go, by granting him the privilege of doing whatever he desired, the serpents had thrown him into a cage, bolted the door, tossed away the key.
For there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go, no way to escape. Feverish thoughts and plans raced through his mind. He had first wakened from his sleep to find himself on one of the elven dragonships, bound—according to Sang-drax—for the elven city of Paxaris, located on the continent of Aristagon. Haplo considered killing Sang-drax, considered taking over the elven ship, considered leaping off the ship himself, to fall to his death through the empty skies. When he reviewed his plans coldly and rationally, the last seemed the only one likely of accomplishing anything constructive. He could kill Sang-drax, but—as the serpents had told him—their evil would only return, and be twice as strong. Haplo could take over the elven ship; the Patryn’s magic was powerful, far too powerful for the puny ship’s wizard to counter. But Haplo’s magic couldn’t fly the dragonship, and where would he go anyway? Back to Drevlin? The serpents were there. Back to the Nexus? The serpents were there, too. Back to Abarrach? Most assuredly, the serpents would be there.