“Watch her,” he told the young Ogre. “I think she could be dangerous.”
“The Prince of Lies will speak to you,” the High Cleric said. “Or not. Accept you. Or not.”
Lyrralt nodded, not trusting himself to speak, for surely it would be unseemly to reveal his excitement, his agitation, before the altar of Hiddukel, the dark god of gain and wealth.
He had been preparing for this moment of being judged worthy or not worthy for all of his young life, for perhaps two hundred of his three hundred years.
To a human savage from the plains, it would have been many lifetimes; to the long lived elves, a fraction of a lifetime. For an Ogre, it was a pittance of time.
The High Cleric was placing the bowl of scented water before him, folding away the light robe she’d brought.
The room was devoid of furniture save for the altar, a huge block of marble bearing the broken scales, symbol of his god, and the small chest on which lay the garment, symbol of his hope. There was no carpet on the floor, no hangings on the walls to insulate the chill of stone.
Lyrralt rubbed his bare arms and stared with open envy and longing at the High Cleric, at the delicate runes marking her emerald skin. They marched from shoulder to wrist on both arms, symbols of her devotion, symbols of Hiddukel’s blessing.
The High Cleric faced him one last time before leaving him to his test. “Let Hiddukel set the runes rightly,” she said softly, bowing her head, both to him and to the altar. Then she left him alone in the cold, dim room.
He took a deep, deep breath, told himself he was not cold, then knelt on the cold marble floor and bowed low, palms open and exposed.
Lyrralt took up the silver bowl which sat at the foot of the altar, sipped of the scented water. He rinsed his mouth and spat delicately into a smaller bowl carved from bone. He dipped his fingers in the water and touched the liquid to ears and eyelids. Then he scooped a handful of the cold liquid and splashed it on his shoulder and upper arm.
Ritual complete, he was ready to ask Hiddukel’s blessing.
He closed his eyes, concentrated with all his strength, and prayed. “Please, Mighty One, Lord of Fiends and Souls, Prince of Lies, accept me as your servant.”
He paused, feeling nothing but his clammy, wet skin, then squeezed his eyes even more firmly and prayed even more fervently. He promised undying devotion, unquestioning obedience. He glanced at his shoulder. The indigo skin was unblemished, perfect.
He prayed and he pleaded. He made promises. He bowed until his forehead was touching the floor. The water evaporated from his skin, but he felt no response from his god.
It was not fair! Lyrralt rocked back on his heels and sat, palms on thighs, breathing heavily with the exertion of his entreaties. He had wanted only this for so long, neglecting his duties on his father’s estate, shirking his responsibilities as eldest son and older brother.
He had thought of little but the things he would gain as a cleric of Hiddukel. The esteem, the advantage, the wealth. Oh, the benefit the robes of the order would give him once his father was dead and he was master!
A strange, sharp sensation smote his left shoulder, so hard it knocked him to the floor, slicing into his bones.
He gasped as though his lungs had emptied of all air.
Sensations too varied, too contradictory to assimilate, flashed through his muscles, across his skin.
Heat and cold, pressure from within and without, pain and pleasure. Blissful pain, as if his flesh were being peeled from his body.
Lyrralt opened his mouth wide and screamed in agony… and joy.
As quickly as it had come, it ended.
He sat up, shivering but no longer cold. He touched his shoulder. There was no pain, but his perfect skin was flawless no longer. The bone-white runes, stark against his dark complexion, marched in three rows across his shoulder.
The door opened, and the High Cleric entered, followed by others of her order, and they gathered around him, exclaiming happiness and welcome. The High Cleric sank to her knees beside him and gazed at the markings on his shoulder.
“What do you see?” Lyrralt demanded.
She smiled at his impatience and ran a fingertip across the sigils. “Many things. You have many paths you may follow, young Lyrralt. Many possibilities.”
“Tell me.”
“I see a beginning. Hiddukel shows…” She lifted an eyebrow, impressed. “The Dark Queen. Perhaps you will be called upon by the Dark One herself.”
Lyrralt shuddered to think of being honored by Takhisis herself, Queen of Darkness.
“No, perhaps it means only darkness or death to a queen. A dead queen. It is not clear.”
“But we have no queen!”
“Hiddukel will guide you,” she admonished gently and continued to examine the runes. “There is family here. Someone close. There is mischief. Revenge. Success.”
The High Cleric motioned to one of the others, and he brought Lyrralf s robe.
As Lyrralt stood, he asked, “It’s not very clear, is it?”
“Never in the beginning, but the Prince will guide you.”
The lamps danced in the mine, bright pinpricks of light stabbing through darkness as thick and black as ink. The timbers that shored up the walls and ceiling creaked, and the rocks they held back groaned, singing a song eerie and sad.
“The slaves say the earth is crying for the gems and stones we take out of it.”
Igraine, governor of Khal-Theraxian, largest province in the Ogre civilization, smiled indulgently at his daughter, Everlyn. In the dim light, he could barely see her, but he knew her eyes were dilated with excitement, her deep-sea complexion darkened to emerald.
Only child, pampered, spoiled, raised in the brightness and cheer of one of the finest estates in the mountains… He couldn’t explain why she preferred the darkness, why she preferred the rocks and minerals his slaves dug out of the earth over copper and gold and polished gems.
He glanced up at the ragged rocks just inches above his nose. His race had lived in the Khalkists from the beginning of time, choosing as their rightful place the lofty mountain range that divided the northern half of the continent of Ansalon. The mountains spread downward from the Thorad Plain, home of the wild humans, to the tip of the forest of the elves.
Khal-Theraxian, built on the southernmost arm of the Khalkists, was only a few days’ ride from the heavily wooded edge of the elven forests. At one time, it had been a bustling center of trade for those dealing in stolen elven goods and elven slaves. But that was many generations ago, before the riches under the ground had been discovered, before the firstborn had realized that the good and gentle elves made poor slaves and the malleable humans made excellent ones.
Igraine’s ancestors had worked the mines of Khal-Theraxian, had perhaps even stared up at this very ceiling, for this particular passage was a very old one, just recently reopened and reused. Perhaps they, too, had stared overhead and wondered if the ceiling of rock would come crashing down upon their heads.
The tunnels were dug by humans, sized for humans, not the lofty Ogre masters who towered over them by at least three hands.
Although his nerves danced, Igraine didn’t show any worry or concern. A governor had to set an example. He didn’t quake in the face of a slave uprising, nor when caught in the midst of a mountaintop blizzard. And he did not show how the creaking and singing of the rock in the depths of his most productive mine made his skin tighten and crawl.
Everlyn glanced up at him, her even white teeth a slash in the shadows, her silvery eyes aglitter.