Jack Chalker - Exiles at the Well of Souls

She strained to think what the place reminded her of, and, all at once, she had it. An ancient temple. An altar. Sacrifice?

She sped directly back to Renard and Hosuru. There was no time to lose.

They lifted her off when they came to the hexagonal opening and carried her gently inside. There was a chamber there, an enlargement of a natural cave of limestone or something similar. Torches had been lit along the fairly broad passageway, which opened quickly into the main chamber.

It was a temple, no question about it. There was an area for supplicants to stand, a rail, and then tables set on either side of a large yellow stone that seemed to be protruding out of the natural rock in back. It was multifaceted; millions of them, from all evidence, reflecting the torchlight as if it had a strange, eerie life of its own. Mounted on the both walls, in solid gold, were outlines of the hexagon symbol.

The high priest, for by now it was evident what he was, preceded them, lighting small candles in ceremonial holders, six per holder. Then he went behind the rail. Satisfied all was in readiness, he nodded to the guards to bring her forward. They did, placing her facing the strange yellow stone.

“Undress it,” the priest snapped, and the guards removed her black cloth shirt, black pants, and boots. It was suddenly chilly.

She was nude.

The guards tossed the clothing in a heap outside the altar rail. She longed to be able to use some of the things in those boots or the belt, or even to try the nail venom on them. But she was held motionless by something she could not control.

The priest moved toward her, motioning for them to turn her a little bit toward him. His yellow cat’s eyes glowed weirdly in the torchlight.

“Spy,” he said, his voice crisp, businesslike, and without a trace of mercy or compassion in it, “you have been judged guilty by the High Priestly Council of the Blessed Well,” he intoned, bowing his head slightly when pronouncing the last two words. He made a horizontal motion with his right hand, and she felt control return to her head. She moistened her lips, but knew she could talk.

“I didn’t even have a trial and you know it!” she protested hoarsely. “I haven’t had a chance to say anything!”

“I did not say you were tried,” the priest pointed out, “only that you were judged. There are no mitigating factors. Heathen knock on our door to the north, worse heathen wantonly and horribly kill tens of thousands of the Chosen of the Well to the south. Now, you come. You are not of the Olborn, certainly. Nor are you here by invitation or permission of the High Priestly Council of the Blessed Well.” Again the slight nod. “A spy you are, and so I ask you, is there any way for you to conclusively prove your innocence?”

What a loaded question! she thought. Prove you didn’t smile. Prove you didn’t kill your mother whom the court never knew or heard of. “You know no one can prove they aren’t something,” she retorted.

He nodded. “Of course. But there is a final arbiter of justice.”

“You’re going to kill me,” she said more than asked.

The priest looked genuinely shocked. Mavra wondered why she’d always liked cats in the past.

“Of course we do not kill, except in self-defense. All life is from the Blessed Well, and cannot be taken lightly. As you took no other life, unlike your companions, we could not take yours.”

Both parts of that observation cheered her a little. Alive meant hope, and the news that the others had sent some of these religious fanatics to an early grave was just as satisfying.

“The Well, in Its infinite wisdom and mercy,” the priest explained, as if in a liturgy, “established among the Olbornians a more equitable means of final judgment—final, absolute, and conclusive. The stone that is before you is one of six, located near the six corners of Olborn. It is proof of the favored status of the Olbornians with the Blessed Well. Its power comes from the Well Itself. What it does has never been undone.”

This tack started unnerving her again. She thought of Renard, changed into a different creature. What the hell did this thing do?

“The Well, in Its infinite wisdom,” continued the priest, “saw that Its Chosen People were in a harsh land, rich but without beasts of burden to help Its Chosen People till the good soil, pull its burdens, turn its water wheels. Thus we have the Sacred Stones. When a transgressor, whether alien or Olbornian, is accused, he is brought before one of the High Priests of the Blessed Well, and thence in his company to the Sacred Stone. Should you be innocent, then nothing will happen to you. You will be free to go on your way, unmolested, protected by the Seal of the Blessed Well. But, should you be guilty, it will mete out the most wonderful of justices.” He paused. “You saw the detik upon which you were carried here?”

She thought a moment. The little mules with the big ears and sad eyes. “Yes,” she replied, curious and apprehensive. Where the hell were the Lata and Renard?

“They are sexless, joyless. Totally placid, they are incapable of harming anything, and are forced to obey our commands. Should you be guilty, you will turn to a detik, a beast of the fields, condemned to serve the Olbornians in silent labor the rest of your life.”

She was appalled, unbelieving. “You mean the mules—all of them—were once people?”

The priest nodded. “It is so.” He turned to the guards. “Hold her arms tight,” he cautioned. Then he turned back to Mavra. She felt strong hands holding her arms just behind the wrist. The priest waved his arms again, and she felt movement return to her whole body.

“Touch her hands to the Sacred Stone!” the priest commanded, his voice echoing through the damp cavern. The two powerful arms ignored her twisting and pushed her unwilling hands to the faceted yellow orb.

Something like a strong, burning electric shock went through her arms to her shoulders. The effect was so strong and so painful that she screamed and actually pulled away from the wretched thing despite the strength of her two captors.

“That was Mavra!” Vistaru yelled. “Come on! Hurry!” she called to Hosuru and Renard, who rushed ahead. Neither cared any more if there was a whole army ahead; they were going in now.

Inside the chamber, the priest seemed to smile and intoned, “Again!” This time the terrible shock and pain went from her hips to her toes, and, strangely, wound up in her ears. Again she screamed and fought to pull away.

“Again!” the priest commanded, but at that moment the onrushing Lata and Agitar charged, Renard yelling bloodcurdling screams that echoed terrifyingly off the cavern walls.

The priest turned, looking stunned and surprised. Like most fanatics, the concept that anybody would invade his holiest of places had simply never occurred to him, and he couldn’t handle it. He stood there petrified. Not the two guards. They dropped Mavra and whirled. They had no pistols, which was fortunate, but they bore ceremonial steel swords, which they drew.

Keeping all their attention on the guards and priest, Renard and Vistaru both yelled, “Run, Mavra! Get out of here! We’ll handle this!”

The first guard took advantage of this distraction to advance on Renard, sword poised, saberlike, in front of him.

Renard smiled grimly, and moved his tast out in a similar manner, as if preparing to duel. The guard looked at the thin, snaky copper-clad whip and chuckled. He moved with his sword, and Renard brought the tast up, touching the sword.

Sparks flew, and the guard screamed and dropped to the floor of the cavern, the point where his hand gripped the hilt actually smoking slightly.