Ричард Кнаак - The Veiled Prophet

But of the culprit, of Zorun Tzin himself, there was no sign.

Amolia all but floated about the chamber, inspecting shelves and corners with practiced eyes. Nurzani bent to examine the fragments that were all that remained of a pattern recently drawn. Kethuus went to investigate the body and the object next to it, the missing mage’s rune-enchanted staff.

“There is nothing of value left on the shelves, and they themselves do not hide a secret path out of here,” Amolia declared after completing a circle. “The corners and the shadows likewise hide no avenue of escape that my arts can unveil.”

From the pattern, Nurzani boomed, “This was originally designed not only to hold something powerful but also to disrupt its ability to concentrate. But someone has altered the design in a manner not of the mage clans’ teachings.”

“So Zorun attempted something unusual?”

“These few lines here are not from our ways. They remind me…of the Triune.”

Amolia glided closer. She peered down at what Nurzani indicated. “We suspected that Zorun had taken one or two survivors for questioning…” What happened to members of the Triune was of little concern to the mage clans, so long as their fates did not reflect publicly on the spellcasters. “Perhaps one of them escaped.”

“Zorun Tzin, whatever we think him, could certainly handle a priest of the Temple,” the gaunt mage replied with a snort.

“Indeed. Kethuus, you are oddly silent.”

The shadowy figure remained bent by the corpse. “This was Terul, of course, but there’s something odd about him. It feels as if he was slain days ago, not mere moments.”

“The halfwit answered the door; he hardly looked dead then.”

Kethuus grinned mirthlessly. “Perhaps his little brain hadn’t yet registered that fact.”

The other two joined him. Amolia prodded the body with her sandaled foot. Part of Terul’s rib cage caved in.

“He suffered far more than the rest of this place. He was the focus of the attack.”

“The giant would be the least of any prisoner’s problems,” the dark mage responded. Then, shrugging, he added, “But I concur that he was the focus.”

Nurzani emitted a disgruntled sound that brought him to the attention of the pair. “And has no one else considered the even more significant clue before our eyes?”

Amolia’s gaze narrowed. “What is that?”

He pointed near the corpse. “Zorun Tzin has left his staff. That staff is a prize to any mage, yet Zorun Tzin has abandoned it. Why?”

Neither other spellcaster could give him an answer…and that bothered all three so very much.

Oris fretted like a mother as she strode past the elegantly carved twin doors for the hundredth time that day. They remained sealed even from the very guards standing just outside them. The Prophet had not been out of his personal chambers in days, something the gray-haired priestess could find no reference to in all the journals kept by herself and her predecessors. He had never gone into such seclusion, and thus she feared the worst.

“You do yourself and him no favor worrying so, dear Oris,” the voice of Gamuel called. The other senior priest strode down the shining marble corridor like a warrior, which he had been until the Prophet had shown him the light. Gamuel was a little younger than Oris and had not held his post quite so long, but he was every bit as devoted as she. “He likely has good reason for what he does, and if he deems us worthy of sharing in that knowledge when he emerges—and he will emerge, Oris—then you’ll see how silly it was to fret.”

“You would think that he might wish us to know how he is so that we can assuage any concerns of the flock,” she returned. Oris did nothing to hide her love—her physical love—for her master. She had been a beautiful woman when she had first come to the Cathedral, and traces of that beauty remained in her oval face even now. However, the Prophet had only seen her as he had all the rest: as one of his children.

Still, Oris had never told even Gamuel a suspicion that she had about their leader, that his heart had once belonged to another female, one who had been unworthy of him. Oris was certain that this was one of the reasons he had not chosen her when she was young. Now that she resembled more his grandmother, there were a thousand other bitter reasons.

But still she loved him, and like wife, mother, and grandmother combined, she tried to take on whatever she imagined his troubles as her own burden.

Gamuel politely took her by the arm so as not to embarrass her before the guards. “As for the flock, some matters have come up that must be discussed immediately.”

The distraction worked. Oris became the veteran that she was. “The peasants’ army? Has it regrouped?”

“Somewhat, but, as you know, they were just a necessary sacrifice to awaken the people to the fanatics’ true nature.”

Both paused to make a momentary prayer to those who had perished futilely attacking Uldyssian ul-Diomed’s followers. The Prophet had explained that the dead would have an honored place in the teachings of the Cathedral.

Finishing her prayer, Oris asked, “Then what is it?”

“We knew that the Ascenian intended to go speak with the mage clans, the guilds, and probably even the prince, but something happened, and he disappeared, leaving many dead in his wake.”

The priestess nodded gravely. “I had thought it the Prophet—”

“And it may be. He’ll tell us if and when he chooses. That’s not important now. What’s important is that the Ascenian’s people now know he’s missing, and his rabble’s only two days from the gates of the capital even as we speak!”

Oris paused in mid-step. She stared into the broad-shouldered man’s face, seeing that he was not exaggerating. That made her immediately look back at the sculpted doors. “He must know of that! He wouldn’t let them march on the city without doing something about it. He must come out now and tell us what to do next!”

They stood there, even Gamuel—caught up by her declaration—expecting the Prophet to fling open the doors and stride out to ease their troubled minds with some great plan.

But the entrance remained sealed.

Uldyssian had no notion where he stumbled or even how he had gotten there in the first place. He only knew that he had to keep going. His explosive effort against Malic, with what he had already suffered at the hands of Zorun Tzin, had left him like one of Mendeln’s walking dead.

He was not even certain where he was anymore. Vaguely, Uldyssian noted others on the streets through which he wended. Mostly dark of skin, not light like home. Toraja? Hashir? No…those were in the past. Where was this? Kehjan? Yes, that was it. The capital.

The capital. Who was it he had needed to see here? Not mages. Uldyssian dared not put himself in the hands of mages. At the moment, they were to him as treacherous a lot as the Triune or the Cathedral.

Who else, then? There had been someone. Master Fahin. He had mentioned someone. Who—

A prince. Uldyssian recalled a prince. Amrin? No. Emrad? Ehmad.

“Ehmad,” he gasped. “I need Ehmad. The prince…”

He weaved past shops and places where raw foodstuffs were sold, occasionally blundering into someone. Most of the Kehjani tried to pretend he did not exist, although a couple muttered something in a vile tone as Uldyssian brushed past.

To one who merely glanced at the ragged figure as he traversed the capital’s high-walled, narrow avenues, Uldyssian appeared to be wandering aimlessly. He staggered into one area, then another. Yet even though he himself did not realize it, he headed exactly where he needed to.

The two white horses reared when the stranger stepped out of the shadows before them. Trained not only for the task of pulling a chariot but also to defend the ones riding it, they sent their hooves crashing down at Uldyssian.