James Barclay - Once walked with Gods

‘Shorth’s majesty still holds sway but you can call on us if you need more security.’

Telian let go Pelyn’s hands and smiled. ‘I suspect you are stretched to breaking already. The fifteen are here. Now, is there something we can do for you? Souls needing comfort as they move to the embrace of Shorth?’

‘I need an audience with Llyron. If she will see us, we can move more quickly towards a solution to this crisis. We can bring the threads together again under respected authority. Llyron’s authority in the absence of so many others.’

Telian hesitated for a fraction. ‘Llyron does not normally grant personal audiences outside the days of observance.’

Pelyn spread her hands. ‘You know what I am going to say to that. Telian, I must speak with her. The city is torn. There is still a chance we can properly restore order. Surely she will want to hear me.’

Telian smiled. ‘I’m sure she will. Come with me. I cannot guarantee you audience but I’ll do what I can. So long as you’re sure this is what you want.’

‘Of course,’ said Pelyn, a little confused. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Currently, certainty is everything. You should remember that.’

Pelyn chose not to respond. She wasn’t sure how to answer such a comment. It barely made sense. Instead, she gestured for Telian to lead on. The priest of Shorth moved off around to the right of the altar, paused to bow at the foot of the throne and headed towards the temple’s right arm.

Here, the priests and guests of the temple lived and worked when not required in the hall. They worked on cures for more ills than Pelyn knew existed, on new methods of surgery and of course on scriptures and services to better aid the travelling of souls to Shorth’s embrace.

It was the paradox of the Shorth devotee that while their primary role was succour for the dead and comfort for the grieving, the desire of each and every one of them was in prolonging life. Llyron had once joked that her key focus was on rendering herself unemployed. She was the only Ynissul in the order and had been a surprising appointment on the death of the Beethan incumbent four years before. Jarinn had known about her elevation even if he had not known about the many others that had raised the ire of Lorius.

Telian led them past pale-painted walls hung with tapestries depicting the many faces of Shorth’s glory, the peace and beauty of death and grand imaginings of the halls of the ancients. The arm of the temple was a far plainer affair. The work of Shorth required no distraction. Timber and stone walls were unadorned and doors to cells, chambers, record rooms and laboratories were simple timber and iron affairs.

The air was cool and the quiet of the temple was intensified by the energy of effort. Pelyn had never been down this arm, only the left, where bodies were brought for blessing and dressed for transport out to the hallows. The Chambers of Stillness would be full today.

Telian led them to a door almost at the end of the arm. A side door back into the piazza was the only other beyond this one.

‘Wait here.’

Telian opened the door, on which was carved the embracing symbol of Shorth, and walked inside, closing it behind her. Whatever the tenor of the conversation, it was very brief. The door opened and Telian gestured them inside, closing it to leave the three Al-Arynaar alone with Llyron, high priest of Shorth.

Llyron was seated behind a wide wooden desk covered completely with parchment, book and scripture. She was using a magnifying glass to examine a passage involving delicate, faded images.

‘Such magnificent work,’ said Llyron. ‘You must all examine this text. There’ll be plenty of time before you leave, I’m sure.’

She raised her head and favoured them with a broad smile that made her eyes sparkle and warmed the otherwise chill and austere chamber. Llyron was a particularly tall Ynissul, with soft features somewhat at odds with those typical of her thread. Her ears were tiny and flat against her head, her nose slender and long and her eyes less angled. She was beautiful but severe. An artist’s ideal of the two faces of Shorth.

Pelyn led Methian and the terribly nervous Jakyn in opening her arms and bowing her head. She spoke while studying the faded rug on which she stood.

‘I am honoured and grateful you have agreed to talk to us,’ she whispered.

‘Come, Pelyn, these are not days for protocol. The Al-Arynaar are revered here. You can look at me when addressing me. Always.’

Pelyn looked up. Llyron was moving from behind her desk, her plain white robes caressing its gentle edge and wafting air beneath a few of the papers on its pocked and scarred surface.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Speak, child of Tual. Tell me of your plans.’

Pelyn took a deep breath to prevent herself from gabbling.

‘We still have an opportunity to stop this conflict before damage to the harmony becomes irreparable. There is a fleet heading this way. I’m certain traitors within the city will meet it. I aim to stop them. Find them and kill them. We know Hithuur is one such and we will uncover others if you back us.

‘Use your voice. The threads will listen to you and act on your words. You can loosen tongues. Make fingers point. If they do, I can do this. Even with the few Al-Arynaar I have, I can do this. Will you help me? Help us?’

Llyron inclined her head. ‘You come to me in the role of saviour of Ysundeneth. But Ysundeneth does not need saving. Nor yet the wider population of our great people. Salvation is all around us.’

Pelyn glanced at Methian to make sure she had heard Llyron’s words correctly. Methian’s mouth was moving soundlessly as it did when he was confused.

‘I don’t understand. The threads are disintegrating. They are ripping each other apart out there. Literally in some cases. And they have murdered every Ynissul not taken to safety by the TaiGethen. Forgive me but this is not salvation, it is slaughter.’

Llyron’s smile had faded.

‘In his heart an elf is still a predatory pack animal. It is in his blood and in the basest of his desires. He only vaguely understands the necessity of a fair and equable society or the need for tolerance of others.’

Pelyn’s heart skipped painfully and her body cooled. Beside her, Methian was rigid. Jakyn was trying not to breathe at all. Llyron continued.

‘You cannot spread a timber floor upon the crater of an active volcano. Takaar’s thousand-year experiment is a failure. There are those of us who prayed fervently for the day he failed. The day the threads turned against him. And now they have. Elves have voted by word and action. They do not need the closeness of other threads. They do not need the abhorrence of inter-thread union. Only Shorth can save those innocents born of such filthy depravity. They need order. They need authority, not idle chatter in the beetle. They need the old order restored. As it was before the War of Bloods. As it was when we enjoyed our longest period of peace. Enter.’

Pelyn glanced behind her at the door. It opened and Telian came in followed by three of the Senserii, by Sildaan the scripture priest from Aryndeneth, Hithuur and six men. Some of the men wore armour. Others did not.

Pelyn felt something inside her give. She snatched out her short blade and rushed at Hithuur.

‘Bastard! You murdered my priest. Bastard!’

Pelyn was fast. Hithuur was ahead of the six men and vulnerable. Pelyn slid in, just like Katyett had taught her, keeping her sword in front of her face. Her feet slammed into his ankles, bringing him crashing down. Pelyn drove back to her feet, bringing her sword back to strike.

Every man had drawn a weapon but Pelyn didn’t care if she was struck down. She was in the right place for her soul to pass after all. The foot of an ikari slapped into the back of her knees, twisted and lifted. Pelyn felt herself tumbling back. A second staff struck her chest, accelerating her fall. She hit the ground heavily, the wind knocked from her body. Before she could take a breath, all three ikari blades were at her throat.