Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

Nikol pressed his arm in silent sympathy, then drew away. His grief was private; she did not feel that even she had a right to share in it. Hand on her sword hilt, she kept watch, staring out over the ruins that surrounded the obelisk, peering intently into the shadows beyond.

Gradually, Michael’s sobs lessened. Nikol heard him draw a shivering breath.

“Do you want to keep going?” she asked, purposefully cool and calm.

“Yes. We’ve come this far” He sighed. “It’s one thing to see strange cities lying in ruins, another to see one’s home.”

Nikol climbed on the obelisk, used it as a bridge to cross the swamp water. Michael, after a moment’s hesitation, followed after her. His feet trod over the inscription:

The gods reward us in the grace of our home.

Grace. The land was barren, almost a desert, its trees charred stumps, its flower ing plants and bushes nothing but soft ash. There was no sign of any living being, not even animal tracks.

Michael looked out over the ruins of the city’s outskirts. “I can’t believe it,” he said softly to himself. “Why did I come? What did I expect to find here?”

“Your family,” said Nikol quietly.

He looked at her in silence a moment, then slowly nodded. “Yes, you’re right. How well you know me.”

“Perhaps we will find them” she said, forcing a smile. “People might live around here still.”

Nikol tried to sound cheerful, for Michael’s sake. She did not believe herself, however, and she knew she hadn’t fooled Michael. The quiet was oppressive, perhaps because it was not true quiet. A thin undercurrent of sound disturbed the surface. She could tell herself it was the wind, sighing through the broken branches of dead trees, but its sorrow pierced her heart.

Michael shook his head. “No, if they survived, which I doubt, they must have fled into the plains. My mother’s people came from there. She would have gone back to find them.”

Nikol paused, uncertain of her way. “You know, I could almost think that Xak Tsaroth is haunted, that its dead do lament”

Michael shook his head. “If any of the dead walk these broken streets, it is those who are unable or unwilling to pass beyond, to find the mercy of the gods.”

What mercy? Nikol almost asked bitterly, but she bit her tongue, kept silent. Their relationship over these past hard months had deepened. Love was no longer the splendid, perfect bridal garment. The fabric was worn, now, but it fit better, was far more comfortable. Neither could imagine a night spent outside the refuge of the other’s arms. But there were several rents and tears in the shining fabric.

The terrible things they’d seen had left their mark upon them both. When these cuts were mended, they would serve to make the marriage stronger, but now the arguments were growing bitter, had inflicted wounds that were still tender and sore to the touch.

“It’s midafternoon,” she said abruptly. “We don’t have much time if we’re going to make use of the daylight to aid our search. Which way do we go?”

He heard the chill in her voice, knew what she was thinking as well as if she’d said it.

“Straight ahead. We will come to a large well and, beyond that, the Temple of Mishakal.”

“If it’s still standing …”

“It must be,” said Michael firmly. “There we will find the answers to your questions and to mine.”

The remnants of what once had been a broad street took them to an open, paved courtyard. To the east stood four tall, free-standing columns that supported nothing; the building lay in ruins around them. A circular stone wall, rising four feet above the ground, had once been a well. Nikol stopped, peered down, and shrugged. She could see nothing but darkness. Michael ran his hand over the low wall.

“We used to come out of temple classes and sit on this wall and talk of our plans—how we would go forth and, with the help of the gods, change the world for the better.”

“Obviously, the gods weren’t listening.” Nikol gazed around. “Is that the temple?” She pointed.

Now it was Michael who bit his lips on the words that would have precipitated yet another quarrel.

“Yes,” he said instead. “That is the temple.”

“I see it escaped the destruction unscathed,” Nikol stated, her tone bitter.

Michael walked toward the building that was so familiar—its beautiful white stone shining pure and cold—and, at the same time, so alien. Perhaps that was because he missed the sight of the other buildings, now lying in rubble; missed the crowds of people strolling about the courtyard, meeting at the well to exchange the latest news. He ascended the stairs, approached the large, ornate double doors that led into the temple. Made of gold, the doors gleamed coldly in the winter sun. Michael pushed on them.

They did not open.

He pushed again, harder. The doors remained shut fast. Stepping backward, he stared at them in perplexity.

“What’s wrong?” Nikol called from her place, guarding the foot of the stairs.

The doors won’t open,” Michael answered.

They’re barred, then. Keep a look out, will you?” Nikol climbed the stairs, studied the doors. “But they should be easy to pry apart—”

They’re not barred. They couldn’t be. They had no locks on them. The temple was always open … ”

This is ridiculous. There must be a way inside.”

Nikol shoved at the doors, leaned her shoulder against them. The temple doors did not move.

Nikol stared at them, frustrated, angry. “We have to get inside! Is there another way?”

This was the only entrance.”

“I will enter, then!” She drew her sword, was about to thrust it between the doors.

Michael laid his hand upon her arm. “No, Nikol. I forbid it.”

“You forbid it!” Nikol rounded on him in fury. I’m the daughter of a Knight of Solamnia! You dare to give me orders, you who are nothing but a—”

“Cleric,” finished Michael. “And now not even that.” He touched the holy medallion around his neck, the symbol of the goddess. He looked at the temple sadly. “She will not open her doors to me.”

“Now is not the time,” came a voice.

Nikol drew her sword. “Who’s there?” she demanded.

“Put your weapon away, Knight’s Daughter,” said the voice meekly. “I mean you no harm.”

A middle-aged woman dad in threadbare clothing sat at the foot of the stairs. She sat very still; the dark shadow of a broken column had hidden her from view. Perhaps that was why neither Michael nor Nikol had noticed her until now. Nikol sheathed her sword but kept her hand on the hilt. The Cataclysm had not destroyed magic-users, or so rumor had it. This seemingly harmless woman might be a wizardess in disguise.

They both descended the stairs, walking slowly, warily. Nearing her, Nikol saw the woman’s face more clearly. The sorrow etched on the aged and wrinkled skin was heartbreaking. Nikol’s hand slipped from her sword’s hilt. Tears came to her eyes, though she had not cried in all the long months of weary journeying.

“Who are you, Mistress?” Michael asked gently, kneeling beside the woman, who had not moved from where she sat. “What is your name?”

“I have no name,” said the woman quietly. “I am a mother, that is all”

Her clothes were thin. She had no cloak and was shivering in the chill twilight. Michael took his own cloak from his shoulders, wrapped it around the woman.

“You cannot stay here, Mistress,” he said. “Night is coming.”

“Oh, but I must stay here.” She did not seem to notice the cloak. “Otherwise, how will my children know where to find me?”

Nikol knelt. Her voice, which had been so strident when she was arguing with Michael, was now soft and low and filled with compassion. “Where are your children? We’ll take you to them.”