Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

There,” said the woman, and she nodded toward the destroyed city.

Nikol caught her breath, looked at Michael. “She’s gone mad!” she mouthed.

“How long have you been waiting here,A Mistress?” he asked.

“Since that day,” she answered, and they had no need to ask which day she meant. “I have never left them. They left me, you know. They were supposed to meet me here, but they didn’t come. I’ll keep waiting. Someday, they will return.”

Nikol brushed her hand across her eyes. Michael gazed at the woman. He was at a loss to know what to do. He couldn’t leave this poor, mad creature here. She would surely die. But it was obvious that she would not go without a struggle, and the shock of that might well kill her. Perhaps, if he could draw her thoughts away from her tragedy …

“Mistress, I am a cleric of Mishakal. I have returned to the temple in search of the disks that were kept here. You said that now is not the time to enter. When will the golden doors open?”

“When the evil comes out of the well. When the blue crystal staff shines. When dark wings spread over the land. Then my children will come. Then the doors will open.” The woman spoke in a dreamy voice.

“When will that be?”

“Long … long.” The woman blinked dazedly. The mists of madness parted, and she seemed to return to reality. “You seek the disks? They are not in there.”

“Where, then?” Michael asked eagerly.

“Some say … Palanthas,” the woman murmured. “Astinus. The great library. Go to Palanthas. There you will find the answer you seek.”

“Palanthas!” Michael sat back on his heels, appalled. The thought of more months of traveling, of venturing back out into the savage land, came close to driving him to the pathetic state of this pitiable woman.

But Nikol’s eyes shone. “Palanthas! The High Clerist’s Tower, strong bastion of the Solamnic Knights. Yes, that is where we will find answers. Come, Michael,” she said, rising briskly to her feet. “We can get in an hour’s journeying before sunset.”

Michael stood reluctantly. “Are you sure you won’t come with us, Mistress?”

“This is my place,” she said to him, fingering the cloak. “How will they know where to find me otherwise? Thank you for this wrap, though. I will be warm now, as I wait.”

He started to go, felt a strong tugging at his heart. Turning, he stared at her. Suddenly, she seemed very familiar. Perhaps he’d known her—a friend, a neighbor.

“How can I leave you?”

She smiled, a strange, sad smile. “Go with my blessing, child. Someday, you, too, will return. And when you do, I will be waiting.”

The great seaport city of Palanthas, built by dwarves, fabled as far back as the Age of Might, was, according to swift-flying rumor, one of the few cities to come through the Cataclysm almost unscathed. Michael and Nikol, to their astonishment and disquiet, found themselves two drops in a steadily flowing stream of refugees, flowing toward what was purportedly a rich, safe harbor.

Located in western Solamnia, on the Bay of Branchala, the Cityhome, as it was known among its inhabitants, was governed by a noble lord under the auspices of the Knights of Solamnia, whose stronghold—the Tower of the High Clerist—guarded the mountain pass that kept goods and wealth flowing from Palanthas to the lands beyond.

But, though the city’s walls and pavement, its tall towers and graceful minarets, may have survived the Cataclysm without damage, the disaster opened cracks within its population. These cracks had always been there, but the rifts had been covered by wealth, reverence for the gods, respect for (and fear of) the knights.

Now, almost a year after the Cataclysm, wealth had ceased to enter Palanthas. Few ships sailed the sea. Beggars, not gold, came pouring through the gates. The city’s economy collapsed beneath the weight. Here, as in other places throughout Ansalon, the people looked for someone other than themselves to blame.

Michael and Nikol, along with numerous other fellow travelers, arrived at the city of Palanthas in midmorning. They’d heard rumors in abundance, some good, but many more dark—tales of beating, looting, murder. Mostly, they’d discounted them, but rumor had not prepared them for the sight that met their eyes.

“May the gods have mercy,” said Michael, staring in pity and horror.

Throngs of people—ragged, wretched—crouched on the road outside the walls. At the sight of new arrivals, they surged forward, begging for anything that might, for a moment, relieve their misery and suffering.

Michael, sick at heart, would have given them all he owned, but Nikol, her face pale, her lips pressed tight, steered him with a firm hand through the grasping, wailing mob that surrounded the city gates.

The gates stood open wide, people pouring in, shoving their way out. The guards kept traffic moving, but did little else. One of them, however, eyed Nikol, and the weapon she wore, with interest.

“Hey, you. Mercenary. The Revered Son’s looking for swords,” said the guard. “You can earn yourself a meal, a place to sleep.” He jerked a thumb. “Head for Old City.”

“Revered Son?” Michael repeated, in disbelief.

“Thank you,” said Nikol, catching hold of her husband and dragging him away. Outside the walls, they could hear the disappointed cries of the beggars.

Inside the walls, things were not much better. People lay sleeping in doorways or on the bare, cold pavement. Evil-looking men drifted near, saw Nikol’s sword and Michael’s stout staff, and drifted away. Two slatternly women caught hold of them and tried to drag them into a tumble-down hovel. The city stank of filth and death and disease.

They were loathe to stop and ask anyone directions. Nikol’s father had visited Palanthas often, however, and had described the layout of the city, which was like a gigantic wheel. The great and ancient library stood in the city’s center, known as Old City, along with the palace, the homes of the knights, and other important structures. They made their way through the wall that separated Old City from the New. Here the streets were not as crowded, almost empty. The air was cleaner, easier to breathe.

Michael and Nikol hurried forward, certain that the library must be a haven of peace in this wretched city. They had barely passed through the Old City wall when they discovered why the streets had been deserted. All the people—and there must have been hundreds—were gathered here.

“Where’s the library?” Michael asked, peering over the heads of the crowd.

“There,” said Nikol, pointing to the building the mob surrounded.

“What’s going on here?” Michael asked a woman standing near him.

“Hush!” she said, glaring at him. “The Revered Son is speaking.”

“Over here!” Nikol drew Michael into a grove of trees that bordered one of the broad avenues of Old City. From this vantage point, both could see and hear the speaker, who stood upon the very steps of the Great Library of Palanthas.

“Do you know what is behind those walls, good citizens? I’ll tell you! Lies!” A man pointed an accusing finger at the large, elegant, columned building behind him. “Lies about the Kingpriest!”

The crowd gathered around him muttered angrily.

“Yes, I’ve seen them, read them with my own eyes!” The man tapped those eyes, remarkable only for the fact that they were squinted and sly-looking. “The great Astinus”—the voice was poisoned with sarcasm—“writes that the Kingpriest called down the wrath of the gods by making demands of them! And who had a better right? What man has lived who was as good as that man? I’ll tell you the real reason the gods hurled the fiery mountain upon Istar!”