Troy Denning: The Verdant Passage

Though he was puzzled by the king’s interest in his opinion, Tithian did not intend to allow his lack of expertise to influence his answer. His reply would be dictated by two things: what he thought the king wanted to hear, and what would serve Tithian best politically.

Tithian decided a negative answer would serve him best. The High Templar of the King’s Works, a woman named Dorjan, was his greatest rival. Kalak seemed upset with her, so Tithian sensed an opportunity to add to her troubles.

“Well?” the king demanded.

The templar turned to face the king and was almost overcome with awe. He had not looked out from this level of the ziggurat before, and he could only wonder at all he could see.

At the base of the mighty pyramid lay the sandy floor of the gladiatorial arena, where the games celebrating the completion of the ziggurat would take place. From here the arena looked no larger than the courtyard of a minor noble’s townhouse, and the great tiers of seats flanking the field resembled the terraced walls of a garden. Even the Golden Tower of Kalak’s palace, which overlooked the opposite end of the arena, seemed an insignificant spire compared to the ziggurat.

Beyond the royal palace lay the Templar’s Ward. It held the marble palaces of the six high templars, along with the elegant mansions of their trusted assistants and the lavish chamberhouses of the subordinate priests. Hundreds of guards patrolled the streets of this district day and night, and a high wall capped with jagged shards of obsidian isolated it from the rest of Tyr. On the far side of the ward stood the fortifications of the city wall, a brick barricade so wide that a military road ran along its crest, and so high that even the Dragon could not peer over it.

From the ziggurat Tithian could see even beyond the wall. There lay Kalak’s fields, a three-mile ring of blue burgrass, golden smokebrush, and ground holly, made fertile only by the blood and toil of a legion of slaves. On the far side of these rich pastures lay the orange expanse of the Tyr Valley, a vast sweep of dusty scrubland, speckled here and there with gray-green thickets of bushy tamarisk and spindly catclaw trees.

Through the veil of dust that hung in the air, permanently tinting the Athasian sky in a kaleidoscope of pastel hues, Tithian could even see the stark, ashen crags of the Ringing Mountains. He had heard that on the far side of those impassable peaks there flourished a jungle, but of course he dismissed such absurd tales. From what he knew, all of Athas resembled the wastes of the Tyr Valley, although some regions were perhaps even more desolate.

Kalak interrupted Tithian’s reverie with a terse demand. “Tithian, what of my ziggurat? Will Dorjan finish it in time?”

“It looks difficult, but not impossible,” Tithian replied, cautiously avoiding an open attack on his rival. “I’m discouraged that there is so much left to accomplish, but perhaps Dorjan has a solid plan.”

The king did not reply. Instead, he cast his glance toward a slender templar approaching from the north. It was Dorjan. She was a beautiful woman, with an ivory complexion, straight nose, and high cheekbones. Yet she was not alluring, for her stern personality and cruel temper cast a sharp edge over her features. The high templar moved with a decisive stride, her long, silky hair waving in the wind like a black banner. When she saw Tithian, her dark eyes grew as hard as the bricks of the ziggurat, and the full red lips of her wide mouth twisted into a confident sneer.

Behind Dorjan came a pair of subordinates, both burly men with rugged faces and square jaws. Between them they dragged an emaciated slave with dun-colored hair and pallid skin. The slave cradled two broken arms against his stomach. One eye was swollen shut; with the other, he peered at the ground. The man wheezed laboriously through bloody lips, for his nose had been smashed and was now spread across his cheeks like a black-and-purple mask.

“How are my games coming, Tithian?” Kalak inquired casually. His beady eyes were fixed on the slave.

“If the ziggurat were completed today, we could hold the games tomorrow,” Tithian replied proudly. “My beast-handlers have trapped a new creature you will find most surprising.”

The king raised an eyebrow. “Truly? That would be something.”

Tithian silently cursed himself. During the thousand years of his reign, Kalak had no doubt seen more exotic beasts than the high templar could even imagine. It was foolish to raise the king’s expectations with immodest boasting.

Before Tithian could cover his blunder, Dorjan joined them. Pointedly ignoring her rival, she faced Kalak and bowed. When the ancient king held out his shriveled hand, the templar touched her lips to the withered flesh.

“This is the one?” Kalak asked, withdrawing his hand and motioning at the slave.

Dorjan nodded, then reached into her pocket and withdrew a bone amulet covered with runes. “He tried to seal this into the inner passage,” she said, offering it to the king. “The runes are meant-”

“To create an invisible wall,” Kalak growled, snatching the amulet from her hand. He thrust the bone under the battered slave’s nose. “What did you hope to accomplish with this trinket?”

The slave shrugged. “I don’t know,” he mumbled in a weak voice. “She told me to seal it in the main shaft.”

“Who told you?” Dorjan asked, smirking in Tithian’s direction.

Before the slave answered, Tithian felt the king’s beady-eyed stare turn upon him as well, ready to gauge his reaction.

“I don’t know her name,” the slave muttered, still not looking up. “A half-elf owned by the High Templar of the Games-”

“Sadira,” Tithian interrupted, supplying the name of the only half-elf he owned. “She’s a scullery maid in my personal training pit. I’m aware of her association with the Veiled Alliance.”

Dorjan frowned at Tithian. “Is that so? I suppose you’ll also claim to know that she’s trying to disrupt the upcoming games.”

“Of course,” Tithian replied, concealing his surprise. “I haven’t yet determined the exact nature of the Alliance’s plan.” He ran gaze over the scaffolding on the seventh tier. “Fortunately, it appears I have more than enough time to complete my investigation.”

Giving no hint of whether he believed Tithian, Kalak looked to Dorjan. “It does seem that Tithian has several weeks to uncover my enemy’s plan. Is that not correct?”

Dorjan reluctantly nodded. “It is.”

Kalak scowled. “I thought as much.” He casually grasped the battered slave by the back of the head. “Let’s see if we can help Tithian with his investigation.”

“No!” The slave tried to pull away and hurl himself off the terrace, but the king’s grip remained secure. Kalak closed his eyes, and the man screamed.

With only casual interest, Tithian watched Kalak enter the slave’s mind, for he had a better understanding than most men of what the king was doing. When Tithian was young, his parents had required him to study the psionic arts, enforcing a strict regimen of self-denial and painful rituals in the name of harnessing the spiritual and mental powers of his being. Under the harsh discipline of his master, Tithian had learned to use these energies to probe another’s thoughts, to make objects move with the force of his mind alone, even to picture in his head what lay on the other side of a thick wall. But the Way of the Unseen, as his mentor had called the disciplines, was a difficult path to follow. Tithian had left the school as soon as he grew old enough to make his own decisions, opting for the much easier and more lucrative life of a king’s templar.

A slight smile crossed Kalak’s papery lips. The slave gurgled incoherently and began to drool, his battered face contorting in agony. Then his jaws clamped together violently, and the detached tip of his tongue slipped out between his swollen lips and dropped to the dusty brick floor.