P. Hodgell - The Sea of Time

Jame had heard that the merchant, Master Silk Purse, was haranguing his guild about Kothifir’s need for new rulers. Lord Merchandy was his prime target, although there were whispers that he also spoke in private against the king. It was unclear to Jame if he wanted a civil uprising or a Change—surely not the latter since that would put his own position as a guild master at risk as well, unless he was so arrogant that he considered himself unassailable. Then again, what did he think he could do to restore the city’s now dwindling wealth?

She could only imagine how Kothifirans would react if they ever learned that a Kencyr temple coming to life in the past had caused their current distress. The sea awash with the dead at Langadine still haunted her. Damn her god anyway for his unthinking cruelty, much more to Langadine than to Kothifir. That in turn reminded her of Kothifir’s temple, which she hadn’t visited since her arrival in the city.

Consequently, when Gaudaric finally released her from leather bondage, she made her way toward the ruined outer ring of the city.

This time she entered the topless tower from the ground level. The temple still loomed up through the broken floors like a dormant volcano, making her wonder anew why anyone had built it there to begin with. Perhaps it had been small at first and the structure had been built around it to hide its existence. However, it wasn’t quite as tall as it had been the last time she had seen it. Graykin had been right: it had shrunken, not disastrously but noticeably. Black-robed priests and brown-clad acolytes still bustled in and out of its only door. The whole structure vibrated with power, but with a catch to it, like a top beginning to falter in its spin.

“You again.”

Jame turned to find the blond acolyte of her previous visit standing behind her, looking sour. She indicated the diminished temple.

“How long has it been like this?”

“Since Winter’s Eve, if you must know. Every day it shrinks a little more, on the outside at least. Inside it stays the same. One of us always remains outside, just in case.”

“When is it likely to trigger a Change?”

He laughed, without humor. “Grandfather would give a lot to know that. As many Changes as he’s lived through, they still tend to catch him by surprise. We could go on like this for another year, or a sudden fluctuation in the weather might tip the balance overnight.”

Jame regarded him curiously. The last time they had met, he had been willing to see her plunge to her death. Now he looked harried and preoccupied, not entirely focused on her presence. “I don’t know much about the inner workings of the priesthood,” she said. “How did you come to be here?”

“Because of Grandfather, of course. I belong to a hieratic family and trained in the Priests’ College at Wilden, as my father did before me. He died at the Cataracts. He was a horse healer. Of course, no one gave him credit for that.”

“I expect the horses did,” said Jame.

Her own attitude toward the priesthood had changed somewhat since she had come to know Kindrie Soul-walker. She still didn’t trust most of them, but she was now aware that the Priests’ College was a dumping ground for unwanted Shanir children, resulting in a disproportionate number of healers and others of singular power. She wondered what talent this boy wielded, if any.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He drew himself up. “Dorin, son of Denek, son of Dinnit Dun-eyed, son of . . .”

“Enough.”

“You asked, I answered—and I know now who you are too. You may call yourself the Talisman, but you’re also the Highlord’s unnatural heir, Jamethiel Priest’s-bane. Did you think we wouldn’t find out?”

Jame had hoped that they wouldn’t, but her reputation had apparently preceded her, at least among the priesthood.

“How is M’lord Ishtier anyway?” she asked. “The last time I saw him, he was trying to gnaw off his own fingers.”

Dorin glared at her. “Not well, thanks to you, but he gave us warning.”

“I can imagine. Did he also tell you that he tried to create a rival deity to the Three-Faced God?”

The boy’s face reddened. “Lies!”

“Truth, I’m afraid, and a word of warning: never call me a liar. ‘All the beings we know to be divine are in fact but the shadows of some greater power that regards them not.’ That’s the Anti-God Heresy of Tai-tastigon. Ishtier used a Kencyr soul to create a demon, and believed that he had created a god, but Tastigon ‘gods’ spring from the power that spills over from our own temple and are shaped by the beliefs of their followers. Here in Kothifir, that gives you the guild lords, the god-king Krothen, and, to a lesser degree, the guild masters.”

“What about the Old Pantheon godlings of the Undercliff?”

“Their source of power is different, bound to this world specifically through the Four, not to us.”

He shook his head as if plagued with bees. “What Four? No, don’t tell me: I don’t believe any of it anyway. You Highborn will say anything to keep us powerless, we, who control the greatest power in the Chain of Creation through his temples.”

“You keep the temples from exploding. What else you do with them, I don’t know. Their power certainly doesn’t help the rest of the Kencyrath. And you must be part Highborn yourself if you’re a Shanir priestling.”

“Lies,” he said, backing away. “Lies. Who is our lord? No one. Whom do we serve? The high priests. Who is our family? Each other. On whom do we spit? Our cruel god, who has forsaken us. The temples are ours, I tell you! No one else serves or deserves them.”

Jame watched him go, almost running. It seemed to her that she had let an unwelcome light into his world, or maybe she only hoped that she had.

Priests, she thought in disgust.

Midwinter came with a spate of rain, drumming on the baked ground. The Amar ran swift between its banks around the city and in channels through the Undercliff, fed by mountains to the north. Winter crops in the Betwixt Valley neared harvest.

At Tentir, the Winter War was being waged between the new first-year cadets and those who had returned for a second year.

In two three-hundred-yard pitches established in the training fields south of Kothifir, randon officers and cadets competed against regular Kendar in an all-barracks match that took three days to complete.

Thus late on Midwinter’s afternoon, Jame found herself and her ten-command waiting to face their regular counterparts in the east field, surrounded by thousands of noisy spectators who had already played their own sets.

The game was called kouri , a native favorite usually conducted on fleetfoots with a headless goat carcass. The Kencyrath, however, preferred horses and a sheepskin ball. The object was to carry said ball between the opponent’s goalposts. There were few other rules and many casualties, for it was a rough sport.

Timmon rode up, his horse lathered and his jacket stained with sweat.

“Whew,” he said, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “Those regulars take this seriously, and they’ve had a lot more practice than we Riverlanders.”

“I suppose this is their chance to show that they’re our equals or better in something,” said Jame. “What’s the score?”

Timmon glanced toward the western field where dust rose like smoke and the crowd roared. “Counting senior matches, two hundred thirty to two hundred ten in their favor.” He stood up in his stirrups to survey the opposite side of the pitch. “It looks as if you’re going to be matched against a Caineron ten-command. Who’s that blond Kendar? She looks formidable.”

“That’s Amberley,” said Brier on Jame’s other side. “And she’s carrying a crook-whip. Watch out for her.”