The Destiny of the Dead (The Song of the Tears Book 3) (50 page)

‘It depends on which Art has been used to hide them, and how
powerful the adept was who used it.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘If the true fire is here, we’ve got
to have it. But if I say so, you’ll go at once … won’t you?’ Nish’s cheeks grew
hot; he felt like a prentice giving orders to his master.

‘Of course,’ said M’lainte, amused. ‘A force can only have
one leader and I would not have it otherwise.’

‘All right, Chissmoul,’ said Nish. ‘Go in fast.’

She zoomed in over the left-hand river and across the
fields. Several monks, hoeing weeds, looked up with mouths agape as the baroque
craft hummed overhead.

It lifted over the circular roof of the monastery and headed
for the temple at the centre, which had been built on exposed grey rock and was
surrounded by short green grass. Constructed in a style that had not been used
for thousands of years, it was circular, with columns around the circumference,
and roofed over by a large stone dome with a broad round vent at the top.

‘That’s the main entrance,’ said Persia, pointing to an
opening between the columns.

‘Set down there,’ said Nish.

Chissmoul landed the air-sled on the grass. Nish and Persia
leapt off, then Hoshi the apprentice potter, Beyl the short, dark woodsman, his
ear-of-corn earring swinging, followed by thin and nervous Allioun, and finally
stocky Zana, her dark hair cropped short like a soldier’s, all carrying their
staves. They all wore blades but had been cautioned not to use them on the
monks. M’lainte began to clamber down and Nish’s heart sank, for she wasn’t as
mobile as he had thought.

‘How dare you!’ a heavily-built monk shouted from the
veranda of the monastery. His black, spade-shaped beard had a white patch below
his lip and it quivered with every furious word. ‘Take your abominable
contraption and go, profaners of the Celestial Flame!’

He brandished a staff at them, and other monks appeared
behind him, while more were running from the other side of the circle.

Nish cursed. This was going to be even harder than he’d
thought. ‘Come on!’ He ran for the temple.

It was cooler under the circular colonnade, beyond which he
saw a line of thicker columns – no, they were arranged in a square, and
inside that was a triangular array. The only other visible structure was a
steep, narrow stone ramp, broken by several landings, that curved around the
inside of the dome to the circular vent at the top, where there was a platform
and an altar, presumably for observing the celestial flame, or the heavens, or
both.

‘A triangle within a square within a circle,’ puffed
M’lainte. ‘The symbol of the celestial realm. And for symmetry, I’d expect to
find the symbol reversed inside. I don’t think we’ll find anything out here but
we’d better make sure.’

They hastened in between the columns. M’lainte turned right
and began a circuit of the temple walls, with Hoshi and Beyl behind them on the
left, and Allioun and Zana to the right, like a trailing pair of wings.

At the end of the circuit, M’lainte shook her head.
‘Nothing.’

‘What about the ramp and altar?’ said Nish.

She looked up. ‘Unlikely. The celestial realm would be
linked to the chthonian, so the fire, if it is here, would be kept below us.’

From outside, Nish made out the clash of staff on staff, the
outraged bellowing of the monks, and cries of ‘Sacrilege!’ and ‘Blasphemer!’ He
put them out of mind. Flangers would deal with them.

Inside the triangular array of columns the floor stepped
down in a series of white stone benches like a triangular amphitheatre, and the
stone had been polished until it shone. The lowest, central point contained a
square hole rather bigger than the width of Nish’s shoulders. He assumed that
the flame worshipped by the monks issued up through it, though no flame was
visible from here. A spicy smell of incense hung in the air.

‘There’s nowhere else to search,’ said M’lainte, heading for
the nearest bench. ‘We’ll have to look down there – oh!’

Three lean and wiry monks in white robes sat on the benches near
the bottom, their shaven heads bowed, while another lay prostrate beside the
square hole and a fifth, a withered old man, swung a censer back and forth,
emitting blue puffs of smoke which formed swirling patterns above the hole.

Nish cursed under his breath; if merely entering this place
was sacrilegious, what he was about to do was so much worse. But he had no
choice.

‘We have come for the chthonic flame, also called
white-ice-fire, stolen by Yalkara from the shapeshifting
being
, Stilkeen, in ancient times. What do you know about it?’

The withered old monk turned slowly and the censer slipped
from his hand, fell to the step and came open, spilling burning incense across
the white marble. He looked up, clenching blue-veined fists, and spoke slowly,
coldly.

‘This place is forbidden to all but the monks of the
Celestial Flame. You have polluted our temple and debauched the sacred
ceremony. Now all must be cleansed and purified before we may worship here
again. Get out!’

The other monks rose, save for the prostrate one. The old
monk nudged him with a gnarled toe. ‘Rise, brother; your penance is wasted and
must be begun anew, but first the temple has to be cleansed, and that will take
from one full moon to the next.’

The prostrate monk rose, pulling his robes together. He was
only a youth, but big and muscular with callused hands. He bowed to the old
monk, hands humbly clasped together, then glanced sideways at Nish and his eyes
blazed with a terrible fury. He did not look humble now. A violent rage burned
in him and he wasn’t going to be easy to deal with.

‘I’m sorry, venerable monk, and brothers,’ said Nish. Though
he was not a believer, he did not wish to offend anyone who was. ‘We do not
come to harm you, but we must have the chthonic fire.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said the old
monk. ‘We worship the
celestial
flame, and it is blue. There is no white fire here, and never has been.’

Nish cursed inwardly, for he did not think the monk was
lying. Could everyone have been so wrong about this place? Were all the
resemblances to Mistmurk no more than coincidence? No, he had to be sure.

‘It could be locked away in a small flask or casket. It may
have been hidden for thousands of years. Think!’

‘You – are – mad,’ the old monk enunciated clearly.
‘Fire can’t be locked away; it must be fed with fuel and air, or else it goes
out.’

‘Chthonic fire is different,’ said Nish desperately. It had
to be here, and he had to have it.

‘For three thousand years we have studied the nature of
flame. Fire must be fed. There – are – no – exceptions!’ The
old monk turned away. ‘Brothers, throw them out.’

Nish glanced at Persia, who gave him a blank look. M’lainte
mimed, ‘You have no choice.’

Nish gestured to his militia. ‘Move them out of the way.’

The four advanced, holding out their staves. The old monk
gathered up his robes and lurched up the benches, swinging bony fists. The
other brothers followed his lead.

Hoshi pushed the old monk aside with his stave but he
stumbled and fell, cracking his head on a bench. A thin line of blood ebbed
from his forehead and he lay there, dazed.

‘I didn’t want this,’ said Nish quietly.

‘Yet it was inevitable,’ said M’lainte, ‘since we are two
opposing forces, neither of which can give in. Time is running out. Let’s get
it done.’ She lumbered down the benches.

Nish moved around the other side of the triangle, leaving
his troops to deal with the monks. He had no idea what he was looking for; he
was just keeping an eye out for anything that did not fit.

At the bottom he peered into the square hole. A slight
warmth issued from it, and down an inner, circular shaft he made out a flame
flickering some distance below but, as the monk had said, it was blue. Blue!
His heart sank. No, he refused to believe it. Chthonic fire was infinitely
precious; it would be hidden to elude the most determined searchers.

He felt all the joins in the floor stone and peered down the
hole, singeing his eyelashes, but saw no evidence of concealed rooms or lower
levels. Persia and M’lainte completed their inspections.

‘Anything?’ Nish said, feeling the prize sliding through his
fingers.

Persia shook her head. ‘My meagre Arts tell me nothing.’ She
headed up.

‘Mine tell me a lot,’ said M’lainte, ‘but nothing to our
advantage. The temple is just what it seems and there’s no white fire here. We
were sent on a wild goose chase.’

It had always been a long shot, but Nish had talked himself
into believing otherwise. Nonetheless, the disappointment was so crushing that
he tasted bile in the back of his throat. ‘Or have we been betrayed to Vomix?’
he muttered.

He would not have thought Persia could have heard him from
so far away, but her head shot around and her fists were clenched. ‘How dare
you! What are you implying?’

‘Nothing,’ he said hastily, wishing he could have taken the
words back. ‘I never said it was Yulla.’ Too late; he’d made it worse by
mentioning her name. Far worse.

‘Yulla would
never
have anything to do with him.’

That’s easy for you to say, he thought.

On the temple floor above, his militia were still struggling
with the monks, who were proving difficult to subdue. The big, angry youth was
wresting with Hoshi, the two of them swaying backwards and forwards not far
from the top bench. Hoshi tried to whack the youth with his staff but was kneed
in the groin, then as Nish watched helplessly the staff was wrenched from
Hoshi’s grip and slammed into the side of his head. His eyes rolled back and he
collapsed, unconscious.

‘Blaspheming dog of an infidel,’ the youth cried fervently.
‘How dare you defile our temple?’ Swinging the staff through the air so swiftly
that it hummed, he sent it spinning into the backs of Allioun and Zana,
knocking them down, then, picking up Hoshi by collar and crutch, with an effort
the youth raised him above his head.

‘No!’ cried Nish, running up the benches. ‘Put him –’

With an almighty heave, the youth hurled Hoshi over Nish’s
head and down towards the centre of the triangle, where he struck the lowest
bench headfirst. His neck bent back, there was an audible snap and he slid off
the bench, down through the square hole. Hoshi, Nish’s first friend in
Gendrigore, was dead.

The old monk tottered to his feet, blood running down his
cheek. ‘Brother,’ he whispered, ‘what have you done?’

The youth stood there, chest heaving and big hands hanging
by his side. ‘They defiled the temple, Father.’

‘We could have cleansed it. But now …’ The old monk
scrambled down the benches, squinted into the square hole through which Hoshi
had fallen, then fell back and let out a cry of anguish. ‘Brother, my brother,
this stain can not be erased. The very stones of the temple must now be taken
down and replaced – all of them. And you – your time among us has
ended – you must go.’

‘Go?’ breathed the youth. ‘But the Celestial Flame is my
guiding light. Without it I am homeless, wretched, broken …’

‘As is that man broken, and you slew him
in our temple
! You cast him down onto
the sacred flame. You have extinguished the flame,
which has never gone out
. Go, my son, and never approach this place
again.’

He went to the youth, tore his robes from him and cast them
on the floor.

The other monks were staring at the loincloth-clad youth in
horror. Allioun rose and heaved Zana up. She was swaying on her feet, moaning,
for the spinning staff had struck her hard in the back, near the kidneys.

The youth was making an incoherent grunting sound but his
eyes were flaming now, his rage running out of control. He stooped, came up
with the staff and swung around, ignoring Beyl, who was struggling with two of
the brothers further off. The youth’s gaze fixed on M’lainte and he started
down.

He must think she’s the leader, Nish realised. The attack
had been a disaster from the start, it was getting worse, and it had all been
for nothing. Holding his own staff across his body, two-handed, Nish moved to
protect her.

Persia stepped into his path. ‘Leave the youth to me, Nish.’

‘He killed Hoshi,’ said Nish in a low voice and, remembering
the fun-loving young man he’d first met on the sea cliffs, a red mist obscured
his own vision. First Gi, then Forzel, now Hoshi. Of his four Gendrigorean
lieutenants, only Clech survived, but crippled, and Hoshi had to be avenged. ‘I
can’t –’

‘Stand aside!’ Her free hand gripped his wrist, crushing it.

‘Leave him, Nish,’ said M’lainte. ‘It’ll do no good and
we’re out of time.’

Foam flecked the corners of the youth’s mouth. He was moving
slowly and warily, swinging the heavy staff from left to right, then right to
left, making it difficult to approach him.

‘Get going, Nish; you too, M’lainte,’ said Persia, ‘You’ve
got a job to do, and so have I.’

Never on the battlefield had Nish taken shelter behind a
fellow soldier, especially not a woman, and as he went behind Persia his cheeks
burned with shame. She held her staff lightly in the two-handed grip and moved
up and down on the balls of her feet as she waited.

She might be skilled in armed and unarmed combat but the
youth was much bigger, fit and muscular from heavy work on the monastery’s
farms, and had the uphill advantage. Springing down three benches, he swung the
staff at her head. The blow was so furious that it was difficult to parry, and
Persia did not try. Angling her own staff up, she deflected the blow above her
head, then swung down and into the right side of his body.

He let go of his weapon, took the blow with a grunt and,
swift as a striking snake, caught her staff in his right hand. She tried to
heave it away before he gained a firm grip but he was too quick. The youth
yanked on the staff, pulling her towards him, and she came forwards a half-step
before realising that she did not have the strength to tear it from his grasp.