CHAPTER NINE

The day was wet. Rain fell, and the ride was a long one. To pass the time, Dursoris whistled and hummed songs. Cyrodian amused himself by making snide comments and crude jests at the expense of anyone and anything that crossed his mind. Elad turned increasingly agitated as the day wore on and at times moved his horse ahead of his brothers’, hoping to relieve the congestion in his soul by putting distance between himself and them. Forebodings gripped him—memories, fears, and adumbrations.

Their road passed across field and by riverbank, through woodlands and forests. Late in the afternoon, as the three followed a dark forest path to the base of Mount Teplis, Elad found himself thinking of Bithitu, the Prophet. A story. How Bithitu had met Archas, the demon-king, in a forest two thousand years ago and had tricked Archas into picking up two pine needles for every one he dropped—thus distracting the demon from causing trouble in the world.

For a time, at least.

Elad glanced at his brothers and wiped the rain from his wet face, and he wondered if Archas, the demon-king, had ever had any siblings.

* * * *

The Temple of the Oracle was situated high on an outcrop­ping of Mount Teplis. Flat stone stairs, cracked and lined by fallen pillars, led to the entrance way. There was no door; the temple itself was a cave decorated with tapes­tries and old statuary. A well-worn brick walkway led into the cave; it stopped short where a fissure in the earth, perhaps an arm-length wide, divided the front of the cave from the Oracle’s dais deeper within.

Tall braziers of smoking incense ringed the dais. Oil lamps and fatty candles cast the only light. The oracle herself—a nameless entity, supposedly immortal, but surely replaced upon death by priests from her diminishing cult in the capital—sat in the cross-legged umhis position, slim hands folded upon her lap. She wore a heavy white robe. Neither her face nor her hair was distinct; the oracle wore a large bronze mask, one side cast and decorated in a male aspect, the other in a female aspect. Fumes from the burn­ing incenses played about her, swirling in a dry mist. Flames of candle and oil lamp glowed through the smoke, played in colors upon the strange bronze visage.

Elad stood in front of Cyrodian, with Dursoris to one side. The first prince of Athadia had never before visited the oracle, nor did he know many who had, save his mother. Should one offer a prayer? Money? Should one bless oneself or demean oneself? Was the fissure a test? Should he leap it to prove that he was worthy of approaching the oracle?

“Stand,” said a metallic voice, interrupting Elad’s uncertainty. “Stand where you are, Prince Elad. I know you, and I know why you have come.”

Elad glanced back at his brothers; wary, he clenched his hands together. They were warm and damp in their gloves.

“You wish the throne,” said the oracle.

Elad moved forward one step.

“Speak.” Clearly a woman’s voice, yes, though hollow because of the metal mask and the echoes in this old cave.

Elad asked the woman, “Will…I gain the throne?”

The oracle moved. The brothers could hear the intake of her breath. Fumes swirled at her command. She lifted her arms, the white sleeves of her robe dropped down her forearms, and all three princes saw the amulets and ornamental pieces she wore.

“The throne means wealth greater than gold, Prince Elad. Spiritual gold weighs far more than earthly gold, and its burden is greater than the burden of earthly riches. I tell you this: As each human being has three selves—body, spirit, and undying soul—so do you have three enemies. Your first is a mirror; your second, a blade; your third, a foreign countenance. Mirrors betray depth while having no depth. Blades have two sides, two edges, and one point. Countenances are masks for the minds be­neath. The foolish man accepts all three as they present themselves, not as they truly are.”

Elad was perplexed. Neither Cyrodian nor Dursoris said anything. Elad passed from wonder and tension to annoyance and doubt. “I don’t understand what you mean. Explain yourself.”

“I speak for the gods; the gods do not explain. You must explain for yourself. I tell you of you. All is not what it seems to be; what things seem to be is not all. It is not the mirror’s reflection that is real, but that which it reflects. It is not the sword that slays, but the man behind it. It is not the face that speaks, but the one within who gives voice. This is how our spirits abide in the world of things, prince of Athadia. Temper your sword. See beneath your mirror. See the truth of the faces you look upon.”

Elad grew angry. “Speak plainly!” he cried. The mask, the flames, the mists…words, and words, and words…the resonant voice, metallic and hollow…and pine needles, even pine needles.… “Tell me what I came to know!” he yelled, stepping ahead, the toes of his worn boots now at the edge of the fissure. “I didn’t come here for lessons in…poetry!”

“You came to learn if you will have the throne.”

“Tell me, witch!”

“You came to learn if Queen Yta’s heart is too great a price to pay for her throne.”

“Tell me what I want to know, damn you!” He was perspiring; his skin itched from the fumes; his hair was damp and matted to his head, and sweat was dripping in a wash down his face.

“Shall I tell you that the future holds only truth, Prince Elad? Shall I tell you that already blood grows on your hands? Shall I tell you that four shall become three, and three two, and two one, and the one—”

“Tell me what I wish to know!”

Now Dursoris stepped forward. “Calm yourself, brother. This is of the gods.”

But Cyrodian slapped Dursoris on the shoulder. “Of the gods, hell! She’s just another priest hiding inside an idol. Yta owns her, Elad. She’s playing with you. You gave her the dice, and now she’s weighed them to her own—”

Elad grunted and drew his sword, teetering on the edge. The flames…the fumes…the voice.… He waved his blade behind him, gesturing Cyrodian to silence, and stared into the Oracle’s bronze mask. “Tell me!”

“Already the future takes hold of you, Prince Elad,” came the low, unstartled voice. “You do not know yourself; how then can I tell you things that otherwise you may wish to know?”

“Speak to me of the truth, damn you, damn you!”

“The mother raises the child,” spoke the oracle woman, spoke the misted, flame-reflecting, smoke-hidden mask, “but the child is not the mother, and the mother is not the child. When animals breed, they bear animals of a kind; when man and woman breed, they bear animals of all kinds. Each man and woman has many animals in his and her soul.”

“I want the truth!” Elad screamed. “No more poetry!”

“I speak the truth, Prince Elad. Listen with more than your ears.”

“You’re telling me nothing! Nothing!”

“There is no throne you may not have, prince, if mother’s blood is the price you are willing—”

Elad shrieked. Reckless, guilty before the crime and with the shadows of the forest in his heart, he leapt the narrow fissure, jumped up the steps of the dais, and in a sweeping, even movement brought up his sword and placed the keen point beneath the chin of the oracle’s mask.

“There is a throat here,” he growled. “You are mortal. You speak of blood—”

“Elad!” Dursoris howled. “This is outrageous! You cannot—”

Cyrodian grabbed his younger brother by the arm and held him in a strong grip.

“Tell me!” Elad grimaced. The sweat came down his face, pain and anger were inside him, and his head ached. He stared into the oracle’s mask, saw the old gray eyes behind the bronze slits, and heard the nervous respiration from the labored breast. “You’re not a goddess. You’re a woman, an old witch, and you’re drunk on fumes and smoke! You listen to me! If you have any truth in you—if you read the future truly—then for the sake of your own future, tell me mine, and let it be the truth. Or your future ends here.”

His arms tingled. The blade shivered in his grasp. He had become someone else, or some second Elad within him, until now held in check, had come free with strength all the greater for having been contained for so long. You do not know yourself.…

“Tell me, now,” Elad whispered, feeling the trembling of the throat beneath his sword point, seeing the old gray eyes under the mask water with emotion.

“You—” in a whisper, in a whisper for Elad’s ears alone “—you will take the throne, and none other after you, and you will rule to see everything precious destroyed, every hope ruined, every man and woman crying out in torment. You will rule Athadia, and the world will die in anguish.”

He held himself still for one heartbeat; he held himself still sufficiently to see tears rise in the gray eyes beneath the mask. Then the fumes worked on him, and the horror, the future—and Elad leaned into his sword.

The point met no resistance in the soft throat. The oracle coughed. Screaming, then, Elad sliced with the blade. Blood flew in an intricate pattern, and the bronze-covered head slid to one side, lolled, then fell free al­together and dropped onto the earth. Blood from between the shoulders poured down the simple white gown as the neck made sucking noises. The body slumped forward in the umhis position, the arms relaxed, and all of the oracle went still.

“Gods!” Dursoris shrieked. “Gods! Gods! What have you—”

“Silence!” Cyrodian growled, holding him still.

Elad backed away, blood dripping from his sword.

“The hole!” Cyrodian called out to him.

He remembered, pivoted on the edge, almost fell in, re­acted and jumped, landing on the brick path.

“What have you done?” Dursoris shrieked. “What have you done? Gods, gods, what have you—”

Elad dropped his sword, rose to his feet, and stared at the bloody trail he had made.

“Outside!” Cyrodian grunted. “We must begone!”

Dursoris broke from him and staggered on weak legs, staring at the bloody corpse on the dais. “What…? What…?”

“Elad, pick up your sword, and let us begone!”

Elad sank to his knees again and reached for the wet blade.

“Pick it up!” Cyrodian bellowed. “Damn you, pick it up and let us—”

“What have you done?” Dursoris shrieked. “What have you done? Gods! You have damned yourself!”

* * * *

Dawn was breaking as they returned through the forest. The horses’ hoofs crushed pine needles; their saddles creaked; birds called, and small burrowing animals, scampering undercover, left trails of noise within the carpet of morning mist.

Elad’s hands, red, were still shaking. His sword, in its scabbard, remained bloody; dried gore crusted the scab­bard where the wet blade had been put. Blood on his sword. Elad, the virgin murderer.

As the three fled the forest beneath the dawn, Dursoris looked upon the muted greens and browns of wide-flung farmlands and said, “This must be reported to the council.”

Creak of saddle. Look of horror. “What the hell are you talking about?” Elad demanded.

Dursoris stared at him, giving Elad every benefit to appreciate the seams of pain in his face. “I mean what I say, brother. Such a crime cannot go unpunished. When Yta arrives at the oracle’s cave and sees what has been done, she’ll know one of us did it. Either you or Cyrodian. The murder of anyone connected to religious office carries a heavy penalty. It is a High Moral Crime, as Code Seventeen—”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Elad repeated.

Beyond Dursoris, he saw Cyrodian darken with anger.

Dursoris reined his horse still; his brothers did the same. Facing Elad, his back to Cyrodian, Dursoris explained him­self. “The fact that I’m against your taking the throne doesn’t enter into this. That will have to come later. For the present, you’ve committed an inexcusable crime. It must be reported, and you—”

“Nothing will be reported!” Elad yelled at him, a grin of fear on his face.

Cyrodian moved. Elad saw him and instinctively jerked back, pulling his horse so taut that it reared. Arms thrown wide, Cyrodian hurled himself from his mount. Dursoris half-turned in his saddle; then his horse bucked as the giant crashed into him. Wrapping his arms tightly around his brother, Cyrodian held on as they fell to the ground. They landed heavily, Dursoris pinned, and he groaned, the wind knocked out of him.

Elad quieted his horse and dismounted, stumbled, and got to his feet again. He wanted to run but, instead, he yelled, “Cyrodian!”

Wordless, with a fierce expression, Cyrodian pulled free his side knife and, with the heavy handle, struck Dursoris across the side of the head. His brother groaned.

Cyrodian didn’t look up at Elad. “Build a fire.”

“What?”

“Build a fire, damn it!” Sweating, growling, he turned his knife in his hand and, bending over Dursoris, forced open his brother’s mouth, reached in with thick fingers, and pulled up on the slippery tongue.

“No, Cyrodian! No!”

Swiftly, displaying the mastery of a craft that had silenced many traitors and informants, Cyrodian slipped the sharp point of the knife into the mouth and sliced. Blood ran out. Cyrodian stood and pulled the unconscious Dursoris over onto his belly, so that he wouldn’t choke to death, and threw the fresh tongue meat into the grass.

“Gods!” Elad whispered, backing away.

Cyrodian roared at him, “Are you going to build a fire? Or are you going to let him bleed to death?” Wiping his side knife on the grass, Cyrodian sheathed it, then pulled out his sword. Holding Dursoris’s left arm to the ground, he set the edge of his blade a little back from the wrist, pushed down, and yanked back. His great biceps rose beneath his tunic; bones squeaked; and the silver blade cut down into the muddy earth.

Elad turned away, beginning to vomit.

Cyrodian shook his shaggy head, held down Dursoris’s right arm, and removed that hand.

Elad stumbled to a tree and embraced it. He pressed his wet cheek against the bark and stared at the world through hot, teary eyes as his stomach folded upon itself.

Cyrodian got to his feet, bent to wipe clean his sword, then gathered branches and scrub and put flint and steel to them. “I’m a man of my word,” he said, fanning the sparking fire. “If he can’t tell what happened, he can’t take it to court. You’re going to be king. I haven’t put in a lifetime of planning to have you back down now, damn your woman’s stomach!”

A short time later, far down in the river valleys, farmers awakening to their chores heard anguished screams from Mount Teplis—awful, tongueless screams that cut through the dawn with untellable agony.…