The sky cleared toward evening and the sunset was bloodred.
The whole city would agree that it was an omen, though there would be much debate over what spirit or Ancestor it came from. With one look Maskelle knew it immediately; it was the Adversary’s omen.
If there had been no sign, it wouldn’t have changed her mind about what she meant to do; but it was good to have the confirmation.
It was evening now and the candles were lit in the bronze and gold stands of her Palace suite, sending warm shadows playing among the gilded and inlaid carvings on the walls. In the jasmine-scented breeze from the windows there was distant music and mingled voices; the sound of one of the many banquets being given by high officials and courtiers in the Celestial Home’s gardens tonight. If she had stood and looked out the window and over the garden wall, she would see lamps hung from low branches or floating on pools in little islands of flowers. It reminded her that as far as the rest of the city was concerned, this was Festival Eve. Rastim had mentioned that the Ariaden were engaged not only for the official celebrations tomorrow but for a special kiradi performance tonight at the home of the Lord Portmaster of Telai, who was in the city for the festival and giving a party for a hundred or so of his closest friends. In a few weeks the puppet Gisar would be able to rejoin them, purged of its curse by the Marai’s influence.
“This is a bad idea,” Rian said, for perhaps the hundredth time.
Maskelle sat on the floor, eyes closed, her hands turned palm up in the meditation position. Her awareness was split, part of it in the room and the rest roaming the night outside. She could feel the damp breeze from the window lightly on her skin, and more strongly as it tore through her insubstantial spirit body.
The Celestial One had sent several young Koshan monks to them, to act as his witnesses and to perhaps exert a restraining influence on any of the Throne’s impulses to stir trouble. They were camped out in the stairwell now, practicing meditation rituals, and she could hear the soft echo of their voices in the Infinite. Old Mali had also come with them, apparently feeling that if Maskelle was staying at the Palace she needed an attendant to lend her countenance. Maskelle had mixed feelings about this: she didn’t want to put the old woman in danger, but Old Mali had come in handy, terrorizing and then driving away the servants who kept showing up on various pretexts. Most of them were undoubtedly spies sent by Mirak, Disara, or other old enemies, but there had been nothing for them to see. Rian had sent away anything in the suite that could possibly be poisoned, and from the extent of the list, Maskelle wondered how there was anyone left alive in the Sintane.
She could hear Rian pacing and knew he was doing it to deliberately wreck her concentration. Without breaking the trance, she said, “It would be better to do this in the Illsat Sidar.”
The pacing paused. “Why?”
“Then I’d have help that would cooperate and keep its mouth shut.”
She was trapped here for the night by her agreement with the Throne, or at least her body was. After telling Vigar about Marada and the strong possibility that the second Wheel was located somewhere in her guesthouse, they had made their plans for tonight. Then Maskelle had spent the day in the difficult balancing act of removing the dark portion of the Rite grain by grain while the other Voices continued with the rest of the design. The symbols she and Vigar had uncovered as they had taken off the outer layer of dark sand were even less encouraging. They were inexplicable patterns that seemed to hint at storms and ruin, and the Koshans who were searching the libraries had found no record of them so far.
Maskelle and Vigar had also confirmed the hypothesis that the patch of dark sand had been growing larger. It was trying to creep out along the Western Ascension, and if it managed to traverse that axis, it could go anywhere in this hemisphere. With the second Wheel destroyed, they would never know what the purpose of it had been, but Maskelle was willing to sacrifice that knowledge for safety.
The other Voices would be completing the last part of the Wheel now. If they hurried, it would be just ready by the culmination point of the Equinox tomorrow, and the climax of the Rite could take place as ordained. Maskelle meant to give them the time they needed.
The Celestial One was spending the night with the other Voices in the Rite chamber. All of the lower ranks had been given special instructions to ward themselves against spirit possession—a precaution that was normally only necessary outside the boundaries of Kushorit cities and villages, when Koshans traveled in the deep forest or on the wild rivers, anywhere particularly strong dark spirits might be encountered.
The pacing had started again. Rian said, “Forgive me. I meant, this is a stupid idea.”
Despite the discipline of meditation, Maskelle’s mouth quirked. “And your natural timidity kept you from saying so before.”
“I did say so before.”
Maskelle remembered that Rian had never mentioned how the old Holder Lord of Markand died. She suspected strongly that it had been from exasperation. “How did the Holder Lord die?”
There was a hesitation, then suspiciously, “From a fit, why?”
“Just confirming a supposition. If you can’t be quiet, go sit with Old Mali.”
“If that old woman slaps me on the ass one more time—”
“Rian.” Maskelle took a sharp breath, opening her eyes. “Come here.”
He stopped on the far side of the room, watching her warily. “Why?”
“Just come here.”
He came reluctantly, taking a seat on a cushion in front of her. “Why?” he said again.
“I’m going to show you exactly what I’m doing. Give me your hands.”
When she held his calloused palms in hers, she closed her eyes again and said, “Listen to the wind in the trees. Think of nothing but that.”
She extended the window in the Infinite to include him, knowing it might not work. Some people were simply blind to the Infinite. But after a moment she felt his tense grip on her hands relax. She shifted her awareness to the Infinite where her spirit body hung above the Marai in the dark and tearing wind. For an instant she felt him beside her, then he jerked his hands away.
She opened her eyes. His expression was indignant. “You could have warned me.”
“It’s the twilight world, the connection between this world and the Infinite,” she explained, mostly patient. “Everyone sees it in a different way. Now, do you want to come with me or not?”
“All right, all right.” He gave her his hands again, only a little reluctant.
They were in the air high above the Marai. The wind was stronger up here, flowing through their insubstantial spirit bodies in a cool stream. The streets were dark canyons, the buildings insubstantial blurs, and the people were only moving smudges of color against the darkness. Many of the streets and plazas were lit by torches for the festival crowds, but they were dim red blurs, like banked coals. Only the temples, shrines, and the canals were sharply visible. They glowed with a soft inner light, the carvings standing out in such high relief that the writing was almost readable. The faces on the Baran Dir were warm and alive, and the smaller temples and shrines glowed like fallen stars. Except the Marai. The light around the Marai was not soft. It was sharp, outlining every stone of the temple in warm yellow fire, and it pulsed with the growing power of the Rite. The causeway across the moat was covered with what looked like a solid red glow: the procession of Koshans entering the Marai for the opening ritual.
She could feel Rian watching it. She said, “Marada’s house,” and guided his sight in the right direction.
Two seventh-level Koshans and several monks and temple guards from the Marai were watching Marada’s guesthouse tonight. They might not have any proof they could show the Throne, but Rian had seen enough to make the Celestial One put the woman under observation. In spirit form, Maskelle could see something that was invisible to the watchers, except perhaps for the seventh-level priests. There was a radiance around the house, but unlike the temples, it was a dull, sickly blue glow.
“What is that?” Rian asked. “What’s she doing?”
“Watch,” Maskelle admonished him. “She’ll have to move soon; they’re almost done with the Rite by now.”
The Infinite hummed with power; whatever Marada was doing, it must be nearing completion. Then suddenly the blue glow shrank away and coalesced into a point of light near the center of the now dark structure.
“Now we get our proof,” Maskelle breathed.
Something came out a door on the upper-floor gallery of the house, and flowed over the railing to alight gently on the ground.
Its outline was blurred silver, shifting and changing as it drifted out of the house’s compound and down the street. The people it passed did not react to its presence.
“It’s like the water creature from the river,” Rian said.
“Something like, something unlike. This wasn’t what I was expecting.” Maskelle saw that the two seventh-level priests didn’t sense its passage, either. It wafted past them, through the wall of another compound, through the house within it that was crowded with people, across the canal on the other side. It was making a straight line for the Marai.
Maskelle had known that there was some sort of spirit in this business when Rian found the marks of a garrote around Igarin’s neck. But she had thought Marada was leaving her own body and taking spirit form, with the help of some special foreign magic that kept the high-level Koshans from sensing her presence. But whatever this formless thing was, it wasn’t Marada. And it was utterly impossible for a spirit to progress in a straight line across the power pathways of Kushor-At and Kushor-An.
Maskelle cast around for a form to take and felt a bird spirit high overhead, drifting in the night sky. Bird spirits belonged to the Adversary: another omen. She called to it and it circled and then fell toward her.
As it drew near, she felt Rian almost break the trance. All razor-tipped green and gold feathers and flashing claws, the bird spirit too closely resembled what he thought demons looked like. But he didn’t let go of her hands. Maskelle explained, “My spirit self can’t truly touch or move anything; this spirit can.”
A wing brushed her cheek, opening up a line of fire as the sharp-edged feather cut her skin. I need you, she thought to it. Just for a short time.
It circled her warily. She knew it recognized her. To watch? it said.
To hunt.
It laughed and opened itself to her, and suddenly she was looking through its eyes.
Its vision was far sharper than Maskelle’s flesh or spirit bodies. It could see the temples and the canals more clearly, but the houses and other buildings were still just big brown blurs, the people nearly invisible. It didn’t see the creature moving away from Marada’s house until Maskelle looked through its eyes and it hissed in surprise. Kill, the bird spirit whispered in her mind.
Soon, she told it. Together they watched the creature drift across the Marai’s moat. Maskelle was still amazed by the temerity of the thing. She had to change her course to follow it, flying above the straight line of the causeway; even the bird spirit, the Adversary’s proxy, had to approach the Marai through the correct passages.
Once across the moat, the creature moved through walls, again taking the straight path through the temple that should be impossible. Maskelle and the bird spirit had to make each square of the inner and outer court before she could drop farther toward the ground, buffeted along the way by the power entering and leaving the temple.
She brought herself down to the inner courtyard and felt her own toes curl in reflex as the bird spirit’s claws touched the damp, cool stone. The lamps here were dim orange glows, and there were strange blurred shapes that were all she could see of the people moving in the court. She stepped out of the bird spirit and it crouched, waiting.
Her quarry drifted across the paving stones, the silver nimbus around its form a little sharper now. The creature moved toward the central tower, toward one of the blurs that stood near the archway. This blur was more well defined than the others, its presence in the Infinite stronger. Maskelle recognized the Celestial One. So that’s it. Immediately she shifted to block the creature’s path.
It stopped, then tried to go around her. She moved again and it halted, drawing back a little. It seemed to see her even less clearly than she could see it. It tried to go around her again, reaching for the Celestial One. Now she could see the cord in its hands.
Now, she told the bird spirit, kill.
With a shriek that echoed through the Infinite, the bird spirit leapt onto the creature.
They fought across the court, twisting and writhing, teeth and claws throwing back shards of light. Maskelle knew the higher-level Koshans in the Marai would sense this; she felt the Celestial One’s awareness slide across her.
Struggling desperately, the thing shook free of the bird spirit, throwing it halfway across the court. The bird spirit tumbled in midair, a dizzying ball of green and gold, then shot back toward its opponent like an arrow. She saw the thing try to wrap its cord around the bird spirit’s neck and the spirit went insubstantial, laughing, to reappear again and tear lacy remnants of the thing’s flesh away.
Watching in fascination as the bird spirit tore into Marada’s creature, Rian heard a sudden urgent shout from behind him. He turned to look, but couldn’t tell which of the blurs in the court it had come from. Then he heard it again, still coming from behind him, and realized he had heard it with his real ears, not whatever passed for ears here.
He looked at Maskelle’s spirit form, but a crash of wooden furniture decided him. He let go of her hands.
In the next heartbeat he sat opposite her in the room in the Celestial Home. Everything wavered in and out; he took a deep breath and pressed his hands to his eyes, fighting to adjust to the abrupt transition. The noise came from the anterooms where the monks were on guard. One of them shouted for help.
That jolted Rian back to full awareness. He rolled back off the cushion, caught the siri up on the way, and drew it as he came to his feet.
One monk blocked the doorway, holding someone off with a stool. Old Mali was at the man’s back, armed with a heavy gold pot. Past them Rian saw a figure in dark robes with lacquered armor, a crested, barred helmet disguising its face. Another monk sprawled unmoving on the floor just past it.
Torn and bleeding, the spirit thing fled out of the Marai’s court. Maskelle went straight up, almost losing sight of it as she and the bird spirit threaded their way out of the pathways of power around the temple. But the thing fled straight across the city and she knew what its destination must be. It was going back to Marada’s guesthouse, to its master.
Rian pushed Old Mali aside, caught a handful of the monk’s robe, and yanked him out of the way, just as a Kushorit short sword cleaved the air where the young man had stood. Rian slung the monk behind him and ducked a second swordcut. He slammed into the armored man and knocked him back out of the doorway and across the stairwell.
One lamp was lit in Marada’s guesthouse, in the common room, the light leaking through the wicker of the closed shade panels onto the balcony. There were no walls of power around the house, and Maskelle alighted on the balcony without resistance. By unconscious habit she used the partially open door to enter the house, the bird spirit slipping through the wall next to her.
She gave herself the semblance of a body so she could see more clearly, and the room swam into focus around her. Marada sat at a low table under a single candlestand. Several Kushorit books lay on the table, and in front of Marada was a glowing ball of light.
The armored man threw Rian off and he smashed into the carved panels next to the stairs. One of the monks must have gone for help; there were two lying dead or unconscious on the floor and three still standing, again blocking the doorway between the armored man and Maskelle. The one armed with a stool started forward, but Rian motioned him back. Realizing where the most effective resistance was going to come from, the attacker ignored the Koshans and struck down at Rian. Rian rolled away from the blade and slashed upward with the siri.
The blade sliced between the sleeve of the attacker’s dark robe and the leather gauntlet, severing the wrist. The gauntlet hit the ground but there was no spray of blood; astonishment made Rian hesitate and he almost died. The armored figure’s sword thudded into the wall above his head as he ducked and came to his feet. Rian had an instant to exchange a baffled look with the monks braced across the doorway.
Marada looked up at her, no expression on her lovely, perfect face. Maskelle could see her in sharp detail, something that should be impossible with spirit sight. She’s not a person, Maskelle thought. She’s a spirit, but she exists in the world and in the Infinite at the same time. But that was impossible.
Maskelle said, “You killed Igarin with your shadow creature, and you somehow took possession of Veran’s mind, and made him do your will. Am I correct?”
In her colorless voice, Marada said, “You are correct.”
Maskelle looked down at the books. They were works of Koshan philosophy. She brushed her spirit hand across the cover of one and said, “You should have included The Book of the Adversary in your course of study.”
Marada watched her, a small cold smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “I didn’t need it.”
Rian parried two cuts and ducked and rolled again, slamming into the far wall to avoid the armored figure’s rush. His opponent was doing well for someone with a recently severed hand, something that would have caused most mortal beings to abandon the fight. The battle was making an incredible racket but no Palace Guards had come yet. The monk who had gone for help might have to run all the way to the Baran Dir.
“Tell me who you are and why you did this, and I may let you live,” Maskelle said. It was worth a try, though she didn’t think Marada would accept the offer.
“You can’t stop us.” Marada’s eyes didn’t waver. “It’s too late. And your own philosophy will not let you harm me.”
The bird spirit laughed, its amusement making the Infinite shiver around them. Maskelle said, “You really should have read The Book of the Adversary.” The glowing ball must be doing something, but Maskelle couldn’t see any effect in the Infinite. Her spirit eyes could see shadows moving inside it. She felt Marada’s creature behind her, saw the loop of cord come over her head.
Maskelle stepped through it. “Is that its only trick?”
The armored figure came for Rian again, forcing him back into the corner. Rian parried the cuts, until one blow bashed the siri right out of his hands. He dropped to the ground under the return blow and kicked the figure in the kneecap. The figure hit the ground and Rian leapt on him, pinning the sword arm down. The body bucked and twisted under him, almost throwing him off, and then the handless arm punched him below the ribs, hard enough to stop his breath. Who or whatever this was, their strength was close to supernatural. I’m not going to be able to hold him, Rian thought. Then a monk landed on the man’s legs and another one crouched at Rian’s side, lending his weight to hold down the attacker’s sword arm. “Get my sword,” Rian said through gritted teeth.
Marada leaned over the glowing ball, whispering to it. It was a strange, harsh language Maskelle couldn’t understand, and certainly nothing that was spoken in the Garekind Islands. As if she needed more confirmation that the woman was an imposter. She could feel in the bones of her real body a growing resonance, coming from the canal that connected the Celestial Home with the Marai. The Wheel of the Rite was almost complete and Maskelle couldn’t afford to wait for answers when she didn’t know what else Marada might do to ruin it. She said, “One last chance.”
Marada ignored her. Maskelle let out her breath. “I was lying about letting you live, anyway.” She released the bird spirit and it flowed past her, eager for prey.
Marada might not be entirely human, but she screamed like one.
The third monk scrambled for the siri, as their opponent heaved and twisted to free itself. It didn’t seem so much interested in getting away as in inflicting as much damage as possible. The monk trying to hold down the figure’s kicking legs wrestled with the handless arm, trying to keep it from punching Rian, but he could hardly hold it. Holding on with every bit of his failing strength, Rian felt one of his ribs crack.
The monk brought the siri and Rian grabbed the hilt. He sliced the blade down through the dark gap between the figure’s gorget and helmet. He felt an instant of resistance, then the siri jarred his hand as it struck the wooden floor.
Suddenly Rian knelt on the chest piece of an empty set of lacquered armor and robes, the greaves and arm pieces strewn around him. A monk gasped in astonishment and another picked up an empty gauntlet, turning it over wonderingly.
Rian tipped back the helmet. It was empty. He shared a look with the monk who had brought the siri. “This sort of thing happen much here?” he asked.
Later that night, Maskelle paced in front of the balcony, distractedly braiding her hair while waiting for Rian, Hirane, and the others to return from Marada’s house. They had gone there to arrest the woman’s servants and to destroy the second Wheel. She knew Rian still wanted to search for clues to Marada’s identity and purpose here, but that was a secondary goal. Destroying the second Wheel took precedence.
Tension still tightened Maskelle’s shoulders and back, and the knowledge that the last preparation for the Rite was underway only made it worse. The resonance of the voices of the priests, monks, and nuns echoed from the Marai, where they performed the chants that were the first step in the ceremony of the Great Opening, that would end when the Rite culminated tomorrow. The Temple Dancers would be filling the outer court, moving through the ageless patterns in the light from scores of lamps, and hundreds of people would line the walls to watch.
The disturbance had woken the whole Palace and Maskelle had taken advantage of the sudden surfeit of servants to order a bath brought in, and now she was wearing her red Meidun robe, clean if not calm. Still disturbed herself, Old Mali bustled around like a hen with lost chicks, clearing up the debris from the fight and grumbling.
Hirane of the Baran Dir had sent a score of temple guards and a couple of seventh-level priests to make sure the rest of the night was undisturbed, but Maskelle knew there would be no further trouble here. The suite had also been infested with messengers, from the Imperial Secretaries down to the functionaries whose job it was to keep the stairs clean, all demanding to know what had happened. The temple guards were sending most of them off, except the ones with too high a rank. Maskelle was sending those off herself, with succinct commentary on the inherent dangers of being a guest in the Celestial Home. She hoped her comments were repeated to Raith’s lackeys, and wondered what his reaction would be when he discovered just what his new favorite, Marada, had done.
The Palace Guards had not been able to come to their aid because of an invisible barrier that had formed over the stairs. Maskelle would have been inclined to doubt this, except that she had seen for herself how powerful Marada had been. And the monk who had gone for help had run straight into it and been unable to get through from the other side. Now there were guards everywhere in the garden outside their suite. Now that they aren’t needed, she thought with an annoyed shake of her head. Marada shouldn’t have been able to send one of her creatures inside the Celestial Home, any more than she should be able to send one inside the Marai. Now if I just knew what she was, what she wanted, where she came from, and who sent her, everything would be fine.
One of the monks had been killed defending Maskelle, and the thought made her want to kill Marada all over again. I should have told the bird spirit to make it slow, she thought, tying off her last braid and tossing it over her shoulder.
There were louder voices from the stairwell and she moved back into the room, waiting impatiently. The knot of guards at the door moved aside as Rian strode in.
Maskelle motioned sharply to the Koshan healer who had been waiting patiently in the corner. The woman advanced on Rian determinedly, already opening the wooden box where she carried her medicines.
Rian saw her coming at him and said, “I don’t need any—”
“Let her look at you,” Maskelle interrupted. She wasn’t going to let him argue about this. “The monks told me you were hurt.”
“All right, all right.” Rian stripped off his shirt, revealing a dark, painful-looking bruise on his right side, just over his ribs. He sat down on the mat and the healer knelt next to him, clucked her tongue, and probed gently at the injured area with her fingers. Rian didn’t wince, but Maskelle could tell it hurt him and so could the healer. The woman released him and began to dig through her box. Rian ignored her, telling Maskelle, “It wasn’t there.”
“What?” Maskelle stared in disbelief. “It has to be there.”
“I know, but it wasn’t.” Rian’s tone was brusque, but his expression was deeply worried. “We looked everywhere.”
Aghast, Maskelle sat down on the cushions, burying her head in her hands. I am so tired of being wrong, she thought. “Where else could she hide it?”
“No sand or anything else they could have made one with, either. They must be hiding it somewhere else.” He rolled his shoulder carefully and winced. “We caught everyone she brought with her, four women and seven guardsmen. None of them will talk, yet.”
Maskelle shook her head, trying to make herself think again. She poured a cup of palmwine from the serving set on the table. Handing it to Rian, she asked, “Do the others still pretend not to understand Kushorit?”
He nodded. “I couldn’t tell if they were faking it or not. Neither could Karuda nor any of the Koshans.” He drained the cup and shrugged, then grimaced at what the incautious movement had done to his injury. Maskelle lifted a brow at him and he gave her a disgruntled look.
“I don’t suppose the priests could tell if any of her people were the same sort of creature as Marada,” she said.
“That’s what they want you for.” The healer had taken out a length of bandage and started to wrap Rian’s ribs. He lifted his arm to let her, looking annoyed.
“I couldn’t tell that Marada was what she was, until she revealed herself,” Maskelle pointed out. Can’t these people do anything for themselves? she thought in irritation. What did they do while I was gone? “They didn’t find out anything?”
He shook his head. “The priests were going to keep searching the house and compound. We brought that ivory ball thing back here, but it won’t glow anymore.” The healer tied the bandage off and Rian told her, “It’s too tight.”
“Good,” the woman said sharply.
Maskelle got to her feet. The Ancestors were whispering that no good could come of this, but that’s what They usually said. “Where did they take the servants?”
Marada’s companions were being held in the Celestial Home’s guardhouse. This was a long, stone-walled barracks that stood back against the south moat wall, concealed from view of the pleasure gardens by a heavy screen of bamboo and breadfruit trees. It had its own water gate, causeway, and dock, where the prisoners had been brought by boat. They were being held now in the big common room, surrounded by guards and priests. The outer wall had open arches facing a little court and the greenery that shielded it from the gardens, though the air was still warm and dank.
Garekind Islanders were the same people as the mainland Kushorit—stocky, short, and brown—and there was nothing unusual in the appearance of Marada’s servants, except what were apparently habitual sullen expressions and a strange lack of fear at their arrest. They hadn’t been harmed during their capture, though their clothes looked as if they had rolled in the dirt. They all wore rough plain trousers or wraps, no jewelry, like fieldworkers stripped for labor. It was odd that Marada hadn’t chosen to equip them more lavishly; most of the wealthy in Duvalpore kept their retinues well dressed as another way of showing status.
“They are defiling the Celestial Home with their presence here,” Hirane said, folding her arms. The priestess of the Baran Dir was grim, her thin form rigid with tension. The Celestial One was still occupied at the Marai with the other Voices. Hirane should be there too, but the protocols of tonight’s ceremonies could spare her presence where it couldn’t spare the others’. Chancellor Mirak was also present, dressed in festival finery, with Lord Karuda a shadow at his back.
“It’s a little late to worry about that.” Maskelle picked up the ivory ball from the table where it rested. Except she didn’t think it was ivory. The texture was wrong, and though it was hard to tell in the lamplight, she thought the color was off as well. She tried to feel it with her inner senses, to listen to it the way she could hear the currents of power in water or air or the stone of the temples. There was nothing. The power that had made it shine with light in this world and the Infinite might have died with Marada.
“These people should be taken to the prison,” Hirane persisted.
Maskelle looked from the white ball to the face of the oldest servant. She was a stocky woman with gray hair, just as plainly dressed as the others. She had probably been Marada’s chief maid. There was no defiance in her cold dull eyes, just a complete lack of interest. Too complete. “I’m not so sure that’s necessary,” Maskelle said, thoughtful. The woman’s only jewelry was a wooden amulet with an earth spirit sigil on it. It was the kind of token worn by the village shamans who had helped people placate or defend against the spirits, before the temples had risen in the Celestial Empire.
Hirane snorted. She folded her arms and looked away. “By your own evidence they cooperated with that woman in an attempt to assassinate—”
“Marada wasn’t a woman.” Hirane was an intelligent, perceptive guardian for the Baran Dir, but she didn’t like being argued with by anyone but the Celestial One. Maskelle didn’t like being argued with either, but she continued, “We don’t know what she was.” She stepped closer to the oldest servant and looked into her eyes. “And I don’t think I’d call this cooperation.”
“You’re thinking of Veran,” Rian said, watching her closely.
“Yes.” She nodded slowly. Poor dead Veran, who I should have watched much more carefully. “He was a priest, trained in meditation disciplines. If he was close to fighting his way free of whatever controlled his mind and kept him from speaking to us, then that’s why he had to be killed … How would the same condition look on a person who wasn’t trained, who had no way to fight?”
“You told the chief healer that Veran was possessed,” Mirak said slowly, almost unwillingly. He took a step closer. “Possessed by what? And why can’t the other Voices and the seventh-level priests see what you seem to see?”
“If I had those answers, we’d be further forward in this matter than we are now.” Maskelle rubbed the bridge of her nose, tired and annoyed. “The only thing I can say is that this seems to be a deception only the Adversary has the knowledge to penetrate. That is why the Ancestors created It, to be Their guide where They couldn’t go.” She turned the globe over again. Maybe I should just break it. The Adversary and the Ancestors remained stubbornly silent on the subject.
“Is it to be a philosophy lesson?” Mirak asked, his voice an amused rumble.
“If you’re in need of one, I can send a fifth-level priest to supply it,” Hirane told him sharply. At least she’s impartial in her irritation, Maskelle thought. She hefted Marada’s ball again. “I’ll keep this with me.” Stepping closer to the oldest woman, she looked into her eyes.
There was still no expression there. She might have been staring into the eyes of a corpse. Like Veran, this woman might be trapped inside her own body, struggling to get out. Like Veran, it might be possible to reach her, if only for an instant. Maskelle stretched out her power toward the woman, drawing on the Celestial Home’s place in the network of temples. There was a barrier there, something of the Infinite and of the world at the same time, as Marada had been. Maskelle pushed at it, but it held firm. She felt power flow down toward her from the Baran Dir, from the Marai with the Wheel of the Infinite set into its heart like a great glowing jewel, and pushed again.
Suddenly she felt the presence of the Adversary, flowing through her, lending her a strength that struck forward into that barrier, shattering it like glass.
Maskelle caught the woman, then felt her own knees give out on the way down. They landed on the gritty floor together, but she managed to keep the woman’s head from striking the stone. Dizziness overwhelmed her for a moment and she swayed, almost falling over on the woman in her lap. Looking down at her white face and the pain etched there, Maskelle thought, Ancestors, she’s dying. She reached for the Adversary again, but felt it withdraw. It couldn’t, or wouldn’t, help her.
The woman’s fingers dug into her arm and she gasped, “Listen. I was a healer and a shaman of the old magic, until that woman came to our village on the coast at Iutara and trapped us.”
“Trapped you how?” Maskelle asked. Rian leaned over her shoulder and she could hear Hirane shouting for the guards’ physician.
“With that ball. She made us look into it and it trapped our minds, made us do whatever she willed. There was something inside it, alive, it had a face.…” She shook her head wildly. “She made me—I know the old magic, the death magic. I never used it, but she knew I could. She made me bind a dead boy’s soul to a curse, a tela worm ball, and she sent him after someone—Warn—”
Maskelle grimaced. “It’s all right, he was released. No one else was hurt.”
A brief expression of relief crossed the woman’s face. “There were others with her, she wasn’t the only one. They look like people, but inside…” She gasped, her face tight with pain.
Maskelle asked, “How many others?”
“I don’t know. I saw four … men.” The woman’s voice was a faint rasp.
“Tell us what she wanted. Tell us—”
The woman stiffened in Maskelle’s arms, then went limp.
Maskelle watched her eyes go still and set. She lowered the woman to the floor and let Rian help her up. She glanced around, and saw that Mirak had left the chamber hurriedly with his attendants. From their muted voices they were in the court outside the archway.
Looking grimly down at the woman, Rian said, “She didn’t know anything else. If she knew why Marada was here, she would have said that first.” Glancing up, he said, “We need to find that village.”
Karuda said, “I’ll send men tonight.”
Hirane nodded to the seventh-level priests who had helped search Marada’s house. “They will go with your men, should those others she spoke of remain there.”
I should go with them, Maskelle thought, then, No, not until after the Rite is over. Iutara wasn’t near a power center, and the second Wheel of the Infinite couldn’t be there.
“What about the others?” Karuda said, eyeing the remaining servants who still stood impassive, surrounded by their guards.
Maskelle looked at Hirane, who shook her head slightly. She saw in the old woman’s eyes that she knew as well as Maskelle did that it might be kinder to kill them. But Maskelle wouldn’t give that order, not yet. “Lock them up, under guard,” she said. “Maybe we can find a way to free them.”
Seeing the faces of Karuda and the others, she wasn’t the only one who found this doubtful.