The day dawned hot and clear, unusual for this season of daily rains. It would make it easy for the priests to judge the exact moment of the Equinox, when the Rite would draw to a close.
The chanting had stopped early this morning, but the Marai’s stones still sang with it. Despite Marada’s interference and her strange brand of power, the temple felt exactly as it should, even to Maskelle. She had risen before dawn and, bringing Rian with her, had gone to the Marai to make certain everything was all right. The crowds were already thick in the streets and the canals nearly clogged with boats, but any craft with the Imperial seals had right of way and they made the trip in good time.
Once there, she had walked an abbreviated meditation ring over the whole Marai, eliminating the rituals but checking every cardinal point, every resonance chamber, every corner of each court. She could find no weaknesses in the structure, not in the physical or the spiritual realms. After the first hour, they had passed Vigar in the solar side of the inner court, on the same mission.
Maskelle had reached the far end of the gallery on the lunar side of the outer court when the steady growl of the festival crowds on the other side of the moat rose to a roar. “Maybe that’s Rastim getting lynched,” Rian commented, leaning on the balustrade in an opening between the pillars.
Maskelle glanced out on the court below and read the time from the length of the shadows on the walls. It was midmorning and the Ariaden would have been performing for some time now, from what Old Mali had told her of the plans for the entertainments. “Hopefully it’s the end of the play,” she said. “I think they’re doing The Mask of Night.” With help conscripted from the hundreds of workers G’Ram Kisnil, the Warden of the Public Festivals, had hired for the event, they would be able to handle the complex scenery movements and the big puppets.
Rian asked, “Did you want to see it?”
“Yes, but I’m sure if I ask nicely, I can get the whole thing repeated for me tonight. With a blow-by-blow description of the audience’s reactions.”
Smiling, Rian cocked his head at her, pretending to doubt it. “You think so?”
“I don’t see how I can avoid it.” Maskelle leaned her staff in the corner and stretched, easing the kinks out of her back. She had brought Marada’s white stone to the temple, not liking to leave it behind in the Palace. She had given it into the safekeeping of the Temple Master, to be stored in one of the cupboards in his quarters within the Marai. It might be only a focus for Marada’s strange power, like the staffs used by the Voices when they were away from the temples. It could be empty and useless now that its owner was dead, but she wanted to keep an eye on it. “At least after the Rite culminates, I don’t have to worry about anything else.”
Then she saw a monk running toward her down the length of the gallery, his expression urgent, and thought, Why did I say that?
He stopped and bowed hurriedly to her. “Revered, your presence is asked in the outer court, in front of the third gallery gate, by the Celestial One.”
“All right, I’m coming.” She followed him reluctantly. She was a little surprised they were calling her to the outer court. If something was going to go wrong, it would go wrong in the heart tower, in the Wheel of the Infinite. The ceremonies surrounding the culmination of the Rite were complex, but worthless for anything but entertainment value. “What is this about? Has there been another problem with the Rite?”
“I wasn’t told, Revered.” The monk glanced back at her worriedly. “But Chancellor Mirak is there, and guardsmen from the Palace.”
Maskelle frowned. “But the royal party should already be in the inner gallery for the invocations.” The ceremonies involved the presence of the Celestial Emperor, who had been brought here in a formal procession earlier in the day. She had planned her examination of the temple carefully to avoid the Emperor’s ritual progress to the inner gallery.
“They are there, Revered,” the monk assured her.
She glanced at Rian and saw the significance of this wasn’t wasted on him, either. I exist to be tormented for the pleasure of the Adversary, she thought.
They went down the steps of the entrance to the outer court. Maskelle saw the temple guards arrayed on the lowest step under the porch and read the tension in their stances. They made space for her to pass before she reached them and she stepped down onto the terrace.
The sun was bright on the two reflecting pools on either side of the space and a damp heat rose off the deep-green grass. The scatter of palms around the large court provided no shade whatsoever. Standing on the cross-shaped terrace were the Celestial One, his attendant priest, and Hirane of the Baran Dir. Maskelle sensed Rian tense next to her and a heartbeat later she registered what he had already seen. They were facing Chancellor Mirak, Lord Karuda, and a dozen or so Palace Guards.
Half surrounded by the Palace Guards were the Ariaden, still in their stage clothing and face paint. The children, except for Firac’s two sons who worked puppets in the show, were not with them. They would have been left back at the guesthouse with one of the Kushorit servants attached to the place, since their help hadn’t been needed with the props and other little chores. That was one small mercy at least. Old Mali was there, though her help hadn’t been needed in the play. The old woman had an uncanny ability to involve herself in everything.
It explained the roar of the crowd. Kushorit theatricals tended to be freeform and would often go on for hours if the audience was still interested. The play must have been a success and the crowd had expected more of it, and been disappointed to see the actors leave the stage.
It didn’t matter. This is enough, Maskelle thought. She was getting very tired of Mirak’s interference. She walked past the Koshans, almost stepping on the Palace Guardsman who didn’t move out of her way quickly enough. “Rastim, what are you doing here?”
“There’s a little difficulty,” he said, sounding embarrassed. Firac, standing at his elbow, moved uneasily and looked down at his feet. The sun was melting the white paint off their faces and they both looked awful, but she didn’t think they had been hurt by the guardsmen.
Karuda stepped toward her and Rian shifted just enough to block his way. The noble started to speak, but Maskelle ignored him, saying, “Rastim, please, just tell me.”
“We were arrested.” He shrugged, apparently philosophical about it. “At least they let us finish the play. I don’t know what they didn’t like about it—”
“Rastim, they didn’t arrest you, and certainly not because of the play,” Maskelle said, she hoped patiently. Rastim was doing a good job of telling the story briefly for an Ariaden. “They don’t bring criminals to the Marai.”
“I’m pretty sure we were arrested—”
“Rastim, don’t argue with me just at the moment.” Maskelle took a deep breath. Something going on here. More than just court intrigue and the shifting politics of power. There was nothing wrong with the Marai, there was nothing wrong with the Rite and nothing likely to go wrong with it, surrounded as it was by the Voices as they did the invocations for the royal party. She could feel the growing tension as a tightness in her chest, but it seemed to be coming out of nowhere. She said to Rastim, “Stay here.”
She had meant for Rian to stay there too, but he followed her anyway as she went toward the Celestial One and the others. They had all been watching her and she had the uncanny sensation for a moment of feeling like one of Rastim’s puppets. She asked Mirak, “Why did you bring these people here?”
Ignoring her, Mirak turned to the Celestial One. He said, “You understand the necessity for this.”
The old man’s expression was less yielding than the stone faces carved into the temple wall behind him. He said to Maskelle, “Tell our visitors to go into the inner court.”
She looked back at Rastim, jerked her head slightly. He caught the hint and started for the stairs up into the gallery, the other Ariaden trailing after him.
Mirak turned, about to gesture to Karuda to stop them. Maskelle felt a swell of tension that was sure to end in something rash, but the Celestial One said, “I don’t recommend it, Chancellor.”
Maskelle had heard him use that tone only once before. It had been when he had told her that if she wanted to move against the Celestial Throne, she would have to kill him first. It sent a little shiver of cold memory through her and her own impulse to take action died.
Mirak paused and regarded the old man. The moment stretched. Then he let his hand drop. Karuda shifted uneasily as Rastim and the others made their way past the temple guards and into the shade of the enclosure. Mirak said finally, “You choose a strange cause in which to exercise your authority.”
The Celestial One didn’t bother to acknowledge the side issue. “Does the Rite mean nothing to you?” he said.
“I mean to make sure she and all those she brought with her leave the city when the Rite is over.” The Chancellor betrayed no sign of anger or any other emotion except quiet confidence.
“Oh, I’ll be leaving the city.” Maskelle had no idea it was she who had spoken until she saw the Celestial One and Hirane staring at her. The words had come straight from the Ancestors. It was one of the more annoying forms of prophecy, when the spirits spoke as your own voice. The world was so close to the Infinite at this time of year that in holy places like the Marai, the barriers became so thin as to be almost nonexistent. The effect would become worse as the Rite drew closer to culmination. She just hoped the Ancestors didn’t decide to say anything particularly damning in front of Mirak.
“You take too much on yourself,” the Celestial One said to the Chancellor. The old man spoke quietly, but Maskelle still heard the warning tone in his voice. She saw Hirane tighten her hold on her staff and sensed the older woman’s uneasiness.
“I’ve always believed the Koshans had too much power in the Imperial system,” Mirak said calmly. “As you know.”
If this was meant to provoke the Celestial One to anger, it didn’t work. He said, “When have I given the Throne commands? I give him advice, which he is free to take up or ignore as his own judgment suits him.”
Maskelle suspected Mirak had been preparing for this test of his power for a long time, that her presence had only provided him with a much looked-for opportunity. It was the worst of bad omens to have this sort of confrontation between religious and secular authorities, at this festival during such an important Rite, and in the Marai of all places. Such things would not have escaped Mirak’s calculation. But if he thought to wring concessions from the Celestial One by forcing him to capitulate rather than continue such an inauspicious disagreement, then he hadn’t counted on the old man’s stubbornness.
Mirak said, “The next to hold your office may have the ambition you lack.”
The old man’s lips thinned. “A man with ambitions cannot hold my office.”
Maskelle winced in anticipation of what was coming next.
“Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for your position.”
“Perhaps you take too much on yourself,” Mirak said, his tone amused but his eyes hard.
“This can be settled later,” Hirane broke in. “The Rite is more important than this bickering.”
Maskelle felt someone standing behind her and turned. She found herself looking down at the Celestial One. A glance over her shoulder confirmed the fact that the Celestial One still stood confronting Mirak and the others. She turned back to the being who stood in front of her. She felt curiously hollow, distanced from reality, free of emotion. After seven years, here was the Adversary. Not just a half vision that might be a dream, not a ghost hinting at doom. She said, “You need to choose a new Voice to take my place.”
It looked up at her, an odd gleam of humor in the ageless eyes. “All right,” it said, obligingly. “I choose you.” The voice was the Celestial One’s as well, but it sounded oddly flat and she knew she wasn’t hearing it with her ears.
Suddenly she was inside the chamber of the Rite, but the shape of the room and outlines of the carvings on the walls were subtly distorted. She looked down and saw the world was at her feet, glowing with life. Mountains, rivers, deltas, the gulf and the sea, the oceans beyond, all in perfect detail. The Adversary stood next to her, still in the form of the Celestial One. It said, “The sacred mountain is at the center of the universe.”
Puzzled, she nodded. “Everyone knows that.”
“Not everyone.” It pointed down. The world was revolving around the centerpoint of the Rite. “They don’t know it. Those who covet this world. The center doesn’t move.”
Not again, Maskelle thought. Another vision she couldn’t understand. “Those who covet this world. Marada and her people?” Dizzy, she had to look away from the spinning landscape at her feet. “Why can’t I understand You? Is the fault in me?”
“No,” it said. Its eyes tracked the progress of the rotating world. An expression crossed its face, a mix of confusion and regret, near panic. “The fault is in me.”
Maskelle stared, feeling her heart freeze in her chest. “What’s wrong?” she whispered. “What’s wrong with You?”
“With me?” it said, its features smoothing back into blandness.
Maskelle shook her head slightly, bewildered. Did I imagine that? “You said the fault was in You.”
The glowing world at their feet threw a dizzying reflection onto its face. It said only, “Ask the right question.”
She shook her head, frustrated. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? You never have to do anything useful, just make me guess.” It didn’t react to the bitterness in her voice; she had been foolish to even think that it would. She gestured helplessly. “So it was no use, killing Marada?”
“Marada spoke the truth, it was already too late.” Its smile was almost gleeful, then its expression abruptly turned serious. “You have both one opponent and many.”
One of the nameless fears Maskelle had been prey to all day suddenly became solid and real. I missed something. She still couldn’t see it. I must be the most useless Voice of the Adversary in history. “Can You tell me what I need to do?” she demanded.
Its gaze went to her and it no longer had the Celestial One’s eyes, but the eyes of something mad and strange. Then it stepped close to her and the rest of the room seemed to fade into shadow, until there was nothing but its voice. “Stay in the Marai. Whatever happens, stay. You must be here. To leave would ruin everything.”
She was in the court again, the hot sun on her back. She leaned on her staff, trying to adjust to the sudden change. The Adversary had finally spoken to her again. She had wanted it for so long and now … She was a little afraid. That was an odd vision. Maybe more than odd. No, that was her own interpretation coloring the Adversary’s words again.
Rian watched her worriedly. She knew he had sensed that something had happened, that he might even have seen her spirit temporarily leave her body. It was odd that the highest-ranking Koshans in the Empire were standing on this terrace and only Rian had noticed. He’s the only one who sees me clearly. The thought had the ring of the Ancestors in it, too. Mirak was still talking, Hirane was playing arbiter, and the Celestial One stood like something carved out of clay. He needs to get out of this sun. That thought sounded more normal; she was fairly sure it was all her own. “I’ll go,” she told Mirak, “when the Rite is over. Not until then.” Her own voice sounded hollow and strange now.
To the Celestial One, Hirane added, “You must go to the royal party. If the Great Opening is delayed—”
“I know,” he said grimly. He stepped close to Mirak. “Leave this place.”
“I will.” Mirak’s gaze was calm. “If she returns to the Celestial Home.”
Maskelle looked away toward the outer enclosure, smiling a little. Whatever was moving these events was using Mirak as its pawn, whether he was aware of it or not. She would not let it force her to leave the Marai. The Ancestors whispered in the back of her mind again. She couldn’t understand all the words, but the meaning came through as strong as a prophecy and with almost enough force to weaken her knees. It’s not going to be safe here. It wasn’t going to be safe anywhere, but the Marai was at the center of the danger. Damn it, I should have sent Rastim and the others out. She would rectify that mistake immediately. But first …
She turned to Mirak. “I have to stay until the Rite is over. But take Rian with you as proof of my good behavior.” Behind the Chancellor she could see Rian’s expression turn incredulous.
Hirane drew breath as if to speak, but said nothing. Maskelle could feel the Celestial One’s eyes boring into her. He would know she was doing this for a reason. She just hoped he trusted her.
For the first time, Mirak looked directly at her and Maskelle knew she had surprised him. She smiled again, knowing it wasn’t a pleasant expression. “You’ve already taken pains to find out he’s a valuable hostage to use against me; why waste another opportunity?”
Mirak lifted a brow, studying her. He couldn’t refuse this offer without his motives being called into question, though she could tell he wondered what game she was playing at. Finally he said, “Very well.”
She met Rian’s eyes steadily. She was counting on the fact that he wouldn’t disobey her in public. Mirak turned away, his men closing around him as he moved down the causeway. Karuda waited for Rian.
Maskelle faced him for another heartbeat, then he turned and followed Mirak, Karuda falling into step beside him.
Maskelle drew a deep breath, now that there was no one to see it but Hirane and the Celestial One. He’ll hate me for that, she thought. But at least he’ll be alive to do it.
“What game do you play, daughter?” the Celestial One asked, eyeing her thoughtfully.
Maskelle shook her head. “Something is about to happen. I don’t know what. The Ancestors and the Adversary are speaking in my head so loudly I can’t tell Their words from my thoughts. And none of it makes sense.”
“I thought you could no longer hear the Adversary,” Hirane said sharply.
“I had a vision in the Illsat Keo on the way to the city, another in the Illsat Sidar, and … one just now. It spoke to me.” She admitted wryly, “It was obscure, but insistent.”
“What sort of vision did you have?” the Celestial One asked, frowning.
“You said nothing of this to me,” Hirane said to him. “If the Adversary has returned—”
“You didn’t ask me,” he told her abruptly. “Return to your duties; we’ll discuss this later.”
Hirane’s eyes narrowed. “Go inside, old man.” She started across the causeway, her attendants moving to follow her.
The Celestial One watched her walk away, his face unreadable. Maskelle offered him her arm as they started up the steps back into the Marai. Answering his question, she said, “The Adversary appeared as you, showed me the Rite, and told me to stay in the Marai, no matter what happened. I’m as imperfect an Oracle as ever.” They paused in the shade of the gallery. “It did mention Marada’s people, the people who ‘covet our world.’”
The Celestial One looked weary. “The wall between the world and the Infinite is always thin on the days of the Rite. But for this Rite it seems even more insubstantial than it should be. I have word of visions and warnings from all the Voices and half the seventh level in the city. Perhaps it’s only that this is a Hundred Year Rite.”
“But you don’t believe that. You—” Maskelle stopped. Somewhere power swelled and rose like a wave on the sea. It echoed down the canals and the sacred paths of Kushor-At. But where is it coming from? It had to be the culmination of the Rite, but … She stared at the length of the shadows on the floor of the open gallery. They’re too early. Maskelle shared a startled expression with the Celestial One. The old man’s face had gone gray. Without having to discuss it, Maskelle picked up the skirts of her robe and ran down the gallery, making for the inner court and the central tower.
The Rite was always brought to culmination at the Equinox; it had never, in all the years of Kushorit history, been executed at any other time. What this would do she wasn’t sure; the voice of reason in her babbled that it couldn’t be that bad, they were only hours away from the proper time. If it was some buried sabotage of Marada’s, set to proceed even if she was no longer alive to reap the benefits, then Maskelle wasn’t sure of the use of it.
She reached the end of the gallery and pelted across the second inner court. She lost a sandal on the steps up to the first gallery and had to pause to tear the other one off. The flow of power was stronger and the taste of it was acidic and unfamiliar, as if, against every principle of Koshan philosophy and craft, something else had invaded Kushor-At’s reservoirs to flow over the city. It couldn’t have been worse if the mud from the rice paddies had suddenly risen up to break the floodgates and stream into the canals. Every Koshan she passed reeled under the shock of the onslaught. If it was the Wheel’s culmination, then something had gone very, very wrong.
Maskelle reached the first inner court and ran out into the open area toward the central tower. Then it hit.
First it was a physical blow, something heavy striking her in the back. Maskelle staggered, then sunk to her knees, pressing her hands to her face. It came from behind me; it’s not the Rite. Power swelled and raged like a storm, tearing across her body and her mind.
Rian walked down the bridge, trying to keep his expression controlled, but it was an effort. He could feel Karuda’s eyes on him and hoped what he was thinking wasn’t there to be read on his face. I can’t believe she did this. He didn’t know whether it was some plan he was simply too dense to see the logic of, or if she had decided not to trust him.
He looked out over the water toward the low dike and barrier wall, feeling his gut twist. It was stupid to feel betrayed. This was just the way of the world.
At the midpoint of the bridge, Mirak stopped and motioned Karuda to come to him. “Return to the temple and follow her. Make sure she keeps her vow.”
Without a word, Karuda bowed and turned away, going back toward the Marai’s enclosure. Rian fought the urge to make a break for it. He had known this would happen and now he wouldn’t even be there to do anything about it. Mirak looked at him, brow lifted speculatively. The Chancellor said, “Perhaps you’re not as valuable a hostage as I thought.”
“Try it and see,” Rian said, meeting his eyes. He was tired of playing it safe. If Mirak wanted to have him killed, let it be for a good reason.
The Chancellor’s lips thinned, but he didn’t deign to answer. He started for the end of the bridge again and Rian followed, the guards closing in behind him. A hot wind lifted his hair, sudden and strong, and he looked up, frowning. There’s a storm coming, he thought at first. There was a gray cloud on the horizon, visible above the buildings and the walls of the city in the distance. Then he remembered this wasn’t the plains of the Sintane and he shouldn’t be able to see storms coming on the horizon miles away.
One of the guards swore uneasily. The group halted and Mirak stared at the rising grayness above the city wall.
Rian squinted, lifting a hand to shade his eyes, trying to understand what he was looking at. This wasn’t a storm, it was a wall of clouds.… Not clouds, it was a solid wall, becoming darker as it drew closer. The noise of the festival crowd died out, the sound dropping away. The black wave swelled and grew and passed over the city wall. The sudden shock of how huge it was took Rian’s breath away and he realized he was backing up without conscious volition. Its shadow traveled across the terraces to the broad plaza that lay before the Marai. Its shadow blotted out the sun.
Screams rose from the crowd now. Rian felt the stone of the bridge’s balustrade against his thighs and knew he had nowhere else to go. Maskelle’s words echoed in his head: “I’ve heard the Celestial One say that he thought it more likely that in changing the shape of the land, what they actually did was change everything about it—its shape, its history, its reality … changed the whole region to someplace else, that looked a great deal like the places where the Sakkaran cities used to be … Which is why we don’t try to do that anymore.”
Rian turned and bolted back down the bridge toward the temple’s entrance. Wind hit him with sudden force and threw him against the stone. He tried to stand and the next gust tumbled him over the balustrade. He plunged into the cool water, going under, then flailing back to the surface. Sputtering and gasping for air, he looked wildly around for the temple enclosure. There was no one else on the bridge and he hadn’t seen if the others had run or gone over the side. Then he saw the black wall reach the outer edge of the moat.
That’s it, Rian thought. There was nowhere to go. It had to be the Rite. Something went wrong. Very wrong. The darkness moved out over the water and seemed to slow, as if pressing forward against a steady resistance. Rian discovered he couldn’t just float here and wait for it, not even if there was nowhere to go. He kicked away from the bridge and swam for the temple enclosure. The noise of the city had died away, the silence complete except for the sound of his own thrashing in the water.
Rian was close to the edge of the basin when something lifted him up and flung him against the rough ground at the base of the enclosure wall. He struck it with stunning force and lay tumbled there a moment, gasping for air.
He pushed himself up on his hands and knees, shaking his head, dizzy and sick. Pain from his ribs stabbed him again and he clutched at his side, sitting back on his heels. Then he noticed the water was gone, replaced by giant paving blocks, each one of smooth gray stone. Oh, no, Rian thought. I really don’t want to know. He made himself look up.
The sky was dark and roiling, like a summer thunderstorm, and under that sky was another city. Buildings as mountainlike as the temples of Kushor-At and Kushor-An, but far stranger. The nearest, perhaps half a mile away, looked like a giant overturned pottery bowl. Others were cone-shaped, or like pillars with giant balls set atop them. Surfaces that the Kushorit would have used for giant stone canvases were mostly bare, marked only with one or two bands of geometric shapes. Trying to deny the evidence of his eyes, Rian looked toward the front of the Marai.
The moat and the bridge that crossed it, the plaza and the walls and the city itself were gone; he could see the causeway that ran through the outer gate of the Marai’s enclosure not far away. It dead-ended about level with where he had fallen, the stone chopped off as if by mason’s tools.
His mind blank with shock, he looked back out at the strange city. There were no people anywhere. The festival crowds that had surrounded the Marai had vanished with everything else.
Rian got to his feet, stumbling as his right knee tried to give out. He realized he was shivering, though the air wasn’t cold. He wiped sweaty palms off on his shirt. Panicking was beginning to seem like an appropriate response. He wished he had screamed earlier when the wind or force or whatever it was had thrown him into the wall; it seemed like self-indulgence to do it now.
He started toward the gate, limping, new bruises making themselves known. The only sound was the wind sweeping dust over stone, a whispering noise that seemed to echo with threat and loneliness and loss. Rian took a deep breath. He had come to the Celestial Empire looking for a different world right enough, but this wasn’t what he had had in mind.
Rian reached the outer gate and leaned on the nearest pillar. The court on the other side of the wall looked the same, except the color of the grass was dull and lifeless under the dark sky and the only sound was the stir of palm leaves in the empty wind. A rustle in the grass that wasn’t the wind made him freeze.
For a long moment there was nothing. Maybe I’ve gone crazy and none of this is actually happening, he thought hopefully. He suspected he wasn’t that lucky. Then he heard the sound again. He stepped to the edge of the platform and looked down.
Karuda lay on the grass near the base of the causeway. As Rian watched, he stirred feebly and groaned. Rian contemplated the unfamiliar sky in exasperation. It would be him. He swung over the low balustrade and dropped to the ground. He landed awkwardly, staggering. Karuda groaned again as Rian rolled him over. The noble had a bleeding gash on his temple, but he blinked and opened his eyes.
Leaning over him, Rian said flatly, “Guess what.”
Slowly, Karuda pushed himself up on his arms. He stared at the churning sky. “The Rite…” he managed to say.
“Yeah, the Rite. But at least that little problem with the Koshans having too much power in the Imperial system is all taken care of. Too bad Mirak isn’t around to appreciate it.” Rian turned away in disgust and limped toward the steps that led back up to the causeway. If Karuda had survived inside the Marai, the others must have, too.
Maskelle’s head hurt. She knew she was still in the Marai before she opened her eyes. The gritty stone under her cheek resonated with the temple’s power, but something was terribly wrong. She pushed herself up on her arms, lifted her head.
The sky was gray, the clouds dark and angry, as if a storm had just passed. It was almost familiar.
The breath caught in her throat. Her vision in the Illsat Keo. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “Oh, no, oh, no.” She laid her hand flat against the stone of the pavement and extended her awareness outward, through the courts of the Marai, inner, first outer, lunar and solar, to the outer wall just before the moat— There it stopped. “This isn’t happening.”
Rian was kneeling at her side then, one hand under her arm to hold her up. She stared at him incredulously. “What are you doing here? I sent you away from this.”
He was looking worriedly up at the strange sky. “Just lucky, I guess.”
She shook her head. Nothing worked, nothing. “Help me up.”
He pulled her to her feet and she wrapped an arm around his waist. Leaning on him, she buried her face against his neck, breathing in the scent of warm human sweat. It was another connection to the world as it had been. She took a deep breath. “We’re in trouble.”
“I figured that out,” he said into her hair.
She lifted her head and looked toward the end of the passage. “I need to see outside.”
Running footsteps in the court made them both turn. It was Rastim, white-faced and anxious. “What’s happened?” he said, low-voiced, as he reached them.
Maskelle shook her head. “I need to get to the first solar tower.”
Rastim picked up her staff and tried to hand it to her. She shook her head. Cut off from the spirits and the power of the temples, it was only so much deadwood and silver now. Rastim’s mouth twisted in distress and he leaned the staff against the wall.
All the lamps had gone out along the colonnade, and as they neared the corner tower it was almost too dark to see. Maskelle’s knees were weak and she waited to feel the Marai’s force start to fade. The temple would die around her until the stone was nothing but a shell.
They reached the entrance to the western tower and Rian started up first. The chambers off the stairwell were quiet and the air unnaturally still. When they came out on the gallery, Maskelle moved forward to lean on the parapet.
It was the plain of her vision, vast as time, stretching away into the dark horizon under the purple-gray storm-churned sky. In the distance a wind drove a wall of dust across the giant paving blocks, and from the height of the tower she could see a mountain range in the distance. The city from her vision rose like smaller mountains around them. The nearest structure was a strange bulbous shape, like three balls of stone perched atop each other. It was decorated only with wide bands of unfamiliar, meaningless geometric carving. It was so strange, so frightening to look at, Maskelle found it hard to draw a full breath until she turned away.
Rian asked her quietly, “The Rite brought us here, didn’t it? Something went wrong, like you thought.”
She shook her head slowly. “The Rite didn’t bring us here.”
“You mean … it’s an illusion?” Rastim’s voice was hopeful.
Ariaden are the eternal optimists, Maskelle thought ruefully. “It’s not an illusion.”
“Oh.” Rastim flattened his hands against the parapet uneasily, seeking reassurance from the familiar stone. “Then how…?”
“This is our world. We haven’t gone anywhere,” she explained. “They brought this to us. This is what the disruption to the Rite was for. It let them do this.”
“No, really,” Rastim said, as if hoping she would change her mind. Rian said nothing, looking out at the alien landscape.
“Yes, really.” Maskelle touched the Marai’s power again, tentatively, waiting for the inevitable. But the temple wasn’t dying yet.
It felt, in fact, a little stronger. The center doesn’t move.
She realized both men were staring at her, that Rastim had spoken again and she hadn’t heard a word. She said, “I just heard the Adversary.”
“And that means?” Rastim prompted worriedly.
She shook her head and turned back into the tower. Behind her, she heard Rian say, “It means we’re not dead yet.”
Maskelle went back down the stairs, down the gallery toward the inner court. She heard voices, hushed and frightened. When she came out into the open below the central tower, a group of about forty people huddled in the gallery and the portico around it. Some younger priests were on the upper level where they could look out over the plain. She saw one pointing, another shaking his head in disbelief.
And the Marai’s stone throbbed with the temple’s heartbeat, stronger with each step.
The rest of the Ariaden were there, and Therassa and Firac hurried toward her. “What’s happened?”
The question was echoed by the others. It was a mixed group, most of them Koshans. “I’m not sure,” Maskelle told them. What she wasn’t sure about was whether she was lying or not. She was beginning to think she had misunderstood again.
She stepped past them, through the portico and into the tower. There was no one in the outer vestibule and she went around the wall to the chamber of the Rite.
Vigar and the other Voices were there, many of the older ones still sprawled on the floor, dazed or unconscious. Vigar was just climbing to his feet with the help of a young nun. But Maskelle had eyes only for who lay on the chamber floor beyond him.
The Celestial One lay there, as still as death, his head pillowed on a bundled-up robe. Two of the younger Voices anxiously leaned over him. Maskelle went to his side and they made way for her. He wasn’t breathing and she touched his face gently. She whispered, “I’m sorry.” The Marai’s power must be in her imagination, or it was some temporary state that would quickly fade.
She felt Vigar standing behind her. “He may come back when the shock is less,” he said, his voice rough.
She didn’t look up. “Come back to what?”
Vigar touched her shoulder and she finally looked at the center of the room.
The Wheel of the Rite was whole and almost undisturbed. A path was torn through the edge of the outer ring, through the border protection symbols and into the eastern rise. Someone must have been thrown into it when the shock of the change took place.
But that little disruption was nothing. The Rite was nearly intact and still waiting for its culmination. I was right, she thought. It came from somewhere else, not the Rite. At least, not our Rite. Maskelle looked at Vigar. “We didn’t do this.”
He shook his head. “No.”
She felt a little of the tightness in her chest ease. She took a deep breath.
“Who did?” one of the other Voices asked quietly. “That’s the question.”
We return to the basics of our philosophy, Maskelle thought. It was the first lesson of the first step on the Koshan Path. When you seek an answer, first define the question. She said, “That will do for a start.”
Maskelle got unsteadily to her feet and walked back out to the portico. The strange purple tint of the sky gave the carvings an unfamiliar cast, but the Marai was still itself. Rastim was with the other Ariaden, giving them reassurances she could see he didn’t believe. Rian moved to stand next to her. “Over there,” he said softly, nodding toward the west side of the court.
Mirak was there, in the shelter of the colonnade, standing with another man dressed as a courtier whom she didn’t recognize. “Ah, that’s all I needed,” Maskelle said under her breath. “I thought he was outside the boundary.”
“So did I.” Rian’s expression was grim. “He must have run back down the causeway.”
Ancestors, Raith is here too, Maskelle realized. The Celestial Throne and his most favored courtiers and advisors had been here for their part of the invocations. She saw Karuda, battered and bleeding, standing with three Palace Guards. Most of the temple guards would have been outside in the crowd, but a small contingent of Palace Guards would have come with the Celestial Throne into the temple.
Vigar stepped out onto the portico and stood looking up at the sky. “The woman Marada … Whoever sent her…”
Maskelle nodded. “The disruptions to the Rite were part of this. There was a second Wheel, and those symbols were of this place.”
Vigar grimaced. “We have to know how they learned enough of the Rite to do this.”
Maskelle couldn’t argue with that. Knowing how meant knowing who. She could feel Vigar’s gaze boring into her. Then he said, “You are the Voice of the Adversary.”
She knew what was coming and it made dread sit heavily in her stomach. “Only in name.”
“In name and power,” he insisted.
“And authority?” She looked at him, lifting a brow inquiringly. She was holding her breath. Didn’t you want this once? she asked herself. If I did, I was a fool.
He stepped back and gave her the full ninth-degree bow, the obeisance and respect due to the chief religious of the Koshan temples and the Celestial Empire. She hesitated, then felt the beat of the Marai’s heart resonate under her feet.
Maskelle steeled herself. She had too much to protect to step back now.
Her glance flicked around the court. They had all seen—the seventh-level priests, the two other Voices who had followed Vigar out into the court, Karuda and Mirak. She nodded to Vigar. “Go back to the Celestial One. We can try to summon the Healing Spirits; that may help him return faster.”
Vigar’s brows lifted. “Can the Healing Spirits answer our call after what has been done?”
As if I know, Maskelle thought grimly. “I heard the Adversary earlier. If It can reach us, They can.” Of course, the Adversary was far more persistent and far more ferocious than any of the other Ancestors. It might only be lingering after the others had gone. No, don’t think that. Those thoughts were the first step toward giving in, and she didn’t intend to give in. Not now, not while the Marai’s heart still beat.
Vigar nodded, thoughtful, and turned back to the tower. When he had gone, Rian said, low-voiced, “What was that about?”
“When the Celestial One is dead, the Voice of the Adversary is the chief religious of the Celestial Empire.” She looked around the court of the Marai glumly. “The last part of which we seem to be standing on.”
Rian stared. “The Celestial One’s dead?”
“For now.” She shook her head. “There’s dead and there’s dead. While the Marai is still alive, while I can still hear the Adversary, he may come back.”
“So Vigar just told you you’re in charge of this … this…”
“Disaster? That’s what the Adversary is for.” Her mouth made a dry smile. “The tasks no one else wants.”
Rian let out his breath. “We’re going to need guards, lookouts. Without the moat, the outer wall isn’t much protection.”
“You take care of that.”
Rian jerked his chin at Karuda. “What’s he going to say about it?”
“Whatever you tell him to.” She motioned for Karuda to come to her.
He crossed the court toward them and bowed to her, to the correct degree. She said, “You take your orders from Rian now.”
He inclined his head, and without waiting for further signs of acceptance, Maskelle went back to the central tower.