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‘But why would…’
She saw a sudden knowledge in his eyes, and felt her own answering stab of fear. ‘Heboric, what do you-’
Then he was guiding her to the tent flap, speaking as he drove her back step by step. ‘We spoke, you and I, and all is well. Nothing to concern yourself over. The Adjunct and her legions are coming and there is much to do. As well, there are the secret plans of Febryl to keep an eye on, and for that you must rely upon Bidithal-’
‘Heboric!’ She struggled against him, but he would not relent. They reached the flap and he pushed her outside. ‘What are you-’ A hard shove and she stumbled back.
Through a flare of wards.
Sha’ik slowly righted herself. She must have stumbled. Oh yes, a conversation with Ghost Hands. All is well. I’m relieved by that, for it allows me to think on more important things. My nest of betrayers, for example. Must have words with Bidithal again tonight. Yes …
She turned from the ex-priest’s tent and made her way back to the palace.
Overhead, the stars of the desert sky were shimmering, as they often did when the goddess had come close… Sha’ik wondered what had drawn her this time. Perhaps no more than casting a protective eye on her Chosen One…
She was unmindful-as was her goddess-of the barely visible shape that slipped out from the entrance to Heboric’s tent, flowing in a blur into the nearest shadows. Unmindful, also, of the scent that barbed shape now followed.
Westward, to the city’s edge, and then onto the trail, padding between the stone trees, towards a distant glade.
Bidithal sat in the seething shadows, alone once more, although the smile remained fixed on his withered face. Febryl had his games, but so did the once High Priest of the Shadow cult. Even betrayers could be betrayed, after all, a sudden turning of the knife in the hand.
And the sands would fold one more time, the way they did when the air breathed hard, in, out, back, forth, stirring and shifting the grains as would waves against a beach, to lay one layer over another in thin seams of colour. There were no limits to the number of layers, and this Febryl and his fellow conspirators would soon discover, to their grief.
They sought the warren for themselves. It had taken Bidithal a long time to unveil that truth, that deep-buried motivation, for it had remained in the silence between every spoken word. This was not a simple, mundane struggle for power. No. This was usurpation. Expropriation-a detail that itself whispered of yet deeper secrets. They wanted the warren… but why? A question yet to be answered, but find an answer he would, and soon.
In this, he knew, the Chosen One relied upon him, and he would not fail her. In so far as what she expects from me, yes, I will deliver. Of course, there are other issues that extend far beyond Sha’ik, this goddess and the Whirlwind Warren she would rule. The shape of the pantheon itself is at stake… my long-overdue vengeance against those foreign pretenders to the Throne of Shadow .
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‘But why would…’
She saw a sudden knowledge in his eyes, and felt her own answering stab of fear. ‘Heboric, what do you-’
Then he was guiding her to the tent flap, speaking as he drove her back step by step. ‘We spoke, you and I, and all is well. Nothing to concern yourself over. The Adjunct and her legions are coming and there is much to do. As well, there are the secret plans of Febryl to keep an eye on, and for that you must rely upon Bidithal-’
‘Heboric!’ She struggled against him, but he would not relent. They reached the flap and he pushed her outside. ‘What are you-’ A hard shove and she stumbled back.
Through a flare of wards.
Sha’ik slowly righted herself. She must have stumbled. Oh yes, a conversation with Ghost Hands. All is well. I’m relieved by that, for it allows me to think on more important things. My nest of betrayers, for example. Must have words with Bidithal again tonight. Yes …
She turned from the ex-priest’s tent and made her way back to the palace.
Overhead, the stars of the desert sky were shimmering, as they often did when the goddess had come close… Sha’ik wondered what had drawn her this time. Perhaps no more than casting a protective eye on her Chosen One…
She was unmindful-as was her goddess-of the barely visible shape that slipped out from the entrance to Heboric’s tent, flowing in a blur into the nearest shadows. Unmindful, also, of the scent that barbed shape now followed.
Westward, to the city’s edge, and then onto the trail, padding between the stone trees, towards a distant glade.
Bidithal sat in the seething shadows, alone once more, although the smile remained fixed on his withered face. Febryl had his games, but so did the once High Priest of the Shadow cult. Even betrayers could be betrayed, after all, a sudden turning of the knife in the hand.
And the sands would fold one more time, the way they did when the air breathed hard, in, out, back, forth, stirring and shifting the grains as would waves against a beach, to lay one layer over another in thin seams of colour. There were no limits to the number of layers, and this Febryl and his fellow conspirators would soon discover, to their grief.
They sought the warren for themselves. It had taken Bidithal a long time to unveil that truth, that deep-buried motivation, for it had remained in the silence between every spoken word. This was not a simple, mundane struggle for power. No. This was usurpation. Expropriation-a detail that itself whispered of yet deeper secrets. They wanted the warren… but why? A question yet to be answered, but find an answer he would, and soon.
In this, he knew, the Chosen One relied upon him, and he would not fail her. In so far as what she expects from me, yes, I will deliver. Of course, there are other issues that extend far beyond Sha’ik, this goddess and the Whirlwind Warren she would rule. The shape of the pantheon itself is at stake… my long-overdue vengeance against those foreign pretenders to the Throne of Shadow .
Even now, if he listened very- very- carefully, he could hear them. And they were coming. Closer, ever closer.
A tremble of fear took his limbs, and shadows scurried away from him momentarily, only returning when he had settled once more. Rashan… and Meanas. Meanas and Thyr. Thyr and Rashan. The three children of the Elder Warrens. Galain, Emurlahn and Thyrllan. Should it be so surprising that they war once more? For do not we ever inherit the spites of our fathers and mothers ?
But a ghost of that fear remained. He had not called them, after all. Had not understood the truth of what lay beneath the Whirlwind Warren, the reason why the warren was held in this single place and nowhere else. Had not comprehended how the old battles never died, but simply slept, every bone in the sand restless with memory.
Bidithal raised his hands and the army of shadows crowded within his temple gathered closer.
‘My children,’ he whispered, beginning the Closing Chant.
‘ Father. ’
‘Do you remember?’
‘ We remember. ’
‘Do you remember the dark?’
‘ We remember the dark. Father -’
‘Ask it and close this moment, children.’
‘ Do you remember the dark? ’
The priest’s smile broadened. A simple question, one that could be asked of anyone, anyone at all. And perhaps they would understand. But probably not. Yet I understand it .
Do you remember the dark?
‘I remember.’
As, with sighs, the shadows dispersed, Bidithal stiffened once more to that almost inaudible call. He shivered again. They were getting close indeed.
And he wondered what they would do, when they finally arrived.
