“Young Afsan,” Saleed had said, a tremulous note in his voice, “the Empress commands your presence at her ruling room right away.”
Afsan’s nictitating membranes danced across his eyes. “The Empress wishes to see me?”
“That’s right,” Saleed said with a nod. “You’ve either done something incredibly bad or incredibly good. I don’t know which it is.”
Afsan headed up the wide spiral ramp into the light of day, then crossed the courtyard to the ornate building that housed the room from which the Empress ruled. Guards flanked the entrance ramp, but they were there only to fend off wild beasts that might wander into the city. They wouldn’t think of challenging another Quintaglio, even one as young as Afsan, for to challenge one’s territory was to force a fight, and civilized beings did not fight.
Instead, Afsan merely was expected to nod concession to the guards, and he did just that, hurrying up the ramp and through the vast archway that marked the entrance to the main palace building.
There was no sign of decay here. Yes, the landquakes hit this building as hard as any of the others, but it, at least, was repaired quickly after each tremor. Afsan made his way down the Hall of Stone Eggs. Its walls were lined with thousands of rock spheres that had been cut in half and polished to a lustrous sheen. The inside of each hemisphere was lined with beautiful crystals. Most of the crystals seemed to be clear or purple, but some were the same bright bluish-white as the sun itself and others were the green of Quintaglio hide.
Afsan had heard of this great hall. Its beauty was legendary; even the priests of Carno spoke of it. But Afsan had no time to pause and enjoy its wonders — it would not do to keep the Empress waiting. He hurried past the hemispheres of sliced stone, wondering how something as plain as an uncut egg could contain such beauty within.
The Hall led into a vast circular chamber, its round floor banded with polished rocks of different colors. There were four doors leading from the chamber, each with the cartouche of the occupant carved intricately into the rich red
telaja
-wood from which they were made. The Empress’s cartouche was used on every official proclamation — including even the notice Afsan had received summoning him to Capital City — so he had no trouble recognizing which door he wanted. But before knocking, he paused to admire this particular rendition of the cartouche. Five handspans high, it was carved in exquisite detail. The symbols of the Empress were rendered in bas-relief and the background, carved out to take advantage of the rich grain of the wood, represented the swirling, mesmerizing Face of God.
At the top of the cartouche’s oval boundary there was the egg, said to be that of the Prophet Larsk himself. Its shell was marked by a thin reticulum of cracks, showing that it had at one time been open, but now was resealed, signifying that the prophet might indeed one day be born again, might return to the people to make known more new and wondrous truths.
Below the egg was the serrated sickle of a hunter’s tooth, and, to its right, the tighter curve of a hunter’s claw — a reminder that whenever a Quintaglio hunted, the Empress went with him or her in spirit, for it was through her strength that even the most ferocious of beasts would end up as food.
Beneath these was a field of wavy lines, representing the great River upon which Land floated, and an oval shape in the center, representing Land itself.
And at the bottom were two profile views of Quintaglio heads facing away from each other, bowed in territorial concession, indicating that no matter which side one moved to, all territories found there were the Empress’s. Usually the heads were rendered in silhouette, and Afsan had always taken them to be generic faces, but here they were brought out in striking individual detail. Afsan’s heart jumped when he realized that the face on the left, wrinkled and mottled with age, was none other than Tak-Saleed, court astrologer, and that the one on the right, with its long muzzle and high earholes, was Det-Yenalb, the chief priest of the temple. What Afsan had interpreted before as saying
all people will concede to the Empress
was much, much more:
even the stars and the church must bow concession to me
. Afsan swallowed hard and drummed his claws against the metal plate in the doorjamb, the linking sound made louder by a hidden hollow behind the copper sheet.
Afsan waited nervously. At last, a reply came: “
Hahat dan
,” a short form of the words meaning “Permission to enter my territory is granted.”
Afsan worked the lever that opened the door and stepped into the ruling room. It wasn’t what he’d expected. Yes, there was a throne, an ornate dayslab angled perhaps a tad closer to vertical than normal, mounted high on a polished basalt pedestal. But in front of it was a plain, unadorned worktable, covered with papers and writing leather. The figure lying on the throne slab had her head tipped down, drawing glyphs. Afsan did not want to interrupt, so he stood quietly just inside the doorway.
There was no doubt that this was the Empress: the great dome of her head was richly tattooed. Afsan noticed that the worktable was mounted on little metal wheels. It could apparently be easily removed when official functions were being performed here.
At last the Empress looked up. Her face, although youthful, was weary. A ragged band of brown skin ran across the top of her head and down over one eye — an unusual pattern, clearly visible beneath the tattoos. She squinted at Afsan. “Who are you?” she said at last, her voice thick and cold.
Afsan’s heart skipped a beat. Had this all been some terrible mistake? Was he not expected here? “Afsan,” he said in a soft voice. “Apprentice to the court astrologer, Tak-Saleed.”
The Empress tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Ah, yes. Afsan. Saleed must like you. You’ve been here, what, four hundred days?”
“Four hundred and ninety-two, Your Luminance.”
“A record, I should think.” There was no humor in her tone. “And in that time you have become a friend of my son, Dybo?”
“It is my honor to be so, yes.”
“Dybo tells me you wish him to undertake the pilgrimage and the hunt with you.”
Afsan’s tail swished nervously. Had he overstepped propriety in asking this of Dybo? What punishment would befall his impertinence? “Yes, Empress, I have.”
“Dybo is a member of
The Family
and prince of this court. But, of course, he does, at some point, have to go through the rites of passage.”
Afsan didn’t know what to say, so he merely bowed concession to the Empress.
“Come closer,” she said.
Should he run to her, his tail lifting from the ground? Or walk more slowly, thus letting his tail drag? He opted for the latter, hoping it was the right choice. Normally one could approach to within the body-length of the larger of the two individuals in question without prompting a reflex reaction. Afsan felt that coming that close to the Empress, though, would be wrong. He stopped a good ten paces shy of her.
Lends nodded, as if this was as it should be. Then she held up her left hand, the three metal bracelets of her office clinking together as she did so. “I will allow him to go with you, but,” she unsheathed her first claw, “you will,” and then her second, “be,” the third, “responsible,” the fourth, “for his,” the fifth, “safe return.”
She let the light in the room glint off her polished claws for several heartbeats as she flexed her fingers. “Do I make myself clear?” she said at last.
Afsan bowed his agreement, then left the Empress’s ruling room as fast as he could.
*6*
Spitting dust, Afsan forced himself to climb higher. He had wanted Dybo to come with him. But Pal-Cadool, the butcher who for three days now had been telling the boys stories about the hunt, had been shocked at that suggestion. “One must go alone to join a pack,” he’d said in that drawn-out way of his. Dybo had gone earlier today. Afsan had had to wait until his duties to Saleed were discharged. He had not seen Dybo since the young prince had departed, nor, from what he could gather, had anyone else.
It was late afternoon, the sun already bloated, purple, and low. When he’d started the climb, Afsan had been conscious of the background noises: the mating cries of shovelmouths pumped through their intricate crests; wingfingers shrieking as they scooped up lizards; ship’s bells and drums far off in the harbor. But the climb was arduous, and soon all other sounds were drowned out by the thudding of his heart.
The Hunter’s Shrine was atop a giant rock pile, fully as high as any of the Ch’mar volcanoes. But this cairn hadn’t been formed naturally. Legend had it that each of the Five Original Hunters — Lubal, Katoon, Hoog, Belbar, and Mekt — had brought one stone here for every successful kill throughout their lives. The priests of their sect had continued the practice thereafter. Of course, worship of the Five had all but vanished ever since the Prophet Larsk first gazed upon the Face of God, now some twelve generations ago, and so the pile did not continue to grow.
Which was fine by Afsan. It was far too high already. He clattered over slabs of stone. Some were ragged; others, smoothed by rain, by tilting and chafing together, or by the scouring of Quintaglio claws. His hands scrabbled for purchase, his feet dug in where possible. He moved quickly over precarious parts, the slabs shifting beneath his weight. Afsan hadn’t labored this hard in kilodays. That he wore a backpack didn’t help. The straps of shovelmouth hide cut into his shoulders.
Afsan wondered how many turned back before reaching the summit, still a dizzying height above him. And what of poor Dybo, chubby Dybo? Had he failed in the climb? Was he hiding somewhere, ashamed?
Afsan was above the low coastal hills that shielded Capital City from the continual east-to-west wind. Here, up high, the evidence for Land’s breakneck journey down the River was plain: the air bit into Afsan’s hide like needles of ice. He had hoped the breeze would cool him, for he was close to overheating, but instead it just made him more miserable.
Far above, canted at an angle, he could see the summit and, at its crest, the Hunter’s Shrine.
The Shrine, appearing small from this distance, was a stark frame, like a wooden building abandoned before completion. Afsan’s knuckles, shredded on the rocks, continued to find rough handholds to hoist himself higher still. For a long time the building seemed to grow no closer, but at last he was near enough to hear the wind shrieking through its gray members. With a final effort, Afsan scrabbled to the top of the rocky cairn.
In front of him the stones were scarred by a gridwork of shadows as the sun, swollen and dim, dipped behind the Shrine. The strange twisted girders were stained a deep purple in the waning light. Rising to a standing posture, Afsan shifted the weight of his pack and forced himself over the remaining distance to the Shrine.
He was exhausted, his breathing deep and ragged. To steady himself, he grabbed one of the beams that made up the Shrine, a short cylinder knobbed at each end. His nostrils were full of grit; his knuckles were bleeding; his knees were scraped, his tail likewise; chips had been knocked out of the chitinous sheaths that covered his clawbones.
The beam was hard and cool. It glinted in the fading light, apparently coated with resin. Afsan stood back a few paces to get a good look at the Shrine. It was by no means huge: twenty paces in length, half that in breadth, and perhaps twice his own height. The design was an eerie lattice, a twisted skeletal structure.
Skeletal
. By the prophet’s claws, the thing was made of bone! Afsan staggered back, seeing the nightmare edifice with new eyes. Gnarled columns of a hundred vertebrae rose over his head. Femurs joined to form archways; ribs and assorted smaller bones traced out geometric shapes. Through the wide gaps between the bones, Afsan saw a large sphere of Quintaglio skulls at the center of the Shrine, empty eye sockets facing out in all directions.
His tail was swishing back and forth uncontrollably. Every instinct told him to run, to get away from this evil place, to scramble back down the tilting, clacking rocks to safety.
No.
No, he could not.
It was a test. It must be. The whole thing: the impossible climb, the terrifying building. A test, to eliminate those not fit for the rigors of the hunt, those too squeamish to face death.
And yet. And yet. And yet.
Afsan hadn’t been able to find anyone who had seen Dybo since he had headed out. Much of the ritual of the hunt was still based on the old worship of the Five Original Hunters, and priests of Lubal had been known for many a perversion, not the least among them cannibalism.
But no. He would not give in to his fear. Afsan stepped to the Shrine’s opening, a door frame of shoulder blades. The chill wind whistled through the structure, an eerie, plaintive call, like the dying breaths of all those whose bones now surrounded him. He peered into corners in the purple twilight. Afsan’s backpack carried a gift — an astrolabe he had brought from Carno — but he didn’t know where to leave it.
“Hers is the white skull, at the front of the sphere.”
Afsan jumped, twisting at the apex of his leap. He hit the ground, claws extended, facing the intruder. A figure stepped from the shadow: bulky, with an ebony leather hunting tunic whipping against her body.
Afsan’s voice sounded hollow, even to himself. “Are you Dem-Pironto?”
The large dark figure silhouetted against the swiftly growing night did not reply.
“I’m looking for Dem-Pironto,” Afsan said again. His nostrils caught the intruder’s odor and he realized that this was a female. Her pheromones were different from any he’d ever detected. There was something about them — something that caused him to feel an edginess, a wariness. Afsan felt energized, even after the exhausting climb. He took off his backpack, grateful to be free of its weight. “I’ve brought a gift for Pironto,” he said, pulling at the gut ties. “No one would give me guidance as to what would be appropriate, but this object has much meaning to me, and to my intended profession.” Her eyes were on him, unblinking. Afsan wished she would speak, knew he was babbling. “It’s a device for measuring celestial angles,” he said, pulling an ornate object into view, a trio of freely spinning concentric brass rings. He held it out so she could see the polished metal, the fine care lavished on its manufacture.