Dave Duncan – The Living God – A Handful of Men. Book 4

He cursed under his breath. Finding his way out again in the dark would be hazardous. The Rotunda itself was bright enough, with moonlight pouring down through the panes of the great dome, and since he was here he might as well look—he advanced along the canyon between the banks of seats. He squinted uncertainly. He seemed to be seeing the Opal Throne on its dais in the center, straight ahead. He should not be able to. The four warden thrones that had once stood at the end of the entrance passages had all been destroyed the night the usurper came, but the Covin had replaced them, hadn’t it? Yes, of course it had! He had seen the replacements at the fake Shandie’s spurious enthronement ceremony, for there had been thrones for the imposter wardens to occupy. They had been there when he watched the imposter address the Senate, too. Or at least Umpily could not recall them being absent, nor anyone commenting that they had been missing. They must have been there! They might have been taken away to make more space for the coronation.

He emerged from the canyon where the seating reached floor level. The great amphitheater was awash with silver light and quiet as a tomb, banked seating soaring up from the arena’s perimeter to the base of the dome. The Opal Throne smoldered in uncertain greens and blues in the exact center. From its dais, the four points of the mosaic star ran out to the lower platforms where the thrones of Four had stood for three thousand years: red, white, gold, blue.

They were there now, and they weren’t there.

Ah! It was that Evilish enchantment of Olybino’s again. The replacement thrones were sorcerous, apparently, and Umpily could simultaneously see them and not see them. That was all! He felt oddly relieved to have solved the mystery. Mysteries upset him. He poked a finger gingerly at East’s throne. He felt the clammy touch of gold. He stroked it. Yes, only his eyes could detect the illusion; his other senses were deceived. That was why he had not been able to hear Ashia’s hysterics.

The new seating for the spectators was coming along very well. Both eastern quadrants were complete, resplendent in the new green. Northwest was still in its shabby old purple plumage, while southwest was a confused mess, halfway between caterpillar and butterfly perhaps.

He stared thoughtfully across at the Opal Throne. It was facing east now—someone gave it a quarter turn each day, but he had no idea who. Probably there was some hereditary office involved. Just for a moment he was tempted to go and sit on it. Just for a moment. See what it felt like to be imperor.

He didn’t. It would seem like sacrilege.

A year ago he had been granted a vision of Zinixo sitting there, in the center of the world, but that prophecy had never been fulfilled. It had been a warning only, not intended to be taken literally.

Oh, how he wished he had taken it a great deal more seriously at the time! They had all been at fault there. Acopulo had been advised to seek out Doctor Sagorn and. had done nothing much about it. Of course Ylo had claimed to have found the woman he had been shown-lusty young Ylo was not the sort of lad to ignore a hint like that, and ten to one he had bedded her on his first attempt—but had Shandie ever located the boy of his vision? Umpily had no idea, and would likely go to his grave without ever knowing the answer. He wondered sadly how his former friends were doing now, and where they all were.

His occult view of the Opal Throne had not been from this level. Around to the right a little, and six or seven rows up . . . Moved by sheer whimsy, Umpily turned to the nearest stairs and climbed. Yes, about this height—along about here, maybe?

He sat down and studied the angle. Close enough. He yawned. One empty throne, no dwarf. And that was just as well! Zinixo was occupied elsewhere, playing puppeteer at the garden party, so here was as safe as anywhere, for the moment. These new seats were a big improvement. Gods, he was tired! His eyelids drooped.

5

Shivering and covered with goosebumps, Gath strode over the coarse grass of Nintor, all alone. Behind him trailed his shadow, stretched and gaunt, as if reluctant to follow him into danger. He was barefoot, clad only in leather breeches too large for him, bunched at his waist by a thong. The cold wind ruffled his hair. If Mom saw that hair now she would tell him to get it cut—it was a terrible bush, and yet it was short compared to any other man’s on the island. Real jotunn hair didn’t stand on end like his. She would scold him for his dirty feet, too, and for not dressing more warmly. He decided he wouldn’t mind a bit of mothering at the moment. That was a very unmanly thought, but his was the only chin on Nintor without whiskers and Nintor was a long, long way from home. The sky was a sickly blue, and cloudless. Straight ahead stood the peaks of Hvark, with Frayealk the most conspicuous. Frayealk lay due north of Nintor, Twist had told him, and the sun cleared the summit one day in the year. It was very close now, moving eastward of course. When it stood directly over the mountain, that would mark midnight and the start of Longday.

The jotnar were already gathered at the Moot Stow—thanes down on the floor of the hollow, their followers assembled on the slopes, all unarmed. They had been singing ancient hymns, waiting on the sun. One by one the sorcerers had slunk away unnoticed. Gath could see a few of them ahead of him still, pale figures moving north over the tundra. Thewsome had told him to follow when the sun was one handsbreadth from the peak.

He had an astonishing faith in Gath’s courage.

Those last few sorcerers were still in sight ahead, all walking alone, heading for the Commonplace, whatever that was. They all seemed to be able-bodied young men, just a random selection from the thousands of jotunn raiders now infesting the island. Doubtless many were not what they seemed. Some would be women, Twist had said.

Which were the wolves and which the sheep? The sun was almost over Frayealk.

The effort of not using prescience was starting to give Gath a headache.

The standing stones of the Place of Ravens. were just off to his right. If somehow the Gods ever did take him back to Krasnegar, then he would be able to brag to his jotunn friends about seeing the holy of holies. They would want all the details, though. How could he ever admit that he had been so close and not seen it properly? It would not take him far off his path. He risked a peek at the next few minutes and knew that there was nobody up there. The sorcerer stragglers were still in plain view. He changed direction slightly.

A few minutes later he stepped between two of the towering monoliths. There was nothing to see, only a circle of weathered boulders, larger than he had expected, maybe. And grass. Any cemetery was as exciting. There were no ravens in sight, just a few seagulls sitting on the stones at the far side, preening themselves. Was the grass a little greener within the circle, perhaps—fertilized by’the blood of thanes? No, that was just the long shadows of the rocks.

He shrugged, shivering in the wind. Midnight sun. Should he cut across the edge of the circle? Peek . . .

No!

He would cut his feet if he tried that. The long grass was full of bones, old and brittle, weathered white. He saw a skull and then two more. There was a hazard he had never thought of! The combatants fought naked, or almost naked, and certainly barefoot. How many fatal duels had been decided by a careless misstep—tripping over a pelvis or planting a foot on a sharp vertebra? The skalds’ sagas would never stoop to mentioning that hero so-and-so had lost his head because he had stubbed a toe.

Cutting across the Place of Ravens would be unwise, perhaps even sacrilege. Gath went back out the way he had come in, and hurried around the outside.

Frayealk came in sight again. The sun was over the mountain. It was almost past the mountain. Longday had begun. The wind faltered for a moment and he thought he heard a distant roar. Then it had gone. Had that been the sound of surf, or was the moot in open bedlam already? The vote for war would take no time at all, Thewsome had predicted. Choosing a leader would be another matter.