And it might—oh gods, there were strangers in their midst. His Legionaries. Rufus. Lucilius. Ganesha, or even Draupadi—priests taken as sacrifices after their many years of struggle and survival. That was nefas, blasphemy so vile that Quintus could not imagine it.
“My comrades…”he muttered.
“You brought Naacals of the light among us,” snapped Manetho as he hastened back toward the ruin. “Children of the Sun, in the fullness of their power. If the Dark Ones take them, they take that power, too. Do you understand? It is not just wiped out; it is absorbed.”
A tremor shook the earth. Manetho gasped out something that might have been oath and prayer combined.
“I have to get to them!” Quintus gasped. The Eagle was there, safe—if anything here could be safe—in Rufus’s care. But Draupadi—she was young-seeming, fair, almost unmarked by hardship. The Black Naacals would see her and, having seen, how could they do aught but choose her?
“It is sacrifice, not lust. Or just lust alone,” hissed Manetho. “Will you for the love of the undying sun come on? You sacrifice not just to give honor, but to get, to compel the spirits to give you of their power to use as you see fit.”
And you believe that? Quintus scrambled for a grip on the rocks.
Of course Manetho did. This was not a matter of feeding a horse snake or the python at Delphi—or of bowing before the lares and penates of his home. It was a sacrifice more evil than any he had heard of, and it brought such power that, years ago, the Black Naacals had cracked the very face of the earth and allowed the sea to drain away.
What would they choose if they found such power available to them once more in the persons of the two White Naacals?
What would they not do? That was the question.
Twist; turn; tramp back. They had reached the precincts of the Temple itself. Now Quintus could somehow recall the topped columns he had seen before on the half-broken archways through which he had come. Past that toppled wall lay the entrance to the hall where he had sat before. He headed toward it, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
After all, how many Black Naacals could there be? He had fought them; they could die—and once he could lay his hand upon the Eagle … he could feel the jolt of energy it sent through him the times when it had worked through him to protect their people. Surely, it would serve him—or he would serve it—now.
Manetho seized his arm. “Not there. Not now. I will take you to a place where we can watch. From which we must watch, the Light shine upon us all.”
The castaway steered Quintus to a sort of gallery overlooking the meager fire and the hall where his people had assembled. Several had encircled Draupadi.
“You ask many questions, Lady. You and the old man. You wear the robes; you speak the words that we long to hear, but…”
In a glance, Quintus saw what must have happened. They had spies in their midst before, Manetho had told him. How could they think that Draupadi and Ganesha were among them?
They are terrified; they can think anything when the thunder peals and the ground rumbles.
The priestess shook her head. “Ganesha and I… we do not steal power, but have learned it… year after year, life after life…”
That had been the wrong thing to say, obviously.
The others drew back. Draupadi held out her palms. “Look at me,” she cried.
They hissed at her to keep her voice down.
“Look!” she continued in an urgent whisper. “Test me by any ordeal you choose. But I tell you, I have seen what the Dark Ones do, and I swear to you by the flame that the only way I would go to their altars is as a sacrifice!”
The ground trembled. A fine dust filtered from the rock overhead and dropped before Quintus’s face, momentarily obscuring the people on whom he spied.
Then, from outside the broken hall came measured, sardonic’ applause. “Excellent, my lady priestess. A noble speech. Shall we go now?”
“This girl, a priestess?” Ganesha rose to his feet more quickly than even a man of his apparent age should. “She is but a—” his voice seemed to change as he spoke what must surely be a title in the long-gone language of the Motherland.
“He just gave himself away,” Manetho whispered. “Why?”
Quintus looked at him briefly, bleakly, then turned his eyes back to the hall.
“All the better,” said the Black Naacal. His eyes glinted beneath his hood. Quintus shuddered at the pressure of the thickened air and the hunger he saw in the man’s face as he looked at Draupadi. He moved forward a step, extending his hand as if to claim her. Ganesha brought his own hand down, barked out a word or two, and the Dark One stopped, and laughed.
“You would protect your—student, is that all she is? Just a student still, after all these endless years? And what of the others? All of the others, Father. I believe your oath….” He too switched into the ancient mellifluous tongue Ganesha had used.
Three others of the Black Naacals entered the room, their staffs ready in their hands. Slowly, as if enjoying the terror they created, they pointed their staffs spear-fashion at the slaves. One man jerked away. A black-robe chuckled wetly and let the staff tilt upward to tap him on the shoulder. At that touch, the man screamed and fell back.
The others sank down.
Beside Quintus, Manetho drew a deep, sobbing breath.
“Cease!” commanded Ganesha. “That man has not harmed you. Leave him be.”
“He is meat,” said the Black Naacal, “like all of these, for our altars.”
To Quintus’s shock, Ganesha laughed. “What do you need such—forgive me, my friends—cattle for?” he asked. Then he drew a deep breath and steadied himself. “Not when you have the Wise themselves. And what need of a very young illusionist—when you have me.”
Manetho’s knees buckled. Quintus bore him up, though he longed to drop the man and race down to stand between the Black Naacals and the White.
“Better yet,” said the Black Naacal, all but purring. “A willing sacrifice? It is long since we have had one of such power. And perhaps … perhaps you need not be a sacrifice but a celebrant. We have other meat, as I told you.”
Ganesha jerked up his chin. “No.”
“Fool, for all your learning. Take him,” he gestured to his fellows. “Take the woman, too!”
“I would not stain my lips with even the lie that I would work with you,” Ganesha said. “I know what you are. I know what you seek. And I pledge not to hinder you from taking what you will from me. Just let the others go.”
The Black Naacals moved together. Their eyes beneath their hoods were alight, and their whispers were eager. Two approached Ganesha and pointed at him with their staffs.
“Up with you, old man!” commanded the eldest. “The slaves can live. Your girl, too.”
For now. Everyone in the room heard that unspoken threat.
They would take Ganesha’s power and Ganesha’s life, and then they would be back for more. His sacrifice would be meaningless.
“No!” Draupadi was at the old man’s side, her hand on his arm. “You shall not go.”
Carefully and with surprising strength, Ganesha pried loose her hands. “Child,” he said, “for you have been daughter as well as student to me all the years of our exile, obey me in this last thing as you have in all else. By our oath…” he bent and whispered.
She nodded.
Ganesha squeezed her hands together. He jerked his chin once at Rufus, who rose. Probably the centurion was the only man who could have moved at that moment. Ganesha placed her hands in the Roman’s.
“Guard them well,” he whispered.
Then the old priest straightened himself. His white robe blazing, he allowed the two black-robed priests to take charge of him. Serenely, as if going to officiate in some rite, he left the room, the last of the Black Naacals sullen at his back.
The room, boiled. Men darted from it, while women gathered up children, and girls and youths pressed back from the Romans who stood bewildered.
Quintus turned away from his vantage point. He had seen the Naacals stare about the room. It had not only been Draupadi and Ganesha the Black Naacals had sought: It was himself.
“Where are you going?” Manetho hissed.
“We have to stop them!”
“Wait!”
Draupadi sank against Rufus’s shoulder, the image of a woman distraught at the loss of one who had been like a father to her. The sight tore at Quintus’s heart, even though he suspected her weakness was an illusion born of acting, not of her powers. As the last dark robe swept out, she pushed herself free of the centurion.