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The fog wavered for a heartbeat. Something like a sigh sounded. Then the smoke thinned. One hand
on the rail and one on the altar, Hederick stood, bracing himself, and looked downward where he
could make out what might have been the silhouette of a woman or an ogre or a lizard. It hung
in the air, standing on nothing, suspended over the open expanse of the Great Chamber. Clots of fog
and smoke obscured its true form. It took a step toward him and seemed to beckon.
Ah, Hederick. Face me, my brother.
Hederick's nails carved half-moons in the wood. The scent of magic was everywhere. He sank back
into the dimness under the altar.
"No!" he screamed. "Go back!" Sobbing like a child, Hederick buried his face in the crumpled altar
cloth. "I don't want to look. Go away. Go away, please. I'll be good, I promise." He waited, shaking.
"Please?"
He waited a bit longer, then lifted his head. The foul odors were gone. Gouges from his fingernails
marred the red-gold vallenwood railing. The altar cloth was tear-stained and ruined. But the fog had
vanished.
Hederick heard a voice, quite an ordinary one.
"Your Worship?" A slender woman, light hair braided into a coronet, stood in shadow at the bottom
of the steps. She held a basket topped by a pink cloth. Shakily, Hederick rose and, gripping the
railing, staggered down the steps toward her.
Had the woman witnessed his humiliation?
From a distance, she had appeared young. But as Hederick drew nearer, he could see that the hair
was white, not blond. The face was wrinkled.
"Did you see anything?" he demanded.
"Your Worship?" The old woman gazed up at him in awe. Her words tripped over themselves. "I
come now with a gift for the priests. I seen you tending something under the altar, and I waited until
I think you was done,
on the off-chance you was doin' something religious. Your Worship." She nodded rapidly, twice.
Hederick, standing on the landing, inspected the hag. She was just like the multitude of other
peasant converts who had been drawn to the Seeker religion for comfort in the troubled years since
the Cataclysm. They came in droves but brought little money.
"What is your name, old woman?" he demanded. "How did you get in here?" He suddenly realized
that the sun was about to set. Soon the crowds would converge upon the Great Chamber for the
nightly revelations.
"Norah, Your Worship." She smiled tentatively at him and ventured stiffly up the stairs, still holding
out the basket. She favored one knee, and her knuckles were swollen. "Your man, the high priest,
said as it was all right for me to come in here. He said you was probably near done with your
religious duties. So I come in here to wait."
"And you saw nothing?" Hederick pressed. "Heard nothing?"
Norah looked around in bewilderment. "Are you all right, Your Worship? Can I help you?" She
came closer, hand outstretched, until she stood two steps below him.
Hederick hesitated. Sympathy glowed in the old woman's bright blue eyes. For a fearful moment, he
wanted nothing more than to lay his head on her shoulder. Once again his hands shook, and he hid
them in his robe.
Norah continued to reach a knobby hand toward the High Theocrat. "You look awful, Your
Worship, if you don't mind my sayin'. I could make up an herb charm for you, a tea or poultice, say
a few special words over't. My mother used to make 'em, and my grandmam afore her. It'll fix you
right up, sure." She smiled reassuringly. "A bit of harmless family magic, y'see." Her hand picked at
his sleeve.
"Magic! Witch!" Hederick cried out, recoiling. "You are Ancilla! You are the witch in mortal form."
"Ancilla?" Bewilderment crossed the woman's features. "Who? But I told you, m'name is..."
The flat of Hederick's hand struck the side of Norah's startled face. Her basket soared over the stair
railing. A dish shattered. She pitched backward and careened headlong down a flight of stairs to the
temple floor. There were a few groans, a luckless attempt to rise, then... nothing.
Hederick waited on the stairs.
The double doors banged open under the pulpit. Dahos hurried into the room and stopped short.
Two temple guards, arrayed in their ceremonial blue and gold, followed. "What has happened?" the
high priest asked, alarmed. "Your Worship, you are harmed?"
"No, Dahos," Hederick said.
The tall priest knelt over the crumpled figure. Large hands moved deftly. Dahos loosened the
woman's clothing and chafed her hands. He gently tapped her face, then bent close to see if she still
breathed. Finally he sat back and sighed. Blood stained his face and robe. "She is dead." Dahos
bowed his head and began the Prayer of the Passing Spirit. "Great Omalthea, accept the
commitment of this guiltless soul..."
"Stop," Hederick snapped. "The hag was evil. She deserves no final blessing."
Dahos's head shot up. "Your Worship?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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