Pool of Twilight - James M. Ward [79]
"It's dark in here," the patriarch rumbled softly, lighting a candle.
Tarl shrugged his massive shoulders. "It isn't as if either Shal or I care."
Anton winced. Sometimes he forgot that Tarl was blind.
"You didn't come to evening prayers." Anton sat in a chair next to his friend.
"I said my prayers here," Tarl answered. His voice was flat and toneless, but Anton caught the bitterness in it.
Anton took a deep breath. "Have you received any sign that might tell you how the Hammerseeker fares, Brother Tarl? Any word from Tyr?"
Tarl's blind eyes seemed to gaze out the darkened window. "Nothing. I have felt nothing."
After a moment's hesitation, Anton decided to tell Tarl his reason for asking. He recounted the augury that Sister Sendara had just prescribed. If the temple fell, Phlan would be lost.
Tarl turned his sightless eyes toward Anton. "Phlan will be lost?" His haggard voice was almost mocking. "If Kern does not return, Anton, my family will be lost. If Kern perishes, then so will Shal. I will have no one." He hung his head, at a loss for more words.
Anton's shaggy eyebrows knitted into a scowl. Lately, Tarl had been sinking into a black despair, but Anton had not realized how hopeless the cleric's attitude was until now. This could not go on. "There are others besides you and your loved ones to think of, cleric of Tyr," Anton said sternly. "Regardless of whether the Hammerseeker succeeds or fails, the temple must stand. All of us must be ready to fight the coming battle."
"Really?" Tarl asked hoarsely. "And how does a blind cleric fight, Anton? Shall I have good Brother Dameron point me toward the enemy and kindly tell me when to start swinging?" He shook his head fiercely. "No. I wish you luck in your battle, Anton, but my own battle is here." He reached out a hand to smooth Shal's fiery hair from her pallid brow.
Anton rose from his chair, suddenly angry. "Do not speak to me of your private battles, Tarl. I have watched as, one by one, our brothers and sisters have been struck down by the scourges sent by the gods of evil, the enemies of Tyr. I have watched as foul disease rotted their bodies in the space of an hour, and as searing flames consumed them in an agonizing minute, all because the temple's aura could no longer protect them."
Anton clenched his big hands into fists. "The day you survived the scourge sent against you, Tarl, I was filled with joy. It gave me hope that the temple could withstand the evil with which the gods of darkness afflict Phlan. But now I see that I was wrong." He paused by the door, his face grim. "We have lost you after all, Brother Tarl."
The patriarch left, shutting the door behind him.
Tarl clenched his hands into fists. Who was Anton to speak to him so, as if he were simply some sulky acolyte feeling sorry for himself? Why couldn't he see there was nothing Tarl could do to help the temple, let alone his wife and son?
But gradually the rage ebbed in Tarl's heart.
A remembered voice echoed in his mind. Never forget, husband. You are the same man you always were.
Shal. She would have agreed with Anton, Tarl knew. But her words seemed so distant now, so hollow.
"I am different, Shal," he whispered to her sleeping form, reaching out a hand to grip hers tightly. "And I will never be the same again."
* * * * *
In a distant chamber high in the temple, Sister Sendara reached down and removed one of the thirteen rune-stones scattered on the table before her, slipping it into a black velvet pouch. Now only a dozen remained, leaving the pattern incomplete.
"We are doomed," she whispered to the night.
She blew out the lone candle, but there would be no sleep for her that night.
* * * * *
Deep beneath the Dragonspine Mountains, a howl of sublime fury echoed off the cavern's glistening limestone stalactites.
A hideously malformed creature hobbled on clawed feet to the edge of the pool of twilight, greasy black wings flapping feebly in useless agitation. Magical energy still surrounded