The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [113]
“Well,” Melia said, her eyes shining hotly, “if the Etherion cannot be made to take action, then I shall simply have to appeal to another power in this. I will request an audience with Emperor Ephesian.”
Orsith shook his head. “And you will be refused, dearest. Yes, even one such as you. The emperor has closed the gates of the palace out of mourning for Ondo.”
“Out of a desperate desire to hide is more like it,” Falken said. “I’m sure the emperor is shaking in his bed even as we speak, wondering if he’s going to be the next to go. The Ephesians were always cowards.”
Orsith nodded. “Alas, it seems that is a trait all nineteen have had in common.”
“Nineteen?” Durge said. “You mean there have been that many of them?”
“Indeed,” Orsith said, “the current Ephesian is the nineteenth of that name to hold the scepter. It has been a long dynasty.”
“But why hasn’t the dynasty been overthrown? Why put up with nineteen weak and cowardly emperors?”
“Because,” Orsith said, “it is better than nineteen strong and cruel ones.”
Once again Durge was at a loss to answer.
“Now what?” Falken said, gazing at Melia.
She bobbed gently in the air, arms folded. “I don’t know. We’ll have to find a place to stay. I need time to think.”
With that, Melia drifted gracefully downward, her feet alighting softly on the floor. However, getting Durge upright was a less elegant task and required a solid tug on Falken’s part. At last the knight stood, his expression a mixture of indignation and embarrassment that was somehow quite charming. Aryn kissed his craggy cheek, much to his further chagrin. They bid Orsith farewell with a promise to return soon, leaving him to float in the air.
“So where to?” Falken said to Melia as they paused at the main door of the temple.
“Perhaps good Landus could recommend a respectable hostel where we might stay.”
The young priest, who had guided them back to the door, bobbed his head. “Of course, Your Holiness. All the hostels are in the Fourth Circle. I believe you might find the House of Nine Fountains to your liking.”
“No!” the small woman cried out, her body going rigid.
Aryn stared at her, as did the others. The lady’s face had drained utterly of blood.
Landus gulped. “Forgive me if I have offended, Your Holiness. If that hostel is not to your liking, then—”
Falken pushed the young priest aside. “What is it, Melia? What’s wrong?” The bard gripped her shoulders. For a terrible moment she was as a statue, then she slumped against Falken, clutching his tunic and sobbing.
“It’s Geb,” she said in a choking voice.
Aryn had never heard the name before. “Geb?”
“The Rat God,” Landus said. “The god of thieves and beggars. But—”
“What is it?” Falken said.
However, even as Melia spoke the words, Aryn knew what had just happened.
“He’s dead,” Melia said, her voice quavering. “Geb has been murdered!”
38.
Durge did not like Tarras.
The knight could not deny that it was a large city, or that it was ancient, and he supposed it must be called magnificent. Its five encircling walls were high and thick, and their design would afford excellent defenses—for if invaders breached one barrier they would have four more between them and the center of the city. In addition, the city’s military appeared disciplined and well trained, and its markets were prosperous and filled with exotic goods. Even the climate was favorable: warm yet not sweltering, with cooling breezes off the sea.
However, as they made their way back toward the Fourth Circle, Durge knew he would trade it all for his manor of cold, gray stone on the windswept moors of Embarr. There was something wrong about this city, with its multitudinous cults and bickering gods, its spice-heavy air, its crowded streets and dim grottoes. He wasn’t certain exactly what it was, but he could see it in the walls, which for all their ponderous strength were covered with a fine web of cracks, patched and repatched countless times over the centuries. And he could see it in the eyes of the people who passed them on the street: a deep yet somehow