The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [130]
A roar went up from many of the alcoves, loudest of all from that belonging to the temple of Vathris, where a red flag waved angrily.
“Now will the temple of Vathris speak,” Medris said.
Lyderus started to protest, but Vanhera shook her head. Medris gripped the orb, and the crystal whirred up and across the Etherion to the highest tier.
“Lies and more lies!” roared a burly priest. His thick neck puffed out in rage, nearly splitting the collar of his crimson robe. “Everything that the temple of Ondo speaks is known to be a lie. It was so before their god perished, and nothing has changed since. Who here wasn’t promised gold, never to receive it?”
Shouts and catcalls echoed around the Etherion. Scores of flags waved in agreement. In their alcove, the priests of Ondo quailed.
Falken let out a soft whistle. “Ondo really didn’t make many friends in the Etherion, did he?”
Melia glared at him. “He didn’t deserve to die.”
“I’m not saying he did.”
She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I suppose it’s true. Ondo always was a bit on the selfish side. But he was not a bad god.”
“It’s all right, Melia,” Falken said. “We’ll find the guilty ones.”
However, Durge was not nearly so confident as the bard. The morning wore on, and many more of the temples spoke. It seemed that flags were always waving, and the crystal always flitting back and forth across the Etherion as Medris, Vanhera, and Lyderus wrestled for control of the golden orb below.
Yet for all the speeches that were made, and for all the angry words flung back and forth, things only seemed more muddled by the time the Etherion disbanded for the day. The temple of Ondo had accused a dozen more temples of conspiring in the murder of their god—even temples that had lost priests and priestesses to the murderer themselves. No one spoke for the Rat God, and the followers of Geb were nowhere to be seen.
Even before the discourse ended, priests and priestesses were streaming from their alcoves into the broad halls that ringed the Etherion. The only thing that Durge had learned for certain was that none of the temples seemed to have any idea what was going on in the city, and that all of them were deathly afraid. He was fairly certain none of the temples present had conspired in the murders. It wasn’t much, but he supposed it was something.
The others rose from their chairs to depart the alcove. Durge opened the door and stepped through first, to be sure the way was safe. The great, curving corridor was crowded. Priests and priestesses hurried past, robes fluttering, on their way out of the Etherion.
Something caught Durge’s eyes. Twenty paces away, a trio of priests moved quickly down the corridor. They moved opposite the flow of the other priests and priestesses, away from the entrance of the Etherion. The three priests wore robes of dark gray crisscrossed by pearlescent threads. Durge did not recall seeing any gray robes in the Etherion, or any gray flags waving. Who were these priests? The three moved hastily to an opening that led to a set of stairs, their hooded heads moving back and forth as if they did not wish to be seen. Then they ducked into the opening and were gone.
The others stepped into the hallway. Durge turned to ask Melia about the three priests in gray, but before he could she breezed down the corridor.
“This way,” she said. “I would speak with Orsith.”
They came upon the old priest not far from his alcove, holding on to the arm of young Landus for support. This surprised Durge, for Orsith had seemed so free and graceful as he drifted in the air at the temple of Mandu. But now, forced to move by more mundane means, he walked slowly, his back hunched, his fingers as thin as twigs on Landus’s arm.
Durge saw Melia’s eyes grow