The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [143]
Falken picked up the sheet of vellum. “It’s hard to read. Most of it was blotted out when the ink spilled over it. But a few fragments stand out. Right here he refers to the darkness beneath. Here, lower down, is the word death. And then here, at the bottom …” Falken pointed to the last smudged lines. “ … that the spiders have come again.”
Melia stepped forward, her eyes bright as flames. “I think it’s time we paid Sif a visit.”
Minutes later they stood on the steps of the temple of Sif. The temple of the arachnid god was not far from that of Mandu, and Landus had led them there himself. No one had thought to tell the young acolyte he couldn’t come with them; his visage was nearly as hard as Melia’s.
While most of the temples of the Second Circle were hewn of white marble, the stone of Sif’s temple was a gray that shimmered in the moonlight. The doors of the structure were massive and inlaid with glossy onyx. They were also tightly shut.
“Something tells me Sif’s priests won’t be inclined to answer our polite knock,” Falken said.
“Then we’ll just have to let ourselves in,” Melia said crisply.
The lady breezed past them, then raised her hands over her head. At first Aryn thought it was a trick of the moonlight, then she realized the truth: An azure nimbus surrounded Melia’s slender figure.
“Open!” the lady commanded.
Her hands flashed, and there was a clap of thunder. As if they had been struck by a gigantic fist, the doors of the temple flew off their hinges and fell inward with a boom.
Even Falken stared as dust billowed out of the opening.
Melia primly smoothed the white fabric of her kirtle. “This way,” she said, and stepped through the opening.
The temple of Sif was vast and dim. Dozens of columns held up the shadowy ceiling, carved of more of the same smooth, gray stone. Tapestries of silver cloth hung down from above like the strands of a monstrous web. In the center of the temple, set into the floor with more onyx, was a circle from which eight radial arms spun outward.
Not arms, Aryn. Legs. It’s meant to symbolize a spider—a great, black spider.
There were priests in the temple, but it was hard to get a good look at them, for they were all in the process of fleeing. The priests ducked between columns; doors slammed, locks turned. In moments the temple was empty except for the six visitors.
Falken let out a low whistle. “Something tells me they don’t feel like chatting.”
“Cowards,” Melia said, her lip curling in disgust.
Landus gaped at Melia, his expression one of pure awe. Aryn knew exactly what he was feeling. It wasn’t every day one got to see a former goddess in action.
Falken scratched his chin. “Now what?”
“Watch,” Melia said.
The lady stepped to the center of the spider symbol. She did not raise her voice, but nevertheless her words rang throughout the empty temple, and somehow her sharp tone was far more ominous than any display of wrath.
“Show yourself, Sif,” she called. “I know you can hear me. A spider always knows what’s at the center of its web.”
Silence.
“Now, Sif, or I’ll tear your temple down stone by stone and leave only a stinking black pit where nothing, not even the rudest hovel, will stand!”
Melia raised her arms above her.
“No!” came a shrieking, blubbering voice, echoing from all directions. “You must not, Melindora!”
At the far end of the temple, the air rippled and shimmered. Then, as if a gray veil had been cast aside, the air grew clear, revealing a throne of silvery stone. On the throne slouched a gigantic figure. Aryn drew in a sharp breath and knew she was gazing on a god.
Sif was formed like a man. Mostly. For his arms were four in number, as were his legs, and all of these limbs seemed to be waving at once. He wore a shimmering gray tunic over his round, bloated body, and his head seemed far too small for the rest of him. Two tiny black eyes glittered in the circle of his face.
“Well, I am here, Melindora,” Sif said in an oddly clicking voice. “Are you happy?”
“Not really. I think I’m going to tear down your temple