The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [213]
“What relic?” Vani whispered, leaning closer.
“A scarab,” Sareth said. “A scarab of Orú.”
Vani gasped, but by the puzzled looks on the faces of those around him, Travis wasn’t the only one who was confused.
“Isn’t a scarab just a piece of jewelry?” he said.
Sareth laughed, a deep and chiming but somehow mirthless sound. “You might as well say the sun is just another flame like a candle. Of all the secret magics of Morindu the Dark, there was none so powerful as the scarabs of Orú.”
“Wait a minute,” Grace said. “I heard your grandmother say that name. Orú. Who was he?”
Vani rested her hands upon her knees. “For three hundred years, he was the god-king of Morindu the Dark.”
“Nonsense,” Durge rumbled. “No man can be king for three centuries.”
Again Sareth laughed. “Yes, that is true, my good cloud. No man. But a god?”
“Orú was not truly a deity,” Melia said, her expression outraged. “The god-kings of Amún were just tyrants who posed as deities so they could claim a divine right to rule their cities. It was despicable!”
“And yet,” Falken said, “some believe that, without such harsh rule, the first cities could never have been carved out of the deserts of Amún. And certainly it was those fleeing the destruction of Amún who brought civilization to Falengarth. Without the god-kings of Moringarth, Tarras would never have existed.”
Sareth weighed the gold fa’deth in his hand. “It is true that Orú began life as any ordinary man—in fact, he was the son of a beggar. You see, in Morindu, a king or queen did not rule by right of birth but rather right of magic. The greatest sorcerer of each generation was crowned king or queen. And in the thousand years of its history, no sorcerer was greater than Orú. While the other rulers of Amún dared to call themselves gods, only Orú was truly as powerful as a god.”
“But if he was born to such rude beginnings,” Lirith said, her eyes focused on the fire, “how did he become so powerful?”
“I fear the answer to that question is buried with Morindu beneath the sands of the Morgolthi,” Sareth said. “And even when Morindu stood, I do not think many knew the secret of how Orú became as a god. Perhaps his wife and his seven high priests—certainly no one else. But I do know this. If a river of human blood was required to work a magic, then the same magic might be done with but three drops from Orú’s veins.
“Once, the legends say, a hundred sorcerers of Scirath sacrificed themselves at the same moment, driving black knives into their hearts and filling a great pool with their blood—all to work a magic that extended the life of the king of Scirath by ten years.” Sareth’s eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Ten years—that was what the blood of a hundred sorcerers bought Scirath’s king. And by the time Morindu fell during the War of the Sorcerers, Orú had been alive for over three centuries.”
Beltan crossed his arms. “So if this Orú was such a great king, why didn’t he save his city?”
“He could not,” Sareth said. “For you see, he was asleep.”
Grace hugged her knees to her chest. “Asleep?”
“Yes, asleep. Even as the centuries passed and his power grew, Orú became harder and harder to rouse. Sometimes he would sleep for days at a time, and he would moan and thrash with great violence, as if caught in the throes of dread nightmares, so that his priests were forced to shackle him to his throne. Then the days became weeks, and the weeks months, until …”
“He never woke again,” Aryn finished with a shudder.
Sareth nodded. “Ever after, Orú was called the Shackled God, for he dreamed, chained to his throne, while his seven sorcerer-priests ruled in his name. And in time, the seven discovered a terrible and powerful secret. For they pricked Orú’s finger and drank his blood, becoming great sorcerers themselves. However, they did not consume all the blood they took from him. Some of it they sealed in jewels of gold.”
Understanding crackled