The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [106]
“And what brings you to me?” the prince said. “Though the gods themselves know that the vassals of the gods are always welcome here.”
“My thanks.” The elder had a dry little voice. “The high priest himself, his holiness Gwaevyr of Dun Deverry, sent us to summon you to the altars of the god.”
“Did he say why?”
“He didn’t.”
The priests bowed, turned, and strode out of the tent, leaving Maryn staring after them.
“Oho!” Nevyn said. “I think me we’d best go, my liege. This could well be to your advantage.”
“It’s not a summons I’d ignore, anyway. Very well. I’ll take a pair of guards.”
“Please do, and I think we’d best take your council of lords as well. For witnesses.”
By then the rain had stopped, and stars showed in the rifts between the sailing clouds above. The temple complex perched on the top of the second highest hill in Dun Deverry, though unlike the royal complex it sported only two circles of outer walls. When the prince’s party rode up to the first gate, they found the two messengers there to let them in. The elder raised a candle lantern and peered at them in its light.
“His holiness is waiting for you in the temple.” The younger turned to Nevyn. “High Priest Retyc of Lughcarn is here.”
Nevyn felt cold excitement run through his blood. The time had indeed come.
Escorted by the two priests, they rode on through a strip of meadowland, then through the second gate and into the complex proper. Priests’ houses, a cow barn, vegetable gardens, outbuildings, sheds—a small village spread out inside the complex. Other priests stood waiting to take their horses, but no one said a word to them, merely watched the prince with unreadable eyes.
In a grove of old oaks stood the round temple, a simple building made of whitewashed wood and covered by a thatched roof, as if it were some country shrine. Inside, under a smokehole in the roof, stood a stone altar at the center of the round room. At the edge, under the eaves, stood a ring of wooden statues, each carved from a single tree trunk, all huge and roughly man-shaped. Some had faces so beautifully carved you’d swear they were about to speak; others displayed rough-chiseled eyes and a single gash for a mouth. On all of them the arms were crudely cut, still attached to the body along the inside, but each broad-knuckled hand held a human skull.
In the Dawntime, Nevyn knew, those skulls would have been severed heads, tribute from the enemies of the tribe that supported this shrine. Now they were mementoes of the priests who had served at this temple over the past few hundred years—a last tribute to their god on earth as they went to join him in the Otherlands. At the altar stood a man so old and thin that his face seemed a mere stretch of skin over yet another skull, but his eyes were bright with life. As Nevyn, the prince, and his lords approached the altar from the front door, a back door opened and more priests filed in, each dressed in plain linen tunics, each with a golden sickle at their belts, each carrying a candle lantern. One at a time they took places in front of the statues until each wooden Bel had a living man to represent him, and the temple filled with dancing light.
“Welcome!” the high priest’s voice boomed, startlingly loud for one so frail. “Is this the man men call Prince Maryn of Cerrmor?”
“I am, Your Holiness.” Maryn stepped forward with a respectful bob of his head. “I’ve come in answer to your summons.”
Nevyn and the noble-born waited near the door while the prince walked forward alone. On the altar lay a small casket, once silver, now green with age. Gwaevyr laid one hand upon it.
“Prince Maryn, the god shows me many omens. At night in the darkest hour I come alone to this temple and pray, listening for his voice, looking for a vision for my eyes. He has spoken to me. He has shown me. You are the rightful owner of