The Ring of Winter - James Lowder [116]
Fortunately, he didn't seem the fire-and-brimstone sort, or a raving lunatic like Cyric or Loviatar. "Maybe I'll get a few prayers to repeat, or a good deed to do," Artus murmured hopefully, remembering his days in the temple school in Suzail. Then he stepped through the archway.
For a moment Artus thought he'd been transported to the wrong room. He'd expected a magnificent hall filled with music and light, with a tremendous throne at one end and dinosaur guards all along the walls-they were called Ubtao's Children, after all. The god would come down to the throne as a ball of light. He-she? it?-would then speak in a voice like a thousand trumpets blaring in harmony, demanding the reasons for Artus's boldness. The place would be thrillingly opulent, demanding instant respect and awe.
Instead, he found himself in a dimly lit room, eloquent of neglect. A small, sourceless circle of light drove the gloom away from the center of the room, but darkness cloaked the walls and ceiling. The air was stale and oppressively humid. Artus stepped into the light. Not daring to offend the deity, he waited expectantly for something to happen.
A small girl emerged from the darkness, a gentle smile on her lips. Her face was round and cherubic, her tobe a shinning shade of blue, like the other children of Mezro, she had her hair cropped close, with intricate patterns cut into it. Who would become a guardian of my city?
The words weren't spoken aloud, but sounded inside Artus's head. "I am here to retrieve something left in the barado, great Ubtao," the explorer said. He dropped to one knee and bowed. "The Ring of Winter. It was hidden here by Ras T'fima."
This place is only for my barae. I have time only for those who would be champions of my city.
The words held no anger, but when Artus looked up, the little girl was gone. A Mezroan warrior now stood before him. The young man had proud defiance in his eyes. He held his war club in a firm grip, and his voice rumbled in Artus's head like a thunderstorm.
"I am fighting for Mezro," Artus offered quietly.
But you will not become a bara. The warrior melted into the form of a matronly old woman with jet-black skin and hands worn from years of hard work. She turned away and walked slowly back to the darkness at the edges of the room. You must come with me now, she said in a sad, tired voice, keeping her stooped back to the explorer.
"Come with you?"
Yes, came the calm, steady voice of a middle-aged man. He had the face of a teacher, full of self-assurance and a slight look of knowing arrogance. His tobe was unkempt, his beard in need of trimming. There is no reason to give you the test if you aren't interested in becoming a bara. My law says you must be taken up to my home in the sky, since you failed to satisfy my challenge.
Artus was on his feet now. "If those are my only choices, I will take your test," he said firmly.
Ubtao paused and ran a hand through his beard. So be it.
The small circle of light expanded, blinding Artus for a moment. When he could see again, he looked out across an endless field of glossy black stone. A star-filled sky, silver tears on a vast canvas of velvet, stretched overhead. Gently the starlight rained down upon the field. Artus felt the radiance wash over him like cool rain. The nagging pain in his shoulder vanished, as did the ache of the myriad other small wounds he'd gained on the expedition.
The silver light swept across the stone. Wherever it touched, it left a complex pattern of lines and angles and curves. Artus saw shapes emerge from the jumble-a book, the partly unraveled scroll that symbolized Oghma, the crest of the Scribes' Guild of Cormyr, Pontifax's badge of honor from the crusade. These glowed a little more brightly than the rest of the maze,