Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [99]
Skylan smiled. The fire burned.
It was only later, when he was half-asleep, that he realized his arm had not burned when he had attacked Keeper. Apparently Aelon had no problem with slaves killing each other.
CHAPTER
13
* * *
BOOK TWO
Raegar sent a messenger to Treia, saying that he would meet her and Aylaen at the fane of the Spirit Priestesses at moonrise. The messenger gave Treia directions to the building, which was located in a distant and isolated part of the enclave. Treia made her way along the winding paths, stopping often to ask others if she was on the right path, and they reassured her. With her poor eyesight, Treia was often nervous being in strange places and she insisted on holding Aylaen’s hand, saying she needed someone to serve as her guide. In truth, Aylaen was so nervous, her hand was so cold, that Treia feared her sister might bolt.
When they reached the garden and could see the walls of the Temple beyond, Aylaen stopped. She felt her legs go weak and she leaned against the wall.
“I am afraid,” she said, trembling. “I don’t know if I can, Treia. This is not right. Garn is with Torval, in the Hall of Heroes. I am selfish—”
“You are in love,” said Treia, wondering impatiently what had become of Raegar. She needed his help. She did not know how much longer she could keep hold of Aylaen. “There is no Hall of Heroes. It is all a lie. Garn’s spirit is lost, abandoned. You will find him and show him the way.”
“Show him the way where?” Aylaen asked, puzzled.
Treia checked an annoyed remark. How was she supposed to know? She was only repeating what she’d heard Raegar say. Hearing footsteps, she breathed a sigh of relief to see Raegar coming toward them. Treia lifted her lips to be kissed. Raegar brushed her cheek, then turned to Aylaen.
“You do not look well, my dear,” he said gently. “Your grief is making you ill.”
“I am not ‘your dear,’ ” said Aylaen, pulling away from him when he tried to take her hands. “I do not want to do this. I . . . want to go back.”
“The choice is yours, of course,” said Raegar smoothly. “No one is forcing you. Standing on the threshold of Death requires courage. Only those whose love is strong dare make the attempt. You are young. Time has passed. It is natural that your love for Garn has waned—”
“My love has not waned. I love him more than ever!” Aylaen cried. “I want to see him, to be with him. But he is in the care of the gods. . . .”
“At least, you should make the attempt. If, as you say, Garn is in Torval’s Hall, carousing with the other warriors, he will not come and you will know that he has forgotten you. You need no longer grieve for him.”
Aylaen was silent, stung by his words.
“I will see for myself,” she muttered.
Raegar started to give his arm to Aylaen. She disdained it and walked off on her own. Treia, casting him an angry look, seized his arm and the two walked together.
“She will never have anything to do with you,” said Treia.
“We will not speak of it,” said Raegar coldly.
The Fane of the Spirit Priestesses was a small structure, cubic in shape, constructed of limestone blocks fronted with marble. The fane was simple and elegant in design. Columns on all four sides supported the roof. The building had no windows. A single door at the top of a flight of stairs provided entry.
Unlike the Temple of Aelon, which was decorated with all manner of symbols and runes, this building was plain and unadorned. The magic worked by the Spirit Priestesses was delicate and sensitive as a strand of gossamer in an intricate web. The Spirit Priestesses had to be attuned to every quiver of every strand and could not be distracted by any other magic, even though it was the holy magic of their god.
The Priest-General met them at the entrance to the fane. He glanced once at Raegar, a questioning look, and received a nod in return. Xydis smiled and greeted Aylaen kindly, expressing sorrow for her loss. He could see she was frightened and uncertain. He pressed her hand and spoke words of reassurance.
Xydis rang a small bell and the bronze door opened.