Deep-Spire, Page 3

The smell of incense was cloying. It burned the back of Belythna’s throat and tickled her nose. After all the years she had spent at Deep-Spire she should have become accustomed to its pungent aroma – but she never had.

  Belythna knelt on the cold stone floor near the steps leading up to the Flame of the Gods. Eyes closed and head bent, she could hear the fire crackling in the brazier, and sense the presence of the others around her; one-hundred and fifty bodies packed into the circular chamber.

  Behind her, someone sneezed.

  Belythna gave a rueful smile; she was not the only one bothered by the incense.

  Dawn prayers, in the Temple of the Gods, was a morning ritual that no Sentorân escaped. The Sentorân were the mortal agents of the gods, Palâd and Nith, for whom their land was named. Ever since the order’s beginnings thousands of years earlier, the Sentorân had been driven to do the gods’ work; to promote and preserve peace in Palâdnith at any cost. The daily prayers and offerings were but another way that the order showed its devotion to Father Sky and Mother Earth.

  Belythna sighed. Prayers, a nuisance at the best of times, weighed heavily upon her today. The cold, hard stone hurt her knees and she was fighting a cramp in the back of her right thigh.

  I’m going to have to do this, every morning, for the rest of my life.

  The thought filled Belythna with despair, swiftly followed by a rush of guilt.

  This is the life you chose – too late for second-thoughts now.

  Indeed, she had chosen it. Her father might have dropped her off at Deep-Spire’s gates, but she had not been obliged to stay here. She had been given the opportunity to leave just after her arrival. Belythna remembered the moment well.

  She had stood before Lady Serina in the Council Chamber, weeping, for it had been hard to accept that her father had ridden off without a backwards glance. Belythna was unsure if he had even told her mother that he was taking their youngest daughter to Deep-Spire. Belythna had been merely a nuisance; the daughter who had once blown the wheels off the family wagon during a row with her sisters. Her older sisters had bullied her because she was different. None of them, save only her cowed mother, would have been sad to see her go.

  The fortress, the austerity, the frightening woman before her... it had all been too much. Yet, Lady Serina had explained, in a surprisingly gentle voice, that she was not a prisoner in Deep-Spire, and that she was free to go. To go where? Belythna was barely out of girlhood, at thirteen winters. She carried only the clothes on her back and had a total of ten bronze dracs in her purse. She would not survive long on her own. Still, she had been given a choice, and that had made her new life easier to bear. She had even come to enjoy being part of the Sentorân order.

  Except for morning prayers.

  Eventually, the ritual drew to a close, ending – as they always did – with a prayer recited by Lady Serina herself. It was the same prayer that the leader of the Sentorân recited every morning. Tall and stern, her angular face hard in the silvery light, Lady Serina was a forbidding sight this morning. Her voice, clipped and cool, echoed through the silent temple.

  “Father Sky and Mother Earth, give us your blessing as we follow your truth. We guide the hearts, heads and hands of those who rule, but do not covet such power for ourselves.”

  When Lady Serina’s voice died away, Belythna opened her eyes and raised her chin, staring, as was customary, at the gently flickering flame on the dais before her. Her voice joined the chorus of many, young and old, who repeated the Sentorân creed.

  “We guide the hearts, heads and hands of those who rule, but do not covet such power for ourselves.”

  Belythna rose to her feet, wincing when the cramp in her thigh made her hobble. Around her, she heard the whisper of gowns, and the scuff of booted feet on the marble floor, as the others left the temple.

  However, she did not join them. Today it was her and Riadamor’s turn to tend the flame. Riadamor stood nearby, her long face impassive while she waited for the other Sentorân to file out of the Temple of the Gods.

  An impressive space, which took up the last section of Deep-Spire’s smaller spire, surrounded them. The roof above their heads, did not curve into a dome as most of the temples in Palâdnith did, but instead tapered up to a sharp point. The temple, although imposing, was austere in its furnishings. Flickering candles on bronze candelabras and pots of burning incense lined the wide space below stained-glass windows. The floor was blemish-free white marble, very different to the dark schist flagstones that paved the rest of the fortress. The podium, where the Flame of the Gods burned, was the chamber’s centre-point.

  Once the Sentorân had left the temple, Belythna nodded to Riadamor and climbed the steps to the flame. Standing at the rim of the brazier, in which golden flames danced, she waited for Riadamor to join her. Theirs was a simple task, one they had completed many times before, yet it required them to follow a set procedure.

  Riadamor reached Belythna’s side and wordlessly reached for a tall jug made of beaten bronze. It contained oil, taken from the blubber of great leviathans caught by fishermen off Paladnith’s vast shoreline.

  Belythna picked up a large clay vessel and held it out to Riadamor, whispering words of offering and prayer. Riadamor carefully poured the oil in a thin stream into Belythna’s cup, her own prayers whispering in the quiet of the temple.

  Belythna then gently poured the contents of the cup into the tray beneath the burning flame – the oil it would consume until someone else performed this ritual the next morning.

  “Burn long, burn bright, beckon the sun and chase away the night,” she murmured the words in Ancient Goranthian that brought the ritual to its conclusion. These were the words, woven with a Sentorân enchantment, that the order believed kept Palâdnith safe from evil.

  Their task complete, the young women bowed their heads before the flame, in a gesture of thanks, before turning from it and descending the steps. Then, they left the temple quietly, as was expected of them.

  The stairs leading down to the base of the fortress were deserted. The apprentices had gone for their daily training, either to the chambers where Marvin, the charm master, taught them about potions, powders, charm stones, enchantments and healing – or to the training ground outside Deep-Spire’s walls, where Ridoc would be overseeing the morning’s exercises.

  Those Sentorân remaining at Deep-Spire took turns working in Deep-Spire’s library, doing guard duty, or assisting the training masters. At any given time, there were also at least fifty trained Sentorân out patrolling Palâdnith. They travelled in pairs and were away from Deep-Spire for months at a time; keeping an eye on any trouble spots and reporting back to their leader upon their return. Belythna was looking forward to her first patrol – although it was still some months away.

  This morning, both Belythna and Riadamor were due to join Ridoc on the training ground.

  They descended the stairwell in silence before Belythna eventually cast Riadamor a side-long glance.

  “We’ve hardly spoken since we got back,” she ventured. “Are you well?”

  Riadamor looked her way, surprised. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “After what happened, I thought…”

  “What? That I would go to Lady Serina and tell her I almost killed Lord Chatis?” Riadamor interrupted, her eyes glinting. “Frankly I’m surprised you’ve kept your mouth shut.”

  Belythna frowned. Riadamor’s words stung – she had meant them to.

  “Why would you think that?” she asked coldly. “We told Serina enough, and unless the realmlord sends her word, she will probably never find out about the rest.”

  Riadamor looked away. “She’s sent Rion to replace Gerta – he’s bound to discover the truth once he arrives in Catedrâl.”

  “He might,” Belythna admitted, “but if it comes to that, I will defend you. Remember, we already told Serina that we suspect Gerta’s death was not an accident.”

  “Yes, and she chose to ignore it,” Ria
damor replied, her voice hard.

  The young women lapsed into silence then, and did not speak again until they had almost reached Deep-Spire’s lowest level.

  “I shouldn’t have to answer to her,” Riadamor’s voice was sharp with bitterness. “I’ve spent my entire life following orders – I tire of it.”

  Belythna shrugged. “Following orders is part of this life,” she replied. “Unless you one day become our leader.”

  “I just might,” came Riadamor’s swift reply.

  Belythna smiled at that. “You’ll have to fight Floriana for that position – you know she’s set her sights on leading the Sentorân one day.”

  “Floriana’s no competition,” Riadamor scoffed, causing Belythna’s smile to fade. Floriana was her friend, and a talented sorceress. Belythna did not like the way Riadamor’s lip curled as she dismissed her.

  Why did Riadamor have to make herself so unpleasant? Belythna had tried to befriend her over the years, but she was a difficult person to like. The four of them – Belythna, Riadamor, Floriana and Jedin – had all arrived at Deep-Spire within days of each other. Their histories were intertwined, but Riadamor had always kept herself apart. She spoke rarely about her past. Belythna knew that Riadamor was the daughter of the Lord of Starne Island; but she had learnt little else about her enigmatic companion over the years.

  Belythna and Riadamor crossed the huge entrance hall at Deep-Spire’s base, walked through the great oaken doors, which stood open this morning, and descended the steps into the yard. It was a narrow strip in-between the fortress and its protective walls; a sea of smooth white pebbles covered the ground. They crunched underfoot as the women made their way over to where a group of grey-robed figures stood in a line before the talent training master.

  The two Sentorân silently took their places either-side of Ridoc.

  “Summon your flames,” Ridoc barked at the apprentices, charmless as ever. He was a short, solidly built man with thinning grey hair and sharp blue eyes. “We are about to practice revagrin.”

  Belythna looked on while the apprentices, not one of them over sixteen winters, all closed their eyes. The expressions on their faces differed – some were tense, while others nervous – but not one of them looked to be enjoying themselves. Ridoc’s overbearing manner stripped talent training of any joy.

  “Emilia Horne!” Ridoc boomed, causing a slender blonde girl at the end of the row to flinch. “What are you doing?”

  “Summoning my flame, Master,” she stammered, her eyes flying open.

  “And what does it look like, this flame?”

  “It’s small and pale gold,” she admitted. Her gaze darted from Ridoc to Riadamor and then Belythna, before she flushed. “It won’t expand, I can’t make it.”

  “Control of your flame is the cornerstone of your talent,” Ridoc told her, his face grim. “I’ve told you before; power without control is nothing. If you cannot exercise revagrin then your talent will fail you.”

  Emilia nodded, her eyes glittering. A marshal’s daughter, Emilia Horne was one of the few high-born among the Sentorân. Riadamor was the only other to come from a noble family. Unlike most of those in the order, Emilia had chosen this life over a pampered, closeted existence. Unfortunately, these days her enthusiasm for life as a Sentorân seemed to have dimmed. She had arrived at Deep-Spire with a romanticised view of life within these walls; only to be faced with the austere reality.

  “Perhaps the girl’s talent is not strong enough?” Riadamor spoke up, her gaze riveted upon Emilia as she spoke. “If she still cannot wield revagrin then she shouldn’t be here.”

  Ridoc started slightly, taken aback that Riadamor had dared question him in front of the apprentices.

  “I decide where the girl’s place is,” he told her, “not you.”

  “What sense is there, in forcing her to continue?” Riadamor replied, turning to him. “You waste her time, and yours.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Ridoc growled, perilously close to losing his temper. “Now why don’t you hold your tongue?”

  Ridoc turned back to the apprentices. They were all watching him; except for Emilia, who was staring at Riadamor, as if she had never noticed her before.

  “Summon your flames,” Ridoc repeated, raising his hands before him. “Let your flame burn, let it expand, and then wall it in. Feel its weight, its strength. When you unleash your talent your flame must burn within you. It must continue to do so or your powers will desert you. Take it to its limit and then harness its power – that is revagrin.”

 

  Chapter Three

  Lovers

  Deep-Spire, Central Omagen