Dusk was overtaking them as they neared the Old City. Next to Opyros rode Ceteol;
a high collar masked her bruised throat.
Fired with the spirit of the venture, Opyros was in a
voluble mood, and eventually he succeeded in stirring
Kane from his choler. Kane declined from further argument over the
poet's design, and as the other spoke of
his hopes for the evocation, of his eagerness to explore the
unknown wonders of dream, he found himself sharing
Opyros's enthusiasm. To unlock'the gates of dream…
Kane, too, sensed deep fascination for such an exploration. True,
there were risks, unknown risks - but what great adventure had ever
been free of danger? In fact, by definition, how could there be adventure
without danger? Security equals boredom equals stagnation equals death.
Kane listened and nodded, added thoughts of his own, so that by the time
they entered the forest-buried walls of the Old City, Kane was contemplating
the onyx figurine with a thoughtful brow.
"There's that damn shadow again," remarked Ceteol suddenly.
“Shadow?” asked Opyros.
"It's gone again," she said with a frown. The girl pointed. "See how our shadows
are all strung out in a line?" The declining sun cast light enough yet to throw
the riders' spindly, misshapen
shadows against the trees which crowded the unfrequented road wherever there was
sufficient clearing to let them pass from under the shadow of the trees opposite.
"I've seen it a couple of times,” Ceteol continued, "just out of the corner of my
eye. When we come to a sunny spot, I've noticed how all our shadows writhe alongside us.
But a couple of times I thought it was strange, because I can tell my shadow, and
there's two men riding behind me-except I saw three shadows following my own."
"What sort of shadow?" Kane wanted to know. "Like another horse and rider?"
"No, not like that." She jammed the heels of her palms together and wriggled her
fingers. "It was sort of ... crawly."
Opyros laughed and looked at her eyes. "Your eyes are still bedazzled from the drug,
love. It'll clear away before long."
Tossing back her brown hair, Ceteol made a tight face. "I may see shadows, but I don't
half kill a girl and then go off and get drunk with thieves and killers. So don't
laugh at me, damn it."
"Tell me next time you see it,” suggested Kane. Then to Opyros: "You did say nothing
untoward took place after I left you."
The poet shook his head, trying to tell how much of Ceteol's sullenness was only affected.
"No, nothing happened. After I... ah... told Ceteol of our plans, I slept until not long
before you called. I remember that damned pack of dogs started yelling - woke me up.”
"Didn't see them when we rode up," mused Kane.
"Somebody else chased them off, I gathered. But where in all this ruin is the temple of Shenan?"
"Not far, though it's a little past the main body of the ruins."
The Old City had a certain ghostly beauty in the twilight, the melancholic serenity of
ancient walls returning to dust with their secret memories of another age. Compared to its
sprawling offspring Enseljos, the Old City had been but a town. Most of its buildings had
been of timber, and these were long since weed-shrouded mounds of earth-forgotten graves
in the forest. Here and there
a low stone wall or heap of broken masonry indicated the site of some antique structure,
but more often, there was only an overgrown depression along the fading streets to mark the
foundation of a long-toppled dwelling. Still, there were places where the walls of one of
the Old City's more impressive buildings yet rose in tired defiance of time. As the dusk deepened,
the darkness within these mouldering skulls seemed to flow from staring windows and yawning doorways
and mingle with the gathering shadows of the forest.
"Here," announced Kane, and he urged his horse between the closely hemmed brushy
barriers. A late morning
rain had drenched the forest, so that progress through the
brush left their legs sodden against their mounts' flanks.
The waning light fell upon a grey stone structure standing in gloomy solitude among
the shouldering trees. Its
walls rose to almost clear of the encroaching branches;
buttressed and vaulted after the southern fashion, portions
of the temple yet retained an arched ceiling. The deeper
Shadow within had spared its interior the rank undergrowth which strangled much of
the Old City's ruins,
although age had stripped the walls to bare stone and
littered the floor with crumbling debris. As twilight closed
upon the ruined temple, the velvet-leather curtains which
festooned its high-vaulted ceiling spread a thousand wings
and flapped cluttering through the broken apertures.
Kane dismounted and directed his men to clear away
some of the rubble which barricaded the entrance. The
poet pressed forward in excitement; Ceteol, aloofly curious, followed him,
her calf-length pleated skirt slapping
against high riding boots. As soon as he had kindled a
pair of links, Kane joined them, and while his men shoved
away the rotting tangles of anonymous debris, he spoke
further on the temple's history, raising his torch to point
out some item of architectural interest. Opyros again
sensed an uneasy wonder at Kane's nonchalant familiarity
with the ruins.
Moonlight poured molten silver over the brooding grey
stones by the time Kane judged their work sufficient.
Showers of silver light fell through the high, narrow
windows and jagged rifts in the walls, gathered in a deep
pool about the altar, where a vast circular skylight showed
the same night skies to which priestesses centuries dead
had raised their chants. In a few areas where the litter
had been cleared away, the damp stone tiles yet bore
traces of strange mosaic patterns.
At Kano's orders, Levardos saw to posting the men
outside. They were well paid, and if their leader chose
to waste the night pursuing a mad poet's unhallowed
whim, that was Kane's affair. Theirs was to watch for
Eberhos, in case the alchemist had followed them with
another band of hirelings. That he had fled Kane's anger
was their consensus, but if not ... their blades were
ready.
Kane turned to his friend. "Well," he said, half in question.
The poet's eagerness was undiminished. “I’m ready if
you are, Kane. This place is perfect - really it is! The
atmosphere - it's . . . hell, I've tried to capture it again
and again in my verses! What dreams hover about us
here! Kane, if the muse will only come to me tonight. . .
I feel I can . .. can ... I feel I can grasp the inspiration
I've searched for so long! Night Winds and a hundred
more could soar from my soul tonight!"
A bitter smile twisted his face. "As you wish, then,”
assented Kane. He extended his hand, "The simulacrum."
Opyros thrust the carving into Kane's hand. "No musty
tomes? No evil-fumed braziers and elder-glyphed pentacles?" But his levity was more
bravado than banter.
"As I've said, a simple spell," returned Kane levelly.
"I’ll need a drop of your blood."
And while Ceteol watched with unfathomable eyes,
Kane led the poet into the pool of moonlight; there by the
forgotten altar of dark, flawless stone he performed those
things which the ritual required.
[The complete version of "The Dark Muse" will be published in the premiere issue of Black Gate magazine.]
