The Hand of Chaos

30

The Keeper of the Door of the Cathedral of the Albedo had a new responsibility. Once he had waited for the weesham, bearing the souls of their charges for release in the Aviary. Now, he was forced to turn them away. Word spread rapidly among a shocked populace that the cathedral was closed, though just why the Kenkari had closed it was not revealed. The Kenkari were powerful, but even they did not dare openly accuse their emperor of murdering his own subjects. The Kenkari had been more than half expecting to be attacked or at least persecuted by the emperor’s troops, were considerably surprised (and relieved) when they were not.

But, to the Keeper’s dismay, the weesham continued to cross the courtyard. Some had not heard the news. Others, though informed that the cathedral was closed, still tried to get in.

“But surely the law doesn’t apply to me,” the weesham would argue. “To all the others, perhaps, but the soul I bear is the soul of a prince...” Or a duchess or a marquis or an earl.

It didn’t matter. All were turned away.

The weesham left, bewildered, completely at a loss, clutching the small boxes in trembling hands.

“I feel so terribly sorry for them,” said the Door to the Book. They stood conferring together in the chapel. “The weesham look lost. ‘Where do I go?’ they ask me. ‘What am I to do?’ It’s been their whole life. What can I say except “Return to your home. Wait.’ Wait for what?”

“The sign,” said the Book confidently. “It will come. You will see. You must have faith.”

“Easy for you to talk,” said the Door in bitter tones. “You don’t have to turn them away. You don’t see their faces.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” said the Book, laying her hand on the thin hand of her fellow Kenkari. “But things will be easier now the word is out. The weesham have stopped coming. There hasn’t been one in the last two cycles. You will no longer be troubled.”

“Not by them.” His tone was ominous.

“You still fear we might be attacked?”

“I almost begin to wish we would be. Then, at least we would know the emperor’s mind. He hasn’t publicly denounced us. He hasn’t tried to order us to alter our stand. He hasn’t sent troops.”

“Troops wouldn’t come. Not against us,” said the Book.

“They wouldn’t have come in the old days. But so much is changing now. I wonder ...”

The sound of the gong rang throughout the cathedral’s precincts. Both glanced upward, the notes seeming to shiver on the still air. The Door’s chief assistant, left to guard in the Door’s absence, was summoning his master. The Door sighed. “Ah, I spoke too soon. Another.”

The Book gazed at him in mute sympathy. The Keeper of the Door rose to his feet, left the Aviary, and hastened back to his post. As he walked—not moving very fast—he glanced unhappily out the crystal walls, expecting to see yet another weesham, expecting yet another argument. What he saw, however, made the Door come to a halt. He stared in astonishment, and, when he started moving again, his haste caused his slippered feet to slip precariously on the polished floors.

His chief assistant was extremely grateful to see him.

“I’m thankful you could come, Keeper. I feared you might be at prayer.”

“No, no.” The Keeper of the Door stared through the crystal wall, through the golden grille that barred entrance.

He had been hoping that his vision had been blurred, that a trick of light had deceived him, that he wasn’t seeing two black-robed humans crossing the vast and empty courtyard. But they were so near now that there could not be much doubt.

His brow furrowed. “Kir monks of all things. At a time like this.”

“I know,” murmured his assistant. “What do we do?”

“We must admit them,” said the Door, sighing. “Tradition demands it. They’ve come all this way. At grave peril, perhaps, for they cannot know how bad things are. The sacred law that protects them holds, but who knows for how long? Raise the grille. I will speak with them.”

The assistant hurried to obey. The Keeper of the Door waited until the Kir, who were moving slowly, had reached the stairs. They both kept their hoods pulled low over their heads.

The grille rose silently, effortlessly. The Keeper of the Door pushed on the crystal door, which moved noiselessly to open. The Kir had halted when the grille went up. They remained standing unmoving, their heads lowered, as the Door walked forth.

He raised his arms; the shimmering robes with their butterfly wings and myriad colors were dazzling in the sunlight.

“I welcome you, brethren, in the name of Krenka-Anris,” said the Door, speaking human.

“All praise to Krenka-Anris,” said the taller of the two Kir monks in elven.

“And to her sons.”

The Door nodded. The response was the correct one.

“Enter and be at peace after your long journey,” said the Door, lowering his arms, standing to one side.

“Thank you, Brother,” said the monk harshly, assisting his companion, who appeared footsore and exhausted.

The two crossed the threshold. The Keeper shut the door. His assistant lowered the grille. The Door turned to his visitors and, though they had said nothing, done nothing to arouse suspicion, the Door knew he’d made a mistake. The taller of the monks saw, by the Door’s altered expression, that their disguises had been penetrated. He drew off his hood. Keen eyes glittered from beneath overhanging brows. His beard was braided into two twists on a strong and jutting jaw. His nose was like the beak of a hawk. The Keeper thought he had never seen a more daunting human.

“You are right, Keeper,” said this man. “We are not Kir monks. We made use of these disguises because it is the only way we could travel here in safety.”

“Sacrilege!” cried the Door, his voice shaking, not with fear, but with fury.

“You have dared enter sacred precincts under false pretenses! I don’t know what you hoped to accomplish, but you have made a terrible mistake. You will not leave here alive. Krenka-Anris, I call upon you! Cast down your holy fire. Burn their flesh! Cleanse your temple of their profane presence!” Nothing happened. The Keeper of the Door was staggered. Then, he began to think he understood how his magic had been thwarted. The other Kir monk had removed her hood, and he saw the rainbow-colored eyes, the wisdom in them.

“A mysteriarch!” said the Door, recovering from the shock. “You may have disrupted my first spell, but you are one and we are many...”

“I did not disrupt your spell,” said the woman quietly. “Nor will I use my magic against you, not even in my own defense. We mean no harm, intend no sacrilege. Our cause is one of peace between our peoples.”

“We are your prisoners,” said the man. “Bind us, blindfold us. We won’t fight you. We ask only that you take us to see the Keeper of the Souls. We must speak to him. When he has heard us, he may pass judgment on us. If he deems we must die, then so be it.”

The Door eyed the two narrowly. His assistant had sounded the alarm, ringing the gong wildly. Other Kenkari came at a run, formed a ring around the false monks. The Keeper, with their assistance, could cast his spell again. But why hadn’t it worked in the first place?

“You know a great deal about us,” said the Door, trying to decide what to do.

“You knew the correct response—something only a true Kir monk would know; you know about the Keeper of the Souls.”

“I was raised by Kir monks,” said the man. “And I’ve lived among them since.”

“Bring them to me.” A voice sparkled on the air, like frost or the notes of the tongueless bell.

The Keeper of the Door, recognizing the command of his superior, bowed in silent acquiescence. But first, he laid his hand upon each human’s eyes, casting a spell that would blind them. Neither attempted to stop him, though the man flinched and stiffened, as if it took enormous will to submit himself to this handicap.

“Profane eyes may not see the sacred miracle,” said the Keeper of the Door.

“We understand,” replied the mysteriarch calmly.

“We will guide you safely. Have no fear of falling,” said the Door, extending his own hand to the woman.

Her hand met his, her touch was light, cool.

“Thank you, Magicka,” she said and even managed a smile, though by the weariness on her face, she must be exhausted almost to the point of dropping. Limping on bruised and swollen feet, she grimaced when she walked. The Door glanced back. His chief assistant had taken hold of the arm of the man, was leading him along. The Door found it difficult to take his eyes from the man’s face. It was ugly, its features hard and brutal-looking. But then most human faces appear brutish to the delicate-boned elves. There was something different about this man’s face. The Door wondered that he wasn’t repulsed, that he kept staring at the man with a sense of awe, a prickling of the skin.

The woman stumbled over the Kenkari’s long butterfly robes. The Door had drifted over into her path.

“I beg your pardon, Magicka,” he said. He would have liked to ask her name, but it was for his superior to handle the formalities. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I’m sorry we’ve upset you,” the woman said, with another wan smile. The Door was coming to feel pity for her. Her features were not nearly as coarse as those of most humans, she was almost pleasant to look upon. And she seemed so tired and so... sad. “It isn’t much farther. You’ve traveled a long distance, I suppose.”

“From Paxaua, on foot. I dared not use my magic,” said the woman.

“No, I suppose not. No one gave you any trouble, hindered you?”

“The only place we were stopped was in the mountains. The guards at the pass questioned us, but did not detain us long, once we reminded them that we are under your protection.”

The Door was pleased to hear this. The troops, at least, have respect for us, haven’t turned against us. The emperor is a different matter. Agah’ran is up to something. He would never have allowed our prohibition to stand if he were not. After all, we let him know that we know he’s a murderer. He must realize we won’t tolerate his rule for long.

And for what do we wait? For a sign. Other worlds. A gate of death that leads to life. A man who is dead and who is not dead. Blessed Krenka-Anris! When would it all be explained?

The Keeper of the Book and the Keeper of the Soul were waiting for them in the chapel. The humans were led inside. The Door’s chief assistant, who had brought the human male, bowed and left them. He shut the door. At the sound, the human male turned, frowned.

“Iridal?”

“I’m here, Hugh,” she said softly.

“Have no fear,” said the Keeper of the Soul. “You are in the chapel of the Aviary. I am here, the one with whom you asked to speak. With me also are the Keepers of the Book and of the Door. I regret that I must leave the blindness upon you, but it is forbidden by law that the eyes of our enemies should look upon the miracle.”

“We understand,” said Iridal. “Perhaps the day will come when there will be no need for such laws.”

“We pray for that day, Magicka,” said the Keeper. “What is it you are called?”

“I am Iridal, formerly of the High Realms, now of Volkaran.”

“And your companion?” the Keeper prompted, after waiting a moment for the man to answer.

“He is Hugh the Hand,” said Iridal, when it became clear Hugh wasn’t going to speak. She appeared worried, turned her sightless eyes in what she sensed was his direction, reached out a groping hand.

“A man raised by Kir monks. A man with a most remarkable face,” said the Keeper, studying Hugh intently. “I’ve seen many humans, and there is something different about you, Hugh the Hand. Something awful, something fey. I do not understand. You came to speak to me. Why? What is you want of the Kenkari?” Hugh opened his lips, seemed about to respond, then said nothing. Iridal, her hand finding his arm, was alarmed to feel the muscles rigid, shivering.

“Hugh, is everything all right? What’s wrong?”

He drew away from her touch. His mouth opened, closed again. The cords in his neck stood out, his throat constricted. At last, apparently angered with himself, he brought the words out with an effort, as if he’d dragged them up from dark depths.

“I came to sell you my soul.”