The Verdant Passage

PROLOGUE

The great ziggurat towered above the squalor of the sun-baked city. Each level of the terraced pyramid was finished in glazed brick of a different color: gleaming violet at the base, then indigo, azure, green, yellow, orange, and, finally, blazing scarlet. In the center, an enormous staircase ran straight from base to summit, reaching for two pale yellow moons that hovered overhead in the hazy, dust-laden sky.

Dawn had barely broken, yet thousands of slaves already swarmed over the pyramid. Clad only in breechcloths, they toiled to the rhythm of snapping whips, using a web of ropes and pulleys to hoist crates laden with fired bricks up the sheer walls of each terrace.

At the base of the ziggurat stood a diminutive man wearing a long purple robe. Upon his head was a golden diadem, the crown of the king of Tyr. A wispy fringe of gray hair hung beneath the circlet, but his pate was bald and scaly with age. Deep lines of hatred creased his brow, and a thousand years of bitterness burned in his gaze. Pallid, wrinkled flesh dangled from his jawline. It looked as if the man had been fasting for a hundred years, and for all anyone knew, he had.

Next to the ancient ruler stood an apprehensive man dressed in the black cassock worn by all the king’s templars. His auburn hair hung in a braided tail down the center of his back. His features were gaunt, and his face was populated with a hawkish nose, a thin-lipped frown, and beady eyes the color of liver. At five and a half feet, he loomed over the aged king the way elves loomed over men. That fact made him nervous. Tithian of Mericles, High Templar of the Games and sole heir to the Mericles name, would have enjoyed towering over his peers. He was too shrewd to relish standing taller than the king.

Noting that he was casting a faint shadow over his ruler, Tithian stepped forward to examine the violet-hued bricks of the ziggurat’s lowest tier. Here and there, they were embellished with carved alabaster tiles. Each carving portrayed the Dragon: a stooped beast that walked upright on a pair of massive legs, dragging an immense serpentine tail behind it. Its arms were two scaly stubs, but its hands were shaped like a man’s, and each held a staff that helped support its upper torso. A protective collar covered its shoulders, and above it, the creature’s long, powerful neck supported a flat head with narrow, slitlike eyes, no ears, and a gaping maw filled with jagged teeth.

“This workmanship is exquisite, King Kalak,” Tithian offered, not taking his eyes from the white tiles. “The detail is amazing.”

Kalak reached up and placed his hand on Tithian’s shoulder. With its gnarled fingers and swollen joints, it looked more like a claw than a human appendage.

“Did I bring you here to examine artwork?” Without awaiting a reply, the king led Tithian toward a crate of bricks that was being pulled to an upper level of the ziggurat.

Tithian grimaced. This was the first time he had ever seen the king outside the Golden Tower, and he had no idea why he had been called to meet him at such an uncivilized hour. From Kalak’s acid tone, the high templar guessed that the meeting would be less than pleasant.

When they reached the rising crate, Kalak grasped the rope that hung from its side. The king’s feet left the ground, and he began to float upward. Tithian stifled a scream as Kalak’s talonlike fingers dug into his shoulder. An instant later, the ground slipped from beneath the templar’s feet. He found himself dangling in the king’s grip, staring down upon the heads of the slaves who had been loading more crates at the base of the ziggurat.

The slaves were astonished by the sight of two men rising into the air like wisps of smoke, and they paused to gape. Their overseers, subordinate templars dressed in black cassocks similar to Tithian’s, quickly returned them to work with a few well-placed blows from bone-and-leather whips.

When Kalak and Tithian had risen just above the first terrace, they came face-to-face with four hundred pounds of fur and muscle. The hulking baazrag paused in its difficult task of hauling up the bricks. Creasing its sloped brow, it fixed its eyes on the men, then cocked its highcrested head in confusion. As the beast’s glance dropped to the empty space beneath the king’s feet, its cavernous nostrils flared in alarm and its muzzle fell open, revealing four sharp yellow canines. The baazrag stepped back and raised its arms in a defensive display. The rope slipped from its hands.

Stepping onto the terrace with Tithian in tow, the king barely managed to release the rope before the crate fell to the ground. The bricks crashed upon a human slave, mortally crushing him as they exploded into shards and dust. Kalak stood at the terrace edge, scowling at the rubble. He was squeezing Tithian’s collarbone so hard that the templar expected it to snap at any moment.

The king lifted his gaze and searched for another man wearing the black cassock of a templar, then jabbed a bony finger at him. “You!”

The overseer spun around, blanching as he saw who had addressed him. “Yes, Mighty One?”

“This slave just dropped a full load of my bricks!” Kalak snapped, pointing at the wretched baazrag he had surprised. “Whip him!”

The overseer cringed, for the same lack of wit that made a baazrag a good slave could trigger a murderous rampage when it was beaten. Nevertheless, the man unfurled his whip to obey, for defying the king would mean his own death.

Before Tithian could see what became of the baazrag’s punishment, Kalak ordered another of his priests to throw him a line. Two slaves gingerly guided the king and Tithian toward another crate of bricks, which was being lifted to the next terrace. With his hand still crushing Tithian’s shoulder, the king grasped the rope attached to the crate, and the pair began to rise again. They repeated the process several times, ascending the ziggurat level by level. With each trip, the overseers shouted warnings to their counterparts above, trying to prevent astonished slaves from losing any more bricks.

Most slaves were human, dwarven, or half-elven, but other, more exotic races dominated several terraces. On one level, an entire pack of belgoi labored. These gaunt humanoids were nearly identical to men-save for their broadly webbed feet, clawed fingers, and the toothless mouths with which they chattered.

The next level held a hundred gith, a grotesque humanoid race that seemed half elf, half reptile. They were lanky like desert elves, with long, slender legs, but their legs protruded from the body at right angles, like a lizard’s. The gith were so hunched at the waist that they shambled in a perpetual squat. Their bony heads were slender and arrow-shaped, with bulging, lidless eyes that remained fixed on Tithian and Kalak as the two men floated past.

When Kalak and his templar reached the sixth stage of the ziggurat, the king stepped onto the terrace and released Tithian’s aching shoulder. They could not continue to rise along the face of the wall, for the seventh and final echelon of the great pyramid was still encased in wooden scaffolds. Over this framework swarmed dozens of jozhal, small reptilian bipeds with skinny tails, long, flexible necks, and elongated snouts filled with needlelike teeth. With their small, three-fingered hands, the jozhal were covering the seventh tier with scarlet-glazed bricks. They labored at an amazing pace, running up and down the rickety scaffolds as though they were walking on level ground.

Kalak stepped to the scaffolding and pointed a gnarled finger at the half-completed terrace beyond. “Will my ziggurat be ready in three weeks?”

Tithian dutifully peered through the scaffolding as if to assess the work in progress, but he was hardly the person to ask. Like most people, he wasn’t even sure why the king was building the ziggurat. Kalak had not explained its purpose, and those who had inquired too often were now dead. Furthermore, Tithian understood even less about construction than he did about the ziggurat’s purpose. For all he knew, the terrace could be three days from completion.

Though he was puzzled by the king’s interest in his opinion, Tithian did not intend to allow his lack of expertise to influence his answer. His reply would be dictated by two things: what he thought the king wanted to hear, and what would serve Tithian best politically.

Tithian decided a negative answer would serve him best. The High Templar of the King’s Works, a woman named Dorjan, was his greatest rival. Kalak seemed upset with her, so Tithian sensed an opportunity to add to her troubles.

“Well?” the king demanded.

The templar turned to face the king and was almost overcome with awe. He had not looked out from this level of the ziggurat before, and he could only wonder at all he could see.

At the base of the mighty pyramid lay the sandy floor of the gladiatorial arena, where the games celebrating the completion of the ziggurat would take place. From here the arena looked no larger than the courtyard of a minor noble’s townhouse, and the great tiers of seats flanking the field resembled the terraced walls of a garden. Even the Golden Tower of Kalak’s palace, which overlooked the opposite end of the arena, seemed an insignificant spire compared to the ziggurat.

Beyond the royal palace lay the Templar’s Ward. It held the marble palaces of the six high templars, along with the elegant mansions of their trusted assistants and the lavish chamberhouses of the subordinate priests. Hundreds of guards patrolled the streets of this district day and night, and a high wall capped with jagged shards of obsidian isolated it from the rest of Tyr. On the far side of the ward stood the fortifications of the city wall, a brick barricade so wide that a military road ran along its crest, and so high that even the Dragon could not peer over it.

From the ziggurat Tithian could see even beyond the wall. There lay Kalak’s fields, a three-mile ring of blue burgrass, golden smokebrush, and ground holly, made fertile only by the blood and toil of a legion of slaves. On the far side of these rich pastures lay the orange expanse of the Tyr Valley, a vast sweep of dusty scrubland, speckled here and there with gray-green thickets of bushy tamarisk and spindly catclaw trees.

Through the veil of dust that hung in the air, permanently tinting the Athasian sky in a kaleidoscope of pastel hues, Tithian could even see the stark, ashen crags of the Ringing Mountains. He had heard that on the far side of those impassable peaks there flourished a jungle, but of course he dismissed such absurd tales. From what he knew, all of Athas resembled the wastes of the Tyr Valley, although some regions were perhaps even more desolate.

Kalak interrupted Tithian’s reverie with a terse demand. “Tithian, what of my ziggurat? Will Dorjan finish it in time?”

“It looks difficult, but not impossible,” Tithian replied, cautiously avoiding an open attack on his rival. “I’m discouraged that there is so much left to accomplish, but perhaps Dorjan has a solid plan.”

The king did not reply. Instead, he cast his glance toward a slender templar approaching from the north. It was Dorjan. She was a beautiful woman, with an ivory complexion, straight nose, and high cheekbones. Yet she was not alluring, for her stern personality and cruel temper cast a sharp edge over her features. The high templar moved with a decisive stride, her long, silky hair waving in the wind like a black banner. When she saw Tithian, her dark eyes grew as hard as the bricks of the ziggurat, and the full red lips of her wide mouth twisted into a confident sneer.

Behind Dorjan came a pair of subordinates, both burly men with rugged faces and square jaws. Between them they dragged an emaciated slave with dun-colored hair and pallid skin. The slave cradled two broken arms against his stomach. One eye was swollen shut; with the other, he peered at the ground. The man wheezed laboriously through bloody lips, for his nose had been smashed and was now spread across his cheeks like a black-and-purple mask.

“How are my games coming, Tithian?” Kalak inquired casually. His beady eyes were fixed on the slave.

“If the ziggurat were completed today, we could hold the games tomorrow,” Tithian replied proudly. “My beast-handlers have trapped a new creature you will find most surprising.”

The king raised an eyebrow. “Truly? That would be something.”

Tithian silently cursed himself. During the thousand years of his reign, Kalak had no doubt seen more exotic beasts than the high templar could even imagine. It was foolish to raise the king’s expectations with immodest boasting.

Before Tithian could cover his blunder, Dorjan joined them. Pointedly ignoring her rival, she faced Kalak and bowed. When the ancient king held out his shriveled hand, the templar touched her lips to the withered flesh.

“This is the one?” Kalak asked, withdrawing his hand and motioning at the slave.

Dorjan nodded, then reached into her pocket and withdrew a bone amulet covered with runes. “He tried to seal this into the inner passage,” she said, offering it to the king. “The runes are meant-”

“To create an invisible wall,” Kalak growled, snatching the amulet from her hand. He thrust the bone under the battered slave’s nose. “What did you hope to accomplish with this trinket?”

The slave shrugged. “I don’t know,” he mumbled in a weak voice. “She told me to seal it in the main shaft.”

“Who told you?” Dorjan asked, smirking in Tithian’s direction.

Before the slave answered, Tithian felt the king’s beady-eyed stare turn upon him as well, ready to gauge his reaction.

“I don’t know her name,” the slave muttered, still not looking up. “A half-elf owned by the High Templar of the Games-”

“Sadira,” Tithian interrupted, supplying the name of the only half-elf he owned. “She’s a scullery maid in my personal training pit. I’m aware of her association with the Veiled Alliance.”

Dorjan frowned at Tithian. “Is that so? I suppose you’ll also claim to know that she’s trying to disrupt the upcoming games.”

“Of course,” Tithian replied, concealing his surprise. “I haven’t yet determined the exact nature of the Alliance’s plan.” He ran gaze over the scaffolding on the seventh tier. “Fortunately, it appears I have more than enough time to complete my investigation.”

Giving no hint of whether he believed Tithian, Kalak looked to Dorjan. “It does seem that Tithian has several weeks to uncover my enemy’s plan. Is that not correct?”

Dorjan reluctantly nodded. “It is.”

Kalak scowled. “I thought as much.” He casually grasped the battered slave by the back of the head. “Let’s see if we can help Tithian with his investigation.”

“No!” The slave tried to pull away and hurl himself off the terrace, but the king’s grip remained secure. Kalak closed his eyes, and the man screamed.

With only casual interest, Tithian watched Kalak enter the slave’s mind, for he had a better understanding than most men of what the king was doing. When Tithian was young, his parents had required him to study the psionic arts, enforcing a strict regimen of self-denial and painful rituals in the name of harnessing the spiritual and mental powers of his being. Under the harsh discipline of his master, Tithian had learned to use these energies to probe another’s thoughts, to make objects move with the force of his mind alone, even to picture in his head what lay on the other side of a thick wall. But the Way of the Unseen, as his mentor had called the disciplines, was a difficult path to follow. Tithian had left the school as soon as he grew old enough to make his own decisions, opting for the much easier and more lucrative life of a king’s templar.

A slight smile crossed Kalak’s papery lips. The slave gurgled incoherently and began to drool, his battered face contorting in agony. Then his jaws clamped together violently, and the detached tip of his tongue slipped out between his swollen lips and dropped to the dusty brick floor.

At last, the king opened his eyes and took his hand away from his victim’s neck. The slave’s one good eye rolled back in its socket. His bloody mouth gaped in a silent scream. Then the wretch tumbled to the terrace in a heap.

Ignoring the dying man, the king glared at Dorjan and shook the bone amulet at her. “There are two more of these somewhere in my ziggurat!”

Dorian’s jaw fell slack. She shook her head in denial, but could not utter any words.

“The slave’s thoughts were easily read and quite specific on this matter,” said Kalak evenly.

The slender templar moved backward two steps, the color draining from her face. “You’ll have them by dusk, King Kalak.”

Kalak shook his head. “Not from you.”

Dorjan looked away, avoiding the king’s gaze in a useless effort to save herself. “Mighty One, give me-”

Her plea ceased in midsentence as the king fixed his narrowed eyes on her face. The power of Kalak’s assault was so great that his attack flashed briefly in Tithian’s mind as well as Dorjan’s. Tithian almost screamed as the image of the Dragon’s body appeared in his head. Its immense tail lashed back and forth angrily, and a cloud of yellow gas billowed from its sharp-toothed maw. Its staffs were pointed away from its body like weapons. At the end of one rod, a ball of red lightning crackled. At the end of the other, a small green flame licked the wood.

Just when Tithian feared Kalak’s anger would inadvertently destroy him too, the Dragon faded from his mind. Dorjan began screeching as her head shook violently. A wave of astonished murmurs rustled along the terrace as the jozhals and their overseers stopped to stare at her display.

The high templar watched his rival’s pain in grotesque fascination. Certainly he was happy to be rid of her, but her impending demise was a sobering reminder of the price any templar might pay for his power.

Dorjan’s screams quickly became a feeble wail, then she abruptly fell silent and lifted her chin. Her eyes went blank, although Tithian fancied for a moment that he could see red lightning crackling and flashing deep inside them. Yellow smoke began to seep from the woman’s nose, and a gout of green flame spewed from her mouth. Tithian stepped away, narrowly avoiding injury as a ball of emerald fire engulfed Dorjan’s head.

The woman dropped to the terrace in a lifeless heap. In uneasy silence, Tithian watched her head burn down to a pile of ash until Kalak drew his attention away by handing him the bone amulet.

“Congratulations. You’re my new High Templar of the King’s Works,” said Kalak. “Finish my ziggurat in three weeks-and find the other two amulets.”