help.”
She smiled sadly. “He is gone, far
from this world. He weaves new skies for new worlds now. He has left us His
wisdom, His Light, but that is all. That is why I’m here, to await His Return,
should He ever do so. I keep this sanctuary ready for Him. I keep it clean, I
prepare Him meals, I warm His bed.”
And
that of the priests, if the rumors are true , Davril thought. “His Light?”
he echoed. His father had called Uulos the god of all darkness.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. But . . . perhaps .
. . no, it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head. It was all too big for him, too
hard for him to believe. Even if there was truly such a being as Uulos, how
could one mortal hope to combat It? The very concept was madness. With a sigh,
he looked out over the city again, at the flames, the smoke, and imagined the
screams as Aesinis raped his women, tortured his men. The Aesinis were said to
delight in torture. They took pieces of their victims for trophies and painted
their bodies in their victims’ blood. They were savage, blood-mad dogs. And
they were only the beginning.
“Tell me of Uulos,” he said. “All I
know of Him is that he was a great, dark thing—a god, according to Father
Elimhas—that ruled the world when the earth was dark and molten. I know He
ruled from his great city of Sagrahab
until some calamity befell Him—now I know it was the betrayal of His Circle—and
He was forced to relocate, to establish the great island nation of Nagradin. It
was powerful and mighty, but at last it sank beneath the waves. Maybe if I know
more I can stop Him.”
“Almost all religions make note of
him,” the Lady said, “by one name or another. Even you Asqrites. Asqrit is the
God of the Sun, and his Adversary is the God of Night. Yferl. He who slays
Asqrit every dusk but is defeated every dawn.”
“You’re saying that Yferl is
another name for Uulos? But that means . . . that means Uulos is already free! If
he can war with Asqrit every day . . .”
She smiled. “There is no Asqrit. Nor
Yferl. Yet there is a parallel to him in my own faith. Mustrug, the Worm—as Uulos
is popularly known even beyond my faith—he who dwells beneath the earth and
mocks Behara by being out of his power. Mustrug constantly tempts the people of
the land with vice, tries to lure them to their souls’ forfeiture deep in his
halls of mud and stone. But in some languages, in some of our texts, Mustrug is
not Mustrug at all. He is Uulos.”
Davril nodded slowly. He’d been
soaked in the myths of a thousand cults all his life, but he’d paid scant heed
to most of them.
“What about the Illyrians?” he
said. “Do they believe in Uulos?”
“Oh, yes. Sigmoor, the Devourer of
Stars. The Sky-Serpent.”
“But these are all so simplistic—light
and dark, good and bad.”
“We are known as the sects of the Light—that is, the faiths of Behara, Illyria, Asqrit and Tiat-sumat. Also known as the sects
of the Flame.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Beliefs
to prop people up so that they don’t fall into despair, so that they don’t see
past the lies to the darkness beyond, at the end of all things. The thing I saw
below the Palace was quite real, not some symbol. Are any of these gods real ?”
“Behara is quite real, my lord. Mine
is one of the most ancient faiths of the Light—or Flame, if you prefer.”
“One of the most? What is the most?”
“If you must know, the only sect of
the Light more ancient is the worship of Tiat-sumat, the Fire-Bringer.”
Davril lifted his eyebrows. “The
Fire-Bringer?”
“What? What is it?”
The smoke of the distant flames
swung toward the Tower, carried on a gust of wind, and it stung his eyes, even
as high as he was. The sun was dropping to the west, bathing the ocean in
blood. Soon night would fall.
“What?” she pressed. “Have you
thought of something?”
He laughed bitterly. “Maybe, but it
can amount to nothing. Surely . . . if this Uulos
She smiled sadly. “He is gone, far
from this world. He weaves new skies for new worlds now. He has left us His
wisdom, His Light, but that is all. That is why I’m here, to await His Return,
should He ever do so. I keep this sanctuary ready for Him. I keep it clean, I
prepare Him meals, I warm His bed.”
And
that of the priests, if the rumors are true , Davril thought. “His Light?”
he echoed. His father had called Uulos the god of all darkness.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. But . . . perhaps .
. . no, it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head. It was all too big for him, too
hard for him to believe. Even if there was truly such a being as Uulos, how
could one mortal hope to combat It? The very concept was madness. With a sigh,
he looked out over the city again, at the flames, the smoke, and imagined the
screams as Aesinis raped his women, tortured his men. The Aesinis were said to
delight in torture. They took pieces of their victims for trophies and painted
their bodies in their victims’ blood. They were savage, blood-mad dogs. And
they were only the beginning.
“Tell me of Uulos,” he said. “All I
know of Him is that he was a great, dark thing—a god, according to Father
Elimhas—that ruled the world when the earth was dark and molten. I know He
ruled from his great city of Sagrahab
until some calamity befell Him—now I know it was the betrayal of His Circle—and
He was forced to relocate, to establish the great island nation of Nagradin. It
was powerful and mighty, but at last it sank beneath the waves. Maybe if I know
more I can stop Him.”
“Almost all religions make note of
him,” the Lady said, “by one name or another. Even you Asqrites. Asqrit is the
God of the Sun, and his Adversary is the God of Night. Yferl. He who slays
Asqrit every dusk but is defeated every dawn.”
“You’re saying that Yferl is
another name for Uulos? But that means . . . that means Uulos is already free! If
he can war with Asqrit every day . . .”
She smiled. “There is no Asqrit. Nor
Yferl. Yet there is a parallel to him in my own faith. Mustrug, the Worm—as Uulos
is popularly known even beyond my faith—he who dwells beneath the earth and
mocks Behara by being out of his power. Mustrug constantly tempts the people of
the land with vice, tries to lure them to their souls’ forfeiture deep in his
halls of mud and stone. But in some languages, in some of our texts, Mustrug is
not Mustrug at all. He is Uulos.”
Davril nodded slowly. He’d been
soaked in the myths of a thousand cults all his life, but he’d paid scant heed
to most of them.
“What about the Illyrians?” he
said. “Do they believe in Uulos?”
“Oh, yes. Sigmoor, the Devourer of
Stars. The Sky-Serpent.”
“But these are all so simplistic—light
and dark, good and bad.”
“We are known as the sects of the Light—that is, the faiths of Behara, Illyria, Asqrit and Tiat-sumat. Also known as the sects
of the Flame.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Beliefs
to prop people up so that they don’t fall into despair, so that they don’t see
past the lies to the darkness beyond, at the end of all things. The thing I saw
below the Palace was quite real, not some symbol. Are any of these gods real ?”
“Behara is quite real, my lord. Mine
is one of the most ancient faiths of the Light—or Flame, if you prefer.”
“One of the most? What is the most?”
“If you must know, the only sect of
the Light more ancient is the worship of Tiat-sumat, the Fire-Bringer.”
Davril lifted his eyebrows. “The
Fire-Bringer?”
“What? What is it?”
The smoke of the distant flames
swung toward the Tower, carried on a gust of wind, and it stung his eyes, even
as high as he was. The sun was dropping to the west, bathing the ocean in
blood. Soon night would fall.
“What?” she pressed. “Have you
thought of something?”
He laughed bitterly. “Maybe, but it
can amount to nothing. Surely . . . if this Uulos
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