Castle Cravenlock rose above them, the twilight sky outlining its battlements and towers.
“Shall we stop here for the night?” said Gerald. “We can continue on in the morning.”
“No,” said Mazael. “Let’s keep going. We’ll find it easier to do what we must if Mitor doesn’t know that we’re here.” He grimaced. “Besides, we’re too close to the camp. If we sleep here, we’re liable to be spotted in the night.”
Gerald looked towards the camp beneath the castle’s walls. “Agreed.”
“Ride through the camp,” said Mazael. “If we go through town, some the armsmen might see us.”
“Besides, those mercenaries will never notice us,” said Romaria.
Mazael snorted. “They didn’t notice the Old Crow. They’ll certainly ignore us.”
No sentries stood at the edge of the haphazard conglomeration of tents. Mazael had left his escort of Cravenlock lancers at Lord Richard’s camp, and he and his companions passed unnoticed through the ramshackle camp. Most of the mercenaries were drunk, and paid them no heed. Mazael soon worked his way around the camp and climbed the road that led to the castle.
“Gods,” said Mazael, reining up before the gates.
“What?” said Gerald.
“Look,” said Mazael. “The damned gates are open. There are no guards. No men at the gate, no crossbowmen at the ramparts. Had Sir Tanam come tonight, he could have rode in, killed Mitor, and won the war for Lord Richard with one blow.”
The fury was plain in Sir Nathan's voice. “Lord Mitor must bring Sir Albron to task. This is unacceptable.”
“This is the work of a fool,” said Mazael. They rode through the barbican, into the deserted courtyard. “Let’s stable the horses and get to Othar’s tower. The sooner I have firm answers to this business, the better.”
Othar’s tower stood in the corner of the curtain wall, a thick stone cylinder of battlements and arrow slits. It had been the home of the court wizards of the Cravenlocks for centuries. But Simonian had not deigned to take possession, and so Othar had kept his quarters there.
He pushed the door open. It was too dark to see, but Timothy muttered something. Glowing light surrounded his hand, illuminating a staircase that climbed into the murk.
“Gerald, Sir Nathan, Adalar and Wesson,” said Mazael. “Stay down here and watch the entrance. Send Adalar up if someone comes. Silar, Timothy, and Romaria, come with me.”
Master Othar had kept his study and workroom in the tower's top chamber. Mazael remembered the time he had spent there as a boy, reading from the old wizard’s large collection of books. It looked much as he recalled. Bookshelves lined the walls of the circular room, laden with books and scrolls, and jars, glass tubing, and other strange devices burdened a long table.
Timothy walked to Othar’s desk. A heavy leather-bound book rested on the corner, its copper bindings shimmering with a faint blue glow.
“The journal,” said Mazael.
Timothy nodded, took a step back from the desk, and closed his eyes. He muttered a low chant, the fingers of his right hand moving with sharp gesture. There was a flash of blue light, and the shimmer vanished from the book.
“There,” said Timothy, wiping sweat from his brow. “The ward has been dispelled.”
Mazael opened the journal and began to read. The first entries were from several years ago, written in Othar's strong, clear handwriting. He flipped past them, seeking the more recent entries.
What he read sent a finger of ice down his spine.
The journal described Othar's suspicions over dark magic, the San-keth, and a collaboration between Simonian and Sir Albron. He read about the appearance of the zuvembies and Mitor’s seeming indifference, about Othar’s growing belief in the existence of a San-keth cult temple within Castle Cravenlock’s walls.
About dark things...
“Sir Mazael?”
Mazael looked up from the pages. He had lost track of time.
“What does it say?” said Romaria. “You’re as white as a ghost.”
Mazael forced moisture into his dry mouth. “Master Othar was certain. He read the histories and the stories of San-keth cults that thrived at Castle Cravenlock in the past. He became convinced that there was a secret temple in catacombs underneath the castle, hidden for centuries. Master Othar believed he had found the entrance to the temple. He planned to investigate, and that was the final entry.”
“Secret catacombs?” said Silar. “Do you mean the castle’s crypt?”
“No,” said Mazael. He paged through the journal and put his finger over the words. “No. He said that these catacombs predated the castle. They were here before the first Cravenlock even built a the keep.” His voice shook with anger. “He said that it was an ancient temple. Master Othar thought that this temple had survived here, hidden, for centuries.”
“That matches the histories of my order,” said Silar. “A San-keth cult raised this castle. The house of Cravenlock was founded when the youngest son of the cult’s high priest slew his father and turned to the Amathavian gods.”
Mazael slammed the book shut. “If this is true, then I grew up here, with this...this temple under me all the time...gods in heaven.” He closed his eyes. “Gods in heaven. Master Othar never put down a last entry. We don’t know if he was right.”
“What are you going to do?” said Romaria.
“The only thing I can,” said Mazael. “I will go and look. Master Othar believed the temple's entrance was within the lord’s chambers in the keep. He described the means to open the door.” He relaxed his fist. “I have to look. I have to know. If it’s true, if it’s true then...”
“Then we will look,” said Romaria.
Mazael managed to nod.
He took Othar’s journal under his arm, and they left the study. Sir Nathan, Sir Gerald, and the squires awaited them at the bottom of the tower. Mazael told them what he had found.
“Gods,” said Gerald. Wesson muttered something and spat through his fingers to ward off evil.
A hard look came into Sir Nathan's eyes. “There can be little doubt, then. There is a serpent cult in Castle Cravenlock. All that remains to be seen is if Lord Mitor has betrayed the laws of gods and men by joining it.” Mazael realized that he might not have to kill Mitor himself.
“It would be wise to leave at once,” said Timothy. “Lord Mitor does not know that we are here. We must warn Lord Richard of what awaits him.”
“No,” said Mazael. “Lord Richard already knows. He tried to warn me. I didn’t believe him. And Mitor has to be involved in this. Sir Albron and Simonian are his closest allies. How could I not have seen it? Am I blind?”
"Mitor and Rachel are you brother and sister," said Romaria. "Even if you hated Mitor, you would still find it hard to believe something so dark about him."
His hands clenched and unclenched. “I have to see it for myself. I have to know.”
“Then we’ll have to do it quietly,” said Gerald.
“I have a great deal of experience in getting into places quietly,” said Romaria.
Silar grinned. “Really? So do I. How splendid.”
“Interesting activity, for a monk,” said Romaria.
Silar shrugged. “It is surprising what you learn if you live long enough.”
“Gerald,” said Mazael. “Timothy is right, though. Lord Richard knows the truth, but he still needs warning. I want you to take the squires and head back to Lord Richard’s camp. Tell him of what we found and give him this journal.”
And it would keep Gerald and the squires out of Mitor's clutches. Mitor's, and Simonian's.
“I’d rather face this nest of evil with you,” said Gerald.
“My place is by your side, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar.
“Be that as it may,” said Mazael. “You and Wesson are still boys. I’ll not have you perish in a pit of snakes. And you wanted to stop a war, Gerald? What do you think will happen if you die here? Your father will blame Lord Richard.”
&nbs
p; Gerald did not look happy, but he took the journal. “The gods be with you, Mazael. With luck, I’ll see you shortly.”
“I hope so,” said Mazael.
Mazael watched them hurry to the stables. “The rest of you can make for Lord Richard’s camp, if you like. This is my error. You don’t have to come.”
Romaria laughed. “I think not. You need me, Mazael, whether you like to admit it or no.”
“Lord Mitor is my liege lord,” said Sir Nathan. “I would know if he has betrayed his oath by turning to evil.”
“I’m sworn to you,” said Timothy. “Where you go, I’ll follow.”
“The Cirstarcian monks are sworn to face this darkness wherever it rises,” said Silar.
Mazael was grateful for their presence. “Let’s go.”
They crossed the courtyard for the doors of the central keep, and still they saw no armsmen. Mazael pushed the doors open and strode inside. They passed through the anteroom and the vaulted great hall, both chambers deserted and quiet.
“Where is everyone?” said Sir Nathan. “Supper should just have finished.”
Mazael crossed to the lord’s entrance behind the chairs on the dais, to the stairs that led to the lord's chambers. As a boy, Mazael had hidden in this stairwell with Rachel, playing and listening to their father's court. He wondered if Lord Adalon had known of Lady Arissa’s wickedness. For the first time, Mazael’s disgust for his father’s weakness mingled with pity.
He wrapped his hand around Lion’s hilt and kicked open the door to Mitor’s quarters. Beyond the door lay large sitting room with a carpeted floor and a half-dozen chairs, while the lord's private entrance to the chapel stood to his right. Mazael listened for Mitor or Marcelle to call the guards.
But the rooms were empty.
“This way,” said Mazael. “The entrance is in the bedroom.”
They passed through a carpeted library and a small dining room and entered Mitor's bedroom. A huge canopied bed dominated the chamber. Mazael wondered how often Marcelle and Mitor shared it. A gaping granite fireplace covered one wall, carved with reliefs depicting Cravenlock knights vanquishing Mandragon armsmen.
“Here,” said Mazael.
He knelt before the fireplace, running his fingers along the floor. One of the granite tiles was higher than the others. He grimaced, flexed his fingers, and pulled out the tile, revealing a small niche.
A snake stared up at him.
It was a bas-relief of green marble, rubies glittering in its eyes. Just as the diagram in Master Othar’s journal had described.
“Gods,” said Nathan.
Mazael reached into the hole, put his fingers on the snake’s crimson eyes, and pushed. He heard a deep click, and the floor trembled. With a dull groan, the back of the fireplace slid into the wall and revealed a winding staircase. A warm breeze blew out of the stairwell. It carried the stink of blood and the oily smell of snake.
“Gods indeed,” said Mazael. “Light, Timothy.”
Timothy surrounded his hand with shimmering light, and they took the stairs. The steps twisted down, past the castle’s foundations, past the dungeons, and deep into the hill’s bedrock. The walls began gleamed with dampness.
Torchlight glimmered ahead, and the stairs ended in a long, straight passageway, wide and high with a vaulted ceiling. Walls, ceiling, and floor were built of red granite that gleamed like blood. Guttering torches burned in rusted iron scones, revealing the bas-reliefs covering the walls.
Mazael swept his gaze down the corridor. He knew the story of the San-keth race, how they and their god had allied with the Great Demon. After the Great Demon had been slain, the true gods had stripped the serpent people of their limbs and forced them to crawl in the dust in penance for their crimes.
The walls told the same story from a different angle. Mazael could not read the strange script, but the bas-reliefs were clear. They showed the San-keth tortured by the capering and gleeful Amathavian gods. Later carvings detailed the punishment the humans and Elderborn would undergo when the serpent god rose in glory. Mazael was suddenly glad that he had sent the squires away. They were too young for such horrors.
The worst part was the utter lack of dust. There were no cobwebs. The walls and floor gleamed as if freshly polished. The torches had been recently lit.
The corridor ended in a massive set of black double doors carved with mating serpents. Mazael saw flickering red and green light from beneath the door. The scent of blood grew thicker.
“You’d best dismiss your spell, wizard,” said Silar. “If there are any San-keth priests about, they might have the skill to detect your magic.” Timothy extinguished his light.
“Gods have mercy,” said Sir Nathan. “This place has been here for all these years. I never knew. I am a fool.”
“No,” said Silar. “The only fools are the ones who come to worship here.” He pointed. “Behind those doors will be the temple proper, if my order’s descriptions are correct. Do you see those smaller doors in the walls, there and there? Those should lead to side chambers for storage, libraries, and the keeping of sacrificial slaves.”
Mazael jerked his head towards one of the smaller doors, taking care to keep his footfalls silent, and the others followed suit. He felt as if the leering serpents carved into the walls watched him with their crimson eyes, and he drew his sword.
A jolt of power went up his arm. Lion's razor edges glimmered with blue light.
“There are creatures of dark magic nearby,” said Silar. “We had best take care.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Mazael. He heard soft voices through the door. He listened for a moment, and held up four fingers. Romaria and Nathan nodded, while Timothy pulled a lump of crystal from his coat.
Mazael gripped the handle, pushed, and leapt through the door.
He crashed into a small guardroom. Four men wearing the tabards of Cravenlock armsmen lounged about a round table, guarding a door on the far wall. Mazael recognized them from the gang that had tried to hang Cramton and his family.
The armsmen gaped up at him for a moment.
“Ah, hell, it’s him!” said one, scrabbling for his sword.
Mazael took the armsman's head with a single swing. As the other guards lurched to their feet, Timothy held his crystal high. It flared with white light, and the armsmen shrieked and held their hands over their eyes. Mazael wheeled and killed another, while Romaria's bastard sword plunged into a man's chest. The final armsman ran for the closed door. Silar vaulted over the table, his arms wrapping about the man's neck. There was a cracking sound, and the armsman slumped to the floor.
“Nice trick,” said Romaria.
Silar stepped over the body. “One hardly needs weapons to kill.” He looked at Mazael. “There’s your proof. This temple has been in use for quite some time. And these armsmen are Mitor’s. They would not be down here without his knowledge. Look at your sword. There are creatures of dark power here we are not equipped to face. Let us leave at once and make for Lord Richard’s camp.”
Mazael heard chanting through the closed door, warm air seeping through the cracks in the wood. “There’s a ceremony going on in there.”
"Most likely that's where everyone is," said Silar.
"Including Rachel,” said Mazael.
“Yes,” said Silar. “Now we must leave at once!”
“I have to know,” said Mazael. He reached for the door.
2
The Temple