Shadow of Ararat ки-1 Page 4

  The headmaster tapped a message scroll bound in twine interwoven with purple string against the edge of the low desk. He was slight, with smoothly carved features. His eyes, tucked back under yellow-white brows, were sharp and bright. His long nose betrayed his Nabatean parentage. His thin hands, veined and spidery, picked idly at the edge of the heavy embossed wax seal on the message tube.

  “You felt, then, something brush against the ward. Could this have been someone working against the boy? A rival of his clan? A personal enemy?”

  Ahmet looked up, his clear brown eyes calm. “No, master, the boy is of no family of import. Neither ransom nor advantage could be gained from his death or suffering. His father is a blacksmith in distant Hibernia. His family is poor. They would have no enemies here.”

  The headmaster raised an eyebrow at this. “Poor and a barbarian? How did he come to the school, then?”

  Ahmet shrugged, spreading his thin-fingered hands.

  “Imperial witch-hunters found him. They paid the bounty to his family and sent him here. The Office of Thaumaturgy out of Alexandria pays for his tuition. We have five or six such boys among the younger students.”

  The master pursed his thin lips and tapped the scroll tube against his chin. His eyes narrowed as he eyed the wall carvings and paintings. He turned back to the dormitory master who knelt before him. A smile briefly creased the deep lines around his eyes. “Someone then, within the school. A jealous student? A local, angered by some slight?” The master pushed the tube into the woven basket at the end of the desk. It would wait.

  Ahmet was silent, considering. “The boy, Dwyrin, is not unpopular among his fellows. There is one who might hold a personal grudge, but he is a second-year student as well, with no power to speak of.”

  The headmaster’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward over the desk, resting his thin arms on the dark fine-grained paneling. “Who holds this ‘grudge’? Why have you not informed me of this before?”

  “The matter is truly of little import, master. The Hibernian boy slipped out after curfew a few months ago and stole some oranges from the orchards by the river. When he returned he tried to make it seem that one of the other boys was the culprit instead. I caught the Hibernian, of course, but not before I had switched the other boy.”

  “For this… switching… the other boy holds a grudge? Who is this other boy?” The headmaster’s eyes narrowed. Ahmet looked away, finding the shadowed corners of the room very interesting.

  “Speak, Ahmet.”

  “Kyllun of Cilicia, master.”

  There was a hiss of breath, almost unheard. Ahmet flinched inwardly.

  “The Macedonian praetor’s son? By Horus, Ahmet, you were given strict instructions to treat that one with gloves of silk! His father is notorious for his temper. Sending his son here, to our little school, is a mark of favor that we cannot refuse.“

  The headmaster settled back in his chair, sinking into the deep cotton cushions. His eyes flicked back to the message scroll. “Tell me of these two boys, everything, how are their grades, who is better in the classroom, who is the quickest, everything, Ahmet, everything.”

  “Well,” Ahmet began, “first there are three boys involved, not just two…”

  Ra had fallen behind the western horizon, carried on his boat of light into the underworld, by the time that Ahmet finished. At last, after a long moment of silence, the headmaster rose from the chair and paced beside the desk, bare feet slapping softly on the dark stones. Ahmet remained kneeling. His hands were damp again. He fought down the urge to wipe them on his kilt. the headmaster stopped before one of the scrolls showing the tributes given Pharaoh by the princes of Meroe. Gazelles, ibis, hippopotami, ibex, and all kinds of creatures paraded across its crinkled surface. He turned to the junior boys’ dormitory master, his thin lips pursed. “Tomorrow, Ahmet, you will take the Hibernian boy into the temple, down into the deeps, to the vaults of initiation, and you will elevate him to the second sphere of opening. You will invest him with all the graces and powers that go with such state, you will gift him with the third eye of perception. You will invoke the power that lies sleeping in his heart. You will make him one of us, the illuminated ones.”

  Ahmet stared, eyes wide with surprise, at the thin figure of the master. The headmaster’s voice, thick and heavy, still rippled and throbbed in the air around him.

  “Master,” he said, almost choking, “the boy is not ready! He is only a second-year student, no better or worse than any of his classmates. He has improved of late, true, but no more than, say, Patroclus of Archimedea. He still has two years to go to be initiated in such a manner!”

  “Yes, but you will take him into the deeps of the temple tomorrow and you will make of him a sorcerer of the second order. By my will, I have spoken and you will obey.”

  Ahmet bowed his head. The master of the school was the master of the school and Ahmet had sworn an oath to obey him. The master gestured for Ahmet to rise and gripped the young man’s shoulder with his own gnarled hand.

  “If the boy cannot survive the passage to the second sphere his death will be on my head, not yours. I have ordered and you have obeyed. Go with a clear heart, my young friend, and be glad for this youth, who will make such great strides into our world.”

  The master smiled, eyes crinkling up, lips twitching, but Ahmet did not respond in kind. He bowed and stepped out of the room through the woven reed curtains. His face was still and composed. Outside, Ahmet bowed to the secretary squatting by the doorway, pens and papyrus sheets near to hand.

  “Honored N?s, send word to the keepers of the vaults that tomorrow at full sun I will come to them with one who will ascend, Ra and Thoth willing.”

  The secretary bowed his shaven head and began writing the messages that would have to be sent.

  Dwyrin woke, head grainy with fatigue, limbs leaden. He had not slept well, tossing and turning, unable to find his way into the realm of Morpheus. It was very early, the thin dawn light gray in weak bands between the slats of the window coverings. The muted rumbling of snoring boys surrounded him. He rolled over and started, coming fully awake. At the foot of his bed stood a tall figure in a long checkered cloak of red and black. A sun-disk of bronze gleamed in the pale light on the broad smooth chest. The figure’s head was curving and black with a long neck and sharp bill. Deep black eyes, shining like marble in water, glittered under the overreaching hood.

  Dwyrin’s eyes widened and he scooted back in the bed, his flesh crawling at the sight of one of the temple figures come to life.

  “Come,” a deep sepulchral voice rumbled. “Osiris summons you to the depths of Tuat.” The figure extended a hand, wrapped in dark black and gray cloth, ending in a three-fingered claw. “Come, Dwyrin MacDonald.” Dwyrin stared in horror at the apparition. His mind refused to work. The figure gestured, its robes making a soft whispering sound. Two shorter forms emerged from the darkness beyond it: squat manlike things, faceless and dark. Their bodies were ebony and patterned with whorls and lines. They grasped Dwyrin by his arms and lifted him silently from his bed. Dwyrin, frozen with fear, could not cry out as they carried him, led by the tall crane-headed figure, out of the dormitory.

  In the early dawn the compound of the school was quiet. No birds sang, no chatter of voices came from the kitchens. All lay clear and still under a pale pink sky. The two faceless men carried Dwyrin past the main building and under an arcade of pillars that separated it from the library. Down a flight of steps into the rear gardens, and down a path of flagstones to the rear gate. There, in deep shadows underneath the thick hibiscus and yellowvine, Dwyrin glimpsed a short figure, standing with a tall staff, wrapped in white and pale blue. But then the figure disappeared from view and the thick gate swung open, outward, and the faceless men carried him on, soundlessly, into the scattered brush and trees.

  Beyond the belt of palms and brush behind the school the faceless men put Dwyrin down. The crane-headed figure pointed to a trail that led out of the brush
land and up, into the jumbled rocks and spires of the hills that crouched behind the narrow river plain. Dwyrin stared up at the crane in concern.

  “Go,” the deep voice echoed. “Go to the doorways of the dead. We will follow.”

  Dwyrin looked around. The tumbled red boulders were at last being picked out in gold and saffron as Ra climbed into the eastern sky. In this clearer light, with a cool wind from the west brushing past, Dwyrin saw that the crane-man was richly attired, with golden bracelets on his arms and garments of thick brocade. On his chest hung a bronze sun disk, now gleaming in the pale sunlight. The crane-head was sleek and black, with red stripes running back from the deep-set, gleaming eyes. His skin was dark-hued and polished like mahogany. The hands of the crane were thick and powerful, each with three fingers. One of those now pointed up the trail into the hills. The faceless men had disappeared.

  Dwyrin turned and began walking, his bare feet cold on the stones and pebbles. The trail wound up, through a narrow canyon choked with brush and spiny plants. Their branches cut at Dwyrin’s legs and the steepness of the ascent made him short of breath. At the top of the canyon, the trail turned left under a rising cliff and slipped between two great boulders, each streaked with red and white in sloping patterns. Dwyrin stepped under the overhang and into a bowl-shape chamber, open to the sky above. In the sky, as Dwyrin looked up, he saw vultures circling and thin streamers of cloud painted pale pink and cream. The roof of the world was brightening.

  Before him, on the other side of the bowl, seven tall doors were hewn from the rock. At the side of each an inset carving depicted a creature from the temple. Seven gates with seven gods of old. Dwyrin felt the crane step close behind him.

  “Choose,” it whispered. “Choose an entrance to your fate.”

  Dwyrin stepped forward over the tumbled thin plates of shale that littered the floor of the chamber, to the door guarded by the hawk-headed man. Within the shadowed entrance a door of stone swung open. Warm air blew in his face, carrying the smell of thyme, cinnabar, and cinnamon.

  Figures waited within, with smiling faces and open arms. Dwyrin felt a push at his back and he was among them, stumbling.

  The stone door closed silently behind him. Attendants emerged out of the darkness and Dwyrin, in the flickering torchlight, could see that they were men, but their faces were carved into welcoming smiles and the eyes that stared out from the mask were dead and lifeless. Their hands fluttered about him lightly and drew his sleeping tunic away. He spun about, looking for the crane-man, but it was gone. The attendants circled him and nudged him with light fingers toward a great portal that stood on the far side of the hall. To either side, lining the walls, great seated figures loomed in the darkness, fitfully lit by the torches burning at their feet. The smell of incense was strong in the air.

  Distantly there was a low wavering chant and the deep boom of drums. Dwyrin shivered, though the air was warm. The attendants urged him onward, through the great doors that stood at the end of the hall. Beyond them, he found himself in a tile-floored room overlooking, through a broad window, a great city of gold roofs and silver buildings and green trees that spread away as far as the eye could see. Dwyrin stopped, stunned by the sight of glittering blue lakes, green lush fields and a full sun high in the heavens.

  “That is not for you yet,” the deep voice of the crane said from behind him. “This is your path,” it said, turning Dwyrin from the vision of the city of gold to a narrow stairway that led down from the room to the left-hand side.

  “Here are your servants,” the crane said, “to garb you in the raiment of the initiated. They will anoint you with sacred oils, lave your feet, prepare you to descend into the depths.” Dwyrin, looking into the deep eyes of the crane, felt the attendants wrap a kilt around his waist, place a tunic across his shoulders, rub his arms and legs with oils and scented water. Thick smokes drifted up around him and he breathed deeply, his head oddly light. A chant began as the crane stepped back.

  “Go you down now, into the realm of darkness.”

  Dwyrin stepped forward to the head of the stairs. Narrow and steep, they wound down into the heart of the earth. He placed his foot on the first step.

  “Go you down now, into the realm of the guardians.”

  The light of the torches passed away, and he descended by feel. The air throbbed around him with the chanting of the attendants and the strong distant voice of the crane.

  “Go you down now, beyond light, beyond sight, beyond hearing.”

  Fumes and vapors rose up around him. The walls fell away on either side.

  “Go you down now, into sightlessness, into blindness,: into nothingness.”

  The stair steps ceased and Dwyrin walked in darkness, across a smooth floor covered with fine grains of sand.

  “Go you down now, into the heart of the earth.”

  Darkness was absolute. Hazy veils of light began to shimmer across his vision, but he held his eyes closed now. Bright pinpoints of blue and gold and emerald drifted before him.

  “Go you down now, letting body slide away, leaving only ka, only sekhem.”

  The floor slipped away and Dwyrin moved forward in a swirling realm of subtle light and form.

  “Go you down now, into eternity, into infinity, into nothingness.”

  Out of the void and chaos of colors and shifting shapes, a throne of basalt rose, and upon it sat a massive, gargantuan figure of a bearded man clad in the symbols of a king.

  “Go you down now, into light, into freedom, into all things.”

  Dwyrin stood before the ancient king in a swirl of colors and light. The king leaned toward him and spoke, but no sound came from that mouth, only colors and shapes and tones of music. They washed over Dwyrin and he felt something suddenly burst within himself. Fire uncoiled in his stomach and rushed out of him in all directions. Crying out, he fell backward, unable to move. Flames leapt from his fingertips, his eyes, from his mouth. His body burned away, leaving only a clear self behind. The giant king settled back in his throne and raised an ankh-scepter before him. Atop it, a great eye opened and Dwyrin’s clear self rushed toward it. In his mind, Dwyrin wailed as his ka began to shred away in that mighty wind.

  In the distance, beyond the colors, Dwyrin heard the voice of the crane shouting, but he could not make out what it was saying. His self was slipping away, peeled back layer by layer by the great shining eye. Dwyrin began to feel an overbearing fear. He would be nothing, his mind shouted, nothing] He would be stripped away and there would be oblivion, no Dwyrin left at all.

  / am not ruled by fear, he thought, and began to chant the meditation of centering and mind-clearing that they had learned in the school. As he did, the fires in his hands and feet began to burn again, and he faltered, but picked up again. The voice of Ahmet, as from a far place, echoed in himself. A mind that is free from fear has all power over all things. The fires burned hotter and Dwyrin despaired, but now the fires drew the swirling light and color into him. His heart leapt and he passed into the meditation of the First Opening of Hermes, that which allowed the students to perceive the dim outlines of the true world.

  His body was formed of flame, bright as a star, and the uncoiling thing within him now swirled up his spine and into his head. There was a tearing sensation and Dwyrin felt his forehead, wrapped in flame and light and color, burst open. A golden radiance filled him and the room of the throne. The giant king lowered the scepter and all dissolved into formless chaos, riven with darkness and nothingness.

  Dwyrin felt his knees strike a cold stone floor and his arms, strengthless, tumbled before him. His body was shaking. Two strong arms seized him and bore him up. He was clasped to a warm chest and dark scented hair fell about him. Dwyrin sobbed and buried his head in the shoulder of the man. Tears streamed from his face.

  “Hush now, lad, you’ll be fine,”“ the crane said with the voice of Ahmet, holding him fiercely close. The crane-man rose from the darkened floor, carrying the boy, and retraced his steps
through the winding tunnels and passages of the labyrinth.

  Ra was full in the sky when Ahmet returned to the garden gate, nudging it open with his foot. The raiment of the crane guide he had returned to its sandal wood chest in the chambers overlooking the city of gold. Dwyrin slept, exhausted, in his arms. Now the morning silence was broken by the clatter of the cooks, the chanting of the novices and their masters in the temple. Unnoticed, the young master strode up the long steps from the garden and into the shadowed passage that led to the master’s quarters. His own small cell was lit with dim cool light as he entered. He laid the Hibernian boy on his narrow cot and spread the thin quilt over him. Dwyrin remained deeply asleep. Ahmet looked down upon him with a sad, drawn expression on his face. Shaking his head to clear dark thoughts, Ahmet closed the door and strode off toward the kitchens. Breakfast would be late.

  Ahmet sat alone in the long hall that served as the refectory for the masters. The tables were bare and empty, some still gleaming with water from their cleaning after breakfast. He had convinced the cooks to give him a bowl of porridge with figs. An earthenware mug of water stood at his left hand. He spooned the meal, sweetened with honey, into his mouth.

  “The boy lives,” came a voice from behind him. Ahmet nodded, continuing to eat. There was a shuffling and the creak of the bench as the headmaster sat down next to him.

  Ahmet could feel the eyes of the old man upon him. He did not turn, draining the mug of water.

  “He will sleep two, maybe three, days. Then he will be hale again.” Ahmet turned slightly; the old man was looking up at the mural on the ceiling.

  “I will have a place prepared for him in the second circle apprentices’ quarters,” Ahmet said. The master turned then, his eyes shadowed in the dim hall.