Scion of the Serpent: Anok, Heretic of Stygia Volume I Page 22

  Yet favor rarely seemed to find Dejal. He was tolerated because of his father’s wealth and position and because he had come bearing to Ramsa Aál the Scale of Set. But that, it seemed, would only buy him so much.

  With no one to talk to, Anok instead listened to others talk and kept his eyes open to observe the going-on at the temple. He quickly learned that Ramsa Aál, though not a High Priest, clearly was a man of great importance in the cult. Priests his senior in title and age approached him with respect and reverence. Even the High Priests of the temple seemed to treat him as an equal.

  Along with the priests, another high-status group was the elders. From what Anok could see, they gained their position by virtue of their important families, wealth, political power, or often some combination of the three.

  Acolytes were of a lower status, though technically still outranking the guardians, servants, slaves, and temple whores. In practice, most of these “lessers” answered only to the priests and elders, or to orders relayed from them by the acolytes.

  Acolytes of higher rank were allowed a certain familiarity with priests, but acolytes of all ranks were treated like dogs by the elders. Such encounters were so unpleasant that acolytes would go out of their way to avoid elders in the corridors and usually would approach them only when ordered by the priests.

  As such, Anok was surprised one day to discover Dejal chatting causally with an elder in the priests’ gallery, a large staging hall located just behind the main ceremonial chamber. Anok slipped behind a nearby column, before either of the men noticed him, and eavesdropped. It was not long before he realized that the Elder was Dejal’s infamous father.

  Anok had never seen the man though he’d listened for years to Dejal’s bitter complaints about him. His name, Anok knew, was Seti Aasi. Like Anok’s father, he was a merchant, though a local one, a caravan trader in spices and relics from the East, reportedly a man of some wealth and power.

  Anok peeked around the corner for a better look, then quickly ducked back into hiding, reviewing in his mind what he had just seen.

  Like most elders while at the temple, Dejal’s father wore white robes trimmed with stripes of gold. They were worn only at the temple, the elders entering and leaving through a special cloakroom at the front of the building. On the street, they dressed as any other member of the higher classes, save for a golden necklace in the form of a snake holding its own tail in its mouth.

  The man himself was far less impressive: round-faced, balding, a graying patch of neatly trimmed beard projecting from a weak chin. He was at least a hand shorter than Dejal or Anok and of average build. He had soft hands with neatly trimmed nails that reminded Anok of a woman’s.

  Anok stifled a chuckle. The man was hardly the fire-breathing monster whom Dejal had often described.

  Unable to resist and overcome with curiosity, Anok slipped around the column and walked casually up, as though going about other business. He stopped and bowed his head formally. “Greetings to you, Dejal, and to you as well, elder.” He looked at Dejal and smiled. “I thought perhaps you might introduce me to your father.” Then he smiled at Dejal’s father. “I have heard many things about you from Dejal, lord.”

  The expression on Seti Aasi’s face shocked him. The Elder looked at Anok with undisguised disgust. “You are Anok Wati then? The Odji trash who led my son astray all these years and who now seeks to steal favor from him in the Cult of Set? You have nerve approaching me, scum! You should be on your knees before me, begging forgiveness for all the trouble you’ve caused me and my son!”

  Anok glanced at Dejal, whose face was dead and neutral as a statue. “For what trouble I have caused him, I recall also times when I saved his life on the streets of Odji. I recall also that it was not I who drove him from his fine home to seek comfort among”—he let the word drip off his tongue—“scum.”

  Seti Aasi’s face turned red with anger, and he was about to speak when he was stopped by Ramsa Aál’s voice. The priest stepped through the doorway from the inner temple and though he looked at all of them, it was Anok to whom he spoke. “Is there a problem, Anok Wati?”

  “No problem, master. I was paying my respects to Elder Seti Aasi, father of Dejal. Long I have heard of his great deeds, and I wished to meet him in person.”

  Ramsa Aál glanced at Seti Aasi with something between indifference and contempt. “I am not surprised his deeds are known to you. They are known to me as well.” There seemed to be some hidden meaning to the words that was lost on Anok, but he let it go by. Clearly there was history between the two men. Perhaps even, Anok noted with interest, rivalry.

  Dejal’s father looked uncomfortable but said nothing. Then, finally, “I have other business to attend to. Three caravans arrive today. There is,” he said, with a sideways glance at Ramsa Aál, “a world beyond this temple, and I am quite powerful there.” He turned and headed toward the front of the temple.

  “I’m sure you are,” said Ramsa Aál to the departing Elder. Then he added more quietly, “There.”

  Dejal gave Anok an angry glance, then spun and headed away himself.

  Anok just stood there, and Ramsa Aál glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “Don’t you have duties to occupy you, acolyte? I could find more.”

  Anok bowed his head. “Of course, master. I shall be off to my studies.”

  “See that you are.”

  Indeed, Anok did have things to do. As a novice acolyte, not only was his freedom of movement limited, the hours of his days were all planned as well.

  While the daily routine varied somewhat, it followed the same general pattern. The morning began with bathing, without the aid of whores. Despite that first time, their services were generally reserved for the priests and elders of the cult, or used as a special reward for the acolytes. In fact, it seemed that word had gotten out about Anok’s special welcome to the cult, and that had become yet one more thing for his fellow novices to hold against him.

  Next came breakfast. The food and accompanying wine were always excellent. This was followed by an hour or so of chanting to Set in the main ceremonial chamber. Then they were gathered for instruction by one of the priests, usually a talk on sorcery or service to Set.

  There was a light midday meal, after which they returned to their cells for several hours to study the Scrolls of Set. Anok took advantage of the study time to look for some reference in the writings to Parath and his downfall, but thus far he had found no mention of the lost god. Perhaps he was well and truly lost, and if so, that, too, might be part of Set’s plan. The power of any cult, even of Set’s itself, came from the prayer and devotion of its followers. There could be no followers for a god unknown.

  The latter part of the day was filled with a variety of exercises, chants, group rituals granting power to the priests, and, most interesting to Anok, demonstrations of sorcery, usually by the more advanced acolytes rather than the priests, who seemed content to supervise.

  Over a period of time, he was witness to a spell that made an opponent’s bones as flexible as rope, various spells of hypnotic control, the casting of illusions, the apparent transformation of a walking staff into a cobra, and the transformation of a feral street dog into a huge and vicious monster.

  He was uncertain as to the true purpose of these demonstrations, for they were only taught the most basic of the spells. He knew that the use of powerful magic was said to lead to corruption, and if so, the actual purpose of these revelations might be aimed more at those performing the spell than those observing. Anok noted that each priest had his own personal circle of followers, and it seemed that from within those followers each priest sought to cultivate the greatest degree of dark power possible. He wondered if Dejal had made similar observations.

  Anok’s aversion to sorcery was quickly fading. It was apparent that some of the novices had already received individual training in the casting of more advanced spells. He was actually eager for his turn and rationalized that only through sorcery could he stand any chance
against the cult. It would be a fine flavor of justice, he thought, if he could subvert their own sorcery and use it against them.

  And so he worked, and studied, and observed. He swallowed his pride and groveled to the priests where it seemed necessary. He endured the shunning of his fellow novices and the lonely hours that resulted. In time it all became almost routine.

  Yet there were other cycles of routine in the Temple of Set, and some were timed not by the turning of the sun but by the cycles of the moon. It would soon be time for Festival again, and if it was a time for terror among the people of Odji, it was a time of great anticipation for the denizens of the temple.

  For Anok, it was a subject of dread. He feared he would be required to join the hunting parties roaming the streets of Odji for sacrificial victims, or even worse, to spill their blood on the altar of Set. He didn’t know if he could maintain his deception under those circumstances. He tried to tell himself that those unlucky enough to become sacrifices would die with or without him, but that didn’t seem to make the idea any more bearable. As it happened, he was soon to learn that Ramsa Aál had other plans for him the night of Festival.

  The priest approached him one evening as he was leaving the dining hall headed for his cell. Several other novices, including Dejal, contrived to pause within earshot and listen in on the conversation.

  “The diligence with which you pursue your studies pleases me, Anok Wati.”

  Anok bowed his head in respect. “I live to serve Set, master.”

  The priest twisted his mouth into a half smile. “A lie! You seek power, acolyte, and you serve that desire over all else. But that pleases me, and it serves the needs of our lord Set as well. Through power you will make yourself useful to him. Through power you shall become his fist and his sword.”

  “Then grant me power, master, that I may serve you better. I desire to be taught the ways of sorcery, as some of the others have been.”

  “The others have been instructed in response to their own needs and talents. You have not because you are different than they. Answer me this, novice, and we shall see how well your studies have taken. What are the methods of sorcery?”

  Anok’s mind raced. Doubtless this was one of the basic lessons the novices had been given in their first days of training, but Anok had touched on the subject only through his reading and his eavesdropping on the conversations of others. He formulated the best answer he could based on what he knew. “First there is the false sorcery, consisting of natural illusion, deception, and device.”

  “Useful skills for even the most powerful of sorcerers. Go on.”

  “Then there is sorcery through the use of talismans, totems, charms, sacred gems, mystic weapons, and other objects of power.”

  “Which some call ‘fool’s sorcery,’ based on the idea that any fool can wield such an object. Yet only the most powerful and skilled sorcerers in all of history have successfully created such objects, and they often grow more powerful in their antiquity. Only a fool would underestimate the power inherent in such an object. Next?”

  “Then there is learned sorcery. The utterance of spells, the performance of ceremonies, the mixing of potions, alchemy, the methods of which must be learned from other sorcerers and the ancient texts, then refined through practice and study.”

  “Solid, basic sorcery, the mainstay of most acolytes’ training. It is this learning that I suspect you desire. But there are yet more kinds of sorcery are there not?”

  Anok struggled to assemble the scraps of knowledge he had gained and put them into words. “There is also the sorcery of summoning. That is to say, calling forth the power of gods, demons, and spirits.”

  “One of the most powerful forms of sorcery, and one of most dangerous. To summon such beings is often to put yourself in their thrall, and their powers can overwhelm even the strongest-willed sorcerer.” He looked Anok in the eye. “There is one other form of sorcery. Do you know it?”

  Anok thought furiously but came up with nothing. “I am sorry master, I do not.”

  Ramsa Aál nodded. “This isn’t your failing, acolyte. Few have knowledge of it, and it is rare that it is even discussed. There are those with a special talent, through some accident of birth or early history, to tap directly into the well of power that serves all supernatural entities, gods and demons alike. This talent is rare, and dangerous, for the powers these seekers harness are almost too great for a man to comprehend, and they can destroy the wielder as easily as his enemies. It is like trying to chain the lightning, or put harness to storm waves, and, talent or not, many have perished in the attempt.” His eyes met Anok’s, his lips pressed together in a narrow line. “You are such a talent, Anok Wati, and we shall soon see if you are worthy of your gifts.”

  “What do you mean master?”

  “Until now, your stay here has been an easy one. As you’ve doubtless heard, the other acolytes were subjected to many harsh trials, and you have until now avoided them. But it is near time for your own . . . examination. On the night of Festival, you shall be tested.”

  “How will I be tested, master?”

  “Deep in the catacombs under the temple, there is a place called the Maze of Set. There you will face your trial. I can say no more. Know only that you will be tested to the depths of your soul and that you may well not survive.”

  Anok surprised himself with his reaction to this news. He was neither fearful nor concerned. He was eager to meet the coming challenge.

  Ramsa Aál studied his face, then nodded. “On the night of Festival I will come for you. Make yourself ready.”

  “Yes master.” He watched as the Priest of Acolytes turned and walked away down the corridor.

  Dejal and the other acolytes looked at him and whispered among themselves, laughing all the while. Anok found himself growing weary of the treatment. He walked purposely toward the group. The other acolytes, seeing him coming, scattered, until only Dejal remained when he arrived. “You heard?”

  Dejal smiled knowingly. “I heard, brother. You are to be taken to the Maze of Set on Festival night.”

  “You know something of this?”

  “Of what your trial might be? No. I’ve never heard of such a thing. But I have heard of the Maze of Set. It’s the place where the priests take failed acolytes. Very simply, brother, they enter the Maze and never return. Never.”

  19

  THE DAY OF Festival came to the temple, and with it, all routine was broken. The morning meal was large and festive, with fresh-boiled lobster from the reefs beyond the harbor, loins of beef, a rich stew made from oysters and chunks of swordfish, and mounds of spicy cakes and bread sprinkled with pungent herbs.

  The temple itself was busy all day, with a constant stream of elders and lesser followers of Set coming to the great ceremonial chamber to lay offerings of gold, silver, jewels, fine silks, and other goods before the altar. Then they would bow down and chant to their evil god, asking him to favor them with power and wealth.

  Several middle-ranking acolytes did nothing all day but collect offerings and carry them away to the temple’s hidden vaults for safekeeping. Anok had always known the Cult of Set was wealthy, but he saw now that he’d never really known how wealthy. Though the merchants of Odji strained under the burden of taxes, an entire year’s collection for the slum could hardly match what he saw willingly handed over at a single Festival day.

  Tribute to the temple seemingly granted returns that made it worthwhile for the rich to be generous. The Cult of Set and the puppet government of Stygia controlled all aspects of trade and industry, the ports, the caravan routes, travel on the rivers, the poison trade, mining, and even the recovery of mystical artifacts from the vast inland deserts. Without the aid and permission of the cult, the rich would not long stay that way, and those most favored by the cult were richest of all.

  Most of the temple acolytes went about various appointed duties, herding worshipers in and out of the temple, sharpening and polishing ceremonial knives, sup
ervising the arrival from the jails of chained prisoners doomed to give their lives to Set, and performing rituals to prepare the altar for blood sacrifice.

  The servants were also busy, and Anok took note of two in particular who seemed to be a focus of attention, despite their lack of any obvious activity. They wore red robes of the yoked sleeveless style often worn by servants with ceremonial duties. They were exceptionally dark-skinned, south-sea islanders perhaps, their skin so deeply toned that it almost seemed to have a bluish-purple cast. But the most unusual thing about them was their hands.

  Like many of the dark-skinned races, the palms of their hands were a different, lighter color than the rest of their skin. But while it was common for that skin to be pinkish white, the skin on their hands was red as blood. As he came closer, he saw that the same reddish tinge showed around the edges of their eyes, and when they spoke, their inner lips, tongue, and even their teeth, were startlingly red. He could only guess what dire function these strange men might serve in the night’s ceremonies.

  Anok felt somewhat at loose ends, having entirely too much time to think about the trial to come. Did Ramsa Aál truly intend to dispose of him? Anok didn’t think so, though the priest’s true intentions toward him remained a mystery. He was certain, though, that it would be a trial in every sense of the word, and the price of failure would doubtless be a horrible death.

  Yet however dread his trials might be, he preferred them to staying in the upper realms of the temple and seeing what horrors would pass there tonight, even more so if he were required to participate in them. In the Maze of Set only his blood could be spilled, and he was no innocent.