Liavek 7 Page 2

  "Here is his gate, sir."

  There came a faint squealing of metal on metal, and Aritoli stepped forward at Maljun's urging. As he did so, he blinked in surprise as patterns of white light flickered before his eyes.

  "Maljun! I can see again … sort of." As he spoke, the light resolved into the outlines of a house with a garden fore-court, filled with statues. But the scene was like a surreal drawing rendered in white chalk upon black slate. The statues were of nude couples posed in various erotic positions, and they seemed to writhe as he passed. "Do you notice anything … odd about this place, Maljun?"

  "As I understand it, sir, this house always appears odd to visitors. Perhaps you are referring to the flowers that line the walk, which are bowing graciously to us as we proceed?"

  Aritoli saw no such flowers in the moving chalk drawings that served him for sight. "Um, I meant the statues, Maljun."

  "Begging your pardon, Master, but I see no statues."

  "Oh. Never mind."

  Aritoli felt pressure on his arm causing him to halt, and suddenly a door was sketched in front of him by an invisible hand. In the middle of the door appeared the head of a gargoyle with a long, lolling tongue.

  "That is an unusual door ornament," said Maljun, hesitantly.

  Assuming that they might be seeing the same thing, Aritoli said, "I believe you are supposed to pull the tongue, Maljun."

  "Are you certain, sir?" There was a faint pleading in Maljun's voice.

  "I am afraid so." Aritoli heard his manservant sigh heavily beside him and saw a sketch of Maljun's hand reach out and gently tug on the gargoyle's tongue. In the distance, he heard a resounding "BLAAAAT!"

  "Ah, such lovely bells," Maljun said.

  "Uh, yes," Aritoli agreed, resigned to the bizarre.

  "Well, well, what have we here?" said the gargoyle, becoming an animated sketch in Aritoli's eyes. "The bland leading the blind?"

  Aritoli had heard stories of how to deal with this creature. "Enough, Gogo, we have come to see The Magician."

  "You can't very well see him, given your current condition, can you?"

  "That is what I hope he can correct, Gogo."

  "What? Don't you like my helpful drawings? Tell me, great art expert, what do you think of my skill?"

  Aritoli fought hard to keep his temper in check. "It is … unique, Gogo. Now kindly—"

  "Is that all? Unique? Well, if you don't like it, I can always change it." The sketch of the gargoyle head swirled and flickered until it resolved into the downwards view from a very high cliff.

  Battling vertigo, Aritoli covered his eyes, only to find it did no good at all—the scene was still there. He said slowly between clenched teeth, "I have brought a lot of money, Gogo, now let us in!"

  Abruptly the scene shifted again, to an opening door. "Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?" Gogo said cheerily. "Enter and be welcome." Beyond the open door lay a chalk rendition of a winding path paved with silver coins, lined with trees that dripped diamonds.

  "What understated elegance, wouldn't you say, sir?"

  "Forward, Maljun," Aritoli growled.

  •

  "You should have listened to her," said Trav The Magician, who was sketched much younger than the reputation of his age and skill warranted. Aritoli wondered if that was simply the way Gogo wanted him to see Trav. He had thought of confirming his impression with Maljun, except that he wouldn't trust that version either. Trav went on, "When Granny Karith says something is so, you can believe it." In a bantering but dangerous tone, he added, "And I'll thank you to refer to her more politely in future."

  "Of course. My apologies," Aritoli said, wondering at the respect the old woman seemed to command from others. "But are you telling me that you also cannot remove this spell?"

  "Oh, I suppose there are several things I could do. They would result in your being sighted, but quite mad from the pain. I presume you would find insanity as much a detriment to your career as blindness. Or would you?"

  Aritoli stretched his lips in a thin smile. "Some would say no. I prefer to keep both my wits and my sight. I am willing to pay a great deal, you know. This is extremely important to me."

  The white outline of Trav shrugged and smiled and threw up his hands. One of them came back down a little slower than the other.

  Stop playing games, Gogo, Aritoli thought with annoyance. "So you cannot help me?"

  Trav toyed idly with something on his desk. "One idea seems not to have occurred to you. Most spells dissipate when their maker dies."

  Aritoli paused, surprise then revulsion coursing through him. "Are you actually suggesting that I have Deremer killed?"

  Trav blinked back. "You have said this is extremely important to you. And that you have considerable funds to invest in the matter. Sorcery isn't the only skill for hire."

  Aritoli stood. "If that … obscenity is all you have to offer in the way of advice—"

  The sketch of Trav caught Aritoli's arm. "No. I do not advise it. But you have killed one Ledoro already. I had to know."

  "Yes, I have killed one Ledoro. When I was young and foolish. Now I am middle-aged and foolish, and the thought of killing Deremer had indeed never crossed my mind. I have never wished harm to Ledoro's family, not even to the priest himself. And Deremer," he added softly, "had reason for this. She is skilled, and graceful and determined. She is much like her mother."

  The sketch of Trav nodded, and he released Aritoli's arm.

  "You ease my mind. But, I fear, there's nothing more I can tell you. Only Deremer can remove that spell."

  "Your pardon," said Maljun, mildly. "I am no wizard, but is it not true that spells also dissipate at the wizard's luck time on their birthday, when they must reinvest their magic?"

  "Normal spells, yes," said Trav. "But this is a S'Rian spell involving deities, and gods have … other ways of doing things. Deremer quite clearly wanted the spell to be permanent."

  So how could I ever convince her to remove it? "In that case, I have no hope left." Aritoli let his spirits sink. I wonder if the Green Priests would want another convert. I have few responsibilities. But I hear the House of Responsible Life tends to add complications, not remove them. Where might I buy a swift poison? Would I have the courage to drink it?

  Someone grasped his shoulder, and Aritoli looked up to see the white lines that formed Trav's face collide into a frown of concern. "One genuine bit of advice," said The Magician. "Make no irreversible plans. She has dealt you a blow, but you will be defeated only by yourself. Your blindness is only part of her vengeance. Your despair is the rest. You needn't allow her that part. She has already made one mistake. Perhaps she will make two."

  "What mistake is that?"

  Trav's image grinned. "She let you live. You can make her regret it."

  The Magician's grim humor was infectious and Aritoli managed a weak smile in return. "I will consider your advice, then, good Magician. Maljun, we have taken much of his valuable time. Open the box." Aritoli reached his hand into the strongbox and counted out seventeen gold levars. "For your pains."

  Trav hefted the coins in his hand as if weighing them. His chalk-sketched eyebrows rose. "For my pains?" He sighed and looked at Aritoli. "If pain commands a price these days, this is more yours than mine. And I think you are going to have need of your gold." He handed all but one coin back to Maljun.

  Aritoli could not think of how to respond, so he gratefully bowed and left with Maljun at his arm.

  The courtyard path was sketched with only plain cobblestones, lined with large, irregular rocks, very similar to one that lay in Aritoli's own garden, brought there by a child he had once befriended. The child had taught him how to see a world of things in a simple stone.

  Aritoli felt his eyes grow hot and something wet ran down his cheek. "You are cruel, Gogo."

  "There is more to seeing than what the eyes perceive," was her gentle reply before the white lines faded, leaving Aritoli once more in darkness.

&n
bsp; •

  "You have a two o'clock appointment with the Copper Street Studio …"

  "Cancel it," Aritoli said, finding it hard to keep the bitterness from his voice. He had spent the night mulling over the words of The Magician, but finding little solace in them. Deremer would never willingly remove the spell, nor could Aritoli think of a way to trick or force her to. And I used to be such a clever fellow. Where are my wits now? Did they fade with my sight?

  "You have a dinner engagement with the Countess Tchai."

  "Extend my sincerest regrets, saying that … an opportunity has arisen that I could not let pass."

  He could almost hear Maljun frown. "Is that not—"

  "A trifle crass? Yes. Better she believe that I am being my usual fickle self, than to come around with questions and sympathy if I plead illness."

  "As you wish, Master. Now on tomorrow's schedule—"

  "Let that wait until tomorrow." Assuming I will have one. He felt his hand on the desk curl into a fist. "You know, Maljun," he said softly, "I find myself wishing I could see anything again. Even paintings by the Shatter-eye School. Even that awful play at the Desert Mouse theater. What was it called, Maljun?"

  "The White Dog, sir."

  "Yes. Even that."

  "Please do not dwell on your condition, sir. The Magician was right, where there is life there is hope. What will you do today, sir?"

  "I feel the need for more of what you have just given me—inspiration and guidance. I will go to the Temple of the Twin Forces and spend the day in contemplation."

  There was a moment's pause. "Very good, sir. When shall we leave?"

  "I would leave at once, Maljun. But I will go alone." As his manservant was about to protest, Aritoli went on, "Do not fear. I will go in disguise and have the priests assist me when I arrive. I need you to take care of business for me—to spread word of my being alive and well and in many places at once, and to retrieve another box from the iv N'stiven's."

  After much cajoling, Maijun finally agreed.

  •

  But the box, as Aritoli carefully did not mention, contained his will. And the temple to which he went, disguised and alone, was not the Temple of the Twin Forces. Instead, he went to the very place served long ago by the man he killed—The Shrine of Irhan, the God of Beauty.

  As Aritoli was led by the cabbie into the Shrine, the first thing he noticed was the scent of flowers, spiced with cinnamon and ginger. In the distance, he heard the cheerful burbling of a fountain, and a flute played sweet and high. A cool breeze caressed his face, relieving the heat of the day. Can I truly wish to die, when I can still experience this? Aritoli wondered.

  "Nice place," said the cabbie beside him. "Too bad it's all cluttered up with those gewgaws all over."

  Aritoli chuckled and for once felt grateful for his blindness. Though the Shrine had been designed with the most elegant structure, he'd heard that devotees had loaded the place with every sort of "beautiful" offering imaginable; ornate silver-framed mirrors, statues covered with gold filigree, woven wall-hangings dripping with glass beads, and so on. These surely would have offended Aritoli's eyes more than the dark.

  "And who are we," said a young, male voice, approaching, "to tell our worshippers what gift is and is not worthy of Irhan? A thing's beauty lies in the heart of the one who gives it, not in its mere appearance."

  "Well," the cabbie began.

  But Aritoli pressed a coin into the cabbie's palm and said, ''That will be all."

  "Yes, Master." The cabbie's footsteps rapidly retreated.

  Aritoli was left alone with … what? He tried to imagine the face and form of the young man who had spoken. Did he have lovely dark eyes like that actor at the Desert Mouse? Was his hair the gold of Deremer's or the glossy black of the Countess ola Klera's? Aritoli ached with not knowing. Yes, death is the only answer. I cannot live like this.

  "You are too early for visitor's hours," said the young man, a question in his voice.

  "I come to give an offering to Irhan."

  "You may leave it with a priest at the side entrance, or return in two hours if you wish to present it yourself."

  "I do wish to present it personally, but not publicly. And it is not a tangible object that can be given to a priest."

  There was a pause. "What … sort of offering did you have in mind?"

  "The opportunity to decide my fate."

  "What interest would Irhan have in such a thing?"

  "I have owed it to him for a long time. I killed his high priest, Emarati Ledoro." Aritoli had thought about this the whole previous night; what to do if the blindness were deemed permanent. This was the act that would no doubt have pleased the Green Priests, had he joined them. At this moment, Aritoli felt the sublime release from worldly care, so often mentioned by other faiths. He relished the idea of going to a mighty stroke of iridescent lightning. What an artful end to an adventurous life!

  But instead of shouts of anger, there came only an awkward cough. "I see," the priest finally ventured. "You are … Aritoli ola Silba?"

  "I am." Aritoli removed as much of his disguise as he thought decent. As a sign of "good faith" or perhaps the finality of things, Aritoli had not worn the belt that contained his invested magic.

  "It was before my time," said the priest, "but I have heard of the incident. Wait here and I will tell the others you have come."

  Aritoli waited, his thoughts drifting between quiet enjoyment of the cool, perfumed room and vague worries about Maljun. He felt little fear. Whatever happens, it is preferable to a life in darkness.

  He heard the rustle of silky robes, and Aritoli stood a little straighter. "Come forward," said a rich, deep voice. "We will summon Irhan for you."

  "Thank you. But I require assistance. I have … temporarily lost my sight." Aritoli was surprised at his own lie. Even though death or worse awaits, I still protect my image. If Irhan is a god of Vanity as well as Beauty, as some claim, this is certainly where I belong.

  Gentle and respectful hands grasped his arms and guided him, surrounded by whispering cloth and subtle perfumes. Wind bells chimed merrily nearby. May whatever waits beyond life be this lovely, thought Aritoli, though undoubtedly I do not deserve such.

  He was brought to a halt, and he stood very still. Aritoli heard the priests begin to move all around him. From the swish of their robes and the rhythmic cadence of their feet, he knew they were dancing. How I wish I could see them!

  Aritoli could not tell how long he stood, surrounded by the music of the dance. But suddenly a part of him he could not name felt a Presence nearby.

  "You are early." The voice that spoke had an exquisite resonance and timbre that made Aritoli shiver. He had no doubts as to who was speaking.

  "An urgent matter, Holy One, has disrupted our schedule. Master Aritoli ola Silba, the one who slew the High Priest Ledoro, has presented himself for your judgement."

  "Ah, Aritoli." The beautiful male voice sighed, sounding annoyed, amused, and fond all at once. "I wondered when you would come to me."

  "I regret," Aritoli's voice cracked and he had to swallow before continuing, "Most Beautiful One, that my visit is not entirely my own choice. The daughter of High Priest Ledoro, Deremer, has exacted revenge upon me for her father's death. She has taken from me my most precious possession—my sight. Without it, my life is useless. Therefore, I have come to you, thinking you are most fit to be my final judge. It is you I have ultimately offended and—"

  "One moment!" Irhan sharply commanded. "It offends me that one here cannot appreciate the beauty of my temple. Although healing and spellbreaking are not among my Holy Gifts, I must do something to rectify this. Stand still."

  Aritoli felt a slight pressure on his brow and cheekbones. A bright, golden light burst shimmering before his eyes. Hands on his shoulder turned him around, and lrhan said, "Behold."

  Aritoli blinked, and his eyes teared. He could see! The interior of the Shrine of Irhan shone radiantly before him, and to his
profound shock everything in it was beautiful. The gilded, overstuffed pews that only days ago Aritoli would have found repulsive were now breathtaking to behold. The tapestries and statuary and gilt-framed mirrors that he once would have thought gaudy were awe-inspiring. Aritoli looked at the priests standing around him, their faces, young and old, shining with the poignant beauty of each individual soul, and he fell in love with every one of them at once.

  To live like this … always surrounded by beauty … what heaven it would be. I could take whatever punishment lrhan may give if he lets me live with this— Aritoli's thoughts paused as his gaze passed over a gallery of paintings. There were simple studies of flowers, uninspired renderings of landscapes, horses, and big-eyed children. Each blazed with its own glory, independent of the spirit that created it, or the subject it depicted. Aritoli felt his heart sink. The most worthless painting in Liavek would appear as beautiful as the greatest masterpiece. He buried his face in his hands.

  "No?" said lrhan.

  "No," Aritoli moaned. Then he caught himself, knowing it was unwise to reject a divine gift. "Great Irhan, if I see all things as having equal beauty, then though I have gained sight, I have lost judgement. I have so long lived by my judgement that this, to me, would be like losing my sanity. I have no wish to live blind or insane. If your judgement is to take my life in retribution for the loss of Emarati Ledoro, then do so." Aritoli bowed his head in resignation.

  There was a brief silence. Then Irhan said, "Who am I, Aritoli? Am I Roashushe, to sweep away whatever offends me beneath wind and wave? Am I Narkaan, to freeze you in ghastly fear? Am I Brongoi, to destroy you with thunder and fire? Who am I?"

  Aritoli swallowed and replied softly, "You are Irhan, Lord of Beauty."

  "Indeed. And it is not my way to destroy in a flagrant display of might. You might say I act more in the fashion of the House of Responsible Life, whose works I rather approve of when I'm feeling morbid. This incident that concerns us has upset a balance that must be restored."

  "Yes, Holy One." Aritoli felt a curious mixture of relief and disappointment.