The Hidden City

‘Not really.’ She smiled, opening the tent flap.

It was still night in Pela, but it was broad daylight beyond the tent flap – a strange sort of daylight. A pristine white beach stretched down to a sapphire sea all under a rainbow-colored sky, and a small green eyot surmounted by a gleaming alabaster temple rose from that incredibly blue sea about a half-mile from the beach.

‘What place is this?’ Bergsten asked, poking his head out of the tent and looking around in amazement.

‘I suppose you could call it Heaven, your Grace,’ the Child Goddess replied, blowing out the flame dancing on her palm. ‘It’s mine, anyway. There are others, but this one’s mine.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Everywhere and anywhere. All the Heavens are everyplace all at once. So are all the Hells, of course -but that’s another story. Shall we go?’

Chapter 21

Cordz of Nelan was the perfect man. That realization had not come easily to the devout Edomishman. It had only been after extended soul-searching and a meticulous examination of the sacred texts of his faith that he had arrived at the inescapable conclusion. He was perfect. He obeyed all of God’s commandments, he did what he was supposed to do, and he did not do the things that were forbidden. Isn’t that what perfection is all about?

It was a comfort to be perfect, but Cordz was not one to rest on his laurels. Now that he had achieved perfection in the eyes of God, it was time to turn his attention to the faults of his neighbors. Sinners, however, seldom sin openly, so Cordz was obliged to resort to subterfuge. He peeked through windows late at night; he eavesdropped on private conversations; and, when his sinful neighbors cleverly concealed their wrongdoing from him, he imagined the sins they might be committing. The Sabbath was a very special day for Cordz, but not for the sermons. After all, what need had a perfect man for sermons? It was on the Sabbath that he was able to rise to his feet and denounce the sins of his neighbors, both the sins they had committed and the sins they might be committing.

He probably irritated the Devil. God knows he irritated his neighbors.

But then a crisis had arisen in Edom. The debauched and heretical Church of Chyrellos, after two eons of plotting and scheming, was finally preparing to make her move against the righteous. The Church Knights were on the march, and horrors beyond imagining marched with them.

Cordz was among the first to enlist in Rebal’s army, the perfect man abandoned his neighbors to their sinful ways to join a holier cause. He became Rebal’s most trusted messenger, killing horses by the dozen as he rushed about the Elene kingdoms of western Tamuli carrying the dispatches so vital to the cause.

On this particular day Cordz was flogging his exhausted horse southward toward the corrupt cities of southern Daconia, cesspools of sin and licentiousness, if the truth were to be known, where the citizens not only did not know that they were sinners, they did not even care. Worse yet, an obscure and probably heretical tradition of the Dacite Church prevented laymen from speaking aloud during Sabbath services. Thus, God’s very own spokesman, the perfect man, was not permitted to expose and denounce the sins he saw all around him. The frustration of it sometimes made him want to just scream.

He had been riding hard for the past week, and he was very tired. Thus it was with some relief that he finally crested the hill that overlooked the port city of Melek.

Then all thoughts of the sins of others vanished. Cordz reined in his staggering horse and gaped in horror at what he saw.

There on a sea sparkling in the winter sun was a vast armada, ships beyond counting, sailing majestically down the coast under the red and gold banners of the Church of Chyrellos!

The perfect man was so overcome with horror that he did not even hear the plaintive sound of a shepherd’s rude pipe playing a Styric air in a minor key somewhere off to his left. He gaped for a time at his worst nightmare, and then he desperately drove his spurs into his horse’s flanks, rushing to spread the alarm.

General Sirada was the younger brother of Duke Milanis, and he commanded the rebel forces in Panem-Dea. King Rakya had so arranged it that most of Scarpa’s generals were Arjuni. Sirada knew that there were risks involved, but the younger sons of noble families were obliged to take risks if they wanted to get ahead in the world. For them, rank and position had to be won. Sirada had endured the years of association with the crazy bastard son of a tavern wench and the discomfort of camping out in the jungle waiting for his chance.

And now it had come. The madman in Natayos had finally sent the order to march. The campaign had begun. There was no sleep in Panem-Dea that night. The preparations for the march went on through the hours of darkness, and the undisciplined rabble Sirada commanded was incapable of doing anything quietly. The general spent the night poring over his maps.

The strategy was sound; he was forced to admit that. He was to join forces with Scarpa and the other rebels near Derel. Then they would march north to the Tamul Mountains to be reinforced by Cynesgans. From there, they would march on Tosa in preparation for the final assault on Matherion.

General Sirada’s own strategy was much simpler. Scarpa would crush any resistance at Tosa, but he would not live to see the gleaming domes of the imperial capital. Sirada smiled thinly and patted the little vial of poison he carried in his inside pocket. The army would capture Matherion, but it would be General Sirada who would lead the final assault and personally run his sword through Emperor Sarabian. The younger brother of Duke Milanis expected an earldom at the very least to come out of this campaign.

The door banged open, and his adjutant burst into the room, his eyes starting from his head and his face a pasty white. ‘Good God, my General!’ he shrieked.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Sirada demanded. ‘How dare you? I’ll have you flogged for this!’

‘We’re being attacked, my General!’

Sirada could hear the squeals of terror now. He rose quickly and went out the door.

It was not yet daylight, and a clinging mist had crept in out of the tangled forest to blur the ruined walls and houses of Panem-Dea. There were fires and flaring torches pushing back the darkness with their ruddy light, but there were other lights in the weed-choked streets as well, pale, cold lights that did not burn or flicker. Creatures of light, pale as wandering moons, stalked the streets of Panem-Dea. The general’s heart filled with terror. It was impossible! The Shining Ones were a myth! There were no such creatures!

Sirada shook off his fright and drew his sword. ‘Stand fast!’ he roared at his demoralized men. ‘Form up! Pike-men to the front!’ He bulled his way into the milling mob of terrified troops, flailing about him with the flat of his sword. ‘Form up! Make a line!’