Part 31 (1/2)
”I am sure it does.”
”Ah, yes? Well, that is very good.” Despite his words, he sounded faintly disappointed that his cathedral's rival had not suffered a similarly ign.o.ble fate. ”But, may our Ransomer forgive us, we are poor hosts,” he said suddenly, catching Miriamele's arm with a gently trembling claw. ”Come in and shelter from the storm. You and your son-” he gestured to Binabik, who looked up in surprise; the old man had already forgotten what Miriamele had told him, ”-will be safe here. They have taken our beautiful things, but they have not taken us from the watchful-ness of G.o.d's eye.”
He led them up the long aisle toward the altar, a block of stone with a rag stretched over it, mumbling as he went about the wonderful things that had once stood here or there and the horrible things that had happened to them. Miriamele was not listening to him closely: she was preoccupied by the scatter of shadowy human shapes which leaned against the walls or lay in corners. One or two were draped lengthwise across the benches as though in sleep. All together, there seemed to be several dozen people in the huge chapel, all silent and apparently unmoving. Miriamele had a sudden, horrid thought. ”Who are all these folk?” she asked. ”Are they ... dead?”
The old man looked up, surprised, then smiled and shook his head. ”No, no, they are pilgrims like yourself, travelers who sought a safe haven. G.o.d led them here, and so they shelter in His church.”
As the old man recommenced his description of the splendors of Saint Sutrin's as it once had been, Miriamele felt a tug at her sleeve.
”Ask him whether there is anything beneath this place like that thing we are searching,” the troll whispered.
When the man paused for a moment, Miriamele seized her chance. ”Are there tunnels beneath the cathedral?”
”Tunnels?” The question set an odd light burning in the old man's rheumy eye. ”What do you mean? There are the catacombs, where all the bishops of this place lie resting until the Day of Weighing-Out, but no one goes there. It is ... holy ground.” He seemed disturbed, staring past the altar at nothing Miriamele could see. ”That is not a place for any traveler. Why do you ask?”
Miriamele did not wish to upset him any further. ”I was told once that there was a ... a holy place here.” She bowed her head. ”Someone dear to me is in danger. I had thought that maybe there was a special shrine....” What had seemed a lie had come to her quickly, but as she thought about it, she realized it was only truth: someone dear to her was in peril. She should light a candle for Simon before they left this place.
”Ah.” The old man seemed mollified. ”No, it is not that sort of place, not at all. Now come, it is almost time for the evening mansa.” mansa.”
Miriamele was surprised. So the rites were still celebrated here, even though the church seemed little more than a sh.e.l.l. She wondered what had happened to fat, bl.u.s.tering Bishop Domitis and all his priestly underlings.
The man led them to the first row of benches facing the altar, then gestured for them to sit down. The irony did not escape Miriamele: she had often sat there before at her father's side, and at her grandfather's before that. The old man walked to a place behind the stone and its ragged covering, then lifted his arms in the air. ”Come, my friends,” he said loudly. ”You may return now.”
Binabik looked at Miriamele. She shrugged, unsure of what the man wanted them to do.
But they were not the ones who had been addressed. A moment later, whirring and flapping, a host of black shapes descended from the shadowy wreckage of the dome. Miriamele gave out a little squeak of surprise as the ravens settled upon the altar. Within moments almost a score of them stood wing to wing on the altar cloth, oily feathers gleaming in the candlelight.
The old man began to speak the Mansa Nictalis, Mansa Nictalis, and as he did, the ravens preened and ruffled. and as he did, the ravens preened and ruffled.
”What is this thing?” Binabik asked. ”It is not a part of your wors.h.i.+p that I have heard of.”
Miriamele shook her head. The old man was clearly mad. He was addressing the Nabbanai words to the ravens, who strutted back and forth along the altar giving voice to harsh, grating cries. But there was something else about the scene that was almost as strange as the eerie ceremony, some elusive thing....
Abruptly, as the old man lifted his arms and made the ritual sign of the Great Tree, she recognized him. This was Bishop Domitis himself at the altar-or his wasted remains, since he seemed shriveled to half his previous weight. Even his voice was different: deprived of the great bellows of flesh, it had become reedy and thin. But as he rolled into the sonorous cadences of the mansa, mansa, much of the old Domitis seemed to return; in her weary mind she could see him again as he once had been, swelled bullfrog-great with self-importance. much of the old Domitis seemed to return; in her weary mind she could see him again as he once had been, swelled bullfrog-great with self-importance.
”Binabik,” she whispered. ”I know him! He is the bishop of this place. But he looks so different!”
The troll was eyeing the capering ravens with a mixture of amus.e.m.e.nt and uneasiness. ”Can you then be persuading him to help us?”
Miriamele considered. ”I don't think so. He seems very protective of his church, and he certainly didn't seem to want us wandering around down in the catacombs.”
”Then I am thinking that is just the place we must go,” Binabik said quietly. ”We must be looking for the chance to come to us.” He looked up at Domitis, who stood with head thrown back and eyes closed, his arms widespread as if in imitation of his avian congregation. ”I have something that I must be doing now. Wait for me here. It will take me only a little time.” He got up quietly from the bench, then turned and moved quickly back down the aisle toward the front of the cathedral.
”Binabik!” Miriamele called softly, but the troll only raised his hand before disappearing into the forechamber. Unsettled, she turned reluctantly to watch the rest of the odd performance.
Domitis seemed to have completely forgotten the presence of anyone but himself and the ravens. A pair of these had flown up from the altar to settle on his shoulders. They clung there as he swayed; as he windmilled his arms in the fervor of his speech, they flapped their great black wings to maintain balance on their perches.
Finally, as the bishop began the last stages of the mansa, mansa, the whole flock of birds rose up and began circling his head like a croaking thundercloud. Whatever humor the ritual had held was gone: Miriamele suddenly found the whole thing frightening. Was there no comer of the world left that had not succ.u.mbed to madness? Had the whole flock of birds rose up and began circling his head like a croaking thundercloud. Whatever humor the ritual had held was gone: Miriamele suddenly found the whole thing frightening. Was there no comer of the world left that had not succ.u.mbed to madness? Had everything everything been corrupted? been corrupted?
Domitis intoned the last Nabbanai phrases and fell silent. The ravens circled a few moments more, then went whirling up toward the ruptured dome like a whirlwind, vanis.h.i.+ng into the shadows with only the echoes of their rasping cries left hanging in the air behind them. When even those had died and the cathedral had fallen quiet, Bishop Domitis, now almost gray with expended effort, bent down behind the altar.
When some time had pa.s.sed and he had not stood up again, Miriamele began to wonder whether the old man had fallen into some sort of fit, or had perhaps even dropped dead. She got to her feet and moved cautiously toward the altar, keeping an eye c.o.c.ked toward the ceiling as she went, half-fearing that at any moments the ravens might descend again, talons and beaks flailing....
Domitis was curled on a ragged blanket behind the altar, snoring softly. In repose, the loose skin of his face seemed even more formless, sagging into long folds so that he seemed to wear a mask of melted candlewax. Miriamele shuddered and hurried back to her chair, but after a few moments even that began to feel too exposed. The room was still full of silent figures, but it was not difficult to imagine that they were only feigning sleep, waiting to be sure her companion was not returning before they rose and came toward her....
Miriamele waited for what seemed a long time. The forechamber was colder even than the broken-domed chapel, but escape was within reach at a moment's notice. A little of the night wind slipped through the partially open door, which made her feel closer to freedom and hence a great deal safer, but she still jumped when the door hinges screeched.
”Ah,” said Binabik, slipping inside, ”it is still raining with great forcefulness.” He shook water onto the stone floor.
”Bishop Domitis has gone to sleep behind the altar. Binabik, where did you go?”
”To take your horse back to where Homefinder and Qantaqa wait. Even if we are not finding what we seek here, we can easily travel through the town by walking. But if we find a tunnel-entering-place, I am fearing that we would come back at a later time to find your horse as part of some hungry person's soup.”
Miriamele had not thought of that, but she did not doubt that he was right. ”I'm glad you did it. Now what should we do?”
”Go hunting for our tunnel,” said Binabik.
”When Bishop Domitis was talking about the catacombs, he kept looking over to the back of the cathedral, that wall behind the altar.”
”Hmmm.” The troll nodded. ”You are wise for noticing and remembering. That is, I am thinking, the first place we should search.”
”We have to be quiet-we don't want to wake him up.”
”Like snow-mice we will be, our pads whispering on the white crust.” Binabik squeezed her hand.
Her worries about the slumbering Domitis were unfounded. The old man was snoring thinly but emphatically, and did not even twitch as they padded by. The great wall behind the altar, which had once been covered in a tiled representation of Saint Sutrin's martyrdom, was now only crumbling mortar with a few remaining spots of ceramic color. At one end of the wall, tucked behind a rotting velvet drapery, stood a low door. Binabik gave it a tug and it opened easily, as though it had been used with some frequency. The troll peered inside, then turned. ”Let us be taking some candles,” he murmured. ”That way we can be saving the torches in our packs for a later time.”
Miriamele went back and plucked two of the candles from the sconces. She felt a little shame, since Domitis had been kind to them in his own strange way, but she reasoned that their greater goal outweighed the sin of theft, and would benefit the bishop as well-maybe one day he would even see his beloved cathedral rebuilt. She could not help wondering if the ravens would be welcome then. She hoped not.
Each holding a candle, Miriamele and Binabik went carefully down the narrow staircase. Centuries of human traffic had worn a groove like a dry river bed in the center of the stone steps. They stepped off the stairs into the low-ceilinged catacombs and stopped to look around. The walls on either side were honeycombed with niches, each containing a silent stone effigy of a figure in repose, most wearing the robes and other symbols of church office. But for these, the narrow halls seemed entirely empty.
Binabik pointed at one turning that seemed less traveled. ”This way, I am thinking.”
Miriamele peered down the shadowy tunnel. The pale plaster walls were unmarked; no would-be saints lay here, it seemed. She took a deep breath. ”Let's go.”
In the cathedral above, a pair of ravens dropped down from the ceiling and, after circling briefly, settled on the altar. They stood side by side, bright eyes glaring at the door to the catacombs. Nor were they the only observers. A figure detached itself from the shadows along the wall and crept silently across the cathedral. It moved past the altar, stepping just as carefully as had Miriamele and the troll, then paused for a while outside the vault door as though listening. When a short time had pa.s.sed, the dark shape slipped through the doorway and went pattering quietly down the stairs.
After that, nothing was heard in the dark cathedral but the bishop's even snoring and the faint rustle of wings.
16.
Roots of the White Tree