world where a majority of the
population include a vegetarian diet within their religion and
those who do not mainly eat fish or chicken. Blade is ready to
start at whichever end of a spit-roast pig and not stop until he
reaches the other.
Blade’s command, the thieves, the Company pathfinders,
includes twenty-six of the outfit’s brightest and most
trusted youngsters, all Children of the Dead. They need to be both
smart and trustworthy because Sleepy wants to exploit the treasures
in the caverns beneath the plain and because they really have to
understand that the plain itself will not forgive them if they do
the wrong thing. Shivetya has extended his favor. Shivetya sees
everything and knows everything inside the gates of his universe.
Shivetya is the soul of the plain. No one comes or goes without
Shivetya’s countenance, or at least his indifference. And in
the unlikely event that Shivetya remained indifferent to an
unauthorized theft, there was nowhere for a thief to run but back
to the shadowgate opening on the Land of Unknown Shadows. That was
the only shadowgate under control and functioning properly. That
was the only shadowgate not certain to kill the thief.
It was a long stroll across the great circle surrounding the
crude throne. That floor is anything but crude. It is an exact
one-eightieth scale representation of the plain outside, less the
memorial pillars that were added in a later age by men who failed
to possess even mythologized recollections of the builders.
Hundreds of manhours have gone into clearing the accumulated dirt
and dust off its surface so Shivetya can more clearly discern every
detail of his kingdom. Shivetya’s throne rests upon a raised
wheel one-eightieth the size of this.
Decades ago, Soulcatcher’s tampering triggered an
earthquake that battered the fortress and split its floor into a
vast crevasse. Outside the plain the disaster destroyed cities and
killed thousands. Today the only memorial of what had been a gap in
the floor a dozen yards wide and thousands of feet deep is a red
stripe meandering past the throne. It dwindles every day. As does
Shivetya, the mechanism ruling the plain heals itself.
The great circular model of the plain rises half a yard above
the rest of the floor, which exists at the level of the plain
outside.
Blade dropped off the edge of the wheel. He strode to a hole in
the floor, the head of stairs leading down. They descend for miles,
through caverns natural and created. The sleeping Goddess Kina lies
at the deepest level, patiently awaiting the Year of the Skulls and
the beginning of the Khadi Cycle, the destruction of the world. The
wounded Goddess Kina.
Shadows stirred along the nearby wall. Blade froze. Who? No way
that could be his people. Or, what?
Fear speared through Blade. Shadows in motion often presaged
cruel, screaming death. Had those things found a way into the
fortress? Their merciless feasting was not a horror he cared to
witness ever again. And in particular he did not want to be the
main course.
“The Nef,” Blade told himself as three humanoid
shapes emerged from the darkness. He recognized them despite never
having seen them before. Hardly anyone did, outside of dreams. Or
maybe nightmares. The Nef were incredibly ugly. Though they might
have been wearing masks. The several descriptions available did not
agree except as to ugliness. He counted them off. “The
Washane. The Washene. The Washone.” Names Shivetya had given
Sleepy years ago. What did they mean? Did they mean anything at
all? “How did they get in here?” The answer might be
critical. Killer shadows might exploit the same opening.
As the Nef always did, they tried to communicate something. In
the past their efforts inevitably failed. But this time their
appeal seemed obvious. They did not want Blade to go down those
stairs.
Sleepy, Master Santaraksita, and others who have been in contact
with Shivetya believe that the Nef are artificial reproductions of
the beings
population include a vegetarian diet within their religion and
those who do not mainly eat fish or chicken. Blade is ready to
start at whichever end of a spit-roast pig and not stop until he
reaches the other.
Blade’s command, the thieves, the Company pathfinders,
includes twenty-six of the outfit’s brightest and most
trusted youngsters, all Children of the Dead. They need to be both
smart and trustworthy because Sleepy wants to exploit the treasures
in the caverns beneath the plain and because they really have to
understand that the plain itself will not forgive them if they do
the wrong thing. Shivetya has extended his favor. Shivetya sees
everything and knows everything inside the gates of his universe.
Shivetya is the soul of the plain. No one comes or goes without
Shivetya’s countenance, or at least his indifference. And in
the unlikely event that Shivetya remained indifferent to an
unauthorized theft, there was nowhere for a thief to run but back
to the shadowgate opening on the Land of Unknown Shadows. That was
the only shadowgate under control and functioning properly. That
was the only shadowgate not certain to kill the thief.
It was a long stroll across the great circle surrounding the
crude throne. That floor is anything but crude. It is an exact
one-eightieth scale representation of the plain outside, less the
memorial pillars that were added in a later age by men who failed
to possess even mythologized recollections of the builders.
Hundreds of manhours have gone into clearing the accumulated dirt
and dust off its surface so Shivetya can more clearly discern every
detail of his kingdom. Shivetya’s throne rests upon a raised
wheel one-eightieth the size of this.
Decades ago, Soulcatcher’s tampering triggered an
earthquake that battered the fortress and split its floor into a
vast crevasse. Outside the plain the disaster destroyed cities and
killed thousands. Today the only memorial of what had been a gap in
the floor a dozen yards wide and thousands of feet deep is a red
stripe meandering past the throne. It dwindles every day. As does
Shivetya, the mechanism ruling the plain heals itself.
The great circular model of the plain rises half a yard above
the rest of the floor, which exists at the level of the plain
outside.
Blade dropped off the edge of the wheel. He strode to a hole in
the floor, the head of stairs leading down. They descend for miles,
through caverns natural and created. The sleeping Goddess Kina lies
at the deepest level, patiently awaiting the Year of the Skulls and
the beginning of the Khadi Cycle, the destruction of the world. The
wounded Goddess Kina.
Shadows stirred along the nearby wall. Blade froze. Who? No way
that could be his people. Or, what?
Fear speared through Blade. Shadows in motion often presaged
cruel, screaming death. Had those things found a way into the
fortress? Their merciless feasting was not a horror he cared to
witness ever again. And in particular he did not want to be the
main course.
“The Nef,” Blade told himself as three humanoid
shapes emerged from the darkness. He recognized them despite never
having seen them before. Hardly anyone did, outside of dreams. Or
maybe nightmares. The Nef were incredibly ugly. Though they might
have been wearing masks. The several descriptions available did not
agree except as to ugliness. He counted them off. “The
Washane. The Washene. The Washone.” Names Shivetya had given
Sleepy years ago. What did they mean? Did they mean anything at
all? “How did they get in here?” The answer might be
critical. Killer shadows might exploit the same opening.
As the Nef always did, they tried to communicate something. In
the past their efforts inevitably failed. But this time their
appeal seemed obvious. They did not want Blade to go down those
stairs.
Sleepy, Master Santaraksita, and others who have been in contact
with Shivetya believe that the Nef are artificial reproductions of
the beings
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