“Do you guard this place?”
“Thou lack persistence,” the boy said. “Thou wouldst know of my father.”
“I have no wish to be rude.”
“Trespassing is always rude, thou, but mind that not. I am the keeper of this place, and its guardian in that sense.”
“What do you guard?” Ghe asked, eyeing the treasure behind the boy but playing his role as a blind man.
“Baubles, bangles. Mostly Ms place, as I said.”
“But who do you guard it from?”
“Thee, I suppose.”
“I don't want anything here,” Ghe lied.
“No, I suppose thou merely took a wrong turning. It is a common mistake, and many make it,” the boy mocked.
“I was curious, nothing more.”
“Come,” the boy said, a bit of anger creeping into his voice. “Tell me why thou art here. It matters not what thou sayest, save that I am bored and wish to speak with someone.”
It matters not what thou sayest. Ghe caught the threat in that. Was this boy merely delaying him, as more priests came? But he had heard no alarm, felt no odd play of power. Though it was like peering through a mist, he had occasional glimpses of the guardian's heartstrands, and they looked strong and strange, and he seemed confident, as if understanding that he needed no aid. And then there was the shadow at his feet, pulsing with malevolent force. If he could feed on them, or better, capture them, what might he not learn?
“Very well,” he relented. “I have come seeking the secret of the temple, I suppose. Seeking how it holds the River senseless here.”
“And dost thou have thine answer now?”
“No. This place was mentioned in a book that was read to me, but now that I have reached it, I know no more than I did.”
“Fortunate that thou hast encountered me, then. I know this place well.”
Ghe hesitated barely an instant. “The book speaks of a mountain far away.”
“She'leng, the source of the Changeling.”
“Changeling?”
“Another name for the River. Yes, there is such a mountain, which thou namest She'leng. And what dost thou think that has to do with this place?”
“It was built to resemble that mountain,” Ghe answered, once again wondering at the antiquity of the boy's speech. No priest he knew spoke in such a manner, save in incantations, and never did it flow so smoothly from their lips.
“Very good. And thou wouldst know why?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Imagine,” the boy said, clasping one knee between his hands, leaning back and staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, “Imagine … Wert thou ever sighted? But of course thou wert; I can sense it. Imagine then, in thy sighted days, standing before a mirror. Imagine now, another mirror behind thee, just precisely behind thee. What is it thou seest?”
“Myself, I suppose, reflected into infinity.”
“Indeed. Now suppose thou art stupid, like a blue jay or some other noisy bird. Hast thou ever seen them fly against glass, accosting their own reflection?”
“No, but I can imagine it.”
“A truly stupid bird might batter itself into senselessness against a mirror. Caught between two, it would be a virtual certainty.”
“You say that the River is such a stupid bird? That the mountain and this temple are like mirrors, facing one another?”
“Well, I only offer a little story. The truth is much more complicated, I suppose. The River flows on past this temple, is aware beyond it. But in a sense, a part of him is fooled into thinking this place is his point of origination, his womb, and that—though he knows it not—is what he truly seeks: return to his ancient home. He cannot see this temple because he confuses it with the mountain, and for him the distance between is somewhat meaningless.”
Ghe remembered his dream, the dream of completeness long ago, when the River was an endless circle, content. He was aware that he sought his ancient state but thought to reachieve it by growing larger. But if part of him were fooled into a dream of contentment…
“So he feels the water rushing through the temple—”
“And believes that it is himself, flowing out from his source. It confuses him, but the nature of the wyrd is that he does not know he is confused.”
Ghe nodded his head. “That may be so. But there is more.”
“Oh, certainly. A thousand ancient songs—lullabies, if thou wilt—are pooled here, and over time such songs lie upon one another and gather strength. A thousand blocks of incense are burned, and priests are made so that the River cannot see them, either. But those things are just ornament, paint, gilding. I have given thee the very essence.”
“And this was all done by the Ebon Priest?”
The boy laughed. “The Ebon Priest is actually quite lazy, but he knows how to set others at a task. Thou wilt not see him here in the midst of this drudgery he created for us all. I suppose he laid out the plan but left others to refine the details. What thou seest is more my creation than his, in many ways.”
Ghe narrowed his eyes. Was this man lying? He seemed only a boy, and yet Ghe already knew better than that.
“You are the Ebon Priest's son?”
“His bastard, yes. Thou—you knew that.”
“I do now, I suppose. Then you have been here for some time.”
“You have an engaging talent for understatement.”
As they had been speaking, the boy's strange speech had gradually altered, until now he spoke with Ghe's own soft dialect. That was somehow much more unnerving than hearing him speak in the ancient, incantive tongue.
“You have been here since the First Dynasty?”
The boy shrugged. “Now and then I sleep. I was sleeping when you arrived, but my pet, here, awakened me.” He tugged playfully on the golden leash, and the darkness quivered a bit.
Ghe did not ask about the pet, remembering that he was supposed to be unsighted, nor did he ask about the books, the weapons, the skulls.
“Are those all of your questions?”
“I don't know what else to ask.”