Chapter 66
Tynan
Last night, I stayed with Rosomon as long as I could, but those horrible women kept urging me to be rougher, claiming she was showing signs of enjoying our encounter, but not yet full subjugation.
Apparently, enjoying sex is something Wives of Othrix are not allowed to experience until after their so-called weddings.
According to Glorya, when they’re forced to fuck strangers and members of the klericy, the wives are expected to show pleasure and gratitude, no matter what horrible things the men do to them.
My reasons for wanting to topple both this religion and my father’s rule have expanded. I now better understand why the dragons are so upset about the current state of affairs in the Light.
As promised, Ovren and Ham met me early this morning, and once they brought me inside and showed me the workings, I gave them the coin that I promised.
We’re now atop scaffolding built at the side of a massive stage the men call the altar.
Other men are scattered everywhere, on scaffolding above, below and beside us.
Ovren gave me a cloak and hood to wear over my princely clothes as a disguise, but to Ovren’s great distress, I chatted with some of their coworkers before we were all hustled up to our posts.
Ham apparently told some of them I’m a prince and that I managed to fuck a princess, who’s meant to be a bride. Awe-filled eyes turned toward me as the news spread amongst the men, and I feel sure I’ve gained more potential allies should I need them.
From the outside, this domed temple building is huge and windowless, but I didn’t truly appreciate its grandeur until I was inside.
The altar itself is as big as the largest courtyard in my father’s castle, and the space for the audience is five times that size.
Based on the escalating volume of voices, many people have already been herded into the temple.
I can’t see the crowd from here but it’s clear they’re in near darkness.
A massive curtain hangs between us and the audience.
The men told me that the curtain will drop, instantly vanishing into a long opening in the floor.
And when it disappears, it will reveal the largest, most animated image of Othrix I have ever seen.
Reflective glass will direct bright lights toward the crowd and toward the structure, enhancing the illusion.
The effigy is a statue of sorts, but it’s made of thousands of articulated pieces of shiny gold and brass. And when the right levers and ropes are pulled behind the scenes, from the perspective of the audience, the fierce metallic manticore image comes alive.
Its eyes are formed from faceted panels of green and blue glass, with oil lights behind them, and the entire spectacle, when unveiled, will be lit strategically and surrounded by smoke, blown from dozens of boxes where it’s been collecting from smoldering fires all night.
Ovren and Ham say that the audience members will believe they’re in the presence of Othrix when viewing this effigy. It’s hard to believe from this angle, but it’s impressive.
Ham also said that, even though he knows most of the spectacle is trickery, some things that happen on stage remain a mystery.
Sparks and bright flashes oft appear, for which he has no explanation, and images emerge that no worker creates.
Even with his view from backstage, Ham clearly still believes in Othrix.
I suppose the trickery doesn’t completely disprove the existence of an all-powerful being who protects the Light from the Darkness. But even if Othrix does exist as some ethereal and powerful being, today’s show will definitely be fakery, meant to instill fear and awe in those gathered.
“When does the show begin?” I ask.
“Soon,” Ovren says softly. “And please remember to keep your voice low, Your Highness.”
Last night, while watching me talk my way into fucking Rosomon, the men learned that the royal finery I wore wasn’t stolen. They both assume I’m here in Catha for the promised royal wedding, not knowing I’m the one who’s supposed to get married. They seem to think it’s my father who’ll be wed.
Below us on the altar, ahead of the effigy, a group of workers sets up not one but three of the contraptions that Rosomon was bound to last night.
Four additional wooden structures appear.
Shaped like large X’s, they’re obviously flogging racks.
We had similar structures for punishment in Khotor, and I assume they’re meant for the shifters.
“What part comes first?” I ask Ham. “The tribunal, or the Wives of Othrix wedding thing?” I must be down on the altar for that.
I hope to end this charade before things reach that point, but if not, there’s no chance I’ll let even one of those klericks touch my love.
For that matter, I won’t let them whip or fuck even one woman they drag onto the altar.
“You weren’t given an itinerary?” Ovren eyes me.
“I’ve been busy.” I shrug, as if it’s nothing. Then wink.
“The royal wedding will likely come first,” Ham says. “Afore the altar is stained in blood.”
A chill traces through me.
“Speaking of that, shouldn’t you be with the wedding party?” Ovren asks. “Standing as a witness?”
“I’d prefer to watch from here.”
If I turn up on that altar, I’ll have to overtly refuse to marry Glorya, causing her shame. Better for her if I simply don’t show up. Who am I kidding? No matter what I do, today won’t go well for Glorya. No matter how I reject her, she’ll be the one blamed—likely punished.
Horns sound, and Ovren pushes past me. “Climb down or stay out of the way—Your Highness.” He adds my title as an afterthought. “If you’re not careful, we might push you off the platform while executing our cues.”
On all sides and behind the display, workers in the wings jump into action. Fires light in front of reflective glass, smoke fills the stage, and the effigy of Othrix starts to move.
The curtain falls down and into the stage. It appears to vanish into thin air, just as Ovren described, and a collective gasp, then a hush, falls over the crowd. Many rush to the very edge of the raised platform. It will be a miracle if no one is crushed.
Ovren and Ham, along with all the men positioned in my eyesight, tug on ropes in a carefully choreographed order to make the effigy move.
“Gather all who dare come before Othrix!” A large voice booms, but I can’t see its source.
A long row of klericks, dressed in red robes, walk onto the altar. Facing the huge image of Othrix, they stop and lift their arms in unison. Then they bow and move in a choreographed pattern, some kind of planned worship of this metal creature.
From where they are, can they tell it’s not real? It’s hard to be certain.
The klericks part, and the Prime Klerick rises at their center, arriving as if from nowhere.
The crowd’s awe rises in a loud roar. From their perspective, the Prime Klerick magically appeared before this effigy of Othrix, but before we climbed the scaffolding, Ovren showed me the cranks and pulleys used to raise his platform from below the altar.
On the other hand, the Prime Klerick is un-humanly tall. Taller than even Zogar or Xendus, with wide shoulders under a shimmering golden cloak that covers him head to toe, including his face. He holds out his arms, and balls of light shoot away from him.
The crowd goes wild. Saxon says that most klericks have some access to Darkness. The Prime Klerick must be a mage.
“See?” Ham says. “I told you it’s not all trickery. The Prime Klerick channels the power of Othrix.”
“What’s the trick with his size?” I ask Ovren and Ham.
Their eyes are wide as they shake their heads. “That’s no trick.”
It has to be. No one is that tall. And even if some creature is that tall, there’s been a Prime Klerick in place since the Great Separation. So, even if this current Prime Klerick happens to be tall, a man can’t instantly grow when he’s appointed to a position. Can he?
I get how easily people are fooled by this, but the illusions I saw in Lymbo help me understand that not everything I’m seeing is real.
Three women, all dressed in hooded robes made from what looks like very coarse fabric, are ushered onto the altar and made to kneel in front of the Prime Klerick.
Is Rosomon amongst them? It’s impossible to tell, given the clothing that covers every part of their bodies, except perhaps their faces, which are pointed toward the floor, so I can’t see them from this angle.
“Today is an auspicious day,” the loud voice booms. “Today, these three young heretics will be granted mercy and the honor of dedicating their lives to the service of Othrix.”
The Prime Klerick gestures toward them.
“One of these brides calls herself princess,” the loud voice booms.
The crowd boos and jeers.
“Fear not, my people.”
I glance around backstage, trying to discover who’s speaking. It must be the Prime Klerick.
He raises his arms to silence the masses. “Before her wedding, she will be suitably punished for the blasphemy of putting herself above others.”
Panic grabs my chest. It’s possible my efforts last night didn’t save Rosomon from a brutal punishment today. I start to climb down the scaffolding.
The hypocrisy of the last statement, seeming to come from the Prime Klerick, is absurd. He’s literally putting himself above others at the moment. I need to find some way to make the audience see that.
Whatever happens, I won’t let anyone hurt Rosomon.
“And,” the loud voice booms, “there will be another, even more auspicious wedding to celebrate today.”
I stop climbing down and brace my foot on a wooden rail. Below and in front of me, Father appears, wearing his best regalia. His presence on the altar reinforces my assumption that I’m the one meant to marry in front of this crowd today.
I don’t see Glorya, but she must be here somewhere. Father must wonder why he hasn’t yet seen me. But after turning up in the Wives of Othrix den last night, I expect my presence at the Temple is known. I need to carefully gauge my moves, but it’s hard to plan with so many unknown variables.
“In addition,” the voice continues, “several heretics will face tribunals today, then the wrath—or mercy—of Othrix.”
Fire shoots from the mouth of the metal effigy, and a large, barbed tail swings forward. The crowd cries out as they shift back from the stage.
From the other side of the massive altar, Saxon, Surath and Xendus are dragged forward, their hands still bound in copper chains, and still wearing the same clothes as yesterday.
Surath is still disguised as a man, and the three are forced to their knees, not far from the kneeling women. Zogar isn’t with them.
“The royal wedding will come first.” The voice echoes through the space. “So that even these poor souls may witness some beauty and happiness before facing the judgement of Othrix.”
The crowd cheers, and the ones who cowered away from the stage return to its lip.
“Also, today the face of our Holy Leader, the Prime Klerick, will be revealed.”
The Prime Klerick raises his arms, and the crowd cheers even louder.
I can’t cower on the scaffolding any longer. I have no real plan to avoid my wedding—no plan to do any of the things that must be done—but I must at least face my father and tell him I won’t marry the woman he picked out for me. I can’t have Glorya take the blame.
I climb down another few sections of scaffolding, then drop to the floor, and come up behind Father.
He turns, and his eyes widen. “What are you doing here?” he frowns.
Bowing my head slightly, I step toward him. “Is the wedding not today?”
“How did you know about my wedding?” he asks. Then he shakes his head. “What’s done is done. You may stand up for me.”
Blinking, I take a step back. “You’re to marry today?”
He gestures me closer. “This marriage will solidify our family’s position in the Light for all eternity.”
Is Father marrying Glorya? “Who—”
“Behold!” The booming voice shouts, and the Prime Klerick again spreads his arms to the side.
His hooded robe is removed, as if by magic. But from this proximity I can see the workers responsible for pulling at least some of the translucent strings used to do it.
But my smugness at recognizing this trickery dissolves, when I see who is under the cloak.
It’s a woman. A very beautiful woman, with curly dark hair, flawless skin and cherry red lips.
Her exposed gown is made of shimmering fabric a similar shade to the robe she wore, but it flows around her legs and clings to her bosom.
She’s standing on a raised platform that, combined with the large robe, created the illusion of preternatural height.
After the initial shock, the crowd starts to murmur and turn to each other in disbelief.
“My children,” the woman says, her voice projecting over the din. “I am your Prime Klerick. I am not only your spiritual leader who speaks for Othrix, I am also your mother.”
“Women cannot be klericks!” shouts a voice in the crowd. “It’s blasphemy!”
“Silence,” the loud male voice from earlier booms. “Behold Vanora the Great, the incarnation of Othrix here in the Light!”
Fire erupts from the mouth of Othrix, as well as from several places around the arena, lighting the room and shooting flames over the crowd. People huddle together in fear and awe.
“Vanora has served Othrix since the Great Separation,” the disembodied voice booms. “In exchange for her dedicated service, I granted her longevity.”
Vanora holds out her arms toward those kneeling before her.
“Good children of the Light,” she says, “Othrix has unveiled my identity, so you may witness my sacred marriage.”
My father strides toward her. Holy thrix! Father is going to marry this Prime Klerick woman—this mage.