The Shattered Goddess. Darrell Schweitzer
departure from this life. Two surely portended a struggle for the honor of watching over those bones. War, wrack, and ruin. It took no profound political wisdom to see the implications.
And it was not a case of a misplaced baby. Any fool could recognize this as a sign.
Eventually Tharanodeth was called, and he came, moving about the palace as he always did, surrounded by many retainers.
The old man looked down on the two tiny forms asleep in the cradle. He scratched his chin, as he was often seen to do when deep in thought, and at last said to one of his ministers, “Do you suppose my wife had twins, and didn’t tell me about it?”
Flustered, astonished, the fellow tried to maintain his dignity.
“Blessed Lord, no! It cannot be!”
“I mean, she was still in pain after the first one was born. You’ll recall how the physicians bade us all, even me, to leave her alone. Perhaps the other baby was in there, and came out later.”
“Holy Guardian of the Bones of The Goddess,” said the minister, “that is impossible. Your son is six weeks old. This other is newly born, and smaller and darker than the prince. They are not twins.”
“Well, I didn’t think so. What then?”
“Evil!” said Hadel of Nagé, a court magician. He was a short, wiry husk of a man with a pointed face and a huge moustache. Everyone called him The Rat.
“How so?”
“Dread sovereign,”—he never called a ruler that unless squirming to depths of flattery which would stagger the imaginations of most people—”as you can doubtless see in your boundless wisdom, as you find beneath your dignity to explain because the nature of it is so obvious that even I, who am but a trickster, can perceive it, it is frightfully apparent that one of the Dark Powers visited here during the night I fear it might have brought some contagion. But more concretely, I fear this thing which was the main object of its mission. No doubt the plan was to substitute this creature for the infant prince. But fortunately I was in my tower last night, reading aloud from the offices of my art, and this was no doubt sufficient to repel the monster before it could complete its task.”
“How fortunate that you were watching over us,” said Tharanodeth, visibly amused at the other’s theatrics. “Pray tell, what now?”
“Please, I beg of you, take me seriously. If you kill this child, as indeed you must, you should cut off its head. Inside you will find only a stone. Let the body lie for a night and a day, and it will turn into a lump of weeds, which is all it really is.”
The Guardian reached down and gently touched the back of his hand to the newcomer’s side, feeling its warmth.
“Indeed.”
“Yes, Lord! So it is!”
“No, this is only flesh and blood. Let the women raise this child apart from the prince, since it is not my heir. Still, it is under my protection.”
Then The Guardian clapped his hands, a trumpeter blew a blast, a priest waved a bowl of incense around to purify the air through which Tharanodeth would walk, and in time to the ringing of silver bells held by half a dozen boys, the whole company left the nursery.
* * * *
For a few minutes the two babies were alone. Servant women were sent for, but in the short interval before their arrival, something happened which no one observed, except perhaps those to whom it happened.
The stranger rolled over and began to convulse, as if something were forcing its way out of him. He opened his mouth to cry out, but the only sound was of a wind issuing up from measureless depths. A black, oily smoke poured out of the baby’s mouth and hovered in the air over the cradle. Briefly it took the form of an old, hobbled woman without any eyes. Black hands groped for the mouth of the larger, paler baby, and, finding it, forced it open.
Instantly the prince was awake and shrieking, but the black hag leaned over and, losing all shape, poured down his throat until all sounds were smothered.
When the nursemaids arrived it was the foundling child which was crying in furious terror, now that he was able to, now that the source of that terror had left him.
The prince lay still and stared up at them sullenly.
* * * *
Tharanodeth’s heir was, with all due ceremony, given the name of Kaemen Ai Hanlo ne Papeleothrim, that is, Kaemen (Bright Hope) of the city of Ai Hanlo of the house of Papeleothrim, for the fathers of the Good Guardian were of that clan.
The other child went without a name for many months, until Hadel the Rat chanced to be passing by the nursery late one night. He walked along a narrow corridor. To his right was the large, brightly decorated room in which Kaemen resided. Expensive candles let perfume into the air. Many women were in constant attendance.
To his left was a barred door. He lifted the handle and looked inside. He had heard of much consternation in the nursery of late, women going mad and running away, so the gossips said. Once he had directed a simple spell of seeing in that direction, in hopes of finding out what the fuss was about. But his spell had been repulsed by some unknown and powerful force, and he had awakened from his trance with two black eyes. This was why he had come in person, why he had opened the door.
He looked in on a dark, unfurnished room. At the far end starlight shone through a small, barred window. In the center of the room was a rough, wooden cradle in which lay the stranger.
Hadel gasped at what he saw.
The baby was awake and blissfully juggling balls of light in the air. They were the size of plums, bright as embers, but semi-transparent. Two tiny hands would come together, then part, and a glowing sphere would float upward about a foot, light as smoke. Then, as the magician watched, the ball would begin to sink. Those which fell outside of the cradle winked out of existence like soap bubbles. The rest were playfully swatted up for another descent. All the while more were being created. There was no end to them. Their light made the man’s stooped shadow flicker behind him.
He approached the child, leaned over the cradle, and jumped back as a ball burst against his face.
“Teats of a desert nymph! I have never seen such a thing!”
The baby was aware of him and began to cry. All the lights vanished.
The Rat scurried from the room, bolted the door behind him, and ran as fast as he could to The Guardian, who had just then emerged from the vault into which only he might go, where lay the very bones of The Goddess. Servitors whose tongues had been cut out announced his ascent, since no voice may speak of such a thing. Blindfolded priests helped him remove his vestments, each of their movements part of a prescribed ritual.
Hadel stumbled breathlessly into the anteroom of the Holy Chamber, then remembered where he was, fell to his knees, and tapped a small gong on a stand nearby. Tharanodeth entered and looked at him sharply.
“Well, what do you want?”
Too frightened to conduct himself gracefully, the Nagéan blurted out all that he had seen, embellishing the tale with a few malicious laughs, words muttered in an unknown tongue by a child too young for speech (“But there’s a lot of that going around,” interrupted The Guardian.) and the faintly heard sound of something scraping its way down the wall beyond the barred window.
Intensely, passionately, recovering some control of his rhetoric, Hadel begged as he had months before, to be allowed to smother the little enigma before worst came to worst
“You waste my time,” sighed Tharanodeth. “Go away. This whole interview borders on blasphemy. You could not have come at a more inopportune moment”
“But, most dread lord,” continued Hadel, “to have such a mysterious influence in our court can never come to good. I have sensed danger with my magic.”
“Hmm. Has the brat got a name?”
“I...