Fire and Dust

      «And was she relieved when you bedded other women?» I asked.
      «Yes, Britlin, she was.» He ran his fingers sadly through his hair. «That part of marriage was beyond her. But Anne couldn't stand the thought of me living like a monk because of her. When I spent time with other women, it was a great relief to her; she was glad I wasn't… deprived.»
      «I'm sure it comforts you to see it that way.» I refused to give him the benefit of the doubt.
      «Anne encouraged me time and time again,» he answered, «and seemed genuinely pleased when I… I'm not a lecherous man, Britlin, but over the course of a lifetime, passion does occasionally gain the upper hand. When your heart is filled with triumph or loneliness, and there's a woman in front of you, preciously eager… can you tell me you've never been swept away?»
      «No. But I've never been married either. And I never had a son at home… or a daughter, as it turns out.»
      He looked at me curiously. «What do you mean by that?»
      «Did you ever tell a woman your name was Rudy Liagar? A tiefling woman?»
      He said nothing. I could see the answer was yes.
      «She bore you a child,» I told him. «A daughter named Yasmin… who may be under judgment by Shekinester even as we speak. The nagas took her the same time they took me.»
      He closed his eyes and lowered his head. «Now I know you're simply an illusion, sent to taunt me. A daughter? I have a child… a daughter?»
      «So I believe.»
      «And what is she like?» he demanded. «Is she… never mind!»
      Without waiting for me to speak, he ran to the nearest window and vaulted over the sill. He struck the ground heavily, crumpling to his knees in the thin layer of snow; but he quickly regained his feet and staggered out across the garden. His breath steamed away from him, and the snow clogged around the edges of his boots. He ran stiffly, as if he hadn't moved at speed for a long time.
      As if he had grown old.
      I realized, of course, that he must have an idea where Yasmin was being held… that he was going to her, or going to appeal to someone on her behalf. It didn't matter – I couldn't bring myself to follow him, although I could easily catch up with his clumsy old running. Some part of me felt pleased I'd finally pierced him; another part felt burning shame.
      In about a minute, he disappeared behind a cedar hedge. Then he was gone.
      His footprints began to fill with unhurried snow.

* * *

      After a while, I started walking again – if I had stayed in one place, watching the snow fall so somberly, I might have crumbled into tears. There is always something sad about the first snowfall; I told myself that was all I was feeling.
      With every step along the marble floor, I replayed the conversation with my father… our first talk since he'd disappeared twelve years ago, or maybe the first talk in our lives. A hundred things I should have said rose unbidden in my mind: resentments that refused to solidify into rational phrases. I knew I was right – he'd been a bad father to me, a worse husband to my mother – but every time I put my reasons into words, they sounded childish and petty. That must be his fault too; his oh-so-noble attitude reduced me to a whining adolescent.
      And still the snow fell. Still the hall continued unchanging in front of me: white floor, white wall, white ceiling. Suddenly, my anger at my father veered off into fury at the bland surroundings, and I cried, «Enough is enough! Where's the door out?»
      The only answer was silence, all echoes of my voice soaked up by the snow outside.
      Should I take the easy exit: hop through an open window into the garden? If this boring sameness was a test from Shekinester, leaving by the obvious route wasn't a clever answer. Perhaps there was a hidden way out, some concealed door I was supposed to find… or perhaps this featureless hall was simply an illusion I could break with sufficient willpower.
      «All right,» I said to the air. «You do understand, you're dealing with a Sensate?»
      Shekinester must know my faction; I wasn't sure how deeply a god could see into my soul, but it didn't take omniscience to notice the signet ring on my finger. Had she designed this test to see how true I was to the Sensate ideal? Or had she set things up specifically to deceive the Sensate mind?
      I'd soon find out.

* * *

      Step one: marking the territory. I jumped into the garden, and cleared away enough snow to dig up two handfuls of loose earth. Clambering back inside was accompanied by a certain amount of soil spillage, leaving dirty smears down the front of my pants; but I managed the trick at last and deposited one hand's worth of loam on the immaculate marble floor.
      «Starting point,» I said to no one in particular.
      Keeping my eye on the dirt, I paced up the hall – about a hundred and fifty yards, until the brown clot of soil was getting hard to see against the white background. Looking the other direction along the hall, I didn't see any such clump. That was comforting: you never knew when a tricky magical effect might turn a seemingly straight corridor into an endless loop. The possibility still existed, of course, if the length of the loop was longer than three hundred yards; but I had a hunch that I wouldn't have to stray so far afield to find a way out. Stooping again, I placed my other handful of dirt to mark out the end of the region I'd search.
      For the next hour or so, I scanned the walls, floor and ceiling between my two markers: looking for tiny irregularities, tapping each tile, pressing and probing to see if any marble square had even the ghost of a wobble. No such ghosts materialized – whether Shekinester built this palace herself or allowed her worshippers to build it for her, someone had achieved a flawless feat of construction.
      When my search reached the original marker, I turned around and started up the hall again, this time examining the window sills and the benches beneath them. The benches, made from solid slabs of marble, were too heavy to move without risking a hernia; I decided I wouldn't try to budge one unless I had good reason. That meant minute investigation of each bench and the floor where it stood, hoping to detect evidence of jiggery-pokery… but again, I found nothing but the most solid construction, not the tiniest scratch or blemish. By the time I reached the other marker, I knew I had to take a different approach.
      Think – Shekinester, queen of the nagas. What did I know about nagas? Snake-people: no arms, no legs. They could all cast magic spells… but I couldn't, so if the way out required sorcery, I had no chance of success. Gods have never been noted for playing fair with mortals, but I didn't think Shekinester would set me a test that was completely impossible. It wouldn't have enough entertainment value.
      Nagas… snakes… slithering along the ground, flicking their forked tongues…
      Hmmm.
      I lay down on my stomach and stuck out my own tongue. As I told Zeerith, I knew a few Sensate nagas in Sigil, and they were forever bragging about the acuteness of their taste buds. They could taste things on the air the way a bloodhound smells odors… and the forks of their tongues even let them track directions – if a taste was stronger on the left fork than the right, they knew where to turn to hunt out the source.
      Could I taste anything now? Just a hint of bitterness. I sniffed about, and soon realized I was sensing the heap of dirt I'd placed as a marker in front of me. Crawling away from the soil, I felt rather pleased that I could detect anything at all. In a few yards, the taste/smell of the dirt faded and I got down to the serious business of examining the world, serpent-style.
      Slither on my stomach. Stick out my tongue. Sniff for any odors beyond my own sweat. I must have looked ridiculous, but I regarded that as a positive thing – if Shekinester disdained «leggers» like the naga we'd met at the chapel, she'd be delighted by my clumsy performance. It would confirm her sense of superiority.
      Mind you, she was a goddess. She was superior.
      For the first few yards, I kept my tongue out continuously, thinking that the more exposure, the more chance I had of tasting something worthy of note. After a minute, however, the air left my tongue as dry as an autumn leaf, its surface as numb as leather. Changing tactics, I began to flick out my tongue for a few seconds, then pull it back into my mouth where I could contemplate any flavors that might have been procured… like a wine taster, swishing around the latest vintage in search of fruity aftertones.
      Surprisingly, I found something.
      Was it a testament to my refined Sensate perceptions? Or did Shekinester amplify the taste to give my dim «legger» senses a fighting chance? It didn't matter. After a mere five minutes of dragging around on my belly, I caught a distinct flavor of oranges wafting on the air. Sniff, sniff… there was no smell, just the taste. That had to be a good sign: it smacked of magic.
      I wriggled forward a few more feet, and tried the air again. The orange flavor had weakened. Were my taste buds becoming jaded? Oh, for a quick sorbet to refresh the palate! But I backtracked and found the flavor as strong as ever in my original position. All right: I was on to something.
      Lick, lick the air. Toward the windows… the flavor dwindled. The opposite direction… and the taste grew more acute, tartly acidic as if the oranges were still completely green. By the time I reached the wall, the sensation was as sharp as spikes on my tongue, like lapping the spill from a tannery: the purified essence of oranges, biting and nasty. It burned my mouth, bringing tears to my eyes and making my nose run freely.
      If it had somehow started a ringing in my ears, the moment would have been perfect.
      My tongue touched the wall, and suddenly the taste vanished. For a few worried moments, I wondered if my tongue had totally shut down under the bitter assault; but I lifted my fingers to my mouth and could taste the gamey salt of my perspiration. I tried the wall again – absolutely nothing.
      Hmm.
      As an experiment, I dropped my mouth to the marble floor. It was warm, probably the source of the heat that kept this hall more livable than the snowy garden. The tile tasted of dust, and the slightly mineral tang of marble.
      The wall looked exactly like the floor – pure white stone the two of them. Yet the wall had no taste at all.
      I moved down a few panels and tasted the wall again. This set of tiles were much like the floor, warm against my tongue and tinged with dust. But on the first patch of wall, the tiles still radiated an intense flavor of oranges but had no taste at all when my mouth actually touched them.
      It had the unmistakable air of magic at work. That part of the wall had to be an illusion – good enough to fool sight and touch, but not meant to deceive all five senses. A snake sliding down the hall would be led straight to this spot by the spoor of oranges, and would know with its tongue that the tiles were false.
      Dropping down to my stomach again, I closed my eyes and stuck out my tongue. Inch by inch I crawled forward, waiting for the moment when my tongue would actually press against the wall and stop.
      The moment never came. The illusion yielded, as intangible as mist… and when I opened my eyes, I was no longer in the featureless marble hall. Nor was I alone. A centaur, tall and muscular, towered above me.
      «Ah,» he said. «I see that you're painting.»

* * *

      «I'm not…»
      For a moment, my head spun dizzily, blackness crowding around me. Then the world snapped back into focus: a noisy world, full of people talking to each other or simply waiting in lines. I was standing beside my easel, a brush in my hand… and all around me was the complacent ruckus of the Sigil City Courts.
      «The hustle and bustle of what this city calls justice,» the centaur continued. «Prisoners hobbling by in chains. Litigants glaring at each other as they await trial…»
      His voice droned on, but I ignored it. This whole scene was unquestionably an illusion. Even if Shekinester could magically transport me to Sigil, the City Courts would not look so pleasantly normal. By now, the Guvners might have scraped up the charred corpses; but it would take months to clean away the scorch marks, and even longer to purge the ashen smell of cooked pork.
      «What is your theme, young man?» the centaur demanded.
      «My theme?» I asked, coming out of my daze.
      «What artistic statement are you making? How the law oppresses —»
      I grabbed him by his husky shoulders. «Stop rattling your bone-box! You're a sodding illusion, that's all you are. This is all a sodding illusion!»
      «Ah… now that is an interesting theme,» he answered with a judicious nod. «Far from original, of course, but still a meaty proposition. Is our existence simply a fantasy in the mind of some unknown dreamer? Are we all figments of some higher imagination? I applaud you, young man. That is precisely the sort of issue Great Art should address…»
      I closed my ears to his prattle. It was not the time to think about Great Art; it was a time to gape at Bleach-Hair Petrov as he and two cronies walked into the rotunda. The trio were once more disguised as Harmonium guards… and dangling at their sides hung three ruby-glittered firewands.

* * *

      It hadn't happened this way: the fireballers hadn't arrived till later, maybe half an hour after I'd brushed off the centaur. Hezekiah had been with me then – Hezekiah who had teleported me away from blazing death. It was too early, the Clueless boy was nowhere in sight… and Petrov was moving toward the center of the rotunda.
      What to do? The sword at my side had vanished – I hadn't been wearing it that day at the courts – and a bare-handed attack on the false guards would buy me nothing. All three were broad-shouldered brawlers, more than able to hold their own in a fist-fight with me; even given the element of surprise, I'd be lucky to deck a single one of them before the other two roasted me in my boots. There were a pair of genuine Harmonium guards flanking the front entrance, but they would be no use. Even if I had time to run across and persuade them to help, we could scarcely approach the fireballers without being noticed. As soon as they saw us coming, Petrov and his henchmen would start blasting.
      Of course, I did have time to run – to dash down the closest corridor and lose myself in the warren of Guvner offices before the carnage started. I even considered standing my ground, doing nothing: this was an illusion, wasn't it, sent by Shekinester to test me. With an iron will, I could ignore the flames from the firewands… but could I ignore the screams of the people as they burned? The high whistling shrieks of throats too ruined to make any other sound…
      No. There are some sounds willpower can't shut out. And there are times when a man has to fight with the only weapons he has.
      I snatched up a stick of charcoal from my box of art supplies.

* * *

      The top of my canvas was filled with curlicues, but the lower two thirds was still blank. That was where I would draw my picture. Closing my eyes for a moment, I thought of the image I wanted to draw, re-creating every detail in my mind. There wouldn't be time for details, for flawless accuracy or technique – just a thirty second sketch that conveyed a message so powerful it would freeze the hand of a killer.
      Taking a deep breath, I began to draw.
      The outlines of a man's body. A short scepter in his hand. A face, Petrov's face: I had no time to spend on every feature, but I could show a man weeping in agony.
      Flames ravaging Petrov's flesh as Unveiler burned.
      Rivi, simpering at Petrov's pain.
      It was all suggestion, all sweeping lines and rough edges… yet I knew what I was drawing, could see it clearly in my mind's eye. Petrov in the machine room of the Glass Spider, forced to do Rivi's will – forced by her to hold Unveiler while ungodly heat shriveled his arm.
      I had no time for niceties. The finished picture was scarcely a picture at all, just allusions of horror and suffering; to other eyes it might be jumbled nonsense, but to me it was as clear as the most fastidious rendering.
      I had captured the essence, not the image. Pray that Petrov saw what I did.
      Ripping the canvas off the easel, I held it high above my head. The false guards had gone into their huddle in the middle of the room, concealing their actions as they drew their firewands. I walked toward them, arms high; and people, looking at the swirling sketch over my head, shuffled back out of my way. Each viewer's eyes opened wide. Mouths dropped open, and a few hurried around in front to get a second look. The centaur, now standing across the room, squinted at the canvas, then softly began to applaud.
      Throughout the rotunda, the noise of the crowd changed. Many fell silent, just staring. Those out of position to see the sketch whispered to one another, asking what it might be. The Harmonium guards at the front entrance stepped inside, hands reaching for their swords; no doubt they had heard the hush and thought it meant trouble.
      Petrov and his henchmen sensed the growing silence too. They broke their huddle, firewands snapping out to the ready. Over by the entrance, the real guards sucked in their breaths – they recognized the lethal potential of the situation. If they charged their way forward, hundreds of innocent people might die… and no matter how bull-headed the Harmonium can be, these two had their priorities straight. They froze, blades drawn, anger glittering in their eyes; for the moment, they would restrain themselves, rather than precipitate a bloodbath.
      «Don't anyone move,» one of the real guards commanded. «Let's all be peery as angels.»
      The closest henchman curled his lip and raised his wand; but I shouted, «Petrov!» and Bleach-Hair turned to face me.
      His gaze swept across my face without recognition. Then he looked higher, to the canvas over my head, and his eyes narrowed. «What's that then?» he snapped.
      «Look at it,» I replied. «It's your future. If you use those wands, if you keep working for Rivi, your future ends like this.»
      He sneered, but his eyes remained on the picture. I continued forward to give him a better view. No one else moved in the whole rotunda; no one whispered, no one shuffled feet or tried to draw a weapon.
      «You can see it's real,» I told Petrov. «This isn't just a figment of my imagination, this is something I saw. Look at it. You know what you're seeing.»
      His expression scarcely changed – a small tightening of the lips, a tiny narrowing of the eyes – but I knew the very instant when the image blazed its way into his mind. He saw himself burning, he saw Rivi laughing… and he saw it was the truth.
      Petrov let out his breath slowly. «Come on, bloods,» he said without looking at his henchmen, «let's hop it.»
      «But we haven't —»
      «I said, hop it.»
      With deliberate slowness, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a golden amulet hanging around his neck. His gaze never left my sketch. He lifted the amulet to his lips and paused a moment: for the briefest of seconds, he lowered his eyes and nodded toward me. Then he kissed the amulet's golden face, and the three fireballers vanished in a shimmer of silver.
      Inch by inch, the shimmer spread: enveloping the closest bystanders, still frozen in shock; sweeping across the two Harmonium guards, one gritting his teeth that the criminals had escaped, the other simply looking relieved. On and on the silver glimmer grew, dissolving the tapestries that covered every wall space, the cornugon, the deva… until the entire rotunda had vanished, the people, the stones, the curlicues. I was wrapped in a soft vibrancy of light, warm and approving.
      Then, stepping through the shimmer came my father and Yasmin, walking arm-in-arm.

* * *

      «So you found her,» I said to my father.
      «She was looking for me,» he replied.
      «One of the Shekinester's little tests,» Yasmin muttered. I waited for her to say more, but the clench of her jaw showed she had no intention of explaining.
      My father had also noted the grimness of her expression. Patting her on the shoulder, he said, «That's all behind you now, girl. And I can tell you something to cheer you up.»
      She slipped away from his arm. «What is it?»
      «Britlin,» he turned to me, «Yasmin says you two… that you've been…»
      «Incest,» I said. «Is that the word you're looking for?»
      «That word must be on your minds,» he nodded, «but you can forget it.»
      «I can't forget it,» Yasmin told him, a harsh edge to her voice. «I can't… not if Britlin's my brother.»
      «But he isn't your brother.»
      Her eyes narrowed. «You aren't my father, after all?»
      «I may be your father, Yasmin, but I know I'm not his.»
      He turned his finger to point to me.

* * *

      «What are you talking about?» I demanded. «I know you're my father.»
      «No, Britlin, I'm not.»
      «You're lying,» I snapped.
      «Britlin,» he said softly, «you know how your mother is. Do you really think she'd let me touch her? Ever? I didn't father you, boy. Of all the women who took me to their beds, your mother wasn't one of them.»
      «Then who was my father?»
      «Duke Urbin, of course – Anne's own father. She was pregnant by him when I found her. That was really the only reason he let me take her away: he wanted her out of Aquilune before his neighbors noticed her condition. They'd all know who had fathered the child, and there are some crimes even a duke can't get away with. He performed the wedding ceremony himself, then sent Anne and me back to Sigil where she'd be safely out of sight.»
      My heart had seized in my chest. «And I was the…»
      «You were the child, yes. Not the fruit of my loins, but I tried to be a father to you. At first, just for Anne's sake, but then for your own. I liked having a son, Britlin. Just as I like having a daughter.» He smiled at Yasmin. «But you two have no common blood. Nothing stands between you.»
      I wanted to sit down; but there were no chairs, just the surrounding silver shimmer, as if we stood completely separate from the rest of the multiverse. With all the resentments I had felt toward my father… but he was not my father, he was just a professional hero, who had saved my mother as he would save anyone else in trouble. He married her because that was the way to save her, and he had supported me throughout childhood because that was the honorable thing to do. Could I resent him anymore? In a single revelation, he had released me from the burden of living up to him… not to mention freeing me to love Yasmin.
      By all the gods, it was slickly done.
      Yasmin stepped forward, her face beaming. She was reaching out to wrap her arms around my neck when I said, «No.»
      «'No' what?» she asked.
      «No to everything.» I pulled away from her. «This is all too piking convenient.»
      «What are you talking about?» Her smile collapsed. «Why are you acting like a berk?»
      «My father,» I said, gesturing toward him. "After twelve years, he just shows up here in the Court of Light. He has a plausible explanation for everything – why he never came back, how my mother would be happy that he consorted with other women – and he even tells us it's perfectly all right to be lovers if we want. Isn't that neat? Isn't that glib? One little secret clears away all the shadows.
      «Well, I refuse to believe it,» I continued. «I would refuse to believe it if I heard it in Sigil, and I certainly refuse to believe it when it's delivered here in the Hall of Tests. Niles Cavendish is my father. I know that so deeply in my heart, all the waters of the River Styx couldn't wash the knowledge away. I've longed to be someone else's son, but I'm not – I don't have that choice. Neither does Shekinester.»
      I waved my hands to dismiss the people in front of me. «Go back to the goddess now. Tell her I'm my father's son. I won't say I've made my peace with that, but it's time to stop denying the truth.»
      Both the others opened their mouths as if they intended to argue; but no words came out. The expression on my face must have told them debate was futile. For a moment, the two exchanged glances… and then my father simply dissolved into copper-colored sparks that fell to the ground like rain.
      «An illusion, of course,» I murmured. Turning to Yasmin, I said, «He was never here at all, was he?»
      «He visited our court long ago,» came the answer. «He is elsewhere now.»
      The voice was not Yasmin's – it was still female but deeper, impossibly golden. No human throat had ever spoken with such soft power. In the blink of an eye, Yasmin's body flared to a brilliant white, so dazzling I had to avert my eyes. The image thinned and lengthened, twisting and turning in spirals around me, until I was ringed by a snake of white fire, its tail stretching around and around in ever-widening circles. A fierce heat beat against my face; but I managed to stammer out, «Shekinester?»
      «Only one of Her daughters,» the flaming serpent replied. «You have passed our Mother's tests. Be glad.»
      «What about my friends?»
      «They are being tested too. If they are weak, they shall fail.»
      «I'd like to help them,» I said.
      «You cannot. In this place, all souls stand alone.»
      The naga's blazing face sizzled close to mine, too blindingly bright for me to make out any features. With the speed of a cobra striking, her head darted forward, directly at me; but instead of a bite, I felt the kiss of fiery lips on my cheek. Light flared from all directions… and abruptly, I was standing near the center of a large stone chamber, high-ceilinged and devoid of decoration.
      There was only one source of illumination in all that great wide space – a pillar of snow-white flame, burning in the very heart of the room. I stood at the base of a flight of low stone steps, leading up to the fire like the ascent to a tabernacle.
      Surrounding me, filling the chamber to the very walls, stood an army of the undead. Simple zombies, their skins hanging in loose and rotting sags… skeletons with bony faces in perpetual grins… a cloudy congregation of ghosts, specters, haunts, and wraiths, as thick as midnight fog… vampires, pallid and mesmerizing, standing shoulder to shoulder with lich sorcerers, their fleshless fingers a'glitter with heavy-jeweled rings… and of course, scattered throughout the dark company, the baleful bonfire eyes of wights.
      From reflex, my hand dropped to my side. It touched my father's rapier, restored to me now that the testing was over; but I let my fingers relax, and did not draw.
      «Okay,» I called to the assembled horde. «Hands up all those who feel as uncomfortable as I do right now.»
      I thought I saw a zombie lift its arm, but it might just have been rigor mortis.

* * *

      With a rattle of bones and armor, a death knight stepped from the front row of watchers. It wore chain mail, covered with a tabard that had once been pure white linen; but a fuzzy black smut had grown over the cloth, powdering out whatever emblem this knight had fought for in life. The creature's face was skeletal, with the orbit around one eye raggedly smashed away – probably a death blow from a mace, sending this once-noble warrior to an uneasy afterlife.
      When the knight spoke, its voice had the chilling tone of a crumbling mortuary. «Now,» it said, «you must enter the Arching Flame.»
      «The Arching Flame?» I looked back over my shoulder at the pillar of fire. «That flame?»
      «You have passed the easy tests,» the creature said. «Now you must be purified.»
      «If that involves incineration, I'd rather not.»
      «The flame does not burn those who are true to themselves. It cleanses. It restores.» The knight turned its head toward the brightness. «I would enter it myself if I could.»
      With a wave of my hand, I said, «Be my guest. I'll sign over my ticket.»
      The knight's sword whipped out of its scabbard so fast the blade was a blur. Its tip pointed directly at my throat. «Take care,» the knight whispered. «Take care your flippant tongue does not start you down the road I have traveled. It is Shekinester's will that you enter the flame. If you defy the goddess… but I shall not let you do that. Damned though I am, I will not permit you to suffer such a curse.»
      The creature stepped forward and I had to retreat, backing away hurriedly from that sword. The weapon's blade was fuzzed thickly with the same black smut that covered the knight's tabard – fungal rot from a corruption that should have returned to the soil long ago. I leapt toward a gap in the front row of monsters… but suddenly, a phantom flickered into existence to fill the space, milky and groaning.
      «No escape, mortal,» the death knight said behind me. «Shekinester wishes you to enter the flame. Whatever we might have been in life, we are hers now. She has given us relief from the raging insanity that affects others of our kind. In thanks, we do her bidding within this chamber.»
      I looked out at the decaying company. Their faces did not twist with rage or regret, the two great anguishes of most undead; I saw only resolve, a determination to fulfill their duty to Shekinester and her flame.
      «All right,» I shrugged. «Into the fire I go.»
      Tossing a rakish wave to the knight, I ran up the steps and did a half-gainer into the heart of the blaze.