---------------------------------------- The Quartz Key Chapter Sixty-Two by Lianne Burwell April 2003 ---------------------------------------- Nemir stood at the center of a large temple, much like the one far behind and below him, only there was little in the way of a roof. It was almost entirely open to the sky. Statues adorned the space, although there were more pedestals than figures, and their bases, like the columns, were painted with scenes that seemed to illustrate tales that he did not recognize. He stopped at one pillar and lifted his hand towards a figure carved into it. A man with a halo of sun beams reached down to where a priest knelt, hands reaching upwards in supplication. The man's face was open and kindly, and his eyes were the blue of the summer sky. Nemir moved around to the other side of the pillar, and frowned. Whatever had been carved there had been gauged out crudely, leaving a hint of the images that had been there, but not enough to recognize more than a crescent moon hanging over a shape that might once have been a person. The cuts were weathered, though, and he wondered how long it had been since the images had been excised. He pushed the gauzy curtains aside and stepped out onto the terrace that surrounded the temple. He walked away from the structure, towards the low wall that ran along the edge of the top of the pyramid. He could see the city spread out before him,, all straight lines, clean and orderly. Completely unlike Ajantha. He glanced back over his shoulder briefly towards the temple that hid the passage down, and was nearly blinded by the sunlight off of the gold. He turned back to the view. The fatigue from the long climb had faded, leaving him feeling like he was viewing the world through one of the sheets of gauze. Everything had a hazy, almost unreal feeling, all tinged with a golden glow. Part of him thought that he should go back; Dansen and Markus would be looking for him. Looking down the side of the steep pyramid, he could see the temple at the base where the two men were probably hunting for him at that very moment. But he did not seek out the passage. He did not go back to the structure behind him. He simply stood there, staring out over the city. The sun was warm on his back and he lifted his face to the light.. Needing to feel the light more fully, he undid his sword belt and let it drop to the stone tiles with a clatter. Then he pulled his tunic up over his head, and tossed it aside. Now the sun was warming his entire upper body. It felt even better. He relaxed even further, swaying slightly in place. At that moment, he could understand those primitives who worshiped the sun itself as a god, not realizing that it was simply an aspect of the true God. The sun brought warmth and light to the world. Plants were inspired to reach higher under a shining sun, and flowers could be seen to turn their faces to follow the sun as the day progressed. The sun was life. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he did not notice the figure creeping up in his shadow. He did not hear the footfalls, or the hiss of a sword being drawn from its sheath. It was only the bellow of rage that let him move quickly enough to avoid the blade being swung at his back. Nemir rolled to the side, reaching for his discarded sword, but his tunic lying on top of it fouled his attempt. He continued his roll until he was back on his feet, all of his attention focused on his attacker. It was a man, dressed in little other than a kilt of linen; light and cool in the heat of the mid-afternoon. His skin was tanned, and gleamed with sweat, or perhaps oil. He was old, perhaps of an age with Nemir's father if he had still been alive. There were fine lines around the man's vivid blue eyes. He would have been a handsome man if his face had not been twisted into an expression of rage. Nemir held out his hands, trying to placate the man. "If I am where I should not be, I apologize," he said, his gaze darting briefly to his sword, tantalizingly just out of reach. The man noticed that, and moved to block Nemir from reaching his weapon. "This is my place. I will not let you take it." "I had no intention of taking anything," Nemir protested, then was forced to duck as the stranger swung his sword at Nemir's head. The blade passed so close to him that he could feel the air move as it went past. Whoever the man was, he was intent on killing Nemir. With that realization, Nemir stopped trying to reason with the man. There was little sanity in those blue eyes, and while he was aging, he swung the sword with authority, and he was not weak. If Nemir made one mistake, he would be dead. Nemir cursed the haze he had been in before that had let him abandon his weapons. His sword lay behind his attacker, and his other weapons were with his bags below, still with Karsa and the other horses outside the temple. He was completely disarmed... Except for his boot knife, he suddenly realized. As soon as he remembered that it was still there, he could feel the bulk of it against his calf. When the stranger came after him again, Nemir rolled out of the way, and as he did so, he managed to pull the blade from the top of his boot. It was barely more than a hands width in length, not much against a sword the length of his forearm, but any weapon was better than none. The stranger was growling deep in his throat as he made short jabs towards Nemir with the point of his sword. He did not even seem to realize that Nemir was no longer completely helpless. Having the blade in his hand also increased Nemir's confidence. He used it deflect another swing, then kicked out at the man's legs. The man went sprawling, but was on his feet again before he could take advantage. The sun was shining in Nemir's eyes, and the heat was so thick that it felt as though it were smothering him. Sweat ran down his face, threatening to blind him. And yet, through it all, he couldn't remember ever feeling more alive, more *right*, in his life. Gradually, step by step, the fight changed, becoming a dance. Every step felt as though it had been done before. Nemir knew every move that the stranger would make before he made it. His chest was tight, and he could barely breathe, but every block or feint he made was effortless. The stranger was cursing steadily as he tried without success to drive Nemir back, tears running down his face. But he was starting to falter, and instead of driving Nemir away, he was forced backwards, step by step, until the parapet was directly behind him and he could go no further. When he felt the carved stone against the back of his legs, the stranger froze. His eyes were wide and mad. Nemir wondered idly if he would stop fighting now. It was clear that he could not win. The entire world seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what would happen. Then the man bellowed loudly, raised his sword, and charged Nemir. A moment later, he was collapsing to his knees, Nemir's knife embedded in his chest to the hilt. Nemir pulled the knife back, and was hit with a spray of blood, hot and metallic as it hit his face, burning hot. The other man's sword dropped to the ground with an obscenely loud crash. "You..." the man said, pointing towards Nemir. Nemir dropped his blade and moved to support the man as he slid down until he was supine on the stone tiles of the terrace. The man was dying. He had killed him. He did not even know who he was, he realized with regret. "Easy," he said, supporting the man's head in his lap. He wanted to reassure the man, but could not find words that would not be an obvious lie. "Someday... this... will be... you..." the man choked out, his face twisted into an expression of hate. "This... is... your... fate." Then he closed his eyes. And died. Nemir shivered at the hate in the man's dying words. Then he continued to shiver, as if the sun had vanished and the world had gone cold. The shivers ran through him in waves, growing stronger and stronger until his entire body was wracked with spasms. He fell backwards, the dead man forgotten. His eyes were fixed on the sun far overhead. It expanded into a great wheel of fire, blindingly bright, filling the sky. >>>~~~<<< He drifted in a cloud of light, filled with a strange buoyancy. For the first time in far too long, he felt completely at peace. A warm hand was stroking his forehead, smoothing his hair away from his face, and he turned towards it. "Judas," he murmured softly, knowing that his beloved's presence was the only thing that would make this perfect. "No, Nemir," a deep and rich voice said. "They still have them. The heretic Goddess-worshipers want to turn him against you. They will turn him into your enemy unless you take him back and destroy them." Nemir frowned. He did not recognize the voice, and yet it resonated deep inside of him, filling him. And it rang with the sound of truth. "Destroy them?" he muttered, still bathing in the golden bliss. "How?" "Raise up the armies," the voice said, full of fire and steel, hot as the sun, cold as the mountains. "Cast them down. Show them that the balance cannot be changed. They live in the darkness, and they must either come into the light of the sun or be destroyed." The fire was running through Nemir's veins now, and he felt a fierce joy rising up in him. Destiny was here. Destiny was his. "Destroy them for what they have done," he said. "I will smite them, and you will be my sword," the voice said, now ringing like bells, and Nemir vibrated in tune with the words. And he burned. END CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO