The False Martyr Read Free

falling across his scalp, collecting
on his robes, until one of their residents scurried across his
hand. He reacted without thought. He shook his hand to dislodge the
spider, pounded it against the wall. And dropped the lamp. The
glass shattered. The light blinked out, and he was encompassed by
darkness more absolute than he had ever known.
    He stopped, breath
catching. He looked back, felt the stones shake again. Cracks of
light appeared, illuminating the dust falling from the ceiling like
gold. Shaking, on the verge of tears, Lius wanted to lie down, to
give up. He was a scholar. He was not made for this. He hated the
dark, was afraid of spiders, had never been adventurous or brave.
How could he have been chosen for this? It had to be a mistake. The
Xi Valati had meant to summon another. The names had been
confused.
    The walls shook
again. But I am here. The Xi Valati
entrusted Valatarian’s book to me. And if I fail, if that monster
is allowed to claim it . . . ? Lius took a
deep, dusty breath, nearly choked on the webs and grit, then
clutched the heavy box to his chest and ran.
    Somewhere in front of him
were stairs. The Xi Valati had told him that much. But he had also
said to trust the Order. That is what Lius did. He thought about
the Hall of Understanding, pictured the building in his mind, took
himself to its peak, to the glass-topped dome that housed the room
he had just occupied. He oriented himself and realized that there
was a long structure leading from each end of that dome. The
pictures of the building always showed symmetrical rectangular
halls leading to the dome, but only one of them was ever
used. I am in the other hall, and it is
exactly as long as the one I traversed to reach the Xi
Valati.
    Lius stopped. His foot
slid until his toes hung over the first step. He closed his eyes –
they were not seeing anyway – felt to his side for the curving
walls and started down the steps.
    Behind him, stones
cracked. A voice rose. “Get him! Get that book!”
    There was no time for
caution. Again picturing the building that had housed him for the
last three years of his life, Lius let his mind be his guide. He
ran, counting twelve steps, perfectly spaced, then a landing.
Twelve steps, landing. Twelve steps, landing. He knew the patterns,
could see them now, could picture the building perfectly in his
mind. But not because he had memorized its layout or had studied
its blueprint. Rather, he saw the patterns the architects had used,
knew how the Order had guided them, how It had dictated the
placement of every stone.
    He came to a landing and
abruptly changed course. Somehow, he knew there would be a passage
to his left. He ran through it, book clutched to his chest, without
the slightest caution. He ran for twenty paces before he hit the
wall. It was a dead end as he had known it would be. Behind him, he
heard feet on the steps. His fingers found the secret latch that
they, somehow, knew would be waiting. With a jerk, the ancient
mechanism released. The wall swung out. He slipped through and
slammed it shut.
    He was now behind the
chapel, in the passage that had been built to carry bodies to the
catacombs after the death services. He had never been in these
halls, had not even known that they existed, but somehow he knew
they would be there, just as he had known that the wall was false,
that a latch would be hidden half-way up the side. This passage was
just as dark as the one he had left, but he no longer needed to
see. His mind guided his running feet to another set of stairs.
These were wider to accommodate the transport of bodies, but they
followed the same pattern. He counted in his mind – twelve steps,
landing, twelve steps, landing. Past five landings he flew and came
to the catacombs.
    Listening, he heard
distant pounding, a voice, screams. The pursuit was delayed, not
defeated. Reaching out, Lius considered the catacombs. He had never
been in them, had never seen a picture or read a description,