by Dan Zangari
“I don’t know,” Iltar said, glancing down to the hand gripping his sleeve. What was Pagus up to?
“You know, I was doing some reading about tevisrals that activate with words that sound like an incantation.”
“That wasn’t an incantation,” Iltar said. “I’m unsure what that gibberish was…” He quickened his pace, catching up to Raedina at the base of the stairs. The princess led them from the stairs and turned a corner. They zigzagged through several hallways, passing many closed doors before stopping at an opening guarded by Crimson Praetorians. What lay beyond looked like another library.
They passed the Praetorians and entered the Royal Archive. Iltar, however, contemplated the purpose of the guards in this forbidden area. Most places would have probably thought that secret door sufficient to keep out the average robber. If that door was activated by that phrase, then any infiltrator would have to memorize those words in order to breech this area of the Hilinard. It seemed an unlikely probability.
So why the guards?
“Here we are,” Raedina said, her dress rustling as she stopped. “I will inform our Praetorians to allow you entrance. And Vaegris should be around here…” She gestured with her hand, her eyes searching the archive. “Let me find him,” she said, and hurried off.
Iltar looked about, studying the secluded library. The Royal Archive was fairly large, a square-looking room only one story tall. Dozens of bookshelves extended the length of the room, spanning nearly fifty phineals. Alcoves punctuated the walls, like those elsewhere in the Hilinard. Beautiful lightstone chandeliers hung within them, brightly lighting the stone tables.
Alanya approached Iltar, leaning close. “You owe me for this,” she said with a flirtatious tone. Iltar caught her lustful gaze, and he fought back a smile. He had never thought a woman would look at him that way.
“Well?” she whispered, gliding her long fingers across his cheek.
“If we find anything of value,” he said teasingly. Alanya pursed her lips, not amused.
Oh well, Iltar sighed. He glanced at Elsia, who had been quiet ever since leaving Alanya’s home. The countess stood with her arms folded, gazing blankly at the bookshelves. Footsteps sounded from between the nearby bookshelves. Raedina returned with a short old man with wavy white hair. His striking yellow eyes were flecked with orange.
Raedina gestured to the old man. “This is Vaegris,” she said. “He’ll help you with your research. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my work.” The princess nodded to Alanya, then hurried out of the Royal Archive.
“So, what are you looking for?” the old man asked in a grouchy tone. Vaegris didn’t seem pleased to have visitors.
Elsia finally broke from her reverie and removed a roll of parchment. “We have a list,” she said. “We’re studying a variety of subjects.”
Vaegris hummed in a way that sounded like a growl and took the parchment from Elsia. The countess folded her arms and looked briefly to Iltar. Pagus walked around his aunt, sauntering toward one of the aisles.
“Stop!” Vaegris shouted. Pagus, however, ignored him and began perusing the bookshelves. Didn’t the boy know that the old librarian was speaking to him? Or was Pagus feigning ignorance?
“I said stop!” Vaegris spun toward Pagus. “You are not welcome to wander.”
“Oh… I didn’t know,” Pagus said innocently, then meandered back to the others, eyeing the spines of the books he passed.
Iltar sighed and shook his head.
“You can wait in one of the alcoves.” Vaegris gestured dismissively. “I’ll fetch you books on these subjects.” With a final warning glare, the old man walked down one of the aisles and disappeared.
“Come on, Pagus,” Elsia said, grabbing her nephew by the arm.
“Hey!” the youth blurted as Elsia dragged him past Iltar and Alanya. The high duchess took Iltar’s hand, and they followed Elsia to the far corner of the room.
“This should do,” the countess said, and guided her nephew to an alcove bench. “We can discuss what we need to without worrying about prying ears.” The bench looked more comfortable than those elsewhere in the Hilinard. Though the alcoves were carved from stone, they had plush cushioning on their seats and backs. The cushions were embroidered with a pattern that looked like symbols.
Once Iltar got closer to the cushions, he recognized those symbols as that strange language he found in Dreamwalker. The symbols were arrayed around an outline that looked like one of the emblems on Reflection’s robe.
“This is one of the emblems I’m looking for,” Iltar said, tapping the cushion. He looked at the back and found the same pattern. Interesting… Iltar squinted. “Quill, parchment,” he said, extending a hand toward Pagus. “And get out the sketches of the symbols.” The boy grumbled and reached into his pack, grudgingly removing the items.
Iltar shot Pagus an annoyed look as he took the things. He shuffled through the pages of emblems until he found the one that matched. Iltar held the parchment up to the fabric, noting the differences. The emblem was one of the last he had sketched and many of the details were missing or incorrect.
“Do you mind if I sit?” Alanya asked, then slipped past Iltar. She slid across the bench, sitting with her back to the alcove’s wall.
“Thank you,” Iltar said in a monotone and began copying the emblem. He finished before Vaegris returned.
“That’s impressive,” Alanya said, grabbing the freshly drawn sketch from the table. Iltar took a seat, and Alanya nestled up to him, setting the sketch back on the table.
“Now we need to find out what it is,” Elsia said, reaching for the sketch, but Pagus swiped it from her. She sighed as her nephew began studying the emblem. Pagus’s mind looked to be churning.
Don’t do anything stupid, Pagus, Iltar thought.
Soon, Vaegris returned, carrying six thick books. Each looked to be over a thousand pages long. “You can start with these,” he said, setting the books on the table with a grunt. “I will find the rest for you and hold them aside.”
“We’ll spread out into another alcove,” Elsia said, sliding out of her seat. “We can keep the extras with us, can’t we?” she asked.
Vaegris nodded with that humming growl and began to turn away. However, before the old librarian got too far away Iltar spoke. “Do you know what this symbol is?” Iltar asked, pointing at the back of the bench.
Vaegris spun partway around. His yellow eyes flicked to the bench’s fabric then back to Iltar. Vaegris’s only answer was a stern gaze. He grunted again and hurried off without a word.
“Rude…” Iltar grumbled through clenched teeth. He slid off the bench to give Alanya more room to spread out.
“Don’t like the silent gaze for an answer, Master?” Pagus said in a flippant tone as he vacated the other side of the alcove. Iltar eyed Pagus, not amused. “Must be an age thing.” Pagus winked, then slunk into the alcove where his aunt had taken up residence.
Iltar stifled a grumble. He didn’t want to imitate the old librarian, but he must have had a strained look on his face, because Alanya began laughing.
“Let’s start reading,” Iltar said with a sigh, and grabbed one of the heavy books.
* * * * *
Lirathay’lu casually strolled through the gardens of the Mindolarn Palace. He wore an luxurious robe, the type commonly worn by many of the higher-ranking priests of the Cherisium religion. Walking straight-backed felt odd after playing the role of a cripple for nearly five decades. He sauntered into a secluded part of the gardens, studying the nearby palace. There weren’t many guards in the gardens. From what Lirathay’lu had determined, most of the sentinels were stationed closer to the palace. Only rarely did they patrol these more secluded parts of the gardens.
“You there,” a masculine voice shouted.
I missed someone? I must be getting rusty at this whole espionage business.
“Yes, you!”
Is he talking to me? Lirathay’lu slowly turned around. He
stiffened in an arrogant manner while searching for the source of the voice.
“What are you doing here?” a tall lanky man asked, rounding a wall of sculpted bushes. He too wore the robes of a priest and was accompanied by two Crimson Praetorians.
How unfortunate…
Lifting his chin, Lirathay’lu raised his brow and drew his lips to a line. “It seems I am a little lost…” he said in a distracted tone.
“Oh really?” The priest halted, stopping an arm’s length away. He stood almost two heads taller than Lirathay’lu. “And who exactly are you?”
Lirathay’lu hummed inquisitively. Perhaps I should have picked a different role, he thought, still holding his distracted demeanor.
The priest shook his head in disbelief. “You aren’t one of my priests,” he said with growing hostility, squinting impatiently and staring directly into Lirathay’lu’s eyes.
Well, that’s fortunate, Lirathay’lu mused and allowed his eyes to regress to their natural state.
The priest froze in reaction to the mutual gaze. Their minds melded, and Lirathay’lu picked through the man’s memories like a child perusing a candy shop. This particular priest—named Regant—was the High Oracle of the Cherisium religion here in Mindolarn.
Oh. You’re human… Lirathay’lu felt surprised. Odd that the qui’sha would appoint a human to be High Oracle, he thought. Lirathay’lu probed further, discovering that the guards had noticed him wandering through the gardens and called for the High Oracle to come identify him. If Lirathay’lu were to prove a fraud, the two Praetorians were to deal with him.
“Your Holy Eminence?” a Praetorian asked.
You remember me from the convent at Ulvilo, Lirathay’lu told Regant, then erased the brief stare-down from the priest’s memory.
“But Regant, you don’t remember me?” Lirathay’lu asked, relinquishing his gaze upon the High Oracle. “From Ulvilo.”
Regant squinted further. “Lira?” he muttered. “Lira, is that you?” I guess Lira will have to do. Lirathay’lu tried to hide his disappointment amid the false reunion.
Bursting with excitement, the High Oracle wrapped his arms around Lirathay’lu in a tight embrace. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, it has.”
The Praetorians stiffened, gripping their fanisars tightly. The High Oracle’s quick turnaround obviously didn’t persuade them. This might go awry… Lirathay’lu mused, but returned his focus to Regant.
“I didn’t know they made you High Oracle,” Lirathay’lu said in feigned surprise.
“Oh yes, seven years ago,” Regant said, then spun to the Praetorians. “You may return to your posts. It seems I do know this man.” The Praetorians marched off without a word.
“Tell me, what brings you to Mindolarn, my friend,” Regant said. It never ceased to amaze Lirathay’lu how easy it was to alter the minds of men.
“I’m visiting the seat of the empire to observe their rituals,” Lirathay’lu lied. “I’m hoping I might be granted permission to stay in the palace for a time. I won’t be staying long. I must make a pilgrimage to Comdolith by the end of the year.”
“I see.” Regant motioned to another corridor lined with bushes, inviting Lirathay’lu to follow him that direction. Satisfied that he would go undetected, Lirathay’lu followed Regant through the gardens.
“It didn’t take long for Cheserith to establish his divine façade. Champions from various breeds challenged his right to rule, but all were unsuccessful. None triumphed against him, and those that came close to slaying him experienced his self-proclaimed immortality firsthand. No wound could ever be sustained against him, as the fibers of his body re-knit themselves instantly. This effect was later seen in the men he twisted, the Ma’lisha.”
- From The Thousand Years War, Part I, page 13
The Colvin brandy burned as Kaescis swallowed the green alcohol. The quartermaster of the Executor’s Breath had purchased several barrels while moored in Keliur. This batch was stronger than what they had served the Sorothians. Exhaling heavily, Kaescis set his glass on the side table beside his chair. He had retired to his cabin soon after departing Kretin and hadn’t left it in days. He wanted to let his anger simmer. But no matter what he did, Kaescis couldn’t abate the hate raging within him. Not even the brandy relaxed him.
It’s that blade, he thought. Kaescis had slain with it, and now it craved more destruction. But how was that possible? It wasn’t an actual blade. Perhaps the things that produced the Ko’delish were what stoked his emotions.
Death… the word whispered from a dozen voices. Destruction… give us death!
“I need to calm myself,” he muttered. All he wanted to do was relentlessly murder everyone who stood in his way. Kaescis sighed, gripped the arms of his chair, and closed his eyes.
“Oh, Lord Cheserith, let me focus… I can barely sleep with these voices constantly demanding destruction.” He hoped his prayer would be heard. Taking a deep breath, Kaescis cleared his mind, imagining a gray void. Soon, everything faded. He no longer felt the rocking of the ship. For a moment, he felt peace. All was quiet.
And then, nothing.
* * * * *
A knock awoke Kaescis. He glanced at the side table, seeing his drink where he left it. The door to his cabin creaked open, followed by a pair of footsteps.
“You’ve been in here for days,” Laeyit chided as she crossed the cabin. “Those Wildmen are getting anxious without you.” Her hair was braided as usual, but this time she wore makeup. Why had she done that? “What’s wrong with you?” she demanded.
Kaescis groaned and straightened in his chair, still groggy. Laeyit came straight for him and sat on his leg. She pursed her lips, eyeing him up and down. “This isn’t becoming of you,” she said.
Kaescis looked at her frankly. “I can’t stop hearing the voices. They demand death.”
“Then give it to them!” Laeyit said, sounding exasperated. “Slay as many as you need in order to sate them.”
Was that wise? He might go on a killing spree if that were the case, slaying friend and foe alike.
“They want something from you, Kaescis,” Laeyit said,. “And you must give it to them. The hiss’thraks guided the Chosen, and now they are guiding you. Don’t you see what you’re becoming?” She smiled. “No one that wields the Ko’delish has heard them as clearly as you have.”
Kaescis sucked in his breath. As he pondered Laeyit’s words, another pair of footsteps approached his cabin.
“About time you opened your door,” Bratan said cheerily. He strolled into the cabin, carrying a keg with a spigot on one end. In his other hand he carried several steins. Bratan made his way to where Kaescis sat and set the keg on a low table. “Now we can drink,” the Praetorian said, smiling broadly. “We need to celebrate our victory, after all.”
Laeyit grinned, laying her hand on Kaescis’s forearm for a moment before standing. “Did you bring enough, you big oaf?” she asked.
Bratan chuckled, serving himself a stein of dark-blue ale. Then, looking to Kaescis, he asked, “So how many?”
How many? Kaescis raised an eyebrow.
“Your score.”
Oh…
“Three,” Kaescis answered. “Maybe a few more that I wounded.”
“That’s it?” Bratan bellowed. “I had seven. What about you, Laeyit?”
“Two,” she said tersely, grabbing Kaescis’s glass of Colvin brandy. She took a sip of it and curled her lips in disgust.
Bratan carried on about the battle at the Keepers’ Temple, but Kaescis paid little attention to the details. All he could think about was the voices. What would happen if he heeded their demands? Could he let himself completely embrace that bloodlust? The voices had diminished once he was on the battlefield. Pure emotion replaced their words. To his knowledge, none of the others—his uncles or cousins—had ever said anything about voices demanding destruction.
Kaescis felt a kick against his boot.
“We
ll?” Bratan asked.
“What?” Kaescis cocked his head.
“Do you want a drink?”
Did he? That wouldn’t drown out the voices.
“Just give him one,” Laeyit said. “It’s better than that filth he’s been sipping.”
Bratan laughed, pouring a stein for Kaescis. “It was a good victory,” he said, extending the full stein.
Kaescis took the stein, holding it near his lips. Death…
Sighing, Kaescis closed his eyes. He heard the words echoed from a dozen voices, then he saw in his mind’s eye something he hadn’t thought of in decades. Pandemonium flooded around him and Helgara fell, tackled by an elite soldier from the Western Sovereignty.
Kill them… the voices demanded.
But those men are already dead, Kaescis spoke to the voices.
A sense of disagreement flooded his mind. The voices inside him weren’t pleased with his answer.
Who else do I kill? Kaescis asked. Their descendants? Their families?
A pleased sigh echoed in his mind.
Do I kill… him? Kaescis thought of Mister Dol’shir.
Slay Dol’shir! the voices chimed together.
Kaescis was taken aback. He hadn’t expected this… Laeyit had been right from the start. His prompting to wait on the pier in Soroth was to have the son of his enemy delivered into his hands.
“Did you hear the rumors?” Bratan asked, looking at his now empty stein.
“I doubt he has,” she said.
Regaining his composure, Kaescis leaned forward in his chair. “What rumors?” he asked.
“There’s been quite a commotion over on the Promised Maiden,” Laeyit said. “It seems Mister Dol’shir awoke drenched in blood, without wounds.”
What? Bleeding without Wounds? But that was a legend, a myth among the Devouts of Cheserith.
“It’s baffled most everyone,” Bratan said. “They say it happened the night after we left Kretin. The whole cabin was deluged in blood. One of the sailors says they’re still trying to get the blood out of the wood.”
Bleeding without Wounds…