by Ulff Lehmann
The pulley creaked and groaned under the gate’s weight, but moved up quickly. He urged Dawntreader forward and across. As horse and rider halted inside the gatehouse in front of the seldom-used inner gate, the woman gave the command to lower the portcullis once more. From the left tower Kildanor heard a man ordering his crew to raise the inner gateway. Then he was in the outer bailey.
Here, things had also changed. Warriors drilled with bow and arrow, sparred against one another with sword and shield or pike, while smiths hammered away at new weapons and armor, and fletchers went about producing arrows by the bushel. Kildanor saw some warriors lounging by the open entryway to the inner bailey. They looked exhausted. Most likely the two women and two men had been practicing until just a little while ago. Their swords were stacked against the wall, with each balancing wooden practice weapons on their knees, a jack of wine changing hands occasionally.
As he neared, the four moved to stand at attention, but he waved them away. “As you were, save your strength for things that matter.”
“The Chanastardhians, milord?” asked the lithe blonde of the group.
“Know anyone else who deserves a poking, sword?”
“The swine Jathain,” she replied, green eyes glimmering with barely contained anger. Her companions hollered their agreement.
Their sincerity gave the Chosen an idea. “I want you four to report to me in a short while. I’ll send for you.”
“Yes, sir!” the warriors replied.
He rode into the inner bailey, gave Dawntreader’s rein to a stable hand, and hurried into the keep. As he made his way up the grand stairs, he passed a pair of Caretakers. The two women, both apparently part of the conservative Lesganagh-hating faction, didn’t even return his cordial nod. They cast icy stares his way and put their heads together. The only words he heard one of them say as he passed were “no miracle. Blasphemy, that’s what it is,” then he was out of earshot. He had no idea what the two were talking of, but right now he had more important things to worry about.
Braigh was leaving Cumaill’s office just as he arrived. The priest stopped and glared at him. “What sort of sick joke did you play on me, Chosen?” he snarled.
Taken aback, Kildanor could only gape at the priest.
“You tricked me into doing this! You had it all planned from the beginning!”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, man. Make sense or get out of my way, I have more important things to do than being pointlessly accused!”
Braigh looked at him, blinked, then frowned. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“I… the ritual…”
“Stop babbling,” Kildanor snapped, then calmer, “Take a deep breath, and then explain yourself.”
“The ritual I performed,” Braigh demanded. “Has it ever returned a man from the dead?”
“The Rite of Light?”
The Caretaker nodded. “Aye.” After a brief pause, he continued, “The wounds were closing, as you remember. Well, by the time you were off to Harail, the man was fully healed. There was no heartbeat, he still had his deathly pallor, but the wounds, all of them, had vanished.”
A miracle, Kildanor thought. A sign sent by Lesganagh, it could be nothing else. “And then?”
“You brought the dog, and well, she barked, the body shook, and the Lady Ealisaid saw that a woman was standing in the same place the dog was, yelling at something.”
“She used magic?” he asked, concern growing.
“No, she just slipped into spiritform, whatever that may be,” Braigh replied. “Then the body came back to life. He’s been in the dungeon ever since, mumbling nonsense, like some madman.”
A thought crossed his mind. “Your church isn’t too happy with you?”
Braigh’s face turned stony. “I’ll be lucky if they just renounce my title.”
So, the idiot fanatics were turning against their own now. Kildanor pitied Braigh, but the man was better served by old habits than condolences. “I hear there’s always a need for gardeners, or midwives,” he said, trying to keep a straight face. “You know, Health and Fertility and all that.”
A glimmer of resentment shone in the priest’s eyes, faded quickly, followed by a mere sad shake of his head. “We’ll see what my superiors will do to me,” Braigh said, then changed the topic back to its original course. “So, the ritual does not bring the dead back?”
“No, it’s just one of those things people used to do for the departed. More stylish than the endless drones of Jainagath’s Deathmasks, and far more appropriate for one who worshiped the Lord of Sun and War.”
“This kind of resurrection has not happened before?”
He thought for a moment, then declined, “Not to my knowledge. This is a sign, man, a sign. A dead warrior of renown coming back. He returns to life here when we have great need of heroes.”
“You forget one thing,” said Braigh. “He is a murderer, and must be tried, resurrection or not. If our guilt vanished with death, Lliania’s Scales would be useless.”
“Murderer?” he echoed
“Aye, he was the only suspect in a killing that happened two years ago.”
“That hardly matters, man. Can’t you see? It’s a sign!”
“A Lawspeaker will decide his fate.”
The Caretaker couldn’t see the big picture. More than Kildanor himself, Drangar Ralgon was a symbol, a hero. With him standing on the wall, the other warriors would be inspired to fight much more fiercely.
“We’ll see,” he said. “He may be a murderer, but when the time comes, he could also be the standard to rally our troops around.”
Braigh was about to answer when someone hailed him from the stairs. “High Priest Morgan Danaissan requests your presence, please come with us.”
The priest paled. “Excuse me,” he muttered, sketched a quick bow and headed for the group of priests standing at the bottom of the staircase.
For a moment Kildanor was tempted to halt the procedure, but held back. His interference would make matters worse. Instead, he watched the group of Eanaighists—some of them armed with heavy cudgels—escort Braigh out of the keep.
Heavyhearted, he finally entered Duasonh’s office. Cumaill sat behind his desk, studying various papers, which he quickly put down when he looked up and saw Kildanor.
“Good morning,” the Baron said. “Everything taken care of in Harail?”
He closed the door. “Orkeanas is dead.”
“I’m sorry, old friend.”
Kildanor pulled a chair away from the wall and sat, stretching his legs. “I’m the last of the first Chosen now. It doesn’t make me happier, either.”
“What of Lerainh?” Duasonh asked.
“Dead by my hand,” he replied. “Should have killed the bastard decades ago.” His hands balled into fists as if they had a life of their own.
For a moment, Cumaill was speechless. Then he said, “You never told me what happened, but I guess it’s better that way. Judging from the rumors, though, he deserved it.”
“It was too quick a death if you ask me.”
“Who’ll succeed him?”
“You, if we kick the Chanastardhians out and provided you want the crown.”
Again, Cumaill sat there quiet, thoughtful. “We’ll see,” he finally said.
“Aye. I have something for you,” Kildanor said, as he dug into his tunic and retrieved the documents he had stolen from the office. “I took them from their general’s office. And before you ask, I have no idea what they’re about.” Duasonh took the bundle, barely looking at him.
Kildanor thought it best to leave the man to his studies. Heading for the door, he briefly looked back and said, “I heard about the miracle, and what role the Wizardess had in it.”
“When the Chanastardhians come we’ll use her,” Duasonh replied. “I made that clear to Lliania’s priests, the Caretakers, and to the families of those killed.” Kildanor wanted to reply, but didn’t when the Baron held
up his hands. “None of us is happy, but we are at war. She’s the best weapon available, old friend. She’ll remain in the dungeon until I have her word she won’t harm us. Besides,” he added, “she has already been helpful with Ralgon. And he is a killer. That murder in Cherkont Street was his doing.”
“I heard. I’ve read the same reports as you,” the Chosen said. “Still, there is something damned odd about this man.”
“You should talk to Braigh.”
“His High Priest has him in custody,” he replied.
“Damn fool Danaissan!” Cumaill growled.
“Nothing you can do, mate.”
“I know. Church matters are church matters.”
“I’ll get Braigh out; he can help me find out more about Ralgon.”
“Leave Braigh out of this,” Duasonh ordered. “We have enough trouble as it is. The Eanaighists police their own, let them. Helping Braigh would stir up a whole load of trouble. What shall we do should they decide not to heal our wounded? We have to let them proceed.”
He had feared something like this would come up. “Maybe we just have to wait until Nerran shows up again.”
“You think it’s time for that?” Cumaill asked, alarmed.
Kildanor shrugged. “This nonsense has to stop somewhere first and the Riders have waited long enough.”
“What do you mean? More deaths even before the Chanastardhians start their siege?” Duasonh stood and began pacing through the room.
“You damn well know, same as I do, that there are enough progressives out there. The fools are gathered here; Kalduuhn, Merthain, and even Chanastardh still have temples dedicated to Lesganagh, and nobody bothers the priests there either. The gods disapprove of this idiocy, but they let mankind take care of its own business.”
“And so, we’ll have more bloodshed before the walls are actually escalated?”
“What do you want me to say?” Kildanor snapped.
“I don’t know… something positive for a change.” Duasonh halted in the middle of the room and ran his hands through his hair. “Braigh might be tortured.”
“Great, you don’t want me to get involved with the Caretakers, and yet you tell me they’ll poke some needles and other shit into him?” The next words came haltingly across his lips, “I like the man, Cumaill; he has done nothing wrong.”
“I know that, but don’t forget a noble’s word means nothing where church matters are concerned.” Duasonh headed back to his chair and sat. He leafed through the pages, halted once, frowned, shook his head, and resumed the scanning of the texts. Whenever Cumaill behaved like this, it was certain the conversation was at an end.
“If you won’t help a friend of yours, I will,” he said as he left. Any of Nerran’s riders would not hesitate to help Braigh, and neither would he.
The door had barely closed behind him when it was flung open again, and Baron Duasonh bellowed, “Get your foolish ass back in here, Chosen Kildanor!”
His turnabout was drill-perfect. “Sir!” he said as he snapped to attention. He returned to the office, face straight, still he noticed the astonishment on the sentinels’ faces. The door shut behind him.
“I won't have you start another Dawnslaughter at the eve of a siege that might very well be our end!” Duasonh snarled. “We need the healing. You’re not amongst your fellow Chosen, Kildanor. I appreciate your loyalty, but use your senses, man! There is far more at stake here than one life.”
He stood rigid, listening.
“Braigh, as much as it pains me, will remain with his brethren; if you free him they’ll blame Lesganagh again, but also point an accusing finger at me because I call you my friend. The entire thing will spiral out of control!”
“And what about the miracle that is Drangar Ralgon?”
Duasonh sat down again, and again grasped the wrinkled letters. “I don’t know. See if you can make heads and tails of this… don’t call it miracle, mate, please.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t need every freeborn and villein harping about this so-called blessed man, blessed by Lesganagh no less, returning from the dead. It will be even more water on the mills of Danaissan and his ilk. As I said, I don’t want another Dawnslaughter.”
There was a knock. “Enter,” the Baron called.
Kildanor stepped aside as the door opened and Gail Caslin entered. He was glad to see the Rider recovered. She bowed to Duasonh and gave a brief salute to the Chosen. “Greetings, my Lord Baron. And to you, Sunsword.”
“Good morning, Caretaker,” Cumaill replied.
Eyes wide with astonishment, Kildanor stared at the woman. She was a Caretaker? And yet she called him by his formal title.
“You seem surprised, Sunsword,” Caslin said, humor twinkling in her blue eyes.
“I thought you a follower of Lesganagh,” he stammered. Indeed, he knew there were Eanaighists among Nerran’s Riders, but no one, except a member of Lesganagh’s church, used his formal title.
“Those who follow the wife, don’t they have to revere the husband as well?” she replied. “After all, where would she be without him?” To Cumaill she said, “I’ll attend to the chapel in Caretaker Braigh’s absence, milord.”
Duasonh arched an eyebrow. “Are you certain that’s wise?”
She shrugged. “I belong to Her church in Kalduuhn; your High Priest has no authority over me, Lord Baron.”
“You can appoint her,” Kildanor suggested.
Duasonh’s face brightened. “Splendid, consider yourself the Palace’s Caretaker.”
“Great!” Gail whispered, almost too quietly for him to hear, and the way the Baron turned his attention back to the letters he had not heard her exclamation. The Riders had never made their allegiance public, and he doubted Morgan Danaissan, or any other member except Braigh, knew much about them. Nonetheless, this situation might provoke just such a spiral Cumaill was so worried about. He would keep an eye on Caretaker Gail. “By your leave,” she said, and headed for the door.
“Don’t do anything to antagonize the High Priest,” Duasonh said, barely looking up from the letters.
“Certainly not, milord,” came her reply, and then she was gone.
“So, you don’t like the smell of this either?” Kildanor asked when the door had shut.
“The Riders have worked for the return of Lesganagh’s Church since the Dawnslaughter, mate,” Cumaill replied. “Their goals haven’t changed, and though I don't doubt Nerran’s loyalty, I fear that should Danaissan find out what their objective is, we’ll have trouble brewing anew. Luckily, with her I can claim ignorance.” He winked at the Chosen.
“One more thing,” Kildanor said. “I almost forgot. Jathain’s influence isn’t gone yet, it seems.” He told Duasonh about the incident with the canal freezing, and his measures to have the blockage removed.
“I’ll see to it,” Cumaill said. “Thanks,” he muttered and returned to studying the letters.
This time the dismissal was obvious. Kildanor left.
CHAPTER 43
A determined knock woke Kildanor. “Yes?” he shouted, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
The door opened, revealing a servant. “Your pardon, sir, but you asked to be awakened shortly after the noon gong.”
It felt as if he had slept for only a few moments. As he pushed himself up from the bed, a yawn crept up and caught him unable to cover his mouth. The servant couldn’t hide his amusement.
“It was a long night,” he mumbled. A weak apology, but he didn’t care what the servant thought. “I’m no courtier. Fetch me some tea and fruit from the kitchen.” The servant bowed, and he added, “Please.” At the man’s surprise he said, “Can’t go wrong with courtesy, eh?”
After a brief, grateful bow, the Chosen was alone once more. He stretched, pulled on his boots, and then washed his face. The cold water cleared his mind. He fastened his sword belt when the servant returned, tray in both hands. “Thanks,” he said, as the man placed food and drink before him.
“Certainly, sir.”
Kildanor sampled the tea. It needed honey. “Now, I need you to find warden Kaltairr. Bring her and her three friends to me.”
“Of course, sir,” the servant replied and was off again.
He added some honey to the tea, took a sip, and was satisfied. Then he began to wolf down an apple. Gods, he hadn’t realized how hungry he was. Down went another apple. Between bites, a few mouthfuls of tea.
By the time the warden and her companions arrived, he had begun an assault on a bowl of plums. Janed Kaltairr saluted, and the four stood at attention. The plums were good, a bit on the sweet side for his taste, but good nonetheless. He spat out another stone, and then turned to face the warriors.
“Door.”
One of the brothers Bolrain closed the entrance.
“Well,” he began. “Judging from your desire for killing Lord Jathain, I assume you’re not overly fond of him.”
Now that they were here, they were more formal than in the courtyard this morning. “Yes, sir,” the warden replied.
This formality wouldn’t do, he needed co-conspirators. “Listen lads and lasses, leave the ‘yes sirs’ and ‘no sirs’ for your superiors. I’m not one of them.”
“Yes, s…” His glare altered Janed Kaltairr’s reply. “As you wish.”
“Well now, I need you to do some things for me, and Dunthiochagh,” Kildanor said.
“And what would that be?” Noela Odrain asked.
“Spread the word that you are going to destroy the Merthain Bridge, sixty miles to the west.”
“We are?” the younger looking of the brothers said.
He smirked. “Yes. But first I need two of you outside the city; you are to look out for anyone leaving the place and heading either west or south.”
“You assume whatever spies Jathain has left in the city will be off to warn him or prevent us from destroying the bridge,” the warden said.
“Smart girl,” he remarked. “Exactly. Two of you will be spreading the word that I’ve ordered the destruction of the bridge, and the other two will slip out of the city and intercept anyone trying to leave.”