The Temple Road

by Kirby Crow

  Liall had given Theor a look that stilled any further inquiry, and later, Theor brought him the news that Pik had been buried under a cairn of stones, after giving up not a word as to his purpose.

  The creature was nothing more than a scout who lost his way, Liall told himself. It was likely, given the man’s age and the ease with which he was caught. Most of the Ava Thule had indeed fled before the army’s approach, but they had probably left behind dozens of their old and weak. Or at least the ones not fit for the stew-pot, he mused, his upper lip curling in disgust. How could anyone be expected to make peace with such a people? Ulan must be mad. And what does that make you?

  Argent was restless under him, pawing at the ground and blowing steam from his nostrils as they approached the central tower, and Liall noted that the dozens of wagons he had spied earlier were mostly empty, strewn with ripped burlap sacks and lengths of cording, but no supplies.

  The wheel threw a black shadow on the ground that Argent shied from and would not cross. Liall patted the animal's mane to ease him. Horses did not like the Blackmoat. Perhaps it was the heavy stench of the oil, or perhaps the constant rhythm of machinery that never ceased. It would take hours for the grooms to settle them.

  An honor guard led Liall to the wheel tower, and the Setna came swiftly on their heels to have their audience with the king, some fifty of them. Liall knew there were many more in the other towers and even below the ground, deep in the iron bowels of the great rig, dredging the precious oil.

  The Setna come to greet him were the cream of the brotherhood; the men who wore the sigil of a golden wheel on a field of black, pale stars overhead. These were the men who spoke to the crown with the Setna’s voice.

  Liall realized there were faces among them that he dimly recognized, as through a pane of fogged glass. Some had attended the queen at court. Liall had been only a boy then, more interested in chasing his silver hound, Jeth, through the halls of the palace than eavesdropping on what a bunch of stuffy old men had to say to his mother. Shikhoza had chased, too, and Nadei. It had always been the three of them together, making mischief and trying the patience of every cook and servant in the palace, until Shikhoza had flowered to womanhood and the long rivalry between brothers took a turn from play to deadly earnest.

  Liall wished now that he had left his playmates to their games and eavesdropped.

  Seated with great ceremony in a carved wooden throne in the cavernous lower hall of the tower, Liall could sense the immense weight of the stone above them. He glanced at Scarlet, who was covered from head to toe in a dark hood and cloak, his face in shadow. The bright sense of wonder that Scarlet had exuded on the road had vanished the moment they rode through the gates, replaced with apprehension and even fear.

  He does not belong here, Liall thought. Scarlet was light and fire, and there was only ice in this place.

  The Setna stared openly at the slight, hooded figure. Many would guess who he was, but none seemed to know how to greet the first Hilurin to enter the Blackmoat in centuries.

  Hilurin. Lenilyn. Enemy, but perhaps not to the Setna. Some few will be disloyal to the crown, or at least to me.

  He intended to find out who those few were.

  Standing at attention beside him, Theor drummed the butt of his axe on the floor. “Nazheradei, blood prince of the Camira-Druz, Master of the North Sea, Baron of Sul, Baron of Nau Karmun, Prince of the Kalaxes Isles, and Rightful King of Rshan na Ostre!” he bellowed out.

  Liall nodded to Tesk, his ears ringing. Tesk went to Scarlet and grandly swept off the cloak, revealing Scarlet clad in a bright red virca trimmed with gold and jewels.

  “Ser Keriss kir Nazheradei, t’aishka of the house of Camira-Druz,” Liall supplied, pitching his voice to carry, though he needn’t have bothered in this hall. His voice echoed back at him with a vibration he could feel on his skin. “Once known as Scarlet of Lysia, son of Scaja.”

  A low murmur went through the hall. Three of the Setna stepped back from Scarlet, more afraid than scornful. Those who did scorn made no effort to hide it. Tesk watched everything with a pose still as a hawk, only his eyes moving, darting to every face, reading all there was to read.

  When he judged it was time, Liall rapped his knuckle on the arm of the throne. “We have had a very long journey.” Get on with it, his tone said.

  Scarlet cleared his throat and shot a look to Tesk, who winked at him encouragingly.

  Tesk had lessoned Scarlet earlier; “It is a show,” he had said, making elegant gestures with his hands even while on horseback, his tunic spotless, his hair unbraided and yet still neat. “Like the traveling mummers you told me of. We will give them a play, but they are not the audience. We are.”

  Scarlet had frowned. “That doesn’t seem right.”

  Tesk had laid his finger alongside his patrician nose. “We will watch, and then we see what we did not see before.”

  Whatever the Setna learned, they never told all of it. The attempts on Scarlet’s life were real, and Liall had no more answers than the day he had led the march from Starhold, only more questions.

  Liall lifted his hand regally to Scarlet, who stepped forward on cue. He took Liall’s hand briefly before he sank down at the base of the throne, resting his back against Liall’s legs with a casual air, as if he sat at the king’s feet every day.

  Liall drew his hand through Scarlet’s soft hair absently. “Who speaks for you?”

  A ripple went through the hall, whispers of excitement. A very lean Setna stepped forward, more like a withered branch than a man, then turned and silenced the hall with a single slash of his palm.

  The man’s thin, white beard was combed and forked, and he was many years even Alexyin’s senior. Four of his sage-looking brothers flanked him, two on each side.

  “I am Ulrikan, sire, master of the great tower. These are Grigan and Osef, masters of the north and south towers.” He turned slightly and gestured to two stout and well-fed men on his left. “And these are masters of the east and west, Lavren and Liof.”

  “I see you have the four directions and the sky covered,” Liall said. “What about down?”

  Scarlet chuckled audibly.

  Ulrikan smiled. It was not a good expression on him. “We are all masters of down, sire. That is the purpose of the Blackmoat.”

  “Yes,” Liall mused. He tapped his fingers on the polished wood of the fine throne, wondering where they had gotten it, or if it was Ulrikan’s place he had usurped by his arrival. “You have the provisions to re-supply us?”

  “You saw the wains in the valley, sire.”

  “I saw empty wains. Don’t bandy your words. Do you have adequate supplies or not?”

  “It will be difficult,” Ulrikan admitted, his expression going pinched. “We had little notice of the need, but what we could gather from our stores and what could arrive in the time afforded us has been set apart for your quartermaster to count and record.”

  “What about your own people? I certainly don’t wish to leave you in want.” Although, from the looks of Lavren and Liof, they could use a bit less plenty and more want.

  Ulrikan shrugged. “We receive regular supplies from all the baronies of Rshan, sire. If our larders are stretched thin, it won’t be for long.”

  That much was certain. Every city, town, and village in Rshan depended on the black oil to light their homes, not to mention heating the greenhouses that fed the countryside through the winter and the trade goods that foreigners would barter dearly for. Firewood was for hearths and cooking, but wood was not in limitless supply and trees took time to grow. The plentiful, stinking oil dredged up from beneath the earth assured that no one went cold, and no one starved.

  I would do well to remember that, Liall thought. Without this place, my people would be in very great want. I need these men, but I dare not trust them. Not when I’m so close to saving him.

  “We thank you,” Liall said graciously, surveying the crowd to see which men were flattered by the appreci
ation and which were not. All were gratified to some degree, save for Ulrikan, whose face went from stern to downright sour. “You have something to say?”

  Ulrikan folded his twiggy hands. “My lord, I noticed that you had chosen to allow rangers to accompany the army. Freeriders do not tithe to the Setna, sire.”

  So that was it, the reason for the man’s tepid welcome; he didn’t want to share with the rangers. “That’s rather miserly of you, Ulrikan. And presumptuous.” Liall nodded to the vastness of the hall. “Don’t forget that all of this belongs to me. Be parsimonious with your own wealth, and I will see to mine.”

  “But sire, the tithe—”

  “My freeriders do not tithe to the brotherhood, true. Neither are they taxed by the crown. But if they do not give, then they do not take. Throughout my realm, they are entitled to shelter at need, and grain and water for their horses. That is all. Whatever else they must have to live, they earn, grow, or hunt themselves with no help expected or given, even in times of famine or war. That’s why they’re called free.” Liall examined his fingernails. “Be that as it may, for as long as they march under my banner, they will be fed and provided for in the same manner as any other soldier.”

  “Yes, lord,” Ulrikan bit off. His clamped lips shouted that he wanted to say more and had the good sense not to.

  Liall had wearied quickly of the farce. “We will weather here for two days,” he announced, rising.

  Scarlet clambered up and dusted the seat of his breeches, just like any peasant boy would do. “When do we eat, wolf? I’m starved.” He stretched and yawned.

  Liall hid a smile. Smart lad. Thanks to men like Jarad Hallin, Scarlet knew just what would annoy a courtier prickly of his high status, and he played on it masterfully.

  “Soon enough, my pet,” Liall soothed, for Ulrikan’s ears.

  THEY WERE ESCORTED to a high chamber in the wheel tower worthy of a king, where the walls were hung with thick tapestries dripping with jewels and bright mirrors rimmed with chased silver. Woven carpets blanketed the floor and a cavernous hearth was packed with dry firewood, ready for lighting. The canopied bed was draped in silk, a pile of snowy furs for a coverlet. Barred windows overlooked the southern landscape and a long table was crowded with all manner of food; fresh bread, fruits, meat, jars of honey, and a dozen or more crocks of butters, jams, and other delicacies. Six tall, dusty bottles of wine stood sentinel over a steaming che pot that breathed the scent of roses.

  When the Setna bowed out and left him with only Scarlet, Tesk, Theor, and Margun, Scarlet punched him on the arm.

  Liall rubbed the sore spot, laughing. “Stop it.”

  Scarlet scowled at him, those bold, black eyes narrowed in wrath. “Pet, he says. I should knock you on your arse.”

  “Mercy, kind lord,” Liall begged. “You know it was only for show.”

  Tesk chuckled and checked the door for listeners. “A rather good one, too. I knew Ulrikan when I was a boy here, but he was only a minor apprentice to the master of the southern tower then. Quite a promotion, I’d say.”

  “What happened to the former master of the wheel tower?”

  “They say he went into the mountain. It’s not unusual. At the end of a brother’s days, many choose to return to the Ancients and live out their remaining lives close to the Shining Ones,” he explained, for Scarlet’s benefit, no doubt. “A falling star told him it was time.” Tesk’s mouth quirked. “Or that’s what they say.”

  “Days, time, life,” Liall’s sudden good humor vanished. He looked at Scarlet and touched his cheek. “I’m sorry that I embarrassed you.”

  Scarlet scowled and crossed his arms. “Well, and it was only mumming, I know,” he grumbled, feathers still ruffled. “But I ent your pet.”

  “Of course not.” Liall turned to Margun, who seemed bemused by the exchange. “Where has Alexyin gotten to?”

  Margun jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He met with the quartermaster straight away about the supplies. Said it was more important than a...” He glanced at Scarlet. “A royal audience.”

  That’s not what he said at all. Liall could not ask in front of Scarlet, if the words were what he suspected.

  “Theor, please attend Alexyin as he consults with the quartermaster and discover the true state of our supplies, and precisely what the Blackmoat intends to provide. I don’t trust master Ulrikan to know an army’s needs.” Nor to tell the truth. “The provisions need to sustain us not only for the remainder of the march and the return journey, but possibly a siege. Search the larders if you have to.”

  Theor bowed and departed, not without a “Well done, ser,” to Scarlet’s ear as he passed.

  “If it’s all right, sire, I’d like to post sentries and get my men settled on this floor,” Margun said.

  “Do you think I need guarding here, Margun?” Liall asked idly. “These Setna are sworn to live and die serving the blood of Camira-Druz. That’s me.”

  Margun slid a look to Scarlet. “Such oaths do not extend to all, sire.”

  Liall could not argue with that. He gave Margun his leave and strolled to the table to pour a cup of che. “The brotherhood lives well here.”

  Tesk inspected the crocks and the fine jars, opening one to sniff it delicately. He picked up one of the wine bottles and brushed the dust from the glass. “This is anguisange, aged many years. I never saw such during my younger days in the towers. These brothers live well.”

  “I’d trade it all for bitterbeer,” Scarlet opined, laying down his grudge. He deftly plucked the che cup from Liall’s hand, not spilling a drop. “But I’ll settle for che.”

  Liall smiled and poured himself another. “One could say that the luxuries the brothers enjoy are only a just recompense for the isolation of the Blackmoat and the great service they do.”

  Tesk snorted.

  “You don’t agree?”

  “Oh, there is isolation.” Tesk replaced the bottle and tore a hunk of bread from a loaf. “But great service? The towers are little more than libraries, bedchambers, and dining halls for the Setna. The rig is the real workings of the Blackmoat, deep underground, and it all but runs itself. None of us knows exactly how it works, nor can we repair it.”

  “Is it in a cave?” Scarlet asked. He pulled a chair up to the table and proceeded to open every jar that Tesk had not.

  “The central mechanism is contained inside a cavern, but whether the cavern is natural or made by the Ancients, I do not know.”

  Scarlet dipped his finger into a pot of honey and tasted it. “What’s a mechanism?”

  Tesk grinned. He took an apple and bit into it. “Another word for your collection.”

  Liall suddenly felt he’d had enough of their banter. “This is not a fucking game!” he said harshly. He took in Scarlet’s astonished look and felt ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately. He rubbed the spot between his brows, which had begun to throb again. “Damnable headache. It must be from having cold wind in my face all day.”

  Scarlet frowned. “Maybe. Maybe not. You’ve been snapping a lot lately, and not just at me. You’re...” he searched for a word, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “A bit like the big dog they used to keep chained up at Tradepoint to guard the stockyard. It would leap at you if you came too close, even if you meant to feed it.”

  “And what became of this poor creature?”

  “Teff Ferryman took a hammer and struck the chains off it one night. It’s shameful to keep an animal locked up like a criminal. They weren’t made for such. I’m beginning to think you weren’t made for such, either.”

  Liall was not angry, only baffled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Scarlet sighed. “Deva’s truth, I really don’t know. But you’re not happy being king, Liall. I just think that if you wanted to do this, you might appear to enjoy it a bit more, instead of snapping and growling all day.”

  “Of course I didn’t want to do it!” he snarled, irritable again. “Only a complete fool or a r
otten bastard would. Cestimir didn’t want the crown. My father didn’t. Why should I?”

  “Fools and bastards,” Tesk said mildly. He put the apple down and rested his hand on his hip, close to his sword. “Sire, your eyes.”

  “My...” Liall turned and caught his reflection in one of the silver mirrors. “But I’m not even that angry,” he said stupidly, crossing the room to stare into the mirror. His pupils were huge and black—a sign of the berserker rage—but he felt none of the other telling effects: the loss of reason, the narrowing of vision, the all-consuming fury and surge of strength.

  He was himself, and yet not.

  Liall touched his cheek wonderingly. Now he knew the reason that Tesk’s hand was near his sword. He would have done the same in the company of any man who showed the same signs.

  “Something is happening to you, my lord,” Tesk said. “And something is happening to ser Keriss, but it’s only the two of you. At first, I thought the changes were restricted to your t’aishka, because we are drawing near to Ged Fanorl and no Hilurin has been there in ages, so who could predict what effect that would have? But Rshani have been dwelling near Ged Fanorl since the Blackmoat was built, and it does not affect us this way. The only possible answer is that it’s because you and ser Keriss are connected, and the nearer we come to the sacred mountain, the more these symptoms will grow.”

  “Liall?” Scarlet called, very softly. He turned.

  “Watch,” Scarlet whispered. He closed his eyes.

  From the hearth came a snap like a thick branch breaking, loud and startling. All the air seemed to rush through the room. From the open mouth of the heath came a low howl, almost beastlike, before the wood burst into flames, so high and hot that one of the firebricks shattered immediately and spewed glowing shards onto the carpet. The carpet began to smoke.

  Tesk rushed forward and stamped the embers out with his boots.

  When Liall looked again in the mirror, his eyes had returned to normal, pale blue with points of black. “That was no mere fire-withy, and this is not berserker rage. What is it? What does it mean?” He did not know whether he asked himself, Tesk, or the mirror.