A man on the cusp of his wasting years advanced down the central aisle. He wore a red velvet robe hemmed in fox fur that concealed all but his face and hands. On each of his ten fingers he wore a different gemstone ring that encased his fingertips with talon-like points. A brazen display of wealth, perhaps, but Demetry doubted it. A myriad of greedy merchants and venal fief lords had already made the pilgrimage to kneel before Demetry’s throne, yet there was something different about this man.
The man came to a stop, making a point of standing right beside the pool of Demetry’s blood. “I have come here as an adviser,” said the man in a somber tone. He removed his hood, revealing a bald pate, wreathed by a thin line of gray hair.
Korre made as to object, but Demetry raised his hand and silenced the dragoon. “Your audience is granted. Advise me.” He settled into his throne, letting his feet dangle over the side.
The man placed his shoe in Demetry’s blood, and used it as paintbrush to draw a crimson circle about his own body. “As we speak, you wander from the straightened path.” He drew another line with the blood, and then another. “You are confronted by the three-headed beast. Envy, greed, and betrayal.” Three sneering faces appeared on the floor, one winged, one fanged, and one horned. “I can act as a guide and help you regain your footing on the path to truth.” He crossed them all out with a swipe of his foot.
“I was not aware that my soul was in danger,” said Demetry, doing his best to feign disinterest in this curious man. He picked up a string of grapes from a salver held by a servant, plopping them one by one into his mouth.
“Are we not all overshadowed by the temptation of sin?” The man stepped across the smear of blood, and approached the throne, making no motion to bow.
Demetry had met men like this in Coljack, devout espousers of Paseran’s message. Yet this man was somehow different, Demetry could taste it in the air. He leaned forward in his usurped throne, enthralled by the man. “Why not help the beggar on the street corner or the whore in the brothel?”
“Because the beggar does not have the wealth I need and the whore does not have the power I desire,” answered the man. He pointed toward the heavens. “The Shadow be praised.”
Korre had heard enough. He stepped forward, seizing the man by the wrist. “It’s time for you to leave,” hissed the odious dragoon.
“Let him be,” snapped Demetry. His voice was suddenly that of the king. The foundation shuddered, his eyes flared with ephemeral fire. All of the servants fell to their knees, and began to cross their hearts. Korre didn’t flinch, but he did comply.
The man vigorously wiped his wrist on his robe as if he had just been touched by a plaguer. “My name is Luca Marcus, nephew of Stewart the Wise,” said the man, clearly proud of his pedigree.
The name caused Demetry’s breath to catch. Stewart the Wise was one of the most notorious figures in history. He had led the Nexian Order, a secret society that had infiltrated nearly every aspect of the city’s affairs, in an open revolt against King Johan. For a short time, they managed to wrest control of the Nexus from the king. When the city was finally retaken, anyone who could be associated with the Order was executed in massive public showings. Although Stewart the Wise was never found, his Order was effectively extinguished.
“You are the nephew of the Order’s last proconsul?” exclaimed Demetry in shock.
“He was hardly the last proconsul,” said Luca. “Nor will I be. You can cut a plant to the ground, yet its roots still grow. I have come to offer the service of my people.” Finally he bowed, showing the proper order of things.
“What would I want with the hacked up remains of a powerless cult?” asked Demetry, his tone growing serious.
“We have real power with the masses and can teach you how to utilize this to unite the people,” responded Luca Marcus. “The minds of the people are much more valuable than any shield or sword.”
“Spoken like a true scholar,” said Demetry. “But I am not looking for men of learning to help conquer this land.”
“If it is men at arms you seek, the Order can provide these as well.”
“What, a dozen soldiers, two dozen perhaps?” said Demetry with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Your men do not interest me.”
“There are five thousand men who swear to my banner living within this city,” said Luca Marcus with a stern face. “As we speak they are preparing to instigate an insurgency against your army. But what may truly pique your interest is to know that there are three phirops within this room.”
The dragoons immediately unsheathed their swords and eyed the servants who lined the walls of the court. Demetry looked over each servant carefully, trying to recognize the phirops, or death dealers. These were the fabled battlemages of the Order. There were legends of a single phirop holding off an entire division of Capernican soldiers.
“I have to say, your threat intrigues me,” said Demetry, giving up on trying to locate the phirops.
“It was not meant to be a threat,” said Luca. “Just an allusion to the power the Order still maintains.”
Demetry eyed the mysterious man. A voice told him the man was safer dead than alive, but a sudden avarice filled his heart, drowning out all other instincts. “Tell me, what can you do for me?”
“For now, I will provide you with men,” said Luca Marcus. He eyed the dragoons with disdain. “In the end, I will grant you access to the object you seek.”
“How would you know what I seek?” challenged Demetry.
“An object of unfathomable bounty and power,” said Luca. “What else could it be? The Orb of Azure has a drawing effect like few other artifacts. The power wielded by its owner could not be contested.”
Demetry rose from his throne and approached within a few paces of the proconsul. “Then the Orb is still within the Nexus.”
“Sadly, no,” said Luca with a shake of his head. “The artifact has long since been removed.”
“Then it is in Luthuania,” said Demetry excitedly.
“Of course,” said Luca. He smiled faintly, apparently pleased to have Demetry’s favor.
Korre interjected, speaking up in his master’s absence. “If the Orb is within Luthuania, this man has told us nothing useful. Luthuania is vast. Be specific.”
“I didn’t say I could tell you precisely where it is located,” said Luca scornfully, as if chiding an interrupting child. “Doubtlessly, before this war draws to a close it will be moved many times. But when Luthuania lies in ruin, and you clutch the stone within your hand for the first time, you will be glad to have me at your side. I can unlock its power.”
“What do you mean by unlock?” pressed Korre.
“The Orb is no trifle,” said Demetry. “It is a tool of the gods. It was not made for mortal hands to wield.”
“Yet it can be done,” said Luca. “The people of my Order have studied the ancient lore and teachings of the Sundered Gods. We have visited the wastes of Eremor where the four Guardian Stones once rested. We have found texts not meant to be read by mortal eyes. I know how to wield the power of the Orb.”
“I think a well-placed blade will convince you to share such knowledge with all of us,” said Korre.
“Hold your tongue,” snapped Demetry. “If there truly are phirops within this room you would be dismembered before you were able to lay a finger upon this man.” He turned his attention to the proconsul. “And if you are lying to me, Luca Marcus?”
“Yes, what if?”
Demetry eyed the proconsul and made up his mind. “I will not make threats. What is it that you want in exchange?”
“An open ear,” said Luca. “I wish only to be your guide, to teach you the way of the Paserani. Your will is my law.” He dropped to one knee and held out his hands, the rings of his fingers awaiting Demetry like the claws of a bear trap.
Demetry stood for a moment in silence, contemplating the deal that was set before him. Finally, he rested his outstretched palm in the proconsul’s awaiting grasp. Dr
y lips pressed against Demetry’s knuckles as visions of grandeur swarmed in his mind.
CHAPTER
IX
CONCLAVE
Beneath the stone foundation of High Tower was a small circular room. Secluded and hardly ever used, the room was riddled with discarded furniture from the apartments located in the upper levels of the complex. It feels more like a dungeon than a room for conclave, thought Evelyn as she wrinkled her nose at the noxious odor of mold.
It was a suffocating space, filled with far too many bodies and clutter. They were seated around a pair of tables that had been thrust together for their gathering. A small oil lamp was all that lit the otherwise abyssal space. Lord Nochman sat across from her, appearing especially gaunt in the dim light.
Evelyn didn’t know what to make of the former high lord. She had heard that Nochman was deposed due to senility, yet she was beginning to doubt this was true. He was sharp, and seemed to know everything she knew of the arcane arts; probably a whole lot more. That made him dangerous, more likely to figure her out. But it also made him a possible ally. With wisdom, superstitions fade. He may come to see things as she did. And if not him, possibly his son. She looked at the prince, who was revising a collection of edicts in a harried fashion.
One seat remained empty at the table. Evelyn was silently wondering who they were waiting for when Nochman cleared his throat loudly. “As you all know, Capernicus has been all but consumed,” began Nochman, effortlessly taking charge of the meeting. “It would seem that the next act of this conflict will be played out before the walls of Luthuania. The enemy is strong, emboldened by their victories and the swelling of their ranks. We need to find a factor to tip the balance. We must eliminate the necromancer who controls this army of carrions. But as we learned a few days ago, this will be no simple matter. The necromancer is protected not only by his carrion minions, but also an army of dragoons and undead dragons. The Nexus is unassailable, and it may prove impossible to draw him out for ambush. What we need is a singular being who can take the fight to him.”
“You speak of the last of the Sundered Gods,” said Evelyn, suddenly intrigued.
“I assume everyone present is well-versed in the history of Yansarian,” said Nochman. There was a flurry of nods all around. Evelyn was not surprised. It was one of the first histories she learned as a child from her mother.
Her mother had spoken of Yansarian with a degree of reverence she seldom used toward the Sundered Gods. He was the only demigod that survived the cataclysmic war with the Wyserum. Many people in Capernicus came to praise him at the same level as the Creators, and her father even erected a shrine within Stone Keep so the foolish Yanish Brothers could worship.
Evelyn used to dive into the reflecting pool after the temple was closed and collect the silver caps the faithful discarded there in tribute. Her mother had scolded her harshly when she got caught, smacking her hands until they turned bright red. “You never disrespect a man’s faith. It is the reality in which they live, and it shapes all decisions they ever make. Understand it, use it, but never scorn it.”
Evelyn would have to keep that lesson in mind. She eyed the former high lord, trying to surmise his intentions. “Yansarian is a symbol of hope to many of the Capernican people, Lord Nochman. But hasn’t the world been better without his divine intervention?”
Waymire sucked his teeth, bobbing his beard in agreement. “It is best to let sleeping gods lie, Your Grace.”
“I agree with you completely,” replied Nochman. “Awakening the Guardian is unsavory, but I fear, entirely necessary.”
A nascent fear crawled up Evelyn’s spine, causing her flesh to goose pimple. Their intentions were not in alignment. What are Nochman’s plans after the Guardian is awakened? She feared she already knew the answer.
Beside her, Desperous’s eyes were still on the pile of papers, but Evelyn noted that his pen had ceased moving. The cogs of his brain were clearly coming to some grand conclusion, or worse yet, he understood the true reason of her hesitancy.
“If we rouse the Guardian, what then?” said Disias, pressing the question that sat on the tip of Evelyn’s tongue.
“We give him the Orb.”
The room exploded, as everyone shared their opinion at once.
“A fool’s gamble,” snarled Disias, his voice being the loudest. “It’s as likely to be used against us as for us.”
“Against what?” challenged Desperous. He set his pen aside. “You have nothing left to lose, save your lives. And those, too, will be lost if the necromancer is not stopped.”
“Safer to let one of our magics have a go at it than to give it to the Guardian,” said Waymire. He nodded his head at no one in particular.
Nochman scoffed at the notion. “The Orb is like a river dammed. Unlock its power, and only the staunchest of magics could hold back the tide. Tell me, who amongst your haggard army could contain it?”
The general was wise enough to bite his tongue. Disias was not. He began spouting nonsense about the Weaver, Vacia, and the blighted Guardians. Nochman rebutted with a lecture concerning the virtues of Yansarian. Captain Bently crossed his heart each time a disparaging remark was made about the Guardians. Beside her, Prince Desperous stared despondently at his pile of papers. Somehow his inkwell had been knocked over, ruining all of his work. He quietly muttered under his breath, damning all the gods equally. These men held their demigods with such deference, their blind zealotry might tear apart the alliance.
“Excuse me, my lords.”
Evelyn’s voice was too small to be heard over the ruckus.
“Excuse me, my lords!” she shouted, while striking the table with the flat of her hand. The room fell silent, and all eyes queerly shifted upon her. She stood, crushing the timorous instinct to quail before the iron gaze of these men.
“Faith, my lords. Have faith in the Creators’ way.” Evelyn silently thanked her mother’s wisdom. The Creators were the only common thread that united them all. Beyond Vacia, beyond the Guardians, beyond Fate, they reigned supreme. She used this like a weapon. “Have faith that the Creators have laid this path before us. Have faith that the Creators have granted us the wisdom to overcome this trial. For without faith, we are already lost, and I cannot accept this. My people deserve a proper chance, and if I am to be queen, my decision is worth more than any other Capernican lord.” Waymire and Disias bowed, submitting to her supremacy. “I stand with Lord Nochman. We should awaken the Guardian. Then we shall decide the fate of the Orb.”
Nochman nodded in approval.
“But,” she continued, causing his smile to draw to a thin line. “I would like to see that this Orb exists. In my land, the four Guardian Stones are as much a myth as a reality.”
“They were very real to your king, Your Grace,” said Disias. “He scoured the Nexus his entire life looking for the fabled artifact.” He laughed at some far off memory. “The poor man would have never fathomed it was in the possession of his greatest enemy.”
“It was not always in our possession,” said Nochman. There was a hint of boastfulness to his speech. “Long it lie hidden in plain sight, high upon the pinnacle of Yasmire Tower. For decades it sucked the energies of the masses dry from its indomitable perch. We used the chaos of the Order’s revolt to steal the Orb from the Nexus.”
Waymire’s cheeks turned bright red, flustered by the mere mention of the Order.
Disias smirked. A master of strategy, he was clearly able to appreciate how well they had been played by their enemy.
Evelyn leaned over the table. “So, Lord Nochman. Might we see this Guardian Stone, this Orb of Azure?”
Nochman smiled at her as a schoolteacher would his pupil. “No,” was his only reply.
Dejected, she fell back in her seat. Her moment of feeling as if she belonged amongst this table of lords collapsed around her. Still, there was a small triumph. If they were retaining the Orb for the Guardian, the Luthuanians would have to keep it close at hand. Eventually th
e artifact would surface. Patience was another trait her mother had taught her, and for now she could wait. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the prince was eyeing her curiously. She did not look in his direction.
“Yansarian exiled himself to Coralan years ago,” continued Nochman. “This will be no easy mission. Once awakened, we must convince Yansarian to come to our aid. The Guardians were always false prophets of the Creators. Interest alone will dictate whether or not he aids us in our struggle. This will be as much a political mission as anything else. That is why I am nominating my son to represent my people.” Desperous gave his father a surprised glance, but Nochman gave him no notice.
“Captain Bently will serve as a suitable diplomat for the men of Caper,” said Waymire. He proudly patted Bently on the back.
Bently scoffed. “I will not walk a foot in companionship with a man who disparages my god.” He looked at Nochman crossly. “Not all within this room believe as you do. The Guardians are most sacred to us.” Evelyn smiled at the man’s unshakable faith. Though his hair was grown out, she could still detect the razor scars on his crown. The Yanish Brothers loved to mutilate the skulls of their orphans during penitence. Devotion gained through pain was hard to break.
“All the same, I imagine you will let this issue pass,” said Nochman. “Your survival relies on this alliance, and our differences in faith pale in comparison to that need.”
Captain Bently looked to General Waymire, as if he might address this umbrage. The general replied tersely. “You will serve your kingdom as you are asked, Captain Bently.” Waymire’s tone was such that there was no room for discussion.
The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2) Page 9