by John Marco
‘I think,’ said Tarlan as he watched the pretty servant walk away, ‘that we should have some food now.’ He turned to his brothers with a sly smile. ‘Let’s get her back here, yes?’
‘You’re a letch,’ commented Harliz. He blew on his steaming cup. ‘And ugly, in case you haven’t noticed.’
‘Leave her alone,’ agreed Garmin.
Lorn grinned, amused by the bickering brothers. Neither of them were remotely handsome, but that rarely stopped Tarlan from flirting with every girl he passed. His wandering eye constantly annoyed Harliz, leaving Garmin to make peace between them. Lorn tasted his shrana, burning his lips on the hot liquid. He never sweetened his shrana with honey or cane, liking its raw, bitter taste. Tonight, after his long day of labour, the shrana tasted particularly fine.
‘I’m going to talk to her,’ Tarlan decided. Making a great effort, he pulled his stooped body away from the dark table and meandered through the crowded chamber toward the serving girl. Harliz shooed him away with annoyance, plainly glad to be rid of him. Garmin, ignoring both his brothers, looked at Lorn instead.
‘What about you? Shouldn’t you be getting back?’
Lorn nodded. ‘I should.’
But he kept right on drinking.
‘Lorn, you’ve got your own pretty girl back inside the wall,’ Garmin pointed out. ‘And your child, too.’
‘Yes,’ Lorn drawled. ‘But Poppy will be sleeping when I get back, and Eiriann spends nights with her father. He’s not well at all, and I don’t like to keep them apart.’
‘And Kahana White-Eye doesn’t need him anymore,’ said Harliz playfully.
‘So?’ Garmin pressed. ‘What will you do? Become a roofer?’
Lorn laughed, but their jibes stung him. ‘Let me tell you – I am happy White-Eye doesn’t need me any more. She stood up to Baralosus and saved Jador, and that’s no less than any king or queen could ask. But, I have been thinking . . .’ He rolled the little cup between his palms. ‘I’ve been here a good long time now. Poppy is happy, and so is Eiriann. She’s a good woman, the second good woman I’ve had, and that’s saying a lot for a man like me. I didn’t deserve my first wife and I’ll be damned if I deserve Eiriann. Poppy doesn’t even know she’s not her mother.’
Garmin smiled. ‘What are you saying, Lorn? What’s on your mind?’ Harliz answered the question first. ‘He’s restless. He wants to go home.’
‘To Norvor?’ Garmin studied Lorn. ‘Is that it?’
Lorn shrugged. ‘I think about it. Of course I do. Look, we all came here to get a healing out of Grimhold, and none of us are any closer. Minikin will never take Poppy into Grimhold and I’d be a fool to hope otherwise. There’s no room for her. The mistress had made that plain. So what am I to do?’
The brothers glanced at each other. ‘What can any of us do?’ said Harliz. ‘We’re stuck here, Lorn, all of us. That means you, too, king or not.’
‘Aye, and it’s maddening,’ roiled Lorn. ‘I thought I could rest here and grow old and be content to see Poppy safe and happy. Oh, but Norvor calls to me! She does, and I miss her so.’
Harliz starting to say something, but his brother stopped him, putting up a hand. ‘Let’s just drink,’ suggested Garmin. ‘Let’s not talk about the past.’
For all the Seekers, the past was a subject of little interest, and Lorn was grateful to end the conversation. He made an effort to bring the talk to lighter things, commenting about the work they had done that day and about how crowded the shrana house was tonight, and soon they had all forgotten about the past once more. They had forgotten about Tarlan, too, who had disappeared somewhere among the crowd. Lorn assumed the man had found game somewhere or a benefactor willing to share some tobacco. Another hour passed. The light from the dingy windows on the other side of the shrana house had long gone dark. At last, Lorn decided it was time to leave. He said his good-byes to his unusual friends, left a couple of coins on the table, and headed toward the door. Suddenly, he was eager to see Eiriann and find out how her father Garthel was doing. Garthel was old and feeble, and though the desert air had done him good he was still fairing poorly. Tomorrow he would spend the day with them all, Lorn decided, and forget this nonsense about Norvor. But before he could exit the shrana house he heard Tarlan excitedly calling his name. Tarlan was coming through the beaded door, shouting for Lorn and dragging a stranger along behind him. His eyes bulged excitedly as he glimpsed Lorn.
‘There he is,’ he said excitedly, turning toward the stranger. The man with him had a circumspect look. ‘That’s Lorn.’ Tarlan quickly closed the gap between them. ‘Lorn, wait. This is someone you need to meet.’
Lorn stopped by the beaded entrance, stepping aside to greet his friend. Tarlan hurried them together. Lorn spied the man, then Tarlan. ‘Who’s this?’
‘A Nithin!’ Tarlan laughed giddily. ‘A Nithin, Lorn, come all the way from Nith!’
‘A Nithin?’ Lorn again focused on the man, this time more precisely. ‘Is that so?’
Nithins were known to be proud and rare like diamonds, and in his whole life Lorn had never met a single one. In all of the township, not one of the Seekers were Nithin, and so Tarlan’s surprise seemed appropriate. The stranger, a man of substantial bearing, wore riding clothes and a bright green cape caked in desert dust. He had been long on the road, that much was plain. His brown hair hung in dirty tangles around his unshaven neck.
‘My name is Alsadair,’ he pronounced. ‘You are King Lorn of Norvor?’
Lorn straightened. ‘I am unaccustomed to that title these days, sir. But yes, I am Lorn. And you are from Nith? Truly?’
‘I am,’ said Alsadair, ‘and I have just at last come across the desert with a Caravan from Ganjor. I am on a mission, King Lorn, and in this horrible little village they speak of you as the man to see.’
‘Do they?’ Lorn looked to Tarlan for answers. ‘Where’d you find him?’
‘He just come across, just as he says,’ replied Tarlan. ‘Started asking all kinds of questions, looking for a way into Jador. People told him to come looking for you. I ran into him outside while having a pipe.’
By now, Harliz and Garmin had noticed the little commotion, coming up to stand beside Lorn. They quietly eyed the stranger, listening intently to their brother’s explanation. Lorn, not liking the gathering attention, directed all of them back outside, pushing Tarlan toward the beaded curtain. The Nithin followed him out, trailed by Lorn and the Marnan brothers. At once the cool night air struck Lorn’s face. He pulled the Nithin away from the shrana house, speaking to him in a measured tone.
‘What is your business?’ he asked. ‘What do you want in Jador?’
‘To deliver a message,’ said Alsadair. He brushed the dust from his fine green cape. ‘I am a herald of His Grace, Daralor, Prince of Nith. I bear a letter with me from His Grace.’
‘A letter?’ asked Lorn. ‘For who?’
‘For the Bronze Knight,’ said Alsadair. ‘For the Liirian named Lukien.’
The name was instantly familiar to Lorn. ‘Lukien?’ He looked at Tarlan. ‘Did you know this?’
Tarlan shook his head. ‘No. He just said he was looking for you, and I told him we was friends.’
‘This letter you carry – it’s from your Prince?’ Lorn asked Alsadair.
‘The letter is from a charge of the prince,’ said the Nithin. ‘I cannot tell you more. It is private, and for the eyes of the Bronze Knight only.’
‘Lukien isn’t here,’ said Lorn. ‘I don’t know where he is, and neither does anyone else.’
Alsadair replied stoically. ‘It does not matter. He will return here, and when he does I will give him the letter.’
‘What? What makes you think he’ll be coming here?’
‘Because that is what I have been told, King Lorn. That is what the author of this letter has told my prince.’
Lorn was thoroughly bewildered. And intrigued. ‘This author – is he a boy?’
Alsadair looked surprised.
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because a boy named Gilwyn Toms left here some months ago. He was a friend of Lukien.’
Alsadair shook his head. ‘Then I will not keep you wondering, King Lorn. The one who penned this letter is not named Toms. But I cannot tell you more. I can speak only to the man in charge of this city.’
‘There is no man in charge of the city,’ said Garmin. ‘If you mean the township, we have no ruler.’
‘I mean Jador,’ said Alsadair. ‘Who rules there?’
‘A girl,’ said Tarlan.
‘The Kahana,’ said Lorn. ‘Her name is White-Eye.’
An hour later, Alsadair the Nithin got his audience with White-Eye. In one of the palace’s many open-aired chambers, the messenger of the Nithin Prince explained the long trek he had endured, and why he had come to Jador. With White-Eye seated imperiously before him, Alsadair delivered his tale standing, holding the letter he had carried with him for hundreds of miles. Lorn stood off to the side, allowing the Nithin to make his case and studying the letter clamped in his hands. The envelope of ivory-toned paper bore the wax stamp of Daralor, the Nithin ruler. Although Alsadair had been offered food and drink, he had remained standing in the chamber the entire time, waiting for the blind Kahana to arrive. Upon hearing the news of the Nithin’s request, White-Eye had come to him quickly, a favour for which the messenger seemed grateful. A pitcher of beer and some food lay on a table near him, but Alsadair’s eyes never wandered to them. Instead, he watched White-Eye as he spoke, his voice reverential and practiced.
‘. . . and from Dreel to Ganjor. In Ganjor I found the caravan that took me here, Kahana. When I came to the village – the township, you call it – I asked for a man who could help me. Someone of importance. The people there pointed me to King Lorn.’ Alsadair glanced briefly at the letter in his hands. He seemed unbalanced by White-Eye’s blindness, as though she was not only blind, but deaf to his words as well. ‘By my accounting I have been on the road for four weeks. I have expired many horses in my haste to get here. And now that I am here I ask your peace, Kahana. This letter may only be given to the Bronze Knight. I may not even give it over to your safe keeping. That is my mission.’
‘I understand your mission, Sir Alsadair,’ said White-Eye mildly. ‘And you are welcome to stay here within Jador for as long as you wish. But be aware, Sir – your stay with us may be long indeed. We have no knowledge of Lukien’s whereabouts, and only hope that he will come to us again.’
‘My lady, I have been promised that he will come here, and if it takes all of my life to wait for him, then that is what I will do.’
White-Eye grimaced in Lorn’s direction. They were both thinking the same things, he could tell.
‘Sir Alsadair,’ began White-Eye, ‘You have seen the way Jador is bursting with northerners. We of course have room for one more. We welcome you, and we wish only good relations with your Prince. But . . .’
Lorn spoke up. ‘But you vex us. You have a letter for Lukien? Good. Then deliver it when he comes. But you cannot keep us in the dark. You must tell us more. Who wrote the letter?’
This time, Alsadair did not hesitate in his answer. ‘This was only a secret to the men you were with, King Lorn. I meant no offense by keeping things from you. Aric Glass is the name of the man who wrote the letter. He is in Nith even now, waiting for Lukien to return.’
‘Glass?’ Lorn almost laughed. ‘A relation to Baron Glass, I suppose?’
‘His son,’ said Alsadair. ‘He claims to have fought with Lukien against the baron in Koth, and now he waits for Lukien to return to the battle.’
‘That amazes us, Sir,’ said White-Eye. ‘We hear almost nothing of the battle for Liiria. What else can you tell us? Have you heard of a young man named Gilwyn Toms?’
Lorn shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, White-Eye, I asked him about Gilwyn. He has not heard of him.’
White-Eye suppressed her obvious sadness. ‘Any news would be welcome, Sir Alsadair.’
‘My news is at least two months old, Kahana,’ said Alsadair. ‘I know only what Aric Glass has told my Prince. Koth still lays in the hands of Baron Glass. So too does the rest of Liiria.’
‘And Norvor?’ asked Lorn. ‘What about Norvor?’
‘The Diamond Queen rules Norvor.’
Lorn frowned. ‘You are sure?’
‘As I told you, my news is old. But they are a formidable team, the Diamond Queen and Baron Glass. It is not likely that anyone has toppled them. King Raxor and his Reecians have tried, and they have paid heavily for it.’
‘They have warred?’ asked Lorn.
‘They battled at the river Kryss,’ said the Nithin. ‘And the victory for Baron Glass was unarguable. Raxor’s son was killed in the battle. Thousands of others, too.’
‘The armour?’ asked White-Eye.
Alsadair nodded gravely. ‘The baron’s armour is relentless, lady. It knows no blade that can harm it. That is why the Bronze Knight quests, to find a sword that can best the armour.’
‘What sword?’ Lorn asked.
‘Aric Glass says it is called the Sword of Angels. He had told us the knight Lukien seeks the sword in the Serpent Kingdom, a land beyond this one. That is why he will return here. When he finds the sword, he will come home to Grimhold first.’
For a moment White-Eye was too stunned to speak. Lorn watched her, seeing understanding dawn on her face. ‘There is a place of serpents,’ she said softly. ‘An ancient land very far from here. It is called Tharlara, but most Jadori do not know of it. I know because my father taught me these things.’
‘And Minikin?’ asked Lorn. ‘Does she know of it? Does she know of this sword?’
‘She must,’ said White-Eye. ‘Or if she wished to, she could find out.’
‘Then why didn’t she tell us?’ Lorn asked angrily. ‘How could she keep something like that from us?’
White-Eye turned to him, freezing him with her stare. ‘We should wait to speak of this.’
Lorn caught himself. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Kahana White-Eye, King Lorn, I can tell you only what I know myself,’ said Alsadair. ‘It does not even matter to me if this sword exists or not. I have my mission, and that is all that concerns me. With your leave I will wait here for the Bronze Knight to return.’
‘Yes,’ said White-Eye distractedly. ‘Of course . . .’ Then she caught herself and turned her face up at him. ‘Tell me one more thing, Alsadair. What news can you give us of Ganjor?’
‘Ganjor? I’m not sure what my lady asks . . .’
‘Anything,’ said Lorn. ‘How did Ganjor seem to you? Was it at peace?’
‘Oh, yes, King Lorn. A beautiful city. I had nothing to trouble me there, and I had heard that northerners were not always welcome in Ganjor.’
White-Eye smiled broadly. ‘That is well, Sir. Isn’t it, King Lorn?’
Lorn agreed heartily. ‘It is well indeed.’
‘Take your rest, Sir Alsadair,’ directed White-Eye. She rose from her chair. ‘We will make a place for you. But now, eat. And drink! You must have a thirst.’
‘I do, my lady,’ sighed the Nithin. ‘Thank you.’
White-Eye bade him toward the beer and food, then picked her way toward Lorn, offering the old king her arm so he could guide her. Lorn knew what was coming, and so walked the kahana gingerly toward the other side of the gigantic chamber, out of earshot of the eating Alsadair. Long shadows filled the room, cast by candlelight from the jumping tapers. White-Eye did not search for a place to sit, but rather stood, biting anxiously on her lower lip.
‘Lorn, I must explain something to you,’ she said. ‘You are troubled. You are right to be. But whatever Minikin might know about Lukien or about the sword or even about Gilwyn, she may not tell us.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Lorn. ‘There is too much at stake for her to keep secrets.’
‘Because it is not our place to know everything. Minikin may summ
on knowledge from the Akari, but they live in the world of the dead, and their knowledge may change the way we in this world live our lives. It is a great burden that she carries – and a great temptation.’
‘I understand that,’ said Lorn, ‘but this is life and death we’re talking about. Surely if she can look into some talisman—’
‘No,’ said White-Eye. ‘And I will not ask it of her, not even to find out Gilwyn’s fate.’ Her face softened then, and she said to Lorn, ‘You have taught me so much. Now, will you let me teach you how things are done here? We are still a mystery to you, I can tell.’
‘Yes,’ sighed Lorn. He glanced over his shoulder at Alsadair, who was gulping down great mouthfuls of beer. ‘Do you believe him, White-Eye?’
‘Should I not believe him? You can see his face, Lorn, and I cannot. Do you think he lies?’
‘No,’ replied Lorn. ‘I think everything he’s told us is true. And it troubles me, White-Eye.’
‘Yes, I can feel that,’ said the girl. ‘He reminds you of home. Of Norvor.’
Lorn nodded. ‘Aye.’
White-Eye felt for his hand. ‘You think of Norvor too much these day. Your home is here now, with Eiriann and Poppy.’
‘Yes.’ Lorn smiled faintly. ‘Of course it is.’
‘It is, Lorn.’ White-Eye squeezed his hand. ‘You can be content here, if you try.’
‘Ah, to be content!’ Lorn lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘Let me tell you something about men, Kahana. Men are never content. Their hearts are restless rivers, always running.’