Abelard indicated Pierre should lift Jasper up. “He may not be able to swallow, or even know what we’re asking. We’re going to have to get as much of this in to him as we can without him choking on it.”
Hwe Li stopped struggling against Marcos now. “Let me,” she pleaded. Marcos released her and she knelt behind Jasper’s head, lifting his heavy form with the aid of Abelard and Pierre so that his head lay on her lap. She touched his cheeks tenderly and pried open his mouth.
“Careful,” Abelard cautioned her, “he may bite when this hits his mouth.”
To show how much she cared she thrust two fingers in each side of Jasper’s mouth, between his teeth.
“Not wise,” Abelard said, shaking his head.
“Love is greater than Wisdom,” she flung back at him defiantly, challenging his own.
He sighed, perhaps remembering the great loves of his youth, “True, Your Reverence. None can resist your mistress, be they ever so wise.” To be sure though, he motioned that Pierre should grip Jasper’s jaw firmly. Hwe Li snarled at him as his hands approached her lover’s face and he withdrew.
“Quick, Abelard,” Marcos said.
“Yes, quick,” Hwe Li echoed. To Jasper she whispered, “Look into my eyes, my love,” then began to incant softly under her breath.
To Jasper her eyes expanded to become twin universes, and he floated in the darkness of their voids. But the darkness was not cold, like death; it embraced him like love, flowed around him with a warmth he knew and trusted. Abelard poured the concoction down his throat. At first he coughed, as the dark waters in which he floated filled his lungs, then Hwe Li said, “Drink, my love; drink of me.” For Jasper her voice was not so much heard as felt, like a tender breeze, pushing him gently down, and he sank in the dark waters, drinking them deeply. Warmth spread through his body, flowing through his arteries, radiating from the depths of his being.
Abelard poured in the rest of the concoction. Hwe Li removed her fingers from between Jasper’s teeth, gently closed his mouth and caressed his face, whispering, “Sleep, my love, sleep.”
Jasper slept.
Chapter 38: Strange Creature: Thedra
Far beneath the necromancer’s tower, inaccessible except from the gardens, the laboratory was dank and dark. A strange scent filled the air, not quite of death, but rather of death indefinitely delayed. Along the walls were shelves filled with earthenware pots and glass jars in which half living parts of things floated, suspended in viscous fluids, like pickles to satisfy the foulest of appetites. An eye, without a head, turned lazily, staring, observing all, but powerless to affect anything beyond its glass prison. In another glass jar a mouth stretched, forever trying to scream, but without a face to replicate and echo its horror, or lungs to give it sound.
At the centre of the laboratory, standing on several crates piled on each other to augment its three feet of height, leaning over a table, a strange creature worked. Its eyes swivelled, protruding from its skull, looking into the shadows where the parts of what was once life lived or partly lived. It looked not in fear, but for comfort, for these were the experiments of its master, or rather its master’s greater servant, the necromancer Phisphul, for whose cruel commands it felt nostalgic loss. Now Phisphul’s parts were part of the experiment, and would serve the greater purpose, to which in life he had been devoted. The master of them both would come, and when he came it would be, not as a mortal man, but with the power of vanquished gods.
Carefully the creature combined the powders in a copper bowl beneath an alembic, from which not one but several glass tubes spiralled toward the ceiling. Removing a tiny cork from a stoppered flask, it poured black blood onto the pile of powder, which began to bubble and flame. Smoke rose in insubstantial threads which seemed to grasp the alembic like fingers, pressing in toward the strip of flesh that lay within. The flesh flipped about, moving toward the smoky fingers, trembling just out of reach. It exhaled a vapour as the heat increased, and the vapour rose toward the spiralling tubes above. The vapour was chased along the outside of the glass by the smoke that rose from the copper bowl. Both strained upwards, not rising naturally, as if restrained by an otherworldly force, and from the top of the tubes, where all of them joined, came a sound, somewhere between cracking glass and the moan of a dying man.
The strange creature remained with its head bent toward the copper bowl, but one eye followed the progress of the vapour within, while the other followed the smoke. It knew the parts must be properly prepared, or they would be without power. It was a slow process, but the creature was patient, and its master would reward it when the work was done and the world changed.
Its master had told it, “The old gods are dying, and new gods must be made. Will you be a servant of the new, or a slave to the old?”
It would not be a slave. It would not be mocked anymore. The hatred of the many would turn to fear. It would serve and so become a master, while those who were now loved would bow down before it. The beautiful would submit before its deformed shape. Its lips curled down, a grimace to others, a smile to it. The world did not understand it, for its ways were as strange as its form, but it did not seek understanding anymore.
Chapter 39: Jasper: Vrong Veld
Jasper woke to darkness. He heard voices around him. They were familiar but he could only be sure of the identity of one. He heard Hwe Li’s voice softly incanting. The darkness rolled back. He was on his bunk. Hwe Li sat beside him, on the edge of the bed. She was smiling. Behind her were the faces of Marcos, Abelard and Pierre, and Hubert, the chapter’s house commander and senior chirurgeon, a white haired diminutive man with an impassive, surprisingly unlined face in which glittered the ever curious dark eyes of a scientist, more prone to cold analysis than hot passion. Next to Hwe Li, on the only chair in his room, a hard wooden chair for his desk, sat the duchess.
He reached up and touched Hwe Li’s face in wonder. “I saw you cry,” he said.
“I saw you dying,” she replied matter-of-factly but kissed his hand and held it against her warm cheek.
“My men at arms are combing the city with your monks,” the duchess said, frowning, “the Brotherhood of Death have miscalculated if they believe they can attack our subjects…,” she paused and corrected herself, “our friends in our city.”
Jasper shook his head. “They’re long gone by now. We won’t have our revenge here. But we will have our revenge. How long have I been under?”
“You’ve only slept half a day,” Hubert said, his eyes evaluating the patient carefully, “you have the constitution of a bull. Complexion healthy, urine untainted, discharges of the breath not foul, wound not suppurating. A remarkable recovery.”
Abelard nodded his agreement, but his face was troubled. “I’ve never seen its like. That poison was deadly. I identified it, so I know what it was from the reactions, but usually a man would be dead within minutes without the antidote, and even if I had administered it immediately after you were cut you should have been incapacitated for days, perhaps even weeks. It makes no sense.”
“Neither does attacking you here,” said Marcos, “in fact, the Dark Monks usually wouldn’t even attack a novice of our order, let alone a knight commander. And in this city?”
“A suicide squad?” the duchess suggested.
“Even then…,” Jasper said excitedly, sitting up, “I wondered about this before. The consequences for their order would be too great. They know we could wipe them out without the king raising a finger if they made such a brazen attack. At least it would be the end of them outside the capital and the duchy of Relyan. What’s driven them to make such a move now? To strike at us would require a conclave of the Dark Suvarks at least, probably the Dark Arkon himself. And he wouldn’t be so foolish, unless he was commanded.”
“And who can command the arkon of Death? Only one man – the silk merchant,” the duchess nearly spat the epithet.
“The King’s Ear? If we cleansed most of the kingdom of the Dark Brotherhood, Augu
styn would be greatly weakened. I’ve heard no news from the master of our order in Thedra to suggest Relyan could afford to risk so much, especially now that the old king is mad. There was a time when his voice was as the king’s command, but...”
Duchess Alma pressed her thin lips tightly together in an angry, barely visible red line. “Without his voice whispering in the shadows and ready to seduce the Assembly the usurper would never have taken the crown.”
“Yes, but times have changed. Now even he must be wary. He needs the Dark Monks more than ever. The king’s allies are mistaken for enemies and executed. The lucky escape to their baronies to be branded traitors and banished from the realm. Great lords of the land tremble while the once ignored priests of the sun amass mountains of wealth.”
Hubert said, “The greatest gains in Battle Board are sometimes made with the greatest risk. In such times as these the duke might risk all in hope of crowning glory.”
“Augustyn will never wear the crown,” Alma snarled.
“Perhaps he does not need to.”
Abelard nodded at his old friend, pushing the silver wire of his spectacles up past the break of his nose, then squeezed the wire in place to prevent them sliding back down, “And that has been his way for nearly half a century. Perhaps with so much risk for the cautious he has no choice but to be bold.”
“But to what end?” Jasper asked.
Abelard shrugged his broad shoulders.
Alma said, “Whatever has motivated the attack, the Dark Monks must be punished.”
Jasper put aside his misgivings. “None feels this more than me, Your Grace. If they think they can strike with impunity in the very heartland of our power they will only be emboldened. A message must be sent. I must find the right opportunity though. Revenge must be calculated, not left to the dictates of passion. There is a matter of honour at stake, but more than that.”
“And honour is no small matter for us,” Marcos said, nodding.
“Whatever my personal feelings, whatever the dishonour of inaction, I am a knight commander of the order, so even personal honour must wait on our order’s advantage.”
“I think,” said Marcos, “that in this case revenge, your honour and the advantage of our brotherhood are all one. As the Dark Monks fall, so the Crimson Monks will rise, riding over their broken bodies, treading them into the mud, spilling from them such rivers of blood that the soil itself drinks a crimson sea.”
“Let us hope. For too long have those foul merchants of death been allowed to spread, like a dark disease, infecting even the sinews of state.”
The duchess said, “You will have Amery’s aid in finding the opportunity for…your honour…and…your order’s advantage.”
“You are too kind, lady.”
She smiled, but her eyes were hard points, “If the Dark Brotherhood falls….” She left the corollary unstated. Jasper knew her advantage and his revenge were likely joined in this matter.
Chapter 40: Arthur: Thedra
The day of the tournament had arrived.
The south end of the market had been cleared, and dirt and sand poured over the cobblestones, creating an artificial field. The perimeter was a riot of colours. Pavilions emblazoned with repeated patterns of coats of arms surrounded the field. Banners and pennants fluttered in the breeze above them, matching their patterns and colours. Wine flowed in the conduits and poured from the market fountains. Prentices escaped their responsibilities and their masters and roamed in gangs, sculling the wine like a parched man sculls water and looking for like-minded young men to fight. Teenage girls in their finest dresses affected indifference and contempt for this bravado then whispered evaluations to their friends. Near The Temple young boys charged at each other with broomsticks for horses and lances. The mayor and aldermen stood proudly around in the regalia of their office while their wives showed off the latest fashions, competing with the noble ladies for magnificence. Noble ladies, on the arms of elderly knights, haughtily scorned the poor taste of such wealthy pretenders. Carpenters hammered at the barriers of the tilting yard, and at the stands behind, finalising the work they had started before dawn, and checking the soundness of joints and sturdiness of planks. Smiths hammered at armour that might not have been worn to war for generations, and tempered newly wrought blades. Squires assisted knights into armour and pages assisted squires, as grooms brushed horses or examined caparisons for any wear or fading that might put their lords’ wealth in doubt.
Soon the stands were filled with noble ladies and commoners pushed against each other to stand as close as they could to the barriers. The burgesses’ wives stood in the lower stands, more distant from the royal box, while the mayor and aldermen stood near the north west entrance to the field. A flourish of trumpets sounded, and prince Arthur approached the field from the north west with the queen, the princesses Katherine and Sophie, and the young prince Richard, leading a procession of the greatest nobles of the realm. A herald announced the royals to the crowd and the aldermen and mayor bowed and kneeled. The prince stopped by the mayor. The mayor held out a plush cushion, on which lay a large golden key. The crown prince took the key to the city, then handed it back, enacting an ancient ritual, signifying the submission of the city and the freely given gift of its citizens’ liberties. A massive cheer went up from the crowd, and the mayor and aldermen rushed to the southern end of the field, the prince and his party following at a more leisurely pace. The same ritual was repeated with the king as he emerged from The Temple, which he had entered via the King’s Chapel, leaning for support against Ramon, the arkon of Thulathra, in bright white robes emblazoned with a golden sun. Augustyn followed behind. A fainter applause sounded through the crowd.
Arthur met his father half way to the stand. “Your Holiness is to be thanked for his aid, but it is no longer needful,” he said to the Bright Arkon with undisguised animosity, and brusquely interposed himself in the arch priest’s place, then led his father to his seat, ensuring with a raised hand to the crowd a more suitably raucous cheer for the crown. His father smiled, his eyes unusually clear, waved at the crowd and patted Arthur’s arm.
“Will you fight today, son?”
“Yes, father.”
“It is long since I broke lance on shield.”
“My first lance will be dedicated to you. From your strength my strength comes.”
“Strength fades so quickly, Arthur, and is no guarantee against the final day. Do not forget to ready your soul.”
“Your majesty’s insight is as always impeccable,” the arkon said, smirking, and tried to seat himself behind the king, but Arthur, without taking his eyes from his father’s, extended a long arm to block the arch priest, and by bending it rapidly, as if accidentally, struck him in the thigh, causing him to wince and stagger. The arkon withdrew, sitting further from the king than he had hoped, though still too close for the prince’s liking.
“My soul is as ready as any man’s can be,” Arthur said.
“Our shining lord sees all that is hidden,” the arkon muttered, rubbing his sore thigh.
“Aye, He whose will is law knows well the worth of those who love true justice more and profess false devotion less.”
“False devotion is a great sacrilege,” the king said with solemn expression, nodding his agreement with Arthur, though missing his full meaning.
“I must ready myself for the joust, Father, Kat,” he said, taking his wife’s hand and guiding her to the seat beside his father, on his left, while the queen sat on his right, several puritan nuns around her, and Arthur’s son leaned over the edge of the royal box to look toward the far ends of the jousting yard, where heralds counted through their lists and worriedly looked about for missing pennants. When the nobles were seated around the king, the burgesses and their wives took their seats.
Arthur stepped down beside his son, and produced a wooden replica of a knight and his horse, fully armoured, with real steel plates, polished to the smoothness of mirrors. Richard looked at the to
y, then at his father. “I’m not six.”
“Oh!” Arthur did not know what to say for a moment. He looked back at his wife, then bent over conspiratorially toward his son, whispering, “It’s only a model, so you can see what you’ll look like in your new armour.”
“My…”
Arthur put a finger to his lips, “Shh. Just between you and me. I’ve arranged for Sir Alcuin to train you in lance-work. He says your riding is good enough now.”
“Mother will never allow it. She thinks I’m going to fall off and break my neck.”
“Don’t worry about your mother. I’ll talk to her.”
“Is that why you’re whispering?”
“What do you mean?”
“Because you’re not afraid of talking to her.”
“Of course I’m not. But you must learn to be politic with women.”
“Oh,” Richard said, but his expression suggested more puzzlement than understanding.
“Don’t try to understand, Richard. Women are a mystery to even the wisest of men, a beautiful mystery.” He stood up straight then, and spoke loudly. “Whatever anyone thinks, Richard, you are the grandson of a king. One day you will be king yourself, and you must be able to fight. We all have our fears, whether for our own safety…” he cast a look at his wife. She held his gaze. He knew how much she feared. Having lost so many other children she clung more resolutely to Richard, “…or for others,” he added kindly, before turning back to prince Richard, “but timidity solves little. No king can rule well without the respect of strong men, and strong men only respect strength.”
Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar Page 37