The Black Altar: An Epic Fantasy (The Swords of the Sun Book 1)

by Jack Conner

  “Good night, Duke. Or is it Prince again?”

  “Either or none. Good night.”

  Baleron left him and returned to the suite, finding Rolenya in her nightgown brushing her long black hair and staring out over the city, much as he and Tiron had just been doing. The wind blew cool, but not cold, over the balcony. The winter waited for them on the other side of the mountains, but here it seemed to hold no power.

  “Where is Tiron?” she asked, and he told her. She bit her lip. “I hate to say it, Bal, but I mislike him skulking about.”

  “Me, too. Luckily Alathon has assigned two—at least—soldiers to watch him. He won’t be able to get up to any mischief. At least I don’t think so. And we’ll take him with us tomorrow, so that the city, at least, will be safe from him—if he does pose a threat. Of course, it’s entirely possible that he’s fine, and as friendly toward the peoples of the Crescent as ever, and especially Havensrike. We’re used to seeing demons in every shadow, but that doesn’t mean they’re there.”

  She offered him a smile, then patted the seat next to her. “Why don’t you join me?”

  He shrugged and occupied the cushion beside her on the balcony. They enjoyed a companionable silence for a moment, and then he steeled himself and addressed the subject he knew they both must face.

  “Why?” he said quietly.

  She stopped brushing, but only for a moment. Resuming, she said, “You mean, why did I keep my quest a secret?”

  “Yes. You even lied about it, and I didn’t think Elves ever lied.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a lie, exactly. I was … discouraged from speaking of it.”

  “Discouraged? Why? You didn’t think I would be favorably disposed toward healing the Moonstone?” He snorted. “Its corruption is what allowed my Doom! That nearly cost the Crescent the War. Of course I would want it healed, if possible.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean that. But …”

  When she didn’t go on, he nodded. “That’s why you came to the chapel to Illiana in Theslan. You were researching its scrolls, trying to find some hint of Ivenien, or the other hidden cities. But I still don’t understand why you couldn’t have come to me then.” He wanted to tell her how painful it had been for him to think their love a fraud, or at least her part in it, but he held the words in. She knew. Of course she did. In a way, that made it even worse.

  The brush dropped to her lap. “Baleron, I … couldn’t. Don’t you see? If I had forgone my quest—”

  “Stopping by the castle to say hello would hardly have been forgoing your quest!”

  She swallowed. In a low, small voice, she said, “But it would.”

  He stared at her. “How can you say that?”

  Tears glimmered at the corners of her eyes. “How can I not? Do you really not see, Baleron?”

  “No. I really don’t.”

  She let out a breath and turned to face him. Now he could see the pain in her own eyes. “If I had gone to you, I never could have left.”

  The wind sighed. Somewhere tree-limbs swayed and creaked. In the distance came the sound of Elvish singing, more lovely than the stars overhead. But not as lovely as her beloved face and voice. He longed to reach out and hold her. He almost started to, then remembered himself.

  “I’m not sure that’s an answer,” he said.

  “But it’s true. If I had foregone my quest, even to wish you well, and to tell how things were going with me, I never could have left you. I wouldn’t have had the strength to do that again.”

  “‘Strength’ is not what I’d call it.”

  “I don’t think I want to know what you’d call it.”

  “Likely not.”

  She smiled, but only a little. “Staying on my mission was all I had—the only thing I had to keep me sane during that time. I could no longer be with you, both of our peoples had made that clear, and yet neither of us were free to elope. So when the Order asked me to look into the matter of the Moonstone, I threw myself into it—with abandon. It became my life … and I’m glad it did. If I hadn’t been ferreting out clues for the whereabouts of the sacred groves, I wouldn’t have been in Havensrike a few days ago. I wouldn’t have heard about your own mad quest.”

  “That was just the beginning of it, apparently. It seems the true quest begins tomorrow. But … I am very glad you were there.”

  Now he did reach out and squeeze her hand. Her skin was soft and warm. Her eyes misted, and her voiced hitched as she said, “Bal.”

  “Rolly.”

  For a long moment, they looked at each other. His heart smashed behind his ribs, and he realized he was breathing too fast. Was now the time?

  Hardly believing his own daring, he leaned forward, as if to kiss her. She didn’t recoil, didn’t move away. Instead, her lips opened, just slightly, as if readying herself for him.

  Overhead, the stars shone brightly, and in the distance the Elvish singing rose in volume.

  Their lips neared … neared …

  And that was when the screaming started.

  Baleron and Rolenya jerked apart. Her eyes flew wide.

  Instantly they dashed toward the door and out into the hall. Others were gathering, too, some looking befuddled and tired, others alarmed. Sounds of tense voices sounded from down a particular hallway, and Baleron and Rolenya took it, having to navigate several turns before stumbling upon the scene of violence.

  Two Elves in royal livery sprawled on the floor of a small chamber in a smaller service hallway, as out of the way a location as one could imagine in the Palace. It was probably only ill luck (from the point of view of the killer) that the bodies had been discovered so soon.

  As soon as he saw the corpses, Baleron recognized them.

  “Tiron,” he whispered. “Tiron did this.”

  “Can you be sure?” Rolenya asked.

  Others pressed in, so he drew back with her while the officials investigated the crime scene.

  “They were the ones tailing Tiron,” Baleron said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “If he’s not, I am,” said a new voice, and they both glanced to see Alathon approaching. “I appointed them myself.”

  Behind him were Feren and Calendil, who had elected to stay here for the night rather than return to his mountain fortress. Baleron wondered if he had a woman here—a lady love. Feren looked annoyed, but Calendil was grim.

  “Tiron!” said Calendil, grinding his jaw. “Then he must be serving the Enemy. He will go for the Book!”

  Baleron nodded. “We must hurry.”

  Alathon quickly ordered a troop prepared and mounts drawn up before the Palace, and without even bothering to throw on proper attire—he and both Elven princes wore their night clothes, elegant silken affairs that did not restrict movement—he led the way down the stairs to the front of his manse. Already horses and troops massed there. Alathon swung himself astride a beautiful white horse, bare-back—or Elvish fashion, as Baleron thought of it—and cried, “To the Library! There can be no delay. Lorivanneth’s life could well be at stake.”

  Baleron helped Rolenya astride one horse, then mounted one himself. The Elves provided no saddle, and he was awkward on the back of it, but the horse seemed used to such riding and responded to him intuitively.

  Without a wasted breath, Alathon shot off into the night, plunging down a broad road lined by handsome trees whose lower limbs glowed with the light of Elvish lamps—glowing jewels suspended by fine chains. Baleron found himself riding beside Calendil, who was frowning in the direction of the Swan Tower. There appeared to be light and activity there, and Baleron knew from the look on Calendil’s face that something unusual was occurring.

  Baleron realized something, and said as much: “We should be overtaking him.”

  “What do you mean?” said Calendil.

  “Tiron. He will not have horse, will he? They were all in the stables, and the stables are close enough to have sent a runner into the Palace by now if there had been murders there, to
o. So he’s unlikely to have stolen a horse. But if he was swift enough … and he is, both swift and agile, and a deadly shot with a bow besides …”

  Calendil nodded. “He could have made it to the Swan Tower, murdered a guard or two and stolen a Swan. Then ridden that to the Library.”

  Baleron tried to imagine the innocent young man he had known performing such a calculated act of murder and theft, and came up short. Either Tiron had been pretending the whole time, which Baleron could not believe, or something had fundamentally been altered in him in a very short time.

  What hold do they have on you, my friend? His former friend, at any rate. Tiron had mentioned something about a sister …

  “That is my fear,” Baleron agreed, pitching his voice above the thunder of hooves. “Otherwise why have we not overtaken him, if we’re mounted and he is not? But if he’d gone by a different route, with a head start, and now possesses a Swan, I don’t see why he couldn’t beat us to the Library and then have an avenue of escape after doing what he needs to do there.”

  “He is more fiendish than I would have guessed,” Calendil said. “If so. At any rate, I cannot risk it. He cannot be allowed to leave. Father!” he cried, riding forward and abreast the King. “May I have your leave to venture to the Swan Tower and rouse my knights? I fear the bloody skulker has taken a Swan.”

  “Of course,” said Alathon. “I only pray you are wrong.”

  “As so I.”

  With that, Calendil nodded to two knights to peel off from the small host and accompany him, and the three sprang down the first side-avenue they came to that led in the direction of the Swan Tower. Baleron prayed that they were fast enough. If nothing else, the bodies had been discovered fairly quickly. Baleron had only seen Tiron perhaps half an hour before the murders had been accomplished. Perhaps the young archer hadn’t had time to carry out his treason yet. And it was treason—against not just Havensrike but the entire Crescent. If the Enemy should get their hands on the Book and use it to discover the Black Altar, all might well be lost.

  Baleron fell back to ride beside Rolenya. She looked worried but determined, and the wind streamed her long black hair out behind her. It also flattened her filmy garments against her voluptuous frame, and Baleron had forgiven her enough to be annoyed by it. Such displays were for him alone, he could not help but think. Yet these were but fleeting notions that passed through his mind as she turned to him, her eyes moist but with no tears on her cheeks. He saw the desperation there, the fear of what could be.

  This is all going wrong, he thought. All the plans they had made were in danger of coming undone, and all because the treachery of a friend—not a demon in disguise, this time, Baleron was certain of it. Tiron was the same man he’d always been. But somehow the Enemy had gained some hold over him. It didn’t matter how, not then. The Shadow was quite deft with manipulation and fear, and the manipulation of fear.

  “It will be all right,” Baleron told her.

  She met his glance, but he saw no reassurance in her face, only worry. His words would be no comfort. Only finding Lorivanneth safe and in possession of the Book would do that. And Baleron knew he’d be wise not to offer such assurances if he could not guarantee them.

  Lights appeared ahead, and more Elves. Baleron saw tapering columns—or were they trees?—rising to uphold a lofty portico with three towers raised behind it. Flowering vines covered each spire, and from the whole exuded a sense of comfort and knowledge, of gentle enlightenment. The Library, Baleron knew without being told.

  Only something was wrong here, too. There was commotion, and looks of shock and dismay on the faces of the Elves. One such Elf was riding a horse away from the Library stables, directly toward the King’s party, but when he saw Alathon he drew to a halt, and the King slowed his party so that the new Elf, who must be a messenger, rode beside him.

  “My lord!” said the messenger, “I was just on my way to call you here. I—I am so sorry, my lord—I do not know how to say …”

  Alathon’s eyes blazed, and his face paled. “Do you mean to say …?”

  The Elf could only nod and look away. He wiped moisture from his eyes. “I am so sorry, my lord,” he said again.

  A gasp escaped Alathon’s mouth. “Lorivanneth!”

  He flung himself off the horse as it reached the stairs leading up into the library and dashed up them, his men following, or some of them. A captain ordered half to go with their lord and half to wait with the horses. Baleron and Rolenya moved forward and joined the party of the King as he entered the library, which was much as Baleron had expected—graceful and serene, a place of true enlightenment, with many rest areas where people could sit and read, and banks of scrolls and shelves of books, as well as indoor gardens with canopies of domed glass overhead. The Library was three stories tall, with three towers, and Lorivanneth resided in the tallest one. As head of all learning and knowledge in the realm, she had a position of great importance, Baleron learned as they went along.

  Lorivanneth had kept the Book in her room, and the party was obliged to ascend the spiral stairs all the way to the top of the tower. A few Elves were already in the large suite Lorivanneth had occupied, seeing to the body and surveying the scene of the crime.

  Alathon’s face was white and grim as he knelt over the body of his elder daughter, who had been run through the middle with a blade and had collapsed to the floor. Her blond hair streamed about her slim shoulders, and her mouth was half-open, as if in shock. A tiny speck of blood ran down from one corner of her lips. Her eyes stared at the ceiling.

  His hand trembling, Alathon reached out and closed her eyes. Tears glimmered in his own eyes, but he did not release them, not now. Baleron had no doubt he would grieve in private.

  “Lorivanneth, my love, you did not deserve this,” Alathon said, his voice only trembling a little.

  Feren knelt beside him, a look of anguish on his face. He wept openly, not bothering to hide it, and he shook as if with ague. He turned red-rimmed eyes on Baleron and Rolenya. “You did this! You brought this ruin here!”

  Baleron didn’t argue or defend himself. Feren was right. Baleron despaired that Tiron had betrayed them so villainously.

  But Rolenya did not back down. “The Book,” she said, calmly but implacably. “Where is it?”

  One of the Elves who had been in the room when they arrived said, “It was on her private desk, where she had been keeping it during the nights—well, the one night. I think she meant to begin a round-the-clock translation of it, passing the job off to others on rotating shifts, but, alas, she never got the chance.”

  “Yes, alas,” said Alathon. “Alas for us all.”

  Wind gusted in through the open terrace doors, fluttering the silken drapes and stirring Lorivanneth’s hair. Just the very bottom tips were stained with the blood that pooled around her middle. Baleron crossed to the terrace and stared into the night. Nothing.

  No, not nothing, not exactly. A slight movement caused him to look to his right and down, and sure enough, there were two large white feathers stirring against the balustrade.

  “Does this mean what I think it does?” said Alathon, coming to stand beside Baleron on the terrace. His eyes too had gone to the feathers.

  Baleron inclined his head in assent. “Tiron has the Book. We can only pray that Calendil manages to chase him down.”

  Alathon hissed out a breath. Many thoughts and emotions flickered across his face. “We cannot count on him catching Tiron. We must assume the Book is lost, and the Enemy will begin searching for the Black Altar at once.”

  Rolenya emerged onto the balcony. Her eyes were moist, but her face was still—sad but composed, and bracing herself for what was to come.

  “We cannot delay,” she said, taking Baleron’s hand in her own.

  Baleron passed a hand across his face. “No, no we cannot. I would say that at the least we must wait for rest and sleep, but I know I will get no sleep this night.”

  “You can’t mean to
go now?” said Feren, coming to join them. The wind stirred his blond hair and the stars shone on the tracks of his tears over his smooth cheeks. “That is madness. I haven’t even selected the men that will accompany us.”

  “That will not be a problem,” Alathon said. “I anticipated your neglect and selected twenty men myself, just in case dawn came before your plan did.”

  Feren grimaced. “I am sorry, Father. I have failed you.”

  Alathon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Son, I love you, and I know you will make me proud.” A hitch developed in his voice. “Make Lorivanneth proud. But Baleron and Rolenya are correct; you must leave at once. You can sleep on your horses, if you can, but there can be no delay. Delay will kill us all.” He swiveled his face toward the night, toward the Swan Tower. “That is, unless Calendil manages to catch the fiend.”

  Chapter 13

  Calendil burst into the chamber to find three bodies on the floor and a dozen Elves combing the great nests and the areas between. The Great Swans that dwelt in this chamber had moved off, away from the bodies, some toward the great archway that led out onto the receiving terrace.

  “Lord Calendil,” said the Master of the Swans. “We found these men dead just a short while ago, and I was just about to send for you.”

  Calendil winced at the brutal sword-strokes he saw marring the graceful forms, but he hardened his heart. “Was a Swan taken?”

  “I’m afraid so, my lord. I accept full responsibility. When the young mortal came earlier, we had no reason to suspect—”

  “You let him in?”

  “Well … it was not me, but I do not mean to cast blame on the one who did. I would have spoken up if I disagreed with his decision, and I didn’t. The mortal, he was a party of the visiting prince and princess. How could we anticipate this slaughter?” His voice went up on the last word, and Calendil realized that the man was holding himself together by a thread. Had he been friends with the dead men, or some part of their number? Of course he had, thought Calendil.

  Softening, Calendil patted his arm. “I meant no offense, and I place no blame. This mortal was smart and determined. Also, I suspect he had aid. The man Baleron described to me could not have been capable of planning this. Someone gave him this mission and orders to—but I am wasting time! Go, Master, and see to your duties. I must see to mine.”