by John Marco
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
PART ONE - THE BRONZE KNIGHT
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
PART TWO - THE LIBRARIAN’S APPRENTICE
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
PART THREE - THE MISTRESS OF GRIMHOLD
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
High Praise for The Eyes of God:
“A cracking good read.”
—SFX
“Marco offers a sprawling tale of military battles, personal and political intrigue, magic, and star-crossed love set against a richly detailed land of warring kingdoms and hidden magic.”
—Library Journal
“Mr. Marco has delivered an epic fantasy with heart and pathos. His characters are flawed and believable, wholly sympathetic to the reader. He paints a landscape of palace grandeur and desert desolation where magic is a reality and winning a battle is not winning the war.”
—Romantic Times
“The greatest strength of this novel remains in the way in which the author manipulates and alters his original Arthurian-based landscape to serve very different ends, as well as his refusal at times to take his story where expected. The reader will be in for some surprises.”
—SF Site
“Marco paints characters with a deft hand . . . all the plotlines are clearly thought out and interesting. Marco’s fans should look forward to his next installment.”
—The Davis (CA) Enterprise
“It’s a classic tale of triumph and tragedy, well written with great depth of emotion. As I was reading this novel, I had the feeling I was reading something important. In 20 years, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear Marco, and this book, mentioned alongside the icons of the fantasy genre.”
—The News Star (LA)
“This epic fantasy novel, first in a brand new series, is a wellcrafted addition to a much-beloved genre. The book’s characters are well-drawn, and although the plot is fairly dense, the story moves along at a smart pace . . . the author creates a compelling and entertaining read.”
—Voya
“This is no lightweight book. Marco’s characters are complex and multidimensional, and his seemingly simple story is a rich, complex exposition of high fantasy with an underlying brutal reality. This brutality is punctuated with Marco’s skill as a military writer—the battle scenes in The Eyes of God are massive in scale while remaining rich in exquisite, personal detail.”
—Editors of Amazon.com
DAW Titles by John Marco
The Eyes of God
The Devil’s Armor1
Copyright © 2001 by John Marco
All Rights Reserved.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1208.
All characters and events in this book are fictious.
All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
First Paperback Printing, January 2003
eISBN : 978-1-101-46221-8
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
S.A.
http://us.penguingroup.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing is a solitary business, but no book is truly born of a single person. This book had many midwives, some new to my life and some old, and I want to thank them all for their support and dedication.
Thanks—and love—go once again to my wife Deborah, and to my entire family. They are my staunchest defenders and most loyal fans.
As always, thanks goes to my agent, Russell Galen, who saw this book for what it could be and found a good home for it.
Thanks to fellow fantasist Kristen Britain, for exchanging ideas and an impressive number of emails, and for being there through frustrating times.
Thanks to Jack Bilello, a fine writer and a good friend, who constantly reminds me that the true value of books lies in their power to move the human heart.
Thanks to Debra Euler, Sean Fodera, and everyone else at DAW books. Though there are bigger publishers in the world, there are none with more dedicated, dependable people. It’s been a pleasure working with them.
Special thanks to my wonderful editor, Betsy Wollheim, for welcoming me into the DAW family and for always being gracious. No writer could have a better patron.
And finally, thanks to all of my readers, all around the world, for continuing to invite me into their lives and letting me tell my stories. Their support has been amazing, humbling, and greatly appreciated.
PART ONE
THE BRONZE KNIGHT
1
He was a giant.
His horse was a giant too, and layered in hammered bronze like its rider, so that the two formed a centaur in the ebbing light. On his head he wore no helmet, just a short-cropped blond mane, but every other inch was armored, reflecting the sinking sun. He rode at the front of his legion, abreast of his king and a full pace ahead of the standard bearer whose blue flag stood flaccid in the breeze-less air. Two lines of cavalry stretched out behind him, proud in the face of the dreaded city. They had traveled for days across good roads and bad, had drunk from the prized river Kryss, all to endure the company of enemies.
Lukien, the Bronze Knight of Liiria, looked across the valley toward the waiting city of Hes, capital of Reec. Hes the Serene, it was called, and its walls and domed towers bespoke an easy quietude. He had seen the city before, had battled on this very plain, but he had never heard the wind whisper through the valley as it did today, and the sound startled him. Today there were no screams, no thunder of swords. Lukien lifted his face toward Hes, satisfied. Today was a good day after all.
“They see us by now, surely,” said Lukien. “Yet they do not come to greet us?”
Akeela shrugged off the implication. “We are far off yet,” he said. “When we’re closer, they will meet us.” The young king smiled as if nothing could sour his mood. “Put your suspicions away, Lukien. Nothing will go wrong.”
Lukien nodded, because everything Akeela said was true. He was seldom wrong, this new king of Liiria, and that’s why his people adored him. It was why they called him “Akeela the Good.” And it was why men like Lukien and the other Royal Chargers followed him, even into the hear
t of Reec. Lukien settled into his saddle, trying for some of Akeela’s abundant confidence. Behind them, the cavalry rode at attention, unnerved by the sight of Hes. The Bronze Knight stole a backward glance at his men. Behind the standard bearer he saw Lieutenant Trager. Unlike his underlings, Trager showed no trace of fear, but his silence belied his anxiety. Lukien leaned toward Akeela.
“Trager seems . . . uneasy.”
Akeela put up a hand. “Not today, please.”
“You should have left him at home. He’ll disrupt things.”
“He won’t,” said Akeela. “You’re just trying to irritate him. Stop it now.”
Like many of the Chargers, Trager hadn’t wanted to come to Reec. Behind Akeela’s back he had secretly sneered at the notion of peace, sure that King Karis would snub the offer. Yet here they were, on the road to the Reecian capital, invited guests of the king. For Lukien, who had battled the Reecians since graduating war college, it seemed a miracle. Akeela was right to be proud. He had done something his dead father had never dared dream. If the meeting went well—if they weren’t riding stupidly into a trap—then years of bloodshed might end and Lukien’s Royal Chargers could at last sheath their swords. The decades of war had made them hard and suspicious, but the light in Akeela’s eyes had convinced them that peace was in fact possible. Like Lukien, they quested for Akeela’s dream.
Lukien knew his world was about to change irrevocably. Under Akeela, they all faced an uncertain future. Even if it was one of peace, it would still not be perfect for the Bronze Knight. Lukien was still a young man, and peerless with a sword. He had earned his reputation the hard way. War was his life, his best and truest calling. Without war he would change, and the idea chafed him. To sit at home with a dog at his feet simply didn’t interest him. Barely twenty-seven, he still had a soldier’s lust for life. Were it up to him, he would never make peace with Reec. That way, Liiria would always need him.
But it wasn’t up to him. Akeela ruled Liiria now, and this was a matter he had decided alone. If war was Lukien’s calling, then peace was Akeela’s. Lukien glanced at his king and was pleased to be with him. If a trap did lay ahead of him, he would welcome death at the side of such a good man.
High in a tower of Castle Hes, Princess Cassandra of Reec cocked an eyebrow toward the window, marveling at the soldiers approaching her home. It was nearly dusk but she could see them faintly in the dimming light; their silver armor, their well-bred horses, their blue flag stirring listlessly on a pole. They were very many, much more than she had expected. She wiped the mist from the glass, spying the front of the column. Akeela would be there, leading his men, as brave as the stories said.
“Come away from the window, Cassandra,” the girl implored. Jancis was nervous, and her voice quavered a little. The handmaiden had laid out Cassandra’s dress and continued fussing with it, smoothing out wrinkles that weren’t there.
“They’re coming,” said Cassandra.
“You’ll see them soon enough. Come on, Cass, we must dress you.”
“Come here, Jancis, look at them.”
With a sigh Jancis did as her lady asked, going to the window to stand beside Cassandra. The princess, still in her undergarments, stepped aside so Jancis could see.
“Look, at the front. The two riding alone.”
Jancis nodded. “Uh-huh,” she said dully.
“Do you see them?”
“Barely.”
“Do you think Akeela’s at the front?”
“Probably,” said Jancis. The handmaiden frowned. “I suppose that brute Lukien is with him.”
“I suppose,” agreed Cassandra sourly. No one had wanted her father to allow the Bronze Knight into Reec, but Karis had insisted, for King Akeela would not come without him. “I bet he’s an arrogant-looking bastard, too.”
“Too far away to tell.” Jancis bit her lip. “Hmm, I wonder what Akeela looks like. I can’t wait to see him.”
Cassandra’s curiousity spiked. She went back to the window, nudging Jancis aside. Akeela was much too far away to see, and that frustrated her. It frustrated her, too, that she’d been obsessing over his appearance. He was a great man coming to Reec, with a great offer, and that should have been enough for her. But Cassandra knew she was special, and had long dreamed of a special husband. It was a childish thing, she supposed, but the dream was still with her. Cassandra thought it very strange that no one knew what Akeela looked like, or had faced him in battle. Most princes were warriors, but not this one. He let his infamous knight make war for him, while he himself stayed safe behind castle walls. Was he a coward then? Cassandra didn’t think so. It took courage for a Liirian to ride into Reec.
“He’s a mystery,” Cassandra purred. The idea intrigued her. She moved away from the window and drifted toward her bed, an oak four-poster with ruffled sheets and perfumed pillows. The dress Jancis had made for her lay across the mattress, looking pristine and beautiful, the perfect garment for seduction. The princess looked down at her smock-clad body. She was seventeen and had filled out nicely. She knew this from the way the men at court looked at her, and she loved to play games with them. But Akeela was a king. Surely he had been with many women, and would judge her critically. A touch of inadequacy—something Cassandra rarely felt—began to tug at her. She had accepted her father’s request to marry the Liirian gladly, because she was tired of Hes and loved the idea of being a queen. But she had made sure that she supported her father’s plan with just enough restraint to keep her modesty. However, that had been a month ago, and now Akeela was at her doorstep. Worse, the Liirian king didn’t even know what her father had planned.
More than anything, Cassandra wanted this peace to work. She had seen the disbelief in her father’s eyes when Akeela’s message had arrived, imploring a summit. Her father had never seemed so happy, or so grave. To make this peace he would do anything, even give her away. Cassandra pretended to care for her father’s sake, but to be away from Hes—away from the shadows of so many sisters—was her fondest dream. And to be a queen! Which of her sisters could say that yet?
“We should dress you now,” said Jancis, “before they get here. Your father may want you to greet them.”
Cassandra nodded but said nothing. Jancis picked up on her silence and shot her a questioning look.
“How are you feeling?” Jancis whispered.
Cassandra groaned. She didn’t want anyone finding out about her pains, not today when she was so close to leaving. “You promised you wouldn’t speak of that today.”
“You’re all right then?”
“Yes, and keep your voice down.” Instinctively Cassandra looked toward the closed door, hoping no one was outside. “I’m fine. I haven’t felt the pain for days.”
“I don’t believe you,” replied Jancis. “I heard you this morning. If you’re feeling fine, why were you vomiting?”
“Oh, you’re such a witch sometimes!” snapped Cassandra. “Stop ear-wigging on me.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, knowing she couldn’t escape her friend. The sickness had come upon her a week ago, and had gotten worse before it had gotten better. Now it came in fits, a burning pain in her stomach that made her retch and sometimes turned her water red. She didn’t know what it was, and truly didn’t care to find out. She only knew that if her father discovered it, her marriage—her chance at greatness—would vanish. “It hurts sometimes when I eat, and that’s all,” she admitted. “I was nervous at breakfast. It’s made me a little sick.” She looked up. “Don’t worry, Jancis. And don’t you dare say a word to anyone.”
The girl remained troubled. “I’m afraid for you, Cass. You should let Danette look at you, at least. She won’t tell anyone, and maybe she can give you something for the cramps.”
“Danette has a mouth as wide as the Kryss. I can’t tell her anything, and neither can you. And besides, you make it sound like my moon blood, which it’s not. What’s that old midwife going to do for me?”
“I don’t know,” Jancis con
fessed. “That’s why I’m worried. Maybe you’ll need a real physician. Maybe—”
“Jancis, stop,” bade Cassandra. She help up one finger, the way she always did when Jancis rambled. “That’s enough. You promised to keep quiet about it, and I expect you to do so. Now . . .” She stood up and tucked her long hair behind her ears. “Let’s dress me.”
Jancis was about to take the garment from the bed when a knock came at the door. Dressed only in her undertunic, Cassandra jumped at the intrusion, wrapping her arms about herself. “Who is it?” she asked.
“Your father, girl. Open up.”
As expected, the king had come to fetch her. Cassandra replied, “I’m not dressed yet, Father.”
A laugh came from behind the door. “I bathed you myself and know every inch of you. You’re going to show modesty now? Fetch a robe and open the door.”
Jancis hurried a dressing robe out of the wardrobe and hustled Cassandra into it. As the princess tied the garment’s belt around her waist, Jancis opened the door. King Karis stood alone in the threshold. His pepper-black beard was split with a wide grin, and his body was swathed in crimson velvet, kingly attire for the meeting to come. He wore all his rings today, great gemstones that twinkled in the torchlight, and when he saw his youngest daughter across the room he beamed. Jancis had brushed Cassandra’s hair till it shone and had carefully painted her face and nails. Even in her plain dressing robe, Cassandra was beautiful.
“Daughter, you look lovely,” said the king. He stepped into the room. Jancis curtsied and kept her eyes averted. Karis hardly noticed her. He was taken by the vision of his daughter, which always filled Cassandra with pride.