The Eyes of God

by John Marco

  In the center of the room, lit by moonlight from a nearby window, stood a bed with saffron sheets. And in the bed was an unmoving mound, all but hidden among the fat pillows. Lukien moved aside for Trager to see. The lieutenant nodded. Lukien’s eyes darted about, but he could see no one else, only another doorway leading to yet another hidden room. From the looks of it, Kadar and his wife were asleep. Lukien and Trager shared a soundless glance. Both men held their daggers out before them, then floated toward opposite sides of the bed. The sheets didn’t stir. Lukien reached out, his hand hovering over the pillows, hoping he was on Kadar’s side. Blinded by blackness, he carefully took the sheets and pulled them down . . .

  . . . and heard a shout behind him.

  Lukien jumped back and whirled toward the doorway. Kadar was standing there, dumbstruck. The figure in the bed rose suddenly. Kahana Jitendra’s eyes shot around the room in a panic. She scrambled upright, clutching the sheets.

  “Damn it!” Lukien growled. Barely thinking, he turned on the kahana and dragged her out of the bed. Kadar rushed forward, but stopped abruptly when he saw Trager vault the bed toward him. Trager’s dagger warned him off, and Kadar backpedaled.

  “Quiet!” hissed Trager. “Don’t say another bloody word!”

  Lukien struggled to bring Jitendra to her feet. He wrapped his arm around her throat as gently as he could, careful to keep the dagger from the throat, yet close enough to give the kahana the message. Jitendra gasped.

  “All right, nobody move,” Lukien said. He was panicked, unsure what to do. Kadar’s shouts might have awoken the palace, but so far no one was coming to his aid. Kadar seemed to understand Lukien’s demands and fell silent. He held up his hands, wordlessly pleading for Jitendra’s release.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Lukien encouraged. “Keep quiet and no one gets hurt.” He twirled his dagger, making sure Kadar saw it. “I don’t want to hurt her, Kadar. Just give us the amulet and we’ll be on our way.”

  Kadar looked at his pregnant wife, confused. He said a soft plea that Lukien didn’t understand.

  “The amulet, you idiot,” whispered Trager. He slid toward Kadar. “Give it to us.”

  Kadar looked bewildered. Lukien bit his lip. His plans were unraveling, and he didn’t know the Jadori word for amulet. Then, like a miracle, it struck him.

  “Inai!” he cried, remember the word Figgis had taught him. He pointed at Kadar’s chest. The amulet dangled there, glowing furiously. He repeated the phrase, unsure if it was right. “Inai ka Vala!”

  Kadar looked at him, then nodded, still holding out his hands. But Jitendra understood, too. As her husband began removing the amulet, she shrieked.

  “Inai ka Vala! Kadar!”

  “No!” Lukien struggled to hold her back.

  Jitendra went on screaming.

  “Stop!” Lukien snapped. “Please!”

  Not wanting to hurt her, he lowered his dagger. Jitendra fought off his grip. Lukien lunged toward her, reaching for her arm. Jitendra slipped away, hurrying toward Kadar. Seeing her escape, Trager whirled, slashing his dagger. The threat surprised Jitendra. She screamed, stumbling backward, falling into Lukien—and his brandished blade.

  “No!” cried Lukien. He fell back, too late to pull the dagger from the woman’s back. Jitendra hung there as if suspended, her eyes wide with shock, the back of her night garb blooming crimson. A second later her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor.

  “Jitendra!” cried Kadar. He dropped the amulet and ran to his wife, falling beside her. Lukien watched, horror-stricken. His dagger erupted from Jitendra’s back.

  “Captain, let’s go!” said Trager. He raced toward the abandoned amulet and scooped it up. “We got it!”

  “Oh, no,” Lukien groaned. “Oh, Fate, help me. I didn’t mean it. . . .”

  Kadar was sobbing, lifting Jitendra. Jitendra writhed in his arms, still alive but losing blood in waves. Neither looked at Lukien, or even seemed to hear him.

  “Captain, come on!” urged Trager. He hovered in the doorway, ready to bolt. “Let’s move before we’re discovered!”

  But Lukien couldn’t move. He could only stare. Jitendra let out an agonized wail. Kadar was covered in her blood. Jitendra’s pregnant belly swelled with gasps.

  “Damn it,” swore Trager, then raced into the room to grab Lukien. He dragged his captain toward the door. “Figgis is waiting for us, you fool. Now come on!”

  “I didn’t mean it,” whispered Lukien desperately. He continued watching Jitendra. “You saw. I didn’t mean it. . . .”

  “God almighty, will you shut up and hurry? We have to go!”

  Something in Trager’s voice snatched Lukien from his stupor. Jitendra was as good as dead, and there was nothing to be done now but flee. With one last look at the kahan and kahana of Jador, Lukien turned and hurried from the chamber.

  By the gates, Figgis kept to the shadows. A remarkable hush had fallen over Jador, and the grassy courtyard was abandoned, occupied only by statues and buzzing insects. Past the open gates, Figgis could see the empty streets of the city, so calm and beautiful. A handful of straggling figures moved along the avenues, shopkeepers getting ready for the morning. They would pose little trouble to the trio when they fled the city, but Figgis knew the real trouble would come in the desert. They would be out in the open there, an easy target for Kadar’s men. Their only hope was to make good time, as much time as possible before the inevitable hunters came after them.

  The three drowas stood ready in the moonlight, peacefully chewing their cuds. They were far more at ease than Figgis, who shifted uneasily from foot to foot, anxious for Lukien and Trager to arrive. Lukien’s plan had been a good one, he supposed, because Kadar and his people were far too trusting, and they had learned to like their visitors from Liiria. Figgis felt ashamed. All his life he had wanted to reach this place, and it had not disappointed him. It had been the paradise he’d imagined. Now he had poisoned it.

  “Figgis!”

  The cry startled Figgis from his daydream. Out of the darkness came two figures, racing desperately toward the gate. Figgis waved, then hurried to bring the drowas out of the shadows. Trager’s face was a mask of mania, dripping sweat and smiling wildly. He skidded toward Figgis, holding up the amulet like the severed head of an enemy.

  “You got it!”

  “Indeed I did! Now get on your ugly beast and ride, old man!”

  “Lukien?” asked Figgis, studying the Captain. “What’s wrong?”

  Lukien’s expression was vacant. He was breathing hard and his eyes were glazed, and his skin was the color of curdled milk.

  “No time. Got to move . . .”

  “What? What happened?”

  “Shut up and ride!” bellowed Trager. The lieutenant threw himself onto his drowa, then watched as Lukien and Figgis did the same. “Follow me,” he ordered. A snap of the reins sent his mount galloping out of the yard. Figgis followed, with Lukien close behind. Figgis glanced back at the knight, who had tucked himself behind the drowa’s neck.

  “Lukien?” he pressed. “What happened?”

  Lukien could barely speak. “I killed her, Figgis,” he managed. “Jitendra.” His eyes closed in pain. “I’m not a thief. I’m a god-cursed murderer. . . .”

  Kahan Kadar stood over his wife, fretting as her maidens dabbed her forehead with cool clothes and Argadil, the healer, packed her wound. They had managed to remove the dagger and lift her into the bed, and now the sheets were soaked with blood. Jitendra barely clung to life, but the infant inside her belly fought to escape. The shock of her stabbing had induced labor. The kahana’s midwife was at the foot of the bed, white-faced as she stared into the womb, wondering if the child could be coaxed out before Jitendra expired. Kadar held his wife’s hand. It was soft and cold and trembled; its familiar strength was gone. Jitendra’s breath came in wailing pants. Each groan bloodied her bandage anew, yet she was determined to fight on for her unborn baby—her first with Kadar.

  �
�You will live,” Kadar told his wife. She was decades his junior, but he loved her more than any of his previous mates, and the thought of losing her was crushing. “Hold on for me, Jitendra. Hold on for our young one.”

  Jitendra squeezed his hands. “They have taken the Eye,” she moaned. It was the same thing she’d been repeating since the northern thieves had fled. “You must stop them, Kadar.”

  Kadar tried to smile. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Jitendra winced as Argadil worked, feverishly trying to stem the bleeding. The midwife studied her womb, her face twisted with concern. Yet Jitendra seemed to ignore these things. Remarkably, her concern was for Kadar.

  “Why, Kadar?” she gasped. “Why don’t you stop them?”

  “It is no matter,” said Kadar.

  “It does matter.” Jitendra began to sob. “Without the Eye you will die.”

  “I will not die,” said Kadar. “I will grow old.”

  “Thieves,” cried Jitendra. “They must pay. Send men after them. . . .”

  Kadar shook his head. His wife was dying, and that was all that mattered. “They will pay, beloved. I do not need to hunt them for that.”

  22

  Lukien and his party fled through Jador, expecting Kadar’s men to follow. But they did not. And when Lukien reached the edge of the desert, he paused to look back at the golden city; all was silent. So they plunged into the desert and were soon swallowed by its blackness. They rode as quickly as they could, always waiting for Jadori men and kreels to hunt them.

  But they did not.

  After hours of endless riding, Lukien, Trager, and Figgis finally paused to rest. Even their hearty drowas were exhausted. When the beasts came to a stop, the silence of the desert enveloped them. It seemed to Lukien that he could hear for miles, but all that reached him was the soft whisper of the sand crawling over the dunes. Dawn was edging nearer. Jador had disappeared in the distance; even the mountains were gone. They were alone in the world. As Trager and Figgis slaked their thirst with water, Lukien scanned the horizon.

  “Why don’t they come?” he whispered. He took a step toward Jador. The desert sand pulled at his boots. “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t argue with it, just be glad,” said Trager. He had emptied the rope from the sack at his belt, replacing it with the stolen amulet. Now he patted the sack happily. “We got what we came for, and got to keep our skins in the bargain. A good night, I’d say.”

  “Yes,” said Lukien gloomily. “You would say that.”

  In the east the sun was rising, beginning to paint the sky with light. But toward Jador the world remained dark. Lukien could feel the blackness, the misery. Kadar’s cries still rang in his head. His gaka was stained with Jitendra’s blood.

  “She was pregnant and I killed her,” he said. “Almighty Fate, what have I become?”

  Figgis put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s no sense in this, Captain. It’s done, and we have a long ride home. We’re not safe yet.”

  Lukien stared into the distance. “Why don’t they come, Figgis? What are they waiting for?”

  The librarian shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I do,” said Lukien. “You weren’t there, you didn’t see Kadar. I think I killed him too, in a way. I don’t think he can follow us. I think I crippled him.”

  “That’s a good enough reason for me,” said Trager. He climbed back onto his drowa. “Either way, I don’t want to stay in the desert any longer than I have to. You two lovers can die out here if you wish, but I’m going home.”

  Trager began riding off. His pace was light, like his mood. Lukien watched him, knowing that he was right. Koth was a world away, and Cassandra needed the amulet. Though he had killed Jitendra, there was still a chance to save Cassandra. That, at least, he could do.

  The trio made good progress the first day. Without Jebel’s caravan to slow them, they crossed the miles easily, following a crude map Figgis had drawn on their first trek through the desert and heading east toward the waiting oasis of Ganjor. The second day was much the same as the first, and by the third day even Lukien was convinced they would make it. None of Kadar’s men had entered the desert after them, and all was peaceful among the dunes. Loneliness and heat plagued them, but nothing more. The Desert of Tears seemed to forgive their crimes and did not conspire to keep them in its grasp. There were no sandstorms and few mirages, and though the sun was hot, they had almost grown accustomed to its brutal company. Finally, by the seventh day out of Jador, they reached the end of the desert.

  In Ganjor they rested, desperately needing sleep and proper food. They spent a day in the city, mostly asleep, and traded their drowa for horses. Jebel and his family were not in the city, and Lukien found himself missing their company. But the soft, clean bed of an inn eased his melancholy nicely, and he awoke the next morning refreshed and eager to head north.

  From Ganjor they followed the Agora River until they reached Dreel, and from Dreel they skirted Nith and continued on to Farduke. They were far from the dark-skinned southerners, and the language was once again familiar. The city of Farduke provided another badly needed respite. They were nearly out of funds now, but were able to trade their exhausted horses for fresh ones. It had taken nearly two weeks to reach Farduke from Ganjor, and the horses they had purchased there were almost beyond use now. Their last few coins went into three fine stallions, well-bred beasts that could swiftly take them to Liiria and Koth. In Farduke, they spent some time in a local pub, listening to the gossip and hoping to hear a hint of Cassandra’s health. But instead the talk was of Norvor and King Mor, and how Akeela of Liiria had slain the Norvan king. Lukien stiffened when he heard the news, barely believing it. Figgis’ old eyes widened, and Trager frowned in disbelief.

  “Did you hear that?” Trager asked. He cocked his head to listen to the conversation. The men around the nearby table laughed and shook their heads, all agreeing that the new king of Liiria was not what they expected.

  “Akeela killed Mor?” said Lukien. “That’s impossible.”

  But it was true, or at least that was the consensus of the pub’s customers. Mistaking Lukien and his companions for merchants returning from the south, they explained how Akeela had arranged for Mor’s destruction at Hanging Man, ambushing the Norvan army with help from the Reecians. Akeela, they said, had killed King Mor himself. The news shattered Lukien, who sank back in his chair and refused to talk about it any more.

  They were only days from the Liirian border, and so set off the next morning for Koth. The simple thought of returning home quickened their pace. Two days after leaving Farduke, they entered Liiria. They stopped infrequently, barely sleeping or eating, taking meals from their packs as they rode, and quickly crossed the southern grain fields and fruit orchards. Finding a main road, they joined the many travelers heading to Koth, making inquiries into the health of the queen and being met with odd stares. Because they had doffed their uniforms for simple riding clothes, no one recognized them, nor did anyone seem to know of the queen’s illness. Lukien supposed that was good news. If Cassandra was dead, it would have been common knowledge by now. If she was merely ill, then Akeela had done a good job of concealing her fading health.

  The road to Koth was wide and quick, and within a day the companions saw the capital. Seeing Koth, Figgis let out an enormous sigh. He was hearty for his age, but the difficult trip had exhausted him. The outlines of the chancellery buildings rose above the city, and Library Hill glimmered in the distance, easily recognizable by the construction rising from its surface. It seemed to Lukien that much had been done on the library since they’d left. Figgis, too, took notice of the progress, grinning happily.

  “Ah, look at it,” he said proudly. “My library. It’s going up!”

  “Your library, Figgis?” asked Lukien playfully. “I thought it was for the people.”

  “Yes, well, it is,” Figgis corrected himself. “But I designed it. And I can’t wait to see what’s been done. Come on.”


  Now Figgis led the way into the city. Lukien let him go, knowing that he himself could afford no detours. He had the amulet safely at his belt, having taken it from Trager, and he wanted to reach Lionkeep as soon as possible. Trager rode at his side, eager to take some credit for their prize. The lieutenant kept pace with Lukien as he hurried forward. The gates of Koth were open for commerce and the streets were typically choked with traffic. As he entered Lukien heard the cries of friends, waving and welcoming him home. He smiled, despite his aches and sunburn. Near the center of the city he met up with two more of his Royal Chargers, Jiri and Neel. The men embraced, leaving Trager conspicuously out of their huddle. Jiri and Neel told Lukien that Cassandra was still alive, though only barely. Lukien almost chuckled at the good news. He told Jiri and Neel to accompany them to Lionkeep, and the four horsemen rode triumphantly through the city, Lukien carefully guarding his secret prize. Soon they reached Chancellery Square, which was remarkably quiet for the hour. Seeing the great buildings, Jiri turned to Lukien.

  “Captain, there’s something you should know.”

  “I’ve already heard,” said Lukien. He shook his head sadly. “I told Akeela not to make war on Norvor without me. But he’s like a child sometimes; he never listens.”

  Jiri and Neel looked at each other, confused.

  “No, Captain, that’s not it,” said Neel. “It’s about Baron Glass. He’s been arrested.”

  “Arrested?” said Lukien. “Why? What happened?”

  “Akeela’s orders, Captain. He says the Baron betrayed him, went against his demands while he was in Norvor.”

  “Akeela ordered Glass arrested?” said Trager. “Come now—I don’t believe that.”

  “It’s true, sir,” said Jiri. Because they were nearing Lionkeep, the soldier kept his voice low. “The king’s changed since you’ve been gone. Something’s wrong with him. He doesn’t leave the keep anymore, and he barely speaks to anyone.”