The Eyes of God

by John Marco

  Tonight was a particularly cool night on the balcony. The rains had finally subsided and the clouds had parted to reveal a canopy of stars. The city of Koth rose up around the keep, shadowy and deathly still, and Library Hill beckoned in the distance. Akeela tilted the brandy bottle and refilled his glass, making himself comfortable on the iron chair. Puddles of rainwater glistened on the rail of the balcony but the little wooden table and his seat were dry, and his bottle was nearly full, so Akeela was happy. The brandy burned his throat as it reached his empty stomach. There had been no dinner for him tonight, for Akeela hardly ate at all these days. Food no longer interested him. He was gaunt from lack of appetite and his skin and eyes bore an unhealthy pallor. And though he was still relatively young, he had aged horribly. He considered this as he drank, knowing that the liquor had sped his aging almost as effectively as Cassandra’s amulet had arrested her own. When he found the other Eye—if he found it—she would be young and beautiful and he would be a scarecrow.

  But that was a trouble for another day, and tonight Akeela had enough to occupy his mind. He took another pull of brandy and sat back in his chair, oblivious to everything but the skyline of Koth until a shadow crossed his shoulder. Sluggishly he turned around, expecting to see one of his many guards at the threshold of the balcony. Instead he saw Figgis. The old man clutched a book in his hands and wore a disquieting grin. Behind him stood a pair of guards. The librarian’s face was flushed, as if he’d run a great distance. He broke away from the two guards and hurried out onto the balcony. The guards were on him in an instant, dragging him backward.

  “My lord,” he called, “I have to speak to you!”

  Akeela waved off his men and stood up. The guards relented, falling back without a word. Figgis snickered at them before turning back to Akeela.

  “My lord, I’m sorry for the interruption—”

  “Have you any sense of the time, Figgis?” asked Akeela crossly.

  “Yes, my lord, I know, but—”

  “What are you doing here?”

  The old man held out his book. “This, my lord, will make my visit worth your while.”

  Akeela sighed. “Indeed?”

  Figgis looked over his shoulders toward the waiting guards. They were still well within earshot, ready to protect the king.

  “My lord, what I have to say isn’t for everyone to hear,” said Figgis. “If you could shoo away your guards. . . . ?”

  “Go on,” Akeela told the knights, laughing. “He’s harmless.”

  The guards complied, dropping away from the balcony until they were almost out of sight down the darkened hall. Akeela returned to his seat, falling into it. He pushed the brandy bottle toward the librarian.

  “Now then, Figgis, have a drink with me and tell me what’s on your overactive mind.”

  “Akeela, I have stupendous news.” Figgis approached the table but did not sit down. “Great, wonderful news!”

  “Really? Well, perhaps I should have a drink then!”

  Before he could tilt the bottle to his lips, Figgis grabbed hold of it. “My lord, stop.”

  Akeela grinned. “Ah ah, don’t touch the king. . . .”

  “You’re drunk and you’re not listening to me. Come now, this is important!”

  Akeela relented, setting the bottle aside. Figgis was the only one he allowed to scold him, and he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was because the old man wasn’t afraid of him. He had never been, and Akeela respected that. “Will you at least take a seat?” he asked.

  “Grimhold,” said Figgis. He remained standing, staring down at Akeela.

  “What’s that?”

  “Grimhold, my lord. Do you know it?”

  “Uh, not personally, no.”

  Figgis carefully laid the ancient book onto the table. “I think I know where the other amulet is hidden.”

  All the sarcasm blew out of Akeela like a wind. His fingers reached across the table for the book. “What do you mean?”

  “Grimhold, my lord. That’s where the other amulet is.”

  “How do you know? Tell me.”

  Figgis shrank a little. “Well, I don’t actually know for certain. . . .”

  Akeela fixed him with a freezing glare. “Do not toy with me, Figgis. What have you learned?”

  “A theory, my lord. An idea.” Finally Figgis took a seat, dragging one of the iron chairs around to sit next to his king. With Akeela watching, he began flipping through the battered book. “This is a collection of stories about Grimhold,” he said. “I was reading it tonight. I was about to go to sleep when I discovered something extraordinary.”

  “The book mentions the Eyes of God?”

  “No, my lord, not precisely.”

  “Then precisely what, damn it?”

  “Wait. I’m looking for it.”

  Losing patience, Akeela huddled closer to Figgis, watching him rifle through the endless pages. It seemed like any other book of stories and rhymes, and Akeela felt his hope fading fast. Finally, Figgis located the proper page. He traced a bony finger over the passage as he read.

  “Here it is. ‘Most scholars of merit believe that Grimhold rests across the Desert of Tears, somewhere beyond Jador. That is why, in the Jadori language, Grimhold is called The Hidden Place Beyond the Desert.”’

  Figgis leaned back with a satisfied smile. Akeela stared at him in disbelief.

  “So?” he roared. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Don’t you see?” asked Figgis. “The hidden place across the desert. Don’t you remember, my lord?”

  Akeela thought for a moment, going over the phrase. It was familiar, but it took his brandy-soaked mind a moment to remember.

  “Yes,” he said pensively. “I remember it. The hidden place beyond the desert. Jador.”

  “No, not Jador.” Figgis tapped the book. “Grimhold!”

  “No, Figgis, please don’t tell me that,” begged Akeela. “Please tell me you didn’t get my hopes up over a myth.”

  “Myth, my lord? What is myth? Are the Eyes of God a myth? Is it a myth that Cassandra still lives, free from her illness after sixteen years?”

  Akeela reached for his brandy. “Figgis, please. . . .”

  “Stop,” snapped Figgis, snatching the bottle and shoving it aside. “Don’t hide in your bottle. Just listen to me, let me explain.” He took up the book again and showed the passage to Akeela like he was a child. “This term, hidden place across the desert. I misread it sixteen years ago. I thought the Jadori text referred to Jador. But it doesn’t, don’t you see? It means Grimhold.”

  “There is no Grimhold, Figgis.”

  “How do you know? You didn’t really believe in the amulets until I brought one back for you. Isn’t that proof enough, my lord? If the amulets exist, then why can’t Grimhold exist as well?”

  “A place of monsters? You dream, my friend.”

  “A place of magic, my lord. Led by a witch. Look at Cassandra and tell me you don’t believe in magic!”

  “I can’t look at Cassandra,” said Akeela sourly. “Thanks to that damn curse.”

  Figgis smiled. “Ah, but now your exile from her might be coming to an end. Think about it, my lord. We always knew there must be another Eye of God. Now we may have found it. Can’t you see that?”

  Akeela nodded. It was implausible, but he saw the possibility in Figgis’ theory. It made sense, or at least some of it did. There was no reason to doubt that the hidden place referred to in the Jadori manuscript had been Grimhold all along, but that still left dozens of questions unanswered.

  “If you’re right,” said Akeela, “then who is the wife of Kadar?”

  Figgis looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Kadar’s wife, remember? The Jadori manuscript says that the master of the hidden place wears the Eye, and that his wife wears the Eye’s twin. So then who is Kadar’s wife?”

  “You remember things quite clearly when you want to,” said Figgis with a grin. “The truth is
, I don’t know. Maybe I read the whole thing wrong. Maybe the master of the hidden place isn’t Kadar at all.” A light went on in his old eyes. “Maybe,” he said softly, “the master of Grimhold wears the other amulet!”

  Akeela rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Figgis. Why would a witch have a wife?”

  “I don’t know,” confessed Figgis. The question deflated him a little. “But we’re close to getting answers, I know we are.” He patted the book. “This has been a giant breakthrough. I feel it.”

  A wave of dizziness suddenly swept through Akeela, and it wasn’t the drink or the lateness of the hour. Seeing Figgis so excited stoked a bad memory. He recalled with awful clarity a similar conversation sixteen years ago, one that had resulted in his separation from Cassandra. But now Figgis was offering hope once again, and it tantalized Akeela.

  “Figgis, I can’t live with this being a joke,” he said softly. “Sixteen years I’ve waited, and I can’t wait another day. I have to know that this is real.”

  “My lord, be fair. I’ve only just started researching it.”

  “I don’t care,” said Akeela. “Find out all you can about Grimhold and its location, but be quick about it. I want that amulet, Figgis. And I don’t want to wait a moment more than I must.”

  Cassandra was deep in a dream when she heard the voice. It came from a great distance, first as part of her dream, then as something from the wakened world, calling to her. She struggled against the bonds of sleep, searching her consciousness for its location.

  “Cassandra, wake up.”

  Her eyes fluttered open, only to be greeted by impenetrable darkness. Startled, she glanced around. There was no candlelight. Her windowless chamber coiled about her like a noose.

  “Wake up, Cassandra. Wake up.”

  “I am up,” she replied, realizing only then that the voice was Akeela’s. It seemed to fill the darkness. She sat up, shaking her head. Her dream had been so vivid, yet now she could scarcely recall it. She turned toward the partition separating her from her husband, asking groggily, “Akeela, what is it? What time is it?”

  “It’s late,” replied the disembodied voice, “but it doesn’t matter. I’ve found it, Cassandra. I’ve found the other Eye of God!”

  Cassandra gasped. Was she still dreaming? “What?”

  “The amulet, Cassandra. The second Eye!”

  “You’ve found it?” she sputtered. Panic took her breath away. “You have it?”

  “Not yet. But now I know where it is. Figgis has located it.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked dreadfully. After all these years, the news was unbelievable. “I mean, where is it?”

  Akeela’s voice was like a bell. “Grimhold!” He chuckled in delight. “Grimhold, Cassandra! Can you believe it?”

  “Grimhold?” Cassandra had to keep herself from laughing. “Akeela, Grimhold doesn’t exist. It’s a myth. Great Fate, don’t you know that?”

  “I’m not a child,” Akeela growled. “Grimhold isn’t just a myth. It exists, beyond the Desert of Tears. It’s somewhere past Jador.”

  It was all too much for Cassandra, whose head began to swim. What little she knew of Grimhold was confined to fairy tales and bedtime stories, and she thought Akeela thoroughly mad for believing it was real. But believe it he did; she could hear the conviction in his voice.

  “All right, Akeela,” she said gently. “If you believe it, then fine. Figgis must know what he’s doing.”

  There was a long silence behind the partition. At last, Akeela’s disappointed voice said, “I thought you would be happier about it, Cassandra. We’re talking about being together, finally after all these years.”

  “I am happy, Akeela,” said Cassandra, brightening. “I’m just . . . surprised.”

  “Yes, I know it’s hard to believe. But Figgis is confident. It’s a lot to explain, but he believes he’s been misreading his texts all this time. He thinks Grimhold really exists, and that they have the Eye.” Akeela’s tone grew excited again. “It’s not madness, Cassandra. This time we’re close. I feel it!”

  Cassandra gave a silent sigh. It was madness. She decided to ply him with gentle lies.

  “I believe you, Akeela,” she said. “But what now? How will you find the amulet? How will you even find Grimhold?”

  “Figgis will research it. But I won’t depend on that. If Grimhold lies beyond Jador, then the Jadori will know where it is. They will tell us its location.”

  Cassandra sat up straight. “Will they? Why?”

  “When they see our army marching toward them, they will tell us.”

  “Fate above, Akeela, you don’t mean it!”

  “I mean every word.” Akeela drifted closer to the partition. “I will be with you, Cassandra. I will, and no Jadori filth or freaks from Grimhold will stop me. If they have the Eye of God, they will give it to me!”

  “No!” shouted Cassandra. She swung out of bed and put her face to the partition, close enough to smell Akeela’s liquored breath. “You’re talking about a massacre, Akeela. I won’t allow it!”

  “I’m talking about us being together! Gods and angels, can’t you see that?”

  “I won’t let you murder people, Akeela. Not for me!”

  “Then for me!” Akeela hissed. Enraged, he put his fist through the partition, splitting the fabric like paper. His hand shot out and grabbed Cassandra’s nightgown. For the first time in years she saw his face in the near perfect darkness. His eyes were closed but his mouth was turned in a snarl. “I’ve lived without you long enough, Cassandra. I won’t live like this a minute more!”

  Cassandra stared at him, wild-eyed. He didn’t know that her curse had been a hoax, yet in his rage he had risked her life. “Akeela,” she said evenly, “let go of me.”

  Slowly he opened his fist, letting the cloth of her gown slip away, but his fingertips lingered on her, brushing her. Cassandra didn’t move. She stared at him, watching the twisted longing on his face. For a brief second his fingers drifted above her breasts. . . .

  And then he pulled away.

  “We will be together, Cassandra,” he said. “No matter what it takes.”

  Letting his words linger in the darkness, he left her without a word of good- bye. Through the ruined partition Cassandra watched his shadow depart. She put a hand to her chest; he had torn her gown. She could still feel his touch on her skin.

  “Murder,” she whispered. She glanced around the black chamber, wondering what to do. Akeela was thoroughly mad. She had seen it on his face and could do nothing to cure him. But she couldn’t let him lead a massacre. Somehow, she had to stop him.

  And there was only one person who could help her.

  30

  The day after his meeting with Akeela, Figgis closed the library. He did not explain his reasons to Gilwyn or Mistress Della or to any of the library’s many dependents. He merely closed the main door and locked it, putting up a sign obscurely stating that the library would reopen as soon as possible. There was no word of warning—it was simply done. And Figgis, who was always cheerful despite the many ailments of his age, quickly became an obsessed curmudgeon, locking himself in his study with piles of books and manuscripts. He had told Gilwyn he was on a very urgent mission for the king, and that he needed to do his research in peace. Warning the boy to stay close and not ask any questions, Figgis would bellow for Gilwyn to bring him books and to search through the endless racks of maps for strange, little-used charts. And when he wasn’t in the study, which was rarely, he was in his catalog room, consulting with his thinking machine. He took all his meals alone, forgetting to eat until Mistress Della brought him food, and even after three days he did not divulge the purpose of his work. Gilwyn quickly grew suspicious of his mentor. He had never seen Figgis so driven, and it frightened him. The old librarian worked like a man possessed, and Gilwyn could barely begin to guess as to the task King Akeela had given him. He worried that something was very wrong in Koth. He worried also that Figgis would expire from
the strain. But he voiced none of his concerns. Instead he was Figgis’ loyal apprentice. He delivered the maps and manuscripts without complaint and was at the librarian’s side instantly whenever he was called. For all Figgis had done for him, Gilwyn knew he owed the man service.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day, a surprise visitor arrived. Gilwyn was loading up his cart in the main hall when he heard the insistent pounding at the door. At first he ignored it, thinking one of the scholars was begging entry. But when the knocking finally grew to a crescendo Gilwyn stopped what he was doing and stomped to the door as quickly as his bad foot would carry him. Angry, he threw the latch and reached for the pull.

  “Can’t you read?” he asked before the door was half open. “We’re closed.”

  The austere faces of armored knights greeted him. Gilwyn stiffened when he saw them—three men, all similarly garbed in silver armor and crimson capes. They wore no helmets, but each man bore a scabbarded sword. They were a daunting trio, and the one at the center was the most frightening by far. Unlike the others, his cape was trimmed with silver and held with a golden clasp, and he had colored ribbons on his armor at the shoulders, denoting him as a man of rank. His jet hair was combed back slick against his head, its color mimicked by his meticulously trimmed beard. A pair of dark eyes smouldered in his stern face.