The Eyes of God

by John Marco

  There really wasn’t anything for Gilwyn to say. Part of him remained lovesick for Cassandra, and he had already given her his word to help.

  “Will Breck take me to Lukien?” he asked. “I’ll need his help—I won’t be able to do it alone.”

  “If he knows where Lukien is, he’ll take you to him,” said Figgis. “You won’t be alone.”

  “I’ll need money. Queen Cassandra said she’d pay whatever I need.”

  “I can arrange it. I’ll take the money out of the library’s funds. Anything else?”

  Gilwyn thought for a moment, but his mind was a jumble. There were a thousand questions, and not enough time to answer them. “Just one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Can I take Teku with me?”

  The old man laughed and hugged Gilwyn to his breast. “Why not? Ah, you’re a good boy, Gilwyn. I’ve always been proud of you.”

  To Gilwyn, Figgis’ praise remained stronger than any magic.

  32

  For Will Trager, the most dreadful place in the world was his own memory. It was a palace of dark corridors and locked doors, rooms for which only he held the key. It was a place where the dusty portraits of heroes hung, watching him from across the years, mocking him. Will Trager was over forty years old now, and was considered without peer by the military men of the continent. They feared and loathed him and the war machine he had built out of Liiria’s riches, but their hard-earned respect was not enough for Trager. His memories pursued him, chasing him down like wild dogs. And the leader of the ghostly wolf pack, still and always, remained his long dead father.

  Will Trager had come from a long line of accomplished knights. His father had fought at the first battle of Red-thorn when he was only sixteen, driven no doubt by the barking memory of his own father, Will Trager’s legendary grandfather. It was like a disease of the blood passed down through generations, and it had infected Trager badly. He could not hold a sword without thinking of his legacy, and he could not ride into battle without his dead father at his shoulder, whispering slurs. The older Trager had died young, forty-five by the time a Reecian arrow found him. He had been thirty when his young wife had given birth to Will, and by then he was already well-known throughout King Balak’s court. He was considered a very fine knight, and so had drilled his son relentlessly in the arts of warfare, forcing him to take up the family mantle. He had pushed young Will onto a horse almost before he could stand, had given him a dagger for his sixth birthday, and had taught him how to swing a sword rather than throw a ball. He had hounded Will day and night, toughening his body and his spirit, scarring his flesh with blows and his mind with insults. Will Trager had been an accomplished adolescent, and any father but his own would have been immensely proud. But Rory Trager was a man of small compassion. It was not enough that his son could ride a stallion or joust with men twice his size. There was an insatiable legacy to be honored, and only the best could carry the banner of the Trager family into the future.

  Only the best.

  Will Trager’s memory palace was full of trophies, but it was also laced with defeats. He had won ribbons at fairs and the adoration of young ladies, but he had never known the respect of his father.

  Despite the abuse, the first years of Will’s adolescence had been good. He had been welcomed in Lionkeep by the friends of his father, good knights all. They had taught him the use of the lance and the bow, and they had given him the praise his father withheld, enough to sustain him. Even Akeela, bookish and lean, had been a friend to him. Before the bad times. Before Lukien.

  Lukien had risen like the sun on Lionkeep. From the moment he’d been plucked from the streets of Koth, he had eclipsed Trager. He was younger, stronger, and better looking than any boy in the keep, and his martial abilities were natural, almost god-given. Where Trager struggled day and night to master weapons and techniques, all these things came to Lukien with easy grace. It was not long before comparisons were made between the two, and even Trager’s father saw the truth of things. His judgmental voice still boomed through the corridors of Trager’s memory.

  “Too slow.”

  “Too weak.”

  And the worst of all, “Not as good as Lukien.”

  Lionkeep fell under Lukien’s spell. The men adored him, the girls swooned for him, and even Akeela succumbed to his glamor. Though they could not be more different, Lukien and Akeela became like brothers. King Balak showered Lukien with gifts and affection, and when he had graduated war college there had been no question of the Bronze Knight’s path. Captain of the Royal Chargers. Remarkably, no one complained. Not even Trager. Instead he had remained in Lukien’s shadow, growing accustomed to the dark.

  It had taken Trager years to break the bond between Akeela and Lukien, yet he still yearned for the sunlight. The attention of the crowds, the adulation of his men, a simple nod from Akeela—all these things soothed Trager’s burning memory and helped to quiet his father’s voice. He had made great strides in his life, and now that Lukien was long gone the comparisons had all but stopped; still Will Trager wasn’t satisfied. There was always someone still willing to question his abilities, and his father’s memory remained the most critical.

  Trager was proud of his accomplishments, though. The world credited him with spreading fear and propping up Akeela’s tyranny, but Trager knew the truth of what he’d done. He alone had made Liiria the dominant power on the continent. He had taken a good army and made it great, swelling its ranks slowly, careful with his improvements. Liiria didn’t just have their vaunted Chargers anymore—she had divisions of men, painstakingly trained, well fed and well quartered. Trager’s innovations had been the marvel of the military world, not unlike Liiria’s great library was to the world of scholars. Figgis brought education and enlightenment to the country, and those were good things. But Trager had never been a learned man. He was a soldier, and his best innovations were among fighting men. He had revamped the training of recruits, choosing only the best and making great knights of them, and he had built facilities for his burgeoning army, gutting the abandoned buildings of Chancellery Square and turning them into useful war schools and barracks. If there was a man of renowned fighting skills, Trager learned from him, and he spared no expense in bringing trainers to Koth for his knights. He had hired horsemen from the steppes of Marn and archers from Ganjor, weapon makers from the smithies of Dreel and mercenaries from Norvor, all for the sake of turning the Liirian military into the greatest fighting force in the world. In sixteen years he had risen from lieutenant to general, displaced Lukien as Akeela’s favorite, and remade the armies of Liiria. Now he was older and he guarded his accomplishments jealously, just as he guarded access to Akeela. And yet, despite the years and accomplishments, he still heard his father’s voice mocking him.

  General Will Trager heard his father’s voice now as he looked out over his gathered troops. He was on a battlement of his headquarters, the former Chancellery of War. The battlement overlooked an expansive parade ground where his personal brigade, the Royal Chargers, were drilling and making ready for the long trek to Jador. Three hundred Royal Chargers had been rallied for the mission. They were Liiria’s elite, and would lead the regular cavalry into battle with the Jadori savages, putting the total number near two thousand. Trager’s eyes gleamed as he watched them, satisfied. It was late but his men were dedicated, and there were still many preparations to make before their departure. They worked by the light of dozens of torches, shoeing their mounts and polishing their long lances. To Trager’s tired eyes, they looked brilliant. They were beautiful in the moonlight, and because they knew their general was watching them they worked with proud smiles on their faces. Trager could feel their adulation, even high up on the wall. He was as meticulous as ever in his silver armor and crimson cape, his head naked, his beard and moustache trimmed perfectly. His silver gauntlets curled around the stone of the battlement as he leaned forward, nodding happily at the men below. The Royal Chargers were bet
ter than they’d ever been under Lukien. They were better trained and better led, and because they knew this they were prouder. Liiria’s elite force was envied across the continent, and this was another feather in Will Trager’s hat. If only his father had lived to see it. If only the bastard hadn’t died so early. He would have seen the strong man his son had become, a hair’s breadth from the king. He would have seen how he’d become Akeela’s closest advisor, closer even than Figgis or Graig. And he would have seen the lordly horsemen on the grounds of the square, looking up at Trager with admiration, calling him “sir.”

  But his father could see none of it. Will Trager cursed the Great Fate.

  It had not been easy to live in the shadow of so many accomplished men, first his father, then Lukien, but Trager felt he had done an admirable job. Now he was about to spread his greatness to a foreign land. At last he would live out his great dream and lead men in an epic struggle. Jador was unarmed and peaceful, but that didn’t matter to Trager. Proud people always fought, and he was sure that Kahan Kadar and his desert folk would resist. The thought made Trager wistful. Finally, he would use this famed weapon he had forged. Finally, he would test its blade.

  The lateness of the hour made General Trager yawn. He had been up since before dawn, checking supplies for the journey and making inventory, and he longed for sleep. But Akeela was awaiting him. The king was impatient and wanted constant updates on his progress. Sleep would have to wait a few more hours. Trager waved down from the battlement, signaling Colonel Tark. Tark was three years his senior but hadn’t let the age difference irritate him. He was a good and loyal man who followed orders implicitly. It had fallen to Tark to lead the Royal Chargers and, therefore, the Jadori mission. Though Trager still had ultimate control over the brigade, Tark oversaw its day to day operation. He was in a circle of officers when Trager shouted to him from the battlement.

  “Tark, I’m off to Lionkeep,” he called. “See that those wagons are loaded and the new mounts quartered in the eastern stables.”

  Colonel Tark nodded. “Yes, sir,” he called back. “Will you be back, sir? I can wait up for you.”

  “I’m going to get some sleep, Tark,” replied Trager. “I suggest you all do the same.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Tark’s smile was picked up by the rest of the officers. Like Trager, they had all been up since dawn, preparing for the mission. They nodded their good nights to Trager as he turned from the battlement, letting the noise of the grounds fall away behind him. He was on the second level of the tiered structure, and when he entered the hall of his offices the lack of sound was astonishing. A few of his aides scribbled in ledgers, counting up the vast numbers of supplies that were arriving. Only the scratching of their pens disturbed the silence. Trager walked past them without a word. Making his way down a stone staircase, he found the first floor of his headquarters as empty as the second. A pair of Knight-Guardians, his personal bodyguards, stood at the bottom of the stairway. Silently they awaited his orders.

  “We’re going to Lionkeep, then home,” he said tersely.

  The Knight-Guardians did not reply. They simply followed him out to the stables, then all the way to Lionkeep.

  In the last few years of Akeela’s reign, Lionkeep had become remarkably desolate. It was no longer the place of gaiety it had been in the early days, when Lukien had hordes of friends and “Akeela the Good” was available to every visitor. Now it was a shadow of itself, a vast prison for Akeela and Cassandra both, and few people entered its ancient courtyard. Despite Akeela’s wealth, most of the place had fallen into disrepair. The stones were covered with vines and moss and the gates creaked with rust. Even on the clearest night the keep looked haunted, collecting pockets of fog and throwing crooked shadows across the grounds.

  When Trager arrived at Lionkeep he saw the moonlight reflected in the windows and a few lonely candles, and that was all. He rode at the head of his tiny column, bidding his Knight-Guardians to remain in the courtyard as he went to seek Head Warden Graig. The Wardens still held sway in Lionkeep, and Graig had complained more than once about the Knight-Guardians, a group he viewed as competitive to his own venerable order. Trager had stopped arguing about the issue years ago. He was safe enough in Lionkeep, and needed no wardens or Knight-Guardians to protect him. He left his men in the yard, heading through the portcullis. Two wardens, dressed in the timeless uniform of their order, greeted him as he entered but Trager did not speak to them. They let him pass without question. It was very late and Trager was impatient. He wanted to get home and sleep, or at least spend some time with Dia, his mistress. Dia had promised to wait up for him, and Dia always kept her promises. But first Trager had to make a report to Akeela. And that meant seeing Graig.

  Graig’s office was on the ground floor of the keep, not far from the main entrance. Candlelight glowed over the threshold, telling Trager that Graig was still awake. Trager paused in the hallway, listening. He didn’t like having to see Graig before visiting Akeela, but such were the rules of Lionkeep. Graig still had enough influence with the king to get his way on small matters. It was just one more reason to hate the old man.

  Trager headed to the office and knocked on the open door. Graig was at his desk, smoking. On his desk were papers and a flagon of wine. Trager noticed immediately that there were two cups, one half full, the other empty. Graig leaned back in his chair and studied Trager over the long pipe in his lips. The air stank of tobacco, a substance the immaculate Trager had always detested.

  “Good evening, General,” said the Head Warden. There was a hint of slurring in his voice and just the trace of a smile.

  “I’m going up to see King Akeela,” said Trager. He turned quickly to go. Surprisingly, Warden Graig called after him.

  “Wait, General, a moment.”

  Trager peered back through the doorway and looked at him. “What?”

  Graig waved him into the room. “Don’t rush off,” he said merrily. “I’ve got myself some wine from Akeela’s private cellar. A gift for my birthday.”

  “Your birthday? How old are you? A hundred?”

  “So witty. Here. . . .” Graig hefted the enormous flagon and began pouring into the empty mug. “Have some.”

  “I have to see Akeela,” said Trager.

  “It’s late. King Akeela is probably asleep.”

  “Akeela never sleeps, you know that.”

  “So then your news can wait all night, right?”

  “What do you want, Head Warden?”

  Graig shrugged. “Company.”

  Will Trager was by nature a suspicious man. He could read faces like playing cards, and Graig’s face told him something was afoot. He had been waiting for Trager, and not just to bid him access to the king. Trager stepped into the little office warily. He detested Graig and always had, but the old man’s forwardness intrigued him. And the late hour meant no one would see them together. Trager sensed an opportunity.

  “All right,” he relented. “It’s been an arduous day, and I’m as dry as the Desert of Tears.” He took off his cape and laid it over the chair. From the corner of his eye he caught Graig smiling, obviously pleased with himself. “I suppose Akeela can wait for his report,” he continued. “Not much to tell, anyway.”

  “You’re still arranging your men and supplies?” asked Graig as he held out the goblet.

  Trager nodded, taking the cup and sitting down. His greaves creaked as his knees bent. Resting felt wonderful. “Lots to do, and not much time,” he said with a sigh. He knew that Graig wanted to talk about the Jadori mission. He decided to oblige. Like nearly everyone in Koth, Graig was kept in the dark about the happenings with Jador. He only knew that masses of men were gathering for a march to Jador; he did not know why.

  “Drink,” bade Graig, hoisting his own glass. “Toast my good health.”

  “If I must,” sighed Trager. They clinked goblets and Trager took a long, exquisite pull of the wine. It was excellent, the best he’d had in mo
nths. As he lowered his cup he stared at its ruby contents. “This is very fine. Akeela gave you this, you say?”

  “For my birthday,” Graig repeated. “Drink up. There’s more.”

  The old jealousy rose up in Trager like a cobra. In all the birthdays he had marked in Koth, he had never received a single gift from Akeela, and certainly nothing as fine as this flawless vintage. What did a man have to do to curry such favor, he wondered? He took another sip, not caring how much of Graig’s gift he consumed, and in a moment had drained his goblet. He slammed it down on the desk.

  “More.”

  Graig obliged, filling Trager’s cup. Trager watched him, thinking him remarkably stupid. He could see the Head Warden’s plan a mile away. First he would ply him with wine, then with questions. But the wine was good and Trager was tired, and he knew that he could endure the Head Warden’s company. Dia would wait for him. Like a loyal bitch she would stay up until dawn for her master to return. If he still hungered for her he would take her, and she would allow it unquestioningly. He knew that she loved him, and that her love had made her weak. She always tried to please him, and Trager recognized that weakness from his own past. It was so easy to use it against her.

  Trager emptied his goblet again before Graig could speak. And again the old man filled his cup. This time, though, Trager slowed his drinking.

  “Good,” remarked Graig. “Take it easy. We are in no rush, you and I.”

  “Just trying to catch up with you,” said Trager. “How long have you been sitting here?”

  “Oh, a couple of hours. It’s nice this time of night. Quiet.”

  “You were waiting for me,” said Trager.