The Eyes of God

by John Marco

  Graig’s only reply was a smile. He took a sip from his goblet and leaned back in his leather chair, propping his feet up on the desk. Trager took notice of his comfort and realized that Graig was not setting up a pretense. He wanted to talk, and made himself plainly obvious. Trager was glad the man credited him with some sense.

  He realized suddenly that in all the years they’d served together, he had never really talked with Graig. They had argued, had fought for access to Akeela, but they had never actually talked. Trager instantly blamed Graig for the silence. He had been a willing part of the king’s little clique, an inner circle from which Trager had always been excluded. Hatred bubbled up in Trager as he remembered all the old insults. Now, at last, he would take the chance to tell Graig what he really thought of him.

  But not quickly. First, small talk.

  Graig talked about the warden service and about his rheumatism, which had been acting up for years and kept him confined mostly to Lionkeep. He spoke endlessly about his service to Akeela, and occasionally dropped a question to Trager, to keep him in the conversation and, it seemed to Trager, to get him used to answering questions. The two continued drinking from the enormous flagon. Graig was liberal with his gift. He laughed and told jokes, and was surprisingly good company. Trager listened and occasionally smiled, and spoke a little about his father, whom Graig had known and never really cared for. The wine loosened both their tongues, and within an hour they were thoroughly relaxed, admitting things neither had spoken of in years. Trager felt his inhibitions slipping away. He gloried in the ability to speak the truth to this man he’d always hated.

  “My father was a bastard,” he said. “The first time I fell off a horse he beat me. He was embarrassed, because there were friends around. The most important thing in the world to my father was the opinion of others.”

  “And you hated him for that,” said Graig, his voice slurring badly.

  “Yes,” admitted Trager. “I did.”

  The memory of his father overwhelmed Trager suddenly. He set the goblet down on the desk, his head swimming. Remarkably, he felt like weeping.

  “I was never good enough, you see,” he continued. “No matter how much I accomplished, no matter how many tourneys I won against the other squires, he was always telling me to do better, always pushing, pushing. . . .” Grinding his teeth, Trager shut his eyes. “And I was so glad when he died. I thought I was rid of that kind of jeering forever. But I wasn’t, because there was Lukien to replace him. My new competitor.”

  Silence. Trager opened his eyes and saw Graig staring at him.

  “What?” barked Trager. “Surprised to hear me say that?”

  “A little,” the old man replied. “I haven’t heard anyone mention Lukien in years. Akeela forbids his name to be spoken.”

  “As it should be,” sneered Trager. He picked up his cup and drank, stoking his anger. The temptation to slander his old nemesis was too great to ignore. “Akeela is wise not to perpetuate the Bronze Knight’s legend,” he continued. “I’ve done my best to bury it, and it hasn’t been easy, let me tell you. I still hear men speak his name in the Chargers. Still, after all I’ve done for them.”

  “Lukien was a good man,” said Graig. “You do wrong to injure him. If you had known him—”

  “How could I have known him?” roared Trager. “How, when all of you shunned me? You had your little gang, your little circle of friends, so tight you couldn’t slip a fingernail between you. And did you ever ask me to be part of it? Did any of you ever once show me some bloody courtesy?”

  Graig looked away, unable to answer.

  “I thought not,” snorted Trager. “Beasts, every one of you. Just like my father. Will Trager was never good enough for you.”

  Now he was the one who looked away, his head pounding, bitterness choking his throat. Again the hateful need to weep crept over him, but he slammed it down hard. He would never let this horrible little man see him cry like a woman. He had already told him too much already.

  Too much, he thought blackly. More than he deserves to know.

  “I’m close with Akeela now,” he said proudly. “Closer than you even, Graig. Closer even than that old fool Figgis. That makes me important in the world. And you know what you are? You’re nothing.”

  Graig gave a thin smile. “If that makes you happy, General, I’m glad.”

  “No you’re not. You’ve never been glad for me,” countered Trager. “You opposed me when I became general, and you’ve opposed me every day since. But look at your history, old man. I’m the one Akeela listens to, not you. When I urged him to dissolve the chancelleries, he took my counsel. And when I told him to banish Baron Glass to the Isle of Woe, he listened. Akeela does what I say now, because he values my opinion. He knows I’m smarter than you or any of his other lackeys. You’re the last of a dying breed, Graig. Your time is over.”

  Graig’s face was hard as stone. He reached out for the almost-empty flagon, taking it from the desk and setting it on the floor next to him. “I think you’ve had enough,” he said.

  “Oh?” Trager flashed a menacing grin. “But it’s so early, and you haven’t even asked your questions yet.”

  “Questions?” asked Graig. “What do you mean?”

  The evasive answer disappointed Trager. Apparently, Graig still thought him a fool. “Come now, Head Warden, I may be drunk but I’m not an imbecile. This was all a ruse. I knew it from the moment I sat down. You want to ask me about the Jadori mission. So ask.”

  “And you’ll answer me?” asked Graig skeptically.

  Trager laughed. “Why shouldn’t I? We’re old friends now, you and I.”

  “Old, perhaps,” said Graig. “Not friends.”

  “Ask.”

  “All right.” Graig folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t like being kept in the dark, General. I don’t like the access you’ve had to Akeela, and I don’t like the idea of him riding off with you to Jador. I want to know exactly what’s going on.”

  “Have you asked Akeela?”

  “Of course I have. He keeps telling me to mind my own business, says that you’re in charge of this mission and that it’s a secret.”

  Trager grinned. In charge. He liked the ring of it.

  “It is a secret,” he whispered, leaning forward. “A great secret. And it’s been going on for sixteen years, right under your nose.”

  Concern wrinkled Graig’s brow. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re the Head Warden of Lionkeep,” said Trager with contempt, “and yet you’ve no idea what’s been happening all this time.” He laughed, delighted by the man’s ignorance. “Do you remember my last journey to Jador, Head Warden?”

  Graig nodded. “Of course. You went with Lukien. You found the cure for Cassandra’s illness.”

  “Cure. Hmm, what an odd of way putting it. What do you think it was? An herb perhaps? Some desert medicine?”

  Shrugging, Graig said, “I don’t know. Akeela would never say. All that I know is that it cured Cassandra.”

  “And made her a crone?”

  “Well, a cancer will do that.” Graig shook his head and sighed. “Poor girl. She was so beautiful.”

  Unable to contain his snickering, Trager said, “Remarkable.” He rose and shut the door, much to the surprise of Warden Graig. The old man stared at him inquisitively.

  “Why shut the door? Is this Jadori thing really that secret?”

  “Oh, it’s so much better than that,” said Trager. He sat back against the desk, grinning through the haze of the wine. “Cassandra’s not a crone at all, you fool. She’s as bright as a penny, still and always. She’s not a day older then when I left for Jador.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Graig. “How do you know what the queen looks like? No one but Akeela’s seen her for years!”

  “Not even Akeela, actually,” said Trager. “No one has seen her. She wears an amulet, Graig, a magic pendent that keeps her young, keeps her tumor from claiming h
er. That’s what we got for her from Jador.”

  Graig seemed stunned, disbelieving. He blinked with drunkenness as he tried to comprehend the amazing story. “Impossible.”

  “The amulet is called the Eye of God. It’s one of two such amulets in the world. Akeela has been searching for the other one for sixteen years. Now he’s found it, in Jador. That’s why we’re going back, Graig. And that’s why the mission is such a secret.”

  “I don’t believe it,” gasped Graig. His old mind was reeling. “It’s incredible.”

  “It’s the truth. Only Akeela and three others know about this. Obviously I’m one of them. See? I’ve always been valuable to Akeela. More valuable than you.”

  “I don’t believe you,” spat Graig. “Even if it’s true, why would you tell me such a thing?”

  Trager shrugged. “Because it amuses me. Because I like knowing something you don’t know. You see, I’ve always hated you, Graig. I’ve always wanted you to know that you’re not so important to Akeela after all. To be honest, I thought Akeela might have let the truth slip out to you after all these years. But he didn’t. He doesn’t trust you, and that pleases me.”

  “Scum,” hissed Graig, rising from his chair. “You’re a lying piece of filth.”

  “I’m many things, Head Warden, but I’m not a liar. Everything I told you is true.” Trager sighed dramatically. “But now I have a terrible problem. I thought maybe you already knew the truth about Cassandra. Obviously I was wrong. This is very dangerous knowledge.” He winked at Graig. “A secret.”

  Graig seemed not to take his meaning. “So? I don’t even believe it.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe,” said Trager. “The sad fact is that I told you.” He shook his head in mock regret. “Very sad, indeed.”

  “General, I think you should leave now,” said Graig.

  Trager nodded. “Agreed.”

  He turned to go. Graig stepped forward to escort him out. Trager reached for the door handle, then spun with his outstretched arm, catching Graig in the throat. The old man stumbled back from the blow, his neck snapping as he fell backward over his chair. His shock-filled eyes watched Trager as his back slammed into the stone floor. A wheezing gasp escaped his throat. Frozen horror fixed his twitching face.

  On the floor, unmoving, he gazed up wildly as Trager hovered over him. Trager smiled, then roughly kicked over the flagon, sending its contents spilling along the floor.

  “You shouldn’t drink so much,” whispered Trager. “Now look at you. You’ve slipped and hurt yourself.”

  Graig couldn’t respond. His neck broken, he could barely breathe.

  “Such an unfortunate accident,” said Trager with a smile.

  Warden Graig gasped, a garble of sounds that sounded to Trager like curses.

  “You should have been nicer to me, Graig,” said Trager. “It would have been so easy. Well, let me tell you something now. I’ve got what I want, and I’m not sharing Akeela with anyone.” He poked at Graig’s cheek. “Do you hear me? You’re finished, Graig. You, Lukien, and someday that old waterhead Figgis. I’m the one that tells Akeela what to do. And that’s how it’s going to be forever.”

  Trager didn’t wait for Graig to die. The old man’s face was already purpling. Confident he’d be dead in minutes, the Supreme General of Liiria retrieved his cape and left the office, closing the door behind him. But before he left he took his goblet with him.

  “A man shouldn’t drink alone,” he sighed as he left the keep. “That’s how accidents happen.”

  33

  Gilwyn rode out from the library at dawn, when the sun was barely peeking over the horizon. He had his wagon and his horse Tempest to pull it, Teku on his shoulder, and a pocketful of silver coins. The letter Queen Cassandra had given him was tucked safely into his trousers. Aside from those things, he had nothing. He was alone and afraid, but he was determined to reach his destination by nightfall. So he said good-bye to Figgis and did not look back, focusing instead on the long trek ahead. Figgis had given him sparse directions to Breck’s farm. Never having actually been there, the old man wasn’t exactly sure of its location. It was north of the city, he’d told Gilwyn, near the town of Borath. Borath was a shire of wheat and potato farmers, and Figgis was sure that Breck grew one of those crops. Find Borath, Figgis had explained, and you’ll find Breck. It seemed an easy enough task, but Gilwyn had never ridden out of Koth before. And Figgis had been unable to offer any guarantees. It had been five years since he’d last heard from Breck, and it was very possible that the old knight had moved on. Figgis didn’t think so, but the possibility made Gilwyn anxious. And Borath was a full day’s ride from the library. Even with good weather, it would take determination to reach the shire by dark.

  Blessedly, the morning was fair. Gilwyn did not stop riding until he was well beyond Library Hill. He kept to the northern outskirts of the city, watching it peripherally and marveling at its size. It was much bigger than it looked from Library Hill, tall and vast and mysterious. The road Gilwyn took afforded him an excellent view. It was cobble-stone and lined with trees, and the day soon took on a beautiful aura. To the south, Koth reflected the sunlight like a mirror. To the north, a great expanse of golden grass swayed in the breeze. Gilwyn quickly forgot his thousand troubles. He felt remarkably free, untethered by his apprenticeship to Figgis or his mild deformities.

  By late morning he located the river which would lead him north to Borath. The river was called the Trident, because it split into three smaller tributaries just south of the capital. The Trident was wide and crystal clear, and Gilwyn took the time to stop for rest, letting Tempest drink from the Trident’s inviting bank. While the horse drank, Gilwyn and Teku rummaged through the food Figgis had packed for them, finding bread, meat, and fruit. Teku grabbed for the fruit immediately, snatching herself a shiny red apple harvested from the orchards of Lionkeep. She sat herself down on the carriage’s bench seat and buried her snout noisily into the fruit. Gilwyn wedged some ham between bread, then leaned back, studying the blue sky as he ate. Though they had passed many others during the morning, the little place he had staked out by the Trident was deserted. The place was lovely and reminded him of Cassandra. He laughed, shaking his head. How stupid he’d been to think she was interested in him. But she had been kind, just as he’d imagined, and she had not shunned him or stared at his boot or crippled hand. Though she was a queen, she had treated him like an equal. And that, more than anything, was the reason he wanted to help her.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Gilwyn, Teku, and Tempest followed the Trident north. They stopped when necessary for rest, letting old Tempest catch his breath, and came upon a town where Gilwyn took the time to talk to the locals. It was a farming village called Ferri, one Figgis had told him about.

  “If you’re not making good time, spend the night in Ferri,” Figgis had said. “There’ll be a bed for you there if you want it, but don’t pay too much. And don’t tell anyone why you’re heading to Borath.”

  It was advice Gilwyn didn’t need. He had no intention of asking anyone in Ferri about Breck, but he did ask directions to Borath. A brawny pig farmer with kindly eyes confirmed what Figgis had said—Borath was only a few more hours north. Follow the Trident, head northeast where it forks, and keep your eyes open for the shire. Gilwyn thanked the man, let his young daughter play with Teku a few moments, then went about his way.

  By late afternoon, they were all exhausted from the ride, despite their frequent breaks. Teku had long ago stopped chattering on Gilwyn’s shoulder, and instead curled up in a sleeping bundle on his lap. And Tempest, who had pulled the carriage without complaint throughout the day, began to show signs of weariness. Gilwyn was beginning to regret his decision not to spend the night in Ferri when he saw the fork in the Trident.

  “Look,” he cried, waking Teku. “There it is!”

  His little companion spied the forking river, squawking with relief.

  “Not much farther, Tempe
st old boy,” Gilwyn encouraged, and gently guided the horse northeast. They left behind the banks of the river and soon entered farm country again, a great flat plain with homesteads dotting the horizon. Gilwyn could barely make out the outlines of the little shire in the distance. The sun was beginning to sink, and the stone chimneys of Borath sent up evening smoke signals. Grass and fruit trees flanked the road. Up ahead, a field of wheat rippled in the breeze, like the tide of a golden ocean. Gilwyn spied the homesteads. They were acres apart, and he wondered which one was Breck’s.

  “Potatoes or wheat?” he wondered aloud. The wheat looked more inviting, so he headed toward the waving grain. The closest farm took long minutes to reach, and when he did Gilwyn waved down a boy just coming in from the field. The boy was younger than Gilwyn and wore clothes of the field, patched and stained with soil. He eyed the carriage suspiciously as it entered the property.

  “Excuse me,” said Gilwyn. “I’m looking for the home of a man named Breck. Might this be it?”

  The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t move a muscle.

  “Do you know of a man named Breck?” asked Gilwyn hopefully.

  The boy nodded. “I do.”

  “Then would you mind telling me where I can find him? I’ve been on the road all day.”

  “You know Breck?” asked the boy. His eyes watched Gilwyn carefully.

  “No, I don’t,” Gilwyn admitted. “But I’ve come to speak with him.”

  “Come from where?”

  “Look fellow, it’s getting late,” said Gilwyn. “If you know where this man Breck is, could you tell me? I’d like to find him before it gets dark.”

  “Gordel?” called a voice. It came from the nearby house. Gilwyn turned toward the cobbled structure and saw a woman emerge from the rounded doorway. She wore a patchwork frock dirtied by labor and a smile that melted away when she noticed Gilwyn. “Gordel, who is this?” she asked.

  The boy eased toward the woman. “He’s looking for . . . Breck.”

  “I see,” the woman replied. She looked at Gilwyn. “And what’s your business with Breck, young man?”