The Eyes of God

by John Marco

The men continued pulling Cassandra’s body from its shallow grave. Akeela struggled to catch his breath. Sweat fell from Akeela’s forehead, stinging his eyes. Next to him, Trager was staring at Cassandra’s body. With effort Akeela straightened. Except for where it was spattered with blood, Cassandra’s corpse was bone white. The knights around her parted as Akeela shuffled closer, kneeling beside her. Trager stood over Akeela’s shoulder, studying the body.

  “Akeela, it’s gone,” he whispered.

  Akeela nodded. He had already noticed. The Eye of God had been taken. Then, something else caught Akeela’s gaze. There was an object tied to Cassandra’s right hand. Akeela poked at it, brushing away the dirt and found it was a slip of paper. Someone had tied it to her wrist like a bracelet.

  “What’s that?” asked Trager.

  Slowly, carefully, Akeela pried loose the folded paper. Trager ordered his men to step back, to give the king some room. But the general himself stared over Akeela’s shoulder, intently watching as he unfolded the note. And it was a note, Akeela was sure. He didn’t even need to read it, for he was dreadfully sure of its contents. In shaky penmanship the letter read:

  To my mad brother,

  You weren’t the only one who loved her. Forgive me.

  It was signed simply, Lukien.

  “Lukien,” sighed Akeela.

  “Lukien!” hissed Trager.

  Akeela rose to his feet. The nausea that had plagued him fled in an instant, replaced by a ground-shaking rage. With a trembling fist he crumpled the letter and tossed it into the empty grave.

  “He takes everything from me,” he snarled. “The only thing I loved, the only thing left to me!”

  “We’ll find him, my lord,” Trager vowed. “And when we do, we’ll cut his heart out.”

  “No,” said Akeela. “You won’t find him. He’s already gone.”

  “Yes, but where?”

  Akeela closed his eyes. An enormous headache threatened to crack his skull. “I don’t know, but I know someone who can tell us.” When he opened his eyes again, Cassandra was still at his feet. Still dead. “Get her out of here,” he told Trager. “See that she’s cleaned and readied for a proper burial. Then, bring me the librarian.”

  He turned and went back to his horse. On the orders of General Trager, the Knight-Guardians followed him home. Finally, when he reached Lionkeep and was alone in his study, Akeela wept.

  41

  Akeela sat alone in the vast dining chamber of Lionkeep, pensively sipping a glass of wine and surveying the feast laid out on the table. His cook had done an excellent job with the meal and had prepared many grand dishes. The aromas in the chamber were enough to tempt anyone to eat, Akeela was sure. Akeela, however, did not eat. Satisfied with his liquor, he simply admired the delicacies laid out on the table. The scents of roast duck and spitted venison filled his nostrils. Fresh breads and biscuits sent up wisps of steam. Across the table, a single place setting had been arranged with a metal goblet of wine. Moonlight came through the stained glass window, alerting Akeela to the time. Nearly two full days had passed since he’d discovered Cassandra’s body, and he hadn’t eaten a thing. Neither had Figgis. Now it was time to reward the old man for cooperating.

  Surprisingly, Figgis had lasted longer under persuasion than Akeela had thought possible. Old bones break easily, Trager had assured him, but for the first full day the librarian had stuck to his story, swearing to every god and devil that he knew nothing of Cassandra’s whereabouts. Lukien, he insisted, had not contacted him. Akeela supposed Figgis thought him incapable of torture. And for that first day, there had only been the threat of it, for Akeela had always liked Figgis. The thought of resorting to violence was almost abhorrent to him. But time was of the essence and he needed information, and he knew that Figgis was the lone link in the chain to lead him to Lukien. No one else would have dared contact Cassandra on his behalf, or so Akeela had thought. It was why he had originally left Breck out of his theory. Breck had a family now, too much to risk. And how strangely incriminating that the boy Gilwyn Toms had run off. Figgis had sworn ignorance about this, too.

  Akeela set down his goblet. It’s a shame that no one can be trusted, he thought. A shame that people make me do such things.

  In the end, Figgis had cracked like an eggshell. Lukien and Gilwyn Toms were on their way to Jador. Surprisingly, Breck was with them, or had simply fled his home in Borath. Knight-Guardians sent to Breck’s farm had reported that the place had been abandoned.

  There was no doubt in Akeela’s mind that Lukien had the amulet now, and that he and his cohorts intended to warn the Jadori about the coming invasion. Most curiously of all, though, was the presence of Baron Glass. Akeela’s mind turned on this fact, troubled by it.

  All my enemies gather against me.

  He was determined not to let them win. The amulet meant nothing to him now. What life was there without Cassandra, anyway? It was his, and he would reclaim it, but he doubted he would use it. He wasn’t such a great king, and he knew it. There was no reason for his reign to last forever.

  A knock at the chamber door broke into his thoughts. As he called for his guest to enter, General Trager opened the door. He looked wretchedly tired, his face drawn from the fatigue of his unpleasant duty. He looked toward Akeela at the table.

  “We’ve brought him,” he said.

  “Bring him in,” replied Akeela.

  Trager stepped aside, revealing two of his soldiers. Hanging between them, supported by their outstretched arms, was Figgis. The old man’s face was bloated and contused. Blood caked his swollen lips and both eyes sported black bruises. The effort of walking to the dining chamber had winded him so that his breath came in grating rasps. Seeing him made Akeela flinch. Figgis lifted his face, saw Akeela seated at the elaborate table, and let out a mournful groan.

  “Don’t, Figgis, please,” said Akeela. “It’s done, I promise you. No one is going to hurt you any more.” Akeela gestured to the soldiers. “Sit him down.”

  The men did as ordered, half dragging Figgis through the chamber and propping him into the high-backed chair so that he sat across from Akeela. Figgis could barely hold up his head, but he struggled valiantly to do so, squaring his shoulders as he stared at Akeela over the feast of platters.

  “Should I stay?” Trager asked.

  “No,” said Akeela. “Wait outside and take your men with you. I’ll call if I need you.” He offered Figgis a reconciling grin. “Leave me alone with my friend for a while. We have some things to discuss.”

  Trager and his men left the dining chamber, closing the doors behind them. When they were gone Akeela smiled across the table at Figgis. The old man looked ghastly in the light from the candelabras. His face seemed to droop; pain glowed in his blackened eyes. Exhausted, he leaned back against his chair, his head lolling on his shoulders. Red welts marked his neck where Trager had worked the garrote. Finally, Figgis spoke.

  “Why . . . ?”

  The voice dribbled from his swollen lips. An expression of pain and sadness contorted his face.

  “I had to know the truth,” said Akeela. “You were lying to me; I could tell.”

  “I’m an old man, my lord. We’re. . . .” He paused. “We were . . . friends.”

  “Yes,” said Akeela, nodding. “But you betrayed me, Figgis. You sold me out to Lukien. And you killed Cassandra.”

  “We didn’t know,” Figgis groaned. Weakly he leaned forward, his elbows banging clumsily into the table. “We thought the curse was a hoax.”

  “So you’ve told me,” said Akeela. “But dead is dead, and now I’ll never see Cassandra again. That’s murder, isn’t it? People should pay for murder, shouldn’t they?”

  Figgis said nothing, but his eyes widened in alarm.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you.” Then Akeela laughed. “Who else could I get to run that confounded library of mine?” He sighed, spreading his hands in friendship. “Well, it’s over. Tomorrow I leave in search of Lukie
n and Glass, and that troublesome boy of yours. But you and I will speak no more about this, agreed? When I return, it will be just like always between us. No grudges.”

  Figgis began to shake. Akeela realized he was sobbing.

  “No, don’t weep, my friend,” said Akeela gently. “Look, I’ve set out this great feast for us. A peace offering.”

  “I’m not hungry,” rasped Figgis.

  “Oh, yes you are. You must be. You haven’t eaten in days, and neither have I. Go on, eat. Let’s both forgive ourselves for what we’ve done, eh?”

  The table was full of temptations. Akeela could see the hunger on Figgis’ face, even through his contusions.

  “Please,” urged Akeela. “There’s nothing more you can do. Now that I know where Lukien has gone, I’m going to find him. You won’t be able to save him, you know that. You might as well ease your own suffering.”

  Predictably, Figgis’ resolve broke in moments. With one shaky hand he reached for the nearest platter, filled with joints of game birds. His fingers trembled as he held the bird to his lips, eating with effort and pain. Akeela watched him devour the food, pleased to seeing him enjoying it.

  “Good,” he said softly. “I want peace between us, Figgis. And I want you to at least try and understand why I did what I did.”

  Figgis didn’t answer. He picked up his goblet and drained its contents, pouring half of it down his soiled shirt.

  “You do understand, don’t you, Figgis?”

  The old man nodded, but Akeela knew it was just to shut him up. He let the librarian continue gorging himself. Figgis reached out for another piece of fowl, took a few bites, then dropped it into his plate. He began to cough as though a bone had lodged itself in his throat.

  “My lord,” Figgis gasped, staring at him with bulging eyes. His face began to redden as his windpipe involuntarily constricted. Banging on the table, he cried, “Akeela!”

  Akeela watched impassively, surprised by the speed of the poison. Figgis put a hand to his throat, gasping. There was still remarkable strength in him, even after the beating; his thrashing impressed Akeela. But it wouldn’t matter. The poison had already done its work. Figgis knew it, too.

  “Akeela . . .” His gasping reminded Akeela of a chicken, squealing with its neck on the block. His eyes flared in utter disbelief. “You can’t! My library. . . .”

  It took effort to understand him. Akeela watched Figgis change color as the poison choked his words. “It isn’t your library, Figgis,” he said. “It’s mine. Just like Cassandra was mine. Why doesn’t anyone understand that?”

  Past the point of answering, his remaining life ebbing fast away, Figgis gave Akeela a merciless sneer. Then he collapsed face first into his plate.

  The room fell deathly quiet. Akeela stood up and went to his old friend, feeling his bruised neck and getting no pulse. A wave of sorrow overcame him.

  “Why does everyone betray me?”

  The dead man gave no answer. Akeela pulled back Figgis’ head, sitting him up properly and carefully wiping the food from his face. The old man deserved some dignity, he supposed.

  “Will, get in here,” he bellowed.

  Instantly Trager opened the doors. When he saw Figgis slumped dead in his chair, he smiled. “It’s done. Good.”

  “Yes,” said Akeela, “and don’t look so glad about it. He was a good man.”

  Trager smirked. “No, my lord. A good man wouldn’t betray you.”

  “Many good men have betrayed me. Now be ready to set out in the morning. We leave at dawn.”

  “For Jador, my lord?”

  “Of course,” said Akeela. “That’s where we’ll find Lukien.”

  “And the amulet, my lord.”

  “Yes, the amulet, too.”

  “Will we try to recover both of them?”

  Akeela shrugged. “If the freaks of Grimhold stand against us, we will make them pay. If they have the amulet, we will take it.”

  “We’ll have to fight, have no doubt,” warned Trager. “Lukien will try to help them. For that, they will protect him.”

  “Then they will die,” said Akeela.

  Trager couldn’t conceal his grin. “We’ll make Lukien pay for what he’s done to you.”

  “Indeed we will,” agreed Akeela. Regretfully he regarded the dead Figgis. “Friends, Will—they’re the worst enemies of all.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Trager, then turned and left the chamber, leaving Akeela alone with the feast of poisoned food.

  PART THREE

  THE MISTRESS OF GRIMHOLD

  42

  Jador was far away.

  In the heat of the desert the sands moaned, shifting and obscuring the white city in the distance. Beneath his black gaka, Kadar chafed under the sun. He could barely detect his city now, for he had traveled far in the hours since morning. Only the tips of Jador’s spiraling towers could be seen above the dunes, like tiny needles shining on the horizon. Ahead of him, a rugged collection of tall reddish rocks erupted out of the desert sands. Kadar spied the rocks. The sun was dazzling, blinding him with its hot light. Little beads of perspiration fell from his brown brow, stinging his eyes, the only part of his face not covered by black cloth. He was still as stone as he watched the rocks, as was his kreel, Istikah. The great lizard felt the caution in her master’s mind. Understanding perfectly, she mimicked Kadar’s quiet. The thick scales along her hide shifted colors, turning from their usual green to approximate the golden sand. Like Kadar, Istikah sensed the danger ahead. Her tongue slid from her long, reptilian snout, tasting the air. In the bond that had grown between Kadar and his mount—the bond that always formed between rider and kreel—Kadar could sense Istikah’s alarm. The rass was very near. They had discovered its hidden lair. But Istikah gave Kadar no sense of fear. In the tongue of Jador, the lizard’s name meant “courageous,” and she had always lived up to her name. She and Kadar had confronted rass before, and they had always been victorious against the great snakes. Though the rass were the natural enemies of the kreel, giant hooded cobras with an insatiable appetite for kreel eggs, Istikah did not fear them. Rather, she seemed to hate them with an almost human zeal. It was why she was so effective against them. And it was why Kadar had bonded with her so well, better than with any kreel before her. Both were driven, perhaps irrationally, and both had no fear of death.

  It hadn’t always been so for Kadar. In the days before the coming, he had loved life and dreaded its eventual end. With the amulet’s help, he had buried many wives. But none had he loved so much as Jitendra. With her death, the lure of immortality lost its strange appeal.

  Kadar’s eyes darted carefully over the rocks. There were mountainous regions like this one throughout the desert, where both kreel and rass made their homes. The rocks protected the creatures from the relentless sun and collected water when the scarce rains came. Yesterday Kadar had visited a kreel nesting ground in a range of red rocks much the same as this one. And he had found to his horror that the clutches of eggs had been devoured; the kreels protecting them driven off. The sands of the desert did a poor job of maintaining tracks, but a few long trails protected from the wind told a very ominous tale, and a single scale left behind had confirmed Kadar’s fears. They were after a rass of enormous length, thirty feet across at least and as wide around as a stout man. It was an old rass, certainly, no doubt new to the region. Left alone, it would dominate the other snakes and eat its fill of the precious kreel eggs, for it had fangs the size of scimitars and could easily best the biggest kreel.

  Sitting atop Istikah, Kadar knew he should be frightened, but he was not. He had never hunted a rass so large, but back home in his palace he had a collection of jaws from the beasts. There were eleven of the gruesome trophies now, polished to an ivory sheen and propped open to reveal their curving fangs. One more would make an even dozen. Or he would die. There were no draws when hunting rass. There was no quarter. The rass were swift and lethal, and immensely aggressive in guarding their lairs.
To enter one was to invite their wrath, but Kadar had come prepared. Beneath his layered gaka was an armored suit formed from the scales of dead kreel, a remarkably tough but light plating that even the jaws of rass had difficulty piercing. Kadar had worn the armor to hunt many times. Tethered to Istikah’s harness was a spear with a long, thin blade, sharp enough to penetrate the rass’ lightly armored skin. He had a shield with him also, covered in kreel scales. Most importantly, though, he had his whip, the weapon of choice for kreel riders. Once, before the coming, the whips had simply been used to train the kreel. But losing Jitendra to the northerners had shown Kadar the need for the Jadori to defend themselves, and the whip had evolved into a potent weapon. Just like the rass, the whip was lightning fast. And at fifteen feet in length it could keep even an enormous opponent at bay. Kadar and his men had become experts with the weapon, easily capable of taking down a man or beast from the back of a kreel at full gallop. They had perfected the whip’s rolling, snapping techniques, and none of them ever left the palace without it. Not since the coming.

  Just like his city and its people, Kadar himself had changed since the coming of the northerners. He was older now, physically. With the power of the amulet and its great spirit removed, he had aged. His dark hair was streaked with gray and he no longer had all his youthful vitality. Most of all, though, he missed Jitendra. She had been his most precious thing, his greatest reason for living. He often wondered if her death was why he tested himself against the rass, why he never heeded the calls of his advisors to send younger men after the beasts. He was kahan, he told himself, and so killing the rass was his responsibility. But even he knew he didn’t have to ride off after them alone. He chose to be alone. Maybe to die alone. He had responsibilities to Jador and to Grimhold, but if he died out here in his beloved desert, he supposed he really wouldn’t mind.

  Istikah’s tongue continued probing the air. She had not moved a muscle since her scales had turned gold. The link between them told Kadar Istikah smelled rass scat. And something else. There was the usual scent of the enemy snakes, which equated in Kadar’s human mind to something like leather. But Istikah picked another scent out of the air, one that it took both kreel and rider a moment to comprehend. Old skin.