The Eyes of God

by John Marco

  “Protect me from what?” asked Akeela. He jerked a contemptuous thumb toward Gilwyn. “Him? He’s a cripple.”

  “Yes, my lord, but—”

  “Oh, shut up and wait outside,” said Akeela wearily. “Toms, sit down with me.”

  As the soldiers departed, Gilwyn moved warily into the chamber. Akeela’s red eyes studied him, not even hinting at his intent. Gilwyn wondered about a man who would grant him such easy access. Clearly, he truly was mad. One look around the room could tell a blind man that. There was a long couch opposite Akeela’s chair. He gestured to it with his glass, slopping wine over the edge.

  “Sit down, boy,” he commanded.

  Gilwyn did so, falling into the soft green cushions. Frantically he groped for an argument, some way to reach the king. Earlier, when he’d spoken to Ghost, the first inklings of a plan had come to him. Now it was time to test his theory. Terrified, he wondered if Ghost was still with him, but in his nervousness couldn’t concentrate enough to see him.

  “So you bear a message you say,” said King Akeela. “Speak it.”

  Gilwyn hesitated, fumbling for words. “My lord honors me with this audience,” he said. “I’m truly humbled.”

  The king yawned. He looked unspeakably tired.

  No, thought Gilwyn then. He looks pathetic. It’s like talking to a little boy.

  “My lord,” he continued, “my word from Grimhold is just this—they aren’t your enemies. They’re just people like me, the kind of people you once wanted to help.” He put out his bad hand again. “You’re right, my lord—I can’t hurt you. Neither can the folk of Grimhold. And they don’t want to. They just want to live in peace and be left alone.”

  There, he’d said it. He watched Akeela for a reaction. Surprisingly, the king let out a jaded laugh.

  “You make the same argument Lukien did, young Toms,” he said. “I’m not impressed. And if that’s all you have to tell me, you can join your traitorous friend in the cellars.”

  A ripple of panic went through Gilwyn. “No, my lord, listen to me—”

  “You haven’t come to tell me anything new,” Akeela interrupted. “You’ve just come to plead for Lukien.” He put down his glass with an angry groan. “Fate above, that’s always the way it is for him! Always he has the power of men’s hearts. . . .” He closed his eyes. “Don’t tell me how good a man he is, Gilwyn Toms. Don’t tell me how his heart is true and how sorry he is. He killed my wife.”

  “I know,” said Gilwyn. “I haven’t come to argue his innocence. He’s wronged you, my lord. But surely there’s forgiveness in you.” Gilwyn smiled at him. “I know there is. Why else would you even be speaking to me?”

  “Because it amuses me,” said the king.

  “No,” said Gilwyn. “You want to talk to me. I risked coming here because of all the faith Lukien still had in you. And because I know from Figgis what a special man you used to be. And look, here you are, talking to me instead of throwing me into a dungeon.” Gilwyn leaned forward for emphasis. “You’re still Akeela the Good.”

  Akeela laughed bitterly. “Akeela the Drunk, you mean. Akeela the Butcher. That’s what they’re calling me, you know. Even my own men. They don’t think I hear them whispering, but I do.”

  “Then they’re wrong about you, my lord,” pressed Gilwyn. “They don’t know the man you were.”

  “And you do?” asked Akeela. “Hmmph. A young boy’s faith. How charming and useless.”

  “I do know what you were like, my lord,” said Gilwyn. He knew he had to press on, to not be deterred by the king’s madness. “I know that you loved reading and books, and that you loved Cassandra more than anything in the world.”

  Akeela’s face grew sad. “Yes,” he nodded. “I did.”

  “And I know that you loved Lukien, too.”

  Again Gilwyn watched for a reaction. This time it was slower to come, but soon Akeela’s sad expression twisted into something like agony. He couldn’t speak. He seemed on the verge of tears. Gilwyn seized the chance. He rose from the coach and approached the king, dropping to one knee in front of him.

  “My lord,” he said gently, “I really do have a message for you.”

  With bloodshot eyes Akeela looked up hopefully. “Do you? Tell me.”

  “This,” said Gilwyn. Once again he put out his hand for Akeela, this time laying it in his lap. The king looked at it curiously, but did not understand.

  “Your hand? What of it?”

  “My hand and my foot have been clubbed since I was born,” said Gilwyn. “In another land, I might have been discarded. Once my mother died there would have been no one to care for me. I would have been a beggar.”

  Slowly Akeela began to understand. He said with a drunken smile, “But you’re not a beggar.”

  “No,” said Gilwyn, “because I had a place to go. A place that you built, my lord. My mother told me about the time you first saw me. Do you remember that, my lord?”

  “Yes,” said Akeela softly. His mind tripped back through the years. “I remember. . . .”

  “You told my mother—”

  “I told her that there would always be a place for you in Lionkeep.” Akeela didn’t look at Gilwyn as he spoke. His eyes were glassy, staring into space. “I told her that I was making a new Liiria.”

  “That’s right,” said Gilwyn. “And you succeeded, my lord. You made a place for me when you built the library. You brought knowledge to Liiria.” His voice shook a little as he spoke, but there was one more thing he needed to say. “You saved my life, King Akeela. And I’ve never been able to thank you until now.” He sort of shrugged. “I guess that’s my message.”

  A single tear welled up in Akeela’s right eye. It dropped down his cheek, rolling onto his soiled shirt. “I tried so hard,” he whispered. “To know that I helped you . . . that is a great gift, boy.”

  It was astonishing to see the change in him. The angry, time-twisted face softened as if lit by the sun. Gilwyn knew he was reaching Akeela. Somehow, his simple words of kindness were thawing Akeela’s frozen heart.

  “My lord,” Gilwyn continued, “I know that you’re a good man.”

  “I’m insane, Toms,” choked Akeela. He glanced down at himself in disgust. “Look what the world has made of me. I’m a drunkard. And I’ve lost everything. Everything. . . .”

  He began to weep, great hacking, drunken sobs. With an angry sweep of his arm he knocked the wine pitcher from the pedestal, then put his filthy hands over his face.

  “I don’t care what anyone else says about you, my lord,” said Gilwyn. “To me you will always be Akeela the Good. You’ll always be the man who saved me.”

  Akeela put up a hand. “Don’t,” he begged. “I can’t bear it. . . .”

  Gilwyn leaned back on his heels. “My lord,” he said gently, “Lukien loves you.”

  “Stop!”

  “He does, whether you want his love or not. That’s why he gave himself up. Not just to save Grimhold, but to see you again. I just know it.” Gilwyn waited for his words to sink in, then he asked the impossible. “Please, my lord, can’t you forgive him?”

  In the windowless cells beneath the palace, time lost all meaning. The unbearable heat stretched out the hours. A thick veneer of dust covered the stone floor and walls, undisturbed for years, and the iron gates of the cells shed flecks of rust when they opened, screeching with the strain. There was very little light, only the glow of a single torch. Lukien had counted five such cells. His was in the middle. The torch lay against the opposite wall, illuminating the passive face of Trager as he leaned back on an old wooden chair, balancing it on two legs. He didn’t seem to mind the heat or dust; he was far too pleased to notice such things. Lukien sat on the floor of his cell with his back against the wall. Despite the heat the wall was cool, providing him his only bit of comfort. His hands were tied behind his back, an unnecessary precaution given the iron bars, but one that Trager indulged anyway. The general had a dagger in his hands that he twirled f
rom time to time, occasionally whistling as he whiled away the time with his prisoner. He had promised Lukien that he would remain with him all night. It was, Trager had explained, his reward for all his years of patience. Lukien did what he could to block Trager from his mind. The darkness of the cell crowded around him. Given other circumstances, he might have been frightened. But he was not. He had made his choice and was satisfied. And if Akeela kept his promise, he would die at dawn.

  “You know,” said Trager suddenly, launching into one of his long-winded speeches, “I’ve been thinking, Captain. It didn’t have to be this way.” He happily rolled his dagger between his fingers as he spoke. “Imagine what your life could have been had you not poked Cassandra. You would have remained Akeela’s favorite forever, and I wouldn’t be here now, having so much fun.”

  Lukien ignored the comment.

  “Not that I blame you for bedding the queen, Captain. Oh, she was a beautiful wench. Raven hair, dark eyes. And that bosom!” Trager smacked his lips loudly. “That must have been tasty, eh?” Casually he flipped his dagger into the air, catching it by the handle on its way down. “What a waste for you, though. All those years on the run, selling yourself to that bitch in Norvor for a few pennies, disgracing yourself. Who knows what you might have made of yourself in Liiria? You might have been a baron now, or a duke.”

  “How was that going to happen?” Lukien jabbed. “Akeela outlawed the noble houses, remember?”

  “Hmm, yes, that was a pity,” replied Trager with a wild grin. “A shame about Baron Glass and his fortune. I’ll mention that to him when I see him.” He mocked Lukien with his grin. “When do you think that will be, Captain, soon?”

  Once again Lukien fell silent. It didn’t matter what was done to him; he would never divulge Grimhold’s location.

  “We’ll find it, you know,” said Trager. “You don’t have to tell us anything. I’ll enjoy the hunt. And when I do turn over that rock, I’ll squash all of those insects you call friends, including that old bastard Glass.”

  Lukien sighed. “Gods, don’t you ever shut up?”

  Trager got out of his chair and stuck his face between the bars. “I have much to say to you, Captain. And just one night to say it.”

  “Then say it,” spat Lukien, “and spare me your insipid voice!”

  “All right,” chirped Trager. “I’m your better.”

  Lukien finally looked up at him. Trager grinned.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he crowed. “I’m your better and I always have been. And today we have the proof, because you’re rotting in a cell and I’m out here, free as a lark. I’m more loyal than you, more respected. I’ve turned the Royal Chargers into the best cavalry in the world. You couldn’t have done that. And do you know why?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me,” groaned Lukien.

  “Because you were too busy playing your part! Always the Bronze Knight, the king’s golden child. You couldn’t let a single good looking woman go by, not even the king’s wife!” Trager smugly laced his arms over his chest and stood back from the bars. “That’s it, Captain. That was your downfall. You just loved to look at yourself in the mirror.”

  Lukien didn’t want to think about the accusation, yet it struck him as horribly true. He had no retort for it.

  “You know I’m right, don’t you?” asked Trager. “That’s why I’m a general, and you were just a stinking captain.”

  The sudden sound of approaching footfalls finally silenced the general. Two of his soldiers came down the hall, saluting as they faced him.

  “What is it?” asked Trager tersely.

  “The king has asked us to bring the prisoner to him,” replied one of the men.

  Trager’s face lit up. “Ah! You hear, Lukien? Akeela just can’t wait until morning to kill you!”

  “No, sir,” said the soldier. “I don’t think that’s it. The boy Gilwyn Toms has come. He’s with the king now.”

  “What?” Trager erupted. “That little troll from the library?”

  Lukien sprang to his feet. “Where is he?” he demanded. “Is he all right?”

  The soldier glanced at him, about to answer. Trager roared, “Look at me, you idiot. What’s that boy doing here?”

  “Sorry, sir,” said the man. “The boy says he has a message from Grimhold. He’s with Akeela now.”

  “What message?” pressed Lukien.

  When the soldier didn’t reply, Trager barked, “Well? What message?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said the soldier. “The king met with him alone. His lordship sent us down here to bring the prisoner.”

  Trager’s face purpled. Whirling on Lukien, he hissed, “What is this? Some kind of trick?”

  “No trick, Trager. I don’t know what the boy’s doing here.”

  “You must know,” Trager insisted. “Don’t lie to me. I can make your last hours very unpleasant.”

  “I’m telling you I don’t know,” swore Lukien. “Now open this god-cursed gate and take me to Akeela.”

  Seeing he had no choice, Trager reluctantly agreed. Muttering obscenities, he plucked the key from the wall and opened the cell’s lock. One of the soldiers opened the rusty gate, which squealed as it swung outward. The other took hold of Lukien’s arm and pushed him out of the cell.

  “Both of you, keep hold of him,” ordered Trager. “Follow me.”

  He led the way out of the cellars with a string of curses. Lukien followed as best he could. The soldiers kept tight hold of him, dragging him along as he struggled to keep his footing. It was awkward walking so quickly with his hands tied behind him, but Trager wouldn’t let up. He took the musty stairs two at a time, and when he reached the top he bellowed down for them to hurry. The soldiers half carried Lukien up the steps, pushing him out into a well lit hall. Moonlight poured through the windows, stabbing Lukien’s eye.

  “Hurry up, you damn fool,” ordered Trager. He continued quickly on his way. “Where is the king?” he asked his men.

  “In his chambers, sir,” one replied.

  “His chambers? He’s meeting with the boy in his own rooms?” Trager laughed and shook his head. “The man gets more demented every day. Come on, then.”

  The news struck Lukien equally as odd. Why was Gilwyn in Akeela’s chambers? He didn’t know whether it was a hopeful sign or not, but he supposed it meant the boy was safe, at least for now. He quickened his pace, following Trager through the palace and up a flight of marble stairs. This, he knew, led to Kadar’s opulent living area. At the top of the staircase Trager paused, waiting for Lukien. He reached down and looped his arm around Lukien’s, dragging him up the final step.

  “Stay here,” he told his men. “I’ll take the prisoner in myself.”

  Neither soldier argued, releasing Lukien to Trager, who roughly shoved him toward the chamber up ahead. The doors to the area were open wide, revealing the splendid interior. Lukien could tell Trager was apprehensive by the way he wet his lips, his pink tongue darting out nervously. Just before they reached the chamber, Trager called out for Akeela.

  “My lord, I’ve brought him,” he said loudly. “What’s going on . . . ?”

  His voice trailed off when he looked inside the vast room. There was Akeela, on his knees in the middle of the tiled floor, weeping. Over him stood Gilwyn. The boy looked at Lukien helplessly.

  “Great Mother of Fate,” whispered Trager. Cursing, he shoved Lukien into the chamber then hurriedly shut the doors behind them. He turned on Akeela like a cobra. “Akeela, what’s wrong with you? What are you doing down there? Get up!”

  Akeela lifted his head, but didn’t look at his irate general. Instead he gazed at Lukien. His tear-stained cheeks were puffed and red. Lukien gasped at the sight, going to him at once.

  “Akeela, what’s wrong?” He glanced at Gilwyn. “What happened to him?”

  “I was talking to him, Lukien,” said Gilwyn. “And he just broke down.”

  Trager surged forward. “What did you say to him, you
little brat?” He took hold of Gilwyn’s shirt, shaking him. “Tell me!”

  “Let go of him!” cried Lukien.

  “Or what?” Trager pushed Gilwyn backward and turned on Lukien. “What will you do, Captain?”

  “Lukien. . . .” Akeela staggered to his feet. Lukien could tell instantly that he was drunk, for he could barely hold himself erect.

  “Akeela, talk to me,” Lukien urged. “Please. . . .”

  Akeela sobbed, then laughed, then sobbed again, his shoulders shaking as he alternated through emotions. His hand went to his belt and slowly pulled forth his dagger. Trager snickered in triumph.

  “Yes, Akeela, do it!” he urged. “Kill him!”

  Slowly Akeela wobbled forward, his manic face twisting as he neared Lukien. Lukien stood his ground, unable to believe it would end this way. But Akeela was unreadable. The only thing for certain on his face was madness. An inscrutable smile broke on his face as he raised his dagger.

  “Lukien . . .”

  “King Akeela, no!” cried Gilwyn.

  “Do it!” laughed Trager.

  Lukien didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. Akeela’s nose practically touched his chest. The hot breath and stink of liquor was unbearable. Akeela whispered, “Turn around.”

  “What?” asked Lukien puzzled.

  Akeela tried to spin him around. “Turn,” he said. “I’m going to free you.”

  “What?” exploded Trager. “You can’t!”

  Lukien couldn’t believe his ears. Nor could Gilwyn, who beamed at him. Lukien turned so that Akeela could cut his bonds. “Akeela, my friend.” His voice choked on the words.

  “No!” roared Trager. “I won’t allow it!”

  He reached out for Lukien and dragged him forward, sending him sprawling. Lukien’s skull collided with the floor. For a moment he was dazed, but when he opened his eye he saw Trager standing before Akeela with his own dagger drawn.

  “After what I did for you?” he seethed. “You’d let this bastard free!”

  Gilwyn ran between them, shouting. Trager grabbed his neck and tossed him aside. He hit the wall hard and sank to his knees. Lukien struggled to his feet.