by John Marco
"Because I must. Aramoor would be crushed if I didn't."
"It is like that for me, too. I know what I have in the Daegog. I lived well in Falindar. Maybe too well, but it was a fine life. I do not know what Tharn and his Drol would bring to Lucel-Lor, but I am certain it would be worse. The time for Tharn's dead religion is past."
"It sounds like you'd just be trading one despot for another," said Richius.
"Maybe. But it is what I am. My father served the Daegog, and his father before him. I am sworn to the Daegog. I cannot explain the oath, but it defines me."
Richius sighed. "Then we are both doomed. If, as you say, Tharn is gaining ground in Tatterak..."
"They claim so, but it may only be a rumor." Richius frowned. Rumors were the bane of all military men. Somehow he had to find out what was really going on.
"We're blind here," he said bitterly. "This war could end tomorrow and it would be a week before we would even hear about it. We have to get the truth."
Lucyler raised his eyebrows at Richius and smiled. "Like Dinadin said, it is only a two-day ride to Ackle-Nye."
CHAPTER FOUR
Tucked away in a corner of the Dring Valley, veiled from the world by a tangle of vines and a forest of birch trees, stood a dilapidated castle. It was an ancient, unremarkable place, decorated with drooping catwalks and bordered in the rear by a crystalline stream. From many of its clouded windows one could see the overgrown sculpture garden rambling across its front yard, a graveyard of neglected statues chewed to ruins by lichens. In its spiderwebbed halls hung crooked portraits of the long dead, and its high, cracked ceilings were ornamented with vast candelabras of tarnished brass. At sunfall the place was lit by a network of torches and oil lamps, a ritual always followed by the baying of distant wolves.
Yet despite the castle's disrepair, it was far from deserted. Castle Dring was the stronghold of Voris the Wolf, warlord of the Dring Valley. It was where he orchestrated his war against the invading Narens and the weak, traitorous Daegog who had invited them in. And it was where he raised his three daughters with his dutiful wife, Najjir. Even in the smallest hours of the night the castle hummed with the familiar sounds of life: restless children crying for comfort and the earnest whispering of the red-robed guardians pacing along the catwalks. The primeval music of the forest permeated every hall and bedchamber, and any with a mind to sleep in Castle Dring learned quickly to accept the noise of the valley's nocturnal inhabitants.
Of all the rooms in the meandering structure, only one was dedicated wholly to silence. It was a tiny chamber buried near the back of the place, windowless except for a metal grate that let in divided shafts of sunlight at dawn and let out the cloying smoke of the perpetually burning incense. The chamber was almost entirely bare. Strewn along its wooden floor was a scarlet carpet, a weave plush enough for kneeling on, and beside one wall was a gold-trimmed altar. On the altar was a statue of a man and woman, deified mortals both. Incense burned on either side of them, sending up thin, mystical signals to heaven.
Outside, the night was dying. Tharn opened an eye and spied the grate in the eastern wall. The tiniest spark of infant sunlight glinted on the metal. He closed his eye and lowered his head again. His back ached. His knees burned from genuflecting too long. But his mind was clear and open as the sky, inviting in the answers he had prayed for throughout the night. He had come to Castle Dring hoping to find solace in the company of his adopted family, to seek counsel from the Wolf, and to beg his patron god for guidance. He was rested now and well fed on Najjir's fine cooking. His body was ready. But it was his mind that troubled him, and it was the loss of his soul that terrified him.
Lorris, he called out soundlessly. Guide me. I am your tool. I will do your bidding. Just tell me what to do.
His silent voice had taken on the frail tone of a child. He had started out at sundown calling upon the Drol god, hoping to ease the guilt over what he was planning. But Drol gods were fickle. Sometimes Lorris spoke to him, and at other times the deity was as silent as stone. And it was only he that spoke, never his adoring sister, Pris. Pris was a good Drol woman, devoted like a fine wife to her brother Lorris, and she never spoke to anyone save the most pious of Triin females. But they cared for all Triin who sought their divine guidance and were willing to endure the difficult life of a Drol. The Drol favored them and worshiped them above all others, and for this worship the immortal siblings granted enlightenment and courage and love. And, on rare occasions, the touch of heaven. What they had granted Tharn had been beyond his comprehension. It had shattered and astounded him.
I grow stronger, Lorris, Tharn went on. Your touch in me is fire. I beg you, end your silence. Speak to me, before I do this dreadful thing.
He waited quietly, but there was no answer, and he thought for a moment, as he had thought throughout the night, that his god's silence was the answer, and that the answer was approval. It had to be, he reasoned. The touch of heaven was strong in him, stronger than in any Drol he had ever heard of. Far stronger, even, than in any of his own priests. Lorris and Pris had gifted him, and he was more than just a man now. He was part of nature, a force like the ocean and the moon. The pattern of every leaf foretold the tree's demise. He could hear the drone of a cricket and know if it was hungry or ready to breed. Dreams had become living entities that he could touch and walk through, so that every night's sleep was a spectral journey.
And the air obeyed him. It trembled when he bid it to, and if he thought of clouds he could slay the brightest sun. He could summon the rains and the winds and the fog, could squeeze water from a rock with the viselike focus of his brain. He couldn't fly, but he could open his consciousness so that his mind could soar untethered and let him feel the iciness of mountaintops and the suffocating depths of the sea. All these things he could do, and he was so terrified by them that he spent long hours in prayer, begging for an explanation.
I will do this thing if you wish it, Lorris, he prayed. Do you?
Tell me, please. Please.
All his new abilities had a purpose. The other cunning-men, priests like him, had told him so. Voris too seemed to believe it. They had all been at war with the Daegog for years, and with the Daegog's powerful protector, the warlord Kronin. And they were weary. Certainly Lorris had touched him for a reason. But it was not they who would bear the guilt of the crime they were considering. Tharn alone would endure that burden, and in a way he hated them for it. If they were all wrong, then Lorris would punish him alone.
I have been so loyal to you. And you have given me so much. Will you not tell me why? Am I not your favored? Shall I do this thing for you, or are these gifts for something else?
Tharn unclasped his palms and let them fall to his sides. There was only a little time left. He had told Voris he would leave Castle Dring at dawn, and Voris was always punctual. But he still had no answer, and the night of prayer had weakened him so that he wanted only to crawl into one of the castle's many beds, and sleep until the war was over. Lorris had his reasons, Tharn was sure, but he felt abandoned anyway.
"Let me rest," he whispered. "When this is over, be finished with me. Let me sleep in peace. No dreams."
He started to rise, but his knees would not let him. They burned with such fierceness that for a moment he thought he would cry out. But then he thought of the Daegog again, and how the fat Triin leader was to blame for this misery, too, and the resolve to do the evil deed came to him in a violent flash. His knees had been like water since his torture. The Daegog's jailors enjoyed their work.
In his heart, Tharn knew he was not an evil man, though the world now thought him so. His name was infamous among the Triin, and he dreamed of a day when he could change that, and prove to his people that the gods still existed and that they had expectations of their children. Lorris and Pris wanted the best for the Triin, and the Triin had shunned them, turning instead to the devils of Nar for enlightenment. Like the Daegog, the Triin had gotten fat on Naren pleasures. They had forgotten
their place in creation, their service to heaven, and they had become sinful. They needed cleansing, they needed the fire that only he could bring.
Like Dyana, the cunning-man thought blackly. She was the worst of them, defiant and offensive to Pris herself. She too would have to be cleansed, and learn her place as a good Triin woman. A current of passion rushed through him. He would reeducate her.
A knock came on the chamber door, soft but intrusive. Tharn ignored it. He heard the door slip open, and Voris' familiar footfalls on the wooden floor. His friend's voice was apologetic.
"Am I interrupting your prayers?" asked the warlord.
"Nothing interrupts my prayers," said the Drol. "Come in. You can help me."
Voris stepped into the chamber. "Your knees again?"
"My knees," replied Tharn. He took Voris' huge, outstretched hand and let the warlord pull him to his feet. Pain shot through his legs and he winced. Voris watched him dutifully, waiting for him to work the stiffness out of his body.
"It is dawn," said the warlord. "Your cunning-men are outside, waiting."
"I am ready."
Voris grimaced. "You do not look ready," he remarked. "You have been awake too long, and so much praying wearies you. You should rest first."
Tharn shook his head. "No time. There is, too much to do. And I am as ready now as I ever will be."
"What happened?"
"Nothing," said Tharn bitterly. "Lorris is silent."
"Then you have not changed your decision?"
"I have not," said Tharn, heading toward the chamber door. "There is no other way I can see."
Voris smiled. "It is the right decision, my friend. We will all honor you for this. And it is what Lorris wants, I know it."
"Do you?" asked Tharn sharply. He had stopped at the door and turned to glower at the warlord. "How would you know that? How would any of you? This is a crime, what I go to do."
"It is not a crime if it is Lorris' will," replied Voris. "You have been chosen to do this. He would not have granted you these powers if he did not intend you to use them."
"His intent is lost on me!" flared Tharn. "He ignores me. He gives me only silence now. This may only be a curse, Voris. You and I have done some terrible things."
"For good reasons," interrupted Voris. It was the argument Tharn expected. "We kill with jiiktars, we kill with hands. Has not heaven given us these things, too? Then why not use these other gifts?" He snorted in disgust and folded his arms across his chest. "To kill our enemies is no crime at all."
Tharn drew a deep breath and went over to his friend. Voris was a good deal older than he, more like a father than a follower sometimes, but he was not a Drol priest.
"It is written in the texts of Lorris that the touch of heaven is for the benefit of all Triin, and that those who are selfish with it or who use it for death will be themselves forever damned."
"I know all this," said Voris impatiently. "But what do the texts say of the Daegog? What would Lorris think of a man who deals with devils from Nar? Lorris was a warrior, Tharn. Like us."
Tharn's face cracked with a melancholy smile. He was no warrior, just a holy man who had picked a fight with royalty. "Lorris was also a man of peace," he corrected. "Let us not forget that. Remember the story of the oak and the lion? Lorris risked his sister's life for peace."
"Peace is all I pray for, Tharn. And when you do this thing we will have peace at last. You crush Kronin and his Daegog, and I will deal with the Jackal."
Tharn put up a warning hand. "The Naren is not to be harmed," he insisted. "Do what you must, but take him alive. He must witness what I have planned for the Daegog. All my enemies must be there, particularly the Jackal. He must believe in my powers, so that his emperor fears us."
"As you say," agreed Voris. "But you should know that the horsemen of Talistan have left the valley. They will probably return to Tatterak to fight with Kronin and the Daegog again."
Tharn's eyebrows went up. "Left the valley? Why?"
Voris shrugged. "The Jackal is an arrogant one. Perhaps he thinks he no longer needs them. But be on guard for them. They are surprisingly vicious."
"We have fought them before," said Tharn. "They will be a small matter. If I can, I will try to capture their leader along with Kronin. If I cannot, I will kill him or let him escape. The Baron Gayle is not of interest to me. He does not have the mind to grasp what I have planned. I want the man from Aramoor."
"You will have him," said Voris. The warlord's eyes burned with laughter. "I will capture the Jackal for you, and you will capture Kronin for me."
Tharn's expression hardened. "You take too much pleasure in this, my friend. Remember who our real enemy is."
"I do remember. Too well."
"Do you?" asked Tharn. "I wonder. Kronin is a good man. He serves that bastard Daegog out of loyalty and because he has taken an oath. I will not let your hatred of him taint what we are doing. I will not kill Kronin if I do not have to."
"That is fine with me, Tharn," said Voris. "His humiliation will please me just as well."
Tharn sighed. The warlords of Lucel-Lor had bickered and warred for centuries, and some of their rivalries had gone on so long that they no longer had any real meaning. Hate was like that, Tharn knew. And hate had blinded his friend Voris for decades. The Dring Valley and Kronin's land of Tatterak fought now over the pretense of the Agar Forest, a useless tract of land that had come to symbolize bloodshed. And though Voris was a devout Drol who did Tharn's bidding unquestioningly, his hatred of Kronin was a vice he simply would not renounce.
"There is something else, Tharn," said Voris evasively. "Something we should talk about..."
"Yes, I know," replied Tharn. "The woman." He sighed heavily and fell back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. "I have looked for her. I had thought she was in your valley, but..."
"What?"
Tharn shrugged. "I do not know where, exactly. This thing I do, it works poorly. I see her, and yet I do not. I glimpsed her in a village somewhere, and now I cannot see her there. She is somewhere else, I think."
"Where? Tell me and I will get her for you."
"I cannot. She may still be in Dring, maybe in a different village, maybe somewhere where I cannot find her. I am not strong enough yet to use this 'sight.' "
Voris frowned. "That is not much good. There are many villages in Dring. You have to tell me more if I am to find her for you."
"There is no more, not yet." Tharn looked straight into his comrade's eyes. "But you will try, will you not?"
"If I can," replied Voris. "It might not be possible--"
"You must," Tharn insisted. "Dyana is mine. She was pledged to me and I will have her." The anger rushed through him, sickening him. Again he fell back against the wall and wiped a palm across his forehead. He found a slick of perspiration there and groaned. "I am too tired for this. But when I am stronger I will find her, and I will capture her myself if necessary."
"That," insisted Voris, "is not why Lorris has given you power. Just find her if you can. I will take her for you."
Tharn nodded but said nothing. He knew Voris was right, that his new abilities were certainly not meant for abducting woman, yet he was still beguiled by her. He had been since their parents betrothed them. And every day she defied him, every time a Drol asked him where his woman was, he seethed. It was not her place to break the promise of their parents. She was a woman. This female independence was just one more dirty Naren influence left unchecked. When he and his revolution were victorious, they would turn back the clock on this obscenity as well.
"She is mine," Tharn whispered darkly. "I will have her, my friend. And then I will teach her what it means to be a woman."
Voris laughed. "Is she so fair? She must be to have you so entranced. She is just a girl, Tharn. And from what you have told me, a wildcat. You might be better off without her. There are women enough in Dring, good Drol women. I will find one for you if you wish."
Tharn shook
his head. "No. You do not know her. You have not seen her. She is..." The Drol master closed his eyes. "A dream."
"A dream," scoffed Voris. "You have been bitten by a snake, Tharn. This Dyana is the daughter of a heretic. She would make you a very poor wife. Forget her father's pledge." The warlord's tone softened. "I know you. A woman like this will not make you happy."
"There is no other woman for me," said Tharn softly. "She is part of my curse. I want no one else."
"She can never love you. If that is what you want--"
"She is mine," Tharn railed. "She was betrothed to me, and I will have her!"
"I say again--she will not love you. Ever. She runs because she fears you. She saw what you did to her father."
Tharn's dark eyes smoldered. "Her father broke his word to me."
"You were pledged at twelve, Tharn. He did not know the man you would become. If you were Drol then, he would never have offered you his daughter."
"And is that how followers of the Daegog keep their word? When it is convenient to remember the giving? Her father deserved his death. I would behead him again if I could."
"This is why she hates you, my friend. This is why she will always hate you. Whatever you believe you had is dead. Find another."
"I cannot," admitted Tharn. "When you see her, you will know why I am so possessed."
Voris looked profoundly sad. "Then I will find her for you, if I can. Now come. Your men are packed and ready."
Voris opened the door for the Drol master, and the two of them stepped out into the quiet hallway. A pair of Voris' warriors were waiting there for them, their red robes perfect against their hard bodies, their twin-bladed jiiktars slung ready over their backs. They fell into step behind Tharn and the lord of the valley, following them through the dark hall, past the main entrance to the castle and out into the courtyard where five horses waited for them among the broken statues. Atop two of the horses were cunning-men, Tharn's Drol priests dressed in the saffron robes of their station. They were silent as their master approached, not even tilting up their heads to regard him. Voris' warriors went directly to their own horses, mounting them quickly and leaving the warlord and Tharn room for a private farewell.