The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

  As he and his escort dismounted, the guards at the tent entrance lifted the flaps, and Angelo entered with his escort. The tent was sparsely furnished: a table at the center covered with maps, three lamps, a few chairs, a bench to the side, a couple of chests, and two wine casks on stands. A large command tent like this would usually bustle with activity. Only Alfonso VIII, King of Castile, greeted Angelo. Other than looking haggard with eyes swollen from a sleepless night, the King appeared as Angelo would have expected. The white robe over his light armor showed smudges from the days-long campaign. His hair had been combed but was already thinning, turning grayer by the day it seemed. He was almost fifty-five years old—Angelo’s apparent age—and he had been on the throne since he was three.

  The nobleman who escorted Angelo bowed, his bony hands turning white at the knuckles as he leaned on his staff for support. With a raspy voice, he announced, “Sire, the grandson of Sir Angelo de Toulouse, aide to your grandfather King Alfonso VII.”

  Angelo bowed.

  The King dismissed the old nobleman who gave one last lingering stare at Angelo. Angelo remembered him now. He was the little boy who stood shyly behind his father during the Pact of Támara. He must be over eighty years old. It’s a wonder he’s still living.

  “When I heard that a Knight from Toulouse had joined our crusade,” King Alfonso began, “one with eyes greener than the hills of Villacarriedo, I hoped it was you. Then, when your countrymen abandoned us, I feared you went with them or would soon depart. Were you leaving?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, good. Please have a seat.”

  Angelo sat.

  “As you can see, the command tent is empty except for us. The other kings and nobles have proceeded to the fortress. The city it guards is under distress, believing we will set it ablaze. We need to quell their fears and establish authority quickly. Business as usual, only under a new banner, the Order of Calatrava.”

  The King took his seat gingerly as if not wanting to aggravate a pulled back muscle. He regarded Angelo for a long moment.

  Angelo shifted in his seat.

  “You know why I have summoned you,” the King said at last. It was a statement, not a question, and it was spoken by one with total confidence in the other’s ability. “I have contrived this private convenience for that purpose.”

  Angelo did not answer the obvious prompt.

  “A king’s privacy is short lived.”

  Still Angelo waited. Silence will draw him out and make my path clear. He calmed himself, and listened for changes in his onyo. Then a link from Miyuki activated. Not now, he cast. He breathed deeply, and all distractions faded into the distance. His concern about the people of this land, quieted. His uneasiness about this dilemma, diminished. Completing his assignment, no longer a worry. It was a foregone conclusion.

  The King leaned forward, and spoke above a whisper. “You helped my grandfather. Now I need you. The French, Provençal, and even Germanic are leaving. It’s too hot, supplies are low, their forty-day term of service is over, we are too weak in dealing with the Saracens, we haven’t even encountered the Caliph yet: all of these are reasons, excuses they give. I cannot hold them together; I can barely keep the kings of Spain from fighting, even with a Papal order.” He stared at Angelo intently. “I need you to intervene.”

  Angelo looked down. He knew something that King Alfonso didn’t, that reinforcements were already on the way. He had seen Alfonso’s uncle and former enemy, King Sancho of Navarre, riding south to join them. Within a couple of days, he would bring two hundred elite heavy knights, not a great strategic advantage, but a strong injection of morale. These were their cousins, not foreigners from across the mountains. Yet telling King Alfonso even this little bit of encouragement would cause the King to act differently and could cause a rift. Angelo breathed deeply through his nose. He still couldn’t hear the onyo. Maybe it hadn’t calculated a clear outcome. Try as he might, he couldn’t look into King Alfonso’s eyes. It would be so much easier if this weren’t here in Hispania. If it were ... Nippon. Back in Nippon before a Shogun, now that would be easier. Nippon is a dream, a faraway land of people with strange features and customs. Choices are easier in a dream. They can be anything you want, and you awake all the same. But this is my homeland. Yes, it’s been five thousand years, the people are different, the names have changed, but it’s still home.

  “I am a proud man, Sir Angelo. I do not ask for favors lightly, nor will I ever likely ask for this again. Supplies are thin. We expected better provisioning at Malagón and here at Calatrava. The stores are spare. Unless you help, a quarter of my army may desert and at the worst possible time. The fortress at Alarcos is next. Alarcos was my greatest defeat, everyone knows that. And, just this morning, I have received indication that the Saracen army outnumbers our own and is gathering on the far side of the Sierra Morena beyond the Muradal Pass.” He shook with frustration, gesticulating with every statement. “Now I must either take Alarcos and all the other strongholds in this region, or try to beat the Caliph’s army to the pass. I cannot leave Alarcos at the rear as we march forward. I cannot allow the Caliph to take the pass either. It is the only passage to Andalusia. Either way I will be done for, and this land will forever be in the hands of the Saracens.” He leaned forward and pleaded with empty palms open. “I need the wisdom you gave my grandfather.”

  “Sire, you have me confused with my grandfather.”

  The King’s voice raised in pitch. “Verily, you are him. You have the same name.”

  “You have your grandfather’s name.”

  King Alfonso allowed a slight smile despite his frustration. He relaxed a little and regarded Angelo anew, his eyes squinting.

  “Look I that old?” Angelo asked. He hated the deception, but he needed to cover his identity. “My grandfather was my age when he assisted your grandfather, but alas,” he let out a dramatic sigh, “the power of our house has diminished since his time. I can only offer my sword in service.”

  “Your wisdom is worth a thousand swords. It is said you have a prophet’s eyes, can speak in a thousand tongues, and can travel a hundred leagues overnight. You are the same Sir Angelo. Deny it not. Sir Ferdinand bears witness.”

  “That old nobleman?” Angelo indicated the tent entrance. “He could have been no older than six when he saw me. Does your majesty trust to the memory of a child?”

  The King smiled. “So, you do remember him?”

  Angelo sat back. “Come now. Do you truly believe I have not aged a day since then? If I am indeed so well preserved, you should forsake your crusade and purchase my elixir of youth.”

  “It is you, and you have more to offer than your sword.”

  Angelo said nothing. Miyuki tried calling him again, but he couldn’t answer.

  The King growled. “I could throw you in stocks.”

  “If I am who you suggest, then know stocks cannot hold me.”

  “I know it’s you, and you would allow the stocks to bind you. You wouldn’t create a miracle to escape. How did my grandfather put it? ‘Sir Angelo did not want to disrupt history, but to mend it.’”

  “If you believe I intervene of my own will,” Angelo retorted, “then you don’t know me well enough.” His listening paid off. Finally, movement within the onyo. He felt a slight sense that the currently considered action would not create a rift. Not only that, but if he denied the King’s request, the denial would help mend the impasuko.35 Angelo sighed. “I am honor bound to a higher code,” he said. “Though it pains me, I cannot help you.”

  “So, it is you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You helped my grandfather.”

  “Yes.”

  “You can, but will not, help me.”

  Angelo looked down. “Yes.”

  “Will you in the least answer me this one question: Can we defeat the Caliph?”

  Angelo could say nothing. Then his vision shifted as if he was seeing two versions of the tent interior at the same
time, one slightly tilted. The second image shimmered and faded. It was the telltale sign of a rift and could only be sensed by someone with an onyo trained to recognize it. Since his onyo was at peace, it meant the rift was caused by someone else’s action, not his. And they were close. The rift’s visual effects diminish with distance.

  Impatient with Angelo’s delay to his last question, King Alfonso asked, “Can we take Alarcos with this crippled army?”

  Angelo swallowed. It was sour. The inclination from the onyo was painfully clear now. It had become so loud that it threatened to give Angelo a headache. He answered, “I will not advise you.”

  The King sighed and sat back. Self-confidence drained from his face: his jaw slackened, his shoulders drooped, and his eyes shifted from side to side, perhaps to find new direction. He became, for a moment, a man disillusioned by his own hopes. He turned and looked towards the tent flap to his left, refusing to look Angelo in the eye. “You are right,” he said at last. “You are not the man I expected. I know you not.” Of all the words spoken that morning, those hurt Angelo the most. “If your sword is all you can offer,” King Alfonso VIII of Castile said, “I will be grateful for it. Stay with the militia.” He sniffed. “You are dismissed.”

  Angelo rose, bowed, and departed. The onyo was at peace, but his heart felt sick.

  Chapter 26

  Ceolwulf

  Fortress of Calatrava

  Local Date: 23 Muharram 609

  COMMANDER EDEN AND CHIEFTAIN CEOLWULF of the Key’ari faction had sneaked into the crusader camp before sunrise, and had been stalking the troubadour ever since. The troubadour, dressed in a long black tunic trimmed in white and wearing a broad-brimmed hat, played a mozarabic melody with a light-hearted rhythm. He stood alone on a cart high enough for all to see. Eden and Ceolwulf were not cheering or clapping in rhythm like the others. Arms folded across their chests, they watched the crowd and the troubadour as he sang his crusader song and played his fiddle. Both Key’ari were dressed as crusaders: the higher-ranked Commander Eden sat on horseback dressed as a Leonese36 knight with a blue wildflower stuck in the brim of his cap; the lower-ranked Chieftain Ceolwulf dressed and acted as Eden’s servant with a hood hiding his features. That made it difficult. Eden still wouldn’t let him wear a verisuit. Ceolwulf had been with this crowd for the last twelve days. If he showed too much of his face, he could be identified. Questions would be asked. Time would be wasted answering them. He could miss his target or misdirect his trainees. He would be humiliated. Humiliated in front of his trainees. That’s what Commander Eden wanted.

  Trainee Oneca broadcast a message. She didn’t just send her thoughts to one Key’ari, but cast them to everyone in the group. The flapping banners are distracting. Why are these people so in love with symbols? They would have to remember each one in battle or they would kill each other. They should choose one color and stick with it.

  Pay attention, Ceolwulf cast, and keep your mindless thoughts to yourself. Angelo could be anywhere, anyone. Only Eden had seen Angelo before, but they all had images of Angelo and had been instructed in his customs and methods. The Trainees were supposed to be under Ceolwulf’s command, but with Eden here, under his ever-watchful eyes and his relentless counter commands, Ceolwulf faced one of two possible outcomes. Either the mission would be a success and Eden would take most of the credit, or it would be a failure and Ceolwulf would be to blame.

  Chieftain Ceolwulf returned his attention to the crowd, and broadcast, Assassin, ready on my call. With a thought and a blink—he always had to blink—he activated his oc-lok and searched for his Trainees. He could see them immediately. A bright orange aura pulsed around each. Only today’s encryption key37 issued from Chanzoe38 would reveal them.

  Standard tagging? Eden asked.

  No, not with Angelo’s reputation. Everyone is in position. I have two decoys emitting strong Avar-Tek signals: one on the far side of the lane and the other one is three rows before the troubadour, the one cheering and begging for an encore like a fool. I have four taggers, not just one. They’re scattered around the troubadour, each with his own recorder ready to tag. And yes, I’ve drilled them. They know how to drop a recorder without being seen.

  Eden didn’t answer, which was a good thing. His comments tended to be insulting. Ceolwulf wished he knew what he had done to make his commander hate him. Eden never seemed to treat the other chieftains as harshly as him, especially not the Viking. It doesn’t matter, Ceolwulf told himself. I won’t have to be with Eden much longer.

  Ceolwulf looked up at the troubadour and saw a green luminous aura surrounding him, which indicated he was the target. Ceolwulf scanned the crowd again, looking for anything that seemed out of place, for Avar-Tek emissions, or even for Angelo’s real face, if he was that foolhardy. He listened as the minstrel sang the last words of the war song in deep vibrato as his cybernetic implant translated the words for him:

  Gavaudan shall be a prophet

  For his words shall become a fact.

  Death to those dogs!

  God shall be honored and worshiped

  Where Mahomet is now served.

  Now! Ceolwulf blinked and broadcast, Assassin in!

  Eyes open. Eden broadcast, Anything? All report. He was answered by several no’s.

  Nothing, Ceolwulf cast.

  The troubadour climbed off the cart and into the welcoming accolades of spectators. Some offered advice, others offered wine or bread, but it was the slice of meat pie from the assassin that the troubadour received with relish. An orange glow followed the giver as he walked away.

  The troubadour sat down next to his gear and spoke with other spectators. Within minutes of drinking wine and eating the pie, he gripped his stomach, vomited, and fell over dead. Five militiamen nearest to him tried to revive him and called for help.

  Tags on the ready, Ceolwulf broadcast. Target is down.

  Eden and Ceolwulf watched. No Angelo. At length, Commander Eden rubbed his chin and spoke out loud in Vantu, “This minstrel wasn’t Angelo’s assignment.” Eden walked his horse over to the troubadour, who had been placed on the cart with a sack over his head. Eden pulled the blue wildflower from his cap and laid it on the troubadour’s chest. He returned to Ceolwulf and said, “This is disappointing. I doubt you ever saw Angelo.”

  Chieftain Ceolwulf felt his own stomach turning as if he had ingested the poison. He knew if he called in the team on a false alarm, he would be punished. “Shouldn’t we wait longer? He could be any one of these.” He gestured with an open palm.

  “He would have reacted by now,” Eden said. “He wouldn’t leave his assignment dying on the ground even if he knew he was being watched.”

  “He’s crafty. He would wait for us to leave and then resurrect his assignment.”

  Eden sniffed. “Fine.” Then he broadcast, We wait until the body is cold. He turned to Ceolwulf and said aloud, “If he doesn’t show, then you’ll be three days in the stocks.”

  They waited for more than half an hour without saying another word. Finally, Eden turned to Ceolwulf and said, “The body is cold.” He cleared his throat, looked around, and added, “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 27

  Miyuki

  Fortress of Calatrava

  Local Date: 2 July 1212

  WHEN ANGELO DEPARTED with the old nobleman, he left no instructions with Miyuki. She didn’t need to do anything with Francisco. Angelo had convinced her that Francisco was the One of Six, and all that was left was to recruit Francisco by convincing him to join the Sittiri. According to her Academe training, she knew that process could take weeks. She wouldn’t talk with Francisco without guidance from her sensei, and since Angelo was consulting with the King, she might as well follow him. She had made enough mistakes. Her perfect marks at the Academe meant nothing if her first field performance was riddled with failures before the great Angelo.

  The camp was similar to many she had been in before Angelo had recruited her, except this camp was less
organized. There were banners for regions, but no clans. Farther down the path to the King’s tent, a crowd gathered to hear a troubadour. She squinted. When she saw it was Guillem de Cabestany, her shoulders sank. Another reminder of failure. How many more times am I going to cross his path? She didn’t need to be reminded again that she got their assignment wrong. She should have accepted Francisco earlier, but she couldn’t believe a street thief would be one of the great Six, the grand elite, future saviors. Everyone talked about them in the Academe after the first Ox Shalay prophecy about the Six came out. For a moment at the Academe, she had wondered if she was one of the Six, but she quickly suppressed the hope. So many of her hopes for grandeur had been dashed. Humility is a better goal, she told herself, for it is harder to achieve. It is better to choose humility than have it thrust upon you. This Francisco—he lives a humble life, but he embodies a noble spirit.

  Walking through the encampment disguised as Sir Mascaro, she encountered more hostility than she would have expected: glaring remarks such as, “French cur,” and “What are you doing here on Spanish soil?” Where she came from, such insults would lead to a death, and it would not be hers. After the third insult from a passing Aragonese knight, she briefly considered ducking down behind a wagon and switching into stealth mode. It was then she realized that she had not been scanning for possible enemies with her oc-lok, or that she had not kept aware of her onyo or the Voice. Another failure.

  As soon as she switched her oc-lok on, she found two hot spots. They are very hot, she thought, too hot. Since they didn’t appear as Sittiri in the oc-lok scan, she knew it meant they were Key’ari. Are they reconnaissance? A patrol? Rogues? Recruiters? Or something else? She kept walking as if she didn’t see them. She could keep her eye on the one in front of the troubadour. It would appear natural if she watched Guillem as she walked. Her suit would not emit an Avar-Tek signature if she did not change it. Glad I did not switch into stealth mode. Then I would glow in oc-lok vision. She stepped off the lane before she passed the second Key’ari and positioned herself so she could keep them both in her line of sight. How many Key’ari are there?