by Alec Hutson
The paladin drew in a deep breath. He glanced at Lady Numil, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “But I know now that corruption has taken root in the highest ranks of the faith. The shadowblade who traveled with me was a sorcerer, and someone in the temple must have been familiar with his true nature. I cannot trust the mendicants of the temple—and so I must rely on Ama’s guidance. I prayed last night for an understanding of what I should do.” The paladin took a step towards Keilan, his voice almost pleading. “And Ama’s answer was revealed. I must be your guardian on this quest.”
Keilan swallowed, his gaze flickering between the paladin and Nel. He did not hate Senacus. Even on the road to Chale, after he had been taken from his village, the paladin had spoken kindly to him and tried to reassure him about what was to come. Then Senacus had saved their lives under Uthmala, risking his own. And even though the paladin had traveled across Araen months later to steal him away from Saltstone, in the end he had abandoned Keilan at the gates of Herath, betraying the mission given to him by his masters in Menekar.
Still, Senacus had been an ally and guide to the man who killed Xin. Nel had not forgiven him, that was evident. She had chased him all the way to Lyr with bloody revenge in her thoughts, and now she was being asked to accept him as a companion. Could she? Or would she stick a dagger in him the first time he turned his back to her?
Keilan felt the weight of many eyes on him. Everyone seemed to be waiting for what he had to say. A wash of cold fear went through him—was he the leader here? Would they all truly defer to him and accept what he decided?
Calming the nervous fluttering in his stomach, Keilan stepped towards Senacus and held out his arm. “We need your help.”
The Iron Road. Stretching from the Gilded City of Lyr on the Derravin Ocean to Gryx on the coast of the Broken Sea, it was the artery upon which the wealth of kingdoms flowed. Merchants carrying spices from the Sunset Lands, ebonwood from Dymoria, and intricate bone carvings from the artisans of Seri all traveled south from the Cities, skirting the fringes of the red desert and passing through the bazaar tent-towns that traded in the riches of ancient Kesh. Then, laden with new treasures—richly embroidered carpets, strings of shimmering pearls, and fragrant myrrh and sandalwood—the caravans would continue on to the slave-city of Gryx, where the goods would be sold and the wagons filled again with Shan silks and celadon, silver jewelry from the Shattered Kingdoms, and iron from the black mines where the Fettered of Gryx endlessly toiled.
Despite the Lady Numil’s dire warnings of Keshian bandit princes, Senacus knew the road was the safest route across Araen. Storms like the one that had just lashed Lyr were common in the Derravin during the winter months, and therefore traveling by ship this time of year would carry some risk. Along the Iron Road every city and kingdom benefited from the stream of merchants and travelers, so a great effort was made to keep it maintained and free of thieves. It was far safer than the Wending Way, the northern road binding east and west that Senacus had traveled with Demian on his way from Menekar to Herath. But still, on their own Nel and Keilan likely would have encountered some dangers. Not now, though, in the company of a paladin of Ama.
Senacus twisted around in his saddle, half-expecting to find himself alone on the road. But a few horse-lengths behind him rode Keilan, slumped a little as if struggling with the weight of his new responsibility, and even farther back was Nel. She hadn’t sheathed the dagger she’d drawn at the city gates and was using it to cut slices from a golden pear she must have found in her saddlebags. Beyond her, barely visible over the forest through which they’d just ridden, were the crenellated tops of Lyr’s tallest towers. He returned his gaze to Nel and found her scowling at him. Sighing, he looked away.
His life’s path had taken a dramatic new direction over the last few days. During his frantic flight down the coast he’d thought it almost certain the rangers of Dymoria would catch him before he could find sanctuary in Lyr. The decision he’d been faced with then was whether to die with his sword in his hand or allow himself to be returned to Saltstone in chains. But, to his surprise, the old mare he’d traded for after he’d exhausted his own horse had proven far hardier than he could have hoped, and suddenly it had seemed possible that he could reach the Gilded City before his pursuers. For a moment, he’d allowed himself to consider what he should do then—return to Menekar and try to unmask the sorcerers who had insinuated themselves in the highest corridors of power, or bring his suspicions to one of the abbots of the larger temples outside of the holy city.
Then had come the confrontation outside the gates of Lyr, his brief imprisonment in the archon palace, and his interrogation by the Lady Numil and the Council of Black and White. Senacus had been confident the archons would not wish to antagonize Menekar, and that soon he’d be released, but then the summons from the Oracle had arrived. Such a request could not be ignored—there was more than a little doctrinal confusion in the Tractate regarding the nature of Lyr’s Oracle, but all the sources agreed she had strange powers that must be respected. Even High Mendicants and emperors had made the pilgrimage to beg for her insights into the future. He’d been expecting some vague pronouncement he’d have to carry to men wiser than him for interpretation, but there, in that forsaken cavern, he’d actually suffered the horror that was hurtling towards the world.
It had left him shattered. Menekar would be destroyed, its temples and palaces and soaring walls reduced to dust. A chalk-white sky that mirrored the plains below would be flensed open, bleeding strange colors, while the sun, Ama’s eternal throne, had vanished. And those blackened corpses, twisted together to make that unholy temple… Senacus hadn’t told the others, but he’d recognized one of those unfortunate souls. It had been the High Seneschal, the old paladin who had entrusted him with the task of bringing Keilan back to Menekar. He’d been suspended over the arched entrance where the demon children had emerged, his outstretched arms and legs brushing a ring of severed arms that had been twisted to form some monstrous parody of the thorned wheels on which heretics of Ama were left to die.
Only sorcery could have produced this devastation. A thousand years ago the wizards of old had broken the world, killing millions as empires vanished in an instant. Now the Oracle had gifted him with the knowledge that a new doom was coming, and this time Menekar would not be spared. Forestalling this cataclysm was the highest goal of the Pure. It was the reason they had ranged the lands for centuries, seeking out those tainted by sorcery and bringing them back to Menekar to be Cleansed.
Keilan had some connection to all this. He was uncommonly strong, a sorcerer unlike any Senacus had sensed before. The Crimson Queen wanted him. Demian and the mysterious, powerful sorcerers the shadowblade had been allied with wanted him. And the Oracle had shown Keilan the vision for a reason—the Lady Numil had told Senacus the boy knew the silver-haired sorceress who had opposed the demon children, and that he was going to try and find her in the hope of enlisting her aid before the doom came down. Lady Numil had then asked Senacus if he would accompany Keilan on this quest. He had spent much of last night praying over what he should do.
And now here he was, guardian to a boy who must still be wary of him and a young woman who looked like she wanted to put a dagger in his heart.
“Senacus.”
He returned from his musings to find that Keilan had ridden up beside him. “Yes?”
“Do you know why I followed you to Lyr?”
Senacus shook his head. He’d wondered about that and had been planning on asking the boy after they stopped for their evening meal.
“I told you that night in Herath that I’d seen Demian in the memories of another sorcerer. That they’d participated in some ceremony that caused the cataclysms a thousand years ago.”
“Aye. I remember.”
“There were others in that ancient memory, including that sorceress we saw in the Oracle’s vision. She… she looked like my mothe
r. It’s why I came after you. I hoped you’d know something about Demian that would give me some clue about that sorceress.”
Senacus glanced sidelong at Keilan. “So you did not come for revenge?”
“No. I don’t hate you like…” His words trailed away, but Senacus knew of whom he was speaking.
“I never learned anything about Demian. I had my suspicions, but I wasn’t certain he was a sorcerer until your words convinced me after I took you from Saltstone.”
“I know that. I think I knew that before I joined the rangers hunting you. I just had to do something.”
“I don’t even know if the shadowblade survived. He was supposed to meet us before we reached the gates of Herath, but he never did.”
“Xin stabbed him. He fled, but Nel thinks the wound was fatal.”
“Xin?”
“He was my friend.” Keilan’s words were heavy with sadness. “The warrior who was with Nel when she found you standing over me in Saltstone. Demian killed him. He was… he was special to Nel. That’s why she hates you.”
Senacus twisted the reins he held, chiding himself for being so blind. So that was it. He’d thought her distrust and hatred were because she was a companion to a magister of the Scholia, and he had led the assassins inside Saltstone. No, it was more personal than that. Her lover was dead because of him. Silence stretched as Senacus considered this.
“The Iron Road… does it pass near Ver Anath?”
He nodded at Keilan’s question. “Aye. Cuts through the heart of the city. We’ll be there in a few days. I would suggest we spend the night inside enjoying the luxuries of city living. It can be hard to find a comfortable bed and a bath on the road.”
“There’s someone I want to meet in Ver Anath. A seeker of the Reliquary. He’s a wise man, and he might know something that can help us.”
Senacus nodded. “Very well.”
“Good. I’ll go tell Nel.”
Before Keilan turned his horse around he reached out and laid his hand on Senacus’s arm. “Thank you for coming with us.”
Even through his armor the boy’s touch burned him, and Senacus had to restrain himself from flinching. Such raw, festering power. Was it a strength that could be used to inflict a new cataclysm upon the world? The thought chilled him. He truly did not want to have to kill the boy.
The weather worsened as they pressed east along the Iron Road. A succession of brief, intense showers—perhaps shreds of the storm that had so recently battered Lyr—left them soaked and turned the hard-packed dirt road to churned mud. Luckily, there were no shortages of inns and eating houses between the Gilded Cities, and every evening they found a roaring hearth and a hot bowl of stew to banish the day’s chill. Yet even as their clothes dried and their hands warmed, the cold hostility coming from Nel did not lessen. She refused to sit at the same table as him, and since Keilan always joined her that meant Senacus ate alone, as when other travelers noticed his eyes and the armor beneath his cloak they quickly moved away as well. He was used to this: the paladins of Ama always walked a solitary path. The holy radiance of Ama made most men uncomfortable, for even in the souls of the faithful there were dark corners they did not want to be illuminated.
Still, Senacus wished for Keilan’s company. There was much he wanted to ask the boy… and if this continued all the way to the Shattered Kingdoms it would be a long and lonely journey.
In the late morning of the third day, cracks began to appear in the stone-gray sky. By the afternoon the clouds had cleared completely, and not long after that Senacus caught his first glimpse of the Scholar’s City. It was a brief flash on the horizon, like steel catching sunlight at just the right angle.
“Ver Anath,” Senacus cried to the pair well behind him on the road.
A moment later Keilan cantered up alongside, shielding his eyes against the brightness of the day.
“Truly? I can’t see anything yet.”
“Look,” Senacus said, pointing into the distance. “Can you see that glint over those hills?”
“That’s the city?”
“Aye. The greatest building of the Reliquary is crowned by a mighty dome sheathed with gleaming red tiles. When the sun rises and sets it can look like a flame burning over the city.”
“We are candles in the dark,” Keilan said softly.
“What’s that?”
Keilan ran a hand through his hair, still peering intently at where he had seen the flash. “Seeker Garmond told me that was written over the entrance to the largest library in the Reliquary.”
“This is the seeker you wish to speak with?”
“Yes. He’s a wise man. And… I have to tell him about Xin.”
Senacus glanced at Keilan, and then at Nel behind them. “You were all companions?”
“Not just companions. Friends. Xin and I… we spent many evenings in Seeker Garmond’s wagon. I was teaching him how to read—he was a slave, a Fist warrior, and learning was forbidden in Gryx.”
“Speaking of forbidden things,” Senacus said, “I won’t be welcome in the Reliquary.”
Keilan turned to him in surprise. “Oh? Why’s that? What did you do?”
Senacus chuckled when he saw Keilan’s face. “It’s nothing to do with me personally. The faithful of Ama and the seekers of the Reliquary have a somewhat fraught relationship. The seekers wish to explore all the world’s mysteries… and that includes sorcery. The Pure, however, demand all sorcerous tracts be destroyed, to stop others from pursuing the arcane. A thousand years ago, soon after the cataclysms, the armies of Menekar marched over the Spine to restore order and cleanse the land of the sorcery that had fractured the world. They forced every city and kingdom still standing to give over any sorcerers that survived to the Pure, and also to sign treaties promising that they would allow the paladins of Ama to search their lands for the remnants of magic. The treaty signed with the seekers states that once every three years a delegation of the Pure will have unfettered access to all the libraries of the Reliquary, to make sure they have not resumed their investigations into sorcery. I was once a part of such an embassy. But at any other time, the paladins of Ama are not welcome within.”
“Will you wait for us outside?”
“I’m not a dog, Keilan. I’ll find us some rooms in the city. There’s an inn where the Pure usually stay, The White Hart. The owner is devout, and we can be assured safety and privacy there.”
They rode on, and soon Ver Anath resolved from the midday haze. Behind the city walls soared a forest of white spires, and looming over everything was a great edifice of dark gray stone that would have dwarfed the fortress of Saltstone. It looked to be several huge buildings grafted together from different eras, though the construction at its heart—to Senacus’s eyes—resembled the great temple of Ama in Menekar. Mostly that was because of the massive dome that bulged into the sky, though the red tiles here made the Reliquary look like it contained a great flame. The temple of Ama was covered in gold leaf that in the sun was supposed to transform it into a physical incarnation of the Radiant Father’s holy light.
Beyond the city the Dreaming Sea spread like a sheet of beaten silver, speckled with the sails of ships swirling around Ver Anath’s green-stone harbor. Senacus remembered the wild, white-capped fury of the Derravin, and it was a stark contrast to these tranquil waters. It was easy to imagine how the Dreaming Sea had been named.
Guardsmen in meticulously polished armor holding kite shields emblazoned with a thorned rose watched them as they passed through the city gates. Within, the buildings were constructed of either white wood or gray stone, and most were veined with creepers and vines. When Senacus had last been in the city it had been during the summer months, and these walls had been a riot of colors, the air filled with the heady scent of countless blooming flowers. Now, only a few pale blue winter roses dotted the vines, and Senacus thought it lent the city a
kind of stark beauty.
He slid from his horse and waited for Nel and Keilan. “I’ll meet you later at The White Hart,” he said when they finally reached him and dismounted. “It’s easy enough to find. One of the largest inns in the merchants’ district.” He gestured at the mountain of gray stone rising over the city. “I don’t think you’ll have much trouble finding your way to the Reliquary.”
“No… no,” Keilan replied, staring up in evident awe. Nel seemed more interested in the delicate flowers clinging to the wall near her, and as he watched she leaned closer, reaching out as if she was about to pluck one.
“Don’t do that,” Senacus said, more harshly than he intended. Nel jerked her hand back as if he’d told her poisonous spiders nested among the vines. “They’re very protective of the flowers here,” he explained, softening his tone. “You’ll be whipped and spend a day in the stocks if they catch you pulling one from the walls.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Truly? Over a flower?”
“So I was told,” Senacus replied.
“A sensitive people,” she said tersely, brushing past him as she led her horse down the city’s main thoroughfare. The avenue was lined with merchants’ stalls, and judging by the crowds they must have arrived at one of the busiest times of day. “Come on, Keilan.”
As the boy moved to follow her Senacus caught his arm, and the tingling puissance he felt through Keilan’s tunic made him shiver. “Be careful. This is not usually a dangerous place, but there may be others out there still looking for you.”
“I will be,” Keilan said, and then he hurried to catch up with Nel before she vanished within the loud bargaining throng of Ver Anathans.
Senacus watched them until they disappeared, trying to ignore his twinge of worry, and then started down a different street. He remembered the way only vaguely, but luck was with him this day and eventually the road emptied into a large square dominated by a marble building of a familiar style. A circular window of stained glass was above the entrance, a golden disc at its center. Several of the faithful were prostrating themselves on reed mats in the shadow of the building, mumbling the prayers of redemption and forgiveness written down long ago in the Tractate. As Senacus passed between them a few noticed him and gasped in surprise, then redoubled their chanting.