by William King
“For a priest, you are a very cynical man.”
“I am a realist, Sir Kormak, and so, in your own way, are you. You must know you gain nothing by defying the will of the most powerful ruler in the West.”
“Is that what I am doing?”
“You know as well as I do that you are. It is a very dangerous thing.”
“Was that a threat, Frater?” Kormak’s tone was mild, but Jonas flinched.
“Not from me. Believe me, I have nothing but goodwill towards you.” He glanced over his shoulder as if checking to be sure they could not be overheard. “Prince Taran, on the other hand, does not like things he cannot control. Or people who are not afraid of him.”
Kormak kept quiet. It had taken a lot of courage for Jonas to say that. He doubted that the prince had put Jonas up to it.
“Prince Taran is a powerful man,” Kormak said. “He is used to getting his way.”
“He is.”
“I take it you think that I should do what he asks.”
Jonas’s smile held real warmth. “I think that if you decide not to, you should get out of Siderea very quickly and make a point of not coming back.”
“Thank you for that,” said Kormak. He meant it. Jonas was a servant of the crown, and what he had just said could be construed as disloyalty. It was something Prince Taran would reward with a headsman’s blade.
“There is nothing to thank me for,” Jonas said. “You have saved my life on several occasions, and you have saved the life of my king. I want you to know that someone here values what you did.”
They entered the palace and Kormak took the stairs up to his room. Perhaps he had misjudged Jonas. Perhaps. But he doubted it.
Kormak rose the next morning, still weary. He had snatched only a few hours of sleep, and his dreams had been strange. He threw open the curtains. Sunlight and the smell of last night’s burning greeted him.
Swiftly he dressed, making sure his blade was near at hand. He wore court livery that had appeared on the dresser in his room overnight. It disturbed him that he had slept through the servant’s arrival; it was not something that would have happened under normal circumstances. His throat could have been slit in the night, and he could have done nothing about it.
Rhiana’s chamber lay across from his own. Kormak knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” Rhiana asked.
“Me,” Kormak said.
The door opened. The merwoman stood there, garbed once more in her seafarer’s tunic and leather britches. Her ash-blonde hair was clipped close. Her green eyes surveyed him with cool appraisal. A curved scimitar hung at her waist, and a dagger was in her belt. Disappointment struck him at the sight of her cold expression. He had expected her to be pleased.
“The weapon sending a message, is it?” Kormak asked. Curved blades were favoured by the followers of the Moon; straight blades by worshippers of the Holy Sun.
Her nose twitched, the corner of her mouth turned up. “You coming in, or are you going to stand out there and ask idiot questions?”
“Let me consider my options.”
“You have three heartbeats, then I slam the door in your face.”
“I’ll come in, then.” He surveyed the room. The decoration was ostentatious and imperial. It lacked the seafarer’s neatness and utility. All she had brought with her was locked in the trunk under the bed.
He tilted his head to one side and studied her closely. She met his gaze and did not look away. “Why are you angry with me?”
“Am I angry?”
“Is this a game where we see who can keep answering a question with a question for longest?”
“I don’t know, is it?”
“Determined to win, I see.”
She looked away for a moment, then reached up and ran a hand through her cropped hair. He noticed the webs flexing between her fingers.
“I am glad to see you are still alive,” she said. Her voice had the flat, calm quality of someone keeping their emotions in check. She reached out and touched his cheek, and then drew her hand back when he flinched.
“Does it hurt?” He saw the fear in her eyes and realised that she had been afraid for him.
“Somewhat,” he said.
“You look like hell.”
“Believe me, it does not do justice to the way I feel.”
“You fought a Lunar warlord last night; you are lucky to be able to feel anything at all.”
There was an odd undercurrent to her voice. She was a child of Saa Aquor, a creation of the Old Ones. Perhaps she was upset that he had killed one of those she revered as gods.
“I may have to fight another,” he said. He could not keep the sour note from his voice.
“What?”
“The king and his brother want me to go to Terra Nova and find out where the sarcophagus came from, and why. If there are more like Vorkhul, it seems likely I will find them.”
“Are you afraid?”
He shook his head.
“Perhaps you ought to be.”
Kormak studied the room. He was all too aware that there might be hidden eavesdroppers. The walls of the palace were supposed to be riddled with secret passages. Disgust made him wrinkle his nostrils. He wanted to talk privately, and that was not possible here.
“Walk with me,” he said. “I need some fresh air.”
They strode arms-linked along the outer wall of the palace complex, looking down onto the ornate gardens of the nobles far below. Their only company was the sentries, and they were placed far apart.
The harbour was visible, as were many blue-roofed tenements. In the distance was a huge forest park. “The Grove of the Green,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to see it. Are there really elves there?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I thought they died when they were away from their forests,” she said.
“The spirits of the elves and the great trees are bound together. The elves can use that link to communicate with each other, as well as the trees and the beasts of their forests. Their minds join together on some level. They call it the Green.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“An elf told me. And I’ve seen the way they work together, fight together, move together without talking to each other.” He tried to fill the silence around things unsaid. “If they are away from the forests for too long, travel too far, they lose that connection.”
Her gaze strayed to the sea. “I can understand that. If I go too far from the sea, I feel heartsick.”
“With them, it’s the same. It’s like becoming deaf and mute too. There is a great tree in the Greengrove down there. It lets elves reconnect with the Green. That is why the Elvish ambassador dwells there.”
“They have ambassadors from the Courts of the Moon, from the great Elfwood, they have an island of wizards out in the harbour. They have that gigantic horrifying thing they worship in their Cathedral. They have a king who thinks he’s a saint. This is a strange city.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Kormak said.
“I miss the sea. I miss my pets,” she said. She was mind-linked to one dolphin in particular; it had helped them in their quest to find the Kraken. “I do not like this place.”
“You want to leave?”
She leant forward on the battlements and studied the distant water. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“That’s decisive.”
She looked directly at his face. “I feel like I have unfinished business here. And, as you will recall, I have been informed that I cannot leave without the permission of the king or his brother. Both Jonas and Captain Zamara were clear on that.”
“I am sure you will get it.”
“Maybe. Eventually. Although I cannot help but feel they have some purpose in keeping me here.” She looked back in the direction of the Cathedral. “Do you want me to go?”
He shook his head and stared out to sea. “The king and his brother see people as pawns. We are all just here to do their bi
dding.”
She leant against him and he was aware of her soft, warm weight, pressed against him. He ignored the pain in his side, and put his arm around her shoulder.
As he did so, he noticed a man talking to one of the sentries. The guardsman said something, and pointed in their direction.
“What now?” Rhiana asked.
“I don’t know,” said Kormak. “But that man is wearing the livery of the Order of the Dawn.”
The messenger strode up to them, walking at double pace. Sweat ran down his face and stained his tunic under his armpits. He must have run or ridden fast in the morning heat.
The man’s livery bore a red dragon on a black background. In his hand, he clutched a rolled-up scroll of paper sealed with red wax. He looked at Kormak, then at Rhiana. His cheeks flushed when he noticed her tightly fitted clothes. Or perhaps it was the sight of a guardian being so friendly with a moonchild that flustered him.
“What is it, brother?” Kormak asked.
The messenger walked over and stopped directly in front of Kormak. He made a clenched-fist-over-heart salute, then stretched out his hand containing the scroll and said, “An urgent message for you, Guardian.”
Kormak took the scroll and turned it over in his hands. “Thank you,” he said.
“I’m supposed to wait for your reply,” the messenger said.
Kormak gave a sour grimace. “Then I suppose I had better read it.”
He made no move to do so immediately. In his experience, such messages rarely brought good news. The scroll was made of heavy paper which spoke of the order’s considerable wealth. The red wax bore the imprint of a dragon surrounded by an elder sign. On it showed a number of smaller stars, which marked it as the seal of the abbot of the Trefal chapter house. Kormak recognised it at once, for he had taken it off the finger of his dead friend Gerd only the day before.
“Who is using the seal?” Kormak asked.
“Frater Gregor, Guardian,” the messenger said. “He is the acting abbot until Grand Master Darius appoints a successor to Abbot Gerd.”
Kormak broke the seal with his fingernail and slowly unrolled the scroll. He did not know why he was tormenting the messenger. He suspected it was because he was resentful of the intrusion of order business, so soon after he had finished one of the greatest fights of his life. Or perhaps it was the interruption of conversation with Rhiana. He smoothed the paper flat on the battlement, after glancing around to make sure that no one but himself and the messenger could see what it said.
Guardian Kormak, report to the chapter house in Trefal immediately. Take this to be written under the seal of Grand Master Darius. Messages of importance await you with the Farspeaker.
“I will visit your Farspeaker within the hour,” Kormak said.
The messenger gave him another salute, and then turned and raced back along the battlements. Kormak stood there brooding. He knew that he should act. The scroll implied that he should do so with the utmost haste, but he could not bring himself to do it. He told himself it was the after-effects of the elixir. He told himself he was tired because of it. He knew in his heart of hearts that was not the real reason; he did not want to face the warriors of the chapter house so soon after getting their abbot killed.
“You look like you just bit into a maggot-filled apple,” Rhiana said.
“I suspect I am about to.” Kormak also suspected that he was not going to like whatever communication he was about to receive from the Grand Master. He wondered what it could be. Gerd must have reported his presence using the speaking stones before they went down into the labyrinth beneath the palace. It had been his duty to do so.
“You always seem to get messages at the most awkward times.”
“I need to go,” he said. He rolled up the scroll, folded it, folded it again and placed it within his tunic. He would destroy it later when he got the chance. He leant down and kissed her. “Duty calls.”
Chapter Three
Kormak crossed the square and entered the cloisters of his order. Armed men wearing the black tabard and red dragon symbol greeted him. Was it his imagination, or were they looking at him with disapproval? They must know that he was responsible for the death of the abbot in the labyrinth beneath the Palace Imperial. If only he had been a bit faster and a bit smarter, the abbot might still be alive.
Nonetheless, they saluted him. Kormak told himself it was not him that they were saluting, but the blade on his back. He returned the fist-over-heart greeting and walked on, passing through a tiled courtyard in which a sea dragon spouted water into a small artificial pool. Arched doorways provided entrance into the inner sanctum of the chapter house. An elderly man in the robes of a lay brother limped towards him.
“How may I help you, Guardian?” he asked. The man’s hair was pure white. His face was deeply lined and burned brown by the sun. The veins protruded from the backs of his hands as he pressed them together, as if in prayer.
“I seek your Farspeaker,” Kormak said.
“I will take you to his sanctum,” the old man said. He led the way towards an arched doorway studded with metallic elder signs. The whole place bristled with them. The chapter house was a fortress designed to resist supernatural incursion.
Beyond the door, two stone statues stood guard. They depicted armoured men with empty scabbards on their back and rune-inscribed blades clutched in their fists. They were guardians like himself, possibly two of the heroes who had helped free Siderea from the rule of the Old Ones.
Kormak and the old man walked down a long dark corridor. Kormak heard the sounds of men practising with swords. He felt a flash of nostalgia for the long-gone days of his youth. Memories of training in the fighter’s court at Mount Aethelas flooded back into his mind.
Those brought back recollections of the abbot he had trained alongside, back when they were both boys. Like Kormak, the abbot had been a guardian. Unlike him, Gerd had retired from active service to take over the running of this chapter house. Now he was gone, and it was Kormak’s fault.
Two youths ran down the corridor. They wore the robes of novices, and still had wooden practice swords in their hands. They stopped chattering when they saw Kormak. A look of awe flickered across their faces, and they made the sign of the Sun over their hearts. He did not return the greeting. He was not who they thought he was. He was not a hero; he was a middle-aged man who had spent too long in the field and should have retired years ago.
The old man brought him to a flight of stairs. They curved upwards through the inside of the tower. Another elder sign had been carved above the entrance to the stairwell.
“You will find the Farspeaker at the top of this tower,” the old man said. “May the Holy Sun watch over you.”
“And you,” Kormak said. He strode up the stairs, all the way to the top. He passed a number of landings, and looked out through a number of slit windows which give a view of the Cathedral and the rooftops of the city all around.
At the top of the stairs was another door. He knocked upon it and a high voice from within called, “Enter and be welcome, Guardian.”
Kormak pushed the door open and looked into a darkened room. Inside was a tall old man, stooped with age. He was so ancient that he might have been the father of the man who had led Kormak to this tower. His face was scarred. A claw mark had torn great lines out of his cheek. His eyes were half shut, and the milky white of cataracts shone in them.
Kormak was not surprised the old man had known he was there. He was, after all, a seer. He had a gift that was invaluable to the order and rare among men.
“You have a message for me. I am here to receive it.”
“Very good, Guardian Kormak. I shall repeat the words as they were revealed to me through the eye of the sun.”
There was a formal quality to the man’s speech. He was taking part in a ritual just as much as Kormak was. “Guardian Kormak, Grand Master Darius greets you. You are to be commended on your slaying of the fiend Vorkhul. It is another great victo
ry for the Light.”
Kormak wondered at how quickly this message had come. He had not yet made his report, and Gerd could not have sent the message. They were the only two people who should have been able to send such a message to the Grand Master. In theory.
“Now you must bring further glory to the order, by finding out who was responsible for unleashing this demon on the folk of Siderea. You must track this blight to its source. In this, all aid will be provided to you by King Aemon, who is a great friend and prop to our order. This is a direct command from your Grand Master. Hear and obey.”
Kormak felt a surge of anger, which he swiftly quashed. It would do him no good to take out his annoyance on the old man in front of him. He took three deep breaths and said, “Who sent word of the death of Vorkhul to the Grand Master?”
“I did, Guardian.”
“Of course. On whose behalf?”
“I am not at liberty to say, Guardian.”
“Even at my direct command? I bear a dwarf-forged blade.”
“I am under orders from one whose authority exceeds even your own Guardian.”
“Only the authority of the Grand Master does that.”
“Or his direct representative.”
Kormak considered that for a moment. The Grand Master did have agents who could speak with his voice when the need arose, and it made sense that one of those would be in Trefal. Siderea was the richest kingdom in the Sunlands, and its king a great patron of the order. If he were not dead, the most likely candidate for such a position would have been Gerd himself.
News of the death of an Old One and an abbot certainly counted as important in the order’s view, as did an attempt on the life of King Aemon. He could not dispute that the sending on of such tidings was justified. What angered him was that someone had gone behind his back and passed on King Aemon’s request to Grand Master Darius. No doubt he had added word of the king’s generous offering as well. It smacked of corruption.
“And you will not tell me who sent this message, even if I show you the runes on my blade.” It was the strongest compulsion he could use. Members of the order were supposed to obey a guardian in the field quickly and without argument. It was often a matter of life and death.