The Lodestone Trilogy (Limited Edition) (The Lodestone Series)

by Mark Whiteway

  Of course, there was another more worrying possibility, and that was that someone had figured out her identity and was seeking an opportunity to turn her over to the Prophet’s men. The price on her head was probably more than most of these people could expect to see in a lifetime.

  Whoever they were, she could at least take solace in the fact that they were clearly rank amateurs. The fellow behind her might as well have had a sign painted on him.

  “Ay you.” She raised her eyes, only to be confronted by the unpleasant scowl of the broth salesman. Mottled olive skin and missing teeth added to his air of intimidation. “You buyin’ or what?”

  She muttered an excuse and moved on, curses beating the air behind her. Her shadow stirred on cue and sauntered after her. She waited for the hand-off, and a few moments later, it came. A too-young girl with doleful eyes and a sorrowful mouth emerged from a dark passageway, carrying a basket on one shoulder. Her grip gave away the fact that the basket was empty. Keris smiled to herself. You people really aren’t very good at this, are you? The girl and the older man exchanged the briefest of glances before he melted into the crowd; then she turned and began following a course parallel to Keris.

  It would have amused Keris to lead them in a merry dance all over town before finally knocking their heads together, but she did not have the time for such indulgences. She would have to bring this to a quick and decisive end. Her eyes flicked back and forth, seeking a disused building or a quiet side street where she could turn the tables without attracting undue attention.

  There was a disturbance up ahead. The shuffling throng parted like a bow wave and she caught sight of a tall, willowy figure with flowing white hair, clad in the unmistakeable black of a Keltar. Glaisne. From the keep. A member of the inner Ruling Council which had included Mordal, her former mentor. Glaisne was old by Keltar standards but his eye had not dimmed. He exuded an air of needle-sharp authority, making the detachment of leather-armoured soldiers backing him appear like a group of useless hangers-on.

  Keris shrank back, caught between fire and flood. There was a fair chance that Glaisne might recognise her through her guise, but equally, there was the possibility that those who were following her, if indeed they knew who she was, might see this as the perfect opportunity to raise the alarm and claim a substantial reward.

  Glaisne walked calmly forward as if he were arriving for a prearranged meeting. The angled scar over his right eye gave him a look of perpetual ferocity. He spoke with the weight of iron and the clarity of ice.

  “Fealty and service be to the Three and the One. We are here on the authority of the Prophet, the Unan-Chinneroth. The criminal known as Keris has taken refuge in this town. Anyone offering information leading to the capture of the traitor will be rewarded. Those found harbouring the fugitive will be shown no mercy.”

  Silence settled over the courtyard. He glared at a sea of downcast heads. “If I do not receive the necessary cooperation, then I will be forced to take some of you away for questioning.”

  She knew what that meant. Those selected would not likely see their families again.

  She seriously considered casting off her disguise and making a stand. However, his skills were considerable and the outcome would by no means be certain. She might be able to defeat him, but it would not be quick, and in the meantime, others would be headed this way. Sparking a full-scale battle in a crowded area such as this could lead to a massacre. In any situation, the best strategy is always the one that secures the optimum result—even if it is retreat. Mordal’s words spoken to her in another life made up her mind.

  She began to back slowly towards the nearest side street but was stopped in her tracks by the scene being played out in the centre of the courtyard. At Glaisne’s bidding, two soldiers had grabbed hold of a scrawny boy and were holding him by the arms as he squealed in protest. “We will start with this one.”

  Before she could react, another voice rang out, “May it please my Lord.” A lone figure dropped to one knee before the Keltar, head bowed.

  “Speak,” Glaisne commanded.

  The kneeling man raised his head. With a rising sense of panic, she realised it was the same man who had trailed her from the alley. “A woman in red and black, my Lord. She bore the cloak, so we took her for Keltar. We did not know she was a criminal. It is not for us to know the ways of the Prophet’s servants.”

  “Where did you see her?”

  “The Street of Veils, Lord. She flew to a rooftop and returned, dressed as one of us.”

  Keris glanced around, but the young girl who had been part of the gang was nowhere to be seen. I have to get out of here. Now.

  She stumbled backwards and limped down the nearest side street, drawing more curious stares. Her escape plan was now in tatters. The whole town would soon be looking for her. She was an outcast, despised by both sides and with a price on her head.

  As she dragged herself along, she saw two burly figures headed in her direction. Too late, she realised that she was their intended target. She turned back towards the courtyard and straight into the arms of a third man. She went down, kicking and struggling under the weight of all three assailants, determined to give at least as good as she got. Without warning, a door opened, and she was pitched into a well of inky blackness.

  ~

  Everything ached. She opened her eyes, but the sight was no different to that from behind her eyelids. She had fallen a short distance, so she judged that she must be below street level. A cellar then—or a basement of some kind. A damp mustiness lingered in the air. She strained her ears, but all was silence.

  She performed a quick self-examination—no bones broken. Aside from her complaining ankle, lack of food, and borderline exhaustion, she was in good shape. More importantly, she seemed to be out of danger—for the moment at least. Of course, it would not be long before the three goons who threw her in here returned to claim their prize. Then her troubles would begin all over again.

  She needed to determine where she was and whether there was a way out. Her fingertips quested for the neck of her pack and felt inside for the hard smoothness that was her tinderbox. She grasped it and fumbled for the lid.

  Without warning, a door opened and a shaft of light appeared. She stood and squinted at a swinging lantern that bobbed down some steps towards her. Framed within the meagre circle of radiance were three faces half-concealed in shadow.

  “What is your name?”

  If these people were part of the gang that had been following her, why not just turn her in? Unless they had not heard Glaisne’s pronouncement. They could be little more than common robbers who did not realise the value of the prize they had captured.

  “What is your name?” the middle head repeated.

  She knew how to deal with common robbers. “I will not answer impertinent questions from the likes of you. Stand aside, or suffer the consequences.”

  The face on the left hissed in the ear of the one in the centre.

  “It is her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s her, I tell you.”

  The head on the right chimed in with a female voice. “Imre served at the keep.”

  Common robbers, even stupid ones, did not generally bandy their names about.

  “Very well, then.” To her utter surprise, the middle head bowed formally. “Welcome to Lind, my Lady.”

  ~

  Hunched-over figures mooched along an ochre side street. Trapped. Locked within their yearnings for a better life. Or simply wondering where their next meal was coming from. Carts trundled past, pulled by Kelanni reduced to beasts of burden. The late morning sky was a dome of rust. Heavy raindrops splashed against the cobbles in a futile attempt to wash away the dirt and degradation.

  “Please... please come away from the window, my Lady.”

  Keris turned to face the slight, nervous woman in the centre of the room. The woman’s forehead was lined with worry or premature aging—it was hard to tell which.

/>   “Keris. Please, just call me Keris.”

  “As you wish, Lady Keris.”

  Keris groaned inwardly, struggled to a worn-out wicker chair, flopped into it, and closed her eyes.

  Keris is our leader... Keris is our leader. Once more she was the tall, lean, overly serious girl who had driven off the bully and rescued the boy Aleiran’s toy, to the delight of his young friends. Keris is our leader.

  I never wanted this.

  The bare floorboards creaked. She opened her eyes. The woman was flanked by two more people she recognised—one was the older man who had first welcomed her; the other was the young girl with wide eyes and downturned mouth who had trailed after her through Lind carrying an empty basket. This was significant somehow, but it took a few moments for her exhausted synapses to fire. The people who followed her and the group that kidnapped her; they were one and the same.

  The older man spoke first. “I am Miron. We need to talk, my Lady. We should also treat your injury.”

  The older woman turned to the girl. “Hot water and bandages. Quickly.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  As the girl hurried off, Keris felt a twinge of empathy for this mirror image of her younger self. She tried to think of something comforting she could say when the girl returned, but her storehouse of courage was empty.

  The woman retreated into a corner. Miron stepped forward and bowed deferentially once more, giving a glimpse of his balding crown.

  “I apologise for the rough treatment, but we had to get you off the

  street. The danger was too great.”

  Keris blinked. “You know who I am?”

  “Indeed,” he replied. “You are Keris, the Heroine of Gort.” The Heroine of Gort. It was the description Oliah used in her reports from Sakara. Alondo had teased her about it. She, for her part, dismissed it as foolishness. Childish talk. “You are she who attacked the desert fortress and bested ten Keltar and a hundred soldiers in order to free the tributes.”

  And yet the tributes were not freed. Explain that. “I think you have some of the details a little cockeyed.”

  He pulled up another battered chair and sat across from her. His eyes twinkled. “Perhaps. But if people stretch the truth into hope, who can blame them? The people need hope, Keris—now more than ever.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The elevation of the keep, of course.”

  “Elevation... ?”

  “Surely you are aware of what has transpired in the city?”

  Keris shook her head. “I only arrived at Dagmar half a day ago.” His mouth parted, but the question remained frozen on his lips. “It’s a long story,” she added.

  “I see... well, three nights ago, the Prophet returned from the heavens, where it is said that he had obtained an object—a vessel of great power. The next day he used it to tear the keep from its foundations and raise it high above Chalimar.”

  “What do you mean, ‘raise it’?”

  “The keep is suspended over the city.”

  “You mean, in mid-air?”

  “Yes, my Lady. It... was assumed that you had returned in response to this display of power. That you had finally arrived here to lead us.”

  It was all Keris could do to keep awake. “Lead... lead who?”

  “We are called Kai-Alavi, the Fourth Circle.”

  “The Fourth... ?”

  Miron leaned forward; his voice had a faraway quality. “The Prophet has etched his flame symbol above the three circles on the cathedral at Chalimar—the Three and the One. The Fourth Circle is the people. The people will extinguish the flame.”

  “You’re going to rise up against the Keltar?”

  “You showed us that the Keltar are not invincible, Keris.”

  She felt as if the world were closing in on her. “I told you. I didn’t do those things.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. The fact remains that you inspired this movement. You must lead us.”

  The wide-eyed girl returned with a steaming basin and towelling draped over one arm. She knelt before Keris like a servant, not daring to raise her head. Her hand reached out, trembling. I don’t need to be waited on. Keris waved her away, immediately regretting her brusqueness. The girl took refuge next to her mother and tried to disappear into the wall.

  An organised insurgency—and all at her command. There was a time when such a thing would have been beyond her wildest dreams. Yet if these people—unskilled and poorly equipped—were to go up against the Keltar, hundreds, maybe thousands would die.

  This is war, she had told Lyall on the Eastern Plains. There are probably going to be a lot more deaths before we are finished. Yet now, as she contemplated the horror of it, she found herself recalling Lyall’s response. I am not at war with my own people. There is only one who is responsible for all of this. If we stop him, then the oppression will end. At the time she had perceived Lyall’s pronouncement as weakness and ridiculed him for it. Yet now, as she looked into the trusting faces of these people...

  “No.”

  Miron looked as if she had just slapped him across the face. “No?”

  “You are to take no action until you hear from me.”

  He exhaled through his teeth. “My Lady—”

  “You want me to lead you? Then those are my orders. Wait. Lay low. Do not attempt an uprising.”

  A battle of wills clashed silently in the space between them. Finally, Miron lowered his eyes in defeat. “May I ask what you intend to do?”

  Keris debated with herself. She could not risk revealing their plan to take the desert fortress of Gort. Everything depended on the element of surprise; the fewer who knew about it, the better. Besides, there was still the possibility that these people were part of some elaborate ruse to get her to talk.

  “I must get to the Forest of Illaryon.”

  Understanding dawned across his features. “The decree. Of course, of course. Forgive my blindness. I fear, however, that you are too late.”

  “Decree?”

  “The Prophet. Two days ago he decreed that the Great Tree of the Chandara that lies at the heart of the forest be burned to the ground. It is done. The Tree is no more.”

  <><><><><>

  Chapter 36

  “Why? Why would he do such a thing?”

  Even as Keris spoke the words, her heart already knew the answer. Annata, the woman from the past who had appeared to them from the midst of the machine of red, silver, and gold, and later in the chamber at Kynedyr, had expressed her fear that the Chandara might pay a heavy price for helping the Kelanni. Now it seemed that that fear was prophetic.

  “It is said that the Chandara are seeking to overthrow the Prophet and to dominate the Kelanni people,” Miron said.

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Indeed. It is well known that Chandara-speak is nonsense, but I don’t believe they would meddle in Kelanni affairs. They care for nothing outside their forest.”

  Keris made to stand up. Her leg reminded her none too gently that it was a bad idea. “I can’t stay here.”

  Miron raised a restraining hand. “Please, my Lady. You are injured and need to rest.”

  “I have to get to Illaryon.”

  “We can arrange to smuggle you out of town, but not before nightfall.”

  She shook her head. “Too long. Just let me leave. I will find my own way.”

  “The Prophet’s men are moving through the streets, engaged in a house-to-house search. You would be picked up in no time.”

  “Not likely. I am disguised as one of you.”

  Miron exhaled slowly. “May I speak freely?” Keris felt a flash of irritation at the man’s sudden coyness but ignored it and bade him continue. “There is more to a disguise than clothing.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Your eye is bright. Your hands—they are clean and free of calluses. And your bearing... ”

  “Go on.”

  “Your bearing, my Lady, is not that of a p
easant. Rather, it is that of a noblewoman dressed as a peasant.”

  The odd, fearful looks. The stolen glances of passers-by. It all made sense now. She might as well have been at the head of a noisy procession, proclaiming her presence. These people probably saved my life. She tied off her leg bandage, enduring a sharp stab of pain.

  “Someone was following me—an older man in a tan jerkin.”

  Miron nodded. “My older brother, Baracca.”

  “He approached Glaisne. Promised to lead the Keltar to me.”

  “A diversionary tactic. Baracca is doubtless even now leading your Keltar friend on a fascinating tour through the back streets of our charming little town.”

  “He should not have done that. Glaisne will string your brother up when he discovers that he has been deceived.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Her face darkened. “You do not know Glaisne as I do. He has a reputation for ruthlessness.”

  “Perhaps. But he is also not stupid. The Keltar rely on informants for gathering intelligence and as a means of crushing dissent. If they were to start blithely executing those who came forward, their network would dry up faster than the river Alvar in high summer.”

  She was not nearly so confident that Glaisne’s wrath would be tempered by pragmatism. That was not at all his style. However, debate seemed pointless, as the man’s fate was out of the hands of either of them.

  She contemplated her next step. Her mission to Illaryon was now in tatters. The Great Tree was gone, the Chandara dead or scattered, who knew where. There seemed nothing for it but to head straight for Gort and join the others.

  “I must leave here as soon as possible,” she reiterated.

  Miron pushed himself up from the chair. “I will make the necessary arrangements. There is a cot in the next room. Rest here. Peira and Farilla will bring you sustenance.” He bowed once and left, the two women following silently in his train.

  Keris stirred her weary body and located the bed. It was small, but clean and fresh as a cloud. She dropped her burdens in the corner opposite the door, curled up, and, in moments, was fast asleep.