Out of the night, across the darkened prairie, there came a low thrumming, the faint rumble of muted thunder that rose in pitch and grew in volume as it approached. Behind her, up on the wall, she heard Wyll with the very good eyes catch his breath. Holding her own, she turned and gazed up at the shadow of the young man standing atop the wall.
“What is it, Wyll?”
“Something is coming, my lady.”
“Can you see?”
“Yes, but just a shadow – a large shadow… – it is a horse.”
Ka’en turned back to face the night, her heart in her throat. “Is there a rider?”
The young man was silent for a long moment, then – “No, my lady, I cannot see a rider – Wait.”
“What is it?”
“It’s – no. Oh, no.”
“What?”
Wyll did not answer. The thrumming grew louder. Ka’en stared into the night, unable to see the approaching shadow, unable to turn away.
“What do you see, Wyll?”
“It is the great horse, Thaniel, my lady, and, and…”
“And?”
“It looks like a body.”
Ka’en froze. Breath left her and she could not recover it. Inside her breast, her heart constricted in an agonized spasm of realized fear. The thunder of Thaniel’s hooves rose and roared through the night. And then she could see him.
The great horse pounded out of the darkness, charged up to her and slid to a stop, his enormous hooves digging into the soil, showering her with clumps of dirt and grass.
“Lady Ka’en.”
She still could not breathe. Her words came out in a breathless whisper.
“What has happened, Thaniel?”
“The Lord Aram is hurt. He is tied to my back. You must help him.”
She gasped. “Hurt? He is not –?”
“No – he lives, but he needs care now.”
Trembling and shaking, rocked by the violent conflict of hope and fear, Ka’en went up to Aram’s body and found his face, lying alongside the horse’s neck. His eyes were closed and his severe features were pale and drawn.
Another large, dark shadow came out of the night. Durlrang. The wolf looked at Ka’en and then his keen eyes found the young man standing on the wall.
“Open the gate at once. Thaniel must be allowed to carry Lord Aram into the dwellings of men.” He turned to address Ka’en as he moved close to the horse. “My lady, use my back to climb up onto Thaniel.”
Numbly, Ka’en complied. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around the armored form of Aram just as the gate swung open and Thaniel charged through and up the curving roadway toward town. At the entrance to Lancer’s house, servants appeared, untied Aram’s limp body, and carried him inside and up to Ka’en’s room on the first floor. When she removed his armor and undressed him, his skin was pink, almost red, as if it had been burned. The sheath containing the sword of heaven she slipped carefully under the bed.
She could not hear him breathe, but after a few moments’ diligent and frantic search, she found a weak, low pulse. She looked up to find two women of the house standing nearby.
“Bring cloths and water – both hot and cool.” She said. Despite Aram’s frightful appearance, Ka’en stood on firmer ground now. She had him back.
10
“Does he live?”
Kelven did not look at Joktan as he asked the question but simply gazed into the deep rolling waters of the spring. He was corporeal on this day, even though Joktan did not require such courtesy; it was for the benefit of Sera, who sat nearby.
Joktan, clad in his hooded robe and shimmering on the edge of visibility, glanced at him. “He does, my lord.”
“And how, I wonder, is that possible?”
“I don’t know.” The dead king turned and looked at the god. “I thought perhaps you might have the answer to that particular mystery.”
Kelven returned his gaze with raised eyebrows. “How would I have such knowledge – I was not there. You, my friend, were there.”
“Yes – still.” Joktan turned away and studied the water. “I see so little at that distance. He was dead – at least that was how it appeared; but then he was struck by lightning – bright blue lightning, terrible thunder. And then the horse took him to Derosa, and he lives. It seems that he will recover.”
“Foolish.” Kelven spat out the word as if it had soured in his mouth. “Rash and stupid.”
Joktan did not look at him, but continued to watch the churning waters of the spring. After a few moments, he sighed. “It was not rashness, my lord, that drove him to do what he did.”
“Indeed?”
Joktan spoke quietly. “It was something with which you and I are very familiar – it was desperation.”
Kelven pivoted to face him, but the ancient king kept his gaze averted. The god was fairly quivering with frustration. “What are we to be availed by constantly giving in to desperation? It is the enemy’s most effective tool. Time after time, we are driven to the brink and then destroyed. It is the most vicious of cycles. Nothing ever changes.”
“Pardon me, my lord, but there is one thing that has changed – one very great thing indeed.”
Kelven’s noble visage twisted into a sneer of doubt. “And what is this very great thing?”
Joktan ignored the god’s sarcastic tone. “Aram has used the weapon of the ages,” he answered, “to enlist the earth itself as an ally. Never was such a thing foreseen – nor could I have imagined that once conceived it would be successfully executed. But as amazing as is this feat, the occurrence of it has wrought a thing even greater – and equally unforeseen.” Joktan smiled a grim smile. “For the first time in all of his miserable existence, Manon is afraid of a man. He may, in fact, no longer believe that Aram is just a man; he may very well believe him to be something much more. And I intend to encourage such thoughts in those times that I find occasion to wander to his tower.” He looked over at Kelven. “And by the way, my lord, the man was not destroyed. He lives, and will fight again.”
Kelven returned Joktan’s gaze with hardened eyes. “You see greatness in this? I see otherwise. Hear me – we give him the tool to destroy the enemy and he uses it on the world instead – to save his friends, and very nearly brings us to disaster in the process. He is too young, too rash, and too foolish.”
“He did it for the woman,” Joktan answered quietly.
Kelven’s eyes flashed. “And what is that to us?”
“Is this a concept that you really do not understand, my lord?” There was an undertone of bitterness in Joktan’s voice that he could not conceal.
“Walk carefully, my friend.” The god said softly.
Joktan bowed in stiff apology. “I did not intend offense, Lord Kelven. And the ache of my own loss has not eased in ten thousand years. But hear this, if you will – everything Aram does, he does for the woman – not for you or me or for anyone else. It is for her.”
“And that helps us how?” Kelven shook his head. “Love of a woman – seems like a very small thing for which to wage war.”
“Nay, my lord, not so. In this you are wrong.” Joktan glanced at Sera who gazed stolidly into an undefined distance; then he sighed and turned his face to the sky for a long moment with his eyes closed. He drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, and looked again at Kelven. “It is the greatest of all things – and I believe it may be our salvation.”
The god had turned away and fixed his gaze once more on the roiling pool. “You said a moment ago that Manon feared this man. How do you know this?”
Joktan laughed wickedly. “I go often into his domain, my lord – and because I am less than a shadow, often he does not know of my presence unless I wish it. Though I can catch but a word here and there, nonetheless I listen when he consults with his lieutenants; and I get the gist of it sometimes. When the grim lord is especially troubled, he spends much time in deep thought in the darkness of his private chambers. Lately, because of Aram, Manon
is often troubled.”
“Does he know who this man is – does he suspect his lineage?”
“No – I am certain of it.” The bitter undertone re-entered Joktan’s voice. “There is no reason for him to believe that any of my people survived the day of slaughter.” He went silent then, and his features darkened with memory. Kelven studied him without comment and after a few moments, Joktan continued. “Nay, my lord, and that is what troubles him so greatly – he has no idea from whence this man arose.
“His spies had grown complacent across the centuries so there was no record of Aram until he simply appeared – so it seemed – and began to alter things. Now, of course, his spies are attentive, and they hear what is said of him, how the birds believe him to be the Sent One, and how some men think him a god.” Joktan grew thoughtful and then looked at Kelven and smiled grimly. “But the thing which troubles him most is that the wolves believe our young friend to be you, my lord, returned in the flesh.”
Kelven’s eyes widened. “Indeed?”
“Oh, yes, and that is a thing beyond his understanding. Now, perhaps, you can see how Aram’s presence on the earth, and his attendant actions, serve to engender fear in the heart of our enemy.”
Kelven gazed across the sunlit courtyard and nodded. “It might be well to let Manon believe this. It will render him less sure.”
“True.” Joktan agreed. “But it increases the danger also.”
“The danger?”
“To Aram. Until this moment, Manon has thought Aram to be simply a man from beyond the frontiers of his influence who, for reasons personal or political, decided to resist him – making him an irritant, an annoyance that must be dealt with – but nothing more. Now, as you say, he is less sure. Because of the near annihilation of the force he sent to Burning Mountain – to deal with a mere man – he understands that his enemy is greater than he imagined.” The old king involuntarily drew his robe tighter around his ethereal self. “All of the grim lord’s attention will now be centered on Aram – on discovering exactly who he is and how he may be destroyed. Nothing else will occupy him so utterly. The danger to Aram expands accordingly.”
Kelven sighed. “Yes, I see, this is undoubtedly so. And Aram is, after all, but a man – young and rash, assuredly out of his depth. So the danger to our cause increases as well.”
“You underestimate him, I think, my lord.”
“Do I indeed?”
“He is stronger than you imagine, wiser too, I suspect.”
Kelven regarded him coolly for a long moment. “The Maker help us if you are wrong, my friend.”
They both went silent for a while, each of them wandering the lonely landscape of private thoughts, and then Kelven turned to him once more. There was an odd inflection in his voice as he asked, “What of this great mist? What causes it?”
“I don’t know, my lord.” Joktan’s manner evoked even less certainty than his words. “It blinded me and I could not see into it. Of course, when I am so far away from – my place – I can see little anyway.”
Kelven continued in a quieter tone, watching his friend closely. “Tell me – has Manon awakened a dragon?”
Joktan spun and stared, shock and dismay resounding in his words. “A dragon! But – surely not – they sleep in a deep place, do they not? And does not Lord Ferros guard the place of their slumber?”
The god shrugged, but the blue in his eyes was ice-hard. “How do you explain a mist that covers half the world?”
Joktan looked around the grounds with quick movements of his eyes, as if casting about for a less frightening answer, but then reluctantly shook his head as he once again met Kelven’s gaze. “I cannot.”
Kelven raised his eyebrows significantly. “Nor can I.”
“A dragon! Can – will Lord Ferros help us if this be the case?”
Kelven shook his head. “Doubtful. Ferros cares for nothing and no one. If Manon has slipped past his guard and – well, I do not think he will care for anything beyond the dangers to his own realm. Our difficulties will not concern him, because they do not affect him.” He laughed harshly, bitterly. “And after the actions of our young champion on the mountainside – undoubtedly wreaking havoc deep into Ferros’ domain – he will be even less inclined to sympathize with our cause, will he not?”
Joktan stared into the spring and his ancient voice trembled. “My lord, if Manon has awakened a dragon, and if it serves him –”
Kelven looked over at him sharply. “True – it is terrible beyond imagining if a dragon serves him. But it is far worse, even, than that. If the enemy has truly been foolish enough to loose one of those creatures from the deep, and bring it out upon the face of the earth; and if it then escapes his control – how will we ever contain such destruction as will then occur? I tell you – we will not. It will mean the end of the world as it is known.” He shook his head, real fear in his eyes. After a very long moment, when Joktan could not answer, he sighed deeply and then turned back to gaze into the pool. “Ah, well – as you said a moment ago, my friend – surely not.”
11
A sound.
He froze.
There was a voice – distant, small, barely audible – but it called out to him through the blackness.
What did it say?
Aram.
His name.
The voice called his name.
From somewhere far out in the eternity of darkness, or perhaps from beyond it, someone called for him, asked him – beseeched him – to come.
Come back to me, Aram.
He knew that voice.
Ka’en.
Ka’en called him.
His heart froze in his chest; his terrible fear was confirmed. She was here, somewhere, in the darkness.
Turning round and round in the dark, he tried to call to her, but his voice would not come. Which way? He tried using his mind, begging her to call again. Where are you, Ka’en?
Aram, you said that you would always come back to me, remember?
Yes, I remember. His voice still would not come. I remember, Ka’en – I remember. I am here, in the darkness. Where are you?
Come back to me, my love.
I’m coming – where are you?
A light. There was a light. Small, fuzzy, but it was there, to his front.
How far?
He moved toward it, and miraculously, it grew, though it remained fuzzy, indistinct. But it grew. Soon, it had grown to the point where it spread across the whole field of his horizon, top to bottom, left to right, and it had developed a pattern of light and shadow; rather, of shadows in the light.
It was a face.
It was her face.
Ka’en.
He knew her – had always known her, and now she was here, in this terrible darkness with him, but she was enveloped in light; she gave light that pushed back the darkness – it emanated from her.
“Ka’en.” As he spoke her name, desperate hope made his voice tremble. “Are you alright?”
“Aram,” she replied, and she was crying, “You have come back to me.”
Another memory swam out of the darkness and imprinted itself on one of the blank pages of his mind. “I told you,” he said, remembering, and his voice sounded thin, dry, harsh. Looking at her, so near, so beautiful, he regretted the sound of his voice. “I told you, Ka’en, I will always return.”
12
He was in a bed, in her father’s house.
Memory rushed in like a flood and filled the empty vaults. He remembered everything now, up to the point where he’d plunged the Sword of Heaven into the flank of the mountain. Between that point and this, there was only darkness and pain, and a flash of brilliant blue light.
He smiled up at Ka’en. He tried to raise a hand and touch her; but the hand would not respond.
Understanding his need, she reached out and gently stroked the side of his face with her cool fingers.
“How do you feel, my love?”
“Better, now,” he
answered, but his voice still sounded cracked and harsh. “How did I get here?”
“Thaniel brought you – he brought you straight to me.” Her eyes welled up and overflowed again. “I thought you were –” She could not finish.
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m alive.”
She nodded and closed her eyes; her head dropped down out of his view and there was a gentle pressure on his chest that trembled. He tried to raise a hand and stroke her head. Again, it did not respond.
There was a noise off to his right and she lifted her head and looked in that direction. Aram turned his head feebly and tried to lift it without success. Someone spoke softly; he could not hear what was said, but Ka’en nodded and answered the unseen speaker.
“Tell them he lives, and is awake,” she said.
She looked back down at Aram and smiled through her tears. Then her face became a soft, indistinct pattern of light and shadow again that slowly faded, and he drifted into darkness. But there was no terror in that darkness for him now, only rest.
When he awoke the second time, again it took a while for his eyes to adjust to sight. Even then, dimness prevailed, a shadowy gloom through which, periodically, small flickers of orange light flared and subsided, like the pulsing of distant flames. Eventually, he realized that he was, in fact, seeing the reflections of actual flame flicker and flair across the ceiling above him. He rolled his head to the left, from whence the light appeared to come.
Ka’en was curled up asleep in a chair next to his bed, her head to one side, long strands of dark hair covering most of her face. On a table near her, the dying remnants of a candle guttered and flared as the wick expired in a pool of molten wax.
Somewhere to his right there was recurring sound, rhythmic and heavy, but far-off, like the ring of a hammer on wood in a distant workshop. With an effort, he turned his head the other way and found a window. Outside, it was night. There were curtains drawn across the window but they were not opaque and yet no light came through. The rhythmic thump came from beyond the glass, rising and falling, moving first one way and then the other, hesitating a moment at either end of the spectrum.
Kelven's Riddle Book Three Page 6