Kelven's Riddle Book Three

by Daniel T Hylton

  So once again they waited; this time for more than an hour, as the sun climbed and the day warmed. When Andar returned, he seemed weary for a man of his youth, but his grin was undiminished. “The council consented to the presence of one horse, Lord Aram; and by your leave I suggested that it be Lord Florm. They were reluctant, but in the end – who can resist the idea of speaking with a horse, especially one reputed to be thousands of years old?”

  Aram frowned. “Reputed?”

  Andar held up his hands, palms outward. “Please be patient, Lord Aram. Old men can absorb but one shock at a time, and then but slowly. There have been several this day alone.”

  Aram went out to Florm with the invitation to attend. Thaniel, rather than taking offense, was happy to be excluded. As he and Florm turned to go into the city, Aram halted and looked back at Thaniel. “Have you seen the wolves?”

  “They went north, into the great forest, after sunset last night.”

  At the common house, Aram and Florm collected the others and with Andar went up through the city toward the massive house that sat on the crown of the hill. About a hundred yards from this house – essentially a palace – the buildings of the city abruptly gave way to a wide park that surrounded it. Trees of enormous size grew here, anchored in the well-tended grass of the park. Some of these giants seemed to grow from the building itself, arising within its walls and soaring over it to great heights.

  The building was fronted by a broad, open porch and there was a wide hallway that split its center, leading through into a distant interior courtyard. At the junction of the porch and hallway, in a small anteroom to one side, Findaen, Wamlak, Mallet, Edwar, and Ruben were relieved of their weaponry. There were several armed archers on the broad porch and one of these separated himself and fell in step beside Matibar as they entered the hallway. The wide hall held no furnishings and was lit by openings in the roof far overhead. Florm’s hooves resounded on the planking of the floor, echoing through the empty space. After about two hundred feet, they came out into an open, circular area filled with majestic trees through which a pathway wound until it came to a smaller area, also circular, defined by tall, thick posts set into the earth.

  On the far side of this open space, inside the circle defined by the posts, there were nine seats. Older men in long robes sat in each seat but one. The empty seat was on the far right at the end. The brown-robed man seated in the center appeared to be astoundingly old, with only scattered wisps of white hair clinging to the top of his head. His face was long, and drawn, creased with age, and blotched with discolorations; his eyes seemed almost white with the absence of color. Andar halted and politely indicated this elderly man.

  “My father, Pindar, Eldest of the council of Seneca,” he said simply, and then he went and sat in the empty seat.

  Aram held up his hand in respect. “Thank you for seeing me,” he said.

  The old man studied him for a long moment with his rheumy eyes. “I am told that you claim to be the descendent of Joktan, an ancient king,” he replied, and then he went silent, letting the statement fall like a subtle challenge.

  Watching him, Aram felt an inner twinge of dislike. Nonetheless, he kept his tone respectful as he answered the challenge. “I am.”

  The old man flicked a wizened hand upward. “And the weapon?”

  “An heirloom of my family.”

  The boney hand turned over, palm upward. “May I see it?”

  Resisting the temptation to look over at Andar, Aram answered evenly. “I would not endanger you so, my lord – it would kill you. It would kill me if I drew it forth without the gauntlets.”

  The hand didn’t waver; the old man’s countenance did not change. “I believe it not.”

  This time, Aram did glance at Andar, who shrugged imperceptibly and looked away. Then he looked at Matibar and his companion, standing to either side with their bows at the ready, but their faces might have been made of stone. Keeping his expression impassive in the face of intended offense, he returned his attention to Pindar. “My lord – if a demonstration is required, I can satisfy you as to the extent of this weapon’s power. To do so, I would require the return of my gauntlets.”

  The hand made a fist that shook involuntarily and dropped into Pindar’s lap. “Do you think I would arm an enemy in my own house?”

  Aram smothered the twinge of alarm and answered quietly. “I am not the enemy of Seneca.”

  Pindar ignored this and moved his attention to Florm. He smiled a smile of subtle contempt. “I am told that this beast speaks with the tongues of men.”

  Aram flinched at this show of brazen disrespect but Florm, whose anger had risen with every contemptuous word from the old man’s mouth, fairly shouted into every receptive mind. “It is the tongue of all the noble peoples – not just of men!”

  Pindar – to his credit – flinched also, and his faded eyes widened. “I had thought it a clever lie, told by my son. But I hear your voice!”

  “Then you are not as daft as first I thought,” Florm answered caustically.

  Pindar’s blotchy face darkened with anger. “You will not speak to me thus!”

  Florm went silent for a moment, reining in his fury before returning his answer. “For one who desires the respect of others, Lord Pindar, you are loath to grant it where it is deserved.”

  Pindar raised his eyebrows. “To whom have I not shown proper respect?”

  “I, for one, was alive during the age of Felspar, and you have disrespected me,” Florm answered. When the members of the council stiffened at this remark, he continued. “And I knew this man’s father as well – King Joktan.” He looked at Aram and then swung his head back to confront the council. “This man stands quietly and deferentially before you, and you have not the sense to recognize his quality. As I have told others – if he were to draw his sword, he would slay us all before any could think to stop him. And yet he does not preen or demand. No – he seeks friendship, and grants respect even when it is not duly returned. Has he come into Seneca for naught?”

  Rather abruptly, the marvelous nature of the exchange to which they bore witness seemed to occur to the members of the council; even to Pindar himself. The Eldest scowled, but his demeanor softened. “I meant no disrespect, Lord Florm, and I apologize.” Then his voice took on an unexpected plaintive quality. “But things are changing, and the speed at which they change unsettles my people.”

  “What things are these, my lord – if I may ask?” Aram kept his voice even and calm.

  Pindar seemed to look past them, into an indefinable, but greatly desired distance. “We thought ourselves alone,” he replied, and the petulant tone in his voice grew, “the only people beneath the Maker’s heavens. But now ships ply the sea, and bring news from abroad.” He looked at Aram. “The world that has produced you is troubled – there is no peace in it.” His face hardened and the petulance faded; his raspy voice grew harsh. “I would push it away if I could.”

  Aram let the silence that followed this statement lengthen. “There is trouble abroad in the world, my lord,” he agreed. “But it is not the work of those that serve the Maker’s will.” He glanced at Ka’en. “There is also beauty and kindness, and wisdom. All these things may be found in Seneca, and in the world beyond, if sought.”

  “Nay.” Pindar blurted this out bitterly. “The only thing that can be rightly sought – and if found, guarded jealously – is peace. And it is worth any cost. Wisdom left the earth long ago, and will not return again. Our fathers, once, were wise, long ago in the deeps of time – before they succumbed to pride and brought disaster upon all of us. Nay; wisdom and goodness are gone, and our fathers are gone. And we who are left are but the ghosts of men, wanting only peace.”

  Aram was stunned by the virulent depth of bitter certainty and despair that reverberated through this pronouncement. He looked at Andar, but that young man simply stared downward at the earth beneath his feet. Before Aram could speak further, Ka’en stepped forward.


  “Surely, my lord, there is no call for such hopelessness. There are those in the world who exhibit both goodness and strength. My husband is one such man. Get to know him, I beg you – you will find no better friend.”

  Pindar studied her with his pale eyes. “You are very young, my lady – what could you know of anything? I suppose you are also descended from kings?” A subtle note of sarcasm pervaded these words, but Ka’en quickly reached out and touched Aram on the sleeve, checking his angry retort.

  “No, my lord,” she replied. Her voice was soft, gentle. “There is but one man on earth who can claim such a birthright – my husband, Aram, son of Joktan, of Regamun Mediar. I am Ka’en of Wallensia, daughter of Lancer, the former prince of that land.”

  The old man’s face began to twist into a sneer, but he managed to arrest the offensive reflex. With a further effort, he also succeeded in keeping contempt from completely drenching his words. He looked down the row of councilors to his left, at Andar. “We are honored indeed this day, my son. You have brought not just kings but princesses among us.”

  Andar’s face darkened as he glared back at his father. “My lord, the world has come, and it will not go away, however badly you may desire its absence.” He indicated Aram with his hand. “This man is well known across the earth – stories of his deeds come to us almost daily. He even makes war with the Scourge. Will this council not at least speak with him?”

  Pindar’s hand shook as he pointed one finger accusingly at his son. “The world has come to our door because of young men like you who have no sense of the evil that runs abroad across the face of the earth.” He looked back at Aram. The blotches on his face were red, angry. “Fight with the Scourge? No one fights against the finger of the Maker’s will and succeeds.” He picked up his staff and waved the end of it at Aram, as if shooing him away. “Be gone from us, before you bring disaster upon us again.”

  Andar shot to his feet. The old men of the council turned to stare at this breach of protocol. Facing his father, Andar drew in a calming breath. “My lord, there are those that say that Seneca’s troubles fell upon her not because of evil perpetrated here, but because there was evil in the heart of the Scourge – and that he does not serve the Maker, but is instead His enemy.”

  Hearing this, Pindar’s face reddened further and he quivered with rage. “And who says such things – this man here, this stranger?”

  Andar kept his eyes on his father’s face, and abruptly he seemed to grow in stature, as if he had crossed over a line upon which he’d stood for some time. “No, but he verifies what others tell us. Every story, of every sailor of whatever land, contradicts our histories.” His voice lowered in pitch and became quieter, but he spoke the words distinctly. “How is it that of all the tales of our past, only ours is right and all theirs are wrong?”

  Pindar rose and made to speak, but to his amazement, Andar suddenly held out his hand, palm outward, interrupting him. “And how is it that only our histories denounce our fathers as prideful and decadent, when all others speak to Seneca’s honorable and glorious past?”

  Pindar planted his staff in the bare earth and leaned on it, panting with fury. “Who would know our history but us? You, and others like you – young and disbelieving of our ways – you want to be like this world that has come to our shores, with its disruption, and threats of violence. You would destroy our life of peace.”

  “You are wrong, father,” Andar answered bluntly. “We don’t want to be like any others – we are Seneca, after all. But perhaps it is time that we became a part of the world and joined our brothers in resisting the Scourge.”

  Pindar’s blotchy, deeply reddened features threatened to explode with the force of his anger. Though he kept his gaze fixed on his son, he lifted the staff with trembling hands and pointed it at Aram. “It is because of your faithlessness that the world has invaded our peace, and armed strangers enter the grove of our fathers. You have allowed the world to bring its troubles to our coasts, and now it invades our borders.” His arm, shaking now, moved the staff so that it pointed at Andar’s chest. “Will you not be satisfied until the Scourge himself returns to punish the land again?”

  Andar, his own face blazing with anger, made to answer this but his reply was prevented when another old man, sitting about halfway between the father and son, rose slowly to his feet. “This is unseemly,” the elderly councilor stated in a low voice, “to air our disagreements openly, especially before strangers.”

  As Pindar and Andar fell silent, glaring at one another, the old councilman turned to Aram. “Perhaps our guest will retire from the council, and come again another time, when we may more readily address his desires?”

  “No.” Pindar emitted this one word in a low but fierce tone. “We settle this now.” He turned to Aram. “You are not welcome here, sir, nor is the trouble that trails behind you like a hungry wolf. We have lived in peace and plenty for many hundreds of years, and we will remain at peace – if only you will take your talk of war elsewhere.”

  Aram met the old man’s gaze coolly and then deliberately turned and looked at Matibar, whose face remained as stone, and then at Andar who, though still standing, once again studied the bare earth between his feet.

  Turning back to Pindar, Aram decided that there was nothing further to say. For the moment, Seneca was in the grip of old men who clung to a false past, and were blind to impending danger, especially since that danger was so far away and known only through the tales of strangers. Saying nothing, granting the council one short nod of his head, he turned to leave, but Ka’en put her hand firmly on his arm, preventing him. He looked at her in surprise.

  Her normally placid eyes were bright with anger. Maintaining her hold on Aram’s arm, she turned toward the semi-circle of old men.

  “Hide, then,” she said, and her tone was scornful. “Hide beneath your trees like the rabbit who thinks that because the hawk cannot see him, the wolf will not find him.” Focusing on Pindar, she continued. “Talk of war, you say? It is more than words for my people. Words will never leave young men bleeding on the fields of strife, and wives and mothers weeping for those that will return home no more.”

  Her grip on Aram’s sleeve tightened. “Leave my husband to fight this war without your aid if you will, but do not delude yourself that you are safe. The grim lord will come for you when we have fallen, and he will bring more than mere talk of war – he will bring its flame. And the fires of that war, when it comes, will burn through these forests like tinder, leaving nothing.”

  Turning to Aram, she said, “Now we will go.”

  Stung by Ka’en’s words, Pindar held up his hand. “Young woman – you think us weak and defenseless because we seek peace and reject war? Watch and learn.” Turning and finding Matibar, the old man flung his hand out to the side, indicating one of the many large round posts set into the earth surrounding the meeting place of the council.

  “Show them.”

  Matibar, his face still betraying no emotion, nodded once, and glanced at Andar, who shrugged.

  “Ignore him!” Pindar shouted. “I yet sit in the Seat of Instruction and you will obey my command, Captain! Show them the strength and skill of Seneca.”

  Matibar set Aram’s gauntlets down at his feet, and nocked an arrow in his magnificent bow. The head of the arrow was gray-blue, with many facets, and gleamed in the sun. Drawing the bow back until it groaned and the bowstring hummed, he took aim at the post, which was nearly three feet in diameter, and let the missile fly.

  There was a short, sharp sound as the arrow impacted the post, and Aram was astonished to see that it had imbedded itself into the wood so deeply that the fletching touched the post where it had gone in, and the tip of the arrow’s head protruded from the opposite side. Not even Mallet, were he proficient with a bow, could have exhibited such prowess. But then Aram realized the truth. Despite the fact that Matibar was obviously a tall, strong man, it wasn’t physical strength so much as the inherent properties of the
material from which the arrow point was made that rendered the missile deadly.

  After a long moment, in which Pindar treated Ka’en and him to a proud and haughty glare, Aram turned away from the council and approached Matibar. Indicating his gauntlets, he held out his hand. “May I? I promise; I intend no harm to anyone here. You may keep your weapon trained on me if you like.”

  Matibar looked over at Pindar, who made a dismissive gesture. “Yes – give them to him, and let him be gone from us.”

  In a deliberate motion, Matibar set his bow aside, stooped and picked up Aram’s gauntlets, handing them over. His face was set, bland. And he did not retrieve his weapon, instead letting his arms fall to his side.

  Nodding his thanks, Aram pulled the gauntlets over his hands and then went to the post that had been penetrated by Matibar’s arrow. He examined it closely for a moment, noting the odd, dense, gray-blue color of the piece of tip that protruded. Then, slowly, he unsheathed the sword.

  No sunlight pierced through the thick canopy overhead, so there was no flame. Still, its song arose. Grasping the fletching at the back end of the arrow, Aram drove the sword into the post along the same tangent. The wood split asunder with a loud Crack! – flame instantly erupted along the length of the post above the level of the sword. Quickly, he pulled the arrow free of the fire and then sheathed the sword, quieting its song and hiding its power.

  Holding the arrow as he turned back toward the council, he examined it as he walked to where Matibar stood watching the fire consume the wood. The tall Senecan was obviously stunned by the display; and his face no longer retained its stoic composure.