“We are fortunate the Illym went unscathed in the battle.”
Dendreth nodded. “It has stood as a symbol of the Godwyn faith and our binding relationship with the Feyr since the Fatherhead’s sacrifice.”
“And it will stand long after we have gone to the Beyond,” Nialls said. “What brings us here though?”
“To remind you of the beauty in the world,” Dendreth said sternly. “Of the beauty you are sworn to protect under the All Father. The world is not as dark as your sorrow makes it to be as of late.” He paused, reflective. “But for another reason as well. Over two-dozen feyr’im and Warden gave their lives to protect the Illym. Their sacrifice cannot go unsung, although it prevented nothing. The shrikes were a diversion.”
“This morning, Pontifex Tal argued it was merely an attack to weaken our resolve and the confidence others have for Godwyn Keep. Nothing more. Pontifices de Lille and Reu agreed. And yet you believe otherwise. How can Godwyn Keep be so divided?”
Dendreth snorted “Erol. I appreciate his point of view, but I tell you, Sire, he is in grave error. Who gains from the actions of the other night? La Zandia? Blackrhein Reach? Pontifex Erol Tal craves the future, has studied history as we all must during our scholarly tenure here, but he lacks wisdom to analyze it. He is only in his second decade of service, and has much to learn.” The Pontifex reached up and caressed the crimson veins and green flesh of an Illym leaf with his aged fingers. “We must first know our enemy before we can retrieve what has been taken.”
Above Nialls’s head, the leaves rustled softly from a warm breeze. “The Hammer of Aerom,” he said.
Dendreth nodded. “I am a Pontifex of the Godwyn faith, and decades of experience has lent me wisdom the others lack. Despite what Erol says, the Hammer is an instrument of great power, High King, powerful in a way Pontifex Tal completely disregards.”
“And why should I believe you,” Nialls questioned. “You lack evidence as he does, but what evidence does exist seems to point to the Reach. Why not bring force to bear on that border as Erol suggets?”
“To start a war over speculation?” Dendreth grated, shaking his head. “I may be very wrong and the Hammer is an ordinary tool, a relic from another age. It was removed from the Vault only once in the fourteen centuries since the Fatherhead’s death, and even that record was only a single sentence in the Pontiff’s diary from what I can discern. No one knows if it has properties, having been in the presence of the Fatherhead. What Erol fails to realize, however, is it was taken for a reason. And that reason is relevant.”
“It could be to make Godwyn look impotent in its own house. Nothing more,” Nialls said.
The Pontifex shook his head again. “If it was a lone incident, Sire, I might believe you.”
“What do you mean?” the High King asked.
Dendreth was already moving. “Follow me, Your Majesty.”
They walked upon a different path, toward the towering architecture of the Inner Keep. Dendreth had not shared everything with Nialls. Not at the meeting; not during their present conversation. They had come to know one another very well through the winters of Nialls’s life, and the Pontifex was not prone to action on any subject until careful consideration had been given. It was that trait the Pontifex had tried to instill in the High King during his studies as a Prince. He hoped Dendreth’s wisdom gave Nialls the answers he had been seeking.
Godwyn Keep loomed around him, the granite burning incandescent in the afternoon sunshine. The Courtyard was beautiful—the Illym the crown jewel amidst a sea of gems—but the Inner Keep and the enormous wall surrounding it and the Courtyard was a work of art, genius in its sweeping Feyr style and as permanent as the rocky peninsula it sat upon. The Feyr had placed each stone, carved each frieze, planned every room, hallway, and floor with the precision and technological care their race was known for. When finished, seven towers of gleaming granite jutted into the sky, lording over the mammoth Inner Keep, seen from all directions if one was near.
Over the centuries, it had been home to thousands upon thousands of priests, students, and travelers. Containing living quarters, libraries, the Cathedral, and the dead, chill reaches of the Sarcatum, the Inner Keep sat at the north end of the Courtyard and protecting it all was a tall wall built of the same impenetrable stone, while red-leafed ivy grew without and crawled along its periphery. Warden and promise-bound feyr’im patrolled the wall, crisscrossing parapets, and walkways, adding to the dizzying effect of Godwyn Keep’s magnitude. Artistry bled along the curving lines of the monolithic Keep, gargoyles stood silent sentry from ledges, and Nialls was humbled by it all.
The Inner Keep’s southern double-door swallowed them in shadow. Weaving through multiple wide hallways decorated with colorful paintings, small sculptures, and artifacts, the men passed several people on their own errands. Though tragedy had struck, life went on.
The High King and his former teacher snaked their way up a curling staircase to the second floor. There, Dendreth guided Nialls into a room where three chandeliers filled with orbs softly illuminated a room full of tables, chairs, and shelves made from a dark glossy wood that glowed with an inner essence. Books of varying sizes lined the shelves along the four walls, their aged bindings a mosaic of alternating shades of leather and ink. The air was dry with a sweet hint of preservation oil. There was no evidence of dust.
Two priests were in the room, one at a table with a barrage of large tomes opened before him, and the second stood at a pedestal near a collection of thick volumes, her brown eyes scanning the newcomers. Recognition flooded her features, but she quickly averted her gaze from the High King and Pontifex.
“You bring me here for a new lesson, Dendreth?” Nialls had to force a smile.
“One of sorts, Your Majesty,” the aged Pontifex whispered humorlessly. “This is the new Traveler’s Library. It is the smallest of the seven libraries, and it houses much of the information gathered over the centuries from foreign societies—cultures and customs mostly—to aid emissaries of Godwyn Keep move peacefully throughout the known world without endangering themselves out of ignorance.” Nearing the back of the library, he continued. “This library also contains the Keep’s extensive map collection. It is for this purpose I have brought you here.”
The Pontifex stepped up a short, four-step stairway onto a raised platform secluded from the rest of the library by a wood banister. Three walls of the area were honeycombed with iron-wrought cradles containing tubes made from cedar. Three granite tables sat at the center of the platform.
Dendreth removed a tube from the rack and pulled the lid from it with a hollow pop. He extracted a large rolled parchment from its place of rest and unrolled it on the middle table. It was a map of the Kingdom and the lands beyond.
“You knew you were bringing me here before our meeting this morning,” Nialls accused.
The Pontifex smoothed out the map. “I suspected. When severe argument broke out in the Council meeting, I realized addressing what I am about to show you would be futile. Emotion would overrule logic, and the former can be a destructive beast. I thought it wise to save this for you only. Godwyn Keep has the capacity to act, but it will take your help, Sire—to move this in the direction it must go. You rule the Kingdom.”
Nialls crossed his arms. “You have no faith in the Council seeing what is right?”
“The Council’s individuals are all correct, at least in their own minds. What I do know is this: the Council has been divided for decades. Ever since Pontiff Evelina left Godwyn Keep chasing the revelations laid down in the Book of Iorek, the Council has been consistently inconsistent in delivering a clear message due to personal desires.
“Here is the Kingdom,” Dendreth continued, gesturing at the map’s breadth. “There are lands far beyond this one, but it is the provinces and the Kingdom’s neighbors I want to look at.” He pointed to the southern desert province of La Zandia. “There, a quiet rebellion has risen under the banner of Segnore Laver Herid. It is a
revolt in its infancy, but the baby is learning to crawl, and many are flocking to his crimson standard.”
“First Warden Rowen and my advisors are looking closely at La Zandia. Laver Herid has self-proclaimed himself the Marcher Lord of his great ancestors.”
“A title for the same ancient family deceit. Once removed from power after the Vaarland War, the family’s hatred of the Kingdom grew. Laver Herid yearns to not only regain authority to rule La Zandia but also to strike at the Kingdom that deposed his ancestors’ tyranny. My spies in the province have been forced from their duty, but not before witnessing the gathering of a large mob embracing the religion of their pagan ancestry. He uses the ill favor of Godwyn Keep and witchcraeft to add logs to the fire. Godwyn Keep loses its hold there as we speak. The Kingdom may be soon to follow.”
“How can the people embrace centuries of Godwyn religious authority only to cast it off so easily?” Nialls asked.
“Apparently I did a poor job during your mentorship, Nialls.”
Frustrated at the recent events engulfing his life and Kingdom, the High King snapped, “Do not speak to me so, Dendreth.”
“I apologize, Sire.” Dendreth responded.
Nialls touched the map. “If you speak of our Kingdom’s religious history, I was an apt pupil. But I fail to see how that matters now in the present.”
“Is La Zandia in the midst of a drought?” Dendreth questioned.
“It is. The desert lands beyond La Zandia’s southeastern border are spreading.”
“Yes, very limited rain has fallen in the last six years. Shortening growing seasons, damaging crops and the province’s food supply. The wine industry has been particularly damaged, the economy slowed. The people look to someone to set it right.”
“I cannot make it rain, Dendreth. That is beyond even my abilities as High King.”
“Just so. But without aid, the people of La Zandia look for it. And Laver Herid is using that desire to enflame the province against the Kingdom and Godwyn Keep. He recounts seasons when the pagan gods answered their prayers. He is winning the people, taking advantage of their superstitions. In time, he may lead them all if we do not act.”
“You presume this drought and resultant rise of the Marcher Lord has something to do with the recent events here?” Nialls questioned firmly.
“No, not directly.” Dendreth pointed to the map’s far south. “Blackrhein Reach. The death of King Grieg Errich in the spring has sent waves through that country. Queen Cwen calls her king’s death a political assassination. Although she held no love for him—the impropriety she endured from her husband’s philandering amusements riddled their relationship—she is using it to gain favor with her clan fiefdom and is consolidating her power. The Reach people loved Grieg, loved him because his own amusements kept him off their backs. She now uses that to her advantage.”
“She blames me, Dendreth. I had nothing to do with the mishap on his pleasure barge.”
“Whether you did is not the issue. What Queen Cwen does is the issue. The Kingdom you now rule was once the Errich Empire’s seat. She has already begun to marshal the clans under her direction. Her son is too young to become king—she will stand in as regent until he is able. During that time, the Woman King will do as she pleases.
“I have strengthened Sokern, Birn, and the other Southron and Midstark cities along the Wall. Rowen saw to it personally with discretion.”
From a hidden pocket within his cloak, Dendreth pulled out a knife. It was unsheathed and long, with intricate swirling scrollwork circling in black lines against the silver of the blade. It shimmered with an ethereal glow if moved quick enough. The handle was black, made from an elk’s antler, the nodes running along its haft offering grip. Dendreth placed the knife on the area of the map representing Blackrhein Reach.
“My assailants dropped this,” Dendreth growled low. “It is a witchcraeft weapon, forged and magicked to a keen edge—skin, flesh, bone, steel, stone, nothing withstands it. It killed many of the Keep’s people that night. I kept the knife secret; I knew it needed to remain in hands with no agenda. You and I are the only ones who know of it. I show you now because the combination of the war shrikes—a bird of the Reach, spawned in the rookeries of Rikkslar—and the knife—a weapon scrawled with runes of the south country’s pagan religion—points obvious fingers to Blackrhein Reach.” He paused. “But what if there is more going on here than the obvious denotes?”
“What you’ve just said gives credence to Pontifex Tal’s argument, but go on.”
“Looking at the map, if a plot was hatched against the Kingdom’s authority, where would be the best places to begin?” Dendreth pointed to the south and then to the east, exaggerating the wide distance between the two areas and the long front between them.
You are suggesting these two events are linked?” the High King asked, frowning.
“Not directly,” Dendreth said. “But a piece of a puzzle only tells one so much—it’s the completed mosaic that gives the truth. The Marcher Lord and the Woman King are two pieces, but both of them coupled with the unusual circumstances surrounding your only heir, the attack on the Keep, and the theft of Aerom’s Hammer provide a larger picture of what could really be going on. All of this seems too close in proximity in time to be only coincidence.”
Nialls stared at Dendreth. “How can you be so sure, Dendreth? It seems circumstantial.”
Dendreth suddenly switched the blade upside down in a quick, certain motion, his eyes cold and unrelenting. Fear ran through Nialls but he cornered it, remaining in place—nothing Dendreth did would harm him. As Dendreth drove the witchcraeft-hexed weapon downward, the blade shimmered translucent and wicked, a blur of silent, shifting colors. The moment the blade struck the granite table it cleaved off a corner as easily as a hot poker through snow. The heavy chunk fell to the floor and its sound echoed through the library.
“This is serious, Your Majesty,” Dendreth said sternly. “Imagine an army of people wielding knives, swords, axes likes this knife here. Godwyn is strong, but not flawless. And Pontiff Garethe believed it might’ve been Kieren who broke into the Keep.”
The High King’s frown widened at the Pontifex’s display. “He disappeared winters ago.”
Dendreth nodded. “Kieren was an exceptional young man, with talents surpassing any of us at the Keep. The Book of Iorek foretold of a man like Kieren, meant to bring a wondrous age of prosperity, and thus we took him in and trained him. Somehow we failed in our designs.”
Nialls looked back to the map. When the evidence was all laid out, it was hard to ignore.
“I am at a loss to understand whether Kieren is responsible or not, but he is a possibility. I want justice done, Sire. For my friend, Pontiff Garethe. It may come to pass that we will learn why much of this is now happening. You have the resources to discover what is occurring in the Kingdom and end whatever threat may be against us.”
“And if it isn’t Kieren?” Nialls asked.
“Then we have a spy in our midst,” the Pontifex whispered. “No one could have traversed the Keep to the Vault without aid.”
Nialls shook his head. “No, I think you were wise to bring this to me quietly. I believe Pontiff Garethe had information about much of this. He requested my presence at Godwyn Keep the night the Hammer was thieved.”
“What did his summons say?” Dendreth pressed.
“He didn’t say,” Nialls said. “Only that it was adamant. Continue to keep what you have told me from anyone else—there is no need to raise alarm just yet. In the meantime, learn all you can about the Hammer of Aerom—what properties it may possess—and create a plan for how to infiltrate Blackrhein Reach. We will speak soon, but we must have a starting point.”
“I know your son weighs heavily on your heart,” Dendreth said, reaching out to Nialls. “From an old teacher to a former pupil, please be strong for yourself as well as for the Kingdom. They are the same.”
Nialls nodded, favoring the Pontifex with kin
d eyes, and left Dendreth to his planning. He exited the library and walked through Godwyn Keep, with no destination in mind. They had time to discover what was transpiring. The High King would not allow the Kingdom’s enemies to swallow him and those he had sworn to protect—regardless of his personal life. To be rash could make matters worse—Dendreth was right about that. Their enemy must be discovered before action could be taken. The Pontifex would learn all he could, and if Aerom’s Hammer posed a threat to the Kingdom, Nialls would plan how to gain the Hammer back before it could be used against them.
There was so much to think about, so much to consider.
He was still absorbing Dendreth’s news when Nialls came to the doorway leading into his son’s chamber. Beyond, his son fought for his life, overseen by the best healers in the Kingdom. Sadness gripped Nialls—sorrow only a parent knows if their child is ill—but he hardened his resolve. There was a time to be High King and a time to be a father.
It was a long time before he entered.
Chapter 5
The void was confusion. Unending. And he was lost.
It bled from the darkness in slick, oily condensation, cocooning his squirming form as he sunk in the blackest mud of night. The things he once remembered as arms were lead and throbbed with pain. The intense agony spread, but he was powerless to prevent it, an unwilling participant to circumstance. Pairs of crimson lights played in his vision and they blinked cruelty and demonic malevolence. Paranoia like lightning struck along his nerves.
He did not know who he was; he did not care. He reviled his nature, but the reason for his self-loathing was lost to him. Angry hornets buzzed, filling him with stinging frustration while heat like molten rock consumed his thoughts. Demon eyes danced with glee at his all-consuming madness. Part of their essence entered him and he cried out. He was sickened. It did not matter. Worms slipped through his dreams, eating their way out, and the place his heart had been was empty, the disease having started there. He failed to remember why it had begun. Sorrow so terrible and raw crushed him deeper into despair. Flame now roared, excreting mockery, singeing his soul to ash.
Song of the Fell Hammer Page 6