Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  The First Warden said nothing; his silence was agreement enough for the High King. Knowing the man as well as he did, Nialls thought perhaps Rowen believed it could have been prevented if he had been there by his High King’s side.

  “Have you found anything?” Nialls asked.

  “The Archbishop has no idea how this came to be. He had just begun singing the simple soncrist of blessing when his water bearer abandoned his duties to attack you. The song held no evocation of power whatsoever. Therefore it had to be something with the assassin.”

  “Was it something the boy brought with him?”

  “The assassin’s remains were searched. He didn’t appear to possess any inflammatory substances of any kind. I’ve seen many things on the battlefield, but never a man burning as though entirely soaked in oil.” He paused. “Could the Witch be involved?”

  Nialls looked at his First Warden. Isere could be involved, but not in the manner Rowen was offering. The shade was imprisoned, unable to act freely, leashed to the Rosemere for millennia. She rarely showed herself; Nialls had last seen her on his first day as reigning High King. She was living legend, a myth, but one so firmly planted in the Kingdom’s and Godywn’s history that Rowen was not unwise to suggest her influence.

  “If the boy didn’t have anything with him,” Rowen continued. “Maybe it was water he brought from the Rosemere in the Wyllspring Garden.”

  “It’s possible, but the water has never been shown to have any properties, and the Witch can’t affect the physical world. No, our answer is simpler than that.” He sighed. “Has Arianna reported back?”

  “No, Sire. She has not. These things take time, and Arianna’s patience produces the best results. If the attempt on your life came from the streets or any information can be gleaned from there, she’ll ferret it out.”

  The High King breathed in the sticky afternoon sea air. Arianna was talented. She had never failed him in her short tenure. Time would tell if she would here. “What happened this morning was well orchestrated and thoroughly planned.”

  Rowen agreed. “These are troubling times, Your Majesty.”

  “Where was the assassin from, Rowen? Did the Archbishop know that at least?”

  “Reneau wasn’t sure, but he believes the boy came from Vaarland. I have my men verifying it right now. The boy who interrupted the attack may have more information, but he is sleeping, as I mentioned.”

  “Could the attempt have been orchestrated by those in La Zandia?”

  “The Marcher Lord moves through that province like wildfire, raising an army of thousands. Where they lack technical skill, they have numbers and passion. The hate there is unbelievable—hatred for the Kingdom and hatred for Godwyn Keep. This attempt could have taken its initial rooting there, although the efforts of the rebellion are not to attack the Kingdom but to separate from it.”

  “What of your efforts there? Were you successful?”

  Rowen nodded. “It took time and manpower, but I have fortified the towns on the border between La Zandia and the rest of the Kingdom. Godwyn Keep has also sent an enforcing delegation, although I haven’t heard how large or when they will arrive. As you requested, I sent word to this so-called Marcher Lord and demanded a meeting take place between an emissary of his choosing and Your Majesty to illustrate his intentions to avert a war. I have as yet not heard a response, but one should be forthcoming soon.”

  “Thank you.” Nialls nodded to Rowen and realized his First Warden looked old and worn down. The man was nearing his fiftieth winter, but he still pushed himself as hard as any young guard would. He had ridden speedily from La Zandia and deserved time to rest. “Take your leave, and we will talk later this evening. If you hear anything, bring it to me immediately.”

  “I will, Your Majesty.” Rowen bowed and walked out of the room, the muffled echoes of his footsteps disappearing down the stairwell.

  Left alone, Nialls looked out the tower windows and saw a different land than the one he had woken up in. Where was Dendreth when Nialls needed him? There were cracks appearing in his Kingdom, and he had no reason to believe he could stop them from splitting further. He could not ignore them, much like the crack his mother had found, and it was unnerving that he had no way of preventing the progression, at least not without the information he sought. Rowen and Dendreth were fighting to fix those instabilities, but would their efforts be enough?

  The throbbing in his arm increased, but he ignored it. Events swirled around his throne, threatening to engulf not only him but also his entire Kingdom in war. As he sat and watched the afternoon wane toward evening, a question repeated itself in his mind.

  Was he the imperfection to cause the structure to fall?

  Chapter 13

  The candles flickered in the private reading chamber as Pontifex Dendreth Charl finished scanning another volume of the Feyr annals with growing apprehension and frustration.

  He sat achingly hunched over an expansive oak table, its surface obscured; books were opened and piled in varying heights, their messy display a dizzying puzzle only he knew how to solve. The Pontifex turned preserved pages of ancient texts, scanning carefully without slowing, the dry, aged paper hungry for his fingertip’s oil. The scent of musty leather and burning wax filled his nostrils. No matter how many candles Dendreth lit, no amount of illumination could chase away the gloom that hung about him like a funeral shroud.

  He had been seven days within the Memoria Library, hiding from Andeline Courth’s populace and its prejudice, all of his energy, purpose, and time searching for information on the Hammer of Aerom. So far it had been an act of futility. There were numerous mentions of the artifact but nothing detailed. It was as if everyone had documented its existence but failed to study it, as if half the story had been erased.

  The archives of Memoria were legendary, with a breadth of books and writing samples dating millennia before Godwyn Keep’s first stone was ever laid. But just as he had encountered in the libraries of Aris Shae and Godwyn Keep, a gap existed during the period that saw Godwyn Keep’s birth—a time that saw the Feyr a ragged, destroyed race. It was an era of unrest, one that had not produced much writing. There were only several hundred books written in the century following the Westor’s habitation. Some of the texts no human had seen in their original form; they had been translated and copied by Feyr and presented to the new Kingdom’s scholars. Much could be lost in translation, bringing Dendreth to Westor.

  He had begun with the more obvious chronicles he had not had access to in Godwyn Keep, but his search had provided nothing thus far. It was a needle in a haystack for the time he had been allotted by King Belinorn. After a week of anxiety, the words lost meaning, their letters black smears of near unintelligible garble. Now a fever had overcome him—not one of body but one of spirit—unwilling to let him go until his duty was fulfilled or he had failed. It left him burning and on edge. With only two days left of his visit, he was running out of time.

  He was attempting to smooth away a headache at his temples when Lorien Silas entered the windowless room, one of dozens of trips he had made. The thin Historian was tireless despite his advanced age, and he had given the Pontifex undivided attention with no questions solicited. Lorien did not know what Dendreth was looking for, but the Pontifex was thinking he may have to forego secrecy if he was to get any further on his quest.

  “I see you’ve gotten to Aerom’s Transcendence. No luck there either?” Lorien asked, the lines of concern in his wrinkled face sincere and true.

  Dendreth shook his head and pushed back from the table, the gritty feeling of sand in his eyes abrasive and constant. “Luck has never been a friend of mine, Lorien.”

  “You look weary.” The Historian added another stack of materials to the barraged table.

  “I am tired,” Dendreth admitted. “But time dwindles, and sleep is a luxury I can ill afford. Even when I lay down for a few hours, my need overwhelms me, and I get up and begin again.”

  “What you are l
ooking for may not exist, Pontifex,” Lorien explained.

  Dendreth had considered that, but not in the way the Historian meant. The others on Godwyn’s Council may be right—the Hammer’s theft was not to gain possession of a powerful artifact but to slight the faith. If that were the case, it was conceivable the reason why nothing was written about the Hammer’s properties was simply because it did not have any.

  But until he had uncovered all possibilities, he would continue his search.

  “If I may be so bold, Lorien, why does King Belinorn fail to trust me?” Dendreth asked. “Sion explained the Feyr’s distrust of the Kingdom, but your King borders on loathing.”

  “He lost what little faith he had in the outside world when Pontiff Evelina left her post,” the Historian said, folding his hands. “She was close to the Feyr, was aware of our plight and kept it secret out of respect, and always lent suggestions to King Andaron. Belinorn tolerated Evelina even as his father trusted her. But when she left her post Andaron felt betrayed. Belinorn used his father’s misgivings about Evelina for his own interests. Now you represent all that Belinorn fears and scorns.”

  “And now King Belinorn uses a disenchanted past as wisdom to shape Feyr future.”

  “It is a complex situation, Pontifex,” Lorien said. “Before the Accord, outside influence rotted our society.”

  “To have an accord, it takes two signing parties, Lorien,” Dendreth pointed out.

  “Just so. But the men of the Kingdom prompted it—albeit indirectly. Kingdom men saw profit when they looked upon the shores of Westor and bled us of our own resources while delivering nothing in return. As it grew worse, our youth left for the Kingdom—they thought there to be a better life off of Westor, and presently they are probably right. A shame, really, since many of those young Feyr are lost to crime and poverty. We of the Assembly with King Belinorn at our head realized we had to do something to break the cycle.”

  “And you agree that isolation is the answer?”

  “There is a deeper vein in all of this that you as a non-Feyr probably cannot understand. Autonomy from the other races was foregone the moment genocide touched us. It is not only a separation from your Kingdom but from the racial and social persecution the Feyr feel.”

  “Regardless of the amount of centuries that have passed,” Dendreth asked.

  “It goes deeper than that,” Lorien continued. “We face an economic hardship as pervasive as the island’s centuries-long depression. It is a way of life and that is more difficult to change. It is far more complicated than you realize, Pontifex.”

  “With help from the Kingdom and Godwyn Keep, it could all be changed. High King Nialls is a gracious king, and I can almost assure you of Godwyn Keep’s desire to help the Feyr who have given so much to us,” Dendreth returned.

  Lorien shook his head. “We are a proud people; help from the Kingdom would never be accepted, even by those who have nothing, and it would only increase the agitation most of the public feels toward outsiders. No, we must deal with this our own way.”

  “Isolating yourselves could bring increased hatred for your kind. It will only bring jealousy to your shores. Jealousy breeds contempt, and contempt leads to anger, murder, and genocide. You are placing yourselves directly back into the dragon’s maw.”

  “Maybe,” Lorien countered with lackluster conviction. “But maybe by the time that comes around we will be strong enough as a people once more to fend for ourselves. We will not make the same mistake twice.”

  Dendreth had known Lorien half of his life and knew there was no dissuading the aged Historian. It was far from Dendreth’s place to tell Westor how to govern its land and Lorien Silas had had to live with his people’s condition for his entire life—who better to know what the Feyr people needed than one of its elders? Still, it pained the Pontifex that the relationship between Westor and Godwny Keep was intentionally strained.

  “Is there anything else you require of me, Pontifex?”

  Dendreth rubbed his eyes. “Is there anything I haven’t viewed yet? Any writing samples or stories that weren’t collected into book or scroll form?

  “Not that I am aware. What has been found and kept I have brought to you here.”

  Dendreth considered that and looked over the stacked chaos before him. He still had several hundred to look through.

  “Do you have a copy of the Codex? Maybe some aspect of those early Books will lend some insight from the All Father.”

  “I do,” the aged Feyr said. “Which copy would you like?”

  The chains of tiredness slackened. “What do you mean?” Dendreth asked.

  “We have four of the five known to exist here in Memoria,” Lorien said.

  Dendreth sat back in his chair, stunned. There was only one edition of the Codex, delivered into the hands of the faithful by the Scholars of Aerom, individuals who had witnessed the Fatherhead’s teachings as well as his death. If what the Feyr suggested was true, it unraveled centuries of religious doctrine. The fever he had suffered for days intensified, giving the Pontifex renewed energy and hope.

  “How can you prove their authenticity?” Dendreth questioned. “Where are they?”

  “Like many books of great length, the writer—or in this case the writers—had several different drafts; rewriting and refining occurred either by their own hand or by another’s. In literature of all kinds, these changes alter how the text is perceived and can sometimes strengthen the book’s overall message. The Codex is no different in this regard; it has three or four different editions in that first century alone, some of the variations minor and one with heavily expanded text in the Book of Iorek. The History of Godwyn, by former Historian Solas Trevier, accounts for a fifth edition, although no aspect of it seemingly exists.”

  Lorien moved to the table and pulled free a hefty, aged tome from a pile Dendreth had not approached yet. He opened it carefully, found the page he sought, and placed it before the Pontifex.

  Where Lorien’s gnarled finger pointed at the passage, Dendreth translated:

  Where the third and fourth editions of Godwyn’s Codex remain nearly consistent with what is deemed the “original,” the fifth such find exhibits unusual tendencies toward what the other editions would consider heretical. It is highly doubtful the All Father’s faithful subjects would embrace an edition with such an influence of pagan thought.

  “As to where the editions reside,” the Historian noted once Dendreth was finished reading, “that is a bit of a problem.”

  “What do you mean, Lorien?” he nearly hissed.

  The Historian pulled a chair from the table and slowly lowered his stick-thin frame into it. Earnest eyes regarded the Pontifex. “Memoria houses some of the most ancient writings ever produced—some in languages we haven’t even been able to decipher. The world is old, far older than you or I give credit, and a mere fraction of that wealth of knowledge is housed here. Some of it is in front of you; most of it is not, as it is not pertinent to your search.

  “When the Feyr first arrived in Westor and began the process of rebuilding their lives, it was decreed by that era’s Assembly the need to save as much as they could of our people’s past. To forget is to lose meaning, and that was the very thing that drove them. Art, science, philosophy—all of the disciplines were gathered together and preserved in whatever format best suited each. In the case of literary works, they took all of the writings—some just fragmented lines, others massive epics in numerous volumes—and brought them here. All are important, but some of those works are extremely delicate and in conditions that require great care—important enough to warrant careful attention, no matter their condition.

  “We placed those rarer documents within a specially-created chamber suitable for preservation. None of them are from the era of Godwyn’s founding—none except the various editions of the Codex, which I assumed you already knew about.”

  Dendreth’s mind swirled. “I must see them. Now.”

  “There is a problem.
” The Historian whispered, leaning toward Dendreth. “The room is considered a national treasure, a part of the very definition Feyr live by, at least by those with power. It is a symbol for our people. For the race of Man to transgress into its bounds is unimaginable. As Historian, it is my place to care for all that happens in Memoria, to keep it secure and untainted.”

  “You worry about your King when—”

  “If King Belinorn or any on the council were to find out, the consequences could be dire for both of us,” Lorien finished. The Historian said it with such frank seriousness that Dendreth contemplated not pressing the matter. With Sion, he had had no choice in viewing the poor quarters of Andeline and therefore was not culpable. Here he could choose. But who was he to cross political and cultural thresholds for the sake of his own nation—a land that had all but wiped out the Feyr nation millennia before?

  Shadows hung about the sharp angles of Lorien’s face. “Is this important enough to warrant our lives, Pontifex Charl?”

  The need that had brought him here resurfaced again. He would never be free of it, he realized, unless he took the chance. “Many lives depend on what I may find,” Dendreth said. “I am willing to take the risk.”

  Lorien pondered these words for a bit, and the room was utterly silent. The Historian was weighing Dendreth’s need versus the consequences. The old Feyr then moved to the door. The Pontifex followed, as if speaking his decision aloud would destroy their chance. After covering himself with his white cloak and cowl, the Pontifex followed.

  Several candles cast their light in a feeble attempt at illuminating the enormous confines of the central hall. Dendreth and Lorien were alone. The fact that no one was using the library suggested it very late; night had fallen on the island of Westor, and Memoria was mostly dark, its high, thin windows twinkling with the heavens. Dendreth had come to the private study chamber in the middle of a night much like this one, when no one was around. The Accord was still in its infancy, and if Dendreth’s presence was known it would cause confusion and upheaval.