The Barrow

by Mark Smylie

  Annwyn’s eyes fluttered open and slowly she focused on the people around her.

  “Well, sister,” said Arduin coldly. “You were eager enough to show yourself to this man before. Here he is.” Her eyes fluttered again and closed, and her head sank back.

  Arduin turned and stalked out of the room, followed by Sir Colin and his squire.

  After a long moment in silence, Stjepan stepped forward, pulling the curtains further back. Malia held her Lady in her arms, cradling her torso, wiping her brow with a soft cloth.

  “Lady Annwyn,” Stjepan said softly, kneeling down before them.

  Annwyn gave no reply, and Stjepan looked up at the distraught Malia. The handmaiden studied him with large eyes, clearly unsure of what to do; but finally Annwyn stirred, shaking her head, her eyes slowly coming to focus on his face. She stared at him for a long moment.

  “Stjepan, man of An-Athair. My brother called you Black-Heart. Are you here to kill me?” she asked quietly, her voice barely audible above the faint din from outside the tower house.

  Stjepan paused, looking into her eyes. “I was your brother’s friend,” he said. “I am a clerk at the High King’s Court, as was Harvald . . . In fact, I’m a cartographer. I make maps. At your brother’s funeral, you showed a map to me, a map sent by Harvald. And you asked me to save you.”

  “Did I?” Annwyn asked with a small laugh. She stirred again, as if trying to gather her strength. “And yet how do we know these actions were truly mine? I see myself doing those things but perhaps I only dreamed or imagined it. How do I know if it was me or the map, seeking you, map reader?”

  She indicated with her hand; Stjepan followed her gesture and spotted a chair. He went to the chair and brought it over beside the divan, and took a seat. He set down his satchels and began to unpack a few items: a notebook bound in leather and closed with a leather tie; a wooden box with a sliding lid, in which were hidden small glass bottles filled with ink, sticks of charcoal, and brushes; and several sheaves of heavy vellum paper. Annwyn looked over his tools with the beginnings of curiosity.

  “You say this . . . map, it was sent by Harvald?” asked Annwyn.

  “Yes, my Lady, I believe so,” said Stjepan. “I believe he used what magicians would call a Sending to cause the map to appear upon you.”

  “Why would he do that?” asked Malia.

  Stjepan glanced at the handmaiden; her concern for her mistress was readily visible on her face. “I don’t know, Mistress,” said Stjepan. He looked at Annwyn again. “Your brother was in desperate straits when he did this thing; perhaps he thought that the map would be safe here with you. Or perhaps you were simply the foremost thing on his mind as he faced his impending death.”

  “Ah, a brother’s love,” she said flatly, the faces of the two women blank and unreadable to Stjepan. A small alarm bell sounded in his head, and he frowned, but could not place a finger on what was wrong. “Do you know what it is like, to feel as though your body and your mind are no longer your own? To feel like you are struggling to remain yourself? I can scarcely bear to look at myself . . . and yet here you are, so eager to study that which disfigures me,” she said to him.

  “My Lady,” Stjepan said apologetically. “I know this is a most unusual circumstance, but your brother Arduin granted his permission for this audience . . .”

  “His permission?” Annwyn said with a bitter laugh. “Arduin, like all my brothers, believes he knows what is best for me, he always has. And perhaps Harvald believed he too knew what was best for me, if as you say he passed this burden to me in death. And you, I expect you know what’s best for me, don’t you?”

  Stjepan smiled wryly. “If we copy the map, then I hope Harvald’s enchantment will end. Please trust me. The longer it remains upon you, the greater the danger, for this map possesses secrets that many might desire,” Stjepan said, quietly but earnestly. “And you are already in grave danger, my Lady. I do not mean to frighten you, but your father’s house is under virtual siege, with the priests claiming that you are a witch. Should the map still be upon you when the Inquisition arrives . . .”

  Annwyn smiled shyly. “You grow impatient with me. Very well, I will delay you no further. I have spent most of the day in a swoon, and when I have been myself no one has wanted to tell me what is happening outside; but the crowd’s chants have been unmistakable and I do have some inkling of how dire the situation is.”

  She began to undo her clothing and Malia moved to help her. Stjepan turned away. They unbuttoned the high collar of her black velvet brocaded bodice, and then the front of the bodice itself. Malia slipped the bodice off her mistress, and next lifted Annwyn’s black silk blouse over her head. She helped Annwyn arrange her bodice and shirt over her chest, so that her front was still covered. Annwyn shifted on the divan until she had turned away from Stjepan and her naked back was exposed to him; she was hunched over, as though trying to crawl inside herself. Malia fretted nervously, trying her best to preserve her mistress’ modesty; tears limned her eyes. “Master Stjepan?” Malia finally said, holding back a sob.

  He turned. Stjepan’s gaze drew sharp and he took a sharp inhale. There were map images and letters fading in and out and moving on the exposed skin of her long, curved back, and for a moment he marveled in wonder.

  “Will . . . will this be enough?” Annwyn said quietly over her shoulder to him.

  “I will do my best, my Lady, with whatever you show me,” Stjepan said. “I cannot imagine how difficult this is for you, and I wish there were another way, but time is pressing . . .”

  “Difficult? Yes. I have only allowed one other man this kind of intimacy, to my great ruin and that of my father’s house,” Annwyn said quietly.

  Stjepan froze, looking at the two women, studying Annwyn’s downcast profile, the searching gaze of Malia. He was surprised at how directly she had acknowledged her scandal.

  “Your story is known to me, my Lady, and I will not condemn you for having once taken a lover,” Stjepan said carefully. “I am from An-Athair, and our traditions and mores are . . . different than in the rest of the Middle Kingdoms.”

  “My story. Of course,” she sighed. “You say you know my story. Then you know that I have been alone a long time, just me, my family, my household, my books, sequestered here in this house. To show my body to a stranger . . .”

  “You read, my Lady?” Stjepan asked cordially. “Your brother misrepresented you, then, I think. If you read, my Lady, then think of yourself like a book that someone else has written, and I must read.” He glanced down across her naked back. “A book like no other. Please trust me that we shall all do our best to lift this enchantment from you.”

  Annwyn turned, and studied his face for a moment. He found her gaze inscrutable and uncomfortable, but he met her eyes with his own, and did not flinch or turn away.

  “Then begin your work,” she said finally.

  Stjepan begins to write in his notebook as Malia drew close to her mistress; the two women clasped hands and smiled nervously at each other, but Malia’s face betrayed her fear and she turned away a bit. Annwyn saw this and studied her handmaiden closely.

  “What troubles you, Malia?” she asked.

  “I . . . I should not say, for fear of frightening you,” the handmaiden replied.

  Annwyn stared at her a bit longer, then, keeping her eyes on Malia, she inclined her head toward Stjepan to address him.

  “You speak of the secrets of this map, Athairi,” she said. “Where does this map lead?”

  Stjepan paused, studying her profile for a moment, then returned to his work, his eyes following the words and images moving upon and under her skin and noting each new apparition in his notebook. He started to speak quietly as the crowds outside chanted.

  “Magic is everywhere in the world, if oft forbidden by those who deem it a threat. And magic swords are common enough, I suppose; quite a few of the knights at the High King’s Court bear rune-swords of one provenance or another. But there are
a few enchanted swords in our history that are the stuff of legend. One such is Gladringer, the sword forged by the Daradjan blacksmith Gobelin, of the Bodmall clan, in the last dark days of the Winter Century, when the last of the Dragon Kings sought to hunt down and exterminate the Worm Kings. This was in the days when it was discovered that Githwaine, last of the Worm Kings, wielded Ghavaurer, the sword forged by Nymarga the Devil.”

  “He used that cursed sword to kill the Dragon King Erlwulf,” said Malia. “I remember hearing the bards telling tales from The Last of the Dragon Kings, once upon a time . . .”

  “Ah. De Denoumis Wyrmis Basillus, one of the great epics in Danian literature,” Stjepan said with a nod. “Then you know that for a time it looked as though evil would triumph, with the last Dragon King dead and Githwaine ruling openly over the lands of the western Mael. But good men sought a counter to his evil weapon, and one such was the blacksmith Gobelin. By legend it was one of my own ancestors, the Athairi witch Urfante, who led Gobelin to the ruins of the Green Temple of An-Athair. There he forged and enchanted the sword Gladringer out of star-iron, quenching it in the pools of the Spring Queen’s blood that can still be found there. Gobelin made a gift of it to the Aurian hero Fortias the Brave, and with it Fortias slew Githwaine, and put an end to the cursed presence of the Worm Kings upon the earth. Fortias became the High King of the Middle Kingdoms; and Awain, our current High King, is his descendant.”

  “May the King of Heaven watch over and protect His greatest vassal,” whispered Malia, seemingly out of reflex, and Annwyn echoed her a beat behind.

  “Gladringer was held by the High Kings of the Middle Kingdoms as a great relic and holy weapon,” said Stjepan. “Well, at least until it was dropped and lost in the Black Day Battle against the Empire by the High King Darwain Urfortias, ever after known as the Fumbler. And it became lost to history. But a story spread, repeated by bards in every tavern in the Middle Kingdoms: that Gladringer had been found on the battlefield where the Fumbler had dropped it, found by foul corpse-eaters, who spirited it away into the hands of the Nameless Cults who await the Devil’s return. That it came into the possession of Azharad, the evil Sorcerer King of the Bale Mole, who ruled those hills and brought terror to the western Danias for a time. In the telling, Azharad sought some way to destroy Gladringer as a favor to his patron, Nymarga the Devil, but could not do it, so powerful were the magics of the artifact. And so he left orders to have it buried with him in secret when he died, so that the questing knights of the High King’s Court could not recover it. Ever since, treasure-hunters have sought maps to where Azharad was buried, in the hopes that they might find Gladringer. But the location of his barrow, and with it the sword, was a secret held dear by the Nameless Cults.”

  “A secret no longer, apparently,” said Annwyn faintly. “Pried from their fingers by you and Harvald.” She had turned away so that he couldn’t see her face to read her expression. “So I bear upon my body a cursed map made by the Nameless Cults to the hidden tomb of an evil wizard and the sword of the High Kings. The very map whose curse killed my brother.”

  “Yes, my Lady,” said Stjepan. “I’m afraid so.”

  Malia was weeping softly.

  “Give us the witch, give us the witch!” chanted the distant crowd.

  Erim watched Arduin pacing impatiently back and forth in the middle of the fire-lit chamber while everyone else sat about the room looking at the inner doorway. She understood his frustration; things had been dragging on for a few hours now, long enough for the sun to set and the Dusk Maiden and a waning Spring Moon to have appeared in the sky, and the word they were getting from the street from the members of Jonas’ crew was increasingly dire. First had come word that the crowds had swollen to perhaps three thousand in number, and there was no question to Erim that they’d gotten louder; then that armed and armored Templars had been spotted on the edges of the crowd, and then that a company of Templar horsemen had been spotted marshaling on the King’s Road by the North Gate. The City Watch was out in force in the Public Quarter, having finally quelled the disturbances there, but Jonas sent word that they were letting the priests run the show in front of the house of Araswell, which was even more disturbing. With every passing hour the knights and squires and other members of the household that came and went looked more and more nervous, increasingly sweaty and pale as the tension mounted. Only Gilgwyr seemed to be absolutely, serenely calm as he watched the doorway to the Lady’s inner chambers. Erim had an increasingly bad feeling in her stomach, a growing conviction that she was somehow in the absolute worst place to be in the whole city at that moment, trapped in a building about to receive the full attentions of an angry mob. Hurry up, Black-Heart, she thought.

  Finally, Stjepan emerged, his notebook in one hand, frustration on his face as well. Arduin took the notebook from him and quickly scanned it. “There’s no more of this map than before. This grows more scandalous by the hour!” he said in exasperation, thrusting the notebook back at Stjepan angrily.

  “Forgive me, my Lord; I assure you the Lady does her best to preserve her modesty, but this is simply all that’s appearing. The map will not reveal itself in full, only bits and pieces. I am at a loss,” Stjepan said, running his ink-stained hand ruefully through his hair.

  “You’ll have to follow the map,” came Leigh’s voice.

  They all turned, surprised, and sure enough Leigh was sitting amongst them. He wasn’t there a moment before, Erim thought. Several of the knights and squires drew their weapons as they sprang away from him.

  Arduin stared at the grizzled enchanter, calmly sitting in his house as though he’d been there all along. “Who in the Six Hells is this?” he finally asked.

  “Ah. This is Leigh Myradim, my Lord; he was once a Magister at the University. Harvald, Gilgwyr, and I were his pupils for a time,” Stjepan said apologetically.

  “Aye, I remember now,” Arduin said, staring at the man as though he were a bug. “Yes, Harvald told me about you. Banished from the University for improper conduct. Quite an entrance.” He turned angrily to Stjepan. “I am not going to invite every hedge witch and back-alley warlock in the city to gawk at my sister!”

  “I do not think I need to see the young lady to help diagnose her condition,” Leigh said in a deep, calming voice. “The map will not reveal itself in full, you say? Only bits and pieces? A start, and an end, perhaps?”

  “Yes,” said Stjepan, glancing at the notes he’d made in his book. “There is no doubting its authenticity. The words are in Maerberos, an ancient dialect often used in the Nameless Cults as a secret tongue. A difficult cipher is used as well, but I’ve seen it before, it was popular amongst mapmakers of the 12th century. And it’s given us enough to get started and lay out our prize, but . . .” He suddenly nodded with realization, and Leigh smiled. “Ah, I see. She is our map.”

  “Yes,” said Leigh proudly. “You were always fast on the uptake, and always so good with map ciphers. Did you ever read the Book of the Gate of Heaven by Gammond of Wael?”

  “No, Magister, that book is . . . forbidden,” said Stjepan.

  “Mmm? Oh, yes, of course it is,” said Leigh with a tired, dismissive wave of his hand. “Gammond wrote that book while in exile himself, you know. I never met him, that was before my time at the University, but I studied under his pupil, Aéd Amav, and naturally he had a secret copy squirreled away. It describes just this very kind of spell; it’s an old conjurer’s trick, to curse someone so that they are compelled to the chosen task. We cannot risk trying to dispel the Sending. This map has power and danger of its own accord, as Harvald’s gruesome death so helpfully illustrates. No, the map will reveal itself as you journey. And when you are done, she will be free of the enchantment . . .”

  “As we journey?” Arduin said, incredulous. He spoke slowly, as though explaining himself to children, or the mentally disabled. “Are you daft? You want to take my sister on a quest for a wizard’s barrow? Nonsense. We are safe here in my father’s ho
use. He is the Baron of Araswell and a Lord of the High Court, and not even the priests can violate this house without the High King’s consent.”

  As if on cue, Sir Helgi appeared at a doorway with a harried-looking Little Myles in tow. Arduin frowned, his mouth hanging open. “Oh, and now who is this?” he barked.

  Little Myles did a quick bow. “Forgive me, my Lords, but Jonas sends word; the jig is up!” he said, slightly out of breath. “No one outside knows it yet but Rodrick Urgoar has gone to meet the King of Heaven. The Watch has secretly issued arrest warrants for Lady Annwyn for witchcraft and Lord Arduin for the murder of the High Priest, with the seal of the High King’s Court, and they are on their way. The Inquisition will be tasked by the Watch with the custody of the Lady, and their Templars are already about. You don’t have much time before all Six Hells break loose!”

  Arduin practically sputtered for several moments. “An arrest warrant? For me? For murder?” he finally got out. He turned to Stjepan and roared. “I didn’t murder High Priest Rodrick, you did!”

  “As a matter of jurisprudence the term ‘murder’ would imply premeditation, my Lord, and of that we are both innocent,” Stjepan replied. “I would be more than happy to testify that I was the one that struck the unfortunate official and caused his wrongful death, but I fear that will rapidly be beside the point. Our primary concern must be the safety and wellbeing of your sister, my Lord, and please believe me that you do not want her in the hands of the Inquisition, or for that matter the mob. Above all you must spare her that fate. Indeed, there is the ch—”

  He broke off and listened as a great roar of anger and rage swelled up from the crowd outside. Everyone paused as the nerve-wracking sound of several thousand throats howling for blood washed up and over the room.

  “What was that?” asked someone quietly.

  “That was the mob finally hearing that Urgoar is dead,” said Stjepan, nodding to himself.