The Pity Stone (Book 3)

by Tim Stead

  “Saved me? For this?” He gestured around the frozen, smashed chamber. “I am trapped here. After that stone they were all weeping women – Pelion, Seti, all of them, the greatness sucked out of them. In truth I think I would rather have died than seen it.”

  “So you think I should not use the stone?”

  Leras seemed about to say so in the most vehement terms, but the fire went out of his eyes and he seemed to collapse in upon himself. “It is nothing to me,” he said.

  Narak was at a loss what to say. What could he say to a man who had been trapped alone for two thousand years, a man who sat with ice upon him in a throne room abandoned by his lord, waiting to die? Yet for all that Leras seemed quite sane, and when his eyes burned they burned with passion, not madness.

  “Why do you not leave this place?” he asked.

  “I cannot leave. I am bound by my oath. It is all that I have left.”

  “Then I must leave you to your oath,” Narak said. He rose. It was time for him to leave. He did not think that he could bear the company of this man any longer. He embodied all of Narak’s darkest fears, the fear of loneliness, of living beyond his time until he lacked all meaning.

  “No.”

  Leras had risen to his feet again.

  “No? You mean to keep me here?”

  “No one leaves Dun Vilant.”

  Narak took a couple of steps backwards to put distance between himself and the giant Farheim. “You are in danger of inconveniencing me, Leras,” he said.

  Leras smiled. “I have not had a good fight for many centuries.”

  “Nor shall you now.”

  Leras moved to block Narak’s path to the door, the only exit. He still had not drawn his blades. There was no way that Narak could get past him.

  “You do not understand,” Narak said. “You cannot hold me here, but you may cost me a month or more.”

  Now Leras drew his blades. They were long and sharp, but Narak did not draw his own. Instead he backed away, using the size of the throne room.

  “There is something that you do not understand,” Narak said. “Two things, actually.” He watched Leras. The Farheim’s blades moved like snakes, weaving steel and air into a beautiful pattern. He was curious as to which of them would win. The Farheim couldn’t be killed and he was impervious to steel, so the fight could last a long time. But his curiosity was a passing whim. “Don’t harm the wolf,” he said.

  A moment later he was standing among trees, the sound of the wind passing through them was as kind as a crackling fire to his ears. He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the earthy scents of the forest. There was the merest sprinkle of snow on the ground, and the air felt warm and full of life. He sighed and snapped a branch off the closest evergreen.

  Leras hadn’t moved. He stood, his blades now stilled. Narak tossed the branch in his direction. The Farheim managed to catch it without letting go of a sword.

  “You can’t keep me here,” Narak said. The truth of his statement was self evident.

  Leras slumped again. He put his swords away and went back to his seat. He held the green branch close to his face, crushing a few of the needles, inhaling the scent. He seemed to have forgotten for a moment that Narak was there at all. Narak thought about leaving while the Farheim was occupied, but decided that there was no need.

  “I never thought to see anything green again,” Leras said, his voice full of wonder. “I thank you for this kindness.”

  Narak hadn’t meant it as a kindness. The branch was simply incontrovertible proof that he had been elsewhere, but seeing Leras’ reaction he was moved.

  “Is there something you want?” he asked. “Name a thing and I will bring it to you – a bottle of wine, fresh fruit, a living fish from the southern ocean. Name it.”

  Leras stared at him, but eventually shook his head. “It would only be a reminder,” he said. “A taste of what has gone forever. I am here, and here I must stay. But I will have one thing from you, if you will give it.”

  “Ask.”

  “When you have done what you must do, and if the world is at peace again, and there is a way, visit me again.”

  Of course. Narak understood. Leras had been alone here for two thousand years. Somehow he was not insane, but he must be long past despair. If Narak promised to come back there would be a single candle in the darkness that stretched ahead. There would be an event, a future event to look to when the hours and years grew dark.

  “I will come back,” he said. “I cannot say when. It may be a year. It may be a hundred years, but if I live I will come back.”

  Leras nodded. He still sat and cradled the branch as though it were a royal crown, or a child. It looked small in the Farheim’s hands, and Narak knew that it would soon freeze, lose its colour and scent, turn to dust. It was a cruel thing, really, to leave it with Leras at all, but it would probably be impossible to take it away.

  “Go now,” Leras said.

  “In a moment. Before I go I have a question for you.”

  “I will answer if I can.”

  “Is there any that you know who is barred from entering Dun Vilant as you are barred from leaving it?”

  A bitter smile twisted the giant’s face. “He is here, then. Outside the city.”

  “Who?”

  “He did not give you his name?”

  “Would I ask if he had? He… It calls itself Avatar, so I assume it is an avatar of something.” And suddenly it was obvious, like the sun coming over the rim of the world it was blindingly plain. “A dragon,” he said. “Hesterion.”

  “Hesterion,” Leras confirmed. “Did he lead you here?”

  “No. The path is my own.” He didn’t want to confess to knowing two dragons when Leras clearly thought so little of them. Yet it was becoming clear to him that dragons were playing a hand in this game, and before this they had been little more than myth. Leras seemed to have lost interest in him now. He walked across the throne room to the door, stood there for a moment looking back at the giant Farheim.

  “Remember your promise,” Leras said without raising his eyes.

  “I will remember.”

  He walked out, catching up the harness of his sled where he had left it outside the building. He walked back the way he had come, following his own tracks past the buildings to the city gate. He had no thought now for the fine architecture, the excellent stonework. Outside the city he looked about and saw the trail that he should be on. He rejoined it, and on the far side of the valley he came upon Avatar standing quite still in the snow.

  “Leras sends his regards,” he said. The avatar did not flinch, but Narak thought that he detected a brightening of the flame in his eyes.

  “You saw him, then. You know who I am.”

  “Hesterion.” The avatar did not acknowledge its name, but turned back to the path and began to walk. Narak waited until it turned again. “I promised to go back,” he said. Hesterion said nothing, but patiently waited until Narak began to walk.

  Fourteen – The Assassin

  It was a cold, blustery day when Quinnial saw the walls of Bas Erinor again. He rode with two hundred men of his own regiment and a hundred more of Cain’s. Cain and Sheyani rode with him, intending to spend a few nights at Cain’s inn before moving on to their estate at Waterhill. Tilian Henn was with them, too, and a dozen of his men who had kin in the city. The rest of the army of Avilian he had left camped two hundred miles north on the border with Berash.

  The sight of the city warmed him. It was home, and he would see Maryal again. He was eager for that.

  “It looks like it will stand forever, does it not, Lord Duke?”

  Cain had ridden up beside him, and they sat side by side for a moment admiring the city.

  “If the gods are kind we’ll not see it fall,” he replied.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Cain said, and Quin knew that he would. The colonel was going to spend the night in his cups, drinking once more to being alive, to being victorious. There wou
ld be no such comfort for Quin. His evening would be spent speaking to officials and advisors, picking up the reins of power once again. He envied Cain the luxury of duty discharged.

  Their approach had been noted by eyes in the city. As they rode down from the scarp by the old cart track he saw a small band of horsemen riding out from the gates. The dust from their hurrying hooves blew out towards the sea at a sharp angle to their progress. Quin rode to meet them, and Harad followed him.

  Harad had been his constant companion and advisor since they had left Bas Erinor in the spring. The old armourer had taken to his new role with alacrity, and Quin’s only regret was that they had not drawn a blade in anger all summer, but sat and waited while Narak and Captain Henn and to a lesser degree Cain, had taken all the glory. Harad had simply told him that he should never regret that he had not killed. That was wisdom. He counted on Harad for wisdom.

  Quin half expected Maryal to be one of the troop that rode out from the city. Common sense suggested that she would not have had time to dress and ride down from the castle, but he hoped all the same, and looked for her among the riders. She wasn’t there. They were all men.

  He slowed as they approached and waited for them. He was pleased to see that the man at their head was Major Karel Bessant, Maryal’s father. It was less reassuring that the man looked troubled.

  “My lord,” the Major greeted him as he reined in his mount. “The city will be glad of your safe return.”

  “Not much probability of anything else, Major,” Quin replied. “We didn’t get the chance to draw steel in anger.”

  “But our alliance was victorious,” the major said. The news had clearly ridden a faster horse than the duke’s. Yet for all that there was something in the Major’s face that was not good news.

  “What is it, Major,” Quin asked. He’d rather have talked to Karel in private. They had a good relationship, but he couldn’t abandon formality in front of his men, even if this man was his father in law. “Something troubles you.”

  “There was an attempt to kill the duchess, my lord. She was unharmed, but it might easily have gone the other way.”

  “Someone tried to kill Maryal?” He was incredulous, and outraged.

  “Seven men, my lord. Seven assassins, and all seven dead, so we don’t know who sent them.”

  “I know,” Quin replied. It was Hesham. It had to be Hesham. He’d issued a warrant for the man’s arrest, and this was some sort of revenge. Hesham had also been at the heart of the plot to kill Quin before. He had tried to kill Cain and succeeded in killing Quin’s brother Aidon. He was the only conspirator still at large. He turned to Cain.

  “It’s Hesham,” he said. “I’ve got to hunt that bastard down before he does something worse.”

  Cain nodded grimly. Hesham had wanted to kill Sheyani, and it was only the squeamishness of his allies that had kept her alive long enough for the Wolf to save her. Cain wanted revenge on Hesham as much as Quin. It was Sheyani who spoke.

  “Don’t,” she said. Cain turned in his saddle and Quin raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t?”

  “Don’t try to catch him. Some things are better not caught.”

  Quin remembered Hesham from their one meeting. He had looked deadly, but no more so that Skal. Just a duellist. “He didn’t look so dangerous to me,” he said.

  “Nor does Narak, until you know who and what he is,” she replied.

  “Narak? Are you saying that Hesham is a god?”

  Sheyani shook her head. “I don’t know what he is, but he’s not a man.” She turned to Cain, who was frowning now. It was apparent to Quin that she’d kept this even from him. “Narak asked me not to say,” she said. “But you mustn’t hunt him. I think he’s afraid of Narak, but only Narak. He’ll stay hidden.”

  Cain’s frown had vanished. He touched his wife on the arm. “Listen to her, my lord,” he said. “She understands such things.”

  Quin was impressed again by the trust between these two. She had kept a secret from Cain, an important one, but he had understood and accepted her reasons at once. There was no anger or resentment. He had turned to support her without hesitation. But should he be the same? He trusted Cain in most things. The innkeeper was a clever commander, and always seemed to know which way the wind was blowing. He understood things in a way that constantly surprised Quin.

  “I welcome your council, Lady Sheyani,” he said. He would have to give it further thought. Or was that just an excuse? She wouldn’t have said something like that if she didn’t know, and however much he wanted to strike back at Hesham he’d be a fool to ignore what she said. He imagined for a minute what it would be like to hunt Narak, how stupid it would be. “I will be guided by it,” he added.

  Sheyani smiled. Gods she looked so young now, Quin thought, and when she smiled she looked even younger, almost a child. “My lord is gracious,” she said.

  “I must leave you now,” he said to Cain. “I am anxious to see my wife, given these events. I will ride back with the major. Will you see the men settled, colonel?”

  “I will,” Cain nodded.

  Leaving his men in capable hands Quin turned his mount and cantered down towards the city gates.

  * * * *

  Jerac climbed the divine stair alone. This was the second time in a week he had ascended to the city of the gods, but this time he was excited. He had been summoned by the duke, and he could only think that it was a good thing. After all, he had saved the duchess from certain death, and while he had been rewarded, he thought it likely that the duke was going to reward him again.

  His good fortune seemed to have no bounds. He had discovered a talent for horsemanship that he had never imagined he possessed. Lightfoot seemed to know exactly what he wanted, and obeyed willingly. He hardly needed the reins at all, and the lightest touch with his knees, even when he was not conscious of the intent, would turn the animal in the direction he desired. He was already beginning to shine in the elite cavalry unit.

  His swordplay had improved, too. The life or death experience in Potshard Lane had taught him a thing or two. It was as though he knew what he needed to know, and was able to filter it out of what he and the others were being taught. His style was becoming more economical, and he was relying less on speed and strength.

  He looked the part now, too. He had two stripes on his arm, a jewelled sword belt and a quality blade. People knew that he’d saved the duchess, and that he’d killed four men doing it, and the respect he was given now was different, somehow warmer and more grateful. He supposed they liked him.

  He came to the castle gate. They were expecting him, and he was greeted as a friend by the gate guards, though he barely remembered their faces from his last, brief visit. He was fairly sure they were the same men who had been on duty the night he’d saved the duchess, but he couldn’t have sworn to it.

  One of them was deputised to walk him through the castle to the duke’s audience chamber. There was other business the duke was attending to, and he was told he might have to wait there a while before the duke would speak with him. That was all right, he supposed, as long as there was somewhere to sit.

  They walked through the great bailey of the castle, and Jerac admired the bustle of the place. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing, even the grooms playing cards outside the stables seemed in their place. From the bailey they walked down a short, stone flagged passage that formed one side of a cloister. There were flowers in the middle, and a fountain splashed merrily in the sun. Jerac was most impressed by the flowers. He’d never seen so many colours on display at the same time.

  They turned through an archway and crossed another courtyard. Jerac stopped. From here there was a magnificent view over the low city and the sea. He could see a ship sailing in towards port, white sail stretched and bellied like a pregnant woman, the deep blue sea around it flecked white by a lively breeze. He had never seen such a view.

  “Come,” the guard said.

  “Wait a momen
t,” Jerac told him. “I’ve never seen the city like this, and if I wait a minute here instead of elsewhere will the duke be angry?”

  “A moment, then.”

  He walked to the low wall and the view expanded, dropping away into a cliff below and broadening until he could see miles along the coast. He fancied he could almost see all the way to Golt. He sucked down the clean air. From here even the low city looked clean, and its persistent stench was no more than a faint scent upon the air, a touch of wood smoke, food cooking, all the smells carried up by the fires. The other, less attractive, smells seemed lost in the sea breeze.

  A movement caught his eye. There was an eagle in the sky, a huge bird. Such things were not often seen in the skies above Bas Erinor, and he wondered at its grace. It circled once, slowly, as though taking stock of the land below it. There was not much for such a creature to hunt here, Jerac thought. This was a place for scavengers who made merry with the leavings of men, a place for rats and dogs.