12
WHISPERS AND DEATH
A knife in the dark. A whisper in the mist. When death is nigh, a final prayer. To send your soul to loving arms on gentle shores. Eternal paradise awaits those who welcome my kiss.
Writings of the Blade of Kylor during the reign of High Cleric Damin Mansouri
Aylana stared up at the ceiling, a satisfied smile on her lips. Though she’d hoped to be wrong, she hadn’t thought the girl could do it. It had taken her over five years to reach the point where transmutation was within her abilities, and even then, had barely been able to manifest a small pebble.
Could Felistal’s trust be well placed? Could Mariyah be strong enough to contain Belkar? If the prison was broken, defeat was inevitable. But maybe, just maybe, Mariyah could discover what had been lost to time and seal the breach.
Aylana attempted to quiet her mind, but the excitement of what had happened only a short while ago would not permit it. It had been wondrous to behold. Witnessing Mariyah unlock her potential was like seeing the first flowers of spring in bloom. It was the one thing she had been part of that did not cause her shame. How many years of misery had she endured? The joy she’d felt teaching Mariyah made it seem like a dozen lifetimes. The girl had thought she was enjoying causing her frustration and pain. But that was far from the truth. Aylana’s smile was brought by the joy of doing something that was good for the world. It was a foreign feeling, one she’d all but forgotten. If only she had been able to come home to the enclave years ago!
Felistal had not mentioned whether she would be given pupils. The other Thaumas despised her, and would likely object strongly. To blazes with them! They had not lived her life. They had not been born into a family of vipers. Felistal understood, and that was what mattered.
She recalled the day she’d left to return to Ralmarstad. He had been the only one to see her off; the only one who had forgiven her. She had offered herself to him the previous night—the only man that she could fathom allowing to touch her. She had wanted him. Not for the pleasures of the flesh, but to be as near to his heart as was possible. He’d rejected her, but not out of anger or because he did not find her desirable.
“The love you feel for me cannot be made stronger in bed,” he had told her, “as pleasing a thought as it may be. And I would not take advantage of your love through my own selfish lust.” He touched her chin gently with a curled finger. “You need not prove your feelings for me. I know your heart.”
It had made her wish that she felt the physical attraction for him she knew he felt for her. But he was a man. And nothing would change that; or change who she was. It was cruel, in a way—to love someone with your heart and be unable to love them with your passion in the way they deserved.
No need to worry over these things anymore. In time, perhaps, her soul would begin to heal. She had three friends who would be remaining at the enclave for a time, and now that her lessons with Mariyah were completed, she could enjoy their company.
She sucked her teeth as she felt a sharp pain in her right arm. Reaching over to the nightstand, she turned up the lamp. A tiny dart, smaller than the tip of a finger, was protruding from her gown. She plucked it free, her eyes shooting around the room. The door was shut, as was the window.
“Who’s there?” she shouted, fear filling her chest.
“You must have known there would be no escape,” a thin, raspy voice replied. It was coming from the far side of the room near the dresser.
“How did you get in here?” she demanded, giving her best effort to keep her voice from sounding panicked.
“Ancient buildings hold ancient secrets,” the voice replied. “Though it was clever to come here. Had your brother not sent me, you might have survived.”
The pain from the dart was already gone. “If I’m to die, I won’t die alone.” Her arm shot forward, but nothing happened. She tried again, but with the same result.
“Don’t waste what little time you have left,” the Blade said. “The poison inhibits your ability to use magic. You don’t imagine I would be so foolish as to leave myself vulnerable, do you?”
Gradually her fear fell away, replaced by calm acceptance. She strained her eyes. A half silhouette was crouched behind the dresser. A secret passage? The enclave was riddled with them, and no one knew them all. No one aside from her brother, it seemed. “I should have known this was how it would end. Did my brother tell you why I was to die?”
“Yes. He wanted you to know that he forgives you.”
She let out a scornful laugh. “He forgives me?” Her legs felt cold. “He can go to the depths. Tell him that.”
“I will.”
Aylana sniffed. “Will you?”
“I am to report every word you say. You have my oath I will leave nothing out.”
“Then tell him that I was the one who killed Father. I was the one who framed our cousin for heresy. And I was the one who bedded his wife the night before his wedding.”
The Blade let out a muffled laugh. “I will tell him. But I’m afraid he knows these things already. Perhaps not about his wife. But the rest, he told me.”
The cold in her legs faded, leaving them lifeless and numb. “He knew? Then why did he not expose me?”
“He found you useful. In spite of your treachery, you were the most effective Inquisitor to hold the position in a generation. Why expose you? All he needed to do was feed you information to send to the Thaumas. Nothing vital; just enough to allay their suspicions.”
The horror of the Blade’s words drew tears of fury. “I hope he burns,” was all she could choke out. Her head was swimming, and her arms were as useless as her legs. “I hope he suffers.”
“Luckily for you, your brother did not feel the same way. In a few moments, the poison will take hold. It is quite painless. You will simply drift off to sleep, and it will be over. Your suffering will come to an end.”
“How did he…” Her eyelids were heavy, and she had trouble forming her words.
“No more questions. Your journey is at an end. Leave the troubles of Lamoria behind. That’s it. Be at peace. Kylor awaits to hold you in his arms.”
* * *
The Blade turned to the passage, pausing a moment to look back at the body. Strong woman. A pity she had to die. But it was good that the Archbishop granted her absolution. Forgiven of her heresy, she would find paradise among the faithful.
The Blade entered and shut the hidden door. This had been a tremendous challenge, and by far the strangest and most dangerous assignment set by the Archbishop in all her years of service. Deceit, lies, betrayal; the Blade of Kylor was not meant to be embroiled in such things. And then there was the other unexpected matter to attend, one for which a resolution had yet to be revealed. But it was clear Kylor’s hand had been the guide that had led to this specific place and time. Too many coincidences to think otherwise. The signs were obvious. So surely he would provide an answer as well. Have faith. Be strong. Let Kylor continue guiding you to your destiny.
13
THE SIEGE OF SPIRIT MASTERS
There are times when those you love must be set free. Shed tears and mourn for your loss, yet be glad for the gift you bestowed and rejoice in their happiness.
Book of Kylor, Chapter Three, Verse Sixty-Eight
Travil had been waiting alongside the road just as Lem had instructed, with two mounts, his sword and bow, and enough provisions to last for more than a week. It should be plenty. They would stay to the road for the most part, and while cutting across country would slow them, the Spider Hills—named for a large gray spider that lived in underground burrows, harmless, but frightening in appearance—were gentle and grassy. The real test would be once they arrived.
Travil seemed a kind and good-natured fellow, well read and intelligent, a contrast to his rough exterior. Lem could see why Shemi liked him.
“I wish I could convince your uncle to open up more,” he said, on their third night of travel. They hadn’t made it to a town be
fore nightfall and had picked out a clearing in which to camp.
“What do you mean?” Lem asked. Shemi was an unusually open person, so the remark was surprising.
Travil scooped out a ladleful of the stew he’d made and poured it into Lem’s bowl. “It’s like he’s afraid to let me know about his life. As if I might think less of him.”
“I’m sure he’ll open up in time.” Lem knew why Shemi would hold back. He spent much of his time aiding the dreaded Blade of Kylor. Lem’s identity was enough to warrant caution. Though it did make him feel guilty that it prevented Shemi from exploring a relationship with someone he cared for.
“If it’s not too personal: What is it like? You know—being the Blade of Kylor.”
Lem had tried to keep his mind off the fact that Travil knew this. He still hadn’t decided what to do about it. According to church law, he should have already killed him. Only high-ranking clergy were permitted to know his identity.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Travil blew a head of steam from his bowl. “You kill people for the church, yes?”
Lem nodded.
“How does it feel?”
Lem shrugged. “The same as being a soldier, I would think. I follow my instructions and do what I’m ordered to do.”
“I know. But you do it to serve Kylor. It must be quite an honor.”
Lem suppressed the urge to let fly a scathing rebuke. It wasn’t Travil’s fault. He was a believer. To take life in the name of the creator would be considered honorable, he supposed. “Would it surprise you to hear I am not one of the faithful? Neither is Shemi.”
“I know about Shemi,” he said. Lem was relieved, having regretted speaking about something Shemi might have wanted kept private. “But the stories I’ve heard of you say that you’re a person of unbreakable faith.”
“First: The stories are not about me; they’re about the people who have held the position. Second: They are stories, nothing more.”
“But hasn’t Kylor anointed you and given you his blessing?”
Lem was tempted to reveal the things he’d learned at the Bard’s College: that Kylor was not a god but a mortal human, like everyone else. But he had spoken to enough of the devout to know that he would not be believed. He needed Travil calm and in good spirits. Upsetting him would not further his goals.
“I was chosen for my skill, not my faith. There’s nothing good about what I do. It’s not a heavenly voice who commands me to kill, but that of a mortal man.”
“But isn’t the High Cleric Kylor’s voice in Lamoria?”
“Rothmore is a man. Like you and me. No better. No worse.”
Travil lowered his eyes, then after more than a minute of silence, looked up and said, “In the Book of Kylor, it tells us that all mortals are flawed. It makes sense that the High Cleric is too. But it’s probably a good thing that most people think otherwise.”
“Why’s that?”
“If people didn’t look up to the High Cleric, they wouldn’t do as he says. Where would that leave us?”
Free.
Lem was impressed that Travil could hear the truth—part of it, at least—and be able to accept it. It was true that in Ralmarstad, people tended to be fanatical about their faith. Still, even in the other kingdoms, there were plenty who thought Kylor spoke directly through the High Cleric, that his voice and Kylor’s were one and the same. They would do anything asked of them, no matter how dangerous, ridiculous, or harmful to others. And while Rothmore was not a person prone to making unusual demands of his followers, there’d been High Clerics in the past who were.
“You and my uncle are an odd match,” Lem remarked through a mouthful of what was very good stew.
Travil tilted his head, affecting a curious look. “I don’t think so. We both love books and learning. I can’t say he enjoys everything I do. But I’ve found we have a lot in common. Though I must admit, at first, I thought he was an orphan rose.” When Lem looked at him with confusion, he laughed. “A rose that doesn’t know it’s a rose. Some of us find ourselves later in life.”
It took a moment, but Lem finally understood what he meant. “Shemi has always known who he is.”
“I know that now. But when we met, I couldn’t tell. He was so aloof when I would ask him about himself. I thought that he might be from Ralmarstad.” The word twisted his mouth into a grimace as if the sound itself tasted bitter. “When I was a soldier, I was with a man from Lobin for a time. He would never allow us to be seen in public, as if what we were doing was shameful or wrong. When I pressed him about it, I found out that he’d been married. His wife discovered who he really was and turned him in to the church. He only made it out by sneaking aboard a Lytonian trade ship.”
“Why did you leave him?”
“I got tired of hiding. I’d never had to before and I wasn’t about to start. Don’t get me wrong—I loved him. But I guess love wasn’t enough.”
Lem gave him a warm smile. “Shemi would never be ashamed of who he is or who he’s with.”
“I do wish he’d told me about your … profession,” Travil remarked, leaning back on one elbow and tossing the empty bowl by the fire. “It would have explained why he kept his distance.”
“He couldn’t. If you hadn’t read the note, you would have never known.”
“I think I would have figured it out,” he said, reaching beneath his blanket for an apple he had put there earlier. “I’m not as dim as I look.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you were.”
Lem finished his meal and wrapped himself in his blanket. He didn’t want to get to know Travil any more than necessary. It would be difficult enough to look Shemi in the eye should the death of his friend be inevitable. Compounded with him being a good and kind person, one who cared deeply for his uncle, would mean battling more unwanted guilt.
For the remainder of the journey, he attempted to discourage conversation. But if Travil was aware of it, he ignored the efforts, prattling ceaselessly about his life in Throm, his time with Shemi, even his days as a soldier. When they finally left the road, Lem figured he knew more about Travil than he knew about anyone else in Lamoria aside from Shemi and Mariyah.
The first morning frosts of the coming winter greeted them upon reaching the hills. Lem cursed himself for not having brought a suitable coat. But Travil had a spare wool blanket that although rough and irritating to the touch served well enough.
Lem had been to the Keep of the Spirit Master once before and knew the layout. The High Cleric had sent him there to carry out an execution. It was out of the ordinary for the Blade of Kylor, but the priest had been a childhood friend of Rothmore, and he had wanted it to be painless. To enter through the main gate would mean a southerly approach, but that would alert the Order to his presence. The illusion was only effective from the front side. From the north the hills steepened sharply, making entry exceedingly difficult. Lem assumed that as there were no towns north of the Keep, and more rugged terrain and taller hills would drive away any wanderers, the church had felt it unnecessary to completely encase it in magic. That, or perhaps the spell was not powerful enough. A Thaumas was sent every few years to cast another, lest the magic fade and the Keep be exposed.
Lem had learned enough about magic to know that while it could be deadly, and those who could wield it were certainly not to be taken lightly, much of it was temporary. Its power faded with time, the duration largely dependent on the person casting the spell. It had made him wonder how the barrier in Vylari had lasted so long. Could the combination of bard and Thaumas be so strong as to create something eternal?
They were forced to leave the horses farther away from the Keep than Lem had wanted. Travil assured him that they wouldn’t wander, his own mount being trained to come when called.
The ascent was perilous, the smooth grass they had enjoyed while in the Spider Hills now uneven and peppered with loose rock. Despite his size and his years, Travil was nearly as surefooted as Lem.
“Remember,” Lem whispered, “they’ll likely be holding him in the lower levels. Try not to get trapped.” Travil nodded. “And don’t hesitate. If you run across anyone, kill them. But try to be quiet about it.”
At this point, Lem would normally use shadow walk, but his black clothing and a new moon would have to be concealment enough. Besides, if things went the way he had planned, they would separate soon after entry. Travil was to secure Shemi, nothing more. Lem had another task to accomplish. If they were to be free of this threat for good, Lem would need to find Gylax … and kill him.
The descent was slow, Lem pausing every few feet to check the parapet for movement. At the base of the wall, Lem was relieved to find that there were adequate handholds within the weathered stone so that the rope and hook would not be needed until they were making their escape.
Lem made the climb first, carrying the rope and hook. Upon reaching the top, he lowered it and fastened it to the lip of the wall. To his surprise, Travil ignored the rope, his powerful arms easily pulling him the entire way. Another good reason to have him along. There was no way to know in what condition they’d find Shemi. It was doubtful they would have injured him badly—not until their intended target arrived. But he might be drugged.
“Don’t wait for me,” said Lem. “Find Shemi and get him out. Understand?”
A Chorus of Fire Page 21