The road hooking to the right would carry the farmer toward Syrmarria. To the left was the path to the gardens, all but invisible to normal eyes. When the farmer broke right, Markal and Narud hopped down from the wagon and bore left.
It was maybe two more miles from here to the west wall of the gardens. Having told his story, Narud was in no mood for conversation, which left Markal alone with his thoughts. Poor Alyssa, killed by a former companion as she tried to hunt him down. And Stephan, now tormented in the service of the necromancer, his mind in chains.
Which raised another question. Had Vashti and the other dark acolytes been trying to take Markal and Nathaliey prisoner during the battle when Bronwyn fell and the one-handed marauder escaped with the red sword? He wished there were some way to pass that information to Nathaliey, to warn her. But she was hundreds of miles away, riding with the Blackshields as they gathered an army to throw the enemy out of Eriscoba.
A few minutes later he caught sight of the garden walls. Relief flooded into him, followed by a sense of peace as they passed through the gate. The smell of honeysuckle and wisteria enveloped him. The air filled with the familiar buzz of honeybees, and when he saw keepers bent over their work, tying tomato plants and picking green beans, he sank to his knees and picked up a handful of rich, loamy soil. He lifted it to his nose and drank in its scent.
He was home.
#
Markal and Narud found the master in front of the Golden Pavilion where it gleamed above the shore of the small lake at the heart of the gardens. Its clean lines and gleaming roof reflected in the still water, a sentinel of peace and security. The keepers had dug a pit in front of the pavilion, about six feet wide and eight feet long, and roughly half as deep as a man was tall. The pit was lined with freshly cut stone, each one marked top to bottom with runes, sigils, and wards.
Several keepers were hard at work on more stones to one side of the excavation, tapping away with chisels and hammers, and speaking incantations in low voices, while something like green smoke trailed from their fingertips.
A wagon sat next to the stone-lined chamber, stuffed with tomes wrapped in oiled leathers. Acolytes and keepers passed the volumes down to Jethro, the head archivist from the Syrmarrian library, who stood in the chamber. He examined each volume and gave instructions about how to place the volumes relative to the others. Another archivist then carefully put them in place. Jethro’s right arm ended in a stump; Narud had told Markal that a dark acolyte had sent a withering shadow into the archivist’s hand and destroyed it.
Memnet the Great stood next to the others, rolling his orb from hand to hand. A green light swirled and twisted at the center of the orb. He spotted the newcomers and his face brightened as the orb vanished up his sleeve.
“Ah, thank the Brothers. Well met, both of you.” His smile faltered as he took in their drawn faces. “Where is Nathaliey? What happened with Stephan and Alyssa?”
“Nathaliey is with the paladins,” Markal said. “As safe as can be, I imagine. The acolytes are a different matter. I’ll let Narud explain.”
The arrival of the two younger wizards had disrupted the work, and Memnet said, “Keep working, friends. Narud, come with me. Tell me. Jethro, talk to Markal. Explain your system.”
The master and Narud walked away from the pavilion, speaking in low voices as the younger wizard reported the dismal news about Alyssa and Stephan. Jethro waved Markal over with his good hand.
“I’m glad to see you,” Jethro said. “Karla is in Syrmarria with Chantmer, and there’s nobody else here who can understand how I wish to arrange these books.”
“You’ve devised a system so complex that Memnet the Great can’t understand it?”
“The master is too important for such tedium. Not a patient laborer like you and I.”
“Ah, but didn’t you hear?” Markal said. “I’ve been raised up. I’m a mighty wizard now.”
Jethro broke into a broad smile, but he quickly turned serious again. “You look terrible. Half-starved and as gaunt as a dark acolyte.” He raised his voice. “Someone fetch our friend cheese and olives. And bring me two peaches from the south orchard.”
“And a flagon of wine,” Markal added as a keeper moved to obey.
“But not the strong stuff,” Jethro told her, then turned back to Markal. “Not until you’ve got food in your belly. I need your mind clear.” He snapped his fingers. “Give me the next book. One for Markal, too.”
Archivists were not always respected by other members of the order, even though knowledge was the basis of every great wizard’s strength. The acolytes were proud of their power, the apprentices were full of potential, and the keepers had some mastery of both power and knowledge. But an archivist spent his or her life nose pressed in a book, reading, collecting, but unable to raise any but the simplest of the spells they studied.
Here, however, Jethro was in his element and full of confidence as he explained his system. He’d organized the books going into the vault by the spectrum and type of magic they contained. It would save weeks or months of work when the time came to bring them out again. For the first several books, Markal could do nothing but flip the books open and stare blankly at their pages, trying to make sense of the strange markings crawling across the page. Markings he understood well enough when he’d studied them in the library. Here, they were inscrutable.
“Clear your mind,” Jethro said. “Not all of the runes in the vault are for protection and hiding—some simulate the mental acuity you feel in the library. No, not there,” he added, taking a book from Markal. “That should go with the lore of the Gods. Here, in this corner, by the lore and wisdom rune, see?”
It started to make sense, and Markal was soon able to work with less supervision. They’d recovered some of the most valuable tomes, but Jethro said there were at least three more shipments of books, scrolls, and tablets to completely empty the library. Then they would cap the vault with the stones still being worked on by the keepers, cover the whole mound with dirt, and use magic to raise a final concealing layer of turf above it all.
“If the Brothers favor us, we’ll have the books back in the library by the first midwinter’s frost,” Jethro said, “but this vault will protect them as long as is needed. A wizard’s lifetime and longer, if necessary.”
“And if the gardens themselves fall?” Markal asked.
“The vault could even survive that,” Jethro said. “Destroy it all, burn it, raise an army of wights to tear the soil out inch by inch, and this vault should remain. Should.”
The magic might be able to hide and protect the books for that long, but what about a simple betrayal? Did Alyssa and Stephan know what the master was intending and where? And what about all these keepers and acolytes? What about him, for that matter? If he were taken by the enemy, turned to a slave of the dark wizard, could he betray them, or would the knowledge of this vault evaporate from his memory?
A keeper arrived with food and drink. Markal had been puzzling over a book with a silver binding and an indigo-blue leather cover, and he handed it over to Jethro. He set the food and drink on the stone lip of the vault and took a break. He popped an olive into his mouth and closed his eyes at the rich, delicious texture and flavor. A sliver of cheese, a bite of peach—had it always been this wonderful? He eyed the clay flagon of wine, but remembered Jethro’s comment and refrained until the food had a chance to settle.
“What are Chantmer and the rest doing in Syrmarria?” Markal asked between mouthfuls.
“Fighting dark acolytes. The master strengthened the library defenses, attacked the salamander portals in the night market—they’re weakened, but still working to call up the beasts—and then we fled down the highway with our books, hunted by wights, marauders, and dark acolytes.
“The next shipment is the most important of all,” Jethro added. “We proved we could rescue the books and keep them safe on the road. Now, we’ll take the best of it, the strongest, the ones containing the most incant
ations. Everything necessary to form an order of wizards.”
Jethro continued to explain as Markal finished his light meal, finally allowing himself to indulge in the wine. It was rich and heady.
After Memnet’s bad encounter with the enemy, the master had stopped testing the enemy’s strength and gone for a direct attack. They’d blasted apart enemy defenses in the palace wherever they could be found and laid a track of protective wards along an alternate route to and from Syrmarria. They meant to follow this path back and forth until they had the library evacuated, then return to the city one more time to mount an all-out attempt to destroy the enemy’s work before Toth brought the fire salamanders up from the depths.
“If we don’t stop him, the city will burn,” Markal said.
“The city, the palace, and the library,” Jethro said. “These books are more important than anything, even the whole of Syrmarria. If the city must be sacrificed to save the library, that is only the will of the gods.”
Markal set down the wine and took another volume. This time he was able to identify its contents within eight or ten minutes, and he put it in the right position without assistance from the archivist. They had about twenty more volumes to place before the wagon was empty. Markal felt stronger and more confident with every book he touched, and Jethro seemed pleased with his work.
Memnet and Narud returned just as they were finishing with the final volumes. The master’s face was serious, and there was no sign of the orb he’d been playing with earlier. He said nothing about the missing acolytes.
“We leave as soon as you finish,” he said. “Narud will stay and lead the garden defenses. I will escort Markal and Jethro to the city and work to secure the road while you gather more books.
“We’ll come under attack,” Memnet added. “Either in the city or on the road. Should anything happen to us, or should the enemy mount a full assault while we’re gone, Narud will seal the vault and defend the gardens. Each of us will sell his or her life as dearly as possible. Quickly now, it’s time to go.”
Markal laid the final volume into place, hoisted himself out of the vault, and helped the one-handed archivist ascend. He’d been home less than two hours, and was already forced to take the road again.
Chapter Ten
Nathaliey lay slumped over the saddle, faint with hunger and exhaustion, when Vashti jabbed her hard in the ribs and told her to wake up, they’d arrived at Estmor Castle. The company of marauders had been riding hard for days, burning and killing when they could, but mostly trying to reach the castle as swiftly as possible.
It had been slow going at first, fighting their way across the Eriscoban countryside, but then they had reached the Tothian Way, which already penetrated deep into the free kingdoms, crossed the Thorft at Sleptstock, and entered Arvada. The outermost works had been temporarily abandoned, as an army of Eriscobans had overrun the highway, but behind the Veyrian lines lay a series of partially built watchtowers and small castles to control the road, and there were enough soldiers, slaves, and others involved in the invasion that Hamid’s small force rode east without fear of ambush.
The highway rose on a causeway built above the soggy, flooded farmland, where abandoned farmhouses sat in dismal solitude, overwhelmed by rushes, sedges, and marshwort. Earlier, they’d passed an entire village of gaunt, broken houses in the middle of the marsh, with rotting bodies half-buried in the mud, the exposed part of their flesh picked over by birds and other wild animals.
And now, Estmor Castle, which rose above the flat countryside like a mighty stone fist. It was surrounded by an outer curtain, with a massive, frowning central keep. A barbican guarded the entrance, and dozens of men patrolled the wall walk and bastion towers.
Nathaliey didn’t know much of the free kingdoms other than what Wolfram had told her, but she knew enough about castles to see that this was no little castelet like many she’d spotted since crossing the mountains, but a mighty fortress built to survive an actual war. Even before the arrival of the high king and his armies, Eriscoba must have seen its fair share of conflict.
The castle stood at the center of a rise so slight that it could barely be called a hill, but was high enough to lift it above the dank marshes, although she couldn’t imagine that the air was particularly healthy with Estmor flooded. A thriving encampment had taken over the village outside the castle walls. There were barracks for troops, and she heard the clank of blacksmiths, smelled smoke rising from forges, and saw coopers, wheelwrights, alehouses, and other signs of camp followers. The people were a mix of pale-skinned Eriscobans—what she would have called barbarians just a few months ago—and people from across the khalifates and sultanates. Slaves, soldiers, and freemen. Not everyone was here under duress; plenty welcomed the high king’s war and saw profit in it.
The crowds parted as the marauders approached, and any who didn’t move with alacrity were shouted out of the way. Still riding hard toward the castle gates, Hamid led them past tents selling slices of goat meat served in flatbread, khalifate-style, and Nathaliey wanted to weep from the smell of it, she was so hungry.
“You’re going to kill me if you don’t let me eat something,” she told Vashti.
She didn’t expect a response—he had either ignored her or snarled for her to shut up whenever she asked for food—but this time he had an answer.
“You’ll get sustenance soon. A special elixir that will cure your hunger once and for all.”
And then they were riding through the barbican and into the heart of the enemy’s castle.
#
Vashti ordered Nathaliey hauled up to the wall walk, where she got a good view of the inner bailey. It had been turned into a repository for supplies flowing west into Eriscoba: armor, swords, barrels of oiled arrows, spare clothing, food, drink, partially disassembled siege engines, combustible oil, and other objects needed for Toth’s war.
Vashti stood to one side, consulting with another dark acolyte, a woman with snowy white hair, but an otherwise youthful appearance, while three Veyrian soldiers kept watch on Nathaliey. That gave her time to study the terrain outside the castle.
By the size of the barracks and the village, it seemed that there were no more than five or six hundred fighting men present. As many as two hundred more were inside the castle, but it was hard to tell for sure because riders kept coming and going. She wondered if the high king were present, and if not, which pasha was commanding this army. In any event, it seemed the bulk of the enemy forces must be elsewhere, which made sense, given what she’d seen and heard along the road.
Hamid trudged up the stairs, accompanied by two of his lieutenants. Soultrup was strapped over his back, ever at hand, and he reached over his shoulder with his remaining hand to touch the hilt. He cocked his head and gave a curt nod, as if in answer to some unheard instruction.
The marauder captain studied her with distaste and turned to Vashti. “What are you doing with this woman, anyway?”
“Her hands are bound,” Vashti said. “She can’t cause any trouble.”
“Except the trouble she causes with her eyes and ears. You’ve brought a spy up to the walls, you fool, and she’s making no attempt to hide it, either. Look at her studying the camp.”
“Let her,” Vashti said. “What harm could she cause?”
“Spoken like a man ignorant of war.”
“I fight and kill just as you do.”
“With books and sorcery,” Hamid sneered. “When have you felt another man’s blood spray your face? When have you felt the pain of a sword bite?” He held up his stump of a hand. “When have you suffered a real wound?”
Vashti fingered the marauder’s gray cloak. “Don’t forget you are a product of this sorcery. Without it, you would be dead.”
Hamid clenched his teeth. “Give her your poison, then. Turn her if you can.”
“Turn me?” Nathaliey said. “That is your plan? I will never turn from the Crimson Path. If that’s what you think, you’re both as stupid as y
ou are ugly.”
Hamid drew Soultrup with a snarl. The edge of the blade gleamed red and eager. Vashti threw up his forearm.
“Don’t, you fool. Put her soul in the blade and you might lose it.”
“I’m not going to kill her. Just maim her a little. They took my hand—I’ll take her leg.”
Nathaliey didn’t think the marauder was serious, but at that moment, the thunder of hooves drew their attention. A large company of marauders, some eighty or more in number, came riding up the Tothian Way. They were cloaked in gray, and the majority of their mounts were the light brown, smaller horses of the east, with a number of powerful Eriscoban warhorses in their midst. A handful of Veyrians in the black and crimson rode along with them, carrying a banner which flapped in the wind.
They broke from the highway toward the castle, still approaching at a good pace, as if they’d come from somewhere in a hurry. They didn’t pull up in the village, but rode hard toward the gates.
“You see how she’s watching our movements, even now?” Hamid said. “If you plan to turn her into one of your number, you had better start soon before she finds a way to pass information to the barbarians.”
“She has no way to communicate,” Vashti said. “That is a gift belonging to our master’s servants, no one else.”
It was at that moment that Nathaliey noticed something curious about the approaching riders. The escorting troops wore the black and crimson, their banner unfurled, revealing the sunburst of Siraf, a port city on the coast south of Veyre. It was one of the first khalifates to willingly submit to the high king’s rule, and the Siraffi troops were permitted to march under their own banner and wear their traditional billowy pantaloons and turbans. These weren’t dressed that way, but as Veyrians. Why would Veyrians carry a Siraffi banner? And why were some of them armed with straight-edged swords?
The answer came to her. She froze, and forced herself to look away.
“Bugger me,” Hamid said, peering down. “Is that Ishmael?”
The Emerald Crown (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 3) Page 9