“It’s called a ‘Font’ here,” Jugar corrected again.
“All right, Font, but the point is that we still need to find it,” Drakis continued gloomily. “Once we’re there, perhaps how to activate it may be more obvious even if it isn’t in this book. It doesn’t have to be open for long—maybe we don’t need this key at all. Have you finished reading that book . . . all of it, I mean?”
Jugar shrugged. “No. There are a few more sections I’ve passed over as not being promising enough, and they were written in a dialect I’m not nearly as well versed in reading. Perhaps there is something in there that can help us.”
“Drakis?” Urulani said from the back of the second boat. “There’s something ahead.”
Ethis turned quickly back to look forward from the bow. “I can’t . . . wait! It looks like a tower.”
“Keep reading,” Drakis said to the dwarf. He crossed the gunwales into the other boat and moved forward into its prow next to Ethis. He peered into the rain, again trying to wipe the water from his face.
A slim, tall shape rose before them, seemingly in the path of the boats, silhouetted against the gray of the leaden sky.
“I can’t see whether . . .”
Lightning arced through the sky, merging in brilliance with the top of the structure. As the flash faded, several more bolts ripped through the sky, their cracked radiance illuminating the spindle of stone piercing the clouds. Drakis recalled the towers of Rhonas Chas and the ache that their beauty had inspired in him—but they were nothing compared to this glorious monument. Impossibly narrow lines swept upward then curved into shapes that inspired in Drakis the image of two elegantly rendered hands reaching into the heavens, holding between them a globe as an offering, the tips of the fingers pressed together to form the uppermost top of the tower.
“By the gods!” Drakis gasped in wonder. He turned, calling to their guide at the back of the first boat. “What is this place, Ishander?”
The youth’s gaze was fixed forward, his jaw set. “It is . . . just another ruin of the lost time. It is nothing.”
“Nothing?” Drakis was incredulous. “Surely it has a name!”
“No name,” Ishander said flatly. “We must go on.”
“There isn’t the equal of this in all the known empires and kingdoms . . . not in Aeria, Oerania or Exylia,” Ethis said, a tone of suspicion slipping into his voice. “You have known the names of nearly every broken stone on the banks of the river from Pythar to the Cascades . . . and yet you do not know the name . . .”
“It is the Koram Devnet,” the Lyric said cheerfully.
Drakis turned to the Lyric in surprise. The woman had sat silently in the bottom of the second boat for the last three days, not saying a word to anyone since her outburst in the sanctuary of the Fordrim.
“Koram . . . what?”
“Koram Devnet,” the Lyric replied with a smile. “It was built by the Third Dynasty King almost two thousand years ago and would long ago have fallen to ruin except that the Aether defended it for centuries, holding its structure in place and protecting it from assault. It was a symbol of the unification of Khorypistan, Tyrania, and Armethia. In the ancient speech it means ‘Unity at the Divergence.’”
“Divergence?” Jugar puzzled, his brows furrowed. “What divergence?”
“The divergence of the Rivers Tyra and Havnis,” the Lyric answered happily.
“She’s right,” Ethis shouted, gazing from the bow. “The river splits near the base of the tower.”
Drakis looked back at Ishander. “Which way do we go?”
Ishander stood still, his gaze fixed beyond the bow.
“Ishander!” Drakis barked.
The startled boy jerked at the sound.
“Which river do we take?”
Ishander blinked at Drakis, rainwater running down his face. “You are always asking me questions! I am not your keeper!”
“But you are our guide,” Urulani said, her anger and frustration boiling out in her voice. “That is your station on this expedition—guide us!”
“Tell us which river,” Drakis insisted, making his way quickly aft in the second boat, threatening to leap across to where Ishander stood. “Right? Left? Which one?”
“I am a Far-runner of the Ambeth!” the boy shouted in defiance. “You cannot speak to me with such insolence!”
Drakis stared across at the youth, understanding dawning on his face. “You don’t know, do you?”
Ishander refused to answer.
“You were as much surprised to see this tower as we were, weren’t you?” Drakis continued. “You didn’t know its name, and you don’t know which river to take . . . because you’ve never been here before—you’ve never even heard of it before, isn’t that right?”
Ishander stood tall, but Drakis could see that his limbs were shaking visibly. “I am a Far-runner of the Ambeth! My father . . . my father was the greatest of the Far-runners. He traveled the rivers to the ends of the world! He sought the Citadels of Light . . .”
“Yes, he sought them . . . but he never found them, did he?” Drakis pressed. “Maybe he told you what he knew . . . as far as he had run and returned but then he left to ‘run-far’ and he ran too far and never returned.”
“He would have returned,” Ishander shouted. “He knew the river and the far-roads! He knew the way to the Citadels beyond the Fordrim clans! He told me when he left . . .”
Drakis called through the rain to Ethis at the other bow. “Is there a landing near the tower?”
“Yes!” Ethis called back. “It looks like a sand bar spit extending out between the rivers.”
“Get us untied!” Drakis ordered. “Ethis, can you pilot that boat?”
“The chimerian got us down the cascade,” Jugar answered before Ethis could speak. “He can certainly get us to some sandy shore.”
Drakis flashed a grim smile at the memory. He turned toward Urulani. “Make for the tower. We’ll put in there.”
“And then what?” Ethis asked.
“And then I don’t know,” Drakis replied. “I don’t think any of us know.”
The dwarf had hobbled his way directly to the tower the moment he landed ashore. Now he stood in the rain on the hard, slick stone stairs, leaning heavily on the makeshift crutch and glaring up at the closed gates before him.
“Tantalizing, isn’t it?”
The dwarf turned awkwardly on his crutch toward Ethis. “Aye, it is most certainly a delectable and frustrating invitation.”
“You still cannot open the gates, can you?” The chimerian’s words were less a question than a statement.
“I have, I will admit, been giving the problem considerable thought,” Jugar mused, his gaze returning to the gates. They stood at the top of a set of broad stairs obscured by dead leaves and debris. The ornate doors were of stone, their hue darker than the stained, paler stone of the tower itself. The doors were carved with a frieze of men and dragons at war near the bottom, then laying down their arms in the central sections and, finally, engaging in peaceful pursuits at the topmost panels. The doorway itself formed a great oval, partially truncated at the bottom where it fit in a nearly perfect seal against the top of the approaching stairs.
“As fine a stone workmanship as I have ever seen,” Jugar huffed. “Curse them!”
“Is there no other way inside?” Ethis asked.
“I’ve conducted a most thorough examination of the tower from its various aspects,” the dwarf continued as much to himself as to the chimerian next to him. “There appear to be a number of openings near the top of the structure—about that area where the palms look to be pressed together and from that pearl as an orb held between them—but nothing so low that it might present an opportunity to even one of your unique talents. This appears to be the only opening, and it is sealed against us. If only I had my . . . oh, it’s useless to consider.”
“Had your what?” Ethis asked.
“My stone,” the dwarf whined. “Th
e Heart of Aer!”
“Your rock opens gates?” Ethis asked, affecting a casual manner.
“In this case, it might,” Jugar growled. “See here, chimerian! These doors are one piece—or appear to be one piece, held in place by the mechanism within. That mechanism was given its motive force in a disgracefully wasteful manner from the Aether that once flowed through this land. But now that the Aether is gone, there is no means by which the mechanism may be moved. No magic—no door.” The dwarf looked up at Ethis, seeing that the chimerian had folded both sets of his arms in front of him, apparently considering their dilemma. Jugar nodded behind them past the ruined lawn and overtaken garden toward where Drakis had set up camp by the river. “So, what about the rest of them? Have they made a decision?”
“About which river to take?” Ethis shook his head. “No. They aren’t even sure which river is called Tyra and which is the Havnis—as though that would do them any good.”
The two stood staring up at the tower for a moment, the rain falling around them.
“I’d best help with the boats,” Ethis said at last as he turned and walked away. “Good luck with the tower.”
The Far-runner of the Ambeth sat on a rock overlooking the river, his arms hugging his knees to his chest. He had turned his back on the great tower that rose up behind him, well above the trees. He had turned his back on the boats still being secured to the shoreline.
“Ishander?” Ethis said quietly.
“Go away,” the youth said.
“I need your help.”
Ishander shook his head. “I am no help.”
“But you are,” Ethis said, keeping his eyes averted. “We could not have gotten this far without you. We cannot go on without your help now.”
“You lie, bendy.”
Ethis chuckled. “No, I don’t. You are a Far-runner of the Ambeth. Please, I need help and you are the only one who can do this for me . . . for all of us.”
“What is this help you need?” Ishander asked.
“Ishander,” Jugar said brusquely, “I’m rather busy at the moment so if you wouldn’t mind going back to the boats and . . .”
“Old dwarf,” Ishander said quickly. “If I were to ask your pardon, would you grant it?”
The dwarf looked up at the young human.
“You are a most curious being of your race,” Jugar said with a frown. “Dwarves do not forgive easily but if you are willing to make amends, then I would feel duty bound, as your companion on this journey, to consider it in the balance.”
“Then that will have to be my best hope,” Ishander sighed. He reached into a pouch he had slung over his shoulder.
“I’m not sure that I am entirely following what . . .”
When he pulled out his hand, it held the black, faceted stone.
Jugar’s eyes widened. He smiled in wonder.
“I am sorry,” Ishander said.
The dwarf snatched the stone from the young human, grinning down at it as he stroked it in his hands. When he looked up at Ishander, a shadow of anger and suspicion tempered his joy, but Jugar held it in check when he spoke. “Oh, no matter now, my boy. You’ve done right by me after all.”
“Will this help us?” Ishander asked.
The dwarf’s grin broadened again. “Just see if it doesn’t!”
Jugar struggled up the stairs, nearly pitching backward once when his crutch caught on one of the stone treads but Ishander quickly righted him. The dwarf stood up to the door, holding the mystical black stone in one hand and pressing against the door with the other.
The great gateway door made surprisingly little sound as it slid backward into the opening and then sideways leaving the oval open as though no door had filled it just moments before. The dwarf and the young human both stepped inside, the dwarf gleefully calling a glowing ball into existence at the tips of his fingers.
“Ah,” Jugar murmured with satisfaction, “it feels good to draw from the stone once more.”
Inside, they stood at the bottom of a great rotunda extending upward, the ceiling lying beyond the reach of the dwarf’s lit globe. A grand staircase curved upward into the darkness around the perimeter of the rotunda.
“We shall have to make that climb and get our bearings,” Ishander said as he tried to gauge its height.
“Perhaps,” Jugar chuckled as he pointed. “But the treasure is down here.”
The dwarf hobbled across the rotunda, his globe illuminating a collection of baskets, small wooden boxes and earthen jars. Some of the jars were broken, but a good deal more were intact.
“These can’t have been here long,” Ishander said.
“Long enough,” Jugar replied, examining the markings on the boxes. “They are the very supplies we need. Some of it is spoiled, to be sure, but there should be enough salvageable.”
“Enough to continue on!” Ishander crowed.
“Continue on . . . to where?” Jugar asked.
Ishander was grinning again. “See this . . . carving atop this wooden box. It says we’re to take the right-hand fork of the river. That’s where he went—and it tells that this way is where the Citadel is to be found.”
“How is that possible?” Jugar said, peering at the carving on the box.
“Because all of these boxes are marked in his name,” Ishander said, motioning around him. “Each one is marked ‘Pellender.’”
“Pellender?” Jugar repeated in astonishment. “Your father?”
“Yes, he came this way and left these supplies,” Ishander nodded with excitement.
Jugar grinned as well. “And we know one thing more about him, my boy—that he has been to the Citadels before.”
“He has?” Ishander asked.
“Obviously! Because he left his supplies in here,” Jugar pointed out. “And he would have needed to have magic to open the door and put them here!”
CHAPTER 33
Backs to the Sea
“WE HAD A DEAL,”Vendis said in crisp, clipped tones. “It was agreed on the word of the Pajak of Krishu. Our bargain is as unbreakable as his word!”
Soen looked away with a slight smile. He sat cross-legged behind the chimerian and the rest of the Pilgrim delegation on one of the many rugs that had been spread over the ground and now formed the floor of the Jhagi—the goblin equivalent of the command tents, which the elves themselves used in the field. Vendis sat with his legs crossed as well, with all four of his fists balled up and resting on his hips. The idea that anyone would take the word of a goblin—especially a Pajak of any of the various Nordesian tribes—was the source of temporary, if unfortunately ironic, amusement to the discredited Iblisi.
The delegation seated just in front of Soen consisted of Vendis, Tsojai Acheran, and Braun. The Grahn Aur had invited Soen in case any discussion of the mission itself became part of the negotiation—his presence granted over the objection of Tsojai.
Not, it now appeared, that they would ever even get to that part of the negotiation.
The Jhagi tent in which they met was approximately the same size as most command tents which Soen had had occasion to visit during his many journeys on behalf of his Order but given the diminutive size of the goblins themselves, the tent seemed extravagant and ostentatious. Small shields that barely qualified as a buckler to his elven eye hung on each of the tent poles. There were curtained compartments all along the back of the tent, each dividing veil replete with golden embroidery or colorful batik patterns. Ornate and elaborate lamps hung from the pinnacle of the tent poles as much to be seen as to illuminate. Elaborate tapestries were arranged on each of the walls of the tent, most primarily ornamental, but others, Soen noted, were detailed maps of Nordesia, Glachold, and Port Glorious.
Central to every aspect of both the tent and, it seemed, the encampment was the ornate throne of embossed gold and silver that sat in the center. It was set at the apex of two phalanxes of goblin warriors ; each of their brick-red-colored faces glaring at Soen and Vendis in turn. There were perhaps two
hundred of these warriors inside the tent, each wearing the thick, black leather skirt, polished to a shine, and the matching black leather breastplate over the crimson tunic of the Wyvern Riders.
Several actual wyverns—ugly beasts to Soen’s eye—were corralled inside the tent to one side. Wyverns had been the goblins’ warrior mounts as far back as the Age of Mists. Flightless beasts with too-small leathery wings, they nevertheless had powerful flanks and long legs that carried them with devastating swiftness across terrain the elves could barely navigate. Their lengthy, barbed tails gave a painful sting, and their small heads at the end of long, scaly necks had a snout filled with sharp teeth. There had been speculation among the Iblisi regarding whether these wyverns were an offshoot of the legendary dragons of the north or a different species altogether. What was known about them, however, was that once trained they were fearless in battle, could outrun man or elf, and were devoted to their riders so completely that a trained goblin could ride his wyvern into battle with both hands free to either fire his bow or wield his Krish—a long-handled, bladed device that could be used as either a spear or a cutting weapon.
In the center of all this, a goblin wearing a thick fleece vest sat atop the throne, his face darker than its usual brick-red color though his wide mouth was twisting into various forms of amusement as he spoke. “The Pajak of Krishu is a mighty warrior who laughs at the weak and does not deal with the dead. He says that you had a deal with him which you cannot enforce nor put to his advantage as you once claimed.”
The fact that it was the Pajak of Krishu that was seated on the throne saying these words with such condescension did not improve the chimerian’s mood.
“Does the Pajak understand that all the people of our nation have been moving toward the Mistral Bay on the understanding of the Pajak’s bargain with us?” Vendis continued. “There are women and children among them who are in need of food and shelter. All their hopes for deliverance rest on this expedition to the northern lands across the waters!”
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