Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms

by Bevan McGuiness

  ‘Do you want to spend the rest of your life scrubbing pots in the kitchen beside Onaven?’

  Hinrik shook his head miserably.

  ‘Good. I know what a Bane is supposed to do, so I can tell you when you are unsure.’

  ‘But …’

  Myrrhini held up a finger to forestall the rest of the sentence. ‘No more complaining.’ She crossed the floor towards him and he backed away again. ‘All right,’ she snapped. ‘Let’s get it out in the open so there is no misunderstanding. You do not have to wash me or dress me. I am quite capable of both of those tasks. You will not have to deal with anything beyond the ritual tasks laid down by the Acolytes.’

  Hinrik’s relief was palpable.

  For a moment, Myrrhini felt a pang of disappointment. ‘I might need some help with the braiding, but I am sure we can work something out when we need to.’

  ‘I see. So, what do you want me for?’

  ‘Your intelligence.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Two reasons. One, I want to have interesting conversations sometimes, and two … I need some help with something I am doing.’

  ‘Oh?’ Hinrik looked interested.

  Myrrhini gestured for him to come into her room, then to close the door behind him. He complied.

  ‘What do you know about the ancient Mertian language?’

  ‘Which one?’

  Myrrhini frowned, then smiled. ‘We are going to do fine together,’ she declared. ‘Now, go to the library and bring me these books while I get changed.’

  Hinrik looked down at Myrrhini’s nightdress. When he looked up, he found Myrrhini gazing at him with an odd expression on her face. He blushed, reached out, took the list from her hand and fled.

  Myrrhini stood staring at the closed door for a while, wondering what it was about her that could inspire fear, nervousness and a blush. She looked down at her nightdress. It was a simple white shift that reached to the floor. Unpatterned and unadorned in any way, it was, to her eye, about as interesting as a curtain. Yet Hinrik had blushed when she caught him looking at it. Shaking herhead, she went back into her bedroom and changed.

  When Hinrik returned with the books she had requested, she directed him to put them on the table where she was seated. Already laid out before her were paper and charcoal. Hinrik looked at what was on the pages with interest.

  ‘And you are translating the original Mertian language?’ he asked.

  Myrrhini nodded.

  ‘How is this helping?’ Hinrik pointed to a book of the history of C’sobra.

  ‘The language is made up of pictures and stylised images. I am looking for anything in the surrounding countries that might have been derived from them. Odd phrases or unexpected words, anything that seems out of place. You can do that if you like. Also,’ she hesitated, ‘if you could make a sketch of the towns and roads, that sort of thing, in C’sobra, it might give a clue about where the language might have gone.’ She had practised this seemingly offhand remark several times but now that she had said it, it did not seem quite right. There was something too casual about it, yet when she dared a look up at Hinrik, he gave a bemused shrug and pulled up another chair.

  She showed him her drawings of the six images that were on the front page of the ancient manuscript. ‘These are pictograms; I call them the archer, the tall man, the gate, the julle, the wheel and the bird.’

  Hinrik frowned. ‘They look a lot like some Tusemon symbols.’

  ‘What do they mean?’

  ‘The Tusemon ones?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This one,’ he pointed at the wheel symbol, ‘refers to weaponry and military equipment. This one, the bird, is sometimes used to refer to a city.’

  ‘And this one, the archer?’

  Hinrik shook his head. ‘I have seen something like it, but I can’t recall it.’ He hesitated. ‘You know, if I were to name that symbol, I would have called it a sorcerer, rather than an archer. You see, there, what looks like a bow could be a wand or a staff, and there, that could be a scroll, rather than a quiver.’

  Myrrhini looked anew at the symbol. In a few words, Hinrik had done more than she had achieved in several days. Why didn’t I ask before like Koslea said? Asking for help had never even occurred to her. Even after Koslea suggested it, she barely gave his words heed.

  Myrrhini turned back to the books. They worked together, Hinrik on drawing a detailed map of the surrounding area, while Myrrhini pored over the history and literature of Tusemo. Armed with the clue of Tusemon characters, she had shifted her search there.

  It was soon after Koude had brought them a simple midday meal that she had a sudden thought: the old poem left for her by a previous Eye. She seemed to recall a series of drawings that she had dismissed as mere doodles running along the edges of the pages. Could they have been more? In her rush of excitement, she forgot herusual caution and made her way quickly into her bedroom to extract the scroll from its hiding place.

  She unrolled it on the table and looked carefully at the symbols adorning its edges. Yes, there they were, scattered among many others just like them: the archer, the tall man, the gate, the julle, the wheel and the bird. Myrrhini held the page up to the light and as she did so, she saw that there were symbols drawn very faintly within the text of the poem.

  ‘What is that?’ Hinrik asked.

  ‘An old poem I found,’ Myrrhini replied.

  Myrrhini was trying to make out the symbols within the text. They were all drawn in the gaps between the words. She wondered if the words following, or preceding, the symbol might be its meaning.

  ‘Give me a new sheet of paper and a charcoal stick,’ she said.

  Hinrik complied and Myrrhini started to copy down the symbols and the words either side of them. Time passed quickly as she furiously scribbled. She took no notice of Hinrik’s intense interest, and his occasional jotted notes. Myrrhini was only aware of her increasing frustration.

  Finally, she finished copying every symbol in the poem and threw down her charcoal stick in dismay. It shattered as it crashed onto the table.

  ‘Ice and wind!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s not right.’

  ‘No, I agree,’ Hinrik said.

  ‘Look at that. Three different symbols have the same words after them, and six have the same words before them.’ She dropped her head ontothe table with a dull thud and breathed heavily. Her disappointment was like a dagger thrust, so sharp was the pain. She had so wanted there to be a message hidden in the text of the old poem, so desperately needed something to give her hope that she could decipher the old language.

  ‘Myrrhini,’ Hinrik said softly, resting his hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You have set yourself a huge undertaking. It will take a long time and a lot of effort.’

  Myrrhini did not hear a single word he said after her name. The sense of his hand, warm and alive on her shoulder, the sound of her name said so gently, drove everything else out of her mind. She sat motionless, feeling his touch, listening to the sound of his voice without hearing his words.

  He increased the pressure of his touch slightly. A shake. He thought she was asleep!

  ‘I’m not asleep, Hinrik,’ she muttered, hoping her voice would not make him take his touch away.

  It didn’t. He left his hand where it was, the warmth of his skin slowly making its way through her clothes, taking away some of the incessant chill. Even here, in her own room, fully clothed, she realised she was still not warm enough.

  ‘You’ve done well, Myrrhini,’ Hinrik said. ‘It’s late. Should I get some food sent here?’

  Myrrhini raised her head. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Do that.’

  Myrrhini was still slumped over her work when Koslea entered the room. His face was impassive and his eyes never left hers as he spoke. ‘I have brought you your meal, as you requested, Eye of Varuun.’

  ‘Thank you, Koslea. Please come in.’

  He carried the tray to the table, still strewn with books
and pages. On top of the pile was her most recent, unsuccessful, attempt at the old poem.

  ‘I see you are still working on the ancient language. You are aware that speaking it is forbidden?’

  Myrrhini nodded as she shoved the papers and books aside to make space for the tray. Koslea put the tray down, his eyes flickering over the newly revealed papers.

  ‘Your research is quite wide-ranging,’ he said.

  ‘I am curious.’

  ‘More so than I had realised.’

  Myrrhini shrugged.

  ‘Eye of Varuun,’ he said abruptly.

  Something in his tone made her look up sharply. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I feel I must warn you about your studies.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are getting close, I fear, to incurring the wrath of the Arms.’

  A veiled threat.

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘The ancient language is forbidden for a reason. And the Arms will only tolerate so much of your deliberate flouting of the rules. For you to include Hinrik in your —’ he waved his hand across the table with its pages of notes, half-drawn maps and scrawled drawings ‘— activities, is unwise.’ His eye rested on the old poem and stopped. ‘What is that?’ he demanded.

  Myrrhini froze. ‘A poem,’ she said.

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘I found it.’

  Koslea rose and took the old page in his hand. ‘You stupid, stupid child,’ he whispered. ‘Did you show this to Hinrik?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You idiot!’ Koslea bellowed. ‘How could you be so stupid?’ He tore the page in fury and ripped the old poem into shreds. ‘You have sealed your own fate!’ He turned from the table and strode to the door, wrenching it open. ‘Get the Arms, now!’ he cried.

  He whirled away from the door and to Myrrhini’s utter horror, gathered every page of her notes in his arms and tossed them all into the fire. She threw herself across the room in an attempt to rescue them, but Koslea was too fast and too strong. He held her hard against him while her pages curled, blackened and burst into flames before her eyes. Tears blurred her vision.

  She hardly felt the hard hands of the Arms of Varuun as she was dragged out of her room.

  ‘I’ve done all I can. Remember the julle, Myrrhini,’ Koslea called out to her.

  23

  Once Ileki was set apart as a sorcerer, his weapons training was reduced and he spent more time inside with the other sorcerers, learning attack and defence spells. Slave only saw him at meal times and at night.

  They never spoke of Ileki’s revelation, but it played heavily on Slave. The more he wrestled with the problem, the clearer an answer became, but it was an answer he did not like.

  It was several days later, just as the sun was setting and he was nearly finished training for the day, that the same heavy-handed guard came to Slave and summoned him once more into Slaaj’s room. This time there were seven others in the room as well. Ileki was among their number.

  Slaaj rose from behind his desk when Slave arrived and started speaking.

  ‘There is an important guest visiting Vogel. He is staying with the San Roos and tonight he wants to do whatever it is that important visitors do. You will escort him, protect him and bring him safely back.

  ‘This guest is from Rilamo. His name is Laird Wilfred, and he is to be addressed only as Laird. I do not know what his tastes in entertainment are, so be flexible and accommodating. As you know there are always idiots who want to reopen old wounds, so it is possible the Laird may meet some rudeness. Your job is to keep him away from such rudeness.

  ‘Kooy, you are in command. Keep an eye on Slave.’

  Kooy was the swordmaster, a lean, hard man with long black hair shot through with grey, tied with a thin gold chain into a ponytail that extended almost to the small of his back. He accepted Slaaj’s instructions with only a slow blink and a glance at Slave.

  Slave returned the glance with a shrug. He had sparred with the swordmaster and knew he had the man’s measure. If Kooy was the only thing standing between him and something he wanted to do, there would be little delay.

  ‘You have a job. Go there, come back, make me money.’ Slaaj gave them his customary farewell and waved them out.

  Slave was uncomfortable in the grey leather uniform. The jerkin was laced tightly over his chest, the trousers were constricting and the boots felt too small. Everything about the uniform felt restrictive, which, he felt, was part of the point of a uniform.

  As he followed Kooy and the others on their way through the city he let his hand rest on his Claw. It helped him feel more at ease under thescrutiny of those who made way for them as they passed. It seemed that everyone stared at him specifically, then looked quickly away when he returned their look. The constant sense of being observed, not just watched, but observed, noticed, judged, commented upon, started to wear on him. He became edgy and nervous, and felt himself getting distracted. His skin started to tingle, as it had done in the vorbyndjaarge.

  ‘Ileki,’ he hissed.

  The Reader looked around quickly. ‘What is it, Slave?’

  ‘I feel like I did when my master found me.’

  ‘He was always going to try to find you again, but he won’t.’

  ‘He did last time.’

  Ileki shook his head. ‘There is more protecting you than just me this time.’

  Kooy shot them a hard glare, ending their conversation.

  When they arrived at the large, imposing mansion of San Roos, they were stopped at the gate by two guards in bright livery.

  ‘What do you want, mercenaries?’ asked the older of the two guards.

  ‘Laird Wilfred,’ Kooy replied evenly.

  The guard who had spoken jerked his head, indicating the younger guard should go and pass on the message.

  The Laird arrived without fanfare, walking with the guard through the garden towards the gate.

  ‘Ah, my escorts for the evening,’ he drawled. Laird Wilfred was a short, rotund man with elaborately coiffed hair and stylish clothes. He carried a cane in his left hand and a white handkerchief in his right. As he spoke, he raised the handkerchief to his mouth. ‘Let us go and sample the fun that Vogel can offer at night, shall we?’

  Kooy gave a short bow of acknowledgement and stepped back to allow the Laird to precede him.

  ‘Excellent,’ the Laird said. ‘A lovely night for a stroll, is it not?’

  ‘Indeed, Laird,’ Kooy replied.

  The Laird strolled ahead with Kooy walking beside him. He chatted amiably and volubly, in his high-pitched, slightly nasal voice. Kooy replied mainly with monosyllables or grunts. His lack of interaction did not seem to bother the Laird, or impede his ability to chatter. He led them into the same part of the city as the Lan had taken Slave and Ileki to earlier.

  They did not go to the same place, however — they went to a drinking house. The Laird made his way to the main bar and ordered himself a drink while Kooy placed the team around the room at strategic locations.

  The Laird quickly drained his cup and looked around. If he had noticed the way that the other drinkers had fallen to quiet muttering on his entrance and were slowly edging away from him, he gave no appearance of having done so. He smiled broadly at anyone who happened to look his way, the smile not dimming as every glance was quickly averted.

  Finally, his eyes met Slave’s. He was visibly surprised at the face that returned his stare, but instead of looking away, he beckoned Slave forwards. Slave walked across the room to join him.

  ‘A drink for my mysterious dark friend, if you please,’ the Laird called.

  The barman grunted and placed a brimming glass in front of Slave.

  ‘Drink up,’ the Laird said cheerfully. ‘Otherwise I will be drinking alone here among these Lac’uns with such long memories and unforgiving hearts.’

  ‘And why should they be so unforgiving?’ Slave asked as he sipped his drink. Whatever answer the Laird gave was los
t in Slave’s violent coughing fit.

  ‘Ice and wind!’ Slave gasped. ‘What is this?’

  The Laird laughed cheerfully and slapped Slave on the back. ‘Aha,’ he cried. ‘I knew it! You are not a local. Every Vogel man prides himself at being able to down this swill they call a drink without his eyes watering.’

  Slave wiped his eyes and face. ‘What is that?’ he repeated, gesturing at the glass.

  ‘They call it “The Tears of Vogel” or usually just Tears. It was invented, so the story goes, just after the ancient city of Vogel was razed by the forces of Rilamo, about three hundred Crossings ago. My guess is the kind barman here gave it to you as something of a jibe at me, I fear.’

  ‘Three hundred Crossings seems a long time to be unforgiving,’ Slave commented.

  ‘Indeed it does, my dark friend, indeed it does.’

  ‘So why did the forces of Rilamo raze the ancient city of Vogel, so long ago?’ Slave asked.

  ‘Again, you proclaim your foreignness,’ the Laird exclaimed. ‘No Lac’un would ever deign to ask the question that has no answer.’

  Slave shook his head. ‘You are unclear.’

  ‘If you ask a Lac’un why thousands of people who are now long dead and totally unrelated to me destroyed their fair, ancient city, he will tell you the Rilamans were jealous of Vogel’s status and wealth. Standing here on the coast of the Silvered Sea, with its limitless water and fertile lands, replete in its self-sufficiency. But of course, Rilamo has its own coastline, its own water, and a history every bit as grand as the one Lac’u boasts. No, Vogel was destroyed because of its great evil.’ The Laird theatrically lowered his voice. ‘There is a darkness here, mercenary, to match the evil anywhere in this world. The Rilaman army swept across the Silvered Sea to fall on this city and excise all traces of the ancient maleficence that had dwelt here since the first stones were laid in its accursed foundations.’

  All traces of murmuring had stopped as the Laird spoke, so that his final pronouncements were made into silence. He realised this as he slammed his glass down on the bar to emphasise his words. In the quiet, the Laird looked around.

  ‘So they say, of course,’ he muttered. ‘It is all ancient history. No one knows the truth any more. Such things are all just conjecture now.’