by Jeff Wheeler
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
X
Paedrin studied the Empress as he dipped his fingers into the bowl of mashed grain and scooped it into his mouth. The flavor of the mush was interesting and heavily flavored with a variety of ground spices. It was nothing he had enjoyed in Kenatos, and he found the dried fruit and figs sweet and pleasant to the taste. The Empress offered a steaming dish of some sort of sliced cactus to Hettie, who wrinkled her nose slightly and motioned that she was full. The Empress served each of them herself, bringing an assortment of trays and offering varieties, explaining what it was first before setting the remains in the center of the circle for all to enjoy.
He was impressed with her attitude of service. There was no throne she ruled from. There were no courtiers or banners or vats of spiced wine. She lived amidst a legion of suffering souls, and yet she tended to each of Tyrus’s band personally, offering her thanks and gratitude one by one.
Paedrin was impressed, his experience here vying with the training he had received and his own encounter with the ruthless Boeotian horde. Deep in a flame-lit cavern in the bowels of the earth, he saw a leader more humble than a Bhikhu. And that was saying something.
The mushy grain was new to him. She had called it orkair and the taste was pleasing. There was little flesh with the meal, which was mostly an arrangement of things that could be preserved—olives, apricots, pickles, and an array of nuts and cooked beans. They were all subtly salted or dusted with sweet powder. It was delicious.
He ate silently, watching her serve, until the last tray was done before she seated herself next to Tyrus and Mathon. With her right hand only, she took some figs and began to enjoy the meal herself, the last to eat.
“How do you keep track of the time down in the caverns?” Tyrus asked, anxious to continue the conversation.
She shook her head. “We sleep when we feel like sleeping. Awake when it feels appropriate. There is no time in Boeotia. There are no crops to grow or tend. What we eat grows wild and replenishes itself. The seasons come and go, and the greater part of our people move from one place to another. What is time, Tyrus, truly?”
The Empress’s gaze swept around the circle. “These are your accommodations. There are no palaces to sleep in. You can leave by Tay al-Ard if you desire, but I encourage you to ride the camels to the borders of the Scourgelands. As a caravan, you will least likely be disturbed. My word is not always obeyed outside this place. I prepared for you what I could.”
“You are generous,” Prince Aran said. He looked at her with grave respect. “My people have long fought against yours. Trust that I will remedy that when I return to Silvandom. We have never sought to kill, but I can see that it has given us the impression of weakness, instead of strength. Perhaps one day there will be peace between us.”
The Empress bowed her head. “I thank you, wise Prince.”
Tyrus left the food and turned to face her. “You mentioned that the culture of Boeotia was created to foster the remembrance of our mutual enemy. Help me understand.”
Paedrin had a feeling that Tyrus already understood it, but that he was seeking to draw her out more, to explain some facets of her culture so the rest could be aware of it.
“We are all ruled by emotions. One of the most powerful is a state called enmity, which I spoke of earlier. It is irrational, deeply rooted, and can endure generations. It is fostered by a lack of trust in anyone outside our own culture. When there is enmity, we tend to see only the faults in others, and our own virtues. My ancestors realized that the knowledge they possessed about our enemy could eventually, over time, be compromised. Empress Kosonin saw one of the enemy’s tactics was to mistranslate books, to deliberately cause errors in understanding or destroy knowledge to prevent it from being shared. She saw this in the pattern I mentioned to you, how he and his followers sought out any references to himself and eliminated them. References to Mirrowen were also destroyed to prevent those from seeking that place. One cannot seek it if one does not know it even exists.”
Annon—the true Annon, Paedrin realized with chagrin—looked up at this and nodded. “The Druidecht do not inscribe our lore. It must be memorized and passed down verbally.”
“Precisely,” she replied with a tone of approval. “Well said.”
Paedrin saw how Annon flushed with pride at her praise and realized she had done so on purpose. Even her tone of voice was calculated for effect. She was a charming woman, but he wondered if they were seeing her true self or an image she wanted them to see.
“To be clear then,” Tyrus went on, “your aim is not to destroy Kenatos or its books?”
She nodded sagely. “Our aim has been to liberate its imprisoned people, including the spirit-kind trapped into service by the Paracelsus order. While I disagree with the philosophy behind harnessing spirit magic, I am grateful your knowledge helped liberate us from the influence of the Greilich. You can begin to imagine how tiresome it is having a being perpetually trying to influence your thinking.” She grinned at him.
“A tiresome thing indeed. We have been doing that to each other since we met.” He returned her shrewd smile with one of his own. “Thank you for your hospitality. While I do feel you manipulated me into helping you, it was deftly done and I was not coerced. You are wiser than any of the rulers in the kingdoms I have met thus far.”
“Thank you,” she said demurely, her expression betraying no hint of self-satisfaction. Paedrin was amazed by her.
“Tell me,” Paedrin said, speaking up. “What has prevented you from sacking . . . I should say liberating Kenatos by now?” He meant it as a harmless joke and she seemed to take it that way.
“Our enemy’s wisdom in founding the city in the middle of the lake. By the time we knew of it, the defenses were already formidable. The loyalty and honor of the Vaettir are also an effective shield. They can float over our armies and cross the lake ahead of us, no matter how hard we try to siege her. Attempts to build barges have failed. The navy of Kenatos is very efficient and lethal. Building a bridge is also impossible for we lack the skill and the patience. We are not a serious threat to the city. Nor have we been. If there was a way we could help you, Tyrus, I would order another attack on the city. If that would help draw his focus on us, it might be worth doing it, even if we had no hope of victory.”
Shion spoke in his naturally quiet, stately voice. “There is a way.”
Paedrin sat up straight, staring at the quiet man. Baylen looked at Paedrin in surprise, pursing his lips, and then turned to listen more closely. Everyone stopped eating.
“What do you mean?” Tyrus asked, his expression curious.
Shion brushed dust from his trousers. “Only the Arch-Rike’s most trusted men know of it. Even the fleet commanders are kept in ignorance. At low tide, there is a band of ground that leads to the island, behind the Arch-Rike’s palace. It is completely submerged, but shallow enough to cross the lake on foot.”
Stunned silence fell across the group assembled. The Empress’s eyes twinkled with the news, her expression slowly brightening like a sunrise. “Can this be true?”
Shion nodded. “I have used it to exit the city unawares. There are no ferrymen near it and very little shore to help conceal it. It was created in secret long ago, in case the Arch-Rike was ever deposed and needed to bring an army to reclaim the city. As I said, it is a carefully guarded secret.” He then went quiet, bowing his head and picking at a bowl of figs.
The Empress stared at him, trying to discern something from his expression. She waited, letting the power of silence work against him. Paedrin covered a smile. She did not realize that Shion was known as the Quiet Kishion.
“What you have given me,” she whispered in a husky voice, “is a treasure beyond any expectation. If there is a way we can interrupt his war and draw his forces and machinations back to the island, it will help you in your journey into t
he Scourgelands. I must away. Preparations must be made. I must summon the warlords. This changes everything.”
Tyrus looked at her and then nodded. “And Mathon’s knowledge of the city, the Rikes and their ways, will also be of assistance.”
“I would not survive the journey there,” Mathon said hoarsely. “Though I appreciate your confidence in me.”
Tyrus turned and gazed at Khiara, who had been seated quietly all the while, but looked around at the individuals suffering from leprosaria with a pitying expression. She met his gaze, understood his meaning without any words, and nodded her acceptance. Slowly Khiara rose and went around the circle. Paedrin felt a prickle of apprehension run down his back, and he sensed a great power welling up in the Vaettir girl.
“This is Khiara Shaliah,” Tyrus introduced. “Her way of healing, Mathon, is very unlike yours.”
“I have long tried to discover a cure,” Mathon said, his eyes turning almost wild with panic as she approached him. His scabbed face twitched with unsuppressed emotions that could not be deciphered. “I cannot even halt its progress.”
Khiara knelt next to him. She gazed into Mathon’s eyes, taking his measure, as if studying the depth of the curse that afflicted him. The tension in the air thickened, as all eyes—even Kiranrao’s—watched the Shaliah healer. She did not speak, but she took several deep breaths, as if calming herself. Paedrin stared intently, forgetting the bowl of mashed grains nearby. He swallowed thickly, feeling a surge of emotion swell inside him. Compassion? Empathy? It seemed to be radiating from Khiara in waves, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers knotted together.
All were silent.
Khiara lifted her chin, her eyes wet with tears. She nodded once, to herself, and then reached out her hands and touched Mathon’s face, her hands cupping his cheeks.
She whispered in the Vaettir tongue. Paedrin could only make out several audible words interspersed by gasps. By authority . . . through the keramat . . . afflicted soul . . . lesions healed . . . be clean.
A jolt went through Paedrin’s heart and he found himself on his feet, backing away from her as if somehow she had slapped him across the face. He blinked quickly, confused and a little disoriented. He heard the sound of rustling wings. He felt the whisper of breath, like a great sigh in his ear . . . words he could not understand.
Paedrin stared at Mathon in shock. As Khiara removed her hands, another man’s face was revealed. Not a puffy, pockmarked apparition, but a man—clearly Aeduan with a slightly bulbous nose, unkempt dark hair flecked with gray, and a look of complete shock and thrall over his face. As Khiara dropped her hands tiredly into her lap, Mathon stared at his hand, his left hand, and saw that it, too, was free of scab and taint. He still had the stump on his right wrist, but the haggard, wheezing apparition had been replaced by a hale man who looked to be Tyrus’s own age.
Tyrus and Mathon stared at each other, in clear recognition of each other now, and they both rose and embraced fiercely. Paedrin felt his throat tighten into a knot and could not swallow if he tried. The look of gratitude on Mathon’s face—it was beyond Paedrin’s ability to describe. The Empress herself had risen, her hand stifling her own mouth as she stared at her consort and saw the man who had been stolen by the disease long before.
Paedrin felt a tear trickle down his cheek, the moisture surprising him. As he cast his look around, he saw tears in all their eyes . . . except for two. Shion, who bore a look of profound admiration. And Kiranrao, who was not staring at the two forgotten friends, but whose eyes burned into Khiara with a look that was almost unholy in its unbridled greed.
Paedrin, Hettie, and Annon sat together around the flickering coals of the cookfire. The embers were low but cast a dim glow across each of their faces. Nearby, Phae and the Kishion were talking softly together. Tyrus consulted with the Prince and Khiara well out of earshot. Baylen was snoring against a cushion, his big chest heaving with each breath. Nizeera lay next to Annon, her head resting against her front paws dreamily. Kiranrao paced further away, always on the fringe of the group, always restless as if he were ready to kill someone. The Empress and Mathon had left already, disappearing into one of the side tunnels.
“Remember the campfire we shared in the Alkire?” Annon said softly, poking one of the coals with his finger. It always unnerved Paedrin when he did that and was not burned. “When we were so curious about Tyrus’s motives?”
“That was long ago,” Hettie murmured. “We were all sitting there . . . with Erasmus, of course.”
“Who can forget Erasmus,” Paedrin said. He changed his voice to match the Preachán’s. “There is a one-in-sixteen chance it will rain underground.”
Annon stared into the fires, his expression haunted. “I think he understood. At the end of his life, I think he understood what the Arch-Rike really was. He penetrated the illusion.”
“He was always making predictions,” Paedrin said with a chuckle. “My favorites were the odds of surviving the night. He was not an optimistic man.”
“He was realistic,” Annon said. He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. “There are these tombs in Basilides. Each was carved with a name . . . the name of a living ruler. It makes sense to me now. Perhaps the rulers are still alive, trapped in those dark sarcophagi until they die of old age.” He snorted in disgust. “That is how Lukias deceived us so well. I remember seeing the Arch-Rike marching toward the lair of Basilides . . . and that was with Lukias at my side. It was all part of the deception, his attempt to win my trust and bring him to Canton Vaud and the Dryad tree.”
“Sshhh,” Hettie said, silencing him. “Do not speak of that here. Remember where we are.”
He looked at her and then nodded. “You’re right. Thank you.” He patted her on the leg. “It is so strange to have forgotten so much. I wish I could remember everything Erasmus said.”
Hettie covered his hand with her own. “You did the best you could, Annon.”
“It wasn’t enough,” he replied. He sighed deeply. “I suppose I should not be terribly hurt that I was deceived by someone like Shirikant.” He looked up into their eyes, each in turn. “We must bring him down, though. We must end this cycle of deception and lies. We must win. Think of how many he has murdered over the centuries. Over thousands of years. It is almost more than I can comprehend. How do you defeat a man who cannot be killed?”
Paedrin glanced over at Shion. “Maybe we don’t kill him. But if we can subdue him, strip away his Tay al-Ard, hunt him down like he hunted Tyrus—”
“Have you thought about what our journey means?” Hettie asked. “We are going to the place that protects the portal to Mirrowen. Annon, what can you say about it? What can you tell us?”
He shook his head slowly. “There is no knowledge of the portal that was shared with me. Our lore is secret, though, and can only be shared by someone else in training. I will say what I can. It is a sister-world to ours. It is like a mirror to our own . . . which I believe is why it was named Mirrowen. In that world, beings communicate through thoughts only. With this talisman that I wear, I can hear them while you cannot. Even though the thoughts are not spoken, like we are speaking right now, it is much like hearing . . . whispers. Sometimes you can make out the words. Sometimes you can’t, but you get a sense of the sentiments, the feelings. When we came into these tunnels, I felt the presence of the Greilich. I did not know what it was at the time, but once Tyrus named it, I understood and recalled learning about them in my studies. They are malevolent spirits, thrust out of Mirrowen. Those who will not obey the laws of Mirrowen cannot dwell there.”
“I didn’t know it was spirit magic at the time,” Hettie said. “It felt dangerous, that we’d be killed if we did not escape. Once Tyrus put those stones in place, I noticed a difference then.”
Paedrin scratched his ear, looking back at Annon. “How did Tyrus manage to . . . involve you in the duel? I know about the charm Hettie s
tole in Shatalin to disguise herself, but he did not say anything about it.”
Annon smirked. “But Hettie caught his understanding. She’s more used to subtlety than I am. He said that Annon must face Tasvir Virk. She figured out what he meant without being told.”
Hettie beamed at Annon, then leaned over and gave him a hug. It left Paedrin feeling a little jealous even though Annon was her brother.
“I’m exhausted,” Annon said finally, stifling another yawn. “I’m going to sleep right here. If you two stay up talking and trading insults, can you keep your voices down?”
Paedrin gave him a slightly amused smile, looking back at Hettie in the gloom. So much had happened between them since they had met. So many memories were yet to be made.
“Good night, Paedrin,” she said, drawing out her blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders. Before she lay down, she hesitated a moment, then leaned over and kissed his cheek.
A flush joined his smile.
She was still madly in love with him. All was well in the world.
“The war with Havenrook was brief and ineffectual, as I reported earlier. The surrender was signed between the King of Wayland, the Nobles of Cruithne, and the Preachán hierarchy. It was an interesting truce between these mighty forces. I had expected the King of Wayland to claim the territory, but he graciously conceded it to the Cruithne, who will settle Havenrook and reconstruct the ravaged city. I’m not certain what the King of Wayland gains from this, other than a cessation of hostilities against his trading caravans, which now operate unmolested through the lands. Perhaps that is what he was seeking in the first place. I do not believe the Preachán will appreciate the Cruithne overseers. It is said many are fleeing into the woods of the Alkire.”