“Maybe only the sword has a name like this,” Blakstar suggested, shrugging.
“If the three are keys that we need in order to complete our life’s quest, then it seems logical that they would have something in common,” Thal said.
“What if they are simply keys that open three different doors,” Blakstar noted, “my sword is the key that opens a special cabinet in the Mountain that holds my armor and equipment; what if they are like that?” Blakstar asked.
“Special cabinet?” Thal asked, suddenly eyeing him with more interest.
“The place where my armor was kept,” Blakstar replied, “the keeper told me that if I needed to replace anything, if something was lost or broken, that I was to return to the room and use my sword to open the cabinet where I would find replacement equipment.”
“How does it work?” the white maghi asked.
“There is a small slot,” the kortexi replied, “about the size of the blade. I simply slide the sword into it, and the cabinet opens.”
“Were there any markings on the cabinet or slot?”
“I don’t remember,” Blakstar said after thinking, “I was preoccupied at the time.”
“Too bad,” Thal frowned, tapping his chin thoughtfully with one finger, “it might help me deduce more.”
“Do you think that we will seek the rod first?” Blakstar asked after a short silence.
“There is no need to look,” Thal replied, “as the rod is in a case in Melbarth,” he repeated, forgetting that he had already mentioned this fact. Thal thought a moment. “No, since we are being sent to Shigmar,” he added, “home of the order he founded, I’d guess we will be looking for Shigmar’s staff.” He stopped and tapped his chin again. “The name of the staff is even more difficult than the rod. The principle attribute of a kailu is wisdom and what they do is healing; wisdom is a compound word in the ancient, wedhu, from weid, ‘to see,’ and dhu, ‘to set or put,’ as in setting something in motion or putting something into practice. In many ways, wisdom is putting knowledge into practice, so it combines knowledge and experience. But ‘wisdom’ is a late word, so in the time of Shigmar, it could have been, gnudhu, which is putting knowledge into practice. Healing is to make one whole, so the symbol for it is kailu, which would be the simplest--eli-kailu-ghebi--the ‘One’s giver of health.’”
Blakstar barked a laugh. “And we are still where we were,” he noted, “speculating, and no closer to knowing anything useful.”
The laugh again jerked Thal out of his musings. “You may be right,” he admitted, “but the more we know, the more prepared we are to face whatever Gar places in our way.”
The kortexi nodded, lapsing into silence; the red-haired maghi also fell silent, one finger still tapping his chin; the horses shifted and nickered in turn, joining their masters in the other-worldly silence surrounding them.
A shadow detached itself from the corner of the small room, little more than a closet with a tiny desk; a tall, cloaked figure moved toward the green-robed figure seated at the desk. The seated kailu jumped when the cloaked figure’s cold hand touched the kailu’s shoulder from behind; the kailu apprentice wiped his sweaty face with a red silk handkerchief.
“About time,” he wheezed, “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned me.”
The cloaked figure pulled a chair around next to the desk, sitting and placing his fingertips together in front of his still hooded and shadowed face. The figure lounged rather than sat in the chair; his fingers drumming slowly together. The kailu wiped his face again, sweating even more under the silent scrutiny. The cloaked figure waited for a time before speaking.
“I had more important business to attend to, kerteradi,” the cloaked figure finally said.
“That is not my name!” the kailu protested.
“It is the name of those who sell themselves to the Great Lord, so it is your name,” the figure replied coldly.
The kailu flinched and compulsively wiped his face.
The cloaked figure leaned back and laughed, his mouth and chin, surrounded by a perfectly trimmed brown beard, were momentarily visible. “Never think that the Great Lord has forgotten you, kerteradi,” the figure grasped the arms of the chair and leaned toward the kailu, his voice becoming an ominous whisper, “the Great Lord never forgets those who have sworn into his service, never fails to reward the obedient, never fails to punish those who fail in their assigned tasks.” The figure reached with his right hand toward the kailu, index finger pointing and touching the center of the kailu’s chest; the kailu arched back in his chair, a scream exploding from between his clenched teeth. The cloaked figure pressed his finger harder into the kailu’s chest, causing more writhing and louder screaming, removing his finger a moment later. “Have you forgotten whom you serve?” he whispered.
The kailu still shook, panting and trying to speak. “No, Lord,” he croaked, “but someone might hear: many who saw you here would recognize you,” he managed between pants, “and I would be revealed, ending my usefulness here, to the Great Lord.”
The cloaked figure laughed again. “If that happens, I will kill you myself, but not before you have screamed yourself hoarse and after we have stretched you across the altar and let Mistress Melufa have her way with you, giving your still beating heart to the Great Lord. Do you take me for a fool?”
The kailu fell out of his chair, prostrating himself in front of the cloaked figure. “Never! I serve the Great Lord, and his favored servant.”
The cloaked figure kicked the kailu off his feet. “Get up, kerteradi, and give me your report. How proceeds the Great Lord’s plan?”
The kailu got painfully back into his chair, wiping his face with the red silk, then picking up a mirror off the desk. He looked at the place where the cloaked figure had kicked him, saw a bruise forming under his left eye. “Lord, if people see this bruise they will ask questions.”
“Then heal yourself, kerteradi,” the figure snapped.
“I . . . I cannot,” the kailu admitted.
“Then cover it,” the figure replied. “My patience is not unlimited.”
The kailu flinched, tried to wipe the sweat from his face, but tossed the red silk handkerchief, soaked with sweat, onto the desk. “I did as you instructed,” he reported, “I took my kailu master to the secret glade and showed him the altar.”
“And how did your kailu master respond?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“As you anticipated, he was outraged,” the kailu continued. “I reminded him who was there last, and he vowed to take action. When we returned, he called for a council.”
“Does he have enough votes?”
“Yes.” The kailu wiped his face with the sleeve of his green robe. “The seeds have borne fruit.”
“When he is condemned, signal. The purem and ghelem hordes will be unleashed against Shigmar.”
“But the seklesem?” the kailu asked, hoping not to upset the figure.
The figure laughed again. “Do you think you are the only kerteradi among the Great Lord’s foes? There are others, many others; they will ensure that Shigmar falls and that if the seklesem come, it will be too late even to bury the dead.” The cloaked figure was silent for a moment, tapping his fingertips together before his shadowed face. “What about your little job in the Infirmary?”
“I did as you commanded,” the sweating kailu replied; “it slid into the wound and disappeared, as you said it would.”
“Not even that meddling fool, Avril, will notice,” the figure noted with satisfaction. “You have done well, kerteradi. When the captives are dragged from Shigmar, the Great Lord will make sure you are rewarded with she whom you desire.”
“But what if something goes wrong? Headmaster Myron is notorious for having tricks up his sleeve: what if he pulls off another miracle?”
“Myron has one great weakness,” the figure assured his cringing servant, “everything has been set up to exploit his weakness.”
“What is it?”<
br />
“The law,” the figure replied, “he is a great believer in the law. He will not pull another miracle out of his sleeve when his apprentice has been tried and convicted according to the laws he holds dear. The plan can only fail if you fail, and I know,” the cloaked figure continued slowly, pointing at the kailu’s chest, “you will not fail, for you fear the pain of failure and desire the promised reward with all the fires of your lust: the apprentice’s witch will be yours.”
The kailu’s face lit up; a vision of Klare filled his mind. “You will teach me the red kailu way of mastering the will of another, so that she becomes my willing slave?” he asked in a breathy whisper.
“Yes,” the cloaked figure hissed, “think of her, your willing slave, ready to fulfill your every desire.” The cloaked figure paused, giving the implications time to sink in. “Now, kerteradi, there is one more thing.”
The kailu looked up at the cloaked figure, his cheeks colored with the visions filling his head. “What?” he asked, his desire plain upon his face.
“You must take me to visit your master,” the cloaked figure said.
The vision snapped shut; the kailu leaped out of his chair. “Are you mad?” he shouted.
The cloaked figure raised his arm, finger pointing and moving toward the kailu’s chest; the kailu stumbled backward, trying to avoid the pain he saw coming toward him. “You dare accuse me?” the cloaked figure asked, power and menace filling each word.
The kailu fell again to his knees. “Forgive me, Lord,” he choked, “the vision you called up in my mind distracted me, and your request caught me off guard.” The kailu placed his head on the floor in abjection.
The cloaked figure bent over the kailu groveling at his feet and brushed his fingers across the top of the kailu’s head, giving him only the slightest jolt of pain. “Get up, kerteradi, and take me to your master.”
The kailu got slowly to his feet, eyes on the cloaked figure. “May I ask why?”
“You may ask,” the figure replied, “and I may answer, depending on how quickly you fulfill my command.”
“We will go at once, Lord,” the kailu replied, moving quickly to the door of his room. He opened it only a crack, to view the hall.
“The Great Lord,” the figure continued, “wants to be sure all of the chosen now present in Shigmar are condemned to death, so I will become your master.”
“How is this possible?” the kailu asked in awe.
“To the Great Lord, all things are possible,” the figure replied, naked eagerness revealed in every word.
Chapter 11
The kailu order is governed by the mekala, an assemblage of all kailum that can be gathered to the school within three days of being summoned. Full initiates into the order can only be tried and punished for crimes against the order by the mekala, while matters of school discipline are decided by the council only, consisting of the Headmaster, who chairs the council, along with the five masters. . . .
from Laws of the Kailum
The door opened, and the white-robed novice stepped out of the way, allowing the two young wethem to enter the room. The first was tall and gangly, wild red hair framing his long face; the second was nearly as tall but better built, garbed in white and gold, bearing devices Myron recognized at once as the symbols of Sir Karble, the first kortexi. To Myron’s eyes, the kortexi glowed golden, but there was a hint of darkness at his chest and loins. When Klaybear turned and saw the newcomers, he was hurled back into his chair by some unseen hand, eyes wide, staring, and blank. The wounds on his hand and forehead pulsed with angry red light; a low groan rumbled from deep within the fallen kailu’s chest.
Myron, followed closely by the kortexi, Sir Blakstar, rushed to Klaybear’s side.
“What’s happened?” Blakstar asked.
“Seeing your two faces,” Myron replied, “has thrown him into his vision, where he re-sees your parts in it.”
“Those wounds?” the kortexi asked.
“Given to him by Gar, himself,” the Headmaster replied, “and we have been unable to heal them.”
Without pausing to think, Blakstar removed the special flask from his belt, pulled out the stopper, and poured some of the contents into Klaybear’s open right palm. Klaybear went rigid, and the liquid in his hand started to steam and glow brilliant gold. In seconds the liquid evaporated, and the wound had closed, leaving only a thin red line in the shape of the mark. Myron took Klaybear’s head and tilted it back; Blakstar poured some of the liquid over the wound on his forehead. Again, Klaybear went rigid, and the liquid began to steam and glow. When it evaporated, the wound was closed and only a thin red line in the shape of the mark remained.
“Open his mouth,” Blakstar said.
Myron did, and the kortexi poured some of the liquid in; Klaybear swallowed eagerly, and Blakstar put a hand on his shoulder when the fallen kailu tried to leap to his feet.
“Peace, my friend,” Blakstar said, “the Waters of Life are potent to those who drink them for the first time.”
“Of course!” Myron exclaimed. “The Waters of Life, carried by Sir Karble and the answer to the riddle.”
“What happened?” Klaybear asked, looking around in surprise.
“No time for that now,” Myron replied and took the kortexi by the arm and led him to the two who lay sick. “Her first,” he said, pointing to the seklesa, “she has been infected longer.”
“Where is the wound?” Blakstar asked.
“She was forced to drink it, so her mouth.”
Blakstar nodded, and Myron opened her mouth, allowing the kortexi the space to pour some of the Waters in. Like Klaybear, she swallowed eagerly. Thalamar and Klaybear came and stood at the other side of her bed, watching. The seklesa went rigid, then started to thrash violently.
“Hold her!” Myron barked, grabbing her arm to keep her still, then added, “don’t use your right hand, Klaybear.”
Her convulsions lasted for a minute and then she went limp; steam and brilliant golden light emanated from her, and as the steam rose from her skin, her skin was whole and healed, but as the steam cleared, the blackness reasserted itself, and the right half of her face, although healed, deformed. The hair on the right half of her head fell out, the right side of her face wrinkled and shrunk. Blakstar tried the Waters again, pouring a little on her face. The liquid hissed and steamed, but a scream ripped from the twisted grin the right half of her mouth had become.
“No more!” she squealed, a high, tearing sound that was painful to hear. “It’s killing me!” She went suddenly limp and silent.
The four wethem stood stunned, not sure what had happened. Then Klaybear broke the silence.
“It is as I have seen,” Klaybear whispered.
Myron shook himself out of his momentary stupor. “We must help Delgart.”
“Is that wise,” Klaybear protested, “seeing what effect it has had on her?”
“He’ll die if we do nothing,” Myron replied.
Klaybear sighed and nodded. Blakstar and Myron turned to the other bed; Thal and Klaybear walked around the beds to the other side.
“At least we know not to apply any Waters after they have finished,” Thal said softly.
“Where is the wound?” the kortexi asked.
“Left side,” Myron replied, pulling the blanket off to reveal his bandaged side.
Blakstar waited until the Headmaster pulled up the bandage, then poured some of the Water over the wound. The Waters steamed and glowed, but before the wound closed, a thin finger-length rod of red metal slid out of the wound.
“What is that?” Blakstar asked. Thal leaned over the bed, then reached across to pick it up.
“No!” Myron exclaimed, and the white maghi’s hand jerked back. Myron knocked the red sliver off with the heel of his staff, and the sliver burst into flames when it struck the stone floor. Klaybear took the pitcher of water from the stand next to Delgart’s bed and poured it over the flaming metal sliver. The water hissed and bubbled, but t
he metal continued to burn.
“We cannot stop for that,” Myron said and turned back to Delgart. “Give him a drink, Sir Blakstar.”
Myron opened Delgart’s mouth, and Blakstar poured the Waters in, Delgart drinking eagerly. Delgart went into convulsions, the four wethem held him down, and after a minute, he went limp, steam with brilliant, golden light rising from the skin, healing Delgart’s flesh. Again, the darkness re-asserted itself. This time, however, the left side of Delgart’s face deformed, his hair falling out, mouth twisting, face wrinkling and shrinking. Delgart went limp. The metal sliver burned itself out, leaving only a black spot on the floor.
“At least we know one thing,” Thal remarked and pointed to the dark spot on the stone floor, “we know how this wethi was infected.”
Myron walked over to the spot and prodded it with his staff. “Not even any ash to examine,” he said to himself.
“Who would do this,” Klaybear began, responding to Thal, “and why?”
“Well ‘who’ is easy,” Thal said, “Gar through his agents. The ‘why’ is a bit more difficult, although if pressed, I would say to prevent us,” he pointed to all in the room but Myron, “from doing whatever it is we need to do.”
Myron looked up from the floor. “I think we know something else,” he said, then his voice grew cold and hard, “we have a traitor among us.”
Blakstar’s hand, having just finished replacing the special flask on his belt, went to his sword; Thal and Klaybear looked at Myron.
“How do you know that?” Thal asked.
The Redemption, Volume 1 Page 17