‘I’m not sure; you were Curator then.’
‘Too much time, then, if you cannot remember. Thank you for your hospitality, but I’m not here on a personal call. I seek information.’
‘Whatever you need, Archmage. How may I assist you?’
Menin stood and crossed to a small window beside her chair and looked out and pondered her response.
Meone looked from the mage to Zaruun and he held up a hand, bidding silent patience. The next few minutes, he knew, were going to be quite revealing.
Menin placed her glass on a table beneath the window and turned back into the room. She looked solemn and gave Meone a questioning stare. Could she trust the scribe? But then, it wasn’t about trust; it was about saving the planet from destruction, and anyone with the knowledge of what was to come would surely do all they could to prevent it. ‘What do you know of the Rite of Cerathil?’ she asked, and sat down once more, leaning forward.
Meone appeared puzzled for a moment. ‘Only what is written in our teachings, Archmage.’
‘Please, call me Laliala. So, then, you know that we must unite the swords to seal Rindor’s rule.’
‘Of course, Arch … Laliala. But I don’t see –’
‘We are missing one, and that means big trouble. You know what will happen if we fail to unite them.’
Meone looked horrified, and her claw-like hand clasped her mouth.
‘I see you do understand; that is good. However, the sword is not our concern at present. A dark wizard is hampering our efforts to recover it.’
Meone immediately thought of Draken. He had mentioned seeking the swords. Was this the same man?
‘You may be familiar with his name,’ Menin continued. ‘Lordich Secracar.’
Meone drew a sharp breath. ‘How … why … he’s dead, surely?’
Menin looked grim. ‘Sadly not. He made a pact with Death in return for his life, and now he seeks to destroy our Brotherhood.’
‘But we must stop him.’
‘That is precisely our aim and the point of our visit here today.’
‘What can I do to help?’ Meone asked. She decided at that moment to withhold the information concerning Draken, since he had repented and promised to put things right, which included breaking off all contact with Lordich. She was inclined to give Draken the chance to redeem himself before Rindor.
‘We require information concerning the king. What was his name?’ Menin looked to Zaruun.
Zaruun blew out a breath and looked to the heavens for an answer, however, he’d forgotten, too, and shook his head.
Meone cocked her head. ‘You mean King Jarek of Rodine?’
‘Jarek … of course. Yes, indeed.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Please, first understand that we as a Brotherhood are not in the habit of inciting sedition or treason concerning a foreign royal personage, but we need to know absolute truths,’ Menin said. The Sister before her may well be of The Order, but who knew where her true loyalties lay?’
Meone stood with a scrape of wooden stool on tile, stepped to the cabinet once more and poured herself another wine. ‘Please, go ahead,’ she said.
‘My question to you is quite simple. Whom is the rightful heir to the throne of Rodine?’
Meone dropped her glass with a crash. ‘Oh, silly me, I should clean this up.’ She reached for a pewter bowl and crouched down.
Laliala joined the Felisis and bent to assist her. ‘You seem surprised or worried that I should ask such a question.’
‘This country has not been the same since Jarek took power,’ Meone whispered.
‘Took power? That’s an interesting phrase. Why do you whisper?’
‘Not here, there are too many ears.’ Meone gave a sideways glance.
Menin immediately saw that there was grave concern carved across the scribe’s face.
‘We will go someplace safe. Follow me.’ Meone stood and deposited the bowl of glass on the wooden cabinet top and crossed the room. She checked that no one was watching through her small window and lifted a tiny, brass statue of Rindor. After waiting a moment she pressed a hidden button that had lain in secret beneath. A low rumbling issued from somewhere below and then, quite unexpectedly, a section of the floor shifted first downward and then sideways to reveal a staircase leading into darkness.
Menin inwardly smiled. There was a similar method to accessing her own secret passageway, which led to the Library of Ages found underneath a fountain in the gardens of the Golden Temple.
‘Please, go first, there is a lamp in an alcove to the left. I must close the trapdoor behind us,’ Meone urged. ‘Quickly now.’
Zaruun, bold as brass, checked that the way was clear and, bending his head, ventured down the steps and into the claustrophobic passageway. Finding the lamp and a flint and steel, he lit the wick. Light beamed ahead of him and showed that the passage seemed to head into the bowels of the city. ‘The way is clear, Laliala.’
Wasting no time, Menin joined her personal guard inside the tunnel and waited for Meone. Seconds later a loud click sounded above them and with a grating of rock on rock, the trapdoor began to close.
Laliala looked to Zaruun, and they both sensed a trap. Menin was closest, and the quickest to react, and she raced to the exit, only to stop short as Meone dropped in on them from above, just as the door closed with a crunch.
Meone looked at them, puzzled. ‘You didn’t think I was going to trap you in here, did you?’ she asked, with a smile that showed rows of pointed teeth. She offered them each their cloaks. ‘You may need these; it gets cold down here.’
‘Thank you, Meone.’ Laliala returned the smile and took her cloak.
Meone squeezed past her and handed Zaruun his cloak and relieved him of the lamp. ‘When you’re ready, this way.’
‘Where exactly are we going?’ Laliala asked, donning her cloak and enjoying the warmth. There was a sudden breeze running up the passageway that made her shiver.
‘Please, trust me, Archmage, you will soon see.’
Zaruun stepped forward. ‘Archmage, I must protest.’
‘Then why didn’t you protest before we jumped into this passageway?’ Laliala crossed her arms.
Zaruun looked forlorn. His judgement was impaired and he knew it. He needed sleep desperately and that had made him careless.
‘Never fear, Zaruun, I have the finest protector at my disposal.’
Zaruun nodded gratefully and permitted his charge to pass and join Meone. He took up the rear, though he was sure there would be no need to guard their backs.
On and on they trudged, the limestone rock bouncing back the light that cast their shadows in weird and wonderful ways about them. Before too long the stairs stopped, and the passageway flattened out and became a tunnel cut into the rock. Menin was careful to avoid the sides since the rock had been cut much rougher here and she did not desire bloody knuckles.
‘Not much further, it’s just around the bend,’ Meone called back.
Zaruun grumbled that they did not know what ‘it’ was and Menin just shook her head disapprovingly. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I’m sorry, Archmage, I don’t function well without sleep.’
‘Then, when we get to our destination, you will find a nice rock to rest your head against and get some sleep. That’s an order,’ Laliala fired back in annoyance.
Zaruun opened his mouth to protest, but Menin silenced him with a wave of her hand.
A minute later a new light source began to fill the tunnel. It wasn’t bright like the midday sun but seemed artificial. As they rounded a sharp bend, there, laid out before them, was a central well cut into the rock, and in it several hundred makeshift tents and bedrolls. People of all races mingled or sat beside camp fires. Hundreds of lamps hung from the ceiling and added to the light coming from the camp fires. They cast an eerie blue glow, which despite its odd colour was inviting. The smell of cooking, dirty clothes and sweat permeated the air, and it was some time bef
ore the newcomers grew used to the pungency of the latter.
The trio took a sharp incline down into the belly of the well, passing canvas tents left and right. The occupants of most glared sullenly at them. Menin inwardly wept for these people, their’s was obviously a hard life, but where had they come from, and what were they doing here? ‘What is this place?’ she asked.
‘This is a home for refugees. I’m taking you to the camp leader. She will explain more,’ Meone replied, quickening her pace as she did so.
Soon the tents widened out to encircle a larger campfire with makeshift benches surrounding it in a rough semicircle. A dozen or so people in ragged clothing sat, staring into the fire with dull, lifeless eyes. Many of those gathered were emaciated and painfully thin. Their skin looked older and greyer that it should, judging by their ages, and this seemed to affect man, woman and child.
Meone stopped in front of a short, grey-haired woman, who moments ago had been handing hunks of bread to those gathered around the fire.
‘Mother Taran. It is I, Meone.’
The elderly lady turned slowly and smiled unseeingly in the general direction of Meone, her once piercing blue eyes having given way to milky white orbs.
‘Meone, my dear it is good that you have returned so soon.’
‘I bring guests, Taran.’
‘More refugees from the fighting? How sad.’
‘No, Mother Taran, these are important guests. I will explain, but we must meet in private.’
‘Certainly, child, come this way.’ Despite her blindness, Taran was sure footed and seemed to know every inch of the camp. She handed her basket to a younger male and advised him to continue dispersing the contents. She then gripped Meone tightly by the hand and together they walked hand in hand away from the central fire.
Several twists and turns later they arrived at a modest tent, intermingled with many others, and Menin marvelled at how this woman was able to find it so easily. She herself was lost at the first turn.
‘Welcome to the humblest of all dwellings; please step inside,’ Taran invited.
Meone stepped inside followed by Laliala, though Zaruun opted to stand guard outside. It was evident to him that there was little room for him.
‘Are you not coming in, dear?’ Taran asked Zaruun.
Zaruun was taken aback. How had she known he was there?
‘Mother Taran, Zaruun needs some sleep,’ Menin said.
Zaruun shook his head in frustration, but knew it to be true.
Taran nodded and moments later thrust a hay pillow and an itchy woollen blanket into the protector’s arms. ‘Sleep, as your master has instructed,’ she said, smiling.
Zaruun grumbled to himself but did as was instructed. He dropped the pillow by the entrance, lay down and covered himself with the blanket. Not a minute later, he was sound asleep.
‘That man is very stubborn.’ Menin smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have him any other way.’
The inside of the A-frame tent was as you would expect, sparse, save for an interwoven reed bedroll, a small box with a lock holding it shut, and a handful of cooking utensils. That was it, the sum of Taran’s possessions.
Mother Taran returned and felt her way to make sure she didn’t sit on someone; she sat down crossed legged and faced her visitors. ‘Welcome. Please forgive the lack of refreshments.’
Meone patted her friend on the arm. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I’m not silly; one still likes to remember the good old days of entertaining one’s guests … but, oh well, those times are behind us now.’ Taran sighed sadly. ‘Speaking of which, we haven’t been introduced.’ She held out her hand in friendship.
Menin gripped the proffered hand, and they shook. ‘I am Archmage Laliala Menin, Order of The Wulf of the Golden Temple of Rosthagaar.’
‘Oh dear, what happened to Orodor?’
Menin was surprised for a moment and then recovered. ‘He sadly passed to the next life. He watches over us still.’
‘Ah, that is so sad to hear. Orodor and I were such good friends as children.’
This really is a small world, Menin thought.
‘What brings you to our camp, Archmage?’
‘Taran,’ Laliala said. ‘Please, call me Laliala.’
The old woman suffered a heavy coughing fit. She lifted her flaxen skirt and wiped her mouth free of spittle.
Meone shifted her bottom. ‘If I may? The archmage … sorry … Laliala, asked a question of me that I couldn’t answer above ground for fear of being overheard. I thought it best she witnesses this place and decides for herself the true reply to that question.’
Taran cocked her head. ‘And what was the question, dear?’
Menin gave a little cough and answered. ‘Who truly is the heir to the throne of Rodine?’
Mother Taran nodded and gave a grave smile. ‘That is certainly one question you must not ask above ground. You did well to bring Laliala here. Let me explain a little about our camp and its history.’
‘Thank you,’ Menin replied, and stretched her legs.
‘Umpteen years ago a war raged in the west of our country between the Bremenites and the capital, Rodine. Bream wanted independence, but the king grew angry and waged war upon them. It was said that if Bream were to become independent, then the richest deposits of gold would be lost to the Rodine. Several years of war ensued, and King Thymes grew tired and frail, and he just gave up one day. He declared Bream free from Rodine rule and recalled his troops. Well, this came as a bit of a shock to the people. Businessmen, however, fearing for their livelihoods, began to conspire to rid Rodine of its king. Only a certain someone beat them to it.’
‘Jarek Thymes?’ Menin suggested.
Taran smiled grimly. ‘The very same. The king’s second-born son snuck into the royal chambers and suffocated his father as he slept. Jarek then accused his older brother, Riley of the deed. Riley was duly arrested and hauled before the court, presided over by non-other than Jarek. The younger brother presented a good argument to the court of his brother’s guilt, and as judge, Jarek declared him guilty and had him removed from court. Riley, of course, furiously protested his innocence. I believe Riley lives still in banishment.’
‘You said Jarek was second-born, which means –’
‘That’s it; you’ve got it, Jarek is the usurper. The crown belongs rightfully to Riley.’
‘So, Riley was speaking the truth.’
Taran looked confused. ‘You … you have spoken to Riley?’
‘Yes, I have indeed. He told the same story. But, I have one question. How do you know Jarek killed his father?’
‘Jarek paid the king’s door guards to disappear for a while that night, and he made sure that they vanished permanently afterwards. Only, one survived his execution and was found by friends a short time later. He lived long enough to tell his tale. Sadly, his telling was too late, and Jarek was crowned king, and by then no one could stop him gaining power.’
‘You said you would tell me about this camp of yours,’ Menin reminded.
‘Oh, yes I did, didn’t I. My mind gets muddled sometimes. Well … when Jarek was crowned king, his first act was to declare war on the Bremenites. He was greedy you see, wanted all that gold hidden in those mines. But he not only turned on Bream; he began to make his citizens disappear, particularly those that spoke out against him. Many here are refugees from Bream, or the remaining family members of those who have been disappeared by Jarek. Slowly the numbers have been increasing. Word of Meone’s good deeds has gotten to the unfortunate, and they come seeking shelter. Meone, you see, made all this possible. She used the temple as a cover to admit refugees and smuggle them down here. She provides what food she can, and we scavenge the rest.’
Menin beamed at Meone and gripped the scribes arm. ‘You have done well, Sister. When my task here is complete, you will have the backing of The Brotherhood to restore these people to their homes so that they can live out their lives without fear or hunger.’
&n
bsp; Mother Taran sniffed and a tear ran down her cheek. She wiped it away. ‘Silly me, getting all upset. What is your task, dear?’
Menin pursed her lips. ‘I’m afraid that is something I can’t discuss for fear of putting you or my friends in harm’s way, but rest assured, all will be restored.’
‘Then I await the day with the eagerness of a child. If you can indeed restore us to our former glory, then I prostrate myself before you in gratitude.’
Menin smiled tearfully. ‘Don’t thank me yet. Pray to Rindor that he will protect us as we go about our business.’
Taran nodded heartily. ‘That, I surely will.’
‘It is a shame that there is so much to be done and so little time.’
‘It would appear you need help. There is one in the city who may help us. He is the leader of the resistance against the king,’ Meone said thoughtfully.
‘We should discuss this out of the earshot of others to minimise any risk to them,’ Laliala replied.
Tara looked crestfallen. ‘Leaving so soon? How sad.’
Menin patted the old woman on the arm. ‘Not quite yet. I’m going to let Zaruun sleep a little, but when I do leave, I promise I will come back and escort you from this place personally.’
A FISHY TALE
‘I think this is the place.’ Jericho looked up at a large red bricked building with far too many windows. A flag, hanging from a pole above the door, fluttered lazily in the breeze, and depicted a white hart with a full set of impressive antlers standing over three wavy lines that signified a large body of water.
‘That must be the king’s banner,’ Marrok mused, and looked about him and along the long street of similarly sized houses. This was the only building within sight that displayed any kind of decoration. In the distance he could just make out railings and the lake beyond, the sun now firmly risen so that the oranges and reds of the dawn had been replaced by a stunning blue, marred only by the finest wisps of cloud.
The rest of the cobbled street was oddly barren of life. No people, not even a horse, nor cart, or bird anywhere. Wooden shutters covered the lower windows of many other houses, almost as if the occupants had vacated their properties in a hurry.
The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Page 88