by James Abbott
The library was squirrelled away in a forgotten region of the cathedral quarter. Landril had been here numerous times over the years, for the priests and clerics of the Goddess were known for their sensitive preservation of history. It was located at the end of another narrow street, the buildings made of the same dark stone as the cathedral itself.
Landril knocked on a plain wooden door. It was opened by an old lady in simple brown robes, which gave her the air of a nun. Her green eyes, which scanned between himself and Birgitta, were still bright and keen, even if her broad face had been worn by time. Landril whispered an old blessing of the Goddess, which made her smile.
‘Landril Devallios.’ Her voice was frail, as if she had been speaking for much of her life.
‘Hello, Jamasca,’ Landril replied.
‘It has been a very long time.’ Jamasca looked up at him affectionately and took both his hands in her own. ‘Come in, and bring your young friend.’
‘Young.’ Birgitta chuckled. ‘I’ll accept that, dear lady, and bless you for it.’
As they walked along the polished wooden floorboards, they skimmed over the past few years since they had been apart, it was light gossip, but Landril was keen to know the current state of affairs in the settlement. From what they heard it seemed that Golax Hold was relatively untouched by events occurring in the wider world. Jamasca had heard of libraries in the capital that had been ransacked by foreign invaders thirsting after knowledge, but she would not accept them as the truth unless there were consistent written accounts of it, or had seen it with her own eyes. Which was unlikely, she added, given she did not travel much these days.
Jamasca had been a great scholar under the rule of Cedius, often venturing out to investigate rumours of bizarre creatures or improbable rituals. But these days her back was playing up. Her bones were frailer than they used to be. Now she dwelt in the cathedral quarter library, dusting down books and rearranging parchments, reading as much as she could – as always. Occasionally she updated some official records upon request, but it was a peaceful life, and one she enjoyed.
‘So tell me, Landril, what is it you seek today? I always enjoy it when you spymasters venture here – your requests are far more interesting.’
They were sitting on some cushioned chairs in a small chamber, sipping a fine mint tisane. The mullion window had darkened as day eased into late afternoon, so Jamasca lit several candles to brighten the place up before evening came. A few spots of rain rattled against the glass.
Landril could see her properly now: her face was thinner than he remembered, and he asked if she was eating well.
‘When I remember to do so,’ she replied cheerily.
Her grey hair was tied back. Jamasca must have been in her sixtieth summer by now, yet her eyes retained the sparkle of her youth.
‘We have travelled far and seen many unusual things,’ Landril said. ‘But I may as well start at the beginning.’
Landril recounted his tale, from before Hell’s Keep, to breaking out Xavir, through to their perilous journey back to the wolf queen. Then onwards, towards Stravimon and seeing the plight of the fleeing refugees and their arrival at General Havinir’s house.
Birgitta added her own story, from what had happened with the sisterhood pledging its allegiance to Mardonius in exchange for access to witchstones, through to the incidents in the village. Jamasca made no judgement about Birgitta being a witch, though she must clearly have known what she was when she invited her into the library. Such impartiality was one of the qualities Landril greatly admired in the old scholar, and one of the reasons he felt so comfortable in her presence.
‘Well, you’ve had quite the adventure, then,’ Jamasca said eventually. ‘You mention Havinir’s curious diary. I take it you have it with you?’
‘Naturally.’ Landril reached into his satchel and produced the book. ‘He has many things to say, and we –’ Landril nodded to Birgitta – ‘do not fully understand them. It is why we have come here. For enlightenment. For your advice. We can both independently verify much of what he talks about, notably the people he describes as the Voldiriks, but there are so many more questions.’
There was a flicker of recognition in the old scholar’s eyes at the name. She shifted her robes slightly and leaned back in the chair with the book, though it remained unopened on her lap. He knew she was sifting through her mind.
‘You wish to learn more about these Voldiriks, eh?’ Jamasca asked.
‘I do,’ Landril replied. ‘We have found pieces of their armour with foreign script upon it too. I have that with me if you wish to see it.’
She turned her hands palm upwards, though with her wrists still on her lap. ‘I may look at it later. For now – we drink, we talk, and we consider knowledge.’
‘I fear that is what the Voldiriks think too. Whoever has the wisdom—’
‘Has the authority,’ Jamasca concluded, closing her eyes softly.
Landril was agog. His heart thumped with excitement. ‘You know of the phrase?’
‘Of its translation, at least. The language itself is difficult, with a harsh inflection. It’s physically painful to speak; brings out the worst in a human larynx. To be honest, the state of my voice these days, I fear using that language may silence me forever.’
‘We need to know about the Voldirik people,’ Landril urged. ‘If you can help us, if you can enlighten us as to their origins, their history and their actions . . .’
Jamasca opened her eyes. ‘I can guide you to the texts, most certainly. I will find out what I can for you.’
‘You haven’t asked the obvious question,’ Landril said.
‘Which is?’
‘How is it that the Voldirik people are on our continent, are here, and that I have armour from them?’
Jamasca sighed sadly. ‘My world these days stretches from this seat to the parchment room on the far side of the library. So long as the Voldirik people do not enter this library, I will be fine.’
‘And yet, with all this . . . wisdom contained here . . . you may well expect them sooner or later,’ Landril added.
‘You are a devilish thing.’ Jamasca chuckled. Then any laughter faded away and the silence was telling. Her gaze grew distant and reflective. ‘I worry, greatly, if they are present in our lands. Stravimon used to feel so secure.’ She placed Havinir’s book and her cup to one side and rose from her chair. ‘Come. Let us find your answers, and I will read this later while you search.’
The library was reasonably organized. If one knew the systems, then it made sense, but to a newcomer it seemed a labyrinth of parchment and old leather. Birgitta lit a witchstone on her staff, much to Jamasca’s delight, and the winding, haphazard passageways were illuminated in all their glory.
‘There must be thousands of years of civilization recorded here,’ Birgitta said.
‘And much more.’ Landril glanced across some of the titles: Fescews’ Histories of the Fourth Age Battles, Deadly Botanicals of the Southern Shores, Confessions of King Goran, The Child-People of Ancient Herrebron and Chambrek Poetry, Volume One Hundred and Four were just a few of the books that caught his eye.
They arrived at a small desk station, a stone alcove in which Jamasca lit several candles to brighten the place up. There was another small mullioned window here, with the last light of the afternoon on the other side.
‘Now, that row down there –’ Jamasca indicated with an outstretched arm – ‘is where you will find the histories of Sixth Age civilizations and of the Second Age, where you will find a good deal of work by Mavos. The shelves to the bottom should have plenty on the Irik civilization.’
‘It was they who fled our lands to form a new realm elsewhere,’ Birgitta said.
‘Indeed,’ Jamasca replied. ‘In the Sixth Age we hear the first mention of them becoming the Voldirik people. Now, the top two shelves contain scraps of translations of works supposedly written by the Voldirik people. They exist only as parchments and scrolls within othe
r works. I have never truly been able to vouch for their authenticity, but I hope that now you have another piece of the puzzle. The opposite shelf contains a couple of commentaries by scholars during the Sixth and Seventh Ages on those people, as there was believed to be . . . an invasion of some kind, although this was met by a vigorous defence by the savage Queen Demelda. It was claimed she sent them back with their tails between their legs, but only after uniting the entire continent; she vanished shortly after, and some scholars argue she was actually sighted aboard one of the Voldirik ships and sailed with the fleet back to wherever it is they came from. And that’s the thing – we know there are lands to the far west, but no one from our shores has ever ventured there. It may well be easier to attempt to sail into the stars themselves. These are the only pieces of information I have for you.’
‘Well I’m surprised there is as much as this,’ Landril added enthusiastically. ‘We have only a few hours before we must meet with our travelling companions.’
‘There is a spare bedchamber here. It is musty, and not exactly comfortable, but for late-night scholars it has proven useful over the years.’ Jamasca chuckled. ‘It is there if you need it. Now, I shall be back at the other end making sense of Havinir’s writings. Come and find me when you’re done.’
The Art of Assassination
Xavir and Elysia were sitting on a stone bench at the edge of a small courtyard, eating a loaf of bread.
‘The bakeries here are awful,’ he said idly. ‘Not a patch on those in the capital.’
‘You haven’t been there in years,’ Elysia replied.
‘Thank you for reminding me,’ Xavir said.
‘I meant that your memory might be playing tricks.’
‘No. The city is famous for it. When we get there, soon, I’ll find you one from the master of the Guild of Bakers. You’ll never forget it.’
‘They have a guild for bread?’
‘Good food builds the soul of an army. Never forget that.’
Xavir felt a few drops of rain on his face, and the wind beginning to stir. The traders in front of them were starting to pack up. Very few customers lingered. Darkness wouldn’t be far away. Xavir spent time pointing out certain observations to Elysia: the way a man walked indicating an injury likely from falling from a horse; the way another’s back was hunched and fingers crooked from spending hours at a scribe’s desk; how moss and lichen grew on certain sides of stone, which indicated a northerly perspective; the way everyone avoided a specific route because of its proximity to a certain statue. Xavir said that if she watched people long enough, like when tracking animals, they would show her patterns and predictability. These could then be exploited. Whether or not she cared, he couldn’t tell, but she certainly indulged him with her attention. She said she liked to know such things. She said they were practical.
‘Anyway, it’s a good use of our time as Landril and Birgitta will be hours,’ Elysia said.
‘Very likely.’ Xavir replied.
‘You come to a new town to kill people,’ Elysia continued. ‘You watch them for a while. So what steps do you have to take next?’
‘Birgitta would not take kindly to you learning such dark arts, I’m sure.’ Xavir chuckled.
Elysia shrugged. ‘Death is a part of life.’
Xavir frowned at her. ‘These are not usually the utterances of a young woman. An older one, certainly. But you are in your prime. You should have nothing but joy for life.’
‘I am not like other young women,’ Elysia said. ‘Certainly not like those in the sisterhood, which is all I have to measure myself by. It sounds as if my mother may have been a different young woman, too.’
‘She was,’ Xavir replied, staring into the distance. ‘She cared little for the rules of the sisterhood. Perhaps such rebellions at a young age are more common than you think. You may have judged your young peers harshly in their subservience.’
Elysia considered this then shook her head. ‘No. They were all too respectful of authority to consider rebelling. They did precisely what they were told – always. They never once thought for themselves.’
‘Thinking for oneself does not necessarily come with age. Quite the opposite in some circumstances. You’re lucky to think as freely as you do. I cannot believe such an attitude is because of Birgitta – from what I understand, she has taught you because of your nature.’
‘She’s been talking a lot.’
‘She thinks that because I am your father,’ Xavir continued, ‘this information would be important to me.’
‘It could just be because I’m part . . . whatever it is you are.’ Elysia shrugged and regarded the ground.
Xavir laughed. ‘Whatever I am. Yes, you could well be whatever I am. So, you would like to know more about how someone like me plans on killing two very wealthy people. These are dark thoughts – are you certain you wish to know?’
‘I would like to understand what goes through your mind,’ Elysia replied.
‘It is more complex than you may think. There are rules governing how people may die. Take our situation. I am now, in a way, an ambassador for this Black Clan that Landril is concocting. If I kill two people quietly in their sleep like a common murderer, who would get to know about the Black Clan? Who would fear or respect what we can do? No one.’
‘So you create a spectacle,’ Elysia replied. ‘Something to make other people fear you and pay attention to the Black Clan.’
‘Precisely so. But we don’t necessarily want everyone to fear us. The people of Stravimon may not like what Mardonius is doing to them – in fact, they fear him already – and so this assassination will be a sign. A sign of something changing within the nation for the better. What may be a shock to the victims and their family is actually a great act of kindness towards a nation.’
‘Is this acting for our cause, or is this still revenge?’ Elysia asked.
‘Do not misunderstand me, this is still about revenge as well. They allowed the slaughter of hundreds of innocent men just to destroy my reputation. I lost part of my life – I lost my brothers, my honour, my identity to these people. I cannot take that time back, but I will make them suffer for it.’
‘You did not look as if you enjoyed killing General Havinir.’
‘There is very rarely pleasure in killing,’ Xavir admitted. ‘It is a job, one that must be done. A lot of people shy away from it. People are willing to let good men and women die for their country, but want no part in the bloodshed. And afterwards they just want to forget the event ever happened. It disturbs their perfectly formed world too much. So the old soldier who gives up most of his life protecting the borders is ignored by the world. And those people in their comfortable homes with their closeted lives will never know the nightmares he suffers or the guilt he might feel about taking another’s life.’
Elysia appeared thoughtful, her keen blue eyes occasionally darting this way and that as people moved through the streets, but Xavir couldn’t really read her at all. ‘How is it that you struggle to sleep at night? You sometimes awake in a sweat. Is it because of guilt you feel about the killing? Does it haunt you?’
‘The killing? No, not now,’ Xavir replied. ‘The killing is habit now.’
‘Then why?’
Xavir considered her words thoughtfully. No one had dared ask him outright in Hell’s Keep, so it surprised him that he found himself willing to speak to her. ‘It started happening when I went into gaol. That is all I know. I awake in sweat. Sometimes I have flashbacks. But they are not always bad. They just happen. What haunts me in the night? I cannot say. The only thing I mourn is what I was previously, but it only takes me a heartbeat of being awake to get over it.’
‘So it won’t happen to me because of the people I killed?’
‘Has it so far?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Not at all. I haven’t really thought about it.’ There were no clues in her intonation as to how she felt.
Xavir studied her. He wasn’t quite sure what to
say.
‘Is this kind of mission what you always did in the Solar Cohort?’ Elysia asked. ‘Assassination and the likes? I got the impression you were in battle on horseback.’
‘We were not assassins back then.’ Xavir straightened his back. ‘We represented the king on the battlefield, as age, despite his enthusiasm, kept him bound to his palace. He was a fine king and we were honoured to fight for him. After the battles we would report solely to him in his private quarters. We would be brought fine wines and food, and smoke all kinds of exotic herbs. He wanted to know what we felt, what we saw. He enjoyed the camaraderie, the laughter. It was obvious that he was living the battles through us.’
‘You speak of him like a father,’ Elysia said. It was an innocent enough phrase, but Xavir couldn’t help but try to read things into it, given their relationship. Did he one day want to be spoken of with such affection by Elysia? This was new territory for a soldier like Xavir. It was all uncertain terrain.
‘I believe he viewed us like his sons. I could never quite fathom what he looked for when selecting the men of the cohort – there were plenty of good soldiers in the legions, naturally, but why us? I think it was because in each of us he saw something of himself and he enjoyed our company. There were plenty of courtiers, of course, but he was a warrior king. They were not his type of people.’ Xavir paused for a moment. ‘I’m very likely boring you with the tales of an old man.’
‘No,’ Elysia was quick to reply. ‘Not at all. This may be natural for you, but for someone like me, who’s never experienced anything but life within the sisterhood, to hear what a king was like close up . . . it’s special. We are always taught how remote and inaccessible royals are. I was told that because of my nature I was unlikely to be assigned to a clan or family who had these connections.’