“It’s painfully bad,” Neslan warned. “The style, I mean. Utterly pretentious. One of my professors mentioned this book in a lecture. He said it was atrocious from an historical standpoint and couldn’t prove its claims. Since I disagreed with the man ninety percent of the time, I thought it might be useful if I could track it down.”
“Is it?” asked Kora.
“In its way. Its aim’s not to prove the truth of legend, but to trace legend’s evolution through different eras. My professor’s critique was out of place, which doesn’t surprise me. The man was an ass. Proof or no proof, Runic might be more historically accurate than academics hold. Go to the third chapter.”
Kora turned from the title page. A small rip, an eighth of an inch, tore the first sheet near the edge, and Neslan cringed. She flipped the next sixty pages with greater care, until she found the chapter Neslan mentioned and began to read: no easy task, as the writing was small and blurred in spots.
The Legend of the Lifestone exists in many forms, some closely related, others widely divergent. The most intricate version comes from ancient villages north of Fontferry. That region was unique in blending the tale with the legend of the Marked One and that of a second magic artefact, and its account falls among the scarce category of folklore to attribute the stone’s creation to a man rather than a woman.
Even this particular version has distinctions within itself, the main being a contradiction as to whether the sorcerer in question was a progenitor of Brenthor or of Hansrelto, though this aspect was a late addition; the legend unmistakably predates the birth of both by at least two centuries.
The story goes that there once lived a sorcerer of astounding power. He married in his forties a woman half his age, also empowered. He loved her deeply, so a part of him was filled with dread when she told him she was with child. In this epoch childbirth was the leading cause of death among women, though records make clear that most of those who succumbed survived one or two previous births. The sorcerer became particularly alarmed when he was summoned by the king, either to the first session at the Hall of Sorcery, or to a council to decide upon a site for the Hall. The motives vary, but every account has the sorcerer warned in advance of a separation from his wife at the time when his child was to be born.
Unbeknownst to his spouse, the sorcerer worked a powerful piece of magic upon the jewel in a necklace. The spell he wrote and cast was such as would secure his wife’s health, or so he believed. He gave her the jewel as a gift, and made her promise not to take it off in his absence. She thought it was his way of being present in spirit as his son entered the world, and gladly acceded. He left unwillingly, but without doubt that he would return to a healthy baby and the woman that he loved. He returned, indeed, to a flourishing son of the age of two months, but to find his wife in physical distress. The enchantment of her necklace had proved unable to prevent injury or pain, only descent into death. An aneurysm during the birth left her paralyzed. The sorcerer knew instantly that the enchanted jewel was the only thing responsible for her labored breaths.
The sorcerer spent a month attempting to heal his wife, but no magic he knew could counteract the woman’s physical damage or even relieve the bulk of her pain, which made her wonder, every day, how it was she did not die. Medical magic was poorly established in the early centuries, considered taboo, and though her husband did not confess what he had done, he ached to witness his wife suffer so acutely from an ailment that without unnatural aid would have taken her life weeks before. He recognized that her time had come, as it must for all, and in one of the rare moments when she drifted into sleep, he removed the enchanted stone from her possession.
One of the women to tend to the sorceress found herself enamored with the deceased’s husband. Some versions of the tale go so far as to attribute to this nurse a hand in provoking the aneurysm, but this author attributes such melodrama to humanity’s love for gossip and vilification more than to historical fact. What does seem clear is that it was through this woman that the Lifestone first entered the realm of public knowledge. Whether she kept a candid eye on the man she loved as he sought to destroy his creation, or read the private logs of his vain attempts, or even was party to them and betrayed the widower when he failed to return her affections, her role as traitor in revealing the protagonist’s secret lends a credibility to the northern strain of the legend lacking in all others, none of which offer an account of where stories of the Lifestone could possibly have their origin.
The legend goes on to indicate, if faith of any kind may be bestowed in it, that when the sorcerer became aware that others knew of his atrocity, he stowed it away someplace where he hoped it never would be found. No tale ever written about the stone, from North or South, or either side of the Podra, dares to hint at the artefact’s location, but that has not stopped many from seeking it through the ages, despite the cautionary nature of the legend and the blatant moral in each of its manifestations that death is never to be cheated.
The northern history of the Lifestone (as noted above, more convoluted and developed than any other) in its longest forms does not end with the enchanted gem’s concealment. It is said that the enchanter, though his creation lay in safety, grew restless at the thought of his occult magic, irreversible by its nature. What further damage could it wreak in unsuspecting or abusive hands? He grew obsessed, and only one thing gave him hope: the legend of the Marked One, a hero who perhaps might hold the power to confront the Lifestone’s evil. It is sometimes appended that the sorcerer, before his death, wrote another spell of incredible strength, an enchantment that he cast upon a second object (sometimes presumed to be a ring) that would only be potent in the hands of the Marked One and that would serve as an aid against any who possessed the Lifestone. He believed, the nature of the Marked One being what it was, that this second artefact would somehow make its way into his hands should it ever be required.
Most interesting in this conflation of the two legends is the proof it offers of how truly ancient is belief in the Marked One’s rise. Well established, likely for centuries, before the Hall of Sorcery’s erection….
Kora shut the tome, her eyes wide. “It explains everything,” she said. “My chain. The Lifestone. This man was living when they built the Hall.”
“Assuming it was a man.”
“I guess it could have been a woman. But I don’t think any woman would have helped design the Hall, not that long ago. Neslan, that’s where this person hid the Lifestone. That’s where Zalski found it. He must have heard this version of the legend, the one that mentions the Hall of Sorcery. Could this book have other copies?”
“I imagine so,” said Neslan. “It’s an obscure work, though. This is the original.”
“How old would you say this is?”
“Two hundred years, easy. Maybe more.”
“Zalski has a copy. But then why…. Why would he tell Bennie a woman made the stone?”
“That’s the version she’d be familiar with, isn’t it?”
“I guess that’s true. Thanks, Neslan, it’s nice to have an idea where this tracking power came from.”
“Might have come from,” he qualified.
“How about we settle on ‘probably came from’?”
“Sounds good to me.”
Kora said, “Can I ask you a question? You know what power this chain holds. What do you think of it? Beyond what you said yesterday?”
“I think you should be careful not to abuse it. To let it corrupt you. It has the propensity for that.”
“Am I wrong to use it, though?”
Neslan held up a hand. “That’s out of my realm. Who am I to say that?”
“I don’t mean to….”
“What does your gut tell you?” he asked.
“I loathe the thing, and have from the start. Its power’s unnatural. Sometimes I think I’m a coward for being too afraid to let it go. I mean, I could choose not to use it, but there’s a sense of security in knowing what he’s up to, wha
t his plans are, that I’m terrified now to do without. Anyway, I know if I were to get rid of the thing, I’d feel just as cowardly as if I kept it: like I was shirking my duty. Like I was too weak, too feeble to handle a responsibility I was clearly meant to bear.”
“All right then. All right, first things first: you’re being way too hard on yourself. The fact is, we need access to Zalski, and you’re all we have. We’ve no spies with any kind of rank. You’re uncomfortable because you hate, in particular, invading Zalski’s thoughts. That’s what’s unnatural, am I right?” He was. “Well, to me, that discomfort should form a pretty strong barrier against the abuse of your power. I’m sure you only use the chain when the probability—the high probability, as far as you can judge—of gaining pertinent information outweighs the intrusion. As long as that’s the case, I don’t think you’re doing anything immoral. I don’t know if that helps you any, but….”
“It does,” said Kora. “Thank you.”
“If this really does bother you, you should take a few days to mull things over. Laskenay wouldn’t mind.”
“Menikas would. And he’s coming here tomorrow.”
“Hang Menikas! He swore when we started the League he’d never ask a soul to do a thing that churned his stomach. You’re the only one who understands what power that chain really gives you. I can’t fathom it. Neither can he, and if it repulses you, it’s for good reason. You’re a sensible person, and you’re justified in telling anyone who can’t recognize that to go turn himself in to the guards. This is sinister magic we’re discussing. Menikas won’t object to you laying it aside.”
“Did you think he’d shove a bandana in my mouth?”
“We all make mistakes, Kora.”
“Most mistakes don’t cost other people their freedom. Or their lives.”
“I’m not arguing the contrary.”
“No, you’re not. I know you’re not, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be sharp, not with you. It’s just that, the thought of being around him again….”
“You need to coexist with Menikas.”
“I can’t. I thought I’d be able to, but I can’t.”
“You can’t make the attempt to respect him on a professional level? As a military superior?”
“It was as my superior he prevented me rescuing Zac.”
“I imagine that makes my suggestion difficult.”
“You imagine correctly. My God, Neslan, I’m sorry,” she said again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I have no problem with you, none at all. Some fresh air, maybe that would do me good. I’ve been cooped in here all day.” She went over to the ladder, glancing up at Neslan before her head dipped below the loft. “Thanks for showing me that book. I really do appreciate it.”
* * *
Hayden’s directions led Lanokas and Kora to an inn surprisingly clean for all its dreariness. The floor, though swept, had grown dingy through the years. The lamps in the main room had glass shades opaque enough to dim the greater part of their light. The bar and furniture were as plain as could be.
The two arrived early in the evening by design, before Hayden or other gamblers, and found only a handful of patrons, all humbly dressed and minding their own business. “Not exactly a fine establishment, is it?” whispered Lanokas.
“What did you expect?” said Kora. The prince led her to one of the smaller tables near the kitchen, where the sizzle and smell of roasting meat made Kora’s mouth water, though she had eaten a mere hour before. Four middle-aged men sat fairly close-by, with various jugs of ale and unfocused eyes. Lanokas watched them for a moment.
“I’ve never had ale,” he said.
Kora’s eyes grew wide. “Not once? Not one glass?”
“Remember where I come from.”
“You’ve been gone three years. In the last three years you haven’t tried a brew?”
“Don’t tell Ranler, he already thinks I’m soft. But no. Preferring wine’s the one thing I’ve held onto, the one habit I didn’t change, my connection with the old days.”
Kora folded her arms on the tabletop. “You’re having ale tonight. Forget the wine, ale’s cheaper anyway.”
Lanokas copied her gesture, raising an eyebrow. He said, “I’m not having ale alone.”
“Fine. I’m not a huge ale drinker, but fine.”
As if on cue, a short man in his sixties bustled out of the kitchen with two frothy mugs for two men on the other side of the room. He adjusted his grip and asked Lanokas what he wanted.
“A pint,” he said.
“And for the lady? Water or wine?”
“The same,” said Lanokas. The innkeeper sent Kora a disapproving stare, but Lanokas slipped him some copper coins, at which point he saw fit to serve his other patrons. Kora spoke low, self-consciously.
“I’m the only woman in here.”
“You shouldn’t be for long,” said Lanokas.
“That creep won’t take his eyes off me.”
One of the inebriated foursome was indeed having trouble focusing on any other landmark. Not that anything else in the inn was worth looking at. Lanokas cleared his throat; the stranger turned back to his own table. Soon after, the innkeeper returned with two more mugs of ale and set them both before Lanokas, ignoring Kora.
“I guess women don’t drink ale much in Fontferry.”
“Do they in Hogarane?” asked Lanokas.
“I wouldn’t call it common. But it’s not stigmatized. The last time I had ale was Sedder’s birthday, we went to the local tavern with a group of our friends…. My God, they won’t have heard. I don’t see how they could have, about what happened.”
Lanokas slid Kora her mug and raised the other. “To Sedder,” he said. “And Kansten.”
“And Bennie and Zac,” whispered Kora. They each took a sip. The brew was mediocre.
Lanokas said, “Sedder had character, and a solid head on his shoulders. He’d be a tremendous asset if we had him still.”
“It’s interesting you say that. I get the impression he’s not missed, or at least not remembered. No one mentions him.”
“Has anyone mentioned Kansten these last few days?” he asked.
“You did.”
“I did once. Do you think that means no one’s grieving?”
“Of course not.”
“There you are. We see….” Lanokas glanced around. “We see a lot of people come and go, especially those of us who have been around since the beginning. It may sound heartless, but if we let ourselves feel each absence we’d disintegrate so fast….”
“I know,” said Kora. “Please, we’re away from all of that. Let’s talk about something else, anything else.”
“All right,” said Lanokas. “I was thinking earlier that I know shockingly little about you. The little things, I mean. A reliable source says your father was a reader. And I know you pushed your brother to pick up books. So what’s your favorite?”
“That’s easy,” said Kora. “It’s not a book exactly, it’s a children’s story. A kind of fairy tale, except there are no ogres or witches or pixies. I used to beg my father to tell it when he tucked me into bed. At least once a week I’d ask. I’m sure he got fed up with me, but he never protested. He was always enthusiastic telling it.”
“So what is it?”
“It’s about a boy. An orphan, seven or eight, who was walking through the woods one afternoon and got lost.”
“Wait just a minute,” said Lanokas. “What’s an orphan doing in the woods?”
“I don’t know,” said Kora. “He’s just there. That’s how it starts.”
“If this story’s to make any sense, I have to know how this child found himself tromping through the deep dark forest.”
“I said nothing about darkness. Yet.” Kora put a hand on her hip.
“So why is he there?”
“He stole money from a woman in the village, and some soldiers chased him to the woods. Does that explain it?”
“It’ll suffice, yes.”
“Good. So this child is in the woods.”
“He’s lost,” said Lanokas.
“Eventually darkness falls.”
“So the dark is involved.”
“Will you let me tell the story?”
“I apologize.”
“It grew dark. The child was afraid and looked to the sky. He prayed to the Giver, ‘Let someone find me. Don’t leave me here alone. Let someone find me before trouble does.’ The woods are full of dangerous animals, you see. Animals that come out at night.”
Lanokas nodded. “Everyone knows that.”
“Well, the boy, feeling somewhat safer after his prayer but not really, sat down at the foot of the biggest tree he saw to wait for someone to come and lead him to safety. The night wasn’t as dark as it could have been, because the moon was full and the sky was cloudless, and some light broke through the trees. The orphan sat faithfully, repeating his prayer for hours: ‘Let someone find me before trouble does.’ But then he saw, in the branches of a tree, two glowing circles. Panther eyes.
“He ran. He ran as fast as he could without looking back, without stopping, without any idea where he was going. He thought any moment the panther would pounce on him.”
“But it didn’t.”
“It wasn’t hungry. The boy only stopped when he was about to collapse. He dared to glance over his shoulder, but everything looked black. No glowing eyes. He was deeper in the heart of the woods than before, and it was darker, the undergrowth thicker. His clothes were in tatters where they’d caught the bushes, and thorns had scratched his legs. He went to another tree, thinking that now he’d never be found, and jumped back. He’d nearly sat on the coils of a python, a great python. He kept walking, tears in his eyes. It seemed like every place he tried to stop there was a snake, or a nest of scorpions, or of spiders. He just kept walking. And then something grabbed him around the ankle and threw him to the ground, dragging him a foot or so before it hoisted him in the air. Hanging upside down, he heard men shouting, ‘We got one! We got a panther!’ and the boy screamed, ‘Please don’t hurt me!’
The Crimson League (The Herezoth Trilogy) Page 44