by John Marco
“How can I not think of it?” he whispered. He was used to sharing secrets with Meriel, and it all came tumbling out of him. “I swear, sometimes I think it’s calling to me. That devil inside it—Kahldris—I think I hear his voice sometimes.” The baron looked grave. “Could that be true, Meriel? Could he be tempting me?”
Meriel gave a knowing nod. “Kahldris is very powerful. That’s what Minikin says, at least. You need to beware him, Thorin. If you do steal the armor—”
“I am not a thief,” snapped Thorin.
“If you do, you must be careful.” Meriel’s gaze seized him. “Don’t you think I see the truth? It is a constant battle in you. Minikin tells you the armor is forbidden, and what are you to believe? You’re an outsider. The ways of the Akari are unknown to you.”
“So she lies?” Baron Glass laughed. “You do your mistress dishonor, lady. I believe Minikin has warned me off the armor for my own good.”
“Perhaps,” said Meriel. “Or perhaps you are strong enough to control Kahldris. Perhaps you are the one to tame the Devil’s Armor.”
It was dangerous, tempting talk, and it made Thorin’s pulse race. From the dawn of Grimhold the Devil’s Armor had been locked away, saved only because Minikin had never found a way to destroy it. It was said that the armor could not in fact be destroyed, and that the Akari who possessed it was sinister beyond words. To Thorin it sounded like a fairy tale, much like Grimhold itself. It vexed him that such a powerful weapon should go to waste, or that any Akari—a race that had helped the Inhumans so unselfishly—could be so evil. But Minikin had never given Thorin cause to doubt her, and so the one-armed baron had been left to wonder over the armor’s true nature, or if he was powerful enough to control it. Minikin thought not.
“She doesn’t know me, though,” whispered Thorin. For a moment the idea transfixed him, and it was not until Meriel touched his hand that reality refocused.
“Forgive me, Thorin,” she said. “I should not entice you with such talk. I am an Inhuman; we are not to speak of the Devil’s Armor.”
Thorin took her hand in his own. He could feel its scars, but didn’t care. “The armor is not the only thing that entices me,” he said. “I do not stay close to Grimhold for the sake of the armor alone.”
Meriel’s face, which was often red, deepened in color. It was not pride that made her flush, though, but embarrassment. She retracted her hand, ignoring Thorin’s hint at love, saying, “Mind my words. If you have designs on the Devil’s Armor, be sure about yourself. Be sure you can handle Kahldris.”
Thorin smiled weakly. “I will, lady, do not fear.”
Then, leaving Meriel to her own dark company, he left the ledge and headed back toward Grimhold.
Baron Glass returned to the keep in a foul mood, angered by his conversation with Meriel and the stupid way he had pursued her. In Jador, Gilwyn had his hands full with the Seekers and Prince Aztar’s raiders and the myriad problems of rebuilding a devastated city, and Thorin knew his place was with the boy. He had struck up a fine relationship with Gilwyn in the past year, becoming like a surrogate father. Yet his attraction to Meriel had kept him away from Jador far too much lately. Meriel’s heart belonged to Lukien—a stupid thing considering Lukien’s own heart belonged to a dead woman—and the baron knew he would never win the woman’s affections.
Why then did he try?
Because I am a silly old fool, he told himself.
The baron had his own room in the keep, shunning the teeming village that was part of Grimhold, so he could be close to the Devil’s Armor. He made his way through the halls of the keep to his humble chamber where he kept to himself, brooding, taking a lonely meal by the light of a few candles. As he ate, he thought of all the women he had known.
Jazana Carr was never far from his mind. Nor was his wife, wherever she might be. The two were inexorably linked now. Before he had left Jazana in Norvor, the Diamond Queen had vowed vengeance on his family, a family he hadn’t seen in years. Thorin had children, too, grown now, who had no doubt forgotten about their infamous father. The thought of his family dangling on Norvan pikes ruined Thorin’s appetite. Nor did he have any desire to see Lukien or Minikin now, either.
Time enough for that, he told himself. Later, when they’ve settled in. Or perhaps in the morning.
Thorin would have looked outside, but his room had no window. He longed to be free of Grimhold.
Baron Glass felt remarkably old. Alone in his chamber, he sat staring at his plate of cold food, rubbing the stump where his arm had been. As too often happened these days, he began to feel sleepy.
Old men take naps, he told himself. Without arguing he gave in to his grogginess and laid himself down on his bed, which felt extraordinarily comfortable. Reaching out with his only hand, he dragged the wooden table close to the bedside and pinched out the candles. The darkness felt good. He would sleep, he decided, and see Lukien later. His troubled mind began to ease, and soon he drifted off.
Baron Glass slept. And as he slept he dreamed.
He had not told anyone of the vivid nightmares he’d been having, not even Meriel. In that strange, knowing state viewing one’s own dreams, it did not surprise Baron Glass that the images started up again, pulling him from a peaceful netherworld to a place of living colors. It was the doing of Kahldris, the spirit of the armor—he knew this now with certainty. He had never before seen the things his brain was showing him, yet he knew they were real experiences lived by someone other than himself.
A man on a warhorse, on a hill, overlooking a valley. White hair, long and straight, stirring in the breeze and across his hardened face. Black armor encased his chest and arms and legs, fitting him like a living thing, sprouting spikes and glistening with light. Behind the man rode a standard bearer with a triangular flag, and behind the flagman rode an army.
Baron Glass looked deeper into his dream. He studied the face of the white-haired man, who turned his own face toward the watching baron with a disquieting expression. Staring eyes pierced the baron, but he was not afraid. He knew that this was Kahldris, as he had been, as he might still be in some world of the dead.
A general, thought Thorin. He had been told that Kahldris was a general, a leader of men as he himself had been. And when this revelation struck him Kahldris nodded, as if to agree. Instantly an understanding passed between them.
Thorin’s disembodied eyes gazed out over the valley. There he saw a city dotted with towers with a river running through it. Because it was a dream, he could see beyond the city, too, beyond the desert to another army in the sands, marching slowly, herding kreels, a dark-skinned band snaking purposefully through the sun. These were Jadori; Thorin recognized them easily. But he was perplexed by the vision, and so looked back to Kahldris for answers.
The man on the horse still sat there, but it wasn’t Kahldris any more. Baron Glass saw his own face staring back at him. He looked youthful, strong again. His body filled the armor like an athlete’s. In his right hand he held the stallion’s reins. In his left hand—a hand attached to an arm he’d lost ages ago—gleamed a sword.
Thorin awoke, gasping. He sat up, looked around the darkened room and felt for the stump of his arm. As always it was there, taunting him.
“Great Fate . . .”
He caught his breath and calmed himself. Suddenly cold, he craved the light of the candles he’d extinguished, but was too shaken to light them or move from his bed.
“Kahldris,” he whispered, his eyes scanning the blackness. “Are you here?”
The Akari didn’t need to answer. Thorin could feel his presence in the cold against his skin. He knew the spirit was with him, maybe sitting next to him on the mattress, whispering like a demon in his ear, telling him about the armor, wordless but clear. Thorin rubbed his shoulder stump as he listened to the faint voice, deciphering its dark intentions. He felt a warmth flood his shoulder that shouldn’t have been there, and then he knew what Kahldris meant.
“The armor will
make me whole again.”
It had been years since Baron Glass had shed a tear but he felt like crying now. This bitter battle had raged in him since he’d come to Grimhold, and he knew his resolve was weakening. The Devil’s Armor could be his, for it was waiting for him in its dungeonlike hold, and all the doors barring his way would be unlocked. Somehow, whenever he secretly went to gaze upon the armor, the doors were always unlocked.
“No,” he said, steeling himself. He looked around the darkened chamber. “Do you hear me? Whatever beast you be, listen to me now—I am not a thief. I will not steal or go against these good hosts.” He rose in anger. “Do you hear me? Answer me, you devil!”
There was a pause and an awful silence. Then the coldness of the room increased and the voice of Kahldris rang in Thorin’s head.
Then why do you stay?
Thorin could not—would not—answer the Akari. The answer was simply too frightful. The cold and Kahldris finally retreated. Thorin stood without moving for a long time. When at last he had the courage, he left his chamber in search of a taper to light his candles.
7
THE BLIND KAHANA
The great fortress of Grimhold had been built into a mountainside by a race who thought little of such monumental tasks. The Akari were peaceful poets and thinkers, mostly, but the warriors among them were wary of their distant neighbors in Jador. Once, the Akari civilization had flourished in its desert valley, a cultured oasis surrounded by sand. Grimhold had been built on the outskirts of the Akari world, on its frontier fringes. It had taken a decade for the Akari to build the keep, tunneling out its labyrinthine core and molding great, smooth turrets from the excavated rock, so that the fortress looked as if it had been there forever and was difficult for enemies to spot.
On one such turret stood a young woman, alone, wrapped in the soothing darkness of a desert night, her face turned to the blackened sky, her blank and featureless eyes enraptured by the bounty of stars. This particular turret was stout and low, almost a balcony, jutting up from the rear of the keep and afforded a breathtaking view of the valley that had once suckled the dead Akari race. The woman on the turret was unconcerned with the valley, however, or with the history of the fortress she called home. Instead she was mesmerized by the stars and the ethereal voice in her head that explained them to her.
White-Eye had never seen stars with her own eyes. It was the eye inside her mind that let her see, and it was the gentle coaching of her spirit Faralok that brought the images alive. Tonight, with Faralok’s help, White-Eye could see the carpet of stars as well as any sighted girl. She knew their twinkling beats, knew their placement in the sky and could point at them precisely with an outstretched finger. Blind since birth, White-Eye had been given an astonishing gift by Faralok. He and his strange magic had brought life to her milky eyes.
I have never seen snow, she thought suddenly. I wonder if it is like the stars.
No Jadori had ever seen snow, but Gilwyn had told her about it. He had said that it was white and cold and twinkled like stars. White-Eye wrapped her arms about her shoulders. When the sun went down the desert cooled quickly, and that was good for White-Eye. Sunlight caused her the most intense pain. It was why she had come to live in Grimhold, away from her bright city, to live in the dark, safe recesses of the keep. She had been an infant then, newly born with eyes like two quartz stones and a mother dead in childbirth, dead because Lukien had slain her. It had been a horrible mistake, one that still haunted the Bronze Knight. Years later, it had brought him to White-Eye as her protector.
Shalafein . . .
Suddenly she wished Lukien were here with her. She had learned to love the brooding knight. She wished Gilwyn were with her, too, but he was away in Jador as usual. All the happiness blew out of her like a wind.
I am a poor kahana, she told herself.
At once Faralok came alive in her brain. He said with his usual alacrity, We are watching the stars.
White-Eye smiled at the intrusion. Usually Faralok did not speak so directly to her. Such conversation was unnecessary. She saw things as others saw them, with only the slightest delay while the Akari interpreted them for her mind to digest. At first it had been awkward, but Minikin had been a good and patient teacher. Now, White-Eye was perfectly matched with her spirit, as fluent with him as she was with her own language.
“Yes,” she said aloud, “I am sorry, Faralok. I was thinking.”
Thinking useless thoughts again.
“No. I was thinking of Gilwyn.”
And how useless you are to him.
“Well, yes,” White-Eye admitted.
It is stupid to think so. You are here because you must be here. Gilwyn Toms can look after Jador.
“But I am Kahana,” said White-Eye. She wasn’t looking at the stars anymore, but rather around in annoyance.
You are Kahana here in Grimhold as much as you would be in Jador.
White-Eye sighed. “Faralok, I miss Gilwyn.”
There was a pause as the Akari considered this. That is different, then.
Faralok had been a young man when he died. Like many Akari, he had been a summoner, able to commune with the dead of his race. It was what had given the Akari their strange magics, and it was what Minikin had learned from them when she’d first discovered Grimhold. All the Akari were dead now, but not all of them had been summoners, and that was why there were relatively few of them to help the Inhumans. White-Eye considered herself blessed to have Faralok. Now more than ever, with floods of Seekers coming across the desert, she was grateful for his help.
Eager to change the subject, White-Eye pointed her dark face back toward the sky. Almost at once, the image of the stars bloomed in her mind. “There,” she said, pointing at a cluster of pulsing pinpoints. “Is that a constellation?”
That is Tesharar, the horseman, replied Faralok. Look to the bright star near the top. Do you see his head? And the three stars to the left, his sword.
It was imagination, not magic, that let White-Eye see the horseman. “Yes, I see it,” she said. “Oh, that’s very good.”
They were all good, these Akari constellations, and White-Eye loved to watch them and hear Faralok’s legends. The constellations all had stories, and Faralok was a good storyteller. She often wondered what he had been like in life. Learned, certainly, like all the Akari summoners. But thoughtful, too, and patient. Sometimes, he reminded her of Gilwyn.
Together they enjoyed the stars until White-Eye grew too cold to continue. As she turned, she heard a figure making its way up the turret’s spiraling stone stairwell. She had left the wooden door open on its heavy hinges, and in its threshold appeared a terribly hunchbacked man. One would have expected him to walk with an ungainly gait, but this man moved with sureness and grace, hopping out of the stairwell to face White-Eye.
His name was Monster. He was middle-aged and bent with bone troubles, but his smile lit the night. White-Eye had no use for torches or candles. With Faralok’s help she could see everything, including the spotted cat in Monster’s arms. Once, she had hated calling this gentle fellow by such an abhorrent name. Minikin had reminded her that Monster had chosen his name himself, and that slurs could not hurt them.
“Kahana,” said the man. He gave a bow that would have been impossible if not for supernatural help. “I was asked to find you. Mistress Minikin is arriving.”
The news heartened White-Eye. In the language of the north lands she said, “Minikin? She’s here?”
“Very nearly, Kahana.” Monster softly stroked his cat as he spoke. “Sir Lukien is with her.”
“And Gilwyn? Has he come too?”
“I’m sorry, Kahana, no,” replied the hunchback. Although Monster was not Jadori—he had come to Grimhold from Nith as a child—he preferred calling the girl by her title. “Will you be coming? If you are busy . . .”
“No,” said White-Eye. “I am finished here.”
Monster smiled and stepped aside for her to pass. As she did he held
the door open. Like everything the hunchback did, he did so gracefully. White-Eye thought about this as she made her way toward the stairs. With the enormous strength his Akari gave him, Monster could have easily ripped the door from its iron hinges.
By the time Lukien and the others reached Grimhold, night had long since fallen. The fortress itself was almost impossible to see in the darkness, designed by its Akari builders to disappear into the mountain, but the kreels had no problem finding their home, and Lukien had only to ride his horse carefully and follow the uncanny reptiles. Carlan, the boy they were bringing to Grimhold, had fallen asleep during the ride, but when they finally reached the fabled stronghold the trumpet-blast of welcome roused him. Grimhold materialized like magic out of the darkness, taking shape out of the wall of rock, its turrets coming alive with light, its great, foreboding gate lifting on its stout chains. It was a scene Lukien had never gotten used to, and as the gate parted to reveal Grimhold’s secret folds he felt the same shiver of anticipation he saw now in Carlan’s face. Despite his blindness, the sandy-haired five-year-old teetered on the back of the kreel, awestruck by the furious noise of the gate and the soaring sense of Grimhold. Behind him, Minikin kept him from falling and happily chuckled at his surprise.
“What is it?” asked the boy.
“This is Grimhold, Carlan,” replied Minikin. “Your new home.”
The boy’s blind eyes widened dreadfully. “Oh. . . .”
Laughing, Lukien sidled his horse up to the boy. “Do not worry, Carlan. It is not as bad as it may sound.”
“Not at all,” said Minikin. “You’ll be happy here.”
Carlan didn’t seem convinced, but Lukien wasn’t concerned. It had taken him a good while to become used to the amazing place and its inhabitants. As the gate reached its apex, he could see some of those inhabitants now. like the very first time he had come to Grimhold a year ago, they appeared out of the darkness like misshapen wraiths, bathed in torchlight, lining the galleries and ledges of the great hall, frightening even in their joy. Frightening still, after a year of knowing them and calling them friends. For a moment, Lukien was glad that Carlan could not see. There were blind among the Inhumans, certainly, but there were also others with far more gruesome maladies. Among the albinos like Ghost there were hunchbacks like Monster and one-armed men like Thorin, dozens and dozens of them who had been brought to this place over the decades to find peace in Grimhold’s protection. Before its discovery and renaming as “Mount Believer,” it had been fabled that Grimhold was a place of monsters. Once, Lukien had believed the tale. Getting to know these good folk had changed his mind considerably, though, and now that he wore the Eye of God he was one of them. He was Shalafein, their Great Protector.