by John Marco
At the threshold of the iron gate stood Greygor. He too was a protector of Grimhold, titled Guardian of the Gate. He was an immense man, like Minikin’s Trog, and as mute as the bodyguard, too, but by choice. Unlike Trog, Greygor had a tongue. He simply rarely chose to exercise it. He wore black armor with spikes and a helmet that he seldom removed, letting his long dark hair flow out from under it. Once, Greygor had been employed by a princeling, but he had loved a woman in the princeling’s harem and so had been horribly maimed for his crime. Nearly every bone in his body was broken, and was broken still, held together by Akari magic and a powerful spirit that gave the giant guardian enormous strength and stealth. It was impossible for Lukien to imagine the pain Greygor constantly endured, but the big man carried it quietly and without complaint, happy only to be of use to Minikin, who had saved him from death and uselessness.
Lukien dismounted, then helped Carlan and Minikin down from the back of their small kreel. The Jadori warriors who had accompanied them kept a respectable distance away from the gate. They still considered Grimhold a holy place, and though they were welcome they rarely crossed its threshold, preferring instead to overnight in the village beyond the fortress. Trog got down from his own enormous kreel and went to stand beside Minikin. The little woman took hold of Carlan’s hand as she led him past the gate. As she approached, Greygor fell to a one-kneed bow, lowering his head. When Minikin told him to rise, he towered over the lady and her charge. Carlan lifted his head as if to stare in awe of the guardian.
“Welcome to Grimhold, Carlan,” said Minikin. “You will learn much here, and you will be happy. I promise you that.”
Carlan didn’t speak, but his mouth hung open just the same. Lukien quickly told his Jadori companions to see to his horse before heading through the gate. There was a place in Grimhold where the kreels and horses were kept, a small stable that Monster looked after. It was much less grand than the stables in the village where Lukien himself made his home, but he knew his mount would be safe there until he needed it. He was eager to get inside suddenly, to see Thorin and his other friends, and when he entered the fortress he was greeted at once by happy calls throughout the hall. The Inhumans—those strange and magical people he’d come to protect—always cheered him as a hero whenever he returned. He shook hands and slapped the backs of men and women who’d once been part of the tiny army he’d made of them, an army disbanded since the defeat of Liiria. But he was at once dismayed to see that Thorin was not among them. He had news for his old friend and expected the baron to be here waiting for him. Disappointed, he looked around and caught a glimpse of Meriel, standing apart from the other Inhumans, her face hidden in her cowl, her hands tucked beneath her flowing sleeves. Shyly, she watched him greet her fellow Inhumans. Lukien offered her a smile which she returned with a small nod. But she came no closer, and that bothered Lukien. Instead of waving her over he held up a hand, gesturing her to wait for him. There was no way he could return home without greeting her properly. She was in love with him and he knew it. Before he could greet her, though, there was another young woman to see. White-Eye had come to welcome them home. She was already embracing Minikin, giving the tiny mistress a heartfelt kiss. Lukien beamed at her as he approached. She was a beautiful girl and easy to fall in love with, as Gilwyn had. Her sightless eyes spotted him coming forward. She turned and gave him a warm smile.
“Sir Lukien,” she said, her voice like music, “it is good to see you well.”
“And it is always good to see you, Kahana,” replied Lukien. Just as Greygor had greeted Minikin, Lukien fell to one knee before White-Eye. Taking her delicate, caramel hand, he placed a reverent kiss there. Of all the people in Grimhold that were his to protect, White-Eye was his particular business. He had taken her mother from her at birth, and had made a promise to her now-dead father to guard her. It was a task that weighed heavily on him constantly. White-Eye grinned at his attention, which always made her uncomfortable, and asked him to rise. When he did, she pulled him close and kissed his cheek.
“I am happy you are safe,” she said. She did not speak Jadori to him, but rather the language of his northern homeland. “The men that came ahead of you told us about the battle with the raiders.”
“Aye, it was bad business,” said Lukien. “But we saved the Seekers and ourselves, and that’s the point of it.”
“And Gilwyn is well? Nothing happened to him?”
“He is well, White-Eye,” said Minikin. “He sends you his love.”
The message brought sadness to White-Eye’s face. It was plain that she missed him. “Has he said when he’ll return?” she asked.
“There is much in Jador that needs doing,” said Minikin. “I’m sorry, child. He wishes he could be with you, but things are difficult. With Prince Aztar’s men on the move and so many Seekers . . .”
“I understand,” said White-Eye. Forcing her mood to improve, she smiled down at Carlan, who still held Minikin’s hand. “But who’s this? Have you brought a new friend for me to play with?”
“My name is Carlan,” said the boy. Oddly, his blindness seemed no bother as he spoke to White-Eye. “I’m from Marn, but this is my home now. I heard you were very pretty, lady. I wish I could see you.”
White-Eye laughed in delight. She crouched to face Carlan. “Oh, you will see me soon enough, Carlan. Then maybe you won’t think me so pretty, hmm?”
Carlan reached out with his free hand and touched White-Eye’s face. The blind kahana did not flinch. She closed her eyes and let the boy read her features. Soon he gave a bright smile.
“Pretty,” he declared.
Lukien agreed. “Aye, but she’s taken, fellow. We’ll just have to find you another girl of Grimhold to love.”
“White-Eye,” said Minikin, “I will be returning to Jador soon. Carlan will need you to look after him while I am gone.”
“Of course,” said White-Eye. “But why leave so quickly?”
“Because I have to speak with Gilwyn.” Minikin gave a secretive smile. “I think his time has come.”
The answered confused Lukien, but made White-Eye beam. “That is good news,” said the girl. “He will be very pleased.”
“I don’t understand,” said Lukien. “What do you mean, Minikin?”
“It is time for the boy to learn about his Akari, Lukien. He has matured, and he has a way with the kreel. I think his gift is starting to bloom.”
All Inhumans had a gift, as they called it. That much Lukien understood. Meriel’s gift was fire, because it was such a part of her. Were the kreels Gilwyn’s gift? It only made partial sense to Lukien, but then everything about the Inhumans confused him. His own Akari, residing in the amulet, had so far refused to speak to him, a mystery not even Minikin could explain. It had made Lukien bitter toward the very force that kept him alive, and less inclined to show interest in the Akari or their strange ways. He was happy for Gilwyn, though, because he knew the boy chafed to learn more. Still, the conversation had taken a difficult turn, and he groped for a way to excuse himself.
“Minikin, if you are all right with the boy, I’d like to go find Baron Glass, to tell him about the Liirians.”
White-Eye’s interest was piqued. “Liirians?”
“The new Seekers that came to Jador,” Minikin explained. “They are from Liiria.”
“And I’m sure Thorin would want to know that,” Lukien added. “Have you seen him, White-Eye?”
“No,” replied the kahana. “I have kept to myself this evening.”
Minikin’s elfish smile sharpened. “Meriel might know where he is,” she said, flicking her eyes in the young woman’s direction.
“I was just going to see her, thank you very much,” said Lukien. With a bow and good-bye to them all, he meandered through the crowded hall toward Meriel. The young woman was still where she’d been all along, backed into a dreary corner of the rocky walls. She straightened when she noticed Lukien approaching. The knight took pains not to draw too much attention to
himself or to Meriel, who couldn’t bear the stares of others. Thankfully, Meriel had picked a quiet corner for their meeting.
“Meriel, how are you?” he asked. He came very close to her, easily seeing within her protective cowl.
In a demure voice she replied, “Well, Lukien, thank you. When I heard you were returning I wanted to be here to greet you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I never mind seeing you, you know that.” He didn’t ask her why she hid in the shadows or why she didn’t go greet Minikin. Instead he reached out and took down her hood. Amazingly, she allowed this. “But you’re breaking your promise. You know our agreement. I don’t want you to hide yourself, not from me.”
Her burned face revealed, she did not look away. “I . . . have missed you.”
Lukien smiled. “It’s good to be missed.”
“I’m glad you’re all right,” she added quickly. “When you’re gone I worry.”
The love in her voice was plain. It hurt Lukien to hear it, because he knew it was love he could never return. “You shouldn’t worry,” he told her. “I can look after myself, and this damn amulet makes sure nothing happens to me.” Putting his hand to his breast, he could feel the Eye of God pulsate on his skin. “I couldn’t hurt myself if I wanted to.”
“You should not jest like that,” said Meriel. “Even the amulet cannot protect you from everything. I think you should care more about dying, Lukien.”
“And I think you should care more about living, Meriel.”
The words weren’t meant to hurt, but Lukien could tell he’d struck the young woman. She glanced away, turning her un-maimed side toward him. For a moment Lukien thought to apologize, but quickly changed his mind. He had always been firm with Meriel, even in his kindness. It was what she needed, he had decided, whether she loved him or not.
“I’m looking for Thorin,” he said. “Have you seen him?”
Meriel nodded. “He was with me before. He came to tell me you were coming home.”
“Where is he now, do you know?”
Meriel kept her face turned away. “He went to his rooms, I think.”
“Look at me,” said Lukien. Gently he took her chin and turned her face forward. She was always sadly pliant to his touch. “Remember, we don’t turn away from each other.”
Meriel nodded. “Go and find Thorin. He left me in a foul mood. He’ll be glad to see you.”
“We will talk tomorrow, then,” said Lukien. “If you like, I will take you for a ride, just the two of us.”
The woman’s expression brightened. “I would like that.”
“Then we shall do it, I promise,” said Lukien. He felt better, though he it was because he’d slaked his guilt. “It’s late. I need food and rest and I need them now. But first I need to find Thorin.” He turned as he wished Meriel a restful evening. “I will see you in the morning.”
Leaving behind the crowded hall, the knight went in search of Baron Glass, to tell him the news of the Liirian Seekers.
Meriel watched Lukien disappear through the crowd and exit the great hall. She was oblivious to the people around her, not even aware that her cowl was down and her face on full display. Tomorrow, she would have time with Lukien alone. Her mind turned quickly to her appearance, how best to improve it by the morrow. She knew no spells to turn her ugliness to beauty, though, and this discouraged her. All that she could do was make fire with her hands and burn herself. It saddened her that she didn’t have an Akari that could change the way she looked, or even make herself invisible. The albino Ghost had such an Akari, and he was hardly as ugly as she.
“Salvarian, I love you,” she whispered.
Her Akari was silent.
“Do not hate me for thinking such things, I beg you.”
Still Salvarian said nothing, not even making his presence known with the smallest tremble.
“I would not want to lose you. You must know that.”
Finally the spirit spoke, striking deep, almost painfully in her brain. I am not an old pair of shoes, Meriel. I am not to be bartered.
Guilt overwhelmed Meriel. She wanted to say something—anything—to placate the Akari, but it would be a lie and Salvarian knew her thoughts anyway.
Yet she was tantalized. If there were Akari to make a man invisible, could there be those to make her beautiful? To replace her scars forever, even with a magic mask? Meriel didn’t know. But she had learned one thing during her years in Grimhold—with the Akari, anything seemed possible.
8
VANLANDINGHALE
In Norvor, word traveled northward of King Lorn’s demise, and with it traveled Lorn himself, out of the Bleak Territories and into the Novo Valley, over the river Kryss and—at last—into Liiria. Along with his infant daughter, he had listened to the rumors following him from town to town, proclaiming his death in a great battle against Jazana Carr or his suicide in Carlion or his last, tearful words before being executed. But to Lorn’s great relief, none of the rumors had him travelling to war-torn Liiria.
It had taken weeks for Lorn and Poppy to reach Liiria. His first horse had expired in the Bleak Territories and he had been forced to walk with the infant in his arms until he was able to steal another. His money—that which he had carried out of Carlion or stolen off the Rolgans he had killed that very first day—had been very nearly exhausted by the time he and Poppy reached Liiria’s first city, Andola. By then his beard had grown back and the filth of the road had covered his face. He was no longer afraid of being recognized because he no longer looked anything like a king. On the border of Norvor and Liiria, near a tumultuous part of the river Kryss, he and Poppy rested in Andola. There he spent the last of his silver coins on a room and good food, and did not venture outside again for days. Both of them exhausted, they slept and enjoyed the roof over their heads, eating more than their fill because they were both half-starved. The innkeeper, a stout, pleasant woman named Hella, took care of Poppy and bathed her. Because the city was run by a notorious merchant-baron, a warlord who had sprung up in the chaos of the old king’s death, the innkeeper was accustomed to close-mouthed patrons and asked no questions of her guests, a trait for which Lorn was grateful.
After his spell in the city, Lorn discovered he didn’t want to leave Andola. Poppy seemed happy there, oblivious to the war raging around her, and Lorn felt safe in the chaos. Chaos was the very reason he had come to Liiria. He had known that no one would follow him here or be able to locate him among the mercenaries and their employers, all vying for little bits of the shattered kingdom. On his third night in Andola, Lorn finally left the shabby inn and walked the city streets. Once, when Akeela had been king, Andola had been a jewel on the riverbank, a hub of commerce second only to Koth, Liiria’s capital. As he walked with the moonlight on his shoulders, Lorn could see the remnants of what Andola had been, its grand old buildings now gutted by fire, its gardened avenues trampled by warhorses and siege machines. The highest building in the city—that of Ravel the Merchant-Baron—glowered over the streets like a brooding gargoyle perched on a hill. Lorn paused in the middle of a trash-strewn street to stare at it. Suddenly, he was overcome with melancholy.
“Usurper,” he muttered. Like Jazana Carr. Ravel and others like him picked at the bones of Liiria, fighting among themselves for scraps of flesh and gold dust. Andola was Ravel’s now, but he had designs on Koth as well. The two cities had already clashed in the year since King Akeela’s death; that news had reached Lorn all the way in Carlion. Lorn shook his head as he stared at Ravel’s impressive home. It was a mammoth place, not tall but wide, the kind of villa Norvan merchants favored before they’d lost all their wealth in the civil war. A snaking road led up the hill to the home’s ornate gate, but beyond that much of the place was hidden behind trees and gardens. Lorn imagined the house’s owner, said to be a fat, pampered fop with too much money and too much ambition. Lorn had no use for usurpers. As he stood there, he imagined the day when Jazana Carr’s army would rumble through Andola and disem
bowel the merchant-baron.
But that was months off yet, certainly, and King Lorn the Wicked still had much to do. Penniless, he walked back to his little room at the inn and found Hella with Poppy, the infant asleep in a cradle the portly woman had loaned him. There was sadness in her eyes when Lorn returned; she enjoyed having a child in her house again, but knew that Poppy would soon be leaving. Lorn said nothing to her as he entered the chamber, keeping the door open behind him. It was very late and he expected Hella to go at once. When she lingered, he grew annoyed.
“Will you be leaving in the morning?” the woman asked.
Lorn nodded. He had already told her that. He sat in a wooden chair and pulled off his boots, trying to be quiet.
“I will pack food for your trip,” said Hella.
“I cannot pay for it,” said Lorn.
Hella’s smile was faint. “You and the child will need it, and I have enough. It’s been a pleasure having the little one here. I will miss her.” She hesitated, not saying anything but not leaving the room, either.
“Thank you,” said Lorn. He leaned back and studied her with his heavy eyes. “Is there something else?”
“Just wondering,” began the woman carefully, “where you will go now. This is a dangerous country, as you’ve seen.”