The Devil's Armor

by John Marco

  Aztar poured some tea from an urn and pushed his glass across the table toward her. Tea in Ganjor was a great prize, and sharing it a symbol of community. And, sometimes, of love. Aztar’s affection for Salina was plain enough; he had told her father of his intentions to marry her someday. But Aztar was not truly a prince. Though he had declared himself one, he still had to prove himself to the old, traditional Baralosus. Salina took the tea Aztar offered and sipped. It was very hot, and as she drank he smiled at her. He was an enormous man, and seeing such gentleness on his face was startling. As if catching himself, Aztar looked away. He straightened his great back, sitting up tall and proud.

  “Let us talk, Majesty,” he said.

  “No,” offered Baralosus. “Let us eat.”

  Aztar pushed his plate aside. “The others may fill themselves fat. I have come for conversation.”

  Salina stiffened. Her father—all of her family—knew why Aztar had come to Ganjor.

  King Baralosus sighed and splayed his fingers in surrender. He had an admirable way of allaying Aztar’s storminess. “The sands of time run quickly in your hourglass, my friend. We can speak of Jador now or later, I do not care which. But my daughters and sons have no need to hear our details.”

  “I would speak now, during your kind feast, Majesty, if it pleases you,” said Aztar. “And I would prefer the Princess Salina stay. She has a love for the northerners that her siblings do not share. Perhaps our words will educate her.”

  The king’s advisors seated nearby ended their chatter and toyed with their food, leaning almost imperceptibly toward the head of the table. Salina, annoyed at being talked about, turned icy and lowered her tea glass.

  “I will stay, Father, and hear the prince’s plans,” she said. “I would like to know why he plots against a good land like Jador, which has never given us a moment’s distress.”

  Aztar turned his dark eyes on Salina. “Come to my desert, girl, and you will see the distress they cause.”

  “I have seen them in our city, Prince, the ones you call defilers. They are kind and good. And they are infirm! They seek only the solace of Jador’s magic.”

  The Tiger of the Desert leaned closer. “Like a plague they stream across my land, Princess. And they bring their ideas with them, and their cursed customs, and I cannot bear the stink of them in my nostrils.” Aztar looked pleadingly at the king. “Majesty, why is the magic of Jador for these outsiders? Why do the Jadori allow it, when you of Ganjor have been their friends for so long? No, I understate it! You are kin to the Jadori! Look at our skins and say that it is not so.”

  “I cannot say so,” said Baralosus. “When it is so obvious to everyone but my daughter.”

  Salina frowned at her father, who had long ago sided with Aztar in the argument. “If Jador is to be the price for me, Father, then should I not have a say in the matter?”

  “Jador has gone from a quiet friend to a loud distraction, Salina,” said Baralosus. His tone remained reasonable. “What will they become in the next year? A threat? Aztar has a right to the peace of his desert.”

  “It is not his desert,” said Salina. This time she looked straight at the prince. “My lord, no man owns the sand. It does not belong to the Voruni or any other tribe.”

  “Girl, I lead the Voruni,” said Aztar evenly. “Who will protect them if not me? We dwell in the desert. We must keep it free of disease and the mind infections the northerners bring.”

  “And I am so infected, yes?” challenged Salina.

  Prince Aztar nodded. “Yes. But you are young, and the young are foolish. With years you will come to see the truth.”

  “This is so,” agreed Baralosus. “Salina, you will understand in time.”

  Salina held her tongue, but knew she would never understand. She had already defied them both by secretly helping the northerners across the desert. Now, hearing of Aztar’s fearsome plans, she had no regrets about her treachery.

  The feast stretched on into the evening, until at last the crowds tired of the food and music. Finally, Salina’s large family and all of their guests began to disperse. The princess herself was among the first to leave the gathering, longing for the quiet of the palace’s garden, a tranquil place of orchids and bubbling water. A winding stone walkway meandered through the garden, lit by posts bearing lanterns and, tonight, an abundance of moonlight. As Salina walked along the stones she picked an orchid bloom and twirled it in her fingers. She knew it would not be long until Aztar came. She looked forward to speaking with him alone, but also dreaded it. It had been a difficult evening; she had not meant to argue so loudly with her father. But she had already chosen her secret path. Even if she wound up wedding Aztar someday, she would continue helping the Seekers.

  Somehow.

  Salina puzzled over this as she smelled the white flower. So far, no one had detected her contacts with the Jadori. When she saw that Seekers were about to leave Ganjor for the desert, she sent her warning birds across the sands. It was all she could do, and she hoped that it had helped. The northerners weren’t the threat Aztar claimed, but she had not been able to help them all, of course.

  As expected, Salina soon heard the footfalls of the beast. The Tiger of the Desert padded along the path behind her, stalking through the shrubs and flowers. Salina did not turn around, but rather let his eyes linger on her. Her silk garments clung to her shapely form, and the lust in Aztar’s gaze was always apparent. She twirled the bloom absently in her fingers, then decided to toy with the prince.

  “Come out of the shadows, my lord, please,” she joked. “You are not as subtle as a real cat.”

  The flowers parted with a rustle and Aztar appeared. She turned to see him looking splendid in the moonlight, his dark skin offset by his wraps of bright fabric. The gold bands on his wrists caught the lantern light. His slight beard parted in amusement.

  “It is a pleasure to admire you in quiet, Princess. I like you better when you are quiet, I think.”

  “So you want a silent wife, like my father’s wives. You would do better to look elsewhere for a mate, then.”

  Aztar came closer, saw the flower in her hand and said, “Orchids are so beautiful, yet never make a sound. I do not think people would admire them if they gibbered like mice.”

  Fencing with Aztar always amused Salina, but tonight her mood was different. His talk of war with Jador had soured her. He noticed her curdled expression and nodded.

  “It must be this way, Salina,” he said. “My men are ready. I am ready. And your father is ready, he has given his blessing to this.”

  “So that you may remove a problem and fill his pockets further,” said Salina. Not in the mood to curb her tongue, she continued. “Do you not see how he uses you, my lord? My father is a good man, beloved by me. Do not think anything else. But to him you are a hired sword.”

  His grin widened. “For a good price.”

  “Yes,” sighed Salina. “He bargains me away for whatever magic you might find in Jador.”

  “I do not seek their magic,” said Aztar adamantly. “I want nothing from Jador but their silence. So they make me pull out their tongues, but when I am done they will stop inviting invaders across my desert.”

  “They do not invite them. The Seekers come because they must, because they are hopeless . . .”

  Aztar waved a ringed hand. “Stop, now.”

  “No,” Salina insisted, “I must make you understand. These people, the Seekers—they are sick and broken people. Desperate people. They go to Jador only to be saved.”

  “I have seen them. I know they are sick. Would you have them bring their diseases into my home? Pollute my desert?”

  “You will not be able to stop them, my lord. They will keep coming, because the myth of Mount Believer is strong with them, and because they know the Bronze Knight dwells in Jador. Kept alive by magic! How can you blame them for being pulled by that?”

  The mention of the Bronze Knight made Aztar’s handsome face tighten. “The Bronze
Knight is a northern devil, and when I finally face him I will kill him. When he is dead and all the world knows it, the Seekers will stop coming to my desert.”

  “Ah,” said Salina, understanding. “You mean to attack Jador to kill the Bronze Knight.”

  “I mean to attack them because they harbor everything bad about the northern lands. Hiding the knight is just one of their sins.”

  Salina turned slowly away from him. The flower in her hand dangled uselessly. She tossed it aside. “How can I get over this wall around you? How can I make you see?”

  “You are like so many of the young,” Aztar countered. “Blinded by the baubles of another world. But the north is not your world, Salina, and its people are not your people. Your people are here. That is where your loyalty must be.”

  “To stand by while my father lets you kill any people . . .” Salina shook her head, unsure of what to say. “You ask too much of me, my lord. I may be your wife someday; I accept that because I must. But I will never hold my tongue. Beat me if you will—I will not stay silent.”

  Prince Aztar grimaced. “Is that the kind of husband you expect me to be? I have no wish to ever harm you, Salina.”

  “But you will attack Jador?”

  The Tiger put his hand to his gilded sword pommel. “Yes.”

  “Soon?”

  Aztar nodded. “Soon.”

  Princess Salina decided to ask no more questions. She already had all the details she needed, for Aztar had been very vocal at the feast. She looked at him, and for a moment regretted betraying him. Misguided as his intentions were, they were unquestionably sincere.

  “Will you spend some time with me tonight?” she asked.

  “That is why I have come here,” said Aztar. He looked up into the sky. “We shall enjoy the moonlight together.”

  “And can we talk no more of war and battle?”

  The prince’s hand slid from his pommel. “Avaldi,” he called her, an old desert term of love, “there is so much more I can talk about than battle.”

  Then, further surprising her, Aztar took her hand and led her through the garden, reciting a Ganjeese love poem from memory.

  It was very near dawn when Princess Salina at last returned to her room. Grateful for the remaining darkness, she hurried to prepare her note. Like all of Baralosus’ daughters, Salina had her own chamber in the palace, with all the privacy she required. The rooms were stately; large enough for several girls. Tall arched windows offered a splendid view of the desert beyond. The largest of these archways led onto a great stone balcony. From there, high in one of the palace’s spires, Salina could watch the thriving city and enjoy her many doves, which came and went happily from their open cages along the balcony.

  First, though, Salina went to a small writing desk. Parchment and a quill pen—a gift from a northern diplomat—waited for her. From one of the sheets she tore a small square of paper, just large enough for all her words. There were no servants about but Salina worked quickly, hurrying to finish her note before the sun rose. Not really sure who was receiving her messages at the other end, she simply addressed it to her “Jadori friends . . .”

  And to these unknown friends she told of Aztar’s plans.

  When she was done and satisfied, Salina rolled the parchment into a tight tube, found a bit of silk thread, and went through the open doors of the balcony. She was very high up, and below her the city yawned to life. In a great, full-length cage she located one of her doves, a small but reliable female named Kalia. In Ganjor, the word meant “secret,” but she never told others that she named her birds.

  “Kalia, sweet one,” she cooed, putting her finger into the cage and letting the bird hop on. “I have an important job for you.”

  The bird made no protest as she carefully tied the note to its leg. Then she held the dove aloft.

  “Now, beautiful, go and be well,” she said. “Make all haste with my message.”

  Taking flight, Kalia leapt from her finger and winged skyward. Salina watched as the dove flew over the city, lit by the coming dawn, then disappearing with her secret note.

  26

  THE DOVE

  The chambers that had once been Kahan Kadar’s were more splendid than any Gilwyn had known, but at times they overwhelmed him. They were White-Eye’s chambers now, really, but since White-Eye could only govern Jador from Grimhold they had become Gilwyn’s. At the end of every day, Gilwyn retired to the place that had once belonged to a powerful king, finding reminders of him everywhere. And these reminders stirred memories of White-Eye in Gilwyn, and made him sad to be apart from her.

  Gilwyn rarely went to his chambers during the day. His daylight hours were always consumed with the work of keeping Jador fed, functioning, and secure, or training with Minikin in the use of his Akari gifts. Gilwyn was grateful for the busy days. Since Lukien had left in pursuit of Thorin—some weeks ago now—he had not been back to Grimhold to see White-Eye, and his day-to-day activities helped him from worrying too much over all their fates. Surprisingly, Minikin had spent much of her time in Jador, too. Though she had many gifts of her own with which to see what was happening with Lukien or Baron Glass, she had steadfastly refused to do so. It was, she explained, important for them all to go on with their lives and not be governed by the terrors of tomorrow.

  So Gilwyn filled his days with mundane things, mostly, and enjoyed the time he spent with Minikin and his own Akari, Ruana. He was well acquainted with Ruana now; they had become more than friends. They were inseparable in a way that Gilwyn had longed to understand, and now did. With Minikin’s help he learned to communicate with Ruana in a form of thought that felt like water running over his brain, effortless and comfortable. He had only to think of her now to feel her presence swelling around him. Now, he could reach into the minds of the kreel. He could almost understand their reptilian language, or when they felt pain or mistrust or a thousand other emotions he would have never ascribed to anything not human. Guided by Ruana, his gift for communing with creatures had grown enormous. He no longer felt it had an end, but would continue growing and amazing him forever.

  On a hot afternoon in Jador, Gilwyn retired to his chambers with Minikin. They had spent the morning out in the desert, training him to scan the sands with his mind and locate the different creatures present. It had stunned Gilwyn that his mind could reach so far, if he concentrated hard enough, and he had not only detected the kreels on patrol but also an unsettling number of rass, the great hooded snakes that were the kreels’ mortal enemy. The exercise had exhilarated Gilwyn but it had also exhausted him, and the thought of stretching out on his comfortable bed became too much of a temptation. As he reached his chambers Minikin was still with him, her bodyguard Trog not far behind. She continued to lecture him, even though he wasn’t listening anymore, as they stepped into the opulent rooms.

  “. . . and if you can control a kreel, than you can control a rass as well,” Minikin was saying. She had a smile on her face as though she had imparted the most important knowledge.

  “A rass is not a kreel,” he said. The heat of the day had sapped his enthusiasm. His gaka felt heavy on his shoulders. He un-spooled it and tossed it over a fabulously carved chair. “They don’t feel the same.”

  “No, certainly not,” replied Minikin. “But did the kreel not feel strange to you at first?”

  “Not Emerald,” answered Gilwyn, recalling the first time his mind had made contact with his own kreel. “That was easy.”

  “Ah, because you have a special connection to her,” said Minikin. The little lady padded behind him, following him toward the bank of windows. “It is like that for all the Jadori warriors—they have a bond with their beasts. But not all of them can connect with just any kreel, Gilwyn. Not like you.”

  As he pulled back the heavy drapes from the windows Gilwyn considered what Minikin said, but he was really too tired to give it much thought. The rass had a peculiar feeling to them, and he supposed not even Minikin could understand that. Sunli
ght flooded the room, hot, stabbing beams of orange. He groaned and started to close the drapes, then saw a white bird outside the window, pecking contentedly at the bird feeder. The sight of the bird jolted him.

  “Minikin, look,” he said. “A dove . . .”

  One of Princess Salina’s doves, certainly. He could tell by the little roll of parchment threaded to its leg. Gilwyn stepped aside for Minikin to see. The mistress approached the window and opened the glass door.

  “Don’t frighten it,” Gilwyn cautioned. “It might fly off.”

  “Oh?” said Minikin. She stepped out onto the landing but paused before the feeder. “Then you should keep it here, Gilwyn.”

  Gilwyn frowned.

  “Go on, do it,” the mistress urged. “Calm the dove. You can do it.”

  Gilwyn shook his head. “No, it doesn’t seem to be afraid of you. Just get the note.”

  “The note can wait. Think about the dove, Gilwyn. What do you see?”

  He wanted to beg off the exercise but he relented, concentrating on the dove. As his mind reached out for it the bird stopped pecking and looked at him. His eyes locked with the dove’s own tiny orbs, and as Ruana built the strange bridge between them he could see himself through the bird’s tiny brain, and the trip the white creature had made across the desert. He felt its thirst and hunger. Then, to his pleasure, he saw a beautiful young woman.

  “Princess Salina,” he said. “I see her, Minikin . . .”

  Minikin’s smile was prideful. “You are good. Better every day. I don’t suppose you can tell me what the note says?”

  “Hmm, I don’t think the bird knows that.”

  Minikin laughed, then went calmly to the dove. She spoke gently to the bird as she worked the thread with her tiny fingers, freeing the note from its leg. “Let us see then for ourselves,” she said. The thought of going out to rescue Seekers wearied Gilwyn, and while he waited patiently for Minikin to unravel the note he wondered who he could take with him. Without Lukien around, protecting the Seekers—and Jador—had become a good deal more difficult. Minikin remained calm as she opened the parchment, but when she began to read her eyes glazed over.