by Tim Mathias
“Vahr!” one of his men pointed past him. Zayd spun and slashed upward blindly in time to block a downward swing.
He locked eyes with Sera. They were wide, angered, and welling with tears. An arrowhead protruded from her shoulder. “You brought them down upon us,” she screamed. She swung at Zayd again, clumsily. Desperately. “You were pretending all this time… King Hunter! Broken Bow! All of it to fool me into thinking you were something other than the same monster that helped destroy our holy city!” He parried her swings easily and countered when he saw her weakening, knocking the blade from her hand. She did not seem to mind. She stood before him, breathless, bleeding, and unblinking.
“Go ahead,” Sera said as she held out her arms. “I know this is what you want. It’s what I want.” Zayd could see a Ryferian soldier approaching Sera from behind, his weapon drawn. There was something different, though… The insignia on the soldier’s armour was of the Fourth Regiment.
This was not one of Praene’s men.
Zayd pulled Sera forward, off balance, putting himself between her and the soldier. “Stop!” The soldier halted, looked around, and shouted to another. “He’s over here, sir.”
Around them the fighting had almost stopped. Some of the Dramandi had surrendered. More were dead. A knight in full plate, with Silver Sun insignias on each shoulder, came striding into view.
“You made it,” Barrett said as he took off his helmet. Zayd dropped the Dramandi blade and gave an exhausted salute. Barrett saluted back.
“Praene?” Zayd asked.
“He hardly put up a fight.” Barrett smiled.
Chapter 17
They followed from a distance, always remaining discreetly part of the crowds of the city. The Ardent, though, seemed not to check to see if he was being followed. Their story must have fooled him; why would they follow him if they wanted to be rid of the thing that was in the box?
“What did you put inside?” Osmun had asked Nasiri. “Please tell me we didn’t give the man an empty box.”
“It’s an Ivesian good luck charm,” she told him.
“Shouldn’t we have kept that?” Myron asked. “You know…… for luck?”
“I have more,” Nasiri said.
“Oh, good. That’s good. We’re going to need some luck.”
“They’re worthless,” Nasiri said. “Ivesians don’t use good luck charms. The very idea of luck is a Ryferian one, and probably one that they adopted from some other culture.”
“So why do you even have them?” Osmun asked.
“To sell them to superstitious Ryferians,” Nasiri said as she shrugged. “Credulity makes for good customers.”
The three of them, dispersed along the crowded street, separately watched as the Ardent left the market and crossed the large, open square in front of the Xidian Cathedral. He veered westward of the great monument, away from the Cathedral and down another street. Osmun, Nasiri, and Myron followed.
“Not together!” Myron hissed as Osmun sidled up to him. He pushed the priest away. “That way, that way. As if you’re going that direction. Is this your first time doing this?”
“Yes!” Osmun said as he changed direction. They came together a few moments later at the mouth of the street that the Ardent had gone down.
“I knew you should’ve stayed behind,” Myron said to Osmun.
“Why? We’re doing fine,” Osmun said defensively.
“Until we cross paths with another Ardent who recognizes you, and then all of this planning and running about will be wasted.”
“He has a point,” Nasiri said.
“Yes, and he’s made it. Now, can we continue?”
“Certainly,” Myron said, rolling his eyes. “Why don’t we just catch up with the fellow, link arms with him, and ask him? ‘Afternoon, chap! Say, where are you off to in such a hurry? And did you know that the thing in the box is totally useless? But don’t let that stop you from trying to sell it to some idiot Trueborn!’”
Nasiri jabbed him hard with an elbow. “Enough.” Myron grumbled but otherwise remained silent as they continued to trail the Ardent. It soon became apparent to Osmun where he was heading. He watched as the Ardent headed towards the huge building that loomed on the horizon. The buildings on either side of the street fell away and a wide, stone stairway ascended to an iron archway. An eight-foot stone wall extended out to the left and right, tracing the edge of the level ground where it met the steep hillside.
“The Historian’s College,” Osmun said. Though from where they stood they could not see any of the college itself save the tall, wide bell tower in the centre of the building.
“At least the Compendium isn’t behind that impenetrable door in the Cathedral,” Myron said.
“We don’t know what it’s behind.” Osmun turned back around. “We shouldn’t linger,” he said as he began to walk back down the street towards the monument.
“Haven’t you been inside?” Nasiri asked.
“Only a few times, and it was years ago. I was a child, almost. I had just begun to discover my abilities and the vicars were uncertain how best I could serve the church. Once I showed I could control my gift, they knew I would be a great asset.” A cool breeze began to blow in from the harbour, and distant thunder offered a promise of rain. Osmun walked faster. “Why do you still need me? You know where the Compendium is now. You would be much more likely to succeed with Myron’s help instead of mine. I would just be a hindrance to you.”
“He’s not wrong, Nasiri,” Myron said. “They’re still after him, and that is an ill omen for anyone keeping company with him. Which is us, I should point out. We can do this without him.”
“It’s the wise thing to do,” Osmun said. “And…… now that I’ve helped you, you should make good on our agreement and teach me what you know. About creating a rift. I still need to send that spirit back to the Beyond. I need to…”
“Pull your name off the garbage heap?” Myron interjected.
Osmun gave him a disapproving frown. “Essentially,” he muttered.
“Why bother with one solitary shade, anyway?” Myron asked. “I’ve been wondering.”
“Because it won’t stop bothering with me,” Osmun said. He thought after so many days of seeing the form from the corner of his eye that he would become used to it, but it startled him every time, and he had only managed to get real rest by drinking the tea each night. He used just enough so that he would sleep without making him forget the last hours of the day before, but he worried, too, that he was needing to use more of it each time. Even just by thinking of it, he felt an unusual hunger hidden inside thirst. “And because its very presence is blasphemous. And because it has plans on something that I will not allow it to see to the end. For all of these reasons, I need to create a rift. I need to defeat it.”
“And what about your guilt? Um, perceived guilt, rather?”
“This thing is influencing people in the church. I don’t know how exactly, but it is. Once it is gone they will be free from its influence and see clearly what has been happening.”
Myron looked at him as though Osmun had just told him he planned to ascend the Whitewing Mountains with his eyes closed. “Well… that’s the theory, at least,” Osmun muttered.
Nasiri was silent as she contemplated their new dilemma. “If we can both make it close enough,” she said to herself, “I could open a rift……”
“No!” Osmun stopped suddenly. Nasiri looked up at him, surprised. “You will not do that again.” Osmun stepped close to Nasiri, pointing his finger in her face. “Those men may carry the scars of that ordeal for the rest of their lives.”
“I thought we had been over this,” Nasiri said quietly, curling a lip. “They were about to arrest you, priest.”
“I don’t care. If it comes to that choice again, then let them arrest me. I won’t have you profane my city like that.”
“Then I suppose if you want to prevent me from doing that, you will get the tome after all,” Nasiri said.
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Perhaps we should have the conspicuous argument somewhere more private,” Myron said. Osmun and Nasiri each waived a hand in the air and kept walking, not looking at each other.
They arrived at the basement of the warehouse not having spoken another word between them. Osmun could only think of how to find the Compendium, how to get inside and, once there, to get back out carrying a large tome without being noticed. That was, if the tome was even there at all. He played out every different sequence of events in his head, but they all ended at its door. Where in the college was it? How secure was it? Would it be guarded? He had no answers to these questions; the truth of it could be that the location of the Compendium was hidden or unassailable and that he would be spotted before he got anywhere near it.
In the basement, Osmun went straight for the jar that contained the sleeping herb but found it was not in its usual spot. He heard an echoing, but not something heard with the ears. He sensed it, felt it in his heart.
Ajkah thuun…
“Myron!” Osmun shouted as he walked back to the foot of the staircase that Myron was just descending. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“You know what. Where have you hidden it?”
Ajkah thuun…
“Marinus’ mother… you emptied the jar, do you not remember? There’s more in one of the smaller crates. Just step out of my way, I’ll get it. Just… stand there and try to keep your composure.” Myron shook his head and muttered something to himself as he walked to the other room. As Osmun exhaled he noticed his hands were shaking. Nasiri looked at him over her shoulder as she started a fire in the wood stove. A bell rang in the distance, and he knew he would need help once again.
The three of them sat in a tavern eating fresh biscuits and sipping hot cider as they waited. Outside, the streets had become busy as the morning began to wear on. A cool morning breeze carried the scents of the baking bread and smoking meat through the streets, reminding Osmun of his former routine. It had been the smells that he missed most of all, being among the first to appreciate them in the morning with the entire day, full of promise, laid ahead of him.
“Should we be concerned?” Myron asked. “It’s been more than a few hours.”
“Give him time,” Osmun said. He noticed Nasiri eying the tavern door warily and occasionally peeking out of the small window before resting her head back on the wall beside her. “He’ll come,” Osmun said. Nasiri barely acknowledged him. “Is everything alright?” Osmun asked. “Do you see someone?” He leaned in. “Ardent? Have they found us?”
“No, no. I’m just… I’m just keeping an eye out.”
“Ah. I see.” Osmun understood. They were just down the street from her father’s bakery. “Would it really be that bad if you saw him? Or if he saw you?”
“What do you mean?” Nasiri asked. Her tone barely shaped the words into a question, but more into a statement: you have no business asking.
“You must still care for him,” Osmun said. “Despite what happened.”
Nasiri leaned almost completely across the table and grabbed Osmun by the collar. “You have no idea what happened. You may know my father, but you do not know me.” She shoved Osmun back, got up from the table, and walked out of the tavern as if it was on fire. Osmun and Myron watched her go in silence.
“She let you off easy,” Myron said after he took several long pulls on his cider.
“She looked like she wanted to strangle me,” Osmun said.
“Likely she did. I asked her about her father once. It didn’t go well.”
“What happened?”
“She stabbed me.”
Osmun downed the rest of his cider in one mouthful. “I guess I did get off easy.” He decided to avoid the topic of Tumanger altogether, even though it was clear that Nasiri still felt for her family. He thought that she might be worried about appearing weak to her father if he saw her and thought she was battling with regret over her decision to separate herself from them. And perhaps it was more than just a worry over appearing weak.
As for her father, Osmun believed Tumanger when he said it was easier for him and Tanu not to see her so they did not have to experience losing her again, but he also believed that, given the chance, he would want to see her all the same.
“Why bring it up in the first place?” Myron asked.
“I suppose I am just used to helping. I was in the border provinces earlier in the year. The people there were struggling with malicious presences coming from the Beyond. They were making people hysterical, sometimes violent. Word soon spread that I was able to help expel the spirits, and people would come to me, take me by the hand and almost drag me off to their homes so that I could cleanse the places of evil.” Osmun lifted up his cup, turning it in his hand, wishing it was full once again. “It was a good feeling, being needed. Far better than being thought a murderer.”
“There are worse habits than trying to help someone,” Myron said.
“Yes, well, Nasiri seems to disagree.”
The door to the tavern opened and Julian entered and looked around as though he was ready to flee at once. Seeing Osmun at the table, he quickly closed the door and sat down with them.
“Your hands are shaking,” Myron observed. Julian set them flat on the table and kept them still, only with noticeable effort. He exhaled and looked around the room. Osmun patted him on the shoulder.
“It’s alright, Julian. You’re safe. Tell us how everything went. When you’re ready, that is.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to fade into obscurity?” Myron asked. “There’s safety in it.”
Julian looked up from the table. “Obscurity? What? What are you saying?”
“This sort of… enterprise. You don’t exactly seem cut out for it, I’m sorry to say.”
“He’s doing just fine,” Osmun said. “When you’re ready.” Julian exhaled again.
“I was allowed to go into a number of the libraries and studies. I even heard some lectures. I didn’t fully comprehend them…”
“Probably why they let you listen,” Myron said.
“But it was just like Abelus Cypra had said,” Julian continued, “that it’s a consuming discipline, and a lonely one. I don’t know how someone would come to choose to be a historian. There’s nothing in it but loneliness. Only secrets keep you company, and it’s the secrets that will likely end up killing you.”
Osmun thought of Nestor. “Devotion,” he said. “They choose it out of devotion to the emperor, to the Empire, and to the Beacon. If I were not gifted, it may be the path that I would have chosen. It is a difficult choice, but it is a noble choice for that.”
Julian looked back at his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I wasn’t thinking about…”
“Every life lived for the Beacon is a worthy one,” Osmun said. “No matter what.” Julian nodded.
Myron rolled his eyes. “Is it too early for ale? I need a drink to stomach all of this praise.”
“They were happy to let me see what much of the college was like, and much of it is old. It looks old.”
“In disrepair?” Osmun asked.
“No, I wouldn’t say that. More like an untended garden. Except for the tower; it looked new, and for such an impressive structure, most people seemed to avoid it. Like it was made of glass… or that it might fall on top of you if you stood around it for too long.”
“The bell tower?”
Julian nodded. “I saw no one enter it, though I saw someone come out. He just looked around and then went back inside. He didn’t look like the rest of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“He means he didn’t look bookish,” Myron offered. “He looked like a soldier, is that what you meant?”
“Yes. Like a soldier.”
“Ardent, I bet,” Osmun said.
“Good odds,” Myron said as he leaned back in his chair. “If the Compendium really is insid
e.”
Osmun drummed his fingers against the table as he thought. “It makes sense. And things that seem out of place usually are.” Why else have a tower at all? They were defensive structures, lending themselves to ornamentation, but inside of the tower at the College, Osmun knew they would find it built to keep out intruders, not built just to house a bronze bell.
“The tower it is, then,” Myron said. “How will you get in? It’s not as though you can just walk up to the door and knock.”
“I don’t know what other option I have,” Osmun said. “I can’t really break down the door, can I?”
“Why not?”
“Mostly because I’m not an En Kazyr.” Osmun kicked at Myron’s chair, and he grabbed a hold of the table a moment before teetering over.
“Alright, point made. It was an unworthy question. The second one, at any rate, but not the first: how will you get in?”
Osmun tapped his fingers on the table. “That is something of a problem, isn’t it?” he said to himself. He couldn’t break down the door, and even if he were somehow gifted with a giant’s strength or a battering ram, it was not a subtle tactic and would alert every Ardent within the tower and most everyone outside it. He had to be let inside…
He had to belong. His fingers stopped tapping.
“Do you have an apron?” Osmun asked suddenly.
“I think I can find one for you,” Myron said as he stood up and strode into the tavern’s kitchen.
“Where is he going?” Julian asked.
“I think we’d better wait outside,” Osmun said.
Chapter 18
“Don’t ask, Myron,” Osmun said. “I know that look. You’re going to ask me something I don’t have an answer to. What if you break your leg? What if you get can’t open the door? What if you have your head cut off at an inopportune moment? The plan isn’t perfect, but it’s the best any of us have come up with.”