The Palace (Bell Mountain Series #6)

by Lee Duigon

  “How else do you think I got back in one piece?” Ellayne said.

  “It’s just so strange!” Enith shook her head. “I mean, to think God does things! That He might do anything … I’ve never heard anybody say things like that. Although Grammum says them, sometimes—and she didn’t used to. I mean, to think that God is real! A person—” She shook her head again, unable to complete the thought.

  “Jack and I know a hermit, a holy man, who can explain it a lot better than I can.” Ellayne claimed for Obst something he wouldn’t have dared to claim for himself. “He taught us. We were surprised the first time we saw him pray without a prester. He taught us how to do it too—and a lot of other things. And Ashrof, the prester in Ninneburky, says he was right, that it’s all in the Old Books.”

  By and by, Enith changed the subject. Talking kept her mind off how hungry she was. “I hope your father hangs that bandit chief!” she said. “I thought he dropped dead when that thing of yours burned itself up, but we didn’t die, so I guess he didn’t either.”

  “It wouldn’t be very nice to meet him again,” Ellayne said.

  Eventually they reached the strip of wooded land that ran beside the water, except where it was broken up by villages, farms, or cattle fords. They would have dearly loved to find a village or a farm, but they seemed to be in an area where no one lived. They arrived at the river a bit before noon and drank the water.

  “If we stay close to the river, sooner or later we’re bound to meet somebody,” Ellayne said. “In the meantime, we can eat. Do you see those weeds, the ones floating just over there? We can pick them and eat the stalks. They don’t have much of a taste, but they won’t make us sick. Later maybe we can find some blackberries.”

  Enith was dubious about the water-weeds, but after she saw Ellayne eat a handful of them, she was too hungry not to join in. At least these filled your belly, she thought.

  Enith happened to look up. “Here comes someone now,” she said, pointing. Some hundred yards away, a man was walking rather erratically along the riverbank.

  “Oh! It’s him!” Ellayne grabbed Enith’s arm and yanked her up. She pulled Enith after her into the shelter of the trees and forced her down behind some bushes.

  “What—”

  “Shh! Don’t you recognize him? Quiet!”

  It was Ysbott. When he came close enough, the girls saw that his face was burned red. He had his eyes squinted, as if it pained him too much to open them. Once or twice he nearly walked into the water. He carried a bludgeon in his hand. And he was shouting.

  “Find them! Find them! We’re for the gallows, if those witches get away!”

  Enith went pale, but made no noise. The girls waited a long time for him to pass out of sight.

  “A close call!” Ellayne said. “They must be hunting for us.”

  “Well, then, how are we going to get back home if those men are prowling up and down the river? And we still don’t know which is the right way to go!”

  Ellayne started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh, the whole thing is funny! Here I am, not a day’s march from home—and I’m lost!”

  “I don’t think it’s funny!”

  “Practically on my father’s doorstep,” Ellayne said, “and I’m lost! If Jack were here he’d laugh himself silly and call me a prize ninny, too.”

  “Why don’t we just sit here laughing until those men find us?” Enith said.

  Ellayne caught her breath and settled her mind. “I don’t think we can stay by the river,” she said. “We’ll have to go back the way we came and find the River Road. My father will have patrols out by now. They’ll find us. But I don’t think the outlaws will come out into the open. Much too dangerous for them!”

  Her legs wobbled when she stood up again. She thought it would be a long time before she forgot the sight of Ysbott’s burned face and his squinting eyes looking for her.

  Ryons’ adventure with the white doe and the red streak in his hair, the chieftains and the army took for signs from God that they should march on Silvertown. Helki had already chosen the routes that they would take, and their supplies had already been amassed. There was no reason to delay it any longer.

  A thousand men would stay behind to guard the settlement: all the men who lived there with their families, half of the Lintum Forest outlaws who now followed Helki and whom he trusted, and a few of the Abnaks who’d married Obannese women. That left the chieftains with a force of just under four thousand men, including all the original members of the army who still lived.

  Attakotts and Wallekki horsemen would travel on the plains, screening the forest north and south. Through the forest on foot would march the Abnaks, Fazzan, Dahai, Griffs, five hundred black men from the distant Hosa country, a scattering of other nations, and the little band of Ghols to guard the king. One by one, depending on how long was their route of march, the divisions of the army marched out of Carbonek.

  Helki and Obst watched them go, and Helki sighed.

  “It’ll be a miracle if they all come out of the woods at the same time and wind up in the same place, as we’ve planned,” Helki said. “I just hope we won’t have to wait too long for the army to come back together. If God hadn’t commanded us to do this, I’d say it was folly.”

  “It was even more a folly when we marched to Obann against the Thunder King’s ten thousands,” Obst answered. “But then you saw the salvation of the Lord.”

  Helki nodded. He’d never forget the sight of that roaring multitude breaking through the defenses of the city—and then the great beast rising from the river, with King Ryons like a sparrow on its back, and putting to flight the entire Heathen host.

  Last of all King Ryons himself and his Ghols rode out of Carbonek, with Angel perched on the king’s wrist and Cavall, almost as big as Ryons’ little horse, trotting beside him. Perkin the wanderer followed with Baby on a sturdy leash, and Helki on foot and Obst on a donkey joined them.

  The whole settlement, men, women, and children, cheered them off. And up on a ruined tower of the castle—it must have flown up there, although you hardly ever saw it fly—perched Jandra’s toothed bird, raucously shrieking a farewell. Somewhere below stood the little prophetess herself, waving.

  As they went, the Ghols sang. It was their own peculiar form of singing, deep down in the throat, producing an assortment of drones and whistles that sounded more like exotic musical instruments than any human voice.

  It was the army’s anthem, “His mercy endureth forever.” Each contingent sang it in its own way: the Abnaks with ferocious whoops and screeches; the Wallekki with words that flowed together as a single stream in flood; the black men dividing it into a harmony of deep, deeper, and very much higher vocals. When the army was united and singing it together, the din heartened them and bred fear among their enemies. But today it was only the Ghols droning rhythmically—music strange and alien to Western ears, but also indefinably compelling.

  Encouraged by Chagadai, Ryons tried to sing along with them, without much success. The old Ghol smiled and patted the boy’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about it, Father,” he said. “We’ll make a throat-singer of you yet.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Toward Coronation Day

  Wytt hadn’t yet revealed himself to Jack and Martis. Martis was concerned for him, hoping that the Omah had followed them from Silvertown, as commanded. Wytt didn’t care much for commands. He was here because he chose to be, here to watch over Jack and Martis. If you could ask him why, he wouldn’t answer. This was simply what he did.

  But he was being more than usually cautious, far more. There were two men in the first wagon whom he would have gladly and without hesitation slain, had he the means to do it. Goryk Gillow and Mardar Zo: he didn’t know their names, but they stank of evil.

  But what they carried with them was worse. Whenever he came close to their wagon, he felt the power of that something. He felt it on his skin, just as yo
u might step out from a cool, shady place into a sizzling summer day and feel the heat on your skin. Wytt realized that the human beings didn’t feel it; otherwise they couldn’t endure to travel in that wagon with it.

  It galled him to be out on the plains where there were no other Omah. Sometimes in the distance he could see low hills, the grave-mounds of Obann’s ancient cities. He knew he would find Omah there, but the mounds were too far away. If only he could dash off to one of them some night and come back with a hundred pairs of savage little hands! He had a lock of Ellayne’s hair around his neck: if the Omah saw it, they would follow him. If only he had Ellayne, too—but that was a kind of thought that was more human than Omah, and it didn’t stay in his mind for long.

  As they drew near to Ninneburky and the other towns along the river, Jack imagined the baron riding up with all his men and Goryk Gillow destroying them. It would happen right before his eyes, he and Martis being unable to prevent it. There could be no doubt that Goryk had some kind of weapon that the Thunder King had salvaged from the Day of Fire. Martis had for a long time dreaded such a thing.

  “He hasn’t mentioned it to me,” Martis said. “Every evening, over supper, he picks my brain for information about Obann City and the Temple. He says he trusts me and has great plans for me. But he doesn’t share his secret.”

  “But doesn’t he know you saw him use the weapon on the Zeph?”

  “No, he doesn’t know that.”

  “He’ll use it again, though—won’t he?”

  Martis nodded. “It’s going to be bad,” he said.

  “Can’t you stop him? You were an assassin!”

  That hit close to home, but Martis didn’t answer. Yes, he could stop Goryk. He could kill him and the mardar, some evening, before anyone else could bat an eye. And then the guards would kill him and Jack, and someday someone else would take the Thunder King’s weapon to Obann. If he were alone, he would have already done the deed. But he’d made a vow before God to defend Ellayne and Jack, and he would keep it.

  “If we can escape after we get to Obann,” he told Jack, “then we’ll see what we can do. It’s all a matter of recognizing your chance when you see it.”

  I may not be an assassin anymore, he thought, but I can still think like one.

  In great state, the false King Ryons was also on his way to Obann.

  Prester Jod had assembled a noble cavalcade, with a pure white palfrey for Gurun to ride and a great shining black steed for himself, and bright robes and finery for all.

  “I don’t see the point of all this flummery,” Uduqu said. He refused to ride any kind of horse all the way to Obann, nor would he let himself be clothed in any but his own travel-stained Abnak leggings and a deerskin shirt that he only wore if it was cold or raining. He would walk beside Fnaa, with the giant’s sword propped on his shoulder: it was too long to be worn on a belt.

  “As you wish,” said Jod, who was as handsome a man as Uduqu was a homely one. “But it seems to me that we ought to arrive at Obann with as grand a show as we can make. The more the people love and honor their king, the safer he’ll be.”

  Gurun still hadn’t told the poor man that Fnaa was an imposter. Uduqu was content to leave that up to her.

  She looked a sight, he thought, in her sky-blue traveling dress, seated on the white horse with the scarlet and gold furnishings, and a delicate silver tiara on her head that fairly gleamed in the sun. “What Abnak has ever clapped eyes on such a queen?” he said to himself. “It’ll give me something to write about, if I can ever learn to write.”

  Fnaa rode his grey horse, Dandelion, with her blond mane and tail. He’d learned to ride without falling off, and now he liked it.

  Since he was going to Obann to receive a crown, he didn’t wear one now. But Jod had found for him a white tunic and scarlet boots, both trimmed with cloth of gold that dazzled the eye, and a small sword with jewels in its hilt in a sheath decorated with flashing garnets. Around his neck he wore a gold chain with a ruby worth the price of many slaves. Behind him on a gentle white donkey—she wanted nothing to do with horses—rode his mother, Dakl, pretending to be his handmaid.

  “Nothing can come of this but trouble!” she whispered to Gurun, before they set out. But for the time being, Fnaa was enjoying himself. He could hardly wait to get to Obann. “I’ll take the tax money from those fat men,” he said, “and throw it back to the people in the street.”

  Behind them marched General Hennen with his spearmen all in mail, five hundred men in perfect step together. These were the best that Hennen had. They knew what their commander thought of them and marched proudly, polished helms and spear-points gleaming.

  Only Uduqu knew that Gurun planned to go on to Lintum Forest, where the real king was. “My place is with him,” she said. “The filgya told me.”

  “Once we get to Obann,” the Abnak said, “it’s liable to be tricky, getting out again.”

  “Gallgoid will know how to help us,” Gurun said.

  Under the walls of Obann, in grassy fields beside the river, workmen planted carved posts to which brightly colored streamers would be attached and drove stakes, connecting them with twine, to plot the location of various tents and pavilions that would soon be erected. Some of the biggest would shelter outdoor kitchens to feed the celebrating multitude—all at no charge, proclaimed the ruling council. “Pies and meats and sweets for rich and poor alike!” was the slogan. And off to one side, turfs and sod were being piled and tamped into an enormous green platform where the king’s throne would be set and where the crown would be placed upon his head.

  All throughout the city, streets and alleys were being cleared and cleaned, doors and shutters freshly painted, the vast ruins of the Temple roped off, all for Coronation Day.

  “The expense is staggering,” Gallgoid’s informant on the council told him, “but Merffin expects to get it all back in new taxes, once the king is crowned.”

  Goryk Gillow would arrive well before King Ryons, the councilor said. “And between his arrival and the coronation, Lord Orth will be cast out and this tool of the Thunder King installed as First Prester. Orth hasn’t been in office long enough for the people to become attached to him. And his insistence on a new Temple not built with hands, but consisting only of God’s word and God’s people everywhere—well, that’s a bit too much for most people to swallow. They want a Temple they can see.”

  “Even if it’s in Kara Karram where most of them will never see it,” Gallgoid mused. But he had little interest in theological considerations.

  He was spending most of his time, these days, in neglected corners of the palace. Up above, he’d found a set of chambers that must have been the living quarters of some great personage, untold centuries ago. Here he hoped to hide Orth before any harm could come to him. Under deep layers of dust, the walls and ceiling were a pale blue decorated with lively hunting scenes by a master artist, his name long ago forgotten, whose hounds and harts and huntsmen seemed to leap around the room. The floor was tiled in white marble. Gallgoid cleaned the place with his own hands. The furniture left behind had all rotted into fragile sticks, so he jammed it into an unused storeroom and brought in a new bed, chairs, and table from places where they wouldn’t be missed. Orth would find his new quarters plain but comfortable. Best, the door could be locked on the outside and the chambers were so remote from the inhabited regions of the palace that no one would hear Orth if he yelled for rescue.

  Below, among cellars used and unused, Gallgoid had discovered, blazed, and mapped a passage that led away from the palace, connected to another passage leading from the Temple, and terminated in a secret door opening by the riverbank, outside the walls to the east. You could enter the passage from the oligarchs’ old assembly hall, but that was too conspicuous. Gallgoid searched until he found another entrance in a seldom-used armory—so there would be weapons to grab on the way out.

  This was the escape route that he planned for Gurun, the boy, and the old Abnak—and Orth,
too, unless it seemed more needful to keep him hidden in the palace.

  Merffin Mord fought off a perverse desire to boast of his ingenious plan for disposing of the king and queen. If only he could reveal it to his fellow councilors! As it was, even taking only Aggo the wine king into his confidence was to take a risk. But he would need Aggo’s help to carry out the plan—and if he didn’t tell someone, then no one would appreciate his genius.

  They met in Merffin’s private study, with strict orders to the servants to come nowhere near it until summoned. It would cost them dear to be caught in disobedience.

  “The so-called king in Lintum Forest isn’t coming to the coronation,” Merffin began. “We’ve received no answer to our invitation. So we now know he’s just a pretender, as I’ve always suspected. But the king in Durmurot is already on his way here, with Prester Jod himself leading the procession. Nothing could be better for our plan!”