“You’re safe now,” she said. “The lions can’t reach you here.”
There were no lions, of course, no desert wilderness. No thirst, either, not really. All of that was an illusion to confuse and distract and keep the gardens hidden from the world.
Her father pulled back, and as she saw the wariness in his expression, the moment of familiarity passed. He was just another minister of Khalif Omar, while her loyalties were to the order, to the gardens, and to her master.
Nathaliey’s father, Kandibar Liltige, came from a line of viziers. His great-grandfather was the younger brother of the khalif of Aristonia, and in those days it was customary for siblings to retreat into exile so as to eliminate pretenders to the throne. But the two brothers were close, and so the younger became the khalif’s grand vizier. The position had then passed to the vizier’s daughter, and on to her son, Kandibar’s own father. Nathaliey had no living siblings, and so the hereditary position had been hers and hers alone. Except that she had chosen a different path.
Nathaliey studied her father, who was touching the object at his chest again. “What have you got in there, Father?”
He tugged on a leather thong about his neck and brought out a familiar worn sandal, the straps repaired many times. “This is how I found you.”
“Is that my shoe?”
“You left it in the throne room when they—”
“I remember what happened, there’s no need to remind me. You and Omar stood gaping while the pasha’s men grabbed me. So someone enchanted my sandal? I don’t understand.”
“One of your order touched your shoe, and it guided me to you.”
She stiffened in alarm, worried that her father had been tricked into leading enemies to the gardens. “What are you talking about? Who did that? Where is he now?”
“Easy, Natty. You know him, the old man from the libraries who comes and goes. What is his name?”
Nathaliey relaxed. “Ah, Jethro.”
“Yes, him. He cast a . . . a seeking spell, I think he called it.”
That was possible, although she didn’t understand why the old archivist would attach a seeking spell to one of her possessions and send her father off like a hound sniffing after its prey.
“Where are we?” Kandibar asked.
“This is where I live.”
“In these dunes?”
“There are no dunes, Father. We’re not in a desert at all. You came down a country road, crossed an old stone bridge, and now you’re standing in front of a brick wall about twelve feet tall and partially covered in ivy. There’s an opening straight in front of you, about six feet wide. The north gate into the garden.”
Her father looked around him, blinking, and she could see the illusion falling from his eyes. “The Harvester take me! I see it now. It’s green! A meadow, and garden walls. Look at that! I haven’t seen trees in weeks.”
“You weren’t on the road weeks, Father. It was only two days ago that I saw you in Syrmarria.”
He seemed to take this in better now that the original illusion was gone. The horse had calmed, and her father looked in the saddlebags, as if to confirm. “I swear, that waterskin was drained. And I’m not even thirsty. Look at all those provisions.”
While her father got his bearings in the reality that now confronted him, Nathaliey spared a glance at Narud, who returned another shrug.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to allow you inside,” she told her father. “You’re alone? I mean, there’s nobody following?”
“So far as I know. I left in the middle of the night. My servants met me on the road with the horse, and I didn’t tell them where I was going. Of course, you understand there’s no way to be absolutely sure. I myself have people followed on occasion, and they rarely know.”
“Understood. Leave your horse in the stables. A boy will see that it’s well cared for.”
“What stables? Oh, wait. Why didn’t I see that before? I swear, this was nothing but sand and rock. I couldn’t even see the trail. How do you do that?”
She didn’t have the inclination to explain it to him. “Come on, I’ll see you fed and your horse cared for. I want to hear about Pasha Malik and the king’s road. Then you’ll be on your way back to Syrmarria. I am very busy.”
Narud stayed behind to continue his work. Chantmer would be at the Golden Pavilion messing around with Memnet’s Orb, so Nathaliey led her father toward the great stone fountain. It was the part of the gardens that most impressed visitors after the pavilion itself.
He told her about the latest palace intrigues as they passed arbors heavy with grape vines. The news seemed dry and dusty and unimportant, and she only roused her interest when he mentioned the Veyrians. Pasha Malik had recruited dozens of stone masons from the city and surrounding villages and was buying slaves from the sultanates and shipping them through Syrmarria. Work had accelerated on the king’s highway.
“Here we are,” she said as they came down a winding stone staircase that led from a small hilltop shrine to the fountain pond.
The order diverted water from Blossom Creek and sent it through a clay-lined channel beneath the walls and into the garden. From there, it arrived at a small pond under great pressure. The head and upper wings of an enormous stone dragon broke the surface of the pond, and water spouted from its mouth thirty feet in the air.
But Kandibar was less impressed than she’d expected. He’d studied the paths, the beds of flowers, the beehives and orchards, but seemed glum. “It’s all beautiful. It would put the hanging gardens of Tirod to shame. But to what purpose?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who sees this place? Only a handful. What good is ethereal beauty if it is hidden and secret?”
“The gardens aren’t meant for the world, Father. They’re a refuge and sanctuary for the Order of the Crimson Path. A place of study, of learning. This is my home.”
“I know that, I understand. Memnet the Great told me as much when he took you. You’d be taken from me and raised by wizards. Hidden away from the world.”
“I’m hardly a recluse.”
“I know that. You’re seen in Syrmarria often enough, studying in the library. Or so I’ve heard—you don’t usually stop to see me.”
“And we travel as emissaries. I have been to Starnar, to Veyre, to Marrabat beyond the wastes. Someday I may even cross the western mountains to the barbarian kingdoms.”
“And what would you do there?”
“The same thing I do in the khalifates—collect books, pass information to scholars. Meet friends of the master, whisper peace in the ears of warmongers.”
“It seems a narrow life.”
“Narrow?” Nathaliey stared at him. “As opposed to the palace intrigues of a khalifate so small and inconsequential that it hasn’t even a standing army to protect its borders?”
“We never needed an army, what with wizards protecting our borders. Or so we have been reminded again and again.” He gave her a sharp look. “And now we’ve been invaded, my daughter, and where is our protection?”
“You mean Pasha Malik?”
“Yes, Nathaliey, that is exactly what I mean. Five hundred Veyrians are garrisoned in Syrmarria.”
“That’s no invasion. Omar invited the devil in.”
“Another small army of Veyrians guard the new road, and more come west every day. An army of workers is building the king’s highway, and it’s going to divide the khalifate in two. You think that is by accident?”
“It’s what the king always wanted,” she said. “It’s the straightest line to the mountains.”
“I know all the reasons,” Kandibar said. “Break the famine by bringing food from the barbarians. Control the spice trade. Secure the mountain passes against the griffin riders. The king and his generals have a hundred reasons for building the road. But don’t you see? One of those reasons is to break Aristonia.”
“Oh, I know what Pasha Malik was threatening,” Nathaliey said with a wave of the hand.
“He boasted about it openly. That doesn’t mean it will happen.”
“But don’t you see? Omar has capitulated entirely. The pasha’s engineers forced a map of the road onto him, and he gave in on every point. The road will obliterate villages, destroy shrines and sacred groves. It will bisect the Sacred Forest. It may even go right through your gardens!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The highway won’t go through the gardens. They couldn’t find them, let alone destroy these old walls. As for the Sacred Forest, that will never happen. I swear to you, if they touch a single tree of those woods . . .” She broke off, suddenly uncertain. “As soon as the master awakens, he’ll put an end to it. You’ll see.”
“Then it’s true? Memnet is alive?”
“He’s . . . mostly alive. Recuperating, let’s put it that way. Who told you?”
“By the Brothers,” Kandibar said. “That is good news. Can I speak with him? There is no time to waste.”
“No, he’s asleep. Two, maybe three weeks more, and he’ll be up. Then he can put down this nonsense.”
“We don’t have that kind of time. I need help now, before it’s too late.”
“How urgent could it be? Malik only made his boast two days ago. It will take months, years even to build a road through Aristonia. Have you been to the forest? There are trees in the heart of the woods that are twelve feet across—how many men does it take to dig out a single stump? Ten men and a team of mules?” She smiled. “There is no need to grow alarmed.”
Nathaliey’s father took her by the shoulders. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen, Daughter. The road will be built. Aristonia will be destroyed.”
She pulled back. “Where was this passion when I was in the throne room? Not one vizier spoke out. Not you, nor any of your fellow ministers. The khalif himself was too timid to defend his own kingdom.”
“Where is Memnet the Great?”
“I told you—”
“You must wake him!”
“I can’t wake him, Father. He’s not asleep that way. He’s still partly dead.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” Kandibar said. “I spoke to the old wizard in the library and he promised help.”
“You mean Jethro?” Nathaliey frowned at this. “What kind of help? What did he tell you?”
“He told me Memnet the Great was still alive. Jethro has been studying the tomes and says to tell you to ask your master to . . . wait, no, that’s not right. Memnet needs to be awakened by someone else. Memnet can’t do it himself.” Her father scratched his head. “How strange. I brought a message for you. Why I didn’t I remember that before?”
“Any message written by our archivist can’t be held in your head. He’d have used magic. Where is the message?”
Kandibar patted at his chest as if searching for something. “Ah, here it is.”
He fished out a roll of vellum tied with a piece of twine from inside his tunic. Nathaliey untied the twine and unrolled it. Jethro’s familiar, elegant script slid across the page, each letter a small work of art in itself. It addressed Markal, then had an incantation or instruction of some kind written in the old tongue. Critical information for waking the master from his slumber.
Or so Nathaliey assumed. The instant she passed from one word to the next, whatever had come before vanished from her head.
#
Chantmer was on the platform of the Golden Pavilion when Nathaliey arrived. He held Memnet’s Orb to his forehead, but quickly tucked it away as she climbed the stairs. He unfolded himself like a giant insect and stood, one hand reaching over his shoulder for the bell so he didn’t hit his head.
She held out the piece of vellum. “Jethro sent this from Syrmarria. What do you make of it?”
“Jethro? Who is that, an archivist?” He took the sheet and scanned it quickly. “Seems clear enough.”
“Oh, really?” Nathaliey said, taking the sheet back. “Perhaps you could repeat it, then. What does it say?”
“Of course. It says . . . um, let me see that. I forget that last part.”
She allowed a smile and held the note out of reach. “A summary then. The general thrust of the text.”
“Why, I . . . let me see that.” She gave it back this time, and he stared, brow furrowed. “Blast it. I can’t . . . Blood of the Path! What is this?”
Narud was approaching the Golden Pavilion, barefoot and silent, and Nathaliey sensed, rather than heard him. “Perhaps you can read this,” she told him. “We certainly can’t.”
Narud came up the stairs and took the sheet. After a quick glance, he handed it back to her. “It’s not for me, it’s for Markal.”
“Confound it, we know that already,” Chantmer said. “That’s not the problem.”
“Oh, I understand what’s troubling you,” Narud said. “The words won’t stick. That’s because they aren’t meant for you.”
“Are you saying that Jethro cast a spell to keep it from us?” Nathaliey asked. “Why would he do that?”
“Not at all,” Narud said. “It’s addressed to Markal because Jethro knew we wouldn’t be able to hold it in our head. There are some texts that aren’t meant to be copied, that hold their secrets when taken from the library. This is one of them.”
“But Markal can manage?” Chantmer asked peevishly. “Dammit, he would run off at a time like this.”
Markal hadn’t run off. He’d presented a clear reason why he was the one who could be spared to accompany Bronwyn in looking for the supposed sorcerer. Chantmer hadn’t put up much of a struggle to keep him.
“Why didn’t Jethro bring it in person, anyway?” Chantmer asked. “He could have read it himself.”
“Presumably because he is keeping an eye on the libraries,” she said. “We have nobody else of his stature in Syrmarria, and someone infiltrated the Vault of Secrets—we need the archivist there to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Come on, let’s give this another try.”
Nathaliey lifted the hem of her robe and sat on the platform. The other two followed her lead and sat. She stared at the note again, concentrating hard. The words came easily enough, but each one melted away as she continued, and by the time she got to the end, she had nothing more than she’d begun with, only Markal’s name at the top. The other two took a turn. Chantmer mouthed the words, the frustration growing on his face.
“Wait,” Narud said. “I caught something just then. Something about”—his brow creased in concentration—“evigilare. Did you get that, too?”
“No,” Nathaliey admitted. “But that makes sense if we’re talking about an incantation to awaken the master. Read it aloud,” she urged Chantmer.
“My mouth doesn’t even want to form the words,” he said. “I’m afraid it will sound like nonsense.”
“Just try.”
He did so. This time she did get the word in question, and Narud picked up another. Chantmer passed it back to Nathaliey, and she gave it a try. Chantmer was right; it was hard to get the sounds right, let alone the substance of it.
But slowly they extracted the meaning of the thing. The first part was instructions for Markal, written in the old tongue to keep it from prying eyes outside the order—although it had nearly served to keep the other three apprentices from understanding it, too—and the second part was the incantation itself. They concentrated first on the instructions.
Apparently Jethro had discovered another case where a dead wizard had come back to life. His wight had remained attached to its body after the dead wizard was thrown into a swamp. Before the Harvester could find and gather the wight, fellow wizards had rescued the body and healed it, then bound the soul and body with the words of the following incantation. Memnet’s case was a little different, and it was clear that he was partially awake already, but Jethro didn’t think they’d be able to bring him fully back without magic.
“So we only have to master the incantation and the master will be healed,” Chantmer said.
“Oh, is that all?” she said, eyebrows rais
ed. “How simple.”
“We don’t need an archivist to help us with the words, they’re right here in front of us.”
It was unclear whether he meant Jethro or if this was a dig at Markal. Either way, it was entirely dismissive of the difficulties in accomplishing the task. It might take them all night to puzzle out the incantation. Already, it was nearly dark, and fireflies were blinking in the nearby trees. By now Nathaliey’s father would be halfway to Syrmarria, and she wondered if she should have told him to send Jethro back to help. No, the remaining apprentices would have to manage alone.
“Well, then,” Narud said, rising to his feet, “unless we’re expecting Markal sometime soon, I see no point in waiting. Let’s get to work.”
Chapter Thirteen
Bronwyn dismounted from her horse, stepped forward on foot, and let out a groan of disbelief. Curious, and growing alarmed, Markal slid from the saddle and came up behind her. What he saw was so terrible that it took a moment before his mind even registered it at all.
A black gash cut through the forest, as if someone had taken a giant spoon and scooped it in a straight line, carving a swath of destruction fifty feet wide and stretching as far as he could see. The Sacred Forest had burned; the black was charcoal and ash, the last lingering fires of which still trickled smoke, as if venting the underworld. The coals of dying fires glowed in the gathering gloom of twilight.
Even the largest trees were gone, their trunks burned to the ground. Dead trees stood outside the center path of complete destruction, their leaves and twigs burned off and their bark blackened, their limbs bare and accusing. Beyond that, a final, scorched layer with withered leaves before the damp forest was finally able to resist the conflagration.
The whole thing made him think of a hot torch passed through green grass, except this was a forest of towering trees, thick with ancient magic. Markal couldn’t imagine the heat required to accomplish such a thing; some of the trees in this forest must have been hundreds of years old and were a dozen feet wide.
“Sorcery,” Bronwyn said.
He could only nod his agreement. “Yes. Yes, it must be.”
The Red Sword (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 1) Page 13