The Shard of Fire (The Chronicles of Gilgamesh Row Book 1)

by K. J. Parker

  Interestingly enough, as they were now members of the Black Order and as it was their last time in the castle, locked doors, and Oal’s rules, didn’t seem to be as much of a problem to them as one might have thought. Neither were locked cabinets, or closets, or windows, or chests or vaults, or anything barring their way. Carmine it seemed, knew a rather useful opening spell that could unlock almost anything. The others wondered why a nobleman’s son knew or needed such a spell, but didn’t ask. They were eager to learn, and to try it themselves.

  Soon after, and with a bit of practice, the four were almost genuine, honorary, locksmith. And thieves. Not surprisingly their searching quickly turned to looting, and looting to unbridled mischief, which the druids seemed natural inclined towards anyways. Each time they broke into a room, or a cabinet, or a closet, they would flash their oroborus badge to each other, waving it about with executive authority to the host of onlookers who weren't actually there, Black Order business, move along, move along, and smile. No one seemed to mind, or care, or see. Among the many finds the four claimed, Sela managed to acquire a rather nice ebony longbow, dusty and forgotten in the back of a supply closet, while Tarr claimed a pair of silver daggers he quickly tucked under his vest. Carmine on the other hand decorated his room with lavish paintings, tapestries, and goblets befit the son of a baron, while Gil shrugged, seemingly uninterested, in almost, everything.

  Later, unbeknownst to the others, Gil returned to the library and stole several books regarding advanced and dangerous magics. He stowed them under his bed, in his room, and stayed up each night after that, reading them. As he did, it didn’t occur to him that many of the books were written in the Ancient’s language, a language which he had never learned, yet now, somehow, he could read. Nor did it occur to him that the magics he was gaining should have taken years, not hours to learn, but there were many things he had yet to realize.

  CHAPTER 10: CHOICES

  For the second day in a row a messenger greeted the group of waiting students in the courtyard. Gil and Sela were sitting close, against a wall, whispering and laughing, while Carmine and Tarr practiced hand to hand combat. Tarr always won. He was stronger, and shorter, and easily bested Carmine each time they fought, though Carmine was quickly getting much much better. After several tries the messenger finally managed to gather the group’s attention. Reading from a large scroll in an overly dramatic voice, hoping to simulate Master Oal, yet apparently never having met the short and angry little man, the messenger announced that Oal was sick and would not be there for today’s class, again, which was, after all, highly unusual for the unnaturally fastidious Master Attendant, and that the messenger would fill in for him, meaning Oal, and that everyone should obey his, meaning the messenger’s, commands. The group immediately dispersed, leaving the messenger standing in the courtyard alone, wondering why he had even bothered.

  With the morning free, the four friends decided to take a break from their search. Sela and Tarr went into the town of Mendoc, bored with the drudgery of the castle. Carmine retired to his room, which was at this point the nicest most luxurious room in the castle, to catch up on some much needed sleep. Gil, wanting neither sleep nor excitement, decided to explore some of the other towers in the castle on his own, as up to this point they had only searched one. The size and complexity of the castle was daunting. Gil hadn’t really thought of it much, but now, walking its empty halls and silent rooms, alone, he felt it. The castle was empty. Too empty. He doubted if even one percent of the castle was occupied. In the last several weeks Gil had gotten to know just about everyone in the castle, if not by name at least by face. He rarely saw or met anyone, anymore, he didn’t know or at least recognize. He rarely met or saw anyone. Endless rooms, empty and cold filled every hall and every floor. A castle this size could have housed thousands, perhaps more, but Gil had counted less than a hundred. He wasn’t sure if Sela, or Tarr or Carmine had noticed. Something was wrong, very wrong, with the castle. Its vast emptiness hung like a shadow in his mind, gnawing for an answer, like a tree growing at the edge of a lake, or under it, restless, for air.

  Gil shook his head, clearing his thoughts. Some mysteries would have to wait. He still needed to find Master Amas. He had to. Gil stood in the center courtyard, staring at the five towers of RavensKeep. Each tower was a different height, and size, though more or less the same. Archways led inside, mazes of stairs and halls led to floors, floors led up, or down, or sideways. They, in their looting and searching had explored only one tower, the River Tower, which held the stables, the stocks, and an annex, filled with rowboats, sailboats and oars. Gil though this was particularly peculiar, as the river, blue and dark and far below, was anything but reachable from the butte. Another mystery yet to be explained.

  The second tower, the Mountain Tower, faced not surprisingly the mountains. It was a gloomy tower, the second oldest if one could tell, and dark, with a musty smell, dank and peppery. The barracks, student housings or at least new student housing, was of course here.

  The third tower, was the Stone Tower, the Mage’s Tower. The four friends had steered clear of it, as much as possible, as did, most everyone. It wasn’t forbidden, necessarily, and the archmages were, more or less, agreeable, yet all stayed away. The tower was quiet, and still, and felt more empty than all the others, which in itself was saying a lot.

  The Black Tower, also known as the fourth, was rather unremarkable. It housed the armory, and jails, and dungeons, though no prisoners, if ever, it seemed. It was in fact the third tallest of all the towers, but still the blackest. Not because of its history, or its components, but rather one simple, undeniable fact. It was in shadow, always. For the fifth tower, the Cloud Tower, loomed above it, and above, everything.

  Unlike the other four towers, which were mazes of twisting passages, cramped rooms, hidden halls, and tiny turnbuckle closets, the Cloud Tower was enormous, spacious and cold. Three times the height of the other towers, it soared into the sky. Most often, its top was hidden, caught on clouds, or rather clouds were snagged on it, unable to move beyond its reach, held at the edge of a slumbering, sleeping giant.

  Inside, as out, the cloud tower was unique. The first ten floors were an immense hexagonal lobby, dark, smooth and dreary. Vaulted ceilings loomed high above, as glossy indigo colored marble covered everything. The walls. The floors. The ceilings. There were no windows, or doors, or anything other than smooth, flat, dark, marble. The lobby stretched the whole width of the floor, and was, completely, empty.

  Gil stood in the lobby of the Cloud Tower, motionless and silent. There were no stairs, or passages or anyway, apparently, up. Each step he took echoed a thousand times over, echoing sharp snapping bits of sounds, screams in a sanctuary of peace. Gil removed his boots. His feet, bare, save for thick woolen socks, squished against the cold marble with a strange liquidly thump. Behind him, toe prints faded, slowly, as he neared the center of the lobby and stared.

  Above, a narrow tunnel of light streamed through a shaft, no bigger than himself, shining a soft bluish warmth on the the indigo marble below. The light above was so far away Gil wasn’t sure if it was sky or something else that illuminated the shaft. Below, in front of him, the light encircled an enormous orb set halfway into the floor. The orb was twenty feet wide, and high, and made of the same smooth indigo marble as everything else. Gil touched it, gently, and the orb spun, slowly but effortlessly. He had seen globes before, in the castle's library, and in Arroe, but not like this. The world was known, at least some of it. A quarter, maybe more. Globes had maps, maps had names, names that covered the mountains, the south, the north, and east. Islands, oceans, and deserts, labeled and known. Those not, those beyond, those avoided, were still marked, still recorded. The Evervail, land of eternal mist without edge or end. The Dark Sea birthplace of storms and barrow of the drowned. The Fire Cradle, wastelands of ash and smoke. These were the places at the edges of the map, places where none went, and none dared. Places known, or not, were marked on globe
s, globes that had lines and roads and names. This one didn’t.

  Gil stood, watching, listening, thinking. A low hum, like the sound of waves ebbing reverberated through the lobby. Heard, and felt. In his feet, his toes. Gil laid down and placed his ear against the smooth marble floor. Everything was humming, vibrating. The stone, the walls the tower. Louder, like metal wheels rubbing, or rocks falling, or thunder. Gil sat up. He opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized they were closed, not yet. There was something very strange about the Cloud Tower, strange and yet somehow familiar. For a very long while Gil sat on the cold marble floor, staring up, staring at the light, and the orb, and wondered why on earth anyone would ever build something so big, or strange.

  “Hello …” a voice startled the boy from behind. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you …” the voice walked around the orb facing Gil. It was a tall man, with a grey beard and a long blue coat. Gil glanced at the bronze star around his neck. Archmage Monith. “It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?” Monith smiled, Gil nodded. “I often come here myself, when I want to think … my thinking time …" Monith chuckled and sat cross legged several feet away from Gil and stared up at the light. “They say the Ancients built this tower,” Monith mused still looking above.

  “Didn’t they build all the towers?” Gil asked. He liked Monith, something about the old archmage’s voice was kind, even comforting he thought.

  “No … the other four were all built by great groups of mages who came long after the Ancients. First it was the Elders who added the Mountain, then the Ardents who added River and Stone, then finally the Black Tower …” Monith’s voice trailed off.

  “Who built that one?” Gil prodded.

  Monith smiled, “The funny thing is, even after all this time we still don’t know why the Ancients built this tower, did you know that? They were great travelers, the Ancients, they journeyed to many lands, discovered many things, and built. But … the first mages, the Elders, they came here long after the Ancients had left. Where did they go? And why did they go?” Monith pulled at his whiskers thinking.

  “If you don’t know, then why are we all here? Why did the mages move into the castle? Why build? Why stay? Why use it?” Gil blurted out. Monith smiled once more.

  “Sometimes, we use things even if we don’t know what they're for. We use them because we think we should, because we can, we use them even if we don’t really understand them, because we want to believe what we do is right and that using them is for the right reasons …"

  Gil fought down the urge to clutch at the shard. He paused, thinking, wondering if it was just coincidence or if this archmage knew. He must. Gil was silent for a very long while, but then finally spoke. “How do we know if what we do is right?”

  “Ah … now that’s the real question isn’t it? Sometimes we think we are doing the right thing, but it turns out it’s wrong. Sometimes we do the wrong thing only to find out it was right.” Monith smiled a little wider this time.

  “What?” Gil shook his head.

  “Take this tower for example, we live here now, but maybe the Ancients left to go to a better place, or … maybe they left because this place wasn’t a good place to stay anymore …” Monith stood up.

  “Isn’t that the same thing?” Gil stared at him, still sitting, still confused.

  “Is it?” Monith smiled, pausing, “enjoying your thinking time …" he said, then bowed and left the tower. Gil stared after the archmage for a great long while. He wasn’t sure if he liked Monith or hated him, but at least those choices, he knew, were different.

  -------

  Later that day, after the the midday exercises, and after another afternoon of fruitless searching, and questioning, finding nothing more than dusty relics, dusty vases, and ceaseless rhetorical answers, their looming departure neared. They felt it more now than they ever had. Only a few days were left, then they would be off with Valik commanded to some unknown place for some unknown reason.

  As the four sat, watching the sunset, its dark rays lit the sky with a thousand hues of scarlet and crimson. Tarr, who’s thinking wasn’t often all that linear, had a rare moment of clarity and an idea. When he and Sela were in Mendoc earlier in the day, they had stopped at an inn, quenched for brew and music. They had sung sad songs, not wantingly but requested, by a passing merchant who had visited the grave of his lover earlier that morning. Songs of bone, and song sung for the dead. It took some time, minutes rather than seconds, but eventually Tarr pieced together his idea, which struck the others like the crimson rays of the setting sun.

  Ironically they were all rather upset at themselves for having not thought of it sooner. It was simple really. No one had ever heard of Master Amas. No one in the castle, or the town, or anywhere. Not a single, living, soul had ever heard of him. Simple, really. For if no one living had ever heard of Master Amas, perhaps it was because he wasn’t either. That night the four friends left the castle and traveled to Sorrow Hill, the mages graveyard, the barrow beyond the butte.

  -------

  Both druids felt at ease in the dark of the forest. Overhead dense clouds hid the moon in a lavender fog. Carmine, who was accustomed to the comforts of wealth had no desire to trek through the forest in the middle of the night, but as they other three had already set their minds to it he couldn’t very well be the only one not to go. “Just a look,” Gil reassured him, smiling, though Carmine thought he might have believed Gil more had he not. RavensKeep cemetery wasn’t forbidden, necessarily, but few ever went there unless it was their last stop. Life was for the living, the dead were dead, and magi preferred they stayed that way. Necromancy and deadspeak were among the few truly forbidden magics across all the kingdoms, for once the dead were given life, it was very very difficult to take it back.

  “This is a terrible idea, have I mentioned that?” Carmine interjected for the fourth time.

  “YES!” the others shouted at him in unison as they walked single file through the narrow vine covered trail towards the barrow. The way was dark, and slow, but they dared not carry torches in case any from the castle happened to be looking their way. Dark deeds were best done in the dark, after all. Both sides of the trail were covered in ash, aspen and oak. Several times they grouped together, ready for battle, hearing strange noises, a rustling of leaves, or a flicker of shadow somewhere in the dark. Sela pressed against Gil, given the opportunity. He didn’t seem to mind, though in the dark she wasn’t sure if he was still blushing or even smiling. Nothing came, only the noise of crickets surrounded them. The townsfolk had driven the wilds back long ago. Wolves, high above on lonely peaks could still be heard on the most silent of nights, but rarely if ever came into the valley. An hour later the four arrived at a long stone wall. A single iron gate stood open, partly, cast of thin spears, rusted the color of blood, and choked with dark branches. Behind the gate endless rows of tombs and stones pricked through wet mounds like broken jagged teeth. A single skull with a shattered eye socket was chained above the gate, staring down at the four, as they, stared back.

  “This is a terrible idea, have I mentioned that? I thought I should be the voice of reason one last time …” Carmine sighed heavily. Gil turned towards him, smiled, and walked through the gate. The two druids followed a moment later, leaving only Carmine to exchange looks with the broken skull. After several long, exasperated sighs, Carmine joined his friends in the graveyard. The graveyard was made of several steep hills, sloping folds, like waves in a storm, or wrinkles in bedsheets. Each slope was green, and lush, and each held a dozen stairways, winding and twisting through a maze of moss covered tombs. RavensKeep buried all their dead here, they always had, and always would.

  CHAPTER 11: REVELATIONS

  It was late. The archmages, Valik, and the senior masters were dining in a private hall, high in the third tower of the Keep, where large copper wrought windows overlooked the fading lights of the town far below. The hearth in the dining hall blazed fire and coal, which kept the council warm, for it
was always windy in the Keep and always cold. An attendant, wet-soaked, as heavy rains now fell outside, entered the hall. His leather boots squished and squeaked with each step as he approached the table, leaving half footed puddles scattered across the stone floor. The room watched, whispering, as he neared the archmages. Monith glared at the attendant, who was shaking from the rain, or from the look, or perhaps both. The attendant opened his bag, also soaked through, and handed the archmage a wooden tube. It was a dispatch scroll, news from the kingdom, which had mistakenly been sitting in Mendoc for more than a week.

  Monith stared at the attendant for several long moments, before nodding his dismissal. What news was so important that it couldn’t wait until after the rain, or after dinner for that matter? Monith glanced around the table, all eyes watched him with fascination and silence. The archmage opened the tube and unrolled the letter inside. Monith re-read the scroll three times before speaking. Cassandra, Aldrin, and Valik exchanged glances. Others at the table whispered.

  “The shard of Astal has been claimed …”

  When Monith spoke the room exploded in an uproar as dozens of questions poured across the table. The archmage raised his hands, trying to calm the council, asking for silence. Aldrin, less patient, drew a quick symbol in the air and wiped two fingers across it, mimicking lips, as everyone at the table went mute. The spell lasted only for a second, but it was long enough to return order and silence. Monith gave Aldrin a look of thankful disapproval, though Valik smiled.