Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 01] - The Fifth Ring (v1.0)

by Mitchell Graham

  "I told you it would sound crazy. I went to see Dr. Wycroft several days ago. He said that when the body's under great stress, the brain can respond in strange ways. Some of it made sense. It's possible I'm imagining things, but I don't think so."

  "Well, I never heard of anyone being able to see things a half mile away in the dark, or a person's vision turning green," Lara said.

  "There's something else," Mathew went on. "Do you remember when we were in the forest and you were fight­ing the Orlocks that came after you?" he asked Father Thomas.

  The priest nodded slowly.

  "Do you remember what one of them said when he saw me? He said, 'There he is.'"

  "That could mean anything," Daniel said.

  "True. But when we were in the stable, they didn't attack us right away. One of them spoke to me and told me to give him the ring."

  "He what?" Akin said, coming off the desk. "That's right," Lara said. "I was there, and I heard it as plain as I can hear you now." Her face was still pale from what had occurred, but her tone was emphatic.

  "I did hear what the creature said in the forest," Father Thomas replied. "Mathew is quite correct. I simply did not know what to make of it then. I still don't know that this is the proper conclusion for us to draw."

  Mathew sat down heavily on the bed, and Lara sat down next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders.

  "We led them here," Mathew said, staring down at the floor. "Or more accurately, I led them here."

  Silence.

  "Then I think we need to be gone from this place as quickly as possible," Father Thomas said softly. "Before any more trouble comes searching for us."

  "I agree," Akin said. "I don't understand what's so spe­cial about this ring, or why the Orlocks have any interest in it. None of this makes the slightest sense to me. I'm just a simple silversmith, but I'd like some answers. Peo­ple I knew are dead. Thad Layton and his son, Stefn Darcy ... Maybe now there's a reason for it—or at least part of a reason. I want to know why."

  "You said there was a tingling sensation you felt when you put the ring on?" Daniel asked.

  "Right."

  "Do you mind?" Daniel picked up the ring and looked at Mathew.

  Mathew nodded and stepped aside.

  "Let's see, you had it on the fourth finger of your right hand, didn't you?"

  Mathew nodded again, as Daniel slipped the ring on.

  They waited.

  Daniel looked around the room. A minute passed, then another.

  "Nothing," he said, slipping the ring off. "Except it is

  heavier than you'd think just to look at. But I didn't feel or see anything unusual."

  He handed the ring to Collin.

  "No thanks," Collin said, taking a step backward. "I'd just as soon have nothing to do with it, if you don't mind."

  "C'mon," Daniel insisted, "we have to know whether it's the ring or Mat."

  "Excuse me?" Collin asked.

  "Just this ... Mat said each time he put the ring on, he felt a tingling sensation. Now assuming he's not lying or crazy—sorry Mat—if we each try the ring, and one of us feels the same thing, then we know it's not him. On the other hand, if Mat's still the only one who feels it, then the problem is with him, or with some connection be­tween the ring and him."

  Collin scowled at Daniel, then took the ring and placed it on the same finger as Daniel had. He waited while everyone in the room kept their eyes fixed on him. After a couple of minutes, he shrugged and took it off, then handed it to Akin, who repeated the same experiment. The results were the same, just as they were when Lara attempted it. Father Thomas, who was the last to try it on, put the ring back on the table when he finished.

  "Did anyone feel anything?" Daniel asked.

  No one responded.

  "All right, Mat... are you ready to try again?"

  Mathew looked around the room. He was beginning to regret having spoken at all, nevertheless, he took the ring and put it back on his finger. The change of expression on his face was enough to tell everyone what happened.

  "Well," Daniel said, "now we know it's not just the ring, or one of us would have felt something."

  Father Thomas sat on the edge of Collin's bed during the conversation, trying to sort out the recent events in his mind. When he spoke up, his tone was measured and de­liberate.

  "I think Daniel is right," he said. "But I also do not believe we are going to find our answers here and now. As I said earlier, it's possible that we may have put these peo­ple in danger, so I suggest we finish packing and depart as quickly as possible. Akin, you and Daniel will follow us tomorrow on the Douhalia, as we discussed. I want you both to stay close until it's time to leave. Agreed?"

  "Agreed," Akin replied.

  "Fine. Let's meet downstairs in ten minutes."

  Akin and Lara followed him out of the room.

  "Do you still have that leather cord of yours?" Mathew asked Collin after the others were gone.

  "Sure."

  "Let me borrow it, will you?"

  Collin rummaged through his pack, found the leather cord and tossed it to Mathew. He watched as his friend took the ring off his finger, threaded the cord through it, and placed it around his neck.

  "Might not be a bad idea," Daniel agreed.

  Outside, the rain finally let up, leaving a leaden sky and a few blowing clouds. The wind, as always, seemed to freshen crossing the Roeselar, and was sweeping through the town. Collin noticed Mathew's somber ex­pression and put an arm around his shoulders.

  "Don't worry, we'll figure it out."

  Daniel also looked back from the hallway and winked. "Absolutely. You've got nothing to worry about—we're here."

  Mathew gave them both a weak smile. "Actually, I was thinking about having to get on a ship in weather like this."

  When they got downstairs, Father Thomas was back at the table by the fireplace talking with Ceta again. The boys walked quietly past and almost made it to the front door before a small shriek from the lady innkeeper stopped them in their tracks. They turned to see her put a hand over her mouth, get up and run into the kitchen, past a startled Lara.

  "I may be going out on a limb, but my guess is, he just told her that he's a priest," Daniel observed.

  Mathew and Collin responded by pushing him out the front door.

  Ceta Woodall was in shock. She knew the dark-haired man she had grown so fond of over the last four days had reasons for concealing his identity. He had told her that much himself. What those reasons were, she could only guess at, or wait until he decided to speak. He had started to do so several times, but something always seemed to interrupt them. She was perceptive enough to guess that whatever it was, it had something to do with Mathew.

  Siward watched him protectively, and tended to fret about him when he was out of his sight. Her instincts, which she relied on heavily, told her to trust him, a thing that didn't come easily in her business. At night, lying in her bed, she chided herself on being naive and foolish. She hardly knew him. She told herself she was acting like a silly young girl, and at forty-two. A woman my age ought to know better, she thought. She hadn't allowed herself that luxury since her husband died. But there was something about the man—a gentle and quiet confidence that brought out her willingness to lay caution aside, along with her better judgment.

  Siward had explained their plan to go to Barcora, but nothing beyond that. She got the sense that he very much wanted to share with her the burden he was carrying. Out of instinct more than anything else, she discounted the possibility that he was involved in any wrongdoing. Akin Gibb was a good man, and the girl, Lara, was cut from a solid, sensible mold that she could identify with. None of the company with him gave the slightest indication that they were anything other than what they seemed to be.

  Whatever their secret, she was certain he would tell her before they left. She believed, wanted to believe, that these were good people. There was little question in her mind on that point. Ceta was aware
that she had thought more objectively in the past, and probably still could, if only her heart didn't start pounding so when Siward was around.

  They were leaving today. She'd even introduced them to Oliver Donal herself. What in the world was she think­ing about? When was it—three or four days ago? It hardly seemed that long. Their departure was not some­thing she wanted to dwell on, but she did think about it. In fact, she thought about it most of that night and into the early hours of the morning. When she applied her makeup, there might have been an extra touch of powder for her face, to prevent any unwanted blushing, of which she had done more than a little recently.

  Men, she thought as she fought with a strand of hair that simply refused to stay in place. She finally gave up and sent a puff of air upward, blowing it out of her eyes. Unable to sleep, she put on the dark green dress that ac­cented her shape and went out to the common room. Per­haps the cut was a little more daring than usual, but she had seen Siward's sidelong glances at her figure.

  It was a pleasant surprise to find him awake at that early hour when the world was just opening its eyes. She had always been an early riser herself. They began to talk, only to be interrupted once again by what happened at that silly stable. For all she cared, God could have blown it up completely.

  Of all the times for lightning to strike, she thought.

  She only just managed to keep herself from screaming in frustration. After that, there was little else that could surprise her—or so she thought.

  When Siward finally sat down with her and stopped hemming and hawing, he told her everything that her heart hoped he would say—and then he told her that he was a priest. The extra makeup she applied earlier didn't help as she felt her face going red.

  A priest! And after the way she'd practically thrown herself at him.

  My God, she thought, somewhat appropriately, consid­ering the company. If that weren't enough, the bodice of her dress was so low.

  * * *

  Ceta Woodall, innkeeper of the Nobody's Inn of Elber-ton, couldn't recall running from anything or anybody in her life, but run she did, right through the kitchen, past the surprised cook and her helper, across a courtyard, out the back door, and into her home. She stood in the living room mortified. She had made a complete fool of her­self, and to a priest!

  She was not the only one who was stunned by her ac­tions. Father Thomas, who admittedly had little experi­ence as a participant in such matters, sat at his table, helpless. Lara witnessed the whole thing and was still standing in the same spot when Ceta ran by her only sec­onds before. When the priest noticed her there, he spread his hands helplessly and gave her a shy smile. She re­sponded by mouthing the word "go" and pointing at the kitchen door.

  Father Thomas shook his head dejectedly and sat there.

  Lara stamped her foot in frustration and mouthed "go" a second time, pointing to the door more emphatically. It was a sufficient catalyst to put him in motion.

  For the second time that morning, Ceta Woodall's em­ployees were shocked, as a tall man with dark brown hair burst into their kitchen.

  "Which way?" he asked.

  The cook, a large pink-faced woman in her early six­ties, looked him up and down for a minute. Her round face eventually creased into a smile and she made a ges­ture with her head, indicating the door. Father Thomas nodded and disappeared through it. As soon as he was gone, the kitchen employees broke into a fit of giggling.

  The door at the back of the inn led to a surprisingly pleas­ant garden in the midst of a courtyard. A multitude of plants and neatly trimmed shrubbery seemed to be grow­ing everywhere between rust-colored tiles. A wooden bench glider sat to the side of a path of tiny cream-colored pebbles that wound throughout the garden. Six cherry trees, situated at random around the courtyard, were al­ready beginning to produce white and pink blossoms.

  The garden's appearance was so unexpected that the priest paused and looked around. Recovering himself, he then walked deliberately along the little path to the only house there. The front door had a large dark brass knocker in its center.

  He knocked softly on the door and waited. When no response came, he knocked again, only a little harder.

  "Go away," a voice called from inside.

  "Ceta, open the door. It's me."

  "I know it's you. Go away."

  "Ceta—"

  "Go away, Siward."

  "I don't want to stand out here discussing this."

  He took a step back and looked in the window, which had the same small lead glass panes as the inn.

  "Ceta, we need to talk ... I need to talk to you."

  He waited.

  Father Thomas, already an educated man when he stud­ied for the priesthood, was trained in the use of logic and reasoning. Over the years, he supplemented that learning through prayer and contemplation. He knew that main­taining a circumspect demeanor would enable him to stay calm and deal with difficult situations when others' emo­tions got the best of them. That was the fulcrum on which his logic and expertise rested.

  He kicked the door in.

  For the second time in the last hour Ceta Woodall gasped when her front door broke away from its hinges. In two quick strides Siward Thomas stepped in, took her in his arms and kissed her. Her head began to spin and her heart was racing so she was certain he would feel it pounding in her chest. Finally, she pushed away from him and stepped back, still breathing heavily.

  "Ceta .. ." he said softly, like a caress.

  "You must think I'm a complete fool, the way I threw myself at you."

  "Not for one second," he said in the same gentle tone. He took a step toward her and she backed away again. "What's the matter?" he asked, taking another step.

  "You're a priest."

  "Don't you like priests?"

  "What? Of course I like ... that's not the point, and you know it. We can't... we shouldn't... I shouldn't have let you kiss me."

  "What's wrong with my kissing you?" he asked, taking another step toward her.

  "Stay where you are," she said, pointing at him. "You know very well what's wrong with it. Priests don't do that sort of thing."

  He smiled. "Ceta, the Church doesn't generally en­courage it, but priests do marry, you know."

  There was a pause. A long pause.

  "You're a Levad?" she asked, her eyes opening wide.

  "Mm-hmm."

  In the millennia that followed the ancient war, the Church persevered as it always persevered, becoming a bastion of knowledge and moral teaching, like a candle shining alone in the darkness. Mankind slowly pulled itself out of the devastation the Ancients wrought and began to re­build. At some point along the three-thousand-year jour­ney, a fundamental disagreement among members of the Church's hierarchy took place, centering on the interpre­tation of what was left of the holy writings. It caused a split, with fully half of the population turning to the Lev-ads, as they called themselves, and the other half to the Ashots.

  Though the basic precepts between the two sects were essentially the same, Levads were able to marry and cele­brated the Lord's Day on the sixth day of the week, while the Ashots insisted the seventh day was correct and re­jected the concept of marriage for priests. Congregants took all this in stride, occasionally making good-natured jokes about the differences between the two branches, and intermarrying when they fell in love.

  * * *

  "Oh, my God," she exclaimed. "When you said you were a priest, I thought... I mean, I was raised—"

  Suddenly she was in his arms again. And this time their kiss was longer and deeper than the one before, somehow completing them, like parts of a whole coming together in a perfect, seamless fit. When the room stopped moving, she rested her head against his chest and looked out her window into the little garden she loved so much. She wanted never to leave this room. She wanted to freeze time where it was. Outside the window, a slight breeze moving between the trees like an invisible hand caused tiny white cherry blossoms to float through the air
, giving the appearance of snow falling softly down. She closed her eyes, wanting more than anything she had ever wanted to save the vision and that moment in her memory forever.

  "I broke your door," he murmured.

  "I'll get another," she replied, keeping her eyes closed.

  There was so much that they wanted to say, needed to say to each other. So many things to talk about. Walking with him to the docks was the hardest thing she ever had to do. But she was determined not to make it any more difficult than it already was. The sadness and impending sense of loss was almost too much to bear. So she bit her Up, forced a smile to her face and kept walking. They held hands, staying apart from the others.

  When Captain Donal's ship lifted its anchor and moved slowly away from the land into the wide expanse of the river, it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears. She reminded herself that she wasn't built that way, although she began to doubt it just then.

  Siward said he would return, and she promised to wait for him. It would have to do.

  23

  Alor Satar, Rocoi

  Karas Duren waited in his palace garden with his sister for his niece to arrive. A table covered by a richly spun gold cloth had been set out amidst a small grove of olive trees. The garden, as Duren called it, was huge by any standards, extending over several acres of well-maintained land. Just to their right, water from one of the cold springs that fed a small lake at the southern end of property had been painstakingly diverted to form a small pond. Splashing water flowed noisily over a series of rocks and boulders, giving the impression of a waterfall.

  Marsa Duren d'Elso, Queen of Nyngary, was twenty-two years younger than her brother. She possessed many of the same physical features he did. She was slender and taller than most men, a fact that had always pleased her. A mass of jet-black hair fell to her shoulders, framing a face that was still startlingly beautiful after forty years. Her large brown eyes, so dark they could almost be said to be black, missed nothing. And like her brother, she wore a ring of rose gold on the third finger of her left hand.

  "You've made changes since I was here last," she said.