Birch thought idly about his quest. In the card game of Dividha, Hunting The Three was a phrase synonymous with a quest in futility. Three cards scattered amidst a deck of fifty-six, with anywhere from one to four or five other players taking cards into their hands and discarding the refuse. The odds of deliberately seeking out those three cards and finding them were staggering. Birch’s task, and the task of the jintaal he was a part of, was equally improbable and bordered on the impossible. Somewhere amidst a world of millions of creatures from nearly half a dozen intelligent races, they were supposed to find three creatures who could change shape at will and had the power to dominate and control the minds of most mortal creatures.
Birch frowned. Their quest should have been all but impossible, yet already they had completed part of it. Sal was destroyed, and The Three were no longer the unified entity they had once been. Birch had delivered the killing stroke, carving the Tricrus into the demon and ending its existence. The Prismatic Council had directed them to this island based on reports of an evil entity in the area, but now Birch and the others were without the guidance and intelligence resources of the Council, and they had no clear idea of where to move next.
Normally, a jintaal consisted of one paladin from each of the six primary Facets of the Prism – Blue, Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, and Violet – each of whom would represent one of the six virtues the Prismatic Order upheld: justice, courage, knowledge, temperance, love, and piety. There was a seventh Facet, White, which represented beauty – the presence of all six virtues in relative balance. In his time as a paladin, Birch had been a part of two Facets.
Birch sighed as he felt the wind sweep past him. The gust lifted his cloak and it billowed out above and behind him like a set of cloth wings. When Birch first became a paladin, his cloak had assumed the deep red color that marked his courage. Red paladins were typically the best warriors in the Prism, and they formed the backbone of any missions that required destroying the demons still found in the world. Eventually, though, Birch’s reflection changed to White, as shown by the snowy-white color of his cloak after the change. White paladins invariably felt an irresistible urge to cross the Merging and enter Hell, and Birch had been no different. He said his good-byes, but didn’t tell his family and friends where he was going. Roughly eleven years ago, as time passed in the mortal realm, Birch had made his crossing with his dakkan mount Sultana.
Later, Birch had come to realize that time passed differently in the immortal plane of Hell than it did on the mortal side of the Merging. For every two years he spent in Hell, only a year passed in his home, and he only aged that one year. All told, Birch had spent twenty years in Hell but physically aged only ten.
For hundreds of years, White paladins had been crossing the Merging and disappearing forever. Not one of them had ever returned, and all were assumed dead. As much honor as assuming the white cloak of beauty conferred on a paladin, it was acknowledged as a death sentence. Birch was the first and only paladin to ever return, but even he was at a loss as to how he’d escaped.
Birch shook his head and sent his close-cropped ponytail swaying slightly in response. He had unfortunately clear memories of most of his journey in Hell, but six years of his life there were locked away in his mind where he could not reach them. For half a dozen years he’d been a captive in the deepest pits of Hell, yet he could only remember them in his dreams… or rather, his nightmares. Birch had been tortured and pushed past the breaking point of most men, but he’d held fast to his faith and his sanity, and somehow he’d broken free and escaped back to his own plane of existence.
Far below him Birch saw what he believed to be one of the main reasons for his deliverance. A dark-haired woman stood on the docks, helping to load supplies onto the ship they would be using. She wore dun-colored trousers and a white tunic, but no one could ever mistake her for a man, no matter her clothing. She stooped low over a barrel that had apparently split open, then she straightened and whipped her head to the side to clear the hair away. She looked back toward the fortress to where Birch was standing, and it seemed to him their eyes met, even though she was little larger than an ant in his view.
Moreen.
The hardest part of crossing the Merging had not been the terror of what he would be facing, but the sorrow of what he’d been leaving behind. Birch and Moreen loved each other desperately, but his commitment to the Prism had always prevented their being together. Despite the many times he’d hurt her by not staying to be with her, going off on some quest for the Prism, Moreen had always waited for him, and she’d done so for the ten years he’d been gone across the Merging.
The thought of her sitting by the fire at their table…
…a glass of wine in hand… eyes longing… waiting…
…for him…
That had been enough to fuel Birch during his moments of deepest despair and the torture he’d endured.
Since his return, Birch’s life had been a confused trek of personal anguish. He’d gone home to see his brother Hoil and ended up leaving with his nephew Danner in tow and on the run from the Men for Mankind Coalition. Then Birch had returned to Demar to let Moreen know he still lived, but almost immediately he’d had to leave to return to the Prism to hear their decision about his future. On the road he’d been attacked by Sal, and recently he’d learned the demon had also attacked Demar and nearly raped Moreen. She’d realized what the demon really was and had followed Birch to Den-Furral to warn him. Too late, she arrived the morning after he’d slain Sal, and Birch had immediately asked her to journey with him. Being apart from Moreen was like missing a piece of his soul, and he could no longer bear the pain of separation.
Birch turned and walked into the room where he’d fought Sal. There were no torches, but the room was revealed in stark detail to him. Anyone else staring into the room would have seen only darkness, lit slightly by a burning-orange light emanating from Birch’s eyes.
His eyes. Birch had been born with deep, dark-blue eyes. But where once glinted dark, sapphire edges, there now burned Hellish flames into which no man could force himself to gaze. Meeting Birch’s eyes directly showed other men a glimpse of the fury of Hell and the pain and tortures Birch had endured, and none could withstand his gaze for more than an instant. The intensity of the flames had increased in recent days, ever since his battle with the demon, and they now dominated his eyes and were all but impossible to miss. Birch’s eyes were one of the things that marked him as something more than just another paladin.
The other visible sign was his cloak. A paladin’s cloak assumed the color of the Prismatic Facet the paladin most reflected – which of the six primary virtues he most embodied. Seven colors, including white, but Birch’s cloak was a dark, steely gray, which was unheard of in the Prism. No one could explain it, least of all Birch, but he somehow knew it was linked to the six years missing from his memory. Everything important seemed to be linked to those years, or so it seemed to him, and it frustrated Birch to no end that he couldn’t unlock those memories.
Birch stared a moment at the charred outline that was all that remained of Sal, then he turned away. Stepping to the edge of the battlements, Birch leapt off and glided slowly to the ground below, using the blessed power of his cloak to slow his descent. On his way down, he passed over the site where Wein Drolgis had died.
Wein had been a Violet paladin who had accompanied Birch and the others on their jintaal, and somewhere along the line he’d developed a personal hatred of Birch. They had since determined that he’d been under the influence of one of The Three, because Wein had led Birch and Garet jo’Meerkit into a trap inside the dwarven citadel. Wein had tried to kill Birch, but Garet fought him off while Birch stayed to deal with Sal and a room full of lesser demons. In the explosion of Sal’s death, Wein had been flung over the side of the battlements where he fell to his death on the rocks below. Garet had been unable to save him.
Birch landed only a few yards from where Moreen was standing, and he immediat
ely moved to wrap his arms around her. She returned his embrace enthusiastically, then she pushed him away and pointed imperiously at a pile of heavy sacks that hadn’t yet been loaded.
“You promised you’d help load, Birch,” she said with mock severity. “So load. Where have you been all morning? The tide turns in an hour and we’re still not finished loading.”
“I was just looking around, love,” he said lightly, and immediately her face softened. Not that she had actually been upset with him. “I was up on the battlements.”
“I know,” she said, nodding. “I saw you. You spend far too much time up there.”
Birch shrugged. “Being at the scene helps me to think about what happened, to try and make sense of everything I saw and heard, everything I felt and did.”
Moreen nodded, knowing better than most the inner turmoil Birch faced.
“James was looking for you,” she said after a moment. “He’s on board in the captain’s cabin. He hasn’t helped much this morning either.”
“He’s in charge of the jintaal,” Birch said, smiling slightly. Moreen was even more lovely when she was mad, even now when she was mostly joking. “He’s got more to worry about than us peons.”
Birch easily hefted two burly sacks of grain and disappeared into the ship before Moreen could say anything else. He loved her more than life itself, and he couldn’t resist teasing her by not letting her get in the last word. Behind him, Moreen held a scowl as long as she could before she couldn’t help but smile after the man she loved.
- 2 -
When he had safely stowed the grain, Birch climbed to the deck and entered the captain’s cabin. There he found James Tarmin and the ship’s captain leaning over a battered map. The charismatic Yellow paladin was thumbing his chin in thought, and the dwarven captain was scowling up at him at him, obviously irked by whatever they were discussing.
James was about average in height, but years of weapons training and physical combat had given him an above-average build. He wasn’t as large or muscular as Birch – who, in turn, was not as large or strong as their companion Garet – but James was more a mediator and peacemaker than he was a warrior. He could, however, still handle himself well in a fight.
“It’s not like I’m asking you to sail us around the world, Captain,” James said reasonably. “The dwarves are relocating, and we’d like to accompany them for a ways, that’s all. Dwarves are unparalleled masters of the sea, and I can think of no safer means of continuing our journey than sailing with you and your people.”
“I know what my people are doing, young paladin,” the dwarf grumbled, somewhat mollified by James’s sincere flattery, “but this was supposed to be a quick trip, then I could return to my usual routes of trade. You’re asking me for a detour of a bloody month or more. It’ll be well into winter before I can resume regular trade, and that will cost me greatly.”
“Princess Jerissa has already granted you compensation for your time,” James replied, cutting in before the dwarf could gain momentum with his arguments. “You’ll lose nothing, but gain the gratitude of your nation.”
Birch listened for a few moments until James had persuaded their captain, then he cleared his throat to get the Yellow paladin’s attention.
“Ah, Birch, there you are,” James said with a pleased smile. “I was just arranging our passage with the good captain here.”
“So I heard.”
“Walk with me. Captain,” James said, inclining his head before they left the room. James and Birch walked onto the deck to the stern of the ship and stood staring out toward the sea.
“Vander and I were talking, and we think we’ve come up with something,” James said after a moment’s silence. “We compared the observations of the dwarves and came up with a timetable for the attack here, then we compared that against our own journey.” He shook his head as though in denial of his own thoughts. “Birch, the Prismatic Council gave us this mission weeks before any disturbance here on the island. Nothing happened here at the capital until we were already on a ship heading this direction.”
“So?” Birch asked, not seeing what James was alarmed about. “Maybe Sal arrived before the dwarves realized it, but still the reports of his presence made it back to the Council.”
But James was already shaking his head again. “No, we looked into that, and it doesn’t work out, because of the information Moreen gave us about the attack on the Dragoenix Inn. We were already on the road when Sal attacked, and while demons can move damn fast, it just doesn’t make sense for him to have come here, flown to Demar to destroy the inn, then returned to Den-Furral to attack the dwarves. The only way the Council could possibly have known to send us here is if they had advance knowledge of the demon’s presence. This place was a trap, apparently laid just for you. Combine that with the mind-controlling abilities of The Three you were telling us about and some of Wein’s comments, and it points to some pretty disturbing possibilities.”
“You think one of them has subverted the Council,” Birch said flatly.
James nodded.
“It’s not unlikely,” Birch said softly, turning the possibility about in his head and examining the ramifications, which were many and none of them pleasant. “But if you’ve come to this conclusion, it begs the question of why we’re taking such a long route home.”
“Because something’s happening in Merishank that I don’t like,” James said darkly. “The last ship in brought disturbing rumors of a buildup of military power, and they’re looking north now, not east. Wherever their destination, Nocka is directly in their path.”
“Nocka is unassailable by universal acclaim, because of its unique role and the Barrier,” Birch said, already realizing where James was going, but he argued anyway, hoping he was wrong. “No army in the world would dare attack that city, nor harm it through any means.”
“Normally I’d agree with you,” James said, nodding, “but it’s unlikely The Three are to be found together, else we’d have found more than just Sal here. Which tells me they’re split up and causing mischief, and if one is in Nocka influencing the Prismatic Council, that leaves one of them unaccounted for. They’ve already thrown the dwarven nation into chaos by destroying the capital, which I imagine was the reason the trap was sprung here rather than on the road somewhere. Two birds, one stone. Stirring Merishank would be an ideal diversion and way to cause chaos, especially if they’re doing what no one would ever expect. We should assume the one on the Council will hinder the Prism’s involvement in any engagement, so if Merishank attacks Nocka…”
“No one will stand against them but the city’s defenders,” Birch finished for him. He shook his head. “It’s circumstantial and sketchy at best, and I hate to say, but it all makes an unfortunate amount of sense. The mere possibility that one of The Three is guiding the actions of a nation as powerful as Merishank is disturbing, but to think of what he might actually do with that power is downright terrifying. In that case, I’m glad of the route you chose.”
“Vander’s the one who put it together,” James said, looking at Birch with unusual intensity.
Birch shrugged. “He’s an Orange. That’s what they’re supposed to do.”
“There was a lot more to it, Birch,” James said, obviously trying to get something across to Birch. He wouldn’t belabor something like this without a purpose. “You really don’t give him much credit.”
“I really don’t know him all that well, James,” Birch said a bit defensively.
“And whose fault is that?”
It was a simple question, but once more, Birch saw to the heart of James’s arguments and saw he was right.
“Mine, of course,” Birch said softly. His shoulders squirmed slightly in a display of discomfort few besides James would have been allowed to see. “He makes me edgy,” Birch said finally. “There’s something about him I just don’t like.”
“Tell me,” James said. “I’ll not say a word to him, so please don’t hold back.”
“He gives off this feeling that everything revolves around his problems, and he seems almost secretive,” he said finally. “No, that’s not right. It’s more that he thinks there’s things about him no one will understand, so he doesn’t bother talking to anyone about them.” He knew Vander was James’s friend, so Birch quickly added, “It’s nothing he really says, mind you. It’s just a feeling I get from him.”
James sighed, then laughed softly in a bitter tone.
“Birch, believe me when I say that nobody else in the world actually likes Vander Wayland. I’m the only person who really does, and I honestly don’t expect that to change much any time between now and the day he dies.”
“Why are you the only one who likes him?” Birch asked, curious and almost offended in a way.
“It’s because I know his secret,” James said seriously, but with a smile, “and once you know it, your dislike either becomes more intense or it disappears entirely. If you figure it out, you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“So what’s his secret?”
“That’s for you to discover,” James replied. “Don’t bother asking him, either, because he won’t know what you’re talking about.”
When Birch was silent, James turned to go. He took only two steps before stopping, then he looked back over his shoulder.
“And terribly fierce as he is, you don’t have to be afraid to talk to Perky either,” James said jokingly. “He and Garet are friends, but I sometimes feel he gets a bit lonely, and he looks up to you.”
The Devil's Deuce (The Barrier War) Page 5