by Ulff Lehmann
“And they never bothered to find out?” he asked, shocked.
“There was an annotation somewhere, a reference, because of what some other people said, including the ladies Cahill and his dead lover, Hesmera, one scribe finally figured out who it was they had been writing about.”
Kildanor began to pace which, given the room’s size, amounted to nothing more than seven well-measured steps. How was that possible? How could one man escape Traghnalach’s notice? “Did you speak to the Librarians about this?” he asked, coming to a stop at the far wall.
“Yes.”
“And?” he said, whirling around.
Ealisaid hesitated for a moment. “You’re not going to like the answer.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Taking a deep breath, she set her shoulders, before they sagged again, her weariness showing. “Well, it seems as if, from time to time, with specific people, the Librarians have been shunted out, so to speak.”
“Specific people?” Kildanor echoed.
A brief nod, followed by a long silence was the only answer he got for a while. He waited, impatiently pacing the room over and over again. Like Lesganagh, he was direct, not impulsive but once he made up his mind he followed the course without compromise. Sometimes being around others whose thoughts were more convoluted was unnerving, even Cumaill.
Finally, Ealisaid spoke again. “They told me there were people the gods shielded, like the Chosen.”
“So, he is blessed by Lesganagh?”
The Wizardess shook her head. “They doubt it, and so do I, for that matter. One of the Librarians even mentioned a rumor that originated in Ma’tallon, at the Great Library, that some people, mighty wizards, could block out the gods’ view.”
“He’s a mage?”
Ealisaid shrugged. “Whatever he is, we need to talk to people who knew him before he came to Dunthiochagh.”
“Did the records mention anything of the murder, and why it happened?” His excitement died before she replied, her expression told him all he needed to know. “Let me guess. They couldn’t see the goings on.”
“This is one of those times when we know as much as the Librarians.”
Before she had left, he had told her all he could get out of Ralgon, which, unsurprisingly, was little enough. “So, we’re back at the beginning,” the Chosen said with a resigned sigh.
“Not quite,” Ealisaid said, not in the correcting, lecturing way she had before when talking of magic, but more like one fellow investigator to another. Could he become friends with a Wizard after all he had seen her kind do during the Heir-War? Surprised, Kildanor felt the answer was yes.
“We do know that Ralgon used his own life force not only to break out of his magical prison but also to heal the wounds he received while doing so. We also know that the assailant, his cousin, managed to black out last night’s events from prying eyes.” His astonishment must have shown, for she gave him a lopsided grin. “I asked to be shown what was written yesterday,” she explained. “That this cousin is also blessed by a deity might be an explanation, but given his magical display I doubt it, just as I doubt Ralgon is blessed.”
Scowling, he regarded first the wall as if he could see through it, and then turned to Ealisaid. Then he remembered. “Nerran! Of course! He told me he had seen Drangar fight. He might know more. We’ll talk to him once we’re done with questioning our thin friend again.” Seeing her frown, he explained, “He woke shortly before your return.”
Inside Ralgon’s chamber, an anxious Neena Cahill greeted them as she paced the bed’s foot-end, observing Florence as she spoon-fed the skeletal mercenary. The young lady of the manor was so intent on the servant and her patient she barely acknowledged their arrival. Finally, at the closing of the door, she turned and faced them. “Are you going to question him again? He can barely speak, please give him more time.”
“No time’s better used than the present, milady,” Kildanor replied, masking his annoyance with a sagely voice. “We need to find out what happened up there.”
“We already told you! Now leave him be,” she said, swallowing between sentences. Fatigue was obviously flaying her common sense. Then again, how could they explain what they thought had really caused Ralgon’s current state.
He was about to reply when Ealisaid put a restraining hand on his arm. A glance her way and the set of her face told him she would handle the issue more delicately.
“Milady, we believe the man invading your home was a scout for the Chanastardhians.” He detected only the fraction of a pause in that lie. “So, for reasons of security, yours and the city’s, we need to be certain that man has learned nothing of our defenses.”
Again, Neena Cahill swallowed. She looked first at them, and then at Florence who had paused her feeding of Drangar, listening. There were bound to be new rumors spreading amongst the household, and from here it would splash over to other retainers, eventually reaching the Palace. Cumaill would soon have to deal with panicky nobles in addition to already worried citizens and frightened refugees, not to mention organizing shelter for the latter and organizing the defense. He had to make sure this did not happen. “Please,” he said, “this is to remain between the five of us, all our lives may well depend on it.”
Young Lady Cahill nodded solemnly. They looked at Florence who, faced with so many important people staring at her, bobbed her head. “Come,” the noblewoman said imperiously as she strode for the door.
When they were alone, Ralgon began to chuckle. His mirth was short-lived as it quickly turned into coughing. Thankfully Florence had left the tray laden with tea and broth on the table and before Kildanor could suggest they had better tend to the man, Ealisaid was at Drangar’s side, spoon and bowl in hand, trickling liquid into his mouth.
The cough subsided. “Their staff makes good tea,” the mercenary muttered. “Herbal; could never get the mixture right.” His voice sounded as thin as his body looked. “Nice lie you told there, lady.” A brief pause that was accented by the wooden spoon scraping along the earthenware bowl followed. The Wizardess must have done such a thing before. “I take it you have more questions for me, eh? Why would you be interested in my health? Chances are I would’ve come back anyway.” He heard the man’s confusion and despair. No wonder, he would have felt the same had roles been reversed.
Before either of them could begin, Drangar spoke again. “They won’t tell me. What’s wrong with me?”
What possible answer could he give the man? Before he could stop himself, the part of him that was Chosen replied. “We believe you used magic to escape that prison.”
“Right to the point,” Ealisaid said with voice full of scorn. “You should let me do the talking.”
“Right.” Drangar’s hissed reply halted the argument. Kildanor had to admit he would have liked to spar with the Wizardess verbally. “What have you two been drinking?” Wheezing breath filled the air. “I ask again: what the Scales is wrong with me?”
“We believe you burned your life force to free yourself from that cage,” Kildanor said.
Wanting to believe the silence that followed was thoughtful, and, worrying Ralgon was drifting off into sleep once more, he stepped up to the bed to get a better look at the mercenary. The man just lay there, eyes open, staring at the stone ceiling above, his lips drawn in an even thinner line, brow furrowed as if in deep thought. Every now and then he blinked, his eyes darting left and right. Then, finally, the searching eyes found his face. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”
“The Sons of Traksor?”
“Aye.”
“Did they teach you magic?” Ealisaid prodded despite the fact that Ralgon had denied any such knowledge. He couldn’t blame her; last night’s events were far too bewildering to be dismissed by Drangar’s claim of ignorance.
The mercenary, eyes deep in skeletal face, stared first at the Wizardess and then at him, blinked, lips pursed. “Something wrong with your hearing?” Not even his irregular
, wheezing voice managed to cover his annoyance. Then, for a fraction, Kildanor saw what Braigh had spoken of earlier: Ralgon’s eyes shimmered. The moment passed so quickly he was unsure it had really happened. A glance over to Ealisaid showed she had seen it as well. “No,” Drangar continued, “I cannot use magic, they never taught me.”
“Back when we first spoke you admitted to remembering something,” he said. “What was it?”
Ralgon gazed at the ceiling, his features distorted. A memory of pain, Kildanor thought. Finally, feeble arms trying to push against the weight of the covers and failing, a resigned sigh escaped his lips. “I grew up with the Sons of Traksor, learned to be a warrior, wanted to be a swordpriest.” He must have seen Kildanor’s confusion for the explanation followed immediately. “There’s nothing religious about them; it’s all mummery to make the King believe they are an order of priests. Some tea if you please.”
A swallow later—Kildanor felt a wave of pity seeing Ralgon struggle with every drop of liquid—the wheezing voice resumed its narration. “It was said that Lesganagh’s Servant came to Traksor, granting him a mighty sword and magic he could use to fight the demons. I always liked watching them practice, the swordpriests. They are the leaders, the most powerful of the Sons. I never saw them wield magic, but the way they enclosed themselves in a prayer room for days at a time, chanting, I figured they had to. Of course, little ignorant boy that I was, I asked my da. Or rather the person I thought of as father.
“He evaded the answer, so it had to be true.” Something that could have been interpreted as regret passed over his face. “I didn’t give up. The other kids cared little for me as it was. I mean, I could beat any of them when angry. They called it Lesganagh’s blessing…” His voice trailed off, and for a moment the Chosen feared they would hear no more. He chanced a sideways look at Ealisaid who stood there, brow furrowed. She returned his gaze; the twitch in her left cheek was almost imperceptible. So, she had heard the same things he had. Drangar had beaten all the children whenever he was angry. He felt there was a connection between this heightened state of emotion and the fire lighting the man’s eyes, and maybe Drangar had reached a similar conclusion. He was just about to ask when the mercenary continued. “I was nosey, thought nothing would stop me, arrogance of a lad almost of age.” The scorn in his voice turned into violent hacking.
They waited. This time he helped Ralgon to drink. “Thank you. It’s strange, for so many godsdamned years I tried to forget, and now all of it is there again, as if it had never left.” Drangar took a deep, ragged breath, then said, “I began exploring the Eye of Traksor, the fortress. Went to all those places forbidden to those not of age. The prayer chamber of the swordpriests was no such thing at all. It was a room full of herbs, tables, and, strangely enough, wineskins. Not what I had expected at all. Then I found the door.
“Courtesy of the Royal family, many books had made it to us, religious texts, history, that sort of thing. All of it is stored in a library. Not one of those big bastards of Traghnalach, a moderate affair really, but enough for any man to read in a lifetime or ten. Sometimes I saw people, swordpriests and lord protectors, enter the library and not come out until later. But they were never there when I looked for them. Turns out there’s a hidden door covered by one of the rearmost bookcases. I found it, sneaked in and stood inside this chamber—about as big as this room—filled with books so old I knew they were older than anything found in any of the Libraries.” He paused a moment, closed his eyes.
The moment of rest grew longer and longer, and Kildanor feared Ralgon had fallen asleep once more. Not that he could blame the man. Retelling something so obviously filled with painful memories was taxing on even a healthy man, and Drangar was anything but. He had just begun his approach to the barely dented pillow when the mercenary’s eyes flew open, a haunted look in them.
“The language was elven, and not. I could barely read it. And the gods know I tried.” His sentences came out in slow bursts of words now, interspersed by rattling breaths. It seemed as if he was in a state of panic, or maybe some other realization. “There was some alarm I set off. When passing the door. Suddenly the room was bright. My… my… da stood there, framed by the council. He was furious, eyes bulging. He stared at me. I wanted to explain. He wouldn’t listen. He barely breathed. The others seized me, dragged me out, beat me. I screamed, begging my… da to tell them I meant no harm. He was my father, and he should have protected me. I told him so.
“I can still hear his rage as he said, ‘you are no son of mine. You are a bastard born of a whore and left out to die in the gutter. We should have never taken you in. I can never be a father to one such as you!’”
How his body could produce as much as a single tear was a mystery, but he saw it form. “I ran away that night and never looked back.” The mercenary took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.
“I need to find out why they want me dead,” Drangar said suddenly, his whisper shattering the silence. “I must know why Hesmera had to die. I must know…” He paused, looking at Kildanor. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Name it.” He wondered what this husk of a man wanted of him; there wasn’t much he could do.
“I left my sword in Shadow Pass. Could you send someone to retrieve it? I will need it.”
“From the look of it, you need food and rest more.”
“I must go to Kalduuhn, to the Eye, and I fear I’ll need to defend myself to get any answers.”
“You don’t want to avenge her death?” Ealisaid asked.
“Her killers are dead already, no need for further blood to be shed on my account. I need to know the truth.”
The Chosen silently agreed with that assessment. This time truth was no clearly cut border. He pitied, no, liked the mercenary, and wanted to help him find his peace. Plus, there was the mystery of what and why dangerous magics had made their way into the hands of a ruthless organization. Why had Lesganagh passed on this knowledge to Traksor and his followers? “I’ll have someone find the blade, if it’s still there. Where did you lose it?”
“Near the northern mouth of the pass, in one of the merchant stashes.”
He frowned, and asked, “How will you get to Kalduuhn? The city is under siege.”
“Have the Chanastardhians already crossed the river?”
Ralgon’s memory of the city was good. Dunthiochagh’s hinterland was still free, and supplies and wood were still carted in from the north. It was only a matter of time before Mireynh’s troops would be on both sides of the Dunth. “No, they are still on the southern shore.”
Ralgon closed his eyes, and it seemed as if he was drifting back into sleep, but he opened them a moment later. “They have three options, the bridge to the west sixty miles from here, crossing the tributaries between Dunthan and Ondalan, or taking the long route through Shadow Pass. Moving any army through the terrain will be slow, there is time.”
“Time for you to get better,” Ealisaid said sternly.
“Will you get someone to fetch the sword?” Now Drangar sounded desperate.
Kildanor thought a moment, and then said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Get some rest, man.”
Ralgon managed a weak grin, and said, “I will, thanks.”
“Anytime.”
CHAPTER 7
The Eye’s corridors were quiet. Once, almost fifteen years ago, the hallways, courtyard, even the dormitories had been abuzz with laughter, shrieking children, and conversation. Now, it felt like a mausoleum. No, that wasn’t right; not a mausoleum, more like the calm before a storm that was bound to come any moment. Arawn had made no threat, merely warned Darlontor of what would happen. Gryffor was the real problem. He had ignored the signs, consciously avoided facing the issues that plagued the order today. Was he in denial? A short chuckle escaped from his throat. Of course, he was; he had been in denial for decades.
Darlontor regretted much of his life; too many were
the times when he should have stood strong and had not. He faced a fracturing of the Sons, unthinkable in his youth, now in his autumn years the order and the hope of forming a unified front against the approaching doom were cracking, splintering, shattering. There was nothing he could do about it. Of all the things gone wrong in his life, he most regretted being weak when the punishment for those who had failed in Dunthiochagh was determined. How eager some had been to slaughter those who had failed; and it wasn’t that he hadn’t been angry as well. The leading swordpriests, Gryffor, Arawn, even Shieldwarden Lleufor, had forced the issue and won. Even when Lleufor had changed his opinion later on, the choice had been made, and now they all were paying for his weakness. Hadn’t they been paying for his weakness all this time anyway?
No. He shook his head. Pain lay at the end of that line of thought, and he had more important matters to consider. Where was Dalgor? He didn’t believe for a moment his nephew had run away from the punishment, the boy was willful, yes, but he would have faced death with a smile. Not that it would have come to that. Maybe, Darlontor mused, he should have killed the motion of executing those who failed in obtaining Caitrin’s son right from the start. He had the right to do so, but what control would have been left had he done so?
His thoughts meandered close to the point he had tried to shun for all these years, and he forced himself to stand and stare at the finely crafted map hanging to his left. Fief, holding, there were some titles to the lands surrounding the Eye, and they had done a great job keeping brigands away. It wasn’t robbers they worried about. The roads were free of bandits, certainly, but more and more this achievement was due to the manor-temples and the swordpriests stationed outside the Eye, in the hamlets and at Machlon. If Lleufor’s absence at council was any indicator, those Sons forming the shield around the fortress were the ones resolutely against the killing of those failing to capture Drangar. Parents only rarely gave their children into the care of the Eye, opting instead to send them to learn from the Protectors. What had once been an honor had become a death-sentence in recent years. “Fools,” Darlontor muttered. “We’ve all been fools.”