The Immortal Crown

by Kieth Merrill

  As the thoughts came to his mind, Ashar’s imagination rose to the top of the monolith and disappeared into the clouds. The uncertainty of what lay ahead fused with the mysteries of the hallowed fane. The warmth of the morning sun on his face made him suddenly aware that his mind had wandered. He scolded himself, knowing he should return to the recitation, but his thoughts lingered.

  For as often as he had stared at the monolith and wondered, today was different. The mountain, the clouds, the temple, the grand court. They were beautiful to behold, but he was no longer one who stood on the outside looking in. He was as yet at the threshold, but for the first time, he felt he belonged to that wondrous place.

  Ashar’s eyes swept downward from the mountain to the narrow trail that wound from the village to the summit of the hogback. The escarpment was steep, and the path switched back before looping around to make a final ascent. It was the only way to the ridge and the sprawling grounds of the temple. In times past, horses had hoofed their way up the rocky route. In recent times, parts of the trail had washed away and could only be traveled on foot.

  Burdens were carried to and from the mountain on the backs of votaries, often with the help of a pilgrim making the ascent to pray. Sometimes the postulants were sent to the village with the priests to help carry provender and other supplies. Some of the postulants considered it a punishment, but Ashar relished the chance to go to the market even when it meant hiking back up the steep and winding trail with a heavy pack of grain or vegetables and sometimes meat.

  “There’s another fire!” Rol exclaimed. The angst in his voice jolted Ashar from his drifting thoughts. He looked to where Rol pointed. A plume of smoke twisted up from a village at the far end of the valley. The sun was a smudge of yellow in the smoke and the morning light an eerie glow.

  Neither of the boys had been farther east than the market of the Village Candella that lay below the Mountain of God. Certainly not as far as where the smoke rose.

  “Most likely farmers burning stubble in the fields,” Ashar said with his usual optimism.

  “Bandits, I’ll wager,” Rol said.

  Word of the robbers creating trouble in the dominions of Kandelaar had been brought to the mountain by a wide-eyed pilgrim who had climbed to the temple to pray. Others came with similar reports. Rumors of plunder were different with each telling. Whether the bandits were as vicious as some of the villagers described, Ashar had no way of knowing, but one exploit was common to every tale. Into whatever village the bandits came, miscreants and mercenaries were conscripted into a growing army of outlaws.

  Descriptions of the bandit king who led them flourished in taverns and were enlarged by the gossiping of old crones. Whatever the truth, the chief of the marauders loomed in Ashar’s imagination as a ferocious giant with the head of a dragon. Few of the pilgrims had ever actually seen the robbers or their captain, but they passed the gossip along anyway: “Dangerous, savage, bloody, and barbaric.” Those who had actually laid eyes on the leader of the bandits spoke different words: “Demon, incubus, and a vessel of darkness.”

  Had there always been such men? Ashar wondered. Had such terror and commotion started with the ancient people who had vanished? Did they destroy themselves? Petroglyphs scratched into the patina of the rock walls of the mountain left no easy clues.

  Are we repeating the mistakes of the first people? Shall we also vanish without record or remembrance?

  Ashar stepped from the wall and shook his head to cleanse his imagination of demons, death, and destruction.

  Rol’s voice brought him back. “Ashar? You never said if you wanted to see the sacred stones. Do you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe, or maybe such thinking of such things is a sin of aspiration, and aspiration is ambition, and ambition is pride.” The aphorism was one of hundreds he had memorized, and it came easily to his mind. Perhaps it was wrong to wish for what he could not have. “You had best stop thinking about shining stones and start thinking about reciting your bloodline to the twentieth generation.”

  “I know,” Rol grumbled, “but it’s hard, and I get confused. Who is whose son of whom and who begot who is hard for me to remember.”

  “Shh. I need to concentrate.” Ashar closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples.

  “When I become the Oracle,” Rol said, “I promise to sneak you into the hallowed fane, or wherever they hide the sacred stones, so you can see them for yourself.”

  “That is such a prideful thing to say.” Ashar’s eyes were scolding, but his smile gave him away.

  “Sorry.” Rol shrugged an apology, and Ashar chuckled.

  “If you become the Oracle, I will know for sure there is no God of gods and Creator of All Things.”

  Rol punched Ashar’s shoulder with affection, and the boys laughed softly.

  Rol’s mood was suddenly serious. “Are you so sure now?” he asked.

  Ashar’s face tightened. “I am a postulant of the Sodality of Priests of Oum’ilah.”

  “I know. So am I. It’s all I’ve ever been, but . . . some say the story of the Navigator is only a legend, you know, an allegory like the other traditions Master Doyan taught us about. It could be that the story isn’t really true but it can still be authentic because it teaches a true principle or reveals a hidden meaning.”

  Ashar studied his friend’s worried face. Of all the days for him to have doubts about what he believed, this was the worst.

  “I guess that’s the reason I’d like see the stones of light.” Rol whispered his confession. “I’m not sure they exist. Some say the reason no one ever sees them or the Oracle never calls upon their power is because they’re only a . . .” Rol tried to find a better word but couldn’t so he said it a different way. “Have you never wondered whether the story about small rocks becoming stones of light because they were touched by the finger of God is nothing but a myth?”

  Ashar resisted the rote response that tumbled to his tongue. Rol’s question left him uneasy. He had known Rol since they’d been given to the temple as children. He lifted his eyes to the towers of the temple soaring high above. He inhaled slowly and looked back at Rol. “It is a curious day to wonder what you believe,” he said. “We’ve been taught to doubt our doubts before we doubt our faith. What do you believe?” Answering a question with a question was a tack of dialectics taught by Master Doyan.

  Rol lifted his eyebrows, his face a glow of innocence. A quirky smile formed at the corner of his mouth. “I believe whatever the masters have spoken since my father left me here when I was eight years old,” he recited. “Same as you.” It was the proper and expected answer. Rol shrugged and offered a smile of resignation.

  Boys abandoned and given as postulants to the Sodality of Priests of Oum’ilah were bonded in ways they couldn’t explain. Ashar could see that Rol was struggling with his thoughts, but even so, he was not prepared for the question when it came.

  “Do you ever wonder where we might be now, or what might have become of us if we had not . . .” Rol chewed on his lower lip. “I mean, do you ever wonder whether you and me would’ve picked, you know, being postulants if . . . if we’d had a choice?”

  Ashar had asked himself the same question many times, but Rol asking it aloud ripped away the shroud, forcing him to face his hidden angst.

  “It’s not a question we should ask,” Ashar said. He swallowed hard and recited the axiom that had been drummed into his young head. “We are blessed by the sacrifice our fathers . . .” He faltered on the last word and pushed the thought away. “The sacrifice they made to show their devotion to Oum’ilah, the God of gods. We are the ones who—”

  “Sacrifice?” Rol cut him off. “It wasn’t a sacrifice! Your father brought you here and gave you to the priests because he didn’t want you!” Rol clenched his jaw. “Same way my father didn’t want me and one more mouth to feed.”

  Ashar shook h
is head, rejecting the painful possibility, even knowing it was true.

  I am Ashar, son of Shalatar! Shalatar was the son of Ilim. Ilim was the son of Worm. Worm was the son of . . .

  With his eyes closed, Ashar saw the march of his ancestor’s names as they appeared on the faded parchment of his memory. The scrap of animal skin was a private treasure. His only connection to his other life. His mother had given it to him on the day she said good-bye.

  They had walked from the village to the bottom of the mountain. His father was impatient, already ascending the trail. His mother lingered, straightening his shirt and running her fingers through his curly hair.

  “Hurry along now!” his father had yelled.

  Ashar cried. Why did his father wish to leave him on the mountain? “Why are you sending me away? Do you not want me?” he sobbed.

  His mother threw her arms around him and held him close. Her tears warmed his cheek. “I want you, dear child, and I love you with all of my heart.” She crushed him to her until he could scarcely breathe.

  “I know you cannot understand, but you will be safe and I cannot protect you if . . .” She stopped speaking and glanced at the man on the trail ahead who was yelling again. Ashar would never forget what happened next. She had hugged him and spoken close to Ashar’s ear in a hoarse whisper. “He cannot love you as I do because . . . because he is not the father of your flesh. Do you understand?”

  Ashar was not sure he did.

  And then Ashar’s mother had slipped a bundle beneath his shirt. She clung to him in a last, lingering embrace and whispered, “You are the son of my first love, who was lost. You are Ashar, son of Shalatar.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Many Days Earlier

  The warhorse balked at the steep bank of the river. The rocks were slick with blackened moss. The watercourse was wide, and the current ran swift. Drakkor whipped his mount across its croup. The black horse shook its head and pounded its hooves in protest. The rider sank the iron spike of his boots into its flank, and the destrier plunged into the muddy turbulence. The score and seven men who rode with him held their mounts steady along the bank and watched.

  Drakkor pulled the horse’s head upstream and swam him into the treacherous rapids. The horse held its head high and flared its nostrils as it thrashed its legs for the opposite shore. Drakkor calmed the charger with a hand on its neck and spoke words lost in the thunder of the river.

  The men waiting on shore were a band of outcasts more than an army: bandits weary of the paltry booty from robbing travelers on the King’s Road; soldiers in disgrace; unruly, restless boys; villainous men conscripted from the villages; and mercenaries willing to sell their swords for the pleasures of plunder and a place in the promised new kingdom to come.

  They were clad in mismatched armor made of iron and boiled leather. Rusted and tarnished. Scuffed and unkempt. Some wore helms. Others had leather caps. A few were bareheaded or had tied bands of cloth or leather around their foreheads.

  Though no two men were dressed the same, all of them carried weapons. Long swords, short swords, scimitars, or long knives. Several had bows with quivered arrows, and others carried cleaving weapons and mauls.

  The destrier found its footing on the rocks submerged along the south bank of the river. Drakkor spiked the horse again, and it erupted from the water in a single lunge. He rode the slope to a ledge of rock splayed out from a thicket of willows. He drew his sword and held it high as a signal to his men. Exuberant cheers were swallowed by the roar of the river as the men spurred their horses and charged into the water.

  Drakkor was pleased by their zeal, but his smile was little more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth. They were hearty men, warriors at heart, but also a depraved lot driven by a lust for the spoils of pillage and plunder. Despite their fatigue, the men were eager for battle and blood and conquest.

  These who followed Drakkor believed their objective was to conquer the temple at the Mountain of God and establish a fortress suited to the king they were certain he would become. Drakkor had planted the seeds and allowed the rumor to grow, lest he divulge his true purpose. His destiny had been set in motion when he had been a boy of fifteen—twenty-nine years before. His time had come.

  His men could have their citadel and their trifling rule of kings. His purpose in assaulting the Mountain of God was of greater worth than a hundred castles.

  Drakkor dismounted and pulled the sodden saddle from his horse’s back. He was taller than most men. The angular bones of his face spoke of intelligence and intensity. The firm set of his jaw guarded secrets. Clean-shaven, his skin was the color of rusted iron. He had a scar on his cheek, just below his ear. It looked as if the gods had pressed a calloused thumb into the wet clay of his face before it was finished and left behind a ragged hole.

  The pockmark was nearly obscured by the tattooed tail of a dragon that circled his neck before disappearing beneath the gorget where it became a fire-breathing monster enveloping his body. His raven-black hair splayed out in a fan of curls where his strong neck rose from broad shoulders. His dark green eyes were large and deeply set in the shadows of thick brows. A smudge of gold in the irises gave him the glower of a feral cat.

  He narrowed his eyes and watched the men and horses struggling to cross the current. They were dangerous men that suited his purposes perfectly. He would flatter them, praise them, and pay them in spoils. He would allow them to satiate their hunger and their lust. It would be enough to ensure their loyal devotion.

  How little they know. He smiled as he remembered the path that had led him to this moment.

  His memory was a blessing and curse. From his earliest days, he had been able to recall images, sounds, and words after a single exposure. It was a blessing when the memory held something beautiful or worthy or important to remember. It was a curse when he remembered the tragedy and pain of his early life.

  Today the sunlight on the water reminded him of the chamber of light. The killing, the claw of the dragon, the scourging and the pain. The oath and taste of blood. The feelings when the magic stone was placed into his hand. The undeniable epiphany of destiny.

  He remembered the bargain he had struck with the Peddler of Souls. The memory rose like the stench of a fetid slough with a scuttle of ravenous rats hungry for his flesh. It was a long time ago and rarely came to mind except when night began to fall and wraiths of memory slipped from the shadows to haunt his dreams.

  The trials, torture, and blood loss he had suffered as a boy had left him in a weakened and semiconscious state. Swallowing the rancid blood had sickened him.

  You will survive. The voice rose in his mind like a hallucination. And I’ve a way for ya to do it. The night before Drakkor had entered Dragonfell, the Peddler of Souls had told him of the prophecy and described the rituals and the number of lashes he must endure without a sound. Then he had given him a birchwood stick to keep him silent, a vial of dark liquid to keep him strong, and a command. You get through the purgin,’ and they’ll be givin’ you the magic stone and sending ye off to find the others. But never mind their superstitions, you bring that stone to me, ya hear?

  Drakkor had agreed not out of loyalty or fear but out of ambition. He had survived. He had done it. If I hold the stone, should I not be the one blessed by its power?

  Steadied on either side by men in scarlet robes, the young Drakkor had been helped up a winding stairway to a domed chamber that was open to the night sky through a circular shaft that rose from the apogee of the cupola. The men placed him on a circular dais in the center of the room. There were opposing doors at each of the cardinal directions. An annulus of glims burned on an altar. The smoke carried the pungent smell of sheep fat. Three hundred candles set in a serpentine pattern around the walls illuminated the rest of the chamber.

  “Fire is the symbol of she-dragon’s breath, and her breath is the symbol of creation and the force tha
t rules the earth,” the sorceress intoned in the guttural cadence of her husky voice.

  Each tiny flame was reflected in the polished black stones of the walls and ceilings, until the points of light diminished to infinity, more numerous than the stars of heaven.

  Drakkor narrowed his eyes and focused on the most distant point of light in the chilling universe of flickering fire. He felt suspended in an endless void, floating in a vast black sea warmed by an omnipresent breath of fire.

  “The shrine of the begetter of the heavens above and earth beneath,” the sorceress said with devotion.

  With blood still oozing from his back, and the chanting of hooded votaries reverberating from the open dome of black stone, Drakkor felt suspended in an endless void, floating in a black sea warmed by an omni­present breath of fire. He narrowed his eyes and focused on the most distant point of light in the chilling universe of flickering fire.

  I have drunk the blood and said the words. Was I a fool? Was it a whispering of my mind or the echoing voice of the Peddler? Is there truly such a thing as a magic stone of fire? Wounded and bloodied, he wasn’t sure anymore.

  As an orphan, Drakkor had little exposure to religion in the slums of Black Flower. Thoughts of his future were gobbled up by survival. In the rare moments he allowed himself to ponder ideas that were incomprehensible, he favored the old gods of the ancient tower. And yet, if the stone had power, the power came from she-dragon.

  If there is magic in the world, if there are powers unseen, if truth lies at the heart of myth, I can change my destiny. I will be more than a king—I will be immortal.

  Men in bloodred robes surrounded him, their faces shrouded in the shadow of their hoods. Others watched from the darkness beyond.

  The voice of the sorceress reciting the ancient prophecy filled the room. “In the time of kings and the day of chaos, the seal is broken. The ancient mysteries arise. She-dragon is blind and rages from the mountains. That which was lost shall be found. The eggs of stone forged in the breath of fire, gathered in the hand of might by the child of no man—who is worthy of the blood of the dragon, purged by death and suffering in silent darkness—and, clustered in her claws, will rise immortal by the power of the ancient secret, to rule all flesh and reign forever as god of the world.”