The Immortal Crown

by Kieth Merrill

  “Fetch his horse and tie it behind,” the farmer said.

  “I say we keep the horse.”

  “Now you are thinkin’ like a fool.”

  “The man was fallen. His horse must’a surely ran away,” the son said and raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t want to offend the gods now.”

  Before his father could speak, the son gathered the horse and started for the village. The farmer watched him go, his face twisted with conflict. But then . . . ’tis a fine horse, and my own is near its end. He turned the cart around and headed toward the fork that lead to Kingsgate.

  The dread of what might befall him was overpowered by a single word: recompense. He said it again in his mind. He wasn’t being greedy. It wasn’t his idea. The king’s warrior was the one who had said it.

  But what if he’s dead, and I deliver a corpse to the king? Shall I be blamed? The farmer shuddered at the thought and urged his horse forward with a willow across its croup.

  The edifice of His Greatness, Orsis-Kublan, Omnipotent Sovereign and King of Kandelaar, loomed before him. The monolithic stones flanking the outer gate were being carved with his image. Shrine to a mad king, the farmer thought, and his son’s warning was a chill at the nape of his neck in spite of the sun on his neck. The closer he got to the castle, the greater his fear. No recompense or praise was worth the king’s wrath. What good is coin in the hand of a dead man? Some of the folks in village Nellaf had learned that lesson often enough.

  He suddenly came to his senses and looked for a wide spot in the narrow road to turn the cart around. In that very moment, three kings­riders rode into view from around the bend in the road and galloped toward him.

  “Hold your place in the name of the king!” one shouted as they drew near.

  The farmer pulled up hard and stopped the cart. The pounding of the heavy iron hooves approaching matched the pounding in the peasant’s chest, and he knew he had made a terrible mistake.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Oracle sat on a wooden bench in the archway of the temple porch that looked eastward over the precipice. It offered a breathtaking view across the plains of Mordan north of the Narrows to the inland sea of Leviathan Deeps.

  The porch was an octagon and open on all sides. Thirteen posts supported its graceful archways. The roof cantilevered five cubitums over the posts. The floor was white and black, inlaid marble, and extended under the arches to a spacious patio.

  Colossal squares of silk were suspended as shade against the sun. The harsh light of midday was a shadowless glow. Numerous plants, trees, and flowers in clay pots transformed the patio into a garden. The air hummed with bees that buzzed from blossom to bloom and flower to floret before returning their sweet treasure to man-made hives.

  The humming filled Ashar’s head, and his thoughts wandered. He had been taught that bees were sacred creatures because they had been brought across the great sea by the Navigator. The emblem of the bee adorned the robes of the blessed sages and was graven on the walls of the temple.

  Ashar blinked the thoughts away and forced himself to focus on the moment. He stood at the center of the patio with the giant, Rorekk Breakstone. The sages stood in a half circle behind him. The Oracle studied the boy with a kindly curiosity.

  If what Ashar learned as a postulant was true, the man sitting in the shade was the oldest human being in Kandelaar. Everything about him was old, yet in a curious way he seemed young. Unlike the masters of the council with their woolly heads and beards of fleece, the Oracle’s hair was short and he was clean-shaven.

  The Oracle shifted on the bench as if to rise. Two temple virgins appeared and moved quickly to help him to his feet. Ashar had not seen the girls in waiting. When they appeared, his heart beat faster, but neither girl was Celestine. One of the daughters of the temple handed the Oracle his staff, a twisted length of wood with carvings along the length of it.

  The old man fluttered his fingers, and the second girl handed Ashar a brass goblet filled with peach nectar. He bowed his head to the Oracle and held the cup aloft in ritual gratitude to Oum’ilah, God of gods and Creator of All Things.

  The nectar was thick and sweet, and it renewed his vigor. It ended the cleansing fast but hardly in the way he had imagined. He savored the last drops and wished they’d bring him more. Why such unworthy thoughts continued to invade his head was a persistent plague.

  The Oracle hobbled forward with his imposing staff. His eyes never moved from Ashar’s face. Ashar wanted to look away, but he was gripped by the peculiar sensation that the old man could penetrate his mind and hear his thoughts.

  The Oracle smiled as if he held a secret of such enormous importance that Ashar’s very life was in the balance. Perhaps he did. Perhaps it was.

  “Tell me again,” the Oracle said, drawing so close that Ashar could smell the distinctive fragrance of the santalum wood of his staff and see the detailed carvings, hewn at different times by different hands, that depicted events of significance in the Oracle’s long life.

  Again his thoughts wandered. The voice of the Oracle brought him back.

  “Your lineage,” he said. “Recite it for me.”

  Ashar inhaled deeply. “I am Ashar, son of Shalatar. Shalatar was the son of Ilim. Ilim was the son of Worm. Worm was the son of Issens. Issens was the son of Syn. Syn was the son of Corus. Corus was the son of Kotar. Kotar was the son of Qaqos. Qaqos was the son of Tsak. Tsak was the son of Izek. Izek was the son of Ashar.”

  The Oracle’s eyes narrowed. His pursed lips twitched into a grimace of challenge and doubt.

  “Go on,” he urged.

  “I was taught by our oral tradition that Ashar was the son of Krolin, but now I know that he was not.”

  “And how do you know that, Ashar, son of Shalatar?”

  Ashar had no answer that made good sense. Not even for him. He and the Oracle looked at each other for a long time. Ashar had the strange feeling that they were the only two people on earth. And then the answer came.

  “Master Doyan taught us that the veil between what we can see with our eyes and what cannot be seen is as delicate as gossamer. The veil was not transparent to my eyes, but a voice from the light spoke to my heart.” Ashar’s fingers rested lightly on the leather strap that crossed his heart.

  “I understand,” the Oracle said.

  “Ashar was not the son of Krolin. Ashar was the son of Nanesh. Nanesh was the son of Faron. Faron was the son of Palan. Palan was the son of Joram.”

  “And Joram is the son of the Navigator,” the Oracle finished, speaking the name with reverence, his voice fragile. Ashar knew the legend, but the Navigator, whoever he might have been, was never real to him. Until now.

  “Follow me,” the Oracle said and, with the help of the daughters of the temple, he started for the steps to the holy sanctum. “Wait for us here,” he said to the sages without turning his head. “What we are about may take some time.”

  The holy sanctum had been built with the stones of a lost civilization and lay at the heart of the temple. The ancient builders had aligned the altar of the temple to the vortex where the lines of the earth crossed. The pendulum swung in a perfect circle of perpetual motion.

  The daughters of the temple assisted the Oracle as far as the ornate gates outside the entrance to the stairway in the outer hall. They were not allowed beyond. Even priests of the highest order were only allowed inside the sanctum during certain festivals and the performance of traditional rituals. No one but the Oracle had unrestricted access.

  The Oracle clung to the crook of Ashar’s elbow, and together they climbed to the top of the stairs. Random thoughts darted through Ashar’s head like a swarm of dragonflies. He felt unworthy. Stories about how wicked men who presumed to walk in holy places suffered instant death flooded his mind.

  Am I among the wicked? What voice is it that asks? Am I a liar? Are the beguiling wraiths of
Ahriman, the spirit of destruction, inside my mind?

  The litany of reasons Oum’ilah should strike him dead grew longer. He had not received the ritual bath. He had not been anointed with the oil of the sacred blackthorn. He was not dressed in the proper habiliment. He was entering the holy of holy sanctum with the Oracle of the temple because of a voice in his head!

  I am doomed.

  The entrance to the sanctum was a silk curtain covered with symbols. The Oracle lifted the curtain with a trembling hand. Ashar hesitated, fearful his next step might be the end of him.

  The Oracle searched his face. “If you are who the whisperings have told you that you are, you have nothing to fear.” He stepped past the curtain and let it fall. It furled into place, stirred softly by the movement of the air.

  Ashar was alone. He closed his eyes and slowly filled his lungs. He longed to hear the voice again, but nothing echoed in the bluish swirl of his thoughts. He pushed the curtain aside, closed his eyes, and took the step he felt sure would be his last. When nothing happened, he opened his eyes and breathed again.

  Ashar expected the room to be a mysterious and foreboding place. Instead, it was illuminated by a vertical shaft of sunlight, captured at the apex of the vaulted chamber by a disc of polished copper and reflected downward. The warm glow of amber light fell on a coffer of black marble, covered by a shroud of white silk. The box rested on a plinth of hardwood. The sides were covered with carvings, including a vessel caught in a tumultuous sea and surrounded by a tiny sun emitting thirteen rays of light. Ashar had seen the symbol before.

  Without the slightest sense of ceremony, the Oracle crossed to the coffer and lifted the silk. He gestured for Ashar to remove the fitted lid.

  The pungent smell reminded him of Master Doyan’s workshop where the postulants worked leather. The sides, top, and bottom of the box were lined with black fur. The hide of an ursine beast?

  Ashar had heard harrowing tales of the fearsome black beasts of the northern forests. He had watched men in the marketplace barter bluestone or even gold for their rare pelts. Whatever the box contained, it was hidden by a perfect cut of black fur.

  The Oracle placed his hand on Ashar’s shoulder. His skin was as thin as fine papyrus. Protruding veins bulged blue, seemingly eager to escape. The Oracle closed his eyes.

  Ashar could feel the tremors of the old man’s hand intensify and ripple through his being. They stood in silence. Ashar sought the bluish essence the way his masters had taught him. He strained to hear the old man’s mind, but a barrier of light kept him out. A confusion of thoughts collided in his mind. He was unsure how long it was before the tremors ceased, but he felt a sense of loss when the Oracle took his hand away.

  The Oracle turned the fur aside, revealing three white stones. They were smooth on the surface, clear and pellucid as crystal. In spite of an even surface, their translucence revealed a thousand tiny facets. Each stone was similar to the other, but no two were exactly alike. Ashar knew what he was looking at without being told. He stopped breathing. The stones of light, touched by the finger of God. In that moment, the stones of light were no longer a legend. They were a confirmation of the legend. An affirmation of an ancient truth. But there were only three. In some strange way, Ashar felt responsible for the ten that were missing.

  The Oracle grasped Ashar’s hand and held it in his own. “Do not fear,” he said and picked up a small dagger encrusted with bluestone. In a swift but gentle movement, the Oracle drew the blade across Ashar’s open palm.

  Ashar jerked back. He balled his bleeding hand into a fist and cupped it in the other. He searched the Oracle’s face, his eyes wide and uncertain.

  The Oracle picked up a stone and offered it to Ashar, who instinctively reached for it with his uninjured hand. “The other one,” the Oracle said, and Ashar opened his bleeding fist.

  The Oracle closed his eyes.

  A prayer? A ritual? A petition of hope? Before Ashar could settle on the meaning of it, the Oracle laid the stone on his outstretched palm. It felt cold but it also burned in his hand.

  The instant his blood touched the stone, a euphoric tremor of pure joy surged through him. His devotion to Oum’ilah. His love for the Oracle. The affection of the sages. Celestine’s eyes. The touch of her hand. A quiver of delight. A welling of emotion. A blissful peace and calm. Confidence and hope. Humility and gratitude. Every emotion compounded into a single wondrous warmth.

  Ashar’s lacerated palm was bleeding, but there was no blood. Instead, a translucent substance shimmering with a thousand points of light oozed from the wound. There was a tiny sun rising at the core of each sparkle. Wonder and terror collided in his chest. The shining stone grew brighter with a cold white light until it was a glowing sun unto itself. It was so bright that Ashar was forced to look away.

  “It is he,” the Oracle whispered to someone Ashar could not see.

  When the white light was absorbed back into the stone, the Oracle took it from his hand, returned it to the fur, and closed the lid. He bowed his head to Ashar. “I have longed for this day.”

  Ashar stared at his hand in disbelief. The laceration had vanished. There was no blemish nor blood.

  “The blood of the Navigator flows in your veins,” the Oracle said. “We have much to talk about. So very, very much. From this day, your life can never be the same.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The king stood in his marble bath. Sunlight warmed the room in the colors of the stained glass windows, but Kublan felt aged and aggrieved and shrouded in darkness. Memories swirled in his head like wraiths rising with the steam from the brackish waters. Wine could sometimes keep the pain of the past locked away in an iron box of regrets, but today the wine betrayed him and the box fell open and his past loomed up to punish him.

  Who could he trust? No one.

  Tolak, his own firstborn, had repudiated his divine right to rule as king and continued to rail against his reign. In a rage over the betrayal, Kublan had disavowed, disowned, and exiled his only son and rightful heir to the Peacock Throne. Tolak had good cause to disfavor him.

  As the thought came, the king pushed the truth of his mistake away, but not before feeling a rush of regret. His wrath against one had fallen on many. He hadn’t intended to punish the children—the grandchildren. He thought of Meesha, his granddaughter, the child he cherished most in all the world.

  Is she well? he wondered. Or has she also grown to loathe me?

  He was too proud to undo his foolishness or even try. He hoped the tokens sent and gifts bestowed in the years she and her family had been in exile had earned the child’s affection. He longed to see her but could not. In exiling his son, he had foolishly exiled a tiny, tender piece of his heart.

  Delusions of persecution rushed through him. He was alone and the feeling frightened him. No. That was a long time ago. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. His eyes fluttered as they swept the room. He glimpsed a woman holding out a robe.

  She was young and fair and familiar but . . . he felt dizzy. The girl smiled and held out the garment for the king to slip over his arms. Her oval face held large eyes and was framed by flaxen hair. She was very young.

  Kublan narrowed his eyes to pierce the swirling fog. Do I know her? He tried to remember her name. His breathing quickened. He clutched his face as a tremor of pain shot through his head. He turned at the touch on his shoulder.

  Tonguelessone held a small stoup of dark liquid to his lips. He sipped it, then grasped it with both hands and gulped the bitter potion. He squinted his eyes to help his memory. He knew this woman as well but couldn’t remember who . . .

  Has she poisoned me? Where is my grandson? He will know. Kadesh-Cor is loyal.

  The thought shuddered through him as the concoction of herbs and spirits thinned the fog in his mind.

  He looked up at his nursewoman. “Where is my grandson?” He dema
nded.

  Tonguelessone answered with a twirl of fingers, a gesture that floated gracefully toward the window.

  “She cannot hear nor speak, gracious lord,” the woman with the robe whispered loudly.

  “Yes, of course,” he flushed, not remembering if his nursewoman could read lips. He was troubled by his sporadic lapses of memory. They were happening more often than before, but he was determined none should know. Does Maharí know? His eyes moved until they found her. She was watching and smiling as she always did. “Maharí? Where is my beloved grandson, Kadesh-Cor?”

  “I do not know, m’lord,” she said and lowered her head. “Neither my heart nor mind has place to think of any but you.”

  The king put his arms into the sleeves of the robe. “I want my grandson.”

  A loud knock spared the young girl from answering. She traded an uneasy look with Tonguelessone, and the two of them retreated to the shadows.

  “What fool disturbs me in my bath?” the king growled loudly as if wanting to make sure whoever was on the far side of the heavy door could hear him.

  “I’ll see who it is, gracious one,” Maharí said and crossed to the door. She opened the small gate that covered a grated window. She listened, then turned from the window.

  “It is the Raven to the King, your greatness.” She raised her voice slightly. “He intrudes with his deepest apologies, but he says it is most urgent.”

  The king groused but waved his hand. Maharí unlatched the door and pulled it open. Several of the kingswatch were gathered in the corridor beyond the open door. The Raven to the King entered.

  “By your leave, m’lord,” Maharí said and slipped quietly into the parlor where vessels of oil and vials of perfumes were kept. She left the door ajar, but her eavesdropping was noted by Tonguelessone, who watched her from the shadow of the alcove on the other side.