Ashar swept Celestine from her feet and sat her on the balustrade. It was polished granite, steep and as slick as ice on a winter pond. In the blink it took Ashar to leap onto the balustrade behind her, Celestine was already sliding down with arms and legs flailing. It was a long ride to the bottom, and they flew as if shot from a sling.
Celestine used her legs to cushion the collision with the ornate carvings of the newel post, and Ashar cushioned his landing with her. They rolled to the outside of the balustrade in an awkwardly intimate tangling of arms and legs . . . and faces. Ashar had never been so close to a girl’s body. She was under his arm, and they were tumbling one over the other. They were wrapped in each other’s arms, and the fluttering in his belly made him feel as if there was nothing in the world but this moment.
Glosno changed that. He was closing in. He bounded the last few strides as they scrambled to their feet. He raised his pike to strike and . . . disappeared!
The body of the archer catapulted down the stairs in a violent tumble and crashed into Glosno. The two men were swept so suddenly from Ashar and Celestine’s view it was as if they vanished in a magic spell. It was bewildering, but there was no time to solve the mystery. Another kingsrider was only a few steps above.
“Run!” Ashar yelled, pulling Celestine to her feet and heading for the warren of passages. She took one step and fell.
“My ankle,” she cried and gripped it with both hands. It was already starting to swell.
We are finished. The ugly thought slapped Ashar in the face. How can that be?
At that moment another kingsrider flew over the balustrade and crashed into a stone wall with a clattering of iron and cracking of bones, then crumpled to a heap and lay still.
How can a man in heavy armor jump so high and fly so far . . . and into the wind? Ashar wondered for only an instant before he understood. The man was not flying by his own power—he had been thrown.
An enormous man leaped over the railing behind him, reaching them in a single stride.
“Rorekk!”
The giant smiled. His tunic was ripped and bloody and flapped madly in the wind. His chest was bare except for the leather strap from the large bag slung over his shoulder. His body was scarred by numerous wounds. Most were a crust of blackened scabs but some were red and wet. His surging muscles glistened with blood and sweat.
By what miracle had he escaped the mountain? The wondrous thought came to Ashar in a rushing assurance of destiny.
“Sentos et ice’orp da naidraug ruoy eb lliwon.” Rorekk’s voice roared louder than the wind. Eager to be understood, he scrunched his brow, searching for the few words he knew of Ashar’s language and used his hands to speak. He tapped his fist across his heart, touched Ashar on the head, and pointed to the stones. “Rorekk, lliwon. Protector! You. Sentos et Oum’ilah. Stones of God.”
“You are the protector of the stones?” Ashar thought he understood.
Rorekk shook his head and touched Ashar’s head again. “Ashar lliwon sentos et Oum’ilah. Rorekk lliwon Ashar.”
Ashar is protector of the Stones of God. Rorekk is the protector of Ashar!
Ashar realized he had understood the strange words of the giant’s tongue. “A force and faculty you cannot comprehend.” That’s what the Oracle promised. He hammered his chest with his fist without knowing why.
The rattling of iron and shouting of men at the top of the stairs was added to the roar of the tempest.
“We must go!” Ashar said.
Without word or warning, the giant scooped Ashar and Celestine onto his back and tugged their arms around his neck. He held them there with one of his great hands and bounded into the night.
The archer climbed slowly to his feet. He reached for his bow, but his arm was twisted and his fingers were broken. He groaned with pain.
The kingsrider beneath him was a heartbeat from death. He gripped the archer with a desperate fist. Blood spilled from his lips as he stammered, “The boy . . . with the stones. Tell Drakkor!” They were the last words the man ever spoke.
The archer pushed the dead man’s hand away and started the long climb back up the stairs, dragging a broken leg behind him.
And the pelting hail began.
CHAPTER 63
“I warned you it was too dangerous to wander about like a vagabond without allowing the yoke of kingsriders to protect you,” Kublan scolded.
“Alone was the only way I could move about unnoticed.”
Kublan gave a guttural cough of contempt. “It would appear you did not go unnoticed!”
“I was mistaken. Being assaulted on the King’s Road was not because I was recognized as an emissary of the king. Common thieves, I’m sure of it.”
“What good is a Raven to the King if he is dead?”
“Of little use, m’lord.” The Raven tried to smile, but he was uncertain whether the comment was the jest of a friend or the mockery of a king.
“Of no use!” growled Kublan. “Nor do you know who it was who attacked you!”
“It was night and they fell upon me suddenly. I was unconscious until I was found by the kingsriders.”
“You can be glad it wasn’t that murdering bandit who calls himself the Blood of the Dragon who robbed you, or else the body they found tied to your horse would be without a head!”
“Of course. You are right as always, m’lord. It was you who insisted the kingsriders follow at a distance. When I failed to rendezvous, they came to where I had been and found me. I bow to your superior wisdom in all things.”
“What if the robbers had killed you instead of stripping you bare and sending you back like a beaten dog?” Kublan thumped a bony finger on the Raven’s chest with authority but whimpered like a child begging favors. “You are the only one left . . .” he stammered, then cleared his throat and twisted his face in sudden pain. “The only one I trust.” He narrowed his eyes. “The rest of your esteemed order of mystics”—he spit the words with contempt—“are fools and some have disappeared.”
“Two are dead, I’ve been told.”
“More than two,” the king snapped, then blanched.
Icy fingers danced across the nape of the Raven’s neck. Did Kublan know because he killed them? Had they returned without success and paid the price with their heads? The calm he usually felt in speaking with the king eroded away like sand beneath bare feet in a swirling tide.
“You are the last, the only, the . . . You must find this plant of endless life, or by the gods, I swear—”
He had known this moment would come and he was ready. “It is not a plant, m’lord!” He interrupted the king from speaking the threat.
“What do you mean? The loremaster has told the story many times.”
“Tishpiin and the plant of endless life are only a myth,” the Raven said.
“No, that can’t be so! You sound like all the others!” Kublan struggled to his feet, his voice rising and cracking with rage. “How dare you!” He slapped his hand on the table. The pewter rattled.
“Because I have found the truth of endless life, m’lord.” The lie came easily.
The Raven had not spoken the truth since the kingsriders had found him a dozen leagues south of the outer gates the night before. He was dehydrated and sunburned. He was barely conscious when they cut the hemp that tied him to his saddle.
As soon as they arrived in Kingsgate, the steward rallied the servants to attend to him. After he was cared for, bathed, and dressed, he told a horrendous tale of bandits and beatings on the King’s Road.
The awful events were reported to the king with such detail the story was never doubted. As the Raven gauged the reaction of those who served him, he was satisfied his delirium had been convincing.
With food and wine and a long night’s sleep, the Raven recovered. He broke his fast with bread and fruit with the
king in the small room adjoining Kublan’s private chamber. Morning light streamed through the tall windows.
“I have found what you seek.” The Raven’s lies continued. Given the “disappearance” of the other mystics, it was the only course he believed practical. “At no small risk to my person,” he boasted with a modest bow of feigned humility, “I have learned that the secret of immortality is not a mythical plant that grows at the bottom of the sea but rather stones of light touched by the finger of god.”
The king’s face filled with confusion, but his eyes sparkled with hope.
“If that is true, most honorable and trusted friend, then by those very gods you shall be rewarded beyond your capacity to receive.” The king leaned forward across the table. “Do you have them? Have you brought them to me?”
“No, but . . .” There had been time enough to concoct a convincing story on the long and humiliating return from Stókenhold Fortress, but as the words of the elaborate fantasy reached his tongue, he was struck with an impulse to tell a lie much closer to the truth.
He inhaled deeply and began with a shrug of his shoulders and a burst of soft laughter. “The past few days are all so . . . Sitting here, I almost wonder if I may not have imagined what happened to me on the King’s Road.”
The king twisted his face into an impatient puzzle.
The pain in his gut worsened. Am I a fool? he wondered, but the thought was chased into the thicket by the story he had begun.
“I met a woman at the Tavern at Leviathan Deeps who knew of these things, and for a sack of coins, she told me where I could find the one who knew the secrets of the stones and where . . .” He was about to speak of the old prophet at Stókenhold Fortress but caught himself and bit his tongue. Not too close to the truth, he told himself. Meesha’s words were silent thunder in his ears: “It is true there is contention between my father and the king, but you make a grave mistake to think my grandfather does not cherish his only granddaughter and prize her virtue.”
“You know where they are?” Kublan demanded, bringing the Raven back.
“Yes,” the Raven said, more comfortable in his lies. He dared not chance the king discovering what happened at the prison. What happened with his granddaughter. What the keepers might claim. What he might believe. No. Not now.
The Raven had hardly crossed beneath the outer barbican of Stókenhold Fortress before he had resolved to return with a double yoke of kingsriders sworn to secrecy and seize the old prophet. The smile on the ruined face of the witchchild mocked him behind his eyes.
“I found the keeper of this great secret,” he said. “A holy man of an ancient order.”
“Where is he?”
“He is in a cave—a cavern where he has lived for many years.” Raven flushed as the tangle of lies spread in his head like the tendrils of a climbing vine. “He is a hermit, hiding to protect the secret of the stones of light.”
“Where is this cave?”
“In the Mountain—” The Raven started to say the “Mountain of God,” but switched mid-sentence to “the Mountains of the Moon.” Too late, the Raven realized his mistake. He bit his lip.
“Does Ormmen know about this holy man? These stones of the gods?” Kublan asked with alarm.
The Mountains of the Moon were largely in Winterhaven—a land ruled by House Romagónian.
“No! No one knows of these things but me and now you, gracious king.”
“What of the woman?”
“She is no more.” Lies to cover lies. The Raven flushed as the thudding of his heart grew faster. He grimaced. “I regretted killing her, but the risk was too great—”
“No, no. You did right,” Kublan said it with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It was necessary, and you are guilty of nothing. By your oath, I have given you the power over life. By my divine right as king, you are exonerated. It is good. No one will know, and by my word, you are absolved of any consequence.”
“Thank you, m’lord.”
“Where is he now? This ‘holy man’? Why did you not bring him with you?”
“It was my intent he should return with me to Kingsgate, but when I left him to get a horse, the bandits fell upon me.”
“The man with my great secret might have been killed?”
“It is unlikely. I am certain it is the will of the gods he remain safe.”
“How can I be sure?”
“I engaged two hunters—trustworthy men—to stay at his cave and protect him.” Each new lie came easier and more convincing than the last.
Kublan looked at the Raven with affection, then nodded slowly and rose from the table. He walked to the window, and the shaft of light enveloped him in an unearthly halo.
“What does he think of his king—this holy man and keeper of these stones of endless life?”
The Raven was surprised by the question and gave it careful thought. “He wishes to fall on his face before you and kiss your feet. He has lived for that moment and believes, as I do, that you are destined by the gods to rule as immortal king.”
“You must return to him at once, and this time I command you to ride with a double yoke of kingsriders.”
“He is safe enough for the time being. With your blessing, m’lord, I think it best to wait until the time of your grand council at First Landing. The attention of the kingdom will be on your historic gathering. The ruler of House Romagónian will be in attendance and, in his absence, his patrols will slacken their vigilance. The holy man and I can travel unnoticed to where he has hidden the magic stones.”
“In the Mountains of the Moon?”
Raven nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. A new and different plan was forming in his head. Tolak and Valnor will be gone from Stókenhold Fortress for the council at First Landing. I will not ride to Stókenhold with a double yoke, but rather the few kingsriders loyal to me. I will not be thwarted by the witchchild again!
It would be easy enough to explain that the holy man had been discovered and taken to the prison when word of it finally reached the king. By then it would be done. By then his granddaughter would have been killed when the rogues of House Romagónian fell upon her. Such a tragedy.
The joyous expectation on Kublan’s face had soured.
“What troubles you, m’lord and friend?” the Raven asked.
“My nights are troubled by dreams of . . .” He spit rather than speak Maharí’s name. “I fear the evil woman who betrayed me in my bed has told her Lord of Vengeance that I seek immortality. What if it was he who attacked you on the King’s Road—not to steal your double-fingered sigil but to get the holy man and discover his great secret?”
“We have no reason to believe there is such an one as the Lord of Vengeance.”
“You don’t believe that he and Blood of the Dragon are the same?”
“Perhaps. All the more reason for me to wait to return to the cave of the holy man in the Mountains of the Moon.”
“Look to the heavens, Stargazer. What do they portend of this monster who will not leave my dreams? Drakkor. Lord of Vengeance. Blood of the Dragon. Tell me he does not know of these secrets. Tell me he does not seek to rob me of my immortal destiny.”
“The stars are aligned in your favor, your greatness. There is none worthy of immortality but you, cherished friend.”
CHAPTER 64
Dawn broke in a cloudless sky. A thin mist wafted from the sodden grasses as first light swept across the Tallgrass Prairie. Drops of rain on flowers, leaves, and blades of grass turned the prairie into a glistening sea of diamonds.
By the time the royals and their guests were roused and assembled to break the fast of slumber, the cooks, gillies, and stewards had churned the rain-soaked camp into a morass of mud. Kadesh-Cor stepped from his tent, half his face wrapped in silk and gauze. His squire steadied him.
The captain of the kingsmen was the fi
rst to see the prince emerge. “Hail, hail, mighty lion,” he shouted. His extolment was echoed by his men, and cheers swept through the camp on a rising wave of relief.
The prince let go of Nimra’s arm and stepped away. It was a show of bravado to enforce the tradition of royal invulnerability, but when he moved, the pain of his ruined ribs made him wince. He gripped his side.
The prince, Chor, the Huszárs, and selected kingsriders were served breakfast in a tented shelter erected on high ground. The prince invited Nimra and Horsemaster Raahud to join them at the royal table. Sargon’s absence from the modest celebration of his father’s providential recovery was awkward and apparent.
It was a simple meal by royal standards; a feast by any other. Bread and cheese and broth. Seasoned breast of wild turkey and other game birds killed by the gillies, and spiced mead served in ceramic tankards with hinged lids of brass.
The purr of conversation stopped as the steward filled the prince’s tankard with fermented honey and water. A blue-winged warbler sang in the tree above. There was no other sound. Everyone waited on the prince to begin the meal.
When he looked up, he focused his one uncovered eye on Baaly.
The wedge of cheese in front of the boy was missing a corner, and, considering the bulge in his cheek, it was clear he had broken the protocol of the royal table. The other faces about the table punished the boy with scowling glares of disapproval.
The prince knew the Huszár boy’s bad manners were simply ignorance and impetuousness. He had probably never sat at table with a member of the royal family before.
A wry smile played at the corners of the prince’s mouth, and he nodded his forgiveness. Baaly’s cheeks flushed red. He swallowed the cheese whole and slid lower on the bench.
Kadesh-Cor raised his mug and nodded to his squire.
Nimra stood, holding his own tankard of mead above his head. He pointed his face skyward. “Anu, Enlil, Enki. God of water, god of air, and god of earth. Look with favor upon his eminence Baron Magnus of Blackthorn and prince of the North and judge us well.” He bowed to the prince and sat down.
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