All this work led up to the finale, a spar with Anjk, a spar that Jondralyn had just lost in a most embarrassing way.
“Tomorrow,” Anjk barked. “In the morning. Early. Before sun even up. Same routine.” The oghul chuckled, and within the timbre of that guttural laugh lived twice the sarcasm of any man. “Perhaps in five years you ready for arena.”
Humiliation burned within Jondralyn. Muscles burned too. Her hollow stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten much today. She could barely hold herself upright. But she would prove this ugly beast wrong. If it was the only thing she did with her life, it would be to make amends for this abuse. And once she proved to this oghul that she could fight, she would kill him.
Anjk Bourbon smiled, as if he could read her every thought. “Now git the fuook out of my property,” he hissed, and shoved her to the ground.
Jondralyn tossed the lightweight cutlass from hand to hand, eyes glued to the two Vallè before her: Val-Draekin and Val-Korin’s bodyguard, Val-So-Vreign. The three were in Jondralyn’s own courtyard—a hidden, thirty-foot-by-thirty-foot open-air alcove resting just behind her own private rooms. Jondralyn’s chambers were located near Tala’s room, relatively high up Mount Albion. From her knowledge of the castle’s hundreds of buildings, baileys, and spires that engulfed the mountain, this hidden alcove was the rooftop of one of the many cavelike armories carved into the castle. Over the years, Jondralyn had taken this secluded, walled-in courtyard, placed a few benches along its ivy-draped walls, and spread rugs about the floor. It was her sanctuary. The only other balcony that had even a partial view of this hideaway was the one attached to her dear departed parents’ room not far above. Jondralyn felt fairly secure that her training with the two Vallè would be hidden from prying eyes.
Overall, in comparison to the training with Anjk Bourbon, the evening spent with these two Vallè was a relief. Jondralyn did little but sit back, practice a few tricks with her cutlass—like tossing it from hand to hand, as she was doing now—and watch the two Vallè spar with each other.
Val-So-Vreign wielded two curved cutlass-type blades; Val-Draekin held one similar blade in his uninjured hand. At times, the three whirling swords were naught but a blur to Jondralyn. The footwork and balance of both Vallè were impeccable. There was a detached yet self-assured beauty in how they fought. It was like watching two highly trained acrobats working in concert. Now and then, rather than parry a blow from his partner, Val-So-Vreign would toss one of his swords spinning high into the air, dodge away, catch the hilt in midair, and strike. Instead of blocking, he would just smoothly move himself and his weapon away from Val-Draekin’s blow and retain his rhythm.
Squireck Van Hester had been correct in recommending Anjk Bourbon and the Vallè for training. Jondralyn knew she would soon become strong, clever, and fast of hand and eye once she mastered both the brute force Anjk was teaching and the quickness and sword skill of the Vallè.
Val-So-Vreign walked up to her, his two curved swords now sheathed crossways on his back. Jondralyn knew the Vallè could unsheathe the swords with lethal speed. Like Val-Draekin, Val-Korin’s bodyguard was green-eyed with coal-colored, shoulder-length hair. The two Vallè could be brothers, for all she knew. Then again, with their narrow feline features and pointed ears, all Vallè men looked alike to her.
Val-So-Vreign took her sword and held it out, pommel in hand, blade pointing skyward. With a flip of his wrist, he sent it tumbling end over end into the air, catching the hilt again after one rotation. “Now practice that for the next hour,” he said, handing the sword back to her. He rejoined Val-Draekin in the center of the courtyard.
Jondralyn did as instructed, held the cutlass point up, and tossed it spinning into the air. She dropped it the first few times, yet quickly got the hang of it. Soon she could catch it in rhythm, sometimes sending it spinning up to a height that it would rotate twice in the air. As she tossed the cutlass, she hearkened back to what Roguemoore had said about Val-Draekin: We must keep him close.
At the sound of a cutlass crashing to the ground in the center of the courtyard, her gaze flitted momentarily to the two Vallè. Val-Draekin was bending down to retrieve his fallen blade. He smiled at her, though the friendly expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. They remained frosty and seemed to cleave the air with the power of two barb-tipped arrows. Keep him close, she repeated the words of the dwarf in her head. And the look in his eyes changed, almost as if he had read her mind. And those eyes remained on her, big round eyes of a flat, unnerving green.
Shuddering, Jondralyn broke her gaze away from Val-Draekin and went back to tossing and catching her sword.
The young Dayknight, Ser Culpa Barra, guided the small skiff to the rickety old dock at the edge of Rockliegh Isle. A second skiff, empty, trailed behind by a short length of rope. The dreary outcrop called Rockliegh Isle was situated in Memory Bay not half a mile east of Amadon; nine acres of land at the most, sharp, jutting rocks sprinkled on the northern end along with a fifty-foot-high lighthouse, the southern end sporting a dock and a boulder-strewn grassy slope that led to an abandoned stone abbey in the isle’s center.
Roguemoore held his hand against the weather-beaten wood of the dock to steady the skiff. Lazy waves lapped against the gravelly shore. Jondralyn gathered her woolen cloak tightly about her neck with one hand as the night pressed in, dark and windless. Culpa Barra stowed the oars in the bottom of their boat near the tarps and began folding the hinged mast and sail. Roguemoore climbed out of the boat and onto the dock first. Jondralyn carefully stepped from the wobbly skiff and onto the dock next, gaze fixed on the old stone abbey. “Why bring me here in the middle of the night?”
“Patience,” the dwarf answered.
“Patience,” Jondralyn repeated. “Always patience, dwarf.”
“Let me ask you, Jon,” the dwarf started, “who do you count as your friend? Have you ever noticed how, as Borden’s child, you have never had any real friends? Royalty has no lack of courtly friends. Folks who may seek favor for this or that. Jovan has been close with Leif Chaparral his entire life. And Tala spends plenty of time with Glade and Lawri and Lindholf. But they too are royalty, plus the latter two are your cousins. Is that the only kind of friends a prince and princess should have, other royalty?”
“But for my looks, half the nobility in the king’s court cares little for me anyway,” she answered, realizing the dwarf’s question and her own glib answer stung deeply. She could admit to her own loneliness. Still, he had caught her off guard. “I reckon my only friends are you, Squireck, Hawkwood . . . along with a surly old oghul, I suppose, but I only met him earlier today and wouldn’t really call him friend. Seems he hates me, too.”
“An old oghul?” Roguemoore looked at her questioningly, then shook his head disapprovingly. “The oghul trainer Squireck told you of?”
She shrugged. Ser Culpa Barra stepped up onto the dock next to the dwarf. His short blond curls were matted against his forehead in the damp air, the black Dayknight armor under his cloak dull and lusterless.
“You will learn things here tonight on this Isle, Jon,” Roguemoore said, “things only a select handful know. Only the Brethren of Mia’s most trusted are allowed certain knowledge. It’s why I brought Culpa Barra with us. He is to be your friend. Your teacher. He is the most trustworthy of all the Brethren. In fact, it was Culpa’s father, Tatum, the most skilled sword maker in all the Five Isles, who introduced me to the Brethren. Tatum Barra and my brother, Ironcloud, were the truest of friends. Culpa Barra and Squireck Van Hester grew up together in the Brethren. They are the truest of friends. I would see you and Culpa become as such. Truest of friends. It is how the Brethren great each other. How we can know our own.”
You cannot just thrust two people into friendship. Jondralyn looked at the young Dayknight, Culpa Barra. He stood stoic in the darkness, unresponsive to the praise heaped upon him. She could read nothing in his eyes. Most men grew a bit weak-kneed in her presence. After all, she was
royalty. She was beautiful. Her likeness graced the coppers in their pockets. But Culpa was a rock. He reminded her of Hawkwood in a way. Calm silence. Young like her. But a killer. She recalled how coldly he had slit the throats of the four Dayknights Hawkwood had refused to kill. She dimly recalled the friendship Squireck and Culpa had shared as youngsters. But Culpa was a stranger to her now. And could this stranger really even become her friend? Truest of friends. Or would Culpa assume he could become her lover? It seemed that was the way most men thought. And when they found out she wasn’t interested, they turned mean, certainly not friendly. Nobody was her lover. Nobody had ever been her lover. Certainly not Squireck. Even Hawkwood—for all his confidence and charms—remained in compliance with the Silver Throne in matters of chastity at least when it came to her. A princess of Gul Kana was to surrender her maidenhood only upon her wedding night. Indeed, who are my friends? Squireck? Hawkwood? The dwarf? Now Culpa Barra? Is that the real reason I desire to belong to the Brethren of Mia? Because only they have ever shown me true friendship?
The dwarf added, “Before Aeros’ conquest of Adin Wyte, Squireck’s father, King Edmon, was deep set against the Brethren of Mia. But Squireck’s mother and sisters were not. It was they who raised Squireck in the ways of the Brethren. Squireck’s aunt, Princess Evalyn Van Hester, was given in marriage to Agus Aulbrek, lord of the Sør Sevier Nordland Highlands. There is a fighter named Gault Aulbrek, son of their union, cousin to Squireck, who is now a revered knight high up in Aeros Raijael’s army. A Knight Archaic. Remember that name.”
The moon’s pale light brushed over a dark silhouette coming down the grassy slope toward them. Jondralyn’s heart soared when she saw it was Hawkwood. He was barefoot and dressed in a simple brown shirt and matching woolen leggings—typical prison garb. He urged them to follow him up the hill lest they be seen by any passing vessels or, worse yet, the lighthouse watchman. The way was dotted with high grass and patches of rock hidden in the reeds. Jondralyn stepped lightly.
When they drew near the abbey, the dwarf handed a small object to Hawkwood. The Sør Sevier man held the object to his lips and blew into it. He then held it out for her and Culpa to examine. “A whistle carved of a Bloodwood tree. Soundless to the human ear. A Bloodwood-trained kestrel can feel the whistle’s vibrations for over a hundred miles. Each whistle has its own unique pitch. The Bloodwood hiding in the castle is likely communicating with the White Prince in Wyn Darrè with whistle-guided kestrels. The odds that this whistle will intercept the assassin’s birds are slim, but worth a try.”
He then led them into the abbey. It was a doorless relic, crumbled down and decrepit, nothing but a moss-encrusted ruin near a stand of crooked trees. Brushes and bramble stems clogged the entrance, tearing at Jondralyn’s cloak and leggings as she walked inside. Enough light streamed in from the broken windows to illuminate her surroundings. There was nothing in the entry room save a flat stone bench and an overturned table. Patches of paint clung to the walls but flaked off to her touch.
“Did you find it?” the dwarf asked Hawkwood, expectation in his voice.
In answer, Hawkwood slid aside the stone bench and pulled forth the most startling, exquisite battle shield Jondralyn had ever seen. He held the shield up in the pallid light of the abbey. The shield itself was pure and unadorned, snowy white but for a pearl-colored cross inlay that stretched from side to side, top to bottom. The cross inlay was, if it were possible, even brighter than the shield itself—like undulating waves of wood grain, the peculiar substance that made up the cross inlay was different, unrecognizable. Like bone. Jondralyn shuddered. So fine and tightly woven were the grains in the cross, so intricate the workmanship of whoever had inlaid this strange pearl, that the entire surface of the cross rippled and danced with wavering sparkles of light, much like a crisp, rushing brook on a sunlit day. Hawkwood laid the shield flat out on the stone bench. Jondralyn picked it up, hefted it by the white leather strap attached to its back side. It seemed to weigh nothing.
“Ethic Shroud,” Culpa Barra said reverently, dropping to one knee in front of her and doing the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over his heart.
“And what of the stone?” the dwarf asked.
Hawkwood pulled a swath of black silk from under the bench and carefully unfolded it. Nestled within the black cloth was a small, white, nearly transparent stone. The stone stole Jondralyn’s breath, especially when a flickering, glassy gleam of radiance—misty radiance that defied description—moved dreamlike within. It was as if the stone were alive and pulsing with a brilliant crystal heartbeat of its own. Jondralyn laid the shield back on the bench and stared at the white stone.
“A miracle,” Culpa Barra murmured, standing. “As beautiful as the red angel stone Ser Roderic and I found at Deadwood Gate, but in a more elegant, exquisite way.”
“Safe and sound under our feet all these centuries,” the dwarf said. “The scrolls Squireck stole have proven to be more valuable than a million crates of gold.” Tears glistened in his eyes. “Do I truly gaze upon an angel stone?”
Jondralyn drew in a deep breath. “An angel stone,” she murmured, reaching for it.
“Be wary.” Hawkwood drew the stone away. “A curse follows it. As The Moon Scrolls warned. It is why I hold it in the silk.”
Curse! Jondralyn’s mind whirled. Ethic Shroud! Angel stones! A thousand thoughts raced through her head. Foremost was the realization that what she’d been taught her entire life had just been proven wrong. The Way and Truth of Laijon was clear—the weapons of the Five Warrior Angels and their angel stones had been taken into heaven with the body of Laijon at his death. But here one was. If I am to believe these men.
Roguemoore noticed the myriad of questions on her face. “Upon translating a portion of The Moon Scrolls of Mia stolen by Squireck, I discovered a curious thing about Amadon. The scrolls spoke of a place under the city called the Rooms of Sorrow, a place sealed away under water that held great treasure. Within the scrolls was a coded map that showed the way. The Rooms of Sorrow and the underground rivers that led to them could only be accessed through Purgatory, the dungeons under the Hall of the Dayknights. A place none of us could just explore without arousing suspicion. Thus a way to get Hawkwood thrown into the dungeons was arranged.”
“The duel with the Dayknights,” she said flatly, mind reeling, eye on the brilliant angel stone.
“With the map committed to memory”—Hawkwood took over, folding the stone back into the silk, slipping it away into his cloak—“with tricks I learned in Sør Sevier, I was soon out of my cell and on the path to finding the Rooms of Sorrow, by the light of old torches snatched from the walls of the prison corridor. Deeply hidden the path was, sealed for centuries, the way perilous, full of many traps that took me some time to circumvent, or dismantle. The way led to a rushing stream, deep under the city. I followed the swift-moving waters until they disappeared under solid rock.”
Hawkwood paused. It was the only time Jondralyn had ever seen fear on his face. But he swallowed and continued, “Here is where I almost faltered. For the map had spoken of this subterranean obstacle. The Rooms of Sorrow and Ethic Shroud were but a minute away. All I had to do was submerge myself in the stream and let the current carry me under the rock and into the Rooms of Sorrow. But that is a long time without air. I must admit, my faith wavered. But I had to trust the Moon Scrolls. I had to trust the map. Otherwise Squireck’s theft of the Moon Scrolls would be for naught.”
Hawkwood shuddered, as if the memory frightened him still. “With much trepidation, I lowered myself into the stream and let it suck me down into the cold deep, under stone and earth and into utter blackness. The water rushed and roiled. It seemed a lifetime dragged by as I was swept along, trying desperately to cling to the walls, floor, ceiling, whatever, I did not know; I was just desperate to keep my sense of direction. My lungs were burning by the time this devilish, churning nightmare spit me out into a large cavern and I could finally breathe. The stream s
till rushed me headlong toward another wall of solid rock, but I caught hold of the jagged bank and pulled myself to safety before I was swept under again.”
He took a deep breath, almost as if he was still in the cavern in the midst of his adventure. “Anyway, the scrolls were right. ’Twas an hour or so before I was able to spark my torch to light again. But once I could see, I found a short tunnel branching off from the cavern, which led to a room, a room dug by ancient Vallè, I would assume, as there were intricate scrollwork carvings on the walls and the cross-shaped altar I found. Ethic Shroud and the angel stone were there, hidden, inside that altar.”
“What of The Way and Truth of Laijon?” she asked. “This flies against all of it. The weapons and stones were taken into heaven with Laijon at the time of his death.”
“And that myth served the stones well,” Culpa Barra said. “For centuries nobody has bothered searching for them. Until now. In our day.”
“But why would the holy book lie?”
The dwarf answered, “The Way and Truth of Laijon that you have believed your entire life is not to be trusted, Jon. The quorum of five, the grand vicar, and all those vicars before Denarius would have you believe the angel stones and weapons of the Five Warrior Angels were translated into heaven at Laijon’s death and the mantle of Laijon passed on to them and the church. They believe that Laijon will bring the stones and weapons back with him at the time of Fiery Absolution and they, the vicars and quorum, will rule by his side for eternity. But they are wrong. Their belief in Fiery Absolution is a lie. The church they’ve built around the life of Laijon is false. There is only one uncorrupted truth: that penned by the Blessed Mother Mia in the Moon Scrolls.”
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