by Paul Heisel
The area around the entrance to the Crypt had remnants of strange structures, there were two-foot high walls in various footprints and the stone block perimeters had holes in them. Owori presumed these were old foundations from buildings that had burned down. She was wrong, these were foundations for the temporary buildings and tents that would be put up for the tournament. The holes in the stone were where the tent poles went. A palace administrator told her that when the tournament began, this area would be transformed with numerous grand pavilions erected for the families and the Emperor to partake in the event. The way he described it, the event was festive. So, it was a party. There was construction happening now to get the pavilions ready, but Owori couldn’t imagine what they looked like. Not until she could see substantial completion would she understand what the administrator was describing.
Ahead of her she could see groups of people walking toward the Crypt. The Crypt itself was set into a hill distant from where the pavilions would be built, the outermost portion consisted of two towering gray stone pillars that depicted the original Warlord in bas relief. Both fighting poses were fierce looking. The pillar on the left had suffered damage – the upper part of the monolith had broken off long ago. Between the two pillars were faint remnants of a circle – it looked like a small arena. There were seating areas taking shape near the small arena. Beyond the arena were larger flat stones, rough though, that spread in regular semi-circles, layers, until they reached the front of a caves. The path, different colored stones, meandered to the front. She walked the path, keeping pace with the other. Soldiers were outside of the opening to the Crypt. She followed the crowd passed the guards and down rough-hewn stairs that stopped many dozens of feet beneath the surface. The chamber they entered was supported by thick fluted granite columns, and smooth granite wall panels had been brought in and assembled with mortar against the sides to head height. Wood supports shored up the ceiling, the paint on the beams looked fresh and it looked as if they had tried to blend the wood to look like the surrounding rock.
Lanterns hooked in various locations gave light. Owori could see soot along the ceiling from previous torches. There were sarcophaguses here with carvings that depicted past Warlords. These were for the public to visit and the guests around her gazed in wonder. The space was cramped with the small groups looking at the sarcophaguses and others trying to get to the end, another door, and through into the next chamber. She waited patiently for her turn and resisted the urge to run her hands along the intricate carvings. An older man, with the wondrous delight of child expression on his face, rushed to the sarcophagus and took out parchment and charcoal. He made a rubbing of the carving. It was the picture of a warlord in a fighting pose. She felt an impatient poke from the person in line behind her, and she moved ahead, followed the group down additional stairs, taking them farther underground. The air was different here, stale. They entered an atrium made entirely of white marble striated with veins of black, gray, and silver. The ceiling was higher and supported by stout columns. Lanterns were on the perimeter. The main source of light was an iron chandelier in the middle of the room. It too held lanterns instead of the original candles meant for it. At the end of the room were two more guards standing by large double doors that were big enough to push a wagon through. That was the door to the actual Crypt, where the cremated remains of the former Warlords were. It was what had opened and signaled the start of this process. Two administrators sat in chairs with writing materials. They took the red parchment from the candidates, recorded their details in another thick book, and sent them to the door. Many of the people in here were admiring the room and apparently, not seeking to become the Warlord. She approached the table. The group in front of her finished and moved to the door. “Can I go in?” she asked.
“They are going to invoke the first part of the ritual,” the administrator answered. “Please, be our guest. But hurry.”
Owori thanked them and went through the door, leaving the others behind. She could feel the magic imbued into the wood and iron, the door was teeming with it. Inside was the Crypt. The sides had been dug out, and the length of it excavated additionally. There were plaques with the names of the Warlords along the walls in two rows, one at waist height and one at eye level. The recess between the plaques housed two urns, presumably containing the ashes of the dead Warlords. There were unmarked plaques along the walls nearest the door. Owori counted fifteen empty recesses, which meant thirty more Warlords could be entombed here. It would be full in a thousand years – she couldn’t imagine that amount of time. In the middle of the chamber there was a stout table. On it was a board marked with runes, unfamiliar to her, and it contained holes big enough to stick your finger in. One of the candidates moved to the board, took a bag, opened it, and dumped the contents – rice – on to the board, then smoothed it into the holes. The grains disappeared. On the opposite end of the wall a door was open – leading into unnatural inky darkness. It was small enough that a person would have to crouch down and go in head first.
The candidate took a deep breath. The two people with him were smiling, now wishing him luck and good fortune. The candidate slipped through the portal and disappeared into the sheet of blackness. One minute passed, then two. The portal opened again and the man stumbled out, clawing at the air as if he were drowning. His face was devoid of color and his body contorted with pain. He fell to the ground and hit it hard. His friends rushed forward to his side, pulling him to his feet. Owori watched as they assisted him, and she listened to them talking about what happened. He refused to give details, indicating terror located beyond the black portal. They left the Crypt, taking with them their dashed hopes of becoming the Warlord. This went on for hours. In her two hours down there, only one man came out of the black bearing anything but a look of horror. The one, who she found out was a Favored One from Daiwer-dar, emerged with a ceramic tile that had a symbol on it. This he kissed and squeezed in his hand. The look of triumph on his face made Owori smile.
“So at least one is worthy,” Owori said to the administrator.
“It is said that days can go without one person receiving a tile. It’s been a good day.”
“What happens with the tile?” she asked.
“It’ll be matched with other tiles and those tiles form groups. From the groups there will be champions, who will fight for the right to be Warlord. Only one will emerge victorious.”
“I see,” Owori said. She wondered what it was like beyond the portal, if it was more of the Crypt or a magical place. Though she wanted to know, she figured she would never find out even if she interviewed a participant. All who emerged were reluctant to speak of the experience.
Because of the narrow stairs, groups were brought in and out in at prescribed times. She had to wait until it was the next group’s turn to go back upstairs. In a few days, she would return to see how it was progressing. Outside of the Crypt, laborers were bringing wagons of pre-made floors forward, setting them on the ground in patterns. They were making good progress on the pavilions. There were different areas, one for each family and the Emperor as she was told, and a central pavilion that faced the pillars where she assumed they would watch the tournament. She observed the laborers for a while, enquired with them about what they were doing, and learned that they were going put in wooden floors because of the cold. The would also erect wooden walls in key areas that were known to get hit with stronger winds, bring in fire pits, and put up stout fabric coverings to keep the coming cold weather at bay. There would be places to eat, a viewing area where people could wait for the champions to appear, a place for each family to enjoy, and an elevated platform for the Emperor and his personal guests to oversee the entire event. Other temporary structures were planned if they had time. Owori noticed soldiers were helping as well, putting up moveable barriers along a wide perimeter – it looked like a massive fence. She wasn’t sure if the fence was to keep unwanted people out or keep the festive people in.
Though it was
fascinating to watch, she couldn’t stay any longer. For now she had to return to her duties and make sure the palace was secure and that the Dragonguards were doing their jobs. Toward the front of the grounds the endless stream of people continued to view the Emperor’s body. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like when everyone started showing up for the Warlord as well. It would be a security nightmare.
#
Feln was saddened to learn that the guards they sent after the Fury were dead. It didn’t surprise him, as it was an expected result if they were caught. The message tacked to the body perplexed him. It was an obvious reference to the Accord of the Hand and he agreed with Suun that it was a taunt. Whoever was assisting the Furies knew about the Accord of the Hand and their ways, and he guessed Kara had to be connected to this. He wished he could talk with Pearl. That would have to wait until he was cleared of this misunderstanding. He figured he would be locked up until the new Warlord was chosen. It was irritating that after the second day of arrest they cut him off from communication with his family, even Owori wasn’t allowed to see him any longer. A positive was Hiru and his monkey weren’t allowed to see him either. The guards didn’t talk and they were good at their jobs, but he did learn from them that the selection process for the Warlord of Pyndira was progressing slowly. Feln thought that was a good thing, as it would allow more of his family to arrive from Safun. He ached to know if any members of his family were selected to challenge for the Warlord position. After a time he stopped worrying about it – they would do their best to make sure they were represented.
He figured Suun failed to deliver the belt of the Most Favored to Owori. In the deepest parts of his logical mind, he thought if he was in peril, the belt would seek another owner – this was why he wanted to give it to her. His love for Owori was like no other, and he hoped the belt would adopt her and break the binding to the Emperor’s belt. Once broken, she would be free. Then when all of this was over, they could be together and start the rest of their lives. That was if he were alive.
Days passed. He spent his time training in the small room, keeping his skills sharp and practicing with the Dragonfly blade. They did let him out to clean up and walk outside to get fresh air, and after a week he was losing his patience. There was no news, no messages, nothing he was allowed to hear or see except what Yan wanted him to. For now he just had to sit and ponder his fate, a prisoner awaiting punishment. At his wit’s end, he was considering escape when the most wonderful thing happened. A servant came with a sack and dumped out heavy leather bound volumes on his table. The first title that caught his eye was ‘The History of the Warlords of Pyndira.’ He asked for tea and more lanterns, then he started to read. Silently he thanked his benefactor, which he was sure was his wonderful Owori. If he couldn't spend time in the library, then it would just have to come to him.
#
“I’ll try,” Owori said, “but all contact with Feln has been severed. Only Yan sees him. I can’t visit him, nor can anyone else. The guards assure me he’s healthy and doing well. Training all the time and reading books that I found for him. They won’t let me send any additional books to him because they think I will put secret notes inside.”
“Well give it a try,” Suun told her. “Even if you just pass him a note with the names. He’ll figure out what you’re telling him.”
“I’ll try. How are things at the manor?”
“Same. The rubble is clear. Emato thinks it will be too cold to begin construction, so we may have to wait until the spring to rebuild it. Designs are being put down on parchment. We have retained builders who are qualified to do the work. It’s going as well as could be expected.”
Owori sat back into the comfortable chair, thinking of the questions she wanted to ask. Suun was in a Xialao family uniform, looking stiff and formal. She was sitting up straight as if at attention. Did this woman ever relax?
“What was it like? When you went inside the Crypt?”
“Cold, dark. The images were frightening. There was pain, it felt like an unstoppable force was trying to turn me inside out. Physically I was unhurt, but it was like I was being hurt. I know, it doesn’t make sense.”
“What images did you see?”
“Death, failure. Demons.” She shivered. “I don’t want to talk about it, and I shouldn’t. Black demon cats…”
Owori could see Suun’s failure in the Crypt of Warlords disturbed her; a warrior with an unbreakable will and enduring spirit should have withstood a nightmare. It was the same for others who had failed – she found few were willing to discuss their ordeal. No one who had succeeded, though, spoke of what that was like either. They were content to take their ceramic tile and depart with their name on the tournament list.
There was a knock at the door. Two Dragonguards came inside Owori’s room without waiting for her response. “The Emperor requests your presence immediately.”
“Do you have any other business in the palace?” Owori asked.
“No. I was really hoping to see Feln. But since that isn’t possible, I’ll just rely on you.”
“I assure you he’s doing well. You may take your leave. The guards will see you out.”
#
Feln decided the palace food was exceptional and he thought he was becoming spoiled despite being a prisoner. The food was tasty, a treat for the eye, and filling. So accustomed to functional eating while traveling as a monk, this was a delight. The guards remained unwilling to communicate with him on palace matters, though he had heard that the selection process for the Warlord of Pyndira was still moving along. People were coming from far and wide to participate. He didn’t know other details. Yan visited him earlier, telling him that he expected the tournament list to be complete at any moment. Feln didn’t believe one thing Yan said. Feln ran his fingers through his hair. It was still wet from a bath and his muscles were tired from exercise. He overdid it today, spending too much time practicing with the Dragonfly blade and not enough time reading. Both activities, though, occupied his mind and kept him from dwelling on his fate. He was getting restless, ready for this to reach conclusion.
The familiar scraping of the barred door caught his attention. As it opened, he stood to greet the caller. One of the kitchen servants brought a steaming tray of supper inside, put it on his table, and departed. The door closed behind him. He thought it odd because the kitchen personnel, now that they knew him, usually waited for him to comment on the nightly dish. Maybe they were in a hurry tonight. At the table was a grilled orange fish on a plank of wood, soup with dumplings, and a salad of thinly sliced, colorful vegetables. The pot of tea sent wisps of steam into the air. He did a cursory inspection of the food and nothing looked obviously out of place. With a fork he twirled the dumplings in the broth and moved the ingredients of the salad, then he lifted the grilled fish where it had been gutted. Steam puffed from inside. He prodded it again, decided it was okay, and prepared to eat. Halfway through the excellent fish he discovered a small capsule stuck in the fish’s mouth, jarred loose by him tearing at the tasty cheeks. It was a dark canister as tiny as a sewing thimble. He lifted off the little lid. Inside was a small piece of rice paper. In tiny letters there were two names.
Nar.
Caleth.
So it would be those two who would vie for the position of Warlord. Nar he expected, but Caleth? Not that he wasn’t capable, but he was from Malurrion and knew little of Pyndira. Feln popped the message in his mouth, getting rid of it as it dissolved, and took the canister and lodged it deep in the fish’s head. Only someone digging through it would find it, and as far as he was concerned he didn’t see that and was glad he didn’t eat it, whatever it was. The kitchen servant returned later and cleared away the mess. Feln relaxed on his pallet, feeling better now that there were two candidates loyal to him, who would exonerate him once one of them became the Warlord. Still the waiting was bothersome.
Days passed. No more messages, no visitors, no news except the prattle from Yan. When he was let ou
tside, he witnessed the throngs of people coming to see the dead Emperor. They were still coming from all over to pay their respects. Feln wasn’t sure how long he could last being confined. Yes he was able to occupy his mind and exercise his body, but the captivity was taking a toll. Three weeks had passed already and his beard was scraggy, his patience waning. Today the door scraped open and he stood up, expecting to see one of the kitchen staff enter. It was a guard, one he hadn’t seen before. “The ritual has finished,” he announced, “and the Warlord of Pyndira will be named soon. So many have challenged, it may take another week or longer to finish the tournament.”
Feln nodded, numbness spread. The time was at hand. This would be resolved, one way or another.
“The Emperor asks that you come to the Crypt of Warlords. He would like a word with you.”
“Of course.”
#
Outside the sun was dipping down on the horizon and the air was cold. Feln was wearing what he had arrived at the palace with and had on a larger fur coat that fit over his entire body. Others walking to the Crypt of Warlords were wearing similar coats to ward off the chill. They provided him with a weapons belt, so his katana was snugly attached underneath his coat, making it difficult to draw. They didn’t show any concern that he had a weapon; it made him wonder if it was a sign that Yuki trusted him or it was proper for the Most Favored to have his sword. There were people milling about, and despite his curiosity about the activity, his only thoughts were of who would become Warlord and determine his fate. If Nar or Caleth could become the Warlord, then he would be free, he was certain of that.
The guards kept in front and behind, walking with him at a moderate pace along the paved path. Lanterns blazed away on temporary poles, and ahead Feln could see pavilions, each made of stone bases with short stone walls, wood plank floors, sparse wood walls, and thick canvas coverings similar to a tent. There were people everywhere, and it looked like the beginning of a celebration. As he got closer, he realized there were tents for each family, a large central pavilion with food and drink, and a tent for the Emperor. The army had surrounded the area, making it impossible for anyone to come and go without being on the path. He thought they were escorting him to the Xialao tent, but they went right by it. He caught Suun’s eye and he received an icy glare – something was wrong. As they marched him to the Emperor’s tent, he steeled his nerves. There were nobles and Most Favoreds there, including Hiru, all mingling with wine goblets in their hands. The temporary wood floor beneath his feet was covered with expensive carpets and rugs. Comfortable chairs dotted the large area. Conversations came to a halt as he was brought before the Emperor. Yuki was there with Qia at his side, though she didn’t appear to be part of the celebration. She was serving as a protector, not a consort. It made him wonder. In the background was Owori, cowl drawn over her face. She made a hand motion. Later. Next to the Yuki was Yan, who was technically the Emperor until the Warlord of Pyndira was named. Feln was reminded of this daily during Yan’s visits. Yuki wore a high collared coat lined with fur, it looked warm and restrictive. It was decorated with gold emblems embroidered in a looping pattern. His face was serious. He made a motion and the soldiers pulled down the canvas tent flaps and enclosed the area. It shut out the noise from outside of the Emperor’s pavilion.