"He died," said Fezi, simply, and without emotion. "And for the first time in almost thirty years I found myself…free."
Jeina listened to Fezi's words with difficulty, for with each new revelation her world seemed to grow stranger and stranger. Who was the man in front of her, speaking of warlocks and his library of arcane books? Was he a crazed hermit, driven mad by starvation and the winter cold? A man who, as a boy, had run away from an overbearing home, and had conjured up a fantastical explanation for his failure to meet his father's expectations? Was that why he had been so accepting of Jeina's story? So ready to believe in the existence of gröljum, and the smith's dark sorcery?
Jeina did not know what to think. Fezi was looking at her now, his eyes searching her face for expression, and he seemed to sense that his story had made her very uneasy.
"I'm sorry," he apologized. "Forget what I have said. It does not matter. You know now how easily my will can be incapacitated by the power the gröljum wield, the rest is unimportant. You know, yet you still wish me to stay with you and offer what help I can?"
"Yes," said Jeina, without a second thought. No matter how crazy Fezi might be, that the two were better off together than alone was clear.
"Good," said Fezi, trying to offer Jeina a smile. "Then please trust me when I say it is best that we head to—"
The sound of something shuffling through the dirt came from outside the house. Fezi's head snapped violently in the direction of the noise, and he quickly pressed the palm of his hand into the flame of the tallow, plunging the room into darkness. Jeina felt his outstretched finger land softly against her lips, warning her to be silent, before he slipped away into the adjoining room to see what had made the noise. The sound of a door creaking open sent chills down Jeina's spine, and then she heard Fezi's voice say, uncertainly, "Unerr?"
Unerr Redseed stood outside his house, his clothing torn and hanging loosely about him, the pale skin underneath glistening eerily in the darkness. His posture was slack, with his spine arched forward, his shoulders hunched over and his face tilted towards the ground. His eyes worked rapidly back and forth in their sockets, and his every breath seemed to start with a short wheeze. Fezi's first instinct had been to run to the man and help him, but a warning shout from Jeina had kept him where he stood.
Images of Laiti's body, inexpertly puppeteered by the gröljum, flashed before Jeina's eyes, and she knew almost instantly that the man standing before them was no longer Unerr Redseed. Even more frightening however, was the horrible realization that through the emotionless gaze fixed upon them, they had been discovered.
"Fezi!" hissed Jeina, urgently. "They know where we are. They might be miles away, or closing in upon us, I don't know, but we need to get out of Unerr's sight now."
Fezi seemed uncertain, and he peered at Unerr's shuffling body in the dim light. "Are you sure he's…" Fezi began.
"Yes, I'm sure," cut in Jeina. "If you had seen the creature bond to Laiti, you would not soon forget."
"But what if he's just been hurt?" asked Fezi, "He was kind enough to us, can we just leave him here like this?"
Jeina reached up to put an arm firmly on Fezi's shoulder. "We can't save Unerr now, Fezi. We need to go, before they get here and you can't think straight again, we need to run!" In her excitement, Jeina almost yelled out the last few words. Unerr's shuffling figure stopped for a second at the sound of her voice, and then began to make a thick, wet, croaking sound. The awful sound grew louder and louder, and Jeina felt her stomach clench when she realized that she was listening to the sound of laughter.
Frightened that the gröljum or their pursuers would burst from the shadowy night at any time, she grabbed the supplies they had been packing, pulled Fezi in the direction of the horse, and started running. He came willingly, the sickening sounds emanating from Unerr evidently having made up his mind. Unerr's hapless body stopped shambling towards them, but continued to laugh, its unnatural gaze following their flight. Just before Fezi dug his heels into the horse's flank and they sped off into the night, the croaking laughter paused, and Jeina clearly heard the words: "Run, if you must, Jeina Dhaenswin. We will take you and your man-friend soon enough."
Chapter 29: Bokrham
Bokrham stood at the end of the chapel, gazing out at the crowds before him. As his eyes scanned the guests adorned in their most expensive and ostentatious garb, the yards upon yards of velvet draped on the walls, the massive chandelier of gold and crystal which hung overhead, and the many other costly luxuries that filled the room, he could not help wondering if the sky outside was sunny and clear, as it had been on the day of his first marriage. Though more than a score of years in the past, the memories of his wedding were still fresh in his mind. It had been a beautiful spring day when he and his bride were married on the lawn of the village chapel, in front of a small crowd of friends and relatives. There had been food, wine, and music for dancing, but little else.
The pomp and ornament of his current surroundings stood in stark contrast to the simple merriment he had enjoyed so many years ago, but even though Bokrham knew he could never recapture the more innocent joys of his former life, he was determined to enjoy this second wedding. And, truth be told, there were many things which Bokrham was looking forward to. The looks on the faces of his enemies would be priceless tonight as they saw Bokrham renew his claim to power while simultaneously allying himself with the wealth necessary to maintain it. Then there was always the finest food, wine, and spirits which gold could buy, and a host of musicians and players who were sure to provide a rousing night of entertainment. And finally, there was his bride. It simultaneously shamed and excited Bokrham to realize that he was looking forward to his wedding night tonight just as much as he had those many years ago when he took his first wife to bed. What he felt now was not the youthful ardor of a young lover, but rather the hungry excitement of an older man contemplating an opportunity he had thought long since gone.
Somewhere in the distance, a chorus of trumpets sounded, and all eyes turned to the doors that connected the chapel to the Great Hall. As the huge oaken doors parted, Bokrham beheld his bride, completely enveloped in folds of white silk and lace, joined by the figure of her father standing beside her. To Bokrham's surprise, Helster Jogan was in military attire, clad in the uniform of a Blood Marsh officer. Bokrham had sat upon the War Council for twenty-odd years, yet he had never once seen Jogan present at those meetings. Was this some odd statement by the little merchant? Or did he have a connection to the army of which Bokrham was not aware?
Such questions, however, faded from Bokrham's mind as the distant pair proceeded down the aisle to where Bokrham stood waiting. There was no mistaking the pride on Jogan's face as he marched past the large crowd of onlookers. Ilia's face, however, was inscrutable, largely because it was obscured by a veil so long it could have been a dress itself. For the hundredth time since their engagement, Bokrham wondered what Ilia must think of her situation. She was willing, yes, but why? It was not for love, nor lust, nor wealth, for she had the latter already. Was it for power then? Did she yearn to be a queen? Or was she just a dutiful daughter?
Soon the music had stopped, and a beaming Jogan was standing in front of Bokrham, raising the hand of his daughter in the ritual offer of marriage. Bokrham reached out, and took Ilia's slim hand in his. Her skin was soft and cool to the touch, but she did not tremble as he had suspected she would. Slowly, gingerly, he guided Ilia to the dais where an old Padri stood waiting. Ordinarily, for such an occasion a high-ranking Church official would have been called upon to perform the ceremony. Yet, after his recent slight to the Church, Bokrham was in no mood to make amends merely so he could have some Alpadri oversee his wedding. Besides, this Padri had been a mainstay in the Blood Marsh army for years, giving Rekon's blessing to the wounded and sick, and leading the devout in their prayers before battle. He was always quick and to the point, never one to overindulge in ceremony. In fact, Bokrham reflected, he was the perfect man for this w
edding.
As the old Padri began the ritual of marriage with a reading from Rekon's holy book, Bokrham found himself looking, not at his bride, but at the rings that now lay in a bowl of white marble waiting to be anointed by holy water transported from Midnight Lake. The rings were pure gold, perfectly rounded, and polished so diligently that he could see the veins of the surrounding marble reflected on the metal. His first ring had been iron, heavy and with no luster to speak of. It was really only a ceremonial piece, and he had never worn it after his wedding, few did. In fact, the only man he could remember wearing a ring with any regularity was Kazick. But though Kazick had been a prince, his ring had been more like Bokrham's old iron band than the glittering piece of gold that was now before him. And Kazick had never married…
Bokrham's train of thought was interrupted by the sound of Ilia's voice as she repeated a vow intoned by the Padri. Soon Bokrham had said his own vows, the rings had been anointed and exchanged and the trumpets were blaring as his new wife was led away from him, followed by every other guest in the chapel. Bokrham watched them all go, twiddling with the band of gold now around his finger, not quite sure how he should feel.
The doors closed, the music ended, and the chapel was empty save for Bokrham standing at the altar. It was customary to give the groom a moment of solitary reflection before he began the progenitive portion of his married life. Outside, Bokrham knew there would be throngs of people lining the Great Hall ready to shout their congratulations as he passed by. He would be stopped twelve times on the way to the ceremonial bedchamber by a Lord bearing a glass of wine, becoming progressively more inebriated as each Lord toasted his health. When he had quaffed his last drink, he would meet Helster Jogan in front of the door to his chambers. Jogan would offer him the key to the chamber, and then—he would make his wife a woman while his guests celebrated nosily until into the small hours of the morning.
It was the tradition of kings, and Helster Jogan had been eager to have this particular tradition observed. Bokrham himself had never cared for it. He would have preferred some privacy, and a quieter atmosphere, as it had been on the night of his first marriage. After a kiss from his mother, a warm handshake from his father, and shy smile to new in-laws, he had swept his wife up into his arms, and carried her out of the village square and down the winding path to his woodland cottage. For a moment, he could almost feel the delicate weight of his wife cradled in his arms and part of him crumbled as he contemplated his loss. But he shook it off, forcing himself to focus on the present. Helster Jogan was right, even if he did not call himself King, he must act like one to remind the Lords and the masses of his position at the helm of the Blood Marsh.
And so he steeled himself for what was to come. He promised himself that with each glass of wine he would forget—for this one night—that he was not a king. He would forget, for this one night that the wife he loved was dead and buried. He would forget himself, for the sake of his people, and tomorrow he would have the gold, and hopefully the support to mend his broken kingdom.
Even for a man of Bokrham's size, twelve glasses of wine in such a short span was enough to make his vision swim. He remembered less and less of each Lord's toast as he slowly made his way through the hall, and it seemed that with each step he took, the roar of the crowd grew louder in his ears. By the time he reached Helster Jogan, he could barely concentrate. A cold bit of iron was pressed into his hand, and he only caught one word from Jogan as he smiled and staggered past his new father in law—"glory." As he fumbled with the lock, he found himself wondering stupidly about what the word glory even meant, and for the life of him, he could not come up with a good answer.
But then the door opened, and the cheers of the crowd exploded in his ears as he all but tumbled into the chamber, slamming the door behind him. The chamber was dim, lit by a single brace of candles that flickered on a table by the bed. A heavy perfume hung in the air, and Bokrham could feel himself grow warm with excitement. "Ilia?" he breathed, as he scanned the chamber for his new wife. He found her lying on the bed, still covered head to foot in what must have been a stone of white lace. Muddled as his thoughts were, this struck Bokrham as odd, and he stepped forward to take a closer look. "Ilia?" he said as he lifted the veil from her face. A jolt went through Bokrham as the veil revealed Ilia's visage, pale and slack, her eyes wide open, bloodshot, and vacant. For one horrible moment, he thought that she might be dead, but then he saw that her chest still rose and fell with her breathing. He touched his hand to her forehead, and found it warm and slightly damp. Was she ill? he wondered.
"Shiverweed," said a voice behind him, making Bokrham nearly jump out of his skin. He whirled around to find himself looking at Thilanea. Though she stood in a dark corner of the room, the shadows could not conceal the fact that she wore not a shred of clothing, and Bokrham gasped as his eyes fell upon her naked body. "What have…have…you done?" he stammered, his tongue confused by wine and the sight of Thilanea's breasts.
"Nothing. She is merely in a stupor, which should not last longer than the night," she said, moving slowly towards Bokrham, a small smile upon her face. "But now you know your new little wife's secret. Her life is ruled by two things—her father and shiverweed. The former she is glad to be rid of, for he tried in vain to keep her from the latter, which she craves like a lover."
Was that it? wondered Bokrham, is that why she had no qualms in marrying me?
"I know you must be disappointed," continued Thilanea. "After all you came into this chamber hoping for more than a good night's sleep with your lithe young bride, didn't you?"
Without warning, Thilanea's hand shot between his legs, tracing the outlines of his manhood which by now was straining against his pants. Bokrham could not conceal the shudder of pleasure which raced through his body at her touch.
"I thought so," she grinned wickedly. "Well, lucky for you I'm here to help."
She stood so close now that he could feel the soft weight of her breasts press into him, and could feel the warmth of her breath on his chest. When she reached up and brought his mouth down to hers he knew he had no chance. The need for gold, not love, had brought him to this wedding; his lust had brought him to this bedchamber. The vow he had made earlier tonight had secured him his gold. He did not care that it would not be his wife who sated his lust. True to his plan, Bokrham forgot himself that evening, drowning himself in the depths of Thilanea's body.
Chapter 30: Isic
Wandering his way through the tunnels, the smith studied the walls lit by the greenish light of his staff. Here and there, where the rock had not been obliterated by miners he could still see traces of stone craft, tiny hints that the caves were not as natural as the Hinnjar had assumed. Was it the work of the gröljum? Isic doubted it. The gröljum were built for their habitat, and would have little need to widen tunnels or square the rock into corners. Someone, then, had been here before...but who? As he plunged deeper into the mountain, Isic felt something tug at his senses. It was as if something in the air had shifted, as if an invisible rain had come and gone, leaving the air heavy and potent. It was odd, he thought to himself, searching the walls around him with even keener interest, for it felt like a sensation he knew all too well—the aftermath of eldürcraft.
As he scanned the walls critically, his attention was diverted by the emergence of a shape in the tunnels ahead. Squinting, he wondered if it was a lone gröljum wandering the tunnels, and a small shiver went through his body. As curious as he was about their unique qualities, he still could not help but find the beasts chilling to look upon. It soon became clear, however, that the figure was distinctly human. Noting the pronounced sway in the hips of the approaching figure, he realized that it was, in fact, a woman, a woman whom he had believed to be dead.
"Welcome, old one," came the voice of Laiti. The girl's voice was quiet, dry, and husky, but fluently human.
As she drew closer, Isic could see that she was alone, her movements and voice unaided by the eerie tendrils of
the gröljum. This was no awkward puppet in front of him, but an independent entity…at least where her body was concerned.
"With whom do I speak?" asked Isic. He had thought the girl dead, but now had to reconsider.
"With us," replied Laiti. "But come now," she continued, advancing to where Isic stood and dropping into a graceful curtsy. "Are you not impressed with our progress?" A smile, unmistakably coy, was on Laiti's face.
"We?" said Isic. "Then the girl's mind has not been returned to her body?"
"It has, in a sense," said Laiti's voice. "For we spent a great deal of time studying the girl's thoughts. Much of what she knew, we were able to…incorporate." At this, the woman spun lightly on her toes, before offering him her arm.
"Come, old one," she said, "we will guide you."
Accepting, the smith gently put a hand on the girl's arm. It was warm to the touch, not cold and lifeless as he expected.
"You are surprised?"
"I am amazed," said Isic. "Please, lead on."
Isic allowed himself to be guided by the girl deep into the mountain, wandering through seemingly endless stretches of dark rock illuminated only by the light of his grüwnflame. He was surprised to find that, though he had now ventured farther into the mine than ever before, he fit easily through every twist and turn in the stone. In fact, so uniform was the particular tunnel they followed, he concluded that it must have been excavated at some point, though he could see none of the tell-tale signs of such work.
"Who made this tunnel?" he decided to ask.
"This is the master's path, the path of Lohidim," said Laiti.
"Lohidim? Who is that?" Isic recalled what the gröljum had called him during their initial encounter.
"Lohidim was the first," said Laiti. "He was the first, and the only, until you came, old one."
Isic was about to continue his questions, when he saw the outline of a huge archway come into view in the distance. As his grüwnflame threw light upon the structure, he could see that it had been inscribed with a several large runes and adorned with a series of spiraling vines.
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 31