The Free Kingdoms (Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  The man frowned. “Oh? How so?”

  “Perhaps it is the way you greeted me by name instead of with a cold nose in the crotch. Or the lack of a tail wagging your emotions to the world.”

  Darik said, “Oh, you’re the wizard who met us outside the Desolation with Nathaliey? You turned yourself into a dog!”

  The old man sighed. “My memories of the event are somewhat...hazy, shall we say. But yes, my name is Narud.” He turned back to Markal and took the man by the sleeve. “Chantmer is displeased that you’ve returned.”

  “I care nothing for his displeasure,” Markal said. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but the dark wizard’s armies march on Eriscoba. I’ve come to see the king.”

  Narud looked around him. “But is Whelan still with you?”

  “Ah, so that’s it. Whatever debts Whelan owes are his alone and between him and the king.” Markal gestured at Darik. “We’re not exiled.”

  “Of course not. I only meant to warn you. Chantmer the Tall is...different. Perhaps it is only the king’s illness, but I’m afraid he can no longer be trusted.”

  Narud pulled his hood up around his face and shrank back into the crowd. As soon as his hands left his hood, Darik found himself glancing at the ground, and when he looked back up he couldn’t see the old wizard anywhere. He looked through the crowd.

  “Wait,” Markal said, but Narud had disappeared. Markal sighed. “Narud grows more eccentric every year. Speaking to him is more like speaking with an owl or a horse than speaking with a man. You think you’re having a reasonable conversation only to discover that you’ve been talking about two different things. Come, I see the gates.”

  #

  Markal and Darik reached the Citadel by passing through a final gate that straddled the Tothian Way. The Citadel dominated the east edge of the city. To underlie the city’s importance, the Tothian Way itself divided the Citadel and passed through Arvada. The two primary towers sat on either side of the Tothian Way, anchoring the Citadel.

  Darik stared at the Golden Tower in awe. It sat on one side of the bailey against the city walls. On the other side, smaller, but also impressive, was the black granite Sanctuary Tower. The bailey sat between them, with the Tothian Way passing through its center. A few men battled with wooden swords just inside Eastgate, together with archers shooting bales of straw. But the bailey was so large that these few men did little to diminish the impression of emptiness throughout the Citadel.

  Two men approached Sanctuary Tower, the first dressed as an Eriscoban, the second in rags. The second man stood directly in front of the tower, then dropped his rags and stood naked. His ribs stood out on his chest and he looked as if he hadn’t bathed in days.

  His companion yelled up to the tower, “Sanctuary!”

  A man peered out of a window high in the tower. “Yes, what is it?”

  The clothed man said, “I present a criminal of Southron for Sanctuary. Will you admit him?”

  “Criminal,” the man in the tower cried. “Are you willing to suffer ordeals for Sanctuary? To purge yourself of your criminal desires, and dedicate yourself to justice and mercy?”

  “I am,” the man said.

  “Then enter, penitent.”

  A door opened at the bottom of the tower and the naked man made his way inside.

  Frustration rose in Darik as he watched. His original goal had been to arrive at the Citadel on foot and without clothes, so he could beg Sanctuary himself. That no longer applied, with all of the chaos in Balsalom. He knew also that Whelan or Markal could arrange a pardon with the khalifa. But he still desired Sanctuary so he could join the Brotherhood and then the Knights Temperate.

  Darik said, “If the ordeals are as hard as you say, that man is in trouble. He’s so weak. Maybe they should let him stay in the Brotherhood’s quarters for a few days to eat and build strength.”

  “Do that and you demean both the penitent and Sanctuary,” Markal said. “Sanctuary means something because it’s hard. If it were easy, there’d be no point. And Sanctuary is not the end,” Markal said. “You can join the Brotherhood, and then, after further training, physical, educational, and spiritual, become a Knight Temperate.”

  “Ah, so there’s an obligation.”

  “Not at all,” Markal said. “Sanctuary is a gift. Your freedom is purchased and defended by the Brotherhood at no cost to yourself. Open to everyone willing to suffer the ordeals. I do think, that once you’ve been granted Sanctuary, you’re more likely to be interested in the beliefs of the Brotherhood. So yes, it is a way of spreading their philosophy, but not in the way that you think.”

  A group of twenty or thirty men and women entered the bailey on the opposite side of the Tothian Way. They entered on hands and knees, creeping slowly toward the Golden Tower. A hundred years ago, an angry mob drove the Martyr through Arvada to this spot, where they lashed him to the thorn tree and beat him. One man cut off his hand with a sword before Jethro’s supporters found their master and drove the mob away. Jethro bled to death from his wounds.

  Chanting loudly, the pilgrims reached the foot of the Golden Tower, and the guard at the door, to whom they presented sheets of gold leaf.

  Markal watched with a disgusted look. “I knew the man. Jethro would have never permitted worship. The crooked path was all that mattered. Individual enlightenment, not this group hysteria. Chantmer the Tall encourages the pilgrims. He likes to see the Golden Tower adorned with ever-thickening layers of gold. Makes the Order more important than the Brotherhood, I suppose, although none of the rest of us feel that way.

  “We have no more time for sightseeing,” Markal said. “Although it’s comforting to see some things are unchanged. Come.”

  Markal was one of only three wizards in the city. Only Chantmer the Tall stood vigil by Daniel’s side and Narud was about his own business. Gone were the wizards from their libraries and their workshops. Neither did the Knights Temperate fill the courtyards with the clamor of their training as Nathaliey had warned outside the Desolation.

  “Come, let’s see if we can find Chantmer,” Markal said. “Perhaps he can tell us about the king.”

  They found Chantmer passing from the library. The library occupied one side of a series of buildings that wrapped themselves around a grassy square. A covered walkway further enclosed the square, providing protection from the weather. The close, Markal called it. Two men meditated on benches in its center.

  Chantmer held a small book in his hands which he quickly shuffled into the folds of his robes. “Ah, so the reports are true. Have you brought the traitor?”

  “I know no traitor,” Markal said. “Only a brother who wants forgiveness.”

  Chantmer gave a dismissive wave of the hand, as if Markal’s words meant no more to him than a gnat buzzing around his face. “Come, I will lead you to your rooms. You must be tired from your travels.” He turned and strode away.

  Chantmer was as tall as his title suggested, and towered over Markal and Darik. He wore a plain white robe, but blue lapis lazuli beads laced his beard and curly hair. His long stride left the other two scrambling to keep up. Chantmer arched his eyebrow at Darik when they reached the door to Markal’s rooms, positioned on the first floor at one corner of the close. Other rooms opened around the grassy square, their faces open to the close.

  He eyed Markal’s dirty robes with distaste, then turned his gaze to Darik. Darik suddenly felt the dirt and bruises of his time on the road, the blisters on his feet, the uncomfortable weight of his new cuirass. He shifted from one foot to the other and looked to the ground.

  “My apprentice,” Markal explained.

  Chantmer said, “Send him to the stables; the Knights Temperate took most of the stable boys but not enough horses. They could use someone to muck the stalls.”

  Muck stalls? Darik gritted his teeth but said nothing.

  Markal considered, or appeared to anyway. “The boy can be useful. Let him be. I need to see the king.”

  Chantmer threw
aside this request with a shrug. “Nothing you can do now. Perhaps earlier, while you were playing spy in the khalifates, but not now.”

  Markal said, “I had important business.”

  Chantmer leaned forward on the balls of his feet. “Ah, important business. What business would that be?”

  A ravenous look flickered through his eyes. Markal stepped back toward his rooms, eyes narrowing, hands rising in front of him. And then the look passed from Chantmer’s face. But that brief look still frightened Darik.

  He wondered if Chantmer the Tall didn’t search for the steel tome. Darik had attracted both Markal and Cragyn, and Kreth from the Cloud Kingdoms, for that matter, when he’d opened the book. Could it have sounded an alarm all the way across the breadth of Mithyl, from Veyre to the Wylde forests?

  Chantmer said, “Stay in your rooms, Markal. There is nothing you can do for the king.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” Markal told Chantmer. “But I must see him nonetheless.”

  “And King Daniel said that he will see no one.”

  Darik could control his tongue no longer. “Maybe you’re the reason he’s so sick. You’re so intent on keeping him that way, maybe you’re the one poisoning him.”

  Chantmer lifted his left hand. Broken glass filled Darik’s mouth and throat. He gagged and coughed, spitting glass and blood to the flagstones.

  “Leave him alone!” Markal said.

  “Very well.”

  The feeling passed. Through watering eyes, Darik looked down to the floor to see not blood and glass but merely his own spit. He looked at Chantmer, fighting down his anger. The two men in the close stood up from their meditations, gave an irritated glance in the direction of the arguing and left.

  Chantmer ignored Darik, speaking only to Markal. “You must teach your boy to hold his tongue. Patience is the first virtue. Markal, remain in your rooms. The King decided this morning that he would die, and by the Martyr, I won’t deny him.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid your friend Whelan will arrive too late to complete his murderous quest.”

  “You speak like a child,” Markal said after a long pause. “And you behave as a child, petty and vindictive. It reminds me very much of the way that Cragyn behaved before we cast him from the Order and banished him from Eriscoba.”

  If these words bothered Chantmer, Darik couldn’t tell. “Nevertheless, Markal, you will not see the king.”

  For a moment, the two wizards glared at each other, neither willing to relent, then Markal sighed and turned to step past the threshold and into his room. Darik stared at him, finding it hard to believe that he’d backed down so easily.

  “No,” a voice said behind Chantmer. Wrapped in thick blankets, a figure leaned against the walls of the close. He let out a cough that sent convulsions through his body.

  “My king,” Chantmer said, worry tingeing his voice. “You shouldn’t have walked this far.”

  The king was far less than Darik had imagined from the stories told him by his father and Whelan and Markal. He was a thin man, cheeks sunken and eyes hollow. Bony hands gripped the smothering blankets that defied the late-afternoon heat. Sweat poured from his brow. Was this man really Whelan’s brother?

  “Where is Whelan?” Daniel asked.

  “He is coming.” Markal said.

  “Good. I would not wish to die before he returned.” Eyes clenched shut against the sun, he took a step toward them, then staggered. He reached out a hand to grab one of the pillars that supported the covered walkway around the close.

  Both Markal and Chantmer reached his side in an instant. “Oh, my king,” Markal cried. “What evil is upon you?”

  “I told you, he is dying,” Chantmer said. “And,” he continued in a cold voice, “he wouldn’t have made the climb down from his room if he hadn’t overheard you arguing. I beg of you, leave him be.” He took the king’s arm and pulled him gently but insistently in the direction he’d come.

  “Please,” Daniel said, trying to pull away, but failing to dislodge Chantmer’s grip. “Let him come to my rooms.”

  “But you said—”

  He lifted a hand to silence the wizard. It was scarred across the palm from old wounds. Part of the blanket slipped away, revealing a bare, bony shoulder that shivered in the air.

  “Please, Chantmer.”

  Darik and the two wizards followed the king to his rooms. Daniel staggered up the stairs, helped by Chantmer and Markal and muttering to himself. At one point, he stopped and moaned, scratching at his arms and face. The blanket fell away, revealing deep welts across his flesh, some oozing puss. Darik helped the two wizards restrain the king and was surprised at the strength of his delirium. At last they got Daniel moving again.

  The king’s bed chambers were like a dungeon, dark and dank. Curtains blocked the light, trapping air that smelled so strongly of chamber pot and sour sweat that Darik’s stomach turned. The bed was unmade, blankets strewn about the room. The king staggered to his bed and wormed his way under the covers.

  Daniel jumped back out of bed with a scream, while Markal hurried to help him. “Snakes!” he screamed. “There are snakes in my bed!”

  Darik threw back the covers but saw nothing. Daniel stood shaking by the bed while Markal and Chantmer struggled to soothe him. After a moment the king settled down and climbed back into bed, but the wild look never left his eyes.

  He wasn’t sick at all, Darik thought. Not sick in the body anyway. Madness.

  Markal stared at the room. “What is going on here?”

  Chantmer shook his head, looking just as overwhelmed by the awful scene. “If only we knew. I test every bit of food or drink he takes in, so it can’t be poison. For three weeks, Narud, Nathaliey, and I stood vigil over his bed, sure that wights tormented him in his sleep. We saw nothing but the king’s awful dreams.”

  “And yet the air stinks of wizardry,” Markal said.

  Chantmer gave him a bitter nod. The two men’s differences appeared distant for the moment. “Yes, yes, it does. But none of us can find the spell that enchants him. His physics believe the root of marrowlight might cure him.”

  “Of course they would say that. Nobody knows what marrowlight is. Nobody has known for centuries.”

  “Two score knights search for it nevertheless.” The king moaned on his bed, thrashing about. Chantmer looked at him, his own face etched with pain, then continued, “You caught him at a good moment. Most of the time he’s like this, or worse. At night, however—” he shuddered. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Chantmer turned to go. “Please, whatever you do, don’t cause him more pain. He has suffered enough. The council of the kings meets tonight to raise an army. Keep Daniel in his rooms. I don’t want anyone to see how bad he is.” He turned to go, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Markal made his way to the king’s side. “Help me, Darik.” He turned to Daniel. “My king, you wished to speak to me?” The king moaned, no recognition in his eyes.

  Together they lifted the king to a sitting position. He struggled for a moment before he stared wide-eyed into Darik’s eyes. “Where is she?” he cried. “Where is she, boy?”

  “Where is who?” Darik asked.

  “Serena! Where did she go? By the Martyr, if you’ve hurt her, boy—” He seized Darik by the neck, choking him with the strength of a madman. Foul breath roared in Darik’s face.

  Darik struggled to pull away, but the king snarled and tightened his grip, choking his air supply. Markal wrestled with Daniel, at last breaking his grip and pushing him back into the bed. Darik stumbled backwards, gasping for air.

  Markal sank to his knees. “I had no idea it was this bad.”

  Darik considered. “Maybe you can break the witchcraft.”

  “The three greatest wizards of the Order tried to break it and failed.” Markal was more despondent than Darik had ever seen him. It was unsettling.

  “What about Whelan?” Darik asked, grasping at any hope.

  Markal looked up. “Yes, he
will know what to do.”

  Darik helped him to his feet. “Let’s go. We’ll sleep outside the door and keep watch while he sleeps tonight. We can’t lose hope.”

  Markal smiled, his fear replaced with lines of stress and worry. “Perhaps I should have told Chantmer that I was your apprentice. Chantmer was right: the first virtue is patience, but you have plenty of the second and the third, hope and compassion. As for Chantmer the Tall,” he continued, “he can be a hard, unyielding man, but never question his devotion to the king or to the Order.”

  Markal hesitated at the door, looking back at King Daniel, still thrashing on his bed. “We’ll be outside the door, my king. Call if you need assistance.”

  That night, the king drew Markal and Darik into his torment.

  #

  Darik woke to a scream. It was the third such scream, but the first two had simply incorporated themselves into his dream. In his dream, he searched desperately for his sister among the impaled bodies surrounding Balsalom. One man lifted his eyes imploringly and whispered, “Help me,” but Darik didn’t have time to help if he was going to find his sister. She screamed somewhere close, and then a second time.

  And then came the third scream, the one that woke him. He sat up straight, back aching where it had pressed into the flagstones. The door to the king’s bed chamber sat open, Markal by Daniel’s side with a torch in hand. Shadows crawled across the wall, the king’s outstretched hands distorted into grotesque claws on the ceiling.

  “She’s coming!” Daniel cried. “Ah, Serena, my wife.”

  Sweat stood out on his face and his bare chest. His eyes bulged and he screamed again, then tore at his heaving chest and banged his head against the wall. Markal shoved the torch into a holder and struggled to restrain him. He saw Darik and called him to help. The king calmed down at last. His eyes cleared slightly.

  “Markal,” he said. “You’ve returned from Balsalom.”

  “We spoke yesterday, my king. Don’t you remember?”

  Daniel coughed and shook his head. He looked at Darik, then back to the wizard. “Chantmer called a council of the kings. Have they met?”