by Matt Heppe
“I’m sorry I scared you.” The young woman curtseyed. “I am the maiden Katrin.”
“I’m Telea.” She returned the curtsey. “It is a pleasure to meet you. You only surprised me because I was so taken with the view.”
“It is very pretty. I’m afraid I’m so used to it I hardly notice any more. I’m to take you to your quarters where you might rest and have something to eat. Duke Braxus will see you shortly.”
“Could I bathe and perhaps borrow some clothing until mine can be mended?” Telea motioned to her much abused clothing. She’d managed to clean up somewhat during the trip, but she was hardly fit to present herself before a duke.
“Of course, Lady Telea. Please, come this way.”
Katrin led Telea past the guards and into the mountain. Telea was immediately struck by the amount of effort it must have taken to carve the hold out of the solid rock. It had to have taken centuries of effort. The tunnel palace was well-lit by oil lanterns anywhere it wasn’t lit by windows, of which there were many. The tunnels didn’t go deep into the mountain but followed its flanks.
Katrin brought Telea to a guest chamber as nice as any apartment she had ever seen. It was really two rooms, with one a bedroom and the other a sitting room. Wide windows looked out over the city. The glass was set into moving frames that Telea pushed open. Outside the window was a sheer drop of a hundred paces.
In short order, food and a copper washbasin of hot water were brought in. Telea washed and ate a simple meal of cold meats, grapes, cheese, and bread. By the time she finished, Katrin had returned with three linen dresses. All were of the same Saladoran style. One, deep green and of simpler design than the others, fit well. Katrin laced her into it.
“It suits you well,” Katrin said. If the girl thought anything odd of Telea’s looks, she was well mannered enough to hide it.
“Thank you,” Telea said. It might have fit well by Saladoran standards, but she was used to her loose fitting silk trousers and long tunic. The slippers Katrin offered her were definitely more uncomfortable than Telea’s boots. Telea didn’t truly mind, though. Her mother was a member of the Imperial Court, and Telea had spent enough time there to know that there was a time and place for formal attire. This was certainly one of those times.
Katrin took the extra dresses and departed the room. She would have taken Telea’s clothing as well but for Telea’s fear that the Saladorans would ruin the silk. She’d seen no silk in Salador, and Katrin confirmed that they knew nothing of it.
Telea stared out the windows and was startled by Katrin’s quick return. “Duke Braxus will see you soon.” She paused. “I…ah, I’ve been asked to take your knife.”
“My knife?”
“I’m sorry, but weapons aren’t permitted in the Ducal Palace.”
“It isn’t truly a weapon.” Telea went to the table where her clothing lay folded. Her pouch and sheathed knife sat there, wrapped in their belt. Telea drew the kyre knife. The obsidian blade was less than a hand breadth in length.
Katrin gave a little gasp at the sight of the blade.
Telea smiled. “I’m a healer. The kyre knife is part of my trade.”
“I’m sorry, but it isn’t permitted.” Katrin bit her lip, clearly unsettled.
Telea sheathed the knife. It wasn’t much of a weapon. She’d seen far longer blades everywhere in Salador. “It is precious to me. Can you promise that I’ll get it back?”
Katrin nodded. “Yes. Yes.”
Telea took the sheath from the belt and offered the knife to Katrin. The girl’s hand shook as she took it. She was careful not to take the hilt but took it by the sheath instead.
“Thank you, my lady,” she said, before scurrying from the room.
Telea went back to the window. She’d been around weapons her entire life. Her healer oath prevented her from taking up arms, but she had no fear of touching them. Her father had been a warrior, and she’d seen more than her fair share of war.
She’d certainly had enough of it. Now it was time for peace. But there’d be no peace if she wasn’t successful. The shield, Forsvar, had to go to Belen. The Dromost Gate had to be closed forever. Reminded of her mission, Telea went to her belt pouch and took out Mekeles’s gold ambassador’s badge. Very carefully, she pinned it to her dress. She sighed, wondering how long it would take the duke to call for her.
For a time she wandered the room, looking at tapestries of hunting scenes and battle. The room grew dim as the sun settled behind the mountains. She ate the last of her food and wondered if she should leave to find someone. Every time she started for the door, she stopped herself. Powerful men had their own timetables.
Finally, when the room was nearly dark and she was rooting through her pouch for her fire kit so that she might light a candle or two, a knock came at the door. “Come in,” Telea called.
Two Saladoran soldiers in white and black liveries entered the room and flanked the door. Both bore silver lanterns. Immediately behind them came a very large man with thick, dark hair and a large nose. He wore black trousers and boots, and a white tunic, embroidered with dozens of crossed smith’s hammers at the collar and hem. A black cloak was pulled back behind his shoulders and a circlet of silver tamed his unruly hair.
Behind him came a stooped old man with wispy white hair combed across his bald scalp. He wore unadorned black robes that seemed too large for him. Behind them came two more guards bearing lanterns like the others.
Telea hurriedly straightened her dress and bowed to the man in white, realizing he must be someone of importance. He beckoned her closer, peering intently at her as she approached.
“See? See, my lord?” the wispy-haired man said, leaning close to the man in white. “Just as I said.” His attempt to speak in hushed tones failed completely as Telea heard every word.
The lord silenced him with a quick flick of his hand. “I am Duke Braxus,” he said to Telea. “This is my advisor, the scholar Haran.”
Telea bowed again, wondering at the exchange between the two men. “My name is Teleana Telas Tarsian. I am an ambassador sent by His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of Belen.”
“I’ve heard some of the story of your journey,” Braxus said. “A harrowing affair.”
The scholar, Haran, leaned close again. “Ask her about it, my lord,” he urged. “Ask—”
Again Braxus cut him off with a quick gesture. “I only wished to stop by and pay my regards. Affairs of state have kept me away.” He glanced around the room. “Why is it so dark? Have you been fed?”
“I was just looking to light some candles, my lord. I was brought food by the maiden Katrin, earlier, when I arrived.”
Braxus frowned. “This is unacceptable. He turned to one of the guards behind him. “Send for Katrin,” he said. “Have a meal brought up that is worthy of an Imperial visit. I want Lady Tarsian treated with utmost respect. She is the first Belenese to visit us in centuries.”
“Yes, my lord.” The guard saluted and departed.
“My apologies,” Braxus said to Telea. “Utterly unacceptable.” Beside him, Haran fidgeted with his hands, his eyes darting back and forth between Telea and Duke Braxus.
“There is one thing I’d like to ask you about,” Braxus said. “The knife you brought with you—”
“The kyre knife,” Haran interjected.
Braxus glared at the scholar. “Can you tell us about it?” Braxus asked her.
“I am a healer, my lord. We use the knife in our rituals. I can draw the blood of a donor and use it to heal someone of their injuries.”
“There’s no such thing!” Haran exclaimed. “There’s nothing written in the histories.”
Telea shook her head. “There wouldn’t be. The art was only discovered a little over one hundred years ago. There is no way anyone in the Kingdom of Salador would have heard of it.”
“Isn’t the knife the same as—I know this sounds absurd—the same as is used by people known as summoners?” Braxus asked.
Telea
shook her head and smiled. “It isn’t absurd at all, Duke Braxus. Summoners do use the kyre knife in their rituals as well. But don’t be alarmed. A healer’s ritual and a summoner’s ritual are nothing alike.”
Braxus gave her a long look. “Do you know how to summon a demon?” he asked.
“I’ve never done it,” Telea said. She felt a heaviness in her chest as she said the words. She needed the duke on her side if she was to have any hope at all. “It is an evil thing to do,” she added. “No healer would ever do it.”
“But you admit you can,” Haran said.
“I only know the theory of it,” she said, desperation creeping into her voice. “Please, Duke Braxus, my task here is very important. We are all in great danger.”
He put up his hand again, but this time to stop her. “Of course,” he said, “but this is not the time. We shall meet again in the morning. The Maiden Katrin shall see that your every need is met.” He gave her a thin smile and a short bow. “Good evening, Ambassador Tarsian.”
“Thank you, Duke Braxus,” she said to his back as he departed the room. Haran gave her a dark look as he followed the duke. The last guard closed the door, but left it ajar as he departed. She heard Haran speaking frantically as the party marched down the hall.
Left in a dark room lit only by moonlight and the dim lantern light coming from the hall, Telea let her shoulders sag. Why did this task have to fall on her? Why hadn’t Mekeles survived, at least? Or one of the Emperor’s men? She was only a healer’s apprentice. This task was beyond her.
Telea went to the door and leaned her head against the smooth stone wall. A breeze whispered up the hall, blowing into her room. She let it pass over her, cooling her of the nervous heat that had risen in her during the interrogation.
Voices approached from down the hall. “Hurry! Hurry!” Katrin’s voice said. “The duke is furious.”
“He should be happy,” another female voice said. “I heard they caught the spy—the Sal-Oras scholar. The one who’s been saving the elementars.”
“Shush! Don’t speak of that,” Katrin said. “He’s mad because I didn’t see to the foreign lady’s needs.”
“Why didn’t you? You’re a fool to anger the duke.”
“I was afraid of her. Scholar Haran told me to take her knife,” Katrin said. “He says she’s a summoner.”
Chapter Eleven
Orlos woke to darkness, covered in dirt and rocks. His whole body ached, his hands in particular. They were torn bloody and raw. Even in the faint light glimmering down from the tunnel above, he saw the blood and scrapes all along his arms.
His head pounded as well, and before he could stop himself, nausea overcame him. He heaved and heaved, but nothing came out but a small trickle of bile. He spit to clear his mouth, but it was too dry to accomplish anything. It had happened before, during the night. He had the barest recollection of nightmares and sickness. And of digging.
Digging where? Where am I?
Terror flooded over him. He was deep underground. He felt the tons of rock overhead, pressing down on him. I’m in Belavil. Under Belavil. He twisted in the narrow confines of his underground tomb. Was he buried? No… there was a tunnel behind him. And light. Just a trace of it drifting down from above.
He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. He’d come down in his dreams. They had drawn him here. There was something down here. The cause of all his nightmares. All of his pain and terror came from this place. If he didn’t find it, he would go mad. Either that or he’d have to leave Landomere forever. Like Orlos the Spiridus before him.
Orlos pushed himself to his knees and groaned in pain. He felt as though he’d been beaten all over his body. He had to keep digging but not now. He needed tools. And help. He’d get help, and then he’d return.
Pain and exhaustion made it hard to move, but Orlos forced himself to crawl up the tunnel. He needed food and water although the thought of food made him queasy. He would drink a little and wash off the filth and vomit that covered him.
Orlos got to his feet and stumbled up a stone stairwell, for the first time realizing he was in some man-made place. Then he came to an area where a heavy stone had fallen, blocking the passage. His injuries tore and burned as he climbed over the stone and into a much brighter passage.
He knew where he was now—the blocked passage under the ruined spiridus temple. He’d been here many times before as a child playing with his friends. The big fallen stone had always stopped them, but last night he had found a way over it.
One aching step at a time, Orlos climbed the stairs to the light of day. It was late morning, maybe even noon. The summer sun was high, and it beat down upon him. He stumbled through the ruins towards his home. There were people out, some tending to gardens, others eating or walking among the ruins.
Orlos reached within himself and drew upon his spiridus cloak. He didn’t want to be seen. He didn’t want to answer questions.
The front door of his home was open, as it often was. He walked inside and heard his sisters and brother in the courtyard. There they sat on a blanket by the fountain eating their lunch. Mother was with them. Orlos went out a side door to where the family vegetable garden grew. There was another, smaller fountain there, feeding a trough before heading down a sluice and into the garden. It was part of the magic of Belavil that water always flowed from hundreds of fountains and springs. It hadn’t been that way during the Wasting. All of the older Landomeri spoke of a dry and barren Belavil, not the beautiful garden city it had become.
Orlos knelt by the trough and plunged his face and hands into the water, rubbing away the worst of the dirt and blood. It was biting cold, and he gasped with the shock of it. He drew off his tunic and submerged it, scrubbing away the filth. After a few moments of effort the shirt was cleaner, and he felt better. He wrung out the shirt and then drank from the fountain.
“Orlos?” He jumped at the sound of Mother’s voice. Without thinking, he’d let his shadows fall as he washed.
“What happened to you? I heard you come in last night, but you were gone in the morning. Why are you so scratched up?” She came closer and took one of his hands. “What happened?” Her eyes narrowed. “What did you get into?”
“I found the cause of my nightmares.”
“What?” She leaned closer to him. “What is it?”
“There’s a stairwell under the old temple. I was drawn there in a dream. I went there in a trance and started digging and that’s where I awoke this morning. I have to go back and dig again.”
“You don’t look well.” She reached out and touched the side of his face.
He turned away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What do you think is down there?”
He looked away from her. “Blood and death.”
“What do you mean?” She turned his face so that he looked at her again.
“It’s what fills my nightmares. Last night I dreamt of the veden and blood and death. I dreamt of their last revenge on the spiridus. I have to go back.”
“Not now. You’re exhausted. You look sick.”
“I must go.”
“Rest first. Rest and eat.”
“Later. I can’t eat now.” He cupped his hands and drank from the fountain again. “I have to get some tools.”
She nodded. “I’ll send for help. I’ll bring food as well.” She turned for the house.
“Thank you, Mother.” He went back to the house and fetched a work tunic and his boots. His head pounded, and his stomach churned, but nothing would stop him. He went to the garden shed and took a shovel. There was a hoe, but he thought it too fragile. What he truly needed was a pick.
“What are you doing?” Quellas asked behind him.
“I have to go do some digging.”
“Won’t you play with us?” Rellas asked. “You never play with us anymore.”
“This is important. Tell Mother that I need a pick and a hammer and some chisels.”
“That doesn�
��t sound very fun.”
“Go tell Mother. She knows where I’ll be.” Quellas stuck her tongue out at him as he strode off towards the old temple. How far would he have to go? How much rock was there? His nightmares were unclear, just wisps and torn fragments.
It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t stop. He knew where the nightmares ended. Orlos found the stairwell and went down into the darkness. His eyes adjusted to the dark, colors fading to greys. A lamp would help find the details of the passage and the stones blocking it, but he didn’t want to go back for one.
Orlos found the first blockage, climbed up it, and pushed his shovel through ahead of him. He crawled through and tumbled down the other side. The passage was more jumbled here, with stones and dirt everywhere. There were no stairs here; the passage simply sloped downward, deeper into the mountain.
Then he came to where he had awakened that morning. He saw the signs of the work he had done in his sleep. No, not sleep. A trance. He paused a moment at the blockage, the thought sending a chill down his spine. These dreams, they weren’t natural. Some force sent them.
Was it the Great Spirit, driving him here? Why wouldn’t she tell him outright? He knew her words were often mysterious, but couldn’t she send him some other sign other than dreams of torment?
Or was it the creatures from his dream who had sent them? The veden. Orlos leaned back against the wall and put his hands over his face. He’d seen the spiridus in his nightmare. He’d seen the night the veden had massacred them. It didn’t make sense. In his dream the spiridus hadn’t fought. They’d walked to the temple and down the stairs. Why had they walked to their doom? Why had veden been killing one another?
He stared at the rubble in front of him. The answer lay beyond it, but did he truly want to see what was there? Could he even stop himself? He knew the answer. It would only end if he left Landomere like Orlos the Spiridus had. Even then, he’d live his life always wondering what was hidden here.