Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  “Just as this book is like a guide to the city of Corianth, so are your books like a guide to describing faith. The key is not in memorizing the words, but understanding the thoughts that formed them. So, using this example, if you wished to learn about the city of Corianth, then which would give the greater revelation? Reading of it, or visiting the city for yourself?”

  Erin recognized the argument. Blessed Arthaxes had debated it with Faresh, to demonstrate the importance of received authority. “I can no more visit the events in the Book of Faith, than you can visit the city of Corianth during the Broken Empire. In each instance, we must respect the record left to us.”

  “But doesn’t that demonstrate blind faith? Belief not from insight, but from accepting another’s words?”

  “What other way is there?”

  Jerine leaned forward. “By seeing the world how it truly is.”

  Erin could only shrug, disappointed the conversation had degenerated to empty statement. “To learn about God, we must submit to the authority of the Order.”

  “Yet doesn’t the Order teach that Divinity surrounds us?”

  “Yes ... ”

  “Then simply open your eyes and look at the world with an enquiring mind. Admit that you know nothing. Ask questions of everything, like children do. But do so not to find truth, but the possibilities of truth. For truth itself is known only to the Divine. Without infinite knowledge a mind is imperfect. Yet to question can lead to insight. And that is the only way to acquire understanding. Otherwise, if you seek answers from another, you’ll remain blind, and let doubt cloud your mind.”

  Erin was already full of doubt. What she needed was not more questions, but answers. Yet Jerine recognized no difference between the temporal world and eternal God, which was surely a contradiction. The Book of Faith contained the Word of God — an infallible, unquestionable, sole authority. If otherwise, there could be no basis for faith. And how could one have knowledge of God without faith? Yet, Erin dourly reflected, that was the root of her own problem. Without faith, she had lost sight of God. She feared her ordination would lead to a life of continual blindness. She stopped. Had Jerine not said something on that? Tiredness robbed her of her wits. “I will try to consider your words, even though you wholly ignore the matter of divine revelation.”

  “But that’s exactly what I’m talking about! The Divine is within us. It’s outside of us, too. It’s everywhere, even in our actions. Everything is connected.” Jerine stared into Erin’s eyes. “Look carefully, and you may see Her.”

  Erin smiled politely, but her heart fell to hear Jerine speak like that. There had been some in Pora who had spoken of the Mother. Erin had truly sympathized with them. Yet even Father Clement had condemned that belief as heresy. The last thing Erin needed was to become confused by different beliefs, when she struggled to hold even one.

  It was clear she was not going to get answers from outside the Order. So why was it so hard to get them from within? She could only will her ordination to come sooner. And with it, some form of meaning. Until then, her life held none.

  Setting a Trap

  Rodrigan

  Rodrigan rode a dappled gelding at a trot, west along the Avenues of the Emperors, and away from the Lion Inn. His arms prickled hot with tension, ready to act if attacked. With the future of both the empire and his father at stake, nothing must go wrong tonight.

  The city watch marched in small patrols. Drunken crowds loitered outside of taverns. Gangs of apprentices hung back in shadowed doorways, looking for trouble. Rodrigan kept to the lantern light. He had to watch for being rushed from some dark alleyway — some fools thought it manly to pull someone from their horse, before stealing it.

  He turned left onto Southgate, the busy street pushing him too close to laborers and sailors coming up from the docks. Rodrigan kept alert for sudden movement, but only coarse laughter and rude songs assailed him.

  At the corner of Carters Row, a rider waited — the man’s muscle plain, even under his cloak. The rider lifted two fingers from his saddle pommel, indicating that it was safe to continue. Rodrigan turned onto the road, and Trooper Barbos fell into trot behind.

  They continued onto Oldgate, and passed draymen and cellarmen as they worked by their lamps. Shadows returned. A cold wind blew. Clipping hooves echoed from dark building fronts.

  Two cloaked riders waited before a grain exchange. One held an iron lantern with horn panels, to produce a dimmed light. Rodrigan slowed and gave the password. Troop Sergeant Cario answered, and added the signal that all was fine. He briefly pulled back his hood to confirm his identity, as did Trooper Salvian.

  Joining together, they rode to the Tower of Faresh, then turned onto Polinos Square. Piles of crates littered the pavement, a sweet stink of rot everywhere. Clouds of flies erupted from the offal of the day’s meat market. Rodrigan led his troopers back through Oldgate, to ensure they weren’t followed.

  Finally, he reached the cobbles of Farrier’s Lane in the Wagoner’s District. The area was now given over to glass foundries, storehouses, and poor tenements. Rodrigan dismounted. He took a sack from Cario, then sent the men and horses away to await his signal.

  Away from the main streets darkness hung like a shroud. The quiet was oppressive, broken only by the distant cries of gulls at the docks. The sky was matted with clouds, but Saturnyne provided a whisper of light to see by.

  It was perfect.

  He removed his cloak and placed it in a prepared barrel. Then he opened the sack, and donned the black robes of a deacon over his breastplate and tunic. He took out the scroll tube of red leather, a broken sword, and bladder of pig’s blood. Then squatted in a gateway piled with rubbish and broken crates. As a commander in the College of Armaments he’d long learned to delegate, but a mission of this importance required his personal attention. Especially while Father Dinemetis increased the size of his web.

  The sword had only a handbreadth of dulled blade. He crooked it under his right armpit. The bladder of blood he left close to his chest to warm, but only after squirting a few drops over his left hand. Grasping the scroll tube, he waited.

  A chill breeze teased his robes. Though his heart still beat fast, a dead stillness enveloped him. If this ruse failed then he had an agent who could deliver a copy of the scroll directly. But it might not be believed if received too easily.

  Lamplight appeared through a window, at the top floor of the burned out Harte’s Head inn. That signaled his troopers were in position on the next street. The shutter would be pulled closed when Tam Candles approached.

  Rodrigan dragged his robes tighter against the cold, his breath misting to the air. He rehearsed the words he would use. A dog barked from a yard, disturbed by a cat or rat.

  A fox wandered in front of him, almost casual in its gait. It glanced at Rodrigan but paid him no heed. Startled, he watched it pass, and wondered how it had entered the city. Then he realized that it must be a sign, sent just for him. A trickster, cunning, dressed in red, it was a good portent.

  Once all this subterfuge was played out he would be free to rebuild the Order. It was a help that the presentations would shortly begin — that would bring fresh blood into the colleges. Father Dinemetis held little sway outside the city, but would attempt to corrupt acolytes in the dormitories. Rodrigan would end that, and astonish them all with the return of the Cardinal Pontifex. So long as Molric’s grand plan worked.

  Rodrigan licked his lips, his mouth too dry.

  If his daughter still lived she would be approaching an age for the presentations. It was a small hope. She had been born strangled by her own cord, but survived. Yet the physicians feared that she would grow up to be simple-minded. The Cardinal Pontifex had secreted her to a monastery for her own safety, and visited her during the last years of his duties. Despite the distress of her birth, she had been said to be bright and good-natured. Rodrigan had heard no more since taking his father into hiding, after Wrenis began to murder the cardinals.

&
nbsp; And Sharaya had died.

  Truly, the world had never been so bright as the short time she had lived and loved him. All that remained of her was their secret child, and that was tragedy itself. Rodrigan tried to cast Sharaya’s lost perfection from his thoughts, his chest aching empty.

  Distant footsteps clacked the cobbles, growing louder. A drunken song echoed through the darkness. The shutter closed for two beats — Tam Candles approached.

  Rodrigan’s heart drummed hard and his muscles tensed. He checked the scroll was in reach, and crooked the broken sword under his armpit. He squirted more pigs blood over himself, for effect. Then crouched and readied his cold legs to act fast. Time to spring this trap, and pray to Omicron, Pollos, and the Light for success.

  A figure approached with a stagger, singing tunelessly to himself — short, with thick hair and eyebrows, and a stillborn hand. Tam Candles. One of Black Fist Jack’s burglars. Who also served as a nose for one of Councilor Amberlin’s agents. He was a believable route for information intended for the Emperor’s Guard.

  Rodrigan jumped up and grabbed him. Then dropped to his knees and cried out as if in pain. Tam stumbled back with a shriek of surprise, but Rodrigan kept a firm grip on him. “Help me,” Rodrigan gasped. It was imperative the man not flee, from fright or even disgust. “It’s worth gold.”

  Tam’s eyes were wide and white. “You’ve been run through!”

  “The Order ... have killed me.” Rodrigan coughed dramatically and held the scroll case out. “The Emperor’s Guard ... will pay richly for this.”

  Tam snatched the scroll tube and stepped away.

  Rodrigan released his grip and fell back. And cried out as loudly as he could, as if from pain. Then contrived to collapse to the cobbles.

  From two streets away, Cario answered the signal with a shout. Horses broke from position and hooves hammered stone. Yelling pierced the air, drawing near, and quickly.

  Rodrigan remained as still as he could. Footsteps pattered away in flight. Riders clattered closer. A muted light grew from a horn-paneled lantern. Cario and both troopers came about a corner at a fast trot. They pulled back their reins.

  Cario dismounted and rushed to his side. “My lord, are you hurt?”

  Rodrigan stirred. “I am safe, thank you. You timed your entrance well.” He stood and pulled away the broken sword and removed the deacon’s robes. He wrapped them together and back into the small sack. For good measure, he spilled the last of the pig’s blood about the doorway, to leave evidence of a mysterious death.

  Despite the chill in the air, Rodrigan was flushed with the heat of accomplishment. But they must leave immediately, if the ruse was to work. He retrieved his traveling cloak, dragged it over his shoulders, then mounted up. He pulled the hood down as he turned his gelding, and led the others away to Oldgate.

  He had to physically stop himself from laughing aloud — from relief, for joy, and for the sheer theatricality of it all. For the sense of achievement. For the empire’s salvation. For the return of his father.

  Sword of Power

  Dalathos

  Their boots scuffed and stomped up the steps, the staircase a mine of deep shadows. Dalathos made his way tiredly up the long flights, Ulric with him. It was a relief to reach the top floor.

  Two clay lamps barely illuminated the wood-paneled hallway ahead. As Dalathos approached, the floor seemed to shift and sway. He thought he’d been drinking small ale all night, but his head spun too much for that.

  Reaching their door, he fumbled for the iron key, tied at his belt under his mail shirt. After a few attempts he finally unlocked their room. He staggered in, and began to unbuckle his baldric. He lay his greatsword alongside the bed, then dropped onto the straw mattress and waited to catch his breath.

  This would be his first night in the city.

  Ulric brought in the lamp from above their door, and placed it on the stool in the corner. Realizing his bad manners, Dalathos offered the bed. Ulric spread his black fur cloak on the floor and knelt down on it. “Prefer to sleep on this.”

  Dalathos was thankful there was no argument about that. He rose and shut the door. The lamp flickered; shadows danced, then settled. Muffled chatter drifted up from the common room. A cart or wagon rumbled outside on the street. Somewhere, a cat began to caterwaul.

  Ulric set up a handful of small wooden figures on the floor. He crossed his arms over his chest, his hands on his shoulders, and mumbled a prayer to his ancestors.

  Dalathos watched with quiet envy. When his father abandoned him, he took away that birthright. He had no ancestral spirits to pray to for guidance and protection.

  Looking to distract his gloom, he eyed Ulric’s sword, sheathed in sheepskin. Dalathos’s own scabbard was two lengths of wood wrapped in leather and filled with wool, to keep it clean, dry, and naturally oiled. Dalathos waited until the big man had finished, then pointed to the sword. “Can I see that?”

  “Aye.” Ulric passed it over.

  Dalathos felt the weight in his hands. He unsheathed it, disappointed to find it a dull, gray iron. More so because they only forged steel at the camps. That meant this must have been brought in from some distance. The weapon was simple, but Ulric and his auntie had probably paid through the nose for it.

  “Thoughts?” Ulric asked.

  Dalathos grimaced and tried not to offend. “It’s iron, which isn’t ideal. It’ll blunt easily, and the blade might bend in a fight. Should be tough and not snap, though.”

  “That bad, eh?”

  Dalathos felt his cheeks flush and tried to avoid the question. “I could have forged you better. Maybe cheaper, too.” He sheathed the weapon and returned it to Ulric. “You trained in it?”

  Ulric shook his head. “Learned quarterstaff from my auntie. Cut mine into firewood yesterday, when the weather turned bad. Can make another. You make your sword?”

  “Aye, that I did.” Dalathos carefully unsheathed it, and caressed the polished steel. He breathed onto the blade, to bring out the golden sheen made by tempering in mare’s piss. A surge of pride rose in his chest. “I always wanted to make the greatest one in the world, a sword of legend. My uncle, Tollin, said every man should think that about his weapon. That different people suit different styles, from the weighting of the shaft and length of blade, to the method of fighting.”

  Ulric nodded. “You made just the one?”

  “Oh, no. Tried first when I came of age. Got as far as hammering the rod before it shattered.” Dalathos shrugged. “Sometimes, through no fault of the smith, a flaw can appear in the metal. A crack that can’t be seen until it breaks open. I’d really wanted my first sword to be the best, so I was upset. But, my uncle said that everything happens for a reason. If that one had broken it was because the next would be better.”

  Ulric lay down on his cloak. “You tried again?”

  “It was some while before I did.” Dalathos didn’t explain that was because of the boy who’d gone on the rampage in Tulst market, attacking everyone — or how Dalathos had only been protecting his uncle, and struck to injure, behind the knees. But the wound had festered and the lad had died. Dalathos had refused to go near a blade for a long time after that, let alone forge one. “When I finally got the nerve to, my uncle had finished Little Giant, a new furnace with mighty bellows, built downstream and powered by the rush of water. It promised a hotter flame for a better class of steel. I took care to choose the best ore, and plenty of it. It was a wish it might include a fragment from the Sword of Pheiros, so I could call together the heroes of the world.” He smiled, embarrassed to recall that openly, even though he’d meant it. “Then I made a prayer offering from wood, of Pheiros the Warrior, then cut it into fine pieces, and mixed in the lime. And carved an oversized cast for the melt. My nephews had laughed at that. My uncle had just raised a brow, but let me carry on. I planned for a greater loss in the new furnace, and if this rod snapped I could make more than one blade from the pieces. So we set the bellows running, and af
ter the flame reached the right color we broke the plug and got a good bloom out. But a dread came over me, that it might shatter like the first. I put the cooled steel away, and it was left hanging for months. Anyway, one night in our cups, my uncle teased me about not finishing it. He said I’d be too old to wield it by the time I was done. He claimed I always struck soft, and the edge would only be good for cutting flowers. That we’d have to give it to Ringneck’s daughter, Roseblade. Flustered and wound up, I heated the billet and we both pounded it. Drinking too freely in the heat of the forge, we got the mad idea to destroy it on purpose, through firing and hammering. We took turns to strike it with all our strength, challenging the metal to break. When I woke the next morning, I nearly shat myself thinking on the damage we could have done. But when my head cleared, my uncle said we’d achieved a fine blade, with a good balance of hardness and toughness.”

  With no idea how many times it had been folded, the hot steel had been quenched and reborn as a living, enchanted weapon. Dalathos had named it Protector, and prayed for its spirit to defend against injustice. After that, his uncle helped with the taper and tang, and they fitted a plain ball of iron at the pommel, for balance. Dalathos then ground in the fuller, and spent days on the file and polish. He bound the handle with leather, but left the hilt and pommel plain and undecorated.

  Dalathos offered the blade so that Ulric could see his work. Lamplight flowed along Protector and reflected about the room.

  Ulric carefully touched it. “Feels sharp. A good tool.” He smiled, then yawned. He turned into his cloak for sleep.