by John Marco
‘It wasn’t really a lie, you know,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘In the Black City there are theatres where men can act to entertain. I’ve never been there, but I hear they’re paid quite handsomely.’ Richius groaned, resting his head against the gnarled tree trunk. ‘I tried to be as good an actor, but I see now that no one believes me.’
‘Do not say that. It is not you they doubt, Richius. Every man here knows you have kept them alive.’
‘Dinadin doesn’t think that,’ said Richius. ‘And maybe he’s right, maybe he should be angry. I’ve kept us alive only to be trapped here, and I’m too damned afraid of the emperor to retreat. We’re alone now.’
Lucyler shrugged. ‘There is still Talistan. They might send more troops.’
‘Not into the valley they won’t,’ countered Richius. ‘They have already sent in twice the troops my father has, and even if they could send more they would go to Tatterak to save the Daegog. The Gayles would see us lose the whole valley before they sent more horsemen here to help us.’
The shadow of a frown crossed Lucyler’s face, and Richius began again to regret his angry words. Feud or no, he should have let the horsemen remain in the valley. Now the valley might be lost, and all for the sake of family pride.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I know it was wrong to send Gayle away.’
Lucyler waved the remark away. ‘No. You have told me about that one. We are better off without him, I am sure.’
‘Then what?’ asked Richius. The Triin’s jaw was set in the same tight way it always was when he was angry, and he looked distracted, as if arranging his thoughts in just the right way to spare Richius the worst.
‘I have been here with you for nearly a year now, Richius. Yet still you keep such secrets from me. I have tried to help you, but still you do not trust me.’
The bitterness in Lucyler’s voice startled Richius. Never in the many long months of their efforts had he heard his comrade talk like this. Now that the words hung in the air, Richius didn’t know what to do with them.
‘Lucyler, don’t mistake my secrecy for mistrust. You’ve been a greater help to me than you know, but I’m the leader here. I can’t tell my men everything I know.’
‘But I am not one of your men, Richius. I do not need to be protected as they do. You forget that I am the Daegog’s man here. There is nothing about this war I do not know, even if I do not hear it from you.’
Richius bit back an insult. Lucyler hadn’t seen the Daegog of Lucel-Lor in months. As far as any of them knew, the Triin leader was in Tatterak with the loyalist warlord Kronin, and probably too preoccupied with the invading Drol to give much thought to his man in the Dring Valley. To Richius’ thinking, it was self-importance at best that made Lucyler believe he was still of concern to the Daegog.
‘Even I don’t know everything that goes on outside the valley, Lucyler. And as for my father, he is an even bigger mystery to me.’
As soon as he had spoken the words, Richius regretted them. His father wasn’t a subject he cared to discuss with anyone, even with a friend as close as Lucyler. But Lucyler’s eyebrows rose, and Richius knew he couldn’t avoid the turn their conversation was about to take.
‘That surprises me,’ said Lucyler. ‘Only you see the messages your father sends you. The men can only imagine what he writes.’
‘My father is a man of few words. If you’d read the messages he’s sent me, you wouldn’t think me in possession of great secrets. The king tells me precious little, and what I think matters I share with you.’
‘But it all matters. How can I help you if I do not know what is happening? If I am to continue with you here I must know everything. I demand it.’
Richius knew Lucyler was neither bluffing nor lying. He would hear everything, or he would leave them. And without Lucyler’s guidance, the loss of the Dring Valley was certain.
‘So,’ said Richius dully. ‘You would leave us here to deal with the Wolf ourselves, huh?’
‘I would.’
‘What can I tell you that you don’t know already? That the war is lost? Perhaps my father will still send us more troops, but I don’t think so. He’s never taken so long in sending us word. My guess is that he’s decided to end it.’
‘I had feared as much,’ said Lucyler. ‘But can your father really decide the war for himself? What of the emperor?’
‘Arkus and my father have never been friends. You said it yourself. If it weren’t for the emperor, my father wouldn’t have sent us here at all. Only Talistan sent troops here willingly, and that’s only because the House of Gayle is the emperor’s boot rag.’ Richius shook his head. ‘My father wanted to keep Aramoor out of this war.’
‘But you are already here. Why would your father forsake you?’
‘Because he still believes Aramoor is his to rule,’ said Richius. ‘He only let Aramoor become part of the Empire to save his people from a war with Nar.’ He sighed, seeing the bitter irony of his father’s predicament. ‘And then the emperor thrust this war on him. God, we are lost.’
‘Perhaps,’ Lucyler said. ‘But we should not lose hope. Not yet. Patwin has still to return. Maybe we are wrong about your father. Maybe Patwin will bring us good news.’
‘You’re more hopeful than you should be, my friend. I know my father has already sent more troops here than he ever intended to. He won’t recall us. Even he knows the emperor would crush Aramoor if he did. But he may think that Arkus will spare Aramoor if he simply lets the war be lost.’
‘But his own son . . .’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Richius snapped. ‘Even I don’t expect him to risk more lives for my sake. Scores of us have died already, maybe more. For all we hear, the fights in Tatterak and the Sheaze have already cost Aramoor hundreds of men. I know my father. He’s just foolish enough to stand against the emperor. He’s going to end it here, and we will all be trapped.’
Richius caught himself then, seeing his own black mood settle over Lucyler. For months he had done his best to keep his true beliefs from his men, and now he was droning on about how little chance they had of victory. He cursed himself, sure that Lucyler’s mind was mulling over the consequences. Even if they should lose, he and Dinadin and all the others could still return home. But Lucyler was home already, and would have to live with whatever government Tharn and his Drol revolutionaries imposed on Lucel-Lor. The weight of that knowledge must be heavy indeed.
‘Then you should go,’ said Lucyler. ‘Listen to Dinadin. Do not let yourself be trapped here. Just leave.’
‘I can’t do that,’ said Richius. ‘I wish I could, but it’s impossible. If we retreat, the emperor will kill us as surely as the Drol would. And then he would take Aramoor away from us, maybe even give it to the Gayles to rule. Dinadin is too blind to see the politics of things. But I’m sorry for you, my friend. If we lose we’ll just be dead. But it’s your country that will really suffer.’
Lucyler smiled sadly. ‘I have already lost, Richius. You and I are not so different. You are here to serve an emperor you hate. I am here to serve my Daegog.’
‘Who you hate?’
‘Not hate exactly. But it is hard to ignore what Tharn and his followers say about the Daegog. I lived in Falindar, remember. We were less than perfect. There were excesses. And the Daegog can be very cruel. They say he was merciless when he tortured Tharn, and I believe it. He knows your emperor means us no good. He simply does not care. Just as Arkus wants something from Lucel-Lor, so too does the Daegog want something from Nar, something more than protection from the Drol.’
‘What?’
‘Weapons, perhaps. The warlords have followed him only because he has the title. But he is weak, and he knows his time would end soon even without Tharn to hurry it. I have no doubt he would risk our lives to get the power he wants. And your emperor was very obliging.’
‘They’re both bastards,’ said Richius. ‘Power mad. But how can you follow him?’
&n
bsp; ‘Why do you obey your emperor?’ Lucyler countered.
‘Because I must. Aramoor would be crushed if I didn’t.’
‘It is like that for me, too. I know what I have in the Daegog. I lived well in Falindar. Maybe too well, but it was a fine life. I do not know what Tharn and his Drol would bring to Lucel-Lor, but I am certain it would be worse. The time for Tharn’s dead religion is past.’
‘It sounds like you’d just be trading one despot for another,’ said Richius.
‘Maybe. But it is what I am. My father served the Daegog, and his father before him. I am sworn to the Daegog. I cannot explain the oath, but it defines me.’
Richius sighed. ‘Then we are both doomed. If, as you say, Tharn is gaining ground in Tatterak . . .’
‘They claim so, but it may only be a rumor.’
Richius frowned. Rumors were the bane of all military men. Somehow he had to find out what was really going on.
‘We’re blind here,’ he said bitterly. ‘This war could end tomorrow and it would be a week before we would even hear about it. We have to get the truth.’
Lucyler raised his eyebrows at Richius and smiled. ‘Like Dinadin said, it is only a two-day ride to Ackle-Nye.’
Four
Tucked away in a corner of the Dring Valley, veiled from the world by a tangle of vines and a forest of birch trees, stood a dilapidated castle. It was an ancient, unremarkable place, decorated with drooping catwalks and bordered in the rear by a crystalline stream. From many of its clouded windows one could see the overgrown sculpture garden rambling across its front yard, a graveyard of neglected statues chewed to ruins by lichens. In its spiderwebbed halls hung crooked portraits of the long dead, and its high, cracked ceilings were ornamented with vast candelabras of tarnished brass. At sunfall the place was lit by a network of torches and oil lamps, a ritual always followed by the baying of distant wolves.
Yet despite the castle’s disrepair, it was far from deserted. Castle Dring was the stronghold of Voris the Wolf, warlord of the Dring Valley. It was where he orchestrated his war against the invading Narens and the weak, traitorous Daegog who had invited them in. And it was where he raised his three daughters with his dutiful wife, Najjir. Even in the smallest hours of the night the castle hummed with the familiar sounds of life: restless children crying for comfort and the earnest whispering of the red-robed guardians pacing along the catwalks. The primeval music of the forest permeated every hall and bedchamber, and any with a mind to sleep in Castle Dring learned quickly to accept the noise of the valley’s nocturnal inhabitants.
Of all the rooms in the meandering structure, only one was dedicated wholly to silence. It was a tiny chamber buried near the back of the place, windowless except for a metal grate that let in divided shafts of sunlight at dawn and let out the cloying smoke of the perpetually burning incense. The chamber was almost entirely bare. Strewn along its wooden floor was a scarlet carpet, a weave plush enough for kneeling on, and beside one wall was a gold-trimmed altar. On the altar was a statue of a man and woman, deified mortals both. Incense burned on either side of them, sending up thin, mystical signals to heaven.
Outside, the night was dying. Tharn opened an eye and spied the grate in the eastern wall. The tiniest spark of infant sunlight glinted on the metal. He closed his eye and lowered his head again. His back ached. His knees burned from genuflecting too long. But his mind was clear and open as the sky, inviting in the answers he had prayed for throughout the night. He had come to Castle Dring hoping to find solace in the company of his adopted family, to seek counsel from the Wolf, and to beg his patron god for guidance. He was rested now and well fed on Najjir’s fine cooking. His body was ready. But it was his mind that troubled him, and it was the loss of his soul that terrified him.
Lorris, he called out soundlessly. Guide me. I am your tool. I will do your bidding. Just tell me what to do.
His silent voice had taken on the frail tone of a child. He had started out at sundown calling upon the Drol god, hoping to ease the guilt over what he was planning. But Drol gods were fickle. Sometimes Lorris spoke to him, and at other times the deity was as silent as stone. And it was only he that spoke, never his adoring sister, Pris. Pris was a good Drol woman, devoted like a fine wife to her brother Lorris, and she never spoke to anyone save the most pious of Triin females. But they cared for all Triin who sought their divine guidance and were willing to endure the difficult life of a Drol. The Drol favored them and worshiped them above all others, and for this worship the immortal siblings granted enlightenment and courage and love. And, on rare occasions, the touch of heaven. What they had granted Tharn had been beyond his comprehension. It had shattered and astounded him.
I grow stronger, Lorris, Tharn went on. Your touch in me is fire. I beg you, end your silence. Speak to me, before I do this dreadful thing.
He waited quietly, but there was no answer, and he thought for a moment, as he had thought throughout the night, that his god’s silence was the answer, and that the answer was approval. It had to be, he reasoned. The touch of heaven was strong in him, stronger than in any Drol he had ever heard of. Far stronger, even, than in any of his own priests. Lorris and Pris had gifted him, and he was more than just a man now. He was part of nature, a force like the ocean and the moon. The pattern of every leaf foretold the tree’s demise. He could hear the drone of a cricket and know if it was hungry or ready to breed. Dreams had become living entities that he could touch and walk through, so that every night’s sleep was a spectral journey.
And the air obeyed him. It trembled when he bid it to, and if he thought of clouds he could slay the brightest sun. He could summon the rains and the winds and the fog, could squeeze water from a rock with the viselike focus of his brain. He couldn’t fly, but he could open his consciousness so that his mind could soar untethered and let him feel the iciness of mountaintops and the suffocating depths of the sea. All these things he could do, and he was so terrified by them that he spent long hours in prayer, begging for an explanation.
I will do this thing if you wish it, Lorris, he prayed. Do you? Tell me, please. Please.
All his new abilities had a purpose. The other cunning-men, priests like him, had told him so. Voris too seemed to believe it. They had all been at war with the Daegog for years, and with the Daegog’s powerful protector, the warlord Kronin. And they were weary. Certainly Lorris had touched him for a reason. But it was not they who would bear the guilt of the crime they were considering. Tharn alone would endure that burden, and in a way he hated them for it. If they were all wrong, then Lorris would punish him alone.
I have been so loyal to you. And you have given me so much. Will you not tell me why? Am I not your favored? Shall I do this thing for you, or are these gifts for something else?
Tharn unclasped his palms and let them fall to his sides. There was only a little time left. He had told Voris he would leave Castle Dring at dawn, and Voris was always punctual. But he still had no answer, and the night of prayer had weakened him so that he wanted only to crawl into one of the castle’s many beds, and sleep until the war was over. Lorris had his reasons, Tharn was sure, but he felt abandoned anyway.
‘Let me rest,’ he whispered. ‘When this is over, be finished with me. Let me sleep in peace. No dreams.’
He started to rise, but his knees would not let him. They burned with such fierceness that for a moment he thought he would cry out. But then he thought of the Daegog again, and how the fat Triin leader was to blame for this misery, too, and the resolve to do the evil deed came to him in a violent flash. His knees had been like water since his torture. The Daegog’s jailors enjoyed their work.
In his heart, Tharn knew he was not an evil man, though the world now thought him so. His name was infamous among the Triin, and he dreamed of a day when he could change that, and prove to his people that the gods still existed and that they had expectations of their children. Lorris and Pris wanted the best for the Triin, and the Triin had shunned them, turning ins
tead to the devils of Nar for enlightenment. Like the Daegog, the Triin had gotten fat on Naren pleasures. They had forgotten their place in creation, their service to heaven, and they had become sinful. They needed cleansing, they needed the fire that only he could bring.
Like Dyana, the cunning-man thought blackly. She was the worst of them, defiant and offensive to Pris herself. She too would have to be cleansed, and learn her place as a good Triin woman. A current of passion rushed through him. He would re-educate her.
A knock came on the chamber door, soft but intrusive. Tharn ignored it. He heard the door slip open, and Voris’ familiar footfalls on the wooden floor. His friend’s voice was apologetic.
‘Am I interrupting your prayers?’ asked the warlord.
‘Nothing interrupts my prayers,’ said the Drol. ‘Come in. You can help me.’
Voris stepped into the chamber. ‘Your knees again?’
‘My knees,’ replied Tharn. He took Voris’ huge, outstretched hand and let the warlord pull him to his feet. Pain shot through his legs and he winced. Voris watched him dutifully, waiting for him to work the stiffness out of his body.
‘It is dawn,’ said the warlord. ‘Your cunning-men are outside, waiting.’
‘I am ready.’
Voris grimaced. ‘You do not look ready,’ he remarked. ‘You have been awake too long, and so much praying wearies you. You should rest first.’
Tharn shook his head. ‘No time. There is too much to do. And I am as ready now as I ever will be.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ said Tharn bitterly. ‘Lorris is silent.’
‘Then you have not changed your decision?’
‘I have not,’ said Tharn, heading toward the chamber door. ‘There is no other way I can see.’
Voris smiled. ‘It is the right decision, my friend. We will all honor you for this. And it is what Lorris wants, I know it.’