by Alison Baird
“But how can he do that, if the gem has the power to defeat him?” Damion felt obliged to point out this contradiction.
“I do not know. Is the Tryna Lia vulnerable in some way, divine though she may be? Could he use surprise or trickery? I have studied the prophecies and the writings concerning them for many years, but I never imagined such a thing. I always believed her victory was certain. I have not told my brethren of this, not with the Zimbourans coming to take our island: they might face martyrdom, but not the death of all hope.” His hands clenched and unclenched, in a visible effort at self-mastery. “You see the importance of this parchment—with the sea chart showing where Trynisia lies. What if Khalazar had seized it, and arrived on the Holymount before the Tryna Lia? Only you and Lorelyn prevented this from happening.”
Damion was staring at the mural again. He tore his eyes away from it and answered in a neutral tone, “That was a piece of luck.”
“Some might call it that,” Shan answered. “I prefer to call it providence—or as we say here in the east, destiny.”
Damion said nothing. With the almost childlike enthusiasm of all converts, these Kaanish monks took a literal approach to scripture, embracing not only its teachings but many of its obviously mythical passages as well. And the Tryna Lia did not appear in the Kantikant, the Holy Book of the Faith, but only in apocryphal writings. Wishing to be tactful, he did not say that works like this parchment were abundant, and of dubious origin. Nor did he say that in his own country the celestial Princess and the land of Trynisia were interpreted as allegories, with the former representing the Faith triumphant and the latter the state of holy enlightenment. The present crisis must be fought with acts of organized resistance, not with the aid of supernatural relics. But he could not bring himself to say these things to Shan. They would not reassure him, but only add to his doubt and fear.
The abbot, however, seemed to guess his thoughts. His dark eyes looked deep into Damion’s. “It was no accident that put you and Lorelyn in the right place at the right time, to save the scroll.” He put the parchment back inside the box and replaced the lid. “It is clear that you were both chosen for that task. Now you must take this ark with you to Maurainia.”
“Damion!” Prior Vale’s voice cried outside the door. “Are you in there? We’ve got to go now! Some hired guards are going to escort us through the city to the harbor. But they say they won’t wait a minute longer!”
“I’m coming, Father,” Damion called back.
The abbot thrust the carved box into the young man’s hands. “God go with you, Brother,” he said quietly, “and guide you back to your own land. More than your own safety is at stake now.”
THE WALK THROUGH THE crowded streets of the port was a blur of confusion and fear. Wild-eyed faces surrounded them, a din of panic-shrill voices besieged their ears. The guardsmen were forced to beat back not only the Zimbouran soldiers but also hordes of terrified Kaans who begged to be taken aboard their ship. Damion could not meet their eyes: he felt as guilty as though he had betrayed them personally. Through the chaos he heard the captain of the guard shouting at them to keep moving. The girl Lorelyn, walking at his side in a concealing monk’s habit, its white hood drawn up over her head, kept stopping to look about her: at last he had to seize her wrist and pull her along with him. But with his hurt ankle he could not move very fast himself, and the two of them fell to the very back of the line. Their group was last to reach the docks, and Damion and Lorelyn were the last two people to hasten up the gangway of the Maurainian ship. As they set foot on deck it cast off its moorings.
As for Lorelyn, she showed no fear because she felt none. Of the Zimbourans she knew little, save that they were the enemy. But the monks had reassured her that the enemies of the Faith could not triumph, and she held firm to the hope that the Kaans would escape harm. The ocean voyage that lay ahead held no terrors, for her destination was not an unknown but an answer. Even had the monks not told her so, even had she not been fair where the Kaans were all dark of hair and eye, still she would have known in every bone and sinew that she did not belong to these islands. Out there, beyond the farthest isle of the Archipelagoes, lay her real country: perhaps it was this land of Maurainia to which Father Damion was taking her. But it was not the thought of finding her true home that made Lorelyn stride forward to the ship’s bow and gaze with eagerness at the cloud-piled horizon before her. A sense of purpose drew her, as undefined as sunlight muted by mist, but stronger now than she had ever felt it. This, even more than the half-heard susurration of voices at the margins of her mind, made her believe what the monks said of her: that she had been born to fulfill some appointed destiny. And with every yard the ship advanced she sensed that she drew closer to it.
A sailor perched on the rigging above her gave a yell and she turned, distracted, to see everyone on deck staring astern. Jana had already grown hazy with distance, blending back into the blue island chain. There was a little tug at her heart, as if an unseen cord binding her to the island had at last stretched far enough to be felt. Then she saw against Jana’s fading outline the black shape of the vessel pursuing them. Though it was still some distance away, she could clearly see its oars rising and falling in rapid rhythm, and the black star emblazoned on each of its three-cornered sails.
Cries of alarm went up from the crowd on deck, but the captain laughed in scorn. “Zimbouran fools! That poky old galley will never catch up with the Dolphin, and they know it. They’re just trying to give us a scare. They could hardly care that much about a lot of monks and merchants, and what else would send them after us like that?”
“What indeed,” Father Damion remarked. But he spoke the words under his breath, and only Lorelyn heard them.
3
The Angel and the Scroll
“WELL?” JAIMON PROMPTED. “What do you think?”
Ailia was silent. She had seen many drawings of the famed Royal Academy in books, but this was the reality, rearing up before her in the dying light of evening. Gargoyles ramped about its roofs like strange wild beasts on the slopes of fantastic mountains: gryphons, dragons, horned imps at motionless play in the gloom beneath the shadowing towers.
“It’s magnificent,” she replied at last, half whispering.
They had been in Maurainia for several weeks now, in the capital city of Raimar, and the Island girl still woke some mornings afraid that she had dreamt it all. Travel, for Great Islanders, was an unheard-of thing. A “trip” to them was a wagon ride across the Island’s interior or along its jagged coast, and many of them died without ever venturing far from their homes. Ailia’s feelings were not so much those of a traveler as of an old-time explorer, arriving on the coast of an unknown continent. She was amazed by everything she saw: from the high-towered sea walls, raised in olden times to defend Raimar from Zimbouran naval assaults, to the streets of the city beyond, broad and bustling with carts and carriages, and paved instead of earthen. Beyond the rooftops swelled the dome of the High Temple of the Faith, burning gold amid the verdigrised domes of lesser temples: a sun surrounded by its vassal planets. Then there was King Stefon’s marble-fronted palace, with the royal banners on the roof flaunting their device of sword and crown. Even the tall plane trees lining the main boulevards were wonderful to her, after the little spindly trees in her “forest” at home. And never in her life had she seen such crowds: every street held enough people to fill a village.
And over it all, looming high above the city on its steep, wedge-shaped escarpment, reared the gray broken curtain walls of Brannar Andarion’s old fortress, with the towers of the reconstructed keep rising out of its ruin. The keep that now housed the Royal Academy. In the dusty, waning light of early evening walls and towers seemed painted on the sky.
But it was real, all of it; she had come to Maurainia at last.
She and her relatives spent the first night at an inn in the lower town, not far from the wharves. In the cramped room that she shared with her aunt, mother, Jemma, an
d the children, Ailia had lain awake until dawn staring at the strange steep-roofed buildings outside the window, and listening to the clop-and-rattle of carts passing through the stony streets. It was reassuring to see, high in the night sky above the rooftops, the very same constellations that shone down upon the Island: the Centaur, the Unicorn, the Dragon. The stars were shifting to autumn now. In the east rose the constellation of Modrian, a worm devouring its own tail: the worm’s eye was the star Utara, and in these clearer skies it burned as red as fire. Lotara, the worm’s tail, shone not far away. Legend claimed there was another star near it, where the worm’s mouth was: Vartara, a black star invisible to human eyes, that engulfed light instead of giving it forth. And there to the north as always was the Lantern Bearer, who held in his hand the steadfast polestar, beacon of navigators. Ailia had seen it on the ocean voyage too, shining above the masts at night. It was comforting—as though a part of her home went with her.
In the daytime she and Jaimon went out into the city on foot. They entered the High Temple, passing between the tremendous pillars of its doorway into the vast, vaulted interior, where long sunbeams from the dome’s central lantern slanted down through pungent clouds of incense, and huge stone statues of the saints stood watch over the Shrine of the Flame. She would never forget it to the end of her days; nor the thrilling moment when an open carriage guarded by liveried horsemen drove within ten paces of the sidewalk where she and Jaimon stood, and they saw riding in it a girl of Ailia’s age. She was gowned in gold brocade and her fair hair, falling in ringlets about her shoulders, was crowned with a circlet of real diamonds—for this was Princess Paisia, Stefon’s daughter and only heir, on her way to a royal engagement. “I thought your eyes were really going to fall out of your head that time,” Jaimon teased Ailia.
But there was no money for a prolonged stay at the inn, and they were soon obliged to move into the hostel where the other Islanders and the Kaanish women were staying. Conditions there were poor, the food and bedding inadequate and the dormitories crowded. It was decided then that Ailia should go on to the Royal Academy, where she at least would be properly fed and housed, while Jaimon found work to earn their passage home. And so she had come at last to this place for which she had yearned so long, taking the steep climbing road that led to the faerie-tale towers. But her pleasure was shot through with guilt.
“What’s the matter, coz?” Jaimon asked her, noticing her subdued look.
“Oh, Jaim, I feel like such a fool,” she moaned. “It was my doing: I brought everyone all this way for nothing.”
Ships had been dispatched to Great Island in response to their news, both warships and smaller vessels to evacuate the women and children; but it was reported that most of the Island women did not want to leave their homes and husbands, and the governor would not make them go. “They are so brave,” Ailia said, “choosing to stay and face the danger with their men. I don’t know how I can ever go back and look them in the eyes. And King Khalazar didn’t attack the Island after all, and now there’s even talk in the city of a peace treaty.”
Jaimon took her firmly by the shoulders. “Talk! Rumors, you mean. These city folk don’t know everything, and they believe what they want to believe. Khalazar is a dangerous man, and war may happen yet.”
“You’re only trying to make me feel better,” she mumbled.
Manfully he resisted the urge to laugh, and kept his voice and face solemn. “As for those other Island women, well, it remains to be seen whether they were brave or foolish. If Khalazar does come, they may yet be sorry they stayed behind.”
But Ailia’s conscience pricked her, and her own expression remained tragic. “It was my doing, Jaim. I threw everyone into a panic about the Zimbourans, insisting on our taking ship and going to Maurainia.” Her great gray-purple eyes turned up to meet his. “I think perhaps—deep down—what I really wanted was just an excuse to leave the Island, and come here.”
“Ah, so that was your nefarious scheme!” He grinned. “Well, now you’re here—at the Royal Academy, where you wanted to be. It’s too late to go back. Why don’t you just enjoy it?” Jaimon began to walk around the outer walls, pulling Ailia along with him. “Look! This is Haldarion, Ailia—the oldest fortress in all Maurainia. Just think of the history it’s seen. The Elei were still ruling their Commonwealth when these outer walls were built!”
“And King Brannar Andarion lived here with his court and his knights,” said Ailia, “five hundred years ago. And he wanted the Paladins to be well educated before they could serve their kingdom: that’s how the first Academy began. He invited famous philosophers here from all over the Continent to teach the knights, great thinkers like Elonius the Wise.” Here—it had all happened here. Her eyes seemed to strain from their sockets as she gazed.
“So you have been reading those books I brought you.”
Ailia nodded. She knew the present Academy’s history too. The main keep had been completely rebuilt during the reign of Harron III, great-grandfather of the present king. Harron’s dream had been to restore the entire fortress to its former glory, but in the end he had run out of both funds and time, and the ruinous curtain walls and outer watchtowers continued their slow disintegration. Already some of the battlements, with their weathered stone and rambling greenery, looked more like natural rock formations than anything raised by human hands. Doorless entrances gaped from ivied walls like the mouths of caves, and in the empty towers crows and owls roosted. The moat was a wide grass-grown ditch, spanned now by wooden bridges.
Not all the damage had been done by the mere passage of time. Five centuries ago Haldarion had fallen to a siege and been stormed, and what remained of it after the battle was quarried during the Dark Age by peasants, who fenced their fields and built their cottages with the plundered stone. Their present descendants, the inhabitants of the nearby villages, were uneasy about the ruin: it had an evil name, and its past lingered like an unquiet spirit. Beneath the brooding keep there lay a network of tunnels, it was rumored, spreading out through the countryside like dark and secret roots. No good could come of the place, the villagers insisted, and they clutched their holy mandalas whenever they spoke of it. Nothing could persuade any of them to pass near the crumbling walls once the sun had set.
“But what are they afraid of exactly?” Ailia asked.
“Well, there’s that old story about Prince Morlyn—Andarion’s son.” Jaimon pointed to the top of one vine-matted wall. Looking up, Ailia saw a stone monster perching there. It had been carved to look as though it were snarling, but time had worn away its fangs and left it with a toothless, gaping grin. Batlike wings were furled at its sides, and its talons clutched a shield whose device had long since been weathered away. “That was his personal emblem, the dragon,” Jaimon continued. “There’s an old story that the prince’s spirit walks the castle ruins in the dead of night. Do you believe in ghosts, Ailia?”
“Of course not,” she replied, a little too loudly. The grim wall with its dragon guardian suddenly looked sinister in the failing light, and she gave a tiny shiver.
Jaimon laughed and led her back through a gap in the curtain wall. Within lay the outer bailey, now greened over with neatly clipped grass. “That’s the old monastery, over there,” he said, pointing to a large rectangular structure between the Academy and the chapel spire. “It was restored at about the same time as the keep was, and today it houses a hundred monks of the Order of Saint Athariel. The Paladin knights were once members of that order too, and took holy vows like monks, and lived in the monastery when they weren’t away fighting Maurainia’s enemies.”
“I know,” said Ailia. “And then in the Dark Age the Inquisitors called them heretics, and executed them for witchcraft and idolatry. Some Paladins escaped and lived on in secrecy, but in the end the order died out.” To think that she, Ailia, was going to be a student where the Paladins themselves had once studied!
Jaimon grinned and led her toward the building. “Go on inside.”
“Are women allowed in?” asked Ailia, hesitating. “I thought we had to stay in the convent.” They had passed the white stone cloister earlier, on their way to the inner keep: she had left the small tin trunk containing all her possessions there. The girl students lived with the young novice nuns in the Postulants’ Wing, which jutted out from the inner cloister: though she had glimpsed the white-shrouded forms of the Holy Sisters through the gates of the convent proper, she had not met or spoken with any of them yet.
“On Holyday you’re allowed in—the girl scholars all worship in the main chapel, once a week, and dine in the men’s refectory, so the poor novices can hold their fast with the senior nuns and have some peace and quiet! Come on in, I’ll show you the way.” He strode up the gray stone steps of the Academy and into its yawning doorway.
She followed him timidly, along wide corridors floored with slate. The windows were set high on the walls, admitting little light. From a large oil portrait, dark with age, the narrow-featured imperious face of an old-time noble gazed accusingly down at her. She wanted to apologize to him for her unseemly intrusion. “There’s the chapel,” her cousin said, pointing to a pair of massive oaken doors at the far end of the hallway. “They’ll all be at worship in there now. Go on in.”