by John Marco
By now, Harliz and Garmin had noticed the little commotion, coming up to stand beside Lorn. They quietly eyed the stranger, listening intently to their brother’s explanation. Lorn, not liking the gathering attention, directed all of them back outside, pushing Tarlan toward the beaded curtain. The Nithin followed him out, trailed by Lorn and the Marnan brothers. At once the cool night air struck Lorn’s face. He pulled the Nithin away from the shrana house, speaking to him in a measured tone.
‘What is your business?’ he asked. ‘What do you want in Jador?’
‘To deliver a message,’ said Alsadair. He brushed the dust from his fine green cape. ‘I am a herald of His Grace, Daralor, Prince of Nith. I bear a letter with me from His Grace.’
‘A letter?’ asked Lorn. ‘For who?’
‘For the Bronze Knight,’ said Alsadair. ‘For the Liirian named Lukien.’
The name was instantly familiar to Lorn. ‘Lukien?’ He looked at Tarlan. ‘Did you know this?’
Tarlan shook his head. ‘No. He just said he was looking for you, and I told him we was friends.’
‘This letter you carry — it’s from your Prince?’ Lorn asked Alsadair.
‘The letter is from a charge of the prince,’ said the Nithin. ‘I cannot tell you more. It is private, and for the eyes of the Bronze Knight only.’
‘Lukien isn’t here,’ said Lorn. ‘I don’t know where he is, and neither does anyone else.’
Alsadair replied stoically. ‘It does not matter. He will return here, and when he does I will give him the letter.’
‘What? What makes you think he’ll be coming here?’
‘Because that is what I have been told, King Lorn. That is what the author of this letter has told my prince.’
Lorn was thoroughly bewildered. And intrigued. ‘This author — is he a boy?’
Alsadair looked surprised. ‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because a boy named Gilwyn Toms left here some months ago. He was a friend of Lukien.’
Alsadair shook his head. ‘Then I will not keep you wondering, King Lorn. The one who penned this letter is not named Toms. But I cannot tell you more. I can speak only to the man in charge of this city.’
‘There is no man in charge of the city,’ said Garmin. ‘If you mean the township, we have no ruler.’
‘I mean Jador,’ said Alsadair. ‘Who rules there?’
‘A girl,’ said Tarlan.
‘The Kahana,’ said Lorn. ‘Her name is White-Eye.’
An hour later, Alsadair the Nithin got his audience with White-Eye. In one of the palace’s many open-aired chambers, the messenger of the Nithin Prince explained the long trek he had endured, and why he had come to Jador. With White-Eye seated imperiously before him, Alsadair delivered his tale standing, holding the letter he had carried with him for hundreds of miles. Lorn stood off to the side, allowing the Nithin to make his case and studying the letter clamped in his hands. The envelope of ivory-toned paper bore the wax stamp of Daralor, the Nithin ruler. Although Alsadair had been offered food and drink, he had remained standing in the chamber the entire time, waiting for the blind Kahana to arrive. Upon hearing the news of the Nithin’s request, White-Eye had come to him quickly, a favour for which the messenger seemed grateful. A pitcher of beer and some food lay on a table near him, but Alsadair’s eyes never wandered to them. Instead, he watched White-Eye as he spoke, his voice reverential and practiced.
‘. . and from Dreel to Ganjor. In Ganjor I found the caravan that took me here, Kahana. When I came to the village — the township, you call it — I asked for a man who could help me. Someone of importance. The people there pointed me to King Lorn.’ Alsadair glanced briefly at the letter in his hands. He seemed unbalanced by White-Eye’s blindness, as though she was not only blind, but deaf to his words as well. ‘By my accounting I have been on the road for four weeks. I have expired many horses in my haste to get here. And now that I am here I ask your peace, Kahana. This letter may only be given to the Bronze Knight. I may not even give it over to your safe keeping. That is my mission.’
‘I understand your mission, Sir Alsadair,’ said White-Eye mildly. ‘And you are welcome to stay here within Jador for as long as you wish. But be aware, Sir — your stay with us may be long indeed. We have no knowledge of Lukien’s whereabouts, and only hope that he will come to us again.’
‘My lady, I have been promised that he will come here, and if it takes all of my life to wait for him, then that is what I will do.’
White-Eye grimaced in Lorn’s direction. They were both thinking the same things, he could tell.
‘Sir Alsadair,’ began White-Eye, ‘You have seen the way Jador is bursting with northerners. We of course have room for one more. We welcome you, and we wish only good relations with your Prince. But. .’
Lorn spoke up. ‘But you vex us. You have a letter for Lukien? Good. Then deliver it when he comes. But you cannot keep us in the dark. You must tell us more. Who wrote the letter?’
This time, Alsadair did not hesitate in his answer. ‘This was only a secret to the men you were with, King Lorn. I meant no offense by keeping things from you. Aric Glass is the name of the man who wrote the letter. He is in Nith even now, waiting for Lukien to return.’
‘Glass?’ Lorn almost laughed. ‘A relation to Baron Glass, I suppose?’
‘His son,’ said Alsadair. ‘He claims to have fought with Lukien against the baron in Koth, and now he waits for Lukien to return to the battle.’
‘That amazes us, Sir,’ said White-Eye. ‘We hear almost nothing of the battle for Liiria. What else can you tell us? Have you heard of a young man named Gilwyn Toms?’
Lorn shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, White-Eye, I asked him about Gilwyn. He has not heard of him.’
White-Eye suppressed her obvious sadness. ‘Any news would be welcome, Sir Alsadair.’
‘My news is at least two months old, Kahana,’ said Alsadair. ‘I know only what Aric Glass has told my Prince. Koth still lays in the hands of Baron Glass. So too does the rest of Liiria.’
‘And Norvor?’ asked Lorn. ‘What about Norvor?’
‘The Diamond Queen rules Norvor.’
Lorn frowned. ‘You are sure?’
‘As I told you, my news is old. But they are a formidable team, the Diamond Queen and Baron Glass. It is not likely that anyone has toppled them. King Raxor and his Reecians have tried, and they have paid heavily for it.’
‘They have warred?’ asked Lorn.
‘They battled at the river Kryss,’ said the Nithin. ‘And the victory for Baron Glass was unarguable. Raxor’s son was killed in the battle. Thousands of others, too.’
‘The armour?’ asked White-Eye.
Alsadair nodded gravely. ‘The baron’s armour is relentless, lady. It knows no blade that can harm it. That is why the Bronze Knight quests, to find a sword that can best the armour.’
‘What sword?’ Lorn asked.
‘Aric Glass says it is called the Sword of Angels. He had told us the knight Lukien seeks the sword in the Serpent Kingdom, a land beyond this one. That is why he will return here. When he finds the sword, he will come home to Grimhold first.’
For a moment White-Eye was too stunned to speak. Lorn watched her, seeing understanding dawn on her face. ‘There is a place of serpents,’ she said softly. ‘An ancient land very far from here. It is called Tharlara, but most Jadori do not know of it. I know because my father taught me these things.’
‘And Minikin?’ asked Lorn. ‘Does she know of it? Does she know of this sword?’
‘She must,’ said White-Eye. ‘Or if she wished to, she could find out.’
‘Then why didn’t she tell us?’ Lorn asked angrily. ‘How could she keep something like that from us?’
White-Eye turned to him, freezing him with her stare. ‘We should wait to speak of this.’
Lorn caught himself. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Kahana White-Eye, King Lorn
, I can tell you only what I know myself,’ said Alsadair. ‘It does not even matter to me if this sword exists or not. I have my mission, and that is all that concerns me. With your leave I will wait here for the Bronze Knight to return.’
‘Yes,’ said White-Eye distractedly. ‘Of course. .’ Then she caught herself and turned her face up at him. ‘Tell me one more thing, Alsadair. What news can you give us of Ganjor?’
‘Ganjor? I’m not sure what my lady asks. .’
‘Anything,’ said Lorn. ‘How did Ganjor seem to you? Was it at peace?’
‘Oh, yes, King Lorn. A beautiful city. I had nothing to trouble me there, and I had heard that northerners were not always welcome in Ganjor.’
White-Eye smiled broadly. ‘That is well, Sir. Isn’t it, King Lorn?’
Lorn agreed heartily. ‘It is well indeed.’
‘Take your rest, Sir Alsadair,’ directed White-Eye. She rose from her chair. ‘We will make a place for you. But now, eat. And drink! You must have a thirst.’
‘I do, my lady,’ sighed the Nithin. ‘Thank you.’
White-Eye bade him toward the beer and food, then picked her way toward Lorn, offering the old king her arm so he could guide her. Lorn knew what was coming, and so walked the kahana gingerly toward the other side of the gigantic chamber, out of earshot of the eating Alsadair. Long shadows filled the room, cast by candlelight from the jumping tapers. White-Eye did not search for a place to sit, but rather stood, biting anxiously on her lower lip.
‘Lorn, I must explain something to you,’ she said. ‘You are troubled. You are right to be. But whatever Minikin might know about Lukien or about the sword or even about Gilwyn, she may not tell us.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Lorn. ‘There is too much at stake for her to keep secrets.’
‘Because it is not our place to know everything. Minikin may summon knowledge from the Akari, but they live in the world of the dead, and their knowledge may change the way we in this world live our lives. It is a great burden that she carries — and a great temptation.’
‘I understand that,’ said Lorn, ‘but this is life and death we’re talking about. Surely if she can look into some talisman-’
‘No,’ said White-Eye. ‘And I will not ask it of her, not even to find out Gilwyn’s fate.’ Her face softened then, and she said to Lorn, ‘You have taught me so much. Now, will you let me teach you how things are done here? We are still a mystery to you, I can tell.’
‘Yes,’ sighed Lorn. He glanced over his shoulder at Alsadair, who was gulping down great mouthfuls of beer. ‘Do you believe him, White-Eye?’
‘Should I not believe him? You can see his face, Lorn, and I cannot. Do you think he lies?’
‘No,’ replied Lorn. ‘I think everything he’s told us is true. And it troubles me, White-Eye.’
‘Yes, I can feel that,’ said the girl. ‘He reminds you of home. Of Norvor.’
Lorn nodded. ‘Aye.’
White-Eye felt for his hand. ‘You think of Norvor too much these day. Your home is here now, with Eiriann and Poppy.’
‘Yes.’ Lorn smiled faintly. ‘Of course it is.’
‘It is, Lorn.’ White-Eye squeezed his hand. ‘You can be content here, if you try.’
‘Ah, to be content!’ Lorn lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘Let me tell you something about men, Kahana. Men are never content. Their hearts are restless rivers, always running.’
‘Always running away, perhaps?’ suggested White-Eye.
Lorn didn’t like her perception. ‘You see very clearly,’ he said sourly, ‘for a blind woman.’
64
After the death of Jazana Carr, things slowly returned to normal in Koth. Word of what had happened to the Diamond Queen traveled quickly through the capital and then throughout the surrounding countryside. The people — who had learned to love the odd harlot from Norvor — mourned for her as if she were a Liirian. Great crowds gathered outside of Lionkeep, desperate for word of her demise. And Thorin, distraught over her death and rightfully blaming himself for it, walked among the throngs to speak to them and tell them how much he missed Jazana and how beloved they were to her. Not wanting a circus for a funeral, Thorin ordered Jazana’s body burned, cremating every beautiful bone of her in a blazing pyre that lit the courtyard. Norvan and Liirian soldiers kept the crowds far from the fire, and Thorin stood alone as he watched the smoke take Jazana’s remains to heaven. Two days later, he rode out alone to the apple orchard and spread her dust amid the winds.
Gilwyn watched the crowds gathering around Lionkeep from the safety of his high bedchamber. And when the pyre had burned to ashes, he watched the crowds disperse, returning to their sad lives without their Norvan patron. In the few short weeks he had been in Koth, Gilwyn had heard the remarkable tales about Jazana Carr and how generous she had been to the people of the city. The maids and stable boys of Lionkeep spoke of her with reverence, and everyone seemed to have a story about a kindness she had done for them. It was hard for Gilwyn to think of Jazana Carr like that, because he himself had met her once, years earlier in Norvor, and he not seen the side of her that so many people now worshipped. Still, he lamented her death, mostly because it had effected Thorin so badly, and while he recuperated in his bed Gilwyn was careful not to say anything that would bring his friend Thorin bad memories.
Aside from the excitement of the funeral, very little happened to Gilwyn those first weeks. He grew stronger, naturally, resting in his comfortable bed and eating the warm foods the kitchen provided in abundance. He had lost considerable weight during his trek across the continent, and was now determined to put back every single pound. At first he remained weak, the rass poison reasserting itself in his bloodstream. But as the days progressed he felt less and less of the lethargy that had plagued him for so long, and under the watchful eye of Lionkeep’s maids he soon grew strong again.
But Gilwyn was careful. It would be weeks or even months until Lukien returned again, and that meant he needed time. So Gilwyn kept to his bed for as long as he could, convincing Thorin that he was far too weak to start work in the library, or to even think about using its complicated catalogue machine. He whiled away his hours in his bedchamber, sometimes venturing out into Lionkeep’s halls, always keeping up the pretense of illness and lassitude.
Even so, the day finally came when Thorin decided that fresh air was all that Gilwyn really needed. It was nearly four weeks from the time Gilwyn had collapsed at the threshold of Lionkeep, and the day was sparkling and cool. That morning, Thorin came early to Gilwyn’s bedchamber, insisting that he dress himself and take a hearty breakfast. They were going riding, Thorin told him, and that meant he needed to be strong. Puzzled, Gilwyn did not argue with Thorin but instead did exactly as the baron requested. He pulled on the fine clothes that had been provided for him and slipped his feet into the boots that made walking with his clubbed foot possible. Downstairs, he found a steaming breakfast of eggs and bread waiting for him, which he quickly devoured. Then he went outside and found Thorin in the courtyard, waiting for him along with a pair of newly brushed geldings. There were no soldiers to accompany them, none of the Liirians who had been conscripted into service or the ubiquitous Norvan mercenaries, most of whom had stayed with Thorin even after the death of their queen. A sprinkling of stable hands moved in the distance, and that was all. With Thorin’s help, Gilwyn made his way into the saddle of his horse, then followed the baron out of Lionkeep.
Less than an hour later, he was staring up at the great library.
A stiff wind blew his curls into his eyes, but Gilwyn quickly brushed them aside. He wanted nothing to obscure his view. Knowing this, Thorin stood aside, watching him proudly, unveiling the magnificent structure he had destroyed and then rebuilt. Work had mostly stopped on the library, but from the outside it had been fully restored to its lost glory, and its shadow loomed over Gilwyn, striking him dumb. He had never thought to see this place again, and all the memories of all the years he had spent within its walls
flooded over him, choking his voice and bringing a lump to his throat. Whatever other things Thorin had done — whatever wickedness he had occasioned — his new-found love for the library was obvious. He had spared no expense in returning it to glory, and the endless hours of toil showed. Gilwyn gazed up at the awesome edifice, the breeze whistling in his ears, and all at once he felt at home again.
‘It’s real, Gilwyn,’ said Thorin. ‘You should say something.’
There was only one thing Gilwyn wanted. ‘Can we go inside?’
‘Why would I bring you here if not to let you inside?’ said Thorin. ‘Of course, boy!’
He tossed himself off his horse, then helped Gilwyn down from his own mount, using his real, fleshy arm to guide him from the saddle. Thorin had not worn the entire suit of armour since Gilwyn had arrived, but had not once removed the parts of his enchanted arm, either. Gilwyn knew the armour gave Thorin strength, keeping him forever connected to Kahldris. And Thorin was careful not let anyone touch the black metal, especially not Gilwyn. With Gilwyn following close behind, he went to the great doors and pulled them open effortlessly, a feat that should have taken more than a little sweat. At once the candlelit interior of the library greeted them, calling to Gilwyn with its polished ceiling and walls of glowing marble. The scent of the place had changed, thought Gilwyn, but as he rushed up through the threshold he saw at once that it was just as before. Newer, perhaps, but mostly unchanged, honeycombed with reading rooms and staggered by rows and rows of dark wood shelves, all of them lined with precious books. Gilwyn moved like a dream through the main hall, his eyes wide, his head swiveling to take in every marvelous nuance. He laughed, giddy from the sense of homecoming.
‘It’s wonderful, Thorin!’ he called, racing ahead of the baron. ‘I can almost hear Figgis calling me!’
The sconces on the wall flickered with soft light. They had all been lit, every one of them, making a constellation along the smooth walls. Thorin beamed, proud of his accomplishment, and of the surprise he had been able to gift to Gilwyn. He followed Gilwyn through the hall, but not so close that the young man could not go exploring, peaking his head into every little cranny of the place and pulling manuscripts from the infinite shelves. Gilwyn could barely control his glee. It took him spinning through the library, his mind racing with happy memories. He shouted in the hall just to hear his voice echo. In the giant western study chamber, a place where he’d once seen an Andolan scholar fall asleep in a bowl of soup, he stood up on the table just to reach the highest shelves, balancing on his clubbed foot and pulling down a book of ancient maps with his badly fused hand. The book tumbled out of his buttery fingers, spilling to the floor, and like the good librarian he used to be Gilwyn hurried down to retrieve it.