The Cycle of Arawn: The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy

by Edward W. Robertson

  He went to a tavern instead. The first drink tasted like relief. The third, numbness. The eighth, peace. He was sicker than ever when he woke. On the verge of vomiting. His skin as hot as sun-baked cobbles. As he worked on another pair of loons, he drank a beer to soothe his nerves. He caught Somburr in the hallway and got him to help try out the first set. They worked like a dream.

  He stopped work around six o'clock. The sun was still many degrees from the horizon, but it was late enough to return to the public houses. He went in plain clothes. If anyone recognized him, they said nothing.

  That became his routine. While laborers dug the foundations for a new set of gates, Dante sat in the windows of pubs, watching the streets. He never saw Blays. Once, he got in a fight; the other man started it, something about the looks Dante was giving his woman. Dante knocked him to the ground with a blunt wallop of nether, locked the man in place with shadowy chains, and laughed as he poured his beer over the man's paralyzed head.

  A servant found him in the pub the next day. Olivander wished to see him at once.

  Dante didn't stand. "What for?"

  "He didn't say, my lord."

  "I'm not going to apologize. When I'm here, I don't represent the Council. Anyway, he started it."

  "All he told me is he wants to see you."

  "I don't know. It's pretty comfy here."

  The man clasped his hands together. "My lord, if I go back without you..."

  Dante rolled his eyes. "Fine. Once I'm done with my drink, we'll go see what Captain Noble wants from me now."

  He took his time. The messenger sat awkwardly, watching the other patrons. After the last sip of spiced rum, Dante slammed down his mug, stood, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  "Well?"

  The man nodded and opened the door for him. Sunset dwindled behind the blankets of fog. The air was a neutral non-temperature. Breathing felt good. Dante strolled along behind the messenger, letting his anger ferment to match the contents of his stomach. What did Olivander care if he'd knocked around some fool? Who gave a shit? Weeks ago, Dante had killed five thousand men in a single stroke. Nobody had complained about that. They'd thrown a feast in his honor while he slept, and a second when he woke. The messenger glanced over his shoulder as Dante laughed.

  The first layer of stone had been set into the foundation of the gates. Twenty soldiers stood to block the open space. They let Dante through without a word. In the Council's chambers, Olivander was surprised to see not just Olivander, but the other six surviving priests as well: sprightly old Tarkon, stolid Hart, silent Joseff, foul-tongued Merria, bitter Ulev, owlish Somburr. Dante nodded their way and took his seat.

  "For the last few weeks, I've acted as steward to the city," Olivander said in his baritone. "But I wasn't appointed. I accepted the mantle through default. But now it's time to do things right."

  "Well, why not you?" Dante said. "You've been on the Council for years. You know how to order an army around. Sounds good to me."

  "Because we've already made our decision."

  Dante pushed his knees against the table, rocking his chair back. "Glad to hear it. Congratulations."

  Olivander chuckled richly. "You're congratulating yourself."

  Dante's knee slipped. He nearly fell from his chair. "What?"

  "Will you accept the position of high priest of this council?"

  "Are you all insane? I'm only 22! Do you know how drunk I am right now?"

  "Sounds to me like you were just celebrating early," Tarkon said.

  "Why not you?" Dante said to him. "You've been here for an eternity."

  "That's exactly why it shouldn't be me," Tarkon cackled. "Put me in charge, and I might wander into the cathedral after forgetting to put on pants. How about you, Joseff? Can you even chew your own food?"

  Joseff laughed hoarsely. "No. That's why I eat with a fork and a hammer."

  Dante shook his head. "You'd be perfect for this, Olivander. You're so...reasonable."

  "That's why I make a very fine advisor," Olivander said. "And I advise you to take the position."

  "No. I can't. I don't know anything about running this city. This order."

  Olivander snorted. "Like this isn't what you've dreamed of since the moment you first set foot in this room. Your ambition is hardly a secret, Dante. You wear it like some men wear a new cape."

  "Maybe that's exactly why this is a bad idea."

  "Then I have a compromise for you. If there are no objections, I'll continue as steward." Olivander raised his eyebrows at the other councilmen and was met with nods and shrugs. "In the meantime, you're my shadow. My sponge. Absorbing everything that goes into the administration of Narashtovik and the Citadel. When you're ready, the mantle will pass on to you."

  Dante held up his palms. "Why?"

  "You have ideas no one else does. You dream big, and just when it looks like that dream is about to crash, you do something else no one else can do—and save it. Callimandicus chose well when he took you under his wing. You are his heir."

  Dante blinked at sudden tears. "I'm nothing next to Cally."

  "Yeah, well, you should have seen that fool at your age," Tarkon said. "Take the position. There's more than one of us on this council for a reason. You do anything too dumb, you can be sure we'll let you know."

  "You'll all help me?" Dante said. The Council of Narashtovik nodded. He blinked again. "I accept."

  * * *

  It was a nice ceremony. The Cathedral of Ivars was packed with familiar faces and strangers who might one day become friends. There were speeches. Rituals. Rich dishes of duck and fish and fruits. Beer and wine and spirits. At the end, after they pinned him with Cally's old brooch—the tree of Barden, carved from bone supposedly harvested from the White Tree itself—they literally carried him across the street back to the Citadel.

  He returned to his room fat, drunk, and happy. Yet he still felt the void. The abyss. The hole that couldn't be filled.

  Working with Olivander helped. There was so much to do. On Dante's insistence, Nak was promoted to the Council, an honor he attempted twice to decline before Dante told him it wasn't a choice. They opened nominations of other monks. Dante drafted messages to Brant in Tantonnen to bargain for more grain to bolster Narashtovik's supplies in the event of a second siege. Others went to the scattered clans. Meanwhile, they awaited word from Gallador and their former king. Dante hired three trackers, gave them a two-word message, and sent them into the wilds in search of Blays. Day by day, the stonework around the missing gates climbed to its former heights.

  The sun came and went, but the worst of the summer had passed. As fall neared, King Moddegan gave his reply. In exchange for their neutrality in the ongoing conflict in Gallador, as well as ongoing considerations for rights of passage and the ongoing continuation of all existent agreements in trade, Narashtovik and the Norren Territories would be freed.

  As the city whooped and drank and cheered and kissed, Dante drafted a letter to Gabe, the norren monk of Mennok who had, in a way, caused this all.

  Somehow, Dante found time to continue forging new loons. When he had eighteen pairs, he arranged for a trip into the newly independent Territories. It was a small delegation. He insisted Nak come with him. Olivander made him take another monk, a handful of servants, and a dozen of the guard's finest. Under the warmth of morning, they left the Citadel and headed south.

  In the norren lands, whole towns had been burnt to the ground, abandoned to the sun and the wind. Crows circled the hilltops, pecking at fresh bones. Whole fields lay scorched and black. At other towns, hammers and saws rapped and soughed. Clans moved over the plains. Dante spoke to chieftains, swapping stories, news, and congratulations. After three weeks of travel, he tracked down Mourn and the Nine Pines in the hills east of Tantonnen.

  "You?" Mourn laughed. "In charge of Narashtovik?"

  Dante laughed back. "I told them they were making a mistake."

  "Are they? Then perhaps it is a good one." />
  "And how about you? How are you finding the perks of command?"

  "To be more demanding than perky." Mourn frowned and waved a hand at the men and women sitting in the shade of low, gnarled trees. "Do you have any idea what it's like trying to get thirty warriors to walk in the same direction? It's worse than when Orlen had me shepherding you and Blays."

  Dante's smile froze. He struggled for more to say. "It's so funny. All this time, we fought a war against a man we've never met."

  "Incorrect."

  "When have you seen him?"

  Mourn shook his head and smiled. "We won a war against a man we've never met."

  He stayed with Mourn two more days, then moved on through the grassy plains. Hawks soared on the warm air. At last, among the patchy pines below Dollendun, he found the last clan he'd come to see.

  "High priest of Narashtovik?" Hopp grinned. "You do understand that among the Clan of the Broken Herons, you're still nothing more than a lowly cub?"

  "The lowliest," Dante said. "Have any pants that need scrubbing?"

  "Yes, but I'll have to save a few for Blays to do. He must remember his place as well. Where is he?"

  "On a trip of his own."

  "Is it an interesting one?"

  "I can't say."

  "Ah." Hopp narrowed his eyes. "Is everything good?"

  "Fine," Dante said. "How are you? How are my clan-brothers and sisters?"

  Hopp waited another moment before explaining they'd lost many warriors, but in the weeks since the king had renounced his claim to their lands, the men and women of the Herons had set about replacing those losses with impressive vigor. Dante nodded when he should nod, laughed when he should laugh.

  But Hopp watched him too closely. "I ask again: is everything good?"

  "It is," Dante said. "I'm just tired. This is the first time I've been able to slow down in months."

  A warm breeze carried the smell of pollen and pines. The sun was sinking, its gauzy rays piercing the shield of needles. Crickets chirped and whirred.

  "Well, it's too early for sleep," Hopp declared. "How about we pass the time with a story?"

  "All right."

  "Good. This is the story of Davran. Do you know the story of Davran? Good. Davran was a norren who lived long ago. Hundreds of years. He lived in a small town on one of the small rivulets that led into the great river. When he was young, he was kindly. Adults adored him. Many young women did, too. But the only woman he could see was a girl named Yoren.

  "Yoren was beautiful. Have you seen the glaciers in the mountains? The water they feed to the lakes? Yoren's eyes were as green and vivid as the water of the glaciers. She could fight, too, with sword and bow. Her nulla was in the weaving of rope and the tying of knots. Unusual, but so was she. Do you know how much you can do with a good knot? Even a bad one can hold something fast for the present, or confuse the most cunning of men. And Yoren tied Davran into knots, too.

  "With his tongue so knotted, he couldn't speak to her. Every time he saw her, and couldn't speak, that pulled the knot in his heart that much tighter. Davran's nulla was wooden carvings. Small ones. Itty bitty models of people and animals and places. To say to Yoren what his knotted tongue couldn't, Davran set to carving. He carved tiny pines and tiny deer. He gouged a streambed out of a plank, and when he smeared the stream's tiny banks with bear fat, it could even carry water. From bits of wood as small as a pea, he carved birds, and perched them in the pines. He carved himself, happy and hale and adoring. And lastly he carved her. On the final piece, he spent weeks of patient labor, shaving away the splinters with a razor until he captured each curve of her cheek and muscle of her arms. The carving was beautiful. Stunning. So real that when Davran looked at it he fell in love with it just as he had with Yoren.

  "All this time, Davran had lived in retreat in a shack in the woods. When his little world was finished, he returned to the larger world. And discovered Yoren had married.

  "He went back to the shack. He smashed the world he'd spent months creating. He lit a fire and smiled as the statue of Yoren burned."

  Hopp paused to smile and drink from a wineskin, which Dante gratefully accepted. It tasted like pears and was strong enough to sting his eyes.

  "Once his little Yoren had burnt down to cinders, Davran raged and wept and pounded the trees with his fists. He carried his anger for years. Longer than he'd even known Yoren. In time, he cooled, just like all fires do. He began to create again. Carving little trees. Little birds. Little people. He carved and carved and carved. Locked away in his shack, he built whole worlds to keep him company. Then again, he had all the time in the world, because in the depths of his anguish, he'd vowed never to see another person again, believing they were good for nothing but pain. And he stuck to that vow. And he carved and carved and carved. He built new shacks to host his world. If you'd seen it, you would have clapped and cried. Yes, even you. They were that wonderful. If you looked at them from the corner of your eye, you'd swear the little wooden birds were chirping, the young girls were laughing.

  "As we all do, one day Davran died."

  Hopp stopped. Dante looked up. "Then what?"

  "Then nothing. Because he didn't know anyone. He died. And because there was no one to see them, his little worlds died with him."

  Dante frowned. "Then how do you know about it?"

  "Because Josun Joh saw. How do you think?"

  "What I think is that this is one of those stories with a moral. Are you trying to teach me something?"

  "If I were, do you think I'm stupid enough to think you'd listen?"

  "I don't know. We can all be pretty dumb sometimes."

  They were silent for a time. Shadows dappled their arms as they drank from the wineskin. Hopp pointed to the dragonflies wheeling above the cattails at the edge of the pond the clan had camped beside.

  "See the dragonflies? The way the light glistens on their wings? Aren't they beautiful?"

  Dante looked. They weren't. They were as scaly as dead lizards. Their eyes bulged. Their mouths clutched at lesser flies, shredding, grinding, casting away their prey's wings and sticklike legs. They were hideous. Monsters of nightmares.

  "Blays is gone," he blurted.

  Hopp's face fell. "Dead?"

  Dante shook his head. His eyes blurred. "I killed Lira. I didn't want to, but I had to. They would have married some day. I killed my brother's wife, and now my brother is gone."

  Dragonflies gleamed and soared. Fish broke the surface of the pond and disappeared without a trace. The sun sank lower every minute, flagging, drawn helplessly to the parted jaws of two hazy mountain peaks. Its failing light did nothing to drive away the ghosts. He knew they would always be with him.

  1

  Blays took a final look at the field, memorizing what he was about to lose, and disappeared beneath the roaring tsunami of rock. Dust rushed past the avalanche in a choking cloud, sweeping away the sunlight. The earth shook and groaned as if the tide of stones would never end. At last it did, and the dust settled, and Blays was gone.

  The dream was always the same, but that didn't mean Dante was used to it. He woke with a gasp. The mountain air was cold but his chest was slick with sweat. The smell of pines sat on the damp air. Lew, the young monk Olivander had insisted Dante bring with him, slept on, tangled in his blankets.

  Dante got up for a walk. Dawn was an hour away, but he knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. He was so sick of the guilt. During daylight hours, it was easy enough to ignore it, to pretend it wasn't there. But when he slept—when his mind set down its shield and doused the fire of consciousness—the dreams crawled in.

  Something rustled in the fallen leaves. Dante went still. The noise was soft, deliberate. The whisper of a predator watching from the brush. Small, though. Perhaps a lynx. Dante considered illuminating it with the nether, then walked on. The woods smelled of sap and cold dew on lichen. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

  Though the Wodun Mountains bega
n hardly a hundred miles east of Narashtovik, he'd never been so deep within them, and he spent what was left of the night wandering in a wide circle around the camp. Getting a feel for the steepness of the slopes. The firmness of the ground, which he touched not only with his feet, but with the nether, exploring the shadowy net dispersed in the old death lurking in the soil. Once, he crouched and touched the chilly ground. The nether rose in a black puddle that absorbed the silver of the moon. It looked the same as it did anywhere else.

  First light touched the woods, gray-blue and eerie. He returned to camp. Dawn was as slow to struggle past the eastern peaks as Lew was to fight his way from his bedroll. The monk was barely of man's age, and though he was talented with the nether, his superiors believed he lacked ambition. That was why he in particular had been assigned to attend Dante. The trip was nothing much, a visit to a quiet backwater that probably wouldn't have noticed if Narashtovik had annexed it, but the location was a touch exotic and the travel had its arduous moments. With luck, it would stir Lew's imagination, show him the opportunities available to those who worked hard and focused on making the most of themselves.

  Or so his minders believed. Dante nudged his sleeping carcass with a damp toe. Lew started, thrashing about in his blankets. His eyes were round and wide in the dawn. Seeing Dante, he donned the vaguely intoxicated smile of someone attempting to mask their confusion with agreeability.

  "You were out?" he said.

  "We're in the middle of nowhere," Dante said. "That makes everywhere 'out.'"

  "But what about the kappers?"

  "Terrifying to imagine, I'm sure. Have you ever seen a kapper?"

  "No," Lew said slowly, "but I never saw you until I did, either."

  Dante rolled his eyes. "Unlike kappers, I wasn't hunted to extinction five hundred years ago. Get moving. Long hike ahead of us."

  Lew emerged from his bedding and dressed. While he prepared for the day, Dante boiled black tea, which they drank with a breakfast of cold meat pies. After cleaning up camp (they wouldn't garner any goodwill with the locals by leaving the Woduns full of refuse and fires), they made their way back to the alleged "road," a dirt trail interrupted by rubbly patches where floods and mudslides had erased or buried the path ahead. It was slow going. On the steeper inclines, Dante found himself short of breath. He'd been spending too many days cooped inside the Citadel under Olivander's tutelage. Tending to the administration of a newly independent Narashtovik was an important task, surely, but it had left him poorly equipped to deal with tasking climbs into mountainous hinterlands.