The Cycle of Arawn: The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy

by Edward W. Robertson

  Olivander was quiet a moment. "I'm beginning to think I should dispatch a second team to assist you."

  Dante laughed. "Anyone who volunteers for that needs to be committed to an asylum. And you'd need a small army to get past the kappers. No way you bring a troop like that into Spiren without the Minister noticing."

  "I was afraid you'd say that. Don't get too close to him. Get what you need and get out fast."

  "That's my goal. How are your preparations going?"

  "Deliberately," Olivander said. "We've made progress. But if we move too fast, we risk alarming Setteven. If we were to then explain why we're mustering our forces, and that he has no cause for worry, the king might be tempted to take advantage of our situation, either by striking us or recapturing the norren. It's a slippery path."

  Dante had been so wrapped up in his own problems he hadn't given any thought to the political consequences of the Minister's plans. The raising of an army was a tough thing to conceal. Moddegan might well react by expanding his own forces. Even if Narashtovik were able to resist the Minister's invasion, they might be so weakened they'd be helpless against an opportunistic strike from Setteven.

  They left the desert and entered the prairie. Ellan resolved to the north. They could hear the blare of its morning horns from ten miles away. They passed through the maze-like gates. On the hopes of not spending a single night in the city, the group hurried straight to an entrance to the Echoes. While Lew and Somburr hung about in a plaza to make use of a fountain and water the ponies, Dante and Ast headed into the caverns; refusing to miss out on any potential fun, Cee joined them.

  Dante didn't want Kasee to see him, let alone talk to him, and he and Ast holed up in a mostly intact sandstone building down the street from her little rebel band. He was trying to think of a way to pass a message to Horace without attracting attention when luck smiled on them and the bald man exited the house on a course toward one of the stairways. Dante allowed him a small head start, putting Kasee's house behind them, then jogged to catch up.

  At the sound of his footsteps, Horace glanced back. He looked surprised to see Dante, but not especially wary, and Dante was able to convince him to talk inside the shelter of a crumbling house.

  "Did you find what you were looking for?" Horace said.

  "We did," Dante said. "Why send us all the way to Morrive? Why not simply tell me what happened?"

  "Would you have believed me if you hadn't seen it with your own eyes?"

  "Probably not. But if you'd tried, you might have saved us two weeks. Anyway, how did you know I'd be able to expose the trees?"

  Horace tipped back his head. "Expose the trees? Didn't you see the canyon? The houses in its sides buried under fifty feet of clay and sand?"

  "We didn't see anything like that. Maybe the sands have filled it in." Outside, someone was crunching down the street. Dante waited for them to pass. "What's done is done. Now I need to know everything you know concerning the Minister's knowledge of Cellen."

  "I don't know anything about that. I'm sorry. You should speak to Yotom again. He's the one who's been keeping an eye on the Minister."

  "Since when did the monks of Dirisen get so political?" Ast asked.

  "Since politics became hijacked by madmen," Horace replied.

  "Enough," Dante said. "We're all lashed to the same wagon. We'll ask Yotom about Cellen, but is there anything else you can tell us that might help us deal with the Minister?"

  Horace folded his hands and stared at the gritty floor of the half-ruined house. "Again, this is an issue for Yotom. I am a long way from Corl, and he will know the details most fit to help your cause. But I know a story that may be of use."

  "Wonderful," Cee said, settling in.

  "Quiet," Dante said. "Right now, everything is useful to us, Horace."

  "Very well," he said. "I believe Kasee told you the Minister is from Ellan?"

  "She did. Which makes it odd that he has so much legitimacy in Spiren."

  "There are two reasons for that. The first is that his family also has strong roots in Spiren. I can't recite the precise course of their lineage, but his branch of the tree is fed with royal sap. His claim to the crown is legitimate. Ironically, that legitimacy became a stumbling block. The Minister had eyes on ascending the Top Loft, but his brother Doven got there first, marrying the Lady Ansele, heir to the Spirish throne."

  Cee frowned. "First I've heard of either of them."

  Horace chuckled darkly. "Not without reason. This was a typical Ellanite marriage. Meant to strengthen Camren's ties to Spiren and broaden the rivers of trade. Great wealth was poured into preparations for the wedding, and even more was exchanged securing deals for lorbells, Spirish lumber, and Camrish iron. Both sides invested much and anticipated they would profit even more.

  "The Minister knew this. As the wedding neared, he invited Doven down to the Echoes, claiming he had unearthed a great treasure he wished to give Doven as a wedding gift. The two brothers descended to these very caves." Horace's eyebrows bent. "Later that day, the Minister emerged alone and dazed. There had been a cave-in. Doven was dead. The arrangements lay in ruins. Not just the wedding, but the entire Spirish-Camrish alliance. Until the Minister volunteered to marry the Lady Ansele in his brother's stead."

  Cee gaped. "He killed his own brother?"

  "No one knows that but the Minister. Ansele had been in love with Doven, and wanted nothing to do with his younger brother, but it wasn't a situation in which she was given a voice. She and the Minister were married.

  "For three years, their relationship remained as cold as the tips of the Woduns. Then Ansele fell from the Top Loft. Some claimed it was a suicide. The Minister investigated it himself. He declared it was true. His wife had killed herself. And he was so heartbroken that he couldn't stand hearing her name ever again."

  "He killed his wife, too?" Dante said.

  "That's what many of the Spirish nobles believed," Horace said. "Murder, suicide, accident. Any of these was possible. Whatever the truth, the Minister's decree soon blotted her from history."

  "Much like Morrive."

  "Precisely. At the same time, the Minister stepped up his xenophobia, accusing Ellan of dishonest dealing, whipping up his people with tales from the past. With his fist curled firmly around his people, his power consolidated, all whispers of Ansele ceased."

  "I'm not sure I understand," Dante said. "Are you suggesting we can exploit the cracks in the Spirish nobility?"

  Horace leaned back and spread his hands. "This was many years ago. Ansele's friends and family have long since died, resigned, or bent their neck to the Minister's yoke. Happily so, in many cases. I don't tell you this to exploit a rift. The Minister made sure that was impossible. I tell you this so you can understand the man you seek to face. He knows his goals, he will do anything to achieve them, and he will neutralize all consequences before you know how to react."

  That marked the end of their talk. Dante thanked Horace and returned to street level with Cee and Ast. With nothing to keep them in Ellan, they struck west toward the lands of Spiren and the sky-spanning Woduns.

  "What exactly are the Dirisen?" Dante said once they were settled and on their way. "What's their role in this?"

  "I can't say I've kept up with inter-regional Weslean politics," Ast said. "But the Dirisen have always been devoted to the preservation of knowledge. They consider it humanity's greatest accomplishment and the only treasure worth seeking. The one thing that sets us apart from the animals. The only way we'll ever rise above our base nature."

  "Sounds like you admire them," Cee said.

  "When I was younger and full of anger, I joined one of their shrines, hoping to calm myself and find my way. All I wound up learning was their life was not for me."

  "So you have no idea what their involvement is?" Dante said.

  Ast hunched his shoulders in a broad shrug. "I left them years ago. I barely know what Cellen is myself. I couldn't begin to guess what the Dirisen are
doing."

  Dante supposed they'd be able to ask Yotom in a few days. In the meantime, they needed to think about how to operate in a land they'd been forbidden from reentering under penalty of death. They weren't going to be able to stay in Corl. There was too little private space; it wasn't like a typical city, with numerous ways in and out and countless streets and back alleys to make use of in lieu of the major boulevards. Each section of the city had, in essence, a single connective street: the stairway up the trunk. Which was patrolled by soldiers and interrupted by toll-bridges. They'd have to keep their use of these to the bare minimum. That meant finding shelter outside the city.

  After much discussion, they decided to sell the three remaining ponies. They had a lot of ground to cross in Spiren, and ditching their mounts was the only good way to alter the composition of their party. Besides, they no longer needed to carry enough supplies to last them through a long journey into unknown lands. Cellen would appear somewhere in the Woduns, Dante was sure of it. Once they learned exactly how to find and take it, they would only need to carry enough blankets and food to get to it and take it to Soll.

  They could sorely use money for bribes and such, too. So as they plodded west, they checked in at villages and towns, gauging the market for the three beasts. Somburr predicted offer prices would increase as they grew closer to the mountains. This proved true. As they neared the borders of Camren and Spiren, they sold all three to a man who made regular trade excursions into the forested hills. The price was less than Dante had hoped for, but it was sizable enough, and with the lorens providing free food and shelter, they'd be able to save all of it for buying information.

  As they neared Spiren, Dante knocked a rabbit dead and infused it with the nether. He sent it loping down the road, its little black eyes sharp for any sign of soldiers. The nights were generally too overcast for travel, particularly when the road ran along the sides of the yawning east-west canyons—canyons that, Dante now knew, must have been carved during the disaster that had washed away Morrive and brought life to Ellan.

  Whenever they approached a city-loren, they looped through the woods until it was well behind them. There were a fair amount of travelers on the road, but Dante simply declined all attempts to engage their group in conversation.

  The closer they got to Corl, the more often patrols of soldiers forced them to vacate the road. Twice, full companies marched past wearing forest green uniforms and carrying pikes and bows. While Dante and the others hid hundreds of yards inside the woods, the undead rabbit watched the troops go by. Dante relayed everything he saw to Olivander, who was thrilled to finally receive some hard details of what Narashtovik might face in the field.

  Once they arrived within ten miles of Corl, they found an unoccupied loren and installed themselves in one of its lower rounds. Dante used a team of dead rabbits and squirrels to scout for a secluded tree closer to the city. With the forest extending to all sides, they were able to find an empty loren tucked behind a hill a mile from Corl.

  As night fell, Dante penned a note and tied it around the neck of one of the squirrels. It bounded across the woods toward Corl. It took Dante some time to find the tree with the owl carved into its trunk. The beast dashed up the tree's roots and climbed straight up the trunk to the Fourth Loft. There, the shrine's conical roof stood out from the leaves like a mast against the sea. The squirrel snuck across the flat and Dante guided it around the structure, looking for a hole or an open window. In the end, he had to send it in through the chimney. Which was in use. But the dead squirrel registered the smoke and the heat without slowing down.

  Monks snored within their cells, doors left open to coax warm air from the central fireplace. The squirrel went room to room, standing over each monk until Dante identified Yotom. The squirrel hopped up on the man's desk, chewed through the string around its neck, and deposited Dante's note.

  With its first task complete, he sent it back out the fireplace. Its claws slipped on the bricks and the stink of singed fur filled its nose. It regained its footing and scrabbled up into the night air. Dante had it take a look at itself. The tip of its tail was burnt, but it looked intact enough to pass for a living creature. He sent it racing along the flats to the Minister's tree. There, it climbed higher and higher until it looked down on the palace. Candles burned in the windows. Guards patrolled the walkways. Mostly, they hung around the stairway, but they were canny enough to glance up into the branches now and then.

  For the moment, he left his scout outside the buildings of the palace. He wanted to talk to Yotom before he began snooping around the Minister's. The man must have nethermancers of his own. Otherwise, Cellen would surely be beyond his reach.

  Back in their loren, they tacked brown blankets across the entrance of the round. The night was frigid and they had no fire, but their combined body heat in the small space kept it bearable. When they got up, they plucked lorbells from the branches, eating these rather than dipping into their supplies of dry food.

  Dante posted a couple of squirrels in the trees a few hundred yards closer to Corl to watch the approach. He and the others kept to their tree, leaving the round as little as possible. That afternoon, a man walked across the forest floor. His clothes were of the Spirish fashion, but they were plain brown, and while many people accented the bands around their wrists and shins with colorful thread, precious metals, or small charms, his were twine. He was shaved bald, but his face was bearded with white bristles.

  Dante climbed down the tree and moved to intercept Yotom before he could see exactly where they were staying. They paused twenty feet apart on the mushy bed of leaves.

  Yotom inclined his head. "I didn't think we'd see each other again."

  "I wouldn't be back to tempt the Minister's wrath unless it were urgent," Dante said. "The night we were supposed to meet, what did you intend to tell me?"

  Yotom's eyes crinkled. "That would have depended on what kind of person I judged you to be. When the Minister's men came for us, I knew you would be cast from Spiren or worse. I could only hope to send you to my friend instead."

  "We met him. He's embedded with a group convinced the Minister means to invade Ellan. They wound up tangling with his agents. Horace was wounded and near death, but I was able to heal him."

  "Then I am most glad you were able to find him."

  "Eventually." Dante's eyebrows crept together. "You might have mentioned his address was underground."

  The monk shrugged. "I had nothing but his address myself."

  "Why were you willing to speak to me in the first place?"

  "Because you're from Narashtovik. Of all the Minister's many hatreds, that one burns the hottest. If he'd learned it's your homeland, he would've given you a swift and public execution."

  "Why do you care? Why are your people at odds with the Minister?"

  "Do you know who my people are?"

  "The Dirisen," Dante said. "Like the Hanassans of Gask. Collectors of wisdom."

  "Of knowledge," the monk corrected. "Knowledge is the only way mankind might be saved. That makes the Minister our most bitter enemy."

  "Champion of ignorance, is he?"

  "The latest in a long line of them. To the Dirisen, their crime is peerless: the extermination of all knowledge of the greatest calamity to ever befall the known world."

  Dante's blood ran cold. A wave of prickles ran down his spine. "The raising of the Woduns."

  Yotom's brows shot up. "You know?"

  "After an absurd amount of legwork. I don't know what's harder to believe: the story itself, or that it's possible to erase it from history."

  "How much do you know about what the world was like before you were born? Can you name a single king from a thousand years ago? A single kingdom?" The old man gazed across the cold woods. "Now imagine that a singleminded group has spent the last thousand years destroying all knowledge of that forgotten monarch."

  "Well, they've done a damn good job. I didn't understand what I was seeing until I went to M
orrive for myself. I've never heard a whisper of the cataclysm in Gask."

  "That's where the Spirish worked hardest. To them, you're demonspawn. When the day comes for them to strike, they want you ignorant of everything—especially their intention to destroy you."

  "You talk like this is something that won't happen for hundreds of years," Dante said. "But it's happening now."

  "The Minister isn't preparing to attack Ellan at all, is he? Cellen's returned. And he's about to find it."

  "He'll use it to tear down the mountains. With a clear path, he'll unleash his legions on Narashtovik. Can you help me get it before him?"

  The old man pursed his mouth. "What will you do with it?"

  "I certainly won't use it to destroy Spiren."

  "Nor to improve your skill at dodging questions. Even Cellen couldn't make you any better at that."

  "To live forever," Dante said. "If I can."

  Yotom looked him up and down. "You sorcerers are so predictable."

  "Is there something wrong with not wanting to die?"

  "Not especially. Except that it contradicts Arawn's will."

  "If he wants me, he'll take me. Do you find my cause unworthy?"

  "It could use some work," the monk said. "But I suppose it's better than genocide. Here's the truth: I don't know much about how to find what you seek. The Minister and his ancestors have spent centuries gathering that information up, then destroying all trace of it in the world. Logically, he'll have stored what he's found in his crow's nest."

  Dante frowned. "I was brought there when his men came for me. But if I tried to return, I would be escorted off the nearest branch."

  "Did you get much of a look around?"

  "Our meeting was on the hasty side. Not to mention hostile. I was occupied watching his hands for knives."

  Yotom waved at a fly that had somehow survived the winter. "In the past, he's called me in to borrow my expertise as the city's elder monk of Dirisen. Naturally the information doesn't flow both ways. But I couldn't help noticing one of his rooms is papered with strange drawings. Squiggles, striations, abstract lines. After a couple hours pretending I wasn't staring at it, I finally figured out what I was looking at: a bird's-eye view of certain regions of the Wodun Mountains."