by Robin Hardy
Nihl said, “Surchatain, we saw you in the mirror. We saw it all—the pit, the army, the fire—”
“But Roman!” interrupted Deirdre. “When you were taken up to the light, what was it you saw? We saw you stop, and the expression on your face! But we couldn’t see what you were seeing, and then the image vanished.”
Roman feebly answered, “I saw heaven, and then . . . I saw the Lord.”
Several pairs of widened eyes glanced around. “What did He look like?” Deirdre asked cautiously.
He blinked. “I can’t tell you; I don’t know. I couldn’t see His face. I can only recall the unbearable beauty, the light, and the love. . . .” Just saying the words brought back the sensations that weakened him all over again. “I could never tell you adequately what I saw—I haven’t the words. I only know that there is not enough adoration in the world to match His worth.”
There was a moment of wondering silence, then Roman began shakily to rise. Nihl and Kam bumped each other in reaching out to help him.
Roman halted, swaying. “What became of the book that started all this?” he muttered.
Nihl pointed to a heap of smoldering ashes on the floor near the fractured mirror. The odor of the pit rose faintly from the dying ashes. Roman smiled crookedly. “That He also accomplished. I saw hell, as the dark powers promised, but they didn’t tell me I would see heaven also.” He added, “We can go eat now,” and Deirdre laughed weakly.
They returned to their horses in the inn courtyard and mounted, the whole group of them mute. On the thoroughfare leading to the palace, they heard running hoofbeats and reined up their horses.
They listened, scanning the streets they could see, looking for the rider. Then Kam shouted, “Ho!” and they saw Graydon galloping up a side street toward them, alone.
As he reached them, he threw himself from his horse and fell toward Roman on Fidelis. Nihl pulled out his sword but Roman motioned to him to put it down. Fidelis reared slightly as Graydon clutched the saddlebow, sucking in erratic breaths. His face and hands were red, as if slightly burned, and Roman was astonished to detect the smell of the pit on his clothes. The group watched him tensely.
“I saw it,” Graydon said between breaths. “I alone saw it and lived. The dark powers opened a companion mirror for us, intending to show me your destruction in the fire. Instead, I saw you placed on the rock by another power that intruded when you spoke that name. And then the fury of the dark powers broke out through the mirror upon us—Berk, beside me, was burned alive where he stood. And I was pulled forward into the march of death. I myself was walking into those flames!” He shook Roman’s saddle in his attempt to make Roman understand the horror of it.
“I said the name of Jesus as you did,” he continued, leaning on the horse. “I don’t know where I had heard it before. Yet I never imagined there was such power in a name—never knew that He was waiting for me to say it, for He placed me on the rock also! Why? Why would He do that?” Graydon shouted. Roman gaped, unable to answer.
“And there—on the rock—I saw the dark powers clearly for the first time. Horror! What hatred, what blind, vicious rage—against me. But on the rock, the power of the name I spoke made them release me. Nothing else could have. And I awoke before the broken mirror, alive and free. I had forgotten what it was like to be free. I was directed to come surrender to you. Here I am. Do what you will. It does not matter anymore.”
Having said all this, Graydon blinked up at Roman, who motioned slightly. “Get back on your horse and come with us.” As Graydon limply obeyed, Roman took up Fidelis’ reins, frowning. This was certainly victory, but such an unexpected one, and somehow unsatisfying to him.
Demanding mercy for Graydon had been a fine theoretical exercise, but the actual doing of it was not so much to his liking. He had assumed all along that the Lord would do away with Graydon as He had Tremelaine, and Roman need only stand aside and watch. So what was he to do with Graydon now?
Roman glanced back at the other Selecans. They looked indifferent, sullen, some even angry at the mercy extended Graydon. And in perfect honesty, Roman felt the same. That admission awakened him to the reason for his dissatisfaction: He does not deserve to be spared.
But before he could work up a good strong righteous indignation, a chastising thought came clearly, as from an old friend who knew him well: Neither, my boy, do you.
As Roman looked over his shoulder at the defeated sorcerer, he remembered his own Master’s acceptance of himself, dirty and diseased as he was. Judging by the look on Graydon’s face, he, too, was thoroughly aware of his state before the Lord. If Roman was more acceptable, it was only because of what the Lord Himself had done. There was a reason He had said, “Whoever comes to me I will never drive away”—no one came to Him righteous, or remained with Him without being made righteous.
They took the thoroughfare at a measured, thoughtful pace. Kam caught sight of someone watching them from behind a building, but thought it not important enough to mention. Deirdre was the first to break the silence, asking gently, “Graydon, where is your family?”
“They fled with the others, after our confrontation in the hall. I don’t know where they went,” he responded dismally.
“Perhaps they’ll come back now,” she said encouragingly. He lifted his shoulders in resignation.
Upon their arrival at the palace, a few servants took the horses to the stables while the rest of the group sat down around the large table in the mirrored dining hall. Without being asked, Titan took several servants with him into the kitchen to bring out meat. Watching him leave, Roman received the needed spark of illumination for the next step.
“Surchatain Roman,” Graydon interrupted his thoughts, “I have surrendered to you. I ask now what you intend to do with me.”
“I?” responded Roman, easing back in his chair. “Why, nothing.” Graydon’s eyes took on a gleam of hope. The others looked up, shocked. “You’re not my problem,” said Roman. “Your Surchatain will decide what to do with you.”
“Not you?” asked Graydon, the gleam dying. “I have given Corona to you.”
Roman shook his head. “I do not wish to annex any of Seleca . . . yet.”
“One of your officers, then?” posed Graydon, glancing at the Lystrans.
“No,” said Roman. Nihl, Kam and Colin seemed relieved.
“Who is left?” demanded Graydon. “Surely not one of the townspeople!” But the townspeople leaned forward in interest.
“No,” admitted Roman. By now everyone was baffled. Roman smiled and stood as Titan entered the hall and put a platter of cold mutton on the table. “Titan,” Roman said in a tone commanding him to stand at attention. “I proclaim you acting Surchatain of Seleca. I give you control of the palace, land, and people. Do you accept the charge to rule Seleca by my laws, answering to me, with all the wisdom God has given you?”
Titan’s white brows arched up in surprise, then he grinned broadly and bowed very finely. “Your servant accepts the charge, Surchatain.” The others in the hall sat dumbfounded.
Roman added, “I will send you advisors to give you aid where you lack. And if anyone refuses to serve under you, I will regard it as an offense against myself.”
Nihl smiled and murmured, “Well done, Surchatain Roman.”
Kam also apprehended the genius of the move, in that Roman’s highest criterion for selecting a governor was loyalty, and Titan had already proved it when he stood to gain nothing. Kam recalled, “Surchatain Galapos often said that only those who had served as the lowest should serve as the highest. Well done, Roman.”
“I have some to command to your service, Titan,” Roman continued. “Your own folk Lew and Vida and Orvis have proved themselves useful. I think you should attach them to your service in high positions.” Titan cocked his head toward the three, who remembered themselves enough to bow to him.
Even Orvis looked Roman straight in the eye and said, “You’ve made a believer out of me. I’ll do whatever
you say.”
“There is your Surchatain,” Roman told him, indicating Titan. Orvis inclined his head just as seriously to the former head cook.
Then Roman said, “Titan, your first responsibility is to decide what to do with your former lord.” All eyes followed as he pointed to Graydon.
Titan squinted at the perspiring defendant. “Surchatain Roman wouldn’t kill you when he had the chance, so I won’t be the one to put your neck in a noose now. But is it right for you to go free among these folks you were going to let Galen crucify?” Graydon began to wring his hands.
“I think it’s best to send you off, Lord Graydon,” continued the new Surchatain. “Take your horse and be on your way. You are banished from Corona.”
Graydon bowed to Titan, relief vivid in his face. He turned to go out through the audience hall, but met up with one of the servants entering, who said, “There’s a mob on hand outside—don’t know where they all came from. They’re demanding that Graydon be crucified.”
Roman reached forward to take Titan’s arm. “Time to introduce you. Graydon, take your horse out the back way. The rest of you, come out front with us. Carry your swords.”
As the group fell in place to escort them out and Graydon melted back, Roman had a final word: “Graydon.” The other attended, but did not look him in the eye. “The Lord has been extremely gracious to you—had it been up to me, I would have killed you. But He spared you. Remember that. He will not tolerate your ever returning to the dark powers.”
A look of abhorrence crossed Graydon’s face. He shuddered, “I understand,” then was gone.
“I wouldn’t worry over him, Surchatain,” remarked Titan. “He’s a broken man.”
Roman nodded, thinking, But a broken man can come back stronger than ever, for evil or for good. He shook off the thought and steered Titan into the audience hall, pointing toward the throne. As Titan seated himself, a group of townspeople burst into the hall, led by several of the Bloods. Roman stepped up to meet them and they halted.
“Where is Graydon?” demanded one Blood, rope in hand.
“Graydon has been deposed,” announced Roman. “I have set in his stead a new Surchatain, Titan. And anyone who refuses to serve him will answer to me.” Roman walked over to place himself squarely in front of the Blood with the rope. “Will you serve peaceably?”
“Titan?” echoed the soldier in disbelief.
The new Surchatain stood. “Pindar, you’re always striking sparks when you ought to be cleaning up ashes. Now hold your tongue and listen. I want you to go around to every house and collect those circles and crosses and bring them back and pile them up in the front courtyard. Get those ruffians behind you to help dig up those crosses along the thoroughfare and pile them in the courtyard, too. Cass, you and your brother go up to that torture room and bring down all those machines—throw them out front with the rest of the garbage.”
“That will take all day and most of the night!” protested Pindar, but he had forgotten the rope in his hands.
“Then you had better find some of those fellows in the Third and Fourth that ran off and make them lend some muscle!” snapped Titan. “Tomorrow morning we’ll send the Surchatain of Lystra home with a pretty bonfire. Well?” he cracked.
“Surchatain!” said Pindar, saluting. The mob suddenly dispersed into a work party carrying out orders.
Roman looked back at Titan in genuine surprise. “You handled that rather well.”
Titan winked, “If I can make a kitchen crew work, I ought to be able to move any mule.” The others in the group studied Titan with new and subdued respect.
Roman sighed, suddenly tired. “I suppose that takes care of our task here. Only . . . Kam, I want you and Colin to remain until I send advisors to replace you. Tomorrow, Deirdre, Nihl and I will leave for Westford. Questions?”
At first, no one spoke. As they stood there, Deirdre happened to glimpse Izana on the edge of the crowd. Although the maid stood still with downcast eyes, Deirdre saw her yearning.
Deirdre turned to look at Nihl standing near the front, unmoved as the Fastnesses. Rather than kick him herself, she sent up a quick request for the Lord to do so, as He did it so much more effectively.
Nihl blinked. Roman was saying, “Well, if there are no questions—”
“Surchatain,” Nihl said suddenly.
“Nihl?” Roman gave him his full attention and waited.
“Surchatain, I . . .” he seemed to have some difficulty pulling the words out. Roman watched him patiently, though with one brow slightly flattened. “Surchatain, I ask permission to take Izana with us to Westford.” This took everyone but Deirdre by surprise.
“Izana?” Roman looked around the hall blankly.
Deirdre put an arm around Izana’s waist to bring her forward. “This is Izana, Roman.”
He regarded her while she shyly bowed. “Ah, do you want to go back with us?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord,” she whispered.
“Well—” Roman shrugged, then took on a stern demeanor as he turned back to Nihl. “I don’t know. You know how I feel about my soldiers wenching, especially my officers. What do you intend to do with her in Westford?”
“Don’t abuse me, Surchatain,” said Nihl, peeved. “Of course I will be honorable and—marry her.”
Izana looked up at Nihl with a definitely warm expression, but he and Roman exchanged a quick look of understanding. “You have permission, my brother,” Roman said quietly, in a tone almost of gratitude.
Izana came over to embrace Nihl’s neck. Deirdre hugged his shoulder, exclaiming, “I am so happy for you, Nihl!” He murmured thanks to her but held Izana.
“Well.” Roman cleared his throat. “If no one has any other surprises . . . Surchatain Titan, will you show us guest chambers now? I believe we’ve seen enough of the dungeon and the kitchen.”
PART TWO
WESTFORD
Chapter 15
Basil sat in his chambers late that night, poring over the ledger of palace expenses. Repeatedly, he shook his head, flipping back over a page or two, then scratching out sums and subtractions with his quill pen. “That is not right,” he murmured, scrutinizing a figure in the ledger. A page later, he gave another shake of his grey head and a firmer, “That is not right.”
He shoved back from the desk and strode to the door. To the courier standing outside, he ordered, “Summon Sevter and Troyce to me immediately.” As the courier left, Basil returned to the desk to tap the thick ledger in agitation.
He waited for a long time, growing more and more irate at the delay. Finally Sevter entered with a quick knock, the courier and Captain Olynn behind him. “Counselor—” Sevter bowed breathlessly, “I am here at your summons—”
“Troyce seems to be gone, however,” Olynn interrupted, determined to give the report himself. “The man we had watching him did not even realize he was not in his chambers,” he added, red-faced.
Basil froze for just an instant. “Give a silent alarm to hunt for him as a fugitive,” he ordered with frosty calm. “Sevter, come with me now.” Captain Olynn and the courier raced down the corridor in one direction; Basil and Sevter shot down the other.
The Counselor and the overseer came to the nursery door. Pausing to take the torch from the corridor sconce, Basil muttered tightly, “No guard.” They pushed open the door, which was unbolted. The two tiptoed to the bed of the Chatain and drew back the curtain.
The bedding was mussed and empty. With constricted hearts, they ran to the nursemaid’s adjoining room. It also was vacant. The two men whirled to stare at each other with eyes full of dread. Then Basil commanded, “Find Captain Olynn and change my order. He is to sound a first alarm and every man is to turn out to search for Troyce and the Chatain Ariel.”
Sevter bolted out. Basil stood in the empty chamber, raising his fists to heaven in anguish and crying, “Lord God, take my life before you allow Troyce to slay the Chatain!”
Troyce stealthily led the n
ursemaid, carrying a sleepy Ariel, out the back gate toward the forest. This gate had been recently reconstructed by Roman to increase its security. He had narrowed it so that only one horse and rider could pass through at a time, and had faced it on the outside with stone which matched that of the wall so perfectly that, when closed, it could not be discerned as a gate at all and could not be opened from without. Roman had meant to limit its use to that of an emergency exit, which is exactly the use Troyce made of it now. As he passed through it with Gusta, he propped it open ever so slightly with a small rock.
“Where is the guard that is supposed to be stationed here?” Gusta whispered edgily.
“I don’t know,” responded Troyce, who a few minutes earlier had sent that very guard to investigate a fictitious noise in the courtyard. “Men neglecting their duty is a sign that rebellion is at hand. Basil has won over so many to his cause, I fear the revolt could occur at any time.”
The trumpet of alarm from the palace startled them both. “What is the alarm for?” she gasped.
“There—it means Basil has begun his strike! I got you out barely in time!” he breathed in relief, not entirely feigned.
“Where are you going to hide us?” she asked as they ran for the black cover of the forest.
“In a comfortable little house, well hidden,” he answered reassuringly. In the dark, he felt for the dagger under his cloak.
“I must know where it is, or I cannot go,” she argued. “And I must send word to Olynn. He is a trusted friend who would not betray the Surchatain.”
“I told you, no one can be trusted! Basil has convinced so many of the soldiers that the Surchatain is not returning, how do I know Olynn is not one of them?” He was trying to keep her close by his left side, but every time he gently took her arm, she drew away from him.