He turned to find Rannock waiting for him, a grave look on his face. "You and I, we've shared much. We buried our king at Raven Pass...but we won't be burying the marshal, will we?"
Lothar's voice was raw with the truth. "No."
"The Dark Sword?"
"Aye, it will take him, one way or another." His voice dropped to a harsh rasp. "If it hasn't already."
Rannock gave him a sharp look. "What do you mean?"
The truth hurt. "He barely knew me. He barely remembered."
Rannock looked away, considering. When his stare swung back to Lothar, his face looked haunted. "There's one other thing the scouts said, but I swore them to silence lest it ruin morale."
Lothar waited, knowing what was coming yet dreading the words.
"They said the enemy surrendered, laid down their weapons and fell to their knees...yet the marshal slew them."
Rannock's gaze begged for a lie, but Lothar could not stomach it. "It's true, all true." His voice sounded as if it came from the grave. "I fear we've lost him to the Dark Sword."
Rannock shuttered his gaze, but Lothar had to say the rest. "We dare not meet him on the field of battle."
Rannock stared in disbelief.
Lothar endured the captain's searching gaze.
"How can you be sure?"
Lothar's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Because he damn near killed me." Turning, he walked back through the camp, seeking a way out of the nightmare.
27
Master Rizel
Master Rizel hastened to answer the summons of the Grand Master. Sunlight pierced the windows, illuminating the scripted walls. Climbing the steps, he passed through the gold clad doors inset with lapis Seeing Eyes. A pair of blue-robed monks with quarterstaffs stood on either side, keeping watch. Nodding to the guards, Master Rizel entered the audience chamber. Beneath his boots, the mage-stone floor was painted a rich golden-yellow, making the room welcome to acolytes and outsiders. Halfway across the chamber, a low railing marked the divide, the floor abruptly changing from golden-yellow to midnight-blue. Elegant in its simplicity, the divided floor had a profound effect, the place where the outer world met the monastery's inner wisdom. As a young acolyte, he thought of it as the place where inquiry met answers, but as a master, he realized many questions had no answers, as if the gods kept riddles of their own.
More than thirty blue-robed monks were already assembled, most were masters who'd witnessed the invoking. He scanned their faces, noting friends and antagonists. Good debates required at least two sides, but sometimes he thought his adversarial brethren were remarkably shortsighted. He prayed their shortsightedness never hurt the Order...or Erdhe.
Nodding to his friends, he strode to the low railing, the divide between the golden-yellow floor from the midnight-blue. Just beyond arm's reach of the railing, the sword was displayed on a silken pillow. A sword without peer, a sword of legend, forged by the last great wizard. Even the name sounded dauntless, Invictus.
He'd heard how fresh-faced acolytes swarmed to the chamber to gawk at the sword. Truth be told, more than a few blue-robed masters had done the same, for such an Illumination had not been accomplished in nigh on four hundred years. Little wonder the monastery hummed like a kicked hive.
The sword's invoking brought hope...but it also brought division.
Factions within the blue argued for seclusion, for the protection of knowledge, for wielding the sword solely in defense of the monastery. In the depths of his soul, Rizel knew the sword was meant to be wielded, but not by a blue-robed monk. The sword belonged in Castlegard, in the hands of a hero. He'd argued vehemently against the seclusionists, trying to sway the others. The bitter debate raged through the hallowed halls for more than a fortnight. Debate and argument were timeworn forms of learning, a way to test the facets of knowledge, yet this debate had gained rancor, adding poison to the discourse. Finally, word came that the Grand Master had made his decision.
Master Rizel sidled next to Master Adelbart. "What word on the girl?"
The master calligrapher looked exhausted, deep shadows lining his eyes. "Nimeria remains locked in a magical swoon, no telling when she'll wake. She's under Master Garth's care."
"Great magic exacts a great toll, it was always so, but Nimeria is young and strong. The young are always so resilient."
Adelbart gave him a grateful look. "May it be so."
"Garth will take good care of the girl. She could be in no better hands." Master Rizel gestured to the blue steel sword. "The others are awed by the sword but they miss the point. This sword is Light-sent, a boon to Castlegard, while the girl, she is the boon to the Kiralynn Order, a chance to reclaim the lost art of Illumination."
Master Adelbart nodded. "You see clearly. The scriptorium hums with young scholars, burning oil lamps all hours of the day and night. My apprentices strive to repeat Nimeria's prodigious feat. I envy them their single-minded enthusiasm." His voice held a shadow of worry. "The young are so keen, yet they do not fear the consequences."
"The Light will guide them. Perhaps another Illuminator will rise from among them."
"The Light willing."
Behind them, the great golden doors thudded closed, heralding the start of the audience. The chamber had grown crowded with blue-robed masters, a representation of all points of view. Master Rizel spied Felix and Normath and others of the seclusion faction standing near the great mage-glass window. He acknowledged them with a nod, but there was no debate, for the decision was in the hands of the Grand Master.
The sound of a deep-throated gong shimmered through the chamber, drawing all stares to the blue side of the room.
The Voice stepped from behind the Star Screen, a gray-haired master with a solemn face. Sitting cross-legged, he used a striker to light a flame in the brazier inset in the floor. Incense wafted through the chamber, offering a soothing scent. "The Grand Master sees you, the Grand Master hears you, draw near to hear the words of the Grand Master."
The gong sounded for the second time.
Master Rizel bowed towards the Star Screen and then settled to the floor, sitting cross-legged amongst the scattered pillows. His brethren did the same. Blue-robed monks and masters filled the golden floor, their robes puddled around them like still ponds.
The Voice reached behind the Star Screen and accepted a scroll.
Master Rizel held his breath.
Snapping the scroll open, the Voice read, "Debate rages within our hallowed halls, yet this is a time for action, not words. Ancient prophesies rush to be born. The signs are legion, from the red comet ripping the sky, to the coming of the crystal blade bearer, to the invocation of the blue steel sword. The Battle Immortal is upon us." The Voice scanned the assembly, his words ringing with the Grand Master's authority. "Let there be no debate, the Kiralynn Order is at war."
A murmur rippled through the assembly, but Master Rizel remained stone-still. The failure of Castlegard's mage-stone, he does not include it as a sign. Master Rizel pondered why the latest portent went unstated...and then he understood. The Grand Master does not yet have an answer to the riddle. The realization struck like a punch to his chest.
The Voice waited till quiet returned before continuing to read. "All of our knowledge, all of our history, all of our magic is but a prelude to this battle. To think otherwise is willful delusion, for the Kiralynn Order already spends our knowledge, our magic, and our dearest life's blood below the mountains. To think we can stand apart is foolish and naive."
The gong's voice shimmered through the chamber.
The Voice held the scroll to the small fire, turning the Grand Master's written words to light.
Master Rizel watched the parchment burn, feeling a sense of great moment, as if the whole world teetered on a nib of a quill.
The Voice reached behind the Star Screen accepting a second scroll. Unrolling the parchment, he read, "An owl has come to the monastery bearing grim tidings from Lanverness. Master Numar is dead and his focus is los
t."
Dead! Rizel choked on the news.
Cries of shock and outrage spread through the chamber.
"How can this be?"
"Who killed him?"
"What of his focus?"
The Voice raised his hand forestalling the debate. When silence returned, he read, "Serving as a hidden emissary to the Rose Queen, Numar posed as an apothecary, hiding within the queen's capital city. Our agent found him and two of his apprentices dead within his shop, burnt and blackened, blasted by fire. His focus could not be found."
Burnt and blackened, Rizel closed his eyes, sickened by his friend's harsh death.
A strident voice called from the rear of the chamber. "What of his magic? What focus did he wield?"
Master Rizel answered. "A fireball. Numar wielded one of the greatest battle magics in our arsenal."
A deathly chill seeped through the chamber.
Felix growled, "This is why we need to stay within our walls and protect our own."
Master Rizel snapped, his voice armored with steel. "If Numar died of fire then he died fighting." He glared at the others. "His death tells us much, for what enemy can best a fireball?"
Murmurs multiplied across the chamber, everyone speaking at once.
The sound of a gong shimmered through the room, demanding silence.
Quiet returned, yet a restless undercurrent remained.
"Heed the wisdom of the Grand Master." The Voice read from a third scroll. "For over a thousand years the Kiralynn Order has stood apart in the fastness of our mountain monastery, yet we are also of Erdhe, our fates forever intertwined. Through the centuries we have striven to thwart Darkness by sharing our knowledge and our insights with the royals of the southern kingdoms, but knowledge alone shall not defeat this Darkest of foes. We stand at the turning of an Age. The decisions we make, the actions we take, shall weigh heavy in the outcome. We dare not be laggards to the battle. Like Master Numar, the Kiralynn Order must enter the fray, risking all. To that end, the invoked sword, Invictus, shall be dispatched to Castlegard with all haste. And the relics of the Star Chamber shall be brought forth to see if any here can wield them. Let this decision be written into the annals. May the Lords of Light protect the Kiralynn Order and save Erdhe from endless Darkness."
"By the Light, let it be so."
The sound of a gong shimmered through the chamber.
The Voice retreated behind the Star Screen, formally ending the audience.
The chamber erupted in debate, but Master Rizel did not listen, lost in his own thoughts. The relics, the Grand Master released the relics, the most potent magics stored from another Age. He wondered if anyone alive could still wield them...and then he considered the second half of the Grand Master's decision. The full effect hit him like a poleax. His stare roved across his blue-robed brethren, taking in the divided floor, the Star Screen and the beauty of the illuminated text scribing the walls. The Kiralynn Monastery was his home. It was also the most precious haven of knowledge in all of Erdhe, yet it was no longer protected by seclusion. If the monastery fell, the victory of Darkness would be absolute. In the depths of his soul, he knew it was necessary, yet he shuddered at the risk.
28
Jordan
War drums beat a steady cadence. The army marched north under proud battle banners, the red and blue checks of Navarre rippling in the wind. Jordan rode in the vanguard, her silver armor gleaming in the sunlight. With every passing league, her army gained numbers. They came from villages, hamlets, and farmsteads, with weapons on one shoulder, a sack of provisions on the other, answering the call of their king. Clad in homespun browns, most were archers, but a few bore swords. Doffing their caps at their bonny princess, they swelled the ranks, singing folksongs to the cadence of the drums.
Keeping to the roads, her army marched through villages and rolling farmland, and everywhere the people of Navarre turned out to cheer. Women offered loaves of fresh baked bread, girls blew kisses, while young lads ran alongside the column, hero-worship beaming from their faces. Spirits soared and Jordan swelled with pride, but in the back of her mind a foreboding voice warned that her army got the glory without the bloodshed. War made heroes but it also brought death.
Knowing time was of the essence, she pressed her men for more speed. They crossed the coastal ranges, descending gently rolling hills into flat farmland, marching from Navarre into Coronth. The countryside looked much the same as the seaside kingdom, but the difference lay in the people. The Flame religion was dead, yet the villagers were wary as kicked dogs, watching from behind shuttered windows. Food grew scarce, the farms picked clean like a plague of locusts, yet they met no opposition. Her men kept their weapons close and their senses sharp. Pickets were posted around the camp each night while scouts rode a wide perimeter in every direction.
The leagues passed and Jordan grew increasingly anxious to see Stewart. She longed to take the vanguard and spur ahead, to find his camp and rush into his arms, but the army was her responsibility, the steady tramp of boots weighing on her like an iron shackle. She chided herself for her own impatience, knowing every sword she brought would be sorely needed, but the waiting proved hard. Married for more than four moon turns, yet she’d spent but one night with her wedded husband. One precious night, Jordan burned just thinking of him. Her stallion sensed her need. Tossing his head, he whinnied, biting at the nearest mare. Embarrassed, she settled her horse, hoping her helmet hid her blush.
The drizzling rain turned to mist, the morning sun streaming through the clouds. A scout emerged from the woods, cantering towards her. “Riders approach!”
“Friend or foe?”
The scout flashed a grin. “They’re clad in emerald green!”
The Rose Army, joy leaped in her heart. “Sound the conch shells and double the march time, we'll sup with our allies tonight!”
Cheers answered her words. The conch shells blew and the war drums quickened their beat, yet it still seemed a snail’s pace to Jordan. Scanning the horizon, she yearned for the first glimpse of emerald green banners.
Leagues passed before she saw them. A troop of thirty knights cantered down the far hillside, arms and armor shining bright. They bore no battle banners but all their surcoats were emerald green, white roses emblazoned on their chests. One in particular caught her gaze. Tall and sure in the saddle, he wore no helm, his dark hair streaming like a banner. Stewart!
Her heartbeat quickened and she yearned to set spurs to her mount, yet she felt an entire army watching at her back. Keeping her stallion to a steady pace, she bridled her heart, pulling him towards her with her gaze.
His emerald cloak flaring behind, he galloped towards her with a smile on his face “You're a welcome sight!”
An answering smile blazed across her face. “Navarre brings our bows to the north.”
“As the Rose brings our swords.” His eyes gleamed bright. “My lady of the seashell!” Touching the brooch pinned to his cloak, he pivoted his stallion in a showy turn to ride beside her.
Their knees nearly touched.
“My husband.” She yearned to lean across and kiss him, but too many watched.
His gaze burned into hers. “It’s been too long.”
“Much too long. The Crimson Keep seems like a dream.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “I miss our hovel in the ruins.”
A tarp, a brazier and a bearskin rug, so simple their wedding bower, she flushed remembering, feeling a blush rise crimson across her face. She lowered her head lest the others notice.
His escort mingled with her vanguard, emerald green mixing with the red and blue of the seaside kingdom. Greetings were exchanged, but Jordan heard none of it. “How long till your camp?”
“Only a few leagues.” His horse sidled towards her, their knees whispered close.
She longed to kiss him. “Shall we ride ahead?”
“No.” His hungry smile told her he wished it otherwise. “Let my men see my bride leading an army.”
Pride filled his voice. “Let them see what kind of queen I’ve wed.”
His words touched her like an unexpected gift.
"My queen of seashells, you bring welcome swords and bows." He gazed at her with unabashed pride...but then his face sobered. “I got your letters.”
Messengers traveled so much faster than armies.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Jordan paled at the memory of so much death. “The gods sent me visions, but I came too late.”
“You answered their call and you saved some.”
“Not enough, not nearly enough.”
"Don't say that. Every life you saved matters."
She had not written about her mother, a weeping wound too fresh to share. “Have you met the enemy?”
“Not yet. Our scouts watch the Snowmelt. If they try to cross, we’ll engage them."
"The river is in full spate."
"A gift from the gods. The Snowmelt is at its wildest in the spring...one of our few advantages. They'll not find it easy to cross."
“And the odds?”
His gaze turned bleak. “Too grim to name.”
She understood his reticence. They spoke instead of the war behind them, sharing details of Lingard and Pellanor and Navarre. The leagues passed and they topped a rise. Jordan got her first view of the Rose Army. Canvas tents stretched in neat lines, radiating outward from the central pavilions. Battle banners flew at the heart of the camp, the crossed roses of Lanverness topped by a prince's crown, the emerald silk bright against sun-drenched sky.
Scouts came galloping toward them, their bows raised in greeting. A horn sounded a welcoming note, summoning soldiers from their tents. A cheer rose from the camp, echoed by her own army.
"Shall we?" Stewart waited on her.
Jordan grinned. "Sound the conch shells and greet our allies!"
Behind her, the drums beat a merry rhythm while the conch shells added a voice from the sea. With checkered battle banners streaming overhead, Jordan led her army down the rise.
The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Page 15