by Ember Lane
Jin pushed Lincoln on as he hesitated, trying to take in the strange scene. A crash from outside sent the ship listing terribly, the groan of its slow righting sending shivers down Lincoln’s spine. Cronis vanished through a small doorway, and Lincoln ducked and followed. It was a curiously muddled sight that greeted him.
The room’s planked sides arced up on either side, small rectangular windows looked out onto the gray and crimson confusion. A simple, patterned rug covered the floor of the ample room. They spilled through the doorway, one drowned rat after the other, and stood abreast: Crags, Griselda, Swift, Belzarra, Cronis, then Lincoln, Flip, and Jin. Flip looked unconcerned by the ship’s listing, but Griselda was positively green. The back of the room resembled a church’s chancel, with stained glass filling its large, arched windows, throwing out a chaotic light, much of it falling on a curious throne.
“That’s where I’ve seen it before,” Cronis said, but his words were tainted with resignation.
It resembled Forgarth’s own in the Court of Lincoln Hart, and was weaved from the bones of trees—roots, trunks, and branches, and sitting on it was the god Lincoln recognized as Scholl. His two disciples crouched reverently at his feet, like students to a sensei, and Lincoln recognized them too.
“Spit it out, Pirate!” the real Cronis growled.
Flip moved forward with ill-concealed mischief spread over his beaming face. He walked up to the three and pointed at Scholl. “Master,” he announced, and then pointed at the likenesses of Shylan and Cronis in turn. “And dog, and dog,” he said, and swept a bow.
Cronis shuffled forward, all elbows and growl. “This? This is what we need to learn?”
“It seems,” Flip said, “that she thinks the dog needs more kicking to appreciate the depths of its master’s betrayal.”
“If you kept your mouth to yourself, we might be able to understand,” Cronis said feebly, and then waved the prince away with contempt. “Lincoln, to my side,” he barked.
Jin nudged him forward; the dark elf barely able to contain his smirk, and Lincoln crossed the all-to-brief rug and came alongside Cronis. As he did so, the oceans calmed, the thunder quieted, and the rain petered out. Scholl’s soft voice wafted over him, and Cronis looked down at his double.
“It is not my wish to judge her yet judge I must. Tell me Cronis—it is your world, yours to forge—what punishment should we mete out?”
“Master,” said the cowering Cronis, “she cracked the world—she tore its land from its roots—we cannot risk that again.”
“Her motives?” Scholl asked. “Tell me, are there motives enough to forgive that devastation?”
“There can’t be? What defense has she?”
It was clear to Lincoln that at that time Cronis had been smitten with Scholl, seeking out his god’s thoughts and then voicing them rather than his.
Scholl beamed down at his favorite son. “She offered no defense to my brother Belved, nor the boy Zender. Merely asked for her people—the people of this so-called Mandrake—to be spared.”
“And will they be?”
“They must be cut off, isolated, allowed no contact with the outside world. Her punishment must be full, it must be all, and it must ruin her game so that she cannot progress. Tell me, my favored son. Will you cast our vote for that?”
“I will, Master.”
“And what of you, Shylan?” Scholl looked down at his second student.
Shylan looked up. “It is not my place to judge. I will explore Castle Kyrie, and leave the matter of gods to those who aspire to be one.” He sent Cronis a cold stare.
Scholl nodded. “Enjoy it, because I have a task for the pair of you.” He leaned close and whispered to them both.
The three then vanished, and Lincoln realized he hadn’t breathed for a while and gulped in a chunk of air. “So, what did he whisper to you?”
Cronis ambled over to the throne and sat in it. He fidgeted around for a bit. “Thought it would be uncomfortable. No, I knew it would be. Sit, sit, all of you, and I’ll tell you, but first you have to realize this: I understand this particular trial now, and maybe the others were meant to do the same. None of you know this, but I have vast gaps in my memory, and what you saw was one of them. No longer, at least this one.”
“So what, King Cronis?” Flip asked, bowing.
“The scene continued with Scholl telling us we were to travel to Mandrake—specifically Lordslaner—where we were to meet with another. We were to befriend her and watch her; we were to befriend her and spy on her. It was imperative we made land before the mists fell, and we did so in less than a week, taking the last Sharreff ship to venture there. We were to be Scholl’s eyes and ears in Mandrake, to prepare it for its failure and revel in its chaos. Most of all, though, we were to soak up its magic. Scholl’s biggest concern was the mists themselves. He was worried that the magic, the vast amounts of mana needed to keep the mists in place, would drain the surrounding lands and it would leech into Mandrake. It was entirely possible that the magic of all the lands could drain into this land, and that if it could be tapped into, then Mandrake could easily rise and crush the other eight—with a god or without one.”
“And has it? Has it drained the mana?” Lincoln asked.
“I believe some of it has, but not in the way we might think.”
As he said those words, sun burst through the cabin’s quarter-glass windows. Cronis hopped off the stool, his steps past Lincoln—spritely. He barged through Griselda, and Belzarra, and the cabin’s doorway. There, he stopped and turned. “I think you’ll find the sun is out. Shylan is lying in a coiled rigging rope, and I am on the foredeck. You’re welcome to join me there, it should be quite the sight. At least it was first time around.”
Lincoln exchanged bemused glances with most of the group, but Crags especially as the gnome caught his eye, lingering behind, as though he wanted a word. That feeling alone was enough for Lincoln to hang back too. Once Flip and Jin had passed through the door, Crags bid him return to the throne. He scrambled up onto it.
“So,” he said. “Do you understand?”
“Understand what?”
“That wizards can’t be trusted. That they meddle far and wide. What you’re about to see happened, and it did, but you need to see what really happened. You need to see the important part.”
“What?” Lincoln asked, exasperated that after everything had just gotten simple, was now complicated again.
“This is all Poleyna’s show—how can that be when she’s locked up, stashed away, with no power? That’s what you need to understand.”
“So tell me,” Lincoln pleaded.
Crags shook his head. “As Digberts always said, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it wash.” Crags jumped off the throne and ambled out of the room.
“Drink!” Lincoln shouted. “The phrase is ‘You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.’”
Crags turned in the doorway. “So what? Your truth might not be mine.” He stood quite still; his brow furrowed and lips pursed. What passed for concern flickered over his gaze. “At the right time, don’t you hesitate; go with your gut,” he said gravely, and then he waddled away.
Lincoln heard laughter in his mind.
You’re getting closer…
He walked down the narrow corridor and out onto the ship’s deck following the gnome as he navigated his way along the ship. Cronis was right; the sun was beaming down, the sails billowing with an ample breeze, the gentle sway of the ship now soothing. The others were already standing on the foredeck, leaning on its balustrade’s ornate crenellations, looking over the bow to a lush, green island. Lincoln fell into its lull, the bursts of sea spray his own personal metronome.
Ahead, a land of rolling green and a coast of stark, white cliffs waited patiently for them, a land of deciduous stands and gaping bays, and a long, rocky spit embracing a calm harbor to which the helmsman set a course. It took them slightly away from their destination, a magni
ficent castle, perched on a gray headland as if elegance were more important than function. Whereas the castle at Brokenford was stout, square, and squat, this one was devoid of sharp angles, favoring rounded turrets bearing fluttering pennants of blue, yellow, and red. It looked to be a magical place, one suited to a meet of the gods, one that looked capable of a final trial.
“Castle Kyrie,” Cronis said. “It’s where we judged her.”
The stained crimson wash they’d followed then faded. The sea returned to its murky blue, and as it did the vision blurred, and they reappeared on the other side of the castle among the green and fruitful land. Huts and hovels clung to a hillside, squeezing up to the towering castle walls as if its gray offered protection, and clustered down and along a winding trail that led to their feet. The likeness of Scholl stood there, his bearded chin angled up, his expression one of revulsion, the mess and stink of civilization obviously appalling him. His disciples stood either side, and the trio soon began their pilgrimage up.
“One Cronis was bad enough,” Flip muttered, poking the old wizard.
Cronis had his ugly, black staff in his hand, its ruby eye looking ominously around.
“You aren’t thinking of using that, are you?” Belzarra asked of the old wizard.
Cronis stuttered his step, letting Scholl and his disciples get farther away and into the huddle of shacks. The old wizard appeared devoid of words but then rallied. “I don’t trust this. Remember, we are in a castle in Starellion—at least I hope we still are. I can’t see the point of this little show. What went on in that room is etched in my mind, certainly not lost with my other memories. Even I couldn’t forget my double betrayal. In the blink of an eye, I cast my old god aside, and took a new one, then judged her and cast her down. Looking back on it, how does that make any sense?”
“Maybe if you see it again?”
Cronis banged the end his staff on the ground. “But I remember everything, and I’ve been over it every night, every day, every waking hour. How will seeing it again help with that?”
“Let’s just follow, and see where it leads,” Flip said, and set off up the road.
Lincoln fell in step with the Prince of the Five Isles as they wandered through the vision. The outskirts of the cluttered village was a dire place, where a wooden hut was an aspiration and a lean-to and filthy blanket was a stepping-stone.
“The usual story, the poor clinging to the rich when a trap and a slingshot would give them an infinitely better life. This is Mezzerain’s land. A land of steel-clad knights, lofty pennants and parades—boy, do they love their parades. The garrison stationed here is supposedly the finest at drills in any land. The cavalry ride cataphracts clad in better armor than the pikemen, fearsome beasts that tower over you. It is a land of fair maidens, of chivalry and duel—or at least it was when this meet went on.”
“What is it now?” Lincoln asked.
“Beaten,” was all Flip said.
Lincoln glanced at Crags and caught the gnome staring at him. Crags didn’t even bother looking away, just tapped his finger on his nose and then pointed at his eye. What Lincoln couldn’t understand is how he knew what he claimed to know. Surely he couldn’t see into the future. Just in case, Lincoln kept his eyes peeled.
The apparitions of Scholl, Cronis, and Shylan began the final walk-up to the castle’s gates, a set of grand steps marching straight up, cutting out the need to follow the gentler slope of the winding road. At its top, a flagged terrace lined the base of the castle walls, crowning the craggy rock line that made up the base of the castle.
“See how arrogant,” Flip whispered. “They give the siege sure footing.”
“Has it ever been conquered?”
“No, Taric was beaten without a sword being bloodied.”
Cronis drew aside Flip. “This is all getting a little confusing. Scholl and I go into the castle now. I remember that clearly. Shylan was feeling a little sea-sick, so he stayed outside to get a breath of fresh air.”
“So, we need to split up,” Lincoln said. “I’ll take Shylan. You…take yourself?”
Confusing; it’s getting downright confusing…
Cronis, Belzarra, Griselda, Swift, and Jin shadowed Scholl and Cronis into the castle. Lincoln noticed Crags and Flip stayed put.
“Have to say,” Flip said, “that we’ve got the best watch. He’s definitely up to something.” He pointed at Shylan.
The wizard was looking around making sure he wasn’t being followed, and when appearing certain, he slunk around the side of the castle. The three of them dashed up the remaining steps and followed him.
Sandwiched between the sea and the castle, the path wound its perilous way out onto the bluff. Pounding waves, craggy cliffs, and the towering walls of the castle squeezed them tightly together. Lincoln spied Shylan trailing a hand against the castle wall and look around, checking he hadn’t been pursued.
“He’s hunting for something,” Flip said.
“You think?” Crags muttered, sarcastically. “His hand trails the wall because he’s trying to feel her presence.”
“Her?” Lincoln asked, but already knew the answer.
“Yes, her. He can sense her power because…”
Lincoln thought about it. Though Shylan and Cronis had seemed thick as thieves when they visited Joan’s Creek, could there be something else at play?
“Is he…to Poleyna what Mezzerain is to Taric—a second—as Cronis was to Scholl?”
“And Zender to Belved, yes,” Crags told him. “Yet how can that be when he’s in Scholl’s shadow?” Crags clicked his fingers as Lincoln’s expression gave away his understanding. “Now, watch the next part…”
Shylan quickened his pace, threading his way along the narrow path. Lincoln noticed a small iron grate in the wall that barely cleared the path, like a vent, like a dungeon’s grille. He bent and peered into it, but could see nothing but pitch-black. Then a groan rang out, and he jerked his head back quickly. Once he’d spotted one, he saw they were spaced every ten yards or so.
Every majestic castle has its secrets…
“Politics,” Flip explained, “is everything to the Valkyrians. So, if a person is deemed such a threat to the kingdom that he needs being taught a lesson, then he is entombed in one of these until he can raise the money to have someone break him free. It’s a fantastic way to levy some tax.”
“Eh?” Lincoln replied.
“If you need to raise some money but don’t want to be beholden to any of your banners, accuse them of some devilry or the other, have them arrested and thrown in the cells, you then arrange their escape from the gallows for a pretty sum—and you have your money. Like I said, all very chivalrous around here.”
They rounded a turret and lost sight of the land in favor of the sea swell. Looking along the castle wall, Lincoln saw Shylan bend toward a golden glow that came from a single grate. Crags urged them on and soon they surrounded the oblivious wizard.
By that time, Shylan was kneeling, his ear bent to the grate. Lincoln crouched close. A golden shimmer covered the bars of the iron grille, wrapping around them like a ribbon. The wizard had his eyes closed, and Lincoln sensed that he was recanting some spell or another. Slowly, he sank into the grate and vanished.
Lincoln waited for his scene to change, for them to be transported through the grate to overhear exactly what happened in that cell, but instead he found himself looking at the gnome.
“So?”
“Are you sure you want to see? Poke your head through the grate—the magic can’t touch you. It’ll show you what you need to know.”
Lincoln dipped his head into the lattice, a strange, fuzzy feeling ran through his brain. He bent farther, his head popped through and into the cell underneath. He saw Poleyna held in a shimmering, golden box of glowing lattices, and he saw Shylan kneeling before her. She placed her hand on his head, and Shylan jerked back as if he was receiving a huge shock.
“There, my faithful servant. You have my knowledge lo
cked away inside you. One will come and take this from you. Treasure them above everyone. When it happens, the stone will have begun to repair itself. Take that as the sign to unite my lands in war. Let them rise from the bowels, let their cries scream through the leaves of the forests, and the plains thunder with hooves of a thousand destriers.”
“But what of you?” Shylan asked.
Poleyna stroked Shylan’s cheek, and Lincoln saw it was streaked with tears. “Another will come for me. Much rests on her shoulders. Alas, it is not something you can help. That path lies beyond the mists. If it fails, if I fail, the knowledge within you will be released either way.
“And if I fail as well?”
“If that happens, then the stone will destroy Mandrake, the world, everything. Rather that than Belved rule it.”
19
A Rogue’s Gambit
Valkyrie vanished in a blink, and Lincoln found himself lying across Starellion's steps, staring down at the flags below. Flip and Crags were behind him. The others appeared in the middle of a room that Lincoln sensed was an antechamber of some sort. A set of vast, oaken, double doors breeched the wall opposite, which probably led to the Hall of Banners that Cronis had mentioned. He sat up, wondering whether to tell Cronis what he’d heard, what he’d seen, but before he did, the wizard came striding over to him.
“Don’t! Don’t say a word. Whatever you saw was for you lot only.” A patchwork of ruddy-red blood vessels threatened to burst out from his cheeks and nose as if all the recent revelations had brought the old wizard to a breaking point, then they suddenly calmed, and his stare bored into Lincoln’s eyes. “Something’s changed for you. I can smell its taint.” With his nose in the air, he pulled away, sniffing as though he really could smell something. “Let’s hope it’s for the better. Now, are we ready, or do we need a moment?”
Lincoln needed more than one. If what he’d seen was correct, these gods were willing to destroy the world rather than lose whatever game they were playing. But what could he do to help her, to aid her side? Should he even be on her side? Was he part of the onslaught to come? Was Shylan going to taint Joan’s legacy? Questions tumbled through his mind, but answers fled their avalanche.