Sword of Betrayal

by Robert Evert

  “Not to worry,” the old man said, standing. “You will hit your head much in life. If saying something helps you deal with it…say what you like.”

  Edris gave him a gold coin. “For your troubles.”

  “I have no troubles, young man. But thank you.” He put his hands together and bowed.

  Edris returned the bow and backed out of the temple, trying not to crack his head again. Frustrated and hungry, he went in search for Brago.

  Forty-Eight

  “I don’t understand men of the cloth,” Edris said to Brago as they ate. “I understand money isn’t everything, but not caring if a solid gold statue of your god gets stolen seems insane to me.”

  Brago pulled the meat from a roasted chicken leg. “It is insane. And believe me, men of the cloth are liars like everybody else. If they didn’t care about their bug being stolen, they wouldn’t be asking the kings to find it for them.”

  “But they didn’t even have a door on their temple.”

  “Since when do doors stop thieves?” Brago asked, chewing. “Even castles get robbed.”

  “Good point.” Edris cut into his lamb. “But they had this golden bug sitting out for anybody to take. It makes no sense.”

  “I’m sure they put it away when nobody was around to watch it.”

  “But that’s just it! There was no other place to put it.”

  “There are always places to hide valuables. The fact you didn’t see any only means theirs is a particularly good one.”

  “You think?”

  “Describe the room.”

  Edris took a drink of red wine. “Round. Probably thirty feet in diameter. An arched doorway about five feet high…”

  “What’s holding the ceiling up? Any posts?”

  “No, but there are wooden beams crossing from wall to wall, like a wagon wheel.”

  Brago jabbed a chicken bone at Edris. “There you go. They could easily hide their valuables in a secret compartment in the beams.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Ed, this priest isn’t going to carry around the gold coin you gave him. He’s going to put it somewhere safe. Just like he would a golden statue.”

  Edris chewed thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Trust me,” Brago said, tearing into a chicken wing, “any man who says money isn’t important is a liar.”

  Forty-Nine

  The next day, Edris returned to the temple and found the same old man sitting on his grass mat.

  “Ah,” the cleric said merrily. “Did you find our golden bug?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You have more questions?”

  “Yes, sir—if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all! Not at all!” The old man patted the flagstone floor in front of him. “Sit!”

  Edris sat, crossing his legs. He thought about what he wanted to ask.

  “I’m curious about something,” he said after a moment. “It is my understanding that the Sarababi was moved from temple to temple fairly often.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Why? Why not keep it in one spot?”

  “Ah! Many temples. Only one statue.”

  “So, moving it around wasn’t a way of protecting it? To make sure thieves didn’t know where it was?”

  “No. Thieves always know things. Otherwise, they starve.”

  “And how long was it at this temple?”

  “It was never at this temple.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The old man waved at the mud walls and ceiling. “This temple was built after the fire.”

  “Yes, of course. I understand,” Edris said. “How long was it at the temple the raiders burnt down?”

  “Days? Months? Years?” The old man lifted his brown hands. “Who can say?”

  Edris frowned, trying to think of another question.

  “Did the original temple have a door?” he asked.

  “A door?”

  “Yes, something other than the curtain. Something you could lock?”

  The old man shook his head. “No doors in desert. No wood.”

  That made sense.

  “What’s troubling you?” the old man asked. “Is your quest about doors?”

  Edris shifted his weight. His rear end and legs were falling asleep. He wondered whether the temple had a stone floor to make sure people didn’t stay long.

  “No,” he said, casually inspecting the wooden beams. None of them were thick enough to have hidden compartments. “I suppose I’m having difficulty understanding how your people would have a solid gold statue and not protect it. And how it didn’t get stolen earlier.”

  The old man gave his same toothless smile. “Possessions aren’t everything. Keep that in mind, young man.”

  “What did you do with the gold piece I gave you?”

  Startled, the man rocked back. “Would you like it returned?”

  “No, not at all. I’m merely curious as to what a holy man does with money.”

  The man chuckled. “I buy food and pay the debts I sometimes incur when souls less generous than yourself come in.”

  Edris frowned doubtfully.

  “Is it so difficult for you to believe,” the old man asked, “that somebody might not be bound to material things?”

  “Actually,” Edris said, considering the question, “it is. You see, I grew up in a noble family. I’ve always had everything I’ve ever wanted. And now I’m setting out on my own and I’m worried…”

  “You’re trying to find your own path?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And you’re worried that you might not have enough—things?”

  The old man’s knowing expression made Edris feel ridiculous.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I suppose so.”

  Edris sighed, wondering why he was telling all of this to a stranger. But it felt good.

  “For most of my life, I’ve lived in fear of my father disowning me. Now that I’m older, I suppose, I’m still living in fear.”

  “Fear is no good. Not for you. Not for your father.”

  “Very true.”

  “Tell me, young man,” the cleric asked, a quizzical expression settling on his deeply wrinkled face. “What is the source of your fear? What worries you most? That your father will not be happy with you?”

  “No. He’s never been happy—with me or anybody else.”

  “Then what’s the source of this fear?”

  Edris shrugged. “I suppose I’m worried he might take everything away. My home, my family—everything. Since I was a boy, he’s threatened to kick me out of the house with nothing but the clothes on my back. I used to cry myself to sleep worried that I might wake up on the street, alone.”

  “Nobody can take away what is truly important. The trick is looking within and learning what is truly important to you.” His dark eyes twinkled. “You might be surprised what you find. It won’t be a golden bug!”

  “I suppose.” Edris sighed. “Thanks for talking.”

  “I hope you find what you’re searching for.”

  Edris stood, careful not to bang his head again. “I wish I knew what that was.”

  Fifty

  Edris stomped through town, a newly purchased ax in hand. He’d been in Cornibbling for three weeks and was becoming increasingly exasperated, not only by his lack of progress at finding the Sacred Scarab, but his lack of direction in life—or perhaps his current direction in life.

  He couldn’t explain it, but something was bothering him. He’d chosen to become an adventurer because he thought it was an easy way to avoid becoming a kingsman. He also thought it would be exciting traveling about the lands, solving riddles, finding lost relics. But over the last two months, he’d done little more than sit in squalid taverns and stew.

  Then there was the issue with his father. For the first time in his life, his father seemed genuinely interested in what he was doing. More than interested, he was actively participating, sending Edris lengthy
letters every few days, suggesting that he do this or that, offering encouragement. The Lord of Bend even sent Edris a list of all the men in Pembroke’s army that hunted the Step Raiders and their last known living heirs.

  There were over five hundred names. Did his father expect him to go to all five hundred relatives? And what then? Ask: “Excuse me, but did your distant ancestor happen to find a golden bug after defeating the legendary Gubli-gan?”

  He could almost hear their laughter.

  Yet it was his only actual lead. The statue was either buried, destroyed, or in the hands of some relative of one of Pembroke’s soldiers. There were no other options.

  Edris selected a tree to fell, a dying oak that was probably a seedling when the statue disappeared. Stripping off his shirt, he stretched his back and arms, then swung the ax—lodging it deeply into the tree’s trunk. He jerked it free.

  If the statue was buried, he’d never find it. Not without a map, at any rate.

  A map…

  If the raiders made a map of where they buried their loot, how could he find it? It would’ve been captured along with Gubli-gan.

  Trying to remember everything his brother had told him about Gubli-gan and the raiders, Edris drove the ax head into the tree again.

  Gubli-gan was taken alive and paraded through each of the towns he’d destroyed. Then he was disemboweled and beheaded. Children kicked his skull around the streets.

  He was taken alive…

  If he had a map on him, someone would’ve found it and explored what it was hiding. Nobody could resist a treasure map.

  He swung again, wood chips flying.

  Unless, of course, they didn’t realize it led to a treasure. Maybe it wasn’t even a map. Maybe it was a description of a location subtly included in a letter or diary entry.

  He swung again.

  Perhaps he should go to see if he could nose around King Pendergast’s library. The clue he needed might’ve gotten mixed with his other stuff.

  Stuff…

  He swung again, his thoughts turning to the withered old man in the mud temple.

  Living without possessions…

  It didn’t make any sense. Sure, he could see not letting gold get too strong of a hold on one’s life, but to not have a door that locked? They had a solid gold statue, for crying out loud. And if they really didn’t care about it getting stolen, then why ask the kings to search for it—like Brago said?

  Something wasn’t right.

  He started to swing the ax, but something caught his eye.

  Four people were hiking through the tall grass toward him and, judging by the heraldry worn by the two in the lead, they weren’t townsfolk. Edris planted his ax in the ground and used his shirt to towel away the sweat prickling his forehead and armpits.

  “Trying to earn some extra money?” the first figure asked cheerily as they approached. He wore a fine cloak over a polished chainmail shirt and had a long sword hanging from his leather belt.

  “Something like that,” Edris replied, self-conscious of his dirt-smudged body and sweat-soaked clothes.

  “I am Sir Tudor.” The man gestured to his shorter companion. “This is the honorable Sir Howard the Third.” Sir Howard nodded. “And our capable squires, Rowan and Oliver.”

  Behind them, two teenage boys bowed.

  Edris shook the knights’ hands, wondering why two highly acclaimed adventurers would be bothering him while he worked.

  “Pleasure.” Then remembering he was a knight as well, he added, “Sir Edris, at your service and your family’s.”

  “Sir Edris?” Sir Tudor replied thoughtfully, though it appeared as though he already knew his name. “I believe we’ve heard about you.”

  “Have you?”

  Edris hated these kinds of games. Plainly these knights had something to say. Why didn’t they come out and say it and then let him return to his thinking?

  “Did you really send Sir Rodney’s sword to his father?” Sir Tudor asked.

  “Oh, that,” Edris said, relieved. He’d half-expected to hear that Markus was spreading stories about how he’d wet the bed when he was three. “I did. Boys who can’t handle their liquor shouldn’t play with sharp objects.”

  Clapping, the knights howled with laughter. Even their squires standing a respectable distance away snickered.

  Sir Tudor gasped for breath. “I tell you…I tell you, that’s—that’s the funniest damned thing I’ve heard. Good for you!”

  “Somebody needed to teach Rod a lesson!” Sir Howard said. “The drunken oaf!”

  “And what a lesson!” Sir Tudor dried his tears with the edge of his cloak. “He’ll never live it down. Never in a million years.”

  “It was either sending his sword home,” Edris said, “or giving him a pounding, he wouldn’t forget.”

  “He would’ve preferred a pounding, to be sure!”

  Their laughter died, leaving an uncomfortable silence. The two knights examined Edris’s handiwork.

  “Another few blows and I think you’ll topple it,” Sir Howard said, studying the dead tree.

  “I say seven,” Sir Tudor said. “Care to have a bet, Howard?”

  “No,” Sir Howard replied. “I do believe you’re correct. Seven is the number I would’ve chosen.”

  The summer breeze picked up, making Edris’s sweaty body feel chilled.

  “So, what can I do for you two gentlemen?” he asked. “I’m guessing you’re not here to count the swings of my ax.”

  “Ah! The direct approach. I can appreciate that,” Sir Tudor said. “To be honest, we were curious as to what you were doing out here. I’m guessing the tree hasn’t caused you any offense.”

  “No. I’m simply burning off some frustration.”

  The knights appeared to be evaluating whether this was true.

  “Let me ask you something,” Edris said, deciding to seize the initiative in the conversation. “Are all quests this confounding?”

  “So!” Sir Tudor said, as if they’d scored a point. “You are questing! We weren’t sure. This your first go?”

  “It is.” Edris quickly corrected himself. “Well, it’s my first official one. I tagged along on one other.”

  “Then to answer your question—yes, they are always this tedious. Makes me wish I’d become a carpenter like my mother wanted.”

  “Oh, they’re not always this bad,” Sir Howard said before conceding, “But this one is particularly challenging. Usually there’s more information upon which to make decisions. And since we’re asking questions…what brought you to Cornibbling?”

  Edris jerked his ax out of the ground and hefted it to his shoulder. “Nowhere else to go, really. I didn’t want to stand around, digging holes randomly in every field the riders might have crossed.”

  “You’ve been to Little Dribbling, eh?” Sir Howard asked. “It certainly got crowded quickly. Nearly every adventurer known to the gods was there, shovel in hand.”

  “Good luck to them,” Sir Tudor said, inspecting the dead tree again. “I can’t imagine any of them finding it there. And if they do, it’ll be a hell of a melee trying to get it out of the valley. It’ll be one for the storybooks.”

  “Why are you here?” Edris asked, hoping to get some information that might help him find the statue.

  But the knights smiled. “We’re relaxing.”

  Edris offered them his ax. “There are plenty of trees.”

  They laughed.

  “We prefer alcohol for our relaxation.”

  “And women.”

  Another awkward silence fell about them.

  “Well,” Sir Tudor said, “we’ll be letting you return to your swinging and thinking.”

  They shook hands again.

  “When your task is complete, come to the tavern. We’ll buy the first round.”

  “The first round is on me,” Edris said, happy to have something to do that evening. “Just let me finish up here. I won’t take long.”

  Fifty-One
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br />   Edris stumbled into his room at Lady Elizabeth’s boarding house and lobbed his key at a small table next to the door. The key missed and bounced, clattering along the floor. He giggled. “Oops!”

  Reclining in a chair by the window, Brago peered up from a book. “You’re out late. Everything all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Edris sat on the edge of the bed and attempted to pull off one of his boots. He squinted at what Brago was reading. “Hey, I have that same book!”

  “It is your book. You left it out.” Brago resumed reading. “I never knew we had the same taste in poetry. Balen is one of my favorites, though I also enjoy Lord Thomas.”

  Edris finally managed to remove his boot. “Oh, I love Thomas!” He put a finger to his lips. “But don’t tell anybody.”

  “Assuredly.” Brago turned a page. “What were you doing all night?”

  “Drinking with Sir Tudor and Sir Howard.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise? After all, they’re your competitors.”

  Edris waved a wobbly hand. “They’re good guys. None of us even knows where the blasted bug is anyway.” He lowered himself to the floor and sprawled out, still wearing one boot. “You take the bed tonight. The floor doesn’t move as much.”

  “As you wish.”

  Edris put his hands behind his head. “Hey, Brago? What do you think it’s all about?”

  Brago turned another page. “To what it are you referring?”

  “Life and everything. I don’t know. What do you want to do with it all?”

  “Survive.”

  Edris made a dismissive sound. “You don’t need to worry about that. I take care of my friends. And you’re a good friend. A very good friend. I’ll make sure you’re never homeless again.”

  Brago closed the book of poems and set it aside.

  “That’s kind, Ed. However, we’ll both be homeless if we don’t start winning some quests. And we can’t do that by sitting around these crappy villages, drinking all night.”

  “I know. I know. It’s just…” Edris fought to keep the liquid contents of his stomach from rising. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a failure!”

  “Got another letter from your father, I presume.”

  Edris groaned. “Don’t mention him. He’s going to be pissed if I don’t win. Pissed. I don’t have a clue what to do. Maybe I should’ve become a monk, like my brother. I could live in a mud hut and not worry about anything.”