“A few days still. Not all the ministers who will attend have arrived. The fall of the Empire Alliance, the poor state of the treasury, the assassinations, the riots across several ministries, the potential for war with Rugenhav and Calbria and the Almerians. Much will be discussed. But tomorrow you should attend court. I hear something important will be announced.”
“An announcement before the council meets? What is the king—or Brugarn—planning?”
“I don’t know yet, my lord.”
“Engage whomever you need. I want to be the best-informed nobleman in the city. Pay anyone you need to.”
“And I’ll keep a close eye on your known and potential enemies,” Serdot said with a nod. “Listening to what everyone else was saying was one reason your father was such an effective mediator. He wanted to know as much as he could about everyone. That’s how court games are played, and perhaps why Reimvick loves gossip.”
“Get some rest, my friend. We’ll need it.”
“No rest for me yet, my lord. Too many people I need to reacquaint myself with in this city. And most are best reached at this time of night.”
35. RODEL
Thorendor Castle, Wallevet Ministry
Flowertide, 3034
Rodel’s long ride back to Wallevet on a stolen horse gave him time to reconsider his initial confidence that the Wosmoks would not hunt him down. He wished he’d not gone back to Eglamour at all. Wredegar saw him survive the river but if he had accepted Arasemis’s original invitation, Wredegar would have assumed Rodel had been captured or killed on his way to Eglamour. But it was too late now.
His fears evaporated when he saw Thorendor. It was unlike any castle he’d seen in Donovan or any other kingdom. Modestly sized, yellowish-brown stone, and like a temple. It was ringed with a standard curtain wall and moat fed by the mountain springs shimmering through the woods behind it. But its central keep was pyramidal at the top, with towers studding the four corners. The towers widened toward a common foundation, so the whole construction was like a shrunken mountain.
Rodel finally reached the fork in the road. Straight ahead was the bridge where he’d been dumped into the river. To the right was the road to Thorendor. He steered his horse right, hoping Arasemis would be as welcoming as he had been.
As he approached the outer guard house he was surprised to find it empty. He peeked inside a door left ajar. It looked like it hadn’t been occupied for many years. Only cobwebs, birds’ nests, and animal prints in the dirt-strewn floor. The bridge across the moat was completely unguarded, and the gate of the curtain wall wide open.
Rodel paced his horse slowly across, struck by the quiet of the place. If not for the faint curl of smoke coming from a chimney, he would have been sure the castle was abandoned. When he reached the far side of the bridge he passed through the open gate and into a large courtyard. The main door was closed, as were two side doors through the interior walls that divided the courtyard.
“Anyone there?” When no one answered he dismounted and slowly stepped toward the main door. “It is I, Rodel, from the river.” He approached the door and knocked. “Count Arasemis?”
Still nothing. Rodel wondered if the one-armed man had died alone within. He turned and remounted his horse, intending to exit the way he had come. He turned the horse just as the portcullis of the gate crashed down. The horse reared back. Rodel instinctively reached for his long dagger.
“Arasemis! I am Rodel. I come at your invitation and mean you no harm!”
He turned back toward the main door, but it was unchanged. He turned to his right and left, considering whether to try the side doors. A flash of color on the right interior wall caught his eye. It was a green-caped man, running silently along the top of the wall. And he wore a mask.
“You there!” Rodel called out. But the man kept running. He was thinner than Arasemis and had both arms. He jumped from the interior courtyard wall up onto the curtain wall, ran along the top of the gatehouse, then down to the left interior wall, nearly circling Rodel. In midjump he pulled out a crossbow and shot Rodel’s horse in the chest. Rodel struggled for control, but the steed tossed him off. He scrambled away as the man, completing his running circle on the wall, shot the horse again, in the head.
“I’m not here to fight!” Rodel shouted.
The man jumped from the wall and rolled when he hit the ground, all silently. He drew a sword out from his cape when he came to his feet.
“No,” Rodel said as he backed away. “I didn’t come to fight…”
The masked man rushed him. Rodel pulled his dagger to defend himself. He dodged the man’s first swipe by rolling to the side and parried the second. The green cape flashed in his face. Rodel stabbed at empty air with his dagger as the man ran up the courtyard wall. He watched in awe as the man ran along the top again, then back down the wall on the far side.
Rodel defended himself again, clashing his long dagger with the man’s sword. The man was quick, a blur of metal and green, and utterly silent behind the mask. Eventually Rodel found an opening to strike. He missed, but his jab caused the man to break off his attack and back away.
The man seemed bored, turning his back on Rodel. He prepared to throw his dagger, lifting it up to his shoulder. The man turned his head, one eye slit watching over his shoulder.
Rodel lowered the dagger. “I did not come to fight. I came to see Arasemis, by his invitation.”
“Then you did come to fight,” said the man in Donovar-accented Rugen.
Rodel shook his head. The man spun around and rushed him again. Rodel stabbed toward the mask but missed. The man landed a punch across Rodel’s jaw, disarmed him, and flung him to the ground. He then placed his sword at his neck.
“I want no more of this!” Rodel cried. “I’ve come to the wrong place.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” said the man. He held the sword aloft, but Rodel rolled away.
Rodel grasped a handful of dirt as he came to his feet. When the man rushed him again he tossed the dirt. It bounced off the mask and the man laughed. Rodel evaded the attack, rolled to his dagger on the ground, and tripped the man. Rodel pounced on him, striking the sword from his hand, and readied his dagger.
“Do you yield?”
“We never yield.”
“You must, or—”
The man head-butted Rodel’s dagger hand. Rodel shifted to regain control, and the man wrenched his arm loose, throwing Rodel off him. Rodel quickly regained his feet but turned to see the man run up the wall, then run back down. A black object flew from his hands on the way down. In a blink Rodel was choking on a cloud of brown powder.
The powder made him feel drunk. He gasped as it coated his eyes, nostrils, and throat with sublime warmth. He staggered and found himself lying on his back gazing at the sky. The mask appeared above him, and he closed his eyes. The man spoke as his own heartbeat slowed down…
---
When Rodel awoke he found himself sitting upright in a chair. The room was completely dark except for one candle on a small table before him. He moved to stand but his arms and legs ignored him. He looked down at his leaden arms, resting on the cushioned armrests of the chair, but they still would not move.
The candle’s flame was green and elongated, as if the fire had been stretched one hand length. He heard movement and looked into the dim beyond.
“I must apologize,” said a voice. “Marlan used a bit too much flashoak tincture.” A familiar bushy red beard leaned toward the green light.
“Count Arasemis?”
“But you’re lucky because he used to confuse flashoak with earth nut oil, in which case you would have awoken blind instead of dizzy. If you’ve never seen flashoaks, we have a grove of them on my land. Acorn to full grown to rotting log in two years. Quite a fascinating species.”
“Why…” Rodel closed his eyes, but the fog wouldn’t clear. “I did not…”
“It’s all right,” Arasemis said, moving his
chair closer to the light. “This rising candle will wear away the haze in your head soon. Since you are new, Marlan thought it best to test your skills. You did well, considering.”
“Your…invitation…”
“It still stands. But it’s not too late to leave either. I haven’t told you anything yet, and you’ve not seen much.”
“No, I…” Rodel shook his head vigorously.
“So now’s your last chance to turn back,” Arasemis continued. “Thereafter you will be bound to us by an oath that cannot be broken, for our lives depend on it.”
Rodel blinked hard. Then he noticed the candle’s flame shorten considerably, and the light changed from green to common yellow. Arasemis looked at it too and smiled.
“There. How do you feel now?”
Rodel looked up, surprised to feel refreshed. “Much better.”
“The rising candle could taste the flashoak on your breath, you see? Just as the flashoak dies within two years, its essence escapes from your lungs within two hours. Remarkably potent stuff, but easily countered by time and the vapors of the right rising candle.”
“When I first met you, after the river, you spoke of an Order,” Rodel said. “And teachings.”
“So you’ve come to another of life’s crossroads and chose the path to Thorendor?” Arasemis asked, and Rodel nodded. “Then you are most welcome, as promised.”
Arasemis stood and walked around behind Rodel’s chair. Rodel felt the feeling in his arms and legs return. He stood and followed Arasemis. Light flooded in as Arasemis opened the door.
“These will be your quarters,” Arasemis said, opening another door across the hallway. “Not much larger, but it has a bed, blankets, and a washbasin. Shelves for the many books you’ll study. And that bag of candles will provide your first alchemy lessons. But you are never confined to this cell. All of Thorendor Castle will be yours to explore. Follow me.”
They walked down the corridor. There were many more hermit-like cells, their doors left open. Only one was closed.
“How many students do you have?” Rodel asked.
“That number is not important right now. Unfortunately, I just lost one, but now I’ve gained you and one other.” Arasemis gestured to the closed door. “I will meet with him now, as I did with you. I’ll meet you in the great hall after. Take this corridor and go down the stairs to the left. The others are waiting for you there.”
Rodel did as he was told, walking slowly and taking the opportunity to observe his surroundings. The stone walls were carved with whimsical designs, sprinkled with animals, plants, and peoples. The floor was covered with a fine rug with a repeating design that looked like a jagged arch with a flame.
The grand hall was unmistakable. The large doors of reddish wood were propped open. Rodel heard friendly banter and smelled good food. He stood at the threshold, watching two men and a woman talking at a table.
“Come, join us, Rodel the Rugen,” bellowed a large man in Donovar. All of them turned to look.
Rodel was not surprised to hear his name, since he had given it to Arasemis the night he crawled out of the river. But he was surprised that they knew he spoke Donovar. He walked toward the table as the second man held a mug of beer out for him.
“No hard feelings about our dance in the courtyard,” the man said. “I’m Marlan.”
Rodel took the beer. “Perhaps we’ll have a fairer fight next time. You have my dagger?”
Marlan handed it to Rodel with a smile.
“Don’t worry, Rodel,” the young woman said. “You’ll learn what he’s learned soon enough.”
“If he’s able,” the big man said. “I’m Bertwil. She’s Juhl.”
“My condolences to you all,” Rodel said. “Arasemis told me a student was recently lost.” He raised his mug. “To the lost.”
Bertwil paused before joining the others in a drink. “His name was Morroy. A finicky, prim Calbrian, but a good swordsman.”
“You’re our first Rugen,” Juhl said.
“You’re a Lambic,” Rodel said with a nod. “And a Donovard and an Almerian,” he said, looking at Marlan and Bertwil in turn. They nodded.
“The other new student is also a Donovard,” Marlan said, “as is Master Arasemis and a few others. So we have you outnumbered when the War of All Kingdoms comes.”
“He jests,” Bertwil said.
“He knows,” Juhl said, turning to Rodel. “Where do you come from?”
“Rugenhav.”
“Yes, but what did you do before?”
Rodel took a long drink. “I was in the shadows…But I’ve left them.”
“You’ve stepped into new ones,” Marlan said.
The sound of footsteps at the door drew their attention. Arasemis entered alongside a young blond man with sharp eyes. “Rodel, this is Fetzer, from Perilune in Barres Ministry. He’s almost as new as you are.”
Rodel sensed unease in Fetzer’s handshake and mannerisms. He wondered if it was because he disliked Rugens.
“Everyone please sit,” Arasemis said. “Let us eat.”
“Their oaths?” Bertwil asked.
“After we dine together,” Arasemis said. “I’m confident of their commitment.”
“In the beginning, Garion and I had to give the oath before setting foot in Thorendor,” Marlan said.
“I can read youngsters’ confidence better now,” Arasemis said with a smile.
“There are more of us?” Rodel asked.
“Garion is on a special task in Eglamour at the moment,” Arasemis said. “I’m hopeful he will return here soon with good news.”
“Garion was the master’s second pupil, after Marlan,” Juhl explained.
“Then me, and then Morroy,” Bertwil said. “Juhl came after.”
“And now the two of you,” Arasemis said to the newcomers. Then he turned toward a side door. “Yorand!”
Rodel watched a man wearing a cook’s uniform shuffle out, followed by a woman.
“Yorand, some meat and bread,” Arasemis said. “And something good to finish.” When he departed back into the kitchen, Arasemis turned to Rodel. “Yorand is mute, and Adalane is deaf. I brought them over from the academy, where I once taught. They’re a little slow, but we treat them better than anyone did at the academy.”
“They are part of our little family,” Juhl said.
“But they don’t know what we’re all about,” Bertwil added.
“I’m not sure I know what we’re about,” Rodel said.
“You’ve not been on a task yet,” Fetzer said. “It’s about blood. Lots of blood, in the most wonderful way.”
“Now, Fetzer…” Arasemis wagged his finger. “Leave the lessons to me. The Order of the Candlestone is not merely about blood. It is a name that few ears have heard for a long time, buried by kings who survived the Order’s halcyon days. But with all of you, Candlestone is rising again.”
“You mentioned the ancient peoples of Pemonia when I was with you in the carriage,” Rodel said. “Is that where Marlan learned wall running?”
“Of course,” Arasemis said. “Everyone at the table has learned the various techniques. Tomorrow you and Fetzer will begin your training, too. But for now, a story.”
Yorand and Adalane reappeared with plates of roasted chicken, vegetables, and brown bread, and they refilled their mugs. Arasemis continued after they had departed.
“Long ago, the lands now known as Wallevet Ministry were completely forested. Before the Brintilian colonists settled here, there were giant trees that were inhabited by natives called the Gallerlanders. Their realm was larger than any of the other tribes of early Pemonia, stretching from the Bomlofoss Mountains on the western shore to the Narendra Mountains in the east. And from Leauvenna in the north to the Orringholm River Valley in the south. A massive network of forests ruled by their high king. He was elected from among the lower kings, who were also elected from among the clan and family chieft
ains.
“When the settlers came, the Gallerlanders—despite their overwhelming numbers and knowledge of their lands—could do little against mounted knights and armored soldiers. For religious reasons, the natives shunned horses and metal weaponry. And so their forests burned and there was a great exodus southward where they joined with a few other tribes to resist the expansion of the Brintilian Empire, the Second Crusade. But with time they fell to the empire and were absorbed into it.
“Now, there was one among the Gallerlanders who organized the initial resistance. He was a colonial knight named Rildning who helped lead an expedition into the frontier but eventually joined the natives and wed one of their princesses. Although the natives eventually lost, they would have succumbed to the empire much sooner had it not been for Rildning and his followers. And much of what we know about the various natives would have been lost forever.”
“Why did Rildning turn against his own people?” Rodel asked.
“Like many, he had become disenchanted with the empire and the cyclical violence of the Old World, which, as you may have noticed, still plagues the Almerian Confederation to this day. But Rildning saw an opportunity to unite the tribes of the New World. He hoped to strengthen them against the empire and protect them from the rot of the endless warring dynasties of the Old World.”
“Clearly he wasn’t successful,” Fetzer said.
“Obviously the native kingdoms eventually fell, otherwise we’d be speaking Gali right now,” Arasemis said. “But the natives prophesied Rildning’s coming, and he laid the foundation of an order of warriors that would live on in secret within the Brintilian Empire. Candlestone, originally formed by seven members of various tribes and another colonial, worked to subvert the empire from the inside. Marlan, continue this part of the tale while I taste this chicken.”
“Official histories do not acknowledge most Candlestone victories,” Marlan said, “such as the assassination of Marshal Hilsingor, the leader of the Frontier Corps who destroyed many tribes of western and central Pemonia.
“But Candlestone was responsible for such tasks, as we call them, which slowed the empire’s march, contributed to its eventual breakup, and helped preserve pockets of the original peoples of Pemonia that still exist today. You’ve heard of them as the wildermen of the Merbredel Mountains and the Black Forest Wildermen.
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