by Martin Ash
‘Not so. We are obeying the Law.’
‘Blindly!’ Dinbig’s voice rose, assuming a new timbre. ‘You know that there exists no precedent for this circumstance.’
‘That is irrelevant.’
‘I say that it is far from irrelevant. I believe you are making a critical error of judgement. You will do your nation a most grave injustice, and if the Old Texts are correct, it will suffer long-term consequences. The wiser course is to wait and learn the fullest picture. Then consider.’
‘That cannot be done.’
‘What constructive end can be served now by taking the lives of these men?’
Upon the words ‘these men’ Dinbig threw a particular emphasis, and swung his arm in a deliberately exaggerated manner to point at Sildemund and Gully. All eyes followed to regard the two. Sildemund’s own gaze was fixed upon the Khimmurian, and he saw what no other did. He noted how the fingers of Dinbig’s free hand formed an elaborate gesture, and Dinbig’s lips shaped soundless words that followed immediately upon his speech. He noted that the Khimmurian’s eyes settled for a moment with a strange intensity upon the second Haruspex, who had so far made no verbal contribution to the debate. And it was towards this man that his fingers gestured.
Sildemund watched the second Haruspex now. A curious frown briefly furrowed the man’s brow. He compressed his lips in thought.
Dinbig continued to declaim, striding animatedly back and forth, and it was upon this Haruspex that he focused his words: ‘You know that these men might serve you, and their country. You know that what has happened here was preordained: ‘The Heart of Shadows shall be borne to the capital by the unknowing’. The event has been foretold! And you know the course that the Heart must follow. Act unwisely and you may precipitate the very crisis that you are so anxious to avoid.’
The second Haruspex seemed troubled. His gaze flickered from Dinbig to his colleague, to Prince Enlos, then to the mute Queen Lermeone. Dinbig said, ‘Where is the Heart now?’
‘It remains where it was left, in the Hall of Receiving,’ replied Prince Enlos. ‘No one has touched it.’
‘Aye, and no one should.’
Enlos nodded. The two Haruspices eyed the Khimmurian, one with resentment, the other with disquiet.
‘Do you doubt that is so?’ the Khimmurian challenged. ‘Then go, yourselves! Take up the Heart and bring it here!’
The second Haruspex bent his head to his colleague in order to confer in muted tones. Seeing this Dinbig allowed himself a taut smile. He stepped close to Sildemund and murmured, ‘You might not thank me for this.’
Sildemund was uncertain what had happened, or what the unfathomable Khimmurian meant, but he sensed a subtle but decisive change. One of the Haruspices spoke again, and Sildemund’s heart leapt and then, as quickly, plummeted.
‘We will review our decision. The Queen shall make her judgement.’
They will still interpret her decision to fit their own ends. She’s powerless, and even if she could resist them she will still rule against us. To do otherwise is to condemn herself!
He stared for a moment at Queen Lermeone, wondering at the inner world of this woman who, nominally all-powerful, had been taught for her entire life that anything and everything she might consciously think or feel was both worthless and unreliable, and that her true wishes could only ever be interpreted by others.
Forbidden to speak, on pain of death. Even if she did, her words would be judged invalid. She’s helpless. She’s been reduced to a marionette, nothing more.
We are dead.
He glanced aside at Dinbig, who was stroking his whiskers in contemplation, his eyes also on Queen Lermeone.
One of the Haruspices motioned to the officer of the guard, who strode briskly from the chamber and was heard to bark an order in the passage outside. Moments later, underlings hurried in carrying a pair of shallow wicker bowls filled with petals, two hand brushes on lacquered trays, quills, ink and vellum sheets, and a large slab of white marble, square in shape, upon which was figured a complex circular design, the same as that rendered upon the dais in the Hall of Receiving. These articles were arranged carefully on the floor in front of the Queen, and the underlings scurried out.
The ritual of divination was conducted as it had been two evenings earlier in the Hall of Receiving. The two Haruspices took their places before the Queen. One spoke, briefly, in high ceremonial terms, outlining the character of the dilemma, praying for guidance, invoking the inner wisdom of the Sacred Sovereign who sat above him. The Queen listened, her eyes bright, her face betraying the tension within her. Sildemund noticed Dinbig, who had withdrawn unobtrusively to one side. His eyes were closed as though he had entered some kind of trance.
The petal bowls were raised to the Queen. She dipped a royal hand into each and let the petals cascade onto the circle below. The Haruspices bent forward to make their interpretations. Their inspection lasted for the customary two or three minutes, but Sildemund noted the creases that marked their brows and the darting glances they exchanged. Their quills scratched the vellum with a vague hesitancy, and he had the impression they were looking to one another for cues. He looked back to Dinbig. The Khimmurian’s eyes were open now, his gaze focused and intense, concentrated upon the pair, and his lips were moving, barely perceptibly, but repetitively, as though reciting a silent incantation.
In due course the Haruspices sat back, their spines straight, but failed to take up their brushes immediately to sweep the petals from the circle. Again they looked at one another with uncertainty. They examined their notes, exchanged them, pored over them for some moments more, then at last took up their brushes and with resigned motions cleared the circle. One of them now addressed the waiting men, his tones clipped.
‘Our August Majesty has seen cause for reassessment. It appears that circumstances of which we were formerly unaware may exert an influence. We shall adjourn.’
Sildemund felt a surge of elation. Reprieved! Regarding Queen Lermoene, he saw the tension slip from her shoulders, her features relax. She had wanted to hear those words!
The guards came forward to lead them from the chamber. They filed out, passing Prince Enlos, who raised his eyes to theirs, a trace of a supportive smile compressing his lips. Sildemund glanced across at Dinbig. He was bowed, seemed dazed, almost weary as he fell in between the guards. Beads of perspiration had broken out upon his brow.
They were escorted back to their apartment, where they found Picadus, barely conscious and nursing a sore head. Gully applied a cold compress. Sildemund stood at the balcony window, anxiously watching as the sun rose over the city and the Palace slowly awoke.
An hour passed. There were marching feet in the corridor again. The door opened, the same officer entered with two guards.
‘Which of you is Sildemund?’
‘I am.’
‘Come.’
He was taken back through the Palace to the Hall of Receiving. It was empty. He stood with his guards at the back of the Hall. Before him, upon the dais where he had left them, were his satchel and, further back, the purple-red stone, the Heart of Shadows, resting in the soiled, ragged nest of its binding.
The officer pointed. ‘Collect them.’
Gingerly, Sildemund made his way to the front of the Hall, picked up his satchel then stepped onto the dais and approached the stone. Did he imagine it, or did the thing pulse as he drew close? For a second he thought the dark bands on its surface had shifted, but he stared hard and they did so no more. The stone had taken on a sinister aspect now, lying there like a bloated, petrified organ. He was reluctant to touch it, half-thinking he sensed something radiating invisibly from it to clutch and claw at a place deep within him.
He lowered himself onto his haunches, slowly collected the cloth binding and rewound it about the stone. He lifted the stone, felt its chill, and eased it back into his satchel, then returned to the guards.
He was taken back through the Palace, but instead of returning upsta
irs to the guests’ apartments as he had expected, he was led through unfamiliar passages.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked, but his guards did not reply.
They marched on, keeping to the ground level, eventually to emerge into a high-walled service yard. Here a group of horsemen waited. Sildemund halted for a moment, blinking in the bright sunlight, taking in the scene before him.
Prince Enlos sat upon his mount alongside the two Supreme Haruspices. A little further away were Gully, Dinbig of Khimmur and, unexpectedly, the self-professed mage, Kemorlin. They too were mounted. Half a dozen horse troops waited beside them. Picadus, also mounted, was separated from the others and watched by three guards. Sildemund saw his own horse, saddled and harnessed.
To one side was a cart laden with covered baggage and flanked by two more mounted soldiers. Seated beside its driver was one other person. Sildemund looked at her for a moment in surprise. She was aged about thirty, had long, uncombed brown hair, and was clothed in the red and brown tat of the Revenants of Claine.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked.
‘Do you have the Heart?’ demanded Prince Enlos.
Sildemund nodded dumbly. Enlos inclined his head towards Sildemund’s steed. ‘Mount, then.’
‘I don’t understand.’
The officer of his guard pushed Sildemund forward. Sildemund climbed onto his horse. The company rode slowly from the yard into an outer court. Here a gilt carriage drawn by six black horses waited, its windows draped. It was accompanied by a column of elite Darch knights as many as fifty strong. The carriage started forward as they passed, the knights forming up in its wake.
They proceeded through the outer bailey and barbican, exiting the Palace. More horse-soldiers joined them, some riding in advance, others falling in to the rear. Sildemund estimated their number now to total more than two hundred. Looking back, he saw baggage wagons trundling behind.
They left the royal mall and trotted down the wide thoroughfare that led to the main city gate. The gate was open, the way cleared by guards. They passed through, onto the hot Dharsoul Road and the open country beyond.
Sildemund had manoeuvred himself into a position between Gully and Dinbig. He leaned towards Dinbig. ‘Where are we going?’
Dinbig looked tired, a stark contrast to his appearance earlier. Sildemund was convinced that, through some subtle sorcery, he had influenced the minds of the two Supreme Haruspices to bring about this change of plan. And it seemed the effort had taken its toll.
Now Dinbig barely turned his head to reply.
‘To the besieged city of Garsh, in Tulmua.’
XVIII
‘And who is in the golden carriage?’
‘Who would you expect? It’s the Queen.’
‘Queen Lermeone?’ Sildemund glanced back in astonishment at the carriage glinting in the sun as it rolled along, swaying on its springs, its wheels churning the dust on the metalled road. ‘Why is she accompanying us?’
Dinbig gave a tired, twisted smile and raised his voice to carry above the din of the horses’ hooves. ‘Among other things, to avert a conflict.’
‘A conflict?’
‘We must enter Garsh, which is sovereign territory, besieged by Tulmu troops. To do this we must first enter Tulmua. We have no permission to do either, and there’s no time to obtain such permission through the lengthy diplomatic channels that must necessarily accompany the transport of a sovereign head over foreign soil. Relations over Garsh are already tense between Darch and Tulmua. The Tulmu will not welcome our arrival, yet so urgent is our mission that we can under no circumstances be deterred. The presence of Queen Lermeone will leave them in no doubt of the gravity with which Darch perceives the issue.’
Sildemund was not sure that he understood. There was so much to absorb and nothing had been explained to him. ‘What of Kemorlin? Why is he here? And the woman on the cart, the Revenant?’
But Dinbig evidentally wearied of his questions. ‘Boy, the dust clogs my throat and I find no joy in shouting over this thunder. We’ll stop to take rest at some point. We can talk then.’
With that he drew his scarf up to cover his nose and mouth, and let his horse drop back a few steps so that he rode alone.
Sildemund rode on, his mind a whirlpool of emotion. His group consisted of himself, Gully and Dinbig, and travelled somewhat separate from the main body. Prince Enlos rode at the head with his royal guard, Kemorlin was a little way behind, followed by more horse-troops. There was a gap then, after which came six soldiers set to guard Sidlemund’s group. They were positioned a good ten paces ahead of Sildemund. Six more rode the same distance behind. Picadus rode behind these, flanked by two troopers with another at to his rear. Beyond these was the main force, which included the Queen’s carriage, a second carriage into which the Supreme Haruspices had transferred themselves and, further back, the cart that carried the solitary Revenant of Claine.
Sildemund deduced that the red stone, the Heart of Shadows, was the reason for his group’s isolation. Its baleful aura could not be allowed to affect others. He realized, too, that this was a primary reason for his reprieve: he had brought the stone to the capital and he would carry it on, suffering any influence it might exert.
He was overcome with loathing for the thing now, and fearful of it. What was this evil object? What might it be doing to him without his knowing? He glanced back at Picadus, who rode hunched in his saddle with the mien of a man helplessly enraged at the world.
Poor Pic. I’ve brought this upon you. I know I’m not really to blame, but…. We’re caught up in something far larger than we know. Oh, why did we ever enter that grotto?
Sildemund was seized by an urge to wrench the stone from his satchel and hurl it away, but he suppressed the impulse, knowing it was impossible and detesting the stone even more. The Heart of Shadows was bound to him, and he to it. Whether he wanted it or not, it had become part of his destiny. More chillingly, he realized, it had perhaps even forged his destiny.
The notion dismayed him. He had never previously considered himself in such a light – that he took part in events that were somehow preordained, that he lived under a numen, that everything he had ever done had somehow been a step along the path that would bring him to this moment.
And beyond..?
He tried to dismiss the thought, but it would not pass. Had not Dinbig stated as much only this morning? And had not the Supreme Haruspices, in their own manner, acknowledged it? The Heart had led Sildemund to face his own death, and due to it he was now reprieved, at least for the time being. His mind went back over the whole pattern of events through the last few weeks. The way his father’s caravan had been diverted from the Tulmu border, and had stumbled upon the resting place of the stone; the way he and Gully had been rescued by Prince Enlos; the fortune of Gully’s past which had conferred upon them the status of honoured guests in the Royal Palace. Truly, it seemed that events had been shaped by some unknown force, bring him to this. But for what? To what was the Heart of Shadows taking him?
He ached to question Dinbig further, and found himself wondering about the Khimmurian again. He seemed to know so much, but revealed so little. Sildemund clenched his jaw and sighed. He would learn nothing more until they stopped. He endeavoured to give his attention to the journey.
They had come a couple of miles out of Dharsoul. The way was slow. Already there was a fair amount of traffic on the road close to the capital. Troops were engaged in diverting this to the rough verges on both sides to allow the company to pass. Additionally, their pace was dictated by the two carriages and wagons.
The day was growing hot and stifling. The river slumbered, the colour of dark mud, tinted with a sluggish glitter. Boats plied slowly up and down, labourers bent their backs in the fields on either bank. Some of those closest to the road paused to stare as the column rode by. At the roadsides merchants, pilgrims, vagrants and a diversity of other wayfarers gazed at the unexpected dazzle of soldiery and royalty, their expres
sions ranging through blankness and indifference to awe.
A little way further on, gazing absently across the landscape, enmeshed in his thoughts, Sildemund experienced a queer sensation. His eyes had become drawn to a solitary figure on a grey horse, making its way down a rocky hillside towards the road. The figure wore a burnous and light hose, and was slight of build, almost certainly a woman.
He could make out nothing of the rider’s features, but something about her captured his attention. Her posture, the line of her body, the very manner in which she rode as she picked her way carefully down the rubbled slope. And the horse, too…
Sildemund’s pulse quickened. He sat up straight in his saddle and shielded his eyes from the sun’s relentless glare. For a moment he was reminded of his twin sister, Meglan.
The vision was brief. He twisted in the saddle to follow the rider’s progress. She had halted to observe the cavalcade on the road.
Could it be? Of course not. He was homesick. A stab of longing pierced his breast. Images of home flooded his mind’s vision. My sister, my father, how do you fare? What has happened to you in my absence? He fought back tears. I’ve let you down.
Sildemund felt a sudden impulse to wrench his horse around, burst free of his guard and gallop from the road to join the rider on the slope. But it was foolishness, he knew. The guards would not allow him to get far, might even fell him with arrows if they perceived any likelihood of his escape. And even if he made it to the slope, his mad dash would be doomed to sad disappointment. That Meglan could be here was a lunatic notion. He would simply find himself before some startled local farmgirl or strumpet making her way to fields or city. It was just something indefinable about her that had brought Meglan’s image to mind.
He watched her for as long as he was able, until his view was obscured by a stand of palm trees close beside the road. At the last moment, before he lost sight of her, something else caught his attention. Another figure had stepped from behind a boulder a few paces ahead of the rider. This one was garbed in a dark burnous, its hood raised.