“Remarkable, isn’t it?” a deep voice boomed throughout the vast chamber.
Tyrus looked down from the ceiling to find a long table several meters to the right of the Apeira well’s base–or rather the place where it rose from the floor. The king stood, along with the prince at his right hand, and a number of other high nobles and favored servants.
“It is said to be the largest well in all of Shaelar.” The king craned his head to view the glowing amethyst obelisk. “Well, largest human-controlled well,” the king amended. Then he looked down at Tyrus and motioned him forward.
Tyrus bobbed a quick, sloppy bow, and then strode as quickly as was proper over to the table. Given the size of the room, the walk took an inordinate amount of time, making Tyrus acutely aware of the eyes on him. The king and his guests all stood silently, awaiting his arrival to the table. Tyrus could not remember a more uncomfortable moment. He prayed fervently to Rasheera that he wouldn’t trip, or commit some other unthinkable etiquettal atrocity.
He breathed a soft sigh of relief when he reached the table with his dignity intact. The king nodded at him, and then sat. The rest of his guests. waited until the king was comfortable before seating themselves. Tyrus quickly followed suit, sitting in an empty chair at the right of the king.
“Tonight you sit at the place of honor, Lord Tyrus Gymal,” The king said.
Tyrus bobbed another quick bow before sputtering, “Thank you, my king.”
A host of servers appeared, as if out of nowhere, making Tyrus almost suspect they were using talis craft. He flushed upon realizing their quick appearance had been facilitated by a culinary staging around the side of the mammoth Apeira well and not translocation.
“What will be your pleasure, Lord Gymal?” the king asked.
Tyrus was suddenly surrounded by silver tray bearing servers, all crowding in on him with presented dishes. The smells of hot food mixed, making Tyrus’ mouth water in spite of his nervousness. There was honey-glazed ham, smoked pheasant, garnished cattle steaks, skewers of various meats, and an assortment of side dishes Tyrus’ didn’t have time to enumerate or identify.
“The ham,” Tyrus choked out.
“You have excellent taste, Lord Gymal,” the king said without a smile.
He clapped twice and one of the servers began to set Tyrus’ meal before him while the other servers spread out, offering options to each of the other dinner guests. Tyrus eased a bit as the attention of the others shifted away from him, and for a time he was almost enjoying himself. The ham was better than anything he’d ever partaken from his family’s table, and no matter how much he ate, there was always more.
The prince made small talk with a few of the generals, but mostly everyone’s attention stayed fixed on their meals. Being in the presence of the king appeared to be a stressful experience for all involved, even the prince. When he could eat no more, the servants whisked away his plate and replaced it with a dish filled with yellow custard. Tyrus tentatively tasted the dessert and squeezed his eyes shut with an indulgent sigh. He’d never tasted anything so glorious. He was going to have to eat all of it and more, his inevitable indigestion be damned.
Glutton’s remorse had only just begun to settle on Tyrus when the king spoke his name. “Yes, your highness?”
“I see that you enjoyed the Tolean pudding.”
Several suppressed snickers alerted Tyrus that something was wrong. He quickly felt at the corners of his mouth where he found it rimmed with custard. He hurriedly dabbed at it with his napkin, catching his red face in a warped reflection from a spoon.
“Would you like another brought?”
“No, your highness,” Tyrus quickly sputtered. “Thank you, but no.”
“Suit yourself,” the king said, and Tyrus silently praised Rasheera that the man turned his attention to a pale man with long black hair seated further down the table.
“Loeadon,” the king said to the sallow looking fellow, “you sent word that there has been a breakthrough with the sword talis Lord Gymal brought to us?”
Loeadon nodded gracefully, finishing a mouthful of food behind his napkin before finally answering, “Yes, my king.”
“Then please, share your news here so that Lord Gymal may also hear it.”
“Very well.” Loeadon looked at Tyrus, cleared his throat, and said, “After careful testing, and analysis, I have been able to puzzle out just how the sword works. Something that would’ve been nearly impossible if it weren’t for the Allosian tome or the spell-casting talis we’ve recently found. In fact, it was because of a delving spell that– ”
“Yes, yes, Loeadon,” the king interrupted. “We all know you are brilliant. Why don’t you get to what I wish to know.”
“What is its exact function?” Loeadon asked. “Well, it binds itself to a host and grants that person significantly increased strength and reflexes. It is also spell-cast with recorded knowledge of a sword master’s level of skill as well as expert battle tactics. I have to say that next to the spell-casting circlet we found, this is the most remarkable specimen of talis-craft that I have ever seen.”
“How do you break the bond so that another can use it?” the king asked.
“Well, that is simple. The sword must lose its Apeiron charge–”
“That isn’t going to happen while it’s in Aiested,” the prince chimed in.
Tyrus thought he caught Loeadon scowl at the prince, but the expression was gone so quickly he might’ve imagined it.
“Or,” Loeadon continued, “the boy must die.”
No!
The king released a weary sigh. “I was afraid of something like this.”
“Father,” the prince began, “you said– ”
“I know what I said, Raelen,” he cut in. Then he drew in another sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “But it seems that I spoke too soon. This is no longer a matter of crime and punishment, but an issue of safety.”
Tyrus couldn’t think, and his heart pounded so loudly that it made it difficult for him to hear.
“Have the boy executed tomorrow after morning court. Do it in his cell, with no fanfare.” The king looked at Loeadon. “And make it quick and as painless as possible.”
Loeadon bobbed his head, and Tyrus caught a slight smile of satisfaction on the man’s face.
“Have the sword brought to me before he is put down.”
That made Loeadon’s smile falter. Tyrus would’ve found that odd if his mind hadn’t been racing, and his every effort of will was being exercised to keep himself from looking upset.
“I don’t want to risk someone else bonding it by accident.”
“As you wish, sire.” Loeadon bobbed his head again.
Tyrus didn’t fully hear what was said after that–something about a plague box, whatever that was. He was too busy trying not to vomit.
He had brought Kybon’s son to Aiested and it was his fault Jekaran was going to die. From the moment he made the decision to sail away from Imaris, he’d known this to be a danger, but had been naively confident he could intercede on Jekaran’s behalf and at the very least buy his life with coin.
Not now. No amount of money could change a royal decree. But I didn’t have any other choice! His duty to king and country demanded he bring the sword talis and the Allosian woman here and present them to the king. Not doing so could have destroyed his entire house if it became known. And it wasn’t as if he could’ve covered up the chaos Jekaran had caused in Imaris.
At that point Tyrus did throw up, all over the floor, to the gasps of the other dinner guests. But what would’ve mortified him only a few moments earlier, seemed only a trifling concern now.
He’d as good as killed his cousin’s son–Kybon’s son.
Jove salivated as he stared up at the towering Apeira well in the distance. It was larger than any he’d ever seen before, illuminating the city beneath it with a purple light as bright as the moon on a cloudless night. It was so bright, he doubted the city ever slept.
That would mean people roaming the streets, even though it was late.
Appetizers. Jove giggled.
Although he’d left a trail of withered grass, dead animals and trees, and the occasional human corpse, his Hunger was gnawing at him. Oddly, drinking the crystal man’s life had only made him thirstier for the pristine, unadulterated essence he’d come to realize was Apeiron itself. Everything he consumed since worked to take the edge off of his need, but didn’t satisfy. It didn’t even come close.
Four translucent greenish tendrils sprouted from him, two from his chest and two from his back, waving like stalks of corn in the summer breeze above his head. He fed so much over the course of his journey it’d been easier to leave them manifested, than to continually call them from within.
That’s where they came from, he’d realized. Inside his chest, where his heart once was. That could be the only explanation for why he no longer bled–his heart was gone, replaced by a bottomless void. Nothing pumped whatever blood was left in his veins, and so naturally, he wouldn’t bleed.
Not many of his station in life–uneducated peasants–knew as much as he did about the human body. And his education hadn’t come from books or old corpses. No, he’d learned from experience, from experimentation. He barked a laugh. He likely knew more about the inner workings of the human body than any scholar did. That made him proud.
One of his floating tendrils snapped a swooping owl out of the air, absorbing all of its life force before its dried husk crashed to the ground in an explosion of mummified dust. A wave of delicious pleasure pulsed into him, but it was gone all too quickly, like a flash of lightning in the sky. It was enough, however, to refresh him and give him a burst of energy. That was what sustained him now, the life energy of the things he consumed. What would happen if he stopped eating? Would he die?
He didn’t know, but denying the Hunger was an excruciatingly painful thing. Also, his physical body seemed to wear away and grow older when he didn’t eat. His hair would fall out, his skin would begin to blacken, almost like a decaying corpse. Well, he wouldn’t have to worry about that once he reached that Apeira well. There was more life in it than he could ever consume. He would feed forever. The very idea gave him chills, the kind he used to feel when he was choosing a new doll to play with.
In a wash of purple light, the wood-paneled walls of Racheta’s Pleasure House disappeared and a sudden cold breeze shocked Ezra’s skin. When the light faded, he found himself staring at a dirty, brick wall. He quickly scanned his surroundings and discovered that he, Graelle, and Mulladin had materialized in a narrow alley spanning between two multi-story buildings.
“Where’s your fat friend?” Graelle asked.
Ezra looked about a second time. He’d given Irvis his earring so he himself could travel with Graelle. And since his earring only had enough power to transport one this far from Imaris, they had to take Mulladin with them and hope to meet up with Irvis.
“If he didn’t know the exact location, he could be anywhere.”
“He said he’d been here before. He even recognized the color trap I showed him of this alley.”
“He might have told you that just to save face,” Ezra said. He adjusted the hose he wore in a vain attempt to relieve the discomfort it caused by pulling at his inner thigh. They were part of an expensive outfit consisting of a blue, silken tunic underneath a fine white doublet and a velvet cloak of deep green.
Not even Mulladin had been able to escape being fitted with an uncomfortable costume. Ezra spared a quick glance at the boy-man who was unintelligibly muttering to himself while unabashedly scratching his starched servant’s livery in several inappropriate places.
“Why would he do that?” Graelle asked. The mistress of Racheta’s Pleasure House had traded her modest gray dress for a low-cut gown of lustrous silver. It clung to her, giving even Graelle’s full-figure a feminine shape. She’d also let her hair down and colored it black.
The change in her outfit had made Irvis’ odd behavior worse. Instead of stammering, or making out of place comments, the chubby monk had fallen completely silent, only nodding with wild eyes anytime Graelle spoke to him.
Unbelievable. His lecherous friend–the man with an obsession for spying on young, attractive, delicate women–was thoroughly enamored with the uncouth, overweight, and middle-aged Graelle.
“Pride,” Ezra finally answered.
“Well, we can’t wait for him. The meeting starts within the hour.” She turned and strode out of the alley and onto an empty cobblestone street.
“Come on, Mulladin,” Ezra sighed, and the two followed Graelle out of the alley.
Their destination was not a seedy warehouse, or an abandoned building as many assumed such meetings of the underworld took place. No, they were headed to a large manor house in the wealthier part of Erassa. Ezra glanced up at the Apeira well that loomed over the buildings at the center of the city. Its soft glow tinged the street with an eerie purple light. It was too late in the night to summon a carriage, so the three of them were forced to hike a mile uphill until they came to the Apeira well-centric town square.
Surprisingly, the only one to have trouble making the journey was Mulladin, who was sucking air and sweating by the time they stopped at the top of the hill. Incongruously, Graelle hadn’t even broken a sweat. For a woman of her size, she was in remarkably good physical condition. Ezra glanced back down the hill. The light from the Apeira well made visibility good; he searched the street below for Irvis, but there was no sign of his friend. It’s just as well. Irvis probably wouldn’t have made it up the hill anyway.
Ezra tried not to notice as the dread medal warmed against his chest while it drank in a fresh charge of Apeiron. It was an odd talis, unlike any other he’d ever used. Instead of waiting dormant until he mentally invoked its power, the dread medal had to be restrained when he didn’t want it broadcasting an aura of fear, which was just as mentally taxing as resisting the power of the talis when he’d been on the receiving end. How had Kaul done it?
He didn’t. Not unless he was away from an Apeira well. The man enjoyed having people fear him, so he would’ve been using the full power of the talis whenever possible.
They stopped in front of a large manor house with a stone wall enclosing the perimeter. A single, armored guard stood at a gap in the wall bridged by a black iron gate. One guard? Then it hit him. The guard was just for show, part of a Rikujo front.
If anyone actually dared to break into the manor, they would be in for a truly awful surprise. Chances were most of the petty criminals in the city–burglars and thieves–knew what this place was, or at the very least had an idea. That would be more effective than a full contingent of soldiers wandering the grounds would.
Graelle made some sort of quick gesture in the air with her right hand–the signs had changed since his day–to which the guard responded with his own gesture. He nodded at Graelle, and then shot a look at Ezra. As practiced, he flashed the appropriate sign to which the guard responded again with his own sign of acceptance.
The guard stepped aside and opened the gate. Apparently, Mulladin wasn’t a problem. Servants were accepted without question. At first that seemed odd, for in his day anyone that wanted access to a Rikujo hideout had to display the proper signs, servant or not. But Graelle explained that Jaris had abolished the practice, deciding he would hold the Rikujo lords personally responsible for all the acts of their servants. That put the onus for choosing trustworthy servants squarely on the members of the syndicate. When Ezra questioned if such a policy really worked, Graelle answered, “It did after Jorial got his throat slit for the petty thieving of a coachman he’d hired.”
After passing through the gate, they entered an enormous courtyard decorated with a variety of flowers as well as bushes sculpted into various shapes: life-sized animals, letters, and statuesque people. Ezra heard Mulladin giggle as they passed a tall, phallus-shaped hedge. But the centerpiece of the courtyard was a multi-tiered fountain ascen
ding over twenty feet into the air.
The manor house itself was no less impressive, reaching up five stories, and capped by a domed roof constructed entirely of glass. The thick, fluted columns supporting a covering to the causeway leading up to the entrance made Ezra think of palaces he’d seen in the exotic eastern countries–some even smaller than this building.
Servants dressed in uniformed livery, who averted their eyes as they opened a set of wide and tall double doors, greeted them at the front entrance. It was the subtleties of the environment and the behavior of the servants that clued him in that Saijen Trous his host must be. Saijen Trous was a man from Maes Tol, and Toleans were known for their emphasis on magnanimous politeness, even when dealing with enemies.
Arynda. The Tolean woman had been Argentus’ lover once, and for that fact alone had died when Kaul rose to jealously claim all that once belonged to Argentus. That was how Kaul had gotten the flame ring, something Ezra wished Graelle’s servant had recovered instead of the dread medal. Not because Ezra needed it to fight–although he couldn’t deny that it would be handy–but because of Arynda. Surprisingly, after almost two decades, their parting still stung. The pain was made all the worse by the knowledge it had been their affair that motivated Kaul to rape and murder her.
They were led into the foyer of the manor house; a dome-shaped chamber with a skylight set in the vaulted ceiling that let in the purple glow of the city’s Apeira well. The inner circumference of the room was cylindrical in shape, each story of the manor wrapping around the sides and leaving all of the floors open to the foyer and skylight.
“Put your hood up,” Graelle hissed. It brought him out of his reverie with a start, and he nearly lost his mental restraint on the dread medal. He cast her an irritated look as he obeyed the order and drew up his hood. It nearly came too late as a tall man descending the grand staircase suddenly called down to them.
“Mistress Graelle!” he said in a lightly accented tone.
The Lure of Fools Page 40