Obsidian (8 page)

“I come from the king, sir, as well as the Advocate and the king’s brother, Patronius Lors. They request your presence in the Council Room. We. . .” He paused to catch his breath. “We’ve been looking for you for some time.”

Gair grunted. Was that council meeting tonight? Didn’t they just have one a few nights ago? “All right. Tell the king that I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He started limping down the stairs as the messenger rushed off with his good news.

It was several minutes before he arrived at one of the most august chambers in the palace. The Council Room had been built by Ruponi the Great, grandson of Erst, the Prysm Advocate whose victory had ushered in the current (now ending) era of ten thousand score of mornings and evenings. Ruponi had been a skilled musician as well as king. During the restoration of the council chamber in his third year as king, he had ordered the room to be mapped out to precise mathematical proportions, in accordance with the musical theory of his day. The theory behind this arrangement is too complex for description. It involved a great deal of geometry, as well as visual techniques such as vanishing points and foreshortening, all of which were explained on a long, often ignored plaque in one of the room’s eight corners.

The room itself, as its eight corners suggest, was octagonal with a peaked ceiling, each of its eight walls bearing a panel that depicted a symbol from ancient Keroulian pictography: a circle to symbolize the order and unity of peace, a narrow wedge breaking a crooked line to represent the sometimes necessary destruction of war, and so on. Underneath each pictograph was a detailed portrait of an individual—not a prince or priest, but a tradesman, market woman, or soldier. Although each of these portraits were based on actual individuals, they served to remind all the members of the council that behind their abstract theories were individuals who would suffer or gain from their decisions. Finally, in the center of the octagonal table was a large prism: a warning to all of the council members that Kynell himself presided at their meetings.

The men inside watched patiently as Gair entered. Relgaren did not, of course, rise to greet him, nor did his brother Lors. But Corfe jumped to his feet and pulled out a chair for his friend.

“Glad you could make it. We were wondering if you’d forgotten about us.”

Gair bowed to the king and made a slight obeisance to the prism before taking his seat. “I’m sorry for my tardiness. I did not realize we had called another meeting for this evening.” He directed his penitent gaze toward Relgaren, who was the most likely to be offended. The young king had taken over his duties with considerable ability. As a new promotee, however, he was zealous for the honor of his office. Even Corfe was careful to show him deference. It was Relgaren, after all, who commanded the Keroulian troops that Corfe needed so much.

Relgaren accepted the apology. With his thick red hair and broad forehead, he bore a striking resemblance to his father. Yet Relgaren was more thoughtful than his predecessor. He often diluted his desire for action with a healthy amount of caution, which was partially the reason Corfe had been given such prominence at court: Relgaren liked to keep wildcards close, and Corfe was the wildest card of the age. His younger brother was not always so prudent. At a mere fifteen cycles, Lors was a passionate young man. He had embraced Corfe whole-heartedly, promising and obtaining the support of the Patroniite
Order. Now he insisted on being present at any meeting as a spiritual representative, however insignificant the meeting might be. Gair could appreciate the boy’s enthusiasm, although he did not share it. At just twenty-five cycles, he felt old, a feeling encouraged by the awareness that he was the oldest person in the room.

Corfe seemed to read his thoughts. “We are young, Gair. But maybe Kynell has appointed youth to govern the country for a reason. The older generation, though well intentioned, was not without its faults.”

Gair nodded. For having his voice so recently restored, Corfe was putting it to good use. “Is anybody else coming?”

Relgaren responded. His voice was low for such a young man, maintaining the perfect level of gravity for a king. “The other advisors have not been included today because of the sensitivity of the issue we need to discuss. As you know, we have sent Farlone to the Kingdom of Ulan to call upon their aid. You may remember that our sister Dorylen is married to Huran, heir-apparent to the Ulanese throne?”

Gair nodded again. The Ulanese were good allies. He knew them well, since their small kingdom was sandwiched between the regions of Keroul north of the Duvarian Range and the Eastern Lands. Only a narrow strip of the Trmak
Desert separated the Ulanese from Amarian’s realm. The Dark One had frequently encouraged his people to raid the Ulanese, but their neighbors had always put up a stalwart defense. Whatever trinkets the Easterners had been able to take away from the ventures were not worth the resources lost. Farlone, the king’s brother and first general, would approve of his sister’s militant new home.

“Has there been any response, my liege?”

“Not yet. In truth, his return has taken longer than anticipated. We,” he gestured to the men in the room and perhaps to Keroul in general, “are beginning to get concerned. There have been strange reports coming out of the Eastern Lands.”

The ominous statement did not surprise Gair much; the Eastern Lands and the great castle of Donech belonged to Obsidian’s Advocate. Only the Plains of Jasimor, where Zyreio had buried his deceitful tongue, could produce more evil than the realm of the Dark One. “What do the reports say?”

It was Lors’s turn to answer. “That an army is gathering there.”

“Of course there’s an army. Amarian left behind some reserves when he came as Commander Hull.”

But Lors was shaking his head. “These aren’t reserves. We’ve heard reports of Sentries, fennels, and humans too numerous to count. They’re very agitated. Our scouts say that they’re preparing for war.”

“But where would such a host come from?”

Finally, Corfe spoke, staring at the prism as he did so. “From the Chasm. They’re Zyreio’s own dead come to fight for Amarian.”

Gair tried not to laugh out loud. It was all very well to believe that Corfe was destined to fight Amarian, but armies of the undead? He knew that the Ages spoke of such a thing but had never given the possibility much thought.

If the king and the others noticed his amusement, they did not show it. They waited for him to respond and when it became obvious that he had nothing to say, the king leaned forward intently.

“We must find out what happened to my brother. He was due back many days ago. We believe that the Ulanese may be in trouble and that Farlone stayed to help them.”

“If that were the case, we should have received messengers telling us so.”

Relgaren leaned back into his chair. “That’s precisely our problem. We’ve heard nothing.”

Throughout the conversation, Corfe had been shifting in his seat. Now the look he gave Gair was troubled. “We need somebody to find out what has happened, preferably a soldier who is familiar with the Eastern lands.”

Now it was Gair’s turn to stare at the prism. He had already been called upon to sacrifice so much for Kynell. Surely the Prysm god wouldn’t send him back to the place of his torment? His skin began to prickle at the thought. “We have many of Amarian’s former men here. I’m sure any of them would be willing to return.”

“Which is why none of them can be trusted.” Corfe’s response was not without compassion. He was well aware of the horrible thing he was asking of his friend. “You know you are the best man for this task.”

Gair resisted the temptation to shake his head in protest. He was a soldier, after all, and soldiers were trained to follow orders. Still, it took several seconds before he could respond. “Who will be riding with me?”

Relgaren took over. “It will have to be a small group—small enough to infiltrate the Ulanese capitol if it’s under siege or, Kynell forbid, completely run over. We have five of the fastest voyoté available ready for you.”

“When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow at dawn, if you can gather your men quickly enough.”

Tight-lipped, pale, and anxious, Gair forced himself to stand. “Permission to make preparations, my liege?”

Relgaren stood, as well. Although he knew it had to be done, he did not relish sending Gair back to face the Easterners, or whatever they had become. “Our prayers go with you, Gair. Find my brother. And take care of yourself.”

“I will, sire.”

He had barely left the room when Corfe caught up with him. The two walked in silence together until they reached the same turret Gair had been heading for earlier that evening. When they reached the open parapet, Corfe spoke first.

“It was my idea.”

The statement startled Gair but he tried not to let it show. “Perhaps you could have mentioned it to me before the meeting?”

Corfe shrugged as the lunos-light glinted off of his bald head. “I would have liked to. But the scout reports about the Easterners came in only this morning and by the time I realized what had to be done, I couldn’t find you.” He waited for a response and when he received none, he added. “I wish I could go with you.”

The comment was well intended but insincere, as Gair knew. “It would serve no purpose for you to go. You cannot face the Easterners—or Amarian, if he is among them—until our army is complete.” He paused as another thought occurred to him. “What about our own forces? If Zyreio’s followers have indeed risen up to fight for him, what about Kynell’s own faithful?”

He could tell by Corfe’s dark expression that he had considered this, too. “I wish I had a good answer for that. Kynell is apparently only allowing me to gather worldly forces, for now, at least. Perhaps soon I will be able to summon our dead brethren.”

Gair nodded. There was no need to press the issue further. “All in good time, I suppose.” He looked sourly at the rising lunos, rubbing his hands against the cold. “I have to get some men together.”

“Can I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“Take a munkke-trophe with you. They fight like the Chasm’s own and can speak more languages than you or I even know of. I’m guessing you don’t speak Ulanese.”

“But is it possible to get one on a voyoté?”

Corfe smiled for the first time that day. “Take one from the king’s guard. Then it won’t have a choice.”

__________

Verial went straight to the palace grounds. The reports they had received in Telenar’s camp had indicated that Gair was much in the pretender’s company and therefore frequently at the palace. Fortunately, today was a market day and the throngs made it easier to slip past the guards at the gate and get close without being seen. She picked a spot next to a fish vendor that was dark and out of the way. To her surprise, she saw him almost as soon as she sat down. He had aged a great deal since she had last been with him. All the youthful bravado was gone. Instead, he walked with a pronounced limp. His dark brown hair had grown long and was marked by shocks of gray. Worse, disfiguring scars covered his face and hands. How much he had suffered for his religious devotion! Before she could study him further, he disappeared into the palace where she dared not follow him.

The day passed slowly as she endured the stench of the vendor’s stall, watching the good people of Lascombe pick out their penacle, thrup, and gavins. The capital city was much too far from the sea to enjoy saltwater luxuries, but the citizens did well for themselves from nearby lakes and streams. Since Verial herself had never cared for fish, she spent most of the day berating herself for selecting such an offensive place to hide.

Finally, when her back was stiff from waiting and her stomach growling for satisfaction, the vendor packed up his goods for the evening and left her to breathe freely. The orbs were setting, making the hiverran air even more biting, yet she dared not move from her position. It was possible that Gair would exit on the same path he had entered. And so it proved. Not long after all the stalls had been put away for the evening, she saw him hurry out of the palace, crossing the market grounds with great, awkward strides. If possible, he looked even more grieved than before. He was soon in front of a building at the far end of the grounds, which Verial discovered to be the royal barracks. She watched him go inside, waiting just a few moments before she slipped over to one of the windows, creeping as close as possible to peer in.

He was talking to a munkke-trophe, of all things, and it did not look like the conversation was going well. The creature was gesticulating wildly, pointing first to the soldiers gathered round, then to Gair, and then toward the ceiling. Gair just stood there, resolute, repeating what looked like the same words over and over again, though Verial could not hear them. When it appeared that the munkke-trophe had accepted defeat, he turned to three other men and spoke briefly. They all nodded and soon Gair was back outside, this time heading stiffly toward the stables.

Now was her chance. The courtyard was calm and quiet; she shouldn’t have to work hard to draw his attention. Keeping as close as she could to the shadows, she called out his name in a hoarse whisper. He stopped, looked around, but continued onward. She called his name again, a little louder. This time he peered in the direction of her hiding place.

“Whoever you are,” he called, “I suggest you show yourself. Creeping around the palace will only get you put in a prison cell.”