Ruby Guardian (25 page)

Suddenly, the speech was at an end, and Pilos could feel a pervasive sense of discomfort. He wondered if Lavant’s pronouncements had ended with an expectation of applause, but none was forthcoming, if only because of the impropriety of it in the presence of the body resting before the altar. He looked around and noticed that many other members of the clergy seemed to be similarly disturbed, but no one said a thing.

At last, the audience that filled the great hall of the temple began to rise and make their way out into

the sunlight of the day beyond, and musicians and a choir arrayed in the loft above began a somber, if cathartic, dirge. The music was gentle and rolling, and it filled the chamber and helped to muffle the quiet conversations that began to hum throughout the gathering.

Pilos would have liked to have moved closer to the dais and kneel before Midelli’s sarcophagus, but the flow of the crowd would have made it nearly impossible. Lavant had never even offered the Abreeant a chance to mourn privately in the presence of the deceased Grand Syndar, and though he was disappointed, he was far from surprised. By the time he could have let the throngs of people move past, allowing him to slip up the center aisle and to the resting place of his departed leader, it would be too late. Already, the burial escort was gathering around the sarcophagus, preparing to place the lid on and bear the thing away to chambers deep in the bowels of the ground, below the temple.

Pilos would have to pay his last respects down there, later, when he could be alone.

Sighing, the young man made his way toward one side of the great hall and slipped into a corridor that would lead him back to his own room. There were few others about, for most of the other clergy members were still gathered in the main temple, conversing, no doubt discussing the various revelations of Lavant’s speech. Those few who did cross Pilos’s path gave him a knowing nod and smile, for they must have seen that his heart was still heavy with grief and disappointment.

He hurried to his room, shut the door behind himself, lit the lone lamp with a taper from the cinder pot, and slumped into the single straight-backed wooden chair that he normally used at his desk. Fatigue and sorrow washed over him, and for a long moment,

Pilos let those feelings course through him, giving in to them and allowing himself a few moments of unbridled emotional release. He did not cry, though his eyes brimmed with tears more than once. It felt good just to let go of his pent-up sentiments.

When he began to feel somewhat better, Pilos decided to pray. Rising from his chair, the young man knelt on the oval carpet in the center of his floor and closed his eyes. He did not voice a specific prayer initially but instead just tried to find his center, his focus, and hoped that Waukeen might bless him with a modicum of her presence. He wanted to feel close to his goddess for a while, to let the cares and troubles of the past couple of days wash away in a gentle bathing of her radiance.

He wasn’t sure when he first began to sense that he was not alone, but Pilos got a cold, prickly feeling on the back of his neck, as though someone had entered his room and was peering at him, looming over him from behind. He opened his eyes and turned, just to assure himself that it was his imagination, to prove to himself that his meditations had drawn him far enough away from his mortal being that his subconscious was playing tricks on him.

The apparition of Mikolo Midelli hovering there, but a pace behind him, caused a strangled cry to leap from Pilos’s throat.

The ghostly form was barely discernible in the dim light of the single lamp, or perhaps, Pilos thought, it was visible only because of the dim light. The image of the deceased Grand Syndar was dressed as he had been the night of his illness, when Pilos had first come upon him. It hovered in the air, its edges insubstantial, and there were no feet visible that could touch the floor. The thing’s body seemed to shine with an inner glow, a radiant beauty that was something out of a prayer, a lesson on the glory of Brightwater. But

the face of Pilos’s former leader and mentor did not radiate peace. No, Mikolo Midelli’s ghost looked decidedly disturbed.

Pilos stifled his yelp and scrambled back, away from the apparition hovering in his room. He pressed his back against the far wall of his chamber, staring stupidly at the thing, wondering, as all who see such things do, if he was imagining the whole experience.

Perhaps it is a test, Pilos thought, an ordeal inflicted upon me by someone who wishes to know my heart.

“Pilos,” the ghost said, and though it was Mikolo’s voice, it sounded distant, faint. “Pilos, I need your help,” it said.

“Who are you?” Pilos asked timidly, trying to determine some way of discerning whether the figure before him was real, imagined, or a conjuration of magic by someone with a terribly inappropriate sense of humor.

“Do you not know me?” The apparition asked, seemingly surprised. “Do you not recognize this face?”

“Yes, of course, but—” and Pilos felt foolish. Asking the ghost to prove to him that its identity was genuine seemed absurd. “I know you, but I do not know if you are real,” he finished.

“Ah,” the apparition said, nodding. “A reasonable concern.” The ghost seemed to be deep in thought for a moment, and its features brightened. “The last time we spoke,” it said, “we were walking in the garden.”

Pilos nodded, swallowing.

“We were discussing the merits of generosity to the lame and mentally unsteady, and you asked if it weren’t better to give coin to the soup kitchens, rather than to the beggars themselves, for you could not abide the thought that they would waste your donations on drink and carnal relations.”

Pilos nodded again, beginning to feel overwhelmed. He and Mikolo had been alone during that conversation, and short of magical eavesdropping, no one else could have known that. “I remember,” he said at last, hoarsely. “You told me that—”

“I told you that Waukeen found beauty in all coin changing hands, and even though you could not see the beneficence of it, the purveyor of drinks and the prostitute certainly did. All creatures thrive in an environment where coin is freely given and accepted, Pilos. Remember that.”

Pilos nodded again, terrified. It really was Mikolo Midelli, hovering there in his chambers. “Why me?”

“Because I can see in your heart that which is also in mine,” the apparition replied. “I know you will see the wisdom in crying out, in demanding greater scrutiny against Lavant’s misguided rulership of the temple. You must take up a cause that I could not finish, Pilos.”

“But Grand Syndar, I do not know what to do! No one will listen to a simple Abreeant. No one will value my words.”

“Ah, but Pilos, you are trying to open the eyes of those who refuse to see. You must seek out others, beyond the temple. And it is they who need your aid, rather than you who need theirs.”

“Others? But who, Grand Syndar?” Pilos had no idea what the ghost spoke of, nor how he could act on the apparition’s instructions. “Who must I find?”

“Return to your home, Pilos. There you will find sympathetic ears. They will help you take up the call against Grand Syndar Lavant. There, you will find the path that must be followed.” The ghost began to fade, and Pilos was terrified of being left alone in his room.

“Grand Syndar! Wait!” he cried out, but the glowing figure of his beloved leader was gone.

The wagon was horribly hot and stuffy, and Kovrim squirmed from the itch of rivulets of sweat pouring down out of his hair, past

his face and neck, to tickle the skin beneath his shirt. His thirst was severe, made more unbearable by the thick bit still filling his mouth. He had tried to dislodge the gag with his tongue at various times throughout the morning, but it wasn’t going anywhere, so he sat there, glum.

Kovrim blinked as the wagon bounced and sent a particularly irritating droplet of sweat right into the corner of his eye. The salty perspiration burned, making him shake his head in frustration. The maneuver only succeeded in causing more rivulets to trickle down out of his damp, matted hair.

“Sorry, sir,” Hort Bloagermun said, coming

out of his own stupor. The grizzled veteran leaned forward and, with his own hands locked in more conventional steel restraints in front of himself, used the sleeve of his own shirt to wipe away the worst of Kovrim’s sweat, trying his best to help keep it from running into the old priest’s eyes. Kovrim was grateful for the gesture, though the beads of perspiration would be running again soon enough. He nodded in thanks.

The old priest looked around the wooden box that he shared with five other Crescents. All of them were secured similarly to Old Bloagy, with manacles locked about both wrists and ankles. Their clothing was soaked through with sweat, and a couple of them looked very much the worse for wear. Kovrim knew that they would begin to grow ill if they weren’t given water soon. They had been crammed into the nearly lightless box wagons since early morning, cruelly sealed up inside the heat traps with nothing to assuage their thirst. Kovrim imagined that the Crescents in the other wagons weren’t faring much better.

With no way to see the height of the sun in the sky, Kovrim had no clear idea of how long they had been traveling, but he guessed it had to have been at least three hours. And though he did not know exactly where the survivors of the sinking of Lady’s Favor had come ashore, he knew that they had to be near the city of Reth, just based on old maps of the area he had often studied. Besides, he had overheard one of the soldiers loading them into the wagons mention that they would reach their destination near noon. Though the old priest feared what would become of them after they arrived in that independent city, he welcomed their arrival if it meant getting out of the baking oven of a box in which they rode at the moment.

As if he were a seer, Kovrim detected a change in the sound of the wooden wagon wheels and of the feel of the ride. They had moved off of dirt road and onto stone pavement, a sure sign that they had neared the city. He listened carefully, detecting the unmistakable sounds of crowds beyond the wooden walls of the box wagon, and they were growing louder. Then the wagon rumbled through a shadow, for the sun was briefly blotted out where it shone through the narrow cracks in the wood panels, and Kovrim knew they had passed through the city gates of Reth. It was not long after that that the wagon drew to a halt.

“It sounds like we’ve arrived … wherever it is we are,” Old Bloagy said, trying to peer through a small knothole. “Looks like a courtyard, but I’m not sure,” he added.

Outside, Kovrim could hear a general commotion as orders were shouted and men moved about. Someone began to work on the latch that held the door at the rear of the box wagon shut, and in another moment, the portal swung downward, letting glaring sunlight shine in. Along with that brightness came a blessed breeze, cooler fresh air that wafted in. Kovrim sighed in profound relief.

The six members of the Sapphire Crescents climbed out of the wagons and descended the slanted door, which served as a sort of gangplank. The prisoners congregated in a group, breathing in and exhilarating in the open air, thankful to be out of the box. Nearby, the rest of the Crescents were being offloaded in a similar manner.

Kovrim took a moment to peer about at his surroundings, wondering where, exactly, they had been brought. It appeared, as Hort had claimed, to be a courtyard of some sort, for high stone walls surrounded the cobblestoned area on every side. One wall was pierced with a gated opening, beyond which

Kovrim could see a street teeming with people and shops and carts. In front of him, however, a large edifice rose up, dominated by a high tower in the very center that was four or five stories tall. Kovrim recognized it immediately as the Palace of the Seven, the central keep of the government of Reth.

I guess we’ll be guests of the mayor and the senate, Kovrim thought, wondering what sort of connection Lavant might have with the rulers of Reth that he could arrange such.

After all five wagons were unloaded, the entire group of Crescents—plus the pair of druids who had been captured during the attack in the night—were herded together and escorted by a dozen soldiers toward a narrow door set in one side wall.

The prisoners marched toward the door and inside into blessed coolness, each man shuffling along with short steps due to the inadequate length of chain spanning the distance between their ankles. Kovrim nearly tripped at one point, but a nearby guard reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder to steady him.

Inside the doorway, they encountered a somewhat steeply pitched stone ramp leading down, flanked on either side by alcoves occupied by additional guards. The guards eyed the prisoners impassively as they trotted past, and Kovrim could see that a large portcullis could be dropped near the guard post, preventing anyone from descending deeper into the route—or trying to escape, he understood.

The ramp turned a little farther on so that it doubled back. At the bottom, Kovrim and the other prisoners found themselves in the middle of a large, low-ceilinged chamber that was dimly lit by a handful of torches. It smelled strongly of sweat, human waste, and staleness, and the old priest knew they had arrived in the prison.

The prisoners’ guards began to rapidly separate their charges into smaller groups again, sorting them into sets of four. Kovrim wound up in the same group with Hort and the two druids. Their guards pushed them off to one side and stood nearby while the rest of the soldiers were similarly sorted. Once the process was finished, they were marched through a narrow doorway and down a hall that Kovrim saw was lined with cells. The lighting in that area was even dimmer than out in the main room, but as far as he could see, the cells in that wing of the prison were empty, for none of the wooden doors had been pulled shut at the moment.

Making sure no one else sees us here, he thought, or talks to us.

That notion was ominous in Kovrim’s mind, but he shunted it away for the time being and allowed himself to be led into one of the cells, along with Hort and the two woodsmen. As their guard stepped back and prepared to shut the thick wooden door with the tiny, barred window, Kovrim triumphed at the man and made a gulping noise while he tipped his head back slowly, miming drinking. The two druids closed ranks with him and began nodding their heads, obviously agreeing with his plea.