Shanakan (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 1) (38 page)

Time passed. The sun rose and set at regular intervals and at White Rock Serhan waited. The near disaster in Samara had left him chastened. He had over reacted to Calaine and had regretted the injury that he had caused her almost from the moment that it was done. Nothing had gone well, and he had gained very little. His only probable ally in Samara was a young girl, and he was sure that he had alienated the King, and the King himself was a problem. Talking to people on the streets of Samara he had formed the impression that the would-be monarch was not greatly loved by his people. Many despised him, and thought him brutal and petty. There was a history of repression and violence going back generations.

Calaine had seemed different, at least in what she had written. He had not had time to form a balanced opinion of her in person; overconfident perhaps, overly keen to draw a sword and boastful. From the letter he had expected her to be more like Ella. Perhaps the younger girl had taken a hand in the writing of it.

Delf had still not come, so he continued to brood and wait. Rin did not speak to him any more, and he felt alone. It was hard to imagine now that he had felt invaded and outraged when her voice had first appeared in his mind. He had come to rely on her wise council, and to value her restraint. Still, it was supposed to be part of him now. She had always been him, really; a remnant that had yet to blend with his own untempered mind.

On days when he felt particularly restive he would retreat to Corderan’s secret room, draw the black-bladed sword that he had named Soul Eater, and allow its eagerness for battle to course through him. He would close his eyes and imagine a time when the tension was gone, when the Faer Karan were gone; a time when he could rest, be himself, live simply. But when he opened his eyes and saw the dimly lit room, filled with secrets, and the midnight blade whose mere presence sucked light from the air, he knew that his time for peace and love had passed.

On one such day Delf arrived.

He returned to his study and found a note in Darius’s hand tented on his empty desk. Just seeing its white shape there in the innocent sunlight was enough. He felt a lurch in his stomach, and realised that one way or another his time as seneschal had come to an end. He picked up the note anyway and read it.

He has come.

Just three words and he was again the arrow in flight, somewhere between the bow and the target, arcing through the lives and deeds of others on a simple path. He had thought through a hundred times what he would do when he saw the note, and now he began to follow his plan.

He destroyed the note and left his chambers. Taking a horse from the stables he rode down out of the fortress, careful to keep his appearance relaxed and comfortable. He rode slowly when he wanted to gallop, slumped back in the saddle when he wanted to strain forwards. This, too, was planned.

At the foot of the rock he turned right and rode around the base until he came to the village. This was a place that he had created, but it was not a place to be loved yet. The trees were too young and the buildings huddled together against the cold and the wind. It was dusty.

Darius was there in the small village square, relaxing under a small tree, taking what shade he could.

“You came quickly,” he said as Serhan dismounted.

“As soon as I saw the note,” he replied.

Darius led him to a small hut on the edge of the settlement and ducked in through the doorway. He followed. Inside the hut it was darker than he had expected. The shutters were pulled over the windows. Almost at once he saw Delf Killore, sitting on one of three small stools set around a table. One of the others was occupied by a guardsman. Darius gestured and the guardsman stepped out into the daylight, leaving the two of them alone with Delf.

“You brought both sets of plans?” Serhan asked.

“Of course.” Delf unrolled a sheet of paper that was a little bigger than the table. Serhan looked it over. It was the plan for the temple, and he smiled as he absorbed its detail. Exactly as he had hoped, Delf had gone to town on the thing, and no extravagance had been spared. It was the opposite of functional, and even the pomposity of the thing had pretensions. Everything about the building screamed arrogance and self indulgence. Gerique would love it.

“Very good,” he said. “And the other?”

Another scroll was unrolled on top of the temple plan. Serhan studied this one with greater care and asked many questions.

This, too, was an extraordinary piece of work. Delf had designed a palace of learning, a town of education. The design was in concentric circles. Outermost were the residences, designed for students, like brackets above, below and to either side of the main building, which itself was a great circle with a central atrium. Eight great passages led below the building to the atrium, and eight spiral stairs rose around that open space. On the lowest level, bounded by the passages there were storage areas, kitchens, a refectory. The top level held quarters for those who would teach, space for a library, offices. Between them lay entrances to the lecture halls, eight of them again. Each of these was shaped like a theatre, rising up towards the outer wall so that they widened and deepened, with seating that looked downwards towards the hub.

If such a building were built it would be one of the most remarkable in Shanakan.

“You can build this?” he asked.

“I can.”

Serhan asked many more questions. When he was satisfied, and a few small modifications had been agreed, he handed this second plan back to Delf.

“Build this one,” he said.

“And the temple?”

“I will show that to Gerique. It will please him. Now it is time for you to go, and ride hard back to Woodside. Do not take your time, for others may be looking for you. Once you are there things will be all right. Acquiesce to any request, tell anyone who asks the truth of the matter. It will not be important.”

Delf looked at the floor.

“What are you going to do, my Lord?” he asked.

“You should know better than to ask, old friend.”

Delf nodded. They embraced briefly.

“Good luck, Cal Serhan,” he said, then stepped out of the hut and was gone. Darius was sitting at the table still, looking at the plan for the temple. He was not familiar with such drawings, but his eye was good enough to see what it was.

“This building is obscene,” he said. “It treats wasted space as a virtue, and the grossness of it will oppress anyone who enters it.”

“An obscene building for an obscene purpose, Darius, but I believe that it will never be built.”

“I will not ask,” the captain said, rolling up the plan and handing it back to Serhan.

“You grow wise,” he laughed.

“You plan something reckless, though. I am sure of it.”

“I plan to fit the circumstances, and I act when the time is propitious. You would do the same, but it does not matter. I have business to attend to and things to arrange. Do not return to the fortress for at least an hour, but do not tarry much longer than that, for I may need you.”

“Again, I will do as you say.”

Serhan shook his hand and left the hut. It was bright outside, and a wind was coming up, blowing from the west. Dust was in the air. He blinked against it, turning his head and slitting his eyes. Perhaps the west wind was a good sign, something that signified himself.

He rode back around the base of the rock, and when he came to the track he rode up it into the fortress. All the time he was expecting something to change, everything to be different, but it was the same. Guardsmen did what guardsmen always did, the sun shone, the wind blew.

He returned the horse to the stable and went back to his chambers. He was relaxed. He was cheerful, greeting a few people that he knew on the way.

These actions had been planned for months, and he had lived them a hundred times in his head, but now it was different, and he felt light headed, almost drunk.

He went to the secret chamber and stood in front of the desk on which Soul Eater lay in its sheath. This was a moment that he had waited for, and he took his time. Slowly he slid the black blade free and held it in front of him.

There really was no choice. He was done with choosing until the doing was done.

He touched Corderan’s ring to the wall and stepped into it. When he stepped out he was in a part of the fortress that he had never been, a place that no man had stood for four hundred years.

He was afraid. The light was poor, the air was stale. He stared, trying to make out details.

Everything here had been flattened.  A whole section of this level had been cleared, walls pulled down and decoration stripped. Even the outer walls on the south side had been demolished roughly so that the wind blew through into a huge open space at least fifty yards on every side and the remains of the shattered wall framed the opening like worn teeth.

The space was not empty. This was the lair of Dragan, most powerful of all the Faer Karan, and the most feared. Dragan did not tolerate humanity. Where he was sent, people died, everyone died. For this reason Serhan had chosen to come here. The great shape before him shifted, making a noise like a sack full of wheat dragged across a stone floor.

Dragan was aware of him. The great head swung round and the yellow eyes with their slitted pupils regarded him. The head alone was larger than Serhan, perhaps larger than Gerique, but he forced himself to remember that it was only an illusion, an act of will.

“Who are you?” Its voice was deep, like thunder, but quiet.

“I am Serhan, Seneschal of White Rock. A man.”

“He should have known better than to send you to me.”

“I come of my own will.”

“To die?”

“Perhaps.”

Serhan could see Dragan’s flanks swelling as he drew in breath, and when he released that breath it would be nothing but fire and annihilation. He lifted the sword and aimed a great cut at the creatures head, noting as he did so that the Faer Karani did not flinch from the blow, did not even seem to notice it. What could a sword do to one so mighty?

There was a sound like a cork being drawn from a bottle.

Soul Eater bucked slightly in his hands, but met no further resistance. The hilt became slightly warm and Serhan nearly pitched over forwards, carried by the weight of his blow. He was astonished to see that Dragan was no longer there. He looked around the great space for a moment, hardly daring to believe.

So easy?

He sheathed his blade and walked with feet that wanted to dance over to the broken wall that had been Dragan’s door. Beyond the shattered stone he could see the lands of White Rock stretching away to the south. He was filled with a growing sense of elation. It worked. His magic had worked and he had done something that no man had ever done. He had defeated a Faer Karani, driven it from the world; and not just any of them. He had banished Dragan.

One of four hundred.

It was almost as if Rin had spoken to him again, but the thought was his own. There were still three hundred and ninety-nine to deal with, and it was a great task, even if it was well begun. He put his hand to the injured stone.

In time I will heal this place.

He stepped back and used the ring to move to another part of the fortress. Now he stood at the foot of the Faer Karan stair, his sword sheathed and the temple plans in his hand. How many times he had climbed this stair ignorant of what cause he was to serve and less than eager to know it? Now it was his own cause, and his own will that took him upwards.

At the great door which headed the staircase he paused again, but this was not hesitation. He paused to relish the moment, and realised as he stood there, savouring the conflict to come, that he was completing Brial’s mission, serving yet another cause that was not his own. But in truth Brial had become unimportant; a scar from a distant time that now only itched and annoyed him. There was no longer real anger when he thought of his old master. He was free of him.

He knocked quietly on the door. It was a door that demanded to be hammered by a fist or the hilt of a dagger, but he knew that Balgoan the doorkeeper was there, and would hear him. The softness of his knock was almost an insult in itself.

The door opened.

He quickly adopted a kneeling posture. In the years that he had served Gerique at White Rock the doorkeeper had never permitted the same informality that had become commonplace between his master and Serhan. He demanded the customary forms.

“Faer Karani,” he said. “I have come with something that your lord has required from me – the plans…”

“I do not wish to know, mortal man,” Balgoan cut him off. So there was some friction there, too. Perhaps even the loyal doorkeeper did not admire the idea of godhood.

“As you wish, Faer Karani.”

“Now rise and take your plans to the great one.”

“As you command, Faer Karani.”

He stood and walked forwards, feeling the doorkeeper behind him every step, close behind. He paused before the final door and turned again.

“One more thing, Balgoan…”

“You dare to name me?”

The Faer Karani’s eyes flared and he stepped towards him, hands reaching out, exactly as Serhan had planned he should. Even so he was barely fast enough. Soul Eater sang as it flew from its sheath, and this time Serhan was confident, knew what to expect.