The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two) (19 page)

18

K
ILLIAN
once more sat in the same tavern,
The Light Shines Above
, again glaring up at Stonewater. He took a perverse satisfaction from drinking here, with priests and templars coming and going and scenes from the Evermen Cycles on the walls. A placard advertised,
The Evermen Shall Return!
Not in my lifetime, Killian thought.

He now knew why Evrin had left him, and where the old man had been all this time, but he was no closer to discovering Evrin's present whereabouts. He'd returned to the Temple of the Sky day after day, but there was still no sign of the old man, no message telling him where he should go or what he should do next.

He again considered what he knew, and what he'd learned from Zavros.

Evrin wanted to destroy a book of the Evermen. Instead, the Primate now had the book. Evrin had been imprisoned, but he had escaped from the dungeons and disappeared.

Killian knew that whatever knowledge Evrin had tried to destroy, it must be important, and that Killian needed to do all he could to help the old man. Wherever he found Evrin, he would find the book, and wherever he found the book, he would find Evrin.

Killian looked up at the mountain, home of the Primate, and suddenly planted his tankard on the wooden table as it hit him.

Wherever he found the book, he would find Evrin.

The Primate had the book.

Killian needed to find the Primate.

He gulped down the dark beer in his tankard and left a coin on the table, dashing out to the street.

Killian's new found enthusiasm waned. The Primate had left on some errand, and Zavros hadn't said where he was going, or when he would be back in Stonewater, if he even knew.

Who would know where next the Primate would be? Zavros had said Killian would never find him, that the Primate had gone on a journey. Where could the Primate have gone? To Halaran in the west? Petrya in the south? Tingara in the north? When he returned from his journey, would it be back to Stonewater? Or would it be to Seranthia?

Killian turned and walked back into the tavern, sighing. When he reached the bar he scanned the bottles of dark liquid on the top shelf.

"You look like you could use a drink," the barman said. "What'll it be?"

Killian opened his mouth to order, and then had a thought. "You get a lot of people from the Assembly through here, don't you? Templars and the like?"

"Are you kidding?" The barman raised an eyebrow, inclining his head at the men in white grouped around the clean wooden tables.

"I've travelled all the way to Stonewater to see the Primate, even if it's just from a distance, but he's not here. Have you heard any of them say where he is?"

"Let's see. He came back from the west and spent some time in Stonewater. Something big happened there, and they're still cleaning up. Then he left for the north, but somewhere further north than Seranthia. Now, he's on his way to Seranthia."

Killian's eyes grew round. "How do you know all that?"

The barman shrugged. "Primates need guards, servants, drudges and carriages. Carriages and drudges need cleaning and maintenance. Guards and servants need food and drink. I know he's on his way to Seranthia because they're taking pigeons there, because they've packed up the Primate's study and sent it there, and because the rest of the Primate's personal guard have left for Seranthia. People talk."

Killian placed a coin on the bar. "You have that drink for me."

"Sure," the barman said, pocketing the coin.

Killian once again left the tavern, but this time he knew his destination clearly. He would go to Seranthia, he would find this book, and he would find Evrin Evenstar.

As Killian took the road north to Seranthia, a canvas backpack on his shoulder, the setting sun cast a glow on his back, causing his fiery red hair to shine like a flame.

~

B
ACK
in Salvation, a woman arrived at the Temple of the Sky, a piece of paper in her hand. "I have a message I was given by an old pilgrim," the woman said to the priest. "Could you please give it to a young man with red hair and blue eyes?"

19

I
N THE
bustling trade city of Castlemere, Bartolo Thorn sat gazing out at the ocean and fingering the threads of Ella's hair.

There was no enmity between Castlemere and Altura, and he was able to openly wear his armoursilk, his zenblade scabbarded at his side. Even so, he received some curious glances from the gruff denizens of the city — it was one thing for an ordinary Alturan to visit the city, another altogether for a bladesinger. By reputation, Bartolo could defeat their entire city guard single-handed. Bartolo grinned. Seeing the pitiful defences of the mercantile city and the lacklustre attention of the guards, it was probably true.

Still, the traders had put up a fight when he'd asked to search the wagon train, back on the road from Altura. Bartolo thought it unlikely Jehral of Tarn Teharan and Hermen Tosch of Castlemere would choose such a slow method of transportation, but he had to be thorough. The traders hadn't liked it one bit when the bladesinger had shown up, demanding to search each and every one of the forty-odd vehicles.

It took him a day to search the first twenty cargo-filled wagons from top to bottom — time Bartolo could ill-afford to lose — first emptying out each cargo with the traders' reluctant help, then searching the wagon and moving on to the next.

Bartolo raged as he searched, knowing that every moment he spent with the wagons was taking Ella and Shani further away. He owed a debt to Miro, he knew. Bartolo had been asked to take care of his friend's sister, but the woman — that scratched Petryan! — had gotten to him, and he'd left the two women unprotected.

Only for a moment, but that was all it took.

The following day, when Bartolo had demanded to search the other twenty wagons, the wagon master, a broad-shouldered trader named Ingo Bacher, flatly refused, demanding compensation from Bartolo for the lost time — much of the cargo was perishable, he said. Bartolo had grinned, loosening his zenblade. He would give the man compensation; that was for certain.

At that moment a boy had run up to where the confrontation was about to get heated. He'd found something, he said. The boy led Bartolo deep into the forest that lined both sides of the road, pointing out the remnants of a fire that couldn't have been more than a day old.

Bartolo was no tracker, he was a swordsman, but he recognised the white rope that the Petryan woman, Shani, had used as a belt around her red robe. Bartolo's thoughts darkened. If either of the two captors had harmed Shani, or Ella, he would face the bladesinger's wrath.

The fire proved to Bartolo that his quarry wasn't with the wagons, and anxious to make up for lost time, Bartolo walked back to where Ingo Bacher stood frowning. "Sorry, trader, but you won't get anything from me. Tell your people they shouldn't consort with those barbarians from the Hazara Desert. Seek your compensation from Hermen Tosch."

Ignoring Ingo Bacher's reply, Bartolo passed the wagons that had escaped his search as he walked past.

Then something attracted his attention. Next to a wagon where an elderly woman in a black robe regarded him with cold dark eyes, he saw loose strands of golden hair, blowing gently in the breeze.

Bartolo knelt and picked up the lock of hair. "Ella," he murmured to himself.

Bartolo pocketed the lock of hair and put the white rope in his rucksack. He swiftly out-distanced the wagons, searching, zigzagging between the forest and the road, desperately searching for the women he'd been charged to find.

Now Bartolo sat alone at the dock in Castlemere, breaking his vigil of the ocean and looking on disconsolately as the wagons he'd left behind so long ago arrived to unload their cargo.

Three were unloaded at one ship, four at another. Two more vehicles were unloaded at a third ship, and eight at one huge cargo vessel. Bartolo squinted at one squat ship where only one wagon was unloaded.

The captors had to come this way, he knew. Why else would they go to Castlemere, if it wasn't to take passage on a ship?

He watched the ships as they left with the changing tide, following them with his eyes until they vanished one by one over the horizon. The squat ship was the last to disappear, taking hours to do so, but finally even it was gone too.

Bartolo didn't know how, but he was going to get answers. He had a duty to Miro and he knew Jehral must come this way.

As if answering a prayer, he recognised the man with the round face walking towards him.

Hermen Tosch.

The trader saw Bartolo even as Bartolo saw him. Hermen turned to run, but Bartolo was quick, even for a bladesinger.

Bartolo dragged Hermen through the street until he found a convenient wall. People screamed and ran from the bladesinger with the black expression, his zenblade held in one hand and a local man held captive in the other. Guards were called for, but Bartolo paid the townsfolk no heed.

Bartolo shoved Hermen high up against the wall and pressed the point of his zenblade to the trader's cheek.

"Where are they?" Bartolo said.

Hermen's face turned red from the pressure Bartolo was applying to his throat. Bartolo relaxed slightly to allow the man to speak.

"They've gone," Hermen gasped. "Left in a ship. You missed them."

"Scratch you," Bartolo cursed. "I don't believe you."

Bartolo spoke some words and the runes at the end of his zenblade suddenly lit up with red, like glowing coals. The colour travelled infinitely slowly down the blade, as if each symbol was lending its fire to the next. "Are you ready to die?"

"You didn't search all the wagons," Hermen said, "did you? My men left something for you in the forest. A fire. The Petryan's belt. Those you are looking for were with the wagons you never searched."

Bartolo swore. "Are they both unhurt?"

"Yes, they're unharmed. Jehral is a good man."

"Put him down, bladesinger," Bartolo heard a voice speak with quavering authority behind him.

Bartolo turned. Perhaps fifty soldiers of the city watch circled him with swords drawn. Their officer was brave, Bartolo had to give him that; the officer's sword wasn't the only one shaking in the bunch but he stood firm.

Bartolo spoke some more words and the runes on the zenblade sparked with colours of topaz and emerald. Several of the watchmen walked slowly backwards. "I'm not done here," Bartolo said.

He once again regarded Hermen Tosch; the trader stared back at him defiantly. "Where was the ship headed?"

"The Hazara Desert. To the hidden city."

"Where?" Bartolo demanded.

"They don't call it the hidden city for no reason." Hermen smiled.

Bartolo moved the tip of the zenblade until it hovered in front of Hermen's eye. "Why are they being taken there?"

"To meet with Jehral's leader, the prince."

"You're going to help me find this hidden city, trader," Bartolo said.

"Bladesinger, I might as well tell you," Hermen said in his thick, guttural voice.

"Tell me what?"

"The prince… I've only just found out," Hermen took a strained breath. "Jehral doesn't know, but the prince is no longer at the hidden city. Jehral is going to have to travel further and take the women to where the prince is now. You don't need to go into the desert; you'll be able to catch up with them there."

"Where?"

"Prince Ilathor is with his men in Petrya, at the town of Torlac. The Hazarans have invaded Petrya."

Bartolo let the trader go and Hermen crumpled, putting both hands to his neck as he recovered. The bladesinger turned and levelled his eyes at the men of the city watch, their swords still held in front of them. "You," he said to their leader, "has Petrya been invaded?"

The officer glanced at Hermen before looking back at the bladesinger. "Yes. The news is fresh, and not many know, but yes."

Bartolo turned back to Hermen. "If anything happens to them, I'm coming back for you."

Bartolo turned and walked away, ignoring the watchmen. He needed to get a message to Miro, to tell him what he knew, before he prepared for the coming journey.

Bartolo was going to Petrya.

20

P
RIMATE
Melovar smiled to himself, gazing out from the tallest balcony of the Imperial Palace as the Akari were paraded through the streets of Seranthia.

Dain Barden Mensk walked at the head of the vast host, his gaze stern and unyielding. Behind him were a dozen necromancers and a single company of living Akari warriors, tall and beautiful, their blue eyes exotic and fearsome against their pale skin.

Behind the living came rank after rank of the dead. Eerily silent, the revenants walked like normal men, but there was something about their stilted gait that wasn't quite right. There were so many of them that even the Grand Boulevard, the great avenue that led to the Imperial Palace, was filled from side to side and the column of grey-clad warriors stretched to the end of the longest street in Seranthia and around the corner.

Few of Seranthia's residents had turned out to welcome their new allies to their city. Melovar had even seen some of his priests and templars make the sign of protection when they'd seen the white eyes of the draugar. No matter. They would be thankful enough when the lands from the Great Western Ocean to the Tingaran Sea were pacified, and there was peace throughout the realm. Never fear, Melovar wanted to tell them, he would cleanse the world of lore while using lore to do so.

The previous day, the Primate had held a Chorum, the first since the war started. He had changed the format somewhat, and unlike before, he controlled events and decided who would speak. It had been a strange affair, and one that had left him dispirited. High Lord Dimitri Corizon of Vezna was proving difficult to handle — the elixir was taking its toll — and High Lord Koraku Rolan of Torakon could barely hold himself together. Melovar's main concern was that Dain Barden would discover something about the elixir; however the ruler of the Akari made a surprisingly warm speech of thanks at his welcome back to the Empire. Altura and Halaran were conspicuously absent, and Melovar knew he needed to subdue them quickly or lose credibility for his new order. All in good time; the Akari were here now. Zavros had returned from the north; soon the Primate would have his own supplies of essence, and a renewed source of elixir.