The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (26 page)

She turned to the young servant girl sitting in the corner sorting the spools of thread for stitching. “Would you kindly summon the Lady Chrisainne.”

The girl hopped to her feet and bobbed a quick curtsy, saying, “Yes, milady.”

She walked quickly out of the room, and Theandrin turned to the window overlooking the castle yard to wait. She’d looked into Chrisainne’s background, learned that she’d been born Chrisainne et Vodah.

Time passed, and she concluded the girl hadn’t found Chrisainne in her room and had to go searching for her. She was probably somewhere fucking BlakeDown, or the stable boy, or the stable master, or Lewendis, or whoever else she chose to spread her legs for.

When Chrisainne entered the room, Theandrin knew it instantly, for her charms triggered and rang a bell of triumph in her soul.

Behind her, Chrisainne said, “You wished to see me, my lady.”

Theandrin turned and gave her a neutral look, careful not to give the slightest indication she now knew the girl was a spy for Valso. “Yes,” she said. She wanted to see the little slut squirm. “What have you learned from Lewendis and my husband about the border?”

The charms had triggered rather strongly, and Theandrin was confident that when she had a chance to examine them more closely, she’d find that the girl’s loyalties had remained unchanged.

Theandrin quizzed her unmercifully, learned a little, but nothing of significance, then dismissed her. The only question that remained was what to do with the girl. Certainly, at some point she would expose her, BlakeDown would undoubtedly have her removed, and they’d be rid of her. On the other hand, a spy who didn’t know she’d been discovered could be of some use. Theandrin decided to let her continue without hindrance, but keep a close eye on her.

It occurred to her that overconfidence here would be unwise. She reminded herself to never forget that the little slut could be far more dangerous than simply a pair of spread legs. The girl was a reasonably strong witch, had no compunction about anything, and to forget that could be fatal. It would be wise to make certain preparations: something extra to protect herself and her family, and something special to control the girl if it came to that. Chrisainne was not a weakling when it came to spell-crafting, so it would have to be something powerful. Theandrin smiled as she considered what she might do.

26
Prophesy Thwarted

Morgin wandered through the Kingdom of Dreams. The Living Forest opened a path before him that led to Sabian, but the castle was deserted now, no sign of its past inhabitants. He saw a ghostly image if a woman, partially transparent, wandering in a daze through the castle yard in a floor-length bed gown, realized she was a dreamer. There were many of them, appearing and disappearing as their dreams came and went.

Could he find Rhianne, talk to her, try to plan her escape from Valso? He wandered down to the room and the bed they had shared, longed to hold her in his arms again, and swore that he would let nothing prevent him from doing so. But how would she know to meet him here? They might both come here at random times and never cross paths.

Right now he lay asleep in a Benesh’ere tent out on the sands of the Munjarro, sleeping through the day. He needed to get this prophesy thing over with, so he could return to sleeping at nights. He’d have a much better chance of finding her then.

He went back to the castle yard, to the spot near the wall where Erithnae had died. With his boot heel he scratched a message in the dirt:
Meet me here at dawn
. He didn’t sign it, trusted that she would know it was from him. He looked up at the walls that surrounded him and said, “Sabian, please preserve this for Rhianne’s eyes, and if she comes to this kingdom, make sure she sees it.” He wasn’t sure if the castle could really control a dreamer that way, but he had to try.

He awoke in the late afternoon, spent the remaining heat of the day in his tent wondering if he’d ever see his Rhianne again.

After the sun set, Morgin and his companions packed up their camp and set out for Kathbeyanne. In the dark Morgin didn’t really need to wear a blindfold, but doing so prevented him from trying to make use of the dim moonlight and his shadow sight, forced him to rely purely on his arcane sense of the ancient city. Wearing the blindfold, he pointed the way and they rode their horses at an easy pace across the sands.

Deep in his gut Morgin feared there would be no city when they got there, that even his magical senses were being misled by ancient enchantments. He’d said nothing to his companions of these fears, but the previous morning the city had appeared to be no more than a single night’s journey. So he’d sworn to himself that if they didn’t reach it this night, he’d abandon the search, and leave the city to its ancient ghosts.

Even blindfolded he could tell when Mortiss struggled to climb up the side of a dune, felt it when she reached the peak then started down the other side, only to climb another. He noticed a dim, yellowish light leaking through the blindfold, and realized dawn was approaching, and feared that he had failed again. Then Mortiss and the other horses topped a dune, and Jack said, “By the gods!”

Harriok answered, awe in his voice, “Aye, friend. By the gods!”

Morgin ripped the blindfold off and saw that before them stretched the ancient city. What appeared from a distance to be magnificent spires jutting toward the heavens, they now saw were nothing more than broken shards of glassy stone, jagged spikes testifying to the ruin of Kathbeyanne. Through the centuries the sands had encroached and buried many of the buildings, while most of those still visible were nothing more than tumbled blocks of broken masonry. With Morddon’s memories, he realized that even though they still stood on dunes of sand, they were well into what had once been part of the city proper.

“You’ve done it,” Blesset said, a note of awe in her voice. “You brought us to the city of glass.”

Harriok said, “It’s enormous.”

Harriok had never seen a real city before. To Morgin’s eyes, Kathbeyanne was now a mere shadow of what it had once been. With Morddon’s memories to guide him, he thought he could find the old center of the city. “Come,” he said, and nudged Mortiss forward.

As they moved off the sands and in among the crumbled, ancient buildings, Morgin thought he sensed life within the city, as if it hadn’t been completely abandoned, but the feeling passed quickly. They came to an intersection of two large avenues. Blesset started and pointed up at the side of a partially intact building. “In that window up there.”

On the second floor Morgin saw a dark, black square, heavily shadowed by the bright sunlight.

“I saw someone standing there looking down at us.”

Jack spoke with a harsh note of skepticism. “I don’t see anyone.”

They continued on. Morgin now recognized this part of the city. The first time Morddon had come to Kathbeyanne, he’d walked these streets on his way to the palace of the Shahotma. He’d stopped in a weapons maker’s shop to buy a sheath for the naked sword he was carrying, and he’d been appalled at the poor quality of the steel the man offered.

Harriok started, thought he saw someone standing in a doorway. Jack thought he saw someone looking at them from the depths of a dark alley. Interestingly enough, Morgin saw none of these apparitions, though his companions grew quite skittish, were jumping at every shadow they encountered. And then the street they rode down opened onto the magnificent parade ground at the center of the city. The vast open space was littered with blocks of broken masonry and wind-blown piles of sand. At the far end the once magnificent palace of the Shahotma had been reduced to a single, square facade. The balconies and balustrades no longer soared high above the city, and gone were the spires that reached toward the heavens. It saddened him.

Out of curiosity, Morgin led them to the barracks of the first legion of angels. They dismounted; Morgin didn’t have to worry about Mortiss, and the well-trained Benesh’ere mounts would not wander. There was no longer a door on the opening at the front of the barracks. Standing just outside the threshold he saw that the roof had collapsed, filling the interior with rubble.

He stepped across the threshold and the rubble disappeared. The roof above him was whole and undamaged, the interior walls sported paintings and banners celebrating the victories of the legion, and a cool breeze promised a pleasant afternoon. He turned around and looked for his companions, but they too had disappeared, though through the doorway he saw that the parade ground was clear of all the rubble, and had returned to its original glory. He heard the sound of sad pipes, turned back and found Metadan standing in the center of the room.

The archangel said, “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

“No,” Morgin said. “This is just a memory. You’re just a memory. The glory of Kathbeyanne is gone forever.”

The memory of Metadan lowered his head and wept openly.

Morgin turned back to the door and walked out of the barracks. As he crossed the threshold the parade ground returned to its state of decay. He heard something behind him, turned and found his three companions emerging from the barracks. “Just more decay,” Jack said.

Obviously, they had not shared Morgin’s experience.

He looked toward the palace at the far side of the parade ground, felt drawn to it. “Come,” he said to the whitefaces. “I think someone’s waiting for me.”

All that remained of the palace of the Shahotma was the front wall of the great throne room, with a gaping hole where enormous bronze doors had once stood. Inside, the remains of three walls and the roof formed an enormous pile of rubble.

Morgin said, “Wait out here. I think this is what I came for.”

Like the barracks, when he stepped across the threshold the throne room returned to it past glory. Tapestries draped much of the walls, depicting the glories of the great Shahotma Kings. Where the walls were bare, they were colored with frescoes and gilt. Morgin stood on one end of a long strip of red carpet that led arrow-straight down the center of the room, ending at the base of a high dais upon which rested three thrones. Someone sat on each of the thrones, but the distance was too great for Morgin to make out any details.

On either side of the red carpet courtiers filled the hall dressed in finery beyond imagining. And yet they were nothing more than ghostly specters of past glory, translucent and frozen in time.

In another time and place Morgin would have sought some means of escaping this dream, but he recalled Metadan’s prophesy:
. . . in the city of glass, beneath the fires of the eternal sun, you will ask three questions, and you will gain three answers, and in them you will know yourself far more than any mortal should.

Morgin stepped forward boldly and marched down the red carpet. As he approached the dais he saw that, like the courtiers, the beings that occupied the three thrones were ghostly specters. He realized they didn’t truly exist, were just memories buried in the rubble of the great city.

In the throne on the right sat a woman of incredible beauty, but her splendor was cold and lifeless. The man on the throne in the middle shared her beauty, and its lifeless vacancy. But a monster sat on the throne on the left, a being with the head of a goat, and blood-red eyes. Morgin knew then that he looked upon three gods.

It occurred to him it was no coincidence he must also ask three questions. So he looked to the woman and asked, “Who are you?”

She smiled at him, though it was a look that made Olivia’s coldest stare seem warm.

“I am Augis,” she said, and Morgin realized the river south of the Lake of Sorrows had been named after a forgotten god. “And within me is the first goddess of Kathbeyanne, mistress and guardian of all that once was.”

Morgin looked to the man on the middle throne. “And who are you?”

“I am Attun,” he said, his voice booming through the hall, the namesake of the mountain Attunhigh. “And within me is the first god of Kathbeyanne, lord and guardian of all that is now.”

Morgin looked to the monster on the third throne. He knew what the third question was supposed to be. And he knew what the answer would be. The woman: guardian of all that once was. The man: all that is now. The monster: all that
will be
. Morgin couldn’t allow that. He knew that the gods had manipulated his life, a life that apparently had spanned centuries.

The monster, the Dark God, leaned forward with a look of greedy anticipation. He wanted Morgin to ask that question, needed Morgin to ask it. In that moment Morgin wondered what would happen if he didn’t ask it, if he didn’t blindly follow the dictates of the gods. Could he break that cycle of manipulation? What could they do to punish him, torture him at the forges for centuries, wound him, kill him? They’d already done that.

The Dark God snarled with rage. “Ask the question, mortal.”

Morgin was confident that if he completed the cycle of the prophesy, the monster in front of him wouldn’t simply manifest then and there to rule the Mortal Plane. The three beings he faced now were just memories; they had no real power over any plane of existence.
So why am I here
, he wondered.
What is the purpose of this prophesy?

The monster said, “That’s not the right question. You cannot know yourself until you ask the right question.”

Morgin hadn’t spoken his thoughts aloud, but somehow the monster knew them. He looked up at the dark god, leaning forward on its throne in anticipation of his words, and knew then the truth of this farce. The only thing or being these
memories
could influence was him, a simple, mortal man. They’d manipulated him throughout his life, led him down the paths they chose, and this charade was nothing more than an attempt to complete his training. If they taught him the taste of defeat again and again, he would come to accept it readily.

“Ask the question, mortal.”

Morgin feared any words he might utter, so he simply turned and began walking back down the red carpet.

The Dark God’s voice shook the walls of the great throne room. “Ask the question, mortal. Ask the question.”

Morgin had only made it a few paces down the red carpet when the ghostly specter of the monster coalesced in front of him, the fires of netherhell burning in its eyes. “Ask the question, mortal. Fulfill the prophesy if you wish to know yourself.”

Morgin said, “You’re just a memory, and not a very good one at that.” He drew his sword.

The monster looked at the blade and his eyes flashed with fear. He stepped back and grew less substantial with each heartbeat, until nothing of him remained.

As Morgin continued down the red carpet the monster’s voice boomed louder and louder, “Ask the question, mortal.” But with every step Morgin took it sounded as if it came from a far greater distance. It wasn’t more than a hundred paces to the far end of the hall, and yet with each step it sounded as if he’d crossed leagues to leave the memories of the three gods behind. Just before he reached the entrance he sheathed his sword, and when he stepped out of the hall silence descended.

His Benesh’ere companions were waiting for him there. He glanced back over his shoulder into the great throne room, and once again it was filled with nothing but rubble and decay. Oddly enough, in breaking the cycle of prophesy, he now knew himself more than ever before.

He said, “There are no good memories left here. Let’s go home.”

••••

With three twelves of mounted armsmen and four twelves of archers to support him, BlakeDown sat on an old tree stump and watched his workmen move cartload after cartload of stones. He’d allowed the armsmen to dismount and relax, but had ordered them to keep their horses saddled and ready, and he’d sent scouts out ranging quite far. With nothing to do his armsmen and archers grew bored and sat about gossiping and gambling.

Here in the far western marches the border between Penda and Alcoa’s lands had been demarcated by an old line of tumbled-down stones that had once been a wall. About five hundred paces south of the border a good-sized creek fed a large pond that made for an excellent watering hole for cattle, even in the dryer months of summer. BlakeDown had coveted it most of his life, as had his father before him, for with control of creek and pond he could expand his herds. Chrisainne had thought of the solution: simply move the border south so the creek and pond were on his lands. She was actually quite smart—for a woman.