The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (14 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Night
fell.

            Roskel’s
palms were sweaty already. His face, too, poured with sweat and his lungs
burned. He ran at a steady pace from where he’d left the Drayman, legs beating
out a steady rhythm, the long grass swishing as he passed.

            Hren
rolled across the dark sky alone this night, but it gave plenty of light to see
by. The grass took on a silver hue under the moon and Roskel blended with the
grass. From a distance no one would see him.

            Gradually,
the Cathedral broke the darkness with a blackness more complete than night
itself. It was like a great shadow that towered into the sky instead of across
the ground. Moonlight did not glint from its surface, but seemed to be absorbed
by it.

            Roskel
slowed his pace and tried to get his breath back. A year of living easy and the
sickness in his lungs had robbed him of much of his speed and energy, but he
was still a fit man, and young. Soon his breathing was steady and calm.

            He
surveyed the Cathedral as he approached, looking for lights in the
accommodation quarters built to one side.

            All
was darkness, apart from one room atop the hall. It was a narrow, sparse light,
probably from a candle, but stark enough in the otherwise dark plains, like a beacon
drawing the eye.

            His
shirt was a dark grey, his trousers darker still and his soft doe-skin riding
boots were thin-soled and almost pure black, although thankfully the riding had
taken some of the sheen from them. He could not afford to reflect even the most
meagre light. If someone came by and saw his boots or a belt buckle glinting in
the moonlight he would be discovered.

            He
slowed as he reached the outer wall of the Cathedral, its uppermost tower a
full hundred and fifty feet above him. He was not worried though. He did not
have to climb so far. And he had no need of reconnaissance for he had performed
the same jig a time before, back when he had still been a thief and not the
Lord Protector of Sturma.

            By
rights he could have walked in through the great front doors and demanded the
crown, but that would let people know that he had taken the real one, and leave
him no room to manoeuvre. He needed subterfuge and subtlety. He needed this
ruse to be a secret.

            He
walked carefully around the right hand side of the building, to where there was
a corner below a window. Nothing had changed since he had last been here. He
put his fingers in the narrow gaps between the black stone…he noted how it
felt…cool and smooth. So similar to the village of Wraith’s Guard, and the
stones he’d found there. The story told him by the village’s apparition, the
old beggar, sprang to his mind and he wondered if this was an old one’s place,
too. But he did not have the time to be daydreaming. He pulled himself up and
placed his feet on either side of the gap, then shimmied higher and higher, his
muscles aching from the unaccustomed labour. Even aching, his muscles had not
forgotten how to scale a reluctant wall. He gained the window sill and pulled
himself up.

            Untying
the long rope from around his waist, he secured it to the window frame, then
lowered himself into the interior hand over hand, his boots taking his weight
between handholds.

            With
a soft, almost inaudible slap, his feet reached the floor. More smooth black stone.
Coldness seeped through the thin soles of his boots. A chill finger ran down
his back. He wished he had never heard of the old ones. Now he suspected he had
met one, or at least its ghost, his imagination raced.

            But
no time. Concentration was paramount for a thief, not flights of fancy. He
stilled his racing heart and his leaping thoughts, concentrated fully on the
sounds of the Cathedral. There was a soft breeze blowing this night, and a
gentle moon, but Roskel would be undone by neither. His ears cut out the sound
of the wind and focused on any sound that was irregular or out of place.

            The
Cathedral was silent. He looked around from where he stood below the window.
There were shafts of moonlight coming in through the regularly spaced windows
along the west wall, and he stood in shadow. The only time anyone could have
seen him was the brief moment he had been outlined against the moonlight in the
window.

            He
waited, entirely still, the only sounds in his ears his slowing heartbeat and
the whisper of the wind through the windows. He tried not to focus on his
prize, glinting in the silvery light, and look around the huge room.

            For
a few moments longer than strictly necessary, he waited--- eager but knowing
that the eagerness a thief felt could be his undoing. Eventually, he strode to
the platform where the true Crown of Kings rested. He tested for the force that
had prevented him from taking it before, but it was no longer there. Tarn had
passed the crown to him. He could take it, and maybe even wear it if he wished,
but it was not for him to be king. He was content with his stewardship, even if
the duties could be onerous more often than not.

            Reassured
that his status as a rightful bearer was not somehow rescinded, he stepped onto
the platform and walked up to the glittering crown. He took the fake from his
pack and compared it to the true piece.

            He
studied the two side by side for the first time.

            The
similarity was remarkable, even though the craftsman had never seen the real
thing. It was perfect. The only difference was that the fake was not
ensorcelled.

            But
too late to worry about that now. And besides, there really was no way a fake
could ever hold the same enchantment as the original. The power to create it
was lost in time. Perhaps it was as old as the stone edifice it rested within.

            One
last test, though, and something he would never know until this night.

            Whether
the force that held the true crown floating, suspended in nothing but air,
would only work for the true crown.

            Gingerly,
he released his grip on the fake.

            It
hung in the air, just as the original had.

            Grinning,
the real crown clasped in his hand, he ran on silent feet to the waiting rope.

            He
clambered out of the window, pulled up his rope, untied it and climbed out into
the waiting air. He ran as fast as he could manage to sustain, to his waiting
horse, and hopefully, if things went as well as this night, Ulbridge and the
end of his long journey.

            He
reached his horse and his waiting companion and chuckled, punching his fist at
the sky in joy.

            Gods,
how he'd missed this!

            No
one the wiser, Roskel and the Drayman rode for Ulbridge.

*

Chapter Thirty-Three

Inside
the Cathedral, the air shimmered and two men dressed in the attire of priests
everywhere, plain robes and sashes for belts, stepped from a darkness against
the wall which shimmered and then faded. One of the priests wore an amulet
around his neck, the only thing which set him apart from the other, for they
were similar in appearance; as similar as the fake crown to the real. They
strode toward the crown, the chief priest waving his hand and encasing himself
in a glowing light which lit their passage.

            'I
do not understand brother. Why did you let him take it? We could have held him
easily and let the guard from Ulbridge sort matters out. We let him take the
crown!'

            'It
is difficult, brother, because you do not have access to the guardian, but it
has spoken. When you ascend, you may find you can hear its voice. It is the
voice of the cathedral, and it requested that the thief be allowed to succeed
this time. The why of it is not for me to know, but the guardian has spoken.
Look, my brother, at this fake. It is perfect, a work of fine art itself. But
there is a purpose at play here greater than we are privy to. This is the
doings of kings and great men, this is their plot, and not for us to be involved
in. We are outside of politics. As the guardian protects us, we protect what
little history is known of this land; for all time to come. One day, this land
might change, and people might see the value in what we do…who knows? But the
voices of the gods are silent and all we have is the guardian to guide our
path. The guardian has the wisdom of the ages. We must trust it.'

            The
younger brother bowed his head. 'There is so much I do not understand.'

            'And
I too understand but a fraction of the world’s knowledge and none of the
meanings behind its working. But history is woven, like a great tapestry, and
we are here to observe it, not to make it. That is for others. Our path is set.
Trust in this.'

            'I
will.'

            'You
will go far, my brother. One day, perhaps, the guardian will speak to you,
too.'

            The
chief priest thought about telling his younger brother of the other presence on
the plains, the ones the guardian called the bastard children of the hated
ancient enemy, known to some as the hierarchy. But if his younger brother could
not detect the distant reek of foul sorcery, then he was perhaps not ready for
the knowledge.

            In
his mind, the guardian called out to him.

           
He
is not ready. The hated child of the enemy has his part to play too. Leave him
in his ignorance, and keep silent. In time, you will understand the truth of
it, though the end of the games these humans play today will not come for a
thousand years.

           
The head priest kept silent with
a guarded expression on his face. Then, in unison, the brothers bowed their
heads and prayed for the thief’s soul.

*

Chapter Thirty-Four

The
hierarch knelt in the woods, the corpse of a soldier before him, stripped to the
waist. With a razor sharp dagger he drew his fey symbols in the flesh. The man
was already dead, drained of life to power the hierarch’s dark magic. From
chest to stomach the creature carved, until finally satisfied he sat back on
his haunches and began to chant, softly. He did not wish to be disturbed, and
the Thane of Kar’s entourage rested for the night in a dip between two hillocks
huddled around their campfires, unaware that the darkness travelled with them.

            Denied
paint and a solid surface to draw his dark designs upon, the hierarch was
reduced to using flesh. It made communications more difficult, and in this land,
procuring fresh meat was more tricky than in his homeland across the seas-- in
a country called Lianthre were the people were properly subservient and did not
miss their loved ones overly, or at least did not look too hard for them.

            His
incantation finished, the air shimmered. There was a moment while the small
portal found its mark, one of his brethren sent to watch the Cathedral on the
Plains. There was something uncomfortable about its black stone, but he was not
given to superstition. Once more the vision before him shivered as if there
were some other interference, some other magic present. But there was little he
could do about it now. He did not have the time to search out the source of the
interference. Soon, he would be missed. The soldier would not be missed until
the morning, but his absence would probably be explained as desertion. The body
would not be found, though, so whatever reason the humans dreamt up to keep
their bad dreams away did not matter to the hierarch. As long as he was not
discovered missing he was safe in his position as advisor to the Thane, exactly
where he wanted to be. When the Thane took up the fake crown and announced
himself king, Savan Retrice would be highly placed to destroy the country. He
already had the Thane’s ear. It would take little in the way of further glamour
to poison it. The man had a heart like a hierarch in the first place. When he
was king, he would have the power to become a true tyrant and plunge the
country into chaos and war. Savan was not given to know the hierophant’s
grandest designs, but chaos and pain appealed to all hierarchs, and he approved
of what plans he did know heartily.

            Eventually,
the portal settled on a patch of ground in a vast grassy plain. Hidden from
view to all but Savan, his brother sat up and bowed.

            'What
news?' he whispered.

            His
spy was equally quiet. 'He has been and gone and the priests were none the wiser.
They do not even know that the thief was among them. He headed south.'

            With
the true crown. A problem for a later day. For now his plans were intact. The
thief would have taken the crown, perhaps to save for a future king, perhaps to
deny any other from taking it should he die…he did not know the reasons behind
the thief’s actions, and since the death of the hierarchy’s most gifted seer,
Jenin, the future could not be discerned. Where the crown of Sturma was
concerned, there was only mist in the future. At best they could follow the
thief’s progress. Soon they would know where he was headed. But for now, the
most important thing was getting the Thane to proclaim himself king, and ensuring
that he had support to take the castle of Naeth, the capital seat of the
country.

            'Very
well. Follow, but lose him rather than be seen. We can always find him later.'

            'As
you wish, my Lord.'

            The
vision disappeared. Savan put a small glamour over the body, hiding it from
view. If someone stumbled over it, they would find it, but it was hidden from
mortal sight.

            He
returned to the camp, to find Orvane Wense prowling about his bed.

            'Where
have you been? I told you not to leave my sight.'

            'Pure
politeness, my lord. My stomach has been somewhat tender. I felt it a mercy to
spare your men the unpleasantness. '

            Wense
eyed him warily.

            'Be
sure you do not leave me again. I am becoming suspicious of you. Watch your
step. I am uncomfortable with the extent of your knowledge.'

            'As
you wish, my lord. Merely good contacts, though. By the next village we pass I
am expecting word from the cathedral from my network. I will have news for you
then.'

            Savan
smiled and bowed, and as Wense returned to his evening meal, he watched the
man's every move.

*