Wizardborn (22 page)

In great part, Raj Ahten was becoming the Sum of All Men because of Feykaald's faithful service. Now, even though some of his master's key endowments were gone, he lived and looked as glorious as ever.

The boy who paraded through the streets of this broken city was not even a faded shadow of Raj Ahten.

Gaborn rode by on a horse that Raj Ahten would not have fed to his dogs, with a jubilant idiot from the crowd on the saddle behind him. Gaborn's armor was dirty from the road, as was his mount.

The retinue passed, ragged knights from half a dozen realms, some filthy frowth giants in ragged chain mail that Raj Ahten had outfitted himself.

In no way could Gaborn best Raj Ahten—except… in the matter of the world worm.

Gaborn had indeed summoned a worm and saved Carris when Raj Ahten could not. One could almost imagine that he purposely kept his power veiled beneath a plain exterior.

Feykaald envied the boy such power. If only his master could somehow gain the Earth King's crown.

As Gaborn paraded by, Feykaald watched the faces in the throng: the jubilant children, the hopeful mothers, the old men with worried frowns.

He did not feel a part of this crowd. Carris hoped for the Earth King's favor, but Feykaald did not. The world was large, and Gaborn could not hope to protect all of it. At this very moment, reavers invaded Kartish.

While Gaborn paraded, Feykaald's people died.

And that is the way it will remain, he told himself. The world is huge, and Gaborn is small. He cannot protect Rofehavan and Indhopal too.

Feykaald put his hopes in his own king.

So Gaborn paraded past.

But Feykaald's presence in the crowd did not go unnoticed. A single rider peeled off from the king's retinue, circled
behind the giants, and brought his horse through the crowd.

“Greetings, Kaifba,” Jureem said in Indhopalese, bending close so that he could look down on the kaifba from his tall horse. “The smell of opium hangs heavy on you today.”

Feykaald opened his eyes and cocked his “good” right ear toward Jureem, “Eh?” he asked, maintaining by long habit his pretense of being nearly deaf.

“The opium—” Jureem said loudly.

“Ah—” Feykaald nodded, and finished his sentence. “Is a pleasant reminder of home.”

“It can also hide deceit in a man,” Jureem accused. Petty criminals in Indhopal often smoked opium to keep the nerves sedated and the pupils dilated. This could help them conceal their duplicity even during a rigorous examination by torture.

“Or it can ease an old man's painful joints,” Feykaald said softly.

“What is your business here?” Jureem demanded.

“I came to speak with your king on an urgent matter,” Feykaald said. “I wish to seek his counsel.”

“Yet you let him pass by?”

“Surely he will stay and hold court? His triumph was great. Will he not remain and accept the applause of his people?”

“You were seen leaving the city in company with the flameweavers last night,” Jureem argued.

“I returned only moments ago.”

“I wonder why you are even here,” Jureem said.

Feykaald smiled kindly. “I flew last night in the balloon because I hoped to view the reavers' movements. I saw little of import.

“But in the mountains, I intercepted a messenger who brought ill news. Reavers have attacked Kartish. The very Lord of the Underworld leads them. I have come to beg the Earth King for his aid.”

“Raj Ahten seeks Gaborn's support?” Jureem asked, incredulous.

“No,” Feykaald said. “He would never ask the Earth King for succor. But after the battle yesterday, I have to ask myself, where else can our people turn?”

“You're lying, or hiding something,” Jureem said. “I will warn Gaborn against meeting with you.”

“He will do so anyway.”

“Remove your rings,” Jureem commanded in a dangerous tone.

“Eh?” Feykaald asked.

“The rings!”

Feykaald felt reluctant, but he was an old man, not naturally disposed to open battle, and Jureem's tone warned that if he did not give up the rings, Jureem would take them. He pulled five rings off his scrawny fingers, then placed them in Jureem's plump palm.

Jureem pulled open the secret compartment of one ring. The needle inside dripped with green poison from a bush called “malefactor” in Feykaald's tongue.

“What is this?” Jureem demanded.

“A little protection for an old man,” Feykaald said innocently. Jureem grunted, opened the compartment on a second ring. “One can never be too safe,” Feykaald added.

Jureem pocketed the rings. “I fear that there is treachery in you.”

“What?” Feykaald asked, cocking his ear as if he hadn't quite heard. Feykaald had learned long ago the tools of manipulation. He knew that feigning anger would serve him well now. “You insult me with such accusations! You broke oath with one master, and now you want to school
me
in fidelity?”

Jureem held silent, but his eyes raged.

Good, Feykaald thought. He feels guilty for mistrusting me. Now is the time to strike, to offer the hand of friendship.

Feykaald shook his head. “Forgive my outburst, my brother. But both of us have led a wayward past. Now, we both hope to live only by the tender mercy of the Earth
King. You do not trust me, I know. But I assure you that I am no different from you.”

Feykaald sighed heavily and glanced off to the east, out over the darkened battle plain to the Hest Mountains rising blue in the distance, and beyond them to Indhopal. “I only hope, my old friend, that for the sake of all of us, we do the right thing in supporting this Earth King. Do you think Gaborn will send aid to Indhopal?”

“I do,” Jureem said with finality. “Speak with him. Watch him closely, and you will see. The time may come when you wish to serve him with your whole heart.”

Feykaald looked him in the eye, his face a mask of hope. “Indeed, I well may, my brother,” Feykaald said. He reached up and squeezed Jureem's bicep, as was the custom among his people.

Feykaald retrieved his horse. The magnificent gray Imperial charger had been through much over the past few days. The gelding had its endowments, but the endless ride had left it lean, almost to the point of being gaunt.

He found himself growing curious. Could Jureem be right? Would Gaborn really come to Indhopal's aid? What powers might he have hidden inside him still?

If Feykaald could convince the boy to come, then dispatching him afterward would be that much easier.

By the time Feykaald got his horse saddled, the king and his retinue were issuing out over the plain. Feykaald raced to catch up.

   15   

Thoughts are the threads that bind us to deeds. Deeds are the ropes that bind us to habits. Habits are the chains that bind us to destiny.

To escape your destiny, sever yourself from evil thought.

—
Inscription carved upon the West Wall at the Palace of the Elephant at Maygassa

Raj Ahten raced for Kartish filled with dread and a sense of purpose.

All of his years of work—all of his efforts to become the Sum of All Men, all of his training in war—were about to reach their climax.

He envisioned the reavers at Kartish gathered as they had been at Carris, with the Lord of the Underworld crouched upon a Rune of Desolation while legions of warriors guarded her. The image filled him with apprehension.

Yet many of Raj Ahten's finest troops were also in Kartish. He envisioned knights charging across the plains, warriors clad in saffron surcoats, crimson capes flapping in the wind, lances slamming into reavers.

It would be a battle that children would hear of for centuries, as their fathers told the tales around the hearth at night.

So it was that dawn found him racing down from the Hest Mountains while the morning sun crept up behind him, filling the desert of Muttaya with light as if it were a winnower's basket. The desert sands were the color of rose
in the dawn, streaked in places with a faint hue of palest amethyst where streams boasted their lush vegetation. To the north stood the Hills of the Elephant Dream—ocher-colored stones heaped in blocks that looked like a herd of elephants from the distance.

Fifty miles off in the desert below he spotted a knot of riders spread out on the highway, men in dark robes—Wuqaz Faharaqin and the Ah'kellah—racing before him. At this distance, the shimmering air currents and dust of the road clouded his vision.

His mount was weary. Even this great stallion could not catch them easily. He needed a fresh horse.

Wuqaz and his men rode for Salandar, and from there would race to the heart of Indhopal. There Wuqaz would seek out any lord who might oppose Raj Ahten, any who harbored resentment or a treacherous nature, and try to inflame such men against him.

Raj Ahten knew that he could get a fresh mount there, but wondered how safe it might be. If these men suspected that he was on their trail, they might try to ambush him. Salandar would be the place for it.

In the morning light he also saw the balloon of his flameweavers, a bright speck like a blue graak high in the air. He'd bade them follow as best they could, but they rode the air currents faster than his force horse could manage.

At their speed, they'd reach Kartish before him.

From the mountains the desert appeared barren, lifeless. But as he rode down into the valleys, life revealed itself everywhere. Nightjars flitted among the shadowed trees in the hills, their gray wings fluttering languidly, catching moths that flew in the morning. Mountain sheep ran from his path, leaping over brown rocks. Fire-tailed weaver birds rose up from a streambed in raucous clouds.

Though he was at the border of the desert, the rains came often in winter to the pass, and trees grew in thickets in every fold of the mountains.

Raj Ahten had always loved the deserts of Indhopal.

As he passed the village of Hariq, he stopped at a well
long enough to let some women, all dressed in white muslin with green shawls on their heads, draw water from the well for him and his mount. He'd ridden in upon a borrowed horse, without his armor, with his hooded cloak pulled over his face. To a casual observer, he seemed only an anonymous lord. With the murderous Ah'kellah ahead, he preferred it that way.

It was not until the women saw his face beneath the hood that they recognized him, and began to fawn over him.

The village was nearly empty, for at this time of year many of the mountain folk migrated south for the winter, following the Old Spice Way down into Indhopal.

Yet for those who stayed, it was a time of celebration. The harvests were in, and life seemed good.

He soon reached Salandar, with its white adobe walls baked as hard as stones over the centuries. He reached for his warhammer and rode with one hand on it, peering from beneath his hooded robe for sign of an ambush.

The markets were filled with vendors: men with woven baskets stuffed with pistachios, almonds, dried fava beans, pine nuts, chickpeas, lentils, rice, and groundnuts. Others hawked spices: cumin and za'tar, sumac and coriander, allspice and saffron. Old women carried pots filled with boiled eggs or turnip pickles on their heads, or baskets loaded with olives, eggplants, or limes. In the meat markets animals hung by strings from their feet: pigeons, ground squirrels, and succulent young lambs.