The Alliance Trilogy

by Michael Wallace

  “What did the assassin look like?”

  Markal shook his head. “I didn’t see him. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. There have been many would-be assassins over the years—they always failed in the past. This time, a man cut his way to my master’s side and finished the business for good.”

  “Tell me. Did the assassin have a gray face and dead eyes?”

  Markal blinked. Yes, that was precisely what Nathaliey had told Markal, but how would this barbarian know that? She looked and sounded different from the previous attacker in every way imaginable, yet there was so much violence about her that they were clearly on the same mission, to destroy Memnet the Great.

  He must have given away his answer in his expression, because she pushed on. “You have a shrine, a temple, do you not?”

  “The Golden Pavilion, yes. But you won’t find him there. I told you, he’s dead.”

  “And where is his body?”

  “Carried off. I said that already.”

  “His head?”

  “Burned, as is the custom in Aristonia.” The lie tasted like dust on Markal’s tongue, and from her sharpened gaze, he thought she’d sensed he was lying as well. “Leave this place. You will only find your death in this garden.”

  “One moment you profess weakness, the next boast of your strength. Who will kill me, you?” She smiled at this.

  “Memnet the Great may be dead, but magic infuses his land. The gardens themselves will reject you.”

  “They tried already. I battered down their defenses.”

  “Indeed.” That was the great and terrible mystery. Such a thing had never happened before.

  The woman thrust out her chin, and her eyes glinted. “I am Bronwyn of Arvada, a paladin of Eriscoba, and I carry the red sword. No wizard, warrior, or garden can bend me from my purpose.”

  She turned away from him as if he were of no consequence and inspected the walled garden. Fruiting vines covered the walls, and beds of flowers lined the stone walkway, their blossoms attended by honeybees. Birds warbled from the branches of the fruit trees around the edges. Water burbled from a fountain in the middle of the enclosed space, and though the bulk of the khalifates were in the midst of a crippling drought, the wells and streams of Aristonia still ran clear.

  Bronwyn of Arvada, as she’d styled herself, studied the other three paths and finally fixed on the one flanked by a pair of peach trees, as if drawn there. How had she known? It led to a woodland path, and beyond that, the Golden Pavilion on the edge of the lake. She set off in that direction with long, confident strides. One hand reached over her shoulder to touch the pommel of the sword strapped on her back. She passed through the trees and disappeared.

  Markal let out his breath and looked down at the fresh dirt at his feet. Movement caught his eye from the shaded wall to his left, but this time he wasn’t surprised by the figure stepping toward him.

  It was a tall man in a robe, who pulled back his cowl as he stepped into the sunlight. His lips pinched together in a thin, displeased line, and he let out a long, exaggerated sigh as he peered down at Markal over a hooked nose.

  “How much did you hear?” Markal asked.

  “Enough,” Chantmer said. “Were you so frightened you had to blurt every secret, give her every advantage?”

  A defensive tone entered Markal’s voice. “I told her nothing.”

  “Indeed? You told her about the assassin, about the magic of the gardens, even our master’s name.”

  “Nothing of consequence.”

  “These are the things that break our disguise, that reveal us to the world.”

  “We were already revealed. She crossed the bridge and entered the gardens. How did that happen? Why didn’t the runes and wards cast her out?”

  “They must have weakened since the master died,” Chantmer said.

  “The master’s death wouldn’t change that, not so quickly. They defend the land, the order. Many are older than Memnet himself.”

  “If you knew the answer to the question, why did you ask it? Besides, I think you’re wrong. What other explanation is there?”

  Markal had no answer for this, and Chantmer looked down at him with eyebrows raised.

  “Well then,” the taller apprentice told Markal. “What spell did you cast on the fruit?”

  “I didn’t. I was afraid she would detect it—did you see her gaze? By the Brothers, she could nearly read my thoughts. I thought the plum itself would be enough.”

  “Anyway, she wouldn’t eat it. A worthless attempt.”

  Markal’s face felt hot. “What would you have done?”

  “Magic,” Chantmer said. “Our master praises your knowledge—very well then, put it to use. Make the barbarian sleep, set her mind on fruitless paths. Send her east on the road until she is far from here. Something. Or are you only an archivist after all?”

  Are you only an archivist?

  When Memnet the Great had put the question to Markal, it prodded him, inspired him to work harder. From Chantmer’s lips, it was an insult. Yet it was true enough. Apprentices fell from the path when their magic or knowledge failed. Those who couldn’t master the knowledge became acolytes. Those whose power fell short became keepers or archivists. Of these, the archivists were the weakest, all knowledge and little magic. An ability to read ancient texts, to hold the slippery spells and incantations in one’s head, but no capacity for calling up the reserves that would bring them to life.

  “We have to stop her,” Markal said. “She knows too much, she senses. She didn’t go to the pavilion first, she came here. Somehow, she knew about the master’s head. And how did she find the gardens, anyway? She’s no mage, she’s a paladin. Not even the high king can find us anymore, so how would Bronwyn? Someone must have sent her.”

  “We agree on that much. She must be stopped.” Chantmer stared at the mound of dirt at Markal’s feet, then looked up and held his gaze. “Well?”

  Markal picked up the spade and held it protectively. “No. It is too early.”

  “You looked?”

  “I lifted the dirt. His eyes are closed.”

  “And below the severed head?” Chantmer asked. “What did you see?”

  “The soil holds its magic—we must trust it.”

  “In other words, you didn’t look.” Chantmer held out his hand. “Give me the spade. It’s time.”

  “It’s not time, and you are not in command.”

  “And neither are you,” Chantmer said.

  Indeed, that was a critical lack in this garden. Who would lead? Some of the older keepers had been here the longest, a few more than half a century. But they had once been apprentices themselves, only to fall aside as their magic reached its limit, left to age and mature in wisdom, but not skill. How would they command the garden’s magic? Yet the apprentices were not ready, either. Otherwise they wouldn’t be apprentices.

  With Memnet’s death there was no leader of the Order of the Crimson Path. Perhaps Chantmer would assume that role someday, perhaps not, but for the moment Markal had no intention of obeying his companion’s ill-informed whims.

  “Where are the others?” Markal asked.

  Chantmer let his hand slowly fall, but didn’t look away from the mound of dirt holding the master’s head. “Nathaliey left this morning for Syrmarria.”

  “She won’t find anything new.”

  “So you have the entire library committed to memory now?” Chantmer’s left eyebrow arched. “I think not. As for Narud, he is communing with mice again. Or maybe it was voles. He’s of no use to us.”

  Markal wasn’t so sure. Chantmer dismissed the other apprentice as being of little practical value, and his curiosity about the natural world as being a strange, pointless eccentricity, but there was a wild, uncontrolled magic pulsing from Narud that was as strong as Chantmer’s not-inconsiderable native abilities.

  “We’ll have to enlist the keepers,” Markal said.

  “And do what with them, precisely?”

  “
We distract the enemy while the keepers raise the wards. The keepers could conceal the entrance to this inner garden until we can get rid of her.” Markal nodded, beginning to imagine the spells they could use: sanctify, disorder, and disconcert. It would be costly. “Cleanse the very memory of its existence from the woman’s mind.”

  “This entire garden was supposedly hidden,” Chantmer said. “Yet the barbarian strolled in unopposed.” He stroked his beard. “She’s a barbarian, which means she came through the mountains, where the king’s men are building their fortifications, yet that didn’t stop her. She broke down the wards, and now she’s in the gardens. No, your plan won’t work. She won’t be put off by defensive magic.”

  “And your idea?”

  “Kill her.”

  Markal blinked. “Here?”

  He looked around. The air hung heavy with the scent of fruit and flowers, and bees the size of his thumb filled the air with their gentle buzz. Honey from the gardens was said to cure leprosy, and the peaches that grew from the trees sold for ten silver dinarii in the Grand Bazaar of Marrabat on the far side of the southern desert.

  The master was dead, and the thought of bringing violence to his garden filled Markal with horror. This was a place of learning, of healing. And he had no evidence the woman intended to finish what her predecessor had nearly accomplished. Perhaps she wanted something else.

  Chantmer thrust a hand within his robe where his silver-threaded belt encircled his waist. He withdrew his hand, but not before Markal caught a glimpse of something lumpy shifting within the folds. What was that, a coin purse? A meditation stone? Strange.

  “Don’t look so disturbed,” Chantmer said. “This place has seen violence before, or there wouldn’t be so many wards and runes.”

  “You think we can do it without the master?”

  “Of course,” Chantmer said. “You and I alone could manage. You will hold the incantation in your mind, and I will draw it forth with my strength.”

  “Did you see the red sword?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s magic in it,” Markal said. “More than you or I possess. Anyway, this woman has done us no harm.”

  “Other than violating the sanctity of the gardens.”

  “And we won’t fight her until we know her intentions.” Markal shook his head, more determined now than ever. “No. We won’t do it.”

  “You forbid it? Ha!”

  “We agreed already—there are four apprentices. Three of us must agree on any major departure from Memnet’s command, and this certainly counts. Nathaliey is in Syrmarria. Go for her if you wish. Then try to convince Narud.”

  Chantmer reached for his waist, then stopped and clenched his hands together, and Markal thought of what he’d spotted in the folds of the man’s robes.

  “What are you hiding?”

  “Nothing.”

  “There’s something in your robe, what is it?”

  Chantmer reared to his full height and peered down at Markal. “This . . . Bronwyn,” he said, the barbarian name spitting off his tongue, “has come to the gardens for one purpose, and you know what it is.”

  “Then help me rid it of her.”

  “Do it your way, when you tell me to, is that it?”

  Markal only hesitated a moment. “Yes. Without violence.”

  “The Harvester take you.” Chantmer’s jaw clenched, then slowly relaxed. “Very well. But when your way doesn’t work, we will resort to stronger measures.”

  The Red Sword - Chapter Two

  Markal and Chantmer made their way out of the walled enclosure where they’d buried the head of Memnet the Great. The path to the Golden Pavilion led through two more courtyard-like gardens, down a stone staircase to the pond and fountain, then over a footbridge that spanned another pond, this one long and narrow, before turning into a forest path. It then branched toward the little stone cottages in the woods where the members of the order lived.

  Bronwyn had left evidence of her passing along the way. Here and there she’d departed from the path, her boots trampling moss and kicking up mats of leaves. She’d hacked her way through a thicket of vegetation that grew along an old stone wall and left severed vines oozing sap.

  “Curse her,” Chantmer said, slowing to study the wounded plants. “Pointless destruction.”

  “Hardly pointless,” Markal said. “There’s a method to it.”

  He pulled back the vines and exposed the wall. A rune had been carved in the stone, a word in the old tongue, it edges eroded with time, but the impression still deep. It was cool to his touch, not warm, as he’d have expected had it still been active. Yet Bronwyn had discovered it and damaged it before it could harm her. How had she spotted it?

  “I see,” Chantmer said. He bit his lip and looked troubled. They continued on.

  Visitors were not unknown here, although the gardens couldn’t be found, couldn’t even be remembered. The high king himself had once lived here many years ago, and even he had forgotten how to find the place once he’d left the order and moved to Veyre. But outsiders could be led to the garden and visit safely. So long as they were welcomed.

  Earlier in the year, after a spring rainstorm on the western plains carried the false promise of an end to the drought, Markal had brought an engineer from the king’s road building detail to the gardens upon request of the high king. The engineer badgered Memnet about cutting the king’s highway through Aristonia instead of skirting its northern border as had been agreed. When the wizard denied the request, as the observing apprentices had known he would, the engineer sputtered and threatened.

  “Damn you, stubborn old man. I could send ten soldiers and take this whole blasted garden. Cut off your beard and sell you to the nomads.”

  “You left your horse and entered on foot, did you not?” Memnet said. “Where was that?”

  The engineer didn’t look at the paths, as most men would, but glanced at the sun in the sky, then smugly pointed in a direction vaguely northeast. He had correctly identified the direction of the stables outside the gate.

  “Very well,” the wizard had said. “Find your way there. Bring me the king’s order from your saddlebags by sundown, and I will grant you leave to build your road where you wish.”

  Two days later, the dazed engineer staggered past the Golden Pavilion when Markal was meditating in the shrine. There was water everywhere in the gardens—it flowed from fountains, coursed through stone-lined waterways, and collected in ponds, before draining into the lake alongside which the man now walked, but his lips were cracked and bleeding from thirst. Markal had felt sorry for the poor fool and broke from his meditation to show the engineer to the stables and send him on his way.

  There were two entrances to the gardens, one in the north, and the other in the south. Neither had a watchtower. There were no armed guards, no barricades to impede an enemy’s progress, no visible defensive fortifications of any kind. Nevertheless, the gardens were a fortress in their own way. And that was assuming one could find them in the first place.

  Yet Bronwyn of Arvada had found her way inside and was methodically overthrowing their defenses, battering their gates and scaling their ramparts. Markal wasn’t surprised to emerge from the forest into the meadow and see the paladin sitting on the steps of the Golden Pavilion on the far side. Her sword rested across her lap.

  The Golden Pavilion had been built by Memnet the Great’s own master, who had founded the order of wizards to which Markal and his companions dedicated themselves. Its gold leaf gleamed in the sunlight, and red pillars supported the roof, which overhung a porch encircling the building. Through the open doors, a great brass bell dominated the inner platform; when rung, the sound reverberated for miles, all the way to the stone bridge over Blossom Creek. That platform was their shrine and the holiest spot in the gardens, dedicated to mastering the knowledge left them by the Brother Gods. The only spot to rival it in Aristonia was the Sacred Forest that guarded the length of the northern border of the khalif
ate.

  Behind the Golden Pavilion lay the backdrop of the graceful curves of the lake and its tiny islands covered with twisted, carefully cultivated trees. A path curved around the lake, entered the woods on the far side, and finally left the gardens via the south gate.

  “Unbelievable,” Chantmer said to Markal as the two apprentices crossed the meadow. “She’s desecrated our shrine.” Indeed, Bronwyn had been busy, as evidenced by the shards of wood lying on either side of her.

  Markal stared in horror at the two pillars on top of the stairs that supported the roof on this side of the pavilion. They had been carved and painted with fire salamanders, writhing dragons, and the heads of mammoths from the snowy wastelands of the north, but Bronwyn had hacked loose chunks of red-painted carvings and exposed the bare wood below. The wounds ran several feet up and down the columns, destroying nearly all of the subtle art limned into the surface. Those figures had concealed more protective wards. Why hadn’t any of them stopped her?

  Five other people stood in the meadow leading to the lake-side pavilion. Two were keepers, their scythes still in hand from when they’d been cutting grass. Two more were acolytes, younger than Markal and his companion, and the fifth was Narud. He spotted the newcomers and walked over to join them, waving for the other four to stay where they were and keep an eye on the intruder. The apprentices stood about fifty feet from the pavilion.

  “Who is she?” Narud asked.

  “A barbarian,” Chantmer said, tone disgusted. “What else is there to know?”

  “What is she doing now?” Markal asked.

  “Says she is waiting for the master,” Narud said. “I warned her not to move, but told her nothing of the master. I guessed the two of you would arrive soon enough.”

  “And she agreed to stay put?” Markal asked.

  “She neither agreed nor disagreed. I don’t think she follows orders.”

  Narud was the youngest of the three apprentices present, only twenty-five, but due to the curiously inconsistent aging of those who embraced magic, he looked at least ten years older, while Markal and Chantmer looked considerably younger than their years.