As the expedition rode north the next day, scudding clouds cast great shadows across the waters, turning the lake from deep blue to near black and then back again to blue.
“Even the alpine lakes of Melnehlan cannot be more fair than this,” Sandun commented to Basil.
“Perhaps that is so. I have never seen them,” replied Basil. “But several years ago, the eldest son of the Count of Orobeus asked a few hunters to join him on a hunt in the Melnehlan Alps.”
“To bring back some of the famous glacier goats?” Sandun asked.
“Just that. I considered the offer, but I had agreed to lead a deer hunt north of Kresilofos. A year or so later, I met the young lord again in Seopolis. He praised the hunting in Melnehlan to the skies and was proudly wearing a white cloak made from their good wool. Then I was filled with regret.”
“There is more than one way to get to Melnehlan.”
“What do you mean?”
“From Serica we could go east across a great lake to the land of Shila, thence across the sea to Budin, and then board one of the yearly trade expeditions to Ari’Maspan and then to Melnehlan.”
“Travel all the way around the world? What, has the full moon risen early? You lunatic! Who will teach my boy how to shoot a bow or track a mountain lion? I do need to return home someday. Honestly, Sandun, my dog talks more sense than you.”
Part Two
Erimasran
They finally turned east, leaving Lake Tricon behind and winding their way through a narrow, twisting valley. The trees thinned out mile by mile as they went. Soon great bushes had wrested the land entirely away from the trees. Above the path, acres of high mountain slopes came into view, barren and rocky. Great boulders appeared in the valley every mile or so; several were a brilliant white when seen from a distance, the sunlight gleaming off their vast bulk.
Four more days of travel brought the expedition through the Arrokar Range and down to Sirosfeld, the last significant town before they took to the wilderness in search of the lost path to Serica.
Sirosfeld was a town of some size, with a low earthen wall around it and a high stone castle standing right in the middle of a flock of townhouses, at the top of a modest hill. The expedition stayed at a large and well-appointed inn near the river, which they had followed the last two days and which flowed down in a white rush, bringing snow water from the Arrokar Range to the plains of Erimasran.
Aside from the dress of many of the men, Sandun thought they might have been back in Opomos, what with all the carts and people hurrying through the streets. In Sirosfeld, many men and some women were dressed in leather, a rustic style not seen much in the more civilized parts of Kelten.
The day after they arrived, Sandun had a private audience with the Mark of Erimasran. The mark, an older, weathered man, looked like he had spent his life on horseback; there was the unmistakable look of sun and wind carved into his face. The mark’s family had ruled in Erimasran since the days of the great king Agites. The Mark of Erimasran had stayed out of most of the civil wars of the last thirty years, being separated by distance and the need to maintain a strong military force to ward off Issedon and Fiodroch.
Sandun presented his document and seal from King Pandion. The mark looked them over and then addressed Sandun gravely.
“My steward tells me you have fourteen men with you. A knight and eleven soldiers, as well as two others from the Royal Archives. Your expedition is very small. The area you are going to search is not so far from the border with Issedon. The folk who live in the north are scattered, and they rely more on hiding and less on vigorous defense for their protection. When raiders from Issedon cross the border, my warriors head north. Sometimes the Issedonians retreat without a fight; other times blood is shed. This has been true for years beyond count. Of late, the raids have become more numerous than in earlier years.”
“My lord, we hope to evade any Issedonians through stealth,” replied Sandun.
“I can see that, young man, but while I understand what you are trying to do, I fear you have little understanding of the landscape here in Erimasran. Hiding in the forests of Kelten is very different from remaining hidden in the wild plains. For example, the air is often as clear as the eyes of Sho’Ash, and campfires can be seen from as far as thirty miles away, unless you take precautions. Another example: some trackers native to this land can smell human camps if the wind blows their way, even when the camps are hidden in gullies. Perhaps you don’t believe me. Perhaps you think fifteen men cannot be found in the vast expanse of Erimasran. Perhaps you are right and Saint Hurin will protect you from harm, but I do not want King Pandion to learn that your heads are being carried to Issedon as war prizes. He would be wroth with me, and rightly so.”
“What do you suggest, my lord? The Archive’s expedition has not funds to hire fifty or even ten extra guards.”
“No doubt, no doubt. Even if I sent my best, Duncan’s Regiment, it might not keep you safe. Issedon would likely learn of Duncan’s deployment near their border, and they might view this as an opportunity to destroy a key part of my strength and so send an even larger army to hunt it—and by extension, you.”
The mark thought for a bit and then continued. “Here then is my counsel: Take one or two experts born and bred in Erimasran. Heed their advice, and treat every mile north of here as a mile inside a no-man’s land, where danger increases with every day. Heading into the Tirala Mountains is a great risk, but while the mountains will kill you with supreme indifference, the raiders from Issedon take a sick pleasure in capturing my people and torturing them to death. They want this land, and we stand in their way.
“Talk to my steward. He knows better than I who is in town and who can help you. Before you go, let me say that I hope you succeed. If we became the western terminus to a trade route to Serica, Erimasran would prosper greatly. We feel rather isolated out here, at the edge of the kingdom. We have much land, and the rains have been good these last winters. We would welcome more settlers, and more taxes would allow us to build forts along our northern border. My scouts will keep careful watch on Issedon, and my soldiers will be ready to respond if we get news of a raid.”
The mark’s seneschal was brought in and given instructions. He promised that he would get in contact with Sandun’s expedition in a day or two with some suitable guides.
Sandun spent the rest of the day at the market, buying food suited for long journeys. By chance he ran into Sir Ako, who was bent on the same task. As they inspected the dried beef jerky, Sandun recounted the conversation with the mark.
“A trusty guide would be a welcome addition. Special knowledge of the land is more valuable than half a dozen veteran soldiers. Still, I know from experience that the loyalty of some of these wanderers is up for debate. At least in the southlands, where I have been campaigning, more than a few of the men we captured sneaking over the border hailed from the lands around Potomopolis.”
“But, Sir Ako, you know full well that Potomopolis has been neither fully Kelten nor fully of Fiodroch for many centuries past. Given how many times the fort has changed hands, it is little wonder than the men have no strong allegiance to either kingdom. Surely no man in his right mind would see Issedon in the same way. Fiodroch is a grand kingdom with many fair towns, while Issedon is a land of brigands and worse.”
Sir Ako did not look convinced. “I have never been to the northern marches, and so you may have the right of it. My point is moot if the Mark of Sirosfeld can select a guide for us. I’ll give him a fair shake. In any event, we must all be on our guard once we leave Sirosfeld. The road north will be dangerous, and more so as we draw near the border with Issedon.”
Two days later, the marcher lord’s seneschal found Sandun in the library. The lord’s maps were more detailed than the maps that Sandun had examined in the Archive, a fact that he found disturbing, though he had to admit, it made sense that the people closest to t
he need would have the better knowledge.
“Master Sandun, forgive the interruption. I have found a man who fits my Lord Sirosfeld’s description of the job: a man born and raised in northern Erimasran, one skilled in hiding and in finding paths.”
“I’m pleased to hear this news. Where can I meet him?”
“He is in town, Master, but there is a problem…”
Sandun remained silent, his hands gently resting upon the parchment map he had been examining.
“He is being held by the bishop. It is a delicate matter, one that involves a dispute between the temple and some villages in the north.”
“What sort of dispute? The tithe? The performance of rites?”
“Perhaps you have heard of nerio sanion, or as it is commonly known, dream weed?” The seneschal was showing off his learning; nearly everyone in Kelten knew of dream weed.
Sandun tried to suppress a grin. Laughter nearly burst forth, but with an effort he mastered his mirth and replied, “Yes, I am aware of dream weed and of the temple’s doctrine regarding its use.”
“Ah, good. Then I do not need to explain the details. Suffice it to say, my Lord Sirosfeld finds it politic to take no position on this issue, nor does he wish to offend the bishop.”
“But I can?”
“Well, as the king’s agent, you may intervene without upsetting deeply entrenched factions here.”
“I see. I’ll meet the fellow. What is his name?”
“Kagne Areka of Tokivanu.”
At this, Sandun really did laugh. At the mention of dream weed, in the back of his mind he’d had a feeling that Kagne’s name would appear.
“My lord?”
“Perhaps you will not credit this, but I know this Kagne, or rather knew him, twelve—no, thirteen—summers past.”
The seneschal’s expression of disbelief was so comical and the coincidence was so unlikely that Sandun laughed again. “I must go and see him at once. You can provide a page to guide me?”
An hour later, Sandun was at the temple annex. The page presented the hastily written note from the seneschal to the junior priest at the entrance.
The junior priest read the paper slowly. He was an older man with a noticeable limp when he paced back and forth. Sandun guessed from his looks that before his injury, he was a travelling priest. The travelers were men who spent years walking from hamlet to hamlet, bringing the words of the temple to the scattered peoples of Erimasran. After some thought and reexamination of the documents, including Sandun’s letter from King Pandion, he said, “The bishop is out now, but I see no harm in letting you talk to the prisoner.” He led Sandun and the page down to the lower level; no doubt it had once been the original temple, as the stonework was old but of good workmanship.
In a darkened alcove separated from the main hall by iron bars that went from floor to ceiling, a man was sitting on a wooden bed. He sprang to his feet as they approached.
“Good day, Taragat! You have brought visitors for me? You are too kind by far.” Kagne’s voice and manner were just as Sandun remembered, though the years had tempered a little of his exuberance.
Sandun went up to the bars and stuck his hand through them. “Kagne! So good to see you again.”
“Sandun, it’s a long way from Seopolis,” Kagne replied with hardly a trace of surprise. “It’s good to see you too. I trust you are here to get me out of this…place?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Though when I came to Sirosfeld, I did not know you were here.”
“Music to my ears, sweet music. The stars have aligned, as I knew they would.”
At this, the priest took offense. “No stars have aligned for you, wretch! The will of Sho’Ash brooks no opposition from stars or spirits or what have you. The supreme prelate of Erimasran has given no command to free you, and the mark has no authority inside this temple.”
“And I tell you, the stars guide our footsteps—even yours, Taragat, though you refuse to see it. I am free already, as surely as water falls from the clouds and flows down to the sea.”
Sandun sighed at the sacrilegious views Kagne proclaimed, here inside the temple prison. This was going to be trickier than he’d first thought.
“Kagne, I’m afraid the priest is correct. I have no direct authority to compel the bishop to aid me in my expedition. I hope to convince the bishop to release you, but I’ll need to know the particulars of your situation to make my argument. I thought you were here because of dream weed?”
“I’ll be happy to explain my situation to you. Take a chair and listen. I’m sure good Taragat will be equally happy to hear my story again.” Kagne gestured to a small wooden chair near the barred door. The priest grumbled something about not needing to hear this again and went back upstairs. The page also begged leave to depart, and soon Kagne and Sandun were by themselves in the dimly lit room.
“As you know, for many years, my people in northern Erimasran have grown dream weed. It is a hardy plant, and it sells for good coin throughout Kelten and Fiodroch.”
“Aye, Kagne, I remember well our escapades in Seopolis. Hauling our cart covered with carrots up and down the streets of the city. Being chased by…well, you know.”
Kagne smiled. For the next hour, the two men reminisced about old adventures and caught up on news. Sandun talked, in general terms, about why he was in Sirosfeld. Kagne, after some prodding, described his troubles as resulting from an attempt to “adjust” new temple rules about local priests.
“My clan asked me to talk to the bishop directly. So I came here, and he threw me in his special jail for heresy! It’s an overreaction to a perfectly reasonable request from the northern clans. We still follow the temple on most things; we haven’t changed. Why does the temple suddenly act like we are terrible deviants? Yes, we grow dream weed; yes, we watch the stars and follow their guidance. We have been doing this since the days of my father’s father. The temple priests didn’t object then. Why now?”
“I don’t know, Kagne. The temple hasn’t changed in Seopolis, at least not that I’ve noticed. But we hear stories about heretics and awful crusades in Ikaria and Sastras.” In a whisper, Sandun said, “I dare not repeat some of the rumors I’ve heard about foul deeds supposedly done by the Central Synod in Pella.”
He reached through the bars of the cell and took Kagne’s hand. “The sooner we can get you out of here, the better. The mark wants you out, and I need your help. I’ll see if I can negotiate your freedom from the bishop.”
“I’m sure you will, Sandun. I have faith.”
Two days later, Sandun met with his Holiness, the Bishop of Sirosfeld. Sandun was accompanied by Maklin, who acted as scribe. The bishop was attended by one other priest, who sat silently beside a stack of heavy tomes, also taking notes.
Sandun, quoting from the Straight Law of the Temple, asked for Kagne’s release with a penance of exile, under his supervision. He explained that his mission was of some importance, and that King Pandion had commanded the enterprise and had requested all appropriate aid be given in furtherance of the Archives Expedition.
The bishop, curiously young for such a high rank, was not from Kelten. Judging by his accent, he was from Jibur although, like most senior prelates, he had changed his name upon his appointment to his new rank of the temple: “Tempered Spear of Innocent Justice.” A ridiculous name, thought Sandun, but fortunately a name that civilians did not have to use when addressing him.
The bishop’s words were arcane, his grammar hard to follow, and he talked of divine laws of holy estate and juxtaposed anathemas. After what seemed like an hour, with his head swimming in a maze of words and poorly understood concepts, Sandun requested a recess.
Outside the vestibule, Sandun asked Maklin for his thoughts.
“Master,” said Maklin, “I think he is asking for money.”
Sandun restrained himself from the oath
that immediately came to mind; it was best to avoid profanity anywhere near the temple. “So, all this talk of rites and rulings from the Council of Kalcheldon is really just a shakedown by the bishop?”
“I believe so, Master. Several years ago, I spent more time than I would have liked on the task of harmonizing the records of the king’s appointments to clerical positions. Part of the records included temple objections to some candidates and the subsequent responses. The temple used similar language to what the bishop was saying inside. The old annotations from the king’s scribes were usually just this: the temple is asking for more money.”
Sandun was familiar with that branch of the Archives. Every scribe had to spend at least a year with one of the least interesting areas of the records. The more promising the scribe, the more challenging the records. The “Clerical Appointments” section was infamous for its complexity and the bizarre cross-referencing of documents of previous controversies, some of which were hundreds of years older than the dispute in question. Sandun had spent his “Year Underground” working on the ancient rights of water and mining, an equally nightmarish subject where some claims could be traced all the way to the foundation of the Kingdom of Kelten, more than seven hundred years in the past.
“I’m reluctant to offer him money. Sho’Ash knows we have little enough now, and prices here are higher than even we anticipated.”
Maklin replied, “From the documents I read, I believe such a gift is formally called an Electrum Testament of Faith.”
“Electrum? Ha-ha! You must be joking! No one uses that currency anymore.” Sandun knew from old land deeds that electrum, a mixture of gold and silver, was once minted in small ingots and used to purchase rare tracts of land, such as abandoned temples or ruined castles.
The Burning Tower Page 6
