by David Rice
High Father Stigand raised an eyebrow and forced a smile. “Since the Lords are scattered, the army is frozen in place on the wrong side of your river, and the gnomes are departing as quickly as they can count their coins, I feel it is my duty to offer some helpful advice.”
Lornen turned away and rubbed his forehead. “Will you leave as soon as you have shared your sage wisdom. Stigand?”
Stigand nodded again. “The All-Father’s mantle is heavy, indeed, but I shall do my best to be brief, my King.”
Lornen rolled his eyes, crashed down upon his thrown, and waved his hand.
“Have the Rajala voiced their demands?”
Lornen flinched. “Our navy will burn them from the waters.”
“They may not forgive such aggression, my King. Why don’t you send them an invitation to Parley?”
“They are the aggressors here. Why should I treat them respectfully?”
Stigand nodded. “Their approach is strange. Perhaps they are unaware of the harm they do. They have been an important ally in your—building up of the realm. It would be a shame to overreact.”
Lornen leaned forward, almost stood. “Do you know that they are a splintered people? One faction might be our friend while another sharpens its knives. I will not show signs of weakness to any of them.”
“Talking and trading from a position of strength is always better than the risks of battle, my King.”
Lornen laughed. “I remember how much talk and trade you offered the Blackthorn.”
Stigand’s gaze hardened but his voice remained calm. “A necessary act that strengthened the realm, my King. Your soldiers under Duke Gow were most efficient.”
“Hmmf. Almost as efficient as your little band of assassins, Stigand.”
“Tut, tut,” the High Father admonished. “I am certain you remember well that the Blackthorn were the real threat. We did what we could, when we could, at your request, and for the stability of all, my King.”
“What’s done is done. Get on with your advice, Stigand. Then go.”
The High Father nodded. “First, speak with the Rajala before shooting them. Trade with them. Let your leadership be the means for their leaving.”
“I’ll think about it. What else?”
“I know that you are concerned about your army’s numbers. Remember how well the offer of titles bought loyalty for your uncle? If you used the same approach with the leading families of Graniteside, you could call thousands more to service from the merchant and docks districts. Their sons could fatten the city watch while the regulars strengthen your army for its final push in the spring.”
Lornen’s eyes widened momentarily. “Egrant made a similar suggestion to me.” He levelled a playfully quizzical glare at the priest. “Have the two of you been plotting behind my back?”
Stigand chuckled. “Egrant and I are hardly on speaking terms, Your Majesty.”
Lornen laughed at his own joke. “How do we equip new guards? Until I find where Gothert has hidden our reserve funds—”
“My King,” Stigand stretched his voice like a cat in the sun, “All it would take would be to strip some of the Rajalan silver from your newest ships. There is so much wealth available to you that sits useless—”
Lornen stood, his face reddening. “Useless? Am I to reverse my orders? Pay craftsmen again to dismantle what they so expertly created? Weaken my fleet at the very moment another stops us up in our harbour like a bottle?”
Stigand took one step backwards and then stopped himself. “I am simply offering options, my King. There is no need to—”
Lornen’s voice carried through the room and down the hall. “There’s no need to hear any more of your prattling. I know what I must do. You need to rediscover what your duties are and—confine them to the Abbey. At once!”
Stigand blinked twice. Lornen’s expression indicated there would be no more opportunities for reasonable discourse. At least not while fear and pride consumed him. “Very
well, my King,” Stigand soothed. “I shall take my leave.”
“Good. Go. And don’t darken my door until I call for you.”
Stigand bowed slightly, squared his shoulders and straightened his robes, turned on his heel, and departed slowly. He stopped outside the throne room to address a servant. “Pray for the King. He is sorely troubled. And send in more wine.”
XI
In the cavern below Graniteside, the air was heavy and stank of fish. On the far edge, Archivist Nialle and Father Yost grappled with one another through stern gazes and clipped rebuttals. Ardir sat at the centre leaning against some barrels and casks. He cradled Muren’s head in his lap while humming low tuneless snatches of hymns. Beside both starwatchers, the Seer Grash-houk and his companion, Ashak, rested cross-legged. Ashak’s gaze fell upon the exits repeatedly, and the Seer’s blank eyes, as always, were turned firmly inward. Rickert Alain, once King Lornen’s adjutant on the battlefield and now Thunderwall’s truant envoy, paced back and forth like a guard dog caged too long. Their rescuer, the roguish Gerr, stood away from all, his expression twisting constantly as, with rhythmic swooshes, he swept a whetstone down the blade of his dagger. He smirked at his former lord, their newest prisoner, the exiled chancellor Gothert. The cavern shimmered under a tent of veiled light and coiled whispers.
“The tide used to clear this air more readily,” Gerr grumbled.
“I court dishonour with my Rajdejmion by lingering in this city of waste when my people are so close,” Ashak added. “We must continue our journey.”
“Then go,” Alain responded. “I have a Jarl waiting for my reports, and a family I haven’t seen in fifteen cycles. I’m not staying any longer.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Gerr growled. “You’ll just get your ass in a sling. Again. And expose the rest of us.”
“I will do no such thing. I can take care of myself,” Alain snapped.
Gerr’s whetstone slipped across his blade in a slow and measured stroke. “I’ve already seen how that worked out for you. How long did you suffer in that cell until we rescued you?” Alain took a step towards Gerr. “Even a dwarf would tell you that you need some manners.”
Gerr stood up and flipped his dagger from hand to hand. “A dwarf, eh? Since they’re who you serve now, why don’t you teach me, boy.”
Nialle stepped back from his heated conversation with Yost. His voice filled the room. “It’s been decided.”
Most heads turned towards Nialle and Yost. Gerr and Alain kept their eyes locked upon one another for several moments before cautiously disengaging.
“Father Yost has agreed to assist us in accessing more of this ancient ruin,” Nialle stated, “in exchange for the opportunity to examine our guests.”
“That old parasite’s not touching me,” Gerr spat. “Look what Gothert had Stigand do to the Starwatcher. It was Yost who taught Stigand, wasn’t it?”
Nialle forced patience into his voice. “Father Yost will attempt to reverse the damage that has been done to the Starwatcher, isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” Yost said quietly. “I shall do everything I can.”
“You should pick through Gothert’s brain while you’re at it,” Gerr snipped. “The dodgy old fart could tell us a lot. The city’s in need of the gold he’s sure to have hidden away.”
Gothert struggled vainly against his bonds. “No. Not that. Please. I have no gold, I keep telling you. It’s all been wasted on Lornen’s ships.”
Gerr chuckled and Gothert squirmed.
“I’ll answer any questions you have. Any. But don’t let that priest touch me.”
“Don’t care,” Ardir grumbled while stroking Muren’s hair. “Fair’s fair.”
“Yes,” Father Yost agreed. “Fair is fair. And it was wrong of Father Stigand to act so callously when he so poorly understood this discipline.”
Gothert looked away and said nothing.
“Of course, High Father Stigand was ordered to damage the Starwatcher’s mind, w
asn’t he?”
Gothert groaned and leaned away from the weight of Yost’s gaze.
“You ordered Stigand to do that, didn’t you, Chancellor?”
Gothert’s expression hardened.
Yost turned his sad and practiced gaze upon Nialle. “Whatever a person refuses to admit is what eventually shouts the loudest.”
Nialle nodded in agreement. “Guilt is a powerful equivocator.”
“No conscience in that old fart, so don’t expect guilt to do too much,” Gerr quipped.
Yost knelt beside Muren. “Amazing how the world weaves endless circles. I knew this poor fellow as a child. He suffered much then. Lost his family to a lifebane incursion. I tried to help him. He’s suffered more since then, too.”
Ardir looked up. “You’ll help him—again?”
Yost nodded sadly. “Like any child, he hides from what hurts him. I will try to reach him, but only his courage can supply a cure.”
Archivist Nialle grimaced as he considered the tangled motivations filling the cavern. It was difficult to choose which thread to pull first. Would the knot pull tighter, or would it give way? His mouth tightened with worry. He had laboured to keep this group safe from Lornen’s reach for so long but now it seemed that their fragile sanctuary was on the verge of collapse from the inside. Some things were beyond control. History would have to be the final judge. Nialle shifted his posture and spoke softly. “Give the Father room, Ardir.”
Yost raised a finger. “No need. Ardir’s fine where he is. Please keep the Starwatcher’s head steady.”
Ardir squirmed into a more comfortable position to better support Muren’s head and shoulders.
Yost learned over the Starwatcher and began to breathe long and slow. His fingers found their resting places upon Muren’s temples and brow. His heart and mind fell into synchronicity, and his body’s senses drifted into weightless mists.
Most of those in the cavern watched in absolute silence. Gothert watched in absolute dread.
Yost’s face began to twitch and twist in unison with Muren’s expressions of wonder and pain.
“Father Yost needs privacy,” Nialle whispered. “Best get back to some proper tasks as quietly as you can manage.”
Silence swelled in the cavern. From the mouths of many tunnels, distant drips coalesced with the lightest sounds of harbour winds to form a broken music. Their city’s breath drew in and whistled out like muted, unmastered pipes and reeds.
Gerr cocked his head and turned carefully towards a shadowed entrance. His warning penetrated every ear. “Someone’s coming.”
Their reactions were immediate. Ashak drew the blind seer Grash-houk away to a darkened grotto. Alain dimmed the lantern near Father Yost then readied a crossbow from behind an empty beer barrel. Gerr took up a defensive position, out of sight, at the edge of the tunnel. Unshaken, Yost and Ardir remained focused upon Muren’s care.
Nialle strode towards the approaching noise and stood firm while the remaining exiles skittered away into shadow.
The cadence of footsteps reached the cavern. Alongside the telltale sounds of approaching soldiers were padded steps betraying a slight limp.
“Ahoy there.” The call bounced into the chamber like a cannonball.
Nialle winced as he recognized the voice. He caught Gerr’s wary expression as the warrior mouthed the name: Koppinger.
Before Nialle could respond, the Baron of the Docks stepped into the light at the edge of the tunnel. His amused gaze swept across the cavern, seeming to penetrate the darkness easily, cataloguing each person in turn.
“So, all of the rumours are true. That’s rare,” Koppinger smiled.
Gothert struggled against his bonds and yelled. “Free me, Koppinger. Arrest these vermin.”
Nialle scowled. “Some rumours are always true, Baron, as you know better than most. If you are to arrest us, then please get on with it.”
“Arrest? No. Your presence here was a rumour I discouraged many from investigating. I’ve made sure you’ve been left alone for cycles. Even smoothed the way for your scouts to find food and drink on occasion.”
“You what?” Nialle attempted to disguise his offense. “Why?”
Koppinger grinned but his eyes were hard. “I couldn’t let you fall into the wrong hands, could I? You’re one of the few people in this city who still takes some pride in being honest.
That’s important to me.”
Nialle’s eyes narrowed. “You? Honesty? You are a leader of bandits, smugglers, and whores. Why is honesty so important to you now?”
Koppinger feigned a hurt look and then gestured grandly. “Archivist Nialle. Your words sting but I won’t hold that against you. You’ve been hiding here for so long. Don’t you want something better?”
Nialle shivered. Koppinger could undo all of his work protecting the irreplaceable with just a few promises of comfort. “Baron, I’m sure you understand that we’ve had our duties to keep us occupied.”
“Preserving the archives that Demitros tried to burn, I’m assuming.” Koppinger held up his hands and smiled. Noble and wise, but you must admit that no one can stand alone against the troubles facing us.” His gaze narrowed as he took a half step forward. “Do you mind if I—” Nialle nodded to Gerr who stepped away from the tunnel edge but kept his blade ready.
Koppinger casually glanced at Nialle’s bodyguard. “Hmmf. You’re looking well.”
Gerr kept his eyes on the Baron, and the hints of movement behind him. “So far, so good,” he replied. “You brought friends.”
Gothert cleared his throat to shout. “What are you doing, Koppinger? Arrest these criminals at once!”
“Yes, I did. No harm in that,” Koppinger laughed. “Oh, Gothert. Exiled with a price on your head and still giving commands?”
Gothert snarled. “You’ll be sorry for this, Koppinger.”
“Old man, I’ve made a career of avoiding that.” He looked back at Nialle. “I’ve brought along some harmless guests who might prove valuable. Could you shut Gothert’s whiny hole so we may continue this discussion?”
“You are not here on behalf of the King?” Nialle asked. “Isn’t that bordering on treason?”
Koppinger snorted. “What’s he ever done for us?”
Nialle paused to absorb the Baron’s tone, then nodded to Alain.
Alain lowered his crossbow, and then happily gagged Gothert with a strip of linen.
Nialle softened. “Bring your guests in, Baron. We apparently owe you a debt of gratitude so we will certainly listen.”
Koppinger bowed slightly and motioned the rest of his party forward. Shuffling into the cavern were two of Koppinger’s guards, and three Rajala, immaculately robed, with hands coiled like springs upon the hilts of gleaming silver scimitars.
Nialle stepped back, amazed, then collected himself and bowed. “Welcome, emissaries.”
The Rajala gracefully returned Nialle’s bow. As they straightened, their eyes widened, and fragments of oaths slipped from their mouths. Turning up the lantern and stepping into its clean light were Ashak and Grash-houk.
“Brothers,” Ashak intoned with a mighty smile.
“Seer!” they responded as they rushed to Grash-houk’s side.
The Seer’s head bobbed this way and that, his milky eyes flashing like opals in the lamplight. “I have waited, my children,” he announced. “Our path continues.”
Nialle and Koppinger raised eyebrows.
“I’m assuming there’s more to discuss?” Nialle commented.“Like getting rid of the stink of fish,” Gerr added.
Koppinger laughed. “What we discuss should be over some rum.” He gestured to his guards who hustled back to the tunnel to fetch packs crammed with spirits and food. “And our words will have to stay between us.”
“You want me to trust you?” Nialle asked.
Koppinger shrugged. “I insist.”
The Archivist frowned. “We have tables and chairs across the room,” he directed.
Koppinger studied Yost hovering over Muren and Ardir. “This is a pleasant surprise. I thought Stigand’s little pet was as good as dead.”
“Who told you that?” Nialle scowled.
“Stigand himself,” Koppinger guffawed. “He’s either lying again, or—confused.”
“He lacks the wisdom to understand which is which,” Nialle replied.
Koppinger lowered himself heavily into a chair and was quick to pour drinks. “The world has been passing you by, Nialle. Word is out that Gow’s army isn’t going to hold together much longer. They don’t have the supplies to continue to sit in their garrison, and the snows have stuck them there. Probably more elven sparkweaving, clever bastards. So, Gow wants Lornen to send more troops. He’s desperate to have the King join him for the final battle. Lornen’s refused to do either. He has a few troops here worthy of the name, and he’s content to
