The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2)

by Lee H. Haywood

  “Better,” said Waymire. He sat patiently in an armchair as near to the hearth as he would dare. He was blanketed beneath several layers of singed animal pelts. Typically the old general simply nodded in approval when she showed improvement, or politely held his tongue when she failed spectacularly. When she blew bricks free of their mason joints, he would quietly collect the projectiles and dry fit them into their cavities without so much as a groan of disappointment. Tonight he sighed wearily. “I’m a poor replacement for your mother,” said Waymire as he stood, shedding his protective coat of furs. “You’re maintaining the void for longer. Better than your mother ever did.”

  “Yet not good enough,” said Evelyn dourly. She slouched cross-legged before the hearth and looked at the blasted remains of the firewood, reduced to flakes of white ash. She imagined for a moment it was the city of Luthuania, or the Nexus, and scoffed at the folly of her own hubris.

  “In time,” said Waymire, unable to hide the wistfulness in his voice. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder; or maybe it was a gesture of pity.

  “This is what good men died to protect,” said Evelyn. She dropped her head in shame. “What an utter waste.”

  He turned her chin upward, his kindly old face shaking in defiance of her verdict. “Don’t say such things, lass. You’ll get there because you have to. But enough for one night.” He kissed her on the brow, and patted her head of curls in a grandfatherly fashion. She heard him exit the chamber with an exhausted shuffling gait. Although Waymire wouldn’t say it, her failure was breaking his heart as much as it was breaking her own.

  The door had hardly clicked closed when she heard a knock.

  “You don’t need to knock,” called Evelyn, still perched on the carpet before the fireplace.

  “I thought it would be rude to barge in,” replied an urbane voice bearing the heavy accent of a Luthuanian. She turned to discover High Lord Rancor standing in the doorway. With a crutch under one arm and an odd bend to his back, he cast a grotesque silhouette across the floor of her room. “May I enter, Your Grace?”

  Evelyn stood with a start, spinning to face the lord. She motioned as to bow, then thought better of it. He was not her king after all. Instead she stood rigid, and did her best regal pose. She motioned for Rancor to enter with what she imagined was an elegant sweep of her arm.

  He nodded graciously and hobbled inside.

  “You’ll have to excuse the mess, High Lord Rancor. The maids have not come in a few days.” The room was dark, and she hoped desperately he would not notice the blasted bricks in the mantel or the soot stains on the ceiling.

  Like a dog on the hunt he went straight to the fireplace. She silently cursed his elven eyes.

  “We are overdue for a formal greeting,” said Rancor, as he ran his hand over the twisted frame of the fireplace screen. She grimaced. The screen was still blazing hot from her trials, and he quickly recoiled from the radiating heat. He waved his fingers in mock pain and gave her a wry smile. “Why, precisely have you been following me?”

  “Your leg, High Lord. It needs proper mending.”

  “My court magic has healed it as well as he might.” He limped to the open seat near the fire and sat without asking for leave.

  “Indeed he has, High Lord.”

  “No more of that,” Rancor chided. He motioned to the seat across from his own. “We are both lords in our own realms. Decorum and properness have their place, but not in a private meeting amongst equals.”

  Evelyn took a seat, careful to cross her legs and sit with a stiff back. “We are not equals, Rancor,” said Evelyn, fumbling with his given name. “I am no queen uncrowned. I am a fraud.”

  “You may never sit the Throne of Caper, this is true, but you are still the daughter of a Kari princess. The blood of Troushire still runs in your veins.” He reached out, catching her hand before she could withdraw, and began to examine her fingers and palm, as if he might deduce her secrets from the lines of her flesh. “Do your lies typically suffice?” He gingerly touched the burned flesh of her fingertips. Evelyn flinched, pulling her hand free.

  “I don’t know what you could possibly mean,” said Evelyn feigning ignorance.

  “I remember your touch, fevered as I was,” continued Rancor. “Cold as ice, if I recall correctly.”

  Evelyn remembered it, too. Just enough to grant life, nothing more.

  Rancor’s eyes seemed to shimmer in the wan light of the room, piercing her own, vying for the truth. “There are few women who possess the power of the Sundered Soul.”

  Evelyn was grateful for the darkness; it hid her blushing flesh. “The necromancer was not the only weapon of the king’s design,” she began. “My father and mother were wed to unite two kingdoms and create a child of a higher caste. A magic and a king.”

  “Yet your mother bore the wrong seed.”

  “How close to the truth you are,” said Evelyn with a dismissive laugh. Rancor could never understand how complicated the relationship between a Kari and Capernican could be. How her father had hated her mother for tainting his pure Caper blood with her Kari womb. How her mother recoiled from his touch. How she shrunk beneath his judging tone. How she spited the men of his court, and the wicked words they murmured when they thought she was out of earshot. Men fear what they do not understand, her mother would always say. As Evelyn aged, she grew to realize the men were right to fear her mother. Calycia Manherm had taken all she ever desired of her lord husband when she brought Evelyn into the world. One union of the flesh was enough. She would never bear him a king.

  “So it has come to be, through fate and misfortune, that I am the sole heir. The false heir.” Evelyn sighed. “Waymire has always served my household faithfully. He only upholds my birthright to ascend the throne because it is his duty to do so. In his heart he must know the truth. If this war ever ends, no liege will bow to the daughter of the witch. And when they find out I am an abomination...” She shook her head.

  Rancor watched her in silence. There was no judgment in his eyes, and perhaps even a degree of understanding. He, too, is a fraud, she realized. He will never surpass his father in brilliance. He will never best the staunch gallantry of his older brother. She lightly touched the knee of his bowed leg. “Let me try to fix this.”

  A quizzical look overcame his face. “Will it hurt?”

  “Worse than anything you have ever experienced.” She rolled up his pant leg until bare flesh showed to the thigh. His leg was covered in ridges of scars. She ran her finger along the gnarled flesh, feeling his skin pimple from her touch. She grasped his knee with one hand and his thigh with the other. “Once I start I cannot stop until it is done. Let the pain carry you into unconsciousness. It will be better that way.”

  Rancor nodded dumbly, clueless as to what he had just agreed to.

  Suddenly his flesh glowed red with an internal light. All became translucent, and she felt the heat of his skin rise, hotter than fire, hotter than molten iron. Rancor champed his teeth, his jaw line twisting in agony, yet he held his scream. Brave man, she thought, trying to show a brave face.

  “You would be better to succumb,” said Evelyn in all earnestness. A man ought not feel his body undone.

  She envisioned the first corpse her mother had allowed her to dissect. A destitute peddler who had died in the middle of the night in the Keep’s bailey. His body was stiff when they began to peel him apart, layer by layer, with meticulous care. She remembered the skin like soft leather, and the veins like rivulets. The muscle red, the bone pale, whiter than she could have possibly imagined.

  Rancor groaned, fighting the agony.

  They were right to call her mother the Witch of Stone Keep. Few knew that Evelyn had inherited her trade. In her mind’s eye Rancor’s bones turned to dust. His marrow became a river. His sinew clay. All became awash, fluid and churning. Rancor’s fingernails dug furrows in the arms of the chair. Still Evelyn pressed on, molding his leg with the practiced precision of a sculptor, rebuilding a
new that which was broken. She ignored his desperate breaths and sputtering moans.

  The light faded. Rancor’s ordeal was through.

  He slumped forward, ashen but conscious, and clasped the hand she held over his knee. “You are not some ordinary magic,” he whispered from a parched tongue. His grasp was like a vise. Not violent, as she felt no threat of harm, but firm and unyielding. He would not let go without a satisfactory answer. “How?”

  “The Old Magic.” Evelyn felt oddly liberated to reveal the truth to a stranger so brazenly.

  He nodded, as if that were the answer he expected. “You could use the Orb,” he managed. “That is why Waymire protects you like a treasure. That is why you are here.”

  “I could use the Orb,” said Evelyn without hesitation. It was a lie, but it might prove to be the most important lie of her life. She held her face impassively, revealing nothing of her uncertainty.

  Rancor shrunk in his chair, bowing his head almost to his knees, perhaps contemplating what this news might mean, or simply overcome by his ordeal. She found he was still holding her hand. She didn’t mind.

  The chamber door suddenly opened, and a man bearing the tri-rays livery peered within. He immediately retreated, turning his head aside, as if he had walked in on something he shouldn’t have seen. “High Lord, Your Grace.” The steward bowed awkwardly, still looking askance. “I’m sorry, I should have knocked. I...”

  “Come in, Captain Nerso,” said Rancor, once again taking on the intonation of the high lord. He released her hand and stood.

  Nerso kept his eyes on the floor. “The whole dwarven quarter is in chaos. Carrions, High Lord. They’re everywhere.”

  “Halgath,” said Rancor, almost to himself. His head shook with displeasure. “Rouse General Bailrich, and secure the Council. Street by street quarantines until the menace is defeated. Chime the garrisons. Go!”

  The man saluted and immediately ran off to fulfill his orders.

  Rancor rushed to the balcony. Evelyn followed in his wake, noting the lack of a halt to his strides, and joined him at the balustrade. To the south, flames leapt wildly above rooftops. A bell began to frantically chime, then another, and another, until the entire city echoed with the cacophony.

  “I’m going to get you the Orb,” said Rancor with chilling certainty. “And you are going to end this war.”

  Evelyn barely heard his words. She was watching the leaping flame with stern focus. The air chilled. Crystals of ice crept along the railing. Flakes of snow began to drift lazily from the cloudless sky. At one building, then another, the conflagration began to sputter, then fade. For the first time in her life, Evelyn plunged heedlessly into the abyss. The amber light waned, the flame mastered. The city fell into darkness, concealing the broad smile that now creased her lips.

  CHAPTER

  XXI

  THE GREAT SEA

  Dolum sat in the corner of the basket, watching as the morning sun began to reach across the wattle flooring. He chose not to look out the window. It was unnerving to be so high, and whenever he did dare a peek, all he saw was the blue-gray water of the rolling sea stretching from horizon to horizon.

  They had been over the Sea of Eosre for one day and one night. How Camara knew the way, he could not guess, but she flew onward with tireless strokes. The soft swoosh of her wings created a cadence to life in the cramped basket. Dolum would catch himself silently counting wing beats until his mind went numb. Anything was better than focusing on the gnawing sensation he felt in the pit of his stomach. The tedium within the basket granted him ample time to mull over what he saw in the forest. I shouldn’t be here.

  He dared a glance at Ivatelo.

  Ivatelo sat across from Dolum, so close their knees almost touched. The magic had made no mention of the events in the forest. Even so, Dolum was convinced Ivatelo knew that he had seen everything. The magic’s sly demeanor and profound knowledge seemed to beguile the others. They did not see that it was a mask. Ivatelo was hiding something, and each time the magic fixed his gaze in Dolum’s direction there was a piercing chill about it, a menace that hadn’t been there before. It caused Dolum’s heart to race. He couldn’t help but feel that Ivatelo was challenging him, daring him to expose the unsettling truth of what he witnessed. And why shouldn’t he? There was a certain cowardice in maintaining his silence, yet each time he opened his mouth to talk the words stuck in his throat like a knot. He lowered his chin to his chest and cast his forearms over his face, fumbling with the lengthening stubble that sprouted atop his head as he vied to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

  “You feeling alright there, mate?” asked Bently. The man’s complexion had taken on a sallow hue since they left the ground, and he looked about as ill as Dolum felt.

  “I just feel a bit queasy from the flight,” said Dolum dismissively.

  “Try some of this.” Bently presented a flask before Dolum’s face, sloshing the contents back and forth beneath his nose. “It’s not as bad as it smells and it really helps the gut.” He patted his stomach for effect and grinned.

  Dolum sniffed the bottle and jerked back; it smelled pungent. “I don’t know,” began Dolum meekly, but seeing no other option, he took a swig and awaited the effects.

  Beside him, Ivatelo stretched his lanky frame to collect the flask from Dolum. He took a long draught himself and grinned. “So, Dolum, what knowledge do you have of the Guardian’s island?” Ivatelo returned the flask to Bently, graciously doffing an imaginary cap.

  “Barely a thing,” answered Dolum. His throat was now burning, and his stomach grumbled uneasily.

  “Then now is a perfect time to enlighten you,” said Ivatelo. He sat as upright as possible within the cramped quarters and cleared his throat loudly, as if he were to begin a long-winded tale. “Before the Fall, The Guardian Stones were situated within the temples of Eremor. There they swelled with the energies of the masses, and became a source of power to be wielded by the deft hands of the demigods. One by one, the Guardians tapped this power to shape the world. One stone was used to construct the Nexus, another to kill the Wyserum, a third to raise from the sea an indomitable spire of rock. There was an obvious logic behind the purging of each orb, save the last, and to this day, no one knows for certain why the Guardians built the Island of Coralan.”

  “The Guardians refused to give any explanation of the island’s purpose?” inquired Bently. “Didn’t the people have a right to know?”

  “Would you explain to a dog why you took away his food?” said Ivatelo with a raised eyebrow. “The Guardians would state nothing save that the island was a sanctuary for the demigods. Yet that explanation answers none of the big questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “First of all, the location,” said Desperous, inserting himself into the conversation. “The island is located hundreds of leagues from the Laverian coast. Why do that? If the island is a testament of the Guardians’ power, why not construct it where the creatons can revel in its splendor?”

  “I fail to understand,” said Bently. “Haven’t creatons been to the island before?”

  “Yes, but never by sea,” said Ivatelo. “That’s a physical impossibility. The cliffs surrounding the island are sheer.”

  “Then how?”

  “As I already explained, the Guardians held this island in a veil of secrecy. They didn’t want just anyone visiting the island, yet they did wish for those deemed worthy to make the pilgrimage. They created a tunnel deep below the sea linking Laveria and Coralan.”

  Bently looked confused. “Then why aren’t we taking this tunnel right now, why go to all of this trouble?”

  “Because the tunnel I speak of is no longer accessible,” replied Ivatelo as if it were common knowledge. “Your late king collapsed the stairwell leading to the tunnel soon after the War of Sundering.”

  A queer look overcame Bently’s face. “I’ve never heard of any such tale. Why would my...why would King Johan have done this?”

  �
�A topic for another day,” said Ivatelo. “The point I am trying to get across is this: creatons have been to the island, and we have firsthand accounts of what the citadel atop the island looks like. From these accounts, I can surmise that the Guardians were not being entirely truthful when they deemed it a sanctuary.”

  Ivatelo quickly rummaged through his bag and produced a piece of parchment and charcoal. He scribbled a few lines across the paper and held it out for all to view. “Do you recognize this structure?”

  “Of course,” answered Bently. Even with Ivatelo’s less than stellar drawing, the image stood out clearly. An array of steeples transfixed around a pointed spire. “It’s the Tower of Yasmire.”

  “Indeed it is.” Ivatelo said. “Now, what most people do not know is that the Tower of Yasmire predates the city of the Nexus by half a century.”

  “It was made by the master masons of Tremel,” said Dolum, prideful of his people’s history.

  Bently furrowed his brow in disbelief. “I thought the entire city was constructed by the Guardians’ energies.”

  “All save the tower,” explained Desperous. “While the Guardians possessed immense energies with the Nexian stone, if not properly channeled and amplified, the city of the Nexus could never have been formed. The Tower of Yasmire served this purpose. It is in effect a tool, a large focusing chamber. It channeled the energy of the stones, allowing the Guardians to create the city of the Nexus, and later the Island of Coralan.”

  Ivatelo held his finger up for effect. “So, let me now propose this idea. The Guardians were a calculated race. They did not waste their energy stores on whimsical projects. They were investments. For example, the city of the Nexus would appear to the average creaton as a holy testament to the glory and power of the Guardians, yet in its purest sense the Nexus was simply a farm. The Tower of Yasmire acted as a harvester, reaping the energies of the flocking masses for the Guardians to use at their leisure.”