He waited, entirely still, the only sounds in his ears his slowing heartbeat and the whisper of the wind through the windows. He tried not to focus on his prize, glinting in the silvery light, and look around the huge room.
For a few moments longer than strictly necessary, he waited--- eager but knowing that the eagerness a thief felt could be his undoing. Eventually, he strode to the platform where the true Crown of Kings rested. He tested for the force that had prevented him from taking it before, but it was no longer there. Tarn had passed the crown to him. He could take it, and maybe even wear it if he wished, but it was not for him to be king. He was content with his stewardship, even if the duties could be onerous more often than not.
Reassured that his status as a rightful bearer was not somehow rescinded, he stepped onto the platform and walked up to the glittering crown. He took the fake from his pack and compared it to the true piece.
He studied the two side by side for the first time.
The similarity was remarkable, even though the craftsman had never seen the real thing. It was perfect. The only difference was that the fake was not ensorcelled.
But too late to worry about that now. And besides, there really was no way a fake could ever hold the same enchantment as the original. The power to create it was lost in time. Perhaps it was as old as the stone edifice it rested within.
One last test, though, and something he would never know until this night.
Whether the force that held the true crown floating, suspended in nothing but air, would only work for the true crown.
Gingerly, he released his grip on the fake.
It hung in the air, just as the original had.
Grinning, the real crown clasped in his hand, he ran on silent feet to the waiting rope.
He clambered out of the window, pulled up his rope, untied it and climbed out into the waiting air. He ran as fast as he could manage to sustain, to his waiting horse, and hopefully, if things went as well as this night, Ulbridge and the end of his long journey.
He reached his horse and his waiting companion and chuckled, punching his fist at the sky in joy.
Gods, how he'd missed this!
No one the wiser, Roskel and the Drayman rode for Ulbridge.
*
Chapter Thirty-Three
Inside the Cathedral, the air shimmered and two men dressed in the attire of priests everywhere, plain robes and sashes for belts, stepped from a darkness against the wall which shimmered and then faded. One of the priests wore an amulet around his neck, the only thing which set him apart from the other, for they were similar in appearance; as similar as the fake crown to the real. They strode toward the crown, the chief priest waving his hand and encasing himself in a glowing light which lit their passage.
'I do not understand brother. Why did you let him take it? We could have held him easily and let the guard from Ulbridge sort matters out. We let him take the crown!'
'It is difficult, brother, because you do not have access to the guardian, but it has spoken. When you ascend, you may find you can hear its voice. It is the voice of the cathedral, and it requested that the thief be allowed to succeed this time. The why of it is not for me to know, but the guardian has spoken. Look, my brother, at this fake. It is perfect, a work of fine art itself. But there is a purpose at play here greater than we are privy to. This is the doings of kings and great men, this is their plot, and not for us to be involved in. We are outside of politics. As the guardian protects us, we protect what little history is known of this land; for all time to come. One day, this land might change, and people might see the value in what we do…who knows? But the voices of the gods are silent and all we have is the guardian to guide our path. The guardian has the wisdom of the ages. We must trust it.'
The younger brother bowed his head. 'There is so much I do not understand.'
'And I too understand but a fraction of the world’s knowledge and none of the meanings behind its working. But history is woven, like a great tapestry, and we are here to observe it, not to make it. That is for others. Our path is set. Trust in this.'
'I will.'
'You will go far, my brother. One day, perhaps, the guardian will speak to you, too.'
The chief priest thought about telling his younger brother of the other presence on the plains, the ones the guardian called the bastard children of the hated ancient enemy, known to some as the hierarchy. But if his younger brother could not detect the distant reek of foul sorcery, then he was perhaps not ready for the knowledge.
In his mind, the guardian called out to him.
He is not ready. The hated child of the enemy has his part to play too. Leave him in his ignorance, and keep silent. In time, you will understand the truth of it, though the end of the games these humans play today will not come for a thousand years.
The head priest kept silent with a guarded expression on his face. Then, in unison, the brothers bowed their heads and prayed for the thief’s soul.
*
Chapter Thirty-Four
The hierarch knelt in the woods, the corpse of a soldier before him, stripped to the waist. With a razor sharp dagger he drew his fey symbols in the flesh. The man was already dead, drained of life to power the hierarch’s dark magic. From chest to stomach the creature carved, until finally satisfied he sat back on his haunches and began to chant, softly. He did not wish to be disturbed, and the Thane of Kar’s entourage rested for the night in a dip between two hillocks huddled around their campfires, unaware that the darkness travelled with them.
Denied paint and a solid surface to draw his dark designs upon, the hierarch was reduced to using flesh. It made communications more difficult, and in this land, procuring fresh meat was more tricky than in his homeland across the seas-- in a country called Lianthre were the people were properly subservient and did not miss their loved ones overly, or at least did not look too hard for them.
His incantation finished, the air shimmered. There was a moment while the small portal found its mark, one of his brethren sent to watch the Cathedral on the Plains. There was something uncomfortable about its black stone, but he was not given to superstition. Once more the vision before him shivered as if there were some other interference, some other magic present. But there was little he could do about it now. He did not have the time to search out the source of the interference. Soon, he would be missed. The soldier would not be missed until the morning, but his absence would probably be explained as desertion. The body would not be found, though, so whatever reason the humans dreamt up to keep their bad dreams away did not matter to the hierarch. As long as he was not discovered missing he was safe in his position as advisor to the Thane, exactly where he wanted to be. When the Thane took up the fake crown and announced himself king, Savan Retrice would be highly placed to destroy the country. He already had the Thane’s ear. It would take little in the way of further glamour to poison it. The man had a heart like a hierarch in the first place. When he was king, he would have the power to become a true tyrant and plunge the country into chaos and war. Savan was not given to know the hierophant’s grandest designs, but chaos and pain appealed to all hierarchs, and he approved of what plans he did know heartily.
Eventually, the portal settled on a patch of ground in a vast grassy plain. Hidden from view to all but Savan, his brother sat up and bowed.
'What news?' he whispered.
His spy was equally quiet. 'He has been and gone and the priests were none the wiser. They do not even know that the thief was among them. He headed south.'
With the true crown. A problem for a later day. For now his plans were intact. The thief would have taken the crown, perhaps to save for a future king, perhaps to deny any other from taking it should he die…he did not know the reasons behind the thief’s actions, and since the death of the hierarchy’s most gifted seer, Jenin, the future could not be discerned. Where the crown of Sturma was concerned, there was only mist in the future. At best they could follow the thief’s progres
s. Soon they would know where he was headed. But for now, the most important thing was getting the Thane to proclaim himself king, and ensuring that he had support to take the castle of Naeth, the capital seat of the country.
'Very well. Follow, but lose him rather than be seen. We can always find him later.'
'As you wish, my Lord.'
The vision disappeared. Savan put a small glamour over the body, hiding it from view. If someone stumbled over it, they would find it, but it was hidden from mortal sight.
He returned to the camp, to find Orvane Wense prowling about his bed.
'Where have you been? I told you not to leave my sight.'
'Pure politeness, my lord. My stomach has been somewhat tender. I felt it a mercy to spare your men the unpleasantness. '
Wense eyed him warily.
'Be sure you do not leave me again. I am becoming suspicious of you. Watch your step. I am uncomfortable with the extent of your knowledge.'
'As you wish, my lord. Merely good contacts, though. By the next village we pass I am expecting word from the cathedral from my network. I will have news for you then.'
Savan smiled and bowed, and as Wense returned to his evening meal, he watched the man's every move.
*
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rohir sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes. The grubby thief, Filcher, looked down at him with an uncertain smile.
'Don’t cry out for the guard, my lord. I have a secret message. People see me coming and going too often, they’ll know something’s up.'
Rohir, Lord Steward, took his hand away from his sword which rested beside his bed.
'Brindle’s horns lad, how did you get in here?'
'I’m a sneaky bastard, my lord.'
'Humph. Filcher, wasn’t it?'
'That’s it.'
'Well, tell me what you’ve got to tell me, and then get the hell out of my bedroom.'
The young thief smiled warmly. 'Yes, my lord. I’m not given to the details, but the lady told me to tell you the thief has finished the first part of his quest. No problems, she says.'
'How does she know?'
'The lady knows much, my lord Rohir, and I’m not privy to how. Best not to ask questions, if you’ll take advice,' he said with a grin.
'I’ll not take advice from a bloody street urchin. Give her my thanks. And get the hell out of my bedroom. If you come in here again I’ll have your ears, friend of the lady or not. Understand?'
'I’m not deaf.'
'Then make sure you don’t become so.'
The lad nodded, rose, and stepped over the window sill to drop down.
'Bloody fool! You’ll fall!'
The boy dropped. Rohir jumped up and tried to catch him.
When he looked down, the thief was no longer there.
'That’s a proper thief,' he grumbled to himself as he laid back on the bed and tried to relax once more. But he was awake, now. Wide awake.
'Not like Roskel, prancing around like a dandy. Proper thief.'
He got up, and spent the rest of the night trying to work out how the thief had got in and out. He kept walking over to the window and glancing down, trying to figure out where the boy had gone and how he’d disappeared so suddenly, but it remained a mystery.
In the morning he passed the good news to Durmont and Wexel in private, then they sat in council with the Thane of Carmille, trying to figure out a way to drive cattle safely through Mardon to the hills for summer grazing without Drayman raiders taking half the stock.
Gods, Rohir thought to himself, I bet that boy has more excitement in one night’s work than I have in a month.
*
Chapter Thirty-Six
A messenger rode hard and drew reign at the gates to Ulbridge mansion. His haste was for nought, though, as the guard held him there until the Thane himself arrived to see what the commotion was.
The messenger was grubby and tired, but he did not get a meal that day.
'What is your message?' asked the Thane shortly.
The messenger handed over the sealed scroll. He was tired and had changed horses six times to beat his lord to this town, but his work was not finished yet. He had to ride back up the great north road and take a reply before his lord made it this far south.
The Thane cracked the seal and read the message silently.
'Wait there. I will send message back with you.'
The messenger waited patiently, desperate for a bath and a hot meal but knowing he would get none until journey’s end.
When the Thane returned, the messenger found that the wax was still warm.
'See that he gets this. Here, a gold piece for a meal along the ride. But mind you don’t dally.'
'My lord,' said the messenger, and heeled his horse around, then sped out of the gates.
So, mused the Thane, as he walked slowly along the corridors of his home...so...could Wense pull it off?
If anyone could...
If the Thane of Kar could truly do as he said, then his banner would be raised and none would stand against him. Finally the abomination that was the stewards, swarthy bandits the lot of them, would be executed and order would be restored. And that bastard Roskel among them.
He hoped he was doing the right thing, but a man had to take chances.
He sent his housecarl to prepare the estate for guests for the winter. Then, in the spring, a new order would rise and things would be as they should once more.
*
Part IV.
Shawford Crale
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Roskel and the outcast Drayman arrived in Ulbridge tired but optimistic. Roskel was so close to the end of his journey he could almost feel his soft warm bed in Redalane's castle, passing out the winter...
He could see the flickering fire in his room, a soft maid in his arms…
Then, back to Naeth, and a life of service to the country.
He sighed at the thought.
But he was a long way from the place he had come to think of as home. Ulbridge was a far cry from Naeth.
The city sprawled east-west, spanning the Uller-- a medium-sized muddy brown swathe that cut through the heart of the city. The outlying areas were shabby, but bustling with small holders selling their wares on every corner, hawkers selling goods that people needed, rather than in the city proper where they sold things people wanted. This was where the poorer folks struggled to survive, eking out an existence from nothing. The farmers in the surrounding countryside had wares to offer, and in a good year could always make enough to live on. The bargemen and river fishers provided food also, at a price people could afford but not so low a price to put themselves out of pocket. But the poor, the paupers and the beggars, the whores and the cutpurses, they lived on what they could scrape and scrounge from their already destitute neighbours. If they could have entered the merchant’s areas and the area surrounding the Thane’s mansion, pickings would have been better. Unfortunately, there were heavy patrols in those areas. The Thane of Ulbridge was not a man to take chances. Once he had left a treasure unguarded and since he had been extremely careful.
It wasn’t a bad place to live, as Roskel remembered. Just devoid of excitement. There was a sad air about the place, as if all joy had fled from the citizens.
Roskel dismounted as he entered the narrow streets and led Minstrel toward the poor quarter where they would be staying. He could afford to pay for better, but he could not afford the scrutiny in the city centre. Better safe than sorry, he reasoned, and guards almost outweighed citizens as you got closer to the massive mansion that the Thane called his home. The Thane was a man to bear a grudge.
Just because Roskel had once been overly friendly with his lonely wife...
But then, life was unfair, and you played that game, you took your chances. Still, at the time, it wasn't as though Roskel had known the woman was wife to the Thane of Ulbridge.
Roskel smiled a little at the memory, then shook himself free of his reverie. He neede
d to concentrate on the city, not on its women.
Trade with other cities and towns of the southlands was brisk in Ulbridge, and people bustled about their business as he neared the market, with his head still partly in the clouds. A few stares were turned his way, but strangers were common to any city and he stood out no more than the rest.
Sadly, he thought, looking to one side, I travel with a beacon for distrust. His companion wore Roskel’s hooded cloak to hide his features in shadow. With his broad shoulders and belted long sword, though, he cut an imposing figure. His dark beard could still be seen, although thankfully his black eyes were hidden from view. There was little Roskel could do about that. He would just tell people that his companion was a mute from the distant sea port of Pulhuth. Most people would never even have heard of Pulhuth, and the chances of anyone knowing that its people looked just the same as the average Sturman was remote. He was thankful that the Drayman could not speak, even though the thought was uncharitable. It would have been difficult to explain a foreign language. There were no foreign languages in Sturma for there were no foreigners and everyone, from Thaxamalan’s Saw to the Spar, spoke the King’s Tongue.
He had explained where they were going to the Drayman, who he had come to think of as a Skald, a legendary society of warrior bards who had run a network throughout the land in the old King’s time, more than fifty years ago. They were just a legend, though the name stuck in Roskel’s mind. The Drayman had told him he could play all instruments. He explained in his strange way with mind-contact and his tuneful humming that he instinctively understood all music.
It might be a talent that would come in useful. The Skald could play and accompany Roskel’s singing, for while the thief’s singing voice was fair, his playing was almost childish and in a city, he would soon be revealed as a fraud. He could not afford such attention. Especially not when the end of his quest was in sight, an end to this skulking about the country pretending to be someone he was not.
The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 11
