by John Marco
He expected Minikin to argue with him. She did not. Instead she rose from the edge of the pool, took off the coat that always covered her, and dropped the fabulous garment next to his own clothes, exposing the Eye of God that she wore around her neck. Hers contained Lariniza, the sister of Amaraz, but looked identical to Lukien’s amulet in every way.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Lukien.
‘Making myself comfortable,’ said Minikin. She began rolling up her sleeves.
‘How long are you planning to stay?’ Lukien quipped.
‘That depends on you, Lukien. You see, I am not leaving until you change your mind about Lorn.’
‘No, Minikin!’
‘Oh, don’t misunderstand. You don’t have to like him. I’m not expecting that. But I want you to take him with you.’
‘Fate above, no!’
‘You’re being petulant,’ crooned Minikin. She sat down at the poolside again, returning her white feet to the water. ‘Lorn doesn’t belong here. He is restless. He needs to return north.’
‘What about his family?’
Minikin darkened a little. ‘They will remain here.’
‘Even his daughter?’ prodded Lukien. ‘I know about her, Minikin. White-Eye told me. Lorn wanted her to have a place in Grimhold.’
‘There is no place for her,’ said Minikin sadly. ‘But we can care for her here. Lorn cannot. He is a restless tiger, and Jador is a cage to him. He must return home to Norvor.’
‘And then what?’ raved Lukien. ‘Fight Jazana Carr for power?’
‘He must do what he must do, Lukien. That is not for us to decide.’
This time, Lukien pulled himself out of the pool nearly completely. ‘I won’t do it,’ he said. ‘I won’t help Lorn get his throne back.’
‘He is a fighter, Lukien. Let him help you.’
‘He’s a butcher, Minikin!’
‘What if he’s changed?’
‘Come on,’ scoffed Lukien. ‘Men like him don’t change.’
‘No?’ Minikin grinned as she kicked water at him. ‘Some people said the same about you once, Lukien.’
Her words cut him, making him drift back into the pool. ‘That’s different. I never did the things Lorn has done.’
‘I know,’ said Minikin softly. ‘But you were not here to see the way he helped us. When Aztar attacked, he was there to battle with us. And when White-Eye needed him, he taught her what it means to be a ruler. He stood up to Baralosus, right alongside the rest of the Jadori, ready to die for the city. I had the same doubts about him once, Lukien. That’s why I am asking you to trust me.’
‘Minikin, please . . .’
‘Can you do that, Lukien? Can you trust me?’
‘I always trust you. You know I do. But this . . .’ Lukien clamped his fists together. ‘It makes no sense to me. None of this does!’
‘Lorn will leave here, with or without you, Lukien. Even now he prepares to leave us. Better that it should be with you, don’t you think so? It will give you a chance to know him better.’
The last thing in the world Lukien wanted was to know King Lorn the Wicked. The prospect of riding north with him made Lukien’s teeth hurt. And yet, there was nothing he could do to change Minikin’s mind. Despite her stature, she was made of steel.
‘This is going to be a very long trip,’ he groaned. ‘Do me a favour, will you please?’
‘Anything, Shalafein.’
‘Will you let me have this bath in peace?’
‘Of course,’ said Minikin, then picked up her coat and left.
67
Lorn moved cat-like through the darkened chamber, past the form of the sleeping Eiriann toward the little chamber where his daughter slept. The hour ticked past midnight, and the halls of the palace groaned with hollowness. With the long day behind him, Lorn stifled a yawn, longing to lay himself down to bed. It had been an eventful day, full of planning, and his eyes watered with sleep. He paused, hoping his squeaking boots would not wake Eiriann, who slept soundly in the sheets, looking beautiful as a shaft of moonlight caressed her face. Eiriann, young and perfect, had taken to his bed without shame, leaving behind the mores of her past life and adopting both Lorn and Poppy into her world. She was a fine woman, so much like the wife Lorn had buried, and he wondered at the good fortune that had brought him such a lovely lady. Full of fire, Eiriann had refused to speak to him the last few days, angered by his decision to head north with Lukien and the others.
Why couldn’t she understand?
Lorn looked at her, admiring her. She was always such a vocal woman, it seemed strange to him to see her so silent. He noticed her more closely now, in ways he had never stopped to see before. Her neck pulsed with every breath. He eyes flittered, deep with sleep. She would be fine without him, even if he never returned. But what of Poppy?
Lorn turned back to the nursery, tip-toeing toward his daughter’s alcove. The nursery sat just across from their main chamber, a comfortable little nook perfect for the baby girl. There was no door to the chamber, just a curtain that separated the two rooms. Lorn pushed the curtain aside, closing it behind him as he entered. Poppy slept inside her wooden crib, a crib he had made for her himself not long after arriving in Jador. She had grown long since then; she could walk now, though not well. Her blindness and deafness – the very ailments that had driven Lorn to Jador in the first place – still persisted, frustrating Poppy as she grew more aware. Tonight, though, his daughter didn’t fuss. She slept angelically in the crib, her slack, pretty face up toward the ceiling. Like a doll, her smooth skin glowed with the chamber’s tender light. Her small chest moved almost imperceptibly with the in and out of her tiny puffs of breath.
Lorn hovered soundlessly over her crib, staring down at her. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, but she was far too young to understand. She was remarkable, strong like her mother. She had survived the long trek across the desert because she was made of steel. Even deaf and blind, she would grow into a fine woman someday.
‘I want to tell you all those things,’ Lorn whispered carefully. His voice barely carried down to the sleeping girl. ‘I want you to know me, and that I thought the best of you.’
In Norvor, when he had been a king, some had argued for her murder. She was a burden, his advisors had told him, and could never be anything more. What kind of princess could she possibly make? Lorn remembered those words now, and how blithely he had said the same himself of other unfortunate infants. They were weak, weren’t they? They couldn’t be Norvans, because Norvans were strong.
‘But you are strong, little Poppy,’ said her father. ‘Never let anyone tell you otherwise. Never think yourself the weaker. You are my daughter. Your blood is my blood, and my blood is like fire. You are born to greatness.’ Lorn placed his palm lightly on the girl’s chest. ‘Don’t forget me.’
Poppy slept, undisturbed by her father’s words. He turned, and to his surprise saw Eiriann standing near the curtain. Her eyes drooped sadly, watching him. She shook her head in sorrow.
‘Why are you leaving us?’ she asked.
She had yet to confront him, but could no longer resist. Inexplicably, she loved him. To Lorn, there seemed no good answer to her query, nothing that could make her understand the need he had to go and fight for Norvor. He shrugged, almost an apology.
‘I am a leopard who cannot change his spots,’ he said.
Eiriann waited for him to say more. When he did not, she nodded and closed the curtain.
68
Gilwyn sat in the windowless catalogue room, pondering the massive machine sprawling out before him. His oil-covered hands drummed absently on the wooden desk, the portal that unlocked the machine itself. The hard chair beneath his rump creaked as he leaned back in it perilously, just as he had seen his mentor Figgis do a hundred times before. A bank of hastily lit candles illuminated the machine, setting its rods and pulleys aglow. For days now Gilwyn had tinkered with them, trying to figure out the ingenuity of their d
esign. Now, thoroughly vexed, he let out a mumbling groan, not really hearing himself as he stared at the miraculous, confounding catalogue.
‘What in the world makes this thing go?’
The mystery of the machine made the young man bite his lip, mightily wishing he had paid Figgis more attention. Over their years together, Figgis had tried to teach Gilwyn the machine’s intricacies, but Gilwyn had always given up in frustration, sure that only the brilliant Figgis could understand its complexities. The machine had sprung from the genius’ own mind, like a dream made real. He had built the thing with his own feeble hands, somehow cobbling together the remarkable pieces from all across the continent. The catalogue machine was more than just a marvel. Some believed it could actually think, but Gilwyn knew better. To truly bring the machine to life had been the greatest part of Figgis’ ambition, and one he had never achieved. Still, the myth of the catalogue lived on.
For weeks now, Gilwyn had spent time stalling, pretending to try and work the machine in those hours he did not spend with Thorin. Thorin seemed to believe his endeavours, mostly. At least the old baron seemed satisfied. They had been good weeks for both of them, and Gilwyn had tried his best to keep Thorin’s madness at bay. But the catalogue machine still loomed over both of them, a nagging reminder that Malator was still on his way.
‘I think,’ said Gilwyn, ‘that this thing should have died with Figgis.’
He straightened out his chair, lowering his head to the desk and resting his chin atop his clubbed hand. It was hard for him to imagine Thorin ever killing White-Eye, or any of the other Inhumans. Yet that was the baron’s bleak promise. Claiming no choice in the matter, Thorin had told Gilwyn that the Akari – and their hosts – needed to pay for what they had done to Kahldris.
How did one kill a spirit, Gilwyn wondered? Really, wasn’t that what Thorin wanted? The Akari were already dead, and yet somehow Kahldris wasn’t satisfied. He wanted them removed forever from the earth, and there was, of course, only one way to do so. The Akari lived among the living because they had living hosts. Kill them, Gilwyn supposed, and the Akari would flee, leaving the world forever in the hands of the demon Kahldris.
At first, Thorin’s horrible proposition had kept Gilwyn awake for weeks. Thorin – who had once been so gentle – openly planned to do Kahldris’ bidding, surrendering bodily to the spirit. First, though, they would deal with Malator. And that alone gave Gilwyn hope. It gave him time to plan.
‘We’ll find a way, Ruana,’ muttered Gilwyn.
The great, inscrutable machine stretched out before him. With Thorin’s help he had managed to make the machine move, starting up its apparatus so that now it clanked and whistled with life. But that was all, and it frustrated Gilwyn. He did not really believe that the catalogue could help him find a way to stop Kahldris, but he had so few other options. He had combed the library for any scrap of information that might help him, but in all the books and scrolls there was almost nothing about the Akari, just vague references to spirits that might – or might not – live across the Desert of Tears.
Gilwyn, you are tired, said Ruana. Stop now and rest.
Gilwyn spied the food he had brought with him, sitting at the edge of the desk. He had not eaten for hours, and the smell of the cheese drew him to it like a mouse. Karlina, the woman who ran Lionkeep’s kitchen, had taken good care of him over the weeks he had been in Koth, fattening him on hearty cooking and tempting him every night with baked treats. Thinking of her now, Gilwyn smiled.
‘There’ll be raisin cake tonight,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Too bad you can’t have any, Ruana. You don’t know what you’re missing.’
You’ll eat enough for both of us, retorted the Akari.
‘I will,’ Gilwyn pronounced, then sat up to stretch his aching back. He realized that he had already been in Koth for nearly two months, and in that time had made many friends among Lionkeep’s prodigious staff of servants and stable hands. His arrival had lightened Thorin’s mood considerably, that’s what they all claimed, and because of it they were happy to have Gilwyn with them. Karlina was fond of saying that Gilwyn was their charm, like a talisman to ward off the baron’s black moods. Over the weeks he had kept his promise to Thorin, deciding not to abandon him no matter how bad things got. They would get bad, Gilwyn knew, but not yet. For now, life in Koth was good again, and even Thorin seemed better every day.
You are pleased, said Ruana, smiling in Gilwyn’s mind. You should be, Gilwyn. I am proud of the way you have handled Baron Glass.
Gilwyn nodded, feeling proud himself. ‘He is better, isn’t he, Ruana? He really is. I knew he would be. I knew I could reach him.’
Ruana paused. Gilwyn . . .
‘I know. There’s still a lot to do. But I am reaching him, and we still have time. There’s no way Lukien could get here before another month or so. By then, who knows?’
I know, Gilwyn. And you know. And Baron Glass knows, too. He has surrendered to Kahldris. He told you so already, many times.
‘I have to hope, Ruana,’ countered Gilwyn. ‘It’s all I have.’
Ruana understood, graciously letting the matter go. You know him better than I do, Gilwyn. If you say that he is better, then it is so.
‘It’s the time we spend together,’ Gilwyn pointed out. ‘It makes him remember the way he used to be. You saw him when we were riding yesterday, Ruana. He was like a kid!’
A very big, demented kid perhaps.
‘No. He’s the way he was, before all of this happened to him.’ Gilwyn sighed, fondly recalling their ride through the countryside. Thorin had even sung while they rode. ‘When was the last time that he sang, do you think?’
A long time ago, Ruana conceded.
‘That’s right. And Karlina and the rest of them have seen the change in him. He hardly ever speaks of Kahldris any more. I tell you, Ruana, his grip is slipping.’
Ruana was quiet, which was really her way of saying she disagreed. Not really caring, Gilwyn collected his bag of food and left the catalogue room, happy to be out of the dark chamber. He stepped immediately into the light of a stained glass window, putting his face to the sunlight with a smile. The day was mild and pretty, a good day for being outside, but Gilwyn still had work to do. First, though, he would break his fast. Out in the hall, he pointed himself quickly to one of his favourite reading rooms, a little nook that let the afternoon sunlight splash through its windows. Bag in hand, he left the catalogue room far behind, happy to forget about it for an hour or so. As usual, the library was empty. While he worked with the machine, only a handful of artisans and carpenters had come to finish up their reconstruction, and today Gilwyn had the entire, massive building to himself. He had long ago grown accustomed to the eerie quiet of the place and it never frightened him, not even at night. To him, the library was always a place of fabulous peace.
Reaching the reading chamber, Gilwyn put down his bag of food beneath the window, then scanned the polished shelves for something promising to read. It didn’t really matter to him what he selected, because he found all of it fascinating, and after the dearth of books he’d endured in Jador, even the worst tome of poetry delighted him. Eventually, he selected just such a book, a collection of ancient prose from long-dead Marnan writers. Gilwyn paged through it as he made his way back to the window and sat down, absently opening up his bag of food and pulling out some fruit and cheese, which he nibbled happily while he read. The sun coming through the glass touched the ancient book, lighting the dust particles that took flight as he turned the pages.
As they always did when he read, the minutes ticked away unnoticed.
Gilwyn ate his fill, settling in for a long read which stretched well beyond his planned hour. When he realized how long he’d been away, he closed the book and leaned his head against the darkly paneled wall. Ruana was in his mind, skimming quietly across its surface. Something puzzled him. He glanced back at the book and remembered the last story he had read, about a man who would not tell his daughters
the names of the princelings he had sent them to marry. The secret struck him as strange, and he didn’t know why. For some reason, he thought about Kahldris.
Kahldris hadn’t come to him again, not in all the long weeks he’d been in Koth. The demon had visited him only once, and only then when he was far from Koth, safely away from Thorin. Gilwyn chewed his lip pensively, sure that something plain was being overlooked. In the story, the man was frightened of his daughters, and so never told them of the princes they’d be promised to. The story made no sense to Gilwyn, and neither did his suspicions. His pensiveness snagged Ruana’s attention.
She asked him, What are you thinking, Gilwyn?
‘I’m thinking about Kahldris,’ said Gilwyn, still unsure why. ‘He still hasn’t come to us again. Don’t you think that’s odd? I mean, I expected him to, didn’t you?’
I’m sure he has nothing to say to either of us.
‘But isn’t that strange? He was the one who wanted me here, and now he ignores me. I thought for sure he’d be after me about the catalogue.’ Gilwyn set the book aside and stared blankly across the chamber. ‘It makes no sense.’
Thorin is protecting you from him, perhaps.
‘That’s what I thought, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘He hasn’t even mentioned Kahldris to me, which means that Kahldris isn’t pushing him.’
That’s good, then. Ruana thought for a moment. Isn’t it?
‘I don’t know.’ Gilwyn glanced at the book again, and then it came to him. ‘I think he’s afraid of me, Ruana. I think he’s afraid of the influence I have over Thorin. Remember? You told me that the first time he came to us in Roall. You were right, but he didn’t even know it then. Now he sees how Thorin feels about me.’
He stood up, then started pacing. His theory made sense. He was sure it did.
