by John Marco
"Where will Tharn be?" asked Richius. "I want to see him first."
"He will speak to the people after the feast. Come, Kronin will be waiting for us."
Richius followed Lucyler into the citadel and down the halls packed with people, who viewed him with only passing curiosity. The banquet room was on the side of the castle nearest the ocean, a fair walk even when the place was empty, and they had to push their way across the floor, carefully navigating the maze of knees and elbows. When they finally reached the banquet chamber they found that it too was swelled to capacity, its huge windows all but invisible behind a curtain of white Triin flesh. Richius felt a passing uneasiness. The place was swarming with saffron robes, the favored garb of the Drol caste. There was a sprinkling of Kronin's blue-jacketed warriors, but for the most part it was a hive of yellow. Richius paused at the doorway, suddenly losing his prior appetite. They were all men, with long white hair like Lucyler's and serious expressions on their faces, and the only females in the room were modestly dressed serving women who floated daintily through the group with platters of steaming food.
Were all these sober men Drol priests? Richius hadn't expected to see so many. Gradually he inched into the room, hoping to go unnoticed until he found Kronin. The tall warlord was at the other end of the chamber, talking loudly with a trio of his men. Every head in the place turned as the first of them sighted Richius. The talking thinned to a curious murmur.
"Do not be worried," said Lucyler confidently. "You are Tharn's guest tonight."
Richius tried to harden his expression and they moved through the gathering toward Kronin. There were two conspicuously empty chairs near the warlord. A grander chair was beside Kronin's own, no doubt meant for Tharn.
"Did you speak to him last night?" asked Richius.
"I did. And now you will see why I've kept secrets from you."
Richius said nothing more, satisfied that he would soon have some answers. The talking in the chamber politely resumed. When they reached Kronin, the warlord stretched out his hands and greeted them loudly.
"Gaaye hoo, awakk!" proclaimed Kronin, looking around the room defiantly. He took Richius' hand and pulled him forward, placing an unexpected kiss on his cheek.
"Kronin greets his cherished friend," explained Lucyler with a chuckle. "And he wants everyone to know it."
"Shay sar, Kronin," said Richius, carefully pulling back his hand. The warriors whom Kronin had been speaking with dismissed themselves with flowery bows. Kronin bid them to their chairs, then sat down, his jewelry jingling like chimes. Richius sat next to the lord of Tatterak, grateful to have at least one ally in this room full of Drol. He leaned over to whisper in Lucyler's ear.
"Are all the men Drol cunning-men?"
Lucyler nodded. "They have come to celebrate this day with their leader. You should feel honored, Richius."
"I suppose," replied Richius dully. In a strange way he did feel honored. Voris wasn't here, and neither were any of the other warlords who had been loyal to Tharn during the war. Other than the cunning-men, only he, Lucyler, and Kronin were present, three men who had dedicated themselves to Tharn's destruction. Now Lucyler and Kronin wore smiles in the presence of the revolutionary, and the mystery of it all was about to be revealed. Shortly he would meet the man who had stolen his love and murdered Edgard.
Bring him on, he thought coldly. I am ready.
The scores of cunning-men took their seats at the round tables. The voices stilled. From outside the banquet room an anxious murmur grew among the Triin gathered in the hall. Soon the murmur became an impassioned cry.
Richius knew that his nemesis was near.
He tried to still his thundering heart with a few slow breaths, but the electricity of the moment had charged him. The chorus outside the banquet chamber intensified, droning on and on as the minutes passed and Tharn moved through the crowd toward his waiting cunning-men. Endless shouting and hopeful voices, all ringing out in praise for this man who had brought them war and widows. To Richius the sound was unfathomable. Never once had he heard such devotion for a leader, even in the heady days of his father's reign.
And then the chorus suddenly ebbed, as if Tharn had stilled it with a wave of his hand. The eyes in the banquet room fixed on the hall beyond, and the cunning-men rose silently from their seats. Kronin and his warriors did the same.
"Rise," whispered Lucyler, getting to his feet. Richius got up, waiting for a giant to step into the chamber. What he saw instead made his jaw slacken.
A stooped figure appeared in the doorway, one atrophied hand clutching a cane that shook beneath his weight. He was dressed in the saffron robes of a Drol holy man, his face partially covered by a hood that did little to obscure his poisoned features. He pulled himself with evident pain across the smooth floor, his gnarled walking stick barely supporting his drooping frame and the palsy-stiffened leg that dragged behind him. His face was a diseased mask of scars and sores, and his scalp was bare in parts where the tangled hair had fallen out in clumps. Two dark eyes shone from the depths of the cowl, and the lips that curled around the malformed jaw were spotted with yellow blisters. Tharn's left arm dangled at his side, its hand tightened into a useless club. Like the lepers and wounded veterans he protected, his body was a shattered, shambling mound of crooked bones and cracked skin, and when he moved his anguish projected itself to all who watched him struggle. It was as if old age had heaped all its worst maladies upon one young man, wrecking forever the good looks nature might have intended. To be complimentary was to say he was grotesque.
Richius watched with forced effort as Tharn dragged himself slowly through the banquet hall, amazed at the sight. How had this broken thing inspired the Drol to victory? It seemed impossible. And in all the stories he had heard of Tharn, never once had such infirmity been mentioned. Surely a man so deformed would have had names other than "Storm Maker." Tharn the Hideous would have been more apt, for it looked like he could hardly summon a cup of water, much less a storm. Richius understood with sudden clarity what Lucyler had been hinting; there was no way this man could share a bed with a woman. For him, the simple act of walking was exhausting.
When Tharn had made it halfway across the room, Kronin stepped forward and helped him the rest of the way to his chair. When he was sure his master was steady, Kronin released him, going back to stand beside his own chair. The crowd bowed their heads as Tharn raised his good hand and spoke.
A prayer, Richius guessed. Lucyler bowed his head with the others. Richius did not. He listened to Tharn's emaciated voice, like the straining of some untuned harp, sickly fascinated by the broken sounds. Even speaking seemed to sap the man's energy. He was not old, yet his voice was ancient, at times vanishing completely beneath the rasping of mucus. Yet he did not cease, but continued on with his prayer, finally lowering himself gratefully into his chair when he was done. When he was safely seated he bid the others to sit as well. Kronin clapped his hands, and the serving women in the corner came to life again. From outside the doorway several more women entered carrying a collection of instruments of ornate Triin design. At once the conversation sprang up again, and Kronin took his seat, a huge smile stretched across his face. He slapped Richius playfully across the back, forcefully enough to send his knees banging against the table. The warlord and Lucyler both laughed. Richius laughed, too, albeit nervously, and shifted his eyes around the room to where the women were setting up their instruments.
Typically Triin, he thought cynically. The goddess Pris had done nothing to improve the lot of her gender.
The musicians started playing and singing and Richius began to relax, finally chancing a glance in Tharn's direction. The master of the citadel was engaged in conversation with another holy man, over his shoulder. Richius leaned closer to Lucyler.
"Not what I expected," he whispered. "What happened to him?"
"Later," replied Lucyler softly. "When we are alone."
"But--"
"Shhh."
; Tharn was speaking again. He raised his scarred hand and gestured toward Richius, then to all the men seated around the circular tables. Serving women darted through the crowd, placing their platters of food before the hungry warriors. Kronin's men began devouring the stuff as they listened.
"What's he saying?" asked Richius. "Is it about me?"
Lucyler was laughing. "Yes, my friend. He is telling the cunning-men not to let your presence upset them. See how they look?"
It was true. The faces in the chamber were uniformly somber. Tharn pointed again at Richius.
"King Vantran," he rasped awkwardly. It had obviously been a long time since he had spoken the tongue of Nar, and the words sounded foreign even to Richius. The cunning-man had none of Lucyler's eloquence with the language. Tharn cleared his throat and started again, looking at Richius apologetically. "King Vantran. Welcome."
"Answer back in Naren," said Lucyler softly.
Richius straightened to address the monarch. "I thank you for the welcome, Master Tharn, and for your kindness in having me sup with you on your holiday."
Tharn managed what looked like a smile. "These others do not want you here, King Vantran. This is what I was saying."
Richius shrugged. "Then that is their problem, Master Tharn."
A scratchy laughter roiled out of Tharn's throat, followed by a fit of coughing. "It is, King Vantran." He settled down and looked at Richius seriously. "You wish to talk, I know. Lucyler has told me you are..." He paused to think of the word. "Anxious, yes?"
"Very," answered Richius.
"We will speak," said Tharn. "Tonight. Now we will eat. Casadah, King Vantran."
Richius turned to accept a cup of some steaming liquid from a serving woman. The drink was thick and foul, like peppered vinegar. He raised the cup to Tharn in mock salute.
You asked me to come, remember? he mused. It upset him that Tharn was so willing to put him off, but he brought the cup to his lips and drank anyway. The hot liquid bit ferociously into his palate, startling him.
"What is that?" he barked, dropping the drink to the table and cupping his wounded lips. He could feel the blisters already starting to rise.
"Tokka," said Lucyler, enjoying his own cup with Kronin. "A spiced berry wine. You have to drink it carefully."
Richius pushed the cup away. "Or not at all."
"It is a traditional drink among the people of Tatterak," warned Lucyler. He pushed the cup back under Richius' nose. "Kronin will be offended. Drink."
"It's terrible, Lucyler. I can't."
"Pretend then."
"Tokka," said Kronin, prodding Richius with his elbow and pantomiming taking a drink.
"All right," said Richius wearily. "Tokka." He took another sip of the impossibly peppery liquor, almost gagging at its noxiousness. The serving woman assigned to their table was setting down more cups and platters of food, each one less appetizing to Richius than the one before. There were whole fish swimming in green gravies, boiling bowls of red soup, and sliced meats piled high in leaning stacks, so fresh and raw that blood still dripped from the platter. Despite his hunger, the procession was unendurable. He watched the Triin devour their delicacies barehanded, for there was no silverware on the table, only circles of puffy bread for grabbing up whatever looked enticing. Lucyler and Kronin dipped continuously into the communal platter placed before Richius, and the clatter of dishes being passed around sounded through the banquet room. The musicians played and sang, the warriors ate like ravenous dogs, and Richius swayed in his seat, sickened by the noise and the unpalatable odor of the cuisine. Kronin nudged him none too gently in the ribs.
"Ish umlat halhara do?"
Lucyler leaned over to translate. "He wants to know why you do not eat."
"I'm not hungry," said Richius politely. Kronin scowled at him, as if he understood the lie.
"It does not matter if you are hungry or not, Richius. On Casadah everyone eats. These people have endured starvation just for this day."
"I can't eat, Lucyler," said Richius through gritted teeth. "It's disgusting."
Lucyler reared back, stung by the insult. He put down his wedge of bread and grabbed hold of Richius' sleeve, pulling him close. "For over a year all I had to eat was whatever slop you and Dinadin could cook up. And I never complained. Now eat."
Richius recoiled. "You're right," he said sheepishly. "Dinadin was a terrible cook."
They both laughed and Lucyler picked out something he thought Richius could tolerate, a soupy lentil mixture for dipping breads and vegetables in. It wasn't too hot, and if he ate sparingly Richius found that he could stomach it. The sweetmeats and tangles of octopus tentacles he left for Kronin, who seemed to have a love for such bizarre fare. The warlord ate without end and barely broke for conversation, and it was easy to tell his favorites from all the stains on his lapel. Lucyler was less extreme. He consumed his food daintily, the way he always had in the Dring Valley, careful to choose things he knew he would finish without waste. His manners were more like the cunning-men than the warriors. While the warriors ate as if they were about to battle giants, the Drol holy men seemed more concerned with conversation than with the plethora of food. They spoke genteelly, raising toasts to Tharn and sometimes joining in the more sedate songs, and at their master's order were wholly unconcerned now with the Naren among them.
Tharn too seemed undisturbed by Richius. He hardly looked at him at all, only occasionally flashing him one of his deformed smiles. The master of Falindar ate practically nothing, playing with his food the way a child does and drinking water instead of wine. Richius followed Tharn's example, waving over one of the women to fill his now-empty tokka cup with the blessedly tasteless drink. The water slid down his burning gullet like a spring breeze. He turned to offer some to Lucyler, who simply shrugged indifferently.
"I don't know how you can manage this food," said Richius. "It's so hot."
"You will get used to it."
"No, thanks." Richius glanced around the table and saw that the others were well liquored now, engaged in overloud conversations. A good chance to try again, he reasoned. "Tell me about Tharn," he whispered to Lucyler. "What happened to him?"
"No," said the Triin, exasperated. "The others may hear us."
"No one's going to hear us. They can't even understand us. Come on, tell me. Is it a disease?"
"Not a disease," answered Lucyler. "A judgment."
"What do you mean? Someone did that to him?"
"The gods made him this way."
"The gods? Oh, no, Lucyler. Don't say it."
"Keep your voice down," chided Lucyler. "I told you about his powers but I did not tell you why he will not use them anymore, remember?"
Richius nodded. It was one of the things about Tharn he was most curious about.
"Do you recall that day in the valley when I told you about the Drol?"
"You said they would never use magic to harm another living being, I remember. So?"
"Is it not obvious?" asked Lucyler. "Look at him."
"Lucyler, he has leprosy, or some other disease. That doesn't prove anything."
"He was not diseased until he used his powers to end the war, Richius. He used them to kill your Naren brothers, and the gods punished him for it."
Richius rolled his eyes. "You're really falling for him, aren't you? You never believed that nonsense before. It's a coincidence, nothing more."
"It is not coincidence," said Lucyler. "His power is from heaven. But the gods give their gifts for unknown reasons, and they are never to be used to kill." Again he gestured toward Tharn. "You see the consequences there. He delivered us from Nar, and now he suffers for it."
"Well, he'd better be willing to pay again," said Richius blackly. "He'll need his powers if he hopes to defeat Arkus."
"He will not do it again. He has sworn it. The gods have spoken to him through his body. He knows now that what he did was wrong."
"Oh, I think he'll change his mind," said Richius playfully. "Whe
n he sees the legions of Nar."
"He will not!" said Lucyler, slamming his fist down on the table and rattling the glasses. The others around the table glanced at him, but he continued fiercely, "Can you not see what has happened here? He is a prophet, Richius. Sent by the gods to unite Lucel-Lor. And when he broke with them he suffered. To me it is very plain."
"All right," said Richius. "Believe what you want, I don't care. I'm only here for Dyana. I will speak with him tonight. If he releases her, I'll talk to Arkus for him and be on my way in the morning. I only hope he means what he says. He will talk to me tonight, won't he?"
"He has much on his mind," replied Lucyler. "There is a reason why he did not see you last night."
"And you're not going to tell me what it is."
Lueyler sipped languidly at his drink. "Right."
"Your loyalties have certainly changed," said Richius, more disappointed than angry. "I remember a time when you didn't keep secrets from me."
Lucyler sighed. "Times have changed. You do not know Tharn the way I do, not yet at least. If you did you would understand."
"I don't want to understand, Lucyler. I just want to get Dyana out of here."
They ate in relative silence for a time, until a small Triin woman entered the banquet room. She was dressed in a simple white frock, unremarkable except for the blotchy crimson stains it bore. An expression of worry suffused her face. She dashed across the banquet room and up to Tharn, bending down to whisper in the monarch's ear. Tharn's hideous face blanched, his eyes widening horribly. There was an abrupt exchange between the two before Tharn struggled to his feet, calling out to Kronin to help him. The warlord sprang from his chair and was at his master's side in an instant, lifting him up and guiding him toward the doorway. The music and eating stopped, and all watched with alarm as Tharn painfully left the room, obviously pushing his body to its limits as he limped away.
"What is it, Lucyler?" asked Richius. "What's happening?"
"It is what I warned you of," answered Lucyler. "I'm sorry, Richius. You will not be seeing Tharn tonight."
