by Ian Irvine
‘Triunes are normally sterile. Karan only got pregnant because of the little black pill you gave her.’
Rulke stared at him, opened his mouth and closed it again.
‘What?’ said Llian.
‘I compounded it to permanently reverse the block that prevents triunes from having children. And it enhances fertility in other ways. Karan could have had as many children as she wanted …’ He eyed Llian, speculatively.
‘We tried! It didn’t work.’
‘Then the failure must be in you,’ said Rulke with a hint of malice. ‘I could concoct a pill to make a man of you, if I cared to. Though perhaps Karan prefers things the way they are.’
Llian flushed. Rulke was really enjoying this. ‘No, thanks!’
The hours passed. As Rulke came and went, returning with complicated devices of unknown purpose, Llian brooded.
Sulien’s birth had been long, agonising and traumatic for both mother and baby. Had it not been for Idlis the Whelm, Sulien and Karan would probably have died.
Even so, Karan had wanted another child, even two, and so had Llian, though after trying for a couple of years she’d told him that her triune’s sterility had come back. She had sensed the change in herself and it was permanent. Though Llian had not doubted her, he had wanted to keep trying in case a miracle happened, but from that moment she had kept him at bay. Made him feel even more of a eunuch.
Had she lied to him? If so, why? Because he was such a disappointment that she could not bear to have any more children with him? The thought was crushing.
Well, perhaps it was for the best. If it was now over between them, as it seemed, at least only one child would be affected …
Rulke took each of his devices to pieces and, late in the day, began to assemble a new device from the myriad of parts. It was a foot tall and half as wide, and a large yellow crystal, its upper end cut away to form a hollow the shape of an eggcup, was fixed on top. The base was made from a pair of circular metal discs, the lower one resting on the table.
The upper disc, which rotated on a rod, was fixed half an inch above the lower and marked around the rim with the thirty-two points of the compass. The eggcup crystal was attached to the base by a metal elbow joint so it could be rotated to any direction, and pointed anywhere between the horizontal and the vertical.
‘Are you making a scrying device?’ he said, not expecting an answer.
‘Not exactly.’
Rulke raked his fingers through his black hair, leaned back on his stool, then winced and clutched his side. The blood withdrew from his dark face.
‘You all right?’ said Llian.
Rulke’s forehead was spotted with sweat. ‘Every movement pulls on the scar tissue. It’ll take weeks of exercise before I’m my old self again.’
‘Is that why you’re hiding here?’ said Llian.
‘For a man whose trade is words,’ said Rulke, ‘that’s a remarkably ill-judged turn of phrase.’
‘Sorry, I meant –’
‘I know what you meant.’
‘You’re the only man the Merdrun ever feared,’ said Llian. ‘If they discover you’re alive, and … not yourself –’
‘They’ll find a way through my defences.’
‘Then why are you sitting here on your flabby arse –?’
Rulke rose and his right hand caught Llian around the throat. ‘Got a death wish, Chronicler?’
Another spasm struck him, he took three wobbling steps to his stool and sat down. ‘What I’m looking for – matters more than life itself.’
Llian rubbed his throat, which was bruised from Rulke’s grip. ‘Before you vanished the other day you cried, Incarnate! What was that about?’
Rulke did not speak.
Llian replayed the scene in his mind’s eye. ‘You weren’t afraid. You seemed full of wonder – or hope.’
Rulke stared at him, unblinking, and Llian felt it was safe to go on. ‘After thousands of years, and all you’ve seen and done, what could arouse your hope? What matters more to you than the coming Merdrun attack – more than life itself?’
A faint smile played on Rulke’s full lips.
‘The hope that you’re not the last of your species after all,’ Llian concluded.
Rulke’s breath hissed between his teeth. ‘Sometimes I forget that inside the crooked, lying buffoon lurks a man with a keen understanding of people, and what motivates them.’
‘Are you going to tell me what you’re looking for?’
‘And rob you of the pleasure of working it out for yourself?’
‘I’ve no way of guessing what Incarnate means.’
After a lengthy pause, Rulke said, ‘Back in the deeps of time, when my people were newly exiled into the void and desperate to escape it, it was the name of a forbidden object … a Waystone.’
‘And that is?’
‘Something crystallised from the tears of a tortured wyverin.’
Llian stared at him.
‘A legendary magical beast resembling a two-legged dragon,’ Rulke added. ‘But the wyverin’s body was reshaped by a banished clan of Charon sorcerers –’
‘Why were they banished?’
‘For using forbidden mancery and defying many edicts to desist.’
‘Why did they reshape the beast?’
‘So it would be in continual agony, and produce more tears. It takes a vast quantity of wyverin tears to crystallise out a Waystone. And a Waystone – or rather the Waystone, for as far as I know there was only ever one – allows its owner to make a portal from anywhere to anywhere, without leaving a trace.’
‘Why is that forbidden?’
‘I should have thought that’d be obvious.’
‘Humour me,’ said Llian. Then, realising he’d been over-bold for someone in such a precarious position, ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘It’s extremely difficult to make gates or portals …’
‘And some places won’t allow gates to open,’ said Llian, thinking about the various ones he’d seen, and had been through.
‘Normally, gates can’t be disguised or hidden,’ said Rulke, ‘Because they connect places whose very natures are different. They open with a bang, strong winds rush through them, often fog condenses, and they glow or flare or are surrounded by bright, crackling, deadly discharges.’
Llian touched the scab on his stump.
Again, that faraway look appeared on Rulke’s face. ‘But a portal made by the Waystone is small, silent and unobtrusive. A scoundrel who had it could commit any crime – secretly enter a guarded vault and steal its contents, for instance – and escape without leaving a trace. Or commit murder, assassination, sabotage, molestation, abduction or any other villainy in secret, and get away with it. The great virtue, and great flaw, of the Waystone is that any sentient creature capable of wielding the Secret Art can use it. No one would be safe and no treasure could be protected.’
‘If there was only ever one Waystone, how come you recognised it?’
‘I was shown a chip off it when I was very young. The chip had no power to make gates, but it had a unique magical signature.’
Llian wondered if Rulke was telling the whole truth. Probably not. ‘What happened to the Waystone?’
‘The tormented wyverin caught the clan of sorcerers who made it, and ate them. It was thought to have consumed the Waystone as well but … evidently not.’
‘And you hope the person who has it is Charon, from a branch thought extinct long ago? Is your device designed to find the Waystone?’
‘No, it’s a beacon for the bearer, if he or she chooses to follow it.’
Llian’s hair stood on end. ‘What if the bearer isn’t Charon? There are thousands of deadly species in the void, and they all want out.’
Rulke stared Llian down. ‘Free, or chained?’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t bring you here to be my friend, Llian, or to give me dumb advice; I brought you here to punish you. And because I sometimes need a
n extra pair of hands. Should you prove useful, I might, possibly, abate the savage punishment I’ve planned.’
Llian’s mind raced. He’d presumed far too much. Rulke was utterly ruthless when he needed to be.
‘You can be an extra pair of hands while chained to the floor. Or remain free – and keep your opinions to yourself.’
But how could Llian allow Rulke to open this Pandora’s Box? ‘Are you sure you’ve thought this through? What if the Waystone –?’
Rulke pointed at Llian and, with a rattle and a clank, a set of rusty iron manacles, so cold they stuck to the skin, locked about his shins. They were fixed to a heavy chain, ten feet long, bolted to the floor.
Rulke turned the circular base of his device in minute increments. Llian tried to adjust the left manacle but tore a patch of skin off. He winced.
‘I’ll keep my mouth shut. You can take the chains off.’
Rulke made a slashing movement with his left hand, Shut up! The chain jerked, pulling Llian over backwards and dragging him across the floor.
He carried the rattling chains to his stool and climbed on it. Rulke scowled and raised a fist, and for an awful second Llian thought he was going to be blasted into the far wall. Rulke pointed a finger at the beacon, which rotated on its base, the points of the compass inching around. He seemed to be holding his breath. Llian did too.
The eggcup-shaped crystal at the top glowed yellow. Rulke waved a hand at the wall globes, which faded to a dim twilight. The device began to rotate backwards and forwards, making a small rasping sound. The crystal glowed brightly, highlighting his large nose, heavy brows and jutting chin. The light passing through his beard turned the individual hairs dark red.
He adjusted the hinged joint to point the device lower and rotated the base again, but the crystal failed to light. He angled it higher, turned it a fraction and the crystal emitted a yellow flash, like lightning.
He turned Llian’s way, and even after the twilight returned Rulke’s eyes had an indigo afterglow. His breathing was breathing quick and shallow, his body racked by shivers of anticipation.
‘It is a Waystone,’ he whispered. ‘And a woman has it, possibly a lost Charon. I’m not alone.’ He leapt off his stool, threw his arms around Llian and embraced him, crushingly. ‘I’m – not – alone!’
Rulke’s passion was moving. What could be worse than being the last of one’s kind?
Being duped into thinking that another Charon existed and was, perhaps, also searching for one of her kind! ‘What if you’re wrong?’ said Llian.
‘In the unlikely event that I ever want your opinion, Chronicler, I’ll ask for it.’
‘But you said the Waystone was created by a criminal clan of sorcerers. What if their descendants are looking for a new world to plunder? With the Waystone, they need have no fear of the Merdrun or anyone else.’
Rulke scowled and set off the beacon. Llian did not see any change, though in his inner ear a note vibrated at the lower edge of hearing, throbbed up through the register to an ear-piercing howl, stopped and began again. He rubbed his manacle-seared shins and thought through the possibilities.
‘What if it isn’t the Waystone at all?’
Rulke did not deign to answer, though he looked even more annoyed.
‘You first detected its fingerprint just before the Crimson Gate opened. But what if there is no Waystone?’
Rulke looked up sharply, his eyes smouldering. Llian felt a quiver of fear but ploughed on. This had to be said.
‘The Merdrun read our Histories and Great Tales two centuries ago, so they know your weaknesses. What if they created a semblance of the Waystone to trap you?’
‘Humbug!’ Rulke walked away.
Then Llian pushed him too far, and knew it the moment the words left his mouth. ‘The Rulke I knew of old was arrogant and ruthless, but deep down he always acted for a noble purpose. But you seem … diminished. I – I’m sorry, Rulke, but I have to say it. I think your mind was damaged while you were under the stasis spell.’
‘You’re meddling in the Histories again, Chronicler,’ Rulke said with icy calm. ‘Trying to push me into a course of action. Or away from one. Isn’t that why you were banned?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘No buts.’
Rulke unfasted Llian’s chain, jerked him into the air by the scruff of the neck and carried him along one dark corridor after another.
‘What are you doing?’ Llian said, quietly now.
‘Know what usually happens to crowing bantam cocks?’ Rulke asked grimly.
At Gothryme, their heads were chopped off and they ended up in the pot.
He carried Llian up several long sets of metal steps, the treads shaking under his weight. Llian could not break free.
‘If you keep struggling, Chronicler, I might decide to drop you.’ Rulke snapped two fingers and azure lights came on, above and far below. Llian gasped. He was suspended above a hundred-foot drop. ‘And when you hit the floor, you’ll burst like the rotten egg you are.’
Llian froze. Rulke carried him across a narrow platform, opened a door and went into a small, plain room whose curved walls, floor and domed ceiling were entirely made of moss-green metal. There was a small metal table and chair on one side, a long but narrow window partly covered by a metal blind, and an open door, through which he saw a smaller room with a metal bunk.
‘I made it ready before you came. Knowing you as I do, I knew I’d need it.’
‘What is it?’ Llian’s voice, normally fully under his control, trembled.
‘Your new home. There’s food for a week or so, and water for a couple of months. And provision – very basic – for your other necessary needs. I expect your rehabilitation will take that long.’
‘You’re imprisoning me for months?’
‘You insulted and maligned me, Llian. Even though you knew what a vengeful man I am. And you question my judgement, my mental stability!’
‘But what am I supposed to do?’
‘Work on your tales. Bang your head on the wall. Contemplate your suicidal stupidity, it’s all the same to me.’
‘But I don’t have my notes or my journal.’ Llian prayed that Karan was looking after them, for they contained months of work on his tale of The Gates of Good and Evil.
‘There’s paper, pen and ink. I’m sure Llian the Liar can find a way to occupy the time.’
Rulke dropped him and, as Llian came to hands and knees, booted him across the room. ‘The window is unbreakable, as is the door lock. The air ducts are too small to crawl through and all else is solid metal. I’ll bring food every week or two,’ he said with a malicious grin. ‘Assuming my damaged mind can remember to.’
Llian got up, rubbing his backside. The door closed and locked; he didn’t bother to test it.
He sat at the table, picked up the sheaf of paper and put it down again. And smiled.
Another copy of the complete Histories of the Charon was hidden somewhere in Alcifer and he was going to find it. And then he would pursue and craft the greatest tale of all, the Tale of the Charon, of which Thandiwe’s Tale of Rulke was little more than a chapter.
The story of the Charon stretched back to the earliest of human times, long before any recorded old human history. And, clearly, it meant everything to Rulke, especially after his close shave with death and the near extinction of his people. And who better to tell it than Llian?
But how could he possibly convince Rulke to trust him? Llian would have to do him an almighty service, and that wasn’t going to be easy from here.
36
He Took The Bait
With desperate self-control, Skald avoided any emotional reaction that would provoke his enemy.
‘Presently, Magiz,’ he said quietly, hunching his massive shoulders to make himself less physically threatening, ‘I am forced to serve two masters. From time to time Commander Durthix requires my services as a captain, and has made it clear that, as a captain, my previous oath to him foreve
r binds me. I also know that, whenever I am acting under your orders, my oath to you is paramount.’
‘And if you’re acting as both a captain and a sus-magiz?’ said Dagog, his voice dripping with malice. ‘Who then do you serve?’
No right answer! ‘I can’t say, Magiz.’
Dagog smiled. ‘I thought as much. But you’re mine, Sus-magiz, and one way or another, I’ll have you.’
Skald needed to be fresh for the most vital mission of his life, but after Dagog had gone he found it impossible to sleep. Was the magiz losing control, the addiction taking him? If it was, this was bad for the Merdrun and the True Purpose, and something needed to be done.
But such matters, troubling though they were, were way beyond his responsibilities. Skald returned to the practice yard, where he found another captain unable to sleep, and they sparred furiously for hours, practicing all their strokes.
The familiar exercises, and the real physical danger of sparring with sharp weapons, would normally have driven his worries away. But not this time.
‘I trust you are well rested?’ said Durthix when Skald reported to him that afternoon, at the appointed minute.
‘Enough,’ lied Skald.
‘At this address,’ he showed Skald a scrap of paper, ‘a senior sus-magiz will prepare and open a gate for you.’
Skald memorised the address. ‘Open for me, Commander?’
‘To have a hope of assassinating Flydd you will need all your strength, and you cannot be drained from creating the gate. Besides, it may be necessary to overcome certain defences around the destination, enemy wards far beyond your ability to break. The senior sus-magiz knows nothing about your mission. She will simply open and direct the gate as required, break any protective wards at the destination without leaving a sign, and close the gate the moment you’ve gone through. Do you have any questions?’
‘Yes, High Commander. How many people will be there?’
