The Feyr paused and Nialls thought he would deliver another rebuke. Instead, he turned from the Hall and left with his companions in the same way they had entered—without a sound.
Nialls turned to leave. He had more pressing issues to attend to. He nodded to his advisors and disappeared through a doorway behind the throne leading to his private audience chamber and into the palace proper. Rowen followed him, a silent presence as always.
“What did you think of Ambassador Mikel’s visit, Rowen?”
“I think you handled him and Westor’s requests with the utmost civility, Your Majesty.”
Nialls snorted. “No, what did you really think, Rowen?”
“I think he was an incomparable ass who deserves nothing from the Kingdom or your attention. It is a sad day King Belinorn sends a whimpering coward like Mikel to perform his work.”
Nialls nodded in agreement. “It unnerves me that someone at Godwyn Keep knew I’d met with Dendreth.”
“That is the least of your worries.”
Nialls slowed to walk beside Rowen. “What do you mean? Is it La Zandia?”
“All goes well in La Zandia, for the time being, Your Majesty. Force has been sent under the best of my command, Godwyn Keep’s additional missionaries and wards have arrived, and if the Marcher Lord does not see fit to acknowledge your invitation to discuss options to avert a war, we will move in as planned.
“Then what is it?”
“Movements of soldiers in Blackrhein Reach. They are defensive—for now—but there have been reported scouts coming down from the heights, testing the Kingdom’s border and its garrisons in Birn and Sokern.”
The Reach could have taken part in the attack on Godwyn Keep, and it was important to watch their southern enemy. Blackrhein Reach had always been a threat due to its loathing of the Kingdom, but it was more so now as political strife swirled about within it.
“Those along the border are leaving their homes,” Rowen continued. “And with our involvement in La Zandia, I’m fearful of spreading our resources thin. It is unwise fighting a war on two fronts.”
Nialls sighed. His Kingdom was fracturing, the cracking lines driving deep into its heart. Soon he would be forced to take a harsher stance against his enemies, one that would for certain result in war.
“We will deal diplomatically with Blackrhein Reach until they show an assertive hand that precipitates aggression against the Kingdom. Until then, we must focus on La Zandia and the demands of Westor.”
“Where do you think Dendreth has gone?” Rowen asked.
“Come with me, and I shall show you.”
* * * * *
When the two men entered the High King’s private chambers, the two Wards standing guard at the door acknowledged their liege and stepped aside. Nialls produced a key and after a quick turn of the lock, opened his chamber to Rowen. The First Warden looked about the room for danger, but Nialls strode confidently forward.
The High King’s chamber was a series of interconnected rooms that spread out in a half circle and served Nialls in various capacities. This had been Nialls’s quarters—his refuge at times—after his father passed, and the decorations had remained mostly unchanged since the death of his wife. She had spent countless days transforming his father’s simplistic furnishings and drab color scheme to warm elegance and a livable sanctuary where he could leave his kingship at the door and just be a man. On cold days in the fall, Nialls crossed the rooms as a ghost, feeling lost at times and staring out into the country’s surrounding fiery foliage that his wife had loved so much. Now Nialls was completely alone; now all he had was a son who failed to wake and a Kingdom he could not leave at his chamber door no matter what he tried.
He pushed those thoughts aside as the door closed behind them. They entered the inner rooms of his chamber where a Feyr rose from a plush divan to greet them.
Rowen, unprepared for the Feyr’s appearance, moved forward with menace and strength, his dirk appearing in his hand as if by magic.
Instead of retaliating, the Feyr bowed low to Nialls. “Welcome back, High King. I trust due to the brevity of your audience with Ambassador Mikel that it went as you desired.”
“It did, Sion. It played out as only it could.” Nialls gestured to the visitor. “Rowen, meet Sion le Chay of the island of Westor.”
The First Warden relaxed a bit, eyeing the stranger discerningly. “The Guardian of Westor?”
“Former,” Sion said, his face somber. “I found myself in a situation that no longer desired my health. The Kingdom seemed a bountiful prospect to visit for a while.” His spirit lifted and he smiled. “I have your son to thank for it. He is an extraordinary man.”
“He is,” Rowan replied, sheathing his dirk. “My wife notes Moris is a lot like his uncle—adventurous and quite unconventional in how he lives his life. But it is Moris’s life, after all, and a father only has so much power over a grown son who travels the world on his beloved ship. How is he?”
“He is well. He spoke very highly of you. I think a part of him regrets not seeing you more. It’s a difficult thing being pulled away from the ones you love, especially when I felt his duel love of the sea; fortunately it was that second love that saved us.”
Rowen nodded. Nialls wondered how the Feyr’s words affected his First Warden. There had always been tension between Rowen and his son; the First Warden mantle—a position of unique authority with a storied history—was intended to pass to the first-born son as it had for centuries. But Moris had developed such a love of the sea he could not shirk that passion for the traditional duty of his family line. Oftentimes for Nialls, family had come second to serving the Kingdom. He had also requested Rowen choose between the two; it was part of his responsibility to ensure those of the many were protected even at the detriment of those who served. The First Warden had always complied, which had driven the wedge between father and son. It was a gloom brought by his dutiful past, by events that could never be undone, and Nialls was sure he would never find a way to repay the First Warden’s unending loyalty.
“Is my other guest still asleep, Sion?” the High King asked.
“Still, Your Majesty? He has barely rested. He can’t keep his nose out of his prize. The leg would quickly mend if he’d but stay abed.”
After coming to the end of several hallways, the bedroom’s occupant was not abed as he had been instructed, but instead sat hunched over an oak desk he had pushed up against one of the windows that overlooked the green rolling hills and the far western sea in the distance. Sunshine fell in to naturally light his efforts, and his gray hair was pushed away from his face, revealing stubble several days grown. He studied the latter pages of a book intently, murmuring to himself as he read, scribbling his findings into a small book beside his arm. His bare leg stretched straight away from him, a thick white bandage circling one thigh.
Rowen cleared his throat suggestively.
Dendreth turned, a surprised grin on his worn-looking face. “Greetings, Your Majesty. First Warden. I’d rise to bow but that might be difficult.”
“As difficult as, say, moving a large desk to better light your studies?” Nialls teased.
“You will have to forgive me, Sire,” Dendreth replied, bowing his head. “Some things I am willing to sacrifice my health for, and what lies on this table is one of them.”
Rowen turned to Nialls. “Your Majesty, why did you not inform me that Pontifex Charl had returned?”
“It was absolutely necessary that no one know. I sent the Pontifex on a quest for knowledge, and he found the information we sought, but at a terrible price. The Island of Westor has now decreed Dendreth an enemy of their state. If they somehow learn he is here, the tensions between the two nations could snap, and I’d have yet another crisis to worry about in my Kingdom. As you stood with me before the Feyr ambassador, I thought it best you came into that audience with no notions of Dendreth’s whereabouts. Intentionally or unintentionally, I will not let anyone betray the Kingdom.”
Rowen stiffened. “I would never have done so.”
“It was a decision I had to make for our safety,” Nialls said. “And it worked—the Feyr ambassador was placated and not visibly suspicious, at least for the moment. I’m sure Mikel will have Feyr spies lining the streets for when Dendreth does emerge from his disappearance.”
The First Warden looked to Dendreth. “What happened to your leg, Pontifex? And what is so important about the book that lies on your desk?”
“It’s my own fault, really,” Dendreth said, glancing down at his leg. “Diplomacy failed me when it never has in the past. Before I knew it, I was in a situation I had lost all control over.”
“It was not entirely your fault,” Sion pointed out.
Dendreth waved the Feyr’s thought away. “I went to Westor to use their Memoria Library, in hopes of discerning any threat to the Kingdom from the theft of the Hammer of Aerom at Godwyn Keep. I found more than I bargained for. As I fled King Belinorn and his guard, an arrow wounded me at the harbor pier. With nowhere to run and the Sea Star vanished from her dock, Sion and I tumbled into the ocean waters of the bay.”
“How did you connect with my son’s ship then? You said he brought you here.”
“Moris is a wily sort, First Warden,” Sion said, his voice soft. “After the Sea Star had been chased off by my former guardsmen, the crew quietly paddled a shore boat back into the bay and remained in the shadows of the pier in case the Pontifex returned. We are quite lucky to be alive. By the time anyone learned of our escape, we were already sailing for Aris Shae.”
“How does your leg feel now, Dendreth?” Nialls asked.
“It’s healing fine, Your Majesty. The ship’s medical officer removed the arrow and although my leg aches even into my hip, the soncrist I sang should heal it cleanly.”
“And the book?” Rowen questioned again. “Ambassador Mikel claimed you stole something. I must assume it is this book.”
Dendreth turned to it. “He would say I stole it. King Belinorn, I am afraid, is willing to twist facts to suit his own cause. Lorien Silas, the Historian of Westor and head of Memoria, gave it freely.”
“Must be important,” Rowen noted.
“It is. The book is a copy of a series of ancient scrolls dating back to the War of the Kingdoms. Since it is a copy, the book holds no value other than its content, which is considerable to us but means nothing to Westor.”
“What have you found?” Nialls asked.
“To address Rowen, it is a copy of the Codex, and yet it isn’t,” Dendreth said. “What I have discovered, however, warrants careful consideration by all of us.”
“What do you mean about the Codex?” the First Warden growled impatiently.
The Pontifex motioned for Nialls and Rowen to move closer. They hovered above Dendreth while Sion took a seat. The High King had left Dendreth to translate the book and retrieve whatever answers might present themselves as he proceeded.
“It is an old copy of the Codex, but the pages were still sharp and crisp until its ocean plunge created the now wavy and wrinkled page edges. As you can see, the book’s script is intact, and the sunlight is helping the pages to dry.” He flipped through a handful as if to prove it. “It is the Codex we all know well, First Warden, except that it has additional passages and entire pages Godwyn Keep and the Kingdom have never seen.”
A hush filled the room, and only the rustle of the window’s thin curtains made a sound.
“That’s impossible,” Rowen said finally. “It must be a fake of some kind.”
“It is no fake,” Dendreth said assuredly. “And before you denounce it, let me finish. From a historical perspective, books of all kinds have been discovered to exclude short passages or entire chapters that were edited or omitted by either the writer or those who disapproved of the content. One must look past one’s beliefs to get at the root of truth—belief and truth rarely coincide. The Codex is no different; it was written by real men and upheld as truth by an organization. The final Book of the Codex has always been shorter than the others, and there has always been speculation concerning its content or, more specifically, the lack thereof. It is the only Book that does not account for Aerom’s life and death; it is a Book filled with poetic stanzas that seemingly have nothing to do with my order’s beginning. It was placed within the Codex for a reason, however, and it can only be because it is important. Religious historians argue in the Book’s message being literary prophecy or its message more sublimely hidden between its lines.”
Nialls had had no interest in church doctrine, its history, or how its past helped shape the present, until these last few weeks. He was a student of political and cultural history and of how the lessons of his predecessors could help him navigate his future. He had unerringly followed the Codex and its teachings, not questioning what he was taught. Now he found he was doing just that.
Rowen glanced at the book. “I intend no disrespect, Pontifex Charl, because I know you—as a man of the faith—must be questioning all of this as well. But the Book of Iorek is written in the Feyr script whereas the rest of this Codex is not. Why? My apologies Sion, but what could a Feyr know of Godwyn doctrine in order to copy only this Book in Feyrish?”
“That is one more thing that will undoubtedly stir the religious community. I saw the original edition of this Codex; the Book of Iorek was authored by a Feyr.”
Before anyone could contradict him, Dendreth pushed onward. “But whether the author of the Book is Feyr or not doesn’t matter. It is wholly possible Aerom had one of the fair race as a Scholar. To some that is blasphemous since the Scholars were reported as being entirely human, a lone race blessed by the All Father to enact his goodwill here in the world. But history can be altered—whether written or oral—as time naturally alters it in incremental amounts. History is always in the eye of the beholder that has the agenda.”
Nialls interrupted. “Dendreth, you are essentially saying that the additions to the Codex that sits here could be genuine and not only that, but the entire Book of Iorek was written by a Feyr. To me, that is all debate for better-instructed historians. I want to know if it affects my Kingdom. If it is prophecy, what does it say? Are we in danger of something more dire than the attack on Godwyn Keep? Does it mention the Hammer?”
“In time, High King. What if none of the Book’s prophecies have come true because not enough time has lapsed between when they were written and when they will occur? What if that time is now?”
“Have you translated enough to have strong answers?” Nialls inquired.
“I have. As I have already said, much of it is the same, and those passages were easy to translate. It is the differences I fear. It is the differences you need to hear now. I’ll read you two passages. Translated, they are:
‘Remember as I sayeth to you, a great sign will appear in heaven. Fire will fill the sky chased by two tails separated by birth and time—one will turn the fields red with blood, the other will set the land aright. Behold, royal blood flows, stone once more becomes flesh, and the All Father will turn away to see His will done.
And it will be given to he who destroys to wield that which Aerom’s blood splashed. While the indestructible is destroyed, the dragon shall be thrown from its mountaintop as winter falls from the sky. Now the salvation of burning love will be met by Aerom’s blood, hardened murderess, upon the ice heights of knives until snow relent no more to summer’s shine.
The quake of the world heralds a son not born of the womb, a prison without a jailor, a murderer’s sword forged by the All Father’s hand. And all shall pass away.’
Then that is followed by:
‘All who dwell on earth will worship him who possesses a hammer of might. If anyone kills with the sword, with the sword they must be killed. Here is the perseverance and faith of the scholars. He shall throw his might down, lost to the All Father, conflicted soul of judgment.
A word shudders and becomes no more beneath the horn of war. And the mount
ains shall shake under crystal, that smothers the gasping world of its dying. What once flames is now darkened, as darkness consumes flame.’”
“What does it mean?” Nialls asked. “It is without direction or meaning,”
“This is muddled nonsense, Pontifex Charl,” Rowen agreed, shaking his head. “The reference to the Hammer is plain enough but the rest of it is riddle. What word?”
“This is only a guess with nothing to substantiate it,” Dendreth said, looking directly at Nialls with clear blue eyes. “But I believe after seeing mention of the Hammer and “word”—which is translated to “rune” in the archaic language of the Dwar’n—that someone has stolen the Fell Hammer of Aerom in an attempt to destroy the Rune of Aerilinoth.
“And in so doing, destroy the All Father’s presence in the world.”
Chapter 18
When Pontifex Erol Tal lightly closed the door behind him and walked alone through Pontiff Garethe’s multi-chambered suite, he was greeted by the wonderful stillness of deathly silence. It was late evening, the orbs in several stanchions illuminating the room with softened light, and the Pontiff’s healer had been called to Prince Rayhir’s side. Erol had only been in this chamber once since the attack on Godwyn Keep—to show concern and sadness in front of his other Council members—but he had not returned. The duties of Godwyn Keep had kept him busy, his own secret planning taking his free time. Now that his scheming seeds were growing, it was time to pay his final respects to the man who held Erol’s destined position.
He looked around the chamber. It was so drab. The stone walls displayed no decoration or embellishment, the floors were not covered by rugs, and cold radiated into a visitor’s feet. No art—religious or otherwise—no plants or flowers, no affectations or adornments were evidenced; it was clear Pontiff Garethe did not enjoy the comforts of his position as spiritual teacher of the Codex. In the future, that would no longer be the case, as Erol would see this room—one of the most important in the Kingdom—decorated elegantly, as it should be.
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