Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 03] - The Ancient Legacy(V1.0)

by Mitchell Graham

  "It does sound like fun. I'll certainly think about it."

  Teanna was still smiling when she left the shop. She be­gan strolling back in the direction of the tavern, thinking about what it would be like to live in a little town where everyone knew everyone. There would be none of the com­plications of palace life; no plots, no intrigues, no battles to fight or countries to run—a life without consequences. She breathed a sigh and imagined herself standing on a stage

  while handsome young men made bids to have a picnic with her.

  Her mind wandered then to the soldier who was wait­ing for her at the tavern. Bryan Oakes was a lieutenant in the palace guard, a serious man with a fine, handsome face. She had already taken more time than she should have, and knew he would probably be worrying. Although he concealed it well, her decision to meet with Baker had upset him. It might have been a trifle petty on her part, but the thought of having a man worrying about her was .. . well... nice. Teanna wondered how much money her fa­ther paid a lieutenant in the Royal Guard. Picnic baskets were sometimes expensive.

  "Bit dark out to be walking by yourself, missy," a voice from the alley said, startling her.

  She turned to see two men dressed as sailors step out of the darkness. Both were large, rough-looking, and in need of a bath. The man on the right had a scar across his cheek.

  "I'm on my way back to the Stone Bench to meet my friend," Teanna told them.

  "Whatcha carryin' there, little lady?" the one without the scar asked.

  "Something I bought a little while ago, if it's any of your business. Nothing you'd want."

  "Now how would you knows what we want?" the man asked.

  "I don't have time for this," Teanna said. "I don't want to hurt you, so I suggest that you and your friend—"

  Her words were cut off when a callused hand was clamped over her mouth. She found herself being lifted off the ground by a third man, who had come up silently behind her. The assailant put his other hand around her waist and carried her into the alley. Teanna was so shocked by the attack, she had no time to react. Once they were off the street, the scar-faced man took the package from her while his companion held a knife at her throat. She felt the breath of the man holding her on her neck, as she watched Scar Face pull the wrappings apart. He tossed them on the ground, looked at the jeweled comb for a mo­ment, then at the brush and mirror.

  "Nothin' but junk," he said to the second man. "What else you carryin', missy?"

  Teanna didn't answer.

  The man holding her pulled her head back sharply and increased the pressure of the knife at her throat. "My friend just asked you a question," he said in her ear. "Didn't your mother teach you any manners?"

  My mother taught me a lot of things. One of them was not to show fear to your enemies. "I'm not carrying any­thing of value," Teanna said through clenched teeth.

  "If you ask me, she might have .something concealed under this skirt," the man holding her said. He released her chin and laid his hand flat on Teanna's stomach. "Hmm, nothing here."

  The other man seemed to think it was very funny and moved closer.

  The man holding her let his hand drift lower until it reached Teanna's thigh. He began to bunch up her skirt. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to draw on the ring. The knife was still poised at her throat, too close. If she could get him to move it, just a little, she could use it.

  "You have such strong hands," she whispered, pressing herself backward a little. "No need to be so rough."

  The man chuckled and pulled her skirt higher. "I told you she was a hot one," he said to his two companions.

  Both of his friends had their eyes glued to her legs, which were gradually being exposed inch by inch. Teanna thought rapidly. Making a little noise, she rubbed her shoulders against his chest, something her mother told her men liked.

  Scar Face's tongue darted out and he licked his lips. The man nearest him gave a nervous laugh and he took a step nearer as Scar Face put his hands on Teanna's hips.

  "D'ya know, Deacon, I might have been wrong," the man holding her said. "I think she is hiding something. I was just a little low on the chart, is all."

  The pressure from the knife's point finally slackened and he moved the blade lower, trailing it between Teanna's breasts until it was just under the top button of her blouse. With a quick flick of the wrist he popped the button free.

  Teanna smiled and looked back over her shoulder into his eyes. A second later, it was her turn.

  The man holding her let out a startled cry as the knife vanished from his hand. At the same time, both his com­panions were lifted off the ground and slammed backward into a brick wall at the end of the alley. One of them fell to the ground in an unconscious heap. The other lay there stunned. Teanna twisted around to face her assailant, whose mouth had dropped open.

  "You're a witch," he hissed, taking a step backward.

  It was the last thing he ever said. In the next second his eyes filled with blood and he let out a strangled sound as his chest and shoulders caved inward, crushing his heart and internal organs. He collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Teanna spun around in time to see Scar Face getting to his feet. With a dagger raised above his head, he started to run at her.

  After four steps he burst into flame.

  A horrible scream tore the night air. Waving his arms in blind panic, he crashed into a wall, shrieking in agony. He was dead a moment later.

  The third man was just regaining consciousness when he looked up to see Teanna walking toward him. He scrambled backward until he bumped into the wall.

  "Have mercy, mistress," he begged. "I didn't lay hands upon you. Spare me. I swear to God Almighty, I'll never tell anyone what happened."

  One of Teanna's eyebrows arched. "I know," she said softly.

  A column of white light appeared out of nowhere and enveloped the man. It moved inward, compressing itself into a thin line that consolidated itself into a single dot and then winked out of existence. Somewhere, far away, the sound of a chime echoed.

  The only living occupant in the alley was now Teanna d'Elso.

  The man who had been there a moment ago material­ized two hundred miles out at sea. He fought to stay afloat as a large swell nearly engulfed him. He turned himself in a full circle to see where he was and treaded water be­cause it was the only thing he could do. All he saw was a limitless white sky that merged into the horizon until the two became indistinguishable. There was nothing any­where. Nothing. He began to scream.

  Back in the alley, Teanna picked up the hand mirror and saw that it was cracked. Absently, she tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and waited until her breathing re­turned to normal. She stared at her reflection in the broken glass for a long time.

  Every enemy you leave alive is one more person who can harm you. That was something else her mother had taught her.

  18

  Devondale

  It was mid-morning by the time they reached De-vondale. The little church stood at the north end of the town near the loop road. Silas Alman's home was next to it. Mathew and Father Thomas slowed their horses and came to a halt. Neither spoke. Father Thomas looked up at the stained-glass window above the double doors and shook his head at some distant memory. Mathew wanted to say something to his friend, but his tongue seemed to have deserted him. A variety of thoughts and emotions were going through his head, more than he had been pre­pared for. How many Sixth Day services had he attended with his father and mother there? He couldn't begin to count them. The stones of the building bore the same gray patina he had pictured in his mind's eye, though the steps looked as if they had been newly painted. He wondered if Father Thomas would notice.

  Probably. The priest noticed everything.

  The memory of the last time he had set foot in Devon-dale's church abruptly surfaced in his memory. For the last several hours he'd been doing his best to think of other things because that had been the day his father was buried. They'd
laid Bran Lewin to rest in the cemetery behind the church.

  A sudden pang gripped Mathew's heart and he got down off his horse. His father's face, always so strong and confident in all that he did, came to him. Circumstances had prevented him from getting a proper marker for the grave. He'd left to save himself without seeing to his fa­ther's memorial.

  In his eyes it was a cowardly act, and self-loathing caused his hands to clench.

  Mathew took a deep breath and walked to the cemetery at the side of the church. Ben Fenton's name he ex­pected . . . Silas Alman's came as a shock, as did Truemen Palmer. Truemen had been the town's mayor and Lara's uncle. Thad Layton was there alongside his wife Stel.

  The memories were coming so fast, he was finding it difficult to breathe, and to his surprise he found his eyes brimming with tears. He had been prepared and not pre­pared for this, and it felt like an old wound was being opened. He'd grown up with these people. He tried to look anywhere other than at the headstones, but his eyes were continually drawn to them.

  "Four years," he whispered to himself.

  The sight of Lucas Emson's grave in the next row caused him to draw in his breath sharply and he put a hand up to his mouth. Fergus Gibb's grave was only a short dis­tance away. He felt Father Thomas beside him and the priest's hand on his shoulder.

  Half blinded by tears, Mathew looked around the cemetery. There were more graves than he remem­bered ... so many more. He didn't want to go on. It took considerable effort to make his feet start moving, and he forced himself to walk up and down the rows. He whis­pered the names to himself, praying the next grave wouldn't contain someone he had been close to. He was wrong ... they all did. Every one of them was familiar. When he looked back on that day in later years, and he did many times, he would recall it as being one of the most painful moments of his life.

  He didn't remember making his way to the old chestnut tree in the corner of the cemetery. Both his father and mother were buried there. She had died when he was quite

  young, and her loss had retreated to a dull ache over the years. Bran was another matter. They had been as much friends as a father and son could be.

  Mathew stared at the grave in shock, for it now con­tained a granite tombstone that read:

  BRAN LEWIN, SOLDIER, BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER

  Confused, he turned to Father Thomas for an explana­tion, but the priest shook his head and turned his palms up. Mathew looked back at the two graves in front of him and knelt down. He reached out and ran his fingertips over the top of the stone and across the letters.

  Father Thomas closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for Bran and Janel, then moved away to give Mathew time alone. A mild breeze rustled through the leaves in the chestnut tree, and the sun shone warm on his shoulders. His old friend had been murdered by Berke Ramsey a few hundred yards from where he was now standing. It seemed a hundred years ago. He watched when Mathew looked up into the branches of the tree and his heart went out to the quiet young man.

  Several minutes passed before Mathew got up. Father Thomas guessed at the kaleidoscope of emotions that must have been assailing him, because he was experienc­ing much the same thing.

  "All right?" he asked.

  Mathew took a deep breath. "All right."

  The priest put his arm around Mathew's shoulders and they walked back along the path together to the church.

  Father Thomas's house was located to the right of the church. When they reached the point where the brick path split, Mathew thought his friend would go there next, but he was wrong. Father Thomas hesitated for a moment, then headed for the back door of the church. It was un­locked, and they let themselves in and came out behind the altar. Father Thomas walked around it.

  He stood in the middle of the room between two rows of oak pews.

  It was not an especially large church, at least by the standards of most churches in Werth Province. Neverthe­less, it was capable of holding three-quarters of the town's population at any one time. As a boy, Mathew could re­member sitting through some of old Father Halloran's ser­vices and trying not to fidget or make eye contact with his mother, who darted warning glances in his direction. The year Father Thomas came to the village to take Father Halloran's place was the first time Mathew recalled actu­ally listening to what was being said from the pulpit. His friend's sermons always seemed to deal with things that made sense.

  He watched Father Thomas standing there. The priest slowly turned in a full circle then stopped and gazed up at the stained-glass window. The excitement that ran through the town the day they had put it in was still a vivid mem­ory. Morning sunlight streamed in and cast a dozen colors onto the floor.

  Father Thomas walked to the nearest bench and sat down. "This is harder than I thought it would be," he said.

  Mathew gave him a smile.

  "So many things have changed and yet nothing has changed," the priest said. "For the last four years, I have agonized over the choice I made, Mathew."

  "Father—"

  "No, I took you away from your home and your friends, my son. At the time I believed I was doing the right thing, but now, I don't know," he said, shaking his head.

  "I could have said no and gone with Jeram Quinn," Mathew answered. "It was my choice."

  "But you were so young at the time."

  "I've thought about it... many times. I don't regret

  killing Ramsey, nor do I regret going with you when we did. I've never blamed you for anything that happened."

  The priest appeared unconvinced. "Our country is in ruins, your father is dead, and your ring is gone. These are sad, terrible times, my son. You could have been living here happy and safe."

  Mathew pondered the last statement before replying. "Not safe, Father. Karas Duren sent the Orlocks for the ring. It would only have been a matter of time before he got what he wanted."

  "But—"

  "I didn't know what it was then. I didn't know about the machine the Ancients had created or what the ring was capable of. It's up to us now to get it back and set things right. Alor Satar wants everyone and everything to be the same as they are. No one has a right to do that. Not Karas Duren, or Teanna, or her cousins, or even God. I'm not be­ing rude, but we make our own lives and our own choices about how we live. You taught me that. I made my choice and I don't regret it... honestly I don't."

  The priest smiled at him and stood up. Both men hugged.

  When they separated, Father Thomas told him, "'I haven't been very diligent about my prayers lately, and I know you have people you want to say hello to. Why don't you attend to that now? We can meet at the tavern in an hour."

  Mathew understood why Father Thomas was sending him off. Part of him wished the priest wouldn't. Seeing Lara again was not going to be easy, and while he appreci­ated the offer of privacy, he wasn't sure how to handle the situation. It had cost him a great deal of lost sleep over the last few days. What does a dead man say to the woman he was in love with? Every scenario he had rehearsed in his mind sounded more idiotic than the one before. There were a hundred questions sailing around in his brain. How much had she changed? How would she feel about seeing him again? And then there were Collin, Daniel, and his other friends.

  Just pop back into their lives and leave again? He'd be lucky if they didn 't throw him down a well.

  A little voice in the back of his head urged him to get on his horse and ride out of town, but it was already too late for that.

  This day had to come sooner or later, he said to himself.

  When Mathew looked up, he saw Father Thomas watching him.

  "What's so damn funny?" he asked, seeing his expres­sion.

  Father Thomas held his hands up defensively. "I was just imagining if I can avoid looking like that when I see Ceta. Lara will understand, Mat."

  Mathew let his shoulders slump. "You don't know Lara," he answered morosely.

  "Yes, I do. And I know you as well, Mathew. The cir­cumstances that forced you to leave were not
of your making. She's a fine girl—and I promise she'll be over­joyed to see you."

  Somehow, the priest's words seemed less convincing than usual. Mathew opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind. "I wish I knew more about women," he blurted out.

  The corners of Father Thomas's mouth moved slightly and he took Mathew by the shoulders and turned him around. "So do I, my son. And if I ever gain any insight into that subject, you will be the first person I pass the knowl­edge along to."

  "Wonderful."

  There had been changes in Devondale since he'd left. For one thing, few homes had thatch roofs anymore. Most of the roofs had been replaced with wood shakes or slate. For another, the main street had been paved with cobble­stones and sidewalks had been added, complete with gas lamp posts. It took Mathew by surprise. He stared at the new improvements trying to decide how he felt about them and couldn't make up his mind.

  It was late in the morning and a number of people were out. Surprisingly, most of them were unfamiliar to him, which was more disturbing than the new sidewalks. A few glanced at him as he passed by, but no one said anything, perhaps because he was avoiding eye contact and his hair was now black. The beard was gone of course. He'd shaved that off two nights ago—because he was afraid of scaring Lara, he'd told himself, but he knew that wasn't the truth. He wanted to look as much like his old self as he could. He glanced at his reflection in a window and rubbed his jaw. The face was the same, if older and more mature, but it was still him. Regardless, he half expected someone to stop and say "Hello," or at least "Good morning," and when no one did, it seemed out of character for the town he thought he knew.

  When he left Devondale, he had known just about everyone there and exchanging pleasantries was some­thing that was more or less expected. It was one of those unwritten rules that people followed. Sometimes it was a hindrance, particularly if you were in a hurry to get some­place, but in his mind it had made Devondale a better place to live. Such things happened in larger cities like Tyraine and Barcora, but he never thought it would occur in his hometown, and it made him angry.