‘What of the Duke?’ asked Brendan.
‘Duke of Krondor? He’s with the Prince. As is Lord Sutherland, the Duke of Yabon, the Earl of LaMut, the Baron of Land’s End, and every other titled noble in the west. You’re a duke’s son and brother: for all I know you may be the highest ranking noble left. We’ve got a squire or two hanging around, but if there’s a real nobleman this side of Malac’s Cross, I’ll be surprised.’
Martin bade him thanks and turned away. Outside, they returned to the stables and saw their horses were about to be untacked. They waved away the lackeys and mounted up again. ‘We’ll give the horses a feedbag and water when we find an inn,’ said Brendan.
One of the lackeys said, ‘Try the Swan and Rook, down the road a bit on the right. Very nice place, I’ve been told.’
They thanked him and rode on. ‘So what do we do now?’ Brendan asked.
‘Find an inn. Care for the horses. Eat our first decent meal in a week, and drink a lot of ale or wine or whatever the Armies of the West haven’t consumed, and wait.’
‘What are we waiting for?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Martin.
Hal, Ty, Jim and Ruffio appeared in the courtyard of Jim’s private apartment in Rillanon. A moment later Jim said, ‘Something’s wrong.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Hal.
‘I know this city like the beat of my heart, as well as I know Krondor, and there’s something very wrong. Come along.’
He moved into the main hall and found a palace page sleeping on the floor beside the door. With a gentle nudge of his toe, Jim awoke the boy. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Your grandfather, sir, the Duke.’ The boy tried not to yawn and failed. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s all right, boy,’ said Jim. ‘Now, what about my grandfather?’
‘He said if you arrived here before the palace to come straight away. He doesn’t care if you’re covered in three days of road dirt, just come.’
Jim nodded and said, ‘We’ll be along straight away.’
‘My lord,’ said the boy. ‘There’s been a carriage outside since dawn and all night and dawn again, and I’m to tell you . . .’ he cleared his voice, ‘“to get your arse into the coach and stop mucking about.” That was what the Duke told me to say, sir. Not my idea.’
Jim smiled. ‘All right. Let’s go,’ he motioned to the others, and they followed the boy outside.
The carriage that waited bore the ducal crest of Rillanon and the boy woke up the sleeping driver. From the mess beneath the team of horses it was clear they had been made to stand in traces for a full day, the driver and footman no doubt feeding and watering them where they stood.
As he climbed into the carriage, Jim said, ‘We’ll need a good rain to wash that lot.’
Once inside, Hal said, ‘What could be so urgent that it can’t wait another day? The King’s funeral isn’t until tomorrow and the Congress doesn’t meet for four days.’
They rounded a circular roadway, then climbed a hillside towards the palace. It took them close to the city’s outer wall and Ty said, ‘I think I see why your grandfather wanted you here straight away.’
Just beyond the wall, hundreds of tents had been pitched and the smoke from campfires filled the afternoon sky. Sentries had been placed in picket lines across the length of the encampment, facing the wall, and dark blue banners flew from tall standards.
Jim sat back, looking as if he’d just eaten something very unpleasant. ‘The Army of Maladon and Simrick. It looks like Prince Oliver arrived early and he’s decided he won’t take no for an answer.’
They rode the rest of the way to the palace in silence.
Pug pushed forward as gently as he could, his mind probing deeper into what he had come to think of as the ‘red lock’ that held together the matrix.
Magnus, Miranda, and Nakor all in their own way added their magical ability to his own. But rather than any sort of brute force, they were attempting to prevent the triggering of a trap, setting off an alarm or otherwise doing damage to the structure.
Pug was attempting to ‘draw’ a map in his and their minds as they went. Nakor had observed some time earlier that the matrix was something like a maze, but in three dimensions. ‘Even that’s an illusion,’ he had observed. ‘We are dealing with state of energy, the very fabric of reality.’
They continued their exploration.
The heavens exploded as Rider urged her mount down the Celestial Highway, oblivious to the splendour on all sides. Making the translation from the Bliss to the mortal realms took the fabrication of time, and for a while her thoughts were still tethered to the Bliss. As she sped farther from the Presence of the Source, she felt an identity emerging and her perceptions gathered inward, coalescing into a sense of self. At the end of the transition, the necessary shift from cosmic awareness to a limited sentience defined by her own physical perceptions, her identity returned. She was Rider, and her mission was vital.
Around her, star fields collided, releasing unimaginable furies of super-heated, illuminating heaven’s arc with colours to confound the human eye. Great engines of energy pulsed beams billions of miles into the night, and in clouds of gas vast beyond measure, stars were born.
The vault of the sky was cluttered with the spinning orbs of universes birthing or dying. The procession of reality’s evolution unfolded as time was warped and events ages apart appeared to her simultaneously. She did not pause to consider the magnificence of her surroundings as she raced downward, into the Rainbow Vortex. She was not equipped to appreciate the splendour, for she had no basis for comparison.
She had ridden this way countless times, yet could not remember a single previous mission. Previous memories did not return when Rider was dispatched as Heaven’s harbinger, and it was as if she were born anew. She did not question the why of it; she was content to know that when she had finished her task, she would once more return to the Presence and enter the Bliss.
A clattering of hooves told her she was no longer a thing of mind and sprit, but now a physical thing, and her mount was upon the Crystal Highway. The Crystal Highway appeared at the boundary of the realm of creation defined by thought, limitless in scope, and composed entirely of energy. Behind it lay perfect spiritual happiness, the state of oneness with all; beyond lay a transition from perfect harmony with the Source to becoming mortal once more.
She pressed on.
*
Hal entered the chamber with Jim, Ruffio and Ty, and found Lord Jamison waiting. ‘We have a bit of a situation,’ said the old man as the four found seats around a small table.
Jim said, ‘If you mean the total armies of Maladon and Simrick sitting outside the city walls, yes, indeed we do.’
‘No foreign army has set foot on this island in five hundred years,’ said the Duke, smacking his hand down hard on the table.
Jim said, ‘Well, as Oliver is King Gregory’s nephew, and those are his armies to command . . .’
‘When did you become a litigator?’ asked his grandfather.
Jim shrugged.
‘Do you think Oliver will move against the Congress if the vote goes against him?’ asked Hal.
James sat back, looking every bit his seventy-plus years. ‘I don’t know. No noble has raised an army against the Crown since Jon the Pretender, to the everlasting infamy of his name. This may be no more than a reminder that Oliver has powerful allies to the east. The Queen of Roldem is his aunt from Maladon, and that counts for a lot.’ James nodded. ‘If he marries that girl from Roldem, that would give him a solid standing throughout the region.’
‘But he’s not Kingdom-born,’ said Jim, noticing the distress on Hal’s face at the mention of anyone marrying Stephané.
‘That’s always been the counter-argument,’ said James.
There was a knock on the door and the Duke shouted, ‘Come in!’
Servants arrived with wine and food, and quickly prepared the table. ‘Thought you might be hung
ry,’ he said after the servants left.
Jim poured wine and handed out the goblets. Another knock came and again the Duke bellowed for whoever was outside to come in. A messenger entered and handed him a parchment bearing a seal. Looking at Jim, the Duke said, ‘You’re not the only one with eyes out there.’ His grin vanished as he read. ‘Damn it to the seven hells!’
‘What is it?’ asked Jim.
‘That damned fool Chadwick of Ran. He’s landed his army to the south of the city.’ He read on. ‘And he’s brought friends. Salador and Bas-Tyra are with him.’
Jim sat back. ‘Are these fools starting a civil war before we’ve even buried the last king?’
Duke James shook his head in frustration and said, ‘Give me that damn wine!’
Now Rider was fully-fleshed. Her form was human, but her face lacked the tiny imperfections of humanity, the creases and lines, spots and dimples. She had skin too smooth to be mortal, and her brown eyes, flecked with moats of ruby, were able to peer through realities. Her body was lithe and agile, as strong as tempered steel and as hard as diamond. Hair golden one moment, silver the next, flowed from under a black cap that was set at a rakish angle. From a shimmering brooch pin of alien make and unknown metal a long, flaming feather trailed, a rare phoenix plume. Only the powerful harmony of her magic kept it from vanishing into ash or setting her hair alight.
She rode a creature out of fable, a mare of golden hue, with hide that shimmered like metal and a mane and tail of copper sparkling with flashes of pure white light. Her breath was steam as she pounded across uncountable miles down through the Vortex into the Entropy Funnel, her hooves striking sparks on the perfect surface of the roadway. She was one of the most powerful of her kind, the Matriarch of the Heavenly Herd, the star-spanning mounts of angels. That she had been given the task of carrying the rider demonstrated the importance of this journey.
Rider focused on her mission: to reach the mortal realm and give orders to the awaiting host. It was time to assault an enemy seeking a foothold on a poor, sad little world. A strange place, it was a world of coincidence and destiny, a battleground in an ages-old struggle that was far greater than even the wisest among humanity could imagine, beyond even the understanding of the beings they called gods. All of reality as they knew it stood in peril and this one, tiny world, normally insignificant in the vast scheme of the universe, was where the struggle would soon commence. If this world fell, so would fall all of that sector of reality, and eventually all reality, even unto this realm.
As Rider raced along, primal matter leapt from orb to orb, massive surges of power to destroy star systems, causing the Golden Moons to thrum and vibrate, their pitch changing in a cacophony of sounds that were the highest music imaginable. Legends were told of lesser beings who had somehow found their way to the Sphere of the Golden Moons and died of thirst or starvation as they sat transfixed by a music so profound it immobilized the listener. It was the sound of everything.
Down through the higher realms she rode, feeling the falling energy states around her, as the abundance of creation, the immeasurable wealth of heaven’s bounty cascaded down with her as she descended into the mortal realms. Vision became paramount as other senses faded, music and sound had to be heard rather than known, and the feel of her mount between her legs became a sensation that began to fatigue her. Separating from the Presence was painful at the end.
At the boundary of the Sphere and the Realm of Emergence, the road changed again, become the yellow-white road known as the Star Walk, the Gateway Path, or the Hall of Worlds. Time shifted as she entered the edge of the mortal realms, and she sensed its passing. Here was the boundary of reality as mortals knew it, where new matter entered their space and time. It was speculated about by many races, but none had come here, understood and returned to spread the word. The boundaries of mortal exploration were still vast distances down the Hall, lifetimes of exploration away.
At the edge of the Hall, near the boundary between the Sphere and the Hall, waited the Host. Immobile, they stood arrayed in battle rank, thousands of agents of Heaven, waiting for their orders. Ageless and patient beyond mortal comprehension, they were as alike as perfect statutes. Yes she knew them all, each and every one, for it was one of those things carried over from her time being in the Presence, being one with the Source. Before the arrayed ranks of the Host waited one alone, and she reined in her mount before him.
‘Riakel,’ she said in greeting.
‘Rider,’ he said in return. He was majestic in appearance, the personification of a human’s vision of what an angel should look like: tall, broad of shoulder, features strong yet beautiful. Riakel’s hair flowed to his shoulders and was ebony in colour, yet his skin shone pale yellow in the Hall’s fey light. He wore a long flowing robe of white, and over it a battle harness. At his left hip was a massive sword in its scabbard, and she knew that once it was drawn it would burn with Heaven’s fire.
Behind him stood silent rows of warrior angels, each displaying a slight difference in colour of skin, hair, eyes, yet all alike, ready to carry out their mission should the Celestial Rider fail in hers.
Riakel’s black eyes fixed on her and he said nothing. There was no need for speech between them, for each had been sent on their missions with the full knowledge of what must be done.
Yet she felt the need to speak. ‘How long?’
He inclined his head slightly to one side, as if cracking his neck, a very human gesture she knew meant the question was pointless. ‘It is not known,’ he answered. ‘The Source always provides us with the knowledge we need.’
‘But not until we need it,’ she amended.
‘Soon. Too long the demons have had free reign in the mortal realm while we have been confined here.’ With a gesture towards the countless angels standing motionlessly behind him, the Master of the First Host repeated, ‘Soon. Even now someone attempts to unlock the barrier, and should they succeed, we shall unleash Heaven’s wrath as has never been known in mortal history.’
‘I have your orders,’ said Rider. ‘The demons and their minions are to be obliterated, returned to the lower sphere. All except two. They have a role to play.’
‘How will I know them?’
‘You will know them.’
The Master of the First Host nodded. ‘The balance must be restored.’
‘But in the time specified, and not before.’
‘You have another mission?’
She nodded. Knowledge manifested in her mind. ‘Yes. I must be off.’
Without another word, the Rider turned her mount and moved back down the Hall of Worlds, passing the first pair of doors into the mortal realm.
She was now in what humans called the lowest heaven, a realm of wonderful, yet mortal beings. Most beings from the realms below would consider this realm ideal, for it combined the finest aspects of mortal experience with an apprehension of the wonders of the Higher Realms.
Time began to weigh on her, for now time was perceived by her in the same way as it was by mortals. And time was short. The imbalances of the past needed to be corrected, and she was the last attempt by the Presence to correct that imbalance without there being utter destruction.
If she failed, and if he to whom she carried warning failed, then the Host would cease to merely battle Hell’s minions; they would be fully unleashed to undertake a cleansing of the realm called the First Realm of Hell by those above it, and the First Realm of Heaven by those below it, and the Source would start anew.
It had happened before. Yet the Source was love and mystery and offered hope.
She sped past more doors as she plunged deeper into the mortal realms, into more populated space. The road twisted and turned and hundreds of doors were left behind. She would ride past ten thousand more before nearing the one through which she must travel, to the world called Midkemia.
A thrumming filled the air, harsh and discordant, jarring the senses like a physical blow. She reined in, for something was amis
s. Suddenly Rider knew that the waiting host had not advanced far enough, did not know the waiting was not at the will of the Source! Something hobbled the mind here, limited perception, and robbed those from the higher realms of their usual strengths. As she pondered this realization, her mount reared up, stumbled, and fell back.
Rider pitched over the mare’s haunches, striking the stones of the Hall with a force fit to break bones, but she was unhurt, for her body was still as hard as diamond. The oldest mare in the Heavenly Herd lay thrashing, and Rider turned to see her pain and hurried to inspect her injury.
This should not happen. It was impossible. No power in the mortal realm could harm the Matriarch of the Heavenly Herd or Rider. Yet the proof was before her, as the mare shuddered, then closed her eyes. Despite not belonging to the mortal realm, the celestial mount was confined in form and function by the limits of this reality. She faded into golden smoke, speeding back up the hall toward The Source, where she would reform and once again take her place at the head of her herd.
But Rider now stood afoot, and knew that something profoundly wrong had intercepted her. She turned, her eyes blazing with anger. Drawing her sword, she advanced toward the cause of her fall. And walked into something invisible.
Pain shot through her body, her mind, and into her soul. This barrier was something so profoundly wrong that it tore at her. She fell back and felt the thrumming that came from the barrier grow more intense, rising up the scale to a pitch that hurt her now-mortal ears.
Still, she was Rider, and an agent of the Source. Even in the mortal realms her powers were unmatched by any who abided her. And there was nothing of fear in her being. ‘Show yourself!’ she demanded.
Something rose up before her on the other side of the barrier, roughly man-shaped but immense. It towered over her as a tree did a child.
Rider had lost her place in the Presence, was apart from the Source, but her knowledge was still considerable. Yet before her stood something unknown to her, something that was clearly powerful beyond compare in these mortal realms. ‘What are you?’ she demanded.
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