They were challenged twice before they reached it, and they were watched all the way through its half-kilometer length. Jinnery found it hard to obey Falc’s injunction not to look up. A giant had surely chopped into the mountain with his prodigious sword, and she rode now in the bottom of the deep wound. It seemed the narrower for its depth. Bits of something shiny and tiny twinkled at her from the walls. Worthless, Falc said. She knew the sentinel guardians he had mentioned were up there on the wound’s lips: trainees, semi-retired omos, and a few zealot monks who possessed keen eyes and high skill with the bow. She was grateful that he had warned her in advance, and warned her also to keep her mouth shut while he identified her as his cousin, a fugitive from evil.
Even so, one mailcoated guardian of the Order was sour about it, because of her.
Flanked by two older men who were obviously in better than good condition and in possession of bows and hip-slung quivers bristling with arrows, he maintained his suspicious eyes. When he asked a question, Falc called him by name, and repeated what he had already told them. Falc used precisely the same words. The sentinel continued to scowl. Falc gave him his dour look.
“You know me, Brother Provalk. I am come home to the Temple. It is irregular that I bring someone with me, and I will answer to the Master for it. You will stand aside.” Falc made one of his soundless and invisible signals to Harr, who began pacing forward.
That guardian and his two men looked even more stem and disapproving. They also stepped aside. Jinnery was aware of their glowering eyes while she passed, and after. She sat stiffly, staring at Falc’s back as she rode close behind him. Her skin prickled and her armpits were wet. The assured presence of this dark man with his twice-dark eyes that evaded no gaze! Was there anyone who dared face him? Could there be anyone to whom he could possibly defer?
Next they had come to a wall, and a gate. Again Falc identified himself, and this time the guard smiled.
“Welcome home, Falc!” he called, and signalled.
Jinnery heard the clink and rattle of chains. The prodigiously thick gate swung in. She saw more armed men and she blinked at sight of another blank wall only a few meters away. Falc turned rightward to pace along between those walls of thickly massed stone until they came to another gate. It opened before they had to stop. They passed through.
The vision within was a revelation that assaulted Jinnery’s senses, but in a purely positive way. Here lay what she had least expected to see, despite what Falc had told her. She could only stare.
Mon-Ashah-re, Falc had told her yesterday as he began to prepare her for their arrival, was self-sufficient. She had begun to have doubts about that, as they proceeded up into solid rock. Now she saw the gardens, the beautiful and well-tended shrubs, the trees, and she knew that he had not exaggerated. Years upon years ago wagonload after wagonload of soil must have been fetched up here at the cost of much labour. Such shrubs and trees and gardens could hardly grow in the bare rock all about them!
The Temple itself was still invisible within a fortress that seemed to grow from the rock itself. Carefully tilted back from them, it consisted of stones piled upon stones in a strangely smooth yet multi-hued way so that it resembled less a wall than a rearing mosaic hill of rock. They passed through another gateway and dismounted. Two men, a quite young and a quite old, came to take their dargs. Falc greeted the older by name; that man was pleased to introduce him to the younger, an apprentice omo.
As soon as he spoke, with rich respect and deference, Falc told the omo-to-be where he was from: Darsin. The youth showed his wonder at the big dark man’s perception and knowledge; Falc was right. What Jinnery noticed most was how very impressed the youth obviously was to meet Sir Falc of Risskor; “the legendary Sir Falc,” as he put it.
That impressed Jinnery. It also increased her surprise at the respectful attitude Falc adopted toward the next man they confronted. Falc! Falc as she had never seen him or dreamed he could be: deferential, respectful!
This aged, wispy-haired fellow in the black-trimmed robe of dark brown did not repeat the put-upon act of Provalk, but was most stem indeed.
“This was not well done, Son of Ashah. Special quarters will have to be arranged for this woman.”
Falc’s head was unusually low and he spoke very quietly. “I felt myself without choice, High Brother. She is as I said my cousin, and I dared leave her nowhere. I apologise to you for the trouble I am causing, and will apologize and defer to any you indicate.”
“I have heard you. Woman, you will receive quarters, where you will remain. You will not speak to those who escort you, or who provide you with food and water.”
On the point of saying “Yes sir,” Jinnery decided to begin her silence now. She only bowed as she had seen Falc do.
She straightened in time to see new astonishment: the man addressed as “High Brother” was in the act of clapping Falc fondly on the shoulder.
“I’m glad to see you, Falc! The Master will be stem about your cousin but glad to receive your report. Do you bring aught else? No new wounds, I hope?”
“None, High Brother. I bring nothing but myself, but have given to more than one temple in Morazain. Some weaponish hirelings afforded me spoils. And I have seen Ashamal, who is probably in Lango by now. I recommended that he seek Contract with a Holder there — you know Chasmal.”
“Of course. Later you must tell me what need he will have of our brother Ashamal. For now, Falc, we will see to your cousin’s comfort; you must go at once to the Master. He has known you were coming since minutes after you started up the mountain, of course.”
Falc nodded, started away with him, and paused. He glanced back at Jinnery. All but swallowed in his derlin, she looked small and quite lost and pitiful in this holy place of men. He who was home could do nothing. He nodded to her, and walked away with the High Brother.
2
Falc entered the big barren room with its high, vaulted ceiling on encircling columns, smooth cylinders of pearly marble streaked with red and grey. He walked silently to the line of cream tiles set across the otherwise unrelieved black of the floor. There he paused to kneel and unfasten his weapons belt and helmet. Leaving them there on the floor, he rose. The click of footsteps in such a chamber might have been dramatic, but as ever Falc wore his dull, soft-soled boots. There was nothing dramatic about his entry, for he was most subdued and deferential in pacing to where the Master of the Order stood just outside one of several shafts of light admitted by small, high-set windows.
The Firedrake was a big man, a barrel-chested truly big man, who had attained his age without attaining girth. For that was the rule, and it applied to all from the newest recruit to the Master himself: the Sons of Ashah did not grow fat. The Firedrake had been an omo, as all Masters had been. He had ridden all over the continent and knew its cities and its rivers and mountains and most of all, its roads and weather. His attire was severe. His snug black coif concealed all of his head save his face, and covered his neck as well. From there only his hands, large and visibly very old, and the toes of his black felt shoes appeared from a snugly girt robe of heavy, dull black. He had never been handsome and never worn facial hair. His face was as severe as the minatory sternness of his attire, all vertical lines like crevasses save for the straight horizontal slice of his mouth. Two lines slashed down his forehead to the inner edges of his eyebrows, which were not quite white.
All of this emphasized the youthful alertness of his eyes. No lichen-light glowed in the High Temple of Ashah, but even lit only by thin shafts of sunlight and a single oil lamp, the eyes of the Firedrake were blue as jarum-blossoms and very, very bright.
He stood with one hand upon the smallish round table of hard old wood. Despite its age it was well polished and showed few marks. The great slice made when the fifth Master had lost his temper was still there, in its ugliness so full of meaning. He had succumbed to rage that day, and resigned the next, to disappear forever. Some said that in his shame he had thrown himself dow
n the sheer precipice of the mountain’s south flank. Some said that Sath Firedrake had come for him, and dragged him away as unworthy. Others said he wandered the world still, and must do so forever. Falc thought that he must have gone away and died, that Master of a century ago.
“Welcome, Knight of the Order Most Old.”
“No knight, my Master, but an unworthy son of Ashah begs the blessing of the Firedrake.”
“You have it, in Ashah’s name and in Sath Firedrake’s name, O Son of Ashah.”
“You will call me Sir Knight, sirrah, for I am blessed by God and Firedrake!”
The Master of the Order Most Old bowed to complete that ritual of mutual abasement, and straightened to gesture. “Sit, Falc. What has befallen you, and what soars within you that you bring a woman to the very Temple?”
No chairs were provided at that table; only two plain stools of wood, and neither was different from the other as neither was reserved for the Firedrake. It was the Knight O.M.O. returning to Mon-Ashah-re who must first choose a stool and sit.
Falc did, and held his tongue until the Firedrake seated himself, not quite opposite his omo. “It begins in Lango-by-the-Sea, Master. I have much to tell.”
“I have ears, and time.”
Falc told his story.
The Master raised a hand for pause. “You delivered Kinneven’s message by mouth? What was it?”
A knight of the Order Most Old told his message to no one save its intended recipient, and all knew it. Only omos knew that an omo told anything and all to the Firedrake.
“Holder Kinneven’s words were these, Master: ‘Here is something no one knows about the purple shume. Not only does it stand tall and its main stem grow ever thicker, but it puts forth aerial roots.’”
The Firedrake’s lips moved as he gazed at the vaulted ceiling of this chamber, repeating words he would not forget. Down came his head and those bright and alert eyes of intelligence gazed into Falc’s. “It has meaning to you, Falc?”
“No, Master. Since the shume does not stand tall, I knew it was a code between Kinneven and Chasmal, who seemed to understand.”
“You can think of nothing he said; no action he took or order he gave that might have stemmed from the message?”
“No, Master, and I have thought on it.”
“I am sure you have. An enigma. Oh, but these proud Holders will have their secrets, even from the trusted bearers of their messages! Tell on, Sir Knight.”
Falc told on, until the next interruption:
“You slew them all four, Falc, and they sent to murder you? And you and your darg took no wound?”
“I took a bruise that lasted for days, Master.”
“A bruisel That is not a wound! A bruise! Brother Chemis bruised his knee just today when he slipped on a step!”
Falc bowed his head. He had tried to diminish his feat, to pretend modesty by mentioning that he had been hit, but the Firedrake would have none of that. Falc should have known.
“Forgive me, Master. I took no wound. Nor did my darg.”
Instantly the Firedrake reversed himself: “Ah, Falc! What a fighter you are! You have an extra weapon few men have, or use: your brain! You are a fighter beyond even that one called Sir Sijamal!”
Falc bowed his head low. “It is not possible, Master,” he said, for the omo Sijamal of Missentia had become this man now across the table from him.
“You think I’d say it if I did not believe it, churl? You think Sijamal was less the vaulting egoist than you?”
Falc’s head remained down. “I have no ego, Master. I am part of the Order, and that only.”
The Master shook his head. “Oh, Falc, Falc! What lies — and yet I think you believe that you are truly a most humble man! No no, let no more lies and flattery fall from those lips, Sir Knight! What next then, after you did death on four men and sent their heads back to their master?” Abruptly he added, “After an afternoon in a hay field and a night in a loft, indeed!”
“My Master: I must return to Lango.”
The Firedrake seemed not to hear that, but only gazed expectantly at him. Falc dutifully continued the narrative, this time without interruption until he reached the point a few days ago at which Jinnery had overtaken him.
“Incredible! How do you suppose she slipped Ashamal’s charge?”
Falc shook his head. “He could not hold her mount forever. Once he had released it and was less attentive, she left him at the gallop. She had only to follow the road, at the gallop. My Harr is the best of war-trained dargs, but he is no racer.”
“Have you made her the owner of that animal?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Too bad. It is a superb one, isn’t it.”
“It is, my Master, and I am sorry.”
“Sorry, sorry. Always ready to be sorry, to bow to the Firedrake, so-o respectful Falc of Risskor.”
Falc lifted his head with anguish in his eyes. “Two men I love and respect above all others, Master, and between them there is no comparison. You know this. You are the first.”
The Firedrake sighed. “And Falc is the other. You are more abjectly respectful of me than any, Falc. Perhap overly so. Do not confuse me with your father.”
Falc’s face stiffened and he looked away. “Never!”
After a few moments of taut silence the Firedrake said, “So. She overtook you, and you brought her to our keep, to the very home of Ashah.”
“Not... exactly so, Master,” Falc said, and told of his “accepting her offer” to follow him.
“Falc the cruel, yes. We all know about that, do we not?”
“I have never denied it, Master. Nor ever will I deny that I do all I can, short of running, to avoid armed encounters... and glory in it when I am forced to fight and kill.”
It was the Firedrake’s turn to look down. “I know, Falc of Risskor. An honourable man, a truthful one, and a cruel one... and a killer.”
Yes. This time Falc sat very straight, with his head high. “So. And after all that she had endured, she said only that she was hungry?”
Falc looked away. “Master, I... weakened. I... melted. It was then I vowed, though not aloud, to see to her, to look after her, to bring her here with me. And to take her hence to Holder Kinneven. It is unworthy, but so I have vowed”
“You have a carnal interest in her, Falc?”
Falc made sure that his gaze met that of a wise old man’s startlingly youthful eyes, and held. “None.”
“Shall I believe that, Falc? — of Falc?”
“My Master knows it is important to me that he does.”
“Hmm. And so you came here. You have just departed Lango and Morazain, on your Contracted liege’s business, and you flaunt that business by interrupting it to come here. And yes, I heard you tell me that you wish to return to Lango. Why?”
Falc blinked. It was as if this man he respected above all others had heard nothing he said. Why must he be ever such a stem father? He is my only master; from him I take what none others would dare, and live. Falc took a breath. Above all men, Falc of Risskor would not make an angry retort to the Master of the Order Most Old; to the successor of Sath and Ashah’s representative on Sij.
“To kill Faradox, Master.”
“Kill! A Holder!”
“It is a matter of honour, my Master.”
The Firedrake’s big fist of veins and wrinkles and pale bony knuckles struck the table between them. “Personal honour! A Knight of the Order Most Old has neither personal honour nor personal business, Falc. This you accepted in your vows to God and Founder... Son of Ashah.”
“My Master, this man has done insult to the Order and its honour by sending men to murder —”
“— to murder you! You, Falc of Risskor — a man, not the Order!” Up came the fist, and a finger snapped out of it to point at Falc like a skewer ready to impale him. “You confuse pride and anger with honour. You say ‘my master’ to me when only you and your pride are your master! You assume that an affront
to you is an affront to the Order and Ashah. I am surprised at you, Falc.”
Falc too was surprised, although he doubted that his Master really was.
Stiffly, formally, he said, “Master, I request permission to return to Lango, and —”
“Denied. Expressly denied. Return to Lango except on the order and business of your Contract liege or the Order, Sir Falc, and you are only Falc, for you will have made yourself no knight of the Order!”
Feeling his anger, Falc sought to deflect it or contain it. That hurt; it burned his very guts, but he had done it before. He had no choice. He could not disobey for he could not leave the Order, which was his shelter and his life, his very life. He accepted with a bowing of his head. This was the Master of the Order, and Falc was of the Order. Falc did not decide for Falc.
The Firedrake pushed it; forced him. “Speak, Falc.”
“Falc does not decide for Falc. I submit, Master.”
“You will recite the Litany of Purpose fivescore times in penance, Son of Ashah, and meditate on the sin of pride and honour that is not part of the unity of the Order.”
“This son of Ashah submits and agrees without question, my Master.”
“‘My Master’,” the Firedrake muttered with sarcasm, and gave his omo a look.
Abruptly the Firedrake stood and paced, with the faintest rustle of his robe but without the hint of creaking joints or a grunt on rising from the bare wooden stool.
“The Order thanks you for your news, Sir Brother, and we give you ours: a quake so rocked the southern coastal area that the city of Tern was almost totally destroyed, with many lives lost.”
Falc compressed his lips and stared at the floor. He saw no need to say anything.
“Falc, our brother Sench has been slain.”
“Sench!”
The Firedrake stood with his back turned, speaking to a bright spot on the floor where the sun streamed in through a high-set port. “It would appear that he was set upon and murdered. Too, Sir Senithal was attacked in Jayanga and we have no idea why. Sir Vennashah has been missing for nearly three weeks. A naked corpse was found down in Silkevare, and burned as is customary there with alley-dead. No one remembers seeing the Scar of Sath, but the corpse did seem to possess the Curse of Sath. And Falc: Sir Relashah was slain only a week ago, in Missentia. Missentia! Home of the second temple and our twice-friend Kaladen the religious! Relashah was stripped of everything he wore; everything. He had been both stabbed and kicked, repeatedly.”
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