Within

by Aaron Bunce

  “What is legend?” Julian pressed.

  “It is Mani, the touch of the divine. She has bound our souls together,” Tanea said, her expression hovering somewhere between terror and excitement.

  “Bound together?” Julian asked.

  Tanea nodded. “Yes, that is all I know. Just that it has happened before, a very long time ago.”

  Julian tried to take it all in. He wasn’t a religious person, nor did he know anything about the young woman before him, yet somewhere deep inside he could feel the truth of her words. It was like nothing he had felt before. This wasn’t infatuation or lust. This was something altogether different.

  They didn’t talk for a long while. There were so many questions Julian felt compelled to ask. He felt obligated to learn everything about Tanea, to find out who she was. But at that moment words didn’t seem that important, only being near her.

  Before he could speak, Tanea leaned forward and pulled him into her. Her lips were warm, and he instantly smelled the exotic oils and perfumes of her hair.

  It didn’t feel like he was kissing a stranger. No, it felt like he had kissed her many times before. He pulled her in tighter and their hearts seemed to synchronize. They became as one.

  * * * *

  Later that night, Julian returned to the barracks, where Sky and a small group of his friends sat before a fire. He could still feel Tanea’s heart beating deep inside him, even with half a city now between them. He could still smell her too, as if she was still pressed up against him.

  “Ama’lik! The gristled warrior returns!” Sky shouted, spotting him entering the room.

  Nirnan sat next to him, spilling his cup all down his shirt when Sky jostled him. He cursed and pushed Sky from his chair.

  “Julian, it is good to see you,” the broad-shouldered, bearded young man said. The group deposited their food and clustered around Julian, poking, mocking, and admiring his collection of scars and bruises.

  “I thought those priests could mend little nicks like that? I’ve cut myself deeper cleaning fish,” Tristan asked jokingly.

  “Yeah,” Banner agreed, “war wounds never really go away though. Julian probably wanted to keep em. They’ll make him general before too long. That is, if he can keep from getting too chopped up first.”

  Julian tried to laugh. He desperately wanted to tell Sky and the others what the battle had been like. How the terror consumed him, and refused to fade. It made him feel cold and dead inside.

  He also wanted to tell Sky about Tanea, to recount for his friend the strange and wonderful experience at the Chapterhouse, if only to help him hold on to the faint warm glow of Tanea’s presence. But as he stood there, listening to his friends talk, he found that he couldn’t speak.

  They settled back down around the fire. Julian slid into an old, worn chair, and despite Tanea’s healing magic still felt horribly stiff and sore. He started to drift off, letting his vision go blurry as he peered into the dancing fire.

  He rested his hand on his chest, where the comforting beat of tandem hearts surged in unison. He decided he would pull Sky aside later and confide in his friend. After all, these things were best discussed in private.

  Chapter 14

  Cloaked dealings

  “The decision was made long ago. Its reasoning was sound then, and I see no reason to believe it is any less prudent now!” Gladeus growled at the unflinching face of the monk across from him.

  “I understand, councilman, but please be assured our interests lie only in the preservation of written history and the education of all those willing and able,” Brother Dalman reminded him.

  “I have met other Denil monks, and they always ask for the same thing. It is not something I can grant. The other councilmen are less compassionate to your cause than I.” Gladeus peered down at him. “Although, I do understand it is difficult for someone of your stature to travel all this way. Please understand, I can make you no promises.”

  The elder scribe held his gaze. “As the scribes of Denil, we seek only to document history and preserve the written heritage of our people. To catalog the lives and events that so sculpt our path, and safeguard our history in its ancient, written form. My request is simple. We request that the Council lift the ban on the printed word, especially the Trials of St. Denoril. We see no benefit in prohibiting these texts from the people. This is, after all, the very history of us all.” Despite his passive posture, Dalman’s steely blue eyes radiated a strength not normally found in men his age.

  Gladeus had no intention of lifting the bans placed on many of the texts and scrolls. Despite multiple petitions every day, none would ever change his mind. Dalman’s unflinching request, however, gave him a moment or two of pause.

  Gladeus steeled his voice. “The council’s decision is definitive. The purists cite Alrik’s writings as a manifesto, yet his ideas of governing were as poisoned by his dalan nursemaid as they were by his sickly and addled lineage. During the…difficult transition, we deemed it best to remove these poisons.”

  Brother Dalman’s retort came quickly.

  “With respect, Councilman, I did not come to argue the merits of the rule, or the validity of the royal right of succession. But, you must understand, banning these printed works has only fueled the fire. Many believe the Algast bloodline was descendant to Denoril himself. Would you deprive the people of their flesh and blood lineage to the church? Would you remove all sacred texts, from every temple and Chapterhouse throughout Denoril?” Brother Dalman clasped his hands under the heavy folds of his dark robes.

  Gladeus used one of his most oft relied upon responses.

  “The five provinces only suffered under the king. The Earls were bound to the protection and welfare of the people. All would do well to remember.

  “But did the Earls not gain in the King’s fall?” Dalman argued, hands unclasping before seeking the folds of his robes again. “All were already rich in title, lands, and gold. Now you rule together in place of the King. While you claim to care for the greater good of the provinces, it appears you work separately to increase the wealth and power of your own standing. How long before one of you desires sole power and authority, and wage war against the others? Can the farmers and herdsman of Falksgraad hope to survive against the might of Barden’s reach? How much of our people’s blood must spill before a true and lasting peace can take?”

  Councilman Gladeus, the man, born Lord Gladeus DuChamp, Earl of Barden’s Reach, heard it so many times before, from innumerable petitioners, and had come to expect it. The verbal jousting of two score thaws as Councilman had trained him well.

  When King Djaron first fell, Lords of each of the five provinces staked their claim to the throne, but the fight fell to a stalemate, and the throne was left empty.

  Faced with no other option, the five chose instead to form the Council of Lords. Gladeus, the eldest and most insistent of the Earls, had called for the creation of the Council. The other Earls eventually fell in line. They had jockeyed behind a veil of shared power and influence for twenty winter thaws, all striving to usurp each other and take control.

  Gladeus suppressed his fiery temper. The Council Lords and their families utilized spies and agents to glean each other’s secrets. Brother Dalman appeared to be no different. Gladeus composed himself and replied with a practiced smile. “My good sir, I understand your point, believe me. I do.”

  “The Council of Lords has ruled over Denoril, in place of a King for twenty winter thaws. My nephew sits now as the Earl of Barden’s reach, and he is none too fond of me,” Gladeus lied. In reality, Tomas, son of his sister, had become Earl only because Gladeus had no sons of his own. Tomas was not fond of his uncle, but he was also deathly afraid of him and understood the perils of not keeping him happy.

  “We would never seek to sever the union of our people and the church, any more than we desire to sever our own necks,” Gladeus said. “We would never remove the scripts, texts, and teachings the Church holds sacred. We have onl
y asked, and will continue to insist, that they instruct from the teachings we deem appropriate. The common man can fall victim to so many perils, and the songs of the Kings can incite many dangerous thoughts and seeds for foolish actions. Perhaps better than anyone, you, Brother Dalman, keeper of texts, should know the bloody truth of my words.

  “We only seek to protect them from their own violent nature. But I ramble.” Gladeus swept his arms out as if to humor the scribe. “Come now, I understand your frustration with this matter, and I thank you for seeking me first amongst the Council, but let me offer you this warning. Our decision is as firm as the bedrock of this mighty city. Seek out Lord Russo or Lord Kingsbreath if you desire. They are younger than I, and you may find them more…receptive. But if you find them less cordial, then I bid you return here to my home, and I will have my kitchen staff feed you well before your long journey south.”

  Brother Dalman bowed slightly, but never took his defiant eyes off Gladeus. Then, turned and swept out of the courtyard. Two young acolytes followed, the flap, flap of their simple sandals on the cobblestone faded as the robed men turned a corner and were gone.

  Gladeus held his breath for a moment and turned to the two soldiers standing guard. The Knights of Silver, as they were called, were never far away. When he accepted guests into his home, they usually hovered closer than normal.

  “Be gone!” he said with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Close the gates, I desire no more trifling company today.”

  The two armored soldiers saluted, pressing their closed fists flat to their chests and then marched down the courtyard towards the open gate.

  He waited until they were well out of sight before cursing. “Fool scribe. If we were in Laniel, they would never find your body. I am a Lord, Earl of the mightiest province of this land,” he spat, and his face and neck turned red as he paced the courtyard, his finely-tailored silk robe billowing behind him.

  “How dare the scribes question me? I am the first Lord of the Council. Without us, they would still be groveling at the feet of a pimple faced, adolescent boy-King!” Gladeus turned mid-rage and noticed the small man slipping from the shadow of two pillars. Gladeus calmed somewhat, “Balin…my dear Balin, I tire of these trivialities. Why do they not just let me be?”

  Balin the rogue, expressionless as a corpse, peered out from his large cowl to ensure they were alone. “They know not the sacrifices that you make for their benefit, my Lord. Like a petulant child, they rebel against a parent. Your hand should be firm, your punishment exact. That must be the way of it.”

  Gladeus nodded. Balin always knew what to say and when. The steely-eyed little rogue had become his most trusted adviser, even if they were but hushed whispers.

  “This scribe is bold,” Balin noted after a moment of silence.

  “His ilk plague this land. They demand relief from the tax, for those who can’t pay it, or cry about their precious scripts. Although,” Gladeus said, scratching his chin, “none have been as calculating as this one. What do you know about him?

  “Brother Dalman’s family is well connected with the Royals in the southlands, New Dilith I believe, before Lord Morimer’s son became Earl.” Balin paused, “he is…complicated, difficult to read. His loyalties worry me. The Denil order holds much sway. I find him…dangerous.”

  Gladeus gathered his thoughts. “Morimer is a tricky old fool, and his son twice the snake.”

  “The Council will convene in several days. If something happened to him before then?” Balin suggested

  “No, no, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Gladeus said, glancing at Balin’s ready dagger. He found the small man nearly impossible to read, or trust, but Gladeus didn’t really trust anyone for that matter. He couldn’t deny Balin’s effectiveness, or his uncanny ability to remove irritations.

  “I caught Jenn her stealing food from your pantry again,” Balin said, interrupting Gladeus’ dark thoughts. “I followed her to her house and found it stocked well beyond her salary. I have…dealt with her.”

  Gladeus nodded, uncertain what manner of “dealt with” Balin had intended. If he hated one thing more than the trouser kissing merchants in town, it was servants indignant enough to steal from their masters, especially him.

  “She will need to be replaced, of course.”

  Balin’s eyes never left the ground, he simply nodded.

  Gladeus often wondered what the rogue was thinking. His expressions were always guarded, his coal-colored eyes offering no hint of his true feelings. Balin’s unflappable demeanor and fierce reputation had earned him infamy on the streets of Ban Turin.

  “What other news?” Gladeus asked, prodding the rogue along.

  “A messenger bird from your nephew,” Balin said, referring to Lord Tomas. “The ship returned to port, but there was a…problem.”

  “Damn, damn, Balin,” Gladeus cursed, spittle flying from his lips. “Problem? What sort of problem?”

  “The message did not say, my Lord. Perhaps he feared trusting too many details, with the constant risk of interception. Shall I deal with it myself?”

  “Yes, yes …I trust no one else to take care of it. I want to know straight away what happens. This could be disastrous, and all of that gold!” Gladeus sighed, his face already sweating. “Need to remind you of the trouble this could bring us?”

  Balin bowed. “Of course not, my Lord. There is one other thing.”

  “Well, out with it!”

  “I have it on good authority that the ship was not fully loaded.”

  “What? Tomas knows how important this is. He wouldn’t!” Gladeus sputtered.

  “Unless he was afraid to tell you, my Lord, the Treasury has been low for some time now.”

  Gladeus stomped his foot, turning on the spot and ran his hands over his face.

  “Raise the tax! Raise the tax then!” Gladeus changed directions mid-rant. “What of the Council’s mine? Can they not produce more gold and silver?”

  Balin glanced at a bird taking flight. “I think they have not enough workers, my Lord. Many have grown too sick and weak. More have died.”

  “Empty the jails. Have them arrest more if they need to,” Gladeus growled, his left eye starting to twitch. Gladeus had grown weary of skating around the tedious political pitfalls plaguing the sensitive relationships of the five ruling Lords. The Fruit of his station, his few distractions, as he called them, allowed him to endure his daily toils. After all, he was a Lord of the Council, and his province held much wealth.

  Gladeus turned to face Balin. “I am exhausted by all of this. Do you have some good news for me?”

  The rogue’s face remained buried within the shadow of his cowl. “I found her myself. I think that you will be most pleased, she has been prepared and awaits you upstairs. At your convenience, of course.”

  “Thank you, Balin, I trust you will look into our other issue with urgency and your usual level of...finality?”

  The small man tilted his head in agreement. “I will, most certainly. I will leave this hour.”

  “Very good, very good, you may go,” Gladeus said with a flick of his hand. He watched the rogue depart and only turned when the smaller man had disappeared around the corner. Despite relying on Balin, he also feared him.

  Gladeus bustled into his large home. He had been in need of a good distraction for some time now. He could feel the tension coiling the muscles of his shoulders and back into unpleasant knots. A hollow, empty rumble cascaded throughout his belly as well, reminding him that it had been too long since his last meal. Just one more problem to fix.

  He passed through an arched gateway, and into his home. The sweeping ceilings were hand painted by the finest artists in Denoril. The floors were cut from the best timbre and covered with the finest woven rugs.

  A fire burned within a massive fireplace, twice the height of a man and twice that in width. On either side of the massive fireplace hung two tapestries cut from exotic fabrics. They were Gladeus’ pride. It had taken
a dozen girls more than a full moon cycle at hard labor to sew and cross-stitch the DuChamp crest upon the massive banners. They made his chest swell with pride every time he walked past them. They were his little reminder of the power and glory of his name.

  A grey-haired old woman bustled out from one of the side doors. He eyes went to the ground as soon she noticed Gladeus.

  “Greetings my Lord,” she said. Her dress was old and threadbare, her apron was covered in the soot from a dozen fireplaces, and she looked as if she would keel over at any moment.

  “Patty, have a fresh carafe of wine and some food brought up to my suite, on the double. And I want no visitors this day, I am too tired.” Gladeus said, not bothering to stop.

  “Right away sir, right away,” the woman replied, bobbing in obedience. She scurried off in the direction of the kitchens. Gladeus walked up the sweeping staircase. He eyed the ornate decorations, scrutinizing every inch of space for dust or dirt.

  Gladeus’ ample belly jiggled as he walked, and by the time he reached his washroom splotches of perspiration showed through his silk robe.

  He had to freshen up. It was unsightly to be unclean, especially when entertaining company. Gladeus stripped bare and washed with lavender scented water. The fresh aromas were invigorating and put him in a playful mood. He toweled off and draped a clean linen robe over his shoulders.

  Gladeus refused to dress in anything not made from the finest fabrics. His store rooms held expensive garments, textiles, and Ishmandi silk. Gladeus broke many of his own laws, especially concerning trade. Laws he had imprisoned others for, some even condemned to death.

  As Gladeus wrapped himself in the fine garment, he affirmed that it was worth the risk. After all, the other Councilmen had their secret dealings too.

  They never refuse to pamper themselves, why should I? he justified.

  The large gold-inlaid doors to his chambers were closed. The robust girls carved into the thick door panels shared his opinion on modesty, as they bore their ample gifts for all to see.