by Greg Keyes
"How did you know-?"
"Oh, I can see them all now, like constellations in the sky. That's one of the particular gifts of Virgenya Dare's secret faneway."
"Then you can walk them all?"
"I tried walking one near the Witchhorn," Stephen said. "It's not enough. Take my analogy that the faneways are like constellations. Now imagine the night sky is a black board with thousands of small holes drilled in it, and the light shining through those holes from behind is the real source of the sedos power. It's not all the little holes you want to control; it's the one light behind them. What we call the Alwalder, I suppose. That's what I'm after."
"But why?"
"To save the world. To bring order and balance to its eldritch principalities."
"I thought you just said the sedos power was the source of all of our problems."
"The source and the solution. Virgenya Dare never saw that. She imagined the problem would just go away, but it was already too late. Still, she must have had an inkling. She made a shortcut for her descendants."
"What?"
"Never mind that. See, it's the lack of control and imprecise vision that's led us to where we are. If someone-one person, not two, or three, or fifty, but one-could control the source of the sedos power, one person with a clear vision, all of this could be fixed. I'm sure of it."
"And who will do this fixing? You?"
"Right," Stephen said. "Without the mistakes of last time. I think I just got frustrated back then. Ruffled some feathers."
"What are you talking about?" Fratrex Pell asked. "What other time?"
"I told you, already. Choron found himself. I found myself. Me."
"You're Choron?" Pell asked incredulously.
"Yes. Or yes and no. Like everything, it's a little complicated. See, time is a funny thing in the Not World. The man you called Choron and the man you call Stephen are each echo and source of the other, and both were always working toward the promise of the one who will rise when we find the throne. As Choron I never found it. As Stephen I will."
"Are you saying you are Choron reborn?"
"No. Imagine a plucked lute string. It vibrates side to side, a blur that appears wider than the string, and in doing so produces a tone. Let's say Stephen is the farthest reach of that vibration on the left and Choron is the farthest reach of it on the right. But it's the same string, the same tone. We're one and always have been, even before the string was plucked."
"This is a lot to ask me to take on faith."
"Oh, I don't care if you believe me. After all, you're Revesturi, always questioning. That's fine. And I won't say there wasn't some fiddling with things to bring them along. As Choron, I broke the law of death and made myself immortal, hoping to survive long enough to find the throne. Of course, my enemies found a way to destroy my body, but I already understood about my echoes in the past and future, and at some point they all understood about me, so together we managed-this. It's all really very interesting."
"So you aren't Stephen anymore."
"You really aren't listening, are you?"
The fratrex frowned. "When you talk about Choron becoming immortal, breaking the law of death, being defeated-"
"Yes!" Stephen cried. "I was wondering how long it would take you. This is every bit as much fun as I imagined it would be."
"You're the Black Jester."
"I never called myself that, you know. I think it was suppose to be a bit of an insult."
"Saints," the fratrex breathed.
"Phoodo-oglies!" Stephen breathed in imitation. "I just made that up," he confided. "They aren't real, either."
"You can't be the Black Jester and at the same time Stephen Darige," he said. "Fratir Stephen is good, incapable of the evil things the Jester did. If you are whom you claim to be, I believe you have possessed Brother Darige. Either that or you are merely Brother Stephen gone mad."
"That's disappointing," Stephen said. "You talked so fine about the intellectual purity of the Revesturi, about how your method of reasoning sets you apart from your rivals, and yet here you start with good and evil. It's sad, really. Was Choron a good man? And yet I promise you, I walked into the mountains as Choron, and a few years later I was the Black Jester. The difference is in power; him you call Stephen is merely the Black Jester without it. But at our center we are the same. Good and evil are judgments, and in this case judgments made without understanding."
"The Black Jester strapped razors on children's heels and elbows and made them fight like cocks," Fratrex Pell said.
"I told you, I was frustrated," Stephen said. "Maybe to the point of being a little mad."
"A little?"
"It doesn't matter. Things have changed, and I see the way clearly now."
"And what do you see?"
"The sedos throne is emerging again, as it never did in Choron's time. In fact, it has already emerged in a sense-the waxing of the power has reached its peak. But the complete claim of it by any one person isn't possible yet. I control a lot of it. The other Fratrex Prismo, whoever he is, also has a strong claim. The strongest is that of Anne Dare, because Virgenya left a shortcut to the power that privileges her heir-and founded a secret organization dedicated to making certain that heir would be led to it if the time ever came."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Perhaps she thought a descendant of hers would follow in her footsteps, deny the power, hide the throne for another two thousand years."
"Maybe she would."
"In the first place, that's not enough this time. The law of death is broken. The Briar King is dead, and the forests of the world are dying, and when they are dead, we will certainly follow. But do you never see? Don't you have visions?"
"Of course, at times."
"But you haven't seen what the world will become if Anne sits the sedos throne?"
"No. I've not sought such a vision, and none has come to me."
"A three-thousand-year reign of terror that makes my small epoch look like a child's party. And at the end of it, the world passes into nothingness."
Pell looked troubled but shrugged. "I have only your word for that," he said. "And visions do not necessarily come to pass."
"That's true. And that's why I'm here."
"Why?"
"Well, two reasons, really. Like the others who have walked one of the greater faneways, I can see you, at best, in a cloudy fashion."
"You just said you saw Anne."
"Only after a fashion. I can see the world she will make. Were you always this obtuse?"
"I-"
"Rhetorical question," Stephen said, waving him down. "It's you I'm talking about now. I wasn't sure who you were, how much you knew, who you are allied with. So I came to discover all of those fascinating answers."
"And the other reason?"
"To strike a bargain. You don't control enough of the sedos power to challenge Anne. Neither do I. But if I had your gifts, I would have a fair chance."
"Walk the faneway of Diuvo, then."
"It doesn't really work that way, and I think you know it. The power is finite. With minor faneways like that of Mamres or Decmanus, tens or hundreds might have gifts at once and never be diminished. But those such as we have walked are different. For me to gain strength, you must relinquish your gifts to me-a simple process that won't do you any real damage-or I can take them from you, which will unfortunately involve your discorporation."
"I can either give you, who claim to be the Black Jester, the power you need to seize the greatest power in the world or die? Are those my only two choices?"
"I'm afraid so," Stephen said apologetically.
"I see," Fratrex Pell said, brows lowering.
It wasn't a long fight, and when it was over, Stephen felt the new gifts settle under his skin. Then he called his captive demon and made it fly from the tower and for several leagues to the south. As he had expected, Pell had unleashed the same explosive power on him that he had on the waurm, and although he could p
rotect himself from that, he didn't want to risk Zemle or his faithful Aitivar.
When he came to ground, Zemle rushed to meet him.
"I heard the sound," she said. "The sky was full of strange colors. I feared the worst."
He kissed her and smiled. "I'm glad you worry about me," he said. "But here there was no need for that. This isn't where my real test will come."
"You'll win there, too," she said.
Later that night, in their tent, she seemed less certain.
"Are you sure about this?" she asked. "Is this really your task, to challenge the queen of Crotheny?"
He rolled back a bit and propped himself on his elbows. "I'm not sure I understand," he said. "We went through this back in the mountain. It was you and the Aitivar who were so convinced I was Kauron's heir, back when I believed it was mere insanity. Well, you were right. Where is this sudden doubt coming from? Are your allegiences still mixed? Do you still think Anne is a savior?"
She gave him a tentative smile. "No. I suppose it's that I never quite believed it. But I believed in the shy, smart man I met in Demsted. I thought he would find a way to help somehow."
"Am I so different?"
"No. Stronger. Bolder. All of the things you were becoming anyway, now that I look back. It just happened so quickly."
"Well, do you still believe in me?"
"Yes," she said.
"Good, then. Do you still want to help me?"
"I don't see what help I can be," she said.
He smiled. "You just said it. You believed in me. You still do. That is a strength I can always use."
"And I love you," she said.
"And I love you, too," he said.
He knew she would be a lovely queen. Or mistress, depending on how things went.
CHAPTER THREE
SIR HARRIOT'S TASK
"YOU'RE GIVING us too much," Aspar said, lashing a pack onto one of the spare horses. "You'll starve."
"No," Symen said. "Like as I won't, since I'm going with you. There's not much sense in staying at Tor Scath anymore."
"You can't be sure what the Church's army intends," Aspar said.
"That's true," Symen replied. "But even if they leave us be, what will we eat in a year? Two? And who's going to hunt here, anyway? No, I'll give you whatever I can. This world is lost, and the only thing or person in it I have any trust in is you, holter. So pack quickly, and let's be on."
Aspar nodded and resumed packing.
A moment later he heard someone cough softly behind him. It was Emfrith.
Sceat, Aspar thought. And again.
"I don't understand why we're leaving," the young man said. "This is the perfect place to keep Winna safe."
"Keeps monsters out, not men, and we'll never hold off five hundred."
"It's an army of the Church," Emfrith said.
"That's the same Church that has been hanging every other villager from here to Brogswell, yah?"
"They didn't hang anyone in Haemeth," Emfrith pointed out. "We follow the saints there."
"Good for you. But we've had some experiences to make us skittish of anyone under saintly armor. Ask Winna. It's not worth the chance. We've this one moment to escape, and here it is-werlic?"
"Raiht," Emfrith agreed, sounding reluctant. Then he sighed. "Look, why don't I just go talk to them? See what they want? If you're right and they mean no good, we can still flee. But if you're wrong, then we can stay here, where the monsters can't get in, until Winna has the baby."
"There's not enough food for five months."
"Me and my men can ride out and get some when it's needed."
"From where? The blight is moving outward."
"Yes, but we're riding straight into it."
"I thought you weren't going to question me anymore."
"That was when I thought this was the safe place you meant."
"There's a safer one," Aspar said.
"Is there?"
"Yes."
"Very well," he said after a moment. Then he walked away.
You really love her, don't you? Aspar thought. Grim, but I wish I could speak my mind.
His leg was throbbing as he mounted the horse he'd begun calling Grimla in hopes that a stout name would make the beast stronger.
They started southwest, off the Old King's Road, fording the shallows of the Little Moon River before the end of the first day, then starting up into the Walham foothills. He and Winna hadn't come this way the last time, because they had been along the Slaghish River, following the trail of the first greffyn. That had led them to Rewn Aluth and the strange, possibly dead Sefry who called herself Mother Gastya. She had sent them into the Mountains of the Hare to find a hidden valley that Aspar knew for a fact couldn't be there.
But as with so many things, he'd been wrong. The valley had been there, and the Briar King, and Fend, and for him and Winna it had all very nearly ended there, as well. But it hadn't, and Stephen had had a large hand in that.
He tried not to wonder where Stephen was, and he didn't like to talk to Winna about it, because the simple fact was that the boy was most probably dead. Even if the slinders hadn't killed him, the woorm probably had, and if not the woorm, the explosion of monastery d'Ef or one of a thousand other things. Stephen was smart and a good fellow, but surviving on his own even before the world went mad was not exactly his strongest talent.
He'd done all he could to help Stephen, hadn't he? Followed the slinders, chased the woorm. He'd found no sign whatever of the lad.
He shifted his gaze to Winna and Ehawk. At least Ehawk had found them again. It was good to know the Watau wasn't a lonely ghost wandering in the Bairghs.
The foothills rose and fell in ever-sharper undulating folds and ridges. It had always been easy to get turned around in the Walhams, but now, without the usual reference points, it was more difficult than ever to keep a true path. He could see that there had been a lot of rain in the last several months and much flooding. The invading growth didn't have the same deep roots as the natural flora, and many of the ways he knew were closed by massive mud slides. Most of the ridges had washed down to bedrock, and the valleys were filled with viscous muck.
But in those low-lying places the eldritch vegetation was very strong. It was starting to sicken, but it wasn't nearly as far gone as what he'd seen back in the Lean Gables. They had to cut their way through it in places.
They progressed very slowly. Aspar reckoned that in three days they'd managed only five leagues as the raven wings toward their destination.
And that evening, Henne, Sir Symen's tracker, turned up with bad news.
"The churchmen are boxing you in," he said. "Don't know how. It's like they know where you're going."
"Where are they exactly?" Aspar asked him.
Henne sketched a map on the ground, and when he was done, Aspar cursed Grim and ground his teeth.
I reckon Fend was telling the truth about this at least.
Because it looked like they were going to need some help.
The knight woke when Aspar's dirk pricked his neck. To his credit, he didn't scream or wet himself; in fact, he hardly flinched. His eyes registered first shock, then chagrin, and finally, as he understood he wasn't dead already, curiosity.
"That's a good man," Aspar whispered.
"You must be Holter White."
"Ah, I'm famous," Aspar replied. "But I've not your name in my word horde."
"That would be Roger Harriot. Sir Roger Harriot."
"Virgenyan?"
"Yes, from St. Clement Danes."
"But you're not just on your way home."
"Regrettably, no. I have several tasks to accomplish, and none involves returning to my home."
"And these tasks?"
"Well, one would be to bring to heel a certain renegade holter, should I run across him."
"By whose order?"
"The Fratrex Prismo of the holy Church."
"And for what reason?"
Sir Roger seemed
to wonder how to answer that for a moment. "There are many I could give," he finally replied. "But I've heard a lot about you, and I think I'll tell you the truth. My primary task isn't to find you; it's to find the valley where you first discovered the Briar King. I'm to go there and hold it against all invaders until Niro Marco sends word."
"Why?"
"I don't rightly know. I don't care. But as you seem to be going there, I thought I would best discharge my mission by stopping you here in the foothills."
"How do you even know where you're going?"
"You made a report to the praifec of Crotheny, and he dispatched scouts to find the place. It's on our maps now."
Hespero, Aspar thought darkly.
"Well," Aspar said, "I reckon you ought to turn back."
"Why? Because you've got a knife to my throat? Everything I know about you says you won't kill me."
"You don't know everything, though, do you?" Aspar asked.
"Well, we all have our secrets."
His eyes shifted the barest bit, and Aspar suddenly found himself airborne, then pinned by two fantastically strong monks.
Stupid, he thought. Was it the geos making him an idiot or just old age?
It didn't matter now. Had they caught Leshya, too?
"Are you here alone, holter?" the knight asked, answering that question.
"Yah."
"Well, I'll try to have someone keep you company, at least until we've detained your friends. Do you think they will fight? It would be foolish."
"They might not," Aspar said. "Take me there. I'll talk them out of it."
Harriot shrugged. "It doesn't make that much difference to me. Anyway, my men have already started closing. I expect this to be over before sunrise."
Aspar relaxed his muscles and sighed, then put everything he had into breaking loose from the monks.
It was like trying to snap iron bands.
"You've no chance, holter," Harriot said.
"You have to let me go," Aspar said. "You've no idea what you're doing. You said it yourself. Unless I get to that valley, everything will die."
