Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms

by Bevan McGuiness

  He began after they had eaten and spoken the ritual words.

  ‘Now, to business,’ Huenu said. ‘You wish a Seeing from my Mertian as payment for your help in certain matters. Is that true?’

  Keshik lowered his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘That can be arranged, and I am content with your fee.’

  ‘When can I meet her?’ Keshik asked.

  ‘Right now. When Panxo brought me your message, I set about preparing her. She should be ready by now.’

  Keshik rose. ‘Good.’

  Huenu and Maida also stood. Huenu led them out the door. Panxo and the guard were waiting and followed them down another corridor and into a courtyard, dusted with snow, where a few sad, dead-looking trees and withered bushes marked a garden which might once have adorned the grey starkness. Huenu walked straight across the simple stone path towards a building that stood in the centre of the courtyard. He pushed open the single wooden door and strode in, followed by the others.

  Maida stopped, frozen to the spot, when she saw the woman chained to the far wall.

  Her hair was long and matted, her clothes mere rags. A fire burned in the single room to keep the icy chill at bay, but still the room was bare and harsh. The chain that restrained the woman was wrapped around her waist, leaving her arms and feet free, but where the cruel metal met flesh there was blood and the putrescence of old, unhealed wounds.

  The Mertian woman looked up with eyes that glinted in madness and reflected the firelight, giving her an unearthly, eerie aspect. When she saw Huenu, she shrieked and cowered away, as if trying to force herself into the wall.

  Keshik turned away from the woman to stare at Huenu. ‘You were wise to complete our agreement before showing me this,’ he hissed. ‘For otherwise I would kill you where you stood.’

  Huenu stepped back as if he had been struck. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You cannot treat a woman like this!’ Keshik said. His hands were gripping the hilts of his swords.

  ‘But it is not a woman,’ Huenu protested. ‘It is only a Mertian female. It is scarcely human!’

  ‘More human than you,’ Maida snapped. Taking her lead from Keshik’s anger, she crossed the floor and kneeled by the Mertian woman. The characteristic smell of daven weed hovered about her like a fog. Maida pushed the hair away from the woman’s face to reveal old bruises and scars from extended mistreatment. She looked back to Huenu. ‘Even from the point of view of a business investment, you are an idiot. By treating her like this, you risk killing her. Do you have any idea how much she would be worth to the Acolytes?’

  Huenu had the decency to look away at Maida’s words. ‘That is a problem,’ he muttered.

  ‘You took her from the Acolytes?’ Kashik asked.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And no one else will pay the same kind of money for her?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘They have spread her description and no one will buy her.’

  Keshik laughed. ‘You are still an idiot. I could sell her in a day for three times what the Acolytes would ever pay.’

  ‘But you are not going to, are you?’ Huenu said.

  Keshik shook his head. ‘I am here for a Seeing.’ He sniffed ostentatiously. ‘And I would say she’s just about ready.’

  As if in response to Keshik’s words, the woman shrieked. Her eyes snapped open and her head came up. She stared blankly at Keshik.

  ‘You,’ she said in a deep, throaty voice. ‘You stand here, but you live there.’ She stabbed the air with a twisted finger, gesturing south. ‘The Dark rises twice. The scarred man runs scared, his woman rushes to meet him, but no one knows who they are or what they have done. It rises beyond the Dark; the Dark comes once more. The deep is torn, the sacred prison lies asunder, but the sorcerer seeks anew. You, Master of the Blade, you stand here. You stand here armed and all the Dark cowers at your behest but you will falter. The scarred man is your destiny and your fate. You are worthy — the scarred man is worthy.’ She spoke it all in a breathless rush, the words tumbling out in a torrent.

  With a deep, shuddering breath, she continued: ‘The Seeing one will seek you, she will shun her destiny. The unseeing ruler will ask but the scarred man will answer. You stand here, you stand, the scarred man answers. All teeters. The woman will speak, the Dark will tremble, but you will falter. The light at the end of the world. Aposmenos might speak, it might laugh, it will lead. You will follow. The light at the end of the world. The end of days, the Twice Struck, the sorcerous blade. It comes to tear at the second prisoner and the Twice

  Struck, the Blade Master will laugh without knowledge. All teeters before the two … the scarred man.’

  The woman shifted her gaze to stare at Maida. ‘Maida,’ she said.

  At her name, Maida started to rise, but the chained woman gripped her arm with preternatural strength.

  ‘Maida, beware the scarred man. He is not your destiny, but he is your fate.’

  The oracle closed her eyes and slumped. Her breathing came in ragged gasps and her hand slid limply from Maida’s arm to the floor. Maida stood up and stepped back quickly. Her eyes found Keshik, but the Swordmaster was staring at the Mertian woman, his face impassive.

  The silent tableau persisted until Keshik turned to face Huenu.

  ‘If you keep her in better conditions and keep her healthy, when I return after finishing your business in Vogel, I will find you a buyer for her.’

  ‘My thanks, Swordmaster. And now shall we return inside to discuss my business?’

  ‘Lead on.’

  11

  By the fourth day, Myrrhini could only walk slowly as she leaned on Onaven.

  By the fifth she could not remember her own name.

  On the sixth day she collapsed, unconscious, during the Ritual of the Five Wastes and had to be dragged inside before frostbite could set in. During the Ritual of the Naphthon, the julle caught her as she collapsed into Onaven’s arms and escaped. It inflicted several nasty injuries on a number of unwary members of the Belly before the Arms could subdue it.

  On the seventh day, Myrrhini started to lose her mind. She saw hallucinations, wild images of strange dark-skinned men and a looming presence hovering over her. Often, as she staggered from place to place, she twitched in alarm when things unseen by others approached her. She muttered in a low, grunting voice words that Onaven did not recognise.

  The eighth day nearly killed her as she tripped over the pit in the maze of the Ritual of the Naphthon. She only survived by drinking the vial and spitting some of the daven juice into the julle’s slavering jaws. It ran, yelping and howling as its mind was torn apart by the poison.

  The ninth day of the Ritual of Kantele dawned bright and clear. Onaven pushed open Myrrhini’s door, expecting to have to lift her charge out of bed and dress her as she had on the previous four days. To her amazement, Myrrhini was seated on the edge of her bed, fully dressed and smiling.

  ‘My, my,’ Onaven said. ‘Look at you, Myrri.’

  ‘Yach te frande,’ Myrrhini said calmly. ‘Rrachtne te wacht na draghyan.’

  Onaven stopped in her tracks. ‘What?’ she said. ‘Tcthlachen regna syung arjun,’ Myrrhini said, as if explaining something.

  ‘Well, come along then,’ Onaven said. ‘Let’s get the ritual finished.’

  ‘Jthag,’ Myrrhini said, rising to her feet. Once in the Chamber of Kalev, Myrrhini sat comfortably, her mind crystal clear, the past days a faded blur. The flashing lights seemed welcoming, almost comforting. When the murmuring started, she was unsurprised to understand it.

  The voices spoke in words, but the words made no sense. Snatches of sentences, flickers of conversations danced past her, tantalising in their brevity, disconcerting in their mundane content. She heard mentions of the weather, gossip, idle chatting about idle things.

  ‘… fine today …’

  ‘… what she wore …’

  ‘… biggest I’ve seen …’

  ‘… claw …’

/>   ‘… julle track …’

  ‘… trace of snow …’

  ‘THE REVENANT HAS RISEN. HIS BEQ COMES BEFORE HIM.’

  The booming voice cut across the murmurs, leaving them silent in its wake. Myrrhini sat up in shock. This voice was neither indistinct nor nonsensical. It was bold, clear and somehow directed at her. She looked around, wondering if there was someone else in the chamber with her. But there wasn’t — there couldn’t be.

  ‘What is the Revenant?’ she asked.

  ‘WAIT,’ the voice replied.

  ‘Wait for what?’

  ‘HIS BEQ.’

  ‘What is a Beq?’

  ‘WHO, NOT WHAT.’

  ‘Who is his Beq?’

  ‘WAIT.’

  The lights blinked out, plunging her abruptly into total darkness. In the silence, Myrrhini saw a faint glow forming near the door. It grew from a mere pinpoint, taking shape, forming into a wheel. No, not a wheel, not a full wheel, but a wheel without a rim; three curved spokes radiating out from a central hub. When it was about the same size as her head it started to spin, whirling faster and faster until it was a blur, then it too blinked out.

  The circular door rattled and fell open. The sudden burst of light made Myrrhini blink and cover her eyes and when she removed her hand, she saw Onaven leaning over, peering in.

  ‘Myrrhini,’ she asked. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I am fine, Onaven,’ Myrrhini replied, but again her Bane did not seem to understand her.

  ‘I think it is time to move on,’ Myrrhini said.

  Outside, Myrrhini stood staring up at the sky. It was a clear, crisp night, but she did not feel the cold this time. She stared at the velvet dark, wondering how long she had spent in the Chamber of Kalev, but when she saw the stars start to move, such mundane thoughts left her. The constellation of the Claw shifted.

  I have not had the daven yet. Is this real?

  It cannot be real. But the stars are moving.

  The stars shifted until they formed the same three-spoked wheel she had seen in the Chamber of Kalev. What did it mean?

  Myrrhini stood motionless until Onaven opened the door and stepped hurriedly out onto the snow-covered ground, putting her arm around Myrrhini’s shoulders.

  ‘Can you see the stars, Onaven?’ Myrrhini asked, pointing upwards. ‘Should they be doing that?’

  But again, Onaven did not answer, ushering her towards the door.

  ‘Stop it, Onaven!’ Myrrhini commanded, but her Bane, true to her title, ignored her and all but shoved her inside. Once in the warm again, Onaven wrapped Myrrhini in her heavy cloak and hurried her along to the maze.

  At the final door, Myrrhini pushed Onaven away, frustrated with her solicitations. She shouldered open the door to the Maze of the Naphthon and stepped inside. The total dark greeted her once more, except this time it felt warm and welcoming. Myrrhini bowed her head and closed her eyes, drinking in the silent inky blackness. When she raised her head, her eyes still closed, she could see.

  The maze greeted her, illuminated by a soft silver glow. All over the walls, walls she had only ever felt, she could see intricate carvings. Stylised scenes of battle, of hunting, of domestic life in domed tents. Women wove while men hunted; children, wrapped warmly against the cold, played among snowdrifts. Dotted here and there were other markings. She felt they should be words, but if they were a language it was one she had never seen, never even heard of. A strange, dreamy lassitude swept over her, leaving her feeling light, unattached, oddly happy.

  A low growl alerted her to the presence of the julle.

  Myrrhini looked down to see the juvenile beast near her feet, snarling up at her. She saw it in the silver glow and for the first time, she found the vicious predator pleasing to her eye.

  ‘Hello, little julle,’ she said. ‘I do not feel like playing today. Leave me alone.’

  The julle stopped growling and sat at her feet, its mouth closed and its head tilted to one side as it gave a sound not unlike a quizzical whine.

  ‘Where is the vial today, little julle?’ Myrrhini asked, unaware of any oddness in her question.

  The julle rose and trotted away. Myrrhini watched it, bemused, but still light-headed and wistfully dreamy. After a short time, the julle trotted back with the vial gripped in its teeth.

  ‘Thank you,’ Myrrhini said. She stooped to take the vial, opened it, drained its contents and dropped the key into her palm.

  ‘Time to go, little julle,’ she said.

  It was only when she was walking back to her room that she noticed the look on Onaven’s face.

  ‘What is it?’ Myrrhini asked.

  ‘Oh, thank the Key,’ Onaven gushed. ‘You can speak again.’

  ‘Of course I can speak, Bane. What are you going on about?’

  ‘All day, you have not been speaking properly, just grunting in some strange language.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Myrrhini snapped. ‘Now what is the matter?’

  Onaven pointed down to Myrrhini’s feet. Myrrhini followed the gesture to see the little julle trotting beside her.

  ‘Hello, fraghtna keiy,’ Myrrhini said, then stopped. ‘What did I say?’

  Onaven shrugged. ‘As I said, Myrri, that’s the kind of thing you’ve been saying all day.’

  Myrrhini put her hand to her forehead. ‘It means “little julle",’ she said slowly. ‘How do I know that?’

  The daven hit her like a hammer, the powerful narcotic slamming into her mind, sending her to her knees. The julle whined and licked her hand.

  ‘I must see the Key Wielder. Now!’ Myrrhini cried out. A powerful vision of a vast, dark presence rising over a distant city swept across her mind. ‘He comes!’

  Myrrhini tried to stride through the Place of the Acolytes with dignity, but the daven robbed her of her balance. So instead, she staggered drunkenly towards the great audience chamber that lay in the centre of the large circular structure. When she reached the door, she spat a word she did not know and the doors whisked open before her.

  Joukahainen was seated on his throne, apparently unperturbed by her entrance. He regarded her with a quizzically raised eyebrow.

  ‘Nine days was right,’ he murmured.

  Myrrhini shrugged off Onaven’s helping hands and slipped her robe off her shoulders. She made her unsteady way up to the throne and finally lost all strength in her legs as she dropped to the floor.

  ‘A Seeing,’ she rasped. ‘It comes.’

  Joukahainen nodded and lowered his eyes to regard her. ‘Tell me,’ he instructed.

  Myrrhini forced herself up onto her elbows and stared into the dark, emotionless eyes of the Wielder of the Key. Words would not come. She tried to force herself to speak, but only low groans escaped her lips. With her last vestige of strength, she raised her left hand to Joukahainen before collapsing.

  Again, when Myrrhini closed her eyes, the world came alive with the ghostly silver glow. The dreamy trance-like wistfulness washed over her again and she felt herself rise from the floor. She looked down and saw her body prostrate before the Wielder. It rose to a crouch as she watched and her head snapped back to look up at the ceiling. Myrrhini felt unmoved as she saw her own eyesblank and lifeless. Her mouth started moving, uttering words in a harsh, guttural language. The words flowed like a river while Joukahainen listened intently.

  Does he know that language? How can he know that language?

  Her attention was diverted by the sense of something else, something dark and dangerous looming far to the south. She allowed herself to be taken by the vision and rose quickly out of the audience chamber, high above the Place of the Acolytes. She looked down briefly at the circular structure, noting its construction — a three-spoked wheel set in the wild northern forest.

  She looked away from the Place of the Acolytes, turned to the south and watched a darkness grow out of a city. A thing of malevolence burst from the ground, roaring its defiance. Its arms reached out to encompass the entire city, setting
it to flames. Sounds of battle rose to her ears — screams, dying, the clash of weapons — but above it all was the insane laughter of this creature of chaos and hunger. Inexorably, like ripples on a pond, the darkness spread out of the city to engulf the whole world, plunging it into despair and chaos.

  Except … Myrrhini’s eye was caught by a flash of light, a flicker of something, deep within the dark.

  There. A glimmer of silver. A man, surrounded by a small, so very small, circle of peace.

  Hope filled her as she willed herself down into the maelstrom to regard this mote, this splinter of safety.

  The man, disfigured so cruelly with the mark of the chaos now spreading all around him, stared back at her. She gazed at him, memorising his every detail. Her examination took in the brutal scarring, the chains on his wrists and ankles, his sadness, his confusion, his hatred. Myrrhini knew what she was seeing was not his face, but his character, his person. His scars were not necessarily physical, but deeply felt. If she ever met him, she would know him only by his actions.

  All around him was a softly glowing circle of peace, of sanctuary, in a world of despair. He fought with desperation and skill and gradually won ground, but he was alone. Without help, he would fall and all would be lost.

  A stab of pain shot through her and she realised her body was nearing the end of its daven-driven strength. Myrrhini snatched her awareness away and forced herself back into her body as it slipped into unconsciousness on the cold mosaic floor before the Wielder of the Key.

  The last thing she saw, or thought she saw before she lapsed completely, was a shaft of power — blacker than night — that shot into the sky from somewhere within the chaos. Her mind was too numbed to pay it any heed and Myrrhini, Eye of Varuun, collapsed.

  12

  Slave had a room. Not a cell, a room. It had a bed, a chair and a door that he could open whenever he wanted. On the bed was a blanket. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the wall, lost in thought.