“Come,” Markal said. He turned his camel to the west. “We need to reach Montcrag before Cragyn does.”
Chapter Seven
The Desolation stretched on either side with only the Tothian Way to break the blighted landscape. As the sun rose, the air filled with a muggy stillness and the companions settled into an uneasy quiet. The camels plodded along; they had become lethargic in the heat. But the camels’ stamina was relentless.
They saw nobody else on the road.
Darik slept in the saddle before the heat woke him. By then, Sofiana began to droop, overcome by exhaustion herself, so he traded with her and let her sleep where she could lean into the saddlebags. Markal and Whelan rode in front, Darik and Sofiana in the rear. About once an hour, Whelan sent Scree aloft to look for pursuit. She saw none.
Darik found himself rubbing the spine of the steel tome jutting from the saddlebags. He hefted it onto his lap to look at the curious script hammered across the front leaf. The remnants of paint still clung to the low parts, red and blue. A flowering vine snaked up the side of the leading letter.
He tried to remember what he’d learned of the old script. The letters represented ideas, rather than sounds. The leading letter looked like a soth, and he thought he made out tef and ithnat. If you twisted the tail the other way, one of the letters look like kormat. The rest was gibberish.
Markal’s instructions were clear. Don’t read the book. But Darik couldn’t read it even if he’d wanted to. It had been too long, he’d paid too little attention to his lessons, and this script was an older style even than the one he’d been taught. So he doubted it would hurt to thumb through the leaves. A guilty voice in the back of his mind suggested he ask the wizard anyway, but this voice was easy to dismiss. No need to disturb the man. Markal looked half asleep anyhow, slumping in the saddle.
Darik opened the book.
The first page wasn’t writing at all, but a picture of a cloud castle. It was hammered with surprising delicacy, and the paint still hung fresh and bright. Tiny people stood in the castle towers, while a griffin launched himself from the side of the cloud, a woman riding on its back.
The picture interested Darik not so much for the artistry in the picture, but for the cut away diagram of the windmill to one side, with gears and machinery exposed. Whoever had drawn the picture knew how the giant windmills that moved the castles worked.
He turned the page to discover that the writing was on the back of the leaf, and unlike the initial page, the script flowed from right to left. Was this the way everyone had written, or just an artifact of this particular book? Beyond the page, the next page contained another picture, just as fascinating as the first. He forced himself to look back to the writing to see what else he could learn, before he simply skipped ahead. Somehow, it felt important.
“Welcome boy,” the lettering said. “A bridge of time separates us. Time and pain that you cannot understand. Your companions do not yet understand the significance of this bridge, not even the wizard, but they will. In an act of mercy, the Sky Brother built castles in the sky for the survivors of the wars, hoping that by so doing he would—”
Darik shut the book in surprise. The words had come directly from the script to his mind, as easily as if he’d read one of Graiyan’s recipes scrawled in the common tongue. But more: Did the book know who he was? The thought staggered him.
Markal shifted in the saddle and Darik hastily slid the book back into the saddlebags. He must have clanked the leaves together as he did, for the wizard turned around and fixed him with a peculiar gaze. Darik swallowed, certain Markal knew what he’d done.
“Darik? Are you ill?”
“What? Oh, no. Just hot.”
Markal watched him for another minute, then turned back around. Darik found himself sweating. And why? He’d looked at the book, but nothing had come of it. And it wasn’t going to happen again.
They reached the edge of the Desolation sometime after dusk. The first sign was a small brook running across the road. The camels spotted the water first, breaking into a great, loping gate. They stopped at the spring and took in great gulps of water.
“Springfell,” Whelan said. “We’ve crossed the Desolation.”
Indeed, the air smelled different. A breeze blew from the west, holding the promise of mountain glens and wild flowers. It mingled and clashed with the heavier air to the east.
Markal wanted to keep riding, but the camels were exhausted, and everyone needed to get off for a few hours to rest. They stripped down to loin cloths and bathed in the brook, washing road dirt and the pervasive smell of camels from their body. The water was startlingly cold.
They ate in a small clearing off the road, in the midst of some scrubby trees. Scree hunted down a rabbit and a pair of doves and they cooked this fresh meat over a small cook fire. Sofiana and Markal went to search for herbs, while Whelan cleaned his sword. Darik watched him work.
“Darik,” Whelan said, “I meant to tell you about your father.”
“My father?” Darik asked, confused.
“Yes, about your father. Both Markal and I knew, that is, we know him well.”
“You know where my father is?”
Whelan looked uncomfortable. “Well, no, but I believe he’s still alive somewhere in Veyre. Your father might have been a terrible merchant without your mother’s help, but he was an excellent spy. He brought information from Veyre to the Free Kingdoms for several years.”
“A spy?” He burned with indignation. “My father was no traitor. He loved Balsalom.”
Whelan shook his head. “Not against Balsalom, Darik. He watched the dark wizard, kept track of his comings and goings in Balsalom.”
“But he was so, so...so soft. My entire family fell into disgrace because my father was too soft to fight the moneylenders.”
“Yes, he had his failings. But I speak the truth.”
“And my mother knew about this?”
“She knew, yes, but your father carried the news. The Brotherhood and the Order had men like Markal and myself in several cities along the Way and we would sometimes help your father and other merchants like him.”
“And when my father’s property was sold?”
“Markal convinced Graiyan to send me to the slave blocks. Once there, it was a simple matter to buy the two of you and then convince the baker to keep your sister as well. When the time came for us to leave the city, we decided to bring you but leave Kaya. I’m sorry about your sister, but she’ll do better with Graiyan. With the enemies your father made amongst the merchants guild, he won’t be coming back for a long time.”
“Is this the truth?”
Whelan held out his left hand palm up and said, “I swear by the wounded hand that it is the truth.”
“Thank you.” Darik felt better, although he didn’t know what to make of the news that his father was a spy. Not a spy against Balsalom, thankfully, but a spy nonetheless.
Markal and Sofiana returned with wild carrots, leek, and radish. The wizard put the dove and rabbit meat into a stew with the vegetables and fresh water from Springfell. In a few minutes, they were eating. Whelan passed around some bread from Graiyan’s kitchen and some of Ethan’s wine to top off the meal. Darik hadn’t realized how hungry he was.
“Shh,” Markal warned unexpectedly. He dropped the bowl from his lips and listened. The others fell silent, and Whelan put a hand on Scree’s neck to steady her.
Darik heard it, too. A snuffling sound, passing through the trees to the south, further from the road and drawing slowly closer. Whelan rose to his feet and drew his sword. Darik wished he had something—anything—with which to defend himself. He searched the ground near the fire for some stick he could use as a club.
“There you are, Talebearer,” a voice said. “And you have friends, I see.”
A woman emerged from the trees, together with a large dog. She was a tall, imposing woman, with angular features and a firm mouth. A long robe cloaked her, tied with a red
cord about her waist. Darik thought her a young woman at first glance, perhaps Whelan’s age, but when she stepped closer to the fire, he got a second look and reconsidered. A slight clouding in her eyes made her look much older.
The dog was a rangy beast of indeterminate breed, sniffing loudly at the ground. When it saw Markal, the dog hurried from the woman’s side, investigating the stew on the fire and the companions in turn. It was one of those overly friendly dogs that think a wet nose in the crotch is a good greeting. Darik pushed its head away and scratched its ears.
“Nathaliey,” Markal said, holding out his hand, palm facing up. The woman put her hand on his.
“Well met, Markal,” she said, removing her hand. She nodded to Whelan. “Captain.”
Markal said, “You’ve met Whelan’s daughter, Sofiana. This is Darik, from Balsalom.” He turned to Darik. “This is Nathaliey Liltige, from the Order of the Wounded Hand.”
Nathaliey’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized Darik. Then she turned to the dog, snuffling over the pot of stew again, and said in an exasperated voice, “Don’t do that.”
“He can eat some,” Markal said. “The poor beast looks half starved.” He smiled. “I didn’t know you’d taken a pet.”
“That’s not a pet!” she protested. “That’s Narud.”
“Narud?” Markal asked with a laugh.
“A sparrow said he saw you west of Balsalom, and Narud turned himself into a dog to track you. Knowing Narud, he might stay a dog for weeks.”
Darik frowned, confused. Whelan leaned over to explain. “A wizard.” He touched his thumb to his forehead in the Balsalomian way, indicating someone who was eccentric or maybe a little bit touched.
“I have news for you this time, Talebearer,” Nathaliey told Markal. “King Daniel is ill.”
All three of Darik’s companions looked concerned by this news. “What is the matter with him?” Markal asked.
She shook her head. “Nobody knows. He grows weaker every day. Chantmer thinks it is poisoning, but I see no evidence.” Her voice tensed slightly when she spoke Chantmer’s name. “I guess sorcery, but Chantmer dismisses all theories but his own. He’s sent away most of the Brotherhood, the Knights Temperate, anyway, together with the Order, to search for obscure roots and gather physics from the khalifates where they know something more of poisons.”
“Ah, Chantmer the Tall,” Markal said. “He is always right, isn’t he?” He shrugged, as if this were no concern. “I’ll look at the king when I reach Eriscoba. But tell me, are all of the knights away from Arvada?”
“I saw others from the Brotherhood in the city, but not a single Knight Temperate within ten miles of Arvada. It’s more than Chantmer’s quest. The Brotherhood remains divided. There are reports of fighting in their numbers.”
Whelan said, “Fighting? Surely you are mistaken.”
Nathaliey said, “I am not mistaken, my friend. A few weeks ago a score of Knights grew so disgusted with the continued division that they renounced their vows and rode south, swearing they would leave Eriscoba and never return.”
“What?” Whelan cried. “Are you certain?”
“Enough of this.” Markal changed subjects in that abrupt way of his. “I also have news for you, Nathaliey.”
A half smile played at her lips. “Of course you would.”
“It is a constant struggle to maintain my reputation as the bearer of ill tidings, but I do my best.”
Markal shared what had happened with the Veyrian army at Balsalom, news that alarmed Nathaliey. He said, “So be careful. Any roads to the east are dangerous.”
“Thank you for the warning. In that case, our way will be slow. We’d best leave. Chantmer sent us to find Prince Ethan and secret him back to Eriscoba.” She turned and whistled for the dog and the two of them disappeared into the darkness, traveling east.
Whelan said, “I don’t care for Nathaliey’s tidings.” He had calmed considerably, as Markal had no doubt intended when he’d changed the subject.
Markal shook his head. “No. The news disturbs me. We need a healthy king and a united Brotherhood.”
“I didn’t think the Free Kingdoms had a single king,” Darik said. His father had been to Eriscoba several times, but he knew little about how the Free Kingdoms ran their affairs.
“Daniel’s only the king of Arvada, in truth,” Markal said, “but the other lords trust his word, and he’s spread the wealth of his kingdom throughout Eriscoba. Musicians, poets, blacksmiths, tinkers, and farmers have all prospered under his hand. His influence is as great as the High Khalif of Veyre is to the khalifates, I assure you.”
“Come,” Whelan said. “Let’s get some sleep. Wizard, will you keep the first watch?”
After a few hours rest, they broke camp and Markal spurred them on again. Sunrise came but still they traveled. The terrain changed. The land grew hilly and greener. Trees, mostly oak and maple, shaded the ground, replacing the grass. Further ahead, the trees turned to pine. Sometimes the trees grew right up to the road. The mountains rose like ragged teeth on the horizon, with snow crowning the tallest peaks.
Scree came squawking to Whelan’s arm from one of her scouting flights. They immediately moved the camels from the road to the trees. Darik and Markal crept back to the road to watch. By now, the man’s left hand had mostly healed, and while his right hand was still weak, he could use it. It comforted Darik to know the wizard had regained his magic.
Soldiers shortly came up the road. Twenty men on horseback led the group, lightly armed with spears and leather armor. Behind, several wagons, pulled by teams of horses. From the way the horses strained, the wagons carried heavy loads.
Markal said, “I wonder—” He shook his head. “No, we haven’t got time. And there aren’t enough to threaten Montcrag. But for how long?”
Whelan sent Scree aloft to search for more soldiers before they returned to the road. The falcon raised no alarm this time, but they proceeded with caution nevertheless.
By now, other roads branched from the Way, leading to freeholds and towns. They passed a man with a handcart and later, a boy herding goats by the side of the road. Darik guessed that much of the risk had disappeared. They stopped in a small village that afternoon, where Whelan sold the camels and bought four horses, figuring they would be better suited for mountain travel. They changed their robes and tunics for jerkins and trousers and boots. Whelan put away his sword and kept Scree covered.
Darik wasn’t as comfortable with a horse as a camel, and the young gelding he rode was more spirited than he’d hoped. He made sure the Tome, as he’d began to think of it, lay in his own saddlebags.
The horses were well rested and made better time than the flagging camels. They left the village and started the long climb into the mountains. Several Veyrian soldiers rode past late in the afternoon, but ignored the companions. Too much traffic used the road this close to the village to draw attention.
They stopped for the night at the foot of the mountain canyon through which the Tothian Way climbed. In the morning they set out again. The air was crisp with a hint of autumn in the air. The seasons changed earlier in the mountains.
A ravine dropped on the right side of the Way, through which a small brook churned. Springfell, Whelan confirmed, the same brook which later flowed across the road itself. The road snaked back and forth as it climbed next to the ravine. Mountains loomed on either side, although they were only a hint of what they’d see later, the others told Darik.
“Look!” Sofiana cried as they rounded a bend.
“Montcrag,” Markal said.
A small castle sat perched against the side of the mountain, as if carved from the rock itself. Indeed, its cool gray colors matched the stone that marked bare spots here and there against the pine trees that carpeted the mountain. If Sofiana hadn’t pointed it out, Darik might not have seen it at all.
The castle disappeared from view a few minutes later as the road passed through a copse of pine. A small road climbed up th
e hillside from the Way, but Darik would have paid it no attention had he missed the castle.
“Something is wrong,” Markal said. They stopped at the foot of the road.
Whelan nodded. “By now, Hoffan’s men would have spotted us from the Eagle Tower and sent someone to collect a toll.”
Darik nodded. His father had paid tolls to several petty lords through the mountains. In return, these men kept the Way free of highwaymen. Father sometimes argued that these lords amounted to little more than bandits themselves, but Darik’s mother reasoned that it was better to know who robbed you and how much they’d extract.
“Could Montcrag have fallen already?” Whelan asked Markal, but then shook his head in answer to his own question. “Too few troops have come this way yet.”
Markal said, “Where did all those riders go? Surely they won’t leave Montcrag alone. One way to find out.”
They left the Tothian Way, making their way through the trees. The smaller road was a marked contrast to the Way. Weeds sprouted from the packed dirt, and deep ruts marred the surface. The horses picked their way gingerly along the edge of the road. At last they emerged from the trees and got a better view of Montcrag.
Three towers rose on the edge of the castle, providing an excellent view of the canyon and the valley below. The road winding its way to the castle was steep, narrow and exposed. Any attackers would have to throw themselves at the towers or scale forty foot rock walls. A grassy slope rose behind the castle as an alternative to a frontal assault, but it had to be difficult to circle the castle from over the mountain.
Sheep grazed the hillside beyond the castle, tended by a dog and a boy with a stick. Two men sat in the tallest tower—the Eagle Tower—watching. No flag waved from its height, leaving Darik to wonder who held the castle.
They approached the front gates, heavy iron-bound doors in a space carved between the rock cliff. Above the doors, the castle proper began, with arrow loops and peep windows spacing the stone. Writing had been carved into the stones on either side of the door, although time had worn some of these smooth. Markal studied the writing while Whelan dismounted and approached the door. He pounded his fist against the door.
The Dark Citadel Page 12
