Lady Of Regret (Book 2)

by James A. West

  “You suspect he came here for another reason?”

  “Indeed,” Jathen laughed. “He came, so he said, to expand his knowledge of the illusory arts. Sad, really, for such a talented man to seek knowledge for such base purpose.”

  Fira snorted. “Coin, be it gold, silver, or copper, has its uses, and not all corrupt or belittling.”

  “Just so,” Jathen agreed. “But the desire for it has led many to follow paths better avoided. We of the Way of Knowing believe knowledge, in all its many forms, is the only truly enduring currency.”

  “Before my father departed Skalos,” Nesaea interjected, uninterested in philosophical debates, “did he find what he was seeking?”

  “I could not say,” Jathen said absently.

  Nesaea studied him. Most of the other monks she had seen since entering the mountain citadel wore coarse habits, as one would expect from a thoroughly enlightened order. Brother Jathen wore the finest mail and boiled leather, and the cut of his ermine-lined green wool cloak would please any highborn. There was nothing austere about him, nor monkish. Not in the least.

  “Can you tell me where my father went?”

  “But of course,” Jathen answered, turning just enough to reveal the strong line of his jaw and a winning, if somewhat brittle, smile. “I’ve a detailed map in my chambers. Not only can I show you where he went, I can direct you to the safest path to follow. I hope you find him, for I would very much like to see Sytheus again.”

  Nothing in his tone suggested his desire to see Sytheus had anything to do with friendship. Nor did he sound antagonistic. He sounded impatient.

  “If you know where he is,” she said, “then why have you not sought him yourself?”

  “Alas, all men are given but a few short years to walk the world. Were I to run every errand myself, I would have little time for the further advancement of my studies.”

  “And what do you study?” Fira asked. “By all accounts, it’s not finances.”

  Jathen absorbed the barb with another flash of teeth. “The Way of Knowing has many paths. For myself, I chose warfare. Philosophy, mysticism, healing and the like, all have their place in Skalos, but I’m a simpler man. For me, the highest truth comes in devising fine tactics, and employing good sharp steel.”

  “A blade in the guts does not lie,” Fira agreed.

  Jathen spun. “Gods be blessed, a woman after my own heart!” He brushed golden curls behind his ear, fixing eager blue eyes on her. “You must return to Skalos after you are finished hunting Sytheus.” He gaze took on a light Nesaea had seen many times. It had nothing to do with the study of battlefield strategy, but rather that of the bedchamber. “Perchance, we could share notions of close fighting, or maybe even spar? Word comes even to Skalos of the Maidens of the Lyre, and their ability on the field of battle.”

  “Perchance,” Fira said sweetly, smiling in a way that told Nesaea she would rather poke a white-hot needle into her eye, than share anything with good Brother Jathen.

  Seeing desire where there was none, Jathen flashed another glorious smile, and spun on his heel. He whistled a marching tune as he led them into a majestic chamber that drew a gasp from Fira. Nesaea shared her awe. She had seen palaces that could have fit beneath the domed ceiling. While scores of monks bustled across the circular floor, every inch of its mosaicked surface polished to a low gleam, many more of the studious brothers strode the galleries spiraling a hundred paces above, the highest fading into hazed obscurity.

  Jathen smirked at the overwhelmed quiet of his guests. No doubt he believed they were unsophisticated wenches fresh off the farm, and easily impressed.

  He turned down another passage, and Nesaea saw a broad fellow dressed as a monk, but who struck her as familiar. Something about his bald head, the set of his massive shoulders…. Before she could put a finger on how she might know him, the man passed through a doorway.

  Fira was looking that way too, brow creased with curiosity. She shook herself and focused on Jathen, who had halted at a wooden door banded in iron.

  “Please,” he said, ushering them into a lavish chamber. Swords with blades of gold and silver shared space on the walls with ostentatious shields of every size and shape. Daggers, spears, and bows were displayed in wood and glass cases about the room. In the center of it all stood a colossal table. Its entire top displayed a map of many lands that Nesaea knew, and far more that she did not.

  She was tracing a finger over unfamiliar names when Jathen joined them. He unrolled a second map, this one smaller, and pinned its corners to the tabletop.

  “Skalos is here,” he said, pointing it out as if they could have missed the red script against so much black. The Gyntors spread east and west from the citadel. His finger wandered through the Tanglewood forest, and halted at a place named Ravenhold. “Your father was going here, though we advised against it.”

  “Why?”

  Jathen shrugged. “After a fortnight of diligent study in the lower libraries—the very oldest in Skalos—he stated a pressing need to visit Ravenhold. As I’ve told you, he never returned.”

  “I meant,” Nesaea said evenly, “why did you advise him to avoid Ravenhold?”

  Jathen fingered his square chin, eyes lidded. “Ravenhold is a mighty fortress, and was once the jewel of the Iron Marches. What was once the most powerful seat of House Akarlen, is now a place cursed. Or so say the folk hereabout. I do know for certain that many years have passed since travelers and traders bothered venturing there.”

  “Cursed?”

  Jathen moved to a wooden stand displaying a silver helm encrusted with a king’s wealth of twinkling rubies. He brushed a thumb over one egg-shaped stone set in the crown. It was half as large as Nesaea’s palm. “No one knows for certain what happened at Ravenhold, only that it is now avoided.” Nesaea sensed that he was holding something back.

  “I would think such a jewel would find fairer treatment than abandonment,” Fira said.

  Nesaea added, “And I would think you brothers of the Way of Knowing, what with wanting to know so much about every possible thing, would be a touch more curious.”

  Jathen turned, flashing his most engaging smile. “As I told you before, time is fleeting. I expect the day will come when one brother or another decides to turn his mind and skills to solving the mystery of Ravenhold. Such a day has not yet come. Perhaps, should you decide to return, you could give a report?”

  Nesaea mulled that. To be sure, danger awaited her and Fira, whether or not Jathen wanted to disclose the face of that danger. She needed to know nothing more. “Tell me the best route to Ravenhold.”

  “You would go there, despite my warning?” he asked, intrigued.

  “Yes.”

  A shadow of regret passed over Jathen’s face, or it might have been her imagination. He returned to the map, and began explaining landmarks, roads, and trails. The warrior monk finished by saying, “Best avoid Wyvernmoor. Folk there are simple-minded fools, all. And, like as not, they would try bedding you fair ladies quick as they would their sisters, or even goats. Besides their vile proclivities, they are untrusting of strangers.”

  Again, Nesaea sensed that Jathen was hiding something beneath his repulsive opinions, but could not guess why or what. She scanned the map. “I see no reason to come within three leagues of the village. However, we will need supplies.”

  “And you shall have them,” Jathen said, turning away. He cracked open the door and called out. A moment later, another monk appeared, this one old, gray, and properly attired in a brown habit. Jathen spoke quietly to the man, then faced the women.

  “Brother Thanis will see to all your needs.” Before Nesaea could ask, he added, “The only recompense I seek is to see you happily reunited with your father.” He paused. “If you should happen to find Sytheus, do bring him back to Skalos. There is a rather delicate matter we must discuss, he and I.” Nesaea got the feeling he never expected to see her or Sytheus again.

  “I will do as you ask,” Nesae
a said, keeping close her thoughts about Jathen, and what he might or might not be hiding. She was not eager to get back into the saddle so soon after climbing out, but a sore backside was better than spending anymore time in Skalos. Especially in the presence of Brother Jathen.

  “Now, if you will excuse me,” Jathen said. “I’ve matters of the utmost urgency to attend to.”

  With that, he hurried them from the chamber. The door boomed shut at their backs. Then Thanis was bustling them down a passageway, prattling on about supplies, the weather, the history of Skalos, anything to keep them from broaching the subject of Jathen’s abrupt dismissal.

  Chapter 19

  “You seem to be mending quite nicely,” Brother Jathen said across the table, his hard jaw flexing just enough to accommodate a wide smile. With his agate-blue eyes and head of golden curls, he looked a girl’s fantasy. A fool girl, Rathe considered, with not the wits the gods gave a slug.

  “Thanks to you,” Rathe said, keeping his thoughts close. Far as looks went, the way he felt right then, an eyeless harridan would pass him over for a warty toad. He counted that a fair bargain, given he was alive.

  Jathen sat back in his chair to study Rathe over steepled fingers. He did not look like any monk Rathe had ever encountered, but instead a wealthy warlord in mail and boiled leather armor, its breastplate emblazoned with a silver eye wreathed with entwined wings. Ermine lined his green woolen cloak, and a beaten gold brooch fastened it round his thick neck.

  Rathe drank spiced wine from an unadorned pewter goblet. The flavor was bitter and dry. He was sure the spices were healing herbs, and while the drink was awful, it cut the taste of ashes from his mouth. That was something left over, Jathen had assured him, from the effects of the fire mage’s spell.

  He filled his mouth once more, and set the goblet down with a hand that no longer shook. Jathen promptly refilled the goblet from an earthenware flagon. Rathe nodded his thanks, but abstained from further drink. After so many days lost to delirium, he wanted his mind clear.

  Loro had told him they had been at Skalos ten days. Rathe could only remember the last three, and those were dreamlike. Soon after Durogg had touched him with that damnable staff, Rathe’s mind and body had filled with devouring fires and unshrinking agony. Loro told of the headlong gallop through the Gyntors, of tossing Rathe into iced rivers along the way to cool his burning flesh, and of finally getting to the mountaintop citadel. At the end, Loro struck a bargain with Jathen, in return for his aid in healing Rathe.

  Doubtless, he will come round to prices, Rathe thought now, returning Jathen’s scrutiny. He was more than willing to force the monk to ask. To his mind, demanding terms over a dying man seemed a profane custom, and scarcely worthy of thanks.

  “I expect you’ll be up and about in short order,” Jathen said, breaking the silence.

  “I expect you’re right,” Rathe answered, not sure he agreed. It had taken a fair bit of strength to climb from the modest bed pushed against one wall, and more to hobble across the stark chamber to reach the plain table. Just sitting brought an ache to his bones, and a weariness to his muscles.

  “You don’t have the look of a monk,” Rathe said abruptly. Before he agreed to any prices, he needed to learn all he could of his benefactors. He vaguely remembered Horge mentioning the monks. What he recalled was not flattering.

  “The Way of Knowing has many paths,” Jathen said in a self-important tone. “In my youth, I chose the path of war—rather, it was chosen for me.”

  Rathe nodded understanding. “A sword hilt replaced the hoe in my hand during my tenth spring. In the twelve odd years since, that sword has become my bride. I would be a liar to say she does not fit me better.”

  “Did the weapon fit so well, I wonder, or did you wish it to?”

  “I suspect a little of both,” Rathe admitted. “I’ve heard bards and highborn wax poetic about the joys of a crofter’s simple life. I have yet to see one of them sweating over a field of wormy cabbages, or mucking horseshit, or tending sheep. I’ve often wondered if a noble or a poet would sing those same praises, if forced to wash their arses with stinking water drawn from the same trough that serves oxen?”

  Jathen threw his head back and roared laughter. “Well said. Well said indeed!”

  Rathe’s lips twitched toward a wry grin. After Jathen went still, he asked, “Do you regret your choice?”

  “No,” the monk said, leaning forward. “But I sense you do.”

  “Only a fool would deny that regret lives in the heart of every warrior,” Rathe said, thinking of his time leading raids against undefended villages deep within the borders of Qairennor. The things he had done at the behest of his former king still woke him from troubled sleep, but not near as often as they once had. He had been a solider then, trained to carry out orders. When those orders became too much to bear, he had defied them. And now, here he was, a hunted, shiftless man. It could be worse, but he was not sure how.

  “Young as you are, you speak as a learned brothers. Perhaps you would consider joining us?”

  “My days of training and soldiering are behind me,” Rathe said, wondering if it was hope speaking, or the simple truth. A man could make his plans, but there was no predicting the path that Fate put him upon. If he doubted, all he had to do was look at his surroundings and present company. “It’s enough for me to earn my keep by honest means.”

  “I understand,” Jathen said with a dismissive shrug. “And, now that you have broached the matter of earning your keep—”

  “You require a price for healing me,” Rathe finished for him. He wanted to get this over with, take a nap, and then get on with his life. “How much gold do you require?” Of course, he had no gold, but supposed he could find some way to earn it.

  Jathen put on a patronizing smile. “How can a man weigh a few roundels of gold against flesh and blood?”

  “It’s not so hard as you think. Slavers do it on the auction block, and, too, whores sell themselves the world over. For mere coppers, thieves oft kill those they rob. Name your price, Jathen, and be done with this.”

  The monk waved that away. “My brothers and I have gold enough. What I require is—” he hesitated, doing a poor job of feigning embarrassment “—a deed for a deed.”

  “Horge warned it was better for a man to gouge out his eyes, than make a pact with you monks.”

  “Did he, now?” Jathen chuckled at such a foolish notion. When he saw that Rathe did not share his mirth, he grew serious. “You must understand, our good Horge is a man who chafes under the lightest yoke, even when he was the one who placed the yoke upon his own neck.”

  Rathe waited, not sure what the man was driving at.

  “Horge betrayed his own advice when he came to us,” Jathen explained. “What he hopes to gain from our bargain is of no import to you, but know that he promptly forgot the required recompense. He has now come around, if entirely by accident.”

  Rathe frowned. “How so?”

  “Why, he met you, of course. In turn, you met the fire mage, Durogg, who also made his bargains with us, and so gained the Heart of Majonis. And, much the same as Horge, he forgot the conditions of that bargain. It was Horge we sent to retrieve the Heart of Majonis, the magical crystal that gave Durogg his power. With your help, Horge succeeded in reclaiming the stone, and Durogg is, alas, dead. Horge now has two more such, ah, trinkets to find, before his obligations are fulfilled.”

  “What has that to do with me?”

  “Horge told us how you defeated Durogg, which, I must say, was no small feat. As such, it has been decided that if you agree to help Horge fulfill his tasks, your debt, too, will be paid in full.”

  “Why would you need me to help Horge find—what did you call them, trinkets?”

  Jathen rubbed his chin. “Among Horge’s talents, he is slippery as an eel. At the time of our bargain with him, we believed such an ability would serve him well enough to succeed. We were wrong. If not for your intervention, he would have
perished. He needs a swordsman at his back. Two, if you can convince Loro to join you.”

  “I am no assassin,” Rathe said, having no doubts about Loro joining him. “And I am no thief.”

  “If I needed a knife in the shadows, there are those I could call upon. Neither do I need a thief.” His eyes flickered when he said that last, as if skirting the truth. “More to the point, I seek a man who holds to his honor, as much as he expects others to adhere to theirs. I require you, Rathe, to keep Horge’s eyes directed where they need be, until his task is complete.”

  “If your Way of Knowing has so many adherents, why make bargains with men of Horge’s ilk, those who would fail or cheat you at a whim?”

  Jathen spread his hands. “My brothers and I are not so many that we can see to every minor detail of collecting everything we seek. Besides, there are always more than enough desperate fools with which to barter. And, should they collect what we want, then think to sell it to another … well, suffice to say, we will bestir ourselves to track those men down and take what was agreed upon.”

  Rathe knew the man was hiding something again, but was growing weary of the conversation. “Tell me what my life has cost me.”

  “Two things more I seek,” Jathen said. “After you acquire the first, I will reveal the second.”

  “Are these items dangerous?”

  Jathen shook his head and laughed. “They are worthless baubles to those who keep them, but hold great value to my order.”

  Having seen and felt the incredible power of the Heart of Majonis, Rathe knew the man was lying. Still, while dealing with Jathen might be distasteful, and while the tasks would certainly hold a danger, the prospect of serving some useful purpose intrigued Rathe. “Go on.”

  Jathen leaned to the side. When he straightened, he held Rathe’s scabbarded sword. He placed it on the table. “I do not command you to maim or kill, but you may find this blade has some small use in fulfilling the commitment you now share with Horge.”