Heir of Autumn

by Giles Carwyn

  “You must return to Brophy at once.”

  Scythe shook his head. “My place is at your side. With Krellis gone—”

  “Scythe…” She let the words between them remain unspoken. It was the wrong time for this conversation. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Please, my old friend. Please. Do as I ask. Brophy is our last heir. He must return to take the Test. Would you have Krellis remain the Brother of Autumn?”

  The man’s face twisted up. She could see his rage, barely held in check.

  She wrinkled her brow. “Scythe, if you go to find Krellis—”

  He held up a hand. She saw the old pain in his face. It was there and gone in an instant. “I am no oath breaker. I gave my word to you on the matter, and I will keep it. The Physendrian is safe as long as you wish it.”

  “I did not mean—” She reached for his hand, but he backed away.

  “I will do as you ask. You deserve nothing less,” he spoke the ritual words, but they were stiff, lifeless. He turned and disappeared into the dark passage from which he had emerged.

  Baelandra let out a long sigh, leaning a hand on a stalagmite as she stared after him. Jayden’s raspy voice startled her.

  “That man, he loves you, no?”

  She swallowed, nodded. “Yes. He has ever since the day we met, many years ago.”

  “Do you love him back?”

  Baelandra looked wistfully at the old woman. “Oh Jayden. I wish I did, for my sake, for his, for Ohndarien. But I don’t. Not like he wants.” Baelandra turned away. “Sometimes I think my love for Krellis is punishment for what I have done to Scythe.”

  “Oh, child,” Jayden said, giving her Sister’s hand a squeeze. “Don’t try to make sense out of love. It’s a game you’ll never win.”

  10

  THE LOCKS of Ohndarien were the dream of Donovan Morgeon and the brainchild of Master Coelho,” Krellis told Father Lewlem. “Like so many parts of this city, they are unique in the world.”

  Clinging to Krellis’s sleeve, Father Lewlem craned his neck to look at the tunnel in the distance. His wife watched her feet as she followed, attached to his robe with her birdlike fingers.

  The three of them walked along the inns and restaurants of Canal Street. The sloping avenue ran alongside the six locks stretching from the bay to the entrance of the tunnel.

  “This water comes from the Great Ocean?” Father Lewlem asked.

  “That’s correct.” Krellis nodded, pointing to the far side of the city. A steep ridge rose from the Sunset Gate to the Citadel. A hundred-foot wall, topped with windmills, rode the crest of the ridge all the way from the bay to the highest point in the city.

  “Water screws inside the Windmill Wall draw water up from the ocean. The water is pumped up the ridge in a series of pools atop the wall. When the water reaches its highest point there, on top of the Citadel”—he pointed out the towered fortress that formed the southwest corner of the city—“it flows downhill along the aqueduct, runs into a tunnel that cuts through this mountain, and eventually spills into the high point of the locks. We can divert the water both east and west to operate either side.”

  Father Lewlem let go of Krellis’s sleeve long enough to clap his pale hands. “You have mixed the two seas who would never otherwise have kissed.” He looked at Krellis with his onyx eyes. “You have tasted the power of an emperor. Did this Master Coelho read of the reign of Oh, the first incarnation of God on Earth, who ordered the creation of the Great Ocean?”

  Krellis inclined his head respectfully. “I am certain that he did.”

  Lewlem clapped. “Certainly he must have, to know the waters so perfectly well.”

  He took Krellis’s sleeve once more, and they continued. Lewlem had shown extraordinary stamina and curiosity for a man of his apparent years. His thirst for knowledge was excruciating. He wanted to see every part of the city. The ambassador had returned from Physen last night, and Krellis had been giving the man a tour of Ohndarien since dawn. Every attempt to discuss his mission to Physendria had been subtly rebuked.

  Krellis continued his tour as they reached the end of the street and stepped out of the bright sun into the welcome shade of the tunnel. The passageway was over a hundred feet high to accommodate the tallest of ships. They walked along a narrow passageway, worn smooth from the feet of thousands of sailors.

  “The ridge that separates the Great Ocean from the Summer Sea is over a thousand feet tall,” Krellis explained. “Constructing locks over the top would have been impossible, so Master Coelho designed them underground, beneath the ridge. The locks and walls were the hardest part of the city to construct. Builders on the two projects competed with each other for generations to see who could finish first. The walls beat the locks by over twenty years.”

  “It has always been easier to construct barriers between people than bridges between them,” Lewlem said.

  Was that an invitation to discuss an alliance, Krellis wondered? Perhaps the old man just thought himself clever.

  They continued forward. The roar of moving water filled the cavern as seawater from the aqueduct rushed through a tunnel carved into the side of the mountain. The torrent flowed night and day, constantly adding water to the Dark Lake, the canal that ran through the heart of the mountain connecting the eastern and western locks.

  Bright lanterns illuminated bas-relief carvings on the walls. Despite the care taken to beautify the tunnels, the locks were still dank and chilly. Condensation constantly dripped from the ceiling.

  “Watch your step, Father,” Krellis said. “Wet stone has a life of its own.”

  Lewlem seemed to have no difficulty navigating the path. He looked about curiously. “This is the Dark Lake,” Lewlem said, pointing at the canal that ran along the dimly lit tunnel. “And beyond this are the steps down to Cliff Town?”

  “You know much about Ohndarien already.”

  “Only the Emperor knows all. I am merely a small reflection of his omniscience.”

  The ambassador leaned over the wooden railing and peered into the black water of the canal. “Why do they call those stairs the Foreplay Steps?”

  Krellis laughed. “It takes a ship twelve hours to complete the trip through the locks. For a sailor who has been at sea for months, twelve hours is a long time to wait. If a man is inspired, he can leave his ship and walk along this path from Cliff Town to the brothels on Canal Street in less than an hour. The four hundred steps quickly became known as the Foreplay Steps. It is a daunting task to climb them, but a determined man can accomplish amazing things.”

  The ambassador clapped his hands again. The gesture was starting to get on Krellis’s nerves.

  “This frankness about family matters in the East is a delight. It is a wonder that humans can brazenly speak of such things with so little shame. It reminds one of animals rutting in the fields.”

  Krellis let the comment go. After living his life walking in endless lines, the ambassador from the Opal Empire must delight in every opportunity to be rude.

  “This is where you keep your trolls, yes?”

  “Again, I bow to your knowledge, Father Lewlem.”

  “I should like to meet one.”

  Krellis laughed, his deep voice reverberating in the small space, mixing with the sound of the rushing water.

  The men and women who worked in the constant darkness of the locks and tunnels were known as trolls. It was joked that to meet an angry troll in the dark was certain death. To meet one in the daylight was certain victory.

  “Are they any uglier than normal men, these trolls? It is said they are hideous.”

  “No. They blink a bit more in the sunlight, but they are just normal men and women.”

  “A pity, there are so few truly ugly people in the world. Though, I did notice quite a few ugly faces pointed at you as we walked the streets today.”

  Krellis’s smile disappeared. He said nothing, but Father Lewlem continued with his usual childlike enthusiasm. “All rulers must face unpopular d
ecisions. Your recent guidance has made some of your subjects uglier than others.”

  Krellis shrugged. “Some cannot see what is best for them.”

  Lewlem clapped deftly, releasing Krellis’s sleeve for a moment. “So says the Emperor.”

  “If the city continues to prosper, the people will remain happy.”

  “Indeed.”

  They continued in silence until they came to the far side of the Dark Lake, which ended in a pair of massive water gates leading to the highest bay of the eastern locks. A steady stream of water leaked through the crack between the immense wooden doors that closed off the canal. The ambassador peered over the railing into the vast bay filling with water. There was room for ten ships though only four were presently moored there.

  “When the water rises to this level, these inner doors will open,” Krellis shouted over the noise of the water. “These ships will be towed west along the Dark Lake and travel down the locks on the far side, passing any eastbound ships going in the other direction. The easterners will enter this lock, which will then be drained, lowering them. Repeat that process six times, and these ships will be in the Summer Sea.”

  The old man smiled, looking at every detail. “These locks are truly magnificent. The Emperor will be happy to know his ocean is being used so cunningly. Come, I wish to see your Dock Town on the other side.”

  Krellis flexed his fingers. He had better things to do, but he started down the Foreplay Steps with the Ambassador and his wife right behind him. Krellis had only taken a few steps when the roaring of the water was cut off. The noise faded into an ominous silence as the water trickled to a stop.

  Krellis looked over the edge. The bay of the highest lock was not full yet, there was no reason for the water from the Dark Lake to be shut off.

  A small group of people jogged across the top of the wooden gates. One after the other, they leapt off the wall onto the narrow path behind Krellis and his guests.

  Lewlem clapped. “Trolls, they must be trolls.”

  “Physendrian scum,” one of the lock workers said.

  Krellis narrowed his eyes, but he did not slow his pace, nor did he increase it. Lewlem, for once, remained silent.

  “You’re no Brother of mine,” another said to their backs.

  Krellis’s sword clanked at his hip as he continued down the steps, but he never reached for it. Lewlem followed, constantly looking back. The ambassador’s wife trailed last, still staring at the ground.

  The taunts became louder, bolder as they progressed. Krellis didn’t stop until he spotted a second knot of figures up ahead, blocking the path. The lanternlight flickered off their dingy clothes and dark faces, slick with seawater and grime.

  Lewlem let go of Krellis’s sleeve and huddled close to his wife. The woman still stared at the steps as if she had no idea what was happening.

  “You have something you wish to discuss?” Krellis asked the crowd of trolls in front of him.

  The largest of the men, a bony brute missing several fingers, stepped to the front. “We don’t want you here,” the man growled.

  Krellis opened his shirt and bared the lightly glowing stone on his chest. “If any man thinks I haven’t earned this stone, let him step forward and take it from me.”

  The trolls looked back and forth at each other. Krellis turned to show his heartstone to the group behind him. No one stepped forward.

  The Brother of Autumn smiled a thin smile. “Come now,” he said. “You have me outnumbered, in the dark, on your steps. If I am unworthy to rule this fair city, kill me now and be done with it.”

  It was impossible to read their expressions in the dark, but no one stepped forward.

  “You will never get a better chance,” Krellis assured them in a low voice.

  They seemed to have lost their tongues and didn’t move.

  “Perhaps I am not so bad for Ohndarien after all.”

  He walked straight into the heart of the trolls and motioned for his guests to follow. The lock workers reluctantly let him pass, but as Lewlem neared, one of them lashed out, pushing the old man. “Foreign scum!” he hissed.

  In a flurry of silks, Lewlem’s wife spun. A dagger appeared from nowhere, glinting in the half-light. Blood striped the front of her robes. The troll screamed. His severed hand tumbled to the stone pathway as he lurched backward, flipped over the railing, and fell into the water.

  Slowly rising from her bent-kneed pose, Lewlem’s wife stood straight and still as a statue. She kept the bloody blade leveled between herself and the trolls. They scrambled away, stumbling over each other down the pathway, scuttling across the lock gates or down the stairs.

  Krellis walked over to the twitching hand on the path. With the toe of his boot, he flicked it into the water far below.

  “You see, Father? I told you we would make an excellent team.” He paused. “Shall we continue on our way?”

  Lewlem grabbed Krellis by the sleeve. His wife cleaned her blade on the hem of her robe with two quick swipes and tucked the dagger into the folds of her clothing. She latched on to Lewlem’s sleeve and looked at the ground, meek as ever.

  “Perhaps it is time we spoke of your mission,” Krellis said.

  “Perhaps it is,” the ambassador agreed.

  11

  THE DESERT was still chilly in the predawn light, but that would change the moment the sun came up. Ossamyr’s chariot carried them out onto the blasted badlands, a shifting sea of sand and parched earth. The beautiful queen stood at the front of the chariot, the wind ruffling her short black hair underneath the golden headdress. Brophy could see the curve of her breast through the rippling slit in the side of her gown. He swallowed against his surge of desire. He had barely seen her since they made love two weeks ago.

  Sometimes, late at night, he wondered if he had imagined the whole thing, some lingering delirium of the scorpion sting. He remembered her skin against his hands. His hips longed for the weight of her body moving against him. All he wanted was to be back inside her, his arms wrapped around her. But the cold, hard statue of a woman before him had replaced the Ossamyr of his dreams.

  Brophy kept his fists locked on the wooden handrail, trying not to look at her. They rode into the desert east of Physen to the beginning of Nine Squares. Ossamyr had wanted him to train for two months, but Brophy insisted he was ready. Ohndarien was about to be invaded. If Nine Squares was the quickest route to aiding his city, he could not afford to delay. He thought the queen would object, but she shrugged and said she would enter his name in that month’s list.

  Ossamyr’s slaves jogged past a huge sundial, seemingly placed in the middle of nowhere.

  “Pay attention,” the queen said, her voice cold and distant. They neared a towering phoenix carved of stone.

  “Those who did well in the previous Nine Squares are allowed the advantage of position in the next contest. Last month’s Phoenix receives a half mile head start over the Beetles.”

  Nine Squares contestants had to stand in the hot sun half the day before racing to the city. The sweeping curve of the phoenix statue’s wings would provide great protection from the heat of the day. Standing in the shade would be a huge advantage.

  “There is no one there,” Brophy noticed.

  “The last Phoenix fell from the tower and died,” she replied. “He obviously lacked the strength to face the flames.”

  Fifty yards ahead of the phoenix they came upon a smaller statue of a lion raised on its hind feet, ready to attack. It would offer some shade from the sun as it climbed the horizon. A young man with a shaved head and a bandage on his muscular thigh stood there, talking to a nervous young girl in a shabby chariot. He stopped when he saw them and stared at Brophy with such venom that he blinked in surprise.

  “Who was that?”

  The corner of Ossamyr’s mouth turned up slightly. “Phee.”

  “Who is Phee?”

  “Don’t turn your back on him. He will make you pay for it.”

  “What
did I do to him?”

  “Not what you did. What I did.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I made the mistake of thinking he was a champion. He is not.”

  “You were his sponsor.”

  She shrugged.

  Brophy imagined the two of them together, the queen’s thigh sliding across Phee’s bandaged leg. He gripped the handrail tighter and forced the image from his mind.

  Beyond the lion were statues of a falcon, an ape, a serpent, a scorpion, a crocodile, a jackal, and a jumping rat. Each stood fifty yards apart and became progressively smaller. The jumping rat provided no shade at all.

  Fifty yards beyond the last statue stood two stone markers covered with carvings of beetles. Roughly forty young men milled between the knee-high spires, talking with each other and their female benefactors.

  Ossamyr’s slaves jogged up to a cluster of waiting chariots. The chariot rocked to a halt, and the slaves rested against their harnesses, breathing hard. The queen’s slaves were by far the most beautiful and well formed. “This is where I leave you,” she murmured.

  Brophy stepped off the chariot, and Ossamyr leaned over him, wrapping a crimson sash about his waist. Her breast pressed against his shoulder for a fleeting instant. He swallowed, not sure if it was intentional. With a flick of her wrist, she snapped an orange sash out and wrapped it over his shoulder.

  “Today you are my champion,” she said aloud, and kissed him on the cheek. Then she leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “I long for you. I will visit you tonight. Good luck.”

  Brophy couldn’t catch his breath as she strode away to speak with the other women. He stood there for a moment, watching the sway of her hips until he forced himself to look away.

  He wandered over to join the other boys. A thin, well-muscled youth about thirteen years old hovered at the edge of the crowd. As soon as he saw Brophy, the boy broke away and came closer. Brophy recognized him from the arena. Though he had no instructor, he had been there every day, learning what he could from the older boys. He was always tense, though he tried to hide it.