“Well, do what you can already,” Yan begged. Help him, please, he thought. “What can I do?”
“First, we are going to remove these bandages. I brought a variety of ointments that we can apply to the wounds to keep down the swelling and prevent infection, if we’re not already too late.”
With that, Yan and Vi’at got to work.
Though she hadn’t slept in two days, sleep continued to elude Corenn. So she had volunteered to watch over Grigán, despite Yan’s pleas. That young man needed rest more than anyone.
The healer had done his best. Now all they could do was wait and hope. Alone in the dark, listening to the rhythmic breathing of their sick friend, Corenn again let her mind wander.
It was the fifth day in the dékade of the Hearth: the Day of Women. In the Kaul Matriarchy, tonight was always spent in celebration, a final night before the Season of the Earth arrived and the cold set in.
Corenn had always enjoyed the simple pleasures of a full cellar, a solid roof overhead, and a stack of dry wood. For many years, she had spent her winters comfortably in the Grand House, where no one lacked for supplies. As the Mother charged with Tradition, and a member of the permanent Council, she had always fought to assure that the same was true for all of the Matriarchy’s citizens, with considerable success.
Someone else had to fill that role now that she was gone. It had already been five dékades since she had left Kaul, too long for anyone at home to sustain any hope that she was still alive. They might already have emptied out her study in the Grand House, and maybe even her old living quarters.
The dékade of the Hearth . . . She didn’t have a home anymore, and she wouldn’t, ever again, as long as Saat kept hounding them with the brothers of the Guild, Züu killers, and demons. She would have no home until they finished their quest. What chance did they have without Grigán? What was the point without Grigán?
The Mother took the warrior’s hand and held it tightly in her own. She never would have let the others see her do such a thing. Even after all they had been through, she had to portray herself as strong and confident in front of them. She placed her fingers in his calloused palm. Now, more than ever before, she needed reassurance.
“Don’t leave us, Master Grigán,” she whispered. “We need you. I need you.”
The warrior’s thumb gently caressed her fingers. The movement startled her, and she gripped his hand tightly. The Mother couldn’t know if it was a simple reflex or if he had heard her, but she remained completely still for a long time after.
Stumbling toward the Othenor’s common room, Yan banged his head twice and fell on the steps. The night had been excruciating. Though he had never been drunk enough to feel sick, he imagined it would feel like this.
He pushed open the door leading to the small room. The laughter he had been hearing since he rolled out of his hammock suddenly stopped. He knew he must look horrible, but not so bad as to shock his friends, who were seated around the table for lunch. Yet each one stared at him. Yan could still feel the omniscient god permeating his mind with predictions about the end of the world, and could hardly understand what they were saying.
“Yan, your hair!”
“What happened to you?”
“It’s white!”
The young man repeated their words to himself a few times before he realized what they were telling him. He needed to see a mirror. Laughter followed him out of the room. Harsh laughter, he thought.
He remembered seeing a mirror in the captain’s quarters, and he headed that way, feeling uneasy. Entering the quarters where Grigán healed, he found the mirror and stared at his own face. The hair running across his forehead had lost all its color, leaving behind a bright white streak. He clumsily set the mirror back down. The phenomenon hadn’t disfigured him in the least; he didn’t give a margolin’s ass about it. He had other problems to worry about, much more serious problems.
He turned toward the bed where Grigán lay, and what he saw astonished him. After another glance at the warrior, Yan knew that he would not stumble on his next trip to the common room. No, he would enter not as a spectacle, but as an afterthought. Grigán the warrior was healed, and it would be his task to guide him back to his friends. Yan embraced him.
“You’re healed! You’re healed!” Yan kept repeating, his eyes full of tears.
“To be honest, I’m in agony. Please don’t squeeze so hard.” The warrior’s tone was acerbic, as always, but his face showed joy. Together, Yan and Grigán hurried to their friends.
Yan watched as they gathered around the table. All seven heirs. Not a single one had died. As long as they were all there, they could handle anything. Anything.
“Did he turn your hair white because you shaved off his mustache?” Rey asked, setting off a new round of laughter.
“It was to heal the wounds on his face,” explained an annoyed Yan.
“What!” Grigán played along. “You’re the reason I must bear this insult! Léti, go find my blade right away.”
“You won’t miss it,” Corenn said when the laughter subsided. “You look less serious this way.”
“But he is too serious!” Rey shouted.
They continued to exchange pleasantries for a while, and amid the laughter, the tension of the previous days lifted. Grigán ended the conversation by confessing to an overwhelming fatigue and returning to his quarters. Without his blade and leather outfit, covered in bandages and wounds, the warrior looked precisely what he was: an exhausted veteran, fatigued by twenty years of living as a fugitive.
Yan insisted on accompanying him, despite the convalescent’s protests. It was the right decision. As the exhausted warrior laid down to rest, he suddenly remembered that he had an important question to ask.
“Yan, do you know who our enemy is?”
The young man wondered if it was the best time to tell him, but the warrior refused to rest until he knew.
“It’s Saat. Goran’s emissary. He is still alive,” Yan confessed.
Grigán’s mouth opened to ask another question, but he hesitated. His eyes fell on the white streak of hair falling across Yan’s forehead, and he came to a decision.
“And Usul’s supposed curse? The curse of a god’s knowledge?”
Yan looked at the warrior’s tired wrinkles, his bruised skin, and saw Grigán’s ever-present worry for the other heirs, when it was actually he who was in the worst situation. Usul had foretold that Grigán would die before the year’s end.
“No curse,” Yan pronounced with a false joy. “Everything is fine. We will find Saat, right?”
“You can count on me,” the warrior responded simply, with a wink and fierce smile.
He turned his back and quickly fell asleep. Yan walked back to the common room and listened to his friends’ joy. If, up until now, he had found this adventure to be freeing and exciting, it had now become something more akin to what the others must have felt all along: a painful, endless ordeal.
Grigán’s weakened state prevented him from walking, so they decided to head to Romine by boat, following the coastline of Hélanie province to the mouth of the Urae. From there they would sail up the river into the Old Country’s capital. The voyage wouldn’t take more than three days.
Corenn’s hope, and therefore the whole group’s, was to discover something in the Imperial Eclectic Library of Romine. It was an ancient library, known better as the Deep Tower Library, and many believed it to be a haunted place. It was also purported to house all of human knowledge. If there were any place that held the secret to Ji’s portal, the Great Sohonne Arch, or the other portals that must exist elsewhere, it would be there. Nol, the other world, and the Mog’lur demon were other mysteries the heirs hoped would be revealed in the ancient library.
Grigán woke a little after midday. He took to the deck, and with the sun on his face, he found himself happy to see the Othenor on open water. With Grigán on his feet, the heirs reminded Yan of his promise to recount his experience with Usul. T
he young man couldn’t think of an excuse to delay any longer, and he reluctantly began his tale.
Bowbaq trembled when he realized how close Yan had come to drowning. Léti shivered, imagining the shark circling him. Lana was enthralled by the idea of a god conversing with the young man. She, who had given everything in her life to Eurydis, without any proof of the goddess’s existence other than her own faith, was deeply affected by his experience.
Yan told them that Usul had revealed the hiding place of Maz Achem’s journal. The object was in Ith, in the Grand Temple’s secret archives. When she heard this news, Lana wanted to cry. The journal existed, here was proof, and there would be many answers in its pages. And while she felt a joy knowing that the book existed, she also felt a pang of regret knowing that it had been under her feet for years. Tears welled in her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. To do so would be unbecoming of a Maz.
Or so she thought.
Yan’s revelation that the world behind the portal was Jal’karu overwhelmed her, and tears streaked down her cheeks.
“The black gods,” the Maz said through her tears. “Wise Eurydis! Our ancestors were taken to the black gods. May their spirits rest in peace.”
Rey put an arm around the priestess’s shoulders, but she kindly pushed it off. She was a Maz. She shouldn’t inspire pity. She should be an example, spreading the three virtues of the Wise One. Knowledge. Tolerance. Peace.
“He also said Jal’dara,” Yan added, hoping to comfort Lana. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“No,” the priestess apologized, rubbing her eyes. “I have never heard the name. Surely it means the same thing.”
Corenn interrupted, “Maybe not.”
“Of course it is the same thing,” Rey responded. “He tells us that behind the portal is Jal’karu—the place where demons grow, if we interpret Lana’s words correctly. It can’t be anything else.”
“Jal’dara could represent another form . . . another spiritual interpretation,” said the Mother.
“How can a place be two things at once?” Bowbaq asked.
No one responded to the giant. Their theories were based on nothing, yet the possible consequences were staggering. Only Lana could understand what Corenn was suggesting, but it was useless to discuss it. The truth would remain shrouded until they reached the Deep Tower and the archives within.
“Since we know what’s waiting for us, why should we go all the way to Romine?” Rey asked the group. “The more logical choice would be to go straight to Ith and find Achem’s journal.”
“Romine is only two days away. Ith is more than two dékades, without taking into account that we won’t get much more out of this sloop. We would have to change ships anyhow, so we might as well make it to Romine. We’re so close,” said the Mother.
“All right, Corenn. Once again you’re right. Any other good news, Yan?”
Yan’s heart was heavy after telling his story. Usul had told him that Grigán would die. The god had foretold a deadly war, with the Upper Kingdoms losing the most. It would be the annihilation of the greatest civilization in the known world, and all before the year’s end.
But Usul was playing with the future. By revealing these events, he scrambled the possibilities. Yan could influence anything the god had pronounced by trying to escape it, or by altering an event that the god was hoping to cause. Either way, the future was uncertain. Usul had found a way to amuse himself, but the god’s play caused Yan suffering, a suffering he wouldn’t soon shake.
The god had also foretold his Union with Léti. The young man wanted that with all his heart, but what should he do now? From the moment he had emerged from that well, he had been guarding his words, acting cautiously. Trying to act as if nothing had changed. Was that the best solution? What should he do? Try his best to change the future, at the risk of exacerbating the problem? Or try to escape the responsibility, in the hope that things would work themselves out? Usul was right. Not doing anything is still doing something.
“Yan, did you hear me?”
“I have nothing else to say, Rey. You know as much as I do.”
Only one thing seemed clear to him. Handing this curse over to his friends wouldn’t help anyone. He had to fight his own demons, alone.
The two days of the crossing passed quickly. To avoid gnawing on his problems, Yan used the time to exercise his Will. Making a coin fall was a small task to him now, laughably easy. His next task was to stand it back up again, before knocking it over once more. He would knock it over, and stand it up again, down and up, down and up, using only his mind. At the end of the two days, his record was fourteen consecutive times. He stopped only because he feared the returning shock: the languor, Corenn called it, the dizziness that seized magicians after they had cast a spell.
Yan had to train alone, as the Mother spent most of her time at Grigán’s side. He was improving, though, spending more time on his feet above deck than lying down below. The warrior acted as if he were perfectly healed; he had even begun to wear his black leather again. He was obviously embarrassed when he learned that Corenn had patched and stitched together his shoddy armor. Grigán wasn’t used to people doing things for him, and the Mother’s kindness troubled him deeply, to Léti’s great amusement.
The young woman and Bowbaq spent the two days playing with the cat, Frog. With his erjak powers, the giant was weaving an unusually strong bond between Léti and the animal, a bond like those he had with his lion and mountain pony. It was a long and delicate operation, which required, above all else, the animal’s trust. The dwarf cat, already an adult and hardly accustomed to humans, had to be persuaded over and over to even pay them any attention. It got to be so difficult, Bowbaq warned Léti that he might not be able to keep his promise.
At Reyan’s request, Lana began to explain to the actor the great values of the Moral of Eurydis. But the student didn’t care much for religion; his newfound interest was no more than a pretext, a way to spend time with the Maz. In fact, he paid little attention to the priestess’s words—only enough to make a joke or two, or to ask personal questions. The actor’s ruse held for a day. On the second day, Lana put her religious mask back on. Rey should be interested in Eurydis, not her priestesses, thought Lana as she went back to spurning the eager actor.
“Lana, I think you should remove the mask,” Grigán warned as they made their way up the Urae. “You must know that the Rominians hold the Ithare in contempt; they have ever since the era of the Two Empires. It is the same today.”
“I never had any problems in Mestèbe,” the Maz said, with genuine surprise.
“Mestèbe is in Presdanie, which is worlds away from Romine in Uranie. We are essentially going into a new kingdom, Lana. The last eon’s provincial wars are still fresh in their memory. Romine’s people have their own identity, and they all fight for their independence.”
“This country is too old,” Rey commented. “Too big. Too jagged. Have you ever met a Jérusnian? They have nothing on Manive’s merchants, I can assure you. In my humble opinion, the Upper Kingdoms will have five more kingdoms in the next generation, and one less.”
The next generation, Yan reflected wistfully. Who ever said the Upper Kingdoms would survive a year, let alone a generation?
Grigán continued, “The Rominians are quite eccentric and, more often than not, suspicious. Keep your eyes off them and hope we avoid trouble.”
“You could be from Romine, then,” Rey said.
“You don’t know how right you are. Their justice is famous for its speed. And they don’t like Loreliens either,” said Grigán.
“What ingratitude. To attack me like that, after all I’ve done for you. If it weren’t for the horrendous stench that rises from this thing the locals dare to call a river, I would immediately leave this boat in protest.”
Léti grimaced, imagining the dive into the water. Everyone knew the Urae was the dirtiest stretch of river in the world. A brief silence had fallen over the group, and in that
moment, the carcass of a dead creature thudded softly on the hull of the Othenor. They cast their eyes out over the filthy water, full of trash, excrement, and more carcasses. Beyond the water was the depressing countryside. They looked upon it, as they had on the Ubese in the Baronies, and their eyes ached for the rich, colorful landscape of the Lower Kingdoms. No matter how long they stared, they found no solace in the expansive brown wasteland.
Romine was a sprawling city, and the Othenor began to cross the first of the city’s districts a full deciday before reaching the city itself. The view was limited to a succession of motley buildings, from luxurious family mansions to dilapidated shacks with foundations covered in mud stains.
The farther the boat advanced, the closer the buildings advanced toward the water’s edge, first to the shore and then beyond it. Ramshackle homes clung desperately to pilings, and Yan struggled to navigate the crowded and putrid waters. Outside of a few smaller boats, the Othenor was the only vessel on the water. The other boatmen stared in surprise and anger at the sloop, their angry looks revealing to the heirs that such a large boat was not customary on the river. One came to Romine on foot, or not at all.
They passed under two bridges that had been fortified centuries ago. One was half-destroyed and seemed poised to collapse at any moment. Finally, after sailing another league along the sinuous river between rotting houses, Yan was forced to stop the sloop in front of an abandoned, decrepit lock.
“And here we are!” Grigán said. “We’ll finish on foot.”
The heirs got to work readying for departure, a process held up by the actor, who didn’t know what to do with his treasure. After considerable thought and grimacing, he decided to bury it under a tree at the edge of the water.
“If only I had a horse,” he grumbled to himself as he dug. “Or an ass, just a simple ass. Grigán, are you busy?”
Shadow of the Ancients Page 3
