The Court Of Stars (The Commonwealth Quartet Book 1)

by Malcolm Schmitz

  The hairs on the back of Christian's neck stood up, and he swallowed hard. The last thing he needed was some demon, pretending to be one of Daniel's gods-or, worse, the false god doing the same thing.

  "....If we haven't found anything of use, by the end of the corridor... We turn around, understood?"

  "Of course." Daniel placed his hand on the wall. His eyes widened.

  “Christian... do you see that?”

  “No?”

  "It's moving. Feel."

  Christian pressed his hand to the wall. It was, indeed, vibrating, with a hum like a hornet's nest.

  "This is dark magic," he murmured.

  There was an open door at the end of the corridor. Christian saw a gleam of cold, blue light coming from behind it.

  He peered around the corner. What he saw made his heart skip a beat.

  Was it a phantom? He didn't know. But he saw Anthony's face inside the doorway, behind a glass window.

  He edged towards it.

  The room he entered was bigger than the castle courtyard, though it was hard to tell just how large it was. It was full of shadows, lit only by an eerie blue glow from the floor.

  In front of him, he saw the glass coffin that held Anthony. For it was Anthony, propped in it as if it was his coffin, looking for all the world like he was asleep.

  Christian hoped that he was sleeping, and not dead.

  The coffin was surrounded, at the base, by ragged gray stone. Two lights – one green, one red-shone from its side, and a small, red button was beside them.

  He felt uneasy. Mercadier looked like Snow White, trapped in a deathly sleep after eating a poisoned apple.

  A set of strange characters was beside them. Christian tried to spell them out, but they weren't like any letters he'd ever seen before. He soon gave up.

  "What's that?" Daniel said, looking at the button.

  They were both speaking in hushed voices. This place wasn't a church, Christian thought, but it commanded the same sort of reverence, mingled with the fear of the unknown.

  "It looks like a button," Christian said.

  "It's not like any kind of button I've seen..." Daniel said, uncertainly.

  "Not... like that." Christian put his finger to the button, and paused. He knew that pressing a button did something, Miriet had explained that much. But he wasn't sure what the button would do, and with Anthony's fate at stake, well...

  "Well, why would anyone put a button on a coffin?"

  The word sent a chill down Christian's spine. Whatever they'd done to Anthony, it wasn't good, but he didn't dare believe he was dead.

  "He's still breathing." Christian thought he could see Anthony's chest move, though he wasn't sure. "But... I don't know."

  Perhaps, he thought, the coffin was magical, just as his staff was. And the button would change the magic, somehow.

  Then again, the magic could also kill either of them. It was best to be cautious.

  But, short of breaking the box to bits with his staff-which, Miriet had said, would be a bad idea-he didn't know how to open it. The button was the only clue he had.

  He raised his finger to it, and gently pressed it.

  Christian heard a hiss like a cobra's, and the coffin's light turned from blue to red. Mist seeped from it, and the glass opened up like a drawbridge.

  Anthony-no, Christian reminded himself, Mercadier-fell forward, slumping over the wall at his waist. Christian picked him up, laying him on the stone floor. Mercadier's body was still warm, and he was still breathing.

  Christian crossed himself, thanking God and any saint he could think of in one rapid mental prayer.

  "He's alive. Just unconscious." He let out a deep, relieved breath. "They must be keeping their prisoners in these boxes."

  "Christian..."

  "What?" He looked up.

  "Isn't he going to drown?" Daniel frowned, gesturing at the suit.

  "God's teeth..." Christian frowned, and shoved the suit onto Mercadier. It was like dressing an enormous, limp baby. Mercadier started to choke, and he shoved the mask over his head.

  Finally, he'd gotten the suit on Mercadier, and his breathing settled. Christian laid him down, gently.

  "I'm going to look for the others," he said.

  He began to walk along the long lines of coffin-boxes. There were hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, and each one of them contained a person. He felt a little small-the Solari had captured so many of these people so easily.

  He didn't recognize most of the captives. There were a few Moors who seemed a little familiar, and a few princes and prelates from other lands, even some he'd met once or twice. But there was no one from Aviganis; no one that he recognized, apart from Mercadier.

  "Maybe we should-" Daniel began.

  A loud blast, like the battle cry of an army of mice, battered his ears. Daniel cried out and clapped his hands to his ears.

  "Christian!" someone shouted.

  It was Miriet. He hadn't expected to hear her so soon-after all, he and Daniel were supposed to be freeing the prisoners, taking them outside one by one.

  Something must have gone wrong. Christian mentally cursed his fate, his companions, his stars, and the hour of his birth.

  "Grab his legs." Christian had to raise his voice to make sure he could be heard over the horrible racket. He lifted Mercadier's torso, and Daniel grabbed his legs.

  They hurried into the hall. Mercadier's dead weight made their flight slower than Christian would have liked. He heard footsteps coming towards them-the slow, clanking, heavy footsteps of the Solari knights.

  His breath hissed loudly in his ears. Sara was ahead of him, with a strange weapon in her hand. It looked like one of the Solari's guns.

  "What's going on?" he shouted.

  "Someone tripped an 'alarm'," Sara yelled back. "We've got to get out of here."

  The air crackled with speech in a strange, alien tongue. The marching Solari were coming.

  Christian shuddered.

  "I don't understand."

  "It's a call to arms," she said. "Miriet tried to talk to the... Commonwealth people, through her witchcraft, but she tripped the alarm."

  "I swear, it was an honest mistake-"

  "Save your breath, demon." Sara continued to run. "We need to get out of here."

  She glanced over her shoulder, at Daniel. "Where's someplace close, but hard to reach?"

  "The Great Rift." He nodded, towards the door out of the ship. "If we get to it... We should be safe."

  "Are you sure?" Christian asked.

  "During the war-" Daniel began, and Christian felt his heart sink within him. "The Aviganis army went to the Great Rift, right?”

  “...Yes. We... we held it for a month,” Christian said. “But that was against the Moors. Their steel is better, but it's... not the same, is it?”

  “No.” Sara's breath rasped through the ventilator tubes, and she let loose a very unladylike oath.

  "Miriet, how long do you think we'll have..." Christian began, uneasily.

  "If you're really, really lucky, and the Dhareg help you?" Miriet said. "Maybe you could hold out a week."

  "It's the best chance we've got." Sara gestured towards the door. "Daniel, get to the caravan, tell them to head to the pass."

  Daniel set down Mercadier and ran, not bothering with a farewell.

  Christian picked up his unconscious friend, slinging him over his shoulder. Mercadier was lead-heavy. Christian could barely handle his weight. He staggered along, falling further and further behind Sara and Miriet.

  "Keep up!" Miriet shouted.

  Mercadier stirred, and groaned. Christian took that as a good sign.

  He pushed on, willing himself forward. His strength returned a little, though only enough to carry him to the end of the corridor.

  "Arundel?" Mercadier groaned.

  "Yes." Christian frowned.

  "... Where am I?" He stirred.

  "No time to explain," Christian said. "Can you walk?"<
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  "I... think so."

  Christian let Mercadier get to his feet. He let Mercadier lean on his shoulder, supporting him as they struggled towards the door.

  They left the ship; the sound of Solari footsteps echoed behind them. Christian hoped that they wouldn't follow. It made his skin crawl to think of them chasing him.

  His staff felt heavy in his hand, and he used it to support himself and Mercadier. God's teeth, why couldn't he be stronger?

  The ship's alarm echoed behind them as they fled into the desert.

  Chapter Twenty

  The caravan's watchfires burned brightly. The flickering light made the Great Rift look as though it was haunted by shadows.

  Christian sat by the embers of a fire, sharpening Ariador. The staff lay at his feet.

  Being here, at the Rift, was enough to make him feel ill. This was where he'd stood on the eve of the siege, that was where his commander had fallen, over there was the place he'd nearly been crushed to death by a horse...

  His stomach churned, and he felt like he'd swallowed broken glass. His mind's eye kept trying to watch the horrors he'd seen during the war.

  The only respite, for him, was to keep himself busy, and even that didn't always help. Especially, as now, when he'd run out of things to do.

  He'd already spoken to most of the ship's crew and the Dhareg, getting a battle plan put together. He'd gotten some rough fortifications and traps set up with their help. If the Solari came to attack them from the ground, and not from the air, his men would be as ready for them as they could be.

  He'd even gotten an idea-thanks to Miriet-of what their odds for rescue were.

  "They're not good," she told him, flatly.

  "I thought that was what you'd done," he said. “You know we're not going to be able to save ourselves.”

  "I tried. I think I got a message through, but..." Her tail twitched and she hunched her back, trying to make herself as small as possible. "I don't know if it went through."

  “What?” Christian frowned.

  “If I didn't use the right commands, it might not get to the right place.” Miriet's voice was very small. “And, well, when the alarm went off, I was a little... rushed.”

  "Let me make sure I understand," he said. "We can't rely on your Commonwealth. We don't know if they've even heard us. Let alone if they'll be willing to help."

  "Basically." Miriet's scales were a dull bronze. "...I'm sorry, Christian. I tried."

  "And the Solari are better-fed, better-equipped, and better-trained." He sighed. "We're doomed, aren't we."

  "...Maybe not..." she said. "You can't let yourself get like this. There's got to be a way."

  She was right, of course. Despair was a mortal sin. He had to be brave, even if there was nothing else he could do. But there was a fine line between bravery and foolishness, and he felt hope was foolish.

  "I understand." He'd tossed another stick into the fire, and watched the sparks scatter. The harsh pop of the burning wood made him flinch.

  "God will make us the victors." He crossed himself. He didn't believe it, he didn't think even God could save them here, but it would be blasphemy not to believe, wouldn't it? If nothing else, God would save them. He had to believe that.

  "Right..." Miriet seemed uncomfortable. "Well... break a leg, Christian."

  And then she'd left him alone. That was worse, in its way. When she talked, at least, it was a distraction from where he was, and what had happened here. When silence reigned, he was left alone with his thoughts.

  It was a torture worthy of hell.

  He tried to ignore the images that had seared themselves onto his soul, though it was a struggle as hard as Jacob's wrestling with the angel, and got back to work.

  Christian cleaned Ariador and then began to sharpen it.

  "Hey!" someone shouted, right behind him.

  He flinched, and the sword seemed to move on its own. It gashed his thumb. A thin line of pain surged across the cut.

  "Don't do that!" he said, more harshly than he'd meant to.

  "Sorry." It was Samuel-no, Christian reminded himself, Sara. She was dressed in breeches and a vest, and carrying a small bowl in one hand.

  "What do you want?" he muttered.

  "Some of the women have been cooking. I thought you might be hungry."

  He glanced at the bowl. It was filled with some sort of grain, with a thick stew poured over it. Little bubbles of fat hung in the broth.

  The food smelled decent, but Christian's stomach felt like it was full of knives. He shook his head.

  "I'm not." He hid his hand behind his back, not wanting her to see that he was hurt. "Don't you have other things to be attending to?"

  “Not right now. You need to eat.”

  “I couldn't if I wanted to.”

  Christian sheathed Ariador and began to clean his staff. The mindless work was a good distraction, but he was beginning to feel a little numb inside, a little empty. It hurt, but it wasn't a sharp pain, and so he could ignore it.

  “Christian...” Sara groaned, and placed the bowl beside him. “Here. Maybe you'll change your mind.”

  She walked away, hand clenched into fist by her side. Christian watched her go. He felt as though it didn't matter. Nothing really mattered, now, did it?

  Mercadier approached, and sat across from Christian, at the other end of the fire. The flickering light made him look strange and unfamiliar, like a demon.

  "Anthony-" Christian began, and stopped himself. "Where were you?"

  "First names, Arundel?" Mercadier raised an eyebrow. "I've been with the caravan most of the day. The savages seem awfully excited about the battle, don't they?"

  They seemed more frightened than anything else, Christian thought. They also didn't seem like savages, but Mercadier had his way of putting things, and it was best to just ignore some of the things he said. Everyone would be happier in the long run.

  "You could say that," Christian said, putting the staff on his knees. "What do you want?"

  "Well, I'd like to discuss something with you."

  Mercadier leaned close, lacing his fingers together.

  "Why exactly did they... take us?"

  Christian attempted to explain, as briefly as he could. Mercadier didn't seem to understand, but since Christian didn't really, either, that was only to be expected.

  "Another question.” Mercadier laced his fingers together. “Why did you rescue me first?"

  Christian realized, later, that there were a thousand and one things he could have said in this moment that would not have been quite as explosive as what he had said. Things like 'I did it for the sake of our alliance' or 'I did it for the sake of the rebellion'. Both answers would have fed Mercadier's ego, he would have been pleased, and Christian could have gone about his business.

  But he was tired to the bone and not thinking straight. The words fell out of his mouth..

  "Because I love you."

  "What?" Mercadier's face went carefully blank.

  Christian realized he'd slipped, and swallowed, heavily.

  "For-forgive me, it... That wasn't..."

  "Are you implying what I think you're implying, Arundel?" Mercadier's nostrils flared, and he stood, crossing the circle around the fire.

  "No, I... Our friendship..." Christian stammered.

  Damn, damn damn... this wasn't going to end well, he just knew it. At Court, if Anthony was taking it the way Christian suspected he was, it would probably have counted as a slight against Mercadier's honor. After all, it seemed as though everyone had guessed Christian's secret by now, and that sort of thing was a disgrace. And though they weren't at Court, Anthony was just as chary of his honor as Christian himself could be.

  He backed away, slowly.

  Mercadier drew his sword, pointing it at Christian's throat. Christian noticed in his fear that it was sharp, almost as sharp as Ariador's tempered edge. He remembered that Mercadier was said to stop at nothing to win a fight, and shuddered.
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  "I'm sorry, I-"

  "Draw your sword." Mercadier's eyes narrowed.

  "Anthony, this is a bad idea." Christian held his hands up, trying to pacify him. "We're about to fight a war, please, control yourself-”

  "Fight like a man, coward. Or can you not even do that?"

  "Let me-get- my sword," he choked.

  "I can't hear you." The sword pressed ever closer, and Christian grabbed at the staff, trying to force Mercadier away.

  Mercadier pressed the attack, pushing Christian back. He gasped with surprise-Mercadier was much stronger than he'd thought. They had dueled a few times before, over inconsequential matters of honor, and they'd been evenly matched. But this time, Mercadier fought like a demon, pushing Christian back with double the strength.

  Christian couldn't get to the button on the staff to activate it, even if he'd wanted to. He was fending off a much stronger opponent, with a weapon he didn't know how to use, and an injured arm. His heart sank within him.

  "Christian!"

  Miriet sprinted towards them, ears flattened to her head.

  "What's-Oh gods, you're-"

  In the moment that Christian turned to glance at her, Mercadier's sword rose to meet his face.

  A shock of pain hit him. The world seemed to turn gray. Something wet and sticky dripped into his eyes. He realized that it was his own blood. .

  Everything felt dreamlike. He felt himself crumpling to the ground, and knew no more.

  ★★★

  "Christian?"

  He awoke with a throbbing pain in his head, and a strange, stiff feeling right above his eyebrow. He felt weak and weary, but there was warm light around him, and Mercadier was nowhere to be seen. He wondered, vaguely, if by some fluke he'd wound up in heaven, but discarded the thought. Heaven wouldn't hurt so much.

  It took him a moment to realize where he was. He was laying in one of the caravan's tents, and-most likely-he'd been bandaged up by Sara.

  Daniel was sitting nearby. He was picking at his sleeves, but when Christian stirred, practically ran towards his bedside,

  "Praise the gods." He smiled, weakly. "How are you feeling?"

  "Fine. I'm fine." Christian's head was swimming, but he wasn't going to show how hurt he was, especially with the battle so near—

  The battle! He wasn't sure if he could even fight after that. God damn Mercadier.