Markal only needed to keep the barbarian from destroying Memnet’s head until then.
His spade was still where he’d left it, and Bronwyn demanded that he pick it up.
“I knew,” she said as he took it reluctantly in his hands. “I should not have turned aside, but I saw nothing here, and my eyes deceived me. If I had trusted my other senses, this would already be settled.”
“What senses do you mean? What kind of magic guides you?”
“Dig.”
“I am digging.”
“You’re playing around. Get it out of the ground.”
“I won’t drive the spade into my master’s head.”
“It’s not a rare jewel, it’s a severed head. Anyway, you’ve insisted he’s dead. Now get it out of there and let me have a look.”
Refusing to be rushed, Markal kept digging at his own pace. Bronwyn paced back and forth, her hand returning again and again to the sword hilt over her shoulder, but when he exposed Memnet’s auburn curls, she stopped and stood over the excavation. Markal dropped to his knees and brushed away the dirt from the wizard’s closed eyes, his nose, and his mouth. The head was not decayed, even after three weeks. There was hope in that.
“Pull it out,” Bronwyn ordered.
“I don’t, I—”
“Do it!”
Markal thrust one hand into the soil beneath the wizard’s chin, gripped the man’s hair with his other, and pulled. The soil resisted. His fingers dug deeper into the dirt, and touched the soft flesh of the neck. It was warm. Markal’s heart skipped.
Can it be? Is it true?
He could scarcely hope. He had buried the head in the ground, not based on knowledge, nothing from books, per se, but on the general understanding that some souls were harder for the Harvester to gather after death than others. That, and knowing that Memnet had nearly been killed several times over the two centuries of his life and had recovered from wounds that would have killed any other man or woman. The wizard’s deepest magic lay in the soil of this garden, and the fruits and honey cultivated here had remarkable restorative powers. The four apprentices had agreed to bury Memnet’s head in the ground and see what happened.
And it had worked! Another week, maybe two, and it would be done. Why had the barbarian come now? And how would Markal keep her from hacking the master to pieces? He had to delay her.
“Well, then?” she demanded.
“You have seen it.” Markal stood slowly. “Now let us discuss this matter like reasonable people before we do something that cannot be undone. Take off your breastplate, unstrap your sword—they must be heavy. Tell me what you want. Maybe I can help.”
Bronwyn drew her sword with a slow, almost languid movement. It glinted a deep blood red in the light of the dying sun. One sweep of her blade and he’d be dead on the ground like Eliana.
“You either pull it out of the ground, boy, or I will add a second head to your excavation.”
Markal fought a tremble as he dropped to his knees. He tugged on the head, but it remained in place.
“Use the shovel if you must,” she said.
Memnet’s eyes opened. Markal fell back with a cry. Bronwyn cursed, drew back several paces, and planted her feet with her sword at the ready.
The wizard spit dirt from his mouth and lifted his eyes to the barbarian. “An intruder? Markal, we have been lax in our efforts. What is to be done about it?”
“Do not speak!” Bronwyn said. “Dig him out. Quickly.”
“Strike me down if you must,” Memnet said, “but I think you would rather know the truth.”
“I told you to be quiet! I won’t have you bewitching me.”
“Confounded worms.” Memnet spat again, then addressed the woman. “I have no magic. You see that, of course. I’m barely alive.” He frowned and concentrated. “Markal, I can’t feel my arms. What did you . . . ? Wait, no, there they are. Yes, two arms and two legs. That’s a relief.”
“What about hands and feet?” Markal asked.
The wizard frowned with concentration. “Perhaps. I think so. Very numb, though. Not so sure about fingers and toes. I need more time.” A long, deep yawn, and his eyes blinked shut. “And a long nap.”
“You’ve been napping for three weeks already. Could you maybe help me here? There’s been some trouble, and it would be helpful if . . .”
No good. Memnet had fallen asleep, and though Markal poked at him, he would not be roused.
Markal climbed warily to his feet, still afraid, but marveling at what he’d seen. He remembered when Nathaliey, pale and stricken, had pulled the head from her saddlebags. The master had worn an expression of pain and fear in death, his last thoughts etched on his face. And now he was alive, at least partly.
“You see,” he told Bronwyn. “The wizard is no threat. He’ll stay buried here.”
“Dig him out. I don’t care if he’s as pale as a grub and burns up in the sun, I want him out where I can see the whole of him.”
“That will kill him.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“At the very least, he’ll be crippled and maimed. Believe it. The garden is restoring him, but he needs more time.”
Bronwyn fixed Markal with a penetrating gaze. “Why do you think I came here, boy? To kill him, of course.”
“Did you? Is that all you are, a murderer?”
“I killed the old woman. Doesn’t that convince you?”
Markal didn’t hide his grimace of pain. “I won’t forget that. There was no need for it.”
“I had no choice. She would have destroyed me. There was potent magic in that pendant. I was warned.”
Warned? By whom?
“Eliana was defending this garden and meant you no harm,” Markal said. He took the spade and heaped dirt over the master’s head.
“What are you doing? Stop that at once. I’m warning you, boy.”
“And that’s another thing. I am no boy. I am an apprentice of the Order of the Crimson Path. We dedicate ourselves to study, to peace, to healing the land of drought. We seek no enemies. Now cut me down, if you must.”
He didn’t turn around, but kept working, bracing himself for a crushing blow. He’d seen her wield the sword; one swing would smash his bones and sever his spine. He’d feel a moment of terrific pain, and then it would be over.
The blow didn’t come. When he turned around, she’d put the sword away and stood watching. One hand played with the belt at her waist.
“The man who murdered my master had gray skin and a magic cloak,” Markal said. “He and a companion ambushed the wizard and an apprentice in the desert.” His eyes ranged over her. “He was not a barbarian, like you, and I don’t think you’re one of them. So who are you really, and what do you want?”
“What is your name?”
“Markal.”
“Markal of what?”
“Just Markal. Of Aristonia, if you must.”
“That is the name of this kingdom? Aristonia? Who is your king?”
“Khalif Omar. There is a high king in Veyre who claims dominion. How did you cross the mountains? Were you attacked by griffins? What about the king’s engineers, building through the pass? Did you see them, did they try to stop you?”
“They tried. More than once.” She smiled, but it was without humor. “They were no more successful than your sorcery.”
She looked like she wanted to say more, but something was holding her back. Markal wondered if sharing some of his information might pry some loose from her in turn.
“My father was a merchant,” he said, “killed by Kratian nomads on the Spice Road. He tried to buy salt from them, but they cut his throat instead. My mother was already dead. When the master found me, I’d apprenticed myself to a tile layer in the khalif’s palace.”
“These things mean nothing to me. I am a stranger in these lands.”
“Why did you cross the mountains? Was it only to find my master?”
“Yes, and to kill him. To put d
own the sorcerer and destroy his seat of power.”
“There is no sorcerer here. Only Memnet the Great, who is wise and good.”
“So you claim.”
Markal gestured at their surroundings. “Does this look like a place of evil to you?”
“Appearances deceive.”
He plucked a piece of fruit from the same vine he’d picked from earlier. “Tell me, would an evil place produce such a thing?”
“I won’t eat your food.”
“You think a plum would harm you when all our magic was unable to throw you out? Take it.”
She accepted the fruit and stared at it thoughtfully for a long moment before she lifted it to her mouth and took a tentative bite. Her eyes widened. Moments later, she’d devoured the whole thing and looked down at the pit in her hand, then gazed longingly at the vine, still heavy with fruit.
“That was . . . what is it?”
“Would you like another?”
“No, I need to keep my wits about me.” Bronwyn studied him. “That’s why you gave it to me. To turn me aside.”
“Why do you keep touching your sword hilt?”
She removed her hand from over her shoulder. “A reflex, nothing more.”
“Is it?” Markal had doubts. When she didn’t answer, he pressed. “Is the fruit evil? You tasted it, you should have an idea. You know what is good and what is wicked, Bronwyn. There was pain in your eyes after you cut down the old keeper.”
“I told you—”
Anger rose in him. “Don’t do it, don’t justify it. You came in with violence. You could have set down your weapon at any time. I was willing to talk to you from the moment you entered, and you turned from that path.”
“No, the fruit is not evil. And I don’t think your master is, either. But I was called here. I was told to come, and there was a reason for it.”
“By whom?”
She stared at him, but her gaze was unfocused, her thoughts elsewhere. She reached over her shoulder again.
“Called by the sword?” Markal pressed.
Her hand dropped. “How long until you can pull the wizard from the ground?”
“A week, maybe two.”
“You won’t have it. I give you three days.”
“More threats?”
“Not from me, not this time. You have enemies.” Bronwyn looked about her. “I will need help finding my way around this garden. Where are guests lodged?”
“You’re staying?”
“You’d rather face the enemies alone?”
“What enemies?”
“Markal of Aristonia, you are a fool. The wizard is known on the far side of the mountains—his reputation reached me all the way in the king’s court in Arvada. I could feel his presence from twenty miles away.”
“Impossible. The gardens are hidden.”
“Not from those with the will to search. Your assassins will return when they realize the wizard is alive. Who will stop them? Obviously, not you.”
“Five minutes ago you threatened to kill my master. Now you claim you’ll defend him?”
“I won’t leave until the wizard is awake and lucid. Then I mean to question him to find out if he is the sorcerer I’ve been searching for. He is either my enemy or he is the enemy of my enemies. If the former, I’ll kill him. If the latter, then he must not die.”
“Who are these assassins?” Markal asked. “Who sent them? Who sent you, for that matter? I don’t understand any of it.”
“Obviously not. Where do you house guests?”
“Five miles up the road toward Syrmarria. There is a caravanserai that lodges travelers of all kinds.”
This was an untruth. There was an inn for travelers, but it had nothing to do with the gardens. But once he got her out, he could see to it that she stayed beyond the bridge.
“No, I’ll stay inside the garden walls.” Again, she touched her sword. “Where is the wizard’s own home? I will stay there.”
“Impossible.”
“If you won’t show me, I will find it myself.”
Markal thought about protesting as she forged off in a random direction, stomping over the flagstones. Always on a quest, this one. But he’d successfully turned her from hacking at Memnet’s head as he lay buried in the soil. By now Chantmer and Narud would be well on their way to Syrmarria. Bring back Nathaliey from the palace, and the four apprentices could face Bronwyn together.
And so he led the paladin to Memnet the Great’s small stone hut, a few minutes’ walk down the woodland path, at the base of the largest oak in the forest. A few minutes later, she was swinging open the door and peering into the gloom inside.
“It’s dusty and full of cobwebs,” she said. “Send one of your keepers to clean it out for me.”
“They’re not servants, they have duties in the gardens.”
“Also, bring my saddlebags and see to my horse. As for food, I prefer fresh meat, not too heavily seasoned. Beef, if you have it, but I am not particular. Duck or goose will do fine, or even wild fowl. I will take whatever fresh fruits and vegetables your garden provides, but no bitter greens. Bread and beer. Butter and cheese. Candles or a lamp to read and write by.”
“Anything else?” he asked sarcastically. “Perhaps fresh linens for the bed?”
“Yes, of course. But that can wait until tomorrow. Today I am exhausted and must sleep.” She looked him up and down as if assessing his worth, or lack thereof. “As for you, I would give some thought to fleeing this place should your defenses fall.”
“I’m not leaving. If you mean to kill me, I can’t stop you, but I won’t abandon my master or these gardens.”
Bronwyn gave him a toothy smile. “The threat’s not from me, Markal. There are others on the way. You cannot yet feel them, but I can—I know they’re coming. Go, find your friends and set yourself to work. Repair your runes if you wish. Set your traps. They will be of little use when your enemy arrives.”
And with that, Bronwyn went inside and shut the door in his face.
Chapter Five
Nathaliey’s palms were slick and warm as she approached the throne room. The sensation was familiar, as if she had cast a spell and blood were running down her forearms. She took the cloth from her belt to wipe it off before she realized it was simply nervous sweat.
Before his death, Memnet had spoken to the khalif as if the man were a nephew or cousin. The relationship between the wizard and the young ruler of Aristonia was intimate, and Memnet could be persuasive when he needed to be, forceful when that didn’t work.
It was the power radiating from the gardens thirty miles to the south that protected Aristonia from griffin riders, from hill bandits, and from raiders screaming from the desert. None knew of the gardens, not specifically, but all felt their influence, and all depended on their strength. If the great dragon slumbering in the wastelands were ever to waken, it would be Memnet who turned it aside. If Marrabat ever marched an army north, it would be Memnet who organized the defenses. And so Khalif Omar might argue, might claim that he must obey the high king of Veyre, but in the end, he had no choice but to submit to Memnet the Great, as had his father and grandfather.
But Nathaliey was not the wizard. She was a young apprentice whose father still served as vizier in the court of Khalif Omar. Her father was already in the throne room, standing with three other ministers, all dressed in green robes and wearing jeweled pendants indicating rank of office. Her father looked up, frowning, when she entered, but she avoided his gaze.
As for Omar, the khalif sat on a bed of pillows, reading a sheaf of papers. Two golden-plumed heaven birds chattered in a cage behind him, their bell-like voices chiming pleasantly. A monkey with red fur and a wizened face like an old man watched from a perch atop a pole. It bared its lips at Nathaliey in a grotesque semblance of a smile.
But it wasn’t the animals or the viziers or even Omar that drew Nathaliey’s attention, but rather the two men dressed in the black and crimson of Veyre who sat cross-leg
ged on pillows in front of the khalif. Emissaries of the high king of Veyre.
The man on the left was about fifty, with iron-gray hair. He worked an abacus, writing figures on a piece of paper. Nathaliey guessed he was an engineer from the king’s road builders. The second man wore a leather breastplate studded with iron buttons, and had a scimitar that he’d unstrapped from his waist and set in front of him. Even without the armor and sword, she would have taken him for a soldier. He wore his hair in a bun behind his head and had a cool, dispassionate look that accompanied a rigid military carriage.
Nathaliey waited until the khalif acknowledged her with a nod, then moved to take her place with the viziers. She needed to see Omar alone to question him about the library, but had no desire to speak with her father at a time when so many concerns pressed on her mind, and was positioning herself away from him when the khalif held up his hand.
“Wait right there.”
“Yes, Khalif?” she said.
Omar nodded at one of the two Veyrians. “This is Pasha Malik, general of the high king’s western armies.”
The military man sprang to his feet and put his right arm across his breast in greeting. He was a handsome man, but she immediately distrusted the sly smile that crept across his face as he took her in.
“Are you one of the mage’s apprentices?” Malik asked.
“Yes, my name is Nathaliey Liltige.”
“He was a great wizard and a friend of my master’s. I had hoped to consult him on a few matters, and was horrified to hear of his demise.”
He didn’t sound horrified, he sounded pleased, the villain. And no wonder. Memnet had refused to allow the high king’s new road to carve through the heart of Aristonia. Instead, the road was pushed north, where it would skirt Syrmarria and then bend in a great arc through the khalifate of Starnar on its way toward the mountain passes.
The Red Sword (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 1) Page 5
