“I wish he’d get on with it,” Nathaliey said. “Might be helpful to have him around at a time like this. We don’t even understand what’s going on.”
“Surely we’ve got enough between us to piece it together.”
“Hmm, yes. I should fetch Chantmer and Narud, and we can discuss it.”
She made as if to stand, but Markal put a hand on her wrist to stop her. “They need their rest.”
“Chantmer, at least. He’s clever, Markal—he’ll have ideas.”
“I’d rather not have an endless argument before we’ve even found the bottom of this thing.”
“Ah, now I understand.” Nathaliey settled back into place. “What do you suppose the barbarian meant about Eliana not being dead? You didn’t bury her body in the gardens, did you?”
“That wouldn’t have worked—she’s not the master.” Markal glanced at Bronwyn to make sure she was still sleeping. “Eliana’s body is on a tower of silence outside the western walls. I’m sure if you looked, you’d see the crows picking over her flesh. Whatever this woman meant, it wasn’t that Eliana had come back to life.”
“She must be insane. She’s a paladin of some sect or cult, and you know what kind of fanatics they are. She wants to cleanse the world of unholy magic, and somehow the master’s name was added to her list.” Nathaliey studied the pale-skinned woman. “She certainly is beautiful, in a strange sort of way. And did you see her with the sword? It was wonderful to watch. And terrible, at the same time.”
It had continued brightening with the coming of dawn, and now the first rays of the sun came gleaming through the branches of the oak tree. With daylight, the fear of wights faded like a quickly forgotten nightmare.
“There’s one thing I’m confident of,” Markal said. “Bronwyn has nothing to do with the assassins who killed the master. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have driven off the wights, she’d have let them overrun the garden.”
“Who says she has to be consistent? Like I said, she’s a fanatic, and who knows what tortured stories she’s told herself. Anyway, she killed a keeper, she tried to kill the master—that makes her an enemy.”
“Forget the paladin for a moment,” Markal said. “You don’t suppose that the wights and the assassins and the missing pages in the library are tied to the high king’s road, do you?”
“The thought crossed my mind when I was in the dungeon. Pasha Malik was certainly taking advantage of Memnet’s death, and the khalif is too craven to oppose him. But it’s impossible. This is a magical attack, so the king couldn’t be involved.”
Yes, that was true. The high king of Veyre had once been a wizard himself, a peer and ally of Memnet’s. But he’d renounced the order to take the throne of Veyre. Political power and magic could not—would not—be mixed, and he’d chosen to pursue the former and abandon the latter.
Perhaps not surprisingly, the high king had grown wary of all forms of magic once it had been taken from him. He’d banished it from the Eastern Khalifates and, later, pressured khalifs in the west to do the same, until the use of magic was largely confined to its traditional homeland of Aristonia and foreign lands across the desert or over the mountains.
As for the high king, his knowledge of the craft quickly fell away, and when he’d met with Memnet and the apprentices to argue for the passage of his highway through Aristonia, Markal was shocked to see how he’d aged with the passing of years. He’d become only a man, one who relied on generals and armies, and feared and hated magic.
“Then we still know nothing,” Markal said, frustrated. “Who is attacking us and why?” He hooked a thumb at the sleeping paladin. “Not to mention her.”
Nathaliey dipped the last piece of flatbread into the honey. “I suppose we’ll have to wait for her to wake up.”
Markal’s gaze fell once more on the sword. Bronwyn’s hand remained tightened around the hilt, even while the rest of her relaxed in a deep slumber. A thought occurred to him.
“How are you feeling?” he asked Nathaliey.
“Better. Exhausted, of course, but nothing that more food and a few hours of sleep won’t cure.” She popped the bread into her mouth and licked her fingertips.
Markal handed her the flask of wine. “Better take another swig. You’re going to need it.”
She took the flask and studied him. “What are you getting at?”
“I’ll need your magic if I’m going to get my hands on that sword.”
Chapter Ten
Nathaliey looked intrigued, rather than skeptical, and that emboldened Markal. “I almost tried this last night,” he said, “but it seemed likely to go wrong.”
“Because of the sword itself?”
“Exactly. I had my suspicions the way she kept touching it, but now that I’ve picked it up and heard it myself, I’m sure. It’s the sword telling her, and she’ll be warned.”
Nathaliey frowned. “Her hand is on it right now. The blasted thing might be listening to us.”
“Probably is. It knows all sorts of things, right down to the fact that you’d be running down the road pursued by wights. But Bronwyn isn’t awake yet—the poultice and the wine and her wounds put her to sleep.”
“So grab the sword and see what happens.”
“I’m not so confident as all that,” he said. “I could use your help to keep her down.”
“Keep her down with magic, in other words.”
“Can you manage?”
Nathaliey sighed. “What’s a little more blood from the pores? My head is full of sand, though. Could you help me remember the incantation?”
Sure, that was the easy part. Not that he had mastered even a tenth of the knowledge in Syrmarria’s library. The larger spells, the more arcane knowledge, remained slippery, and threatened Markal with decades, even centuries of study to master. But it was curious that his friend couldn’t remember something as simple as a sleep spell, yet could execute it with such precision when fed the words.
She exposed her palms and bowed her head. There was a weariness in her posture, and Markal reminded himself that it had only been a few hours since she’d thrown her strength into the flight down the road. He shouldn’t expect her best effort.
Markal spoke the whole incantation once to spur her memory, then started over, feeding the words to her one at a time. She stared at the ground with a look of intense concentration, and as she began to speak, Markal sensed the power rising in her. It seemed as easy to her as bending to touch her toes.
Not all of the magic reached the surface, however. A few droplets of blood trickled down her palm, and for a brief moment it looked as though the spell would fail. What came out was more of a breeze than a blast of wind, but it was enough. As it washed over Bronwyn, the barbarian’s breathing stopped completely. Several seconds later, her lungs drew in air, but slow and deep, a breath every eight or ten seconds.
Nathaliey wiped her damp palms on the cloth at her belt, which was already caked with dried blood. She lay down in the oak leaves with a groan and covered her eyes with her forearm. Markal went to her with the flask of wine.
She turned her head away when he tried to place it at her lips. “By the Brothers, no. I’ll be sick if I try. Just get the blasted sword, will you?”
Bronwyn’s hand, if anything, seemed tighter on the handle than ever. This, in spite of the fact that the rest of her couldn’t have looked any more relaxed if she’d been floating in water. Markal took one of her big toes and squeezed. No response. He poked her leg, then jabbed her hard in the ribs. Finally, he made his way to the wound, bound beneath linens, with its mud poultice underneath, and pressed a thumb on it. The woman didn’t move, didn’t groan in her sleep, didn’t even stir.
Markal picked up one of Bronwyn’s boots and made his way to the sword.
“Well?” Nathaliey asked. She still had her arm over her eyes.
“Shh.”
Rather than touch the thing with his bare hand, he stuck his hand in the boot and used it to pin down the weapon
while he pried off Bronwyn’s fingers with his other hand. When he’d eased her thumb free, he lifted her wrist and used the boot toe to knock the hilt away before setting her hand down on the ground. The paladin never stirred.
Nathaliey was sitting up and watching when he finished. Her face was pale, and she held the wine flask in hand, but didn’t drink from it yet. “Go ahead. Pick it up.”
“I’m . . . hesitant.”
“What are you afraid of? You did it once already, didn’t you?”
Markal licked his lips. Yes, he had, but that had been different. He’d been running for his life, the sword snatched up only to return it to its master. It had spoken to him, but he’d quickly got rid of the thing. This time, he was initiating contact. Taking it from its owner. And for some reason, that seemed like a terrible idea.
“Come on, Markal. I didn’t bleed myself for you to sit there licking your lips.”
“Maybe we should wait until Memnet is up and about.”
“Could be weeks. You think we have that kind of time?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Do you want me to fetch Chantmer?” Nathaliey asked. “I’m sure he’ll be all too eager to give it a try if you can’t bring yourself to pick it up.”
That was the right thing to say to get him moving, as surely she’d known. The thought of Chantmer using the sword to puzzle out the answer to this mystery, and then smugly relaying his discovery, was more than Markal could bear. He reached for the sword. The hilt was warm to his touch.
He slid the weapon from its sheath. It didn’t look red now, just ordinary steel, nicked along the edge from the battle. It was clearly a weapon of high craftsmanship, down to the hilt and pommel, but there was nothing to mark it as anything extraordinary.
And then something stirred. Magic, an awakening. A faint red gleam spread along the blade. For a moment, Markal felt as though he were in two places at once, a sensation not unlike what he felt entering deep meditation at the Golden Pavilion. He was both here, beneath the shade of an oak tree in the garden, and in some distant city. There was a breeze that carried the smell of sand and sage. Of camels and exotic spices. Where was he, the sultanates?
Who are you, my friend? The question was smooth, and poured from the sword like olive oil from a flask.
Markal of Aristonia, he answered. Who are you?
You are a wizard? Do you serve the master?
Something about the question raised his suspicions. What master? Who is this? Are you the sword, or do you live within the sword?
Laughter came in response. Unkind and mocking. Other voices whispered in the background, as if there weren’t simply one entity in the sword, but many. Dozens, even.
Markal put his other hand on the hilt, thinking to listen more carefully, but at that moment his hands tightened involuntarily. The sword yanked him to his feet. His arms lifted above his shoulders, blade held high, and then the thing jerked him back and forth.
“Markal, what are you doing?” Nathaliey demanded, climbing to her feet. “You’re going to—watch out!”
He fought with it. “It’s the sword. I’m not doing anything.”
“Put it down. Just drop it.”
“I can’t!”
Indeed, his fingers had hardened in place until they felt like they’d been melted to the hilt. He still had control of his muscles—mostly—but no matter how much he strained and pulled, the sword fought to lead, compelling him to obey.
And Markal wasn’t the only one fighting. There was another struggle going on within the sword itself. That first voice, the smooth and oily one, contended with others. The sword dipped down, then came point up again. Markal’s shoulder muscles tightened, and he drew back the sword and faced Nathaliey.
“Go!” he cried, terrified. The sword wanted blood. It wanted more than blood.
She stared, eyes raised in horror. Too late, she turned to flee. Markal brought the sword around to cut her down.
A strong hand grabbed Markal’s wrist. It was Bronwyn, her eyes cloudy and confused, but clearing quickly. The sword bucked and thrashed, and Markal found himself turning to get free so he could swing at Nathaliey.
His friend ducked out of the way, but the sword seemed to bend to meet her. Bronwyn leaned her shoulder into Markal and shoved him aside at the last moment. Markal kept fighting with the weapon, but before he could gain control of it, the sword turned slippery. It slid out Markal’s hands and fell to the ground. Bronwyn caught the hilt before it hit. The muscles tightened in her arm and shoulder, but she held herself still, and shortly relaxed her posture.
Markal stood panting. “By the Brothers, what is that thing?”
Bronwyn glared at him as she returned her sword to its sheath. “You, my friend, are an idiot.”
#
Markal arrived at Memnet’s stone cottage the next morning to find the paladin up and moving. She’d laid out her gear on the flagstones near the well. The sword lay on top of its sheath, the edge freshly honed. Bronwyn leaned against the well, polishing her boots. The pendant with the silver crescent moon hung outside her padded cloth shirt.
“Good,” she said, eyeing him and the leather sack he carried. “I’m starving. What have you got?”
“Bread, honey, fruit, olives, lamb pies.”
“I’ll pay for it, of course. I don’t know if you’d recognize my money, but it’s good silver.”
“You are a guest. This is a place of hospitality.”
“You say that now, but I’ll need a lot more than a few pies. I need provisions that will travel, plus there’s the care of my horse these past days, and the caring for my wound.”
“Yes, about the wound. May I look?” Markal dared hope that all of this activity and the comment about provisions meant that she would soon be leaving them. “I need to see if it is healing properly.”
“If you feel it necessary.” She unlaced her linen shirt and shrugged her left arm and shoulder out. “But it feels much better already. I could fight now, if it were necessary.”
Markal unwrapped the bandage. The mud was caked into a dry patty, and he pried it off. Bronwyn’s frown didn’t quite reach a wince as he exposed the wound.
“By the Brothers!” she said, looking. “That is truly remarkable.”
“There will be a scar. And make sure you keep it clean until it’s fully healed.”
“Your skill in these matters is unsurpassed, my friend.”
“That is the garden, not me.”
“Don’t belittle yourself. I know what you did for me.” Bronwyn sized him up. “I can tell you’re eager to send me off. See that my horse is ready, that I have provisions for a week on the road.”
Markal had brought new bandages and a fresh poultice, which he applied to the wound before rewrapping it. “I won’t lie and say I want you to stay, but I would be happier to put you on the road when the wound has turned pink. There is still a risk of contamination.”
“No time for it. This might be my chance, Markal.”
“How do you mean?”
“Only sorcery could organize wights into an army, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would,” he agreed reluctantly.
“And I have a nose for such things. I will find the trail and trace it to its source. Then we’ll see an end of it.”
“An end of what, precisely?”
“Why should that trouble you? This is your sanctuary, isn’t it? Go ahead, stay in your garden, Markal. Throw up your wards and incantations. When your master finally crawls out of the ground, tell him to be more careful when he ventures out.”
There was disdain in her words, and Markal’s first inclination was to mutter his insincere best wishes and leave her be. A good riddance to her.
“Why have you come?” he asked. “What is this sorcerer to you?”
“I don’t give information to satisfy idle curiosity.”
“I might be able to help.”
“Go and see that my horse is fed if you want to help.”
Bronwyn had laced up her shirt again and was pulling on her boots. She looked at him and scowled. “Well?”
“When do you leave?”
“That is nothing to you, only see to my needs at once.”
Now he did bristle. “You’re not the daughter of a king here, Bronwyn of Arvada, and I am not your servant. You are a guest, and I deserve an answer to my question before I rush off to do your bidding.”
“Very well. I need to eat, gather my belongings, and see to my provisions. Is that enough? Saddle my horse and make sure it’s ready to ride. An hour, two at the most, and I’ll be on the road. Isn’t it obvious why? I’m going to find the sorcerer who sent the wights and kill him.”
Markal made a quick decision. “Very well, then. We’ll go together.”
Chapter Eleven
Markal sent keepers to do his preparations while he sought out his three companions. There was some irony to taking command. He’d chafed under Bronwyn’s orders, yet wasn’t he assuming his own position of authority that had not been granted him? Nobody had left him in charge when the master fell. Not over the keepers and acolytes, and certainly not over his fellow apprentices.
Chantmer, Narud, and Nathaliey sat cross-legged in the shrine at the Golden Pavilion, eyes closed and chanting in low voices. Markal climbed the stairs and waited, reluctant to interrupt. It was a mantra in the old tongue that translated roughly as:
The wise seek all knowledge, while a fool takes pleasure in his own ignorance.
No doubt Chantmer had chosen it, but it raised an uncomfortable question. Was Markal the wise man in this situation, or the fool?
It was Nathaliey who first noticed Markal. Her eyes flickered open between repetitions, and she gave him a wink and a smile, but didn’t stop chanting. They’d been going in a circle, one person droning the line solo, then the trio repeating it together, then the next person saying it, and so on. When it got to Nathaliey, she changed the phrase, as was her right.
The Red Sword (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 1) Page 11
