Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 01] - The Fifth Ring (v1.0)

by Mitchell Graham

  Scanned and proofed by 5kops

  THE

  Fifth Ring

  MITCHELL GRAHAM

  Eos Books by Mitchell Graham

  The Ancient Legacy

  The Emerald Cavern

  The Fifth Ring

  An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  EOS

  An Imprint of HarperCol!ins Publishers

  10 East 53rd Street

  New York, New York 10022-5299

  Copyright © 2003 by Mitchell Graham Cartography by Elizabeth M. Glover ISBN: 0-06-050651-2 www.eosbooks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Eos, an Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  First Eos paperback printing: February 2003

  HarperCollins® and Eos® are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publish­er has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  For Jane, who is all my reasons

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It is often said that writing is a unitary profession. That may be so; however, the description falls far short of being accurate when it comes to publishing a novel. I have come to learn, as most writers inevitably do, that producing a book suitable for public consumption is nothing short of a collaborative effort on the part of many people. Some of them were eager volunteers and others grudgingly conscripted, but who, neverthe­less, gave generously of their time and advice. Thus, with humility and gratitude, I wish to express my thanks to the following:

  Jane Vernikoff Schlachter, Doug Gross, Devi Pillai, Diana Gill, Jason Schlachter, Christine Cohen, David Schlachter, Thomas E. Fuller, Dara Schlachter, Chris Hinkle, Steve Stone, Deborah Gross, Thomas Egner, and my wonderful agent and muse, Linn Prentis.

  1

  Alor Satar

  Karas Duren strode down the halls of his palace, passing servants and guards alike. The servants shrank back into the shadows, and the soldiers who lined the pol­ished granite hallways kept their eyes straight ahead. If the king was in a bad mood, the less attention drawn to oneself, the better.

  Duren moved with the energy of a much younger man, his body still hard and slender at the age of sixty. His hair was dark, almost black, and straight, with streaks of gray throughout, held at the back of his neck by a leather thong. He swept through a large'rotunda, across a floor of white marble past the dusty portraits of his ancestors, then entered the new wing of his palace, still under con­struction after three years. A serving girl coming out of his wife's quarters was so surprised by the king's sudden appearance that she dropped the tray she was carrying. She immediately fell to her knees. Duren showed no re­action other than to turn a pair of dark, hooded eyes in her direction as he strode past. Two dour-faced soldiers sta­tioned on either side of the entranceway snapped to atten­tion when they saw him coming, smartly bringing their right arms across their chests in salute.

  Duren descended a wide marble staircase to an elabo­rately tiled courtyard bordered by hedges more than twice the height of a man and so dense it was impossible to see through them. A squad of soldiers, one positioned every fifty feet around the perimeter of the garden, came to attention when they caught sight of him. At the far end of the courtyard, an opening cut into one of the hedges revealed two solid-looking wooden doors. They were re­cessed and easy to miss, unless one were looking straight at them. Without being asked, an officer with prominent angular features and a trim beard opened one of the doors and held it for the king. Duren stared at him for a second and gave the briefest of nods before walking through.

  Beyond the doorway was a narrow corridor and a stair­case lit by oil lamps. The stairs eventually led down to a much larger room, reinforced by numerous wooden beams and scaffolding. This was where the excavation had originally begun. At one end, a portion of the wall had been carefully removed to reveal a large octagonal column of clear crystal. The column rose from below the level of the floor and disappeared into the ceiling, eventu­ally surfacing twenty feet aboveground, on the other side of the hedge. Initially, the crystal had been so covered with vines and earth that five men labored nearly a week to remove it all. Duren paused briefly, watching the spec­trum of rainbow colors refracted by sunlight passing through it. They seemed to move with a life of their own on the opposite wall.

  The stairs had been discovered shortly after construc­tion for the new section of the palace had begun. Nor­mally, the discovery of old ruins would not have elicited much excitement—such events had happened before. But this time there was something different. The master builder duly reported finding the staircase to the king, along with the fact that it was made of neither stone nor wood, but seemed to be constructed of a metal no one had ever seen before. Duren had immediately recognized the find's significance. Thirty workers then spent three months clearing away all the rubble and debris. For his part, Duren regretted having to kill them all. Good work­men were notoriously hard to find.

  They found the first room shortly after the staircase. Empty, containing neither furniture nor any artifacts, the only interesting thing about it was the crystal, which was revealed when part of the west wall collapsed. Karas

  Duren guessed that nobody had seen the place in more than three millennia.

  Duren had found the second room, containing the re­mains of the old library, by accident. At first, most of the books with their archaic words made little sense to him, but little by little he began to decipher and understand them. They were written in the language of the Ancients.

  Translating the texts was painstaking and laborious. Though much of the information and references were oblique, he learned, to his amazement, that men once flew in machines and could move from place to place by virtue of their thoughts alone—facts so staggering that they left him breathless.

  Only a god can do such things, he thought.

  The books told of the ancient war and the destruction that followed; of weapons that laid waste to whole areas of the planet. The weapons in particular fascinated him, and he was saddened to think such marvelous technology might be lost forever. But still... one never knew. A lot of books, for instance, had survived. But late one eve­ning while wandering through a largely undamaged sec­tion of the main library, Duren came upon a startling example of the technology he'd been reading about when he entered a side room he'd not yet explored. As he did, the entire room was bathed in a brilliant white light. It was unlike any light he had ever seen before or that an oil lamp could produce.

  Duren instantly dropped to a crouch and drew his knife. Not moving a muscle, he waited, watching the shadows in the corners for any sign of an attack. The daz­zling lights went off and the minutes ticked by and noth­ing happened. Alone in the dark, he called out, challenging whoever was in the room with him to show themselves, but no one answered. He listened carefully and could detect no sound other than the passage of air through the strange grill-like vents high in the corners of the room. Eventually he relaxed and stood up. When he did,
the white lights came on once more. Not startled this time, Duren identified the source as coming from a series of long glass tubes in the ceiling high above him. Another tentative experiment convinced him the tubes were some type of lamp, reacting to his presence. Astounding, he concluded. Simply astounding. More impressive still was the fact that anything three thousand years old could still be working. He wanted to share this miracle with someone else, but the risk was too great. Light! No burning torches or oil lamps. Brilliant white light—without the necessity of fire. The concept was incredible. His instincts told him that this discovery was for him alone.

  Even more excited after this incident, Duren poured through volume after volume, insatiable for knowledge. Some books crumbled to dust the second he touched them, but thankfully, others survived intact.

  The weeks passed, and he read and learned, spending virtually every waking hour in the library. Duren lost all track of time. His family worried about him, and there were whispers at court about what he might be doing for so many long hours in the room, but no one dared ap­proach him, not even Octavia, his wife of thirty years. Guards were positioned outside, and no one other than himself was ever allowed in.

  Duren came to learn that the Ancients could do many things with their minds alone. Traveling was just one of them. He raced to unlock their secrets, creating journals of notes in the process. If the Ancients were gods, he could be one too. This single thought occupied his every waking hour. He would create things with a mere wave of his hand, and nations would bow down before him. His enemies would prostrate themselves at his feet, for he alone in all the world would hold the power as he be-lieved he was destined to do.

  His mind eventually turned to his enemies, as it did frequently. Thirty years ago, the nations of the West had beaten him, thanks in large part to the failure of his Sibuyan allies to hold the flank during the final battle. Cowards! For thirty years they had penned him up within his own borders, but all that was about to change.

  He decided that they would be his first order of business.

  One night, while reading an ancient text, he came across an obscure reference to the crystals. Until then he had assumed the large crystal in the outer room was merely some form of decoration, or artwork—now he was not so sure. Most important, he learned that the crys­tals did not operate by themselves. They were activated by a special ring of rose gold, which enabled a wearer to link to them. At one time, according to the books, thou­sands of rings existed in the world. Each adult was given one when they reached their twentieth birthday. But then the Ancients began to destroy the very miracles they cre­ated—with the exception of eight special rings.

  It made no sense at all.

  Reference after reference talked about the eight. Con­vinced that rose gold still remained in the world, Duren sent agents far and wide in search of it and the rings, but they returned time and again empty-handed. The crystal remained dark, and Duren sank into black despair.

  Over the next year, excavations continued with painstaking care on the outer courtyard. Various objects were recovered, most of which meant nothing to him. Some had been so damaged over time that no one could tell what they were. Then one afternoon, late in the day, when the shadows were long and the sun cast a reddish glow across the sky, a lone workman stumbled across a metal box buried deep in the ground and brought it to the king.

  "My lord, this was found while we were digging by the fountain," the man said, holding out the box.

  Duren looked up from the book he was reading, an­noyed at the interruption.

  "You said to bring you anything we found at once, my lord," the man prompted.

  Duren looked at the box and then at the workman. "Have you looked inside?" he asked.

  "Yes, my lord," the man said simply. "There are four metal rings of a strange color. The inside of the bands bear some kind of writing that I have never seen before."

  Duren's hands started to shake, and he was forced to grip the table to keep it from showing. "Who else saw you recover this?"

  "No one, sire. I swear it. Those were your instructions."

  "You are sure?" Duren said quietly.

  "No one," he repeated.

  Duren got up from the desk, rising to his full height. Despite his age, he was still a tall, imposing figure, and it pleased him to have people look up when speaking to him.

  "I do not tolerate deception in anyone who serves me," he said, bringing his face close to the workman's.

  "Sire, I do not deceive you. I am speaking the truth. I

  swear it."

  Duren searched the man's face, seeking some sign of disloyalty. Finding none, he relaxed, smiled, and put his arm around the man's shoulders.

  "You have done well—very well. What is your name?" "Roland, my lord."

  "Yes ... Roland, of course. Yours will be an honored name above all others." Duren's fingertips lightly touched the other man's face. "Yes .. . yes ... an honest face . .. a loyal face. I know where loyalty is to be found, Roland. You know that, don't you?"

  "Your people love you, my lord." "I know," Duren replied absently, looking at the box. He cupped the worker's face in both of his hands and stared intently into his eyes. Roland was at a complete loss as to what he was supposed to do, so he just stood there. Over the years, he had learned that where lords and ladies were concerned, the best thing was to say as little

  as possible.

  "Yes, I can see it in you. You are an honest man—trust­ing and honest. Come with me, Roland."

  Duren put his arm around the man's shoulders and led him over to the crystal.

  "Have you any idea what this is?" he asked. Roland shook his head.

  "No ... no ... of course you don't." Duren chuckled under his breath. "This was the source of the Ancients'

  powers. They were like gods, Roland. They could do anything, using only their minds," he whispered in the man's ear.

  Roland's eyes grew wider and he stared at the crystal in wonder.

  "Do you have any idea what this box contains?" Duren asked.

  "Rings, my lord?"

  "They are the links to this very crystal," Duren ex­plained patiently, as if speaking to a child. "Attend." Without hesitation, Duren opened the box and slipped a ring onto his finger. He closed his eyes for a moment, then fixed his attention on a chair standing nearby.

  "Rise," he commanded.

  The chair remained where it was.

  "Rise," Duren repeated again, with greater force than before.

  Roland looked at the chair expectantly, then looked at the floor, wishing with all his heart that he were some­place else at that particular moment.

  In annoyance, Duren tried again, using the second and the third rings, with the same results. He was positive that he was correct. These rings were the links. They had to be. When he took the fourth ring from the box and placed it on his finger, his face had begun to darken. This imbe­cile had brought him trash, he thought. Perhaps he wanted him to look foolish. Anger began to seethe deep inside Duren's chest. He could see that the man was pre­tending to look at his feet, all the while laughing silently at him. Slowly, Karas Duren's hand crept toward the jew­eled dagger in his belt.

  What happened next didn't occur immediately, but an odd tingling sensation began emanating from the ring and coursed through his arm.

  Duren's eyes widened in surprise.

  The sudden explosion of the chair shocked them both. One minute it was there, and the next it was a pile of splinters. Roland's mouth fell open and he backed away, flattening himself against the wall. It took virtually all of Duren's considerable willpower to regain his own com­posure. After a moment, when his breathing returned to normal, he ran his hands deliberately through his long hair and made an elaborate show of adjusting his black velvet cloak as if nothing out of the ordinary had oc­curred. Roland stood gaping as Duren casually flicked a few tiny pieces of wood from his sleeve. Though the king was exultant, he deliberately kept his face serene. There was still the pro
blem of Roland.

  He walked up to the frightened workman and placed both of his hands on the man's shoulders affectionately.

  "Do not be afraid, my friend. You have served me

  well."

  "Thank you, my lord," the man stammered. "May I

  go now?"

  Duren blinked. "Go? How rude of me. You must accept my apologies. Of course, you may go."

  Roland got as far as the stairway before a sharp, pierc­ing pain caused him to gasp out loud. He reeled backward against the wall as the pain struck again, and tossed his head from side to side, trying to rid himself of it. Roland pressed his knuckles against his temples. After a second, his mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out.

  Fascinated, Duren watched the man slowly sink to his knees, his eyes bulging. A trickle of blood began to flow from Roland's ears. When he saw the blood, Duren averted his eyes. Since the time when he was a young boy and his father cut animals open to show him what was in­side, forcing him to watch, the sight of blood had never appealed to him. It brought back memories of childhood nightmares—fierce faces of the dead animals with angry red eyes and mutilated bodies glaring at him in the dark. Often he had woken up screaming as a child. Occasion­ally, the nightmares followed him into adulthood. In his own way, he tried to atone for the bloodletting by setting aside vast parklands as wildlife preserves all around the country. People scratched their heads in confusion at his actions, eventually attributing it to the vagaries of royalty.

  When Duren did finally look back at Roland, he saw the man lying on the ground on his side, legs kicking wildly. Roland's hands opened and closed convulsively for a while, then his whole body stiffened and he was dead.

  Later, carefully stepping across the body so as not to get any blood on his cloak, Duren sat down next to Roland and explained his future plans to him; why it had been necessary for him to die. He patted Roland on the chest like an old friend and whispered in the dead man's ear that he would of course have an appropriate arrange­ment of flowers sent to his wife.