Duren's own people feared him, Ra'id al Mouli noted. But he did not. Duren needed the Bajani as much as they needed him, and out of such needs, partnerships were sometimes born. He might have wished for a better, more secure alliance, because he placed little trust in the man. Though doubtlessly intelligent, Duren was brooding and unpredictable and al Mouli thought him not entirely sane. But his choices seemed depressingly limited.
The Sibuyan, to the north, were dogs that could not be counted on, and the Nyngaryns to the south were not much better. They had been fighting with each other so long, he doubted they could cease their squabbles long enough to band together into one worthwhile army.
Ra'id al Mouli stroked the heavy mustaches on both sides of his chin and concentrated on the game. He was a large man, with dark intense eyes. Like the rest of his countrymen, he had an olive complexion. His brown-belted tunic was made of the finest cashmere, as befitted the leader of his people. A white silk headdress, which ended in a scarf over his left shoulder, could be used as a veil in times of battle.
The solution was simple. He had not seen it until this moment, but that was the beauty of kesherit. The board's sixty-four squares offered an endless range of possibilities if one studied the lines carefully enough. Remove the defender supporting the king, and the king becomes vulnerable. Not much different from real life, he thought. So al Mouli moved his fortress, sacrificing his queen to the white hawk. The briefest hint of satisfaction played over Duren's face. On his next move, he advanced his foot soldier to attack the dark hawk and promptly lost his mage as the hawk took the piece. The movement of al Mouli's foot soldier and the loss of his mage did two things. First, it cleared the diagonal that had previously been blocked by Duren's hawk, and second, it gave al Mouli an open file to the back row where Duren's king stood. With the path now cleared, he struck with his fortress from one side of the board to the other.
The smile slid from Duren's face as he saw the trap sprung. He sat immobile, searching for some way to parry the attack. Only his eyes moved. Aware the game was already over, Ra'id al Mouli looked through the double doors of the balcony at the massive fountain below. He could hear the sound of water splashing from the marble mouths of those wondrously sculpted horses that rose out of a rocky landscape in the retaining pond. Alongside the horses, men with physiques sculpted in incredible detail also rose from the waters and fought to keep the horses under control. The fountain was an amazing accomplishment, and Ra'id al Mouli had stared in awe the first day he arrived. He concluded that what made it so impressive was the combination of movement, sound, and texture all working together. Duren told him that it was more than five thousand years old. If its antiquity was not staggering enough, the sheer beauty was enough to take one's breath away.
The fountain may have been the central focus of the garden, but there were also row after row of dark green ivy hedges in intricate patterns and gravel walking paths that led a visitor to other statues and stone benches. Some of the sculptings were women, some were men. All possessed a serene kind of beauty and dignity that touched Ra'id al Mouli deeply. He thought the garden would be a wonderful place to study his poetry—providing one could forget its proximity to the owner.
In contrast to all the beauty within, the garden also contained something disturbing and frightening. At the far end lay a flight of stairs, more than thirty feet wide, hewed out of a gray and black stone. The steps were large and uneven. Centuries of use had worn their centers so smooth that they appeared to be slightly bowed in. When al Mouli had looked at the staircase, he saw that they led up to another terrace, and out of curiosity, he'd followed them. At the top of the last step he'd halted and his hand went for the curved dagger in his belt. There, directly in front of him, was the yawning mouth of a huge scowling face carved out of solid rock. The mouth was big enough for a man to walk through without bending his head, and
it contained two rows of large teeth that looked ready to bite anyone in half who dared to enter. A pair of black holes for eyes stared lifelessly ahead. Instinctively, he'd made a sign with his hand to ward off evil and retreated down the steps, not wishing to look upon the monstrosity any longer.
Now, his attention returning to the game, al Mouli was startled to find that Karas Duren was no longer looking at the board, but staring directly at him. It took an effort to control his reaction, but he managed to return the stare just as levelly. Slowly, from the corner of his vision, he saw Duren's hand move toward the king and topple it over.
"Your game." Duren smiled. To Ra'id al Mouli, it was a cold and chilling smile, more like the relief on a sepul-cher, because only Duren's mouth moved.
"I was lucky."
"Were you?"
"Perhaps," Ra'id al Mouli replied with a slight shrug.
There was a knock at the door, and the two men looked in that direction.
"My lord, pardon the interruption, but the Grand Duke Kyne is here to see you," a servant announced.
Duren's mouth turned down. "My brother," he explained to al Mouli. "Very well. Show him in."
Kyne Duren's name was already known to al Mouli, as were the names of every lord and nobleman in Alor Satar, along with the extent of their influence, resources, and loyalties.
One of the guards at the entrance held open an ornately painted door for the grand duke, and Kyne Duren stalked into the room. He was a tall man, about the same size as his younger brother but much broader throughout the chest, and he walked with a noticeable limp that required a cane. His eyes were the same sharp brown, almost black, as Karas Duren's were. Without preamble, the duke unclasped his cloak, threw it over the back of a chair, then sat down heavily.
"Allow me to introduce—" Duren began, but his brother cut him off.
"Have you lost your mind? What in the name of all that's holy do you think you're doing?"
"I was about to introduce you to our guest," Duren went on, unperturbed. "This is Ra'id al Mouli, Kalifar of the Bajani nation. My brother, Kyne ... the grand duke."
The duke, noticing al Mouli for the first time, nodded brusquely in his direction. Ra'id al Mouli rose, placed an open hand in the center of his chest, and bowed in the manner of his countrymen.
"I asked you a question, Karas," the duke repeated, returning his attention to his brother.
"Actually, you asked me two," Duren replied mildly. "The answer to the first is that I have not lost my mind, and the answer to the second is that I am completing what we started thirty years ago. What our father and his father before his began."
"Then you have most certainly lost your mind," the duke snapped. "How do you think the results will be any different this time? We've been at peace for thirty years."
Ra'id al Mouli heard the question and knew quite well what was different. On the second day after he had arrived in the city of Rocoi, Duren had hosted a dinner in his honor, attended by several of the local nobility. They were all pleasant enough to him, but he noticed that they tended to keep their eye on Duren, constantly watching what he did and to whom he was speaking.
After the dinner, Duren had asked if he would care to walk with him through the estate. He was of course aware that the banquet was a mere preliminary to the inevitable discussion regarding a treaty, since he had not yet given Duren his answer. Being a guest, courtesy dictated that he acquiesce to his host's invitation. While they walked, Duren pointed out several of the sculptures and explained their history in intricate detail. He listened politely. It was clear the man was passionate about his art.
Eventually they emerged from the gardens and came to an open grassy area, a wide avenue that cut through the dense trees running along both sides. Two large stone
statutes on pedestals flanking each side of the entrance-way stood about fifty yards from where they stopped.
Duren turned, looked at him, and said, "You are still uncertain of whether an alliance is right for your people."
"You are perceptive, my lord," Ra'id al Mouli had replied, se
lecting the most deferential response he could think of. "Such decisions are not to be lightly entered into."
"And you wonder whether I have sufficient resources to defeat the West, when I failed to do so before. Is this not also true?"
"I would be a poor leader, and a poorer ally, if I did not consider such things."
"Good. If I can have honesty, then the rest is simple," Duren said.
Ra'id al Mouli looked at Duren and waited patiently.
"In the last year, I have acquired certain ... abilities, shall we say, that will make victory an easy matter."
"Indeed, my lord?"
Duren's half smile faded from his face as he closed his eyes and held his arm out in front of him. Ra'id al Mouli felt something hot go by his face, followed by a sudden roar. He turned just in time to see a wall of flames, easily twelve feet high, erupt between the statutes.
It was only with the greatest of efforts that he managed to maintain his composure. He looked back in wonder at Duren, who had a cold, intense expression on his face. Before he could speak, Duren tossed the cloak off his shoulder and pointed at one of the statues. A second later it exploded with such violence that it nearly knocked Ra'id al Mouli off his feet. Duren never moved.
Al Mouli had looked at the devastation around him, then back at Duren, who was watching him quietly.
"Only a fool would not be impressed by this, my lord, but I am too old to believe in magic."
Duren began to chuckle, or at least Ra'id al Mouh thought that was what he was doing.
"I do not believe in magic either," Duren finally replied.
"But it is magic of a sort—the kind that has not been seen in this world for the last three thousand years."
Ra'id al Mouli said nothing. His mouth was suddenly quite dry.
"I assure you, Kalifar, what you have seen is no trick. You have just witnessed a portion of the ancient science our ancestors possessed. That was my uncle, by the way," Duren remarked, indicating the remains of the statue. "I never cared for him. Do you wish a further demonstration?"
"That will not be necessary, my lord," Ra'id al Mouli replied. "Am I to understand you possess this science and can make it do your bidding?"
"I can." Duren smiled. "With such power at our disposal, how long do you think the armies of the West will stand?"
Ra'id al Mouli had thought on it. And while war was not something that he embraced, Malach had left him no choice. His decision might well have been different had he been able to learn who was responsible for the raids on Elgaria's border settlements. The Elgarians accused Ba-jan—they denied it. When he first heard of the attacks, he sent a delegation to the northern tribes in an effort to find who among his people had done such a thing in violation of his orders. No one there knew anything, and he concluded that the raids were the result of renegades acting independently. He promptly sent a message to Malach explaining the situation. The Elgarians, of course, were not satisfied, and closed the ports in retaliation—the same ports that were vital to the welfare of his country.
As a man given to the study of mathematics, he had concluded the odds in a war were favorable—if Duren could be trusted not to turn on him. On that point, he liked the odds much less. Still, there were few options open to him. Had he known that Eric Duren, acting at his father's direction, along with a group of soldiers disguised as Bajanis, were actually the ones who had conducted those raids—he would never have set foot in Alor Satar—unfortunately he never did.
Last year was a bad year, he thought. The next would probably be worse.
"Not a peace of my making," Duren replied to his brother, pulling al Mouli from his thoughts.
"Karas, I don't intend to get dragged into a war again," the duke said.
"Perhaps it would be better if I withdraw to my quarters and allow you and your brother to speak in private," Ra'id al Mouli offered.
"There's no need for you to leave," Duren said. "You are a trusted ally now. Anything my brother and I wish to speak of, we can say in front of you."
"So," the duke said, "you have formed an alliance with the Bajani without consulting the council?"
"With the Bajani, Cincar, the Nyngaryns, and Sibuyan," Duren answered, staring out of the balcony doors.
"The Bajani have never been involved themselves with either the East or the West," the duke said, turning to al Mouli. "Why now?"
"Unfortunately, the times have changed. I wish it were not so, but necessity dictates that my people can no longer sit idly by—"
"While that fool Malach strangles you by closing off Elgaria's ports, eh?" the duke said, finishing the sentence for him. "Plus an alliance with Alor Satar strengthens you against the ambitions of Cincar from the north."
Ra'id al Mouli bowed slightly in the duke's direction. "Over the years, I have heard the grand duke was a man of perception. Your grasp of the complexities of our position is correct."
'With all due respect, Bajan's problems are not our own," the duke went on. "Ally or no ally. I understand what drives the Kalifar. Without the ability to import food from the West, his people starve. Malach's decision was a stupid one, I grant that. You're forced to buy from them at their prices rather than import. It all comes down to money ... it always does." He turned to his brother. "But, why are we engaging in this madness? Our country is not landlocked."
"Madness?" Duren said softly, looking back from his view of the garden below.
"Yes, Karas . . . madness. You heard what I said."
"In one month, we can land 100,000 men at Stermark, Anderon, and Toland, and crush Malach from both sides. Something not even grandfather was able to do," Duren said, looking at the portrait hanging over the fireplace.
"Assuming the council would agree to join with you, it still doesn't answer my question. Why?"
"Because, brother, under the rule of one country, we can bring order—"
The duke shook his head in disgust, leaned forward in his chair and began speaking lowered tones, while Ra'id al Mouli, already uncomfortable with the situation, discreetly walked out onto the balcony to allow them to speak.
"Listen to me, Karas," the duke said. "Our father has been in his grave for nearly forty years now. You don't have to prove anything to anybody. It's not necessary. I never cared that he selected you to follow him as king— neither did Jonas. You're a fine ruler in your own right. Alor Satar is the most powerful nation in the eastern world. Leave it alone. None of this is necessary."
"I'm not trying to prove anything, despite what you may think," Duren said defensively. "The world is in a state of chaos, Kyne. Cincar is constantly at war with Fe-lize. The Sibuyan and the Mirdites haven't known a moment's peace since before we were born. Travel from one country to another is haphazard at best because the roads are so pathetic, the governments are absolutely worthless. They can't even sit down with each other long enough to hammer out a decent trade agreement without a fight breaking out. We could bring order—"
"Order? It's the same thing all over again, isn't it? You haven't changed a bit. Why can't you leave it alone? I would have thought you learned something from your past mistakes."
"You are wrong, brother. I have changed—more than
you could know. Whatever else you believe, you may rely on the fact that I am not the same person I was thirty years ago, or even last year for that matter."
The duke shook his head, heaved himself out of his chair, and started for the doorway.
"I will be no part of this," he said.
"Kyne, I assure you, we will not lose this time," Duren said, standing up. "We cannot."
"For God's sake, how will this time be any different from the last time?" the duke asked wearily.
"This time," Duren explained, taking two steps closer, "I possess such power that no army can stand against us."
"What are you talking about, Karas?"
Duren wanted desperately to convince his older brother of the possibilities that lay before them. Limitless possibilities.
"Listen to me," Duren said excitedly, putting a hand on the duke's arm. "I have discovered secrets the Ancients used in the beginning of the world. Did you know they had machines that could fly? That they could take a heart from one person and put it in another; or create something out of thin air, where nothing existed before? I tell you, Kyne, they were like gods, and we can be as they were!"
Kyne Duren looked at his brother somewhat sadly, Ra'id al Mouli thought as he stepped back into the room.
"Karas," the duke said quietly, "the Ancients destroyed the world with their war. I know nothing of removing hearts or flying through the air, but I do know that what they did was evil. You've been to the Wasted Lands as a child. Do you remember what was there? Nothing! Just sand and the relics of their mighty empires. If they weren't able to control what they created—with all their powers—how can you hope to?"
"You don't understand—"
"I do understand. And I know what drives you. You're Karas Duren not Gabrel," the duke said, looking at his father's portrait. "Whatever you have found, bury it, or destroy it, before it destroys you. I will have none of this."
"Kyne, I am trying—"
"No more." The duke held up his hand. "I will meet with the council tomorrow morning. There will be no war."
There was a long pause before Duren spoke. "That would not be in your best interests."
"What?"
"I said, that would not be inyour best interests," Duren repeated.
"Are you threatening me?" the duke asked.
"No."
When the first pain struck, the Duke's hand clutched his chest, causing him to drop his cane. Duren closed his eyes and formed the mental picture of a human heart in his head. He could almost see it beating in his brother's chest. There were two little valves at the top of the heart: one let blood in, and one let blood out. What a simple matter, just to close one of those little valves, he thought.
The duke staggered as a second pain hit him. Duren stood there calmly watching as his brother fought for breath. Ra'id al Mouli came to his feet and started to go to the duke but never got the chance. In the final seconds of his life, Kyne Duren finally understood what was happening. His eyes locked with his brother. With all the strength he had left, he let out a roar and lunged for Duren, his hands reaching for his brother's throat. But it was already too late. Duren stepped backward as the old duke grabbed the lapels of his shirt and slowly collapsed to the floor.
Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 01] - The Fifth Ring (v1.0) Page 15
