by Melvin, Jim
Henepola strode past all this with disregard, his white robes flowing behind him like wings. Kusala followed him into a narrow hallway that led to a door made of solid obsidian. Though Henepola remained a powerful man, he had to rest his staff against the wall and use both hands to push this door open.
The room was small, round and windowless. It also was dark and filled with a fetid mist that caused the skin on Kusala’s face to tingle. The king slammed the door shut. The room became utterly dark.
Henepola sensed his discomfort. “Is the great Kusala, Chieftain of the Asēkhas, frightened? I would not have believed it possible.”
“Neither you nor I have time for games. What have you to show me?”
The king laughed. “Patience has never been one of your virtues, Chieftain. Your lord has far more of it than you. Will you never learn from him?”
“As you have so delicately pointed out, my lord is not present.”
This time, Henepola didn’t laugh. Kusala heard shuffling, then murmuring. Suddenly the king’s Maōi staff filled the room with light. He placed its tail in a hole in the floor, balancing the staff like a lamp post. A U-shaped curtain hid something against the far wall. The king drew black silk aside, revealing the mysterious contents that lay beyond.
A wide basin of transparent crystal rested on a pedestal chiseled from obsidian. Kusala leaned over the basin and saw that it contained a silvery liquid within which he could see his own reflection. Its raggedness startled him. He hadn’t properly groomed since before meeting Torg in Kamupadana. Filth was encrusted in the lines on his face.
“Do you know what this is, Chieftain?”
“An expensive mirror?”
Henepola smacked him playfully on the back, though far harder than was necessary. The blow would have injured an ordinary man, but Kusala simply grunted in annoyance.
“Expensive? Most definitely. A mirror? In a manner of speaking. But it is far more than that. Allow me to demonstrate.”
The king waved his hand over the basin. Milky tendrils oozed from his fingertips, and the silver surface burst into color.
Kusala gasped.
An image of Torg and the woman named Laylah appeared. They were walking down a dark mountain path. He also recognized their other companions: Ugga, Bard, Elu, Lucius, and Rathburt.
“You asked earlier why I used the words ‘love-struck,’” Henepola said. “I have been watching your lord for several days now.”
“But how? What is this thing?”
“As a warrior, you have few rivals, but this level of magic is beyond your comprehension. Suffice it to say that it is not beyond mine. I made this myself . . . and with it, I can see far. Would you care to view more?”
“You have shown me that my king still lives. But that I already knew, for my heart told me so. What can you show me that I don’t know?”
Henepola laughed again, but this time it sounded more like cackling.
“Behold, Chieftain!” And then the image changed to a darkness illuminated by tens of thousands of flickering torches. The huge army of Invictus had begun its march.
The enormity of it caused Kusala to groan.
“It moves slowly,” Kusala said in a low voice, “but still, you will be besieged within a month.”
“The army marching toward Nissaya is the most powerful that has ever existed,” Henepola said. “Even during the Dragon Wars of ancient times, no ground force was greater. And yet, this army—led by Mala himself—is the lesser of our concerns. Compared to Invictus himself, it is but a trifle. Here, Chieftain, come closer. Have you ever seen the sorcerer in person? I can show you his face.”
Sweat burst from Kusala’s brow, plopping like raindrops in the basin. He tried to pull away, but a will stronger than his own forced him to look even closer. A face appeared, boyish and handsome—and it smiled. The whites of the man’s eyes were disturbingly flawless. Kusala saw strength in those eyes, strength beyond Nissaya, beyond the Tugars, beyond even The Torgon. Then the man’s skin began to glow. Golden light exploded from the basin. Kusala cried out and fell backward. Henepola managed to keep his feet, but even he was staggered.
Afterward, the basin went cold. Kusala rose unsteadily. When he dared to look again, the liquid had returned to flat silver.
“Now do you comprehend our plight?” the king said.
“If your goal was to shock me, then you have succeeded,” Kusala said. “Tomorrow morning, I will call the Tugars from Hadaya. All told, there will be seven thousand desert warriors within your walls before Mala’s army reaches your doorstep. And I have made another decision. I will defy my king’s own command and send Tāseti to Anna in my place.”
If Henepola was impressed, he did not show it. Instead, he shoved open the obsidian door and pointed down the hallway. “Go now,” he said wearily. “Bathe and sleep. It is obvious you are in need of both.”
“And what will you do?” Kusala said, eyeing the basin distrustfully.
“What I do is my business,” Henepola said. “After all, I am a king.”
20
ONE OF THE squires who had been guarding the king’s chambers escorted Kusala down several flights of clammy stairs, eventually leading him to a small guest room with a single round window. Kusala had stayed in this room before and knew it well. A basin of steaming water, a wooden comb, a pair of crude metal scissors, a cake of soap, and a wool towel had been placed on the table next to the bed. There also was a flagon of wine and a pewter cup. Before settling in, Kusala availed himself of the garderobe a few paces down the curving hall. After emptying the chamber pot, he returned to his room and spent a long time bathing and grooming. Then he changed into gray robes his host had provided.
Kusala had not been permitted to bring his weapons to the king’s quarters, so he had left his uttara, short sword, and dagger with a servant, giving strict orders to deliver the weapons to the nearest Tugar. Now he saw that they had been returned, but not before being cleaned and polished. All three were encased in new Tugarian scabbards, which were made of flexible cactus skin wound with black cloth. He also found a black jacket, breeches, belt, and boots. Kusala bowed, silently thanking the nameless Tugar for his or her efforts.
Kusala leaned out the window and inhaled the night air.
The inside of his room—and much of the keep, for that matter—tended to be damp and chilly, but the outside air was warm. Kusala leaned way out, so that half his body protruded from the window, and stared at the fortress from his perch two-thirds of the way up the keep. Though it now was the middle of the night, the wall walks of the three concentric ramparts swarmed with defenders, torchlight revealing much of their movements. Kusala recognized Tugars scattered among the black knights, squires, and bowmen of Nissaya. The desert warriors were larger than the others, yet moved more gracefully. He was unendingly proud to be considered the greatest of them, next to Torg himself. It was an honor bestowed to a very few, and he had held it now for almost three hundred years, having attained the rank of chieftain when he was one hundred and ten.
About fifty cubits beneath him, a barely visible figure crept slowly up the wall of Nagara like a human-sized lizard. Kusala watched its approach with fascination. Not even a Tugar had the skill to scale the keep’s slippery surface, which contained few handholds. Yet the climber made steady progress, coming ever closer to Kusala’s window. When it was just a few spans away, he leaned down and hauled the figure into the room.
Indajaala, the highest ranked of Henepola’s conjurers, stood before Kusala, wearing a snug-fitting black doublet with matching breeches and leather slippers. He breathed heavily, his ebony skin slathered with sweat.
“I’ll never understand how you’re able to do that,” Kusala said softly. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to cast some kind of spell in the hallway and then knock on the door?”
Though he still was out of breath, Indajaala managed a smile. Then he grasped Kusala’s forearm in Tugarian fashion. “Good to see you again, old friend,” he wh
ispered.
“I feel the same,” Kusala said. “I’m glad to see you’re still in one piece. I haven’t yet opened the flagon. Would you care to share some wine with me?”
“I wish that I could, but I must speak quickly and then depart. The moon will soon reach a point in the sky where it will reflect off the keep and reveal my presence. That must not occur.”
“I knew that would be your answer. You have always been careful. So, tell me then, what have you learned since we last spoke?”
“My worst fears—our worst fears—have been realized,” Indajaala said, his voice barely audible. “Henepola has grown more and more unstable. Other than eat and sleep, the only thing he wants to do is gaze into his crystal basin. Did he show it to you?”
Kusala nodded. “Yes . . . and I did not find it the least bit pleasant.”
Indajaala grimaced. “I have spent many tedious moments with him in that miserable room, watching this person and that, including the wanderings of our Lord Torgon. Our eyes were present when the wizard ordered you to separate from him and return to the fortress. The king became very angry over The Torgon’s decision to head for Jivita instead of Nissaya. He has become difficult to comprehend . . . and control.”
“Does Henepola still trust you?”
“I believe so, but only because I pretend to be as disdainful of others as he has become. He sees me as one of his few true allies. He even distrusts his own daughter, whom until recently he loved like no other.”
Kusala shook his head slowly. “Henepola’s reputation as a warrior and conjurer is admired throughout Triken, but he has always been prideful and headstrong. Still, I have never known him to be disdainful of Madiraa. What has caused this change? Is it all the fault of the magical basin?”
“You tell me. What happened while you were with him? Did you see anything disturbing?”
“To me, it was all disturbing. But one thing was worse than the rest. Henepola showed me the face of Invictus, and then the room became filled with blinding light. Afterward, Henepola ordered me to leave . . . but he remained.”
A look of dismay swept across the conjurer’s face. “That is the worst news I could have heard. Henepola has never revealed Invictus to me. He must have known that I would recognize how dangerous it would be to lock wills with the Sun God. How much damage has already occurred? And when Mala’s army assaults our walls, what then? I fear that the fortress will lack leadership at the time it is needed most.”
“I fear that as well,” Kusala said.
“If only The Torgon were here,” Indajaala moaned.
Kusala placed his hand on the conjurer’s shoulder. “For many long years, you have been one of Torg’s most faithful servants, and he still remembers fondly the time you spent at Anna as his apprentice. But Lord Torgon is not here, and when the great are not present, the lesser must lead. For that reason I have decided to remain at Nissaya and send Tāseti to Anna in my place. Torg would be angry with me, if he knew. But when the heavy hand of Invictus falls upon the fortress, I want to be here—especially since it appears that Henepola might no longer be dependable. What of Madiraa? Can she still be trusted?”
“The king’s daughter is stern to her core,” Indajaala said. “In some ways she reminds me of a Tugarian woman. Yes, she can be trusted—above all others who dwell here, though because of my charades, she loves me not.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Kusala went down to the banquet hall at the base of Nagara. At breakfast time, the room was usually filled with high-ranking knights listening to Henepola preside over the gathering at the head of the long table. But on this day, only Madiraa was present, leaning over her tray and seeming to eat without pleasure. Though it was barely past dawn, the princess was adorned in full armor, minus only her helm and gauntlets. Kusala was amazed she could sit comfortably, much less eat. When he came over beside her and cleared his throat, she was startled—more so than the occasion deserved.
“I’m sorry, Chieftain,” she said, her eyes red and watery. “I’ve been jumpy lately. The specter of Mala wears on us all, it seems.”
“Where are the others?” Kusala said, sweeping his hand about the empty room. “And your father? If memory serves, breakfast was always his favorite meal.”
Madiraa sighed. “Father has not supped in this room—any meal at all—for more than a week. He prefers to eat alone in his chambers, no longer desiring my company or the company of the Kalakhattiyas (black knights). Only Indajaala pleases him, and even he for short stretches.”
Kusala sat next to her and ran his fingers one time through her long, black hair, which hung over her backplate.
“Well, that means there’s more food for you and me,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “I have been long in the wilderness and have grown thin from starvation. May I join you, my lady?”
“It would be my most sincere pleasure,” she said, returning his smile. Even as a child, she had been good-natured and easy to succor.
A servitor came forward and offered Kusala a tray of stirred eggs, sliced sausages, and toasted bread. Kusala ate greedily with his spoon, washing the large meal down with black tea.
Madiraa watched him with amusement. “I do not have your appetite, Chieftain. Would you like the rest of mine?”
Rather than chuckle at her jest, Kusala took her tray.
Her eyes grew wide, and then she laughed heartily. “Aaaaah, Chieftain, you lighten my heart,” she said, her black eyes suddenly sparkling. “As you always have.”
Gods, but she’s beautiful. Damn near as beautiful as a Tugarian woman. But she’s too young for you, old man. Of course, outside of a very few, who isn’t?
“What are your duties today?” he said.
“My duties?” She grunted. “I have none. I do what I can to keep things organized, but no one commands me, if that’s what you mean.”
“In that case, will you walk with me? I do have duties to perform, and it would please me if you were at my side.”
“I would like nothing better.”
“Excellent.” Kusala smiled. “The first thing I must do is find the snow giant.”
“Then you’ve chosen the right companion. I know where he is and can lead you to him as soon as you’ve finished stuffing food into your mouth.”
A few minutes later, Madiraa led him from the banquet hall to the outer door of the keep. Crunchy layers of pebbles and sand covered the streets. Black knights marched here and there, in units or individually, appearing slightly disorganized. Kusala started to question Madiraa about this, but he was interrupted when a tall, dark-haired woman ran over to him and bowed low.
“Rise, Dalhapa,” Kusala said.
The Tugarian warrior straightened to her full height, just a finger-length shorter than Kusala. “Your arrival has been noted,” Dalhapa said. “It was I who honored your weapons. I hope my performance met with your approval. The Tugars who now dwell in the fortress await your orders.”
“You have done well, as always.” Kusala knew, as did all Tugars, that Dalhapa was next in line to ascend to Asēkha, once one of the Viisati (The Twenty) was to fall or retire. “Tell the Tugars to gather in the field outside Balak’s door a short time before noon. In the meantime, I need you to call the others back from Hadaya.”
“It will be done,” said Dalhapa, obviously pleased by Kusala’s praise. “And those at Jivita?”
“They are to remain at the White City.”
Dalhapa bowed and then sprinted off, disappearing around a street corner in a matter of moments.
Madiraa was impressed. “She is big, but is she as strong as she looks?”
“No black knight, save Henepola himself, could stand against her,” Kusala said, without a hint of boast.
“Lack of confidence is not a weakness of the Tugars.”
“We speak plainly.”
Madiraa laughed. “We speak plainly. Kusala, you’re funny even when you’re not trying to be.”
Kusala shrugged.
“See?” she sa
id, giggling and then grabbing his muscular arm.
They continued down the wide street. A dense assortment of buildings lined both its sides. Most were constructed of stone and wood with exterior walls faced with dark ashlars, but a few of the larger edifices were natural extensions of the stone mountain on which they stood, resembling black stalagmites with hollow interiors. The black granite was virtually impervious to hammers or chisels, except over extended periods of workmanship. To chip out a single window could take a mason the better part of a month. In this tedious manner, the inner workings of Nissaya had been molded over the millennia, flake by flake.
Even this early in the day, the interior of the fortress swarmed with people. Most resided year-round in Nissaya: black knights, sergeants, squires, and bowmen, all of whom were black-skinned Nissayans; and armorers, merchants, and craftsmen, some of whom were outsiders who had won a permanent place in the city through long years of labor. But the farmers, villagers, and fishermen who had recently fled there from as far west as Hadaya and east as the Ogha had more than doubled the usual population of the fortress. All seemed in a nervous rush to go from one place to another. “There are so many to feed,” Madiraa said in a loud voice, attempting to make herself heard over the din. “Our stores are impressive, but they are not limitless. If Mala chooses to camp outside our walls and wait for us to starve, we will be forced to flee the secret ways to the mountains.”
“That is the least of your concerns, my lady,” Kusala said. “Mala is many things, but patient is not one of them. It is the only thing he and I have in common. When his army arrives, he will give it time to settle. But after that, I believe he will attack with all his power.”
