The Shattered Vigil

by Patrick W. Carr

  “The truth is, Hyldu, I don’t know. The tenor of the forest has changed and something of its evil walks among us now. Laewan fell to it, but I thought we had it beaten after Bas-solas.”

  “Rough business,” Hyldu said. “You would have lost the entire kingdom if you’d failed.”

  Against his better judgment he took another long sip from his glass, let the peach brandy spread warmth over his tongue before he swallowed. “We were outmaneuvered. Badly outmaneuvered. While we had to win in Bunard or face total defeat, the enemy didn’t. Then we spent weeks mopping up the aftereffects, not realizing someone has been cutting us in pieces from behind.”

  He focused on her gaze with an effort. If any argument would persuade her to let him retain his freedom, it would be this one. “Months ago, when communication from Laewan and Jorgen ceased, I sent messages to every sentinel trainer in the six kingdoms to move to completely new locations.” His throat tightened. “Someone found the location here in Owmead. They’re all dead, right down to the last pup. Now I know what Jorgen was doing while Laewan kept us busy.”

  Hyldu paled until her eyebrows stood out stark and livid against her skin. “Where was Jorgen stationed?”

  “Frayel,” Pellin spat. “If he’s the one behind this, he’s worked his way south and west around the Darkwater Forest.”

  “But that would mean the sentinels in Collum might still be alive,” she said softly, like a prayer.

  “Possibly,” Pellin said. “Or he might have found them and killed them already. It took us over a week to get here.”

  “Can you make more?”

  Pellin wanted nothing more than to let himself fall asleep in the Grace’s chair, to let unconsciousness claim him so that, at least for a while, he could be free of the burden of authority. “We can—so long as a male and female remain. But even then we’ll need to find someone gifted and with just the right blend of talent and temperament to train them. We found one in Bunard not so long—”

  “You misunderstand me. I don’t mean to ask whether you can breed more. If they have all been killed, can you make more?”

  It was getting harder to focus on her face, even though his peripheral vision seemed to be narrowing. He went to take another sip, but when he upended his glass, nothing came from it except a drop or two that teased his tongue with hints of warmth.

  “No. Aer help me, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” He saw her draw breath and closed his eyes as he held up a hand. “You don’t need to say it. Bronwyn and I have chewed over the possibility until it’s been minced to syrup. If we lose the sentinels, the forest becomes indefensible.” He nodded. “And that is exactly what the enemy wants.”

  He needed sleep with a desperation that made him want to curl up on the Grace’s floor, but time weighed against them. Even the necessary diversion to the Absold cathedral made him want to clench his teeth. “My guard and I will need a change of clothes and an immediate introduction to King Rymark.”

  To emphasize his haste, he pushed himself from the comfort of the chair. “And we’ll need someone to watch over Mark while we wait.” At a look of protest from the boy, Pellin held up his hand. “There will be no discussion. The king of Owmead is not noted for his sense of humor. One wrong look or comment could spoil everything.”

  Grace Hyldu stood. “I’ll have water heated for your bath immediately.”

  Pellin shook his head, wobbling on his feet with the effort. “No. Have the tub filled with cold. Time is more important than comfort, and I need to be awake and aware.” He nodded toward the decanter. “Thank you for the brandy.”

  Chapter 20

  Pellin came into the presence of the king of Owmead with a sigh from within his hooded cloak. His relationship with Rymark suffered by virtue of his kinship with Cesla and Elwin. His brothers had detested the diminutive king’s lust for power and hadn’t hesitated to assert their authority. Rymark, in return, had mastered the finer nuances of passive disobedience to the point he could have written the definitive work on the subject.

  The Eldest of the Vigil surveyed the room from within the shadows of his cloak. Rymark had filled the relatively small audience room with functionaries, courtiers, and—judging by the aggressive plunge of her neckline that left a lot of flesh exposed—at least one courtesan.

  Hyldu stared at the expanse of the woman’s cleavage with an expression on her face that settled somewhere between disapproval and amusement. “Cover up, dear. If you catch cold your nose will drip all over your assets. That’s the sort of thing that adversely impacts your profitability.”

  “What?” the woman asked, her forehead creased in incomprehension. Then a rose-colored tinge blossomed on her face and she jerked a thin shawl into place that did little to hide what was beneath.

  “Oh well,” Hyldu said, “it’s better than nothing.”

  “I’ve always favored your sense of humor, Grace,” Pellin whispered so that only she could hear him. “We’ll need the room cleared of everyone except King Rymark.”

  Hyldu stepped forward until she stood at the focal point of the arc of courtiers surrounding the king. “Your Majesty.” She bowed. “Much as it pains us to be separated from the brilliant lights of wisdom embodied within the fleshly vessels of your advisors”—she shot a look at the courtesan—“I bring tidings that are of a sensitive nature. I suggest you hear them in private before deciding how best to rule regarding them.”

  Although couched in far more colorful language than Pellin would have used, the tone of dismissal was readily apparent. Rymark flushed and pushed himself backward into the cushions of his elevated throne like a cornered animal, appearing on the verge of refusing.

  Pellin stepped forward and raised his hand toward the dais. “Please.”

  King Rymark’s eyes widened, and he pointed toward the door. “Everyone out, now.”

  The courtiers spilled off the dais, splitting into two columns to file past Pellin and the Grace. More than one tried to peer into the shadows of his hood, but he ducked his head, fixing his gaze upon the ornate marble inlay of the floor until he heard the sound of the door closing. Only then did he lower his hood.

  With the room emptied, Rymark slid from the elevated throne and descended the dais to meet them. “All right, Pellin. They’re all gone. The Vigil has proven again that they can pull my strings. What do you want?”

  Pellin sighed. Rymark’s tone left little doubt that he would have to wrestle obedience from the king, just as his brothers always had. “I take no pleasure in clearing your court, Your Majesty. We sent word ahead of our approach.”

  Rymark’s mouth twisted to the side. “I received no word you were coming, Pellin, only the Grace. Admit it—you and your brothers have always hated me.”

  Pellin sighed. “If you received no word of my coming, Your Majesty, then I would look to your circle. It wouldn’t be the first time advisors have tried to stir up dissension to create advantage for themselves.”

  He took a breath to calm himself. Rymark had always been ambitious, desiring the kingdom to the north and its seaports to cement his power over the western portion of the continent. But he’d never been accused of being stupid. As soon as Pellin made his request, the king of Owmead would be able to piece together much of what had happened. Pellin would have to surrender the truth one way or another. “You hold the gift of kings, Your Majesty. According to the liturgy of the church, the gift has come to you by the will of Aer, Iosa, and Gaoithe.”

  “Ha,” Rymark spat. “According to the liturgy—which is a nice way of saying ‘you inherited your throne and we have to deal with you.’ You know our history better than anyone, Pellin. You don’t believe the liturgy any more than I do.”

  He had no intention of getting drawn into such an argument with the king. “My brothers objected to your ambition, not to you.”

  Rymark waved Pellin’s explanation away. “Sophistry. A man and his ambition are one and the same. Issue your orders and be done with it.”

 
Pellin shrugged. “As you wish, Your Majesty. On the ride west I noted troops on the move. I know you must have heard some measure of what happened in Bunard on Bas-solas. The gift of kings passed from Laidir to his son, Brod.”

  For the first time, Rymark showed a measure of emotion other than offense. “Laidir was a worthy opponent. If he could have matched me in men and arms, he might have taken the throne of Owmead for himself. I doubt that Queen Cailin is his equal.”

  Pellin shook his head. “He never wanted your throne.”

  “Yes.” He frowned. “It is totally incomprehensible.”

  “And you might be surprised about Cailin,” Pellin went on. “Though she does not hold the gift of kings, her talents are considerable, but be that as it may, I forbid you to attack Collum. Both kingdoms have plenty of food.”

  Rymark’s expression twisted. “I hated it when Cesla and Elwin used that word with me, Eldest. I don’t like it any better coming from you.” Yet, after a moment, he dipped his head in acquiescence and walked past Pellin to a side cupboard. “It pleases me to inform you that your assumption is in error. The troops you saw are headed north and east, to patrol the Darkwater.” He pulled a drawer and removed a plain leather purse, tossing it with a backhanded motion so that it struck Pellin in the chest. “Look inside, Eldest, and thank me. I’m doing your job for you.”

  Pellin dumped the contents of the purse into his hand. Nuggets of gold bearing a faint bluish tint spilled across his palm, the metal unexpectedly heavy.

  The king of Owmead pointed to the soft lumps. “A fight broke out in the village of Hord. It sits on one of the tributaries that flows out of the Darkwater, about ten leagues downstream. The locals were ready to hang the constable for confiscating their treasure for himself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Rymark smiled, only the tightness around his eyes betraying the expression. “I didn’t either at first, not until I spoke with Lieutenant Maere. Those nuggets were panned from the river, within sight of the twisted trees.”

  Hyldu peered at the nuggets. “But that’s not possible. With that bluish tint, these had to have come from Frayel.”

  Rymark’s smile wilted at the edges before it disappeared completely. “And how many people in my kingdom, any kingdom, know enough to make that distinction, Grace Hyldu?”

  Pellin shook his head. The Grace had failed to see to the real issue. “How did the people come to believe there would be gold in the stream?”

  “That, Eldest, is a very good question,” Rymark said. “I’ve sent several men and women to Hord with enough coin to find an answer—people I trust to be discreet.”

  “Spies,” Pellin said.

  Rymark nodded. “They’ve found nothing except rumors that run in circles.”

  Despite his authority, protocol required Pellin to wait for Rymark’s invitation to be seated. But he needed to sit. Turning to a large polished table of light-colored wood, Pellin gestured to the closest chair, inviting Rymark and the Grace to join him. After momentarily staring at Pellin with a lift of his brows, the king pulled a chair for himself, for once concerned enough to ignore the difference in height between himself and Pellin. Pellin and the Grace followed suit.

  Then, with a deep breath, Pellin continued. “My apologies, Your Majesty, for presuming your intentions.” He hefted the gold nuggets in his hand. “How many people know about this?”

  Rymark shook his head. “More and more every day. We locked down the village, and I posted the garrison commander as close to the Darkwater as I dared, but word had already started to spread to the neighboring villages. But why, Eldest? Someone went to a lot of trouble to seed those streams with gold.”

  Pellin exhaled as he replaced the nuggets into the purse, handing it back to Rymark. “How many soldiers from your garrison have deserted to pan the river for themselves?”

  Rymark sat back. “You see clearly, Eldest. At least a score so far, and some have been caught running south with gold in their pockets.”

  Pellin nodded. “And they have to venture closer and closer to the forest to get it, yes?”

  “Yes. At first the fear of the sentinels kept them at bay, but they haven’t seen one in—”

  “The sentinels in Owmead are all dead,” Pellin said. “And their replacements and the men we used to train them as well. Someone is trying to lure your people into the Darkwater Forest, Your Majesty, and they’ve done an excellent job of enticing them.”

  “But why?”

  Pellin’s heart and mouth closed around a fear he couldn’t explain, like a child who wakes up in the night believing a threat lurks in the darkness but without the ability to put a name to it. “Reinforcements. The evil in the Darkwater is loose. It’s what we fought in Bas-solas.”

  King Rymark blanched, his skin growing white behind the deep chestnut of his beard. “If you didn’t know of the gold, Eldest, why did you come?”

  “To use your scrying stone, Your Majesty. I need to speak with the kings and queens of the northern continent. Queen Cailin, in particular. We must safeguard the sentinels in Collum.” Pellin caught Rymark’s gaze and held it. “If they are still alive.”

  The king’s gaze grew cunning, and his eyes darted to Grace Hyldu. “Rumors have come to me, Eldest, that your relationship with the heads of the church has become, shall we say, somewhat strained. I would be more than willing to offer you the protection of the crown.”

  “You’ve placed spies in my organization?” Hyldu spluttered.

  The king turned his hands palm up. “And have you no spies here in the palace, Grace?”

  Pellin put a smile on his face and cocked his head to one side as if considering. Odd that what he had desired with the other rulers was exactly what he’d hoped to avoid with Rymark. He suppressed a sigh. There was no help for it. Rymark and the other monarchs certainly had spies among the leaders of the orders. Even if those spies didn’t know the exact nature of the Vigil, Rymark would be able to piece together what had happened from the hints and warrants issued for the capture of each Vigil member. “What would you desire in return, King Rymark?”

  “Nothing very great,” the king said. “Just bits of information that you’ve gleaned over the years from your contact with other monarchs and, possibly, their generals.”

  “No,” Hyldu said as she stood. “I forbid it.”

  Rymark looked up at the taller woman, and slowly stood as well, his grin feral. “For some reason, when you use that word with me, I find that it doesn’t bother me so much.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it’s because you have no power to enforce it.”

  Hyldu stepped closer to the king, accentuating their difference in height. “No? In this the four orders are united, King Rymark. Every city, town, and village in your kingdom boasts people faithful to one order or another. Within your palace and army are those who place a higher value on their faith than any other facet of their life.”

  Rymark laughed. “You speak of a different time, Grace. The faith people wear now is like a tunic, easily replaced with one of a different color, or have you not noticed how many of your ‘faithful’ find their way to a different order if they hear something in yours that offends them?”

  Hyldu stiffened. “Do you wish to put it to the test?”

  Pellin forced himself up on his aching legs and stepped between them. “There is no need.”

  He turned to Rymark. “I will never use my gift to help you further your dreams of conquest, and you should be glad I wouldn’t—else I might come to favor some other ruler who has taken a liking to your throne.”

  “Well said,” Hyldu nodded.

  Pellin shuffled around to face her. “But I will not allow myself to be taken captive when the Darkwater threatens to engulf the entire continent. Nothing you’ve heard about what happened in Bunard can convey the reality, Grace.” He pointed to the lumps of gold with their bluish tinge. “Imagine this. . . . Driven by the lust for gold, swarms of your people do what is forbidden and enter the forest to min
e the earth. After a night in the Darkwater, they go insane, killing everyone around them”—he caught the eye of Rymark—“moving like the gifted.”

  “That’s not possible,” Hyldu and Rymark said at the same time.

  He stabbed them with his gaze. “Do not speak to me of what is possible when I have seen it with my own eyes! Do you think your soldiers can withstand a charge of gifted, King Rymark? Do you think your homilies will keep the faithful from the Darkwater when gold calls to them, Grace?” He held up his clenched fists. “Are you fools that you know so little of human nature?”

  Rymark was the first to turn away. “What do you need, Eldest?”

  Pellin didn’t hesitate—the gold in Rymark’s possession precluded every other option. “Access to your scrying stones. I must speak with the kings and queens of the northern continent.” He turned to Hyldu. “And the heads of each order now as well, and all of them at the same time.”

  Chapter 21

  “I told you to watch him,” Pellin snapped.

  Allta nodded, looking as chastised as the block of granite he resembled, which was to say, not at all. “Yes, Eldest, but I cannot watch the Mark and fulfill my principal duty to keep you safe at the same time.” He shrugged and his massive shoulders swelled beneath his tunic like lungs inflating. “I believe the Mark is aware of this and is using that truth to gain his freedom from your oversight.”

  The fact that Allta was correct on all counts only irritated Pellin further. “Stop calling him that. His name is just Mark, if it’s not something else I decide to give him. Acquiescing to that larcenous affectation only serves to cement the little thief’s notion that he can continue swindling people.”