The Shattered Vigil

by Patrick W. Carr

  “Yes, Eldest.”

  He eyed his silent guard with frustration. At least Bolt would have offered up some disgustingly trite piece of soldierly wisdom that would have afforded Pellin an outlet for his annoyance.

  “He usually returns fairly quickly, Eldest. I doubt he can get into too much trouble in such a short time. He doesn’t need to steal anymore now that he’s under your protection.”

  Pellin seized on the opening, gaping at his guard in disbelief. “Are you mad? I delved him! That cherubic-looking little urchin has the soul of a thief. He steals because he enjoys the challenge of it, and the bigger the risk, the greater the pleasure. It’s a game to him.” Pellin threw up his hands. “And the little rat knows that since he’s attached to me, I have no choice but to use my influence to bail him out of trouble or let my own authority and reputation suffer. By all that’s holy, I’m being held hostage by a boy!”

  Pellin’s back was to his guard at that moment, so he didn’t recognize the unfamiliar sound. He spun in amazement to see Allta laughing, actually laughing, at the Eldest of the Vigil and his predicament. Surprise at the evidence that his guard possessed a sense of humor washed away any anger he might have felt.

  “I see Bolt didn’t completely beat the humanity out of you after all,” Pellin said. “I’ll have to have a word with him next time we meet. He’s getting soft in his old age.”

  Allta swallowed his mirth, clearing his throat and having the decency to look abashed. “Begging your pardon, Eldest, but there was a boy in my village—the son of the mayor—who wasn’t quite right in the head, if you take my meaning. He refused to look anyone in the eye. It made people feel uneasy and a bit distrustful. No one would take him for an apprentice. Whenever he went to market, he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off the melons. He’d go up and down the street, touching each one, almost caressing them and muttering to himself. It made the women of the village nervous.”

  Pellin would have interrupted, but amazement glued his jaws shut. Allta had probably spoken more in the last two minutes than in the entire previous month.

  “One of the merchants took pity on the lad,” Allta went on. “Instead of shooing him away like all the others had done, he just let him touch the melons, following him closely to make sure he didn’t damage or steal anything. After a while the merchant noticed the boy was saying how many days it would be until each melon would be perfectly ripe. And the lad was never wrong.” Allta’s smile held Pellin where he stood. “The merchant couldn’t apprentice him quickly enough. The last I heard, the merchant was one of the most profitable in Aille and the boy his chief factor. He even looks people in the eye every now and then.”

  Pellin nodded. “So if I can’t change our little thief’s character, I need to use it.”

  Allta nodded. “If he has to steal, make it information instead.”

  “That’s the sort of thing a man gets killed for, Allta.”

  The guard nodded. “If he’s caught stealing by someone who doesn’t know of his connection to you, Eldest, he’ll be killed anyway.”

  The next day, Pellin sat in Rymark’s study staring at a pair of scrying stones on the table, one tinged pink, the other with the faintest hint of green. Pellin’s own yellow-hued diamond was nestled in his cloak, wrapped in layers of cloth to prevent it from inadvertently sending their words across the distance to whoever held its like. This time, Mark sat at his side. For once, circumstances seemed to have attained enough weight and scale to cow the boy into respectful silence, and Pellin wanted his apprentice’s impressions of the meeting, no matter how it went.

  “Remember,” he whispered to the boy. “Say nothing. See everything.”

  Mark nodded, playing the part of the intimidated apprentice to perfection. Only the barest glint of mischief in those blue eyes hinted at anything else.

  While he waited for the monarchs and church leaders to assemble, he took a moment to survey the room. Despite the long years of his service, he had never before seen the private study Rymark called his own. Every ruler holding the gift of kings had one, a place that reflected their personality and often revealed their deepest desire. Laidir’s had been more of a library, filled with collections of stories. Ulrezia of Frayel possessed a hall filled with every musical instrument imaginable arrayed around a harp, with tapestries on the walls to deaden the sound.

  Rymark’s chamber resembled a war room, despite the relative peace that had ruled the kingdoms for the last century. Maps covered the walls, and books on military strategy filled the shelves. For a moment, Pellin almost pitied the diminutive king. He would have been happier if he’d been born into a time that could have let him exercise his talents.

  A faint sound, like a whisper, came from one of the stones, and Rymark leaned forward to speak to the greenish diamond in front of him. “Are we all assembled?”

  “Aye,” a melodic voice came from the stone that Pellin recognized as Ulrezia of Frayel.

  “I’m here,” Ellias of Moorclaire announced in an annoyed tone, with a hint of rolling his R. “What is this about?”

  “In good time, my fellow king,” Rymark said.

  “I’m here as well,” said another woman, Queen Chora of Aille.

  Pellin sighed. Of all the monarchs, her struggles with the church had been the most pronounced by virtue of sharing her capital city, Cynestol, with the Archbishop of the Merum.

  King Boclar of Caisel and Queen Phidias of Elania voiced their attendance before Rymark offered a perfunctory greeting.

  “I am here as well,” Cailin said, “as regent for my son.”

  “Well met, daughter,” Ellias said. The king of Moorclaire’s voice was deeply formal.

  “Father.” She replied in respectful tones, but Pellin thought he detected a hint of frost there.

  Grace Hyldu leaned forward to direct her voice to the stones in front of her. “Within the charisms of Aer, the talents of man—”

  “I think we can dispense with the coda to the exordium, Grace,” Pellin said. “Are you here and alone, Archbishop, Captain, and Chief?”

  “I am,” came three voices from the stone.

  “What is this about, Pellin?” the Archbishop demanded. “Where are you? And where is the rest of the Vigil?”

  A cacophony of voices poured from the stones as the leaders of the church and the seven kingdoms each attempted to ask their question over the others. Pellin sat back and waited until the sound faltered and died under its own weight before speaking again.

  “If you will all be patient,” he said, “I will endeavor to answer your questions.” He took a deep breath. “Let me begin by telling you that I am here in Andred in the company of King Rymark and the Grace of the Absold.” He looked across the table at the man and the woman who sat with him, still wearing wide-eyed expressions of shock. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage. “I also feel obligated to inform you, Archbishop, Chief, and Captain, that I am not under the ‘protection’ of the Absold, nor will I allow myself to be.”

  “Why have you not taken him, Grace?” Collen, Captain of the Vanguard, asked. “If he should die without an apprentice, the northern continent will fall.”

  Hyldu leaned toward the stone. “The Eldest has convinced me that his freedom is essential to preventing just such a fall. Please hear him.”

  “Thank you,” Pellin said. While he had their collective attention, Pellin explained the occurrences at Bunard, his suspicion that Jorgen had been corrupted by the same evil from the Darkwater that had taken Laewan, and his discovery that the sentinel base in Owmead had been destroyed, as well as Rymark’s revelation of their enemy’s attempts to lure people to the Darkwater with seeded gold. He made no attempt to couch his words to lessen the shock. Rather, he painted the disaster that had befallen the sentinels in the most stark language he could contrive.

  “What do we do?”

  Pellin wasn’t sure who asked the question, but it didn’t matter. He accepted the opening and leaned forward until his mouth wa
s inches from the pair of scrying stones. “Our armies must cordon off the Darkwater until the Vigil can find the source of this infection and eradicate it. If you need to manufacture a reason for the excuse of war, then do it, but find a way to put your best soldiers around the forest with orders to kill anyone coming out of it or panning for gold.”

  Across from him, Rymark shook his head in disagreement, but didn’t speak. Pellin breathed a prayer of thanks. Rymark knew already what the other kings and queens would soon discover. All the threats in the world wouldn’t keep a man from seeking out gold.

  “If we do this, Eldest, the world will know the sentinels have died,” Ulrezia said.

  “They will know it soon enough. The mystery of the forest has always drawn the curious and the foolhardy.”

  “And if we should find any sentinels alive?” Boclar asked.

  Pellin stifled a sigh. He couldn’t afford to show weakness now. Not here. “I pray that it will be so. I will give you the locations of the sentinel base in each kingdom. Dispatch men to investigate. If you have someone with the gift of devotion and a strong talent for nature, send them as well. Their affinity for animals will offer them some protection. Get word to one of the Vigil if any of the adults or pups are found alive. If there is any chance of rebuilding the pack, we must take it.

  “Chief of Servants, I must ask you to release Willet Dura from your protection so that he and his guard may seek out the sentinel camp in Collum. If Jorgen is responsible for the death of the sentinels, he would get to it last. It stands the most likely chance of surviving.”

  Brid Teorian’s voice came from the scrying stone. “Lord Dura is gone.”

  Pellin stared at the crystal in disbelief.

  “You can’t count on the church to do anything right.” Rymark shook his head. “They shouldn’t have taken him captive, but when they did they couldn’t keep him. Somehow, I’m not encouraged.”

  “That comment is beneath you,” Hyldu said.

  “Is it?” Rymark asked. “I was under the impression that you and the rest of the heads of the church thought very little was beneath me. Aer help us, if you can’t even be relied upon to imprison a man, how are we going to win a war?”

  “This isn’t a war,” Hyldu said.

  “If you think that,” Rymark spat, “you’re a fool. Or did you believe that we were going to just put a few hundred thousand men in the field for our personal amusement?”

  “You misunderstand me,” the Chief of Servants’ voice came from the stone. “Lord Dura has already left for the sentinel camp.”

  “Impossible,” Pellin said. “He doesn’t know the way.”

  “But Peret Volsk does.”

  “Are you mad?”

  Pellin heard the accusation, but in the clash of voices he couldn’t be sure who’d made it.

  When a cacophony erupted either in support or against the Chief, Pellin leaned closer to the stones. “Stop! We have no time for such squabbles. We must trust that Dura’s guard will safeguard him against any treachery Volsk might attempt. Rymark is correct. We must be prepared for war, but for the moment we have to focus on cutting off our enemy’s lines of supply.” He caught Rymark’s and Hyldu’s gaze, held it. “If we can prevent anyone else from entering the infection of the Darkwater, then the enemy will soon have no one to fight for him.”

  “And if the infection is reaching out from the forest itself?” the Captain of the Vanguard asked.

  Across from Pellin, Hyldu shivered and made the sign of the arcs on her forehead. “Then the Vigil will deal with it,” he said. “But to that end we will need scrying stones.”

  “What of yours?” Queen Chora asked.

  “Jorgen still retains one of the stones, and even if he did not, they are not all accounted for. I sent to the southern continent for replacements, but they never arrived.”

  “What do you suggest?” Hyldu asked.

  “I must be able to communicate at need with Lady Bronwyn and Lady Deel. I am asking the heads of the orders to loan us the use of their stones until replacements can be found.”

  Hyldu opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

  “Since the heads of the church reside in Cynestol, Andred, Bunard, and Loklallin, they can use the stones of the monarchs, if needed.”

  Pellin sat back and waited for the wave of objections he knew must come. In the entire world, nothing held more value than scrying stones, and only aurium, a metal more rare then gold, came close. How many wars had been won or lost because one side could communicate more effectively than the other? Nearly a minute passed without comment, but by the tightness that came and went in her expression, Pellin could see the struggle his request had created in the Grace of the Absold.

  “If you lose my stone,” she whispered, “you owe me a replacement.”

  Pellin nodded, suppressing a smile. Any replacement he bought would come from church funds Hyldu and the rest commanded.

  “I will surrender my stone to the Eldest,” Hyldu announced.

  A heartbeat later the Archbishop of the Merum and the Captain of the Vanguard agreed to surrender their stones to Bronwyn and Toria Deel.

  “You will have to find them first,” Pellin said. “Look in the towns and villages close to the forest.”

  “And what of Willet Dura?” the Chief of Servants asked.

  For a moment Pellin hesitated. As forthcoming as he’d been in their previous conversation, he’d avoided sharing his deepest suspicions and fears regarding Dura and his vault. Little would be served by giving voice to it now. “Keep your stone, Chief. We will try to find other ways to communicate with Lord Dura.” He tried to ignore the twinge of guilt that flashed through him and failed. “Now I must return to the forest myself. Jorgen is out there.” He didn’t bother to say that he didn’t have the slightest idea of how to find him.

  “We should do something about that one,” the Chief of Servants said.

  Pellin shook his head as if the Chief of Servants could see him. “If you try to take him, you’ll just lose your men. He’s not human anymore.”

  After a pause, Hyldu spoke. “Circulate his likeness among the kingdoms with a hefty price on his head. We might not kill him, but it may curtail his movements.”

  “Agreed,” Pellin said.

  “A moment.” The Archbishop’s voice came from the pink diamond. “Eldest, you have won a reprieve because you have convinced us of the need, but if another of the Vigil should fall and your strength be reduced to three, then you must understand we must safeguard what remains.”

  Queen Chora spoke almost before the Archbishop had finished. “Even if that means the kingdoms must unite to take you captive.”

  Pellin waited for dissent and argument, but no one spoke. It seemed the others had broken off communication without further discussion. Rymark nodded, then reached forward to take the green shard of diamond from its stand and wrap it in cloth.

  Hyldu nodded toward the pink-tinged stone still on the table. “It’s yours, as agreed. But tell me, Eldest, why you made no request for the fourth member of the Vigil. Doubtless, the Chief of Servants could have given him her stone. Brid Teorian is nothing if not accommodating.”

  Pellin bit his lip, considered not answering, especially in the presence of Rymark, who might very well try to use the information for personal advantage. But the question was enough for that purpose. Perhaps if he answered well, he could convince the king of Owmead that Dura carried more risk than reward.

  “Dura’s vault presents a dilemma, Grace. While he seems to be immune to its usual effect, it cannot be denied that it has its origin in the Darkwater. We don’t know if the enemy can use it to spy on us or not.”

  Rymark smiled. “Then feed him misinformation and see if the enemy bites.”

  Pellin nodded. The same idea had occurred to him. “That is a strategy I would have been more than willing to try had we not already deceived the enemy by using it with the scrying stones.”

  “Bas-solas,�
� Rymark and Hyldu said at the same time.

  “Exactly. I doubt whether it would work again, and I’m unwilling to lose another member of the Vigil, even a flawed one, in the attempt.”

  Chapter 22

  After leaving Bunard, we rode north and east along the banks of the Rinwash for almost a week, moving backward in the season from late to early summer, the farms growing more and more scarce, the men or women living there unwilling to fight the protracted winter to wrest subsistence from the earth.

  I’d never been to the village of Hund—had barely heard of it, in fact—but we followed Volsk, who with Bolt’s dour encouragement rode his horse at a numbing trot designed to eat up the leagues of distance, his direction as unerring as a compass.

  The sixth day out we camped by the banks of the river close to a copse of fir trees mixed with cedar. With the sun no more than a circle of crimson above the hills to the west, we slipped from our saddles. Bolt alone managed to walk without the bowlegged stagger the rest of us had worn for days.

  Rory slipped to the ground with a cry of pain, clutching the inside of each thigh. “This is what I get for taking up with a growler,” he whimpered. “No self-respecting thief would choose to work for a reeve.”

  I tried to bend over and touch my toes as Dest looked on. My fingertips made it halfway between my kneecaps and my feet before I gave up. I couldn’t be sure without delving him, but I thought my horse’s face held a hint of justified amusement at my suffering.

  I turned to see Custos watching us from his saddle. As he pulled his left foot from his stirrup and lowered himself gently to the ground, I moved toward him, ready to offer a hand in case he needed it. But he stepped away from his mount with an expression made of equal parts discomfort and pride. After a couple of faltering steps, he managed an almost normal walk.

  I couldn’t help but shake my head in disbelief. “Is there some secret stable in the library I don’t know about, old friend? I wouldn’t think being the Merum librarian would offer you much time for riding.”