“The history of the dominions of Kandelaar,” Master Doyan whispered.
“Do the original writings of the Navigator still exist?”
The old master put a silencing finger to his lips, but his eyes sparkled Yes.
It was as if Oum’ilah Himself had thrust a hand into Ashar’s chest and gripped his heart. The legend of the Navigator is not an allegory. It really happened! It is not just a story, it is history, and the history is here, and I am about to become part of those privileged to know. To really know.
Ashar slowly scanned the room, his eyes stopping here and there in wonder. The stories he had heard a hundred times came to life in his imagination. His gaze fell upon a stack of thick shelves accessible only by ladder. They were filled with ranks of clay tablets engraved with cuneiform inscriptions, wedge-shaped impressions dried in the sun. Some tablets appeared to be copper or brass. It was hard to see from where he stood.
Directly below the shelves was a box constructed from thick planks of black hardwood. It was half the height of a man, an arm-span wide, and wrapped with chains. There were several locks of different sizes, each sealed with hardened wax.
The stones of light! The thought pounded in his head. What else could be of such importance? They were more than a metaphor, then. More than symbols in a tile mosaic.
In his excitement, the words tumbled out before he could stop them. “Is that were they keep the shining stones?” He intended to whisper, but his voice was loud and exuberant. The instant the words crossed his lips, he regretted it. The nearest of the scribes scowled at him.
Master Doyan apologized with a gracious nod and escorted Ashar from the chamber as swiftly as he could.
“I’m sorry,” Ashar said. “It just looked like a place where . . . I’m sorry.”
The old master quickened his pace. “Not everything is ours to know.” Doyan’s tone was brusque and unforgiving. “Move quickly. We must reach the circle before the sages arrive.”
They crossed an open court and ascended the final level of the ziggurat. The circular staircase was built of hewn stones and was self-supporting. Ashar knew it had been there since the Navigator built the temple almost a thousand years before. He was not sure how he knew. His mind was illuminated in ways he’d never experienced. The higher they climbed, the more refined and curious the workmanship and more elegant the appointments.
They reached the grand chamber of the Council of Blessed Sages. The vestments worn by the men who stood on either side of the double doors identified them as high priests of the highest order. Their faces were covered by substantial beards, grizzled but mostly white. Their expressions were hidden, but their eyes were soft.
“This is where I leave you, Ashar, son of Shalatar.”
Ashar had felt such comfort in his teacher’s presence it had not occurred to him he would have to take the last few steps of his journey alone.
Doyan smiled softly. “I should not tell you this, but there has not been one like you among us for a long time. You have been blessed with many gifts.” He pressed his hand to Ashar’s heart and drew him near. “Fear and faith cannot abide,” he whispered. “Remember.” He bowed his head slightly and backed away, the gesticulation of respect.
Ashar bowed in a reciprocal show of his affections. Master Doyan had been like a father to him. He rushed forward and threw his arms around his teacher. Though it was a violation of every protocol, Ashar didn’t care, and as Master Doyan’s arms encircled Ashar’s shoulders, he knew that neither did his master.
CHAPTER 8
After escaping from the ship at Falconhead, Drakkor wandered alone among the hamlets and villages of the lands northward, from the River of Smoke and Land of Giants.
He was a thief and a vagabond and did whatever was required to survive. He was not afraid to fight, but he knew he must be trained. In a small village north of the volcanic mountain called Dragon’s Breath, he befriended a soldier who had once been a member of the king’s private guard. He persuaded the old warrior to train him in exchange for his service as the man’s squire.
In the years that followed, Drakkor hired out as a mercenary. His dreams were haunted by the prophecy. Every night, he held the stone and sensed the strangeness of it. Every day, he struggled to awaken the magic. Was there truly a power greater than the incessant sense of self that burned with cold heat at his core?
He mastered dialects and language. He traveled as far north as the frozen hamlets of Icenesses. He scoured parchments and queried the soothsayers. He sought knowledge wherever he could find it.
At the Inn of the White Bear in Village Icefell, he met Aáug, son of Stembus, one of the Learned Ones, keepers of stories and purveyors of precepts written in the Book of Wisdom.
Aáug claimed to have a thousand stories stuffed away in his head, and his tellings every night most often lasted into the early hours of morning.
Drakkor thought it impossible for a man to remain upright with more ale than blood in his veins. As dawn approached, following a particularly long night of tellings, Drakkor was about to find a teacher less besotted, but before the words could cross his lips, Aáug started a story about a mighty man and his people who fled the great tower in the time of fierce winds.
Drakkor had never heard of the great tower or the time of fierce winds. He settled in his seat again.
“A thousand years ago,” Aáug began. “First People is what they’s called by some.” He took another draught of ale and used his hands to animate the story of how the First People crossed the vast and endless waters in great boats and battled monsters of the sea, and somehow escaped the jaws of Leviathan. By the time the flagon of ale was empty, Drakkor wondered if Aáug’s tales had grown to a great exaggeration. Or if they might be true.
By tradition, every story was a hero’s journey of mythical men capable of mighty deeds. Mighty men of whom songs were sung. Massive men who were larger than life. The hero in the story of the perilous voyage of boats was no different. He was known as the Navigator.
“He had thirteen sacred shining stones,” Aáug laughed and swirled the last bit of ale at the bottom of his tankard. “Some call ’em stones of fire.”
Drakkor’s pulse quickened. He narrowed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Tell me about these stones of fire.”
Aáug drank the tankard dry, then wiped his beard with the back of his hand. “Ah, that’s what them who don’t know the truth might call them, but that’s not what they were. They had nothing to do with fire. They were stones that glowed with light and were put into the boats to illuminate the darkness.”
Drakkor’s own stone shimmered with a strange dark light from time to time, but hardly bright enough to illuminate a vessel. He scoffed in spite of the tingling in his gut. “How does a stone give light?”
Aáug steepled his fingers. “’Cause the stones were touched by the finger of God and glowed with pure white light.” He smiled as he leaned toward Drakkor and spoke in a furtive whisper. “Each of them shone like the sun and was endowed with a power unique to itself.”
“Each stone had a power different from the others?”
“Yes and no. All the same and each unique.” Aáug’s words sounded like a riddle.
“What powers did these stones possess? Besides shining with light?”
“No one knows.” Aáug’s pinched face was a puzzle of wrinkles. “The unique endowment of each stone is long lost and left now to superstition. Some said they could open a portal through time. Others stones was said to have the power to penetrate the minds of men. The oldest of the stories I heard claimed one stone could change a man into a bird and let him soar into the clouds.”
“By what sorcery did the ancients access the powers of the stones?”
The wrinkles softened. “Ah. You’re not the first to wonder.” Aáug scrunched his brows and closed his eyes. “It is said the powers of the stones were wrought by heart and mi
nd. As one believed and thought it to be, so it was.” The cadence of his words changed as he recited the stories handed down for generations. “The oldest of the tellings say that when the stones are gathered and returned to the crown from which they were taken, they’ll possess the power of life over death. Of regeneration and endless life.”
Drakkor gripped the hard lump of his hidden stone. The promise of the prophecy whirled through his head like the fierce winds of the story. For Drakkor, the ancient prophecy was a matrix by which he measured each discovery, myth, or possibility. Or—the thought gave him pause—the truth of the stones.
On that day years before at Dragonfell, the sorceress had told him that the stones of fire, forged in the heat of the she-dragon’s breath, had gone missing but were never truly lost. A man she called the Voyager had stolen them from the sons of she-dragon when they had risen from the darkness. Surely the Voyager of she-dragon lore was the same as this Navigator in Aáug’s story. A shiver scurried through Drakkor’s body as the truth washed over him.
The mythos of the voyage of the Navigator and the creation myth of she-dragon were different in all ways but one. They both spoke of mystical stones with the power of regeneration, immortality, and endless life. Stones of fire and stones of light. Was it possible the stories were the same?
However corrupted the legends had become over a thousand years, however dissimilar the stories, Drakkor felt certain the source of them was the same. Where there is myth, there is history. Where there is history, there is myth. The thought pounded in his head. The tellings of two affirms the truth of the one. The adage was old but always correct.
The stone in the inner pocket of his shirt burned like a hot coal against his chest and sent a shivering wave of cold through his body.
The resolve Drakkor made that night at the Inn of the White Bear returned to his mind whenever he held the stone in his hand. He tightened his fingers around its cold fire. The campfire flared in a gust of wind, and his eyes followed the whirl of sparks into the night. He thought of Dragon’s Breath and his return from the lands northward. After so many years of wandering and waiting, the plan had come. His path was finally clear. The destiny that had hovered at the edge of darkness for so many years was suddenly a beam of light.
“That which was lost shall be found . . . Gathered in the hand of might . . . Clustered in her claws . . . Rise immortal to rule all flesh and reign forever as god of the world.”
The meaning of the prophecy had come like a vision in the night. He would search for the lost stones of fire—each of them endowed with an unique power—and gather them “in the hand of might.” Here was his epiphany. He must become the “hand of might.” He must become king.
As king, he would rule the dominions of Kandelaar. As king, no one could prevent him from finding the missing stones. And as the Blood of the Dragon sitting on the Peacock Throne, the stones of fire would be “clustered in her claws” and then—Drakkor felt a surge of wondrous warmth whenever he allowed the thought—I will rule all flesh and reign forever as god of the world.
In the seasons since that night, Drakkor had raided villages, conscripting rogues and miscreants for his army. The peasants’ contempt for Kublan made it easy, and Drakkor allowed his men to pillage and plunder as much as they liked. When the time was right, Drakkor would march against the king, but for now the chaos would suffice.
Drakkor needed to redouble his search for the other stones. Each one of them would put him one step closer to the Peacock Throne, one step closer to becoming the “hand of might.” And then . . .
He stopped the thought. Fragments of the Navigator’s story sounded like a corruption of the prophecy: That which was lost shall be gathered in the righteous hand by the child of pure blood.
History is recorded by the victors. Drakkor knew the maxim well. Truth evolved and reality changed from generation to generation. In stealing the stones of fire from she-dragon, “The Navigator” perverted the history, rewrote the story, and corrupted the prophecy to hide the truth of the thievery. Drakkor was certain of it.
He remembered something about an Immortal Crown and the kingdom of light, but they were surely simply details added to the myth when the prophecy was corrupted by the Navigator. He pushed the thought aside.
Drakkor now believed the missing stones—perhaps all of them—were hidden by the priests who lived in the temple atop the Mountain of God. He would know soon enough. He and his army of outlaws were on their way there. His men would surely make the assault more brutal than required, but the punishment for the thieves who stole the stones of fire was more than justified. It was long overdue.
The clanking of a warrior clambering up the hill pulled Drakkor from his reverie.
“By your leave, m’lord,” the warrior said as he entered the glow of the fire and genuflected to one knee. It was an honor reserved for kings, not captains.
They think me no more than a king. Drakkor smiled at the man’s naiveté and waved him to his feet.
“The outriders have returned. The chatter of the taverns is more than idle rumor. King Kublan has sent a march of kingsriders to find us. A warning has been posted to any who quarter us or refuse to give us up.”
Drakkor raised his eyebrows and chuckled softly. “Is that all?” He could see there was more, but the man hesitated.
“His Greatness . . .” The brigand caught himself and spit to cover his slip of tongue. “The swine of a king is offering a poke of gold to any man among us who’ll betray you, and he’s promised to rid the King’s Road of every ‘damnable rogue’ and”—the man swallowed hard—“by the words of the posting not mine, ‘put the head of the bastard of a bandit king on a spike!’”
Drakkor gave an amused scoff. “And to do that the king has finally sent an entire march of his elite kingsriders?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Finally.” Drakkor smiled. “The demented old fool. How many villages have we had to ravage to get the old man’s attention?” He smiled and poked the fire with a stick. The flame ignited the feral yellow in his eyes. “Select three of our best to straggle behind. Make sure they leave sufficient signs for the kingsriders to follow.” He breathed deeply to savor the plans that pulsed through his head.
His fingers closed around the burning stone hidden beneath his furs. The time had come.
CHAPTER 9
The woman was beautiful and clearly highborn. Her blouse had been ripped away, leaving her shoulders bare. She clutched the tattered silk across her bosom the best she could. A tear in her skirt exposed her bare legs. Her bare feet were torn and bleeding.
She might have been killed by an arrow had Captain Borklore not raised a fist and stayed his archers. Their deadly shafts had been nocked and at full pull moments after the woman had stumbled from a copse of willows and dropped to her knees in the middle of the road.
Captain Borklore shouted for the halt of the kingsriders. His command was echoed to the end of the march. More than a hundred of the king’s elite warriors, riding two abreast. Most were mounted on coursers. A few rode destriers. Twenty archers. Forty swordsmen. Twenty warriors with pikes and poles. Another score of men with axes, maces, truncheons, and flails. At the rear, a dozen wranglers with extra horses. At the front, the captain, his officers and bannermen with the coiled viper sigil of kingsriders, House Kublan, and the dominions of Kandelaar.
Kingsriders were intimidating in their appearance and feared in their reputation. Some were sons of nobles or highborns, serving to honor the family name. Some were troubled young men abandoned by their families or caught in crimes and given a choice of prison or service. Whatever a man’s past or purpose, it was an honor to ride with the kingsriders and to wield a sword of layered steel in defense of the king, even if it was his Raven who called them to this action.
Borklore dismounted and strode to the woman. He wore a boiled leather breastplate and th
e iron armor of the kingsriders. An officer’s cape of black wool hung from brass couplings and the plume of his helm was feathers of peacock. The lines of his face were hard, but his eyes were kind. His chin had a double cleft from the blow of an ax that left him scarred but had failed to take his life.
The woman reached out to him, and the silk fell away. Her bare skin was the color of fresh cream. Her face glowed in the golden half-light of the setting sun.
A flush of desire surged through the captain at the sight of her. Chivalry pushed the thought away. As he drew closer, he could see bruises on her face and a trickle of blood on her swollen lips. He swirled the black cape from his shoulders and draped it around her. With a look of gratitude, she gathered the thick wool and covered herself.
“What has happened to you, m’lady?” Borklore asked.
“Bandits!” she whispered. “They fell upon us and our company as we traveled the King’s Road from Rokclaw.”
“What is your name?”
“I am Lady Rordak of House Nógard.”
Borklore narrowed his eyes. “House Nógard? I’ve not heard of it.”
“Of the far south, m’lord. A minor house but loyal to His Greatness, Orsis-Kublan, Omnipotent Sovereign and King.”
The captain nodded respectfully. “And what of your companions?”
“The bandits killed the men, then put the children and women into wagons and took them to their camp.” She sniffled and put fingers to her lips. “The men . . . They . . .” She looked away and began to cry.
Borklore could see the terror of the tragedy on her face.
“I escaped,” she continued, swiping at her tears, “but not before . . .” She looked at the captain, then blushed and turned her eyes away again.
Though chivalry was largely lost in the dominions of Kandelaar, men like Borklore still lived by the old code of honor. He tightened his resolve to punish the vile men who had done such a thing.
The Immortal Crown Page 7
