The Mankins were an indigenous tribe that occupied an isolated finger of land that stretched into the sea between the fjord of Akeshen and the waters of Dragon Deep. They weren’t dwarfs like the indigenous clans of Summercross or the legendary imps who inhabited the boroughs of Wug. They were just little people, with the exception of their heads, which seemed disproportionately large. Mankins stayed mostly to themselves except when they crossed the fjord of Dragon Deep to mine bluestone in the pits of desolation.
Ashar stood in the shallow pit and closed his eyes. He tried to assure himself the inquisition had ended, but standing there he wasn’t so sure. Was Master Doyan certain there was nothing left but the recitation of his genealogies to the time of First Landing? He searched for the bluish essence at the center of his soul and breathed deeply to find calm.
He understood that any one of the sages could “excuse” a candidate at any time without explanation. Ashar was amused that such a gentle word actually meant “expelled.” He thought of all the more appropriate words they might have used—dismissed, thrown out, humiliated. If any of the sages arose and left the chamber, the ritual was ended and the candidate was rejected. How he wished Master Doyan was still at his side.
Ashar had memorized his genealogy perfectly. For the first time since beginning his cleansing fast two days before, he allowed himself to think beyond this moment. If he did not expire from the sheer gravitas of the ordeal, he would be taken to the high priests where he would be given the ritual bath and anointed with oil of the sacred blackthorn, then dressed in white and taken to the Oracle for the oath in the holy sanctum.
And perhaps see the shining stones of light? Ashar pushed the thought away as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Surrounding the circle were thirteen wooden chairs, large and carved with elaborate designs. The arms were thickly padded, and the broad seats were piled with cushions adorned with silk embroidery. The high backs were made of thirteen spindles that narrowed at the top and were crowned by a wide rail that curved side to side like a scroll. The chairs were empty.
Like thrones of ancient kings, Ashar thought. His notion of kings’ thrones came from the legendary tales of the Navigator, of tales of kings and captivity. The fall of the great tower. Escape into the wilderness. The prophecy. For a long period there had been no kings in the dominions of Kandelaar. No kings. No thrones. No tyranny. That changed with the rise of darkness.
At first glance the magnificent chairs all seemed to be the same, but as Ashar looked closer, he could see the ornate carvings on each was unique—with one exception. A symbol carved into the scroll across the top rail was the same on every chair: a strange vessel in the midst of a tumultuous sea within a circle of radiating light.
The Council of Blessed Sages was a remnant of the original order of governance established by the Navigator. In the generations following the First Landing, the dominions of Kandelaar were ruled by wise and learned men who were chosen by the voice of the people to represent each province. They sat in council, upholding a sacred pledge to look after the interests of the common good. The council looked to the Oracle for guidance. The Oracle was the keeper of the Way of the Navigator, protector of the hallowed fane, and guardian of the shining stones of light.
The ages without kings had been a time of peace and equality. People had all things in common, and there were no poor among them. It was a time of enlightenment. Some said it had been called the kingdom of light.
Then evil came, and chaos swept over the land like a whirlwind of fire. The people abandoned the Way of the Navigator, men proclaiming themselves kings arose, and the dominions were divided one against the other. The governance of the council shrank to the village of Candella and the peninsula of the holy mountain. During the years of chaos, it became the last bastion of believers and a refuge for pilgrims. The Sodality of Priests of Oum’ilah clung to the traditions of the Way of the Navigator and preserving the ancient writings lest the history be forgotten.
The sound of heavy doors opening wrenched Ashar’s attention back to the present. A shiver scurried down his spine like a spider caught in his tunic. Sages entered the chamber through doors behind the chairs. Ashar turned in a slow circle as the aged quorum shuffled forward and settled into their places. To his surprise, there were only eight of them. Five of the chairs remained empty. A glimmer of what must have been.
All but one of the sages was old, and Ashar wondered if any of them had come there as boys with the highest of all high priests known only as the Oracle. The Oracle was said to have lived four hundred and sixteen seasons.
If there really is such a person. Ashar had never seen the Oracle but immediately regretted the speculation. Why do such prickles of doubt trouble me? he wondered. Why here and now?
The years of the sages were not known, but the length of their lives was written in the wrinkles, scars, and blemishes of age on their cheeks. Wisdom glimmered in their dark eyes, sunken in shadow and rimmed with drooping skin. The dominion of their birth was evident in the color of their skin, which, for most of them, had long since turned to leather.
Sage Kurgaan, the Mankin, had a hoary head too big for his body and a face the color of old ivory.
Sage Ahmose was a Plucian whose ancestor had made the great crossing. His swarthy face seemed even darker surrounded by his white hair and beard.
Ashar was so accustomed to the monotony of priestly habiliments, he was surprised to see that each Sage wore some semblance of the traditional costumes of his province.
Sage Batukhan was the most elegant. He wore a long coat made of red silk and trimmed in a border embroidered with black and shades of gray. The collar was open in front but stood straight and encircled his neck to the bottom of his ears.
Sage FarzAn wore layers of elaborate robes. The outer layer was wool adorned with appliqué. The emblems reminded Ashar of the curious symbols etched on the stone wall south of the temple court. His turban was a braid of linen and white leather and was wrapped about his hoary head. His chin was covered by an enormous charcoal-colored beard with streaks of silver. His face was long and narrow, as if the earth had pulled him closer over the many seasons of his life.
Looking into their eyes was like gazing into a tunnel of eternity. Ashar could not look away. He hoped to see a champion. An ally. A glimmer of hope. A hint of a smile. He saw none. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, and yet, as he stared into the austere faces gazing down at him, he felt deep affection: he for them whose lives were given to a higher consciousness; they for him in ways he could not describe. It was a joyous, liberating feeling. A wave of confidence. Fear and faith cannot abide. He took a deep breath, and the trembling in his knees stopped.
“Who is it that comes before us?” A voice came from behind. Formal. Demanding. “Speak.”
Ashar turned to face Sage Hakheem, who had spoken. His headpiece was disheveled. His thick eyebrows were the color of lava, and though they obscured his dark eyes, there was a spark of light visible in the blacks of them.
Ashar extended his hands and bowed from the waist. He had practiced it a thousand times. He stretched his spine to perfect posture. “I am Ashar, son of Shalatar,” he said, his voice filling the chamber.
As the recitation of his lineage began, he pivoted in a slow circle, facing each Sage in turn. He returned each penetrating stare with unblinking eyes. He smiled to manifest confidence, but carefully lest he appear immodest. He drew strength from the affection he could feel from the sages.
He inhaled deeply and began.
“Shalatar was the son of Ilim. Ilim was the son of Worm. Worm was the son of Issens. Issens was the son of Syn. Syn was the son of Corus. Corus was the son of Kotar. Kotar was the son of Qaqos. Qaqos was the son of Tsak.”
As he spoke the names of his ancestors, he felt a curious welling of emotion in his heart, a sense of peace he’d never quite experienced before. As he pronounced each name, he felt as if those whos
e blood he bore were present in the room, whispering their names to him. The voices were so real that, when he glanced about, he fully expected to see them standing near. But he saw no one, and a shudder passed through him. He felt outside of himself, as if other forces were governing his movements, his memory, his speech. He was filled with a calm and confident humility. He abandoned himself to the sensations.
“Tsak was the son of Izek. Izek was the son of Ashar, whose name I bear . . .”
A disagreeable murmur rippled its way around the circle. The cadence of the recitation was an important part of the tradition. A lapse of memory, a break in cadence, a cough, or crack of the voice were thought to bring shame and disrespect to one’s ancestors.
“ . . . but the lineage of Ashar as preserved by our oral tradition is not true, and I . . .”
What is happening? Ashar was overwhelmed by a sudden sense of dread. How had such a thought entered his head? How had it spilled from his tongue? He shook the feeling away and tried to resume, but a power beyond himself compelled him to speak the words flooding into his mind.
“By your patience, gracious masters. The tradition of my lineage is not correct. I cannot speak it.” Ashar heard the words coming from his mouth, and though it sounded like his voice, he had no idea what he was saying or why. The words had certainly not been part of his carefully memorized genealogy.
The powerful feelings surging within him were putting words into his mind with clarity. He gasped for breath and struggled to regain control. He scanned the circle of old faces, nearly all of which were now twisted in shock and incredulity. Only Sage Kurgaan seemed amused.
Sage Hakheem floundered to his feet on rickety legs. Displeasure turned his face into a spiderweb of cracks. “Lano reli’ ono muanoese,” the old man barked at the boy in the ancient tongue and wagged a scolding finger.
Ashar stopped breathing. What madness is this? I have failed. He inhaled deeply to thwart the dizziness that suddenly rushed over him. Fear and faith cannot abide. The story of his ancient ancestors appeared in his mind as if it had always been there, hidden by a gossamer veil that was now being lifted away. The telling of it came with a trembling, but it could not be constrained. “Izek was the son of Ashar—but Ashar was abandoned. He was found and raised by Krolin, and thus the bloodline was broken and the lineage askew.”
Most of the old men rose from their chairs. They contended both in disapproval and curiosity. Sage Ahmose started for the doors. “You are excused, Ashar, son of Shalatar,” he said over his shoulder. The tone of his voice made it clear that excused meant rejected.
The fire ignited in Ashar’s chest. The light in his mind grew brighter. Foreboding pounded in his head. He raised his voice above the commotion.
“Ashar was not the son of Krolin! He was the son of Nanesh.”
Sage Ahmose turned in astonishment.
“Nanesh was the son of Faron. Faron was the son of Palan. Palan was the son of Joram!” The final name pierced the clamor like the bell of the temple. In the silence, the air seemed to thicken. The sages stared at Ashar, transfixed.
“And Joram was the son of—”
“Stop!” Sage Hakheem cried.
The giant stepped forward and lifted Ashar from the center of the circle with one hand and started for the door.
Some of the sages were yelling, and their words jabbed like sticks.
“The attestation of one’s lineage is a sacred trust!”
“To lie to the council about your blood is to blaspheme!”
“There are worse punishments than being expelled!”
“Please,” Ashar said as he squirmed in the giant’s grip. The massive hand let him go, and he fell to his knees. “Would that I had never spoken the words, gracious masters, but we are taught to listen to the voices that come with light into our minds. I dare not forswear the truth of these sayings.” He kept his eyes on the floor. His body trembled, but his mind was clear and his resolve certain.
The murmuring began again.
“We demand that you renounce your claim to the lineage of Joram.” Sage Hakheem leaned down and gathered a fistful of Ashar’s robe. The deep furrows between his eyes were so pinched his thick brows quivered.
Ashar raised his voice above the tumult. “Enlightenment of heart is greater than knowledge of mind.” It was a familiar tenet of Master Doyan.
“What evil has enticed you to say such things?” Sage Hakheem demanded, pushing Ashar away.
“My heart is contrite, but I speak the words pounding there.” He touched his chest. “You may do with me as you like, but I beg you to bring Master Doyan to help me explain—”
“Do you not understand what you claim?” Sage Hakheem demanded.
Ashar did not. He searched their faces for an answer but found nothing.
“I am Ashar, son of Shalatar. Shalatar is a distant son of Joram.” In that moment of calm, clarity came. He rose slowly from the floor as the truth settled in his mind, astounding him even more than the sages who gasped for breath.
He swallowed hard. “Joram is son of the Navigator—and I am of his blood!”
CHAPTER 13
The castle of Kingsgate came into view. The peasant whipped the rump of his scraggy horse with a willow, and the two-wheeled cart lurched forward as the weary beast hurried to a trot. The road sloped down the ring fault of an extinct volcano, which rose from the spit of land where the fjord of Akeshen divided the bay into long, narrow fingers. Only a few had ever sailed the entire length of the fjord; tradition claimed it led to the great deep that ran westward to the edge of the world.
The walls on the seaward side of the crater had eroded away, leaving a horseshoe-shaped bowl. Landward, the valley was surrounded by ragged mountains with peaks so high they held snow into early summer. In recent times, the fierce winters had crowned the mountains with ice as late as Frog Moon of Aru in season Res S’atti.
Seven hundred years ago, the fortress of Akeshen had been erected on a dome of hardened lava. Named for the ancient fjord, Akeshen now lay in crumbled ruins around the base of the glimmering new Kingsgate castle. The edifice was not yet finished, but rose from the broken ruins like a magnificent bird emerging from the broken shell of a stone egg.
In annum 1025, the rebel king, as he was known back then, began the construction of a new castle that would not only be the home of the Peacock Throne but also the grandest citadel ever built, a monument to His Greatness, Orsis-Kublan.
The castle at Kingsgate was where Kublan would live and rule. Upon his death, it would become a mausoleum where he would remain in glorious remembrance forever.
The taverns along the King’s Road were rife with rumors about the king’s obsession with death. “A sickness in his mind and growing madness,” some dared whisper when deep into their cups. “Kublan’s tomb,” some called the monolithic castle endlessly under construction.
That was before the vision. Before the gods told the king he was destined for immortality.
It had been sixty-three years since construction had begun, and Kingsgate was still unfinished. Even so, it was an imposing fortress of startling beauty. The foundations were the colossal stones of the old fortress of Akeshen. The walls and towers were made of white granite brought by boats from the quarry on the Isle of Windshore.
The outer walls were twice the height of any other castle. The inner walls were covered with a mixture of crushed quartz, bluestone, glass, and plaster that caused the walls to glimmer when touched by sun or flame. Their faces were decorated by fluted pilasters crowned with ornate entablatures with the sigil of House Kublan in bold relief: an angry peacock clutching arrows that dripped blood.
Twelve slender towers soared above the battlement. Each was a different height and crowned by a diminishing number of pinnacles until the upmost held only one. It pierced the clouds. Viewed as a whole, the spires looked like a stairway ascending
into the heavens.
The grating of the iron rims on gravel heightened the farmer’s angst. He twisted on the seat and looked over his shoulder. It was hardly the first time. He had glanced back with dread a dozen times since his ordeal began.
The kingsrider lay in a pool of his own blood on the flatbed of the cart, the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from the back of his neck. Whether his movement was caused by the jostling of the cart or from the glimmer of life left in his body, the farmer could not be sure.
The farmer and his grown son had found the wounded kingsrider lying in a swale beside the road west of Village Nellaf. The warrior’s destrier was standing over him, a thick stain of blood running from its saddle, across its shoulders, and down its legs. Sweat from what must have been a desperate ride was lathered to a sticky froth.
“The king,” the injured kingsrider had gasped. “Take me to . . .” His words gargled in the blood of his throat.
“Leave him be,” the son advised his father in a low voice. “No good’ll come of anything to do with the madman on the king’s chair.”
“Help me!” the kingsrider begged.
The farmer leaned down. The warrior gripped his shirt with a weak fist. His words came in short bursts. “The king . . . you must . . . warn . . . so many dead . . . recompense.”
Recompense was the only word the farmer heard. The thought of coin filled his head.
“Don’t you go being no fool for the king!” his son said.
“Are we fools not to accept this good providence?” the farmer asked. “One fellow’s bad luck ’tis another fellow’s fortune.” It was an old saying, oft quoted to salve a conscience when snatching an advantage. “Are we not deservin’? And what if he’s right and they’d thank us with recompense?”
They argued briefly before the father persuaded his son to seize what the gods had given, “Lest we offend them,” he said. They struggled to lift the fallen kingsrider and roll him into the cart. He lost consciousness, which was just as well.
The Immortal Crown Page 10
