His dark eyes peered from sockets of wrinkled skin. He stared at his blood as it mixed with the rain with a strange fixation, as if the swirl of pink stain disappearing between the stones was a part of his essence being sucked away. An omen of my death?
The unsavory affair taking place was entangled with the king’s preoccupation with death. Not the death of the man on his knees but his own inevitable demise. Orsis-Kublan thought of death as an enemy to be conquered, a foe to be vanquished, like the hundreds of others he had faced and fought and crushed.
How could it be otherwise? He ruled by divine right. He declared it. Demanded it. Commanded that it be repeated in every council, spoken in every prayer, and recited in every ceremony: His Greatness, Orsis-Kublan, Omnipotent Sovereign and King, ruler by the will of all the gods, is vicegerent of the gods upon the earth, and thus whatever he wills, he can do no wrong.
The mantra of his divine right to rule, though of his own invention and written by his own hand, became so deeply embedded in his brain it had hardened into truth. It was the will of the gods that he should be king.
Why would they appoint him to die like a common man? They would not. Not Enlil, god of air. Not Enki, god of water. Not Anu, the great sky god, lord of constellations and king of gods, spirits, and demons. He heard their voices in the darkness and even saw them sometimes in his dreams or when his blood was thick with spiced wine or his mind soared on opium wings. He heard it from his trusted counselors, from his wives and concubines. All things affirmed that his quest for immortality was the will of the gods, as surely the sun would rise.
The king standing in the cold drizzle of the abandoned court was aged and aggrieved, hardly a shadow of the young idealist who had overthrown the tyranny of the Romagónians sixty years before. The once-joyous chant of “Orsis! Orsis! Orsis! Savior of the people!” was only an echo in the failing memory of an old man whose omnipotence was not enough to keep his life from slipping away. Mortal decay deepened his bitterness and drove him to madness.
The bitterness and madness merely stiffened King Kublan’s resolve to find the secret of perpetual youth, the immortality granted to Tishpiin.
I am the king. Omnipotent. It is my destiny. So why am I surrounded by such fools? Why have my men failed me?
The old king sloshed through the puddles to where Than-lun knelt.
Tonguelessone scurried to hold the parasol over him and keep the drizzle from wetting his robes.
Orsis-Kublan had been a tall man in his youth. Even hunched with age, his stature gave him presence. He leaned down, bracing himself with his hands on his knees.
“You promised me an elixir that would keep me sleepless for seven days and seven nights, but you poisoned me instead.” He leaned closer. “You should not wonder there are none to step forward in your defense. Or did they encourage you to poison your king?”
Kublan stood upright and held his arms tightly across his body. He looked at those gathered. They were sworn to a blood oath of secrecy. Five magi, the alchemist on his knees, the high pontiff, Raven to the King, and two men-at-arms chosen from the elite guard of kingsmen. One to convey the alchemist from his chambers, the other to chop off his head.
There were no counselors or officers of the court. By tradition such matters should be handled by trial in the great hall with punctilio, debate, and a hall of gawkers. But this affair could not be handled in open forum. Who could he trust? Not the number of courtiers who thought him mad and whispered treason behind his back. Not his wives or concubines. Maharí’s betrayal had twisted his mind and left a wound in his heart that would never heal.
Thus he had ordered this gathering in the old north court with only these few in attendance.
Even still, other than the Raven, he trusted none of them completely. The king looked from face to face. Which of these within the walls of Kingsgate might whisper to my enemies?
The wrenching pain in his bowels got suddenly worse in a wave of urgent discomfort. Paranoia gnawed at him like hungry rats.
They are all complicit in the alchemist’s failure, but if I kill them all, as they deserve, who will be left to find the plant of endless life?
He rested his hand on the alchemist’s shoulder. A small part of him regretted the loss of his transformer of elements, but he believed it was necessary for the others to witness the results of failure.
“No one speaks for you. Will you speak for yourself?”
The condemned man looked up. Strands of sodden hair stuck to his face, giving him the appearance of a wild creature. He tried to shake it aside, but it clung wet and flat. “I plead your mercy, oh great and honorable king. I confess it is by the will and pleasure of the gods that you are destined to an endless life and to rule forever.” The alchemist choked back his terror. “I have taken the oath and drunk your blood and swear the only purpose of my life is your desire and your destiny.”
Orsis-Kublan coughed again and blood flecked his lips. “It was not an elixir of immortality you gave me to drink, but a poison potion. But for the will of the gods who favor my destiny, I would be dead!” He coughed again and then spat blood toward the others, implicating them all.
The alchemist leaned against the stump. “I sought the ancient secret from the wickkans of Loonish, who sent me to the sorceress of Dragonfell, but I found—”
“Dragonfell!” The king cut him off, the dread of conspiracy fluttering through his head like bats trapped in a cave.
“I found nothing but shadows and folktales,” the alchemist continued, “but then I found a recipe among the archaic writings elucidating the epic poem of Melgeshrabin. A wondrous potion of jade and cinnabar and gold. It claimed to be the elixir of sleeplessness required to prepare one for endless life. Before I began, I sought the blessing of the gods and the guidance of the high pontiff of Anu.”
The high pontiff moved away from the huddle of mystics lest the alchemist’s words implicate him in his failure.
The man on his knees gasped for air and fought to gain control of his emotions. “We conjured spirits and invoked the ancient incantations to ensure the elixir would bring sleeplessness for seven days and seven nights.”
“I have hardly been awake since you gave me your poison!”
“I have done my best, but I will try again. I will not rest until I give you what the gods will.”
The king turned to face the mystics. “A man who does his best in battle and fails is just as dead as the coward who holds no sword.” The words hovered in the sodden air like a winged harbinger of fate. The silence was broken only by the gusting wind and the hiss of rain that had started again.
“High pontiff of Anu,” the king said with an air of disturbing piety. “As spiritual advisor and voice of the gods, I leave it to you to adjudge whether this act be right or wrong, lest I betray my pledge of benevolence as omnipotent king.”
The high pontiff stood in the damp, cold air, a humble slope to his shoulders. He recited the words the king wished to hear. “You are vicegerent of the gods upon the earth and thus whatever you will, O great and Omnipotent Sovereign and King, is right. You can do no wrong.”
The king nodded and held out his hand. “Then, by the oldest of our traditions, he who suffers an offense worthy of death is he to whom the right of the ax be given.”
The faces of the mystics twitched in shock and disbelief. While the tradition was known, it was rarely exercised.
The kingsman put the double-bladed ax into the king’s hands and pushed the alchemist’s neck across the block. The weight of the weapon caused the king’s hands to tremble as he rested the blade across the alchemist’s neck. He adjusted his stance. The weight of the steel broke the skin and a trickle of blood wriggled down the man’s throat, drawing a line for the blade to follow.
“Mercy!” he croaked. “By all the gods, I plead for mercy!”
The king tightened his grip for a moment
, then relaxed. “I shall grant mercy,” he said.
A gush of emotion escaped from the man on his knees.
“I am sick because of the poison you bade me drink. My hands are cold, and my grip is weak. It is unlikely I could separate your head in a single blow. You cry for mercy, and I am a benevolent man. Thus I relieve you of the prolonged pain I would inflict were I to wield the blade.” He nodded to the kingsman, who moved immediately forward. “I relinquish the ax to one who will remove your traitorous head with a single fall of the blade.”
As the king pulled the ax away from the man’s neck, the blade sliced deeper in the alchemist’s flesh. He handed the ax to the waiting kingsman, then turned and walked toward the narrow stairs on the south side of the court. Tonguelessone held the parasol without looking back.
The dull crack was like breaking a melon with a brittle shell. It was muted by the incessant patter of the rain. It was followed by the hollow thud of something heavy splashing onto the stones.
The king turned on the second step of the ascending stairway. None of the others were looking at their fallen brother. Two had turned their backs. The Wizard of Maynard was on his knees, retching. The high pontiff had backed himself into the wall and lifted his face to the rain.
The king cleared his throat and spat out the bitter taste of bile and blood. “I regret this had to be,” he said, his voice rising against the rain. His eyes were dark holes in the falling light. “I call upon you to fulfill the oath you have sworn by my blood. Bring me the secret of everlasting life. Whatever it may be. Wherever it lies hidden. Whoever holds it in their hand. Find it. And bring it to me.”
He paused as the kingsmen dragged the headless body from the court.
The king shook his head with what might have been genuine sorrow. “From this day forward you will abandon the bonds of your order,” he said to the remaining mystics. “You shall travel your separate roads. You shall each rely on your own sorceries in the search of this preeminent treasure. The one who succeeds shall be rewarded beyond imagining. Whatever you desire shall be granted tenfold.”
The Wizard of Maynard looked up and wiped the vomit from his chin.
“Those who fail . . .” Kublan glanced to where the kingsman had disappeared with the headless body and let the words hang in the cold, wet air. He pressed his fingers to his forehead to stay the jolt of pain in his head, then, after a moment, said, “You have until the first day of Samna in season Mis’il S’atti. By the Moon of Falling Leaves, I will realize my immortal destiny! Do not fail me again!”
The Raven to the King watched and listened and waited. He was not among those challenged or warned, but he knew the king’s last look at those assembled would end with him. It always did.
When the king’s eyes found him, the Raven furrowed his brow to insure an expression of profound wonder. He offered his approval with an exaggerated nod of his head. This silent ritual at the end of every gathering was a predictable pattern.
This time, the king’s look to the Raven was longer than usual. Something unspoken. Something unnerving.
The Raven repeated his reassurance with another vigorous nod of his head and a small gesture of his hand.
A smile quivered at the corner of the king’s mouth, and then he turned and climbed the stairs. Tonguelessone gripped his arm and helped him ascend without the slightest shift of the umbrella.
The Raven watched him go but did not move or breathe more than a shallow breath until the king passed through the high portal and vanished from sight.
Sounds that had seemed muted and far away were suddenly deafening. A rumble of thunder. The splash of pelting rain. The slosh of feet through puddles. The guttural murmuring of the condemned. The Raven turned to watch the frightened cult of magi hurry from the court.
He knew they were destined to fail. They sought a plant found only on the trellis of mythology. As the thought surged through him, he felt a strange premonition. Where there is history, there is myth, and where there is myth, there is history. Because there is no plant of endless life at the bottom of the sea does not mean all the stories of immortality are false. It may only mean they are searching in the wrong place.
The court was empty. The wind blew across Akeshen fjord, driving the rain against the battlements of Kingsgate like tiny pellets of iron. Even as the storm raged and the skies turned black, the Raven remained where he stood. He knew the road of destiny was not a single path through tranquil woods. It was a rocky road that forked repeatedly. Often at the least convenient times.
An idea erupted from the mysterious darkness of his mind. It was more than a concept of reason. Something beyond. An outrageous impression billowing up from his chest. An obsession, far more preposterous than the youthful fantasy of years long gone. Fear consumed him in a cloud of dark confusion. His heart pounded, and his head swirled with euphoric intoxication, even as he argued within himself.
It is impossible! It is not your task.
But if I succeed . . .
If you fail, the king will have your head.
Where there is myth, there is history.
A plant of endless life? No truth in it.
Then perhaps an elixir or an enchanted chalice. An incantation or magic stone. Perhaps it is the will of the gods.
Hypocrite. You deny the gods.
Perhaps there is another god we know not of. Perhaps there is a secret of endless life that’s not been found.
The rain turned to ice and stung his face. There were a few times in a man’s life when he felt truly alive. For Raven, this was one of them. His internal war ended, and his thoughts flowed with singular clarity.
He breathed in the icy air but felt as if his feet had left the cold, wet stones.
If there is in fact such a truth, if endless life is indeed possible by some mysterious power, then he who possesses that secret will possess a power greater than all the kings of earth.
In the black of night and pelting rain, the Raven stood at a fork in the rocky road of destiny.
CHAPTER 35
“Shh!” Meesha put a finger to her lips and lifted the lantern. In the half-light of the flame, the blemished side of her face disappeared into the darkness. She waved the girls through the narrow archway and coaxed them down the steps. The stones were ancient, unevenly worn, and the footing was precarious. The seven girls moved as quietly as they could, burdened as they were with their secret lading: platters of food wrapped in loosely woven cotton, linen bags filled with bread and cheese, baskets of fruit, and flagons of wine. The aroma of roasted meat and sweetbread collided with the dank odor of animals and rotted hay that wafted up from the stables.
The clandestine procession floated downward in eerie silence. Except for the padding of stocking feet on the stones and the swish of cotton skirts, there was no sound. Their shadows flitted across the walls like dancing fairies. It was three hours after midnight.
The woman leading the cortége was Selmaas. She was a plumpish attendant to the cook and older than the other girls by a score of years or more. She was one of the few family servants who’d made the journey from Blackthorn to Stókenhold Fortress. Meesha had always been her favorite, and Selmaas could deny her nothing.
She had listened to Meesha’s plan, shook her head, and declared, “It’s outrageous and doomed to failure,” then added quickly, “but if that is what you want . . .” After that, she recruited the girls she could trust and sneaked into the kitchen.
When Selmaas reached the leading edge of the light, Meesha hurried forward with the lantern to light the next stretch of the narrow passage. She had on the leathers she wore when fencing with Valnor instead of her high-fashion gown. Without the constraint of the corset, she was as lithe as a cat. Only a step behind Selmaas, she encouraged the girls with a nod and a reassuring smile.
Meesha had not told Tolak about her plan to take the food prepared for the feast
to the men of the Kadesh-Cor expedition in the middle of the night. Surely it was her father’s intent from the beginning to feed the entire company. She was confident he would approve, and she would tell him soon enough—after the expedition was gone from Stókenhold.
Her biggest worry was whether the men of Kadesh-Cor’s company would keep their surprise feast a secret? Were there spies among them? She changed her mind. She would tell her father in the morning. Better he hear it from her than someone else.
She had told Valnor, though.
“It’s a dangerous idea,” he had said before breaking into a grin. “Dangerous but brilliant. And delightfully ironic to give the grand feast prepared for the prince to his drudges while he and his sons sleep with empty stomachs.”
The rhythmic snoring from the open portal to the keeper’s quarters erupted with a gagging snort. Meesha felt a surge of adrenaline and motioned for the girls to hurry. The idea to feed the servants, drovers, drivers, and slaves had come to Meesha during the conflict between her father and Kadesh-Cor. It was the right thing to do. It was something she must do.
She knew it was a dangerous idea. She would not be her father’s daughter had she grown into a woman without understanding the truth of tyranny. Valnor had offered to help, but she shook her head.
“If we are caught, it will be discounted as the misplaced sympathy of foolish girls. If you are with us, it will be seen as defiance and aggression. There are times when being ‘a silly, foolish’ girl is a benefit.”
The girls descended the last of the stairs and followed Meesha’s lantern across the open court.
“You there!”
Meesha whirled toward the harsh voice that barked from the darkness. The girls stuttered to a stop behind her with a rush of gasping breaths and squeaks of fear.
A large man emerged from the shadows and strode toward them. Leather knee-high boots stepped into the lighted circle of the lantern. His face remained in darkness. “What is your purpose at such an hour?” The light of the flame glinted on the blade of the short sword in his hand.
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