The Immortal Crown

by Kieth Merrill

  “Planosis si Ea. Planosis si Ea. Planosis si Ea.” The name of the collective gods was a reverent, murmuring chant around the table.

  Kadesh-Cor took a long draught of sweet mead. On that signal, the company reached for the food in a single motion but froze when the rattle of iron chains shattered the tranquility of the morning.

  Qhuin was dragged forward by Algord, son of Gorshon. His hands were shackled behind his back and covered in a crust of dried blood. The manacles on his ankles required him to shuffle. His boots were gone, and one of his stockings was missing. A chain was wrapped around his chest and dragged behind.

  Sargon led the procession. He nodded and Algord pushed Qhuin forward.

  He tried to take a step to catch himself, but the chain between his ankles was too short, and he tumbled forward. With his hands chained behind his back, he could not break the fall. He plummeted face-first into the mud at the edge of the enclosure.

  “Get up,” Algord growled, rolling him over with his boot.

  Qhuin struggled to his knees. He was eye level with the top of the table. Those seated stared in shock at the slave with bloody hands and a face covered in mud.

  The table was spread with platters of food. The pungent scent of roasted game and wild garlic tightened the fist of hunger in Qhuin’s belly. He had not eaten since early afternoon the day of the hunt. A gillie fanned a kitchen rag to keep the insects away from the food, but there was no one to swish away the swamp fly that feasted on Qhuin’s neck.

  Qhuin saw the squire standing behind the prince. He gave Qhuin an affirming nod and the hint of a smile. The memory of an arrow piercing the rat’s head was etched on the front of Qhuin’s mind.

  He looked to the end of the table. Kadesh-Cor was flanked by Chor and Sargon’s empty chair. The prince looked confused. Chor leaned in and whispered to his father, who nodded slowly. He absently adjusted the bandage and looked coldly at Sargon.

  Had the prince not known of his son’s plan to execute me? The realization gave Qhuin a surge of hope.

  Sargon stepped up to where Qhuin knelt. “Father,” he began, “it pleases me greatly to see you so well. I did not expect that . . . I mean, we thought . . . while you were unconscious and thus unfit to rule . . .” He caught himself too late; his father was no fool. Sargon gathered his wits and lifted an arrogant chin. “While you suffered from your injuries, m’lord father, this bondsman was condemned to death for assault on a royal personage.” Sargon looked down at Qhuin, then lifted his princeling chin even higher. “His intent was to kill a member of the royal household. His intent was to kill me!”

  A ruckus of disparate reactions jolted though those gathered.

  Hope collided with dread. Qhuin stared at the prince. Half an expression on half a face was impossible to read.

  Sargon slid his fingers into Qhuin’s hair, closed his fist, and cocked his head back. “The execution was to be at sunrise, Father. Chor stopped it when he informed me of your remarkable recovery. I was grateful to hear of it, of course, but I do hope that—”

  “Hope what? Pray, tell me, boy, what did you hope?”

  Sargon swallowed hard and stuttered. “That . . . that as my lord father you will punish this slave for attacking your son. That you . . . you will put his head on a spike.”

  “On a spike? By the gods, how is it possible you issued from the same loins as your brother? Is this not the reinsman who drove you to your first catch? Is this not the horseman who protected a wild tarpan from the whip of an abusive bungler? Is this not the bondsman who held the point of the sword at your throat, and then stepped away? I watched from the bluff. Are you really such a fool?”

  Sargon let go of Qhuin’s hair and staggered back as if struck. “But I thought—”

  “Hold your tongue!” Kadesh-Cor inhaled to regain the dignity of his position, then turned to Algord, who stood with his hand on his sword. “Free him of the chains.”

  “No!” Sargon pulled his sword and hammered the pommel on the table. A loaf of bread bounced off a platter, and ripples of mead quivered in the quake. “He needs to be punished!”

  “Is this not the horseman that kept the stallion from killing me?”

  The princeling’s lips quivered in search for words. None came. His shoulders curled onto his chest in humiliation.

  “Do as the prince commands!” the captain of the kings­riders barked.

  Algord glanced at Sargon, then dropped to one knee and removed the shackles from Qhuin’s wrists and ankles. He stank of sweat, and the breath coming from his disfigured face was fouled by a rotted tooth. He locked eyes with Qhuin in a battle of wills.

  Qhuin held the man’s gaze, though he wasn’t sure why. The rusted iron fell away. Qhuin gripped his bleeding wrist with his other hand to soothe the pain.

  “His collar as well,” Kadesh-Cor ordered.

  A younger kings­rider hurried forward. The rusted iron of the collar scratched Qhuin’s neck as it was pulled away, and he touched his bare skin with his fingers. The rush of freedom came again.

  Qhuin eyed Sargon’s sword as he climbed to his feet. He half expected the princeling to burst into a rage and hack him to death. Instead, the princeling backed away, glowering at Qhuin with a face that promised revenge. More than revenge—a long and painful death. Darkness swirled up to extinguish the glimmer of hope, but then Kadesh-Cor spoke.

  “Set him a place at my table.”

  “What?” Sargon shouted.

  “The man who saved my life will sit at my table,” Kadesh-Cor said.

  Sargon turned and, without returning his sword to its sheath, bounded down the short incline. He slipped on the mud and almost fell. Algord followed.

  “Come and sit, reinsman,” the prince said, gesturing to the bench at his left. “It seems my son has lost his appetite and left his seat for you.”

  In spite of his discomfort and the storm thundering in his head, Qhuin did not miss the curious look of satisfaction on Prince Kadesh-Cor’s face.

  Nimra stepped forward and spoke to the prince over his shoulder. “By your leave, m’lord, may I have him washed first, and his wounds tended?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Qhuin followed the young squire to the tent. He wondered again why the prince would chose this boy, but the answer he gave himself made him smile: Because the boy is an exceptional archer. Qhuin’s eyes fell on the bow slung over the squire’s shoulder. The fletching of his arrows danced in the quiver in cadence with the hobbling gait.

  Where had a common squire learned such extraordinary skill with the bow? Hitting the rat at that distance—even had it been standing still in daylight—was a good shot for a seasoned hunter. Putting an arrow through the brain of a head bobbing about in the shadows of moonlight took the skill of a champion. Qhuin wondered if Nimra might have competed in the king’s tournament, but the greater mystery still puzzled him. Why had he appeared in the darkest hour of the night to save a slave condemned to death?

  Nimra set a surprising pace for a boy with a crippled leg. Qhuin was slowed by tender feet, one of which was bare, while the other had only a filthy stocking stiff with crusted blood.

  Qhuin wanted to express his gratitude to Nimra and ask him why he had come to his rescue, but even a squire in servitude was an “esteemed person” compared to a slave.

  He knew he must only speak when spoken to.

  A slave! The lowest of all creatures on earth save the ass with a burden on its back. He suffered the curse of silence inflicted on a slave. His mind was in iron shackles. He lived in a prison of ignorance without answers to questions he could never ask.

  Qhuin prayed to the gods that Nimra would speak to him first. He was amused how often he called upon the gods since he had long since concluded there was no such thing.

  They skidded down a muddy slope. The squire struggled to stay on his one good foot, but he l
ooked back to make sure Qhuin was all right.

  Qhuin opened his mouth as if he was about to speak, but changed his mind.

  Nimra circled behind the royal tent. The banners emblazoned with the Blackthorn sigil furled in the gentle breeze. They passed a copse of aspen to where a tent was pitched at the edge of the encampment. It was smaller than Prince Kadesh-Cor’s tent, though more elaborate in design and decoration. The fabric was crimson, and the sides were swept up from the ground and tied to a frame at the base of the roof, then draped in gentle swags to a trio of ridges.

  There were no banner flags nor sigil, only yellow braids that glistened in the breeze and identified the abode of the courtesans.

  Nimra reached the tent and swept the drapery aside. He gave Qhuin a curious look and gestured for him to enter.

  Qhuin could remain silent no longer. As they came face-to-face, he bowed his head slightly and spoke. “Honorable squire, I owe you my life, and I have great need to speak of it. Forgive me for—”

  “Forgive you?” He looked puzzled, then the epiphany came and a broad grin broke on his face, making him look even younger. “Oh no. No, no,” he said. “It is you who must forgive me.”

  Qhuin was taken aback by the unexpected reaction to his show of deference and humility.

  Nimra chuckled. “I never forget the rule ‘When the blood is blue, speak when spoken to,’ but I always forget that I must speak first when—”

  “—talking to a slave, m’lord.”

  Nimra slapped Qhuin on the shoulder and laughed out loud. “We’re all slaves in one way or another. I was waiting for you to speak, but you said nary a word. I worried you might be mute.” He laughed again. “Or perhaps angry that I killed your furry pets.”

  Qhuin could not remember the last time he’d laughed with such honest abandon.

  A young woman appeared at the edge of the tent. “This way, m’lords.”

  “Come,” Nimra said. “We can talk while they make you presentable for the prince.” He brushed a lump of dried mud from Qhuin’s cheek, then put an arm around his shoulder and stepped into the crimson tent.

  The brave man is not the man who does not feel fear but the man who conquers fear. It was odd place to remember one of Rusthammer’s aphorisms, but Qhuin felt the truth of it. He had been bold enough to speak. It was like he had opened a window and a flock of meadowlarks had flown in. Singing.

  Both courtesans awaited them. The older woman had red hair and a long face. Her cheeks were smudged with red powder and her eyes were outlined in black. Her cotton shift was adorned by ruffles and gathered to a thin brass collar around her neck that left her shoulders bare. The softness of her bosom swelled from the fabric where it swooped under her arms and fastened to the embroidered girdle around her waist.

  The younger woman filled a porcelain basin with water that had been heated over a fire. He recognized her from the night before when they had been tending to the prince. Her hair was the color of aged honey, and it twisted in a thick tangle across her shoulders. Her eyes were large for her small round face, giving her the appearance of a doll. Her lips were full and sad and colored with pink stain.

  Qhuin lowered his hands and wrists into the bowl as the girl finished pouring the water and moved away. He rarely washed in warm water, and it burned like hot ingots where it pressed against the wounds gnawed by the rats. After a few moments, the pain diminished, and he scrubbed away the crusted blood. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  He felt inclined to thank the gods for his good fortune, but he pushed the thought aside. He could not quell the hunger he felt for a power greater than himself, but it was not the gods who had saved him. It was a squire with a twisted foot and the skill of a champion.

  “I am forever grateful to you, m’lord,” he said again. “I don’t know how I shall ever repay you, but I will find a way.”

  “Your honorable intent is repayment enough. I took great pleasure in destroying the beasts.”

  “How is it you happened into the woods and why?”

  Nimra’s eyes flitted to the girls and a finger rose to his lips.

  Qhuin understood. A woman condemned to a life of pleasuring men could never be entrusted with knowledge of things that needed to remain secret.

  “I am compelled to inquire after the fine results of your archery exhibition, m’lord.” The twinkle in Qhuin’s eye was reflected by a happy twitch at the corner of the squire’s mouth.

  “It began as a promise I made at a tender age.” Nimra smiled. “I was seven years old before I understood who I was . . .” He barely stumbled over his words and continued quickly. “Before I accepted the truth that this lump at the end of my leg would never be gone.” He thumped it on the floor, and Qhuin felt an urge to console him with a comforting hand.

  “What I lacked in my legs, I would make up for in my arms. If I couldn’t outrun the dragon, I had better be able to put an arrow in its heart.”

  The older of the two women reached into the water and took Qhuin’s hands. Her touch startled him, and he pulled away.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  “No, no, but I can wash myself.”

  “Of course, m’lord,” she said, “but it pleases us to serve.”

  M’lord? Does she know what I am? A slave no better than she except that I . . . ? He fled the lurid thought.

  The courtesan gently lifted Qhuin’s hands from the basin and removed the leather yoke from his shoulders. She began to unbuckle the straps of his leather jerkin, and he stopped her.

  “We need it off to clean the mud, m’lord,” she said. She raised her eyebrows slightly and smiled. She held his gaze as she moved his hands away, then unbuckled the straps and removed his jerkin.

  The younger woman returned with a bucket and knelt at his feet. The wool from his one stocking stuck to the crusted sores on his ankle. Both of his feet were splattered with dried mud. She lifted his feet and lowered them into the water. The water softened the scabs, and she rolled the woolen fabric away. She watched his face for the slightest wince of discomfort.

  “Her name is Leandra.” Nimra broke the uncomfortable silence.

  Qhuin inhaled deeply and tried to relax, but his limbs trembled.

  “You are kind to remember, m’lord,” Leandra said. Leaning forward on her knees, the gossamer linen of her bodice hung open, exposing the soft whiteness beneath.

  Qhuin knew he should look away but could not.

  Leandra looked up and caught his eye but made no move to cover herself.

  “Her sister’s name is Effy,” Nimra said as the other woman loosened the strings on the cotton undergarment and lifted it over Qhuin’s head.

  Effy reached for the belt about his waist. “And your breeches, m’lord?”

  Qhuin pushed her hand away. “No!”

  “Strip them away, lad, and they’ll give you a thorough bath.” Nimra laughed.

  Qhuin’s face flushed crimson, but his mind was riveted on the stone hidden in the inner pocket of his leathers. Had they seen it? Rusthammer’s warning was in his head again. ’Tis a treasure you must never divulge and never be without. Qhuin gripped the leather band about his waist and let his other hand fall across the hidden stone. “It is well enough as it is,” he said.

  Effy shrugged and returned his hands to the basin. She soaked a cotton cloth in the warm water and began to wash the mud from his face.

  Being washed by another person was an experience Qhuin had never imagined. Sitting partially undressed with courtesans caressing his hands and feet and face was both discomforting and delightful in ways Qhuin had never imagined. The touch of the girls’ soft hands stirred a flutter of fire moths in his belly.

  Then, strange as it seemed, he saw the face of another girl, darkened by a blemish, but beautiful in the moonlight. The memory came with the feel of her lips on his cheek. Meesha.
r />   CHAPTER 65

  Drakkor climbed the crumbling stairway to the cluster of structures built beneath the overhanging cliff. The way was lit by burning pods of sheep’s fat.

  It was said that the ancient ruins of Hellosós, nestled in steep cliffs, were more than a thousand years old, the oldest evidence of humankind existing in the known world. When it was built, or by whom, or how such a feat was accomplished remained a perplexing mystery. The city and the high wall that surrounded it were built on the backs of monolithic stones the height of a man or more. No one knew where the great stones had come from or how they were moved.

  The great earthquake of annum 1037 destroyed parts of the city, though the foundations remained. Some of the structures were reduced to piles of brick. Others remained and rose from the valley floor like a precarious stack of hollow blocks.

  South of the city was a narrow and tortuous valley passageway. Once known as the Valley of Caves, it had been renamed Couloir of the Curse’ed more than a century ago when the city had become the place of exile for those infected with the plague of putrid flesh.

  Since none dared risk the horrid contagion of oozing fluids and rotting flesh, the knowledge of the ancient ruins had passed away. The city was lost save for the legends and tall tales that traveled the King’s Road.

  Hellosós was now the dominion of Drakkor. His private chamber in the ancient ruins was an elaborate warren of cavities and connected rooms.

  Many areas in the archaic labyrinth were open to the outside, covered only by a canopy of silk. The furniture was sparse, but the abundance of furs and fabrics on the floors and walls softened the starkness of the bricks and stone, creating a certain illusion of splendor.

  Drakkor unbuckled his broad leather belt and set his sword and scabbard aside. He removed the sculpted chest piece of boiled leather. Sweat darkened his blouse, leaving a lingering shadow of the armor. He removed the black stone of fire from the pouch around his neck. Its cold heat both chilled and burned. The flicker of the candles was swallowed by the core of its dark translucence.