The Sleeping God (The Disinherited Prince Series Book 4)

by Guy Antibes

  He avoided the lit areas and walked around the square to avoid the people chatting quietly in Parsimolian to each other; however, there was little laughter. A bell rang in the night, prompting the residents to enter the building. Pol hoped that the doors would remain open so Shira and he could hear the words spoken. He hoped he could understand most of what went on.

  They walked up to the doors as the last few people rushed in after a second bell. The doors remained open. Pol and Shira, hidden by Pol’s invisibility spell, stood by the side of the door so late arrivals wouldn’t bump into them.

  A mature woman with silver hair dressed in a white silken robe stood up from the first row and addressed the crowd.

  “Bethane Digra has given herself to the Herald. We stand,” at that the congregation stood, “to memorialize her deeds among us.”

  Pol tried to keep up with her words, but his Parsimolian wasn’t up to the task. He caught bits and pieces of an older woman’s life story. He realized this was a funeral. He heard steps behind him and gently pushed Shira away from the door.

  “Did you catch any of that?”

  “It’s a memorial service?”

  Pol nodded, but Shira wouldn’t have seen the nod. “Yes,” he whispered as he turned to look at four men bearing a large pot. He couldn’t figure out what that was for.

  The woman who had led the service walked out the doors and muttered a prayer over the pot and began to walk out of the square. The attendees followed her. It certainly wasn’t everyone in the town. Shira and Pol followed behind.

  They passed their inn and ended up on one of the squares filled with trees.

  “We will now give Bethane up to the Herald’s trees,” the woman said.

  A man approached, wheeling a small cart. Short poles with a scoop on each end clattered around until he stopped by the pot. The woman took one and scooped up a reddish mash from the pot and slopped it at the base of the nearest tree. The mourners lined up and began to do the same, moving from tree to tree.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Shira said. Disgust was in her voice.

  “Me, too,” Pol said.

  “Me, too,” a voice said from behind them both. Pol recognized Namion’s voice. “It’s time to go back.”

  Once Pol got over the shock of being followed by the Seeker, he turned and headed to the inn. Pol let his spell go once they entered the darkened stable yard. Namion’s blurred figure also took shape. Evidently he knew a camouflage spell similar to the one Shira used.

  “Did you know about that ritual?” Pol asked.

  Namion shook his head. “I guess I’m not as curious as you are. I have to admit to wondering about the trees, and now we know.”

  They walked into the inn and entered the empty common room.

  “I could use a drink,” Namion said. “Join me?”

  Pol and Shira both nodded. The Seeker helped himself to goblets and a bottle of wine. He put a silver Temple on the counter.

  “I’ve read about a lot of religions, but not Herald worship like that. There are plenty of sects that preach of the coming of a prophet or a sacred personage that will return to save them, but the trees?” Pol said quietly, shaking his head.

  “There is no shortage of strange practices among the Volians, but I agree. Now we know why the inhabitants revere the trees,” Namion said.

  “And with them all over, it makes the entire town a cemetery,” Shira said.

  “Pretty much,” the Seeker said. “I suppose that’s why they don’t want strangers violating their sanctuary.”

  “I guess I don’t blame them.” Pol took a sip of wine and peered at Namion. “You didn’t trust us out there?”

  He shook his head. “Not that. I wanted to see how you acted out in the open. By the way, you have an excellent invisibility spell. Few know how to perform one. Gasibli can’t, you know.”

  Pol said, “Why is something so easy for some, but difficult for others?”

  “It is the unpredictability of the Pattern,” Namion said.

  Shira nodded. “In Shinkya, we think of the Pattern as an overall influence in our lives. Is that what you mean? It’s not a Baccusolian concept.”

  “Not quite. The Pattern is the source of magic. We aren’t taught that it influences anything. I wasn’t born in the Empire, so I was trained to revere the Pattern, like you,” Namion said. “Bossom is my home country.”

  “Why do all the good Seekers come from Volia?” Pol asked.

  Namion twisted his mouth into what might have been a smile. “You haven’t met all of the Emperor’s Seekers.”

  “How many are there?” Shira asked.

  Namion folded his arms. “I’m not going to tell a Shinkyan.”

  Shira blushed. Pol didn’t know if it was in anger or from embarrassment.

  “Plenty,” Namion said. “Hazett sponsors a Seeker school.”

  “That’s right,” Pol said. “I sent a girl there last spring. I should say I sent her to Ranno Wissingbel.”

  “A girl?” Shira said. It was as if antennae popped up on her head at Pol’s comment.

  “I only talked to her twice at her father’s inn.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  It was Pol’s turn to blush. “I suppose she was.” He shouldn’t have said that.

  “Hmpf,” Shira said, turning away from him.

  “I can’t even remember her name.”

  “Names are hardly important,” Shira said. “Faces are.”

  Pol decided to stop talking.

  Namion repressed a smile. Pol raised his eyebrows in resignation.

  “So the Pattern of all things,” Namion said, “is the source of power. The ability to manipulate within the Pattern is what magic is all about.”

  “Like a tournament field?” Pol said. He couldn’t let Namion’s words die, leaving him to Shira’s wrath. “It exists, and the games take place on its surface?”

  “An apt enough simile,” Namion said. “In the Empire, the Pattern is perceived on a smaller scale.”

  “But you can tweak the Pattern to cheat,” Shira said. She gritted her teeth and kicked Pol’s shin underneath the table.

  “Ow!” Pol said, leaning over to massage his lower leg.

  Namion pointedly ignored the little play performed in front of him. “Not everyone can, but philosophically it’s how magicians are trained here. There is the overall pattern that allows power, and magicians tweak smaller elements within that pattern.”

  “I think I’m going up to bed before I really get hurt,” Pol said.

  Shira rose with him. Namion drained his wine and walked behind them. With every step or two, Shira pinched and poked Pol all the way up the stairs. They came to her room first. She slammed the door behind her.

  “She really likes you,” Namion said as they walked into their room.

  “I know she does, but I don’t know if I can survive whatever kind of relationship we have.”

  That brought genuine laughter out of Namion. “Get a good night’s rest. We have a long day tomorrow.”

  ~~~

  Chapter Five

  ~

  A mile or so away from Tree Town, their escort appeared from a side road in the cold drizzle of the early morning. Pol and Shira sported their new cloaks, worn over their old ones. Namion had a few words with the men, and joined Pol and Shira as the motley guards took positions in front and behind them.

  “Now I know why they didn’t accompany us into Tree Town,” Pol said.

  Shira nodded. “They didn’t want to spend the night in a cemetery?”

  “Right. And that’s the reason the Pastor really doesn’t want to visit.”

  Pol thought about the previous evening. “Will you stay there again?”

  Namion shrugged. “I don’t see why not. As long as they don’t fling the contents of that big pot at me, I’m fine spending an evening in a clean, quiet place.”

  The point made sense to Pol, and as he thought about the previous evening, he agreed with Namion.


  Shira didn’t look as agreeable. He had woken to a number of small bruises in the morning, but he decided that talking about the girl at the inn and apologizing would only make things worse. Perhaps he would learn something about women on this trip.

  The clouds lowered further, and the drizzle turned into a pelting rain. Pol wasn’t much of a hat wearer, but that would be his first purchase at the next town. All of the others wore them; even Shira pulled one out of her saddlebag. At least whoever made his cloak put something on the wool that helped shed water.

  Shira had lost interest in making him pay for his comments the previous night, and they all settled in for a wet, cold ride to the next town. Namion said they would be on the road until nearly dusk. When would they know dusk had arrived?

  Pol closed his eyes for a few moments. Being in the middle of the travelers, Demeron had once told him that a horse would just follow the one in front, so Pol decided to take a nap.

  He felt someone pull on his cloak.

  “Wake up, we’re being attacked!” Shira said.

  Pol opened his eyes. The road had taken them through a stretch of woods. He created a shield. Shira had already done so. Their party had been attacked from the rear, and at least one man had gone down. Pol pulled out his sword and wheeled his horse around to face the attackers.

  He could hardly differentiate between the attackers and their escorts. Both groups protected themselves with bits and pieces of armor. Pol’s only protection was a hidden chainmail shirt, and that would have to do.

  Shira and he plowed into the midst of fighters. Swords bounced off of Pol’s magic shield. Shira wouldn’t be able to use her bow in the pouring rain, but that didn’t stop Pol from thinking about using his throwing knives.

  Two of the attackers approached Pol from each side, prompting Pol to pull out his short sword. He let the men try to get through his shield, but the shield also kept him from striking his opponents. He collapsed the shield and used his pattern master skills to take care of the men. Without using sips of magic to enhance his speed, he wouldn’t have survived the onslaught, but using it, the fight ended soon enough.

  The brigands rode off with half their number on the ground, dead or injured. Pol looked ahead to see a similar fight with fewer opponents, but they broke off the fight and escaped into the woods.

  Pol dismounted and did what healing he could in the driving rain. There were some deep cuts inflicted on the escorts. Two of their group had succumbed to the attack, and their fellows buried them in the woods before they headed out. They just dragged the five attackers’ bodies and dropped them under the trees. For a moment Pol thought of the Treetowners, but then shook the image from his mind.

  Namion, Kell, and Paki seemed to have emerged unscathed, but Shira had cut her hand on her own weapon. Pol quickly took care of that. Remounted, they continued on their way. Pol looked back as they exited the woods. He thought the encounter was pointless, and men had died as a result.

  Pol rode up to Namion. “Can we expect attacks like this all the way through Volia?”

  The Seeker nodded. “From time to time. Your friends acquitted themselves well. See why there are few small groups riding through the countryside? What would we have done had I not contracted with our escort?”

  Pol had to agree. “Is Botarra this bad?”

  Namion shook his head. “No, but it is more costly. As we move from domain to domain in Botarra, we could be asked to pay a tax to the local lord. In South Parsimol, the thugs operate outside the law. It’s just that the law isn’t enforced outside the towns.”

  “But the farmers?”

  “Pay protection money to the thugs. In that, both countries operate the same. The only difference is in Botarra, the thugs run everything.”

  Pol didn’t like either system. He stopped his horse to let Shira catch up to him. “Is Shinkya this bad?” He recounted his brief conversation with Namion.

  She shook her head. “Not at all. The Queen is the head of the country, and she makes sure the laws are enforced. Thieves don’t last long in Shinkya, but some people can’t stop from trying to steal.” She looked away at the dismal countryside.

  Pol wanted to ask her more, but he knew her well enough that the topic was closed.

  “Do you regret coming along?” Pol asked.

  “I don’t enjoy the killing, if that is what you mean. Am I having a good time?” She shook her head.

  Her hair now covered the top part of her face when she did so. He remembered her with a shaved head. Pol thought Shira would be even nicer looking with longer hair. She looked at him and ahead at Namion. “I feel more alone than I expected to.”

  Pol gave her his hand, and she grabbed it and squeezed. It wasn’t to hurt him, but Pol felt that she needed reassurance. He felt inadequate to do so, but he knew she would need his support. Paki and Kell kept pretty close to Namion, and it was up to Pol to make sure that Shira didn’t get too lonely.

  They had just started their journey, and Pol began to have second thoughts about the wisdom of not returning to Eastril. The sun pried away some of the clouds and created a rainbow that hung in the sky over a fallow field.

  “That’s beautiful,” Shira sighed, smiled, and gave Pol’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I can do with more of that,” she said.

  The rain began to let up. Namion raised his arm. “We can rest up there.” Pol looked forward and saw a clump of trees decorating the crown of a hill. “That is, if there aren’t any bandits around. Then, if the rain truly has let up, we can pick up the pace.”

  ~

  The next town was closer to Pol’s estimation of what he expected in a South Parsimol town with the new expectation of high city walls. Like the last town, their escorts didn’t ride into the city.

  “I expected a state religion, with the head of state being called a Pastor. Isn’t that a religious title?” Pol asked as they sat down to a well-deserved dinner. The food didn’t look as good as what they were served in Tree Town. “There were temples and churches lining one of the squares we rode past coming into town.”

  “Perhaps at one time,” Namion said. “No longer. It’s every church for itself.” The Seeker smiled at the phrase. Pol had heard a similar one about every man. “The government is very secular. We’ll be spending tomorrow night at a magician’s monastery, and then we should reach Demina around noon the day after next.”

  “Are the streets safe at night?” Shira asked. Her foot was planted on one of Pol’s. She pressed down on Pol’s foot and gave him a grin.

  “Safe enough for you two. Cities are mostly safe, but still…”

  Pol understood what Shira asked. “Perhaps we can find a shop open so I can buy a hat,” Pol said to her.

  “Perhaps we can.” She tapped Pol on the foot and winked at him.

  Dinner ended and Pol asked, in his improving Parsimolian, if there was a shop where he could buy a traveling hat.

  Paki and Kell had talked Namion into guiding them to the gaming tables in a nearby tavern. They had made out reasonably well at Tree Town, so they had plenty of confidence in lining their pockets.

  Shira took Pol’s hand as they walked on the elevated boardwalks next to the shops. The streets were cobbled, but were strewn with mud and animal droppings.

  “Here it is. Remember that you have to bargain,” Shira said.

  They walked into a store filled with all sorts of clothes. A middle-aged man with thinning hair walked up to them.

  “You are here to buy something?”

  Obviously, thought Pol. “We are traveling to Demina, so I need a hat to keep the rain off.”

  The man looked Pol up and down. “Something to match your cloak? Tree Town?”

  Pol nodded. He didn’t know how the man knew, but then Pol didn’t live a day’s travel away from the place.

  “I have a few. Come this way,” the man said. He led them to the back of the store.

  “I have a lined helmet. The metal is painted to keep the rust at bay. The blue ne
arly matches your cloak.”

  Shira put her arm through Pol’s. “Something softer,” she said looking at Pol with a bit of mischief in her eyes.

  “But not quite as soft as she,” Pol said. He hoped his little joke came out as he intended in Parsimolian.

  The man laughed, so Pol guessed it did. He rummaged around in a few boxes and came out with a dark blue hat. It had a conical crown, stiffened somehow, and had a wide brim. Pol hadn’t seen anyone wearing one similar along the way.

  “Where is that from?”

  “North. Gekelmar, maybe. It’s used, but I cleaned it up well. Now that I think about it, magicians or priests might wear them in Wessak or Teriland. With your white hair, you’ll fit in well enough. There are plenty of Terilanders with your coloring, but you aren’t from there are you?”

  “We are from Eastril. Shira is a Shinkyan, and I grew up in North Salvan.”

  “I’ve heard of Shinkya, and that explains your beautiful features,” the man leered at Shira. She tightened her grip on Pol’s arm. “North Salvan?” he shrugged.

  “Is the hat waterproof?” he asked.

  “I had it dipped in sheep oil, so it should be.”

  Pol tried the hat on, and it fit well enough. He took it off and had Shira smell it. “Okay?”

  She nodded. “We use the same stuff in Shinkya to coat fabrics.”

  The man agreed with another of his leering smiles.

  “How much?”

  “Four temples should do it.”

  Shira wandered around. A few of the items had tags with prices, and she gave her head a bit of a shake.

  “Two Temples and a scarf for the lady,” Pol said.

  Shira relaxed. At least Pol had lowered the asking price.

  “Five Cardinals more and we can call it a deal.”

  Pol gave the man the money and Shira went to find the scarf.

  “She is a beauty. Are you willing to sell her to me? I’ll give you a good price.”