by Tim Stead
“Cal, are you talking to yourself?”
Cora approached him. He had walked as far as the courtyard, was a few paces from the flight of stairs that led up to his chambers.
“Thinking aloud,” he replied.
“You are so full of secrets that you are beginning to leak,” she said, half smiling and half concerned. “You seem troubled.”
“He is going to steal everything,” he said, suddenly finding a need to speak.
“Who? Gerique? He already owns everything.”
“He plans to steal the sun and the rain, the wind and the water, even the good dark earth.”
“How? They cannot be owned.”
“He will steal men’s minds. I must not let him do it, Cora. I must stop him for the sake of the widows and orphans.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“I have killed so many, Cora, but I found out today that theft can be a greater crime than murder. To destroy a man’s life is a terrible thing, but how much worse to steal it and use it to clothe yourself.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Cal. Are you all right?” She looked worried now.
“All right? I am not even all Cal Serhan, and he is only a little right. I have work to do, Cora. Forgive me for being so unclear, so erratic, but some of me is already working, and the rest of me is needed for the task. I must go.”
He stepped away from her, heard her call after him, ignored the call, climbed the stair, and suddenly it was there in his head, the spark that he had been looking for. It was the beginning of an idea, far fetched, slightly crazy. He grasped upon it and fanned it into the tiniest flame. Defeat the Faer Karan, not kill them.
I am possible, the idea said to him, and he saw that it was cruel, and he saw that it was good.
39 The Lawmaster
Lawmaster Delf Killore loved his office, but at the same time it embarrassed him. Some part of his mind kept reminding him that he was a master builder and that he belonged among stone and brick and sweating workmen. His office was very far from that.
He had designed the office, and the whole building, for the lawmaster of White Rock, not for himself, and had tried to keep the idea of the lawmaster in his mind the whole time. It was a place that should impress, but still be welcoming. It should inspire respect, but not intimidate. He felt that he had succeeded, but perhaps a bit too much.
The room was large – probably as large as the house that he had once built with Wulf that winter long ago; their first winter in Woodside when the bandits had come. The floor was polished wood, and to deaden the sound he had brought in brightly coloured woollen rugs to cover parts of it, and then replaced them with slightly less bright ones. It had seemed inappropriate to have such thoughtless gaiety in so serious a place. A great window was set in one side, and looked over the cultivated lands of Woodside to the forests beyond. He liked the view. The browns and greens of the land together with the familiar line of the hills beyond reminded him that he was at home, even as he sat in his grand surroundings.
His desk was large and also made of wood. Craftsmen had carved the corner columns into intricate abstract shapes that caught the light in interesting ways and displayed all the colours of the wood. The surface was polished so that it shone with a rich, dark, golden glow. He liked to run his hands across it because it was seductively smooth and cool to the touch. It was certainly an important desk.
There was other furniture in the room. Chairs and a table where he could sit and discuss matters with visitors, a cabinet which held supplies and several dozen bottles of fine wine that had been sent from White Rock as a gift, and shelving to hold the many papers that passed through his hands.
Beyond the office were other chambers. There was a library, mostly empty, and space for several assistants to work, though at present there was only one – a young man called Carn san Rufus Barak who had come to Woodside from the east seeking a job, and claiming to have met Serhan himself once, a long time ago. Carn had been a hunter, but his mind was quick, and he had taught himself to read and write with some proficiency. Delf liked Carn.
His work was very different, too.
There being a dearth of legal disputes to resolve, he had set himself the task of listing what a man might naturally claim for himself before the law. The first claim was easy – life. Any man could claim life, though no claim was absolute. This was his problem, of course; that every claim he thought of was qualified, and could be forfeited by the actions of the claimant. If you took arms, for example, against another man, be it in times of war or in personal dispute, then that man had the right to take your life in defence of his own. There was a clear distinction between the aggressor and the defender, but he had not yet formulated the words.
He discussed the claims and forfeits with Carn, and often aired his ideas to visitors to see what they might think. He learned much in doing these things, and saw that such collaboration was a good thing. It strengthened the ideas and polished them.
He was redrafting the third claim – the claim to justice – for the twentieth time when Carn knocked on the door and came in. Carn never waited to be invited to enter, because he always knew when Delf was alone.
“What is it, Carn?”
“There is a messenger, sir” he said, “from White Rock.”
He was not expecting anybody.
“Show them in, Carn, show them in.”
A guardsman was brought in. He looked nervous, and looked around him at the fine furnishings. It was odd how a large, comfortable room intimidated some people.
“Lawmaster, I have a message for you from the Lord Serhan,” the guardsman handed over a rolled paper, which Delf opened. It was brief and to the point. Serhan was asking him to find the finest architect that he knew, in order that he should design a temple to the glory of Gerique and the Faer Karan.
He read the letter twice.
“Is there anything else?” he asked the guardsman.
“Yes, sir. There is a spoken message, also.” The man squinted as he recalled the words. “The Lord Serhan says: You are a good enough architect for this commission. Make two designs. One should be for a temple, as pompous and overbearing as you can make it. The second should be for a place of learning where many teachers and students can be housed and taught. Make it pleasing to the eye, subtle and sympathetic. It should be able to house many hundreds of students, and allow the teaching of many disciplines, such as building and law. When you have drafted both designs bring them to White Rock. That is all the message, sir.”
“Thank-you, guardsman. You may tell Serhan that I have received his message and will do my best.”
The guardsman nodded and left.
So Serhan was playing games again, but this seemed a dangerous one. He was sure that the seneschal’s intent was to present one set of plans to Gerique and build the other. Gerique on the other hand, wanted a temple. A temple? The only temple that Delf knew was dedicated to art, and was a ruin in the middle of Samara. He had not heard of a temple dedicated to a person. What was Gerique thinking of?
Still, both were interesting commissions.
He put his claims and forfeits to one side and fetched a large sheet of paper from the cabinet. The temple first, perhaps. It would be more of a flight of fancy, less practical than the learning place. He had always wanted to build a building like this, where he could be as grand as he liked with no fear of contradiction from his client. It was like having an unlimited architectural license. His head was filled with images of marble floors, high tapering columns, cunningly managed lighting that hid the essential mysteries of such a place. Outside it would be like a mountain, with foothills of smaller buildings leading inexorably to the peak that housed the most sacred part. The setting was important, too. It should dominate the landscape, look down on it in every sense.
In a way it was a shame that it would never be built.
40 Soul Eater
Serhan followed the trail of his idea with the strength of obsessio
n. He worked in Corderan’s secret room for hours at a time, not really caring if he was needed and could not be found. He wanted the quiet and the freedom from interruption that this hidden place provided. Sometimes he forgot to eat. Often he fell asleep at the desk, and woke to find his mind churning with ideas, some of them crazy, some of them brilliant, and some that seemed both.
It was exhausting work. It felt like running through a maze, and sometimes he made little progress, but raced to dozens of dead ends, coming back again and again to the same starting point, hoping that it was not, after all, the wrong beginning. At other times it seemed too easy, and he went back and checked everything over and over again.
He began to use magic to keep himself awake, but the next time that he fell asleep he lost thirty hours, and awoke feeling weak, hungry and sick. He had to blink several times to clear his vision. He went back to his chambers and called for Alder.
“My lord?”
He could see the concern in the old man’s face, but chose to ignore it. Alder had not seen him for three days.
“I need food,” he said. “Bring me a large meal.”
“At once, my lord.” Alder vanished quickly, and Serhan knew that he would carry out his given task at once, but also that he would tell Darius and Cora that he was back in his chambers. He found a cup of water in his study and drank it down. It made him feel better, so perhaps he had been dehydrated. His fingers hurt when he flexed them, and his legs still felt unsteady when he walked, but his mind was a little clearer.
The clamour of ideas inside his head continued, but he was able to reject many of them now, and sitting in his chair he saw a path clear, and caught a distant view of his goal, a thing that might work. He needed to create something, and he needed to destroy something.
The food arrived, and he began to eat. He ate mechanically, because he needed it, and barely tasted the food. He could feel the strength flowing back into him. He helped the process along with magic, achieving in a few minutes what would otherwise have taken days.
He had hardly begun when Darius arrived.
“I am glad to see you,” the captain said. “You seem to have lost weight, though.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Something it is better that you do not know about.”
Darius leaned forward. His voice became quieter.
“The same as ever. You are playing a dangerous game this time. Gerique has asked for you. We told him that you had left White Rock, and we did not know where you were. He did not seem surprised.”
“He expected me to leave.”
“Why?”
“He has asked me to do something that is against my nature. He thought that I could not do it, and he is right, but I will not run from Gerique. There is another way.”
“But you’re not going to tell me.”
Serhan smiled.
“You know me well.”
“Or not at all.”
“There is something that you can do for me. I sent a message to Delf at Woodside. If he arrives here leave a message on my desk,” he indicated the door to the study. “I will send for him when I am ready. Please make sure he is safely housed in the village and speaks to nobody here, if it is possible.”
“The colonel will know that he has come. Gerique will know shortly after that. I cannot delay for long.”
“As long as you can.”
Darius looked out of the window. He did that a lot when he was thinking; looked away at something distant.
“I will put a man on the road to Woodside, he will take Delf directly to the village and lodge him there. It will be a day before Stil finds out. That is the best that can be done.”
“Good. It should be enough.”
“Is there anything else that we can do?”
He looked at Darius. It surprised him that such a man – a level-headed strategist, clever, older, accomplished, should put such faith in him, and yet he did so again and again. His friend’s faith was not blind. He questioned, knowing that he would get no answers, but perhaps also seeing that his questions were answered in Serhan’s own mind.
“Stay safe,” he said. “Stay ready, and do not leave White Rock for the next two weeks if you can avoid it. I may need you to aid me quickly at some point.”
Darius nodded.
“I will do as you ask. Now I will leave you to finish your meal. You clearly need it.”
He was gone. Serhan resumed his mechanical consumption, feeling strength return to his body and resolve return to his mind.
* * * *
A few hours later, sitting at his desk in the secret room he thought that he had a better grasp of his answer. It was simpler than he had thought it would be. He would use a combination of three spells, all applied to an object. The more complex spell was a thing of his own devising, and he was reluctant to trust it without first testing it. To this end he would need to destroy a magical object.
He had only three. He could not destroy the key, Corderan’s ring that allowed him free access around the fortress. It was his one real advantage over the Faer Karan. Shadow Cutter was too valuable to destroy. He also had the ring that Gerique had given him to protect against arrows and blades. It was the most disposable of his assets, though he had come to rely on it greatly.
He needed something else.
In Gerique’s chambers there was a horde of things. He had seen them, and since his death mating with Rin he could sense the magic within them. There were cups, rings, arrows, swords, amulets, even a feather of some kind propped on a shelf. Any of those things would do.
So why not steal one?
There were dangers involved, certainly, but if he waited until Gerique was not in his chambers then it should be simple enough. From what he understood the doorkeeper, Balgoan, did not enter the chamber unless invited to do so by Gerique, so it should be quite safe. He had no doubt that Gerique would be aware of the theft as soon as he returned, but he did not expect his truce with the Faer Karani to last much longer than a few days anyway, and he would not be certain who had stolen it. He would suspect, but Gerique did not act precipitously, and would want to make sure. That would give him enough time.
He drew Shadow Cutter and laid it on the table before him.
I am ready to serve.
“I know,” he said to the sword, “but times have changed. You were made to destroy men, to put fear in their hearts. Now I will give you a new purpose, and for that purpose you will have a new name.”
There is a new enemy?
“Indeed. One that you cannot cut.”
I can cut anything.
“Not magic, and not thought. Our new enemy is made of these things.”
I do not understand this, but your will is my will.
“Do you remember your life?” he asked, suddenly curious. “Before you were Shadow Cutter you were a man. Do you remember that.”
He could feel the unease in the blade, actually feel it.
I am aware that there was such a time, but the memories are gone. I do not think that I was a good man.
That made sense. The blade was made to kill, to take pleasure in death and embrace slaughter. What man would you put into such a thing?
“Rest easy, faithful blade,” he said. “You have served your masters well, and will do so again.”
He began to chant the first spell. The technique was new to him, but Corderan’s book, which was as clear in his mind as though it lay before him, was quite explicit on what was required. The spell was not cast, but instead it was hung, drawing power from a magical source as it was needed, and would repeat as often as the object was used.
Serhan had spent time exploring the other worlds that surrounded his own. He had not gone there, of course; that was impossible, but he had tasted them with spells. There were places that intrigued him places that bored him and he had found one place that frightened him. It was a world with no magical energy at all. Just touching it with a spell had almost drained
him before he could pull away.
He knew that the Faer Karan were sustained by magical energy, and that if they were weakened enough they could be pushed away, their projection switched, as it were, to another destination. Once that happened, it would be most difficult for them to return. This was what he was trying to do, but first he had to know if the link to the magic-starved world would do the trick.
He found his black bowl and filled it with water, setting it before him on the ground. He cleared his mind and spoke the words that opened the window. Gerique’s chamber appeared before him, and the Faer Karani was there, but not reading. He was pacing up and down the chamber like a caged animal. Serhan watched him for a while, wondering at the skill of the illusion. Gerique looked so natural, so genuine, that it was hard to believe that it was just his will that gave him a shape. It seemed that there was emotion in each graceful stride. Perhaps the Faer Karan, too, were duped by their own magic, had begun to believe that they were as they seemed.
After a while Gerique stopped pacing and stayed still by the window looking out. He could not see the face, and so had no idea what might be passing through that strange, uncommon mind. What seemed clear was that Gerique was uneasy.
Some time later Balgoan, the door keeper, came into the chamber, and the two of them spoke. Serhan’s spell did not allow him to hear what they said, and he made a mental note that this would be a useful improvement, but even had it done so he knew that he would not have understood them. They were speaking in their own tongue. It was something that they rarely did when men were present, and none of their language was known.
They left the room together. He followed them with his magical eye, and saw that they passed through a black door that one of them, Balgoan he assumed, had created in the ante chamber. Now they were both gone.
He stepped up to the wall, used the ring and passed into it, a moment later stepping out into Gerique’s chamber. It was unsettling to be here alone. The penalty for such presumption would certainly be death.
