by D Mickleson
“Triston darling, don’t think terribly of me. There might still be hope for that troubled young man.”
Head still buzzing, Triston turned to the melodious voice with eyes that refused to focus. “There . . . might be hope?” he said uncertainly.
“Oh yes. I’d say, more than hope actually. But that depends on you.”
“On me?”
“Come, join me in my carriage. Driver, hitch up his horse behind us. Come dear, sit beside me. We’re nearly to Luskoll now and we need to have a talk.”
EIGHT
AN ENCHANTING RIDE
O city fair! O seat of sainted Fane! May grace of Seer secure thy sceptered flame forevermore!
—Margrave the Scribe, The Siege of Luskoll, 713
Triston watched as a steady stream of heads rolled by. Farmers and herdsmen driving their goods to swell the afternoon bazaar, travelers and pilgrims eager to leave the dusty road behind, soldiers passing to and fro on their masters’ business: all fell swiftly behind as the gilded carriage thundered down the lane. Those on foot leapt out of the way while merchants drove their carts to a roadside halt for fear of hindering Her Grace’s passage.
Inside, the clatter of wheels and bustle of the crowded road were strangely muted, as though the world on the other side of the little glass pane through which Triston stared was nothing more than a dream.
“It is quite busy today,” came a small voice beside him, breaking the long silence. Alessia, the Seer’s lady-in-waiting, gave a nervous look at her mistress sitting opposite them. When the Seer ignored her, she turned with a flutter of anxiety to Triston. He looked down at her. Despite frizzy hair and freckles, she was very pretty, with a demure manner and eagerness to please, but he could only manage a faint smile. A quick glance at the seat opposite confirmed what he already knew. The Seer was still watching him avidly. He turned back to the window.
“Well dear,” said an enchanting voice. “It would be crowded. After all, tonight is the first full moon after midsummer, which means—”
“Which means the Carnival Week begins at sundown!” interrupted the girl, suddenly alive with anticipation. She clapped her hands, then seeing the Seer’s face, suddenly froze, horrified. “My lady, forgive me. I did not mean to interrupt. I, my outburst, not what I . . . childish thing really . . . .” Her voice trailed away but she was saved further wrath, for the Seer’s attention was fixed firmly elsewhere.
“Your Grace,” Triston began, summoning the courage to plead on Alden’s behalf.
“Tell me, Triston,” she cut across him, “why do you think Lord Sarconius threatened an attack on your village when the only imperial army nearby has no such orders? Strange, isn’t it? I confess, the more I consider it, the more it vexes me.”
Triston shut his mouth, deciding whether to change the subject to Alden or humor the Seer’s musings for a while. “I suppose he could be mad,” she added doubtfully.
“I . . . well, perhaps it was an idle threat,” he answered, watching closely for her reaction. “Perhaps he was trying to intimidate you into obeying his will.”
The Seer considered his words. “Perhaps.”
A new silence lengthened between them in which the soft breathing of the chastened Alessia filled the cabin. Soon, however, Triston’s thoughts became filled with the imagined screams of his friend being tortured in some dark Meridian dungeon. “Your Grace—”
“You haven’t asked me what he wanted with Wyrmskull. I find that curious.”
“Well, I—it could be anything. I suppose you told Gorbald. It’s not really my business what he—”
“Is it not?” She gave another sweet smile. “Tell me, Triston, what would you say if I told you something I never mentioned to your Chief, that Sarconius’ true purpose in Wyrmskull was to acquire an ancient heirloom of extraordinary potency?”
Triston felt his mouth go dry. He knew this quite well, of course, but to admit that he and Alden had eavesdropped might elicit an explosion of rage, one that could leave him, like Bullistrode, blue-faced in the dirt.
At that moment, from somewhere ahead of them, there came a flurry of trumpets and the sound of men shouting. Stealing a glance out his window, Triston saw that the press of travelers was now so thick about them that the carriage was barely moving. The babble and clatter had grown, penetrating the carriage’s muting cushions. Above the din, Triston heard a commanding call. “Make way for Her Grace. The Seer returns to Luskoll. Make way.”
The trumpets brayed again, and there was a rush of feet and clank of metal. Leaning over, Triston saw a yawning gate of stone beneath a raised portcullis with shining steel points. Through the throng, a company of city guards forced their way forward, joining the Seer’s three elite Guardians in front of her carriage. Forming a wedge, they began pushing and pulling travelers with practiced efficiency until a path was clear. With the snap of a whip the carriage rolled beneath the gate’s huge shadow while the fearsome escort marched along on either side, pressing those unfortunate enough to be caught beneath the gate into its stone sides.
Triston turned to the Seer. “May I ask,” he said in his most deferential voice, “what did you mean when you said hope for Alden rested on me?”
She chuckled knowingly, as though the two were sharers of a secret joke. “In good time, Triston. In good time. As long as you are honest with me, all will be well.”
“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“Excellent,” she said, raising her eyebrows expectantly. When he looked confused, she added, “Then you can start, dear boy, by answering the question I just posed.”
“Ah. Well, as for this Relic of Power, I say that Sarconius is a madman. Mad to think anything like that could be found in Wyrmskull of all places. I mean, come on,” he added with an affected laugh, “this is Wyrmskull we’re talking about. Just a ragtag collection of wooden huts huddled together in the middle of nowhere.” He smiled in a would-be casual manner.
The Seer’s eyebrows rose further. “Relic of Power,” she repeated softly. “But I don’t remember using those precise words. Now how would you have come by that name?”
Triston felt a hot rush of blood rise to his face. He muttered indistinctly about her having said something like that. She nodded but said nothing, only eyeing him still more keenly. He noted with alarm that she was now fingering her emerald ring. His forehead began to sweat.
“Is something wrong dear?” she asked in consoling tones. “You seem very ill-at-ease.”
“No, no. It’s just . . . stifling in here. Probably body heat from all the people,” he added with a gesture out the window. This was no exaggeration. If the road had been merely crowded outside the gate, then the streets inside the city were packed tighter than an Arcusian slave-ship. From what he could see, the only reason they were making any progress at all was because her armored men were driving through the throng like a herd of thirsty bulls charging down to water.
“It must be quite an experience for you. The village boy meets the stone city.” She leaned in, her ruby red lips curled in a seductive smile. “I insisted your Chief assign you to our company for precisely this reason. What a pleasant carriage ride we’re having.”
Triston frowned. He was growing weary of her scrutiny, and increasingly sensed that, despite her flirting courtesy, he was being mocked. “You . . . insisted? Why me?”
The Seer laughed melodiously. “I wanted to get you away from that meddling Meridian, of course.” She laughed again, more softly this time, as if enjoying a private joke. “Sarconius did prove useful. He reignited an old passion of mine. And he led me to you. But I doubt very much the fool is gone for good. I wanted you all to myself before he returns. Look at me,” she demanded, and all the sweetness was gone from her voice. Triston met her gaze. “Magog’s Fury. Where is it hidden?”
“Magog’s what?”
“Fury, child. Fury. Trinian’s Relic of Power. Where did he hide it? Where is it now?”
So this was her game.
>
“You knew,” he whispered. “All along you knew.”
“What did I know?” the Seer asked with exaggerated courtesy.
“With Sarconius, back in Wyrmskull. You made yourself out to be ignorant of Relics. Let him explain things. And all the while you knew. Maybe you know more than him.” The Seer smiled, watching Triston as though he was an amusing dog showing off a new trick. “And you ran off to Gorbald. You roused the village against him, like you were on our side. But no. You just wanted it for yourself.”
“And now I have you.”
“But the joke’s on you. I’ve never heard of this Fury thing until just now. You wasted your time.”
The Seer’s pleasant smile froze on her face. “Don’t insult me with lies, boy,” she whispered. “You know. You know everything. And I’ll take what I desire from your mind whether you will it or no. It’s just a question of how much pain you want.” She clenched her right hand, the ring hand, into a fist so that the green stone stood out boldly against her whitening skin.
“You tell me what you know,” he whispered defiantly. “You’re the one who owns a Relic, not me.” He gazed down at the ring with widening eyes.
Alessia gasped. “Triston, no! You mustn’t speak—”
“Explain yourself,” said the Seer commandingly, ignoring her servant. “What am I to understand by that comment?”
Then, seeing his eyes on her ring, she held it up in front of her. There was a moment of silence, in which all three of them stared at the glittering emerald, then the Seer burst into laughter. “What, my ring? You think this is a Relic of Power? My dear boy, you do have much to learn. This ring is nothing—nothing!—compared to a true—”
“Why don’t we ask Sergeant Bullistrode whether that ring has any power?”
The emerald gleam in her eyes intensified. She was once again turning the ring on her finger. The green stone was now luminous with a threatening glow, as though reflecting her mood. Alessia began to sob quietly beside them.
Triston cringed inwardly, awaiting some stroke of power from the deadly ring. He was fighting a losing battle for control of his emotions, and suppressing the rising anger was like trying to hold down a meal while violently ill.
The Seer smirked suddenly. She opened her mouth to speak, but the carriage jerked to an abrupt halt. The door flew open with a burst of sunlight and noise.
“Apologies, Your Grace,” said a low voice, “but your presence is requested at once.”
“Oh, and by whom?” she asked in tones of thinly-veiled displeasure.
“The Lord Gubrius, Grace. He holds council with the great wizard Azerban near the Firefount. If my lady would follow me?”
Craning his neck to see the speaker, Triston felt a sudden pull on his collar. His head began to turn against his will with slow but inexorable force as though by an invisible hand. He found his face an inch from the Seer’s, the ring flashing from her lap. “You will come with me,” came her hissing whisper. “You will not say a word of our business to my beloved cousin or your friend will die a terrible death. Is that understood?”
Pain tore through him as the muscles in his neck, stiffened by his resisting will, were forced to nod his head in several up-and-down jerks.
Once outside the carriage, Triston saw a messenger dressed richly in livery of plum velvet flanked by four ironclad soldiers. The duke’s men bowed to the Seer, then the soldiers made a sharp about-face and began unceremoniously knocking people aside to force a way across what Triston assumed must be Luskoll’s main square.
Despite his newfound loathing of the Seer, and bewilderment at her behavior, Triston couldn’t help gawking at the strange sights and sounds as the citizens of Luskoll made ready to open their Carnival Week. The seemingly infinite throng milled about in a sea of material splendor.
Merchants hawked every type of good and commodity a privileged province such as Corellia, with access to free and open imperial trade, had to offer. The city’s bakers and cooks filled the stale, sweaty air with the mouth-watering scents of rising bread and sizzling meat. Satin gowns and capes of Arcuse richly adorned in brocades of gold and pearl contended against extravagant eagle-quill dress hats and silk-lined ermine robes for the patronage of the rich and powerful. From decks above the open porches of the grander inns and restaurants, instruments Triston had neither seen nor imagined rained down sweet music upon dining patrons in evening finery.
Traders clever or lucky enough to be selling unique wares garnered frenzied interest. Triston witnessed a sallow-skinned old man nearly crushed to death by a mob frantic to snatch up his “Mammoth glow worms. Never buy a candle again!” One prudent slaver sported a wall of armed mercenaries to hold back the teeming masses from his treasure, three genuine dwarf-slaves. Triston stared with the rest of the crowd when the swarthy slaver tore the planks from three large boxes, revealing oversized bird-cages. Each contained what looked like a very short, very hairy, and very naked man. Squinting in the sudden light, the dwarves seized their iron bars and hurled curses at the onlookers, who laughed and jeered in answer.
Disturbed, Triston turned quickly to the next stall, and found himself staring into a barrel of body parts. Ears, noses, fingers and toes wiggled like worms under a black banner with crimson script: Charms and Talismans. A long-nosed woman draped all in black favored Triston with a toothless smile, eyeing his long fingers greedily. “Bloodwitches,” muttered one of the duke’s men. “They make my skin crawl.”
Forging a path across the square, Gubrius’ men led the procession past a raised and roped off area. Triston resisted an urge to stop and gape as men on stilts strode to and fro in bright bird costumes juggling swords and flaming torches.
Meanwhile, near the center of the square beneath a sparkling waterfall, a large marble owl suddenly came to life as Triston passed. Fluttering its feathers, the owl turned its head and hooted, “Hoo hoo. Too true. It’s five o’ two.”
Nearby, standing beside a frothy pool at the base of the fall, a young woman, looked as amazed as Triston felt. The owl returned to its original frozen position, marvelous with life-like detail but otherwise just another statue. An older man whose arm the woman leaned on chuckled at her wide eyes. “It’s just Beaky, darling, the duke’s enchanted clock. They say he laughs every time he hears it.”
As they drew near the center of the square, Triston saw, towering above the townsfolk to a height of three men, the great Firefount of Luskoll of which he’d heard rumor. Carved from a single piece of ebony stone and gilded with traceries of gold, the fountain spouted jets of purple flame. They flowed like water from the open mouth of a graven woman at the top to cascade into a series of vast bowls at her feet before finally disappearing into the earth.
Beside the fountain stood a wide pavilion, surrounded by a whole company of men-at-arms bearing large shields, a living wall against the rising tide of revelers. They parted as the duke’s entourage approached, and Triston followed the Seer into the shade of the vast canopy.
“Your Grace, you must come at once! I’ve been waiting to show—you must see—come quickly.” A short, plump, dark-haired man waved at them from across the covered space. He wore a glossy, purple waistcoat, tight across his ample belly but rumpled elsewhere, spangled with tiny golden stars which shimmered as he bounced eagerly on the balls of his feet. Matching pantaloons above knee-high, bright red stockings completed his odd appearance.
The Seer led her company toward the nobleman with a granite smile fixed on her face. They passed workmen unloading boxes. Triston was interested to see many long, narrow items shaped like miniature tower-turrets, each with a white wick, being carefully arranged.
The Seer embraced the duke. “Cousin, you look splendid. Tell me then, what must I see?” She spoke in a light and friendly manner, as one ready to be delighted by whatever he wanted to show her.
“Come, come,” the duke said, pulling her by the arm. “How are you? How was your journey?” Not waiting for an answer, he pointed toward a lon
g object behind him which was bigger than a house and currently draped by many large sheets. “All right boys,” he shouted at a work crew, “remove the wrappings!” A few moments of billowing sheets later, the company stared at what lay revealed beneath.
It was a marble statue, larger than any Triston had ever seen, twice-taller than himself though it lay on its side. “Why, my lord, it’s you!” said the Seer, apparently deeply moved. Triston looked several times between the marble giant lying supine before them in the likeness of a handsome youth and the pudgy man bouncing excitedly beside the Seer.
“The likeness is remarkable, is it not? They carved prostrate due to its height. We raise it tonight after sundown. And that’s not the best part.” Waving to one of the workers, he yelled, “You there! Light a torch. Be quick!” In a few moments the servant returned with a flaming brand. “Now, hold it to the pedestal.”
“Ah,” said the Seer, “I believe I can guess—yes, I see.”
Triston watched with a frown, wondering what possible point there could be to holding a torch to a marble pedestal, then his eyes opened wide with wonder.
“Firescript,” said the duke impressively.
Where the torchlight struck the pedestal, flaming letters appeared, glowing as though written with molten rock. Craning his head sideways, Triston read:
DUKE GUBRIUS
A SAGE TO THE SAGACIOUS
A TERROR TO THE TERRIBLE
The duke stared with watery eyes. “I came up with that myself. Don’t you see? This statue will stand beside the Firefount so the letters will ever glow. Isn’t it, isn’t it—”
A deep, gravelly voice interrupted. “It’s perfect, my lord.”
Turning, Triston saw a thin man of about sixty, his wild locks and flowing beard of purest white, his eyebrows midnight black. Gnarled hands protruded from forget-me-not blue robes, gripping a long, ashen staff. The man gave Triston a quick, furtive wink, then added, “It’s the very crying image of you, duke, and far short of your true worth.”
