by P. D. Kalnay
Three paused for a moment before continuing with the next entry.
“I spent much of the day speaking with Sir Janik while I oversaw the installation of the pumps. Now, the water can rise no higher than my knees before it is expelled back into the sea. Modifying other enchantments to pump high volumes of sea water was fascinating, and I forged one extra, so that I could keep the prototype in my collection. If the day comes when I need large quantities of gold, I may make the design available. Selling a blade every few years has left me with a surplus.
Sir Janik is brash and forthright; two qualities unheard of in a High Commander. Surprisingly, I don’t dislike him. It will be a shame if I must eliminate the boy.”
Marielain Blackhammer sounded as kind and personable as Lyrian.
“Janik has invited me to join him in the search for the lost crown of Rornoch. Hours later, I have no idea why I agreed to accompany the boy. I hadn’t drunken enough to muddle my wits. It seems a fool’s errand, and I have need of neither wealth nor fame. In spite of all that, I will go, if only to learn more of him and to determine his place in the greater scheme of things. At present, I’m sure of only one thing—that he is less ordinary than I first believed.”
I yawned. It was late.
“You can stop there for tonight,” I told Three.
I was looking forward to finding out what the lost crown of Rornoch was.
Chapter 23 – Partial Answers
What followed was a three year journey across the western side of the First World. That took weeks to listen to. I didn’t know most of the names or where half the places were, but it was still fascinating. The last entry, when Marielain returned, mentioned the main doors to the workshop…
“The boy and I returned to the island today. I’ll transcribe my travel journals to the master journal later, though I wonder if any will read my words—I’ve no intention of sharing them. Nothing has changed here, but there’s evidence someone made a half-hearted attempt to penetrate my defences while I was absent. A pair of stout doors is long overdue. I shall put thought to better security, after a good night’s rest.
We recovered the crown with great effort and years of travel. The boy revealed his reasons for wanting it early in the search. I’d assumed he was driven by vainglory, but our quest turned out to be a personal matter. I don’t fully understand his reluctance to reveal his heritage or don the crown, but having abandoned a crown myself, I am in no position to judge. Crowning oneself emperor of a vanished empire would be pointless. Not bringing it back with us, and keeping its discovery secret, are decisions I do question. Regardless, it was good changing my routine, and the things I saw spurred new ideas for crafting and enchantment. My hands itch to take up hammer and sound the clarion call of anvil once more. I expect my adventuring with the boy will prove an isolated experience.”
I knew from the stories Ivy told me that it wouldn’t be, and I knew that Marielain and Janik would trek across the First World having many more adventures and becoming famous travellers in their day. Ivy had made them seem like a heroic team when she’d told the stories, but it was clear from listening to the journal that Marielain was an often reluctant team member. Most of the heroic parts were Janik’s idea, and my former self had only grudgingly gone along with him. Often, Marielain had swung his hammer to protect Janik, while Janik was trying to save somebody else. That Marielain had plans for his friend became blatantly obvious the more I heard.
During the adventure, they’d crossed the Black Wastes, just like my grandmother, but Marielain had written no entries during that part of the journey, and that seemed suspicious.
“Three, are there any other entries concerning the Black Wastes?”
“One, Master, from eighty-two years later.”
“Could you read it?”
“Yes, Master.
I dreamt of the temple last night, and its dark guardian. I’ve kept the truth of that night from the boy and will continue to do so. He is bold enough to challenge the Mopat in the fulfilment of his vows. It would surely be his undoing. The Arath might suffice to defeat the creature, but perhaps not. I’ve sworn no vows and have no intention of putting that to the test. I cut that night and those around it from my journal thinking any record to be too dangerous. Now, I will give a brief account as I believe this may be the lesser of two evils—and that another may need these words.
We camped in the heart of the Wastes on the edge of the river Styx. No life sprang up along its banks, and if an oasis exists in the Wastes, we never found it. The second watch of the night fell to me. We’d seen enough of the place by then to know that every night might bring danger, which made it easy to stay alert. Likely, it was that heightened state of alertness that let me sense the temple. It was less than a mile away on the far side of the dunes lining the riverbanks. I’d only climbed the dune to see what I could from the top, with no intention of going further. In the distance, rose the temple.
It was a mighty pyramid of layered stone raised high into the sky. We’d passed just north of it shortly before making camp, but had seen nothing. That should have been my first warning. With two moons full, there was ample light, and I could see the temple as clearly as my own hand. I didn’t wake the boy. Instead, I walked toward the temple to investigate. I took the Arath along, and I suspect that is the reason I’m alive to write these words.
No screams broke the still night air… common enough in the Wastes. Those creatures, or people, who draw attention to themselves, soon regret it. I sensed no other living presence nearby, but I did sense the dark temple itself, and something else deep below it. The temple was bathed in the darkness of blood sacrifice. Whatever the temple held in its depths was akin to the hammer in my hand. Both emanated an ancient power; that was where the similarities ended. A tall, open doorway beckoned, until it was filled with a creature darker than the night. I’d heard no noise and felt no footsteps. The creature might have been a spectre for all that I could sense its presence, but the fear in my heart told me it was real enough; I raised the Arath before me.
“You are unwelcome here, Smith,” it said.
“Who are you?” I asked. Danger is no excuse for ignorance.
“I am the guardian of the Temple. I am the Priestess. I am the Mopat.”
I’d heard fireside tales of the Mopat in villages on the edge of the Waste and had given them the same credence I’d give to any drunken ramblings. Those tales did no justice to the being in front of me. The Arath, which had proven to be a fearsome weapon, gave me small confidence of victory in a battle with that foul monster. I was certain of only two things; that the Mopat was powerful, and that it was Old.
“What temple is this?” I asked.
The Mopat appeared in no hurry to do battle.
“This is the Seat of Halros. Have you come to make a sacrifice?”
There was no mistaking that it meant a sacrifice of myself. Not something I’d be doing anywhere, and certainly not at the Destroyer’s temple.
“No.”
“Have you come hoping to steal from the Temple?” It was barely a whisper.
“I’ve no intentions,” I said. It was the simple truth. “I was merely curious. We need not fight unless you press the issue.”
The Mopat was silent for long enough that I expected an attack at any moment.
“What of the knight?” it finally asked.
“He knows nothing of this and sleeps soundly. We shall move on, come dawn.”
“Will you tell him of the Temple? Of me? It has been long years since I tasted a warrior of the Order of the Tree.”
“I think not,” I said. “He’ll feel honour bound to fight, and we’ve already a pointless quest to accomplish.”
“Shall I allow an enemy to pass unscathed?”
I hefted the hammer in both hands and squared off before the Mopat, attempting to look intimidating.
“I have use for the boy. Will you fight me for him?” I asked.
The Mopat considered that.
“No. You may leave unmolested, Smith.”
“A truce then.”
“For the night and a day,” the Mopat offered.
“Accepted,” I said and bound us to our words.
The temple wasn’t visible in the light of day, and the boy and I continued down the remains of the road we’d been following.”
Wow. I was already intimidated by Ms. Mopat. Hearing that she’d scared old Marielain, who was—in spite of being a jerk—a super-competent enchanter at the height of his power, made her seem extra scary. I wondered if Gran knew that she was Halros’s priestess. I also wondered what else had been in the temple. Gran’s story hadn’t mentioned finding anything besides Ms. Mopat. The unexpected information renewed my interest in getting answers to my other questions. When Ivy did come home, I’d have lots to tell her.
I had to listen to thousands of less informative entries, over months of evenings, to discover a handful I thought were pertinent. I’ll spare you the dull ones… you’re welcome.
***
The forging of the White Sword was high on the list of topics I wanted to know about, but there wasn’t much in the journal…
“Morantal’s claw has sat on a shelf in the workshop for the last fifty years. Discovering it was an unexpected conclusion to an otherwise failed quest with the boy. That it’s an item of Power is unquestionable. How could it be otherwise? I dreamt of the claw and the dragon. Although Morantal disappeared in the distant past, I saw the great black dragon clearly. I woke certain that the claw must be put to some purpose. It calls for me to take it up. Perhaps on the morrow, with claw in hand, that purpose will reveal itself.
The next entry is from eleven years later, Master.
The boy showed me his sword when I awoke today. He tells me that I crafted the blade, and after examining it, there can be no doubt. Eleven years are gone from my life and memory. My hands may have held hammer and the graver, but some other will directed them. Who and for what purpose are mysteries I mean to solve. The White Sword, as the blade has come to be called, is the equal of the Arath. I’ve never been accused of humility, but I am amazed at what my hands wrought. The enchantments are clouded from eyes, and the boy will not read me the words I inscribed. In truth, I’m uncertain I wish to know.”
And that was everything I learned of the White Sword. Useful answers: zero. I tried to find out the details of Mr. Ryan’s banishment, but there was nothing about that at all. Maybe Marielain didn’t have those answers. There were a few entries concerning the end of Janik’s life…
“The boy is a fool. A brave fool, but a fool nonetheless. Neither myself nor Sirean Silver Mantle has had success in dissuading him from his reckless course of action. Why he expects a fair trial and why he would bother to present himself to be tried are beyond me. As a member of the Order he stands above the laws of those who accuse him. The notion that the High Court of the Fae will be impartial or fair is as ludicrous as the charges levelled. I fear the boy believes his own legend and will meet his end because of it. In the greater scheme, death is a temporary condition, and I’ve crafted the sword well. Possibly, it is loneliness that I fear.
Master, there’s a gap of almost a year until the next entry,” Three said.
“Weird. OK, read the next one.”
Why did he make the White Sword and what was its purpose? That’s what I wanted to know. Three moved on to the next entry. It was the very last one, or rather, the first one I’d listened to. Either way, the rest of my answers were somewhere in the eight hundred odd years of entries that came before. Finding them would probably take a few of my years.
“Was that it?”
“Yes, Master.”
“All right, we’ll start again tomorrow.”
***
There was even less concerning the Blood of the World Tree, although One and Two had plenty of technical information.
“Today I accepted Jerilain as my apprentice. I did so neither because she is kin (I dislike most of my kin), nor because she is talented, although both are true. The years she hounded me, begging for the position didn’t factor either. As with too many of my choices, the decision came to me in a dream. A dream of blood, or to be more precise: the Blood of the World Tree. My process for acquiring and refining the Blood is well established, and though it is many times more efficient than the conventional methods, it remains tedious and time consuming. If the girl proves capable and trustworthy, I may have a solution to the problem. I’ll not teach her how to use the distilled Blood, only how it is crafted. That should minimise the risk of what I plan. Why will I need so much of the Blood? How may such a quantity be employed safely? Those questions remain unanswered. Too much of my life has been lived according to the will of another. I still don’t know who that other is, but I have my suspicions…”
It would’ve been nice if old Marielain had recorded those suspicions in his journal.
Chapter 24 – Suitable Attire
My days and evenings were busy, and they passed quickly. Each morning consisted of lessons with Lyrian, and the afternoons were spent practising, and usually failing to accomplish what I’d learned in the morning. My failures only made me more determined to succeed with the winathen half of my magic. The evenings were filled with listening to Three recite the journal, and in between I continued learning new words from One, but I crafted nothing new during that time since my hands hurt as much as ever. Many days flew by without my noticing.
I was so preoccupied that I didn’t even notice that the food in the pantry never diminished until months had passed. That mystery was easily solved. Two and Three always returned with armloads of food after taking their turn watching Ivy. My focus on learning the things I didn’t know became an obsession, and only on rare occasions did I go down into the city. People avoided me, which was depressing. Aside from Alak, there was only one exception.
***
The first time I saw a spelikan I almost had a heart attack. The majority of the people who’d come to the island were humanoid, even if they weren’t at all human, but I knew from reading Gran’s books, and from Ivy, that many of the intelligent races of the First World weren’t. Except for the one time I saw Sirean in her natural form, I’d had no firsthand experience.
I let my feet take me where they wanted one sunny afternoon, following a particularly fruitless lesson with Lyrian. The lesson had gone so poorly that I didn’t have the heart to practice afterwards. I passed through the pixie neighbourhood, but no tiny people had taken up residence yet. A short way further into the middle level of the city, I found myself surrounded by the homes that looked like enormous beehives. There weren’t many of them, but they were vast. One of them showed signs of recent repair to the stonework, so I went over to investigate. The strangely organic looking building didn’t have a door at street level, and a few holes had recently been patched with stone and mortar. I wondered who had moved in.
“Greetings, Prince Jakalain,” a voice said from above me.
I’d been so intent on examining the strange structure that I jumped in surprise. A giant spider clung to the side of the building right above me. I took a few steps back. It wasn’t exactly a spider, but the spelikan had eight legs, a shiny-smooth black exoskeleton, and more eyes than I could politely count without staring. The front legs were shorter than the others. When the spelikan scuttled down to street level, she stood even with my belly button. Gran’s books told me that she was an intelligent creature, but my instincts screamed bug! I’ve never had an interest in, or a fondness for, insects.
I tried to remember everything I knew of spelikan. They usually lived in jungles, in tribes, ruled by a single matriarch who was mother to the entire tribe. All the other spelikan were female, and males only existed to breed. A male spelikan was hatched at the same time a new matriarch was chosen. After the village was populated, he was evicted, left to wander alone for the rest of his life. A pretty crappy deal, but better than a black widow spider. Like many of the races of th
e First World, the spelikan were long-lived. The only other facts I remembered were that they primarily traded in textiles of their own manufacture, and that they lived entirely on the blood of an aphid-like creature that they raised for livestock. New matriarchs were chosen from the tribe somehow. Despite the similarities to ants and bees, spelikan were individuals, and not members of a hive. That information flashed through my brain as I tried to slow my heart.
“Hi,” I finally managed. “You know who I am?”
“Your reputation precedes you,” she said. “All on Knight’s Haven know who you are.”
The population was still in the low thousands, so I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised.
“My name is Frithanzel Stoutstrand.” She made a clicking sound in between the words and her voice had a flat breathy quality.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said. It was, sort of. It was definitely interesting.
“Your garments are unfitting for a person of stature, Prince Jakalain.” A bunch of eyes examined my clothing.
I’d never cared much about clothes, but my current attire wasn’t fitting for anybody. Marielain’s library hadn’t included instructions for making clothes. I’d just made a toga slash poncho outfit with a length of balsilk rope for the belt. I didn’t get out much and hadn’t given my appearance any thought.
“When a clothing store opens up, I’ll get some new clothes,” I said.
I had plenty of gold in the workshop.
“We are in the process of the establishing our garment business here in the city. Unfortunately, there remains a lack of cloth and other raw materials.” Frithanzel said. “Perhaps when those materials become available, you’d consider patronising our shop?”
“Definitely,” I said. Then I remembered that Ivy and I had salvaged a fair bit of fabric early on. “If I bring you fabric, could you make me clothes? And a dress for someone else?”
