She lay in a simple bed of wood, a straw-stuffed mattress suspended on a rope lattice, in a small monk’s cell. Memory returned. She was in the Temple in Ithra. She had arrived nearly dead on her feet, her horse in little better condition…she didn’t know when. She tried to speak, the face above her indistinct in the dim light of the room. “How long?” she managed to barely croak.
“Almost a day,” said the voice; now she could tell it was a man. The hand released her wrist and a moment later slipped in behind her head, helping her sit up a little as a cup of cold, clean water touched her lips. She sipped and as moisture awoke her thirst, started to drink. After she drained the cup, she could speak clearly. “More.”
The man stood up. He had been kneeling by her bedside, and she now got a good look at him. He was a dark-haired man, somewhere in his mid-thirties, she thought. Heavyset, but not fat. He wore a deep plum–colored tunic and black trousers, simple but of fine weave, and his boots were of fine craftsmanship. He appeared unarmed. His features were plain, even unremarkable, but there was something about his dark eyes that said he was not someone to be underestimated.
“Who are you?” she asked weakly.
“I’m Zane.”
After another drink of water, she said, “Just Zane?”
He shrugged and smiled. It was a simple expression, but without guile. That made him either straightforward or dangerous. She’d assume the latter until the former proved out. “Well, if you care, I’ve a couple of titles that I never use, one from Roldem, another from the Kingdom of the Isles, and I may be entitled to some honorific from Kesh, but I’m not entirely sure. Zane will do.”
He turned to indicate those outside the door. “The monks tell me you’re called Sandreena and you are a Knight-Adamant of the Order of the Shield of the Weak. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” said Sandreena. “I’m assuming you’re harmless, else the Brothers would never have allowed you into my quarters while I was unconscious.”
He feigned a look of injury. “Harmless?” He shook his head slightly. “I’m no menace to you, certainly, but harmless?” He sighed as he sat back down next to her. “You need your rest, but before you fall asleep again, there are a couple of things I need to know.”
Feeling herself slipping back into unconsciousness, she said, “That may have to wait…”
When she awoke again, Zane was still there, but he was dressed in different fashion. She could see that the light from the high window above was different as well—grey. “Ah, there you are again,” said Zane. He had been standing near the door, apparently watching her, and came to sit on the edge of the bed again.
“Water?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said and allowed him to help her drink. Gathering her thoughts, she asked, “Who are you, again?”
“Zane,” he replied.
“I mean, who sent you?”
“Ah, to that,” he said, standing up as she appeared more lucid this time and able to drink without aid. “I am presently a friend of the Father-Bishop Creegan. Well, associate is perhaps a better choice of words.”
“But you are not of the Temple?” she asked.
“No,” he said with what passed for a regretful smile. “I tend to discover myself praying to Ban-ath or Ruthia more often than not.” He looked at her. “I try not to find myself on the side needing Dala’s intervention.”
“And as an associate of the good Father-Bishop,” said Sandreena, elbowing herself upright, “I assume you’re here to ask me about what I’ve uncovered.”
He reached under the bed and pulled out a folded blanket. He put it behind her as a makeshift pillow and said, “Yes, to the heart of it.” He added, “If you feel up to talking.”
“I’m a little hungry, but I could talk before I eat.”
He nodded and stood, moved to the door, and spoke to someone outside. While sitting up, Sandreena took stock of herself. Someone had bathed her, for she was clean, and redressed her wounds, which now itched as they were almost fully healed. She was wearing a simple white shift of bleached linen, and her hair smelled clean to her.
She had been nearly dead when she rode into town. She had endured a week on the road with no food and only what water she could find in creeks and one farmer’s well. She vaguely recalled finding a stand of berries along the way, but they had made her sick to her stomach.
Her exact recollection of things was hazy after she had started on her journey south. She remembered reaching a hillside overlooking the town of Ithra, and then nothing until she was spoken to by someone at the town gate, perhaps a warden or town watchman. Then she was at the entrance to the temple and trying to speak to someone, a monk perhaps, then awaking today.
The last week on the road had been a blur of hazy memories. Her wounds had stiffened, as she suspected they would, since she hardly had the best time recuperating in that damp cave, and she was woefully malnourished. Somewhere along the way time became meaningless. Training had evidently taken hold, for she had somehow managed to keep her horse watered and find grazing along the way. Perhaps she had slept while the animal had cropped grass. In any event, it was clear to Sandreena the Goddess had been watching over her.
She vaguely recalled finding her way past the city watch, who regarded the ragged woman with some suspicion, but she had said something about finding the temple, and slightly crazy pilgrims and mystics were hardly unusual, even in as out-of-the-way a place as Ithra—and even if they rode a fine horse.
“So, you work for Creegan,” she said as she pushed herself upright. Every part of her ached and she felt shockingly weak. It was a feeling she didn’t like.
“Work with him is more the case,” said Zane. He looked over his shoulder at her as they waited for food to arrive. “Or rather, I work for people who work with him.” He saw a monk approaching and said nothing while a tray was brought into the room, placed on Sandreena’s lap, and the monk departed. While she ate, Zane said, “Your Order’s resources are spread out right now, and you were the only high-level temple knight around, apparently. So the Father-Bishop asked us to keep an eye out for you.”
“You just happened to be in Ithra?”
“This was where they sent me. We have other people in Dosra, Min, and Pointer’s Head just in case you showed up there. If none of us heard from you in another week, someone else would have been sent north. There’s a strong suspicion something important is taking place in that very isolated village you went to…”
“Akrakon,” she supplied. She said nothing more, concentrating on eating the vegetable soup and coarse bread, which comprised her meal. She didn’t think this man would be standing around in the middle of the monastery if he were any sort of risk, but his claim to affiliation with the temple in Krondor didn’t make it a fact. As he observed, there were no other highly placed members of the Order nearby; the monks and lay Brothers of the Order in this little temple were far removed from Temple politics and intrigue.
When she said nothing for a while, Zane smiled and said, “Fair enough. You can report directly to the Father-Bishop if you wish. I was given no instructions about learning what you know, just to see you got safely home, or, failing that, that whoever followed you had a better chance of getting the intelligence…we need.”
She wondered which “we” he spoke of—the Temple, the Father-Bishop and himself, or whoever his masters were. “Good,” she said. “You going to ride with me to Krondor?” she asked between mouthfuls of soup and chewy bread.
“Something like that,” he said with a smile. “I’ll wait until you’re done.”
She said nothing while she finished, then watched him take away her tray. When he returned, she was standing on wobbly legs and needed a moment. “I’m weak as a kitten,” she supplied.
A monk arrived with some clothing, and Sandreena was annoyed to see it was a dress. Seeing her expression, Zane shrugged. “It was the best we could do on short notice. I had to buy it off one of the shopkeeper’s wives.” Lowering his voice a
s the monk departed, he said, “And I think the Brothers never considered you might prefer tunic and trousers. I think you may have been the first Knight-Adamant they’ve seen in recent memory.” Lowering his voice even more, he added, “or ever.” Looking over his shoulder as he handed her the dress, he said, “Certainly the first woman.”
She pulled off the shift and donned the dress, ignoring Zane’s presence. “There aren’t many of us,” she acknowledged, and her tone was grudging. “It’s thankless work and not for those of weak constitution. It doesn’t appeal to many, man or woman.” She held out the sides of the dress, which was obviously a size or two too large for her, and said, “Am I supposed to ride in this?”
“Ah, no,” said Zane. He drew an object from his belt pouch and said, “Stand next to me.”
She moved a step closer and he said, “This is a bit faster.”
Suddenly they were in a room somewhere else. It was earlier in the day, from the brightness of the light, and noticeably warmer. There was a trio of men in the room as they appeared.
Sandreena looked around, then her eyes widened. She took one step toward one of the men and drew back her fist. Before anyone could react, she unloaded a punishing blow to the jaw of a man wearing a white robe with purple trim. He went backward, skidding across the floor, slamming into the wall.
Shaking his head and blinking his eyes for a moment, Amirantha looked up and said, “Why, Sandreena. Good to see you again, too.”
Pug stood dumbfounded. Few things could surprise him at his age and with his experience, but the sudden appearance of Zane and the woman, who immediately knocked Amirantha across the room, succeeded.
Brandos grinned. “You’re looking a little off, girl. Normally, you would have broken his jaw.”
Seeing the old fighter, she returned his smile and came to hug him. “You old fraud. How are you?”
He hugged her back and said, “Well enough. I had wondered how you were, from time to time.”
Pug said, “Obviously, I don’t need to make any introductions.”
Sandreena said, “Only who you are.”
“My name is Pug and this is my island.”
She frowned. “The Black Sorcerer?”
He smiled slightly. “It’s a long story. Let’s say for the moment we all represent interests that have a common goal.”
“Which is?”
Getting off the floor, rubbing his sore jaw, Amirantha said, “Discovering where some unwelcome demons are coming from.”
She fixed him with a baleful look. “This another of your confidences?”
He held up his hands, palms outward. “No. In fact, an unexpected demon nearly gutted me a few weeks ago.”
“Too bad,” she said.
Brandos grinned. He knew she meant too bad the demon hadn’t succeeded. “I’ve missed you, girl.”
She gave him a dubious expression. “You’re a good enough man, Brandos, but I can’t say much for the company you keep.”
“If we can put aside the personal animosity for a while, we have others coming to meet with us,” Pug said.
“Who are you?” asked Sandreena again. “I mean, who are you to bring me here?”
Pug knew an exasperated tone when he heard one. “Father-Bishop Creegan will be here shortly. I think I’ll leave it to him to explain your role in this. However, before he arrives, perhaps you’d care to give us a brief idea of what it was you encountered up in the Peaks of the Quor.”
“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t care to.”
Pug shook his head slightly and said, “Zane, if you would show Sandreena to her quarters, we’ll wait for the rest of our guests.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” he said. He motioned for Sandreena to follow him. She cast another baleful glance at Amirantha as she followed Zane out of the room.
As they walked down the hallway, she took notice of her surroundings. The building was low and had doors that opened on gardens. She said, “Grandfather? He doesn’t look more than ten years older than you.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” said Zane. “Pug is my stepfather’s father and he’s old enough to be…” He shrugged. “You’ll see.” He led her to a room and said, “You can rest here and if you get hungry, just pick up that bell and ring it. Someone will escort you to the dining hall.” He pointed to a small, tulip-shaped bell that rested on a table next to a bed. “Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?”
Reaching down, she tugged at the ill-fitting dress and said, “Yes, if you could find me clothes that fit, I’d be grateful. Trousers and a tunic, please?”
He said, “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be back shortly.”
She sat on the bed after he left, and put her elbows on her knees, burying her face in her hands. “Oh, Goddess,” she said softly. “What have I done to deserve this? Amirantha, again?”
By the time Zane returned with clean clothing, she was asleep again, curled up on the bed like a child, and he could tell from the dried tracks on her face she had been weeping.
Pug sat near the door to the kitchen, dining with his wife, two sons, and Amirantha and Brandos at a table large enough to accommodate twice the number. A large kettle of stew sat steaming in the middle, with platters of hot bread, cheeses, meats, fruits, and vegetables placed around it.
The Warlock observed, “This is a…fascinating place. I always assumed your students were, and work was done, at Stardock.”
Pug inclined his head slightly as he said, “That’s what we want people to think. My predecessor here on this island, Macros, created the legend of the Black Sorcerer to maintain privacy. We have continued the illusion to keep that privacy. Moreover, the Academy at Stardock is a busy place, and much is accomplished there, but this is where the real work, research, and education of the exceptional students take place.”
Brandos said, around a mouthful of bread and cheese, “I assume that either you’ve decided to trust us, or you’re going to kill us.” He pointed to his bowl of stew. “This is very good, by the way.”
Miranda smiled. There was something very fundamental and unself-conscious about this veteran fighting man that appealed to her. “If we wished you dead, Brandos,” she said, “you wouldn’t be eating up the cook’s good stew.”
“That’s a relief,” he said. “Though, as last meals go, this wouldn’t be bad.”
Magnus and Caleb both laughed, and Amirantha said, “Well, then, if we’re not to be killed, are we to be trusted?”
Pug regarded the Warlock and said, “I’m not sure ‘trusted’ is the word I’d employ; rather, consider yourself ‘accepted for the time being.’ Demons are an issue for us, at the moment, and it appears we have little knowledge of them here and at Stardock.”
Magnus said, “The monks at That Which Was Sarth weren’t especially helpful either; most of their records are pretty straightforward, ‘on this date a demon appeared, Brother Iganthal or Father Boreus banished it,’ or was eaten by it and someone else did the banishing. But as to the nature and ways of demons, they were surprisingly vague.”
“Not really,” said Amirantha. He looked at Pug as he spoke, as if addressing him specifically. “It’s difficult to negotiate with demons, and the power they bring is intoxicating, addictive even. But there’s a price, and if I have managed to endure these encounters, it’s because I was never willing to pay the price.”
“Your life?” asked Caleb.
The Warlock shook his head. “My soul, for lack of a better term. I may not be a particularly good man, but I’m willing to stand before Lims-Kragma when my time comes, for an accounting of all I’ve done, good or ill. I’ll take whatever passes for justice among the gods, but what I won’t do is give up my place on the Wheel of Life for eternity to gain whatever it is I think is worth gaining in this life.”
“It would have to be a great deal,” agreed Magnus.
“It’s not so simple, is it?” asked Pug.
Amirantha shook his head as he put down his large spoon, apparent
ly finished eating. “If some agency of evil came to you and offered you a bargain, it would be a matter of strength of character, perhaps, or even fear of losing one’s place on the Wheel, but the agencies of darkness are far more subtle than that.
“There’s a force out there,” he continued, picking up his cup of wine and sipping, then setting it down, “that is hardly that overt.
“I’m convinced my brother, the man you knew as Leso Varen, was more than half-mad when he killed our mother. Something had already reached out and touched his heart, finding a willing minion. I knew my brother well; his vanity would never let him bend his knee to another, but that vanity could easily lead him to be manipulated.”
Remembering a conversation with the God of Thieves, where Ban-ath had revealed that Macros’s vanity had been his biggest ally in manipulating the otherwise crafty sorcerer, Pug could only nod agreement.
“While my brothers and I were disinclined to speak, we did have mutual acquaintances. As you may already understand, those of us who practice what are called the ‘dark arts’ often find our needs drive us to deal with a more unsavory stripe of fellow—thieves, bandits, renegades, and the like. People who can secure goods that otherwise would be impossible for us to obtain.
“This is less true in my own calling, for most of what I need I make, for wards, stones of power, and other items that over the years have proven useful in following my interest, to discover as much as possible of demon lore and the realm from which they come, without—”
“Having your head ripped off,” inserted Brandos.
“—I was about to say something else, but he makes my point.” Idly picking up his spoon and poking at what remained of the food before him, the Warlock said, “Those who need living human subjects must deal with slavers, and those who need the death of others—such as my brother did—also must deal with slavers or warlords or others guaranteed to engender mayhem. Cults become particularly useful.”
Rides a Dread Legion Page 27
