Another set of stairs loomed ahead of mem. Jocelyn stopped, then hurried on excitedly. “This is it, Hammad. See how it curves down out of sight? That’s exactly the wav I remember it. It made me nervous not to be able to see what lay at the bottom.”
Hammad followed, her down the narrow staircase. chuckling. “It seems that you were even more adventurous than I'd given you credit for, Jocey. By the gods, you could have been lost down here forever! No wonder Maikel had the place walled off.”
And then they were standing at the bottom, before thee ornately carved door she remembered. Hammad held his torch close to it, examining it carefully.
“Excellent workmanship,” he pronounced. “But I do not recognize the wood.”
“The wood in the fortress comes from trees that grow only in the Dark Mountains, and when it isn’t kept cleaned and polished, it looks just like this.”
He cook hold of the tarnished brass handle and have it a sharp tug before she could warm him. She had just recalled how easily it had opened for her. He too very nearly lost his balance as the door swung outward without protest.
They entered the room together, holding their torches before them. Their gasps were simultaneous. Jocelyn was no less impressed for seeing it the second time, even though it seemed to her now that it had always been there, just this clearly, in her mind.
The torchlight was swallowed by the utter blackness of the room – except for where it reflected with dazzling brightness off the golden drawings. Hammad stood in the center of the room just as she had, turning slowly as he held the torch aloft. Then he walked over to one wall and began to examine it closely.
“There! And there as well. Jocey, you were right! The symbol is the same!”
She already knew that. If she’d had any doubts left, they’d disappeared the moment she’d re-entered this room. She knew that she couldn’t describe it to Hammad, so she didn’t even try. This was a Kassid place–it felt Kassid. It had that feel of past merging with present that she’d sensed so often at the fortress. It had a presence that was both Kassid and somehow even more ancient.
A place of the Old Gods, she thought with a shiver. Built by the Kassid, yes, but at the instruction of the Old Gods. Not like the fortress, which had been created by the gods themselves, but rather something built on their orders after they had departed this word.
“And the wolves!” Hammad exclaimed, breaking into her thoughts. “They’re everywhere!”
But Jocelyn was wondering how such thoughts had come into her head, and why she was so certain that the magic of the gods lingered here, after all these centuries.
The little girl who had discovered this place had felt none of that—but the woman felt it now.
And Hammad feels none of this, she thought as she watched him walk slowly along the walls, pausing now and then. It is I who feel it—because I have been touched by Kassid magic.
“They carved the stone, then filled in the carvings with gold,” Hammad said. “An enormous task.”
Then he turned back to her. “The Kassid must have built this, Jocelyn. There is no other explanation. That means that this place was theirs before it became ours.”
He paused, then went on more slowly. “And that must mean that our history lies. The Kassid were more than an army of mercenaries who fought for us.
She nodded, the movement barely perceptible. They had ruled it all. She knew that now, though she could not have said how she knew it.
And now they had returned.
Rumors were everywhere. One had only to breathe the air of the city to take them in. Wartime only lent the ever-present rumors more urgency—and gave them more speed.
It was said that Hammad’s forces had been defeated. But it was also said that they were victorious, and that the enemy was on the run, back across its borders. Those who spread the latter rumor were divided—Hammad and his men had followed them into Menoa; Hammad had ordered his army back at the border.
And the Kassid? Rumors of them were spoken in hushed tones, with the reverence reserved for the Old Gods. Were they not the children of those Gods, the ones most blessed? It was said that they fought with unimaginable magic—lightning bolts out of clear skies, ghosts who fought with real weapons alongside them. And wolves; stories of wolves were rampant. In some, the wolves accompanied the Kassid; in other tales, the wolves were the Kassid.
In all the rumors of the Kassid, they were victorious. Would the gods have it otherwise for those whom they favored?
And there were other tales, even more disquieting. It was said that this land, too, belonged to the Kassid, as surely as did the Dark Mountains—and that they had come at last to claim it again. All the world belonged to the Kassid; the gods had given it to them when they departed. Even Menoa and Turvea were part of that ancient empire, given up centuries ago for reasons known only to the Kassid themselves. Given up voluntarily, it was said—for who could have defeated them?
Daken, the gray-haired giant, had led his people back here to claim what was rightfully theirs. He'd cast a spell on their beautiful empress. Servants said she was besotted with him—she, who had disdained marriage. She was said to be distracted and short-tempered when he wasn't around.
And there was more—stories of how the Kassid elected their leader and shared the land and their great wealth equally. No man worked for another; no women and children went hungry.
And they would bring all this to the peoples of Ertria and Balek, now that they were reclaiming their empire.
The small, green-robed figure who walked once more along the palace wall knew more than they did—and less. Jocelyn received regular reports from Hammad's young aides, who took turns riding hard from the distant battlefields to bring her the news first-hand.
The enemy, trusting in its superior numbers, had launched a two-pronged attack. A part of the force crossed the border at the expected place, into Eryk’s lands. There they were met by the Ertrian army and part of the Kassid force, who were slowly forcing them back, despite being outnumbered nearly two to one.
The aides passed on to her the tales told to them by men fighting alongside the Kassid. Wherever the Kassid went, strange, dark shadows rode with them, forms that seemed to shift from men to wolves and back again. The enemy fell in far greater numbers than could be accounted for—and many had not a mark upon them. These, it was said, wore expressions frozen in death that bespoke great horror.
There were reports, too, of Ertrians who had witnessed Kassid changing themselves into wolves. In one tale brought to Jocelyn, two Ertrians, who had lost both horses and weapons, were being attacked by a Menoan on horseback. A Kassid suddenly appeared on a hilltop some distance away. He lept from his horse and started toward them—and then it was no longer a man running, but a wolf. The wolf sprang upon the nearest rider, tore out his throat, and then dispatched the other just as quickly. As the Ertrians picked themselves up, the wolf ran back the way he had come, and then was a Kassid again before he reached his horse.
“It happened just like that, milady,” Hammad’s aide told her, snapping his fingers. “Kassid to wolf and wolf to Kassid—in a mere blink!”
But of the main Kassid force that had taken off after the other enemy force, there was no news. Jocelyn had never visited that region, but she knew what it was like—hilly, rugged land, unlike the rest of Ertria. It was also the source of Ertria’s great deposits of iron ore; hence the enemy’s interest.
"Hammad says they’ve made a big mistake,” one of the aides told her. "They aren’t used to fighting in such terrain, and the Kassid are. But the Kassid are out-numbered by more than three to one, milady. I was present when Hammad and Daken discussed it, and Daken said at those odds, the Kassid would be quickly victorious."
And they will be, Jocelyn thought now as she paced the outer wall in the waning daylight. She no longer believed that anything was beyond the capabilities of the Kassid. All that Daken had told her had been confirmed.
When she returned to the palace,
she found the captain of her Guards awaiting her, his expression grim. The Guards, of course, remained in the city.
But at Hammad’s suggestion, she had given the captain orders to learn what he could about the Sherbas, who were said to be in the city in record numbers.
She took him to her suite, not wanting to risk their conversation being overheard by anyone. And it was there that he told her about the rumors circulating around the city.
"It’s the Sherbas, milady. They’re the ones spreading the tales about the Kassid. By our count, there are at least a hundred of them in the city itself, and more are reported in the farms beyond.
“One of my men saw a Sherba openly displaying that black rock on a gold chain that you spoke about. And from many sources, we now know that they worship the Kassid. There’s no doubt in my mind that they have always spied for them.”
“So they believe that the Kassid have come back to claim what is theirs?” Jocelyn said softly.
"Yes, milady. That is what they say. The people remain loyal to you, I believe, but these Sherbas stir up their hopes. It is a dangerous situation."
And it would be more dangerous when the war was over, she said silently. When the soldiers returned and everyone knew how the Kassid fought, the people would worship them as the children of the gods.
"With your permission, milady, I will round up all the Sherbas and imprison them.”
Jocelyn considered that, then shook her head. "To do so would only give credence to their tales. We must ignore them for now.”
The captain was clearly disappointed, but he accepted her decision and left her alone.
Jocelyn paced about her spacious reception room. The Sherbas were only confirming what she’d already known—what she’d guessed down there in that secret room. Her family’s four-hundred-year rule of this land was nothing more than a straw in the wind, blowing away as the Kassid returned to claim what was theirs.
That, she thought, was what had been decided in the Dark Mountains—not an alliance with Ertria, but a resumption of their rule over this land.
She recalled Daken’s harangue about her family’s rule. What he’d really been telling her was that it was to come to an end—that they’d given her family time, and it had been used unwisely. Now they would take it back for themselves.
Could she truly blame him? When she thought about how the Kassid lived, and then remembered the poor, pathetic people she’d encountered on her journey, she could do nothing more than agree with him.
Was their love too a sham? Had he married her merely to effect an easy transfer of power? When he’d said that the gods had whispered to him that they didn’t have to be parted, had he really been telling her that he would remain here to rule Ertria?
“No,” she said aloud. "No!" Their love was no sham, no Kassid magic trick. Whatever Daken’s plans were, he would never harm her.
She was siezed by a sudden and powerful urge to return to that secret room. Before she could even consider the wisdom of going down there alone, she had grabbed her cloak and left the suite, then slipped at the first opportunity into one of the little- used corridors she knew well from her childhood. A short time later, she was in the cellars, picking up a torch. She’d brought no yam with her this time and knew she didn’t need it.
The gold symbols flared to life the moment she stepped through the doorway, seeming even brighter than before. She walked over to a wall and put out her left hand, as she held the torch in her right. The light caught the gold of her ring as well— the ring Daken had given her.
She stared at it, remembering the tiny symbols carved into it. Daken had told her they were ancient symbols for happiness and other good things. She held her hand up to the torchlight and peered at them, but the light wasn't bright enough to make them out. It didn’t matter; she knew they would be similar to the writing on these walls.
She retreated to the center of the room and stared at the walls. Something stirred—not in the room, but within her. Were they voices? It seemed they could be. She stood perfectly still for a long time, but the voices or whatever it was became no clearer.
Still, when she left the room at last, she felt a glowing warmth inside, a sense of peace that for a time drove out her fears.
The excitement in the court was palpable—though of course restrained, as befitted people who spend their lives hiding their true feelings. News of the victory had come to the court by way of one of
Hammad’s aides, and Hammad himself was due to arrive at any moment.
Daken would not be with him. The aide had reported that after soundly defeating the enemy force that had been intent upon seizing the iron mines, Daken and his men had rejoined Hammad to drive the other enemy force back across the border into Menoa.
There hadn’t been many of them left to push back across the borders, the aide reported. Between their heavy losses and numerous desertions, what was left was no more than a small force still loyal to Arrat.
Daken, the aide said, had taken his army to pursue them, since both he and Hammad agreed that Arrat must die. To leave such a man alive was to invite future troubles. But the feeble-minded ruler of Turvea was already suing for peace, having lost his wastrel sons in battle.
Jocelyn, waiting impatiently with the others, heard the clatter of hooves in the inner courtyard and came down from her throne as the courtiers made way for Hammad and his senior officers.
He looked gray and tired—and old. When he made to get down on one knee before her, Jocelyn took his arm instead and led him back to the dais. Already, her elation over the victory was being supplanted by guilt over the news she would have to give him.
She’d had two days since the Guards commander’s report to consider what to do, and her position had hardened. She would not surrender either her throne or her power to Daken. She’d already acknowledged to him the past injustices, but she was determined to redeem her family’s name. She would face Daken down, certain that he would neither harm her nor set his men against her own army. But she badly needed Hammad’s wise counsel. She’d spoken to no one of this.
Her advisors would support her; she had no doubt of that. But they would support her only because they too had heard the tales being told of the Kassid’s return to claim their land—and the stories of their strange beliefs. They would support her because they believed she would continue as her predecessors had done—tacitly accepting their greed and corruption.
Hammad made his formal declaration of victory, adding to what she already knew only the fact that reports had reached him that Arrat and his remaining troops had reached an ancient fortress in the Menoan hills and the Kassid were laying siege.
Perhaps it was another of their own fortresses, Jocelyn thought, built by Kassid who might well have knowledge of its weaknesses. Daken had commented to her after the fall of the garrison in Balek that except for the mighty Kassid fortress in the Dark Mountains, all fortresses were vulnerable and should have a secret means of escape.
When Hammad had finished his abbreviated recounting of the victory, Jocelyn thanked him formally on behalf of the court and the people and declared three days of festivities to celebrate. The Keeper of the Royal Purse watched her stoically. He had ventured the opinion that one day would do. She felt rather bad about rejecting his advice,
since he was one of the very few honest men at court. But she hoped that a longer festival would serve to keep people’s thoughts away from the Kas- sid threat.
Then, after allowing the court as little time as possible to congratulate Hammad—whose disdain for them matched her own—she hurried him off to her private suite.
As soon as they were there, he sank gratefully into a chair. "I am too old for this, Jocey," he said tiredly. "It is time I retire and you appoint a successor."
She nodded her agreement. It was more important to her to have this good man alive and able to provide her with wise counsel than to have him heading the army. She told him this, then sighed.
"Hammad, I wish th
at I didn’t have to burden you now with what I have learned, but there is no one else I can go to."
She then told him about the Sherbas and the stories they were spreading, and about her own belief that they were accurate.
"Daken will not harm me, and I honestly believe that he does not want to fight the Ertrian army. He is essentially a man of peace."
She paused, thinking about their last night together and his confession that the warrior spirit of the Kassid had stirred inside him. Could she be wrong about him? Now that he had seen battle, now that he had taken up the sword himself, could he put it down again? But before she could voice these thoughts to Hammad, he spoke them for her.
"Victory is a heady wine, Jocey. Men become ad-
dieted to it very quickly—even men of peace such as Daken. Furthermore,” he said, heaving a heavy sigh, "As you yourself have pointed out, he would have right on his side if he did decide to defeat us.
"And he would defeat us. Who could defeat an army augmented by ghosts of warriors past?"
“Then you are saying that I should give up the throne?" she asked in a suddenly choked voice.
Hammad shook his head. “No, I think you should wait and see what his intentions are. The Sherbas speak of their hopes—not of Daken’s plans.
"When your father told me of his plan to seek the aid of the Kassid, I felt that we would be awakening a sleeping giant that, once aroused, might well trample us. But we had no choice. Without them, we would have lost—and then we'd have Arrat in place of Daken."
He paused a moment to accept the wine she belatedly offered him, then went on. "If the Kassid intend to fight us, they would not have risked themselves so many times in battle to save Ertrians. But there were many reports of such things.
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