The Hidden Fire (Book 2)
Page 19
“Hazy night,” said Aiyan. “I can’t see anything. We’ll have to wait until sunrise.” He looked at Kyric. “Where is your sword?”
“In our cabin?”
Aiyan frowned. “The next time anything happens, and I mean anything, you come out wearing your sword. In fact, from now on you’ll keep it within reach at all times. Is your double-barrel clean and oiled?”
“And loaded,” said Kyric.
Mr. Pallan tied a line around Borrell, who was the ship’s bosun, and into the water he went. He stayed under quite a bit longer than Kyric expected. His report to Ellec was brief.
“Feels like she’s run onto a sand bar, Captain. Thar’s a dent in the keel, but ‘tis nothing serious. Know more when I can take a look in daylight.”
Lerica brought out more lanterns and took charge of salvaging the foremast. Kyric and Aiyan waited for daybreak. A palm-studded shoreline rising into gentle hills took shape as the sky lightened. Ellec came aft to join them on the quarter deck. He scanned the shoreline with his spyglass.
“This is a very large island,” he said. “I can see no end to it. It must be Mokkala.”
CHAPTER 20: Perfect Darkness
The flurries turned to falling snow, the first of the season, as Keldring rode past the gate and into the courtyard. The sky had been spitting at him all morning on the trail up the mountain, and now it came in big wet flakes as he reined up in front of the stables, his horse’s breath coming out in frosty jets.
Silenthand met him in the entryway, saluting him formally with head bowed and one finger to his eye.
“Greetings, Seldorven,” Keldring said to him. “The Master bid me come to him.”
Seldorven nodded. “He commanded me to bring you to him the moment you arrived. He awaits in the place of perfect darkness.”
More serious than I had assumed, thought Keldring as he followed through the inner halls to the great stairway.
The citadel had been built in the vertical, against a sheer cliff on the upper shoulder of the mountain. Before the Master had acquired it, the place had been owned by an impoverished nobleman. Long before that it had served as one of Graifalmia’s rebel strongholds during the War of Mages, and many sorcerers had been trained here. The magical Essa ran high in this place, highest of all in the place of darkness.
The stairway had been hewn from the granite cliff, and they followed it upward in gentle circles, bypassing the lower levels of the structure on one hand, and entrances to strange chambers within the mountain on the other. It ended in a wide antechamber with three iron-strapped doors.
Keldring tossed his wet cloak to Silenthand, “You may leave me now.”
The junior knight bowed and backed away. Keldring entered the Master’s study, having to pause and admire it as he always did. He doubted the Master had ever noticed the vaulted ceiling and the fine wood paneling. He preferred to sit in a cold dark cave.
Keldring found the secret door and stepped into the passageway of rough rock that lay beyond. It was freezing, but coming to the Master in this place, he did not feel the cold. He closed the door and groped his way along, soon passing the rune at the entrance to the cave.
The Master sat wearing the plain habit of a monk, his eye patch removed. The light of the Pyxidium shone on the walls in a thousand facets.
Keldring lowered himself to the cold stone floor. “You have called me here, Grandmaster.”
Cauldin sat motionless, fixed upon something unseen. “He came at me from the battleground of dreams. He looked through my eye, Keldring. He saw my vision of the world to come. I have not seen one who could dream with such power since . . . ”
“Sorrin? Is his spirit not trapped in the flame of Esaiya?”
The Master broke from his meditation, looking straight at him. Keldring lowered his head. He would not look into the Pyxidium again. He could not.
“It was not Sorrin,” said Cauldin, suddenly impatient with him. “It was the vessel. The vessel that the Designing Powers now prepare for him. You know of what I speak.”
“Yes, Grandmaster.”
Ten years before, the Master had received a revelation. He had walked upon the high realm of power and come to believe that Sorrin would return to unite the shards of the Pyxidium, that the Powers had fashioned a being capable of housing Sorrin’s spirit should it be released from the flame. It was the only time Keldring had ever seen the Master shaken. He rode several horses to death in his haste to get here and sit in the place of perfect darkness, the place where his sight focused most sharply, meditating for weeks without food or drink. When he came out, he said nothing more about it, and Keldring thought he had dismissed the vision as flawed.
“Of all the knights of my blood, Keldring, you are greatest in the weird arts. Have you had no perception of this? No insight through your communions?”
“None.” When the Master didn’t say anything, Keldring asked, “Did you see him? The vessel?”
“I did not.” He placed his hands on his knees. “The Magus Archeus of the sage council once implied that the Pyxidium was blind to matters close to the bearer — you cannot look into your own eye. And yet I felt him in my veins, as if he were of the blood. But that cannot be.”
“Have you seen no place where I might seek him out?”
“No, and I would not have you wander the world fruitlessly. All things in time, Keldring. I will find him as he found me, on the battleground of dreams. You must continue to oversee the great design.”
“Yes, Grandmaster.”
The Master raised the hood on his robe, and the cave fell dim. “I have found myself ruminating upon the expedition to Mokkala. Are you sure it departed Baskillia without undue attention? There has been no mention of it in the circle of spice?”
“Yes. It set sail at the very end of summer, and they should have arrived last month. The Spice Clan knows nothing. Mekato has turned all their spies, and they report only what he instructs them to report.”
“And you placed Frostheart in charge of the expedition?”
“As you commanded, Grandmaster. But I must ask why you would send an albino to a tropical island?”
“He is not an albino. In the northern wastes where he was born, he killed another boy when he was young. His punishment was to be buried alive in the kurgan of the reiver kings. Even as a youth he was immensely strong, and dug himself out, but not before he was touched by something nameless. The whiteness of his skin is not lack of pigment, it is another layer.”
“That explains much about him.”
“Did you make it clear to him that he must treat the Mokkalans harshly? That he must take slaves and do all that would outrage the Western states? We must stir the pot well if we wish the Aessians to respond with sufficient force.”
Keldring shook his head. “It wasn’t necessary. I saw his gang of barbarians. They are a cult of death worshippers. They sacrifice those they capture in strange rituals, and wear the neck bones of their victims on a belt. Frostheart is so naturally cruel that even Mekato is taken aback by his excess. Had I encouraged him, he would turn Mokkala into a place of horror.”
End of Book II
Afterword
Thank you for reading The Hidden Fire. If you enjoyed this book, please leave a rating and short review on the product page. It not only allows the book to reach more readers, but in a very real sense it is a vote for this series to continue. In today's vast eBook market, independent writers cannot flourish without the increased visibility that reviews bring.
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Sincerely,
James R. Sanford
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