Miroth sat in shadow behind the desk. He lifted a hand and waved with irritation. “Leave us, Sol, but wait out in the corridor. Our guest will not be staying long.”
The words were softly spoken but they crackled around the room.
Bowing and backing out of the study, Sol closed the door softly before hurrying to the outer door and the cold corridor. Just before the inner door had shut though, Sol caught a glimpse of the visitor lowering his hood. He was fair skinned and blond – a Pellarian.
Sol stood quietly in the passage, staring at the Raken. They were so huge and different and beautiful in their fierceness. The Raken, both the ones guarding the Master and the two that had followed them from the gates ignored him, standing like statues in the corridor.
The day the biggest Raken had turned on the Master, Sol had been down in the breeding cells where the young Raken and the breeding pair were kept. Old Darius was assisting the Master and required Sol to carry his instruments and tools. Carrying Darius’s tool kit was always hard – the wooden box was heavy and awkward. It was always cold down beneath the fortress too and Sol was afraid of the screams and snarls of the Raken in their cages.
Darius and the Master were working on the big Raken and Sol hated to see what they did to the beasts to gain control of them. The big Raken was something to see though and despite his fear, Sol was excited to see the giant creature again.
He didn’t understand why the Master and Darius were so puzzled by the big Raken. At first it seemed like all the others but as it grew it began to develop other traits that the smaller Raken didn’t have. It grew much taller and broader and it had longer claws and stronger limbs, but what Sol remembered most about it was its eyes. The other Raken had frightening eyes, but the big Raken had a gaze that seemed to look right through you into your heart. And when the Master worked on it, the big Raken’s gaze never shone with fear like the smaller beasts.
Darius told him that the Master was going to try once more to control the big Raken and Sol must be very quiet so as not to disturb Master Miroth at his important work because if this attempt failed, they would have to destroy the beast.
Sol would never forget his surprise at the look of fear on the Master’s face that day as he used his powers on the beast. Master Miroth had sunk to his knees; his gaunt face twisted into a grimace as he wildly motioned for Darius to kill the giant beast chained to the wall. Sol didn’t understand completely what had happened, but he knew that for a few moments the big Raken had taken control of the Master.
Old Darius had stumbled over the weight of the great axe as he swung it again and again, burying it in the big Raken’s chest. In the moment the beast died, its red eyes held a look triumph as it stared at the Master. Only when it was dead could Master Miroth climb to his feet with help. What had the big Raken had done to bring the Master to his knees? And why had its dying expression been one of victory?
Time passed as he stood in the corridor outside Miroth’s tower. Sol’s empty stomach began to growl loudly. His feet were getting sore and he could only stare at the Raken guards for so long as he waited for the stranger to reappear. He twiddled the knotted ends of his scarf, unwinding threads for a while; then frowned and pursed his lips as he looked at it. Zerif would refuse to make him another if he ruined this one.
The door to the tower swung inward and the visitor stepped out into the corridor. Sol pushed away from the wall and struggled to keep up as the man walked down the passage at a clipped pace. The two Raken from the fortress gate detached themselves from the shadows and stalked after.
The man was silent as he strode with the dark hood back up to cover his face. Sol doubted he’d even taken off his gloves.
As the man was mounting his large black horse in the fortress bailey, Sol caught a glimpse of gold that peeked out like a tiny sun amid the black folds of the cloak. He blinked in surprise – a medallion of Erys.
He knew that gold disk well from the priests that occasionally traveled through the mountains; they were among the few visitors that had ever come to the isolated farmstead his family kept. Sol held the precious scrap of information to himself, felt it warm him. He was not important enough to know of the wider world and how it affected the Master but he was smart enough to know that the Master’s deeds were far reaching. He smiled, pleased to have found out something that his Master didn’t necessarily want him to know – a secret little pleasure in the cold fortress of Lok Myrr.
The man whirled the horse and launched out the gate as soon as the heavy portcullis was raised. Sol watched him gallop away down the road for a moment. He wondered where the man was going to stay tonight. The sun was just setting over the mountains at the end of the long valley and it was going to be a cold night.
Sol thought longingly of dinner, and then sighed. The Master would likely want him to work tonight. He turned back to the wide steps of the main entrance and began the walk back to his Master’s tower.
Sol sighed and pushed aside his fancies – they would never come true anyway. He averted his eyes as a pair of Raken guards marched past. He had to move aside to avoid being trampled by the huge beasts; Their red eyes pierced him briefly as they swept by.
He passed few people, except for the Raken guards. Lok Myrr was a very lonely place; the master kept only enough people to run the keep. Most of the servants lived in fear of being taken to the east tower for the Master’s work. Sol shuddered as Pernic’s face swam into his vision. He plucked at any thought other than the horror of that day. The fortress was haunted. Yes, haunted – he knew for certain. There were places down in the dungeons where the root of the mountain groaned under its own weight and moans whistled up from the black depths. Sibilant whispers called to him, making the hair on the back of his neck rise. Sol had almost understood them which made his heart pound even more. As much as he feared the Master, Sol all but clung to Miroth’s robes when they went down to those forbidding places.
Sol shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment – that memory was almost as bad. He cast his thoughts to the recently departed Priest. What had the Master wanted from the Priest? The Priesthood of Erys was very powerful in Pellar and their power was growing into neighboring kingdoms. He remembered what his father, who was a smart man, told him about the rest of Eryos. Father was one of the few men from the village his family lived near who had ever traveled beyond the Krang Mountains. His father had relished the visits from the occasional priests. Father always bade them stay, and mother – who father was proud to tell had given birth to no less than eight children – cooked a meal far greater than any they normally ate.
Sol would sneak down the stairs from the bedroom he shared with his brothers to listen to his father and the Priest as they spoke of the rest of the world. He’d learned that Tabor now boasted a Temple of Erys almost as large as the one in Pellaris and the Priesthood would one day be more powerful than the kings themselves.
Sol still wasn’t sure where Tabor and Pellar were, except that they lay somewhere beyond the Krangs. But that hadn’t stopped him from imagining. He had been excited the day Master Miroth’s men had passed their remote house to demanded payment in the form of servants for the lord of Lok Myrr. Finally, he would get to see the rest of Eryos. Sol hadn’t understood his parent’s tears the day he was led away on the back of a rail-thin mule, with his meager belongings clutched in his hands. He understood now.
Master Miroth was wise to form an alliance with the Priesthood. The master must be very pleased to have had such an important visitor. When he reached his Master’s rooms though, he could tell Miroth was angry. Sol’s belly contracted with fear as the Master looked up from the faded yellow scroll he was reading. Sol bowed and kept his eyes averted, focusing instead on the object-strewn table.
Miroth sat forward and his head gleamed in the firelight. Sol braced himself. A long, bony finger crooked at him and Sol stepped forward. Miroth slid a small piece of parchment across the gleaming wood of the table. Sol reached out tentative
ly to take the scrap. It was a list with ingredients scrawled in a spidery script.
“Get this prepared for tonight, leave it here when you have finished.” The cold gaze that Sol feared so much barely glanced over him before returning to the scroll on the table.
“As you wish, Master.” Sol bowed again as he backed away and hurried from the room, thanking Erys that he had gotten off so lightly. Walking back down the long corridor away from the east tower, he looked more closely at the list in his hand. It was a short list, only four ingredients, but he recognized it immediately. It was a potion his Master asked him to make when he was about to undertake difficult magic. It was a tonic to rebuild his strength quickly. It was one of the few tasks of magical importance the Master trusted Sol with. Not that the potion itself was magical, it was merely a brew of different herbs and such, but Sol took it very seriously.
He hurried through the fortress to old Darion’s workroom. If the Master needed this tonight, it meant he was going to do something big. Sol shivered, trying not to think of what that might be.
The Great Library of Pellaris
Rowan stood in the cool morning shadow of the mammoth Temple of Erys. She and Hathunor gazed up at the eight-story high walls that curved away from them in either direction, creating the circle of smooth stone. It held aloft a massive copper-covered dome. Rowan could just see the top of the tall spire that rose up to meet the blue sky like a spear. There were lush gardens and fruit trees spread in a swath at the base of the curved walls and a row of circular clearstory windows, inset around the structure.
Bells began to clang suddenly in the stillness, startling doves from the dome’s spire. Hathunor growled and shook his head.
Rowan looked up at him. “What is it my friend?”
“Hathunor’s ears hurt.”
Rowan motioned for him to follow and they moved away from the temple and into the square. A trickle of people came and went up the wide stone steps of the temple and through the huge arched doors, which stood propped open for visitors. With the majority of the population evacuated, those who had chosen to remain behind were looking to Erys for solace. Priests dotted the square, robed in red and black, large gold medallions suspended on their chests.
As they walked, Rowan turned her attention to the smaller building across the square. The great library of Pellaris was a perfect example of Pellarian architecture – a beauty with clean, simple lines and a minimum of decoration, which only enhanced its size and weight. It was rectangular, with four great columns in front rising to its domed copper roof. There was something very refreshing about it. Rowan admired Pellaris, its people and architecture. It was completely different from Myris Dar’s soaring arches, open filigree and ornate, patterned surfaces.
The people stared at Hathunor as they passed, pointing and whispering. Word had spread of the friendly Raken within the city but Rowan kept a watchful eye just in case.
They reached the wide stone steps and went up to the double doors. It was cool inside and brighter than expected – light flooded through windows below the dome into the space. Rowan looked up and gasped, smiling with delight. The dome’s ceiling was painted to look like a beautiful cloud-swirled sky.
“My I help you, my Lady?” said a soft voice beside her.
Rowan turned to see a slight young man wearing a brown tunic. “We are looking for Rith Dalemar.”
The young man motioned for them to follow, eyeing Hathunor warily as he turned and strode across the marble inlaid floor. Was he more concerned for himself or the books?
They proceeded across the main hall, their footsteps echoing. The stone floor was inlayed with intertwining red circles, sprinkled with the stars of Pellaris. Large bookshelves soared up to the high ceilings and ladders on rails provided access to the topmost books. Rowan saw only two other people working in the quiet. One elderly man looked up at them from repairing a large tome and another other man was carefully packing away scrolls and books into crates.
The young man led them to the end of the grand hall, where a staircase spiralled down into darkness, took a lantern from a peg and began to descend. They emerged on the lower level, where a hallway stretched back again the length of the building. This one was not so grand, with lower ceilings and plain stone construction. Their guide led them to the end of the corridor where a door stood open; yellow lantern-light from within cast a long, bright slash across the stone floor. He nodded. “There, my Lady.”
“Thank you.” As Rowan pulled the door open, Dalemar looked up from his reading and a smile lit his face. He was covered in dust, with smudges across his face. Rowan almost laughed; the Rith was certainly in his element – seated at a table with scrolls and dusty pages spread open before him. The room was filled to bursting with shelves crammed full of ancient leather-bound books and faded rolls of parchment. Some of the volumes looked as though they might disintegrate at the first touch.
Dalemar rose and cleared a space on the nearest chair, scooping up scrolls and dumping them unceremoniously on the table. He began to clear a second chair and then paused, looking Hathunor up and down with a bemused expression. He shook his head and left the chair as it was. Hathunor positioned himself by the vault-like room’s only door and, with a low rumble, crouched down and regarded them with glowing red eyes.
Rowan sat, and the musty smell of old parchment and cracked leather greeted her. “Have you found anything interesting, Dalemar?”
The Rith nodded. “A few things, yes.” He picked up a roll of parchment from a pile at the corner of the table and passed it to Rowan. “Take a look at this, in the second to last paragraph there is reference made to the Wyoraith. It is rather vague, but gives us a little more than we had.”
Rowan scanned the parchment. The script was elaborate and very faded, the ink disappearing in places. She found the passage Dalemar had mentioned and read through it. The script was in the common tongue but the phrasing was archaic and it took a moment for her to decipher it. One line near the bottom made reference to the Wyoraith and the Gatekeeper. She looked up, the hair on her arms tingling. “The ‘Gateway’ in the message – it must refer to the Wyoraith then.”
Dalemar nodded and sat down. “Whoever wrote this believed the Wyoraith would come into this world through a literal Gateway – I have found a few other such references. It would seem that anyone who summoned and controlled the Gatekeeper would have access to the Wyoraith.”
“So the Summoner is not the Gatekeeper?” asked Rowan.
“Based on the references I have read, they are two different people, although the Gatekeeper hasn’t been confirmed as a person,” replied Dalemar. “It might well be an object of power that the Summoner must use.”
Rowan glanced over the passage again. “I wonder… If the Wyoraith is a tool, as the Seers believe, is it possible to summon it for positive intent?”
Dalemar’s eyebrows shot up. “Indeed.” He stared at Rowan for a moment with wide eyes. “That reminds me of the reference to the ‘Stone’ in your message. I have been looking but I’ve yet to find any reference to a stone.” Dalemar sat back in his chair and frowned at the book-crammed room.
“Is it possible that the Stone from the message is another reference to the Wyoraith itself? Asked Rowan. “Or maybe the Stone is the Gatekeeper, an object of power that the Summoner must use.”
Dalemar’s frown deepened. “It is an interesting thought. The two must be linked somehow, otherwise there would be no mention of a Stone in a warning about the Wyoraith.”
He sat forward and heaved a large, worn, leather book towards her. Rowan peered at a page but found the text indecipherable. “What language is it?”
“It is an ancient form of Kathornin, which is a similar language to that spoken today in Pellar and the neighbouring kingdoms but it is far older. The realm of Kathorn once covered the Kingdoms of Pellar, Tabor and Klyssen. It was an empire that reigned for over six centuries. I still have much more to translate, but it looks promising. The text deals with th
e history of Eryos. I’m hoping there will be a reference to the Slayer of the Wyoraith, but it will take some time.”
Rowan studied the ancient script; it was flowing and precise. She slid the text back to Dalemar who took it reverently. He indicated a stack of parchment to her right. “I have those yet to go through, if you’re interested. Most of them are written in the common tongue; it is somewhat antiquated but you should be able to read them.”
The parchment crackled in Rowan’s hands and she carefully traced her fingertips across the brittle pages. The language in Myris Dar stemmed from the same language as Eryos’s common tongue; despite the long isolation from one another, the languages had remained remarkably similar.
On the voyage across the ocean to the port of Dendor, Rowan and her party had taken time to accustom themselves with the common language. Even though many words were different, they could be understood because the root hadn’t changed, only its pronunciation or spelling.
It was dark when the three of them finally emerged from the library’s basement to make their way through Pellaris, back to the citadel. Rowan rubbed her tired eyes and tried to blink away the gritty sensation. She had a mild headache from squinting at small, faded text in the torchlight and her back was stiff from the hunched position she had maintained all day.
The warm, torch-lit foyer of the keep was welcoming, and they made their way to the huge dining hall. They found Torrin and the others sitting by the huge hearth, sipping ale.
“There ye are!” Borlin’s head was wreathed in pipe smoke. He passed his fragrant tobacco to Dalemar who sat down with a sigh.
Rowan sat as well and Hathunor crouched in front of the fire. A warm bowl of soup found its way into her hands and she realized how hungry she was. She ate quickly as Dalemar told of his findings in the library.
A pleasant drowse came over her and, gazing into the fire as she listened to her friend’s voices, Rowan remembered the eerie light from her dream the previous day.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 38
