The High Priest silently raised his eyebrows, his stare darting quickly to the man seated in the stool beside him. The middle-aged man returned his look with something like a frown on his face, the two of them staring silently at each other for what Kyel thought seemed an almost inappropriate amount of time. Finally, the plainly-clothed man leaned forward on his stool, turning back to Kyel.
“His Eminence extends to you his greetings,” he said in a rich and deep voice. It was the first human voice Kyel had heard since coming to the Temple of Wisdom. The man continued, “You must forgive him but, as all of Om’s clerics, the High Priest has sworn a vow of silence.”
That explained a lot, Kyel thought, while at the same time thinking how awkward such a vow would be, especially to men whose lives’ work was the record and exchange of information. He knew next to nothing about Wisdom or its ways; it was not one of the more popular temples and had few adherents.
“My name is Cadmus,” the man introduced himself. “I serve as the Voice of His Eminence. Why don’t you have a seat?”
Kyel nodded, sitting himself in a chair that was positioned on the wall opposite the old man. He wished he had at least brought his bow with him, missing the comfort of its soft, smooth wood. He hadn’t realized how much he had come to rely on the weapon as a source of solace. In front of him, the two men looked as if they were mired in some sort of silent conversation, fixing each other intently with their eyes.
Kyel shifted nervously in his seat as he waited. After a few uncomfortable minutes, Cadmus turned back to Kyel and informed him, “His Eminence wishes to see your left wrist.”
The unexpected request made Kyel wince. The old man wanted to see the chain that was there, engraven into his flesh the day he had spoken his vow to Darien. Instantly, he was reminded of their confrontation with the mayor of Wolden, who had required the Sentinel to bare his own wrists as proof of his innocence. Kyel remembered well how sickened Darien had seemed at the time, his face full of dark loathing as he had raised his arms to bare the marks of the chains. And now that Kyel found himself put in a similar position, he realized that he completely understood. The chain to him was a private matter, not something he felt comfortable exposing on the spot to strangers. He felt deeply offended by the request.
But he found himself complying, anyway. It was a small price to pay if he wanted access to the vaults. Lifting his left arm, Kyel forced the sleeve back with his other hand. Exposed, the metallic marking glimmered in the wan light of a brace of candles set high up on the wall behind Cadmus. Both men stared at the mark, stared at him, then looked back at each other, their eyes silently conferring as Kyel lowered his hand and replaced his sleeve.
At last, Cadmus asked him, “His Eminence wishes to know how you came by this marking.”
Kyel didn’t know what to say; it was such a long story. Fumbling for words, he told them, “Darien—I mean the Prime Warden—he had me speak a vow....”
“Do you remember this vow?” pressed Cadmus, leaning forward.
“Aye,” Kyel admitted grudgingly, “I do.”
“Would you mind repeating it?”
Kyel took a deep breath, feeling an ominous stir of tension as he recalled the words of the Acolyte’s Oath from memory. It was not hard; they had been impressed deeply into his mind the day Darien had held his wrist in that harsh grip and made him repeat them. Even before he was finished, the men appeared as if they had ceased listening to him, gazing at each other with expressions of startlement. Kyel watched what he thought was an ongoing, silent conversation passing between the two, staring at the play of emotions that progressed over each man’s face.
When Cadmus turned back to him at last, his face still retained the edges of a frown. “His Eminence is confused,” he said slowly. “Darien Lauchlin died during the destruction that befell Aerysius. This fact is known, and has been confirmed. His name has been added to the List.”
Kyel wondered what list the man was referring to. He assumed Cadmus meant some list of casualties, though the pronounced emphasis on the word made him think that there might be more there than he could perceive at face-value. But at least they didn’t know everything, these clerics of Om. For the Temple of Wisdom, they had certainly gotten some bad information.
“No,” Kyel shook his head, feeling suddenly confused. “He’s alive. I mean....” They didn’t believe him; it was plain on both their faces. He closed his mouth, striving to think of how he might convince them. He needed them to believe that Darien was alive, was in fact Prime Warden, or he had no leverage to gain access to the vaults. From what the mage had said, he doubted the clerics allowed just anyone to wander in and probe through their stores of knowledge. But how could he prove it?
“You might ask the High Priest at the Temple of Isap,” he said at last. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could think of to offer proof. “Darien was just there this morning.”
The old man frowned at his words, glancing sideways at Cadmus, who in turn said to Kyel, “His Eminence wishes to know why he was there.”
Kyel started to tell them about Darien’s mother, but then immediately decided against it. That line of conversation would lead inevitably to mention of the Soulstone, which he had the feeling Darien wanted to be kept secret. Only, there was just one other explanation he could offer for his master’s presence at the Temple of Death, and that wasn’t much better. Forced to choose between the two accounts, Kyel chose the one he thought was at least a little more innocuous. It would scarcely be a secret much longer, if Darien followed through with his plan.
“He swore a Bloodquest,” Kyel admitted grudgingly.
His answer was met by astonished looks of outrage. The High Priest’s wide eyes widened all the more, and he gestured angrily as he glared at Cadmus. With growing anxiety, Kyel wondered if perhaps he had made a grave error. Whatever silent conversation was passing between the two men, it was borderline hostile. They seemed to be arguing heatedly with their eyes. At last, Cadmus sat back on his stool with a somber look as he nodded thoughtfully.
To Kyel, he said, “His Eminence asks that you retire with him to his chambers, where he can speak with you at greater length.”
“No.”
The forcefulness of the word startled Kyel; he hadn’t meant it to come out that way. But he didn’t have time for this. They just wanted to drag him into a lengthy explanation that he had no desire to get into. The Temple of Om traded in knowledge, and that’s what they were doing: pumping him for the information contained in his head. He had played into their manipulations and had told them more already than he ever should have. Knowledge is power, Darien had said. If that was the case, then he had the upper hand. Kyel had once been apprenticed to a merchant, and he damned well knew how to barter.
“That’s not why I’m here,” he told them firmly. “I need access to your vaults. And I require someone to help me with my research.”
After only the briefest pause, Cadmus asked him, “His Eminence wishes to know what information it is you seek.”
Kyel nodded. It was a fair trade, and necessary. If he wanted someone to help him with the research, then that someone would have to know the topic of his search eventually. “I must find a way to seal the Well of Tears.”
The two men looked intently at each other again, both pairs of eyes brooding. Finally, the High Priest nodded.
“Your Prime Warden charts a highly dangerous course,” Cadmus said finally, turning back to Kyel. “His Eminence agrees to allow you access to the vaults, and will provide you with the assistance of a cleric to help you with your research during the hours of daylight. But in return he requests that you join him in the evenings to share with him your story.”
It was still a fair trade, at least one Kyel thought he could live with, if he watched himself and doled the facts out sparingly. “That I can do.”
The High Priest nodded.
“Very well.” Cadmus stood up and offered Kyel his hand. He rose and took the plump man’s hand,
feeling quite proud of himself as he sealed the agreement.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Fortress in the Eye of the Storm
LIGHTNING TRACED THE SKY over Greystone Keep as a gust of wind ripped at the black pennant that clung tenuously by a single eyelet to its staff at the top of the tower. The frayed banner crackled, seized by an angry gust as a single fiery arrow arched above the dark stone walls of the keep. Two more shafts whistled by overhead, followed by a near-volley. The black pennant fluttered, wafting once more before it swayed to a rest, furled in the grip of a sudden, dead calm.
Devlin Craig stared at the pennant with a darkening sense of foreboding that was confirmed by the whistling hiss of the signal arrows arcing upward from the bottom of the pass. He had been expecting this for some time. But now that the threat was upon them, he couldn’t help but feel that all of the preparations they had made in the past five days were merely an exercise in futilely. The reports that had been coming in from Maidenclaw grew more dismal by the day, even by the hour, it seemed. The most recent calculations placed the Enemy strength at somewhere around forty thousand, an estimate that was still growing.
His own men numbered less than one thousand.
Craig turned away from the battlements and strode toward the ladder, taking the rungs stiffly as he climbed down into the relative warmth of Proctor’s chamber. His fingers were numb even beneath the protection of his gloves; he had been standing up there for well over an hour before the signal arrows came. Stamping his feet on the rough wood floor, Craig tried to work some feeling back into his legs. The thick wool of his gray cloak was scant protection from the elements; autumn had faded sometime in the last week, and winter in the pass was always a harrowing affair. By the chill feel of the wind, he gauged that the first winter storm was already on its way.
At least there was some comfort in knowing that he wouldn’t have to spend another winter in the Pass of Lor-Gamorth.
For once, Proctor was not at his map. Instead, Craig found him staring out through the narrow opening of an arrow slit. The Force Commander had one hand raised, pressed against the wall by his face, the other hand fingering the hilt of the straight, narrow dagger that he always wore tucked into the belt at his waist. It was seldom visible, usually covered by the folds of his coarse wool cloak. But tonight Proctor wore his cloak turned back over his shoulder, exposing that wicked ebony hilt. Craig always found the sight of the dagger unsettling. It was called a misery knife, a traditional weapon worn by the tribesmen of the southern moors to give a final stroke of mercy to those fatally injured in battle. Proctor had received the dagger as a gift some years ago, and had worn it continuously at his side ever since. He even slept with it.
Craig walked stiffly across the circular chamber, drawing up to stand behind his superior officer. “It’s happening,” he informed him, and stood waiting for the man to respond. But Proctor was silent, not showing any sign that he had even heard him.
Craig felt a stabbing slap of cold fury. After all of the wretched, contemptible plots Garret Proctor had hatched from his genius, the man seemed suddenly not to care, now that the end was finally at hand.
“If you hadn’t driven Lauchlin away, we might have stood a chance,” he accused him. Then he stiffened, seeing the Force Commander’s hand slide slowly down the ebony hilt of the misery knife, knuckles whitening as he gripped it rigidly.
“Is that what you think?”
Craig sensed that he was treading on very dangerous ground, but he continued all the same, provoking the man deliberately. Raising his fingers to scratch his beard, he pressed him, “Am I wrong?”
Proctor turned to regard him over his shoulder, critically fixing him with a frigid blue stare. He uttered in silken, barren tones, “I did what had to be done. Before, we stood no chance; not against a host this size.”
But Craig was still doubtful. “And you think we’re better off, now?”
The Force Commander raised an eyebrow as if challenging Craig to press him further. He appeared to be waiting, perhaps even patiently. But Craig knew better; it was time to back down. He had an entirely different end in mind for himself than the blade of that cruel, narrow knife.
“I’m not accustomed to being questioned by the men under my command,” Proctor stated reprovingly. “For over fifteen years, I’ve held the front with little more than my nerve, my wits, and my audacity. I’ve never asked for accolades or even gratitude from the nations I protect, and I’ve never had either. The one thing I’ve ever demanded is the respect of my own men.”
Craig lowered his eyes against a sudden gush of shame. Garret Proctor was arguably one of the best military strategists the Rhen had ever known. Once, not even that long ago, Craig had felt an immeasurable swell of pride whenever he thought about how fortunate he was to have the privilege of soldiering under such a man, to have been awarded the opportunity to observe that great mind at work and learn from the experience of its teachings. He could remember nights when he would just sit back at the table in awe, watching Proctor’s eyes wandering silently over his map, struggling just to visualize the layered calculations and subtle inferences melding together within the man’s head. But his respect for the Warden of Greystone Keep had been dealt a sobering blow. In his mind, the image of the man who had once been his hero was now irrevocably tarnished.
Into the interval left by Craig’s silence, Proctor uttered, “Select a small contingent of volunteers to fire the keep and buy our escape with their lives. Get every other man you can on a horse.”
Craig stared at him in stunned disbelief, doubting what he had just heard with his own ears. “You’d let them take the keep?”
“We fall back,” Proctor confirmed, the threat in his eyes cautioning him not to dare question him again.
Craig took the warning to heart and went to do as he was bid without another word. He left the command chamber, letting his boots carry him down the winding steps of the tower. His cloak flowing behind him, he stepped into the hall and crossed the floor in swift, long strides. Men who had already seen the warning of the signal arrows now drew forward to assemble at the rear of the hall by the shattered remains of the north wall, perceiving the nature of the threat that confronted them from the look on his face. Anxious faces stared at him as he turned and swept his gaze over the crowd of men gathered around him. Silence fell over the hall as every man stood waiting for him to speak.
“We abandon the keep,” he informed them.
The reaction produced by his words was swift and vehement. A swelling uproar of protest rang from the walls as the crowd of men surged forward as one, screaming in his face and brandishing fists and even weapons in the air. Craig stepped up onto a large pile of blocks, trying to elevate himself above the press of soldiers. The tumult gradually quelled, but the upturned faces that glared at him were almost dangerous in their hostility.
“That’s the order.” He raised his voice to be heard above the agitated crowd, then stood back and waited for complete silence. It came slowly, but eventually even the rustle of bodies and the nervous shifting of weapons ceased. Still he waited, wanting to be certain that every eye was upon him. When he was sure that he had their full attention, he took a deep breath and summoned the courage to continue.
“I’m asking for volunteers: men who’ll be willing to stay behind to fire the keep and offer resistance while the rest of us retreat down the pass. If you decide to remain, know that your death will buy the rest of us a fighting chance. I can promise you that your sacrifice will not go unremarked. Or unavenged.”
The faces before him darkened, and he could almost feel their righteous skepticism. They knew well, just as he did, how utterly empty and hollow that promise was. The scouts who had brought back reports from the mouth of the pass had not been ordered to silence. Every man in the hall knew the numbers of the Enemy host that confronted them. Craig felt chagrinned. The discerning faces before him reduced his brashly spoken words to the shameful collection of lies that they
were. He knew he couldn’t blame them if not a man stepped forward to volunteer. They deserved better. They deserved to know the truth: that every last one of them was going to die, and there was going to be no good accounting made by their ends. The vast strength of the Enemy would be like a raging black tempest, and they would be simply swept under by that storm. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell them that. In the end, it seemed, he was craven after all.
Devlin Craig bowed his head and waited, but no one moved. Finally, a lone man stepped forward from the back of the crowd, moving through the throng toward him. Craig raised his eyebrows, frowning when he recognized Corban Henley’s red-bearded face. The burly man had one hand clutched on the hilt of the sword that rode at his side, his face as impassive as a cold chunk of stone. A murmur ran through the crowd as the men parted to let him by. When he reached the front of the mass, Henley stopped and simply stood still. He didn’t look at Craig, but stared behind him instead, down into the blackness visible through the rift in the wall.
He was not the man Craig would have picked to volunteer. Henley was a good soldier, too good to be wasted in such a futile endeavor. But no one else was coming forward. Craig scanned the crowd, but their hostility was still almost palpable. Even Henley’s example had not been enough to inspire them, and it should have been.
Finally, another man drew forward from the back of the throng. When Craig saw who it was, he almost gaped in disbelief. Traver Larsen had come to him as a scoundrel, an insubordinate rogue who Craig had felt certain wouldn’t last a fortnight before getting himself killed, probably by his own comrades in arms. From the beginning, Craig had determined that the best use of the man would be to make a harsh example of him. But Larsen had never given him the opportunity. Instead, the man had changed. From almost the moment he’d picked up a sword, Traver Larsen had ceased being a rascal and had transformed into one of the hardest-working recruits Craig had ever trained.
Darkmage Page 37
