Regent tbop-1

by Brian Rathbone

  "I hope the day has greeted you well," Brother Vaughn said as he appeared from around the bend in the hall.

  "It has, and for you as well."

  "How are your hands today? They were so red yesterday, I wanted to make you stop sewing, or at least let someone help you."

  Catrin almost didn't want to bring her hands out of the pockets of her robes. Her knuckles and thumbs were inflamed and swollen, her skin shiny and slick in places. Knowing Brother Vaughn as she did-his persistence was legendary-she pulled her hands out slowly.

  He didn't say anything at first. He just sucked air in through his teeth. "Come with me, young lady. I have something for you."

  Catrin wanted to say no, wanted to get back to her work, but she also knew the pain would hinder her progress. Experience told her it was best to let Brother Vaughn help when he offered. It was difficult to believe any single mind could contain so much knowledge, and he seemed to learn more each day.

  "When I came across this, I didn't believe it would work, and there seemed no place where I could test it, but there is a shelf of rock just outside the viewing chambers where the air is always moving, always in the same direction. It's a puzzle I haven't yet worked out, but that is beside the point. What's important now is that it works."

  "What works?" Catrin asked, knowing it would do no good. No one loved surprising people with his findings as much as Brother Vaughn. He enjoyed seeing the looks on people's faces as much as he enjoyed solving monumental problems.

  "You'll see," he said.

  When they reached the viewing chamber, Brother Vaughn shot her a look of concern.

  "I'm not going anywhere," she said with a sigh. Perhaps if Kenward had returned with the metal-rich thrones, she might have ventured back onto the astral plane.

  "Young man, come here," Brother Vaughn said, and a teenage boy wearing the livery of Dragonhold rushed to do as the elder statesmen asked. "You're more limber than I. Reach into that hole and stretch your arm as far as you can to the right. You'll feel a gourd bowl covered with sticks. Don't spill it! Just gently retrieve it for me. Keep it right side up! You hear me?"

  "Yes, sir. I'll try, sir."

  "Don't try. Just do."

  "Yes, sir."

  Catrin watched the boy reach out. She was worried that no matter how steady his arm was, his trembling knees would defy his efforts. It took some time for him to stretch far enough and find the bowl with his fingers. Brother Vaughn stood in tense anticipation. A look of extreme relief washed over the teen's face when he handed the bowl to Brother Vaughn, its covering of sticks intact. Catrin watched in silence, curious but trying to be patient.

  "The constant breeze causes the water to evaporate," Brother Vaughn said. "And once I found the right level of airflow using different configurations of twigs, I was able to produce this." He removed the twigs from the top of the gourd bowl and extended it to Catrin. "Wrap this in cloth and rest it on top of your hands until it's melted."

  In the gourd was a nearly solid block of ice. Ice in the warmer months was something they had all lived without since they no longer had the luxury of storing it in the cold caves. The loss of that resource was among the things Catrin most regretted. At times the thought of taking back the lands in the south had become almost appealing enough to warrant the violence, but Catrin abhorred war, and she had no wish to see her own people killed. That point chafed. Her people had divided themselves and taken what was rightfully hers. Only the luck of the gods had provided sufficient shelter for everyone. The discovery of Dragonhold remained one of the things Catrin was most thankful for. Another was Kyrien's recovery. His wounds had been many, and some had required the efforts of every healer within the hold, and Catrin was proud of what everyone had done.

  The feral dragon attacks created fear of dragons, and Catrin had worried the people would turn on Kyrien, but instead they seemed to have hung their hopes on him. Not all dragons were evil killers, and many hoped Kyrien's kind would be their saviors. Catrin wondered the same, especially given her compulsion to create the saddle, riding clothes, and even the large, leather flaps whose purpose Catrin had yet to fathom. In truth, there were parts of the saddle and riding clothes she didn't understand, but she knew enough to create what she saw in her vision, a vision that showed little but her astride Kyrien. Only fog surrounded them, and Catrin could not glean a single hint as to what the future would hold.

  "Keep them dry and that should help," Brother Vaughn said and Catrin came back to herself.

  "Thank you, Brother Vaughn. You constantly amaze me."

  The older man flushed. "I do what I can."

  "I must get back to work on the saddle. Thank you again," Catrin said, and when she turned to pick up the bag from Strom, she knocked it over. Two rings and a buckle slid out. On top of them rested a thimble.

  Brother Vaughn smiled. "I knew Strom would take good care of you."

  "He always does," she agreed.

  There was a thrumming of life within the hold now, far different than it had been before the ferals and demons came. Though the uniting of their purpose was something Catrin had always hoped for, it would have been far better had it happened before the need was so great; now they found themselves grossly unprepared. All the work Catrin and her followers had done for nearly a decade now seemed insignificant in the face of their current circumstances. Unless something changed, they would eventually starve and be forced out of the hold, which was the only thing protecting them from the darkness.

  Going out of her way, Catrin made certain to pass by the main entrance, where she could momentarily catch a glimpse of Kyrien, who rested below, still mending from his wounds. Around him had sprung up a bristling compound. Men wielding spears surrounded him, and walls of sharpened spikes had been erected around a wide perimeter, leaving enough room for Kyrien to move. It had been a rude awakening after the first fortifications had been raised and Kyrien turning himself had brought it all crashing down. Within the new fortifications rested four massive ballistae, designed to resemble the ones the Zjhon had mounted on their ships. Catrin remembered the fear they had instilled in her, and she hoped it had the same effect on the ferals. Already the dragons knew the feel of their bite, and the bones of the unlucky littered the valley floor.

  No one liked eating dragon, but almost every part of the dragon carcasses had been claimed for some purpose. Many of the men guarding Kyrien wore shields made from massive scales, and the teeth had become highly valued as spear tips-far more effective than their iron counterparts. Kyrien seemed ready to climb his way out of the valley. Catrin could feel his impatient desire as if it were her own; in many ways it was. The visions of her riding Kyrien had brought with them an intense desire to fly, to see the world from above. Part of her knew it was crazy and that flying meant facing the ferals. The monsters seemed to be multiplying, and every passing day, the danger they presented became greater.

  With conscious effort, Catrin pulled herself back into the hold, back to her workshop. It seemed strange now to be working on the saddle when there was dragon ore once again within the hold. Guilt stabbed at her whenever she looked at it. Kyrien had given so much of himself to be here for her and to protect her, and as if that were not enough, he also managed to bring her more of the precious stone. Now Catrin had no desire to create herald globes, and no more trade would fill their coffers. The dragons and demons effectively prevented that, even if they didn't stop the steady stream of refugees who came from the south in the night. Though Catrin loved her people as a whole, those who had opposed her in good times and now sought her help in bad times angered her. She was tempted to turn them away, to send them back, but she simply could not.

  Every new body that entered the hold presented new challenges and changed the rationing requirements. There were those who vehemently objected to allowing the refugees in, but Catrin had had the final word so far. She knew there would come a time when she would need to change her stance, but for the moment she put those thoughts asi
de. Again the desire to finish her saddle came to the fore. Though she considered returning straight to work, she took the time to make good use of Brother Vaughn's gift and iced her aching hands.

  With sweat soaking his clothes, Sinjin followed Durin, who walked at a terribly slow pace. "Hurry up. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go do something else."

  "That's just the problem," Durin said without turning. "As soon as we finish this, they'll have something else needin' done. You watch."

  Sinjin didn't argue. Durin was right, yet Sinjin didn't mind as much. The work helped him feel as if he were contributing something. So often he felt helpless and useless, but at least he could achieve menial tasks. The hard work and sweat also helped him regain his strength and even grow stronger. He could feel the power in his newly toned muscles, and he liked it. The past moon had been the most difficult any of them could remember. In many ways, Sinjin and Durin were but spectators watching a most terrible drama play out.

  Sinjin curled the mostly full water buckets he carried, switching between right and left. He found he could alternate along with his stride and establish a rhythm; that was if Durin would keep moving.

  "No more draggin' your butts through these halls, now; especially not the champion runner," Miss Mariss said when they finally returned to the kitchens. "I needed that water long before now, and you've thrown off the entire kitchen. Now tell everyone you're sorry. Listen up, everyone! These two sluggards have something they want to say to you." With a steel eye, she turned to Durin. "Well, boy, what do you have to say for yourself?"

  "I'm sorry," Durin blurted, his eyes cast to the side. If he'd been looking her in the eye, he might have seen it coming; instead, he was caught completely by surprise when she smacked him on the back of the head.

  "And what about you?"

  Sinjin looked up. "I'm sorry we took so long. It won't happen again."

  "Your boilin' right it won't. Now empty the wastewater buckets and bring more clean water back with you."

  "Yes, ma'am," the boys said in unison, neither with a great deal of enthusiasm. Bringing fresh water was difficult, but taking out the wastewater could be most unpleasant. Miss Mariss saved this task for those who irked her the most, which meant Durin was first in line with Sinjin running a close second.

  "Why do I get lectured and smacked on the head and you just get lectured? I'm tellin' ya, you can get away with anything," Durin said in a nasally voice, trying not to breathe through his nose. Sinjin understood the wisdom of that decision since it was often better to never know how bad the water smelled; for some reason, the worse it smelled, the more likely it was to get spilled. Doing the laundry and scrubbing the passageway floors was worse than the carrying. Sinjin would prefer to just get the task done, but Durin slowed once again.

  "There's gotta be a better way," Durin said, glaring at one of the many basins throughout the hold, all of which were dry. The one he glared at now held some dried flowers. Everyone speculated that the hold had once had water flowing through it. Durin couldn't imagine how such a thing could have been achieved, and he often wondered if everyone else weren't wrong. Perhaps the basins had served a completely different purpose altogether. He'd often been tempted to pour the wastewater down one of the basins, but the idea of trying to get rid of the smell if it didn't work stood in his way. Of course, sometimes that was the only thing that stood in his way, especially when his shoulders and his chest ached.

  "I don't want to get yelled at again," Sinjin said. "Let's go."

  Durin set down the buckets and turned. "I need to rest."

  Sinjin was about to make a sarcastic remark, but he noticed how slowly Durin straightened after lowering the buckets to the stone.

  He turned to Sinjin with eyes filled with tears. "I'm not as strong as I used to be. Sometimes I need to catch my breath."

  Familiar guilt engulfed Sinjin. His friend was only weak because he'd been hit by a weapon intended for Sinjin. "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. It wasn't all your fault."

  Sinjin started to protest, but Durin just laughed, which turned to a cough. After a couple more steadying breaths, he hoisted the buckets and started moving once again along the hall. Sinjin shuffled silently behind him, his mind consumed with problems for which he had no solutions.

  It seemed to take all afternoon to reach the God's Eye. There, small barges waited to carry waste products across the subterranean lake where they could be taken into the Chinawpa Valley and buried or otherwise disposed of. It was a tedious process that took more time and resources than anyone would care to admit.

  Simms and Bradley manned the poles of the nearest barge, and they grinned at the boys as they approached. "More wastewater, eh?" Simms said. "Don't ya ever git tired of carryin' wastewater? Ya always stink by the time ya git down here."

  Sinjin just stepped onto the greasy timbers of the barge. Though small, the barges could carry an amazing amount of weight, far more than Sinjin and Durin ever came with. Simms detested putting out so much effort for such small loads, but Sinjin and Durin had no choice in the matter; their instructions were quite clear, as were Simms's, but that didn't stop the older boy from complaining loudly.

  "Don't have nothin' t'say?"

  "Mind your tongue," Bradley said. "You don't want the Herald coming down here and lecturing us again, do you?"

  Sinjin flushed at the memory and wished, once again, that his mother would learn that sticking up for him was not in his best interest; it only made things worse. The rest of the trip passed in tense silence, and Sinjin watched the cavern walls slide by. Archways along the walls marked tunnels that had been blocked by the ancients. No one quite understood how it had been done. While some tunnels had been blocked with only loose stone and mortar, most of those leading away from the God's Eye were blocked by similar obstructions for a short distance before the tunnels dead-ended in solid granite. Once three tunnels had been excavated with the same results, all efforts to explore the remaining tunnels had been abandoned. Still, Sinjin tried to imagine what wonders could lie beyond and what magic the ancients used to conceal and secure them.

  "Hurry up," Simms said. "I'm not waitin' all day."

  Sinjin grunted when lifting his buckets, and Durin looked unsteady on his feet.

  "I'll help you with that," Bradley said, earning a glare from Simms.

  Late-afternoon light streamed in from outside, casting a ruddy glow over the pocked stone floor. Guards flanked the entranceway, ready to close multiple sets of gates should the hold come under attack again. Thus far, their fortifications had repelled the ferals and demons, but many feared the enemy had merely been testing their defenses in preparation for a major assault.

  "Hold," came the guard's command.

  "It's just us," Durin said, clearly annoyed.

  "State your business."

  "We brought you supper," Durin said.

  "Wastewater," Sinjin said, glaring at Durin. "Was that so hard?"

  "Every time it's the same thing. 'State your business.' We're carrying water buckets, for Kyrien's sake."

  Bradley laughed and shook his head as he led them through the ancient hall, which opened onto the more recently built timber fortifications, stairs, and lift mechanism. Men worked nearby, all guarded by soldiers with spears, and all seemed ready to retreat at the first sign of trouble. Sinjin couldn't blame them.

  "Wastewater to the right," the overseer barked.

  "Wastewater to the right," Durin mimicked, causing Bradley to chuckle.

  It felt good to be outside and breathing fresh air, and this brief moment was one of the reasons Sinjin didn't mind the task. The air near the freshly dug latrines was rarely pleasant, and the three dumped the buckets and retreated as quickly as they could.

  A low murmur suddenly flowed across the valley floor followed by a dark shadow. Sinjin, Durin, and Bradley ducked down and stayed still. The dragon did not return, and people continued their work, anxious and on constant alert. It was exhausting and
those who worked outside could do so for only short periods of time. Too many were overcome with fatigue and became careless; that was all it took these days to get dead.

  Instinctively walking hunched over, as close to the ground as possible, the three did their best to get back to the cavern in silence. Sinjin looked over the beds of herald globes charging in the remaining sunlight, and he worried over their safety, but if they didn't charge in the sun, they wouldn't glow during the following nights. Sinjin had always found it amazing that one day of charging in the sun was enough to make a herald globe glow for nearly a fortnight. So many of the things his mother was said to have done seemed far away, as if they were but fairy tales, but these brought those stories closer to his heart. This was something only his mother could make, and they were among the world's greatest wonders.

  Torches and candles were still used by most with only the most affluent able to afford the luxury of herald globes, and only those with jobs that could not be done otherwise were allowed to make use of the hold's inventory. Many globes were used to light the common halls and work areas, but there were still many parts of the hold left permanently in the dark. Sinjin had not expected such darkness when he returned to the cavern, but the torches on Simms's barge were almost lost in the distance.

  "One of these days, I'm gonna leave that moron in the middle of this lake," Bradley said to Sinjin and Durin.

  Chapter 8

  The might of kings soars on leathery wings.

  — Fedicus Illiani, historian

  Heavy wisps of black smoke curled from whale-oil lamps as Thorakis turned the herald globe in his hand. Such a small thing. The most powerful person in the world had been working for more than a decade, and this was the best she had come up with. It was sad, really. Thorakis had achieved so much more without using a lick of Istra's power. His might had come from foresight and wit. His power rested in water, wood, and stone. All this he did on his own, his intellect his most powerful tool. He wondered at times what he could accomplish if he ever tapped his other talents. A deep sensation of cold ran through him, leaving him nauseated and unsettled, a cold sweat forming on his brow.