Liberation of Lystra (Annals of Lystra)

by Robin Hardy

  He shook off her grasp. “I never should have even been there. How could God forgive me when I turned my back on Him? What possesses me to think He has any use for me now?”

  Deirdre looked over to Nihl in desperation. He observed, “By asking that, you are ignoring most of what has happened in the time since then, and all of what has happened here.

  “We all fall. We have all turned our backs on God. I became a slave because of pride, and the Surchataine through an act of disobedience. But our sorry condition drove us back to God, and now all that remains of our chains is the memory of Him unlocking them. We have found that He is not thwarted by our mistakes—haven’t we, Surchatain?”

  Nihl and Deirdre watched him with compassion as he swallowed and nodded. He murmured, “But I will always carry with me the burden of not knowing what happened to her.” Then he touched Deirdre’s forearm. “Please forgive me. I must never raise my voice to you.”

  She squirmed. “I am guilty also. Forgive me.” She slipped a hand under his arm and gave her other to Nihl. Thus linked, they wearily returned to the stairs.

  Arriving in the kitchen, they found the group waiting quietly. Colin turned from the courtyard window as the three entered; others raised their heads expectantly.

  Nihl hesitated near the doorway, pretending not to notice Izana’s steady gaze. But abruptly, as if pushed, he walked over to her. She stood close to him, placing a hand on his chest while saying something to him. That is why he was largely inattentive to the general conversation which followed.

  Roman was telling the others, “That’s one problem resolved,” to which they stirred in relief.

  “No more red mists?” one servant asked anxiously.

  “Not from that room,” Roman said. He paused, holding a goblet which Titan filled from a stone jar.

  “What now? Do we wait some more?” another servant asked, a shade frustrated.

  Roman was silent a full minute. “Vida,” he said.

  “My lord?” she startled.

  “Vida, you mentioned something about a book that Graydon and Galen worked spells from. Was it a sorcerer’s book?”

  “Yes, Surchatain.”

  “Do you know if Graydon brought it to the palace with him?”

  “No, I don’t,” she said, apprehension crossing her face.

  “He did, but it’s not here now,” Titan interjected. “Little brother put hands on it and hid it somewhere while Graydon was down in the dungeon. I don’t know if Lord Graydon ever knew it was gone.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might have hidden it?” Roman asked.

  “Not I,” Titan said with certainty.

  Roman asked, “Orvis, do you or Vida?”

  Reluctantly, Orvis admitted, “There are a few likely places I can think of—” He did not say the last word: Why?

  Roman drained the goblet and answered the unasked question. “That is another door we must shut. If Graydon is ever to be made to renounce the dark powers, we must shake their hold on him. That book must be destroyed.”

  Orvis gave a start. “Do you know what you’re saying? Do you know what’s likely to happen when you touch that book? In God’s name, why don’t you just kill him and be done with it?” Orvis’ voice rose to a hysterical pitch.

  Roman lowered the goblet with a thud. “Because if I kill him in God’s name, I’ll be bringing judgment down on my own head. Whether I like it or not, God has commanded mercy and I will obey!”

  Orvis flinched at the rebuke, seeing that he had mistaken Roman’s restraint for weakness. Levelly, Roman explained, “I know, one step at a time, what I’m to do here. And I know that the Lord can control whatever is bound in that book. You may come with me to search for it if you don’t hinder me. Otherwise, just tell me where it might be hidden.” He stopped, waiting for a response.

  Orvis glanced up at Vida, but there was no pity in her eyes. He sighed, “I’ll go. I’ll show you. We both are with you, and we won’t hinder you, shaking though we may be.” Vida nodded, not appearing to shake much at all.

  The corner of Roman’s lip curled. “Under the circumstances, I couldn’t ask a firmer allegiance from you. Kam,” Roman turned to the Second, who leapt to his side. “Are there any horses left in the stables?”

  “Yes, Surchatain.”

  “Then let’s go.” The entire party left the palace for the pens by the stables.

  Roman spotted Fidelis at once, and took up a rope to catch the jittery animal. He clucked sympathetically upon seeing the lashes on his neck and haunches. Kam overheard him scolding the horse: “You’re going to have to lose your stubborn ways, or keep getting beatings . . . like me.” Kam had to smile.

  Colin found Deirdre’s black gelding and his own horse. Nihl located his spirited Arabian, but Kam and the others had to settle for the inferior Selecan animals.

  As Deirdre mounted, she observed with interest Nihl’s lifting Izana onto a horse. He left her behind to ride abreast of Roman, so Deirdre took that opportunity to trot up beside her. An irresistible inspiration struck. Deirdre cocked a light brow and murmured, “You are certainly fortunate to have caught the Commander’s attention. He isn’t easily impressed.”

  Izana’s eyes flicked up at Deirdre. “Does he—have a woman at home?”

  “No one that he has committed himself to. Of course, Roman depends so heavily on him, I dare say he has not felt free to give himself to anyone else. I always thought that such a waste.”

  “He is so dark,” Izana murmured.

  “He is Polonti,” Deirdre said proudly, adding, “Roman is half Polonti.”

  The maid gazed ahead at the two men. “Are all Polonti this bold?”

  “All?” Deirdre mused, looking ahead as well. “I can’t say; but ours have learned to pursue what they will without flagging.”

  Izana watched thoughtfully as the aggressors rode out through the palace gates.

  Chapter 13

  Basil sat on the throne in the audience hall of the palace at Westford and announced to those gathered, “In the Surchatain’s absence, he has instructed me to hear your petitions and answer them as I decide. He has given me the authority to carry out my judgments, so I would advise you not to test me.” Captain Olynn, standing to the right of the throne, straightened in support of this.

  Basil continued, “Is there anyone here now who has a request of me?”

  One man came forward and bowed. “Counselor, I am Axel, a farmer. We’ve been hearing that the Surchatain is never coming back. Is this true?”

  Basil glowered. “Of course not! He’s been gone but a few days, and you people let your imaginations fly in the wind. He would not have gone had he no confidence in what he was doing.”

  Another asked from the crowd: “If he doesn’t come back, who will rule?”

  “I am ruling until he returns. And if anyone thinks differently, let him ask the standing army—any one of the thousands!” Basil retorted. The people were quiet, and the requests following were routine.

  After the audience, Basil took Sevter with him to the ironsmith’s shop to place their order for threshing sledges. They left the palace on foot to walk the short distance to the smith’s, talking in subdued voices as they went. Basil mused, “The apprehension of the people disturbs me. Why would they take Roman’s leaving as a sign of abdication? He has been gone before.”

  Sevter glanced around thoughtfully, not thinking of anything he saw. “Rumors are flying. I don’t know the source, but something is stirring their fears.”

  Basil stroked his beard, opening his mouth to reply, but then stopped in midstride. He stared down at a child sitting off to the side of the road, playing quietly by himself. The child was intently watching two interlocking silver rings spin endlessly with perfect balance and rhythm.

  Basil bent down and stopped the rings’ spinning. The boy’s head came up. The Counselor took the gimmal, saying, “Young man, will you take me to your mother?”

  The boy got up and led the two men to
a neat wooden house on one of the better streets. “Mama,” he said, opening the door.

  Without looking up, a servant scrubbing the floor replied, “She’s in back, boy.” As the boy took Basil and Sevter through the house, another maid glanced at them and dropped into a startled bow.

  Out back, they found the boy’s mother tending a small but fragrant herb garden. “Mama,” said the boy, running to pull on her sleeve, “they want to talk to you.”

  As she bowed apprehensively, Basil held up a reassuring hand. “No reason for fear, my lady. We simply wish to know where you got this toy,” he said, showing her the gimmal.

  “We bought it from the silversmith, Counselor Basil.”

  “DuCange?” he asked.

  “Yes, Counselor.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday, my lord.”

  Sevter shifted uneasily. Basil pulled out a purse and gave her a few coins. “I will pay you for this, as I must take it. But I will warn you that Surchatain Roman has declared the sale of these sorcerer’s rings illegal. You must not buy another.”

  “I won’t, Counselor,” she gasped. “I didn’t know—!”

  He nodded distantly, bidding Sevter to come. From there, they went directly to DuCange’s shop. They found him at a table, directing his apprentices on the crafting of a cup. He eyed their intrusion with obvious irritation.

  Basil said without preface, “DuCange, I am giving you the opportunity to defend yourself. Have you been selling these, contrary to the Surchatain’s order?” He held up the gimmal.

  DuCange bristled, “Yes, I have been selling them, contrary to no order. The Surchatain’s hasty word on that has been rescinded.”

  “By whom?” Basil asked in astonishment.

  “Lord Troyce,” DuCange answered.

  Basil pressed his lips together to select his next words judiciously. “Troyce does not have the authority to overturn Surchatain Roman’s decrees. Instead, I will carry out the Surchatain’s warning to you: You are hereby banished from Lystra. I will give you one hour to gather your family and your tools, then I will send soldiers to escort you to the border.”

  As he turned away, DuCange sputtered, “I appeal to Lord Troyce!”

  Basil wheeled on him, as furious as Sevter had ever seen the gentle Counselor. “Troyce is no source of appeal! He is answerable to me, and as of this moment, he is no longer administrator!” He stormed from the shop back toward the palace, entirely forgetting the threshing sledges.

  Sevter followed him, muttering desperately, “Troyce knows better than to defy the Surchatain. There must be some misunderstanding.”

  “Summon him and Captain Olynn to my chambers,” Basil instructed coolly, with a sidelong glance.

  Sevter paused, seeing it. “At once, Counselor. But—don’t doubt my loyalty just because I also came from Goerge.”

  Basil nodded. “You are trusted, until I have reason to believe otherwise.”

  Perturbed, Sevter left to carry out his orders.

  Olynn arrived in Basil’s chambers first. “Counselor?” he saluted.

  “Captain, in one hour, I want you to take a unit of soldiers to escort DuCange and his family into banishment.”

  The Captain hardly blinked. “Yes, Counselor.”

  Olynn did not ask for an explanation, but Basil inquired, “Were you in the audience when DuCange asked the Surchatain permission to sell the gimmals?”

  “Yes, Counselor.”

  “Then you heard Surchatain Roman’s reply to him.”

  Olynn said, “He threatened him with banishment if he sold another one.”

  “Sevter and I have discovered that he continues to sell them, with permission from Troyce,” Basil informed him. “So I want you to execute the Surchatain’s command regarding him.”

  “Certainly, Counselor,” the Captain answered him. Then a shadow crossed his face. “I forgot to tell you—yesterday, Lord Troyce pulled the guard I had posted at the Chatain’s door.”

  “What?” demanded Basil.

  “Oh, I posted another,” Olynn said hastily. “I thought not much of it—figured Troyce was just lording it over the soldiers a little. But in light of this, I suppose you should know.”

  Basil’s eyes fastened on the Captain, then he said in a low monotone: “I wish you to attach a spy to monitor Troyce’s doings. Select the most experienced, who can operate in utter secrecy. He is to report to me nightly, here.”

  Olynn bowed. “You can rely on me to have it done as you wish, Counselor. I’ll stake my rank on it.”

  Basil raised a calculating brow. “You have, Captain.”

  When Olynn opened the door to leave, they saw Troyce standing outside. Olynn did not bow to him as he passed by. Basil said, “Come in and shut the door, Troyce.” The administrator did as he was told. Basil took a moment to order his thoughts, then asked, “Is it true you gave DuCange permission to sell the gimmals?”

  “Yes,” Troyce answered easily.

  “Were you not aware of the Surchatain’s ban on them? I had notices posted in the market square.”

  Troyce shrugged, averting his eyes. “I have authority over trade matters. The Surchatain himself gave me that authority.”

  “That does not extend to overturning his decrees,” Basil answered. “No one has the authority to do that—not you, not me, not even Surchataine Deirdre. That is the law; you know that. Why have you deliberately broken the law?”

  Troyce assessed him with an unnerving confidence. “Some laws are in need of revision. The people should not be unduly bound to an unwise decree from the Surchatain.”

  Basil rumbled dangerously, “You are advocating treason.”

  “Certainly not,” said Troyce. “Simply reform.”

  Basil eyed him, seeing with stark clarity Troyce’s clever plan: to quest for power by stirring up groundless discontent among a fat and spoiled people. Yet Basil also saw how stern measures against Troyce would strengthen his cause. Censure and banishment would release him from service to speak freely against the Surchatain, even giving substance to his complaint. Basil could already hear him crying, See how the Surchatain punishes honest men for seeking fairness!

  Patiently, as if instructing a child, Basil told Troyce, “Because you are continually overstepping your authority, I believe you have not learned the meaning of loyalty to the Surchatain. So, I am temporarily removing you from your post as administrator and placing you under Sevter as secretary. I will issue an official decree to that end. When Sevter reports to me that you are behaving responsibly, I will consider reinstating you.”

  Troyce gazed at him with eyes slightly widened, but otherwise his face was a mask. When he did not reply, Basil said, “You are dismissed.”

  Troyce turned on his heel and left the room, neglecting to bow.

  Roman’s party rode up the deserted thoroughfare of Corona, scanning side streets and shops as they passed by. There was certainly not a person to be seen. “Have all the people left?” muttered Colin. No one answered him, for the answer was in evidence all around them.

  They stopped in the market square beside the well and watering fountain. Roman directed, “Kam, go check the city gates. Carefully. Return at once if you see Bloods.” The Second clucked to his horse and spurred out of the square.

  In a house several streets away, in the same dismal room, Graydon sat on the floor rocking back and forth, staring into space. After being routed by Roman’s handful, he had come back to this room for solace, but had found something else waiting for him instead. He suddenly laughed in high-pitched, unnatural voice and then, just as suddenly, stopped. His expression changed to that of a child’s as he folded his hands to recite, “Four to a barrel, six to a bin, eight to a bushel, when will you come home again?”

  Then he collapsed over his knees in a fit of weeping, but an instant later sat at attention, his mind and body pliable as fresh clay. “Yes, he is doomed,” he said loudly, as in response to a statement. “Yes, I will watch.” He took to rocking a
gain as the door banged open to admit Captain Berk.

  “You lost them all, Graydon,” spat Berk. “They ran like rabbits. Where’s all this power of yours, sorcerer?” he demanded sarcastically.

  Graydon stilled. “Bring me a mirror,” he said in a voice low and hollow.

  “A mirror? Why?” Berk asked rebelliously.

  “Bring me a MIRROR!” repeated Graydon. Although he did not move from the floor, the force of that last word flung Berk out of the room and slammed him against the corridor wall. Berk scampered away. But, out of fear, he soon returned with a large looking glass. This he propped up on the wall in front of the rocking sorcerer.

  Graydon gestured at the mirror, mumbling something Berk did not understand. The Captain gasped to see the mirror cloud over, then clear again to display an image. It was of Roman and his companions standing with their horses in the market square. . . .

  They were watering the horses as they waited for Kam, though the animals did not need it, and no one spoke except in whispers. The silence pressed threateningly around them.

  They heard the clop clop of Kam’s horse before they saw him, and by the time he appeared in the square, he was met by seventeen expectant or anxious faces. He broke the spell of stillness with his booming voice: “Surchatain, you won’t believe this, but the gates are standing open and there’s not a Blood in sight.”

  “I’d believe anything, at this point,” replied Roman. “Now, Orvis—where do we look for that book?”

  “The first place would be their old shop and house,” decided Orvis, and he guided them down a side street.

  They pulled up to a small, dingy shop with a broken door. The group left their horses and Roman stepped up to the door. He pushed it open on creaking hinges, then crossed the threshold into a dusty, long-vacated front room. Most anything of value had been removed from it. Orvis and the others filed in behind Roman. Someone went to a window and broke open the boards covering it.

  Roman pierced the persistent, eerie deadness of the air, directing, “Everyone split up and search anywhere a book might be hidden. Pry up the floorboards and test the walls.”