Tower of the Arkein: Kan Savasci Cycle Book 2, page 24
He took in a breath of sweet Hearvest air. The season had just begun to change. Sumor was fading slowly into memory as the leaves began to turn.
Nervous energy danced about in his stomach. It was his first mission. He alone now held onto the crucial task of saving the unwitting masses. The burden was heavy, yet the annalist had entrusted him. No other, but him. He wouldn’t let his master down.
Peter steeled himself, remembering one of the lessons the annalist had taught him. It was one of the first things he had learned. Although it was nothing out of a storybook, it was the foundation of the arkein. It was his first step to learning magic.
He took in a calming breath and cleared his mind. All thoughts scattered under his relentless focus. Peace settled upon him and awareness revealed itself to him.
It took Peter a couple of hours to pick his way carefully through the city. Broken remains had been moved to clear a path, but not removed. There were people who stood in dark corners. They eyed him with suspicion, but made no move toward him. He wore no armor. He flew no pennant. The unremoved rubble, the sullen, unwelcome stares, all served as a reminder and a warning. The north doesn’t want you.
He stood at the edge of the Isle of Repose and looked upon the shattered remains of the Bridge of Kings. Wooden planks had been laid to cover sharp stone and gaping holes. Peter looked through the openings to the frigid waters of Lake Stevol. He suppressed a shiver, despite the relative warmth of the day.
The castle itself was massive. It lay upon the island like a guardian. It wasn’t until Peter moved closer that he could see the damage caused by the draccus fiend. One of the towers looked like a melted candle. Gobs of molten stone had settled and cooled. Wooden roofs were blackened and missing. Charred scorch marks were seared into the very walls.
“Halt,” a voice rang out.
Peter stopped with his hands up. He looked as unthreatening as he could. He wasn’t afraid. He had seen the annalist in far worse situations, and he’d gotten out of every single one. But Peter did not have the annalist’s training or his bag of careful tools. Instead, he had the foolish bravado of a partially trained youth.
“State your business,” a man said, stepping out, just enough so Peter could see the arrow knocked and drawn upon him.
“I’m here to see Lady Bristol.”
“Queen Bristol doesn’t take visitors,” the man said, correcting him.
Peter nodded. He felt the first hint of fear and struggled to think of what the annalist would say. He looked about as he had been taught. Broken remains. They provided ample cover and concealment for Gemynd soldiers. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Foolish.
Peter then looked once more at the man. He was young, probably not much older than himself. His clothing was threadbare, and his hand began to shake. Tired. Underfed.
What had the annalist told him, “find common ground, get them to talk to you, listen for the hidden truth they speak through their body, their tone, their choice of words.”
“Look,” Peter began, “to be honest, I’ve traveled quite far and I’m rather hungry,” he said as he slowly pulled out some fresh apples and day old bread from his travel sack.
“I have an extra apple, I’m not going to eat it,” he offered.
The guard lowered his bow. He glanced at Peter once again as if assessing him, weighing the threat. Peter didn’t look in his direction and looked about for a seat. He found a rounded piece of stone and sat.
He wiped the apple against his tunic until the skin shone. Satisfied he took a bite. It was crisp and juicy. He wiped the juices off his chin and smiled. He glanced up at the sky as if assessing the weather.
“Will it rain?” he asked innocently enough.
The guard had completely lowered his bow now.
“I reckon it won’t rain until tonight the earliest,” the guard replied.
The guard watched as Peter took another bite of his apple.
“I’ll have that apple if you’re still offering.”
Peter looked up, smiled, and tossed him the apple. He felt his cheeks flush slightly. He would have made the annalist proud. This magic stuff wasn’t all so hard. Now the subtle dance to entice the guard to bring him to the queen could begin.
Chapter 51
“Strength of will can often be mistaken for stubbornness.” A Study on Nobility – Library of Galdor
Queen Thea Bristol sat regally upon a throne. It rested heavily in a large, open room. One that had been partially repaired from being ransacked and later from the unnatural fire of a draccus fiend. The large boulders of stone that had been too heavy to remove, stood as silent relics. They served as a reminder of the broken state of Gemynd. They stood as a warning to the tenacity of the residents who remained.
The hall itself was massive. It was bigger than the Hall of Kings in the Red City, but darker somehow. Shadows crisscrossed the length of it, casting part of Queen Thea in darkness.
Her dark eyes regarded Peter for a moment. They were intelligent, firm, and unrelenting in their gaze. An unseen power radiated about her in a different manner than the annalist. They had taken different paths at the Tower of the Arkein.
“I don’t recognize you,” the queen spoke, her voice shattering the air the way a hammer breaks glass.
She studied Peter for but a moment, as if he were a book to be read and cast aside. Slowly her gaze slipped to the guard who had brought Peter in. Taking a brief moment to assess and judge him.
“Do you drag in every stray cat that crosses your path?” she said, raising her voice, there was anger there.
“No, my queen,” he said bowing his head low.
Peter could sense her displeasure. He could feel the fear of the man next to him. The annalist had taught him to read people. It was fundamental to his craft, he had said. Too many have forgotten the subtle art of human study and rely upon the crude tools of pain to draw what they desired.
“Your grace,” Peter said, “If I may.”
She looked at him. Her eyes narrowed. The guards on either side moved their hands to their swords. Violence was clearly a quick and easy option. Peter noted it and tried not to let the rising tide of fear sweep him away.
For the annalist, for Bodig, for Verold, he thought to himself.
“No, you may not,” Thea boomed, her voice strangely echoing within the grand hall, “As for you,” she said, looking to the young guard, “report to your captain and tell him of your failing.”
The young guard looked defeated. He was the small ally Peter had made. He was the shining light of his initial success. It was now all being washed away by this woman. He was at a loss. He knew so little about her. He wasn’t sure how to begin. He felt if the annalist where here he’d know what to do.
But he wasn’t here. It was up to Peter.
“Your grace,” he spoke up again, thinking desperately of how to get her attention.
“You don’t listen,” her voice overran his, crushing it the way a child crushes a beetle.
Peter fell silent. He felt his throat constrict of its own accord. What was happening? Why couldn’t he talk?
The queen seemed unconcerned. She looked to the man to her side.
“Throw him into Stevol, I won’t have any more disease in this city.”
The large men moved toward him. He had to act now or lose all opportunity.
He closed his eyes and struggled. His mind was awash in thought. Fear swam before his vision. He had no time. Verold was waiting on him. The annalist came to his mind and gave him strength.
Peter was a magician, like the annalist, and would prove himself worthy of further study.
He set to clearing his mind with a fervor. He could hear the footsteps of the approaching men. Peter felt himself sinking into the clarity he so desired. The fingers choking him released. He found his voice.
“I know you went to the Tower of the Arkein,” he blurted out, watching her, and out of the corner of his eye the approaching men. She didn’t seem impressed, “I know you were once friends with the Kan Savasci,” he said desperately as the men lay hands on him.
Time was almost done.
There was a flicker of emotion that crossed her face. What was it? Anger? Sadness? He couldn’t tell. She held up a hand.
“Wait.”
The men still held him, but didn’t move. Peter felt like a trapped animal. At least he had gotten her attention. Now what?
“Speak,” she said.
That was it? Her face was a rigid mask of impassivity. Her body was still erect within her throne. Her eyes were searching, intelligent, but held no sign of emotion.
“I work for one who seeks the Kan Savasci,” he began.
The queen made no movement. She didn’t even blink an eye.
“My master believes that he is the key to stopping the war.”
The queen narrowed her eyes only enough to barely be noticeable.
“You know where the Kan Savasci is?” she asked, genuine curiosity bleeding through her carefully concealed tone.
Peter glanced about. He didn’t want to lie. What had the annalist told him, truth is often cleverer than the best crafted lie.
“I do not, your grace, however, my master has a solid trail and believes he will find him soon.”
Peter was cut off.
“Your master is a fool,” she then looked at the taller guard, “take him away.”
“Your grace,” Peter pleaded, “my master despises the Bane of Verold…”
Again, his voice constricted about him. He struggled, but to no avail. He pulled against the iron grip of the men. One of them grunted and hammered him once on the back of the head. It was a powerful blow and Peter was soft.
The world went dark. He heard the faint sounds of the queen’s voice as blackness claimed him.
He had failed.
Chapter 52
“Power through fear is ephemeral and not its truest form.” Methods of Control and their Consequences – Tower of the Arkein, Anonymous
Darkness revealed itself to Peter in shades of painful grey. His head throbbed fiercely. Perhaps he finally understood the pain his master felt every time he used the arkein. It was a quiet source of pride in a forbidding place.
He took a few calming breaths and struggled to assess his situation. His arms were numb. His head pounded uncomfortably. His neck chaffed. His legs were bound.
He blinked away unconsciousness and took in a small breath. Pain flared up his arms and throbbed at his shoulders.
His arms had been tied behind his back and were suspended at an angle above him. Another rope was tied about his neck and secured to his legs, forcing him to maintain a bent angle at the waist. Finally, his ankles swelled against the cold bite of steel clasps.
Peter was immobilized.
He felt the icy fingers of fear begin to circle and imprison him. He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to ward off the agitate cloud of panic that threatened to suffocate him. He attempted to clear his mind and find solace in the oppressive prison he now resided in.
For the annalist, for Bodig, for Verold.
The distant sound of dripping water nagged at him. His own labored breathing clawed at his ears. Fear manifested its ugly head, tearing free from the cage within his chest. He tried to move. The stiffness in his lower back temporarily overcame the pain in his shoulders.
The movement sent searing discomfort through his body.
Peter let out a scream.
Pain burst forth in a fit of startling agony. It lingered on every nerve as if testing his capacity to cope. His chest constricted and squeezed at his very heart. A new face was given to fear. It was death’s own hand closing in, reaching for him.
Peter’s life flashed quickly before him. The mantra he had been repeating to himself came to him again. He would not quit. He would not fail.
For the annalist, for Bodig, for Verold.
Suddenly the pain stopped and his world fell silent.
He took in a slow and calming breath. The wild beating of his heart attempted a normal rhythm. His mind spun at the sensation.
“I was wondering when you’d wake,” a voice reached out to him.
The voice was as cold as the stone floor, as hard as the walls, and filled with the weight of power.
A flicker of candlelight came to life. He glanced down to shield himself from the light.
The light intensified and seared at his eyes. Stars danced in his vision as a blinding white flash throbbed within his brain, robbing him of his faculties. He felt weak and helpless.
“I have questions,” the voice reached out again, grabbing at his attention the way a predator grabs at its prey.
Peter struggled to talk, but he couldn’t formulate words. His eyes adjusted but the voice remained in shadow, hidden behind a veil of light. All features were lost to him. It was nothing more than an amorphous set of vague lines.
Peter finally nodded his head to indicate he understood. The rope at his neck rubbed at his flesh.
“Good.”
The voice was that of a woman. Peter recognized it. It was the queen.
She continued, “you’re beginning to understand.”
She paused a moment, assessing him, letting the weight of the moment fully settle upon his young shoulders. He was powerless. She was not. And now he would answer her questions, all of them.
“Who is your master?”
Peter looked up, straining his eyes against the piercing light. How was the candle so bright?
Despite the pain, he felt a renewed sense of purpose. He knew that his body was ephemeral. Verold was not. His plight was greater than himself. He would not fail.
For the annalist, for Bodig, for Verold.
“I’ll ask again before sending someone to increase the pain,” she said, “Who is your master?”
Peter took a slow breath, struggling not to put too much pressure on any one part of his body.
“I will tell you what you wish your grace,” he said, “but not like this.”
A terse silence followed.
“You will tell me what I want now,” she commanded.
Somehow the light intensified further.
Peter closed his eyes, but to no avail. The light washed off the dark stones and pierced his eyelids. Soon his mind was consumed with it. Along with the light came a strange sense of pain. It pressed deep into his mind.
Peter resisted.
For the annalist, for Bodig, for Verold.
The pain receded.
“Perhaps tomorrow you’ll be willing to talk.”
The light faded. Peter was blind and in agony, but knew that the queen had left. More subtly, hidden deeper within, he knew he had held out. He whispered a prayer as he struggled to shift positions and breathe.
Chapter 53
“The body is but a vessel for the breath of Salvare.” The Bocain
Peter had been visited by the queen the following day. Again, she had tried to force him to talk. And again, she had failed.
His shoulders ached with the tortured agony of being bound tightly and suspended from a hook above him. His neck chaffed with the rope tied to his feet. His back screamed for relief as every muscle shook with the feeble effort of maintaining the impossible position of increasing discomfort.
The queen had blinded him. She had questioned him. She had stolen his focus and increased his agony.
Peter’s mind held through the fog and stayed true. He knew deep within his soul that his mission was more important that his body. More important than his mind. He would prevail or die trying.
By the third day his thirst was unbearable. His mouth felt like cotton. His shoulders had fallen out of their sockets and he sagged against the rope tying his neck to his feet. The pain came and went in flashes of torturous convulsions.
This time when the queen visited, he did not speak. The light seared at his mind, but felt like a dull spark in the void that slowly began to circle his existence.
When the light increased, Peter passed out. Consciousness left him as he gravitated toward the warmth of it. An escape from the present moment. Only one final thought flashed through his mind.
For the annalist, for Bodig, for Verold.
Peter awoke.
He groaned and turned over. His discomfort forced his eyes open.
Peter found himself in a room. It was simple. Stone lined the walls and floor. A single bed rested on the side and he was on it. His arms hurt, but had been tended to. His neck burned but was free from the rope that had bound him. His mouth tasted like stale water.
“You’re stronger than I thought,” the queen said, sitting on a chair watching him.
Peter tried to sit up, but couldn’t. Instead, he eyed her from his bed.
“Your strength of conviction has earned you my ear,” she continued, “What is it you seek, and I will decide if it’s worth my valuable time.”
Peter blinked.
He didn’t know what to say. His body ached. His mind swam with the foggy aftertaste of torture. He struggled with the scope of reality before him and attempted to assemble his thoughts into a coherent line of reasoning.
“My master believes you may hold a key to uncovering the whereabouts of the Kan Savasci,” Peter said.
The queen merely looked at him. Her eyes were discerning, calculating.
“If I knew where he was, I would have looked for him myself,” she finally said.
“Your knowledge is but a part of a greater puzzle,” Peter replied, “a puzzle my master has been working on for some time, and through his use of the arkein has gotten closer to uncovering.”
“The arkein,” she said almost to herself.
“It’s the reason my master wishes to talk with you, more importantly,” Peter paused for a moment. The queen looked up, “It’s your relationship with the Kan Savasci that may uncover the key to finding him.”
Peter held his breath waiting for her to respond. The queen merely looked at him. There was a silent intensity in her eyes that had the weight of an ocean behind it. Finally, she broke the silence.
