The Nightblade Epic Volume Two: A Book of Underrealm, page 16
“What must I do, then?” said Loren, fear rising thick in her throat. “There is little between here and there save the open water. Must I cast it into the waves?”
He smirked. “Not quite. I have a friend upon the Seat, someone in whom I have the utmost trust. He will take care of your dagger for you, holding it out of sight and out of mind until you come to reclaim it.”
She let loose a great sigh of relief. “That is well. But what if I never do return? You cannot have forgotten that that is a distinct possibility.”
“Indeed I have not. In that case, he will sail out into the Bay and cast the dagger into the water. I do not think you will miss it, if it comes to that.”
Her smile was weaker than she meant it to be. But just then, she heard pounding steps in the hallway outside, and Chet burst into her room.
“Loren!” he cried. “Come quickly! It is the Seat!”
She stood from the edge of the bed and went up to the deck with him, Xain hobbling along more slowly. Seizing her hand, which no longer felt so strange to her as it once had, Chet took her to the railing near the prow.
There sat the High King’s Seat, like the prize jewel in a great crown made all of sapphire. It shone in the midday sun, golden and bright and glistening like a dewdrop. Even from so far, at the edge of vision, it took Loren’s breath away. Beside her she saw Chet and Gem’s mouths hanging open in awe, and realized with a start that her own mouth gaped wide as well.
The closer they drew to it, the more it dazzled her. Soon she saw golden spires shooting up from the white stone walls that bordered the whole island. A tower that looked to be made of silver stuck up like an arrow from the back of a practice target. Perfectly cylindrical, it caught the sun’s rays from every direction and flung them into their eyes, so that they could scarcely bear to look at its splendor. And from every battlement, rampart and tower flew the many banners of the high kingdom, blue and green and red and gold all together, fluttering in the wind like the feathers of some great bird.
Loren looked over at last to find Xain standing there, observing them all with clear enjoyment of their dumbfounded excitement. “Welcome to the High King’s Seat, Loren of the family Nelda,” he said. “I hardly thought I would ever come here with you. Yet it pleases my heart to see the look it puts upon your face, nonetheless.”
“You lived here?” said Loren. “How did you ever go about your life? If I lived upon the Seat, I could do nothing but walk around and look at it all. I have heard tales and stories aplenty, but it is ten times better than any of them.”
“It wears on the senses soon enough,” he said, his tone a bit darker than before. “I am certain you will soon find yourself as weary of it as I was when I left.”
He drew up his hood as they sailed closer. The dock itself was a masterpiece. Loren had seen docks before, but only of wood and never of stone. The ships she saw moored there were more grand even than the Long Claw, their masts reaching for the sun.
Torik skillfully guided his ship into the port, and in no time his crew had lashed it to the moorings. Then they all followed Xain and threw up their hoods, setting off down the pier and into the streets of the Seat.
The city was not paved in gold, as Loren had heard, but with fine white cobblestones that were perfectly fitted and sealed together, and then worn flat by some craft she did not know. Few people were on foot. Many constables rode horses, and royalty or wealthy merchants rode in fine carriages. Some craftsmen drove wagons, but even those were of far finer make than anything she had seen on the streets of Selvan’s cities. Every building was of stone, none of wood, and each was an exquisite display of craftsmanship. Even a butcher’s shop was no lowly venue; burning braziers hung outside above the door, and their pungent, sweet aroma banished the normal charnel stink.
Erik marched before them with Weath, and the other two Mystics behind, so that most passersby gave them a wide berth. Their steps took them towards the High King’s palace at first, but Xain tugged at Erik’s sleeve for a quick word.
“We have one burden we must deliver first. Do you know the way to Aurel’s smithy?”
“I do not,” said Erik.
“Then follow me, and closely.”
He turned them to the left, so that they began to move around the palace in a wide circle. The streets were well-ordered, and in no time they stood before a fine-looking shop with a low, red door made of wood. Above it hung a sign with the mark of a silversmith burned into it. The door stood open, but Xain took them around to the back of the building, where a more modest service entrance awaited.
He rapped sharply on the door, and they had to wait only a moment before it swung open. Behind the door stood a thin little man, his grey hair sticking out in all directions, spindly hands clutching each other in curiosity. When he saw the four redcloaks waiting outside, Loren saw him square his shoulders.
“What is this about?” he said. “What service can I be to the Mystics this day?”
“Not to them, old friend,” said Xain, and he threw back his hood. “But to me.”
The man looked as though sheer surprise might strike him dead on the spot. He rushed forwards, eyes watering up, and clutched the front of Xain’s cloak. “Xain! Xain, is it truly you? I never thought to look upon you with my own two eyes again.” Then he recoiled, not in fear, but to look around in sudden suspicion. “But my boy … you must know the island is not a safe place for you. Come, come inside, and quickly.”
“No time for that, Aurel. I have a burden I must ask you to bear, for a little while at least. It is for the girl here.”
“A … a burden?” said Aurel, blinking at Loren as though he could not quite see her.
“You must keep it hidden from all eyes, even your own,” said Xain. “If all goes well, she shall be back to fetch it presently. If not—if you hear that anything has happened to us, or if you hear nothing at all for a month—you must take it into the middle of the bay and drop it into the waters.”
“Of course, my boy, of course.” And though the old man’s eyes burned with curiosity, he ushered Loren inside. Xain waited on the street for her, raising his hood once more.
“Do you have a box I can put it in?” said Loren, reaching for her belt.
“Yes, my dear, of course. Take your pick,” said Aurel, gesturing around. Loren found herself in his workshop, with many tools lying about on benches and tables, as well as many crafts in progress—everything from serving platters to buckles to fine pins with exquisite designs. And against one whole wall was stacked a massive mountain of boxes. Loren chose one and pulled dagger and sheath from her belt to drop them inside. Then, struck by a thought, she reached into her cloak and drew out the packet of magestones. They joined the dagger at the bottom of the box. She would no sooner be discovered with them than with the dagger, after all, and both could spell her death within the High King’s halls.
She closed the box again, twisting the little silver latch on the front, and then placed it in Aurel’s hands. He blinked at her again, then stared down at the box, hefting the weight.
“I can keep it in my floor easily enough,” he said. “And rest assured, girl, no harm will come to it. I shall not even look inside myself, that I vow.”
“Thank you,” said Loren, bowing low to him. That seemed to surprise him, and in his haste to return the bow, he nearly dropped the box.
Soon she had rejoined Xain on the street. But before they set off, the wizard drew close to Aurel and spoke quiet words in his ear. But not quiet enough, for Loren overheard much of them.
“I do not think I go to my doom, Aurel. Yet I cannot see all ends. If things should go poorly, I would have you send a message.”
“I think I know it, my boy.”
“Still, I will tell you. Send word of my love—and my death—to Trill, whatever you must do to find her.”
“Of course, Xain. Of course. Only, do not place such a burden on an old man. Return here, and send the message yourself.”
“If fate be kind.”
Then Xain pushed past her in a rush, face hidden within his cowl again. Loren followed, cautiously, not wishing to upset him any further. Trill was the name of Jordel’s sister, and the Mystic had told Loren how she and Xain had fallen in love. Trill was the mother of his son, but she had been married off to another man after their child was born, and Xain had not seen her since.
Now Xain marched like a man possessed, and even the Mystics struggled to keep up with him. Through the streets he passed like a returning prince, and indeed mayhap he was such in his own mind. He stepped in front of carriages and horses without heeding them, and more than one reared at his coming. Everywhere he went, heads turned to watch, though they could not see his face beneath his hood.
Soon the walls of the High King’s palace loomed before them, though its splendor was somewhat lost on Loren. They were near the end of their road now, or might be, and the fear of what they might find dimmed the sight of the place. Still, she could not help but notice the high walls trimmed with gold, and the fine white stone that made the black battlements stand out all the more.
A guard stood before the gate, clad in the white and gold armor of the High King herself. She took one look at Xain, and Loren and Chet and Gem beside him in their plain clothes, and raised her spear to cross it over her chest. “Begone, beggars,” she said. “There are kitchens aplenty for you, by the High King’s charity. That is where you will find your next meal, not here.”
Xain’s bitter laugh poured out from beneath his brown hood. “Ah, Sera, you old fool. Do not tell me you have forgotten the sight of a friend so quickly.” And he threw back his hood to show the guard his face.
Many things happened then, and all of them quickly. The guard nearly froze in her shock, but kept just enough composure to call the alarm. Then many more guards rushed out of the gates, surrounding Loren and the rest of them with sharp spears. They were grabbed firmly, their hands tied behind their backs—even the Mystics—and then they were marched through the gates and into the palace, prisoners at the High King’s mercy.
LOREN WAS DRAGGED THROUGH THE High King’s palace so quickly that her feet scarcely touched the floor. She could not see the beauty of the high, vaulted ceilings or the mural-covered walls, for her mind was filled with dread of what might lay ahead. The elegance that surrounded them barely registered in her mind, something noticed only by instinct, stowed away to be examined later—if she would have any time later to think of it, and was not put to death at once.
Beside her, Xain seemed frighteningly calm. Indeed, a grim smile played across his lips beneath his gag—for the guards knew he was a firemage, and had taken steps to remove him from his power. Loren thought she might be able to guess at the reason for his high mood; since before they first met, he had been a fugitive from the King’s justice, fleeing from city to city and kingdom to kingdom to evade punishment for his crimes. Now at last that flight had come to an end. One way or another, Xain’s days of running were over.
They came soon to the doors of the throne room, which lay open. Guards raised their polearms to let the procession through. These wore more splendid armor than the guards at the front gate, their plate gleaming with white enamel and trim bedecked in gold leaf. Their eyes were harder, and Loren could see the strength in their frames. They looked upon her with contempt as she passed.
The throne room was so wondrous that it dragged her mind to the present, as if the place itself were impatient for her to notice its finery. Pillars rose high to form arches along the walls, and the arches rose up until they joined in points that ran all along the center of the roof. From each point sprang golden spikes that ran across the white marble ceiling, like starbursts all in a row. They shrank in size from the entrance to the rear of the room, descending to the far wall so that they formed a sort of arrow, commanding the eye to look at the throne upon its dais.
Upon that throne sat the High King Enalyn. Loren had never had cause to see the High King, but she had heard many descriptions—and in any case, there was no mistaking her now, for no one else would dare to sit in that high chair. It was made of silver, with gold for the armrests and surrounding the head, and cushioned in plush white cloth. Enalyn sat in a pose of rest, one arm draped over the throne’s right side, while her other elbow was propped up so that her chin might rest on her fist. She was a slight woman of no impressive height, but her gaze was keen and piercing. A thin golden circlet rested upon her hair, which had once been as raven-black as Loren’s own, but now showed many strands of grey. Rather than any appearance of old age, it only gave her a mighty dignity that radiated through the room.
It was quite a long moment before Loren could tear her eyes away from the High King to see the others in the room. Many guards there were, in the same fine white and gold of the royal guard that she had seen at the throne room door. Then there were the courtiers, clustered in their splendid suits and gowns all along the sides of the hall. She also saw quite a number of Mystics in attendance, their red cloaks marking them as certainly as the badges upon their chests. But where all the Mystics she had seen before wore armor, and tended to look somewhat threadbare, like breeches worn from many months of hard travel, these ones were as clean and well-kept as the courtiers themselves. It was somewhat of a shock to Loren to see them wearing patterned breeches and tunics, and draped in cloaks of fine cloth and fur that she would have laughed to see upon Jordel.
They came to a stop at the foot of the dais. Loren raised her gaze to the High King—and then she noticed the two men standing to either side of her. One wore a red cloak over a suit of armor that looked more ceremonial than functional, and Loren took him at once for the lord chancellor of the Mystics. The other man wore grand, ornate robes of black with silver-threaded trim, and curious designs embroidered with gold and purple. That, and the hateful way he glared at Xain, led her to guess he must be the dean of the Academy.
A sharp kick from a plated boot made Loren’s legs give out, and she fell to her knees before the throne. The guard who had met them outside the palace stepped forth, helm under her elbow, and spoke sharply to announce them.
“Your Majesty. I bring before you Xain, of the family Forredar, criminal beyond the King’s law, sentenced to death by order of the Mystics.”
“I see him, Sera,” said the High King. Her tone was neither condescending nor sharp, but Loren thought she heard the hint of a joke inside it. “And who are these others you drag in his wake?”
“We do not know them, Your Majesty, but they came in his company.”
Loren looked up to see the High King wave a hand, and Sera stepped back. “You may speak for yourselves then, travelers. Who are you, and why do you walk in the company of this wizard? Come, you Mystics. Speak up.”
Erik looked up doubtfully from where he knelt. When no one seemed likely to shove him back down, he lifted one foot to plant it flat on the floor and then laid his arm across the knee, in the position of a soldier reporting to a battlefield commander. “Your Majesty. I am Erik, knight of the Mystics. You do me great honor—but this girl, in the black cloak, is the one who should speak for us.”
Loren’s stomach did a somersault at that, and stars danced before her eyes as the High King turned to look at her with one eyebrow arched. Titters and excited murmurs burst from all the courtiers in the room, who whispered to each other behind their hands.
“Indeed?” said the High King, and now her voice betrayed real interest. “I find myself curious why a Mystic would cede the floor to one so young. Unless she is from some noble family, and I do not know it?”
Loren looked sideways, panicked. Xain only raised his eyebrows at her. She shot to her feet and raised her head—then, mortified, she realized where she was and fell back to one knee. The courtiers burst into subdued laughter.
“No noble girl, then, I take it,” said High King Enalyn, but her voice was not unkind.
“No, Your Gra—Your Majesty,” said Loren quickly. “I am Loren, of the family Nelda, hailing from the Birchwood.”
“A forest girl,” said Enalyn. “Tell me, Loren. Why do your words hold more weight in this room than a knight of the Mystics?”
Loren reached into her cloak and withdrew the letter from Kal. “Your Majesty, I … I bring a letter.”
Enalyn looked to Sera, who took the letter from Loren’s hand and gave it to one of the royal guard. The man climbed the dais to place it in the lord chancellor’s hand. The lord chancellor was a spidery man, with spidery fingers, and Loren did not like the grimace on his face as he pried loose Kal’s wax seal. Though he hardly paused before speaking aloud, Loren saw his eyes flit quickly back and forth across the paper, taking in the message before he spoke.
“She bears a letter from Chancellor Kal, of the family Endil. It declares that these travelers bear grave news of utmost importance to all the nine kingdoms, for the ears of the High King and her closest advisors only.”
“This is a gesture so haughty as to be almost offensive,” said the dean from Enalyn’s other side. “Lord Chancellor, can you not keep your own Mystics in better order than this?”
“This was done without my knowledge or consent, of course, Your Majesty,” said the lord chancellor, who looked as though he very much wanted to burn the letter in his hands, and mayhap the Mystics at the foot of the dais as well. “Please, allow me to remove this matter to my own chambers, and deal with it there where it need not trouble you.”
“The Mystics may be your concern, but Xain is not,” said High King Enalyn, her voice just sharp enough to bring the throne room to complete silence. “It was I who issued the order for his arrest—an arrest that your men have failed to carry out all these long months. Now he comes to the throne room of his own accord, bearing a letter from one of your chancellors. I think I shall pay it heed.”
She nodded to one of the royal guard, and he moved quickly to clear the throne room. In no time it was done; the only ones who remained were Loren’s party, the lord chancellor, the dean, and the royal guard.
