Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (8 page)

Forty miles away four men sat silently in a small room, their eyes closed and their minds open. Then, one by one, they opened their eyes, leaning back in their chairs and stretching as if awakening from deep sleep.

Their leader, the man who had appeared to be under attack in the clearing, stood and walked to the narrow stone window, gazing out over the meadow below.

“What do you think?” he asked without looking around. The other three exchanged glances, and then one, a short stocky man with a thick yellow beard, said, “He is worthy at least. He did not hesitate to aid you.”

“Is that important?” asked the leader, still gazing from the window.

“I believe it is.”

“Tell me why, Acuas.”

“He is a man with a mission, yet he is a humanist. He was willing to risk his life—no, throw it away—rather than let a fellow human suffer alone. Light has touched him.”

“What do you say, Balan?”

“It is too early for judgments. The man may just be rash,” answered a taller, slimmer man with a shock of dry curly hair.

“Katan?”

The last man was slender, his face long and ascetic, his eyes large and sorrowful. He smiled.

“Were it my choice, I would say yes. He is worthy. He is a man of the Source, although he knows it not.”

“Then we are—in the main—agreed,” said the leader. “I think it is time we spoke with Decado.”

“But should we not be more sure, Lord Abbot?” asked Balan.

“Nothing in life is sure, my son. Except the promise of death.”

5

I
t was an
hour past curfew, and the streets of Drenan were deserted, the vast white city silent. A three-quarter moon hung in a clear sky, its reflection glinting from a thousand rain-washed cobbles on the Street of Pillars.

From the shadows of a tall building came six men in black armor, dark helms covering their faces. They walked swiftly, purposefully toward the palace, looking neither to right nor left.

Two Joinings armed with massive axes barred their path, and the men stopped. Six pairs of eyes fastened on the beasts, and they howled in pain and fled.

The men walked on. From behind shutters and heavily curtained windows eyes watched their progress, and the marchers felt the stares, sensing the curiosity turning to fear as they were recognized.

They moved on in silence until they reached the gates, where they waited. After several seconds they heard the grating movement of the bar beyond, and the gate opened. Two sentries bowed their heads as the black-armored men marched forward across the courtyard and on into the main torchlit corridors lined with guards. All eyes avoided them. At the far end the double doors of oak and bronze slid open, the leader raised his hand, and his five companions halted, turning on their heels to stand before the doors with black-gloved hands resting on ebony sword hilts.

The leader lifted his helm and entered the room beyond.

As he had expected, Ceska’s chief minister, Eertik, waited alone at his desk. He looked up as the warrior appeared, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes fixing on the knight.

“Welcome, Padaxes,” he said, his voice dry and faintly metallic.

“Greetings, counselor,” Padaxes answered, smiling. He was a tall man, square-faced, with eyes the gray of a winter sky. His mouth was full-lipped and sensual, yet he was not handsome. There was about his features a strangeness, a taint hard to define.

“The emperor has need of your services,” said Eertik. As he stood and moved around the desk of oak, his dark velvet garments rustled. Padaxes registered the sounds, considering them not dissimilar to a snake moving through dry grass. He smiled again.

“I am always at the emperor’s command.”

“He knows that, Padaxes, just as he knows you value his generosity. There is a man who seeks to harm the emperor. We have had word that he is in the north, and the emperor wishes him taken or slain.”

“Tenaka Khan,” said Padaxes.

Eertik’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “You know of him?”

“Obviously.”

“May I ask how?”

“You may not.”

“He is a threat to the empire,” said Eertik, masking his annoyance.

“He is a walking corpse from the moment I leave this room. Did you know that Ananais was with him?”

“I did not,” said Eertik, “although now you say it, I understand the mystery. Ananais was thought to be dead of his wounds. Does this intelligence pose a problem for your order?”

“No. One, two, ten, or a hundred. Nothing can stand against my Templars. We will ride in the morning.”

“Can I aid you in any way?”

“Yes. Send a child to the temple in two hours. A girl child under ten years. There are certain religious rites which must be performed. I must commune with the power that holds the universe.”

“It shall be done.”

“Our temple buildings are in need of repair. I was considering a move to the country and the commissioning of a new temple—something larger,” said Padaxes.

“The emperor’s thoughts exactly,” said Eertik. “I will have some plans drawn up for your return.”

“Convey my thanks to the lord Ceska.”

“I will indeed. May your journey be swift and your return joyful.”

“As the spirit wills it,” Padaxes answered, replacing his black helm.

From his high tower window the abbot gazed down into the upper garden, where twenty-eight acolytes knelt before their trees. Despite the season, the roses thrived, the perfume of their blooms filling the air.

The abbot closed his eyes and soared, his spirit rising and flowing. Gently he descended to the garden, coming to rest beside the slender Katan.

Katan’s mind opened to receive him, and the abbot joined the acolyte, flowing within the fragile stems and capillary systems of the plant.

The rose welcomed them. It was a red rose.

The abbot withdrew and, one by one, joined each of the acolytes in turn. Only Balan’s rose had failed to flower, but the buds were full and he was but a little way behind the rest.

The abbot returned to his body in the high tower, opening his eyes and breathing deeply. He rubbed his eyes and moved to the southern window, looking down to the second level and the vegetable garden.

There, kneeling in the soil, was a priest in a dirty brown cassock. The abbot walked from the room, descending the circular stair to push open the door to the lower level. He stepped out onto the well-scrubbed flagstones of the path and descended the stone steps to the garden.

“Greetings, Brother,” he said.

The priest looked up, then bowed. “Greetings, Lord Abbot.”

The abbot seated himself on a stone bench nearby.

“Please continue,” he said. “Do not let me disturb you.”

The man returned to his work, weeding the soil, his hands black with dirt and his fingernails cracked and broken.

The abbot looked about him. The garden was well tended, the tools sharp and cared for, the pathways clean and clear of weeds.

He gazed fondly on the priest. The man had changed greatly since that day five years earlier when he had walked into the monastery declaring his wish to become a priest. Then he had been dressed in garish armor, two short swords strapped to his thighs and a baldric belt across his chest bearing three daggers.

“Why do you wish to serve the Source?” the abbot had asked.

“I am tired of death,” he had replied.

“You live to kill,” the abbot had said, staring into the haunted eyes of the warrior.

“I want to change.”

“You want to hide?”

“No.”

“Why did you choose this monastery?”

“I … I prayed.”

“Did you receive an answer?”

“No. But I was heading west, and after praying I changed my mind and came north. And you were here.”

“You think that is an answer?”

“I don’t know,” the warrior had answered. “Is it?”

“Do you know what order this is?”

“No.”

“The acolytes here are gifted beyond other men, and they have powers you could not comprehend. Their whole lives are given over to the Source. What do you offer?”

“Only myself. My life.”

“Very well. I will take you. But hear this and mark it well. You will not mix with the other acolytes. You will not walk to the upper level. You will live below in a crofter’s hut. You will put aside your weapons and never touch them again. Your tasks will be menial, and your obedience total. You will not speak to anyone at any time—only when I address you may you answer.”

“I agree,” the warrior had said without hesitation.

“I will instruct you each afternoon, and I will gauge your progress. If you fail in any way, I will dismiss you from the monastery.”

“I agree.”

For five years the warrior had obeyed without question, and as the seasons had passed, the abbot had watched the haunted expression fade from his dark eyes. He had learned well, though never could he master the release of the spirit. But in all other things the abbot was pleased.

“Are you happy, Decado?” the abbot asked now. The priest leaned back and turned.

“Yes, Lord Abbot.”

“No regrets?”

“None.”

“I have news of the Dragon,” said the abbot, watching him carefully. “Would you care to hear it?”

The priest looked thoughtful. “Yes, I would. Is that wrong?”

“No, Decado, it is not wrong. They were your friends.”

The priest remained silent, waiting for the abbot to speak.

“They were wiped out in a terrible battle by the Joinings of Ceska. Although they fought valiantly and well, they could not stand against the power of the beasts.”

Decado nodded and returned to his work.

“How do you feel?”

“Very sad, Lord Abbot.”

“Not all your friends perished. Tenaka Khan and Ananais have returned to the Drenai, and they plan to kill Ceska, to end his terror.”

“May the Source be with them,” said Decado.

“Would you like to be with them?”

“No, Lord Abbot.”

The abbot nodded. “Show me your garden,” he said. The priest rose, and the two men walked among the plants, coming at last to the tiny hut that housed Decado. The abbot walked around the outside. “You are comfortable here?”

“Yes, Lord Abbot.”

Behind the hut the abbot stopped, staring down at a tiny bush and the single flower that grew there.

“And what is this?”

“It is mine, Lord Abbot. Have I done wrong?”

“How did you come by it?”

“I found a seedpod someone had thrown from the upper level, and I planted it three years ago. It’s a beautiful plant; it usually flowers much later.”

“Do you spend much time with it?”

“When I can, Lord Abbot. It helps me relax.”

“We have many roses on the upper levels, Decado. But none of this color.”

It was a white rose.

Two hours after dawn Ananais returned to the campsite, bringing with him Valtaya, Scaler, and Belder. Tenaka watched them approach. The older man, he could see, was a veteran who moved carefully, hand on sword hilt. The woman was tall and well made, and she stayed close to the black-garbed Ananais. Tenaka grinned and shook his head. Still the Golden One, he thought. But the young man was interesting. There was about him something familiar, yet Tenaka was sure they had never met. He was athletic and tall, clear-eyed and handsome, and his long dark hair was held in place by a black metal circlet adorned with an opal at the center. He wore a leaf-green cloak and calf-length brown walking boots. His tunic was of soft leather, and he carried a short sword in his hand. Tenaka sensed his fear.

He stepped from the trees to greet them.

Scaler looked up as he appeared. He wanted to rush forward and embrace him but resisted the urge. Tenaka would never recognize him. The Nadir prince had changed little, he thought, save for the few gray hairs glinting in the sunlight. The violet eyes were still piercing, the stance still unconsciously arrogant.

“You cannot resist surprises, my friend,” said Tenaka.

“So true,” answered Ananais. “But I have breakfast in the pack, and explanations can wait until I have eaten.”

“Introductions cannot,” said Tenaka softly.

“Scaler, Valtaya, and Belder,” Ananais said, waving an arm at the trio. With that he strode past Tenaka and on toward the fire.