Kingdoms of the Night (The Far Kingdoms) (41 page)

“Taste it,” she said.

I did so and the first surprise was how cold the water was when I dipped my hand in. It quite numbed my fingers and when I drank it pained my teeth. But the taste was as pure as melted snow off the highest peak. I wondered how that could be? We were in the middle of a vast lake and the mountains were many leagues away. Janela had moved on so I didn’t comment but only followed her.

The tree at the top was even larger than we’d thought, with thick sprawling roots humping up nearly as tall as the woods near my villa in Orissa. Its leaves were shaped somewhat like an oak’s, gleaming silver in the moonlight. They rustled softly in the breeze, making a pleasing, peaceful music like brushes against brass temple bowls. The tree had broad sturdy branches, placed so neatly it made one wonder if a master gardener had lovingly pruned them for a thousand years.

Near the edge the roots had flung up a large, flat rock; the spring burst out from under it. I raised my firebeads and saw markings on the rock.

The marks were quite faint and Janela rubbed a hand across them, frowning. “I can’t make them out,” she said, “although I have no doubt they are magical symbols.”

I spotted an indentation in the center of the rock and said, “Hello. What’s this?”

We looked closer. There, carved deep enough to suffer centuries of wind battering, was the figure of the dancer. It was set within a square with a beveled channel cut around it. Janela blew away debris, clearing the channel.

“It looks like some sort of box,” she said. “A box fitted into the stone.”

Off came the purse from her shoulder and she rummaged around for a moment, then drew out a slender piece of metal.

Janela laughed when she saw how curiously I looked at it. “It’s nothing magical,” she said. “Just something to use as a pry.”

She worked at the box for a time, chipping away grime and blowing out more debris. Finally she got out her knife and popped the box out of its nest. It was about the width of my palm, perhaps twice as deep and it was made of smooth milky stone — like the walls of the royal court where the dancer twirled for the demon audience. Janela fingered the box this way and that, found the secret to opening it and lifted the lid. We both looked inside.

A single rose petal peeped out at us. It was a deep, rich red and so perfectly formed I felt compelled to touch it. I lifted it out and was surprised to find it was made of fine, spun glass. I held it up and the moonlight prickled over the surface, sending up small sparks of light.

The music of the rustling leaves grew louder, sounding now like faint, chanting voices. I found myself smiling, turning my head this way and that to make out what the voices might be saying. I thought I heard my name and I thought I heard Janela’s but I couldn’t be certain because the voices seemed like they were coming from a distance. I felt light-headed but pleasantly so — as if I’d just sipped a strong wine. Then I was
certain
I’d heard my name and I took a step forward so I could hear more clearly. But as I did so, it felt like I separated from my body. I felt free and light and glad to be rid of that earthly burden.

I looked at Janela, who was staring at me in amazement. Silver leaves showered from the tree, wafting in the breeze. They fell like a warm summer rain and I felt clean and fresh and as innocent of avarice or sorrow as a babe.

Then I lifted up the hand holding the petal and saw my flesh was pale and luminescent — as if it had no substance. I laughed: the sound was like the wind chimes in my garden so I laughed again just to hear that delightful noise.

Janela reached out and plucked the petal from my fingers. I saw her place it back in the box and close the lid. Instantly my hand became just a hand again. I felt heavy and plodding and thick-witted.

I groaned aloud at my loss and the sound was grating agony to my ears.

I wept, not knowing why and Janela held me until the tears came to a chest-shuddering stop. Brandy bit my lips and rasped my tongue as she forced me to drink from her small flask. It must have been spiced with one of her restoratives, for I soon felt well again.

I told her all that had happened after I touched the rose. “It was as if I’d become a spirit,” I said. “Not a ghost, for that would be a dead thing. But a spirit of such vibrant life and form that the Dark Seeker himself would have fled the light it cast.”

“And that is how you looked, Amalric,” Janela said. “Actually, there were two of you. Your body, made of ordinary flesh and blood. And then your... spirit self... stepped out of it. That self gave off the most glorious light. And I thought you were laughing but what I heard was...” her voice trailed off as she sought a comparison.

“Chimes?” I said. “Did the laughter sound like wind chimes?”

“That’s it exactly,” she said. “Wondrous chimes, like I’ve never heard before. I’m so sorry I had to make you stop. I could tell it would hurt you but I wasn’t certain what would happen next.”

“I didn’t care,” I said, gloomily.

She patted me. “I know you didn’t,” she said. “But what was happening was not necessarily a good thing. Evil doesn’t always wear a black cloak. Demons are not always ugly. And the greatest pleasure I’ve ever known would have killed me — or worse — if I hadn’t drawn back before it was too late.”

I looked at her, wondering what that could have been.

She lightened the mood with a grin. “Don’t ask,” she said. “It’s a wizard thing and I’m sure you’d understand more than my self-respect could bear.”

Janela held up the little stone box. “May I keep this?” she asked. “Because of what happened I feel that it’s rightfully yours. But I’d like to investigate it’s purpose. With all the safeguards I can muster.”

I said, yes, of course she could — but as she dropped it into a silk drawstring bag and tucked it away in her purse I wanted to shout: I lied! Give it here! I held my tongue until the feeling faded into a faint but lingering loss. It joined many others: a lifetime of all the small agonies we suffer on the wandering road the gods set before our feet. If I have more than most it is only because I’m older than most. Sometimes when I look in the mirror and see how much time’s ravages have been erased from my features, I miss the scars of age that I’d worked so hard to earn.

We left that island without further discussion, pausing only to once again sample the sweet cold spring water. I slept heavily but not well. And the following morning we set sail again under skies of slate and a sun as dismal as my mood.

Our first sight of King Azbaas’ capital was as foreboding as the chill winds that blew us to it. We were enveloped in mist so we had no warning but burst out of the greasy fog into a long, narrow bay. The city sat in a valley between two high bluffs with wooden-walled castles on those bluffs to guard the bay. Long, low docks fronted the city and those docks played service to scores of rafts manned by naked slaves of both sexes, who were pinned to the rafts by bolts and chains.

Only a few primitive boats plied the waters, evidence of Queen Badryia’s insistence Azbaas had little power on the lake. The city — which we learned later was called Kahdja — was more of a wooden fortress than a thriving town of industrious souls. A high log palisade ran from bluff to bluff, with watch towers set every fifty feet. A branchless forest of log buildings stretched out behind the palisade, rising slightly in the valley’s climb from the lake. The valley itself we later were told was an ancient riverbed that had silted over long ago, with city after city being constructed on the abandoned riverbed until there was little evidence of its former grand purpose.

After I’d met Azbaas it seemed fitting that any river he commanded would be such a poor dead thing.

As we drew closer I could see that the bluffs, yellow as the smile of a gap-toothed hag, were pocked with many caves. I saw movement in the mouths of those caves and the small figures of spear-carrying soldiers sentry-walking along paths and steps carved into the bluffs.

I called for our least-worn flags to be hoisted and coaxed a little group of volunteer musicians to play a ragged air of greetings on pipes and drums. We waited, but not for long. The palisades’ gates swung open and a small retinue of important-looking men bustled out. They climbed aboard what I first took to be a dock but before my eyes a colorful tented-pavilion rose up on that dock and a multitude of slaves groaned under the lash, heaving and pushing, until the dock separated from the shore and I realized it was a great, royal barge moving out to meet us.

Three men boarded the
Ibis
and I did my best to convince them I was a genial man of innocent purpose and powerful friends who pined for my return. We had all changed into our best clothes and the crew made a respectful aisle for Janela and I to walk between as we strode to welcome our visitors.

Their red-painted faces were striated with fierce, ceremonial scars. Their eyes were black-painted holes and streaks of black flared from the corners of their lips. Long leather capes, worn over wood and leather armor, hung from their shoulders and they had helmets with high pinnacles that made them seem taller than they were. This was the same stocky, muscular breed of men Quatervals had seen in the ravine.

The man in the center, who had a large, golden badge of office dangling from his neck, stretched his tribal scars into a smile.

“I am Lord Fizain,” he said. “I bring you greetings and a warm welcome from King Azbaas.” He had a thin, high-pitched voice. Even so, it was the voice of one comfortable with command.

I hid my surprise at their quick acceptance of us. “And I am Lord Amalric Antero,” I said, “and this is Lady Greycloak, my-”

Fizain broke in. “Introductions aren’t necessary,” he said. “We know of you, my Lord, just as we know that Lady Greycloak is a sorcerer of much renown.”

He bowed low to both of us. Then he said, “I believe you have a missive from our good friend, Queen Badryia.” He stretched out a hand. Numbly, I handed him the rolled up parchment letter from the Queen.

“I must confess, my Lord,” I said, “you have the advantage of us. We are merely weary travelers on a sacred mission for our homeland. How did we earn the attention of your most gracious Majesty?”

Fizain squeaked laughter. It was an unnerving sound from such a fierce, muscular man. He said: “Did you not know our king is the mightiest shaman in the history of the Epheznuns? There is nothing in his domain that escapes him. And little in the regions beyond.”

Janela shook her head as if in wonder. “I am most anxious to meet the king,” she said. “Perhaps we might exchange a magical tidbit or two.”

Fizain made a sorrowful face. “That meeting,” he said, “would be welcome to his Majesty. But I fear that it must be delayed a few days. He is busy with important affairs of state.”

“Naturally,” I said. “Such a rich and mighty kingdom must be a burden on your king’s time. Although we were so hoping to steal a small moment of it, alas, we must be content with his greetings which you so ably delivered. Our only real business with him, however, was to seek permission to pass peacefully through his realm. Perhaps on our return he will gift us with a moment or two of his presence.”

Fizain shook his head. “I have little doubt our king will grant your request of passage,” he said. “Unfortunately, he gave me no such instructions. He only begged you to accept his hospitality for a day or two and as soon as duty permits, he’d be pleased to meet you in person.”

I had little choice but to accept. It is not wise to argue with a king. If you do, you must make very certain that the distance between you and his throne is greater than your defiance. So I bowed low — as did Janela — and made many lies of gracious acceptance of the king’s will.

And with those bows we became prisoners of the king.

I’ve had the dubious pleasure of such confinement before. I’ve paced luxurious dungeon suites as well as vermin-ridden cells within hearing of the torturer’s song. The quarters Azbaas reserved for Janela and I were somewhere in between. They put us in the highest tower of one of the bluff-top castles. We had three spacious rooms, all with cheery fires to stave off the damp chill blowing up from the lake.

The center room overlooked the bay and we could see our ships tied up in a narrow inlet. Our crew were confined to those ships, which were under heavy guard — to protect them from certain unruly factions among the Epheznuns, Lord Fizain had said. Naturally, similar protective measures were necessary for us and we had sentries posted day and night at our door.

“Although our kingdom is most peace-loving,” Fizain had said, “there are certain outside elements who hate our dear king and do everything they can to upset his citizens. They have even infiltrated witches among us — witches who possess our weaker-natured brothers and sisters and cause them to do evil things. Therefore, constant vigilance must be kept. And all must be suspect — until the innocence of their purpose is shown beyond any doubt.”

In short, he said we were being quarantined — not imprisoned like all those unfortunates who were crammed into the caves in the bluffs below us. I saw them when we were taken ashore in Azbaas’ royal barge. The motion in the cave mouths I had noticed earlier proved to be hundreds, if not thousands of felons of the king’s imagination. The cave entrances were barred and I could hear the moans of the prisoners and the curses of the soldiers guarding them as we passed under.

They gave us several slaves to tend our needs, which rankled me almost more than our forced circumstance. I used my lordly privilege to complain I missed the tender care of my own servants. I was allowed to exchange them for Quatervals and Mithraik — who’d impressed me mightily as a man who could get out of a tight scrape. They were quartered in rooms below us and since they were deemed nothing more than lowly servants they had a bit more freedom of movement in the castle.