The Barrow (35 page)

Stjepan looked at Annwyn for a long moment.

“It's a map to the Barrow of Azharad,” he said.

Malia withdrew reflexively from her mistress with a loud gasp as the whole room seemed to freeze. Sir Colin began to whisper a prayer.

Arduin's face contorted—with fear, fascination, possibility. He drew back a bit, so his face was partially in shadows.

“The Sorcerer King of the Bale Mole?” Arduin asked quietly. “That is a cursed name. If this is true then why didn't Harvald turn the map over to the King's Court, or the University Magisters?”

Stjepan glanced back at him. He couldn't quite make out Arduin's expression in the darkness of the room. “Because we aimed to find the barrow ourselves. You've heard the rumors and stories, yes? That he had the sword
Gladringer
in his possession when he was buried?” Stjepan asked.

Arduin waved his hand dismissively, but his mind was already racing. “Campfire tales sung by bards,” he said, even more softly.

Stjepan gave a little shrug. “Maybe. But Harvald believed the stories to be true. He'd found records in the archives of the Court, long forgotten letters and journals from men who'd been traveling with the King of Dania after the Black Day Battle; they gave report of the sword falling into ill hands and tracked it north. And then accounts from the campaign against Azharad a century later, from the wardens of the Lord of Gyrdiff, from the knights of An-Dama Logh and the so-called Erl of the Tiria Wold. All of them reporting seeing Azharad with
Gladringer
in the war in the woods.”

King of Heaven, could it be true?
Arduin wondered.

“What we needed was a map. This map. And we finally found it, thanks to the archives and a bit of luck. We thought if we could find the sword . . . well, recover the lost sword of the High Kings and you could command almost any reward for such a service to the crown . . . even restore the fortunes of your historic name, as Harvald wished,” Stjepan said. He studied Arduin. “Even with this latest disaster courting your family, if you were to sponsor our expedition, and but grant me an audience with the Lady . . .” he trailed off, not needing to say it:
this could be enough to save you.

Arduin closed his eyes and this mind spun and raced, making calculations, weighing his options, all of them terrible.

King of Heaven, the sword of the High Kings; let this be true
, he thought to himself.

“Don't make me regret this,” said Arduin. He walked past Stjepan and pulled the curtains open. He looked down at Annwyn. “Rouse your mistress,” he said harshly to Malia. The handmaiden paused, looking at the two men as though they were crazy, and then slowly she started to shake Annwyn, whispering to her softly.

Annwyn's eyes fluttered open and slowly she focused on the people around her.

“Well, sister,” said Arduin coldly. “You were eager enough to show yourself to this man before. Here he is.” Her eyes fluttered again and closed, and her head sank back.

Arduin turned and stalked out of the room, followed by Sir Colin and his squire.

After a long moment in silence, Stjepan stepped forward, pulling the curtains further back. Malia held her Lady in her arms, cradling her torso, wiping her brow with a soft cloth.

“Lady Annwyn,” Stjepan said softly, kneeling down before them.

Annwyn gave no reply, and Stjepan looked up at the distraught Malia. The handmaiden studied him with large eyes, clearly unsure of what to do; but finally Annwyn stirred, shaking her head, her eyes slowly coming to focus on his face. She stared at him for a long moment.

“Stjepan, man of An-Athair. My brother called you Black-Heart. Are you here to kill me?” she asked quietly, her voice barely audible above the faint din from outside the tower house.

Stjepan paused, looking into her eyes. “I was your brother's friend,” he said. “I am a clerk at the High King's Court, as was Harvald . . . In fact, I'm a cartographer. I make maps. At your brother's funeral, you showed a map to me, a map sent by Harvald. And you asked me to save you.”

“Did I?” Annwyn asked with a small laugh. She stirred again, as if trying to gather her strength. “And yet how do we know these actions were truly mine? I see myself doing those things but perhaps I only dreamed or imagined it. How do I know if it was me or the map, seeking you, map reader?”

She indicated with her hand; Stjepan followed her gesture and spotted a chair. He went to the chair and brought it over beside the divan, and took a seat. He set down his satchels and began to unpack a few items: a notebook bound in leather and closed with a leather tie; a wooden box with a sliding lid, in which were hidden small glass bottles filled with ink, sticks of charcoal, and brushes; and several sheaves of heavy vellum paper. Annwyn looked over his tools with the beginnings of curiosity.

“You say this . . . map, it was sent by Harvald?” asked Annwyn.

“Yes, my Lady, I believe so,” said Stjepan. “I believe he used what magicians would call a Sending to cause the map to appear upon you.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Malia.

Stjepan glanced at the handmaiden; her concern for her mistress was readily visible on her face. “I don't know, Mistress,” said Stjepan. He looked at Annwyn again. “Your brother was in desperate straits when he did this thing; perhaps he thought that the map would be safe here with you. Or perhaps you were simply the foremost thing on his mind as he faced his impending death.”

“Ah, a brother's love,” she said flatly, the faces of the two women blank and unreadable to Stjepan. A small alarm bell sounded in his head, and he frowned, but could not place a finger on what was wrong. “Do you know what it is like, to feel as though your body and your mind are no longer your own? To feel like you are struggling to remain yourself? I can scarcely bear to look at myself . . . and yet here you are, so eager to study that which disfigures me,” she said to him.

“My Lady,” Stjepan said apologetically. “I know this is a most unusual circumstance, but your brother Arduin granted his permission for this audience . . .”

“
His
permission?” Annwyn said with a bitter laugh. “Arduin, like all my brothers, believes he knows what is best for me, he always has. And perhaps Harvald believed he too knew what was best for me, if as you say he passed this burden to me in death. And you, I expect you know what's best for me, don't you?”

Stjepan smiled wryly. “If we copy the map, then I hope Harvald's enchantment will end. Please trust me. The longer it remains upon you, the greater the danger, for this map possesses secrets that many might desire,” Stjepan said, quietly but earnestly. “And you are already in grave danger, my Lady. I do not mean to frighten you, but your father's house is under virtual siege, with the priests claiming that you are a witch. Should the map still be upon you when the Inquisition arrives . . .”

Annwyn smiled shyly. “You grow impatient with me. Very well, I will delay you no further. I have spent most of the day in a swoon, and when I have been myself no one has wanted to tell me what is happening outside; but the crowd's chants have been unmistakable and I do have some inkling of how dire the situation is.”

She began to undo her clothing and Malia moved to help her. Stjepan turned away. They unbuttoned the high collar of her black velvet brocaded bodice, and then the front of the bodice itself. Malia slipped the bodice off her mistress, and next lifted Annwyn's black silk blouse over her head. She helped Annwyn arrange her bodice and shirt over her chest, so that her front was still covered. Annwyn shifted on the divan until she had turned away from Stjepan and her naked back was exposed to him; she was hunched over, as though trying to crawl inside herself. Malia fretted nervously, trying her best to preserve her mistress' modesty; tears limned her eyes. “Master Stjepan?” Malia finally said, holding back a sob.

He turned. Stjepan's gaze drew sharp and he took a sharp inhale. There were map images and letters fading in and out and moving on the exposed skin of her long, curved back, and for a moment he marveled in wonder.

“Will . . . will this be enough?” Annwyn said quietly over her shoulder to him.

“I will do my best, my Lady, with whatever you show me,” Stjepan said. “I cannot imagine how difficult this is for you, and I wish there were another way, but time is pressing . . .”

“Difficult? Yes. I have only allowed one other man this kind of intimacy, to my great ruin and that of my father's house,” Annwyn said quietly.

Stjepan froze, looking at the two women, studying Annwyn's downcast profile, the searching gaze of Malia. He was surprised at how directly she had acknowledged her scandal.

“Your story is known to me, my Lady, and I will not condemn you for having once taken a lover,” Stjepan said carefully. “I am from An-Athair, and our traditions and mores are . . . different than in the rest of the Middle Kingdoms.”

“My story. Of course,” she sighed. “You say you know my story. Then you know that I have been alone a long time, just me, my family, my household, my books, sequestered here in this house. To show my body to a stranger . . .”

“You read, my Lady?” Stjepan asked cordially. “Your brother misrepresented you, then, I think. If you read, my Lady, then think of yourself like a book that someone else has written, and I must read.” He glanced down across her naked back. “A book like no other. Please trust me that we shall all do our best to lift this enchantment from you.”

Annwyn turned, and studied his face for a moment. He found her gaze inscrutable and uncomfortable, but he met her eyes with his own, and did not flinch or turn away.

“Then begin your work,” she said finally.

Stjepan begins to write in his notebook as Malia drew close to her mistress; the two women clasped hands and smiled nervously at each other, but Malia's face betrayed her fear and she turned away a bit. Annwyn saw this and studied her handmaiden closely.

“What troubles you, Malia?” she asked.

“I . . . I should not say, for fear of frightening you,” the handmaiden replied.

Annwyn stared at her a bit longer, then, keeping her eyes on Malia, she inclined her head toward Stjepan to address him.

“You speak of the secrets of this map, Athairi,” she said. “Where does this map lead?”

Stjepan paused, studying her profile for a moment, then returned to his work, his eyes following the words and images moving upon and under her skin and noting each new apparition in his notebook. He started to speak quietly as the crowds outside chanted.

“Magic is everywhere in the world, if oft forbidden by those who deem it a threat. And magic swords are common enough, I suppose; quite a few of the knights at the High King's Court bear rune-swords of one provenance or another. But there are a few enchanted swords in our history that are the stuff of legend. One such is
Gladringer
, the sword forged by the Daradjan blacksmith Gobelin, of the Bodmall clan, in the last dark days of the Winter Century, when the last of the Dragon Kings sought to hunt down and exterminate the Worm Kings. This was in the days when it was discovered that Githwaine, last of the Worm Kings, wielded
Ghavaurer
, the sword forged by Nymarga the Devil.”

“He used that cursed sword to kill the Dragon King Erlwulf,” said Malia. “I remember hearing the bards telling tales from
The Last of the Dragon Kings,
once upon a time . . .”

“Ah.
De Denoumis Wyrmis Basillus
, one of the great epics in Danian literature,” Stjepan said with a nod. “Then you know that for a time it looked as though evil would triumph, with the last Dragon King dead and Githwaine ruling openly over the lands of the western Mael. But good men sought a counter to his evil weapon, and one such was the blacksmith Gobelin. By legend it was one of my own ancestors, the Athairi witch Urfante, who led Gobelin to the ruins of the Green Temple of An-Athair. There he forged and enchanted the sword
Gladringer
out of star-iron, quenching it in the pools of the Spring Queen's blood that can still be found there. Gobelin made a gift of it to the Aurian hero Fortias the Brave, and with it Fortias slew Githwaine, and put an end to the cursed presence of the Worm Kings upon the earth. Fortias became the High King of the Middle Kingdoms; and Awain, our current High King, is his descendant.”

“May the King of Heaven watch over and protect His greatest vassal,” whispered Malia, seemingly out of reflex, and Annwyn echoed her a beat behind.

“Gladringer
was held by the High Kings of the Middle Kingdoms as a great relic and holy weapon,” said Stjepan. “Well, at least until it was dropped and lost in the Black Day Battle against the Empire by the High King Darwain Urfortias, ever after known as the Fumbler. And it became lost to history. But a story spread, repeated by bards in every tavern in the Middle Kingdoms: that
Gladringer
had been found on the battlefield where the Fumbler had dropped it, found by foul corpse-eaters, who spirited it away into the hands of the Nameless Cults who await the Devil's return. That it came into the possession of Azharad, the evil Sorcerer King of the Bale Mole, who ruled those hills and brought terror to the western Danias for a time. In the telling, Azharad sought some way to destroy
Gladringer
as a favor to his patron, Nymarga the Devil, but could not do it, so powerful were the magics of the artifact. And so he left orders to have it buried with him in secret when he died, so that the questing knights of the High King's Court could not recover it. Ever since, treasure-hunters have sought maps to where Azharad was buried, in the hopes that they might find
Gladringer
. But the location of his barrow, and with it the sword, was a secret held dear by the Nameless Cults.”