The Black Star (Book 3) (40 page)

The innkeep quoted them a nightly price. Ast frowned. Dante had little reference for the cost of things in Ellan, yet the man's price struck him as ludicrous. The man grinned and countered with an offer five percent lower. Dante was good and pissed off, and the ensuing bartering session gave him the opportunity to blow off a great deal of steam. When he made his final offer, the innkeep laughed, slapped his hand, and offered him two pitchers of free beer. Dante accepted with a smile, feeling an instant camaraderie with the man. It struck him that Ellan's intense focus on commerce might have arisen as a survival strategy.

With Ast's assistance, he plumbed the innkeep for knowledge of the city. The man had lived in Ellan all his life, but couldn't remember there ever being a building on Iden designated #327 East.

"What exactly are you trying to find?" he said.

A delicate question, but Dante had already given it thought. "Do you have the Celeset here? The River of Stars?"

The innkeep pursed his lips. "This is a place?"

"It's the house of the twelve gods. Their seats in the sky."

"Thirteen," the man corrected. "The Thirteen Lords of the Broken Circle."

Dante needed a bit of help from Ast to translate that, and then to ask and confirm that the Thirteen Lords were the Weslean equivalent of Arawn, Taim, Lia, and so on.

"Are you a priest?" the innkeeper said.

Dante nodded. "I'm from Mallon. In my travels, I discovered that while the land of Gask shares many of our beliefs, Gaskan accounts of the past differ from ours. After years of inconclusive research, I've come to Weslee to see if your stories can help guide me to the truth."

"You've come to the right place. Ellan is famed around the world for its scholarship."

Dante felt no compunction to let the man know that in Mallon and Gask, Ellan wasn't famed to
exist
, let alone to be a hotbed of learning. "Where would I go to learn more?"

The man immediately rattled off half a dozen of what, judging by the fact Dante couldn't understand any of them, he assumed were proper names. "But the first place I'd go is the Stoll of the Winds. They're proud of their wisdom and eager to exchange it with others."

Dante asked for and Ast transcribed the very thorough directions that followed. The innkeep lingered a moment to ensure there was nothing more, then went to slap hands and exchange loud greetings with another patron.

"I don't know why the monk sent us here," Dante said. "Maybe we're being misled or maybe we haven't searched hard enough yet. Either way, Ellan is big and we can move openly. I think we can find knowledge of our past here."

"You're the boss," Somburr said dryly. "Perhaps we could divide our labor to hasten the search."

"I'll need Ast to translate."

Somburr shrugged. "I speak well enough to get around on my own."

"Can I go with you to the stoll?" Lew said. "It sounds fascinating."

Cee flicked the rim of her beer cup. "That's not in the top thousand words I'd use to describe it."

"Because you don't have a thousands words in your vocabulary."

She stared him down, then laughed and waved her hand. "Enjoy your temple. I'm going with Somburr."

"Fine," Dante said. "Somburr, if anything happens, you know how to reach me."

That got strange looks from Ast and Cee, a brief nod from Somburr, and a look of smug wisdom from Lew. Dante wasn't tempted to explain. The loons were still a highly guarded secret. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't certain they'd work. He and Somburr didn't have a direct connection. Rather, they had to pass messages back and forth through Nak, who was hundreds of miles away in Narashtovik. Since the loons were bound by shared nether, they would theoretically work from any distance, but Dante had never tested them at this range. Nor when there was a colossal mountain range separating his loon from its twin.

As soon as Somburr and Cee were on their way, Dante went to the back of the inn on the pretext of using the water closet. Once he was alone in the dim, cool hallway, he activated his loon and pulsed Nak.

"My goodness," Nak said. "Do I even want to ask where you are right now?"

Dante chuckled. "The city of Ellan, capital of Camren, one of the superlative territories of the amalgamated kingdom of Weslee."

"Is there anything more boring than the name of a place you'll never visit?"

"The appendices of the
Cycle
?" Hearing a footstep, Dante glanced behind him, but the hallway was empty. "Let Olivander know that progress is slow, but I remain optimistic we'll land our fish."

"Are we speaking in code now? Ahem. 'The raven watches the plain.'"

"Glad it's found employment. Will you loon Somburr and confirm we're capable of exchanging messages? We just split up."

Nak allowed that he would do so and dropped the link. A moment later, Dante's loon pulsed; Nak had successfully made contact with Somburr.

"By the way," Nak said, "there was another burst of lights in the Woduns a couple weeks ago. And your friend from the mountains, Vinsin? He says a party of strangers passed through Soll not long after you did. They claimed they were pilgrims from Yallen, but Vinsin got a look inside one of their pouches—and saw a letter sealed with Moddegan's wax."

Dante dropped his voice to a whisper. "The king knows about Cellen?"

"Given the accepted definition of the word 'know,'
we
don't know about Cellen. Thus I doubt Moddegan knows what he's after—but we can assume he knows there might be something worth aftering for."

"Good thing we sent our finest spy to another country. What would you like me to do about this?"

"Olivander's monitoring the situation," Nak said, unworried as ever. "Just thought you'd like to know."

Dante shut off the loon. Back in the common room, he gathered up Ast and Lew and hit the streets. Sunlight dazzled from the jaundiced bricks. A pleasant wind blew through town; it had to be nearly fifty degrees out, easily the warmest it had been since they'd crossed the Woduns. He couldn't say if the profusion of people in the streets was a product of the weather, or if it was always this busy in Ellan. Many of the residents wore drooping white cotton that resembled a fitted version of a monk's robes. They wore scarves around their heads or mouths, bright with the colors of flame—red, orange, yellow. There were a great deal of foreigners, too, including a healthy minority of Spirish dressed in their loose earth-toned garb with cinched ankles and wrists.

Maybe it was the steady wind, or the open prairie on all sides, but it didn't smell as bad as most cities. Some animal dung, but that was largely overwhelmed by the profusion of vegetables, perfumes, and spices on display on every block, along with the racks of meat, onions, and garlic being grilled in every plaza. He'd never seen a more grill-happy place. He would have to find time to take advantage of it.

They had an address for the Stoll of the Winds, but hardly needed it. Dozens of orange banners fluttered from the rim of its round roof. It stood a hundred feet high, its outer layer faced with a vertical brick herringbone pattern, dizzying to look at. Each floor was separated by solid blocks of sandstone carved with friezes. The front doors stood open. Inside, the vestibule was lit by narrow windows, redolent of incense. Ast informed a passing monk they were foreigners seeking the wisdom of the Lords of the Broken Circle. Could he help them?

The monk smiled and padded into the depths of the stoll. As a convert to the path of Arawn, which would get him beaten or hanged in his homeland, Dante felt vaguely uncomfortable strolling into an alien church to chew the fat with its priests. But the man who strolled out to meet them was all smiles. He wore airy cotton robes and his head was shaved. His lack of hair, his tan, and the crinkles around his smiling eyes made it difficult to gauge his age, but he was had to be close to sixty. He introduced himself as Mikkel and took them up two flights to a small room with a balcony overlooking the street.

Dante explained what he'd told the innkeep. Sometimes he needed Ast to clarify certain words or concepts, but he was finding himself more and more comfortable with the Weslean language.

When he finished, the priest chuckled like a purring cat. "If Gask's stories are different than Mallon's, and Weslee's stories are different than Gask's, how will you be any closer to the truth? Won't you just be more confused?"

"That depends on how much sense your stories make," Dante said.

The man laughed some more. "If they made sense, why would the world need people like me to interpret them?"

Dante smiled. "Perhaps because the truths are so simple people distrust them."

The priest glanced about, as if for eavesdroppers, and leaned forward. "Personally, I think we contort the words of the gods to ensure we stay in business. Don't tell."

He found it impossible not to like the bald old man. "I understand your people believe in something called the Thirteen Lords of the Broken Circle. This raises two questions."

"Both would be answered by the
Cycle of Jeren
."

Dante checked with Ast to make sure he understood. "The
Cycle of Jeren
?"

"Indeed. To a man of your background, it is exactly as blasphemous as it sounds."

"You know the
Cycle of Arawn
? How?"

Mikkel leaned forward and pressed his palms together. "Because, depending on your point of view, our book corrects it—or perverts it."

All of this was so interesting that Dante temporarily set aside all concerns of Cellen. "So you've read both?"

The priest nodded. "Unlike most people with an opinion on the matter. Which means I disagree that
Jeren
is either a correction or a perversion. That would present
Arawn
as the first text, an authority
Jeren
is responding to. But
Jeren
doesn't merely pick up where
Arawn
leaves off. Instead, they diverge from a common trunk. Two forks of the same tree. Not father and offspring, but siblings."

"How long ago do the two accounts diverge?"

"Not as easy to determine as you might expect."

"Because the
Cycle
—of
Arawn
, I mean—isn't chronological."

"Nor is
Jeren
. And certain older elements of
Arawn
were de-canonized for
Jeren
, while other passages that weren't included in yours were made canon in ours. This makes the Divergence among the most hotly debated fields of study." Mikkel eyed him. "Conservatives generally agree one book became two about four hundred years ago. Credible written accounts stretch back that far. More radical scholars, however, place the date a millennium in the past—or further."

Dante needed quite a lot of help from Ast to work through all this. Once he understand, he gave Mikkel a quizzical look. "I must say, for a priest, you discuss this very...openly."

The man shrugged, white cotton robe shifting on his shoulders. "It's not like this everywhere in Weslee. If your journeys take you elsewhere, remember your version of the truth is heresy."

"Naturally."

"As for myself, I consider our truth strong enough to withstand interrogation. Furthermore, given the confusing history of our holiest book, isn't it our
duty
to explore its past? If we don't know where it came from, how can we hope to understand it?"

"Do you have a spare copy of
Jeren
?" Dante said.

"Many. We prefer them to not leave the stoll, but if you'd like to take one, we only require that you make a donation to cover the costs of transcription."

"I don't suppose you have one in Gaskan. Or Mallish."

"We may have a translation, but it would take time to copy. Would you like a Weslean version in the meantime?"

"Very much," Dante said. "Can you tell me about the schism?"

"Can't wait to read it for yourself?" Mikkel laughed. He glanced out the window at the sky. "I can give you the condensed version. Many, many years ago, two tribes occupied the land: the Rashen and the Elsen. These two were similar enough that some believe they were once the same—a belief I share, though now is not the time to explore why.

"Both were devoutly loyal to Arawn. So much so that they became rivals for his favor. They offered him feasts. Sacrifices. Named holidays in his honor. Yet no matter how hard they tried, he gave them no sign which tribe he held in greater esteem. In time, they began to fight, thinking this would prove who he loved more. At first this took the form of champions in single combat, but as more warriors died and Arawn stayed silent, the tribes' rivalry descended into hatred. Soon, they were at war.

"Within a generation, both tribes stood on the brink of the end. Before they could destroy themselves completely, Arawn finally made himself known. Because the Elsen had struck last—and, I believe, to terrorize the people into never fighting such a war again—he ruined them utterly. Floods. Fires. Quakes. In his wrath, the storms lasted for years. Erasing all sight of the Elsen.

"Yet they persisted. Because Arawn's daughter Jeren believed he was wrong to eradicate those who loved him. With the Circle of Heaven's Promise broken, she led the Elsen in secret to another land. East of the Woduns. And while the people knew better than ever of Arawn's true might, they had also learned better than to worship strength. Now, they honored wisdom. And Jeren was its brightest light."

Mikkel fell silent. While Dante was able to follow most of this, he'd required Ast's help with the more obscure words, and so the telling of the story had taken longer than it might have. As Dante began his first question, brass horns blared from the top of the Stoll of the Winds, echoed by others across the city.

"Duty calls," Mikkel said. "Please, see me again once you've had time to absorb our book for yourself. In the meantime, I will see if we have a translation in one of your native tongues."

He smiled, rose, and bowed. Dante returned the gesture. A monk waited just outside the door. He led Dante, Ast, and a dazed Lew downstairs, then presented Dante with a copy of
The Cycle of Jeren
. Its cover was blue and bore an icon of a white circle broken by a wedge of nothing. The monk showed them outside.