Authors: John Marco
The Eyes of God (81 page)
In the end, Figgis had cracked like an eggshell. Lukien and Gilwyn Toms were on their way to Jador. Surprisingly, Breck was with them, or had simply fled his home in Borath. Knight-Guardians sent to Breck’s farm had reported that the place had been abandoned.
There was no doubt in Akeela’s mind that Lukien had the amulet now, and that he and his cohorts intended to warn the Jadori about the coming invasion. Most curiously of all, though, was the presence of Baron Glass. Akeela’s mind turned on this fact, troubled by it.
All my enemies gather against me.
He was determined not to let them win. The amulet meant nothing to him now. What life was there without Cassandra, anyway? It was his, and he would reclaim it, but he doubted he would use it. He wasn’t such a great king, and he knew it. There was no reason for his reign to last forever.
A knock at the chamber door broke into his thoughts. As he called for his guest to enter, General Trager opened the door. He looked wretchedly tired, his face drawn from the fatigue of his unpleasant duty. He looked toward Akeela at the table.
“We’ve brought him,” he said.
“Bring him in,” replied Akeela.
Trager stepped aside, revealing two of his soldiers. Hanging between them, supported by their outstretched arms, was Figgis. The old man’s face was bloated and contused. Blood caked his swollen lips and both eyes sported black bruises. The effort of walking to the dining chamber had winded him so that his breath came in grating rasps. Seeing him made Akeela flinch. Figgis lifted his face, saw Akeela seated at the elaborate table, and let out a mournful groan.
“Don’t, Figgis, please,” said Akeela. “It’s done, I promise you. No one is going to hurt you any more.” Akeela gestured to the soldiers. “Sit him down.”
The men did as ordered, half dragging Figgis through the chamber and propping him into the high-backed chair so that he sat across from Akeela. Figgis could barely hold up his head, but he struggled valiantly to do so, squaring his shoulders as he stared at Akeela over the feast of platters.
“Should I stay?” Trager asked.
“No,” said Akeela. “Wait outside and take your men with you. I’ll call if I need you.” He offered Figgis a reconciling grin. “Leave me alone with my friend for a while. We have some things to discuss.”
Trager and his men left the dining chamber, closing the doors behind them. When they were gone Akeela smiled across the table at Figgis. The old man looked ghastly in the light from the candelabras. His face seemed to droop; pain glowed in his blackened eyes. Exhausted, he leaned back against his chair, his head lolling on his shoulders. Red welts marked his neck where Trager had worked the garrote. Finally, Figgis spoke.
“Why . . . ?”
The voice dribbled from his swollen lips. An expression of pain and sadness contorted his face.
“I had to know the truth,” said Akeela. “You were lying to me; I could tell.”
“I’m an old man, my lord. We’re. . . .” He paused. “We were . . . friends.”
“Yes,” said Akeela, nodding. “But you betrayed me, Figgis. You sold me out to Lukien. And you killed Cassandra.”
“We didn’t know,” Figgis groaned. Weakly he leaned forward, his elbows banging clumsily into the table. “We thought the curse was a hoax.”
“So you’ve told me,” said Akeela. “But dead is dead, and now I’ll never see Cassandra again. That’s murder, isn’t it? People should pay for murder, shouldn’t they?”
Figgis said nothing, but his eyes widened in alarm.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you.” Then Akeela laughed. “Who else could I get to run that confounded library of mine?” He sighed, spreading his hands in friendship. “Well, it’s over. Tomorrow I leave in search of Lukien and Glass, and that troublesome boy of yours. But you and I will speak no more about this, agreed? When I return, it will be just like always between us. No grudges.”
Figgis began to shake. Akeela realized he was sobbing.
“No, don’t weep, my friend,” said Akeela gently. “Look, I’ve set out this great feast for us. A peace offering.”
“I’m not hungry,” rasped Figgis.
“Oh, yes you are. You must be. You haven’t eaten in days, and neither have I. Go on, eat. Let’s both forgive ourselves for what we’ve done, eh?”
The table was full of temptations. Akeela could see the hunger on Figgis’ face, even through his contusions.
“Please,” urged Akeela. “There’s nothing more you can do. Now that I know where Lukien has gone, I’m going to find him. You won’t be able to save him, you know that. You might as well ease your own suffering.”
Predictably, Figgis’ resolve broke in moments. With one shaky hand he reached for the nearest platter, filled with joints of game birds. His fingers trembled as he held the bird to his lips, eating with effort and pain. Akeela watched him devour the food, pleased to seeing him enjoying it.
“Good,” he said softly. “I want peace between us, Figgis. And I want you to at least try and understand why I did what I did.”
Figgis didn’t answer. He picked up his goblet and drained its contents, pouring half of it down his soiled shirt.
“You do understand, don’t you, Figgis?”
The old man nodded, but Akeela knew it was just to shut him up. He let the librarian continue gorging himself. Figgis reached out for another piece of fowl, took a few bites, then dropped it into his plate. He began to cough as though a bone had lodged itself in his throat.
“My lord,” Figgis gasped, staring at him with bulging eyes. His face began to redden as his windpipe involuntarily constricted. Banging on the table, he cried, “Akeela!”
Akeela watched impassively, surprised by the speed of the poison. Figgis put a hand to his throat, gasping. There was still remarkable strength in him, even after the beating; his thrashing impressed Akeela. But it wouldn’t matter. The poison had already done its work. Figgis knew it, too.
“Akeela . . .” His gasping reminded Akeela of a chicken, squealing with its neck on the block. His eyes flared in utter disbelief. “You can’t! My library. . . .”
It took effort to understand him. Akeela watched Figgis change color as the poison choked his words. “It isn’t your library, Figgis,” he said. “It’s mine. Just like Cassandra was mine. Why doesn’t anyone understand that?”
Past the point of answering, his remaining life ebbing fast away, Figgis gave Akeela a merciless sneer. Then he collapsed face first into his plate.
The room fell deathly quiet. Akeela stood up and went to his old friend, feeling his bruised neck and getting no pulse. A wave of sorrow overcame him.
“Why does everyone betray me?”
The dead man gave no answer. Akeela pulled back Figgis’ head, sitting him up properly and carefully wiping the food from his face. The old man deserved some dignity, he supposed.
“Will, get in here,” he bellowed.
Instantly Trager opened the doors. When he saw Figgis slumped dead in his chair, he smiled. “It’s done. Good.”
“Yes,” said Akeela, “and don’t look so glad about it. He was a good man.”
Trager smirked. “No, my lord. A good man wouldn’t betray you.”
“Many good men have betrayed me. Now be ready to set out in the morning. We leave at dawn.”
“For Jador, my lord?”
“Of course,” said Akeela. “That’s where we’ll find Lukien.”
“And the amulet, my lord.”
“Yes, the amulet, too.”
“Will we try to recover both of them?”
Akeela shrugged. “If the freaks of Grimhold stand against us, we will make them pay. If they have the amulet, we will take it.”
“We’ll have to fight, have no doubt,” warned Trager. “Lukien will try to help them. For that, they will protect him.”
“Then they will die,” said Akeela.
Trager couldn’t conceal his grin. “We’ll make Lukien pay for what he’s done to you.”
“Indeed we will,” agreed Akeela. Regretfully he regarded the dead Figgis. “Friends, Will—they’re the worst enemies of all.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Trager, then turned and left the chamber, leaving Akeela alone with the feast of poisoned food.
PART THREE
THE MISTRESS OF GRIMHOLD
42
J
ador was far away.
ador was far away.
In the heat of the desert the sands moaned, shifting and obscuring the white city in the distance. Beneath his black gaka, Kadar chafed under the sun. He could barely detect his city now, for he had traveled far in the hours since morning. Only the tips of Jador’s spiraling towers could be seen above the dunes, like tiny needles shining on the horizon. Ahead of him, a rugged collection of tall reddish rocks erupted out of the desert sands. Kadar spied the rocks. The sun was dazzling, blinding him with its hot light. Little beads of perspiration fell from his brown brow, stinging his eyes, the only part of his face not covered by black cloth. He was still as stone as he watched the rocks, as was his kreel, Istikah. The great lizard felt the caution in her master’s mind. Understanding perfectly, she mimicked Kadar’s quiet. The thick scales along her hide shifted colors, turning from their usual green to approximate the golden sand. Like Kadar, Istikah sensed the danger ahead. Her tongue slid from her long, reptilian snout, tasting the air. In the bond that had grown between Kadar and his mount—the bond that always formed between rider and kreel—Kadar could sense Istikah’s alarm. The rass was very near. They had discovered its hidden lair. But Istikah gave Kadar no sense of fear. In the tongue of Jador, the lizard’s name meant “courageous,” and she had always lived up to her name. She and Kadar had confronted rass before, and they had always been victorious against the great snakes. Though the rass were the natural enemies of the kreel, giant hooded cobras with an insatiable appetite for kreel eggs, Istikah did not fear them. Rather, she seemed to hate them with an almost human zeal. It was why she was so effective against them. And it was why Kadar had bonded with her so well, better than with any kreel before her. Both were driven, perhaps irrationally, and both had no fear of death.
It hadn’t always been so for Kadar. In the days before the coming, he had loved life and dreaded its eventual end. With the amulet’s help, he had buried many wives. But none had he loved so much as Jitendra. With her death, the lure of immortality lost its strange appeal.
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