The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (59 page)

‘The script is apparently a poem, one that is so obscure it most likely contains a code. They call it the puzzle of the heart.’

Amber looked up at his lord. Without warning the hairs on his neck prickled, as they did when he suspected he was not in control of a situation.

What sort of a conqueror gets distracted in a library, however magnificent? Karkarn’s horn, is conquest
not
your goal?

‘
Have you broken the code?’ Amber asked in a hoarse whisper.

Lord Styrax smiled in a way he had never seen before: in genuine pleasure. The huge white-eye rarely showed his true emotions and Amber gave a cough of surprise as Styrax replied, ‘I will start today; none of my investigations have managed to procure a transcription. All I have heard is that the code is fiendishly difficult and reveals a surprising truth - the few individuals who have managed to decode it all refused to reveal the answer and destroyed their working.’

‘And you’ve come to test yourself against it?’ Amber asked. Duke Vrill had said once that had Lord Styrax not been born a white-eye or a mage, he would have become a renowned scholar all the same.

Styrax inclined his head. ‘How could I resist such a challenge? Since I could not find a transcription, I spent my time researching the object itself. I suspect the code’s creator never expected a more practical approach to the mystery.’

Amber looked puzzled. Clearly Lord Styrax had a point, but he had no idea what it was. If he wanted Amber to work something out he’d need another scrap of information.

‘I’ve been looking at their records,’ Styrax continued after a moment. ‘There is an allusion to the heart of your unknown soldier being encased within, but no explanation as to why he would donate his heart for this purpose. What’s more, according to the ancient records, Deverk Grast spent a few days here after he sacked Ismess, during what he termed the grand finale of
the scouring
. One night he walked out of those doors, called off the slaughter and began to draw up his plans for the Long March instead; the turning point in our tribe’s history. All very strange, wouldn’t you say?’

Amber gave a helpless shrug. ‘Ah, yes, sir, I suppose so.’

Every Menin child learned about the Long March, the exodus of the Menin tribe to the Ring of Fire. Approximately half had died on the two-year journey across the Waste but there was only ever conjecture and propaganda given as Grast’s reasoning.

Lord Styrax gave him a pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t have to sit here and help me with the code; just stay long enough to tell me what could not wait.’

Amber glanced back. The winged white-eye, Gesh, was watching them impassively from beside one of the bookcases, his feathers brushing its shelves. He cleared his throat, trying to speak as quietly as possible in the echoing room.

‘A few things of great importance. First of all; more people survived the fall of Scree than I had realised, Haipar the Shapeshifter for one. I was sure she’d died but now it appears she’s a nursemaid in the employ of the duchess.’

Lord Styrax gave a sharp bark of laughter. The sound echoed around the room but by the time faces looked up in surprise his face was blank again. Amber felt his cheeks colour as though he’d been the one to laugh. Despite being noble-born, he had never felt at ease in genteel surroundings.

‘Are they all this surprising?’ Styrax asked.

Amber nodded. ‘Secondly, Zhia Vukotic is in the city, or so Nai claims. Apparently she has some influence over the duchess’s chief advisor and made sure he was aware of it.’

‘Hardly a surprise; you said Haipar was one of her agents in Scree, no? It’s far from surprising the vampire has more than one in place.’

‘True, but I thought I should tell you she made the contact. The last thing is the strangest; I don’t know whether what I’ve made of it is even correct.’

Lord Styrax raised his eyebrows. ‘Your own puzzle of the heart?’

‘The duchess has a bodyguard, a new sergeant in the Ruby Guard called Kayel. He bears a basic similarity to me, nothing more, and yet it even brought me up short. For a moment I thought I had looked into the mirror, and Nai felt the same. He didn’t have time to investigate but he confirmed there was some sort of trace magic linking us.’

‘And you’ve not met him before?’ Lord Styrax mused. ‘A pretty little puzzle indeed; do you have a solution to it?’

Amber shifted uneasily. ‘Perhaps. That is- I don’t really know.’

‘Tell me.’

‘King Emin’s agent, Doranei - he came to Zhia Vukotic to ask about the prisoners she’d taken after the fight at the necromancer’s house: us. Afterwards, he kept a watch on me out of the corner of his eye, even though she’d proved it was impossible for him to have known anyone there.’

‘And so you are thinking, what if he was reminded of Kayel because of this link?’ Lord Styrax continued. ‘A good deduction. You said the Farlan knew nothing of the necromancer, nor did Narkang?’

‘Exactly, and Zhia wouldn’t have been playing those games, which leaves only Azaer’s disciples in my mind. They were the ones intent on stirring up chaos in Scree, after all, and to hear Doranei tell it, King Emin’s been waging a silent war with the shadow for years.’

‘Azaer,’ Lord Styrax breathed, as though savouring the word. ‘That would make times interesting. You think the lovely duchess is under Azaer’s control?’

‘From what I saw, she’s not all there these days. It’s as if she’s too wrapped up in that child she’s adopted. She brought it with her today,’ he added.

‘A child?’

‘A boy, Ruhen she called him. About five winters, I’d guess. Haven’t heard the brat say a word myself, it just stands there and watches in silence.’ Amber scowled. ‘Something not right with him either,’ he added. ‘Too quiet for a child, too still.’

‘A good vehicle for exerting influence over her,’ Lord Styrax mused, ‘but to what end?’

‘Sounds like she’s tearing apart the cults in Byora; the situation looked worse than even our reports had suggested. Folk are scared in that quarter, and her troops are on the street corners, not the walls.’

Lord Styrax exhaled slowly, deep in thought. ‘It would then follow that Azaer’s intent is drive a wedge between the Gods and the masses. Perhaps it went too far in Scree and couldn’t control the storm it had created, so it’s trying again here, with a little more subtlety. My concern with that theory is that it’s a time- and disciple-consuming process, considering what you said about the minstrel dying with the city. Does this shadow really have the power to run such an operation in every city of the Land?’

‘Couldn’t it be working one by one?’ Amber asked. ‘The shadow seems to be immortal, so time isn’t against it. Why doesn’t it trot along quietly, running the operations and recruiting in parallel? Could that be the purpose of the Azaer cult they were talking about, a recruiting ground?’

‘I think you’re right there, yes. But King Emin is a mortal and running against the years,’ Lord Styrax pointed out. ‘Given the chance to tackle the same tactic from a different angle, the man would surely find a way - especially since Azaer is taking a rather prominent position in Byoran politics. Every report we’ve had from Narkang has stressed we do not underestimate King Emin’s intellect, no matter how unlucky we were sending the White Circle after him.’

Styrax looked thoughtful for a moment, the hint of a smile on his face. ‘I suspect this shadow has a little more imagination than to use the same trick twice, and it lacks the strength to risk being so predictable. The powerful man can batter down the doors of his enemies; the weak man must find a new ploy for each.

‘I think we should go and meet this little scamp who looks like you.’ He clapped a massive hand onto Amber’s armoured shoulder. ‘Time for lunch, Major.’

The Scholars’ Palace, more than fifty yards wide and eight storeys high, got even more impressive the closer Amber got. It was built of white limestone set against the black rock of Blackfang’s cliffs. The upper six levels had open walkways at each end, connected by a communal balcony from which Amber could see more than a dozen men and women from different nations watching them approach. Dark-haired Farlan in traditional wide-sleeved shirts stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Chetse scholars wrapped in furs, but he couldn’t identify more than half of those watching him. The few that were blond didn’t look like Litse bloodstock; western states most likely. It appeared the tribe charged with protecting the library didn’t much value its knowledge.

He walked in silence with Lord Styrax, their winged escorts trailing along behind. Other than the cries of birds high in the air above there were no sounds of life here. Looking around, Amber saw white specks, sheep or goats, maybe, in the furthest corner of the valley, and a double bank of what he guessed were chicken coops tucked into an overhang of the rock. With a few acres of land penned with lines of stone where crops would be grown, the Library of Seasons was more self-sufficient than he had expected.

The living quarters for guests of the library were in the upper six levels of the Scholars’ Palace. Doors placed at short intervals opened onto each storey’s balcony, indicating small, austere rooms for each visitor. The ground floor looked to be given over to kitchens; it was more than double the depth of the other floors and supported an enormous terrace which had been decked out in all the colours of those who would be attending the strange luncheon Lord Styrax had announced.

Surrounding the terrace was a balustrade made entirely of white stone, the pillars of which were all human or animal figures in a variety of actions. Death and Ilit were at the corners, their outstretched hands holding up a fat rail beneath which the mortals lived and died. Unlike most statues of the God, which were either painted or carved from black rock, the cowled figure of Death was as white as the rest, something that looked oddly disconcerting to Amber.

The Fanged Skull of Lord Styrax presided over the centre of the balcony, facing into the valley, flanked on the left by Lord Celao’s Bundled Arrows and on the right by the Ruby Tower that was Natai Escral’s family crest. Opposite the Fanged Skull was the Runesword of the Knights of the Temples, unadorned by any personal symbols. Amber frowned when he saw that: did the Knights of the Temples not use personal crests, or had Cardinal Sourl’s position changed recently?

Below each crest was a long table, forming a square that did not meet at the corners. Litse servants busied themselves setting the tables for a formal meal, and Amber’s heart sank when he counted the number of places laid at Lord Styrax’s. Unless Lord Larim joined them, something he doubted a mage would willingly do, Amber thought he knew who would be filling that seat.

As though reading the soldier’s mind, Lord Styrax pointed towards the nearest of the open stairs, where a servant was watching them, long golden hair tied neatly back and a set expression of welcome on his face.

‘Your clothes have been taken to a room; go and make yourself presentable for lunch. I don’t believe Cardinal Sourl has arrived yet, so you have a little time.’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ Amber said. He looked up at the sky, trying to discern the position of the sun.

‘It is time, yes,’ Lord Styrax confirmed. ‘The army will have arrived by now.’

Amber nodded. ‘Doesn’t do a man’s appetite much good,’ he muttered with a sour expression before bowing and trudging off.

‘These are the sacrifices we make,’ Lord Styrax called after him. Amber didn’t dare turn and show his expression to the lord he worshipped.

Put it out of your mind
, he thought to himself,
there’s a job to be done.

 

A deep bellowing voice echoed through Fist, causing Major Teral to jump with alarm. He looked up from his soup, for a moment not hearing the words, as more voices took up the cry, confusing the message even further, but the urgency was unmistakable. Teral was on his feet and reaching for his swordbelt before he translated the words in his head. ‘To arms, to arms!’

Major Teral was Farlan by birth, and had only just arrived in Akell two weeks ago with his legion - this was his first day as duty-commander. Once in the corridor he had to pause and wait for the calls to come again, panic clouding his memory as he tried to remember which way led to the upper station. Already he’d got lost three times in the rabbit-warren of corridors filling the Fist, the enormous fortress that was Akell’s forward defence.

‘Major!’ yelled a voice behind him. Teral whirled around to see Sergeant Jackler barrelling towards him. The bearded old sergeant had adopted him years ago as an officer in need of a guiding hand, to the profit of them both, and it had since grown into an unshakable loyalty. ‘Bloody Menin Army at the gates, sir !’

Jackler turned back the way he had come, Teral close on his heels as they headed for the upper station where they would be able to get a good view of them.

‘Are they attacking?’ he yelled as Jackler battered soldiers out of the way, clearing a path for Teral.

‘No, bastards just sauntered into view!’ Jackler called back. ‘Tells us why those scouts were late reporting back.’ He added with a pitiless laugh, ‘Won’t bother putting them on report now!’

Teral didn’t reply as he followed up the stair and out onto the upper station. The highest part of the Fist was half-full of soldiers already and he had to fight his way forward to get a decent view.

‘Jackler, get the enlisted to their stations,’ he shouted, roughly elbowing past men there to get a look. Leaving Jackler bellowing behind him, Teral reached the far edge and pushed his head cautiously through the crenellations.

‘Piss and daemons,’ he whispered, eyes widening at the sight before him.

‘Cocky bastards, ain’t they, sir?’ Jackler laughed behind him. ‘No urgency, no assault squads formed. Looks like they’re expecting us to just open the gates right up!’