The Swords of Night and Day (37 page)

He looked crestfallen, but merely bowed and backed away.

As the door closed behind him Jianna raised her arms above her head and stretched. Then she sighed. “We will talk on the balcony,” she said. Memnon followed her out into the fading light. She beckoned him to a wicker chair. He waited for her to seat herself, then slightly raised his gown and perched on the edge of his chair. He had no wish to stretch the gown and spoil the line.

“Has he bedded her yet?” she asked.

He noted the jealousy in her voice. It was surprising. He had never known her to show such emotion. “No, Highness. It is obvious they have great attraction for one another, but there has been nothing . . . carnal.”

She laughed. “You make the word
carnal
sound like something stuck to the bottom of a boot.” The smile faded. “So, she is a virgin still. Good. I always enjoy being a virgin again.” Jianna sat silently for a while. Then she spoke again. “When you watched him did he speak of me?”

Memnon had known this moment would arrive. He had planned to lie, but now that he observed the depth of her feelings for the man he decided the truth would be far more potent. “Yes, Highness. I don’t think you would like to hear it, however.”

“I will judge that! Speak!”

“The Reborn now knows of her origins. She asked Skilgannon about you. He said you had been corrupted by power, and had become evil, and that he would do all in his power to end your reign.”

“Yes, that is my Olek! A true romantic. Good and evil as separate as night and day. It will be so good to see him again.”

Her response shocked him. “You are not angry?”

“I might as well be angry at the sun for shining too brightly. Olek is an unusual man. He had great intelligence, and yet he insists on seeing the world in a basically simple way. He looks at my Reborns and no doubt says that I steal their bodies and banish their souls. Quite true. However, I look at those Reborns and say,
But they would not exist, save for my bones and my blood. Without me they would have had no life at all. They would never have been born. Therefore I have gifted them with twenty years of life they would otherwise never have experienced. I have loaned them a part of my life. When the loan period is up I take it back.
Equally true. Do you think I am evil, Memnon?”

“I do not know what evil is,” he answered.

“When you send out your Shadows to kill a rival, is that evil?”

“I expect the rival would think so. Would you mind if I stood, Highness?”

“Not at all.”

Memnon rose and smoothed his hands down the sides of his gown. “The material stretches badly,” he explained.

Reaching up, she took hold of his mutilated hand. “How are your Reborns faring?”

“All dead, but one. And he will not last the winter.”

“No more mutilations, Memnon. You are having difficulty walking now. How many toes have you taken?”

“Two from each foot. I must find a way, Highness. Or I, too, shall be dead.”

“Not for some years yet, my dear. There is still time.”

“There is something wrong, and I cannot find it. The artifacts are flawless, and everything is fine until the children reach eight, sometimes nine. Then the cancers begin. They are eaten alive by them.”

“I recall that you yourself were the only survivor of the . . . the family created by Landis. Those children also died. In the end he used all the bones he found.”

“That is a great shame,” he said. “Perhaps with them I could create a more perfect duplicate.”

“I do not think so. The bones were not human, Memnon.”

“What?” He was shocked. “Landis told me he found the remains of a great wizard from the past.”

“Yes, he did. There was enormous excitement. According to legends the wizard, a man named Zhujow, made a pact with a demon lord. He was being hunted by a knight named Rulander. Zhujow called on the demon to give him the power to defeat the knight. The demon did just that. He changed Zhujow into a Joining. Rulander still slew him. It was the bones of the Joining Landis discovered. That is why it was so difficult for him to refine the process and produce you. I still do not know how he did it, but I recall the horrors of his first attempts. One child clawed its way from the womb of the mother. Both died. Others were born hideously deformed and had to be destroyed. Then you arrived. Almost perfect.”

“Why was I never told this before, Highness?”

“When you were young Landis believed the knowledge would have a detrimental effect on you. As you grew older—” She shrugged. “—the subject just never arose. Is it helpful to know?”

“It could be. It might explain why the children’s bodies become so unstable. I need to study more. Unwallis has become fascinated by Landis Khan’s journals of his experiments with Skilgannon. For myself I prefer the more detailed journals I have discovered in the artifact chambers. These are more concerned with the various refinements he made.”

“Well, make sure you get enough rest,” she said, releasing his hand.

“Thank you, Highness, for your concern. As you know my demise will not affect the passage of your soul to the first of the Reborns.”

“That is not what I meant. You are dear to me, Memnon. I want you to be well.”

He was momentarily touched by her concern. But then he thought,
Decado was dear to you, too.
The Eternal was beautiful, and kind, and considerate, when it suited her. And chilling and deadly when the mood took her.

“I shall rest now, Highness, by your leave.”

“Do that. On your way out you will see a handsome soldier, with blond hair, guarding my door. Send him to me.”

M
emnon did not go to his bed. Instead he walked from the palace, cutting through the gardens to the stables at the rear. Beyond them was a long black wagon, high sided, with a curving roof. The six-wheeled vehicle was more than twenty feet long. There were no windows, but a series of covered slits could be seen along both sides. The entrance was at the rear. The sun had sunk behind the mountains, and although the sky was still blue no direct sunlight shone upon the wagon doorway. Memnon pulled on a lever beside the door, and three steps slid into view. Mounting the first, he tapped on the door. “Close your eyes, my children,” he said. Swiftly he opened the door and moved inside, pulling shut the door behind him.

The darkness within was absolute. A soft chittering sound began. Memnon felt the Shadows moving around him. “Three of your brothers are no more,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “They failed. They have brought shame upon us. Their deaths must be avenged.”

Reaching out his hands, he continued. “Touch me, my children. Touch me and
see
the enemies whose deaths are required.” Eyes closed, he summoned images of Decado and Skilgannon to his mind, holding to them, as each of the seven Shadows closed around him, their touch as light as a morning breeze. “First there must be Decado. You know his scent. Then the other, the carrier of two swords. He is a danger to us all. Kill him, and any with him. Devour their hearts. And hide the bodies where none will find them. Tonight there will be clouds. You must travel far. I will commune with you, and lead you to the prey. Now close your eyes, my children, for I must open the door and there is still daylight beyond.”

Memnon left the wagon swiftly and returned to his apartments. A servant girl with frightened eyes brought him food and a goblet of red wine. She had not served him before and did not know of his distaste for liquor of any kind.

As he ate he considered the events of the day. The Eternal’s desire to keep Skilgannon alive was a mystery to him. It was also ill advised. Of course some prophecies would prove false. Equally some would prove true, and it was foolish to allow an enemy to walk free. Memnon would keep his death secret. Eventually the Eternal would tire of looking for him, and all would be as it was.

Not all, he hoped.

The deaths of his Reborns were proving bitter and frightening. How was it that children fashioned from his own bones should prove so frail? Why indeed had he not died as a child?

Lighting a lantern, he gathered up yet more of the papers he had discovered in the artifacts chamber and began to study them. They were interesting. Landis Khan had had a fine mind, and many of his theories of the artifacts were thought provoking. Yet nothing he found cast any new light on the problem he faced. Pushing the papers aside, he lay back on a couch, staring up at the ornate ceiling.

As he drifted toward exhausted sleep he released his mind, floating clear of his weary frame. His spirit floated along deserted corridors and down to the servants’ quarters, where young women were gathered, preparing food for the soldiers who guarded the palace. Their conversation was dull and predictable and he flowed past them, down into the artifact chambers below the palace. Here his two aides were also studying Landis Khan’s journals. Patiacus, bald and round shouldered, sat hunched by a table reading slowly. The younger Oranin suddenly leaned back and rubbed at his eyes. “A clever man,” he said.

“Too clever,” responded Patiacus. “His ashes are scattered through the gardens.”

“Why do you think he spent so much time drawing necklaces?”

“Necklaces?”

“These notes are full of them. He talks of structures and debilities and instabilities. I cannot understand a tenth of it.”

“Look for references to the Lord Memnon,” advised Patiacus. “That is what is important.”

Oranin rose from his chair and ran his hand over his close-cropped red hair. “There are hundreds of these journals. It will take weeks.”

“You have other plans?” asked Patiacus.

“There is a plump serving girl with inviting eyes. I think she likes me.”

“Then she has no taste,” observed Patiacus. “Now stop interrupting me.”

The two men returned to their work. It was obvious to Memnon, and not for the first time, that the two men liked one another. In a way he could not explain Memnon found this dispiriting. Affection was an emotion he had never experienced. There had never been anyone that Memnon had truly liked. At first he thought most people were like him, learning how to socialize, establishing working relationships, knowing when to smile and when to be solemn. But he was older and wiser now, and knew that he was different from those others in so many subtle ways. Mostly he tried to convince himself that his lack of emotional response to people was an asset. At times like this his confidence in that belief was less sure.

Returning to his body, he sat up and drank a little water.

People believed he was devoted to the Eternal. Once, when floating unobserved above Unwallis, he listened as the statesman told a colleague: “It is his only redeeming human quality.”

Yet even this was not true. He looked upon the Eternal as he looked upon his clothes. Beautiful to gaze upon, to observe, to enjoy.

“Do you think I am evil, Memnon?” she had asked.

“I do not know what evil is,” he had replied.

It was not strictly true. Evil was anything that hampered or obstructed his life and his plans. Good was anything that facilitated his desires.

He felt the weariness of his body and decided to float free once more. In spirit form there was no exhaustion, no heavy weariness. He floated up to the royal apartments and watched as Jianna entertained the young cavalry officer, their bodies locked together, sweat glistening on their skin. Then he moved away and saw Unwallis pacing the corridor outside, his eyes angry.

This relaxed Memnon. Who could possibly desire to know such jealousy? Who could want to be locked in such a sweaty embrace with a stranger?

Leaving the palace, his spirit soared up and over the mountains.

The machines of the ancients were incredibly complex, their component parts a mystery. It was not even possible to ascertain the method of their construction. The metals were extraordinarily fine and light, alloys, Memnon guessed, of gold and other metals unknown in this time. When the power was in them they functioned automatically, following a pattern laid down by ancient wizards, whose knowledge was as far above Memnon’s as could be imagined. They were perfect. Which made the failures of Memnon’s own Reborns all the more galling. His Reborns should have been exact duplicates of himself. Why they should be prone to cancerous growths in childhood was a mystery that filled his mind. He could not recall ever being ill. His own body seemed capable of fighting off any infection or disease.

Pausing in his flight, he realized he had flown to the site of the lost temple. He gazed down at the two mountain passes leading to what had once been the Mountain of the Resurrection. Now there was just an empty bowl of land, full of twisted shrubs. He saw the wind blow a dust cloud toward the bowl. The cloud disappeared as it reached it.

How Skilgannon’s heart would sink when he saw this place.

He thought of the man he had encountered in Gamal’s dream place. Jianna was right. There was a fierce intelligence in his eyes, and there was no doubt he was possessed of an indomitable spirit. Memnon had observed the peasant girl placing the swords in his hands, and had seen him awaken. He was weak and disoriented—and yet still he summoned the strength to kill the beast that came at him.

Memnon turned south, soaring high above the River Rostrias and back toward the distant mountains. He passed over valleys and hills, forests and streams, seeking out the swordsman. At one point he saw a group of Joinings and a small man in a red tunic. It was an incongruous sight. Two Joinings were hauling a wagon. At any other time such a sight would have piqued his interest. He flew on, scanning the forest trails.

Then he saw a flickering campfire set in a wooded hollow. It was well placed and could not have been seen from ground level. Memnon floated down to hover above the trio sitting quietly by the fire. He gazed at Skilgannon. The man’s expression was stern and distant. Close by the Eternal Reborn kept glancing at him. Beyond them both was the huge peasant with the ancient ax.

“How did you die . . . the first time?” he heard the woman ask.

“Painfully,” replied Skilgannon. He glanced across at the peasant. “How are you faring, Harad?”