The Way Into Chaos (13 page)

Tejohn noted that lamp--little more than a bowl, really--held oil and wick but had not been lit. He looked around for a priest; none were in evidence. Maybe they were still at breakfast. Nevertheless, it was bad luck to neglect Fire in a time of war.
 

He knelt at the feet of The Soldier and prayed for guidance in battle and guidance in his passage on The Way. Fury was the god of humans and human action, and he was traditionally the second to receive praise and prayer, after the Great Way itself.
 

After that, Tejohn entreated Fire to sweep his enemies from The Way but pass him by. He did his best not to look up at the unlit lamp; the priests insisted that the gods heard prayers in a swamp or a latrine just as well as in the temple. Still, it seemed disrespectful to ask favors when they couldn’t even trouble themselves to light a Fire-taken lamp.
 

Then he had a choice of which chapel to visit, and which god to entreat. One didn’t ask the Little Spinner to turn more slowly, so he wouldn’t pray there. Not yet, anyway. And it had always seemed arrogant to him to pray to Song for deeds yet undone, although few others seemed to share his opinion.
 

Instead, he went into the chapel for Monument. He knelt before the marble obelisk, chipped on one side but enduring, and prayed for the strength to preserve the Italga line, the empire, and whatever goodness and happiness could be found within its borders. War against the beasts would be difficult enough, but if civil war broke out as well, Fire might take the entire empire from The Way. Tejohn prayed, fervently, for the strength to remain himself, to protect his king, and to protect his empire. To withstand. Only then did he dare to pray, as fervently as he could, for the safety of his wife and children.
 

Maybe it was his imagination, but he was sure he felt Monument’s blessing.

When he finished, he went into the main chamber again. He’d intended to leave, but Wimnel Farrabell emerged from the Song chapel. He was haggard and red-eyed, as though he’d been awake all night.
 

“My tyr,” he said, startled. “I’m sorry to intrude—”

“You are not intruding. The temple is open to all.” Tejohn noted his rumpled clothes. “Have you been keeping vigil all night?”

The man rubbed his face. “I can not sleep. I left family behind, my tyr. My wife, my children... I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t discuss such things. But I wanted Song to remember them, to...”

Farrabell seemed to run out of things to say. Tejohn understood. “If you have finished your prayers, try to sleep. We will need you soon, I think.”
 

The driver nodded and moved toward the exit. Tejohn passed him and went into the Song chapel. There was no statuary here, of course, no lute or drum or harp. Song was a god of sound and memory, and if there was one thing these Eleventh Festival designers did correctly, it was to not represent him at all. Tejohn knelt and--briefly, because there was much to do—thanked Song for remembering those who had already fallen.
 

The temple exit was also carved like a tunnel, and he paused again inside. “Grateful am I to be permitted to travel The Way.” The first and last prayer at every temple was to the greatest of the gods, The Great Way, through whom all were born, lived, and died, if they were lucky enough to be permitted to stay on the path.
 

Back in the courtyard, he saw more bustle than before. A pair of priests, brooms in hand, jogged toward the temple to do their daily sweeping. Servants, soldiers, and clerks hustled toward the Great Hall and Tejohn followed them, hoping to find the king breaking his fast.

He wasn’t there, but one whiff of the morning meal made him light-headed. He hadn’t eaten in some time, apparently, and so he grabbed the nearest steward and demanded breakfast.
 

At the upper end of the hall, Doctor Warpoole sat alone. He turned away before she could catch his eye. Tejohn had no desire to speak with her.
 

At the nearest table sat the captain of the guard, the one who’d held a spear on him when they’d landed their cart. Tejohn grabbed a chair from a nearby table and sat beside him.
 

“My tyr,” the captain said, turning pale. “I--I should apologize for the way I acted—”

“Never apologize for doing your duty, captain. What is your name?”

“It’s not one you will have heard before, my tyr. We’re a Fourteenth Festival family; my father still has okshim hair on his clothes. I am Reglis Singalan.”

The young man seemed to be scowling again, but Tejohn suspected it was a natural resting expression for him. “Fourteenth Festival? You’ve done well for yourself, becoming a captain so soon after joining the empire.”

Reglis nodded to acknowledge the compliment. “My people are mostly still servants, herders, and farmers. I was lucky enough to be born broad of shoulder and long of leg, so I was, let’s say,
encouraged
to take up the shield. And I’m glad of it.”

Tejohn liked him already. “How long has it been since we arrived?”

“Three days and four nights, my tyr.”

Fire and Fury, that was too long. “What news?”

“None that I know, my tyr, only rumors.”

“What rumors, then?”

Reglis rubbed his beard, then shrugged. “Few of the tyrs took the prince’s story at face value, so they sent ten flying carts to check out the city. Three didn’t make it back, but the ones that did told quite a tale. The city has been burned and largely abandoned. Some grunts still hunt there, but most have moved outward, spreading like a stain on wet linen. The bulk of them seem to be headed south, toward the coastal cities. Few have been sighted in the north. Everything beyond that is rumor and fear-mongering tall tales.”

Grunts? Is that what people were calling the beasts now?

The steward set a platter in front of Tejohn: apricots, rice balls, and roasted mutton. It was better fare than the rank and file would get, but it was his due as a tyr. “Thank you, captain.”

After he finished his meal, Tejohn strode into the yard. Lar would have been given the finest room available and if they had wine in the fort he would still be abed. Time to rouse him.

A group of soldiers walked by, wooden practice swords in their hands. Tejohn addressed the nearest. “Soldier, how do I get to the commander’s tower from here?”

The man looked as though just asking the question was cause for arrest, but a fat-faced young man at the back of the group spoke up before anyone else could. “My tyr, the commander is there.” He pointed to the top of the south wall. They were too far away for Tejohn to see, but he saw no reason to point that out. “The quickest way is a flight of stairs just on the other side of the temple. You can’t see it from here, but I’ll show you the way if you like.”
 

“That won’t be necessary.” Tejohn started toward the temple, hearing them murmur behind him. The fat-faced one would be telling them his name by now, and he wanted to be well away from that conversation.
 

On the wall, the southerly wind pulled at his hair and shield. It was chilly down in the fort, but above the protection of the walls, the incessant wind out of the Sweeps was sour and damp. His kit should have included a heavier woolen cloak.
 

Ranlin stood before a knot of six guards, looking irritated and dissatisfied. Bittler Witt and Cazia Freewell were also there, and the way the guards surrounded them made it clear they were in custody.

Tejohn walked toward them quickly. As young men, he had been a foot soldier and Ranlin Gerrit his captain, but now that he was a tyr--even a tyr without holdings--their roles were reversed. “Is there a problem, commander?”

“Yes, Tyr Treygar. Colchua Freewell is missing. He’d been acting strange. Last night, he left his quarters and hadn’t been seen since.”

“He hasn’t left the fort!” the Freewell girl insisted, her tone annoyed. “He would never abandon Lar.”

“His wound,” Witt said. “It was bothering him. He couldn’t sleep.”

Tejohn was startled. Hadn’t he gone to the sleepstones? “I assume you’re conducting a search.”

Ranlin nodded. “Yes, my tyr. It was the first order I gave.”

Tejohn turned back to Witt and Freewell. During the flight from the city, they’d seemed committed to the king; could he have misjudged them? Tejohn had been born to a farming family. He wasn’t accustomed to intrigue. “Is the king safe?”

Cazia Freewell gave him a sour, disappointed look. “Col would never hurt Lar. Never.”

Tejohn looked down at the girl.
Stoneface,
she had called him; it had surprised him at first, but although he knew she meant it as an insult, he liked the name. Better to be like Monument and show no emotions than reveal the true feelings of one who is little more than a former farmboy with a knack for killing.

“He has to ask,” Ranlin said. “It’s his duty to think of the king first in all things. But look for yourself, Tejohn. The king is in the yard, sparring.”

Tejohn grunted in surprise. Lar Italga, sparring? He stepped to the inner edge of the wall and turned toward the circle of sparring men just below.

Great Way, there was the prince; Tejohn recognized him immediately by the way he hunched down behind his shield, a habit Tejohn could never get him to break. He faced off against a burly fellow close to his own height, and their shields clashed against each other. Lar was getting the worst of it, but he wasn’t slacking and he wasn’t trying to make a joke of it.
 

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Ranlin said from close behind him. “If I’d known the king had planned to train at sword and shield, I’d have found him a private space and a private tutor until you returned.”

The burly guard caught the king’s shield and pulled it away, a maneuver Tejohn had tried to teach many times. The guard’s sword thrust toward the king’s belly, and Tejohn’s heart seemed to stop. But it was just a practice sword--a stick, really--and the man didn’t come near enough to connect. Lar had tried to counter the attack, but while his move had been exactly correct, he didn’t have the strength or speed to make it work.

The same fat-faced guard who had given Tejohn directions stepped into the sparring circle to address the king. Apparently, he was Tejohn’s substitute, and though Tejohn longed to hear what they were saying, they were much too far away. Judging by his demonstration, he wanted Lar to start his counter much sooner. Lar said something in return, and all the men in the circle laughed long and hard.
 

“It’s fine,” Tejohn said, thinking that he was looking down at his replacement. Should he have laughed along with the prince? Would that have made him a better teacher? It was painful to think so. “I’m pleased to see the king so dedicated. And the men seem to like him.”

“He has won them over,” Ranlin said. “Me, too. His mind is quick and strong. If only his body was, too.”

Tejohn watched the prince prepare for another round with the burly guard. That would come in time, if Fire spared him.
 

“What is that?” Cazia Freewell said. She pointed toward the eastern peaks.

Tejohn peered upward, squinting to see what she was indicating. Ranlin blurted, “Fire and Fury,” and some of the others made small exclamations as well. Tejohn felt a surge of irritation; his eyesight had never been exceptional, but the eastern peaks were close, almost directly above the fort, and there was no reason he couldn’t--

There. He saw something dark brown move against the darker background of the mountain. Could it have been a bird? Tejohn was unsure how far away it was and couldn’t fairly judge its size.
 

“How big do you think that raptor is?” Cazia Freewell asked.

“Too, too big,” Ranlin answered.
 

Then, as if it realized it was being watched, the bird spread its wings and took to the air.
 

Tejohn couldn’t help himself. He gasped in surprise and his sword was in his hand before he realized he wanted it, even though a small, rational voice in his head insisted bows and spears would be more useful.
 

But the raptor wasn’t hunting. It angled northward, tail feathers spread in a fan as it floated slowly against the headwind toward the Sweeps. Fire and Fury, it looked like a hawk, but its wingspan must have equaled six men lying crown to heel. At least.
 

Tejohn kept his voice low and his attention on the huge bird. “Ranlin, my friend, have you ever seen a raptor that size before?”

“Never,” the commander answered. “I’ve never even heard anyone boast of having seen such a thing.”

Tejohn didn’t know what to say to that. Two strange beasts appearing in the world at once?
 

“Commander!”

They all turned to see one of the servants running up the stairs. He was out of breath and clearly alarmed.
 

“What is it, Gald? Have you found Freewell?”

The servant stumbled forward as he hurried toward them. He was dirty and half starved, like most of the servants in the empire, and sweat poured down his face. He didn’t look like a man with urgent news; he looked like he was running for his life. “No, commander, but we did find his coat atop the northern wall.” The man spared a furtive glance at Cazia Freewell. “It was quite bloody.”

“Where?” Cazia Freewell rushed toward him, but Tejohn held up his hand to stop her.
 

“That’s not what brings you up here in such a state,” he said.

“No, my tyr,” Galt answered. “I’ve just been down in the pens. The chicken, okshim, and sheep have all been killed, commander. They’ve been torn apart as if by a wild animal. The keepers as well.”

Ranlin turned to the nearest guard. “Toll the bell three times. I want stations before the tone dies.”

Tejohn stepped to the edge of the wall. “My king!” he roared.

The men stopped sparring. Lar turned to look up at him, and perhaps sensing something in Tejohn’s tone, handed his practice sword to the fat-faced fellow. He said something that made the guards laugh and bow to him as he walked toward the stairs.