The Assassin King (6 page)

he said. He turned back to Gerald Owen. “Send him down.”

The occupants of the hidden room looked at one another in amazement as footfalls could be heard descending the stone Is he mad?“ Anborn said in a low voice. ”It was his bloody demand that this meeting take place in secret; why in the name of every wench I've ever bedded would he be breaking the seal of this place to allow an interloper? Your husband is a fool, Rhapsody."

“Won't get an argument from us on that,” Granthor said. The Lady Cymrian rose, still weak, and stepped over to the doorway. From the darkness at the bottom of the staircase a figure emerged, cloaked and hooded. The man came immediately to Ashe and spoke a few soft words in a low tone, then followed him into the hidden chamber. The Lord Cymrian closed the door behind him. Even beneath the plain broadcloth cloak it was clear that he was tall and wide of shoulder, taller than any of the men present except for Grunthor. He did not bow, but turned in the direction of Rhapsody and the infant for a moment, then reached out a large hand, one sheathed in a lambskin glove, and rested it gently on the baby's head. Gwydion Navarne watched the odd spectacle unfold in silence. With the other hand the man reached up and took down his hood revealing hair streaked gray and silver with age, though there was still enough white-blond hue to it to hint of hat it must have looked like in his youth. His beard was long, curled slightly at the ends, and his eyes were clear and blue as the cloudless summer sky, reflecting the flickering light of the lantern. Constantin, the Patriarch of Sepulvarta. For a long moment after he knew he should be kneeling, Gwydion remained frozen in place, finally rising long enough to sink to one knee. His father, Stephen Navarne, had been at. adherent of the Patrician religion, though he was also a good friend of Llauron the Invoker, the former head of the Filidic order of nature priests, and had been conversant in and respectful of the religious practices of both sects. Stephen's attitude, unique as it was in the polarized world of faith, was unsurprising given both the geography of his duchy and his accepting nature. Navarne was located at the crux of the northern forest of Gwynwood, the eastern border of the neighboring duchy of Avonderre, and the northern fringe of Tyrian, making it the crossroads of the continent's faiths. So the magnitude of the Patriarch's appearance in his fam-ily's home was not lost on Gwydion Navarne. The Patriarch only left the Basilica of the Star, Lianta'ar, in Sepulvarta for occasions of state, such as royal funerals, marriages, or coro-nations, or in the direst of emergencies. As far as Gwydion knew, no one royal was being buried, married, or crowned. The Patriarch's white brows drew together, and gestured impatiently at Gwydion. “Get up,” he said tersely. “It's far too crowded in here to be doing that, and inappropriate for a man who has been invested as duke of an Orlandan province. Rise from your knees and sit down.” Gwydion complied, abashed. “What brings you here at this time, Your Grace?” asked quickly, offering the Patriarch a chair. The holy man's body, while elderly, still bore the signs of great strength from his youth; he waved a hand dismissively at the chair. “I can't remain here long, lest it be discovered that I am gone from Lianta'ar,” Constantin replied. “I bring disturbing news-but by the look of things, I am not alone in that.” “Step within the circle, then. Rial, Anbom, and Gwydion were reporting on the preparations Sorbold is making for war.” said Ashe, sitting down beside Rhapsody. He ran a hand gently over his son's head. "It would appear mat Roland, and perhaps the other members of the Alliance, are the targets of

“Eventually,” the Patriarch agreed, coming within the pro-tective light. Some will fall before you, others after, if Tanquist has his way. The silence in the room thickened until it was palpable. Tell us what you mean, Your Grace,“ Ashe said finally. The old man's searing blue eyes caught and held the lanternlight, reflecting and intensifying it. ”The first place Talquist will attack is Sepulvarta. His troops are massing even now on the mountain rims and in the foothills to our south. The holy city-state is the doorstep of Roland and the Middle Continent; Talquist will wipe his feet upon us as he crosses the threshold into your lands. I have no doubt of this.“ ”The holy city?“ Gwydion said, his words slow with shock. ”How is that possible?

Sorbold is an adherent to the Patrician faith! One of the five elemental basilicas is within their domain. Even in the most ferocious of battles in the Cymrian War, when all else was left in desolation, Sepulvarta was spared. It would be an affront to the All-God—“ Was it not an affront to the All-God, or the One-God, as the Lirin call Him, when the Third Fleet sacked the holy forest of Gwynwood a thousand years ago? We burned the Outer Circle, and even attacked the Great White Tree,” Anborn said bitterly. “I—Elynsynos's own grandson—led those attacks. In war, nothing is held sacred. That Sepulvarta has remained unscathed until now is purely a coincidence—a miracle.” “The Lord Marshal speaks the truth,” Constantin affirmed. War is coming to us first; it has already begun. It is one of tree things I have traveled here, in secret, to warn you about, Lord Cymrian. I have also come to tell you that Nielash Mousa, the Blesser of Sorbold and one of my chief benisons, is dead or dying. He has given his life in the defense and protection of Terreanfor, the basilica of Living Stone, in Jier-na'sid.“ ”There was an assault on Terreanfor?“ Achmed asked as Anborn started to become agitated. ”Why would Talquist attack the only one of the five basilicas within his own nation?“ ”The attack was not from without, but from within," said the Patriarch.

'Terreanfor, being the sacred basilica of elemental earth, is the greatest known repository of Living Stone on the continent. Talquist has been secretly harvesting that precious commodity of the basilica for his own purposes. The man who told me of his treachery witnessed it personally; partook in it, unwillingly. This blessed element, this gift of die Earth-Mother, has been made use of in the unholiest of ways—I suspect the assassination of the Dowager Empress and the Crown Prince Vyshla was the first of these events, but I have no idea how Living Stone could have caused that to happen.“ ”The Dowager Empress was a withered crone well past her deserved time to live,“ said Anborn. ”And her fat bump of a son could hardly rise from his own chair without assistance. What makes you think their deaths were not of natural causes? It is gravely important that we not attribute to malice that which should rightly be explained otherwise; we will become lost in what threat is real and what is not."

“True,” said the Patriarch. “But while I cannot prove their sudden and mutual deaths to be regicide, I do know that Talquist rigged the Weighing on the Scales of Jierna Tal to have himself anointed emperor. All the modesty and the humble choice to remain regent for a year was an act; Talquist has been planning his ascension for a long time.” The searing blue eyes narrowed. “I have known this man, and his cruelty, for many years.” The small earthen room fell silent, even to the flickering lantern. Not much was commonly known about the origins of the Patriarch; he had appeared from seemingly nowhere at the first Cymrian Council of the new age, mixed in among the Diaspora of descendants of the exodus from the lost island of Serendair. Ashe and Rhapsody exchanged a glance with the two Bolg; they all knew his story, but had never revealed it. “You needn't expound further, Your Grace,” said Ashe. The Patriarch shook his head. “If these men are your most trusted councilors, they deserve to know,” he said, eyeing An-born, Rial, and Gwydion. “A war is brewing that has the potential to lay waste to much of the Known World. Any secrets of my past are insignificant now—it is better that all hidden things be known, so that we can hope to stave off at least part of the destruction that is to come. It is as the All-God would want it.” “As you wish,” Ashe demurred. “No man here is likely to judge you.” “The Lord Cymrian speaks the truth,” said Rial. “All of us are less than perfect in the One-God's eyes. Go on, Your Grace.”

“In my youth, I was a slave in the gladiatorial arenas of the borough of Nikkid'sar, in the city-state of Jakar in Sorbold,” the elderly man said. “And while I am an aged man, since that time of my bondage only a few years have gone by in the sight of the world. Being bom of demon blood—a misbegotten offspring of the last known F'dor to bedevil this land—I was a brutal killer, knowing no remorse, only bloodlust.” He paused as Gwydion, Anborn, and Rial blinked in astonishment. “It was the Lady Cymrian who saved me—and you, Lord Marshal, when you rescued both of us in the process, though you undoubtedly do not recognize me.”

“I certainly do not,” said Anborn. “And if I had had my way, the gladiator that Rhapsody pulled from the arena in Sorbold would have died by my own hand. Had she not stayed that hand, your tainted soul would be roasting in the Vault of the Underworld now, if you are that wretch, that spawn of the demon.” The Patriarch nodded, no offense visible in his expression.

“I am the same man who, four years ago, Rhapsody took behind the Veil of Hoen, to the mystical domain of the Lord and Lady Rowan, that place on the doorstep of death, where the near-dying find healing of one kind or another, either passing through the Gate of Life to the Afterlife, or being restored to health, to return for a greater purpose in the material world.'' His gaze fell on Ashe. ”I believe you know this realm.“ The Lord Cymrian smiled slightly. ”I do."

“So, having been healed there yourself, you know the weight of the responsibility that comes with that second chance at life. When that which was demon was removed from my blood in that drowsy place of healing between the worlds, I had little left of me; all I had known was violence and murder. So I remained there in study, allowing much of my life to pass in absorbing the healing arts and the wisdom of the Rowans. My excessive longevity—bequeathed to me by the Cymrian mother I never knew—allowed me to spend centuries on that side of the Veil without dying there. When I finally returned to this side, I was old, had lived the equivalent of six hundred years, but only a short time had passed in the eyes of the world. For this reason, no one recognized me. The name of Constantin had been associated only with the young, hale killer of the Sorbold arena. I made no attempt to shield myself, have not altered that by which I was called, but no one has made the association—not even Talquist, who owned me when I was a gladiator.” “It does not surprise me to know that Talquist engaged in the promotion and propagation of bloodsport before he ascended the throne,” said Rial. “But how has he come by so much power so quickly, without even being officially crowned?” The Patriarch looked down at the Ring of Wisdom on his hand; it was a simple ring, with a clear, smooth stone set in a plain platinum setting. Inside the stone, as though internally inscribed, were two symbols on opposite sides of the ova.l gemstone, resembling the symbols for positive and negative, the signs of balance between Life and Void, the two great constants of the universe. “Before he rigged the Weighing and stole the throne of Sorbold, Talquist was a merchant,” he said quietly. “While the royalty, the nobility, and even the military tend to view the merchant class as lower, inferior, in truth they have always had the greatest base of power, because they control the trade, and the contact with the outside world, of a nation. Talquist has long had access to allies in foreign lands that the Dowager barely maintained diplomatic relations with. He has a fleet of merchant vessels that have been plying the seas for years, keeping abreast of all that is going on in the Known World. I suspect he is an ally of the Magnate of Marincaer and the Baron of Argaut, both of whom also own large shipping concerns on the other side of the Central Sea and the world. He has been trafficking the goods of the mines and linen factories of Sorbold for decades; I suspect he is a far richer and well-connected man than anyone knew. Now that he has the Sorbold navy under his command as well, he rales the sea from the southern tip of Tyrian all the way to Golgarn in the east. And probably beyond.” “But where are the slaves coming from?” Ashe asked. “Merchant ships are not equipped to assault coastal villages, and Sorbold naval vessels are not attacking the coastline of the Alliance. If the Sorbold navy had sailed across the Central Sea to Manosse, or some far-flung land away from the continent, Talquist would be vulnerable at home. This does not make sense—something is missing.” “Agreed,” said the Patriarch. “Much is missing—much more than you can even imagine.” Something in the sound of the holy man's voice made Gwydion's blood chill suddenly. The council had been trading information of terrible consequence and unfathomable grief with efficiency and detachment; it was as if in the face of impending invasion and a war that would bring about the deaths of thousands, only the coldest logic could remain. But now, there was something deeper in Constantin's words, something otherworldly. A quick glance told him that the others had heard the ominous warning as well; Rhapsody's eyes were glittering, her face frozen.

“Tell us,” said Ashe finally. The Patriarch's eyes went to each person in attendance. Finally he averted them, as if to keep them from boring through the others. “Many things are missing, but I will begin with the one closest to your own family. Rhonwyn, your aunt, Lord Marshal, your great-aunt, Lord Cymrian, the Seer of the Present, has been taken from the Abbey of the Sun in Sepulvarta.” The members of the assemblage looked blankly at each other. Rhonwyn, like her two sisters, was a living relic, with the vision of Fate. Though, unlike her sisters, Rhonwyn was gentle and frail, most of the population that knew of their existence was too intimidated or frightened to even meet their gazes. A few intrepid souls occasionally worked up the courage to approach them long enough to seek a prophecy, often leaving in terror before it was finished. “Define 'taken,'” said Ashe quickly. “Though the abbess did not see it occur, she believes that the Seer was abducted,” said the Patriarch. “I left Sepulvarta upon hearing this news, though I had already determined to come to you with other tidings. When the abbess climbed the staircase to the Seer's tower to bring her the morning meal eleven days ago, she was gone. Rhonwyn has not left that abbey in a hundred years, save to attend the Cymrian Council that invested you both, m'lord and lady. She is incapable of it—incapable of independent survival.” Achmed and Rhapsody exchanged a silent glance. Several years prior they had climbed that same staircase together to visit the frail Seer, one of the triplet daughters born to the dragon Elynsynos and Merithyn, the Ancient Seren explorer who had been her lover. The three sisters, known in the language of the Cymrians as the Manteids, had each been born with a surpassing gift of sight, and all were impelled to speak only the truth about what they saw, though what was true was not always the same as what was accurate. Each of the sisters was thought to be, at least on some level, insane. Anwyn, the Seer of the Past, was the least so—the Past was a more concrete realm than either the evanescent Present or the uncertain Future—and she had been known to connive in the use of her gift of sight, hoarding the knowledge it gave to her and dispensing it in ways to be interpreted as she wished it to be. Manwyn, the Seer of the Future, was both the most unbalanced and most sought after, because being able to see what had not yet come to pass gave many desperate pilgrims the belief that her aid might help them achieve or prevent what they could not otherwise be able to achieve or prevent. Most left her crumbling temple disappointed or deluded, because the prophecies the madwoman chanted at them often had many interpretations. Rhonwyn, the most fragile of the sisters, actually had the clearest grip on reality. The difficulty was that it was momentary; as seconds passed, the Present turned into the Past, and she could not recall from moment to moment what had been asked of her, or even what she had said. Few had the patience or the insight to tolerate speaking with her for more than a few minutes, and most generally gave up in frustration, leaving her alone and unsought after in her decaying abbey, smiling to herself and staring up with blind eyes that had no irises into the sky above her. “For a week or more before the Seer disappeared, she had been visited regularly by a priest from the manse of Sorbold within the city of Sepulvarta,”