At the Gates of Darkness (4 page)

Amirantha nodded. “That elf, Gulamendis, is the only being I’ve met who knows as much or more.”

Jim looked uncomfortable. “Those Star Elves make my skin itch. But they’re a matter for another time.” Jim told the Warlock what he had witnessed in the distant Jal-Pur desert, and when he was finished he asked, “What do you think?”

Amirantha said, “I think we need to find a way to fetch Pug back here as soon as possible.”

“Why?”

Turning toward the keep, Amirantha said, “Come with me.”

He didn’t wait to see if Jim followed, but hurried inside the keep. He glanced around the common room and asked the four younger magicians there, “Where is Jason?”

One of them pointed toward a door that led to a small
room Pug had occasionally used as a private office. Amirantha went to the door and knocked once, then opened it. Jason sat behind the tiny desk that Pug had installed in this former storage room and was squinting at a paper under the dim glow of a single candle. The tiny window above hardly admitted any light on the brightest of days, and on a day such as this, it might as well be midnight. “Yes?” he asked, apparently untroubled by the sudden entrance.

“Pug,” said Amirantha. “You need to summon him at once.”

Jason sat back. “And how am I supposed to do that, given I have no idea where he is?”

Amirantha glanced sidelong at Jim, then said, “I count Pug many things, but fool is not one of them. Even if you don’t know where he is, I’m certain he’s left you means to contact or summon him, should the need arise. The need has arisen.”

“Really?” asked the younger magician. He looked at Jim for corroboration.

“I think so, as well,” said Jim.

“Very well,” said Jason, rising from behind the small desk. “Come with me.” He picked up the candleholder.

He led them out of the room, across the floor of the keep’s great hall. Brandos stood near his wife beside the large hearth where a pot of stew was simmering. The old fighter shot a questioning look at Amirantha, but with an inclination of his head the Warlock indicated to stay where he was.

Jason led them up a flight of stairs to the upper floor of the main building, and down a long hall that traversed the building, to the tower opposite the one in which Amirantha resided. The single candle Jason held was the only light on that floor. To the best of the Warlock’s knowledge, that tower was empty, save for an enchantment on the top floor that caused an ominous blue light to glow whenever a ship approached sight of the castle.

They walked up a circular staircase, to the second to the last floor, and Jason opened a door. The room was bare, save for a construct of wood, two curving poles that sat atop a base of what looked like metal. Amirantha glanced at Jason and said, “Tsurani?”

The young magician said, “Design. Pug built it.”

“What is it?” asked Jim.

“A rift gate,” said Amirantha. “What our friends the Star Elves call a portal.”

Jason went to a small shelf near a shuttered window and pulled down a small cloth bag. He handed the candle to Jim, then knelt and carefully opened the bag. Reaching inside he pulled out an odd-looking device, a square box with odd designs and some strange levers and wheels on it.

“This was created by some artificer up in LaMut, of Tsurani heritage, but not a Tsurani. It’s a little ungainly compared to the old Tsurani devices.” He shrugged as if what he was saying was merely trivia.

He put it on the base between the two poles, tripped one of the levers, and stood back. “I have no knowledge or ability when it comes to rift magic,” said the magician. “It is difficult and outside my interests. Only Magnus and a few others know much about it, and no one knows what Pug knows. Against the need of summoning him, he had this constructed.”

Suddenly a whooshing sound filled the room, and a crack of energy, followed by a shimmering between the poles. Then a grey void, with scintillating colors faintly running over the surface, like oil refracting light on water, could be seen.

“Pug will get the alert in a moment. He should appear as soon as he is able.”

“Do you know where he went?” asked Jim.

Jason said, “We only know what he tells us.”

Long moments dragged by, then suddenly a figure stepped through the rift. A short man with a closely
trimmed beard, Pug still wore the ancient fashion of the Tsurani Great One, a simple black robe and cross-gartered sandals. “What is it?” he asked as soon as he was through.

Jason inclined his head toward Jim and Amirantha, and it was the Warlock who spoke. “We’re being played for fools, Pug.”

Pug’s brow wrinkled as he asked, “What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain,” said Amirantha, “after Jim tells you what he saw a few days ago in the Jal-Pur, but it would help if we had another with us.”

“Who?”

“We need an expert on death.”

Pug looked slightly amused. “I know just the fellow.” He turned and held up his hand, and the Warlock could feel shifting magic in the room, though Jim only perceived it as his “bump of trouble” starting to act up. After a moment, Pug said, “You two, follow me.” To Jason he said, “Put away the toy when we’re through.” He stepped into the rift and Jim turned and said, “Send word to Captain Jenson to weigh anchor and make for Krondor. I’ll find him there.” He turned and followed Pug.

Just before he entered, Amirantha turned to Jason and said, “You also might tell Samantha that Jim and I will be missing supper tonight.” He then followed the other two into the rift.

C
reegan motioned with his hand.

Sandreena entered his quarters still covered in dust from the road and feeling hunger pangs. She had paused long enough once she had given her horse over to the stable boy to drink deeply from the well behind the temple, but she hadn’t eaten anything but a handful of dried fruit and some nuts since leaving Land’s End. Her order was mendicant and there was no shrine or temple in Land’s End, so she was still surviving on what she had purchased in Durban with the last of her coin.

The moment she handed her documents to the Father-Bishop she knew something was wrong, something that had nothing to do with the message she had
just delivered. He waved her to sit in a chair across from his desk and said, “The Grand Master has passed.”

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and made a short prayer to the Goddess to care for the old man on his way to Lims-Kragma’s domain. He had been a good man, almost saintly, and Sandreena had no doubt he would be rewarded with a place higher on the Wheel of Life.

The Father-Bishop remained silent while she prayed, and then when she opened her eyes, she discovered him staring intently at her. “Father-Bishop?”

Creegan smiled and it was not a friendly or warm expression, but rather that of a man finding humor in a very dark place. “The end of life is not necessarily a cause for sorrow, daughter,” he said, using the form of address usually reserved for minor members of the Order—it clearly communicated the difference in their ranks. She was uncertain why, but knew he did nothing without a reason. “The Grand Master served the Goddess well, for many years, and earned his final rest.

“But the timing of it is…inconvenient.” He stood and said, “I must leave at once for Rillanon, for the convocation is only a week after the funeral, and the selection of the new Grand Master is now more critical than is usual.”

She knew he was referring to the matter of the demon host, the “Legion” as it was called, that was out there somewhere, threatening to bring its ravages to this world. Few within the temple, and even fewer outside, even knew the threat existed. Sandreena did only because of circumstances, and the trust in which Father-Bishop Creegan held her. And fewer still knew of the relationship between the Father-Bishop and the Conclave of Shadows led by the magician Pug.

She merely nodded her head and said, “I understand.”

“I know you do, Sandreena.” He rose from the desk, came and sat on the corner before her, looking down at her. “I have never told you, but there is a beauty to you that few notice.”

She was a little startled by the statement. There had always been an underlying tension between them, as she found him a very attractive and powerful man, but his reputation as something of a womanizer and their respective ranks had always kept any inappropriate behavior in check.

He held up his hand before she could speak. “I don’t mean your physical beauty—as impressive as that is when you choose to let others glimpse it—but rather a beauty of strength and purpose, what you’ve overcome and managed to achieve despite a desperately difficult beginning. It is…admirable.” He stood up and moved to the window and looked out, saying, “We may get more rain.”

The rain along the coast had made her trip even more difficult, so she hoped he was wrong.

“I am leaving you in charge of the Order while I’m away.”

Her eyes widened. “Me?”

“I’ll send back Father-Bishop Bellamy, to assume my duties, but in the interim, you will take my place here.”

“Take your place?”

Creegan shrugged as if it were of no importance, but said, “I will be the new Grand Master.” The way he said it, she realized it was a fait accompli. He glanced over and smiled. “This was decided long ago. So, I will dispatch Bellamy as soon as the convocation is over, and you will then return to your duties, to do whatever he asks, for he will be speaking for me. Until then, you must take charge here.”

“Why me?” she asked softly.

“You are the only one I trust, Sandreena.” He came back and sat behind the desk. “Only a few know of what is really going on out there—I’ll leave you a list and you will not trust anyone not on it—and you’ve also earned it. Your almost getting yourself killed isn’t what I’m talking about, but rather you keeping your wits about you and your keen understanding of the political reality you found yourself in without warning.

“Few members of the Order would have coped so well with demons and secret alliances.”

“The Mother-Superior?” she asked.

Creegan smiled. “She’ll object, of course, but as she has no standing within the Order, I’ll smile, nod, and suggest she get packed if she’s to leave with me on the ride to Salador.”

Sandreena nodded. The Mother-Superior had ambitions of her own and would be actively seeking her own allies in her bid to attain the office of High Priestess of the Grand Temple once the convocation began. The current High Priestess was older than the Grand Master so Sandreena judged there would be another convocation in Rillanon in the next few years.

Creegan said, “I suspect she’ll dismiss your promotion quickly and start the endless flattery I will be subjected to along the way.”

Sandreena couldn’t help but smile. The High Priestess might be pleased to see Creegan leaving Krondor—their relationship had always had a contentious element in it, but with his rising to the highest calling in the Order, that suddenly made him an even more important voice in the temple, and he would have a great deal to say about the succession when the current High Priestess stepped down.

“You’ll only need make one quick courtesy call—which I suggest you do now, before I let her know of your promotion.”

“Promotion?”

“Of course. I can’t leave a Knight-Adamant in charge of the Order in the Western Realm. Effective immediately, you are now a Sergeant-Adamant of the Order, but will bear the office rank of
adiuvare.
It’s an old title we rarely use, but it’s still recognized. So your official title will be Adiuvare-Sergeant-Adamant. Once Bellamy comes here, you will become just another Sergeant.”

She tried not to smile. “Just another Sergeant,” he said. As a rule, Knight-Adamants had to serve for twenty years
to obtain the rank of Sergeant and few lived long enough. She was certain she not only was the youngest Sergeant in the Order, but perhaps in the history of the Order.

“I will do my best not to disappoint you, Father-Bishop.”

“If I thought there was even a remote possibility of that, I would have given someone else the job,” said Creegan. “Now, go make your call on the High Priestess, get something to eat, and rest. I think you’ll discover this post is nothing close to as easy as you think.” He motioned with his hands at the pile of papers and said, “More men have been defeated by reports than all the steel of all the swords in history.” Then with his right hand he made a dismissive gesture and she rose, bowed slightly, and left his quarters.

Under any normal circumstance, she would have been elated at the promotion, for it would have been a signal that the Goddess had found her service noteworthy. This circumstance felt like it was not a gift, or reward, but a heavier burden. Still, she chided herself, if the Goddess wished to place an even bigger burden on her, it would only mean greater service, and that the Goddess deemed her able to meet the demands of office.

Still, she thought as her stomach growled, she wished she could get something to eat before calling on the High Priestess.

Sandreena made her call on the High Priestess, who was as Creegan predicted: distracted by the need to leave the next day for the arduous ride to the port of Salador, where she and Creegan would take ship to Rillanon for the convocation to elect the new Grand Master of the Order of the Shield of the Weak. The High Priestess had no official duties regarding the Order, but as every prelate of rank would be in attendance while the Order conducted their ceremonies and went through the motions of putting Creegan in charge, everyone else would be playing temple politics.
Sandreena was glad that she remained behind, even if she had responsibility for the Order in Krondor, which meant supervising the Order in the entire Western Realm of the Kingdom of the Isles.

After she had finally eaten, Sandreena had returned to the common barracks of the Order and had given her dirty tabard and clothing to a servant to be cleaned. She preferred to care for her own arms and armor. She went to the communal bath, enjoying the fact of it being empty, and gave herself over to a completely thorough cleaning.

While she scrubbed her filthy hair, she considered her feelings about Creegan’s departure; it was as good as ordained since she had first met him, yet there was always this feeling…She sighed.

Encountering Amirantha months before, after that nearly fatal attack on Sorcerer’s Isle, had caused her to revisit feelings she would rather ignore. Creegan also had that effect on her. With Amirantha it was something she wished she had never done, but with Creegan she began to suspect it was going to be something she regretted not doing.

Her order was not celibate, though like most people given over to a calling, personal issues were always of lesser importance. Still, as a woman in her prime, she was feeling certain needs asserting themselves.

She had never considered family a blessing, given how she grew up, yet now she wondered about being a mother. She knew nothing about raising a child, because no one had raised her. Her mother was early on lost to drugs, drink, and men, and no father had been at hand. Being ill-used by men since she had begun to blossom had given her a very unforgiving perspective on them.

There were two she had come to care for: Brother Mathias, who had rescued her from her Keshian slave master; and Father-Bishop Creegan, who had been her mentor, though she was beginning to think he was more important to her than that.

There were two men she wished dead. A blackheart who was called Jimmyhand by some, Quick Jim by others, who had controlled the brothel where she had served as a high-priced whore when she was little more than a girl. He had been the one to sell her to the Keshian. And Amirantha. He had charmed her, lied to her, and used her, and had lived down to her general judgment on the worth of men.

A tiny pang told her she didn’t truly wish Amirantha dead, but rather she wished he had been telling her the truth; even when she saw him last, her sudden lashing out and knocking him to the floor had been followed instantly by regret. She wished somehow she could tell him that he had hurt her, but that would make her look weak.

Picking up a bucket she poured water over herself, cleaning away the dirt and soap. She bent over at the waist and ran a comb though her hair, squeezing water from it. The water was hot, but the air was cold after the passing storms and she felt gooseflesh on her skin.

She decided to forgo the meditative steam and retired to the barracks. She donned a simple white shift and turned in early. She was a sound sleeper and should others of her order enter, she was sure they would not wake her. All she wanted for this night was a sound sleep with no dreams.

Morning brought the departure of the group traveling to Salador, led by the High Priestess and the Father-Bishop. As Creegan had predicted, the High Priestess was as deferential and warm—to the point of cloying—as it was possible to be to the soon-to-be-named Grand Master of the Order of the Shield of the Weak.

When she had awakened, Sandreena had discovered a new uniform had been laid out for her across the footlocker at the foot of her bed, and atop it sat a new tabard, this one emblazoned with a chevron and crown above her heart, signifying her new rank of Sergeant. She couldn’t resist smiling as she beheld it. She was not a prideful woman by
nature, but she did like how seeing this badge of honor made her feel.

She had dressed and postponed a morning meal to be in the marshaling yard when the Father-Bishop and the others left.

Father-Bishop Creegan smiled when he saw her approach and put his hand on her shoulder. “The fate of the Order in the west is in your hands now, Sandreena.” He leaned in so no one else could overhear his words and he said, “There’s something on my desk you need to read; it’s the report you brought to me. Act on it at once. I don’t know exactly what you need to do, but I’m sure it will be the correct choice. I’m not telling you what I would do; this must be your decision.”

Almost impulsively, he kissed her good-bye, but rather than a mere touching of the lips, he lingered a scant instant longer, and just before it became something both of them needed to worry about, he pulled back. “May the Goddess go with you,” he whispered.

She could only nod, words failing her. As he mounted his horse, she managed to return the benediction. “May the Goddess go with you, Father-Bishop.”

The High Priestess was fussing about her mount, a mild palfrey but still spirited enough to make the older woman show concern as she sat uncomfortably on the small horse. It was obvious the High Priestess would have preferred a litter, but the need to be in Rillanon by the date of the convocation prevented that more sedate mode of transport. She would be very sore and unhappy by the time they reached Salador.

The party moved out and as soon as they cleared the gate, Sandreena hurried to Creegan’s office. Atop his desk lay two pieces of paper and the bundle she had carried from Durban.

She looked at the first, which had her name on it. She opened it and read: “Sandreena, if the Goddess wills it, we
will meet again. Know the Order’s trust rests with you and I have faith you will discharge the duties I’ve given you as well as if I undertook them myself. I’ve left you a list of those whom you may rely upon”—she knew he meant those who would be trusted in dealing with the Conclave and the matter of the demons—“and a report you must attend to at once. May the Goddess go with you.” It was signed only “Creegan.”

She looked at the list and found it had only five names on it. Four were priests and one was the orderly assigned to this office, the only member of the Order of the Shield who apparently knew about the Conclave of Shadows.