Morticai's Luck (21 page)

“And why should I believe you are a friend of Morticai’s?”

Perlagus threw his hands up in exasperation. “What can I do to prove such a thing? Ask me anything you wish, but please, let us not tarry.”

Coryden thought about it and realized that he had a point—what could he ask that only a friend of Morticai’s would know? Finally, a question came to mind, but Coryden knew it would be an unfair one; few of Morticai’s closest friends knew the answer. Finally, unable to think of anything else, Coryden demanded, “Tell me Morticai’s name at birth.”

“Moranekor of Lorredre,” Perlagus replied.

Coryden blinked, and after a moment of stunned silence, he replied, “I’ll be right back.”

He returned shortly wearing his sword and cloak.

“Let’s go.”

Nodding, Perlagus led him out to the waiting coach. They climbed inside and, much to Coryden’s surprise, the coach proceeded toward the north gate itself.

Noting his reaction, Perlagus explained, “I felt that I might as well combine our discussion with some useful travel. There is a beach that is special to Dyluth just north of town. I have not had time to search there. I do not expect to find him at that place, but I would like to see if there are any signs of him having been there recently.”

“You are, indeed, a close friend,” Coryden said, nodding, “if you not only know Morticai’s true name, but his connection to Glawres’ beach. I had not thought of the beach, myself. Why have I never met you before?”

Perlagus shrugged, “I stay very busy. It has been many years since Dyluth and I have been able to spend much time together. You may know me by another name, however—Dyluth usually calls me Nelerek.”

Coryden shook his head. “It sounds vaguely familiar, but I do not recall it directly.”

“It does not matter now. Please, let us get to business.”

* * *

It was much later when Coryden stepped down from the coach at Northgate’s postern gate.

“Coryden!” Berret called, rushing up to him.

Hope suddenly welled up inside of him. “News?” he asked anxiously as Berret grabbed his arm.

“No, Coryden,” Berret shook his head, “no word of Morticai.”

Coryden sighed as his weariness reclaimed him.

“I was worried sick about you,” Berret said. “You’ve been gone hours.”

“I’m sorry, Berret. As it turned out, there was a lot to talk about.”
Like Morticai belonging to the Arluthians,
Coryden thought. Nelerek had made him swear on his life that Morticai’s membership in the Brotherhood would remain secret. Of course, Nelerek had also informed him that because he’d become privy to that very knowledge, Coryden, too, was now an Arluthian, and would eventually be brought fully into the secret society.

“And … ?” Berret prodded.

“Nothing—yet,” Coryden confessed. “But Morticai apparently has a lot of other old friends who are also looking for him.”

Berret’s expression sank, and then he shrugged. “Well, it can’t hurt to have some help. I am afraid we have other problems, though.”

“What’s happened?” Coryden asked anxiously.

Berret sighed. “Kirwin called an assembly while you were out—”

“Damn!”

“Nothing to worry about there, Captain. Kirwin never even missed you. The problem is that we’re supposed to move out in twelve hours.”

“Twelve hours! Are we at war?”

“No, not yet. But the whole bloody Northmarch is supposed to meet at Mid-Keep. Dynolva is moving out too. Come on, the rest of the patrol is waiting for us up in Morticai’s room. I knew you’d want to hold a meeting.”

“You bet I do!” Coryden said as they headed up the stone steps.

Chapter Fourteen

Morticai let the murmuring flow in and out of his mind, not caring where it came from or what was being said. He hoped he would be well before his next patrol. Seemed like a long time since he’d been well. But Rylan had said it shouldn’t take long … but who was Rylan?

With a gasp, Morticai jerked awake. His hands trembled with the effort of grabbing the chains, but his wrists demanded it. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought back the sob that threatened to escape from deep in his throat.

The murmuring stopped. Morticai opened his eyes. Before him stood two, black-robed figures.

“Well, this should make things easier,” one of them said.

The voice was feminine, as was the voice of the other, who now approached him.

“Can you hear me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, barely managing a whisper through his dry lips.

She walked to a nearby table and returned with a bowl of liquid.
That table wasn’t there before—was it?
he wondered. He looked at the edge of the room, to see how far down the candles had burned, and realized with a start that fresh candles had been placed in the tall candelabrums. Only alternating candles had been relit, which left the temple much darker than before.

“Here, drink,” the Droken urged, holding the bowl up to his lips.

He looked at it suspiciously. It looked like water. He wanted it.

“It will not harm you,” she assured him, tilting the bowl upwards.

The liquid touched his lips. It did seem to be water, and he shut his eyes and took as much of the soothing liquid as she would allow. She took the bowl away long before he was ready.

“Tsk, tsk,” she said, waving a finger in front of him. “If you drink too much you will get sick.”

“W-what time is it?” he asked.

“It is night,” she replied matter-of-factly. “And we must prepare you for tonight’s ritual.”

His heart sank. Hopes that the small mercy she had shown him might be enlarged upon vanished.

“Will I be allowed a last meal?”

The robed figure giggled. “Silly corryn,” she said. “You shan’t die tonight.”

Morticai blinked.
Shan’t die tonight?
Her companion came over to him with wet cloths and a knife. The one who had spoken to him set about removing the remains of his shirt while the other began washing his right hand and arm. They worked quietly, and for a time, Morticai closed his eyes and let the feel of the soft, moist cloths soothe his weary muscles.

“Tilt your head back,” one instructed him, and they washed his hair, too.

He found the courage to ask the other questions that plagued him. “But they will kill me.”

“Of course,” the Droken female replied, quite matter-of-factly. As she spoke, she softly stroked his face, and a note of sadness entered her voice. “And it is a shame, for you are very pretty.”

“Then, why don’t you free me?” he whispered.

She lowered her hand, as her companion finished braiding his hair. “Because you hate my beloved Droka,” she said sweetly. “Glawres has claimed your soul and possesses you, and for that, you must die.”

Morticai had his own thoughts about who was possessed.

“Now,” the other Droken woman said, “if you could reclaim yourself from Glawres and convert …” Morticai decided this quieter one sounded older.

“Do not tease him!” the younger girl complained.

“I am not teasing,” she replied evenly. “If he converts, I believe Prince Luthekar will spare him.” Then, to Morticai, “Will you not consider it?” she asked. “For my friend here?”

Morticai’s stomach turned at the very thought. “Never!”

“Then you shall die,” the older one replied. “See?” she admonished her companion. “This is one truly possessed. He may be pretty, but his heart is wholly controlled by Glawres.”

Silence fell then, as they gathered up their supplies. The older Droken started toward the gilt doors, but she stopped when the younger one lingered behind. “Are you coming?” she asked.

“In just a moment,” the younger woman replied.

“Be careful. Remember, he is possessed.”

“I will. I shan’t be long.”

With several backward glances, the older woman left them.

“Free me … ” Morticai whispered.

“I cannot,” the Droken whispered back, shaking her head. “I would not,” she said with conviction.

“Then why do you stay behind?”

“To ask you to consider conversion.”

“I cannot.”

The Droken sighed. “Then I shall watch you die,” she said.

“Have you watched others die?” he asked.

“Oh, yes!” she replied with relish.

Morticai’s skin crawled.

“How-how long?”

“Will it take?”

He nodded slowly.

The robed figure shrugged. “I do not know. Usually it takes only one night, but the ritual to be performed on you will take longer. They say, three or four days.”

He looked at her blankly, his soul numbed by the finality of her tone. She bent close and kissed him, then turned to run up the aisle to the doors.

When the gilt doors reopened, Morticai could see that the area beyond was packed with Droken. Soon, several red-robed Droken entered the temple and began lighting the unlit candles.

Morticai glanced over at the small pile of mortar his most recent efforts had dislodged. The former pile had been scattered by the feet of the Droken women, but a new pile lay painfully apparent. With a sudden thought, Morticai directed a fabricated sneeze toward the pile. The mortar promptly scattered. He sighed in relief.

He heard footsteps behind him and automatically stiffened. It was Luthekar. The Droken prince walked into view and examined Morticai as though he were a painting or a statue. He wore elaborately embroidered golden Droken robes. His hood was thrown back, and his silver hair hung unbraided.

“Are you ready?” the Droken prince asked his captive.

Morticai glared back, saying nothing.

Red-robed Droken began bringing items to the dais and filling the small table. Morticai looked at the implements they’d brought and repressed a shudder.

“Move the table closer,” Luthekar said. “Put it there.” The red robes quickly complied. Others brought a brazier to the edge of the dais and then the red-robed Droken scattered like leaves before the Darkness, some exiting through the gilt doors, and some disappearing from Morticai’s sight to exit, he assumed, through the door Luthekar must have used.

Luthekar walked up close and dropped to one knee.

“I make you an offer, though I expect you will not take it,” he said. “You shall die here, and die slowly.”

Morticai swallowed, but he maintained his even stare.

“However, if you die, it is your own doing. From you, Droka will accept repentance. This is not something that I offer lightly—most are not offered a chance to
repent. You are being offered this because Glawres has used you. Droka demands retribution. It can come by your death, or by your faith—given to Droka.”

“No,” Morticai whispered.

Luthekar shrugged. “That is what I expected to hear. I must warn you, though, that should you try to lie, thinking that it shall be a way for you to escape …” Luthekar tilted his head “… I would know. I think that should not surprise you.”

Luthekar raised his hood into place and pulled his mask forward. It was an elaborate mask, with embroidered and gem accents that formed a hideous design. Luthekar turned toward the gilt doors, and a red-robed figure walked to stand beside Luthekar on the platform. Morticai noted the black and gold embroidered hem and assumed it was Ellenwood.

“Are we ready?” the red-robed Droken asked. Upon hearing him speak, Morticai knew for certain it was Ellenwood.

“Almost,” Luthekar replied. He picked up a black silk cloth from the table and advanced toward Morticai. Morticai said nothing, expecting that the cloth would be placed over his eyes. Instead, Luthekar pulled it across his mouth, forcing it between his teeth, and tied it tightly behind his head. Morticai coughed.

“I shall offer you several chances to convert,” Luthekar told him. “At those times, a nod will suffice.”

“Surely you do not expect him to convert!” Ellenwood said.

“No, I do not,” Luthekar replied. “But I was instructed by my father to offer him the choice.”

Ellenwood paused and then signed himself. Morticai had never seen the sign—he assumed it was Droka’s.

“Let us begin,” Luthekar said, and turning toward the gilt doors, he clapped his hands loudly.

The doors promptly opened, and black robed Droken quickly filed in. Morticai’s palms began to sweat. He stared at the wall carving of Glawres and prayed for strength.

The room soon filled to capacity. Morticai stared at the large number of black robes and wondered how many of them were people he knew. If any of them did know him, they weren’t talking about it. They moved with uncanny silence.
Kirwin should see such discipline,
his thought
danced madly through his mind. Then, to his horror, he realized that the heights of the Droken worshipers were too varied and that there had to be children under a number of the robes.
Oh, Glawres!
he prayed.
Don’t let them be raised into this obscenity!

Luthekar began. “You are brought here tonight to witness a Retribution. This corryn …” he gestured to Morticai “… stands accused of the highest offenses. This faithful servant of Droka …” Luthekar gestured to Ellenwood “… stands as witness to the following crimes.”

Luthekar unrolled a scroll with a flourish.

They’re going to run it like a bloody court!
Morticai thought.

“This corryn, called Dyluth and Morticai, has purposely and wantonly searched us out to do us harm,” Luthekar read.

“Yea, this is so,” Ellenwood replied.

“He, through his efforts, has caused one of our own, a faithful Dyagon, to be slain.”

“Yea, this is so.”

“He, with others whom he enticed, attacked me, Droka’s own prince, with intent to kill.”

In unison, a gasp escaped from the congregation.

“Yea, this is so.”

“He has given his own soul to Glawres, and allowed Glawres to possess him so that he could survive Ducledha’s edge.”

“Yea, this is so.”

The crowd stirred, their robes rustling softly.

“He has worked with the vile Faith, indeed, with the Inquisition itself, and has done all that he could to aid Glawres against our beloved Droka.”

“Yea, this is so.”

“And yet, there is more. Not only has this corryn given himself to Glawres, not only has he fought us through the wickedness of the Faith, this corryn …” Luthekar gestured again to Morticai “… is an Arluthian, one of the depraved Brotherhood sworn to the utter destruction of Droka.”

Another universal gasp swept the room.

“Yea, it is so.”

“And thus does this corryn, called Morticai of the Northmarch, stand accused of the most vile crimes. Is there hope for one so wicked? Can there be any repentance?” Luthekar turned to Morticai. “Wouldst thou repent thy crimes and throw yourself upon Droka’s mercy?”

Morticai stared at Luthekar, his eyes blazing his hatred, wishing he had not been gagged so that he could spit. He shook his aching head.

“Then these are thy crimes.” Luthekar moved to the brazier and withdrew a rod of some sort. Morticai tensed and tried to see the end of it, but Luthekar had turned to face the congregation. “Is there any denying that this corryn is a worshipper of Glawres?” Luthekar asked the congregation.

“No!” they replied in unison.

“Then let
him
not deny it.”

Luthekar turned to Morticai, who could now see the branding iron held by the Droken prince. As Luthekar approached him; Morticai tried to look away, but he found that he could not help but stare in morbid curiosity at the end of the rod. The brand was the token of Glawres; it glowed red from the heat of the brazier.

Ellenwood moved behind him and grabbed his right arm at the elbow, just below the manacle. Luthekar moved closer, and Morticai forced himself to look away. Despite his best efforts, his body trembled; he thought of the look in Kithryl’s eyes
when he had lain wounded on her kitchen floor. He felt the first touch of the hot iron on his inner forearm—and screamed. The scream gradually became sobs so loud that they even slipped past the sodden gag in his mouth. His body shuddered uncontrollably; he had emptied his bladder, though there hadn’t been much in it. He choked back a sob, and tried to concentrate on whatever it was that Luthekar was saying. He couldn’t concentrate past the burning in his forearm.
Oh, Glawres!