Temple of the Traveler: Book 02 - Dreams of the Fallen (24 page)

What everyone seemed to miss in all the uproar around t
he betrothal was that Tumberlin had been given no explicit orders. Other than the vague standing directive to collect status from all fronts, for the first time since his re-creation, the Shadow of Kragen had a night free to pursue his own amusements. The twisted apprentice lurked around the ship in secret, but the wards on the lady’s quarters were too strong for him to breach. He almost writhed with the need to inflict some vile and devious revenge upon his tormentors. This precious opportunity might never come again. Then, he overheard the lady’s handmaiden gossiping about the upcoming wedding. “I’m sure Sir Morlan will understand. She’s doing it for the good of everybody.”

Humi, the Ice Maiden, had a weakness for her very personal bodyguard.

It took enormous effort, but Tumberlin located the tent of Count Teldana, the regional Zanzibosian commander responsible for fighting the delaying action against the Kragen armies tht marched on Silverton, the capital of the southern kingdom of Zanzibos. The count tossed in his sleep. The poor man had risen through competence, not connections. He knew this was an exercise in futility that would grind his contingent into the dust for little or no gain. Still, he did his best to harass and hold the highway against the pitiless advance of the traitors.

Tumberlin hovered above the sleeper for a moment, his hood raised, brooding. The sudden cold and panic of animals often alerted people to his presence. The dark apprentice placed a spectral hand inside the man’s chest and strummed the energy pulses inside like a harpist tuning an instrument. Teldana sat up immediately and tried to scream. But the icy grip held his lungs paralyzed.

The hood lowered to the count’s ear and a whisper hissed, “I could’ve taken your spirit just then. If you cry out, I still can.”

The vise grip loosened. Teldana wheezed, “I’ll tell you nothing, fiend.”

Tumberlin grinned at the thought of making this pompous slave of outmoded social conventions beg to spill his petty little secrets. “Listen, and I’ll give you the keys to the kingdom.” The man in gray bedclothes fell silent. The Shadow continued. “The rebels till now have been concerned mainly with rapid advancement, ignoring the populace. A few days hence, the rebels will do something unexpected. After the main body of their force has passed the Zorn plantation and holds all roads, your enemy will send a very small force to take the nephew of Lord Zorn hostage.”

Outrage narrowed Teldana’s lips, but he held his opinions.

“General Morlan will
personally
oversee this mission. I leave the details to you, but the Lady’s Lap Dog is far too overconfident and can be easily lured away from his protectors and captured.”

Teldana shook his head. “We’d need too big a force. It’d be suicide. The moment he called for help, his men and the army at large would be all over us.”

Again, the voice hissed softly in Teldana’s ear. “This is the beauty of my gift to you. Morlan cannot speak, he’s completely mute. No one will arrive in time to help him.”

The count considered this information. With Morlan as hostage, he might be able to stall the enemy army for weeks while they sent birds to Humi Kragen. However distasteful, the deed would save thousands of lives and probably give the King of Zanzibos the time he needed to counter this assault. He would need to hire professionals for the capture itself to prevent any stain on his own name, though. “How can we be certain it’ll be Morlan the Merciless?”

The Shadow drifted back. “Because I issued him the orders myself.”

Military intelligence rarely got better than this. Teldana needed only one more piece of information to seal the deal and the enemy general’s fate. “What do you get out of this?”

“I want you to cut off his sword hand as proof, and send it clutching his Honor. Then I want you to put his seal on a document swearing that he and other guards at the Kragen palace routinely got drunk and used the diving girls on the island for their entertainment. Humi was the most wanton. As proof, write that she has scars from human teeth on her left heel and from rope burns on her right forearm. Let him read it, and then put out his eyes. I want the indictment against that slut to be the last thing he ever sees!”

The Shadow’s primatred guaranteed the veracity for the southern commander. So evil was the intent that Teldana felt sorry for the opposing general. But he had no choice about using the damning information. “It shall be as you have said.”

Suddenly, he was alone in his tent again. But there’d be no more sleep that night.

As Brent and Sarajah reached the top of the hill, rain began
to sprinkle gently upon their shoulders. “How are you planning to talk your way past the guards?” she asked at last. She was sure this was a wild-goose chase, but escaping Tashi’s relentless gaze was worth the risk.

The boy shrugged. “We’re travelers willing to swap news and entertainment for food and a dry stall in the barn.” When she winced at this prospect, he replied, “It has to be the truth in some form, miss, or I can’t claim it. Lawyers live by their word.”

She patted him on the head. “Don’t tell them the lawyer part, lad, or we may get killed at the gate. Let me get us in the door. You do the looking.”

The rain increased to a downpour. Fortunately, the guards let them through to the main house when they asked to see Master Simon. The colonnade along the outer wall gave them shelter as they ran. Brent paused before the front doors, water cascading off the rooftops on every side. Brent could feel the pull of the rock and the layered terraces. He turned to look at the grounds. Then the boy slowly climbed to the center, clambering over walls, and getting drenched in the process. He stopped under the shelter of the great rock, unable to hear Sarajah shouting for him. By lightning flash, Brent saw the small but vital detail that Jotham had missed.

The woman found him, staring in awe down at the estate. Assuming that he had a fever, she scooped him up and carried him back to the front door of the mansion.

“It’s a giant nautilus,” he shouted on the porch.

“What does that mean?” Sarajah complained.

In the foyer, a well-dressed, young woman greeted them with thick, warm towels. From the freshness of her bloom, Sarajah judged her to be about sixteen. The seeress dried herself, but the girl treated Brent like a younger sibling, rubbing his drenched hair vigorously.

As she dried him, Brent babbled his reply. “The nautilus is armored, safe. The armor is beautiful, almost like pearl. But the creature eventually outgrows its walls and has to make another layer. Over time the spiral becomes a perfect mathematical pattern. The design of everything on these grounds all points to this pattern, and this house is its head.”

Their hostess then helped them to remove backpacks and muddy boots, placing them on a special rug by the door.

“I’m lost,” admitted Sarajah. “You’re saying we’re standing on a giant snail?”

“This symbol is pointing to something huge, something well-protected, complex and ancient that’ll change our lives forever!” Their hostess handed the enthusiastic but damp boy a hot drink of cider.

“What is it pointing to?” Sarajah demanded.

Brent became distracted by their hostess. “I have no idea. But this drink is fantastic. Thank you, miss. My name is Brent.”

When the decrepit steward arrived, he croaked, “This is the mistress of the house. I’d thank you not to bother her. Step back from this ruffian, ma’am; he’s committed the unpardonable crime!”

Sarajah raised her eyebrows at this child bride, but remained diplomatic. “I was with him the whole time; just what is it that you think he’s done?”

“But the truth is important. I had to touch the Rock in order to understand the center of the pattern. I’ve no wish to disturb the balance. If decades of the elements are helpless against the Rock, I don’t think I could disturb its poise if I tried. But the frozen power is the key. Such force could crush one side or the other, but lose everything it is in the act. But until it decides, the Rock is a danger to both sides.”

“The word you are looking for is ‘potential’,” Sarajah offered. “But your use of ‘decide’ should be clarified.”

Brent tried to explain with a glassy expression in his eyes. “The Rock may not speak; the Foundations won’t allow it to. But still it stands, endures the many years. It gives strength and a small degree of shelter to all who draw near. It is incredibly fragile, as are we all. But that only adds to its beauty, and its potential.”

Their hostess stared at the boy, mesmerized.

Sarajah interrupted, standing between the steward and the boy. “He hasn’t eaten much today, probably because he hasn’t recovered from seeing several friends killed. Clearly, he isn’t well.”

The steward, also puzzled by the personification of the Rock, said, “That may be, but he still has to stand judgment before the master.”

“That’s all we ask, a fair hearing,” Sarajah agreed, glad to have another pretext for meeting the architect. She clasped a hand around Brent’s mouth.

The steward grunted, “You’ll have to wait for the master to be done with his lessons.” Meanwhile, the young woman had opened a concealed door that revealed stairs that headed downward. Their hostess pulled the man aside, and the travelers could discern nothing but a few gestures. “Very good madam,” the steward concluded. “If he’s as out of his head as you say, we’ll all feel safer with the boy waiting in the basement.” The steward grabbed a lamp from a high sconce and began herding Brent toward the stairs.

“It’ll be cold down there. He could catch his death,” Sarajah protested, wrapping her arms around the boy. While everyone was distracted, she slipped a hand into the boy’s pocket and located the tarot card box.

After she watched the boy disappear out of sight down the steps, Sarajah noticed that the lady of the house had vanished as well. The steward clicked the secret door panel back into place, where it blended in with the rest of the wall. Even knowing it was there, the seeress wasn’t certain she could reopen the door unaided.

“While you wait, we might be able to find you a little leftover stew and bread from lunch.” The steward led her inside to the backside of the mansion. Though still elegantly paneled in rich woods, the halls grew narrower and the side rooms smaller. The steward stopped in front of a swinging servant’s door to the kitchens. The heat, mouth-watering smells, and bustling noise coming from within made the large room’s purpose clear. “You’re a guest. Please conduct yourself like one,” admonished the man’s creaky voice before he turned and left her alone.

Fully intending to claim a meal, Sarajah pushed her way into the kitchen and strode across to the large woman kneading dough against the far wall. She was only a couple feet from the matron’s back when Sarajah heard a familiar, schoolgirl giggle from off to her right. A quick look confirmed her fears. Jolia was flirting with some curly headed aristocrat over a bucket of scrub water. The seeress locked eyes with her for a fraction of a second, and then Jolia spilled the soapy water all over the floor.

The straw-headed blonde could expose Sarajah’s past. The architect would surely evict her or worse. Acting quickly, the seeress used the distraction to duck through the first door to her left. Barely larger than a closet, the larder had a tiny window that offered a breathtaking view over the edge of the cliff. Even if she could have wriggled through, there would be no escape. Her only hope was that the stupid girl wouldn’t realize who she’d seen in that kitchen and wander off to follow some other distraction. Sarajah fumed; she hated being so helpless.

Seating herself on the stool inside, Sarajah waited impatiently for the crowd of witnesses to thin.

As time passed, she tried to rest. But every misstep of her many decades began to nag at her physically. Normally she would have just fed off someone else’s life-force to take the aches away, but she no longer had that power, not while bound at least.

She remembered being half-dead in that wilderness so many years ago and holding the shard against her chest. Her domineering spirit sister was now gone. Freedom had come at a horrible price. “What’ve you made me into?”

Alone, she yielded to the lure of the cards. The first card drawn and laid was the Hungry Ghost.
The first card represents you.
“Lies,” she hissed. The kitchen was quiet. She put away the discomfiting cards and peeked out of the pantry. Jolia was scrubbing by the entrance with her back turned. That way was blocked. The cook was still hard at work making meat pies, but the hallway leading past the pantry and to the back door was completely clear for the moment. Sarajah made a mad dash for the back door and closed it behind her.

She closed her eyes and willed her racing heart rate back to normal. When she regained composure, Sarajah looked around at her new surroundings. She was now stranded on a hard rock path only one pace wide. The only thing between her and the windy abyss was a hip-high stone wall. The seeress followed the downward slope of the path to get out of the chilling wind. At the end of the path, out of sight and smell of the kitchen, were two wooden doors carved with half-moons. She almost cackled out loud with relief. The metaphor for her life was perfect. She was trapped in an outhouse that dangled perilously over a cliff.