The Barrow (78 page)

“I've often wondered that,” replied Stjepan absently, staring into the fire. He was seated on a low bench between Erim and Caider Ross and he paused in eating from a plate of food prepared by Wilhem Price and Malia. “There's no similar name in the old rolls of Danian and Mael lords and knights. It sounds a bit like the citadel named Angharad, of course, so I think the prevailing theory has always been that it's a variant of that old place name. I thought for a while that perhaps a Nameless wizard had taken the name because it sounded like Ahzazel, who was a great
Rahabi
general of Ishraha's and a prince amongst their kind, but that's just my own guess.”

“It's not a bad guess,” said Leigh, seated across the fire from him. “But it's the
De Malifir Magicia
to which we must turn again. You really should complain to the Magisters about how much your education has suffered from all the constant forbidding they do.” Stjepan nodded in deference to the Magister.

“Githwaine, remember, was one of ours, a Danian lord who had gone south to serve the great Dauban Hess, the King of Illia who had risen up to throw down Nymarga the Tyrant, and in so doing Dauban Hess had become Emperor over the largest and greatest empire in history,” Leigh said, his voice projecting out over the fire. “The priests of the Sun Court had cursed and cut up the body of the Devil and entombed the various pieces in salt. And Githwaine was entrusted with the knowledge of the secret locations of Nymarga's body parts, and told to guard them at all costs so that his followers could not find them and restore him.”

Erim shuddered. “What, is he still alive?” she asked. “Even chopped up into pieces?”

“Who knows? How can you really kill the Devil?” Leigh asked with a grin that looked terrible in the firelight. “A great trust that was, to watch over his body, and it was betrayed after Dauban Hess sailed off into the east to find the Isles of the Dawn where the sun rises each day, and did not return. Either out of grief or greed, Githwaine listened to the voice of the Devil speaking to him from within its salt prison, and he found the secret location of
Ghavaurer
, the sword of the Devil, and he learned how to make himself into the first Worm King. And he spread this secret to the magicians and knights and nobles within the Empire and the Phoenix Court who were still loyal to Nymarga, their old master. And so the Worm Kings emerged to rule the Empire, first in secret and then in the open, and in time they plunged the world into dark and bloody war, until the Dragon Kings were finally victorious and swept the Worm Kings from the thrones of the Empire.”

“And resolved to hunt down every last one of them,” Arduin said with firm conviction.

“Aye, to their eventual mutual doom,” said Leigh. “To flee the Dragon Kings as they hunted down his fellow Worm Kings during the Winter Century, Githwaine slid back to his homeland in the western Danias, and took up a mask, and pretended to be someone else. But he did not return alone. He had servants and followers from his time in the south with him, and amongst them were wizards from Sekeret, the Golan birthplace of ancient hermetic magic and a land well known for providing viziers to the Phoenix Court.” Leigh made a face. “Even to this day, that land provides most of the viziers to the Dreaming Emperor and his Sultan.”

“So Azharad was one of these wizards from the south, then?” asked Caider. “Kind of sounds like a southern name.”

“
Az'harad
,” Stjepan said suddenly, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “It's Sekereti, then.”

“The name's origin is, yes, but it's unlikely that Azharad was one of Githwaine's original followers, that would have made him five hundred years old or so by the time he emerged to rule the Bale Mole, and while he was a powerful wizard I don't expect he was
that
powerful,” said Leigh.

“The Emperor's been dreaming for four hundred years,” said Erim with a frown. “Or so everyone says.”

“Yes, seemingly trapped in a Curse of great power,” said Leigh. “So it's not impossible that Azharad was one of the original wizards from Sekeret that came with Githwaine. But the tale told in
De Malifir Magicia
is that he was merely one of their descendants. They had taken refuge in secret holds in the Bale Mole after Githwaine was killed by Fortias and the sword
Gladringer
, and kept their worship of him alive in the dark, and passed their secret magics down across the generations, until one of them was strong enough to walk the earth and stake his claim.”

No one said anything after that for a while. They just stared at the fire glumly, eating sparingly or drinking wine.

“That's all well and good,” said Arduin finally as he turned to Stjepan. “But we are still left with the same questions as before: was that the body of the wizard Azharad, or not? And the sword? Is it
Gladringer
? Or some cursed, false blade?” he asked.

“A black curse is on that blade, and no other enchantment save a glamour to make it pleasing to the eye,” said Stjepan. “So no, it's not
Gladringer
.”

“What, we should just take the word of you and this crazed enchanter? Maybe the glamour deceives you both,” said Godewyn, pacing nearby with a bottle of wine.

“Do you think I mean to keep us here?” Stjepan asked, incredulous. “If that were the sword, we'd have built a pyre for our dead and we'd be gone already. Every day, every hour we are in this cursed place brings us closer to disaster, and my life will be forfeit in the end the same as yours. It's only a matter of time before the Azharites return, in force, and then we'll all be in their cooking pots.”

“Maybe you're in league with our missing friend,” said Godewyn, stopping right behind Stjepan. “Maybe you mean to sneak back in there while we're all asleep and take it for yourself.”

Stjepan stood and turned to face Godewyn. “Then you and I can sleep next to each other, each with one eye open,” he said, a slight smile on his face. Godewyn snorted and continued his pacing as Stjepan sat back down.

“I don't want to die in this place,” Erim said quietly, staring at the fire, her eyes wide and unfocused. “I think if you die in this place you are lost forever, trapped in Limbo or bound here as a ghost . . .”

Godewyn snarled and turned, walking a short distance away. “Don't say that! Don't even think it! Gah!” he cried over his shoulder.

“I don't want to die in this place,” Erim said quietly to herself.

There was silence except for the roar and crackle of the campfire.

“Could someone have been here before us and taken what was here, the real sword?” Arduin asked.

“Could . . . this map be a false one? A false map to a false body and a false sword? A distraction from the real barrow, which is as yet undiscovered?” asked Erim. “Some sort of trap?”

Godewyn heard this and walked back to the campfire.

“I don't know,” said Stjepan simply.

“Maybe you just translated it wrong,” said Godewyn.

“My translation was right; the map leads here, for good or ill,” Stjepan said.

“
Perhaps there is more to the map
,” Leigh said quietly, as if to himself.

Arduin turned. “Perhaps there is more to the map. Consult with my sister again, see if there is more to come, some detail to explain the empty room, the fake sword . . .” he said.

Godewyn looked at Arduin with confusion. “Wait, what does your sister have to do with the fucking map?” asked Godewyn, a perplexed frown on his face as Caider and Too Tall looked up, frozen in mid-chew.

Arduin and Stjepan looked at each other. Stjepan winced.

“Um . . . my sister . . .” started Arduin, but his mouth seemed to have trouble working.

“His sister was cursed by an enchantment in a book, and the map appears in her head,” Stjepan stepped in smoothly. “As she remembers bits and pieces of the map, she describes it to me, and I write it down. It is dark magic, and why we had to bring her along with us.”

Godewyn barked a laugh. “So that's what you've been doing, talking to her all the time in her tent,” he said. “Everything finally makes some sense. Too many fucking secrets around here, Black-Heart. So she's got the map in her head, eh? And how do we know she don't know more than you say she does?” He paused for a second, his eyes narrowing. “How do we know she don't know more than
she
says she does?”

Stjepan set his plate down, slipped the strap of his satchel on over his shoulder and head and across his body, and stood up. He turned and matched Godewyn's stare. “I'm afraid you'll just have to trust me,” Stjepan said. “If she has nothing new to tell me, there is nothing that I or anyone else can do.”

He walked off to Annwyn's tent.

“Boy doesn't know how to deal with the likes of her, but I'll bet I could get the truth out of her,” Godewyn said, his eyes following Stjepan's retreating back.

“Watch yourself,” said Arduin grimly.

Stjepan entered the Ladies' Tent and stood for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the lamplight. Malia curtsied and exited the tent quickly without making eye contact with him. He took in the small details of the tent once more—folding chairs neatly piled with rich fabrics for comfort, chests open to reveal toiletries and bottles, knitting and embroidery work abandoned momentarily, dried herbs and flower petals scattered about the carpet to faintly scent the air. He took in the plain, sturdy weave of the canvas tent, the details of the eagles and griffins depicted in the damask carpet. He listened to the wind, to whispers and death cries, to the faint ringing of distant bells, to what sounded like someone weeping alone in the dark. He sniffed the air, smelt fire and ash, the sharpness of honest clean steel and the lather of horse sweat, the growing stench of the untimely dead, the raw pit of fear and hunger, and from nearby the faint scent of something moldy and rotten. His gaze grew hard and grim, and then he stepped past the screens set up around the center of the tent.

Annwyn was lying naked on her bed of furs and fabrics, bits and pieces of the map appearing and disappearing, ink swimming across her pale, ivory skin. She was looking at herself in the mirror.

“I tried to explain . . .” started Stjepan.

“Yes, I heard you. But they want more. Come,” she said. She looked at him, and her hand smoothed down a spot of fur next to her on the makeshift bed.

Stjepan approached her slowly and sat on the furs next to her. She moved around beside him, languidly turning her body over, showing him different looks and angles.

“Do you see anything new?” she asked. A slight pout formed around her mouth. “Malia and I looked . . . everywhere, but it seems like it is all the same.”

He studied her skin for a while. “No . . . no, I do not see anything new, either,” he said finally.

“Perhaps you've seen all that you can see,” she said. “Perhaps to learn more, you will need to use your hands instead of just your eyes.”

She took his hand and placed it on her chest. For a moment Stjepan didn't move, feeling the heat of her body, and then his fingers slowly traveled down the length of her torso, following the letters and lines on her skin as they undulated and reacted to his touch, as though they were living things sensing a hovering danger.

“Is this truly your own desire or does it come from somewhere else?” he asked softly.

“Would that truly matter to you?” she asked. He didn't blink. “Have you not considered that perhaps there might be some further revelations waiting . . . inside me? Where you cannot see?”

She took his hand and gently guided it between her legs. But he simply cupped her mound and did not move, eyeing her with curiosity.

“Ah. Do you think me some poor untouched flower, that has been kept locked away under glass and key?” she asked. “You told me once that you knew my story. From rumor and the gossip of the Court, no doubt. But did Harvald ever tell you exactly how I was discovered with my lover?” She stared off into the distance, her mind elsewhere, else-when, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “
Galrode Tierwell
. I have not said his name aloud in years. I have not even allowed myself to think it. My father, you see, did not approve; he might have been a knight but his family was not sufficiently highborn for them to marry an Orwain. But he was beautiful to look upon, a bright star upon the field, and noble of heart and sweet in disposition when it came to me.” She laughed bitterly. “A classic enough story, I suppose, told in every romance ever written. Do I seem foolish to you?”

“No, my Lady,” he said. “Romances are written that way for a reason.”

“Well, I
was
a fool, and deeply in love, and desperate to spend time with my beloved,” she said, looking back into his eyes. “Harvald offered to abet our meetings. It was leading up to the Tournament of Gavant two years after I was the Queen there, when the entire Court heads up to the Plain for rest and sport and games. Harvald arranged a tent in a far meadow where my lover and I could meet in secret for our trysts. Harvald and I would excuse ourselves from our family's encampment and pretend to go on long country rides together, but instead he would take me to meet Galrode, who awaited me. Those were happy hours, happy days for me.”