She glowed ghostly white as she came on, heeled over to the rail, foaming jets of spume flying over her bow. She held the wind, sails tautened and straining as she fought her way toward the tranquil safety of the lagoon. Even so, the time it was taking was maddeningly slow.
Damn the Pat’Riark’s aversion to anything that smells of the Techniks! Roland cursed in silence. A journey that would have taken minutes by Flitter had taken three turns, even at the swift speed of the Pegasus. Yet he supposed he should be grateful the man had come at all. Only trouble of the gravest import could entice the Pat’Riark away from the Sacred Isle of Faer-Alon. By the Rim! This is such a time!
A great, booming voice thundered beside him.
“God’s guts, Brother! She will have to tack at least twice more. It will be an hour yet ere they make the shore.”
Roland nodded in agreement, glancing aside at the big man: Shaka, Cachique of the Fifth Wen, his only brother. His features were stamped from the same mold as Roland’s but were both blunter and fleshier, yet they suited his giant frame. “True enough, but we might as well enjoy it. Let us move toward the beach and await them there.”
“Very well,” Shaka replied, his impatience evident. “It seems we have little choice.”
They hurried along the cliff top, following the well-marked path downward. Their shields were quiescent and the wind tore at their dark robes until they billowed like sails. The rolling echo of the crashing surf carried clearly to them.
“How in the hottest, stinking-most pit of hell can we reach Brigantia in time to do anything?” Shaka groaned. “It is a full turn’s march from here at the best possible speed…and that will not happen stumbling along in the dark.”
“We could try and kidnap him,” Roland replied, nodding toward the ship now in the lagoon. He attempted a grin.
Shaka rolled his eyes. “Of course. You would last fifteen seconds and I five more. Then the rest of the Ten could nibble on what was left of us.”
“He must be aware of the urgency,” Roland said. “I am certain I convinced him before I left to search for you. Talisman’s coming is the cornerstone of the Magi creed. He would not have agreed to make the trip otherwise.”
“That still does not explain how we’ll get to Brigantia in time to do anything,” Shaka countered.
“Well…he is the Pat’Riark. He must have a plan. We shall have to trust in that.”
“Aye…and aye again,” grumbled Shaka, who obviously remained unconvinced.
It was a little less an hour before the ship had anchored. They saw the tiny, lantern-lit shapes of seaman flying about her deck as they tidied and stowed the endless mass of sail and rigging. Even lying still, the Pegasus was as graceful as a swan, with lines of perfect symmetry. Her black hull glinted as though it were a mirror reflecting the light of the moonlit water.
They watched as the longboat pulled ashore with little sign any of the crew was hurried. Standing in the bow as though he were a pilot stood a tall man each of them easily recognized. The glow of his aura outlined his face, even more than the moon: Fortunatus, Pat’Riark of Swords and Chieftain of the Magi.
He was clothed in a robe of purest white, save for twin bands of midnight lining the front and sleeves. His hair was a blend of rust and gold, with a single strand of silver standing out in startling contrast. Though he wore the silvered shields of Ryl, he bore in his left hand not a sword but a slender staff of Kirlin, tall as he and glittering golden. Yet most magical of all was the five-pointed star nestled upon his breast. It was made of Kryll—the rare and perfect blend of the Twin Metals he alone possessed.
Behind him in orderly row sat the Ten. They were also known as the Magi: Balthazar, Eldon, Duniel and Rem; Ursus, Agariel and Emnet; Rohan, Michael and Volnar. They were Adepts all. Like their leader, they had chosen the staff rather than the sword.
It had been Fortunatus who had discovered the changeling power of the Metals, and how they altered in focus as they altered in shape. As with the sword, they were still controlled by the Gift of the bearer, though it was amplified a hundredfold by the Metals themselves.
The two wenlords were Adepts of the First Rank, yet they could not be in the presence of the Pat’Riark without feeling awe. He had been teacher and mentor to them both. So it was for virtually all others of the Brotherhood, whether he had been their teacher or not. He was the first and greatest of the Swordkind.
“Greetings, Fortunatus!” Shaka hailed loudly. At once, there came an answering shout and a raised salute.
“Shaka! The moons since our last meeting have been many and long!”
A few minutes more and they heard the distinct sound of scraping. The longboat’s keel slid along the gravelly bottom of the shore and finally came to rest with a crunch.
Fortunatus leapt down and marched forward to greet them. “So…is it true that legends have at last sprung to life and the prophecy come to fruition?” he asked, without preamble.
“Aye,” Roland replied, “but how long the legend will survive without our immediate help is another matter.”
“Have no fear,” Fortunatus smiled. “As ever, you worry needlessly.” He turned and stretched forth his staff. “Our transport awaits.”
A bright shaft of purple fire sprouted from the tip and rose high into the sky, bathing the shore in eerie light. There came a sound of turbulence, and the water outside the harbor entrance suddenly looked as if it were boiling. A large and luminous shape broke the surface to dance over the wave tops, speeding in their direction.
Roland and Shaka glanced at each other in chagrin. Of course, they should have known. The Rudd had sent a Skimmer.
The peculiar preferences of the Pat’Riark were often vague and at times even defied logic. He would not set foot upon a Flitter, calling it a curse of the Techniks. His real objection was that it originated from Grimman-Seth design. He saw no problem in employing the use of another vehicle since it happened to be of Rudd origin.
The Skimmer settled in front of them, hovering an arm’s length above the beach. It was a transport roughly the size of the Pegasus and oval in shape. It pulsed like a winking eye, changing hue from a pastel yellow to a brilliant fireball of red.
“Pardon me for asking, my lord,” Roland queried, “but why did you not travel here aboard the Skimmer?”
The Pat’Riark’s startling blue eyes twinkled in mischief. “I longed for the feel of the sea, if only for a brief time.”
An opening had appeared in the craft’s hull, large enough allow easy access, even to a man Shaka’s size. Fortunatus turned to the robed Magi who had taken up their positions behind him. The first in line was a blond-haired man with a frown on his forehead so deep it looked permanently etched.
“Balthazar,” Fortunatus addressed him, “I will take Eldon and Agariel with me. Await us here. We shall no doubt return not long after tomorrow´s dawn, if fortune should speed our way.”
Fortunatus immediately entered the glowing vehicle, followed by the two Magi he had named. Roland and Shaka glanced at each other, wondering if they should follow. The Pat’Riark’s impatient voice called to them from inside.
“Well? I thought you were in a hurry?”
They entered quickly, gazing about them with wonderment. The Rudd, although Earth-friend since first contact a millennium past, were reclusive, preferring to remain in their watery environs. They were a long-lived race, with a lifespan three and even four times longer than the normal human. Their colonies were numerous. Even the oceans of Earth and Faerwyn-Joss were home to their giant Fortresses of Power, yet they maintained only the minimum interaction required to sustain their membership in the Pentarchy. For this reason—though many of the Rudd technological advancements were freely shared—neither of them had been aboard one of their vessels until now.
The wenlords’ confusion stemmed from the emptiness of the cubicle. There was no evidence of any form of accommodation or mechanical device. Nor was there any sign of the Rudd.
“Be patient,” Fortunatus advised, noticing their look.
At that very moment, the furthest wall became translucent and a Rudd stepped through. The effect was the same as if he had materialized from thin air. They recognized him as Marlon, leader of the Ruderai, the warrior caste of the Rudd.
He was of medium stature, with a humanoid physical structure. His body was encased in a tightly fitting suit called the Lave, though in the Rudd tongue it was known as the Sleef. Apart from a thick pelt of platinum hair flowing past his shoulders, only his hands and face were visible above the Sleef. The flesh was tinged the palest blue and possessed a translucent quality, accentuating the tracing of underlying veins.
The Rudd were true amphibians, with an intertwined cardiovascular and gill structure supporting both water and air. They could breathe and function as normal humanoids on the surface, yet their skin required a constant source of moisture. Without the Sleef, their sensitive epidermis would quickly deteriorate. In extreme cases, it led to death.
The Rudd also possessed a well-developed vocal organ, yet their speech pattern was complex and beyond the effort of most to understand. For this reason, the Rudd communicated through a growler. There were none in evidence, and both wenlords were amazed when Fortunatus began to speak in fluent Rudd. He turned back to them after a short exchange, even as the wall once more wobbled and the Rudd lord disappeared from view.
“He represents the Zuma, the ruling Congress of the Rudd,” Fortunatus explained. “He will attend the Star Chamber alone to judge for himself whether or not this Talisman is the one of prophecy.”
“How will he know?” Shaka asked.
“The Rudd know many things,” Fortunatus answered gravely. “They are the oldest of the known races. They possess awareness of the higher powers, even unto the rulers of other planes.” The Magi leader’s eyes seemed to glow from within. “And yet, it does not matter. I will know whether he is the one. Long ago, I was blessed by a dream vision in which I saw his form as clearly as I see you before me. We spoke, and he led me to believe I should be his teacher and he my disciple until he would gather his full power.”
Roland and Shaka were speechless.
“The time is at hand, my old friends. Yet there shall be a great trial before the final victory.” Fortunatus paused and sadness transformed his face. “Many will not live to see it.”
While they had been speaking, seating had miraculously appeared from the walls and the floor combined. The Rudd had mastered a highly developed form of nanotek heretofore unseen. It was as though the ship were made of living tissue. After a slight hesitation, they seated themselves.
It could not have been more than a few minutes before the hull slid open once more and they saw they had arrived in the garden fronting the Mondragon Palace. They disembarked and the Skimmer departed faster than the eye could follow.
“Perhaps we should enter through the castle,” Shaka suggested, even as they headed for the main entry. “The Adepts stationed at the castle gates will surely allow us admittance, even though the council meeting has begun.”
It was tradition and strictly enforced. Once the council was in session, no one was permitted entry unless already within the castle proper. The Pat’Riark shook his head. “I sense there is no time to delay further. The warden will stand aside for us.”
Roland muttered beneath his breath. “That is unlikely.”
They made their way through the garden and then followed the path, which led them the short distance to the Star Chamber. As they approached the gate, the Sword Thane who was the gate's warden noticed them and began to fidget. The Pat’Riark and the wenlords were easily recognizable and their intention plain. He glanced first to the left and then right, as though seeking a means of escape. There was none.
“Greetings, Warden,” Fortunatus began in an amicable way.
“Greetings, my lord Pat’Riark and those of the Magi. Greetings to you as well, my lords Shaka and Roland.”
“We seek entry,” Fortunatus smiled. “A matter of the gravest import caused our delay.”
“My lord…” A light bead of moisture had appeared upon the Sword Thane’s upper lip. It was trembling. Behind him, the myrmidon began to shuffle their feet, drawing closer like the contracting body of a caterpillar. “You must know I am forbidden by order of the council.”
Fortunatus held onto a diminished portion of his smile. “But surely you can understand our need?” He nodded toward Shaka. “Lord Shaka has testimony vital to the matter now before the council.”
The Sword Thane’s face was as red as his robe. “My lord, I cannot open the doors.”
The Pat’Riark’s face had lost its smile. His brow furrowed, projecting outward like a great thunderhead and his voice altered to a loud bark. “Well then, by the Rim! What if the doors were already opened? Would you then still insist on denying us entry?”
The Sword Thane’s face twisted in confusion. He glanced over his shoulder as if to reassure himself the great doors had not opened while his back had been turned. “But, my lord, how could that be…?”
It was Roland who first realized what the Pat’Riark intended. His eyes rounded in horror as he saw Fortunatus raise his staff, his eyes glowing with anger and determination.”
“Wait!”
It was too late. A jagged bolt of brilliant purple fire lanced out from his staff, narrowly missing the astonished Sword Thane. It smote the doors full force. Mesmerized, they watched as the massive structure toppled inward like a stricken elephant.
***
The voice held such power Ryder could not fathom its origin through the screen of dust. It seemed to echo from everywhere at once.
He became conscious of many things happening. The three D’ia Mor had risen from their seats. They stood tautly, their bodies vibrating like the plucked strings of a harp. Argus had returned to the dais. There he crouched with his head bent forward. “The Pat’Riark,” he breathed in a tone of reverence.
Ryder noticed that the Rudd cubicle was no longer empty. The light had dimmed, though he could see an entity resting motionless within—and it was staring straight at him. He could make out little else except that the creature´s shape was humanoid.
Ryder turned back to face the entryway. A man now strode up the same aisle he had used. He was tall and dressed in flowing white robes, with red hair to his shoulders. His bearing was regal and he looked neither right nor left. The aura of his power radiated from him, as did the glimmering staff in his left hand. On his breast was a five-pointed star glowing like polished platinum.
Two Adepts accompanied him. The one Ryder recognized as Roland. The other was an even larger black man with similar features. He could be none other than the brother Roland had spoken of, named Shaka. Two more white-robed men walked behind, also bearing staffs. Their features were locked in shadow for they were cowled.
The Pat’Riark mounted the steps without pause. Argus and the others standing there were forced to give way. Ryder caught the heady scent of musk.
“I bid the council greeting,” Fortunatus said, bowing slightly.
Ryder felt uneasy as a pair of deep blue eyes tracked onto him. He was conscious of a brief but intense scrutiny, followed by a relaxing and softening of the man’s features. His red mane shook as he nodded in satisfaction, yet it was the archduke who spoke first.
“This matter is weightier than we surmised given your manner of entry.” The sarcasm was even more noticeable.
“That is so,” Fortunatus agreed. “I apologize. The portal shall be re-made as new.”
Ryder noticed the lack of formal title. There was an obvious tension between the two men, as though they were combatants preparing for an impending struggle. He watched as Fortunatus stepped to the edge of the dais and struck his staff sharply on the hard floor. It sprang to life momentarily then settled to a lambent afterglow of deepest purple. His voice rose, once more vibrant with energy.
“High Lords of the council, hear me! Lord Shaka, Cachique of the Fifth Earth Wen has come to bear witness!”
Shaka stood out from the company, as tall and thick and solid as a great tree of ebony. His voice was a deep and rumbling baritone.
“Greetings to all present! Upon hearing from my brother the events in the warren, I instigated an immediate inspection of the perimeter. We found no evidence of forced entry. The inescapable fact—since the force of logic has not dimmed over the centuries—is that he came from inside.
“Though time was short, we searched the warren sector by sector. We discovered a hidden entryway bearing signs of recent upheaval. After this came a watery trail leading into the Burning Mountain. This trail split into many others, becoming a vast maze of tunnels. With diligent effort and no small amount of luck, we discovered a cave showing recent signs of habitation. There was no other object save a cot, crudely made of materials my ancient ancestors might have used. Here we found traces of this man’s genetic pattern. There was a sense of power about this place. Faint though it was, it made my men afraid.”
For a moment, Shaka’s eyes became unfocused. It was as though they burned into each member of the council, individually and at once. “The conclusion is inescapable. The Codex does not lie, nor are the instruments of the Techniks faulty. This man, Talisman, has recently awakened from a slumber lasting more than a millennium.”
Shaka waited while the murmurs swelled then subsided once more.
“Now, let us address the first of his crimes. I am prepared to grant immediate absolution, but there is no need. Indeed, how can you accuse a man of unlawful entry when he was there before the warren’s existence?”
“He is Code-breaker!” Argus stormed, unable to restrain himself any longer.
“Is he, Lord Marshal?” Shaka’s voice had lowered to a whisper, yet his words were amplified throughout the great chamber. He moved the few steps that separated them to confront Argus. He towered over the other man.
“Given the incredible circumstances that have now come to light, there was no reason—no right—to obstruct his way. In fact, it was not he who attacked Mendiko of Sid, but rather Mendiko who attacked him!”The words resounded within the hall, driving home with the impact of a hammer on a spike.
Far from being intimidated, Argus´ eyes filled with anger bordering on rage. Once again, his hand crept to grip the hilt of his sword. “Are you mad?”
The voice of the primus interrupted, cutting the air with the clarity of a whiplash. “My lords, need I remind you? You are in the most sacred hall of law in the empire…not the Korda at the time of the Great Moot!”
Both men stepped back, suddenly realizing not only where they were but also how close they had come to battle.
“Your concern for justice is exemplary, Lord Shaka,” the archduke continued, “yet it surprises me to hear the very overlord of the warren defending the attacker of a Sword Thane, one who even now lies stricken as a result of performing his duty.”
Shaka’s head wrenched up in surprise. “I regret if I have given Your Grace a false impression. We feel Mendiko’s pain no less than he. His duty appeared obvious at the time. Though he cannot be faulted, the action in this case was wrong. There is no need to punish an innocent man further. We believe Mendiko would agree were he here.”
The archduke’s eyes narrowed as he stared toward the palace entryway. “Then let us hear his opinion. The wounded man has at last deigned to join us. Be so good as to come forward, Prince of Sid.”
All eyes swiveled in the direction of the archduke’s gaze, yet it was Ryder who watched with the most interest. Here was the very one he was accused of attacking. He saw a young man of average height whose features could be said to be handsome if they had not been distorted by sadness. His broad shoulders slumped as though his body suffered from either a sickness or a great weariness.
Not of the body but of the spirit.
Ryder flinched in surprise, and his head swiveled toward the balcony of the Sids. Without knowing how, he realized the message had sprung from the mind of the girl. Even at this distance, he could feel the intensity of her stare. He did not notice the Pat’Riark, also studying him in like manner.
He returned his attention to the one called Mendiko, who had risen to the level of the dais. For a second, their eyes locked. Then the Sword Thane’s flicked away as though Ryder was a mirror reflecting the other’s inadequacies.
Ryder’s mouth set grimly as he felt an overwhelming jolt of shame. Guilt had been cleverly directed away from him by unlooked-for allies—albeit with unknown motives. Yet the proof of his guilt stood before him in the lone and dejected form of Mendiko Sid.
“We must give thanks for your speedy recovery, Prince Mendiko.” As expected, the voice of the archduke dripped sarcasm. Yet it was wasted on the Sword Thane.
“There is no need, Your Grace,” Mendiko said. “My wounds were not grievous.”
“You have listened to what has transpired and understood the opinion of the wenlords?” Victor Mondragon asked.
“I was not in time to hear their reasoning,” Mendiko replied. “Yet there is no need. For me, the honor of these two men is beyond question.” The prince shook his head as if awakening from a dream. He turned toward Fortunatus, who regarded him with a growing frown. “No power could make me query the judgment of the Pat’Riark. I will abide by their decision.”
Something between a sigh and a groan escaped the lips of Argus, yet he made no further comment.
Fortunatus moved even closer to the Sword Thane. Deep lines of worry now creased his brow. “Mendiko, there are wounds neither my skill nor even that of Niobe can heal. Yet there is a reason for all things. Will you not trust to that?”
“A reason…a reason…one that none but your cursed cult would know, Beadsman.”
The holo of the three D’ia Mor had materialized on the dais. The words had been spoken in a flat monotone. Ryder could not be sure whether he had seen all three sets of lips move, or only one...or any at all. Their eyes were the blackness of the void, without a noticeable iris. Even their skin was tinted a neutral gray. It looked as cold and clammy as someone who had recently stepped from a crypt. Though otherwise human in appearance, there was an unnatural and alien caste about them...and something else. Ryder was imbued with an instant feeling of aversion, as though he had touched something that had long lain rotting in darkness.
Fortunatus faced their image tautly. “Make plain your meaning, D’ia Mor.”
“We speak of the prophecy, Beadsman. ‘ There shall come one who is man, yet more than man…’”
For the first time, the lone Rudd interrupted. “Strange how the D’ia Mor now uphold the precepts of the Magi as facts worthy of belief, where before they were only scorned.”
The growler-voice was slightly distorted, but Ryder supposed any speech made underwater was a feat unto itself. Yet it was not the D’ia Mor but the Grimman-Seth who answered.
“Stinking water-breathers! Do not befoul us with your slimy breath. Of what use is your opinion to this council at any rate? You who are no more than tame pets of the Magi wizards…”
“Enough of this!” The primus had risen to his feet and his face was flushed in anger. “Do we bicker like children over arcane mouthings, which may be no more than fairy tales? We who rule an empire of countless worlds? Let us decide this now in the proper way by vote.”
“What decision are you referring to?” Fortunatus demanded. “This is no longer a matter for the council.”
“I say it is,” replied the primus. The roughness of his voice showed he would brook no further argument. Yet strangely—or so it seemed to Ryder—he explained his reason, pointing to the wenlords.
“The generous nature of these Adepts is well known. That of Mendiko Sid will no doubt go down as a paragon if I know the pen of Kronus. Yet this cannot be considered a crime against an individual, but one against the Swordkind.” He gave Argus a long and measuring look. “As they have sworn to uphold the Pentarchy by oath of fealty, so too are we honor-bound to uphold them. It shall be decided by vote.”
“You cannot allow this,” the Pat’Riark began, yet even Ryder was shocked at the ferocity displayed by the primus.
“Do not dare to command me!” he thundered. The two men glared at each other until the primus settled back into his seat. “Though my vote is but one, my voice leads. There shall be a vote.”
Kronus came to stand beside Ryder and his voice was grim with worry. “Pray now to whatever gods you worship, for your fate rests upon the whim of these.” He directed his gaze at both the Grimman-Seth and D’ia Mor. “There is little doubt as to their verdict. The Rudd, of course, we can count on,” he continued as though arguing with himself. “Yet strangely only one has come, and he is the leader of the warrior caste. Even so, his vote shall be cast as three. As for House Mondragon, the Lady Niobe, sister to the archduke is not here. Nor is Zel, his son. That leaves the sultry beauty seated beside the primus. She is Baroness Georgina Raven, daughter of Niobe. She is ruled by baser passion. Her decision will be whim and nothing more. The primus…is uncertain. When cool, there is no head wiser; yet the Pat’Riark has angered him. As for the House of Sid, who can say where anger and vengeance stop and reason begins? Kronus shook his head. “By the Rim, it is close…too close!”
***
High in her balcony, Georgina Raven stared at the stranger. What an incredible specimen he was! Even more incredible if his hidden attributes were in proportion. And what would her verdict be? She leaned forward and surveyed the lower tiers. She could see no sign of Morpath, but she suspected he was lurking in the shadows somewhere. She gave him no more thought but turned to her uncle, who sat with his chin upon his hand, brooding. Normally, she would have been wary of him. Yet this night, the effects of the Tiswin-laced wine and the dazzling prospects ahead had loosened her tongue.
“Whatever course we decide upon, Uncle, it will garner enemies…and so soon before a royal wedding. Will you vote in the interests of your son and his future bride, or in the interests of my mother, who is of the Magi?”
For a moment, Victor Mondragon did not deign to answer. Then he bent close. The thin smile upon his lean face did not reach his eyes. “In your ignorance, you believe this to be a trifling matter. And like the serpent of old, you whisper what you hope others will accept as the truth. Beware, my sister´s daughter, lest one turn that soft organ you employ so often and well is ripped from your pretty mouth.”
Georgina’s face whitened in shock. She sat back in her seat and tried to make herself as small as possible. She did not speak again.
***
Ashara too had watched the tall stranger whose life now hung in the balance. She knew without doubt she had touched his mind; knew there was no evil within. There was desperation in her voice as she pulled her brother aside, pleading with him. “We must convince father to vote in the interests of the stranger.”
Shaan shook his head. “I am not so convinced as the Pat’Riark that this Talisman is the Saydin Mak Doom of legend.” He waited until his sister’s eyes grew round and wild and then he offered her a teasing smile. “But I see no reason to condemn him…especially after our cousin has shown forgiveness.”
He turned away and began to whisper urgently to his father.
***
Within moments, the vote was taken, though Ryder could see no evidence of any verdict.
The primus rose and pronounced the judgment solemnly. “All votes have been cast save mine. The tally is six for and seven against the stranger.” He glanced meaningfully at the baroness, who did not return his look. “In this case, my vote will act as two since I also stand for my sister, Niobe.”
He paused and the chamber grew absolutely still. “The final count shall be eight for and seven against. Call it a gift of generosity for one who may have served my ancestor. Ryder Talisman, your name shall be added to t