TWELVE
“Hear me, Brothers! If my voice means anything to this assembly, then this wrong must be allowed to go no further!”
“Only you speak of wrong!” Shaka thundered. “Are we to believe you know more than the High Council of the Pentarchy?”
The two men confronted one another as though at the center of a great stage. Around them had gathered the Adepts—at last count, one hundred and sixty in number. It was only a small percentage of their totality, yet more than enough to decide this matter. This was the holiest of ground to the Swordkind. And to many of them, it was akin to blasphemy to witness such an argument here.
Roland stood among the circle, his lips raw from biting. The world has gone mad, he thought as he caught his brother’s eye. Shaka wasted no time in continuing his argument.
“The council has rendered its decision and it is final. Ryder Talisman is innocent of any crime.”
“Crime?” Argus repeated, making the word sound like a mockery. “You believe I would concern myself or these brethren…” he waved a thick arm to include the gathering “…with some paltry offense worthy only of the Judicata? I speak of a blatant attack on a sword-brother.”
“You repeat yourself like an old woman kneading bread,” Shaka scoffed. “I say the council has decided. Would you go against the command of the archduke?”
“I do not forswear my oath if that is what you imply,” Argus answered, his voice dangerously low. “Yet neither the council nor Archduke Mondragon may decide who shall study the mysteries of the Swordkind. That is our right and our duty. As leader of the Gardai, I question this act because I witnessed the wrong and my heart cries out against it. I tell you…we cannot let Ryder Talisman enter the Brotherhood of Swords!”
“There were other witnesses besides you, Lord Marshal of the Gardai!” Shaka spat the title like an oath. “Yet you seek to twist the minds of everyone to your viewpoint. I ask myself, why? Why this unreasoning hatred of one whom all others have forgiven—even the one who himself was wronged?”
Both Adepts had adopted the battle stance. Their hands gripped their swords.
“I too would ask that question, Lord Shaka!”
Roland had been so intent upon the confrontation that the booming voice startled him. All turned as Thorgrim Halfinger, Baron of the Third Wen, moved to the center of the circle. He was a giant, even taller than Shaka and twice his girth. Though his steps were slow and measured, there was no hint of awkwardness. Boldly, he stepped between the two Adepts, forcing them to give way.
“I speak now to both of you. We presently stand in a place of power beneath the Tower of Light. Still, we are in the shadow of the Korda and the time of the Great Moot draws ever nearer. One can almost sense the eager cries of the vast multitude—a thing to heat the blood of any man. It would be wise to remember that despite the benefit of the Metals and the extended expanse of our lives, we are but men…with all their attendant faults.”
Halfinger waited, and Roland saw that both Adepts had relaxed their warlike stance.
“Now, my lord Shaka…be so good as to answer the question that we are all asking. We have seen the holos and heard the somewhat stinted viewpoints, as well as the facts. What qualifies this stranger for the Brotherhood? Surely not his attack upon one of our own?”
Roland watched, hardly daring to breathe as his brother brought himself under control.
“It is a difficult thing to explain,” Shaka began. “It is so far beyond the ordinary I fear my tongue lacks the proper words. There is something about him…a difference even Mendiko experienced—must have experienced when they melded.”
A shocked murmur rippled through the rows of Adepts.
“Yes,” Shaka nodded, “he did this of his own free will. Such is the rightness and purity of Talisman’s aura. There can be no doubt he is not an ordinary man. Who among you could have summoned the Flame having never touched the Metals? And other things stand out, not least the incredible fact of his survival in the warren, alone and unaided as he was for so many centuries. He is both protected and driven by higher powers. Most important of all, he fulfills the prophecy… ‘Not of the sword shall he be, though he summon its highest power….”
“Yes, but it was not his sword!” Argus voice rang out, first in protest but quickly following with contempt. “And then shall he lead the poor misguided plebes of the salariat out of the darkness and into the light…”
“As ever, the ignorant must ridicule what they do not understand!” Shaka interrupted heatedly.
“I also do not understand,” Halfinger stated in a minor tone of rebuke. “We are not all familiar with the arcane writings found in the grimoire of the Magi. How can we be faulted for that which is not our providence?”
“The record does not only pertain to the grimoire,” Roland asserted. “There is evidence in the scrolls as well. Kronus showed them to me. A man who was yet more than man warned the people of pre-Cloister in time to make preparations. He called himself Ryder Talisman, and his description matches the one of our present time in every detail.”
Again, there was a murmur of surprise. Roland sensed a growing feeling of uncertainty. Yet was it enough? Where was the Pat’Riark? From their last sighting of the Pegasus, should they not have been here by now?
“You are deceived,” Argus argued, yet there was now a worried note to his voice, for he too had sensed the shifting mood. “It is both true and obvious he is different, for I have witnessed his difference. Yet you say higher powers direct him. Are they for good or ill? Would a righteous man attack Mendiko in such a manner?”
“That disturbs me as well,” Halfinger murmured, stroking his full beard. “And this strange lapse in memory. It seems a bit too convenient…”
“Bah!” Argus scoffed. “We have waited long enough. All views have now been heard. It is high time we take a vote.”
“No!” Shaka cried out in desperation. “We must wait for the Pat’Riark.”
“I disagree.” It was Edwin Croll, Commander of the Home Fleet and Deputy Lord Marshal of the Gardai. “The Pat’Riark is the greatest voice among us. None can dispute this. Even so, his is but one voice. How could he add to this matter when he was not a witness?”
Roland once more caught his brother’s eye and he could see they were both afraid. One voice, it was true, but a voice of power respected by all Adepts. Argus had planned well. Though the furthest reaches of the empire were but a thought away, only a handful of Adepts had been permitted leave from their duties. Apart from Thorgrim, it was plain these had been carefully chosen for their loyalty to the Lord Marshal.
The sudden lilt of a horn shattered all conversation. The entire complement of Adepts hurried beyond the arches and into the courtyard facing the sea. At that moment, Roland could well understand the Pat’Riark’s love of the ocean, for the Pegasus was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Under full sail, she rounded the outermost point of the harbor then tacked, heading arrow-straight for her berth.
***
Ryder saw that many among the island´s populace lined the cobbled walkway skirting the water, responding to the blaring of the horn. The Pat’Riark rarely left the Sacred Isle and his beloved people had eagerly awaited his return. At the last moment, the Pegasus luffed and then glided to a graceful stop in the Tower’s shadow, which stretched out like a pointer over the turquoise stillness of the harbor.
Fortunatus leapt ashore and called out to the eager throng, not as a king or a lord but as an equal, greeting many by their given names. Yet the procession stopped as he reached the steps of the Tower´s terrace. Ryder saw Kronus hang back, wearing an uncertain look.
Fortunatus turned impatiently and motioned for Kronus, Ryder, and Mendiko to follow him. The Magi leader mounted the steps and moved inward, looking neither right nor left until he stood in the center of the hall. Behind and to either side, the Magi formed a crescent, their manner subdued. As the other Adepts grouped around him, his voice rang out loud and clear.
“Brothers! The lines of age have not yet settled upon my visage, even though the cycles have passed in their great number. Yet time weighs heavily upon me, for I have at last reached the vale—the twilight of my life. And there is in me a fear, a dread certainty an evil has come among us cloaked in the guise of friendship. It hungers! And in its craving it feeds upon the hearts and minds of men as readily as a scavenger devours its offal. And upon its wings ride the D’ia Mor!”
The Adepts stood rooted in shock, not even daring to murmur.
Fortunatus sought out the form of Argus, who stood rigid as stone. “And others.” The anger in the Pat’Riark’s eyes gave way to sadness. “By your actions, you reinforce the decision I made those many cycles ago when you asked me to instruct you in the ways of the sword. What I suspected then, I see now with my own eyes. I was right to refuse you.”
Argus had begun to tremble, though he seemed unable to move his limbs.
Fortunatus’ staff now glowed on the cusp of the Flame. “Hear me, Brothers! A moment approaches on swift wings. Each of you will be tested, thrown from the balance of the Code and forced to confront your honor. The choice will be hard. Life and dishonor, or death by the Gundring. Believe this with dread certainty for I have seen the vision of its happening.
“Know this also. I am called the Pat’Riark of Swords since I was first among you. I tell you now: I can no longer be bound by any decision of this gathering. Not in this matter.” He pointed to Ryder. “The power is his, manifesting itself when he summoned the Flame. Though the veil blocks his mind, I will seek to open it through the training. He is the one of prophecy, the Saydin Mak Doom whose coming was foretold so long ago. If any of you cannot conscience this, then now is the time to stop me…if you can.”
With these last words of warning, there came a sudden stillness to the hall unbroken by even a single breath. Of them all, it was Thorgrim Halfinger who moved first. His massive form towered over the Pat’Riark until, astonishingly, he knelt. Drawing his sword, he laid it at his feet.
“My lord…strange are these happenings and many of them beyond my ken. Yet of one thing I am certain: I who was once your pupil would rather forfeit my life than raise a sword against you now.”
One by one, the Adepts joined him, proffering their swords in homage—all but Argus, Croll, and a handful of others. For a second, Ryder saw the eyes of Argus burn with a strange madness. Without a further word, he and his companions left.
Though the victory had been great, Fortunatus showed no sign of triumph. The terrible sadness remained even as he lifted his voice once more.
“Rise, Brothers, and raise your swords! As you once swore oath, so it must be sworn again!”
Ryder found himself being led forward. As the Adepts before him had done, so did he kneel, but now under the great canopy of the Metals. Balthazar brought forth a sword of Kirlin. With it were five slivers of Ryl, slim and diamond-shaped. Fortunatus took the polished sword not by the hilt but by the blade and raised it high over his head.
Ryder saw an etched symbol beneath the Pat’Riark’s hand but could not be sure what it was. In his other hand, he held the five shields. Both sets of Metal began to glow with an eerie light.
“This was once my sword, and these my shields, forged of those Metals given to me by the Rudd long ago,” Fortunatus intoned. “Now they are yours.” He handed them to Ryder. In a most solemn voice, he began to repeat the Oaths of the Code.
“Hear me, Ryder Talisman, you who come to us as Initiate—Dao I’n. Do you swear to uphold the First Rood of the Code with your life in need be? Will you place honor above all?”
Ryder bowed his head. Already he felt the tingling power of the Metals. “I so swear.”
“The Second Rood: Do you swear to hold your power in abeyance until called upon to use it for the right, and never to subvert either the body or mind of any unwilling individual, be they Swordkind or not?”
“I so swear.”
“Then rise, Ryder Talisman—Dao I’n.”
He rose to his feet and suddenly a great fire burst over his head. Each Adept had summoned the Flame, the awesome act of High Power. Yet now it was controlled as they shouted out with one voice, reminding him of his vow.
“Ryder Talisman—Dao I’n! Wearer of the White. Yours is the right to bear the Twin Metals: Ryl of the shield and Kirlin of the sword. Yours is the duty of the Gift, bound by the Code of the Sword Brotherhood to uphold the right. Honor before all else!”
Fortunatus stepped forward and in his hand was the Gundring. Before the astonished Ryder could move, the slender blade slashed down, leaving a deep but razor-thin cut across his palm. A bright welling of blood rose to seep from the wound and the Pat’Riark’s voice once more rang out bright and clear.
“Remember this! It is the sign of your oath, a scar to forever remind you that you have sworn to seek death before dishonor!”
Ryder stood there mutely with blade and shields, and the blood dripped between his trembling fingers.
As if a great burden had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders, Fortunatus slumped forward to lean upon his staff. “These events have wearied me. Grant me your pardon, my friends. I must now rest.”
Surrounded by the Magi, he moved away and the Swordkind began to disperse.
It was over.
Kronus was the first to react. Taking a long strip of cloth he had magicked from some hidden place, he wrapped it around the hand of Talisman. “Now, my lord Talisman, you have safely arrived and I must return to my duties.” He glanced hopefully at the southern wenlords. “May I prevail upon you to transport me back to Brigantia?”
“Of course,” Shaka agreed. “And then we must return to our own lands. Among other things, we need to appoint a new warden for the eastern gate.”
They all clasped hands, agreeing they would meet again soon. At that point, the company began to head in the direction of their Flitter. Mendiko went with them to bid his farewells and Ryder was left alone at last. He realized it was the first time since he had awoken in this strange and daunting age.
As he watched the departure of his newfound friends—those who had saved his life—he could not help but feel a sense of foreboding. He had no idea what lay in store for him upon this new and mysterious journey he had willingly undertaken.
But take it he must…for good or ill.