TWENTY-SIX
ASHARA WATCHED HIM approach through the thin curtain of rain. As ever, he walked tall and confident, yet with a difference in his bearing and a new purpose in his long stride. He had not sought her out the whole of the previous turn. She had looked out over the massive crowd of revelers, searching for his unmistakable form yet not finding it. And she had wondered and worried. She now saw with her own eyes the changes that might further separate them, even more than the barriers of their present circumstances.
She recognized the same long and flowing hair of midnight flickering about his broad shoulders. The same intense green fire burned in his eyes, scorching her unto her soul. Yet the aura was about him now, the unmistakable power of an Adept.
He paused before her and she regarded him silently, her violet eyes rounded with an almost desperate, unwavering focus. The drizzle fell upon them unnoticed. Then he smiled and she found herself in his arms, the incredible warm strength of him enfolding her and driving away the doubts, kindling in her a passion she would not have thought possible.
Her lips melted into his and their bodies moved together, hardness and yielding softness. The electric touch of his hands on her flesh made her groan as he lifted her, setting her gently upon the newly dampened grasses of the glade. She lay back, settling herself upon her cloak, waiting as he studied her, knowing she would give herself to him now. The understanding was in his eyes too, even as the fire dimmed and the moment passed.
He knelt beside her, scooping her up and drawing her into his lap, and she felt the warm wash of his breath on her cheek. Above them, the bare branches of ancient mahogany chattered in a sudden gust of wind. Tiny droplets shook loose from the tips like wizened fingers to splatter upon the ground and their cloaks. They listened to the rising moan of the Korda, a magnificent beast that had long slept but now awakened.
“I was afraid,” she whispered, “afraid that you…”
“Had transformed into some magical creature? Or an angel, perhaps?”
His voice teased her, even as his hands slipped beneath her cloak, sliding across the fabric of her blouse, cupping and kneading her breasts. She moaned, echoing her need as she felt her nipples grow taut with aching hardness.
“Perhaps I have changed.”
She squirmed until she was lying full length upon him, their faces almost touching. “Why did you not come sooner?” she demanded, her voice filled with mock anger.
Ryder smiled, tracing the outline of her thick yet precisely curved eyebrow. “To approach you in public is not forbidden, nor is it difficult during this festive time. Even less now I am a lord of this Pentarchy of Solarian. Yet an opportune moment in which I may hold you and caress you thus…such magic is a trifle harder to manage.”
“We may be missed,” she warned. “My brother…”
“Now stands watch beyond the glade.” Ryder chuckled at her look of surprise. “He has become our willing ally, yet we cannot stay much longer. Both he and I must soon enter the Korda.”
She moved onto her elbows. The rise and fall of his chest lifted her as though she were a feather. “A moment more,” she pleaded. “Tell me what occurred within the Tower…if you can.”
He frowned, and she watched mesmerized as a small rivulet of moisture drained from the tiny furrow.
“I am now aware of my purpose and the conditions of my coming here to this time. I sense my enemy, a creature far more malevolent than either the D’ia Mor or the Grimman-Seth—the one a willing tool, the other merely a pawn. Despite this new knowledge, I remain unsure of my true self. It seems I may be more than this shell of flesh and blood you see before you.”
Her face once again bore a wrinkle of worry and he hugged her closer. “Of one thing you may be certain. No matter what happens to me…no matter what forces or changes might affect me, I shall never leave you. This is my solemn vow.”
The trumpet’s call wafted down to them, faint yet perceptible. The second turn of the Great Moot was at hand.
They rose, pausing only to cling to each other a last time before they made their way toward the vast edifice of the Korda.
***
Mendiko walked through the press of bodies, dodging and weaving like an athlete performing an intricate routine. Close behind and following his motions like a clone was Shaleen. They passed the outskirts of the Culinars’ stalls, making their way toward the pre-arranged rendezvous.
It was nearing the tenth hour of the morning. The rain had slackened and then stopped. The sun once more shone outside the domed enclosure and those without had reappeared from their places of hiding.
It was not long before they spotted the group standing like an island in the sea of revelers: the giant Thorgrim, his even larger brother, the Guild Jain, and the wenlords, Shaka and Roland. Ulric Germanicus stood slightly apart, and near to him was Ryder Talisman, accompanied by the Lord Chronicler. Yet it was Shaan and Ashara who drew their attention. They stood toe to toe like two combatants who had already issued a challenge and now prepared to trade blows. As they neared, they were in time to hear the new rigan’s most recent thrust.
“There is a time, dearest sister, when men must be left alone to follow their pursuits.”
“I have borne an abundance of that, dearest brother. Too much, in fact!
“What seems to be the problem?” Mendiko interrupted cautiously. He had already noticed the variety of looks on the faces of the assembly. Ryder wore a grin of amusement. Shaan’s countenance was a mixture of annoyance and suffered patience. The wenlords looked discomforted, while the giant Arkadies Venn wore no expression at all, as though someone had elected him to adjudicate the matter. Kronus hid his face behind his hands, yet a pair of curious eyes peeked out from between the cracks of his fingers.
“It would appear my presence…or rather the presence of a woman is unwanted,” Ashara snapped.
Shaan’s lengthy sigh aptly described his suffering. “I merely asked if Ryder would care to accompany me in an inspection of the Zurd holo-pens since he has never seen them. Also, it would be a diversion, taking my mind away from the coming contests.”
Shaleen came to the rescue, at once understanding the situation with a woman’s finely tuned sensibilities. “Ashara…” She moved forward, taking the other girl’s arm. “I would like to visit the booth of the Reamur culinars. Would you care to join me?”
“An excellent idea!” Arkadies thundered, moving his ponderous bulk forward like a great earthmover, gathering both surprised women in the umbrella of his outflung arms and ushering them irresistibly forward. “I have heard rumors of it, though I have never tasted a certain fowl from the mountainous Rift of that land.”
Kronus removed his hands only after assuring it was safe to do so. After a glance at the others, it appeared he too would rather ease the grumbling in his belly than stay behind. With his characteristic scuttling gait, he caught up with the receding form of the giant and his entourage.
Ulric then cleared his throat and broke the strained silence. “Perhaps I may join you, my lord?”
“And I,” Mendiko added.
The wenlords declined, and so only the four of them moved toward the chutes.
The Zurd pens were at precise locations situated around the perimeter, yet always on the lowest tier. This gave them an unobstructed view of the floor and offered a perfect reproduction for those in the Pentarchy unable to attend.
Ryder walked beside the Lord Warden of Gehenna. He had not yet found an occasion to speak with the man, but he well remembered the tale Mendiko had told him.
Ulric walked with a stressed step, leaning his damaged shoulder into the direction of travel. If he was in pain he didn’t show it. Ryder tried not to stare, though he could see they were already gathering a lot of attention from the surrounding crowd. Ulric looked unconcerned and gave no hint he noticed.
The Lord Warden was taller than Mendiko, yet of like build. His features also resembled the Sword Thane’s, though they were less tanned. A lock of hair repeatedly fell over his eyes, and he had the nervous habit of jerking his head to set it in place. Ryder’s general impression was of a cleric rather than a prison warder.
As they moved along, they listened to the easy and familiar conversation between Shaan and Mendiko. Despite his avowal, Shaan did not act worried. Ryder understood from previous conversations with Mendiko it was unlikely anyone would challenge the new pentarch so soon. The lower ranks would test their skills in the preliminary rounds, gradually working their way toward the Adepts of the First Rank. As for Zel, he would defend his title only against the last contestant. Since there were more than a hundred in the lists, this would likely be in the final hours of the Great Moot.
Ryder noticed when Ulric turned his head to study him.
“The empire is replete with tales of Ryder Talisman, called the Saydin Mak Doom.” Ulric craned his neck upward to look Ryder in the eye. “I must admit you are as large as your reputation.”
There was a hint of easy humor in the comment and Ryder smiled. “I am no giant among this assembly.”
Ulric nodded. “Time may prove otherwise.”
They entered the chute. The trip took only a fraction of the time it had taken when he and Mendiko had traveled the same route several moons before. They stepped out onto the first tier just above the pit floor, and Ryder felt as though he was the focal point of a million pairs of eyes. As yet he saw no sign the contests would start soon, yet the vast mass of onlookers did not act impatient in the least. It was as if they wanted to prolong the anticipation of the spectacle about to unfold.
It was only a short walk further until they came to the first of the Zurd pens. It was a cordoned area of four hundred square meters, though only a small portion was in use. The intention—as far as he could see—was to separate the Zurd from the distraction of the surrounding spectators.
Ryder had never studied the creatures before now. There were ten of them in line. Like sentinels behind them stood three Adepts and a Sword Thane: members of the Select—the title of those who guarded Zurd.
Each offered a respectful greeting to both Shaan and Ulric. For Ryder, there was only a quizzical expression he had learned to accept.
The Zurd gave no sign they were aware of the four visitors. Each sat in a state of repose, eyes shut and heads slumped onto shallow chests. Only their lids flickered. Ryder could see no difference in their physical makeup. All were diminutive and so thin they appeared emaciated. Each possessed the same bloodless flesh tone of the albino and wore a cap of woven telfiber carefully fitted to their hairless heads. All dressed in identical, loose-fitting tunics and pants of neutral gray. Leather sandals clad their tiny feet.
Besides the ability to transfer disproportionate quantities of matter, he knew the Zurd could also commune with others of their kind no matter how vast the distance separating them. This ability made the holo-link possible and predisposed an aptitude curiously similar to the Swordkind. He thought it possible their Gift might match or even surpass an Adept’s. A strange idea came to him as he remembered the image he had seen on the summit of Thunder-Fell.
“Has there ever been any attempt to discover if the Zurd can power the Metals?” he blurted.
Each of his companions regarded him with a look of horror.
“By the Rim!” Shaan exclaimed. “What demon has possessed you to insult us so?”
“I meant no insult,” Ryder swore. Their reaction did not surprise him overly, considering the loathing in which most held the Zurd. Still, he had hoped the more enlightened of the Swordkind might have a different outlook. It piqued his curiosity.
“I had a strange experience upon the Sacred Mount that I have not yet revealed to anyone.” He explained the circumstances of his climb and the mysterious image that had appeared to him. When he described the man and gave his name, the others gaped at him in astonishment.
“It cannot be true, surely,” Mendiko spoke for them all. He shook his head and exchanged a worried frown with his cousin. “Galen? Alive?”
“My father was among those who saw his earthly remains rise in smoke,” Shaan said, “and that was three hundred cycles ago.”
“He never said he was Galen,” Ryder corrected. “Only the sum of his memories. He also said he was unfinished…whatever that means.”
“A Warrior-Zurd,” Ulric shook his head in disbelief. “Such a thing could never be possible. It would be an abomination beyond all reckoning!”
“And yet you have just admitted no one has ever tested the possiblity,” Ryder argued.
“And no one ever will,” Shaan affirmed. “None of the Swordkind would countenance such a horror!” He eyed Ryder sharply. For the first time in their relationship, Ryder felt the gaze of a Pentarch of Solarian.
“You must not speak of this again…your word on it!”
Ryder shrugged and nodded, though he wondered if he could live up to his promise. The image had been there. He had heard its voice. Whether or not his friends believed it, there had been a reason for the apparition’s sudden revelation.
“There is more,” Ryder added, “yet perhaps I should wait and speak to the Pat’Riark.”
They regarded him in silence, curiosity warring with abhorrence.
“You may speak of it,” Shaan allowed, “though it is against my better judgment.”
“It concerns the flower of the one tree...” Ryder paused as their eyes once more grew round with wonder. “Its color, according to the being who spoke to me, predicts the mood of times to come.”
“You saw the One Tree in bloom?” Mendiko breathed in awe. “No one but the Pat’Riark has ever…”
“What was its color?” Ulric demanded as though he could not wait.
“Black and red.”
“The colors of death and blood,” Shaan muttered.
The Lord Warden eyed Shaan but added nothing else. No one seemed able or inclined to dispute this interpretation.
“As you say,” Mendiko interrupted the lengthy silence. “Perhaps these are things best left to the Pat’Riark.
They returned their attention to the Zurd. From the looks on each of their faces, their thoughts were elsewhere.
“It’s a pity Arkadies is not here,” Mendiko offered once again. “He and Robert the Piper created the holo-link.”
“Yes,” Ulric agreed. “But Robert proposed the idea since the Zurd and their abilities have always fascinated him. That is why the possibility germinated in his fertile brain.”
“How does he fare as a captive of the parsimonious luxury of Gehenna?” Shaan asked with a mixture of curiosity and sarcasm.
Ulric’s lips quirked in a wry smile. “As one might expect, having the advantage of being an old and trusted friend of the Lord Warden.” Ulric’s smile broadened to a grin. “Gehenna is now a much livelier and richer place since his coming.”
“I have heard of this Robert many times,” Ryder commented. “Why is he on Gehenna? What crime could be so serious it would deprive the Pentarchy of its chief technik?”
“Not a crime, really,” Ulric answered. “Although his lordship, the High Justice of the Judicata would no doubt disagree.”
Ryder noticed the expressions of amusement on the faces of his companions and wondered why.
“Robert is even more famous for his pranks than Galen,” Mendiko explained. “His last contribution was too much for the archduke to overlook. His sentence was more a slap on the wrist than anything else, though from what Ulric has admitted I doubt he feels the sting overmuch.”
Ryder was intrigued, but there was to be no further explanation. The Korda once more resounded to the blaring of trumpets as a long line of Adepts marched onto the field.
“It begins.”
Shaan had spoken quietly, yet Ryder could feel his underlying tension.
They descended to the pit floor, listening raptly as each Adept on the list once again swore the oath of fealty. Shaan’s voice rose along with the others, and then last came Zel. He stood before his father—not alone but with the two D’ia Mor. His voice was without inflection, as though the words were a necessary task and the meaning behind them irrelevant.
They watched as the first contestants took the field. These were Adepts of the Third Rank, the lowest level of the Seniors. Ryder watched as the initial challengers squared off and bowed. Then they circled, gauging each other’s strengths and weaknesses.
The movements were hauntingly familiar now, reminding him of the times he and Mendiko had sparred in much the same way. Ryder caught the eyes of the prince and nodded, aware that his friend felt the same surge of feeling.
As he continued to watch, he suffered disappointment. Though there was indisputable evidence of the sword’s highest power, the fighting skill of these Adepts was sadly lacking—far less than Mendiko’s. It was almost like watching a god fall from his summit.
His face must have expressed some of this feeling, for Shaan was quick to defend his sword-brethren.
“Judge them not too harshly, Ryder Talisman. Most of the Swordkind receive their training on Triton at the hands of the D’ia Mor. The methods and discipline are not what they could be. Although the D’ia Mor taught their knowledge from the earliest times, the initial impetus was one of duress. They have only given what they must…not what they should. These Adepts are to be pitied rather than criticized. Theirs was not the luck to receive tutoring from the Pat’Riark or one of his disciples.”
“I don’t see Speer,” Mendiko noted.
Shaan jerked his head around. “It means nothing. He could challenge whether or not he is on the list.”
“This Speer,” Ryder questioned. “Is he also from Triton?”
“No,” Mendiko answered since Shaan was once again studying the milling field of Adepts. “He was a student of Thorgrim Halfinger and grew up in the wenlord’s household.”
“Why was that?”
“He’s an orphan. His father did not declare himself, and his mother died at birth trying to bear him in the old way. She was from the House of Brynn-Jago, of noble blood and my close kin. It has long been the custom of the nobly born in the Jossian realm to bear their offspring this way. They still practice it on Faerwyn-Joss.”
Ryder was about to question further when Mendiko caught his eye and nodded in the other direction. He looked and saw Zel approaching.
Ulric stiffened, stepping to the further side of Ryder as if to remove himself from sight. As Zel came closer, flanked as always by the D’ia Mor, his eyes flicked over the Lord Warden and quickly away as though he was unworthy of notice. Then his gaze fastened upon Shaan.
The pentarch from Faerwyn-Joss held himself still. The heightened aura of his shield was noticeable as he waited for the required formal address, yet Zel ignored him.
Shaan’s face drained of blood, for the insult was no less than a slap on the face. Zel then spoke to Ryder, yet not before he had walked around him, studying him as though he were a contracted in the Pens of Ravel.
“So…we meet again.” Zel paused in front, having completed a circuit. His lips curled in a sneer. “You carry the sword, yet you wear the robe of the Magi. Are you of the sword or one of the beadsman’s ilk?”
Ryder waited before answering. He let his eyes drop and then rove, studying Zel much the same way. The sneer slipped, and the man’s wide mouth tightened in anger.
“I am both.”
Zel’s eyes flicked to where the D’ia Mor remained watching and Ryder felt a sudden upwelling of darkness. He did not move, yet his mind remained alert. When he felt the first subtle touch on his mind, he responded by thrusting out in kind.
Both D’ia Mor went rigid and Zel jerked back as if stung. His eyes widened in shock, yet he recovered quickly. Though aware of the confrontation, the underlying play of minds had gone unnoticed by the others. Such was the unremitting adherence to the Code.
“The Gift is powerful within you…as strong as I have ever felt,” Zel murmured. “Why do you not enter the lists?”
Ryder smiled, yet his eyes remained cold. “I save my strength for future battles.”
“A wise precaution…and one that all who enter the contest should abide!”
The Pat’Riark’s ringing voice echoed loudly as he strode up to them. He was alone, and he faced the D’ia Mor as though confronting a sworn enemy.
Ryder noted how Zel stared at the Kryll, the hunger in his eyes a tangible thing. Then his gaze slipped away and turned to Shaan, his sneer once more in place.
“And you, my lord Pentarch. Do you also conserve your strength?”
“We shall see.” Shaan’s voice remained even, yet his eyes were brittle with anger.
“There is yet time to withdraw,” Zel taunted.
“Shaan waited a single breath before he too smiled. “Yes…perhaps you should follow the example of Argus.”
The eyes of Zel were madness itself as he laughed. The sound welled up and outward, a wailing that possessed the ghostly form of a specter. He and his two shadows moved away without a backward glance. At once, the Pat’Riark confronted Shaan.
“I would speak with you alone.”
As the two drew apart, Mendiko broke the silence, though his words were for the Lord Warden of Gehenna.
“If there is something you would say, my lord, now is the time.”
Ryder understood the veiled meaning behind the statement, yet Ulric remained silent.
Mendiko bowed stiffly. “I must leave you both now. I promised to meet my consort outside the gates.”
Ulric barely paid him any mind. His eyes remained glued to Zel’s retreating form.
“You hate him,” Ryder said. The Lord Warden turned toward him at last, yet there was only a strange sadness in his eyes.
“One would have to be a fool or a madman to hate the future primus of the Pentarchy.”
Ryder nodded, yet he recognized the statement for what it was—a diversion. “I don’t think you are either.”
Ulric gave a nervous shrug, an odd movement lacking balance because of his injured shoulder. “Perhaps. We must all account for our thoughts and actions—or the lack thereof.”
Ryder thought it was a strange thing to say, even as the man bowed and moved away…leaving him once more alone.
***
“If there is but the slightest doubt in you, then withdraw.”
The Pat’Riark’s eyes were unwavering as they captured and held Shaan’s.
“I am sure.”
Fortunatus studied his former pupil a moment longer and nodded. “Very well, then listen closely. Of all those I have taught, there have been only two others to match you in power and skill. Not Roland or Ulric, and not Shaka. Not even the giant Thorgrim or Niobe.
“Talisman is one, yet he is not an accurate comparison. His power is not of this world, and I believe it far surpasses mine.” Fortunatus continued with a hint of memory shadowing his eyes and inflecting his voice. “The other is Deemus.”
“Deemus?”
Hearing the surprise in Shaan’s voice, the Pat’Riark smiled. “There is a saying Kronus is fond of and one that aptly describes him: still waters run deep.”
“If that is true, then why has he never…?”
“Entered the lists?” Fortunatus held the younger man’s gaze. “Why would you suppose? What love directs his life? A love far greater than the sword?”
“The Lady,” Shaan replied.
Fortunatus bowed his head. “She asked him to forgo the honor that should have been his long ago. She feared—perhaps wrongly or rightly, who can say?—but she feared he might be injured as Ulric was. As even you might be. Though you see him there always silent and calm, always serious of countenance yet slow to anger, there is within him a force terrible to behold should ever it spring to life. Yet I do not believe he regrets his decision. She fills for him every desire, every passion and longing. And so does he for her.
“Why do you tell me this now?” Shaan asked.
“Why do you seek this time to enter the Korda?” Fortunatus countered.
Shaan turned his back for a moment, deliberating. When he faced the Pat’Riark once more, guilt marred his features. “I wish to see him humbled. Even more…broken. It goes far beyond my distaste. It is not pride or any vain lust to be Riark of Swords. I have titles enough now for any man. I do this for my sister. I fear he will destroy her if I do not stop him.”
“A noble reason that may lead you only to defeat,” Fortunatus warned. “The best motivation is personal desire…a hunger to win superseding all else. It must rise above whatever has taken place or might be. Most of all, there should be no distraction from the moment of battle; no other focus beyond the desire for victory. That alone will drive you beyond strength and power…beyond even your Gift.”
Fortunatus moved close, putting his hands on his pupil’s shoulders. “Beware of Zel! You are not a fool. Remember the lesson of Ulric. You know what happened, so be on your guard. And do not let your pride keep you silent as he has done. Cry out so all will hear, and we shall be listening!”
Shaan nodded his head in acceptance.
Fortunatus stepped back, smiling now. “Trust in your power and your skill, for they are great. If he uses only those weapons allowed by the Code, then I believe you will prevail.”