Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (68 page)

Holding his breath, Robert held up the Calyx, not sure if he should go closer, but nothing happened.

Suddenly, he wasn’t alone any more. Jenn joined him before the Key, smiling up at him like sunshine in the darkness. Carefully she reached up and removed the silver rod from the Calyx, then put it gently on the floor by her feet. With her expression grave, she looked at him, then placed her hands on the Calyx as well, their fingers overlapping.

‘If we do this, Robert, we do it together. Agreed?’

How was a man to know what he loved most in the world? He couldn’t, until he’d lost it, and by then it would be far too late.

‘Agreed. Together.’

‘What now?’

Suddenly the sides of the Calyx began to move, shifting down as though in welcome for the Key. At the same time, there began a faint keening sound, like mourning on the breeze, distant and sad.

‘Robert!’ Jenn’s alarm brought him back to himself and the realisation that they’d both stepped onto the platform and were holding the Calyx close to the Key, as though offering it up as a sacrifice. He tried to pull away, but nothing happened, the Key was pulling them closer. The bell was ringing again, long, low peals which made the ground vibrate around his feet.

‘I think we should stop this,’ Robert called out over the noise as it built up around them.

‘I don’t think we can.’

‘The Key won’t hurt you, will it?’

‘No. I don’t know. It doesn’t … feel wrong. Just …’

‘Overpowering?’

Jenn’s response was truncated as, with a violent crunch, the Calyx jerked forward and smashed against the Key. Instantly the Calyx began to shift and shimmer, turning and moulding itself against the roundness of the Key. It began to get hot – too hot to touch any longer. With a hiss, he pulled his hands away, taking Jenn’s with him, pushing her behind him for shelter.

And there, right in front of them, shapes appeared on the outer surface of the Calyx. Letters he recognised, words he could piece together. The first he read, Amar Thraxis … created … this … for those who would follow … for his … people … to learn those secrets they lost when …

Jenn, can you read this?

Yes, Robert. By the gods, it’s incredible!

And the words kept coming: when two worlds died and the Dawn of Ages flooded across this land. Herein lies the history of the Generet and how they were …

The Generet? Robert, are they those people we saw in Budlandi?

Yes
 … The Generet, the people who could Sense the demon in him and who had been able to mindspeak each other, to the point where Jenn had been able to hear them. These were the people of Amar Thraxis?

He opened his eyes – but he was no longer standing by the Calyx. Instead, he was swept above the mountain, as though he were Seeking. From there, he could See how the Key shielded the Enclave from discovery, with threads of glowing power, like the bars of a cage, enclosing the mountaintop, and so much below it.

He shook his head, snapping back to the cave hard enough to make him stagger. Jenn caught his arm, her eyes questioning, her mouth moving, though he heard no words. Then she was shouting, calling out to the Key, demanding something.

The Key was glowing now, illuminating the Calyx below, making it translucent, a gold tablet with many glistening facets awaiting discovery.

This feeling was so familiar. This was just like that orb, the one he’d taken from Kenrick. Looking into that was the same as this, only this was so much stronger. And the more power he’d used on it, the more tangled he’d got. The more power it absorbed, the hotter it got.

The closer he got to understanding it – the more dangerous it became.

Jenn, we have to stop this. The Key’s been waiting for the Calyx. All this time, waiting for this so it can—

But he was too late.

And then he saw it: the Key’s light fading – and the bars fading with it. He saw the protection of the Enclave vanish before his eyes as all the Key’s power was absorbed into the Calyx. He heard Jenn’s shout of dismay as he climbed to his feet, his body weighing too much, his limbs barely able to function. But he got there, and reached out, wrapped his arms around the Key or the Calyx, or whatever it was now. He wrapped his arms around it and bullied up his own powers, for
too long ill-used and wasted. Now he took them and made them into what they’d been destined for.

He formed the picture in his mind of how to split them apart again, of how he could place a wedge between them now, before they were properly sealed together. With total certainty flowing through him, he sent the first thrust into the Key—

Where he was taken and twisted and stripped bare of his protection, just like the Enclave, just like his hopes. He’d always known the Key couldn’t be trusted, but he’d hoped, yes, he’d hoped that the Calyx would bring only good. Now it was too late and he was powerless to stop the destruction.

Drowning in a vat of seething, uncontrollable power, he opened his mouth, opened his mind to shout one last desperate warning to Jenn—

He tried again—

And was instantly deafened by a voice. Not the Key this time; this was strong, but far away. Strong; a voice he knew but had hoped never to hear again. Powerful, more so than ever before, and he could only marvel at the change.

Ah, Enemy! I find you at last! But … the Ally is with you? Still alive! I knew it!

Robert’s despair did nothing to cut the connection. It was sealed by the Key and Calyx joined together and it stripped through his flesh and bone, his agony the lifeline to Nash.

But wait … I can see you now … Yes! You are hiding … mountains … high up and yet below ground … Ah! The Goleth Mountain!

You can’t escape me now, Enemy! The Key will be mine!

Here ends
REBEL’S CAGE
Fourth Book of Elita

The story concludes in
TRIAL OF FIRE
Fifth Book of Elita

Read on for the first chapter of the Fifth Book of the Elita:
TRIAL OF FIRE

*

John knew he was going to die, but since he could no longer feel his fingers or toes, or most of his extremities, he could be reasonably assured that his death would be relatively painless. But to die in such a manner, in the middle of the night, lost in a snowstorm, somewhere in southern Flan’har, was not quite the hero’s demise he might have hoped for. Of course, he’d never actually hoped for any kind of demise, hero’s or otherwise, but the truth was, if he had to die, then he would have chosen to do so pursuing the cause of his people’s freedom. Instead, it appeared he was going to die pursuing the end of a road lost some moments after dark, many hours ago.

Nobody had warned him about the weather. In fact, at the inn where he’d stayed the previous night, he’d been assured the worst of the winter was most definitely over and that setting out on foot at dawn the next morning would gain him his destination by nightfall. It was true that black clouds had mocked the morning sunshine, but he was a priest and had never really had much cause to learn to read the weather … or maps, or how to tell the direction from the sun – assuming there was one.

This was his first pilgrimage; it was fast turning into his last. He’d known there would be risks when he’d left Maitland, and Andrew, bless his soul, had been worried, had given him advice that no ordinary fourteen-year-old boy would normally offer. The young Duke had urged him to be careful, while pretending there was no envy in his eyes. He’d seen John’s trip as an adventure, and wished he could have one of his own, but Andrew’s foster parents, his Aunt Bella and Uncle Lawrence, would have preferred their precious boy to remain at home, and not even cross the country to see his mother, a woman they both knew was a sorcerer.

Of course, they’d never known that John was also a sorcerer – though to look at his current predicament, he would be embarrassed to admit to such skills. But John hadn’t practised much, concentrating instead on his vocation, knowing in his bones that he was born for the Church – even if that same Church’s laws against sorcerers would have him executed if he were ever discovered.

Times had changed, though. King Kenrick had overturned the laws against sorcery because he had abilities himself, and both Guilde and
Church claimed they would not slaughter anyone they found with talents … assuming they could know just by looking, or assuming sorcerers would be stupid enough to confess their abilities even now …

His mind was drifting. Though he placed one foot in front of the other, though he pushed the air in and out of his lungs, his mind couldn’t hold onto his place, his moment, his night of dark, his black and white death.

John had wanted so much to make this pilgrimage, to find this man and place himself into his service. He’d done all he could for Andrew, but the boy had grown up and for John, there were other paths he knew he had to follow, so he’d left all his comforts behind, packed a few meagre belongings and set out on foot to cross the border into Flan’har. He had no idea where he should look, but he was positive he was needed to help a man whose spiritual leadership he knew would one day free not only Lusara, but also Lusara’s sorcerers.

John’s foot came down hard on something and twisted sideways. The rest of him followed and he landed spread-eagled in the snow, fresh flakes landing softly on his face. He could see nothing now as he looked up, just the frame of snow around his body where his landing had created a hole and a black nothing above. So, this was his death. He needed to make his confession, to release the regret that he had waited so long to find Aiden McCauly, not to mention the hubris that the great man would have need of a man who couldn’t even follow a road after dark—

‘You there! Are you alive?’

John frowned. Was that a real voice, or simply his mind playing evil games before it gave up the ghost?

‘Are you hurt? Can you move?’

A face appeared in front of him. Though it was dark, he could make out deep lines, a thick beard and a frown of concern. A hand reached out and shook his shoulder.

‘Are you dead yet?’

‘I … don’t think so.’ John managed. He tried to convince his body to move, but he could feel no more than the inside of his mouth now; the rest of him was happy to just lie there in the soft, warm snow.

There was movement around him, and in the distance he could hear the jingle of horse reins, the hard thud of other feet landing on the ground. It appeared there were people around here who had no trouble keeping track of the road.

‘You’re a very lucky man.’ Hands came around him, lifting him up, wrapping him in something he couldn’t feel. ‘We almost didn’t come out on patrol tonight. We were about to turn back when we saw you fall. What
in the name of Serin are you doing out here on your own, on foot? What’s your name?’

‘John … Father John Ballan. I was … looking for … looking for … Bleaksn—’ The words got much harder to find all of a sudden. He looked into the face of the man holding him up, caught the shadows of a dozen horses behind him, and something that might have been lights far in the distance. Then abruptly everything went dark.

*

‘I think he’s one of yours.’

‘But where did he come from?’

‘He didn’t say, but he was clearly alone and he’s definitely not armed. Nor did he exhibit any signs that he’s been Bonded by Nash.’

‘That we know of.’

‘Was I wrong to bring him in?’

‘No, of course not! Still, I can’t help wondering what he was thinking. Do you think he was looking for us?’

‘Well, the last thing he said was something that sounded like Bleakstone Castle.’

‘What do you think?’

‘As I said, Bishop, I think he’s one of yours.’

‘Very well. Let me see him. Did you find out his name?’

‘Father John Ballan.’

‘Father?’

John blinked, but his eyes were too sore to keep open. He was comfortable, that much was certain. And he was warm. Oh, so warm! Warm and comfortable. Now if only those people would stop talking, he’d be able to get some more rest and—

The bed dipped and he opened his eyes a little again – and gasped in shock. ‘Bishop!’ Desperately, he struggled to sit up, but Aiden McCauly placed a firm but gentle hand on his chest and kept him down.

‘You stay right where you are, Father. I don’t think you’ll be getting up before tomorrow.’

John blinked again, his eyes still sore, but he couldn’t close them now if his life depended on it. Aiden McCauly was sitting on the side of his bed, alive, well and with a small smile playing across his face. John prayed silently that he wasn’t still lying in the snow somewhere, breathing his last and dreaming this.

McCauly had aged since the last time John had seen him, fifteen years ago. The brown hair was mostly grey, and the lines on his face were deep, though few. Still, his gentle brown eyes were as perceptive as ever. For a man in his sixties, living in exile, Aiden McCauly had done better than most.

The truly elected Bishop of Lusara was now holding a cup of something hot to John’s lips; he dutifully sipped. The aroma of the spiced brew drifted into the room, making him sleepy again.

‘Now,’ McCauly began, holding the cup between his hands, ‘Deverin tells me you were on foot? The last I heard, you were living at Maitland Manor, tutor and chaplain to Andrew Eachern, Duke of Ayr. What brings you here? And on foot?’

‘Forgive me, Your Grace.’ John tried again to sit up, but at the Bishop’s gesture, he settled once more. ‘I came to … to find you. I want to—’ He paused. Suddenly his deep desire to be instrumental in the freeing of his people seemed an exercise in self-indulgence. He’d already had an important role, and he’d forsaken Andrew to come here, and be a burden on the one man who—

‘You want to?’ McCauly prompted.

‘I want to help you, Your Grace.’

‘Help me?’

‘Yes. If you will allow it.’

‘Help me how?’

And there it was, the moment he had been dreading. He knew when he left Maitland, even when he had first contemplated this pilgrimage, that he would have to confess this most secret of secrets. Though his body ached, he took a deep breath. ‘You have been working with Robert Douglas.’