The Warrior King (Book 4) (19 page)

“Alas, so I have heard,” Abudallah said. “This was not our tribe, but some of our wicked cousins. Yet I can see how a stranger might confuse us.”

Sofiana swallowed some of the bitter khat juice without thinking. Soon, her head was swooning. Her mouth turned numb, and her tongue thickened. Her stomach churned and she felt ill.

“Spit the juice out,” Abudallah said. “Don’t swallow it.”

Sofiana spat the whole wad into the fire, relieved to have the nasty thing out of her mouth. She waited for the heavy, thumping feeling in her head to subside.

“You seem to know a good deal about Balsalom,” Abudallah said. “We had some question about how to gain the markets.”

She guessed at what he was suggesting. “I have friends in the city. If you let me travel with you, I can help you get inside.”

“An interesting proposal.”

“And when I get to Balsalom,” she added, feeling bolder, “I might simply give you my camel as well, to make up for the one your brother lost. I will have no more need of it.”

“Very good,” Abudallah said. The men jabbered together for a minute in Kratian, then he repeated, “Very good.” Abudallah handed her another leaf of khat. “We will chew and spit together to seal our bargain.” 

Sofiana took the leaf and fought the roiling in her stomach. She managed a smile as she stuffed it into her mouth. The Kratians smiled back at her and clapped her on the shoulder.

“We will take you to Balsalom,” Abudallah said. He cut off a big slab of meat that looked far too large considering how much he’d already eaten. “But we already have a means of getting into Balsalom.” He turned and called into the darkness. “Come, friend, eat. The girl will give us no trouble.”

Sofiana bolted to her feet as a newcomer stepped into the light of the fire, the hood of his robes concealing his face in shadow. Her head swooned from the khat and the fermented camel’s milk as she stood up, and her heart felt like it would thump out of her chest. If it was an enemy, she was in no condition to resist.

The newcomer pulled back his hood and grinned. Sofiana groaned as she took in his familiar features.

“Well
Ninny,”
Darik said. “You have led me on quite a chase.” 

Chapter Eighteen

Memnet the Great sat in the middle of the pavilion surrounded by his apprentices, all of whom wore simple white robes like their master. Before his death at the hands of a ravager, the wizard had seemed blessed with eternal youth, as if the rich soil of Aristonia itself had kept his curly, golden hair lustrous, his skin fresh and young, and his body lean and flexible. Only his eyes had been old, and if you looked into them, you could see the depth of centuries, the burden of wars and famine, of struggles long forgotten. To Markal, his old teacher looked unchanged.

Memnet read from a book held in one hand, while his other hand was outstretched, palm up. Five green and gold spheres hung suspended over his hand, turning in a complex pattern of cycles and countercycles. They caught the sunlight which flickered across the wizard’s bare face.

As he read his book and manipulated the orbs, Memnet held court with several other men and women who stood around him. These men didn’t wear white like the wizard and his apprentices, but azure-colored robes with chains of office about their necks. As Markal drew closer, he could see that Memnet paid the chattering ministers little attention, concentrating largely on his book and the rotating orbs.

But every once in a while, Memnet would look up from his book and say something to one of the ministers, who listened, bowed, then left the pavilion at a brisk walk. Other ministers joined the group at roughly the same rate as the departing men and women, and they began speaking to Memnet as soon as they came within earshot, paying no notice to the others who vied for his attention.

Memnet set aside his book when Markal stepped into the pavilion and greeted his old apprentice with a warm smile. He waved the ministers aside to clear a path. “Well met, Markal. How does your garden grow?”

“I am more of a shepherd than a gardener,” Markal said. “There are no gardens like Aristonia’s to tempt me.”

Memnet sighed. “A pity.” He turned to a man on his left, who had just asked a question. “Tear the castles down. Plant oak trees in their ruins. Rebuild the fortress on the northern wasteland. We will reclaim it next.” He looked back at Markal. “I’m sorry about the darkness that touched you when you first entered. Pasha Malik tries to dominate every new soul who enters the gardens. I did what I could, but mostly I meant to disguise the entry of one still living.”

“It was only a moment.” Markal gave a shrug, then stood, feeling awkward.

Something had changed between them that wasn’t simply the passage of four hundred years. Markal still felt respect for his old master, but little of the awe that had once overwhelmed him. He reached into his robes and pulled out Memnet’s orb and set it among the other glass spheres that rotated above his old master’s hand. Levitating the orb was the easy part; maintaining the concentration necessary to keep it rotating among the other five without hitting them was harder.

“Very good,” Memnet said, watching the rotating orbs. A woman joined the viziers speaking to him, but Memnet didn’t pay her any more attention than the others. “Is that the Eye of Mithyl?”

Markal plucked his orb free. He couldn’t speak and manipulate the orbs at the same time. “I’ve never heard that phrase, but this is the same orb you used to carry.” He held out his hand. “It is yours, I suppose, if you wish it back.”

Memnet chuckled. “That will do me no good here. That is your visualization of the Eye, not the Eye itself. It remains in your robes back in the real world. Indeed, it would not fit in this world had you the power to bring it with you. This entire world would fit atop a speck of dust on Mithyl.”

Markal looked around him, amazed at the complexity of the gardens in which he stood. “This is a sheol of your own creation?” A sheol was any place that bound dead souls, such as Toth’s Box of Souls, or the Harvester’s bag.

“I didn’t create this world. Merely modified it.” Memnet paused to give instruction to one of his viziers, a Selphan with a blue turban, then immediately answered two other viziers before turning back to Markal. “When I came, it was a gray place where every man and woman lived alone. One creates one’s own reality.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Hold out your hand. Close your eyes and think of something beautiful.”

Markal put away the orb and did as the other wizard suggested. He thought for a moment of the various wondrous things he had seen. He remembered a silver songbird from Daniel’s treasure vault, given to the king by the sultan of Algeradad as a wedding gift. Built by a clever Selphan artisan, it had consisted of many finely crafted jewels and moving pieces. When wound up, it sang like a real bird.

As soon as Markal pictured the thing in all its detail, something cool and smooth and heavy sat on his palm. He opened his eyes to see a perfect replica of the silver songbird, flapping its wings and singing, its voice like dulcet notes of a rare instrument. It lifted, fluttering from his hand, and flew to the branches of a nearby tree, where it sang for a few seconds longer before winging away.

“Very good,” Memnet said. “Not one person in twenty can do as well as you, not without years of training. But you always did have a strong mind.”

“If only I had more faith.”

“You have faith enough here. A man with your mind could create a vast castle simply by thinking about it hard enough. Alas, those who could each built their own castles, surrounded by vast estates populated by nobody. It was a lonely world, controlled by an evil pasha named Malik the Strong or Malik the Cruel, depending on which end of his sword you found yourself on.” He gestured to the gardens. “When I came, I united a few stronger souls who wished to end this oppression, and we built the gardens. It isn’t Aristonia, but I have done what I could.”

“Nothing is Aristonia,” Markal said. “That place will never again exist.”

Memnet spoke again to one of his viziers. He still kept the glass orbs rotating above his open palm.

“Is this your typical way of holding court,” Markal said, “or are you showing off for your old apprentice?”

Memnet smiled. “Perhaps a little bit of both. But the truth is, I cannot drop my attention for even a moment. This place may seem peaceful, but we are in a great struggle between the forces of the Crimson Path and the followers of the Martyr on one side and Malik the Cruel on the other.” He again gave instructions to a minister before returning to his conversation with Markal. “Our battles have ramifications for the outside world as well. Soultrup is one of the most powerful weapons in the war against the dark wizard. If it falls to Malik, the sword will again find itself in evil hands. Perhaps in the hands of a ravager.”

“And are you winning this struggle?”

Memnet’s face darkened. “No. After four centuries, the tide has turned against us.”

“Because of the war on the outside?”

“The enemy had grown stronger for generations, but I still held my lands when the dark wizard marched on Balsalom and the Free Kingdoms. Then Whelan fought at Montcrag and the Citadel. Your average Veyrian soldier is just as likely to be good or evil as a man from Balsalom or Eriscoba, but Whelan killed one of Toth’s pashas and one of his wizards, a former master torturer. Malik invaded the garden with these new allies just when Whelan fought the torturers last week. We very nearly lost control of Soultrup at an inopportune moment. The king prevailed, but in the struggle put more evil men to the sword. Now the enemy enlists these new torturers to his purpose as well. He is pushing us back, hour-by-hour. If nothing changes, this garden will fall. I will be banished to the gray lands, and Malik the Cruel will take control of Soultrup. It will fall into the hands of Toth’s undead champion, the captain of his ravagers.”

A cloud seemed to darken Memnet’s features as he said this. The wizard had been the strongest and wisest to ever walk the surface of Mithyl. The equal in power, if not the better, of King Toth himself. An assassin had once cut off Memnet’s head and buried it in the ground, but such was the man’s life force that he grew a new body in the rich soil of Aristonia’s gardens. Some said the Harvester himself had granted Memnet a second chance at life. And yet a ravager wielding Soultrup had finally slain the man and bound his soul to the sword.

“Tell me,” Markal said, as talk of the ravagers reminded him of his purpose, “is there any way to save a man after the ravagers take him?”

“Captain Roderick, you mean?” Memnet said. He gave more instructions to his ministers.

“You know of this? Did Whelan draw the sword and speak to you?”

“We are close, the king and I. He no longer needs to draw me to send his thoughts. His hand brushing the pommel is sufficient.” Memnet shook his head. “Roderick is gone. You must cut off his head and burn his body. Let the Harvester gather his soul and use it to bring forth new life.”

“Is this the sum of human existence?” Markal asked, discouraged. “An endless cycle of death and rebirth?”

“What is wrong with that?” Memnet asked. “We die, our souls are ground to dust, and we are reborn.”

“Yes, but spread among the many. We don’t remember our previous lives.”

“We do not remember, but our souls learn. They carry those lessons from life to life.”

And yet Markal noted that the wizard had not suffered this fate himself. Already centuries old when he fell, he had lived on in the gardens contained within the ancient magical sword. Let his own soul be gathered by the Harvester and see how accepting he remained of his soul’s dispersal.

“But Jethro thought that we might ultimately reach some purer state,” Markal protested, “removed from this cycle, these eternal struggles with our animal nature.”

“I know,” Memnet said. “The Martyr’s teachings are sound, his theories have merit. But I’m not yet convinced there is any end to the cycle. Or should be, for that matter. Only one of the Brothers could answer the question completely, and they are notoriously difficult to engage in conversation. But tell me, do you believe in Jethro’s beliefs?”

“Yes, I believe them,” Markal said. “Although you well know my eternal doubts. The world has changed since you left it. We stand on the cusp of destruction. If we turn it back, a future of light, knowledge, and kindness toward nature and humanity awaits. If we lose, darkness will consume the world for a thousand years.”

Memnet rubbed at the smooth skin of his chin. “The Dark Citadel is Toth’s attempt to alter the natural order of the world. To change this cycle. To banish the Harvester from the land.”

“And it might work.”

“Yes, it might. At the cost of eternal slavery for all those who remain.” Memnet let the glass orbs sink slowly to the ground, then bent and picked them up. He turned to his viziers. “Please excuse me. I wish to show my friend the gardens.”

The two wizards stepped from the pavilion onto the paths. Within a few minutes, they had left the others behind, and the air filled with the gentle drone of bees and the call of birds from the hedges and trees. Memnet stopped at a meadow filled with buzzing bees and dome-like hives, where he helped himself to their honeycomb. The bees flew out of his way, unconcerned with this intrusion. He handed a piece of honeycomb to Markal and ate the rest himself.