Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (31 page)

“Why?” he said.

“We’ll talk later,” said Scaler. “Our horses are over there. Move quietly.”

The two Sathuli followed as they moved into the darkness of the forest. Minutes later they found Belder and the mounts.

“Now tell me why,” repeated the Sathuli.

“I want you to take me to your camp. I need to speak to the Sathuli.”

“You have nothing to say to which we would listen.”

“You cannot know that,” said Scaler.

“I know that you are Drenai, and that is enough.”

“You know nothing,” said Scaler, lifting the helm from his head and hurling it into the undergrowth. “But I will not argue with you now. Get on a horse and take me to your people.”

“Why should I?”

“Because of who I am. You owe me a debt.”

“I owe you nothing. I did not ask to be freed.”

“Not that debt. Listen to me, child of man! I have returned from the Mountains of the Dead, across the mists of the centuries. Look in my eyes. Can you see the horrors of Sheol? I dined there with Joachim, the greatest of Sathuli princes. You will take me into the mountains and let your leader decide. By the soul of Joachim, you owe me that much!”

“It is easy to speak of the great Joachim,” said the man uneasily, “since he has been dead more than a hundred years.”

“He is not dead,” said Scaler. “His spirit lives, and it is sickened by Sathuli cowardice. He asked me to give you a chance to redeem yourselves, but it is up to you.”

“And who do you say you are?”

“You will find my likeness in your burial chambers, standing beside Joachim. Look at my face, man, and tell me who I am.”

The Sathuli licked his lips, uncertain and yet filled with superstitious fear.

“You are the Earl of Bronze?”

“I am Regnak, the Earl of Bronze.
Now
take me into the mountains!”

They rode through the night, cutting left into the Delnoch range and up through many passes, winding into the heart of the mountains. Four times they were intercepted by Sathuli scouts, but always they were allowed on. At last, as the morning sun reached the heights of midday, they rode into the inner city—a thousand white stone buildings filling the bowl of a hidden valley. Only one building stood higher than a single story, and that was the palace of Sathuli.

Scaler had never been there. Few Drenai had. Children gathered to watch them pass, and as they approached the palace, some fifty white-robed warriors carrying curved tulwars joined them, lining up on either side. At the palace gates a man waited, arms folded across his chest. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his face was proud.

Scaler halted his horse before the gates and waited. The man unfolded his arms and walked forward, dark brown eyes fixed firmly on Scaler’s.

“You say you are a dead man?” asked the Sathuli. Scaler waited, saying nothing. “If that is so, you will not mind if I pass my sword through your body?”

“I can die like any man,” said Scaler. “I did it once before. But you will not kill me, so let us stop playing these games. Obey your own laws of hospitality and offer us food.”

“You play your part well, Earl of Bronze. Dismount and follow me.”

He led them to the west wing of the palace and left them to bathe in a huge marble bath, attended by male servants who sprinkled perfumes into the water. Belder said nothing.

“We cannot tarry here too long, Lord Earl,” said Pagan.

“How much time will you give them?”

“I have not decided yet.”

Pagan eased back his giant frame into the warm water, ducking his head below the surface. Scaler summoned a servant and asked for soap. The man bowed and backed away, returning with a crystal jar. Scaler poured the contents on his head and washed his hair; then he called for a razor and a glass and shaved his chin. He was tired, but he felt more human after the bath. As he mounted the marble steps, a servant ran forward with a toweling robe, which he placed over Scaler’s shoulders. Then he led him to a bedchamber, where Scaler found that his clothes had been brushed clean. Taking a fresh shirt from his saddlebag, he dressed swiftly, combing his hair and placing his headband carefully over his brow. Then, on impulse, he removed the leather band and searched his saddlebag to find the silver circlet with the opal centerpiece. He settled it into place, and another servant brought him a mirror. He thanked the man, noting with satisfaction the awe in the tribesman’s eyes.

Lifting the mirror, he gazed at himself.

Could he pass himself off as Rek, the warrior earl?

Pagan had given him the idea when he had said that men were always willing to believe that other men were stronger, faster, more capable than themselves. It was all a matter of portrayal. He had said that Scaler could appear to be a prince, an assassin, a general.

Then why not a dead hero?

After all, who could prove otherwise?

Scaler left the room; a tribesman carrying a spear bowed and requested him to follow. The man led him to a wide chamber in which sat the young man from the gates, the two Sathuli he had rescued, and an old man in robes of faded brown.

“Welcome,” said the Sathuli leader. “I have someone here who is anxious to meet you.” He pointed to the old man. “This is Raffir, a holy man. He is of the line of Joachim Sathuli and a great student of history. He has many questions concerning the siege of Dros Delnoch.”

“I will be happy to answer his questions.”

“I am sure you will. He also has another talent we find of use: He speaks with the spirits of the dead. Tonight he will enter into a trance, and you will be delighted, I am sure, to attend.”

“Of course.”

“For myself,” said the Sathuli, “I am looking forward to it. I have listened to Raffir’s spirit voice many times and often questioned him. But to have the privilege of bringing together such friends … well, I feel great pride.”

“Speak plainly, Sathuli!” said Scaler. “I am in no mood for children’s games.”

“A thousand apologies, noble guest. I was merely trying to tell you that Raffir’s spirit guide is none other than your friend, the great Joachim. I shall be fascinated to listen to your conversation.”

“Stop panicking!” said Pagan as Scaler paced the room. The servants had been dismissed, and Belder, dismayed at the news, was strolling in the rose garden below.

“There is a time for panic,” said Scaler, “when all else fails. Well, it has—so I’m panicking.”

“Are you sure the old man is genuine?”

“What difference does it make? If he is a fake, he will have been schooled by the prince to deny me. If he is genuine, the spirit of Joachim will deny me. There is no way around it!”

“You could denounce the old man as a fake,” Pagan offered, without conviction.

“Denounce their holy man in their own temple? I don’t think so. It stretches the laws of hospitality to breaking point.”

“I hate to sound like Belder, but this was your idea. You really should have thought it through.”

“I hate you sounding like Belder.”

“Will you stop that pacing? Here, have some fruit.” Pagan tossed an apple across the room, but Scaler dropped it.

The door opened, and Belder entered. “It’s a real mess and no mistake,” he said glumly.

Scaler sank into a wide leather chair. “It should be quite a night.”

“Are we allowed to go armed?” asked Pagan

“If you like,” said Belder, “though I cannot see even you fighting your way through a thousand Sathuli!”

“I don’t want to die without a weapon in my hand.”

“Bravely spoken!” said Scaler. “I will take this apple. I don’t want to die without a piece of fruit in my hand. Will you put a stop to this talk of dying? It’s extremely unsettling!”

The conversation struggled on pointlessly until a servant tapped on the door, entered, and asked them to follow him. Scaler asked the man to wait while he moved to the full-length mirror on the far wall and gazed at his reflection; he was surprised to find himself smiling. He swung his cloak over his shoulder dramatically and adjusted the opal headband on his brow.

“Stay with me, Rek,” he said. “I shall need all the help there is.”

The trio followed the servant through the palace until they reached the porch to the temple, where the man bowed and backed away. Scaler walked on into the cool shadows and out into the temple proper. Seats on all sides were filled with silent tribesmen, while the prince and Raffir sat side by side on a raised dais. A third chair was placed at Raffir’s right. Scaler drew himself upright and marched down the aisle, removing his cloak and settling it carefully over the back of his chair.

The prince stood and bowed to Scaler. There was, Scaler thought, a malevolent gleam in his dark eyes.

“I welcome our noble guest here this evening. No Drenai has ever stood in this temple. But this man claims to be the Nadir bane, the living spirit of the Earl of Bronze, brother in blood to the great Joachim. Therefore, it is fitting that he should meet Joachim again in this holy place.

“Peace be on your souls, brothers, and let your hearts open to the music of the void. Let Raffir commune with the darkness …”

Scaler shivered as the vast congregation bowed their heads. Raffir leaned back in his seat; his eyes opened wide and then rolled back under the sockets. Scaler began to feel sick.

“I call upon you, spirit friend!” shouted Raffir, his voice high-pitched and quavering. “Come to us from the holy place. Give us of your wisdom.”

The candles in the temple guttered suddenly, as if a breeze had sprung up in the midst of the building.

“Come to us, spirit friend! Lead us.”

Once more the candle flames danced, and this time many went out. Scaler licked his lips; Raffir was no fake.

“Who calls Joachim Sathuli?” boomed a voice, deep and resonant. Scaler started in his seat, for the voice came from the scrawny throat of Raffir.

“Blood of your blood calls upon you, great Joachim,” said the prince. “I have here a man who claims to be your friend.”

“Let him speak, then,” said the spirit, “for I have heard too often your whining voice.”

“Speak!” ordered the prince, turning on Scaler. “You heard the command.”

“You do not command
me
, wretch!” snapped Scaler. “I am Rek, the Earl of Bronze, and I lived in a day when the Sathuli were men. Joachim was a man—and my brother. Tell me, Joachim, how do you like these sons of your sons?”

“Rek? I cannot see. Is it you?”

“It is I, Brother. Here among these shadows of you. Why could you not be here with me?”

“I cannot tell … So much time. Rek! Our first meeting. You remember your words?”

“I do. ‘And what is your life worth, Joachim?’ And you answered, ‘A broken sword.’ ”

“Yes, yes, I remember. But at the last, the words of importance. The words that brought me to Dros Delnoch.”

“I was riding toward death at the fortress, and I told you so. Then I said, ‘Before me I have nothing but enemies and war. I would like to think I have left at least a few friends behind me.’ I asked you to take my hand as a friend.”

“Rek, it is you! My brother! How is it you enjoy the life of blood once more?”

“The world has not changed, Joachim. Still evil rises like pus in a boil. I fight a war without allies and with few friends. I came to the Sathuli, as I did in the past.”

“What do you need, my brother?”

“I need men.”

“The Sathuli will not follow you. Nor should they. I loved you, Rek, for you were a great man. But it would be an obscenity for a Drenai to lead the chosen tribe. You must be desperate even to ask. But in your great need I offer you the Cheiam to use as you will. Oh, Rek, my brother, would that I could walk beside you once more, tulwar in hand! I can still see the Nadir breasting the last wall, hear their cries of hatred. We were men, were we not?”

“We were men,” said Scaler. “Even with the wound in your side, you were mighty.”

“My people fare badly now, Rek. Sheep led by goats. Use the Cheiam well. And may the lord of all things bless you.”

Scaler swallowed hard. “Has he blessed you, my friend?”

“I have what I deserve. Good-bye, my brother.”

A terrible sadness overcame Scaler, and he sank to his knees, tears coursing over his cheeks. He tried to stifle the sobs, but they forced their way through as Pagan ran to him, pulling him to his feet.

“So much sorrow in his voice,” said Scaler. “Take me away from here.”

“Wait!” ordered the prince. “The ceremony is not yet over.”

But Pagan ignored him and half carried the weeping Scaler from the temple. Not one Sathuli barred his path as the trio returned to their rooms. There Pagan helped Scaler to a wide satin-covered bed and fetched him water from a stone jug; it was cool and sweet.

“Have you ever heard such sadness?” Scaler asked him.

“No,” admitted Pagan. “It made me value life. How did you do it? By all the gods, it was a performance unparalleled.”

“It was merely another deception. And it made me sick! What skill is there in deceiving a tormented, blind spirit? Gods, Pagan, he’s been dead for over a hundred years. He and Rek met very rarely after the battle—they were of two different cultures.”

“But you knew all the words …”

“The earl’s diaries. No more, no less. I am a student of history. They met when the Sathuli ambushed my ancestor and Rek took on Joachim in single combat. They fought for an age, and then Joachim’s sword snapped. But Rek spared him, and it was the start of their friendship.”

“You have chosen a difficult part to play. You are no swordsman.”

“No, I don’t need to be. The act is enough. I think I will sleep now. Gods, I’m tired … and so damned ashamed.”

“You have no reason to feel shame. But tell me, what are the Cheiam?”

“The sons of Joachim. It is a cult, I think; I’m not sure. Let me sleep now.”

“Rest well, Rek. You have earned it.”

“There is no need to use the name in private.”

“There is every reason. We must all live the part from now on. I don’t know anything about your ancestor, but I think he would have been proud of you. It took iron nerve to go through that.”

But Scaler missed the compliment, for he had fallen asleep.