What Was Forgotten (30 page)

He continued his rummaging until he found half a dozen flagons and dug the small pouch of ground-up black bear root from his pocket, putting a small amount of the substance in each flagon before he filled each one to the brim. The wine was a dark red, and its sweet scent completely masked the faint odour of the root powder. Osmun placed the pouch back in his pocket and leaned against the table, wondering how this had all happened. It had barely been a few weeks since he had slept comfortably in the monastery, his future and his success guaranteed to him. But now… Now he was slinking around like a thief, working against the thing to which he had devoted his life.

The shadow, he reminded himself; it had all started with the shadow, and every clandestine action he was taking was in the service of protecting the church from the evil it had unwittingly unleashed. He gathered up the flagons and made his way to the tower, feeling once again that it, or someone or something, was watching him as he approached.

There was only one door that he could find, and it appeared to be made at least in part of steel; the torches in the distance behind him shimmered and reflected off of it, and the light framed his own reflection in darkness.

Osmun kicked the door three times. A small rectangular slot at eye level opened. A pair of angry, suspicious eyes looked at him but softened momentarily at the sight of the flagons. “What’s this?”

“A bit of relief for the guards,” Osmun said.

“Really…” the guard replied, his voice heavy with skepticism. “We’ve never had wine before. Least, not on duty.” The guard’s eyes were cutting into him, cutting through his pretence. Osmun’s heart began to beat faster and his palms became slick with sweat. He was about to be discovered. Suddenly he heard Myron’s voice in his head.

“Well, the college consuls are getting rid of it, staring tomorrow. They say that drink has no place here. You’re all going to be sober as monks.”

“What? That’s damned nonsense.”

Osmun shrugged. “Of course it is. Maybe they’ll decide to bring it back in a few months, but in case they don’t…” Osmun leaned towards the door and lowered his voice. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t get a last bit of enjoyment from it.”

The steel door opened slowly, the guard having to put considerable effort into moving it. The guard was at least a full head taller than Osmun, and his wide frame blocked out most of the doorway. He looked down at the priest, scrutinizing him and his cargo. He plucked one of the flagon’s from Osmun’s arms and took a long drink before stepping aside and motioning for Osmun to go ahead.

“If anyone asks you about this,” Osmun said, “I was never here.” Through the door was a short hallway lined with a few torches leading to a circular stairway that went up to the second level of the tower. He jumped and nearly dropped the rest of the wine as the steel door closed behind him with a loud clang.

The stairway led to another hallway, narrower than the one below, that led north and then east before opening up into a small antechamber, where four more guards stood watch outside of another steel door.

“Who is it?” one guard asked another. “Is the next shift starting early? That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” another muttered. The four of them looked at Osmun with open hostility, as if he had wandered into their homes uninvited. It must have been what made them effective guards: that they were on alert even at the smallest thing out of the ordinary. Osmun hoped they weren’t more wary than they were thirsty.

“Evening, sirs,” Osmun said, setting the flagons down on a nearby table. He told them what he had told the guard at the door, and he spotted a set of keys on the largest, most intimidating guard as he did so. He also couldn’t help but notice they were all carrying short swords and a variety of smaller weapons: knives, spiked knuckles, bucklers, crossbows… this was not rote duty for them. They were prepared to kill.

“They were just going to get rid of
all
the wine?” one of them asked as he picked up a flagon and drank. “That’s going to be ill received news in the morning.”

“Too true,” Osmun agreed. Two of the other guards took up flagons eagerly and drained them quickly.

“Guess we’ll have to go down to the taverns now,” said the youngest-looking guard. “Jannus, take your cup! What are you waiting for?”

The tallest guard among them leaned against the stone wall beside the steel door, arms crossed. He was mostly bald save for thin black stubble around his ears and the back of his head. He had a wide, ugly face that looked to be twisted into a permanent scowl and, perhaps to explain his attitude, a scar across his throat. “The stuff makes me ill,” he grumbled, his voice like an ox’s grunt. The young guard chuckled.

“What, can’t handle your drink, is that it?” His smile disappeared when he saw how Jannus looked at him.

“I can’t stand the taste of it. Or the smell of it. Or the look of it. Reminds me of my father, that lousy bastard.”

“Why don’t you join us then?” It took Osmun a moment to realize the question was for him.

“What? Me? I, uh, I can’t either.”

“Why not?”

Osmun could not count the myriad scenarios he had imagined in his mind, but this was not one of them. “I have more deliveries to make. You know, before they cart the stuff off tomorrow. Otherwise I wouldn’t hesitate.”

“More for us, then.” The young guard picked up another flagon. Osmun pressed his palms to his sides so they could not see that they were shaking. It would only be a few moments before the guards started to feel drowsy, and then only a few more before they were unconscious. And unless Jannus was as stupid as he was ugly, he would realize what was happening in an instant.

“Say, is there something else you could bring for Jannus, here?” one of the guards asked. “Shame that he should be the only one not celebrating.”

“We aren’t celebrating,” another guard said. “We’re just drinking.”

“I’ll go check the store room to see if I can find something,” Osmun said as he slowly turned to walk away.

“Shouldn’t you ask him what he wants? Jannus, what do you want?”

Jannus replied, but Osmun could only hear his heart pounding. His plan had failed. All he could do now was escape. Nasiri would have to accept the bad news. She had asked the impossible of him, after all. She must have expected there would only be the slightest chance he would succeed.

Osmun nodded, not asking Jannus to repeat himself, gave a smile, and walked away. Still pressing his palms against his sides, his hand touched the pouch of the root powder. “Beacon be praised,” he whispered. He continued down the hallway and, once out of sight of the guards, took the pouch from his pocket and dropped it into the iron casing of the nearest torch. A thick brown smoke began to plume as the flames began to consume the powder. Osmun covered his mouth and went to the staircase, descending halfway, where he waited.

From above he heard a few faint clatters followed by much louder ones, and one man’s shouting. Then there were footsteps pounding down the hallway towards the stairs. Osmun could hear Jannus cursing as he reached the top of the stairs.

Osmun started to run down the stairs and heard the guard behind him. Looking over his shoulder he saw Jannus pounding down the steps, and then faltering for a moment before pitching forward. The guard’s sword slid down the stairs and stopped at Osmun’s feet. The priest stood still, not daring to move. An absolute silence dominated the stone hallways, save for the breathing of the unconscious guard before him. When he heard nothing else for a few moments, Osmun went back up the stairs and, seeing Jannus sprawled and unmoving, took the keys from Jannus’ belt.

At the top of the stairs a dim haze still hung in the air. Osmun made his way down the hallway back to the Compendium door, crouching and covering his mouth with the cloth of the apron as he went. It would be embarrassing for him to succeed in his plan this far and then succumb to his own ploy. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the other guards sprawled out on the floor, sleeping, with wine spilled all over the floors. He chuckled at the thought of the conversation they would have with their superiors in the morning, and how they might try to rationalize their apparent dereliction of duty.

It was the largest key, of course, that fit into the steel door, but did not seem as though it could unlock it. Osmun could turn the key a full rotation to the left and right and it did nothing. There were three other keys on the ring, but they were all hopelessly small. He took a step back and stared at the door, seeing Cleric – Egus – with keys in hand.

The trial.

He remembered how Egus had used a sequence of specific turns to open one of the iron doors in the Cathedral. Osmun put the largest key back into the keyhole and closed his eyes, trying to let his memory guide his hand…

He felt the key catch and heard the bolt slide out of place.

The door must have been six inches of solid steel, but it opened with surprising ease, and almost without a sound. The room beyond the door looked tiny at first, until Osmun realized that it was simply full. The room was divided by rows of shelves; the walls were lined with bookcases, and in the very center of the room were four large tables pushed against each other. Against the far wall was a pedestal, atop which sat a leather-bound tome that looked older than anything else in sight: the Untranslated Tome. Nasiri had told him it would likely be within easy reach. He was thankful that she appeared to be correct. Far to his left, wooden stairs went up to another level. Did the Compendium fill the entire height of the tower? Something on the table caught Osmun’s eye and distracted him from his goal; it was the chest that Egus and Andrican had brought to his trial. The chest that supposedly contained sacred Dramandi relics.

He found himself opening it and gazing inside. Pieces of smooth wood divided the chest into sections and, without thinking, Osmun was reaching inside. He picked up a circular disc the size of a small plate, but it was unlike anything he had ever seen. There were several layers tiered atop one another, each successive one smaller than the one before, coming to a jewelled apex. The disc was some kind of metal, the colour of silver, yet Osmun somehow knew it was wholly unique. There were designs carved into each tier, resembling some arcane child of written language and sculpted art. The jewel was black. Osmun thought it might be jet, though he noticed it reflected no light; the torches behind him were invisible in the black orb while at the same time dancing on the silvery surfaces of the disc.

The torchlight flickered. Someone walked passed it. Osmun spun around – it was standing in the doorway.

“Ajkah thuun daz Velskotahn!”

Osmun turned the other way and immediately fell to his knees, coughing and dizzy. The smoke… he had been standing. The smoke from the pouch must not have fully dispersed.

“Tharoz dy vanu…”
The shadow approached.

Summoning the whole of his will, Osmun lifted himself to his feet and staggered towards the pedestal, taking hold of the tome with both hands. The book was so heavy that it nearly took him off balance. Looking back to the doorway, all he could see was the night-black spirit, growing and enveloping everything around him. Closing his eyes, Osmun charged forward; he collided with a table edge but stayed on his feet and kept going towards the door, towards the light. Away from the darkness…… He was in the hallway, only needing to get down the stairs and out the door… and to the wall. Then he would be safe. The torches began to dim and the hall itself began to twist and turn as if the entire tower was falling over. Osmun tucked the book under one arm and steadied himself against the wall with the other.

The voice of the spirit was screaming at him. Not pursuing him… it was screaming from inside him.
Tharoz nal kaar!

Down the stairs, past the sleeping guards, Osmun slammed into the steel door, pushing against it with all of his strength until it was open just wide enough for him to get out. His vision began to blur, and he could barely see the forms of guards running towards him as he dropped to his knees, succumbing to sleep.

Chapter 19

It was the first night that he could remember where his sleep was uninterrupted by sentry duty. Only his dreams kept Zayd from having fully restful sleep, but he had grown accustomed to it, or at least as accustomed as was possible, he estimated.

It was the safety of being in Ten Tower fort, Zayd thought.
That
was the real difference. He had been a sparrow among hawks for days and days, and while a cautious voice in his head warned him not to become too at ease, he could tell that the soldiers of Ten Tower were not the same type of soldier as the men of the Ninth Regiment. Or, if they were, they were well disciplined and displayed none of the aggression that Zayd had experienced following the siege of Yasri. Those soldiers had an unquenchable bloodlust, something too vicious to be innate; more likely it was something that infected them during the siege. It had plunged them into barbarism and reshaped them into barbarous men. War was the forge that took wondrous things and turned them misshapen.

Except for some. For some, it was precisely the reverse.

Barrett stood in the doorway of the barracks, a bowl in each hand, and approached once he saw Zayd sitting up awake in the bunk. The morning sun poured in through the small windows of the wooden barracks of Ten Tower, telling Zayd at once that it was far past dawn. Barrett sat on a cot facing Zayd and handed him a bowl of tepid oats and milk.