“There is a…geas upon you,” said the priest.
“I don’t know the word,” said Flynn.
“Nor I,” admitted Kaspar.
“It’s a magical compulsion. A charm that requires you to fulfil a task before you can be free of it,” answered Father Vagasha. “It’s one of the reasons these murderous things happen to your companions, yet you are relatively untroubled by them.”
Kenner squirmed in his chair as he said, “I thought it was just…me being—”
“Callous?” Kaspar supplied.
“Yes,” said Kenner. “Even when the first member of our party died, I felt…nothing.”
“Nor could you, or you would not fulfil this geas.” The old priest said, “My brothers are examining this relic of yours and when they are done, we shall do what we can to aid you in freeing yourself from it.”
“It’s evil then?” asked Flynn as if he was still uncertain.
“There are times when good and evil are not simple concepts,” said the priest. “I’ll be able to tell you more after we finish examining the relic. Why don’t you go now and rest. You will dine with the brothers tonight; our fare is not sumptuous, but it is nourishing. Perhaps by tomorrow we’ll have more to talk about.”
He rose and they followed suit. As if anticipating the Father Elect’s need, the servant appeared to conduct them to their quarters. To the three men the priest said, “We shall send for you later this evening.”
Flynn followed the servant and said, “This may be a good thing, coming here.”
Kaspar nodded. “Unless, of course, it gets us all killed.”
No one spoke after that.
They dined with Father Vagasha that night, but it wasn’t the next day that they spoke to him again, but nearly a week later. During that time they were left to their own devices. Kenner and Flynn tended to keep to their quarters, sleeping or playing cards, or eating.
Kaspar took up wandering the great hall, sitting quietly and listening to the discourse of teachers and students. Much of what he heard was sophomoric and predictable, idealized views of life and how the world should work, but even those with unsophisticated views expressed themselves well.
The second day in the hall Kaspar paused to listen to a particularly difficult debate, in which the priest overseeing the education of these young men would pose questions and not provide answers but allow the students to debate each point and arrive at their own conclusions.
Listening to their discussion, Kaspar sensed a promise of things to come, a glimpse from time to time of, if not original thought, at least rigor. Some of these young men would mature into original thinkers, Kaspar realized, and even the dullest among them would benefit in the long term from being here.
For an instant Kaspar found himself on the verge of rage. This is worthwhile! he thought. This is where human enterprise should take mankind, to understand the world around us, not just conquer it! He paused, surprised at the intensity of his feelings, and wondering from whence they sprang. This was not the sort of experience he was comfortable with. Where had this anger come from? It was as if he had lived his life in a place of darkness and had suddenly been shown that light existed, and all the beauty and wonder of life had always been but a step away if he had just known it! Who had kept him in darkness? Kaspar had never been an introspective man, and this revelation troubled him deeply.
Kaspar stopped himself from reacting and forced his mind away from such questions, turning his attention back to the matters at hand. Impatient with himself for feeling such conflict, he turned and left the hall. He returned to his room.
It was only the Temple’s rule against strong spirits that kept him sober that night.
Over the course of the remaining week, Kaspar let the young men’s debates amuse him, but he steered consciously away from the type of questions that had caused him such deep turmoil.
A week later they were summoned to the Father Elect’s quarters.
As they entered, the old priest waved them over to some chairs. “Please, sit. I know you’ve been anxious for an outcome. We now have some sense of what must be done.”
No one spoke. They watched as three other clerics entered the room. The old prelate introduced them. “This is Father Jaliel, Father Gashan, and Father Ramal.” The three men wore identical robes to those worn by the other members of the order save for a small pin near the collar that Kaspar had noticed on the teachers in the great hall. The first man was elderly, while the other two were closer to Kaspar’s age, somewhere in their forties.
Vagasha said, “Father Jaliel is our resident expert in ancient artifacts and relics. Father Gashan is our theologian, and has the responsibility for interpreting our discoveries as they relate to our doctrines and beliefs. Father Ramal is our historian.” He motioned for the three men to step forward. “Father Gashan, will you begin? Please explain to our friends our concept of knowledge.”
Father Gashan said, “If I become too esoteric, please ask me to clarify.” He looked from one to another of the three men, then began. “We view knowledge as imperfect understanding. New information is always presenting itself which challenges us to re-examine our faith and view of the universe. We categorize knowledge into three categories: perfect knowledge, certain knowledge, and flawed or incomplete knowledge.
“Perfect knowledge is the province of the gods, and even their perception of it is limited. Only the True Godhead, he who is worshiped as Ashen-Genet by some, apprehends it perfectly. The other gods are but aspects and avatars of the godhead, and their perfect knowledge is limited to the area appointed to him or her.
“Our master, Kalkin, is a teacher yet even he has a perfect understanding of teaching only, not of what is being taught.
“Certain knowledge is that which we believe to be an accurate reflection of nature, life, and the universe. Such knowledge can be either correct or incorrect. When we discover a new fact of existence, we do not reject it as not being in keeping with existing doctrine, but rather re-examine the doctrine and see how it might be in error. Flawed knowledge is knowledge we know to be incomplete, to be lacking something that will progress it to certain knowledge.
“As you can imagine, the vast majority of what we know is flawed knowledge, and even our certain knowledge is suspect.”
“So what you’re saying,” said Kaspar, “is that we can never be certain of what we know because we are not gods.”
The priest smiled. “Essentially; that is a simplified answer, but it will serve for now.” He paused, and then added, “Knowledge can also have another aspect, of good or evil.”
Kaspar hid his impatience. This was beginning to put him in mind of the tutorials he had endured as a child.
“Most knowledge is neither good or evil. Knowing how to start a fire does not determine if you will cook food to feed the hungry or burn a man’s house to kill him. But some knowledge, that which is clearly beyond the understanding of mankind, can be expressly good or evil.” Father Gashan turned and looked at other two priests who nodded. “I will not labor the point, but just trust me when I say there is knowledge in the universe with the ability to transform you, to set you in a state of eternal grace or damn you to everlasting torment and suffering just because you have possession of it.”
Now Kaspar and the other two men became attentive, for the implication was not lost them. Kaspar asked, “Are you saying that just by having knowledge of this…thing we have in our possession, we may already be…committed to certain consequences?”
“Perhaps,” said Father Gashan. He turned to Father Ramal, who nodded.
“Our history teaches us that before man came to Midkemia, other races occupied this world,” began Ramal. “Elves are one species known to have come before man. Some of that long-lived race still abide in the north, though they are in slow decline. They will endure for ages before they finally succumb to their mortality. Dragons also were here before our race, and their masters, too.”
“The Dragon Lords,” s
aid Flynn. Looking at the others he said, “I told you.”
“Yes, or so the ancient texts state,” continued Ramal, “but of these beings we know very little. The elves say nothing of them, and it is believed that little has survived the Chaos Wars. Somewhere there may be those who have more knowledge than we do, but they are unknown to us.”
Flynn said, “We were taking the relic to Stardock, to the Academy of Magicians. Perhaps—”
Father Vagasha held up his hand. “We have some knowledge of that…organization. Our temples have long regarded magicians as suspect. Many trifle with knowledge and power without any proper sense of context. Men of magic have attempted to utilize knowledge which is clearly evil in purpose—necromancy or communing with dark spirits—for their personal gain. Even a group which prides itself on being a servant of knowledge like the Academy at Stardock has shown itself to be too dangerous to trust with such a thing as you possess.” He looked at Father Jaliel, who stepped forward.
“The armored artifact has no place in our world. It is from somewhere else.”
Kaspar sat back. He had not expected that. “It’s not a Dragon Lord relic?”
“No, it is not even from Midkemia.”
“Is it Tsurani?” asked Flynn.
“No,” said Jaliel. “No Tsurani reached our shore during the Riftwar. We were ignorant of that war until years later.”
“Then what is it?” asked Flynn.
“We don’t entirely know,” said Jaliel. “We have ruled out many possibilities, which is a good step, but I fear we have exhausted the limit of our wisdom and knowledge.”
Kaspar said, “Then despite your distrust, I suspect we still need to go to Stardock and consult the magicians.”
“There is another choice. We feel that our good Brother Anshu has pointed the way. While we are an order recognized for our teaching and wisdom, others such as those of Geshen-Amat have occasional flashes of insight or experience intuitive leaps that we can’t duplicate. There is a possible answer that lies to the west.”
Kaspar sat up, remembering what Bek had told him when he showed them his map. “The Pavilion of the Gods?”
The four clerics looked at one another, and Father Elect Vagasha said, “You know of the Pavilion?”
“An innkeeper in Shamsha gave us a map. It’s in our quarters. It shows a place in the mountains to the west; beyond that, we know little.”
Vagasha looked at Ramal. “There are said to be many wondrous things in the Ratn’gary Mountains. Much of what is there is not for mortal eyes.
“At the base of the two highest peaks, the Pillars of Heaven, rests the City of the Dead Gods. Those who built the temples are lost to us, but their works endure. It is said that on top of the peaks the living gods, or their avatars, reside, and only the most gifted of mortals can achieve even a glimpse of them. But below the summit, above the Necropolis, lies a bastion. Within that dwell the Keepers.”
“The Keepers of the Gate,” said Vagasha. “Men who belong to a sect that has almost no interaction with other men, not even with our temples, but they are said to be custodians of the way to the gods.
“It is also said that if a man, driven by need, and committed in purpose, can find his way to the Keepers and, should he be deemed worthy, he will be permitted to petition the gods.”
“Is this true?” asked Kenner.
Father Elect Vagasha smiled ruefully. “We lack certain knowledge of it.”
Kaspar chuckled at the play on words. “Still, you think that this is where we must go?”
“It is where you must go, otherwise you risk consequences as deadly as your twenty-eight predecessors endured. What you will find there, we can only guess at.” He motioned to the servant. “We shall have a ship waiting, and provide you with an escort to the foothills below the Necropolis. More than that we cannot do. Once you reach the trail leading into the mountains, you must go alone. Now, you may return to your quarters until this evening’s meal.”
Dismissed, the three men returned to their quarters, and once inside, Kenner said, “I don’t like the sound of it. I think we should go to Stardock.”
Flynn said, “You’re still worried about gold? I want this curse, or geas, or whatever it is removed! I want my life to be my own.”
Kenner nodded, obviously disturbed, but seemingly unable to speak.
Kaspar sighed. “Your lives have not been your own since you found that damned thing, and neither has mine since I met you. We are fated to finish this…quest, for lack of a better term, one way or the other.”
No one needed to hear what their alternatives were. They must accomplish whatever this mysterious mission was; or they would die.
TWELVE
RATN’GARY
The ship slammed into the breakers.
Kaspar, Kenner, and Flynn stood at the rail, their cloaks gathered closely around them as they watched the ship round Point Mataba and turn upwind for a reach into the relative shelter of the Ratn’gary Gulf. Despite the fact that it was summer, they were far enough south for the weather to be cold during a storm. Directly to the north of them, high up on the point, the trees of the Great South Forest loomed, dark and forbidding, dominating the cliffs.
They were three and a half weeks out of Maharta, on a ship procured by the Temple of Kalkin, and were nearing their destination: the Ratn’gary Gulf, below the southern end of the Ratn’gary Mountains.
Since leaving Maharta the three men had been somber, each of them overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness in the face of what they had discovered about the geas controlling their lives. Kenner was introspective, and rarely spoke. Flynn searched constantly for a solution no one had thought of. Many of his conversations with the others touched on things he thought might have been overlooked, and each time he failed to discover something previously missed, he fell into a brooding silence for hours. Kaspar was simply angry.
For his entire life Kaspar, heir to the throne of Olasko and then Duke, had never had to ask leave of any man, save his father. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and the only time he had been successfully balked, it had taken traitors and three armies to foil him; and yet he was still alive! The very idea that some agency could simply will him to obedience brought him to the edge of outrage.
Since coming to this land, Kaspar had reflected on many things. Things that would have revolted him as a young man now only amused him. He remembered how fastidious he had been at home, with every item of clothing needing to be cleaned and arranged just so before he dressed for his morning court or evening gala. The only time he had not cared was when he had been out hunting with his father.
What would his father have thought had he seen Kaspar at Jojanna’s farm cutting wood, or shoveling steer manure? Not once had a single person he had spoken to save Commander Alenburga had ventured to guess that he might be noble born. It had taken several nights’ conversations before Alenburga had reached that conclusion; but at least he had respected Kaspar’s desire for anonymity. He knew that Flynn and Kenner suspected that he might have been an officer and a gentleman at one time, which would explain his education and manners, but neither of them had pressed him. He didn’t know if that was their natural inclination or an effect of the geas.
Kaspar wrestled with one fact that was causing him more distress than he had ever known: that his life was not his own, nor had it been long before he had come to this land.
He was certain now that Leso Varen, his “advisor,” had used his magical arts to manipulate him far beyond his normal inclinations toward ambition. Kaspar had remained quietly behind his desk in his private quarters and ordered the destruction of entire races, as part of a misguided and maladroit plan to mislead the Kingdom of the Isles. Thousands had died so that he could draw the attention of the Sea of Kingdoms away from his true goal, the throne of Roldem.
It had seemed so simple at the time. Seven convenient deaths and the grief-stricken populace of Roldem would turn their eyes northward and welcome Kaspar, Duke of Ol
asko, as their rightful ruler. What had he been thinking! Then he realized he hadn’t; he had thought only what Leso Varen had allowed him to think.
He didn’t know what made him more angry, that he had let the magician into his company so easily, or that he had lost his ability to see the madness the magician had created. Today, standing on the spray-wet deck of an alien ship in a distant land, Kaspar could quickly tick off a dozen reasons why every plan of Varen was insane. The only result of his attempt to seize power would be war and chaos. Kaspar realized that must have been the magician’s plan all along; for reasons he might never understand, Leso Varen had wanted the Eastern Kingdoms, the Kingdom of the Isles, and perhaps even Great Kesh plunged into war.
Kaspar could not begin to imagine whom that would benefit. There were times when it was to a nation’s advantage to have neighbors embroiled in conflict. He had engendered several such over the years, but they had only been border skirmishes, political intrigues, or diplomatic betrayals, not wholesale war involving the three most powerful nations in the northern hemisphere. Destabilizing that area was dangerous; it wouldn’t take much for war between Kesh and Isles to spill over the borders and embroil the Eastern Kingdoms.
And he had witnessed the results of involving those three nations. But rather than destabilizing the area, his failed plots had convinced them to combine their efforts, disastrously for Kaspar: his capital city had been overrun in a single day! Even if Talwin Hawkins hadn’t discovered the secret passage into the citadel—and curse the ancestor who had judged the citadel impregnable!—the combined might of Roldem and Kesh would have reduced his stronghold to rubble in a month. Moreover, had the rumored army from the Kingdom of the Isles arrived, then it would have shortened the sacking of Opardum dramatically.
No, the whole picture made no sense. No more than this cursed geas made sense. More than anything else, Kaspar prayed that should he survive this ordeal, someone could explain it all to him.
One of the soldiers escorting them said, “We heave to at sundown. My captain says we should spend the night aboard ship and get a fresh start in the morning.”