Some of his concerns were simply practical in nature: dabbling in what were considered the blacker arts brought scrutiny that could lead to persecution. Most of his concerns, however, were for his own well-being; he had seen too many times that traveling down a certain very dark road to knowledge cost the magician far more than the approval of others. Not a pious man, the Warlock still wished to face Lims-Kragma as every man must some day, certain he had no major stains on his escutcheon, though he could accept having to explain a minor blemish here and there. He might not be considered a good man by some, simply because of his chosen art, but he had his principles.
Besides, he had seen better men than himself fall prey to the lure of the dark arts. It was a drug to most magicians.
He moved slightly in his seat and determined, as he had every day for the last two years, that he needed to take a trip to the city and purchase new cushions. He glanced around his study. The fire burned as it always did during the cold weather, casting a warm glow across the room. The sleeping quarters below were often drafty in the winter, and the magician often slept upstairs, next to the fire. He was convinced it had something to do with the way the chimney was fashioned, but never could find the time to have anyone look at it, so for three months a year he endured blankets on the floor.
Brandos entered the room, trudging heavily up the stairs from below, circular stone steps that hugged the interior of the round building. What did you find? he asked without preamble.
What I feared, said the magician, standing up. With a wave of his hand he indicated the old tomes on the table. I think we need to undertake a journey.
Going shopping in Maharta, are we?
Amirantha regarded his oldest friend. At nearly fifty years of age, the warrior was still a powerful-looking man, even if his hair was now completely grey bordering on white. His sun-worn, leathery face spoke of years campaigning, and he bore an impressive number of scars. Well, yes, for I do need a new seat cushion, but that will have to wait. He glanced to his old tomes and said, Something very bad is happening, I think, and we need to speak to someone about it.
Brandos pulled out another chair and sat. Anyone specific in mind?
Tell me about this Kaspar.
Brandos smiled and nodded. He sat down on a small stool near the fire and said, Heres what I know:
About a month or so after General Alenburga disappeared ten years ago, this Kaspar of Olasko arrived in the Maharajas court along with a small army of soldiers from the Tsurani world. The young ruler of Muboya gave Kaspar the title of General of the Army, announced that Alenburga had retired to some distant place, and turned his attention to consolidating his holdings while getting ready to conquer some more.
But this is where it gets interesting. Kaspar seems to have earned the Maharajas trust, and has come up with two diplomatic solutions to conflictsset up a very difficult relationship with some of the Clans ruling the City of the Serpent River and annexed two city-states to the north without bloodshed. Hes also gotten Okanala allied with Muboya after a long war, through a couple of well-crafted royal marriages, effectively ensuring that the Maharajas grandchildren and the King of Okanalas will eventually end up ruling a combined empire. He helped Okanala put down two rebellions, and now Okanala and Muboya unite to move against those murderous little dwarves who live in the Grasslands to the west.
A prodigious list of accomplishments for so short a period of time. Amirantha tapped his chin with his right index finger, a nervous gesture Brandos had seen since childhood. Now, what else?
Speculation and rumor. Kaspar is an outlander, from far across the sea to the northwest, a nation called Olasko, so I have been told. He was a ruler there before being deposed, and for some years has been absent. Somehow he became close to General Alenburga and little is known of that. It is also rumored he vanishes for a week or so from view in Muboyas new capital city of Maharta, simply to show up again as if he had always been there.
Magic, said Amirantha. He goes somewhere, but no one sees him leave or return.
Or he enjoys very long naps in the privacy of his quarters, quipped the old fighter. Perhaps with friends; hes reputed to have quite the eye for the ladies.
Tapping his chin as he weighed his options, Amirantha was silent a long while. Brandos knew his foster father preferred silence when he was reflecting, so the old fighter got up and left the study, trudging down the stairs.
The tower was a simple cylindrical keep, with three levels, the middle consisting of two large rooms, one for the Warlock and one for Brandos and his wife, Samantha. Brandos crossed the short distance down the tiny hallway separating the two sleeping rooms and moved down the stairs to the bottom floor, where the kitchen, storage room, and garderobe were housed. The kitchen smelled of fresh-baked bread and something bubbling in a cauldron by the fireSamanthas well-regarded chicken stew, if Brandos knew his wifes cooking, and he did.
Brandos paused a moment to observe his wife, a stout woman who still could spark a fire in her husband with a whispered suggestion in his ear. The years had taken their toll on the former tavern girl from the Eastlands. She was wearing a simple green dress, with a blue cloth wrap fashioned into a head-covering, in the manner of the people of the Eastlands. Brandos had met her in the huge tavern at Shingazis Landing, on the Serpent River where it bends near the Eastern Coast, less than a mile west of the Great Cliffs, overlooking the Blue Sea. With the aid of a lot of flirtation, and a lot of good wine, she had agreed to come to his bed.
But rather than forget her, as he had so many before her, he kept thinking of the pleasant-looking, somewhat plump young woman from the Eastlands. After Brandos had spent months mooning over her, Amirantha gave his foster son leave to go visit her.
He returned a month later with his new wife in tow. Despite Amiranthas original reservations, he had come to understand that Brandos had found something rare in his tavern wench from the Eastlands. A fact Brandos knew the Warlock envied, even if he had never spoken a word.
Brandos knew his foster father better than any man alive knew him, and he knew that only once in his life had the old magic-user succumbed to a womans guiles. The entire encounter still amused him; if it werent for the fact of Amiranthas genuine pain at how that liaison turned out, it would have been the stuff of a comic bards ribald tale.
Samantha looked up at her husband and smiled. Ready to eat?
Yes, he said, returning the smile.
As he sat at the table, her expression turned to a frown. Very well, when are you two leaving?
Brandos shook his head and smiled ruefully. She could read him like a broadside posted on a wall in the city square. Soon, I think. Amirantha is very troubled by what happened up in Lanada.
She only nodded. One of her knacks was ignoring how her husband and his foster father made their living: by contriving to summon demons in distant lands then banishing them for a fee. Yes, they occasionally did do real work, dangerous work, for those willing to pay, but those were rare callings, and the rest of the time the two were little better than a pair of confidence tricksters.
Still, there were things she and Brandos were willing to argue about, and things left unspoken; its why their marriage had lasted for twenty-three years.
Is there any point to me asking why? she said coolly. Its not like it was when the children were here. She stopped and looked at her husband almost accusingly. Bethan is out at sea, sailing who knows where? Meg is living with her husband up in Khaipur.
Donal is down in the village with the grandchildren. You can walk down to visit any time, he quickly countered. He knew where this was heading.
And his wife just loves having me around, she said archly.
What is it about two women under the same roof? asked Brandos rhetorically.
Shell come around when the baby is born and she needs another pair of hands, but until then, she sees me as an intruder. As he was about to speak, she cut him off, her vivid blue eyes fixed on him as she absently pushed back a strand of
grey hair trying to escape from under her head covering. Its lonely here, Brandos. With just myself, and you gone for weeks, even months at a time She let out a theatrical sigh. When you returned early, I cant tell you how happy that made me.
When are you going to stop all this traveling? I know how wealthy we are. You dont need to do this anymore.
That would be true if Amirantha wasnt always worried about what he might have to spend someday to buy one of hisdevices, or an old libram of spells, or whatever else he might take a fancy to, countered her husband. Besides, it is his wealth, isnt it?
Yours, too, she shot back. Its not as if you were sitting around doing nothing.
He knew there was no avoiding the subject. Look, most times I would be arguing on your side, agreeing with what youre saying. We just got home, weve been gone over a month, but this time, well, we have to go.
Why?
Samantha put her hands on her hips and repeated, Why? Her tone was defiant and bordering on angry, and Brandos knew for the sake of his peace of mind he must tell her.
Its Amiranthas brother.
She looked stunned. She blinked and then asked, Belasco?
He nodded once.
She said, Ill prepare a travel bag. Enough food to take you to the city. You can buy the rest as you go.
Her sudden change in mood and manner were entirely understandable. Over the more than two decades they had been together, she had heard the same stories Brandos had, as Amirantha chatted over supper. And she knew two facts without being told: Belasco was a magician of mighty arts, easily Amiranthas equal, and he had been trying to kill Amirantha since before Brandos or Samantha had been alive.
CHAPTER 2
KNIGHT-ADAMANT
Sandreena sat motionless.
She focused her mind on the seemingly impossible task of thinking of nothing. For seven years she had practiced this ritual, whenever conditions permitted, yet she never reached that total vacancy of thought that was the goal of the Shatar Ritual.
Despite her eyes being closed, she could describe the room around her in precise detail. And that was her problem. Her mind wanted to be active, not floating blankly. She resisted the urge to sigh.
On her best days in the temples, she found something close to nothingness, or at least when the ritual ended she had no memory of anything and felt very relaxed. She was still not entirely convinced that not remembering what she had thought about and having no thoughts were the same thing. That concern always caused Father-Bishop Creegan some amusement, and the fact she was thinking of the Father-Bishop was another reminder that today she was far from her goal of floating consciousness.
She was aware of every single thing in the room around her. Without opening her eyes, she could recount every detail in the room; her ability to notice detail and recall it without flaw was a natural skill honed and refined since joining the Shield of the Weak. Her vows required her to protect those unable to protect themselves, a task far more complex than first apparent. Often in disputes, there was little time to ascertain the justice of a claim, or the right and wrong of an issue, so it took quick judgment in deciding where and how to intervene. Attention to detail often gave her an advantage in not making things worse, even if she couldnt make them better.
The smell of the wooden walls and floor, rich with age, and the faint pungency of oils used daily to replenish them and keep them sealed against the moisture tantalized her, recalling memories of other visits to this and other temples. She could hear the faint hissing of water on hot rocks as the acolytes almost silently moved through the room, bringing in hot rocks from a furnace outside, managing to carry an iron basket with the glowing balsa, placing them quietly on the floor, then ladling water over the surface, a sprinkling that caused steam to rise with very little sound. She remembered her days as an acolyte, concentrating with all her willpower to move through a room much like this one without disturbing the monks, priests, and occasionally a knight like herself. It had been her first step on the path toward serving the Goddess. As many as a dozen men and women would sit silently, their clothing folded neatly on benches along the rear wall, and her job had been to ensure the tranquility of the room remained undisturbed. Like others silently treading around her now, she had worked mightily to discharge her tasks yet not become a distraction for those meditating. At that time, she had wondered if there could be a more difficult task; now she knew the acolytes had the simple role, and those seeking floating consciousness the more rigorous challenge.
She felt perspiration dripping down her naked back, almost but not quite enough of an itch to make her wish to scratch. She willed her mind away from the sensations of her own flesh. She was sitting with feet crossed, eyes closed, her hands resting palms-up on her knees; nothing was supposed to distract her from seeking floating consciousness; yet that drip of perspiration was almost as if she were being touched. She felt her annoyance at being annoyed by it begin a cycle she knew well. Soon she would be as far removed from a floating consciousness as she would be in combat or taking a lover. She found a spark of irony, because in both those cases, she might even be closer to floating consciousness; other parts of her mind seemed to predominate when fighting or loving, not every questioning, every critical part that made her difficult for most people to be with.
Like all members of her order, Sandreena was always welcome at any Temple of Dala, the Patron Goddess of those who swore oath to the Order of the Shield of the Weak. Being a member of an errant order, she wandered where the Goddess directed, often being the only authority or protection for small villages, tiny caravans, or isolated abbeys. She often adjudicated disputes and dispensed equity by reason, but she was well equipped to do so by force of arms if necessary.
She turned her mind into the sensation of that drop of perspiration that was now reaching the top of her tailbone, and as it pooled there for a moment, she metaphorically dove into it, seeking to float within it. She took slow, deep breaths, enjoying the almost sybaritic pleasure she took from the hot steam, the silence, and the total absence of threat as she found her quiet place within that drop on her spine. A light breeze outside made some brass wind-chimes ring softly, heightening the calming experience. Then she caught a hint of something unwelcome, a musky male odor so slight it was almost unnoticeable. It hit her like a physical slap.
She knew the ritual was over. This was not the first time since joining the order her presence in the sanctuary brought unwelcome results. There were two other women partaking in the ritual, neither young nor attractive by common measure. Such considerations should be of little consequence in the service of the Goddess, but human beings were by nature imperfect, and often those considerations became important. Sandreena shifted her weight, feeling each muscle tense and relax in turn as she ended her meditation. Now she was very aware of her nakedness, the perspiration running down her back and between her breasts, and her hair matted to her head. One young acolyte waited near the door to the bathing room, with a towel of coarse weave for her use.
She stood, one fluid motion, like the dancer she had been once in another life, and, without looking behind, knew one of the young Brothers was watching her depart, examining every movement as she quietly left the room. She knew what he saw: a young woman of exceptional beauty, with sun-colored hair cut at the shoulders and a pair of heroic battle scars, but no other obvious flaw. She knew there were many flaws, but they were all within. And she saw her own beauty as a curse.
Long legs, strong buttocks, narrow hips and waist, and a little broad in the shoulders, she was at the height of her physical power. But nothing could change her face, the straight, almost perfect nose, the set of her pale blue eyes, slightly upsweptalmost exotica full mouth, and chin bordering on the delicate. She was stunning when she smiled, though that was a rare occurrence. Even in the armor of her order, men still turned to watch her pass.
She resisted the temptation to turn and see which of the young Brothers had been aroused by her presence; that was his bu
rden to bear and if he was wise in the teachings of the Goddess, he would know it was his weakness to overcome, a lesson put before him to instruct and make him stronger.
She just hated the idea of being someone elses lesson.
Sandreena took the towel and entered the bathing room, sitting on a bench before a bucket of cold water. She picked up the bucket and inverted it over her head, embracing the sudden shock of cold and the clarity of thought it brought. She used a towel to dry herself off and reveled in the quiet of being alone in the bathing room. In her lifetime she had experienced very little solitude. Perhaps above anything else her calling had brought her, those times alone on the road or in camp, when all she heard were what nature providedthe wind in the branches, birdcalls, and animal soundsthose were the moments she prized the most.
After that came her time here, in the Temple in Krondor. It was, as much as any place, what she thought of as home. She had been raised in the streets by a mother addicted to every drug known, favoring Dream, the white powder that, when smoked, reduced ones consciousness to a day or more of intoxicated images and experiences, more vivid than life itself. Her mother had protected her, as much as her weaknesses permitted, until she began to become a woman. What Sandreena considered her curse, a body that took away the breath of foolish men, came early in her eleventh year, and by the thirteenth Banapis celebration she had become a beauty. Her mother had shown her tricks: keeping dirty, cutting her hair short, binding up her breasts to look boyish. That had kept her daughter safe until the age of fourteen, when one of the bashers had caught a glimpse of her and saw through the disguise.
The Mockers of Krondor were a loosely run organization under the control of the Upright Man, but not so tightly controlled that the well-being of one street girl was of any consequence. The basher took her while her mother was unconscious in the throes of delirium induced by a gift of a vial of Bliss. After that he had come looking for her on a regular basis. He always brought Bliss, or Dream, or one of the other narcotics sold by the Brotherhood of Thieves, which was all her mother cared about.