Why had he not said Yes? Was he now too honorable to stomach falsehood? Now, when he had intended his submission in the desert, his “readiness,” dishonestly? When he had confessed more than once that he wanted the power of theurgy—a power he professed to loathe—so that he could overcome Amika?
Asking such questions, he felt an emotion with which he was altogether unfamiliar. He called it an impulse to cringe. It may have been shame.
But he had an answer ready. The sorcerers had lied themselves often enough. They could do so again. They might withhold Hexin Marrow’s book when he had killed their champion. And the same reasoning applied if he had answered falsely; if he had agreed to sue for peace. The Magisters might then reclaim Estervault’s Treatise. They might pretend that they did so in good faith. He had found no honor in them. What had they done to deserve honor from him?
Even as he debated with himself, however, he knew that his argument was specious. It avoided the most important truth: the truth about him, Prince Bifalt himself.
And that truth was that he was sick of dishonor. Sick of the dishonor of his own intentions. Sick of hoping to defeat Amika by dishonoring his own people. You are at war with yourself. Sick of lies and manipulations and tests. Are you not already corrupted? Sick of bowing to the purposes of other men.
He had chosen mortal combat instead of falsehood because he wanted to live like an honorable man if he could—and die like one if he could not. That was the truth.
The monk of the Cult of the Many had tried to tell him—
If he failed against his unjust opponent, the cost would be high. But if he succeeded, the cost would still be high. And either way, he would remain himself. The dishonor would belong to the Magisters, not to him.
He had chosen to be a hard man. Belleger needed that from him. His father needed it. But he had not imagined that he would be asked to choose between a future for his people and honor for himself—or that the choice would be as cruel as this.
He had no curses fierce enough to express what he felt. The world was too big. He was too small to accommodate its demands.
And now, at last, he was able to understand that the Magisters did not truly care who won Belleger’s war with Amika. For their purposes—a defensible border—one united realm ruled by either Belleger or Amika would serve as well as two lands at peace. If they urged peace, they urged it only so that the eventual defense of their western border would be stronger.
At present, however, they had nothing to lose in the Prince’s fight with their champion. If he died, Amika would conquer Belleger—or the Magisters would defeat Belleger by other means. If he killed his opponent, Belleger would conquer Amika. That contest, like his refusal to be an emissary, and his missed opportunity to lie—like every possible outcome of his quest for Hexin Marrow’s Seventh Decimate—would give these sorcerers what they desired.
Wincing, Prince Bifalt saw no escape from the trap they had set for him. The right is mine because the power is mine. Were there any chambers left in him that he had not entered, to his cost and diminishment? He did not believe so. He would have to fight the librarian’s champion. There was no other hope for his father, or his people. If he died, his quest would be proven futile. If he lived, he would soon learn how many more of their promises these theurgists were willing to break.
None, he imagined bleakly. They would send him on his way with both books, Sylan Estervault’s and Hexin Marrow’s. They would rather sacrifice Amika than let the war continue. Any outcome that prolonged the fighting would weaken the west further.
And, of course, they would consider themselves blameless, whatever happened. Amika’s ruin—or Belleger’s—would be on Prince Bifalt’s head, not theirs. He had chosen his course: they had not.
That thought was as bitter to him as his impulse to cringe.
Later, he began to wonder when he would be called to fight. He was not ready. He felt drained to the bone, as if he had spent days contending with Sirjane Marrow. Yawning, he ate a light repast, drank a little wine, and went to his bed. Within moments, he was asleep.
In his dreams, Slack said endlessly, A man is not a man at all. A man is not a man at all. A man is not a man at all. But the Prince had no idea what the former sorcerer was trying to tell him.
Eventually, the words became a knocking in his head, which in turn became a knocking at his door. Too groggy for alarm, he blundered out of bed and went to answer the summons.
At his door, he found the monk who had studied him in Set Ungabwey’s wagon, the nameless monk of the Cult of the Many. On a tray, the man carried a soldier’s meal, the kind of food Prince Bifalt would have chosen to eat before a battle.
Vaguely glad that he would have time to wake up while he ate, the Prince gestured the monk into his quarters.
In silence, the monk entered. When he had set down the tray, he adjusted his cassock and seated himself in a nearby chair. There he waited, head lowered, while the Prince sat down as well, poured and drank a flagon of cold mountain water, then turned his attention to eating.
By degrees, Prince Bifalt shed the effects of sleep and dreams. Feeling more alert, he asked simply, “When?”
The monk folded his hands together in his lap. “When you are ready.” After a moment, he added without raising his eyes, “Magister Marrow finds the occasion distasteful. He is impatient to see it concluded. But I stand surety for you, Prince. There is no need for haste.”
The King’s son had no intention of hurrying. He chewed another mouthful and drank more water before he spoke again.
“You offered to ‘stand surety’ for me. No doubt I have cause to be grateful, but I do not know what you mean.”
The monk’s bowed head did not hide his smile entirely. “Outside Master Ungabwey’s carriage,” he replied, “Tchwee informed you that the monks of the Cult of the Many do not use names. That is strictly true. At times, however, even we find terms of reference necessary. For convenience, as Tchwee says, you may call me Father. The monks who serve here are my sons and daughters in the Cult. If you would prefer some more specific title, I am Third Father.”
Third Father? Prince Bifalt wanted to ask what a title like that indicated; but the monk had not paused.
“Offering to stand surety for you,” he explained, “I made myself responsible for your conduct.”
The Prince frowned. “What do these sorcerers fear from my conduct?”
Third Father met the Prince’s gaze for an instant, then lowered his eyes again. “At the time,” he said mildly, “they were protective of Commander Forguile. Now they have new concerns.
“You will soon engage in mortal combat. You have both a rifle and a saber. Suppose that you raise your rifle and fire, not at your opponent, but at some bystander. Commander Forguile? Magister Rummage? A stranger? Will it be an accidental discharge? A distraction for your foe? Who knows? Or suppose that in the flurry of combat, your saber cuts someone other than your opponent. An unfortunate coincidence, surely.
“In such cases, however, the fault will be mine, not yours. I am culpable for your actions. I will bear any reprisal or punishment in your place.”
Shocked out of his composure, Prince Bifalt snapped, “Hells! This is intolerable! My actions are mine. Their consequences are mine to bear. You—!”
He could not find words for his umbrage.
The monk nodded. “My offer inhibits you,” he said placidly. “It requires you to think of me as well as your anger.”
“No.” Restraining himself, the Prince snorted a harsh laugh. “It frees me.” The idea was ludicrous. “Now I can kill anyone I want.”
He meant, If you think so little of me, you are as blind as the librarian.
Third Father shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I have seen the war within you. I am content to hazard myself on its outcome.
“When you struck at Commander Forguile, my first tho
ught was to ward you from yourself. You knew too little, and dared too much. But now—” He spread his hands. “Your circumstances are altered. You are altered. I stand surety for you because I hope you will come to terms with yourself. I hope to encourage the end of your war.
“The risk is nothing to me.”
“It is nothing,” agreed Prince Bifalt. “Your suppositions are chaff. Your inhibition does not affect me. I have chosen my path. The Magisters did not compel me. Their lies and half-truths did not. Other paths were open, but I did not see them, or they offended me. Clearly, I am a fool. Still, I am not fool enough to fight dishonorably while I am watched by men who have the power to destroy Belleger.”
The monk nodded again, apparently to himself. “Then perhaps there are other matters of which you wish to speak.”
This change of direction confused the Prince. “Other matters?”
Third Father studied the floor. “You face death,” he said gently. “Perhaps it will be Belleger’s death. Perhaps not. Your own is enough. At such times, some men open their hearts. They name their sins, or their regrets, and ask forgiveness. They seek solace. Or they have sentiments they wish expressed to those who will mourn their passing.
“I am a monk of the Cult of the Many. Say whatever gives you ease. It will be sacred to me. No other soul will know of it, unless you ask me to convey it on your behalf.”
The thought snatched Prince Bifalt to his feet: a sudden inspiration; possibilities he had not imagined before. He had no secrets he had not already confessed—and no desire to repeat himself. Forgiveness did not interest him. Nor did solace. Yet there was something a man like Third Father might be able to do for him.
It will be sacred—
“Be clear, monk.” He did not intend to speak harshly; but his pulse pounded in his throat. He had to force his voice past the obstruction. “Are you able to convey a message to my father the King? Convey it privately?”
No other soul—
The monk nodded. “Perhaps not directly. Nevertheless, there is no place on this continent where my sons and daughters cannot wander. Your words will reach your father. They will be sacred to any monk who carries them.”
“And if my message is not words?” pursued the Prince. “If it is an object? Will my father receive it? Without the Magisters’ knowledge? Without their interference?”
Third Father frowned at Prince Bifalt’s boots. “An object that is also a message? I do not know how to answer. Certainly, no one will learn of it from us. But an object—?”
For a moment, Prince Bifalt glared down at the nameless man, gauging the monk’s uncertainty rather than his own. Then he strode to the desk.
When he returned, he held Sylan Estervault’s Treatise.
“A book?” For an instant, surprise overcame the monk. He forgot himself so completely that he faced Prince Bifalt. “It belongs to the Last Repository!”
“It does not,” retorted the Prince. “Magister Avail gave it to me. He said it is mine. ‘Do with it what you will.’ Those were his words.” If you do not understand yet— “The Magisters cannot protest at the use I make of it.
“It is my message. Will the Cult of the Many deliver it to King Abbator my father?”
At once, Third Father resumed his bowed posture. He seemed to huddle into himself as he murmured, “They will know of its absence. It was false pride to say that my life is nothing. You have made it too great. The Cult of the Many has served the Last Repository since its founding. I have served the library whenever service was asked of me. But now, of my own volition, I have offered to stand surety. If the Magisters see fault in what you seek—if they see crime—you will be held blameless. The blame will be mine. The cost of their disapproval, or of their outrage, will be mine to bear. It may fall upon all the Cult.
“They did not give me leave to meddle in your war with Amika.”
“That is an excuse.” Now Prince Bifalt chose harshness. His anger was tinder: it caught fire at any spark. “It is not an answer.
“I cannot command you. I have no claim on you. I only ask because you inquired. Because you offered, Father.”
The monk did not raise his head, but his distress was plain in the hunching of his shoulders and the twisting of his features. A low sound like a moan escaped him as he wrestled with himself. “My vows,” he breathed. “I have made too many vows. How can I choose between them?”
Yet his struggle was brief. With his hands braced on his knees, he rose from his seat. Avoiding Prince Bifalt’s stare, he said unsteadily, “As you say, Prince. I offered. In turn, you offer me a lesson in humility—a lesson I was too proud to know that I needed.
“Give me the book. I will not involve my sons and daughters. If I live, I will deliver it to your father with my own hands.”
Wordless with astonishment, or perhaps with triumph, Prince Bifalt entrusted the means of Amika’s defeat to the monk. He had done what he could to preserve his homeland if Magister Marrow’s champion killed him.
And he felt a moment of pride. He could say truthfully that he had not expected so much from himself, from the man he had become: a man who had found an impulse to cringe lurking in one of his chambers, and had turned away from the comparative safety of falsehood.
Tucking Estervault’s book under his arm, Third Father went to the door, opened it, and beckoned the Prince to accompany him. They had kept the blind librarian waiting long enough.
Prince Bifalt followed without hesitation.
A soldier by character as well as training, he readied his weapons while he followed the monk. When he had checked the condition of his saber and dagger, he took a full clip from his satchel, slapped it into place on his rifle, and worked the bolt to load the chamber. Then he swung his arms and flexed his torso to loosen his muscles.
Routine movements like these were a form of meditation. They prepared his concentration, settled his mind for battle. He would need the full fire of his anger. But he could not allow it to overrule his skills—or his choices.
After some distance, he realized that Third Father was guiding him toward the keep’s refectory.
He did not know why the Magisters had chosen that hall, but he approved. A large space would provide him with room to evade their champion. And if he needed obstructions to protect him, he might be able to use the long tables. Anything that delayed his opponent’s attacks would give him time to fire his rifle and work the bolt.
As he and the monk approached their destination, he heard a growing murmur of voices. Apparently, the sorcerers wanted an audience. That, also, he approved. Witnesses to his good conduct would protect Third Father. Then, if the monk were not held culpable in the contest, he might be able—or be permitted—to leave the Last Repository.
The swelling confusion of voices told the Prince his audience would be large.
Still, he was not prepared for the size of the gathering. As he and Third Father neared the open entryway, he saw that the crowd numbered more than dozens of the castle’s inhabitants, visitors, and servants; perhaps more than hundreds. Under the high ceiling lit by its blazing cressets, the hall seemed bigger than it had on earlier occasions. All the chairs and trestle tables had been cleared away, making room for multitudes around the walls while leaving an open space like an arena in the center. So many people speaking together in so many different tongues—and raising their voices to be heard—created a din like a reminder of hell. The only sounds missing from the tumult were the battle cries, the screams of fallen men and horses, the iron clang of weapons.
Third Father stopped at the threshold. With a gesture, he halted Prince Bifalt a step behind him. Many heads and shoulders hindered the Prince’s view; but in the crowd he was able to identify a knot of savages like the Repository’s physician, clusters of men wrapped in barbaric furs, and a large number of soldiers wearing plate armor. He also made out several dozen men and women wi
th elegant cloaks hanging from their shoulders and oiled hair styled in strange shapes adorning their heads. Servants and other monks—Third Father’s sons and daughters—were everywhere, as were edged weapons of every description, and races of every hue ranging from black and brown to stark white and an unnatural blue.
In the clear space, the arena, Magister Marrow stood alone. He was motionless with his head bowed, speaking to no one, reacting to nothing. In spite of his stillness, however, his posture steamed with impatience. His back was toward the monk and Prince Bifalt. He may have been unaware of their arrival.
In the rush of the Prince’s first survey, individual faces were unrecognizable. But then his attention was drawn as if by a lodestone to the sallow skin, the characteristic goatee and moustache, and the orange headband of Commander Forguile.
Like many of the people around him, the Amikan was armed. Unlike them, he held his curved sword unsheathed in his fist. The light of the cressets glared like flames on the polished iron of his blade.
If he were the librarian’s champion, thought Prince Bifalt, this contest could be fought honestly by men who were already enemies.
For a moment, he considered the prospect eagerly. Then he forced himself to dismiss it. The librarian had promised him unfairness, inequality. And he had been misled too often. He expected betrayal. He would not be allowed to confront his natural foe. Instead of fixing his ire on the Amikan, he studied the gathering with more care.
After a moment, he spotted Magister Avail and Magister Rummage. The plump man and the hunchback stood shoulder to shoulder, urging or restraining each other. Once again, they were holding hands.
Almost immediately, Magister Rummage seemed to feel Prince Bifalt’s gaze. He turned his glare and his grin toward the Prince. The movement of his hand suggested that he was communicating with his companion. Wincing, Magister Avail also looked at the Prince.
Their notice served as a signal. At a nod from the hunchback, Magister Avail said, Now, in a voice the Prince heard only in his mind: the same voice that had summoned him. It did not reach his ears. Belleger’s best is among us. Or its worst. The words made no sound at all. Prince Bifalt is ready.