Courage Of The Conquered (Book 3) (15 page)

“It came from in there.”

The Lindrath went white. “It cannot be.”

“It was,” she said. “I heard it. And we
both know there is yet a third room.”

Lanrik glanced from one to the other.
“What third room?”

The Lindrath, his face drawn and haggard
from his ordeal, spoke in a low voice.

“This is a tomb, Lanrik. But no body rests
here.” He waved an arm around. “These were some of Conhain’s possessions, and
those of his friends. But there is, as Erlissa says, a third room. Each Raithlindrath
learns that from their predecessor. Each time the leadership changes, there’s a
secret ceremony here, in this very place, in front of the door to that other
room. But none has ever open it.” He looked at Erlissa. “That’s a secret kept
among the Lindraths for a thousand years. No one else knew it.”

Erlissa returned his gaze. “No one else
knew it, save the lòhrens. For it was Aranloth who gave the first Lindrath the
permission and knowledge to enter here.”

Thrice more the boom sounded. A hollow
noise from the tomb of the dead. When it stilled, the quiet was so deep that it
felt like a weight upon them.

“Whatever causes it, we must discover,”
Erlissa said. She walked over to the far wall.

The others followed her. “You would dare
to open it?” the Lindrath asked.

“Yes. For the noise means
something
.
We must find out what.”

“I don’t like it,” Lanrik said. “It’s not
our place to go in there.”

“And yet we must,” Erlissa said. “I feel
it in my bones.”

Lanrik did not argue with her. She sounded
more like Aranloth every day, but he trusted her instincts.

“Then we have to hurry,” he said. “We
don’t know what’s happening outside, and we still have to escape. If the
captain has woken, he might already be on his way to summon help.”

“Or not,” Erlissa said. “For to admit that
we deceived him is likely to assure his death. And he knows it. But it will not
take long to open the door. Though what will happen after that … I
cannot say.”

After a moment, she raised her staff and
struck the wall with its tip. The sound echoed dully through the chamber.
Thrice she struck, copying the noise that had drawn their attention. At the
third stroke, a tongue of blue lòhrengai flickered from the walnut staff.

The lòhren-fire fared to life, and
whatever enchantment hid the entry was revealed by its light, for now a blue
flame, entwined with white, showed the edges of a door. A moment the lights
flared, hurting their eyes in the dark, and then they sputtered out.

A door stood there, but not of stone. It
was of ancient oak. On its other side rested the king, and whatever made the
noise.

Erlissa hesitated only a moment, and then
she opened it.

They looked into the third room: the tomb
of Conhain that no man had seen in a thousand years. Lanrik’s hair prickled.

There was no one there. No trapped
Raithlin in hiding. No one off the street seeking refuge. No wild animal that
had found a way in. No possible cause for the noise that they had heard.

But there were other things.

His gaze swept the room. There was little
dust, merely a fine layer that filmed the surface of everything equally. The
room was small. The skeleton of a massive horse lay on one side. On the other
were books. Their pages seemed intact, and no doubt they were written in the
Halathrin tongue, for Conhain was a scholar of that people. 

On the back wall, fixed into the stone,
protruded a spear. It was long. Its ash-wood shaft was polished by hands that
had not held it, that had not lived, since Esgallien was a camp of vagabond
wanderers. A shiver ran up his spine. Attached to the spear, hanging down in
the still air, was the one symbol that every single person in Esgallien would
recognize: the Red Cloth of Victory. Only this was not a symbol. It was the
thing itself.

The cloth, once white, was steeped in the
life-blood of Conhain. The stained and ragged material, somehow preserved in
the dry air of the tomb, had been used to staunch the king’s wounds and keep
him alive a little longer. That same cloth, he later removed and swung down to
signal the charge that defeated Esgallien’s enemies. Lanrik felt tears blur his
sight. Conhain had given so much for his people, sacrificed his happiness, even
his life, for their benefit.

But even the cloth was insignificant
compared to the one other thing in the room. A stone bier, four feet high and
of polished marble, dominated its center. And there, laid out like the king he
was, rested Conhain. He was a tall man, neither young nor old, for by the art
of Aranloth, that lore of the Letharn which he had mastered, the form of the
dead man was preserved. And the king’s face, serene and kindly, was untouched
by death or time.

The room was burdened by a weight of
history. The very air, filled with fragrances that he well remembered from
those other faraway tombs, those spices and resins and oils that preserved and
freshened, smelled sweet.

He gazed at the king, and reverence
overcame him. He knelt and bowed his head. Partly in near-worship of a legend,
partly in awe of a man. He was not surprised to sense the Lindrath to his left,
and Erlissa to his right, do the same.

He did not know why. Perhaps fate put the
words in his mouth. Perhaps chance only. Perhaps forces ran through him that no
man understood or named. But he voiced the Raithlin creed.

Our duty is to
serve and protect

Our honor is to fight
but not hate

Our love is for
all that is good in the world

Out of the void, an answer came:

Well did you serve
and protect

High was your
honor, low was your hate

Your love for good
was a beacon of light

Lanrik knew those words. Mourners recited
them at the funeral of every Raithlin.

He looked up. Conhain stared at him. Not
with the eyes of a dead man, nor yet the eyes of the living, but by enchantment
that transcended life and death.

The king rose on his bier. His stately
robes, silken things, sown with gold thread and studded by rare gems, whispered
as he moved. Silver bands gleamed on wrists and forearms. A gold torc glittered
around his neck, and a mighty sword hung from his side.

Conhain paused, and then like a young man,
he swung himself over the side of the marble bier and vaulted to the floor.
There he stood and gazed at the three of them.

Lanrik no longer knew if Conhain was alive
or dead. He did not understand if this was a preserved body, a spirit, or some
phantom of his mind that rose and stood before him. But the king’s voice
sounded real.

“Solemn words, and I have uttered them
more than once. For I too was a Raithlin. I, who roamed the forests of the
Halathrin and learned deeply of their lore. I was the first Raithlin, and the
first Lindrath, and you have brought back memories that long have slept.”

The king paused. His kind but sorrow-laden
eyes studied them.

“Solemn words, but few others could rouse
me. But this is no Raithlin initiation ceremony, nor even a funeral.”

Lanrik swayed to his feet. The others did
likewise. They stepped back. A sense of awe threatened to overcome them. And if
not that, then dread, for the living had no place conversing with the dead.

Conhain did not move. “Do not fear me. I
have not woken to cause harm, but to help. For assuredly, help is needed. This
is the foretold hour when Ebona sits on the throne of Esgallien. It burdens me,
though long I knew the day would come, and long I waited for it, and for you.”

The king’s eyes glittered in the light of
Erlissa’s staff. Lanrik spoke. His voice seemed harsh and thick.

“My King? You have waited for
us
?”

“I waited for
you
.”

Lanrik did not know what to say.

“Show me your sword,” the king commanded.

Lanrik lifted up the blade that he had
taken from the captain. Conhain took hold of it. He glanced at it with
puzzlement, and then cast it back into the anteroom.

“A poor sword,” he said. “A poor sword
indeed, and one that has drunk of the blood of innocents in service to Ebona’s
lust for death. It is not yours. Have you not another?”

Lanrik thought of his knives, and was
about to pull one of them, but then realized that was not what Conhain meant.

“I’ve lost my Raithlin sword. But I have
another. It lies safe in the fortress of Lòrenta.”

“Describe it.”

“It’s a shazrahad blade, and I must keep
it from the king. At least, so runs the prophecy.”

Conhain laughed. It was a strange sound,
deep in the dark, the laughter of the dead. It was full of the joy of life and
kindness.

“Prophecies are odd things,” he said. “I
know it. I know much. The dead know many things.”

Lanrik looked at him. This was not a
moment to speak, even if awe did not make his tongue awkward.

“Have you not wondered why the prophecy of
Assurah gathers pace? Have you not wondered why the sword ever draws danger and
trouble? Aranloth has.”

Lanrik shook his head. “I don’t know, My
Lord.”

“Think on this, then.”

The king straightened. Tall he stood, and
solemn, until he appeared as his likeness carved into the towers that guarded
Esgallien’s gates.

“Long have I waited. Long have I dreamed
amid the shoreless void. And I knew that moment, that one single moment amid
the great dark, when first you laid hand upon the hilt of the sword. I felt
prophecy waken. It stirred with life. You are no king, nor shall ever be, but
you are of my line. Some of your forefathers wore Esgallien’s crown. Your blood
kindles the prophecy, but does not bring it to full vigor, which is both
blessing and curse.”

Lanrik stood in shock. He felt the heavy
gaze of the Lindrath and Erlissa upon him. And yet what Conhain said made
sense, and the dead did not lie. All of a sudden he understood Aranloth’s many
frowns and his uncertainty and hesitation about the sword, so strange when
otherwise he was decisive.

The king surprised him anew.

“I have a gift,” Conhain said.

Lanrik felt his heart flutter. He dare not
consider what the long dead might think fit to bestow to the living. It too
might be both blessing and curse. But he inclined his head and waited.

“You need a sword. A sword fit for one of
my line. One day the city will fall. My sword, the sword I now give unto you,
will be needed then, and in the days that follow. Take it out of the dark, take
it into the light, that it may help those who most need it.”

The king drew the great blade that hung at
his side. Fable told that the Halathrin forged it. It was long. It glittered in
the dark. And it held power. Some force was in it, some force that preserved,
for no blemish was upon it. The leather-wrapped hilt remained soft, and the
blade shone with an inner light.

The king turned it in his hand. For a
moment, he tested its weight, felt some stirring of memory or life, and then he
handed it, hilt first, to Lanrik.

It filled the air between them, a thing of
legend and power, and Lanrik hesitated.

“Take it,” the king commanded.

Lanrik took it. His hands trembled.

Conhain removed his belt and sheath, and
passed them to him.

“Put it on.”

Lanrik fumbled with the belt, but Erlissa
helped him. It fitted well. The sword of Conhain hung at his side.

He looked up at the tall king. “Is there
no hope for Esgallien? Is it true, that nothing lasts forever? Not men, or
chiefs … nor even cities?”

Conhain gazed at him. His kindly eyes
filled with sorrow, and for a moment he appeared as Aranloth so often did.

“It is true.”

“How then can I fight fate, even with such
a gift?”

Conhain’s gaze did not waver. “You cannot.
My words were valid. But there is another truth, equally valid. Nothing lasts
forever, but likewise, nothing is erased. No kind act, no brave deed, no
sacrifice for love is ever expunged or made as though it never happened. Not
death, or the oblivion of the ages, nor the failing memory of a race can ever
take it away or make it as though it never was. Remember that. Remember that
all you now know and love was born of ruin and despair in my time. Remember me.
For I am your forefather, and I am proud of you.”

The king began to fade, or Lanrik’s vision
to blur. Conhain stepped back to the bier and lay down. The light of Erlissa’s
staff flickered and leaped. A cold wind blew.

The king lay still upon the marble slab.
The Red Cloth of Victory fluttered above him. Lanrik felt the sudden weight of
Conhain’s sword that hung now at his own side.