Journey into the Void (15 page)

“Yes, my lord.”

“Oh, and you needn't bother to keep searching for the Sovereign Stone. I have taken charge of that matter, as I should have done from the beginning.”

“Are the other Vrykyl to continue to hunt for it, my lord?”

“No, Shakur. There is no need to waste resources chasing after it. I have arranged for the Sovereign Stone—all four parts of the Stone—to come to me. Two of them are already on the way.”

“Very good, my lord. We can make use of the Vrykyl who have been on the hunt. I suppose you know that Jedash is dead?”

“No great loss,” said Dagnarus.

“No, my lord. Now about the attack on New Vinnengael, it occurs to me—”

“Isn't it past your bedtime, Shakur?” Dagnarus interrupted. “Shouldn't your nursemaid be coming to tuck you in and kiss you on your curly little head?”

Shakur seethed in silence, struggled to contain his anger.

Dagnarus, amused, let him fume.

“My lord, what is your plan for tomorrow?” Shakur asked finally, humbly.

“To become King of Vinnengael,” said Dagnarus.

T
HE WAITING TOOK ITS TOLL ON THE PEOPLE OF NEW VINNENGAEL.
Yesterday morning, the soldiers had stared out over the walls into the ranks of the monstrous enemy and felt their blood burn with hatred and loathing and the fury that comes to men facing battle. As the day passed, hot blood cooled, fury and hatred chilled to doubt and dread. With the coming of night, the blazing bonfires of the enemy lit the night sky with an orange glow; their bestial shrieks sent shivers down the spine. Officers ordered their men to try to sleep, but every time the soldiers dozed off, one particularly horrible shout would jolt them from dreams that hadn't been all that pleasant anyway.

This morning, the soldiers who stared down at the enemy were grim, bleary-eyed, and hopeless. Officers did what they could to rally their troops, but the cheers they had been met with yesterday were grunts and halfhearted mumbles today.

Rigiswald woke with the dawn, wakened from a sound sleep with the gnawing, tingling sensation in his belly that always presaged some dire event. Some called it premonition and claimed it came from the gods.

Rigiswald believed it came from the brain, which had passed its night in diligent work, while the body slept. He had spent days reading all that he could find on the Sovereign Stone, which included information on King Tamaros, Prince Dagnarus, and the doomed and tragic King Helmos. Of all of the documents, the one that had proven most helpful was the account written by Evaristo, who had been Dagnarus's tutor.

Although a resident of Old Vinnengael, Evaristo had not been in the city when Dagnarus—then Lord of the Void—led his forces against it. Evaristo maintained it was good fortune that had led him and his family to make the two-hundred-mile journey to visit his wife's uncle, who dwelt in the city of Krammes. Rigiswald guessed that Evaristo had been warned of the coming attack by his former pupil Gareth, who had by then become a powerful Void sorcerer, credited with having formed the plan to cast the spell that drained the water from the River Hammerclaw, destroying one of the palace's main defenses and allowing Dagnarus's forces to take the city by surprise.

In his memoirs, Evaristo made no secret of the fact that he had always been fond of Gareth and had done what he could to try to break Dagnarus's fell hold on the young child, who had been Dagnarus's whipping boy. Evaristo had failed. Gareth loved Dagnarus and had remained his friend, steadfast and loyal. That the friendship would prove fatal to Gareth, Evaristo had no doubt, for Dagnarus, blessed with the charm of an adder, was also possessed of the viper's conscience.

From Evaristo, Rigiswald had learned a great deal about the personality of Dagnarus, and thus he alone, in all of New Vinnengael, was not surprised that Dagnarus was holding off his attack. Nor was he surprised when one of the battle magi hunted him down in the dining hall, where he was making up for having missed his dinner.

“The Most Revered High Magus's compliments, sir,” said the battle magus, who were not usually sent to run errands. “Her Grace asks if would you come to the palace as quickly as possible.”

Rigiswald continued calmly eating a bowl of chicken
en casserole.
His appetite was the envy of several young and badly frightened noviates.

“Am I under arrest?” Rigiswald asked.

The battle magus looked startled. “No, sir. You are one of several of the Temple's respected elders who have been summoned to the palace to meet with the Regent and His Majesty.”

Last night I was a criminal. Now I'm a respected elder, Rigiswald reflected with an inner chuckle. He said that he would come, finished his chicken, returned to his room to change to his finest robes, then walked across the plaza that separated the Temple from the palace.

The day was gray and overcast, with a light mist falling. The streets were deserted except for the patrols and a few stray dogs. The clouds, the
drizzle, the empty streets, and the knowledge of what he feared was coming oppressed him, a feeling that was unusual for him.

Rigiswald was a pragmatist. He saw his fellowmen for what they were: often stupid, generally good-hearted, occasionally sublime. Since Rigiswald did not expect a lot of his fellowmen, he was not disappointed in them. He had come to the conclusion that there was about as much true evil in the world as there was true good, and that most everyone fell somewhere in between.

Take Dagnarus, for example. How much easier it would be, Rigiswald reflected, if he were evil incarnate—some sort of monstrous aberration, like a troll, that thrives on inflicting pain and torment.

“But he is not a troll,” Rigiswald remarked to himself. “For all he is Lord of the Void and has used the power of the Void to extend his life beyond that of any normal person, Dagnarus is still human. He is still a man, as we are men. Because of that, he can see into our hearts, which gives him the advantage, for we cannot see into his. If we could see into his heart, what would we find? Much that would shock us, I daresay. And much that would be familiar to us.”

Rigiswald shook his head. “Perhaps that is the real reason we do not look. We're afraid of seeing ourselves. Yet someone has to. Someone must.”

Arriving at the heavily guarded main gate, Rigiswald was passed through by a battle magus, who was armed with a list of those who had been invited to the palace to confer with the Regent and His Majesty. Always the Regent first, the king second. The young king was an afterthought.

How very frustrating that must be for the Vrykyl, Rigiswald considered, following one of the palace servants through the golden-filigreed, velvet-tapestried, marble-floored halls. The Vrykyl must retain the form of the child and do nothing that might cause those around him to suspect him. Yet, at the same time, the Vrykyl must manage to control events so that they benefited his master.

If nothing else, Rigiswald thought, it will be interesting to observe the Vyrkyl's attempts to manipulate the proceedings.

 

The Regent had commanded that the meeting be held in the Hall of Past Glories, called thusly because of its four enormous murals that portrayed
scenes from Old Vinnengael. Rigiswald wondered if the Regent had considered the extreme irony of holding a meeting to discuss Dagnarus's siege of the city of New Vinnengael in a room that celebrated his siege of the old.

Rigiswald doubted it. Clovis had a hammer-and-tongs sort of intelligence that beat imagination into shape and then doused it in cold water to freeze it forever. She probably thought this room would inspire them. Rigiswald felt exactly the opposite. The gray gloom outside was less oppressive than this room dedicated to defeat, destruction, and death.

The large round table that usually stood in the center of the hall had been removed. Chairs were placed around the walls of the enormous room. Most everyone remained standing, clustered in the center. Candles burned in the chandeliers, which could be lowered by a system of ropes and pulleys for the servants to light. Rigiswald stood beneath one of the chandeliers, until he saw that a spot of melted wax had fallen on his cassock. Frowning, he moved to a different location.

The tension in the room was palpable. People entered hurriedly, out of breath, their expressions grim. They would pause a moment in the door, search the crowd, then head straight for friends to converse in low, urgent tones. Nerves stretched taut, people shifted restlessly from one group to the other. Occasionally one voice would rise above the others, ring out in anger, only to be hushed by companions.

The heads of each of the Orders of Magi were here, along with the knights who held command posts in the Imperial Cavalry and the city guard. Here were several barons who had property in or around New Vinnengael and the Keeper of the Purse, the head of the Royal Treasury. Rigiswald knew most of them. There were others he did not recognize, including one portly gentleman in the rich but unostentatious clothing of the upper middle class. Someone said he was the head of the Association of Merchants' Guilds.

Notable by their absence were the Dominion Lords.

Several of the heads of the Orders of Magi nodded to Rigiswald, but none came to speak to him. He was not quite approved. He preferred it that way, preferred keeping to himself, stayed out of the gloom-laden conversations. He drifted about the room, listening in here, eavesdropping there. He noted, in passing, that another person was doing the same—the head of the Order of Inquisitors.

Rigiswald soon became aware of discord in the hall. The barons and the knights were not pleased over the fact that the Church had stepped in to seize power following the king's death. The barons believed that one of their own number should have been named Regent, and they were backed by the knights, who blamed the Church for the sad state into which the Vinnengaelean military had fallen over the years. True, the Church had its own militia with the battle magi, but these people were answerable only to their superiors and, while they were well trained and diligent in their desire to work with the military, they were not trusted. The barons and the knights spoke in strident tones of a conspiracy by the Church to overthrow the true monarchy. This attack by the enemy was either a ruse or part of the plot and so on and so forth.

Wandering over to where the magi were gathered, Rigiswald heard similar talk, except with the demons reversed. The magi spoke of the barons as being in a conpsiracy with rebels who wanted to destroy the Church. The enemy army was part of their plot or a ruse and so on and so forth.

Rigiswald had no use for the Regent. He knew Clovis to be obtuse and hidebound, but he also knew that she was a gods-fearing woman who, whatever her faults, was loyal to her king and her country. The barons and knights were also gods-fearing, loyal men. When their blood cooled a bit, they would look back on what they'd said with deep chagrin. But for now, the Void was very active in this room, using fear and mistrust to drive apart those who should be standing united.

Rigiswald agreed with only one comment, and that came from a baron who looked around at the murals portraying the glories of Old Vinnengael and muttered that the choice of the room was “god-awful.”

Presaged by a ceremonial horn call, members of the king's house guard marched in to the chamber. Taking their places at the head of the hall, they slowly and solemnly struck the butt ends of their spears on the floor to quiet the crowd.

“His Majesty the King.”

Conversation ceased as everyone in the room bowed low. The young king, looking very small and fragile and sleepy, walked between the ranks of his guards. The Regent entered behind him, accompanied by Tasgall, who wore his full regalia.

Rigiswald had known Clovis many years, dating back to when they
were students. He was slightly her elder, but not by much. She looked the same now as she had looked fifty years ago, only a bit grayer. Heavyset, she had gray eyes, as colorless as her mind. She had no imagination and no sense of humor. She considered laughter offensive to the gods, who intended that mankind take life seriously.

The young king walked to a throne that had been placed beneath a gold-fringed canopy on a raised dais. The chair was much too large for the child. He perched his backside on the throne and slid into it, having been taught that kings never looked behind them. The Regent took her place at the right hand of the king. Tasgall stood on his left. The king's chamberlain, who was one of the Revered Brethren and who doubled as his tutor, stood behind the throne. The household guard ranged around the king, while others took up positions at the door.

What would they say if I told them that the very evil they are trying to guard against is already inside the room? Rigiswald thought to himself. He might have been tempted to laugh, if he not been so much closer to weeping.

The Regent stepped forward. She intended to speak, but before she could open her mouth, the hall exploded with a barrage of questions, demands, and angry accusations. The tumult was deafening. Stunned, the king shrank back in his chair. His guards closed in around him. The Regent's face flushed an ugly red. Tasgall sent a warning glance to the battle magi.

Taking advantage of the commotion, Rigiswald moved to stand where Tasgall could see him and he could see Tasgall.

Tasgall held Rigiswald's gaze, then, his lips tightening, he looked away.

Rigiswald began to understand why he'd been summoned. At first, he'd hoped that Tasgall had thought things over and was ready to believe him. Now, Rigiswald realized, Tasgall had brought him here to discredit him. Rigiswald was disappointed. He'd figured Tasgall to have more sense.

“His Majesty understands your concerns,” stated the Regent, when she could be heard over the tumult. “And we will be listening to them and addressing them. First I want to welcome a distinguished visitor, the monk Nu'Tai, who has traveled here from Dragon Mountain.”

At this announcement, silence fell.

A stooped, wizened, dried-up old man entered the too-quiet hall, accompanied
by two enormous humans, clad all in furs. The small old man was the monk. The two large beings accompanying him were members of the Omarah, a race of people who lived on the mountain and whose lives are dedicated to guarding the monks' sacred personages.

The monks of Dragon Mountain record all important events on their bodies, tattooing them onto their skin. When the monks die, their bodies are preserved in special vaults in the monastery for future generations to study. Everyone in the room was thinking the same thing: was the monk there to record the fall of New Vinnengael, as his long-dead predecessor had recorded the fall of Old Vinnengael?

The monk bowed to the king, who slid forward on his throne and bobbed his head. The Regent welcomed the monk and introduced him to certain important personages, calling them to come up to be introduced. Rigiswald was not one of them. He kept his eyes on the king.

Little Havis's feet did not touch the floor. He swung his legs back and forth and then, nervously, he began to kick the sides of the throne. He was halted by another whisper from his chamberlain.