Morningstar (40 page)

“Why should Mace want to see a teacher?”

Brackban shrugged. “The man sent him a letter. Mace seemed intrigued by it.”

“Where is this letter?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did you see it?”

“No. Mace merely said it had to do with some legend, some ancient artifact. I took little notice. God knows I have no time to study history, Owen. But I don’t think it was important; it was just a whim.”

“What do they study at the university?”

“Medicine, law, and history. But do not concern yourself with that. We have maybe two weeks; then two armies will face one another. If Mace does not arrive before then …” He spread his hands.

“What will you do if he has been taken or cannot be found?”

“What can I do? This is my land; they are my people. You think I will run away into the forest and leave them to their fate? I couldn’t do that, Owen. Death would be preferable. No, I shall take my men and confront the battle king. Who knows, maybe God will favor us.”

He spoke with little confidence, for he knew, as did I, that where battles were concerned, God tended to favor the army with the most lances. I left the house with a heavy heart and rode back to the village, seeking out Wulf and Piercollo. When I told them of Mace’s disappearance, Wulf was not surprised.

“I’ve known him longer than any of the others,” he said. “He’s a solitary man, is Mace. And he looks out for himself. He’s got courage, right enough, but it’s not the enduring kind. You understand me? It’s like the farmer who strives year in and year out. Come plague, pestilence, drought, famine, or locusts, he digs in and weathers the years. That’s real strength. Mace can fight, probably better than any man I ever knew. But he doesn’t have that strength. It was that way with Golgoleth. He went into the city because he couldn’t have borne waiting for Golgoleth to come for him.”

There was no anger in the hunchback’s voice, no edge of bitterness.

“I shall try to find him,” I said.

“Won’t do no good, Owen,” said Wulf. “He’s turned his back on us; that’s all there is to it.”

“Even so, I shall try. Will you come with me?”

“Of course I will.”

“As will Piercollo,” said the giant, smiling. “I am tired of these people around me, the noise and the chatter. It will be good to hear the music of the forest. Where do we begin, Owen?”

“Tonight I will send out three search spells—north, west, and east. By dawn I will at least know which direction to travel. As we move, I shall send out other spells. Eventually we’ll find him.”

“How long is eventually?” Wulf asked.

“It could take weeks—months,” I admitted.

“Well,” he said grimly, “I’ll be with you for six days. After that I’ll make my way back here to join Brackban. I’ll not have it said that Wulf was afraid of the fight.”

We set off to the northwest two hours after dawn. I was tired, for I had been awake all night, holding to the search spells and focusing on the enchantment. The spell to the east showed nothing, but both north and west gave a glimmer of hope. I have already explained the nature of search globes, but when one casts such magick across large distances, there is no immediate, visible sign of success. The magicker must attune himself to the spell and rely on his instincts. When I held to the eastern globe, I felt only emptiness; this, then, was a cold route. At first the northern spell gave me a sense of warmth, but gradually this shifted to the western globe, thus giving me Mace’s direction of travel.

“Where would he be heading?” I asked Wulf.

“There is a port, Barulis, at the Deeway estuary, northwest of here. If Edmund’s fleet hasn’t yet blocked it, maybe he is planning to take a sea voyage. Or he may just lie low in Barulis. But whatever his plan, it will take him some days to reach the city. I think I can cut his trail before then. We’ll find him, Owen.”

As we walked, I reached out with my talent, sending a new search globe to the northwest. As I concentrated my mind, honing my powers, I became aware, as magickers will, of an enchanter close by. I stopped, closed my eyes, and linked my thoughts to the globe. I became one with the spell, and my soul floated high above the forest in a circle of light. I had not the physical strength or the mental strength to hold myself for long
in this spirit form, but it was long enough to see what I had both sensed and feared.

A second search spell was floating above the trees.

The enemy was also seeking the Morningstar.

There was much on my mind as we traveled. Ilka’s death was still an open wound, and still I could not bring myself to talk to anyone about her. But I thought of her constantly. And Megan’s dying words continued to haunt me. She had lived for two thousand years, waiting for the answer to a question. What question? And who could have answered it? And what did she mean when she told me that she would see me again but that she would not know me? Was she delirious then? Was it a kind of madness that precedes death?

But more than anything I thought of Jarek Mace and the confusion he must have felt at being a hero to so many. There is a legend of a giant called Parmeus who stole the book of knowledge from the gods. Every step he took with it saw the weight grow, until he felt he was carrying a mountain. At last he fell, and the weight pushed him far below the earth, where he still tries to carry his burden. Earthquakes and volcanic eruptions are attributed to these struggles in certain areas. But I knew that Mace would understand the awesome pressure Parmeus bore, for hero worship can be no less weighty, no less burdensome.

True, there were rewards. Mace had enjoyed several parades. But notwithstanding these distractions, he still had a legend to live up to, whereas in truth he was merely a common soldier and a skilled swordsman. How could he, despite the expectation of the people, hope to defeat the battle king?

We made good time, for the rains held off and the ground was firm, and within two days we had reached an area of level ground high in the mountains, a verdant plateau with several villages and an ancient castle built upon an island at the center of a long loch. It was a pretty spot, untouched by war. Fat cattle grazed on the new grass, and sheep and goats could be seen on the hillsides.

We were tired of walking and made our way down to the lakeside. An elderly man approached us; he was carrying a loaf of bread, which he broke into three pieces for us, an ancient Highland custom of welcome. We bowed our thanks, and I described Mace, asking him if such a man had passed by.

“You mean the Morningstar?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered, surprised. “We are friends of his.”

He nodded sagely. “Well, if you’re his friends, I don’t doubt he’ll find you,” said the old man knowingly.

“He would if he was told that Owen Odell, Wulf, and Piercollo had traveled far to see him.”

“And you’d be Odell the wizard?”

It would have taken too long to correct him, so I merely nodded. He said nothing more and walked away to his hut. The three of us sat down and finished the bread, which was a little stale but still tasty.

“He’s here,” said Wulf, “and I’ll wager he won’t see us.”

As the day wore on and the sun fell lower, it seemed that Wulf would be proved right. Just after dusk the old man came out of his hut, bringing with him a pot of stewed beef and several clay bowls. I thanked him and questioned him about the settlement—how long it had been there and so on. He sat with us for a while, talking of the Highlands and his life. He had been a soldier for twenty years and had fought in three Oversea Wars. But he had come home a decade before and was now a fisherman and content. I asked him about the castle at the center of the lake.

“Been there since before my great-grandfather’s time,” he said. “No one recalls now when it was built, but it was after them Vampyre wars the stories tell of, I reckon. Never been used for war, though. Armies don’t come here. Nothing for them: no plunder, no gain. Been a monastery now for more than a hundred years. Lowis monks. Fine spirit they produce there, made from grain. Take your head off, it will! Not that they allow much of it to leave the monastery. Maybe a barrel at midwinter. By God, there’s some celebration around that time.”

The name struck a chord with me, and I remembered the conversation with Brackban. Mace had spoken with the Bishop of Lowis.

“Can you row me across the lake?” I asked the old man.

“I could, I reckon,” he said, “if I had a mind to.”

“I am not a killer, sir. I have no evil intent toward the Morningstar. But it is vital that I see him.”

“I know you’re no murderer, boy. Been around enough of them in my life. Him, now,” he said, gesturing a gnarled finger at Wulf, “he’s a rough ‘un. Wouldn’t want him against me on a dark night.”

Wulf gave a lopsided grin. “You’re safe, old man.”

“Aye, I am. But if I hadn’t liked the look of you, I’d have poisoned that stew.”

“The way it tasted, I thought you had,” replied Wulf.

The old man gave a dry chuckle. “All right, I’ll take you across, Owen Odell. But only you, mind!”

I followed him along the shoreline to where an ancient coracle was pulled up on the bank; it was made of dry rushes and resembled my old bathtub back home. “She leaks somewhat, but she’ll get us there,” he promised, and together we pulled the old craft out onto the dark water. I clambered in, and he followed me, settling down on his knees and picking up a wide-bladed oar, which he used expertly as the coracle moved out onto the lake.

Water seeped in, drenching my leggings, and I began to wonder if this was a good night to learn to swim. The old man glanced back over his shoulder and chuckled. “Seems like I didn’t use enough pitch,” he said, “but don’t you worry, she won’t sink.”

The island of the castle loomed before us, dark and unwelcoming. The coracle scraped on shingle, and the old man leapt nimbly out, dragging the craft toward the land. I stood and splashed into the shallow water, wading ashore; a cold breeze blew, and I shivered.

“You’ll be grateful for the wet,” said the boatman. “The monks’ll take pity on you and offer you some of their water of life.”

I thanked him and set off up a narrow path that led to the main gates of the castle. There were no sentries on the walls and no sound from within. I bunched my hand into a fist and pounded on the gate. At first nothing happened, but after several attempts and a growing soreness in my hand I heard the bar being lifted. The gate swung open, and a small man with a shaved head came into sight; he was wearing a long gray habit bound with a rope of silken thread.

“What do you want?” he demanded gruffly.

“A little courtesy,” I responded, “and shelter for the night.”

“There’s shelter to be had in the village,” he told me.

“I thought this was a house of God,” I said, my temper rising.

“That does not make it a haven for vagrant ruffians,” he replied.

“I am not a violent man—” I began.

“Good,” he said. “Then do not allow yourself to fall into bad habits. Good night to you.”

Before I could reply, he had stepped back and begun to close the gate. I threw my weight against it—rather too sharply, for the gate crashed into him, hurling him to the ground. I stepped inside. “My apologies,” I told him, reaching out a hand to help him up. He rolled to his knees, ignoring my offer of aid, then heaved himself upright.

“Your nonviolent behavior is not impressive,” he said.

“Neither is your grasp of God’s hospitality,” I responded.

“Owen!” came a familiar voice, and I turned and looked up. Standing by an open doorway, framed in lantern light, stood Jarek Mace.

“Yes, it is me,” I said. “Wulf and Piercollo are waiting for you at the village.”

“You are just the man I wanted to see,” he said. “Come up. There’s something I want to show you.”

The greeting had been cheerful and deeply irritating. Not. “How did you find me, Owen? By God, you must be a skilled magicker.” No guilt over his shameful treatment of me during the winter. No apology for the slap or the slights.

I mounted the stairs, fighting to suppress a growing anger. The room he was in was a mess, littered with scrolls and manuscripts carelessly pulled from their protective leather sheaths. “I think I’ve found it,” he said. “I am not a good reader, but I can make out the name Rabain.”

“What on earth are you looking for?”

“The Bishop of Lowis told me that I was part of a prophecy. Can you imagine that? Someone, thousands of years ago, named me.
Me
! The whole story. So he said. Well, if that is true, we’ll be able to see the ending.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“You don’t believe in prophecies?”

I shook my head. “How can any of us know the future? It hasn’t happened yet. And every man has a hundred choices to make every day. It was for this that you scared the wits out of Brackban?”

“What’s Brackban got to do with it?”

“You disappeared, Jarek. And without you there is no rebellion.”

“Well, if we find the right ending, I’ll come back with you,” he said, picking up an old scroll and passing it to me. “Read it!”

Sitting down with my back to the lantern, I held up the scroll and unrolled it. The first line explained that it was the eighth copy and gave the name of the monk and the year the copy was made. I passed this on to Jarek, who was singularly unimpressed.

“I don’t care who copied the damn thing! Just read the story.”

I scanned the opening lines. “It is not about Rabain; he is just mentioned in it. The story is of a knight called Ashrael.”

Clearly exasperated, Mace took a deep breath. “Read it aloud!” he hissed.

“These are the exploits, faithfully recorded, of the knight known as Ashrael …” I stopped and glanced up. “If they were faithfully recorded, Jarek, then they have already happened. This is not a prophecy.”

“Then there must be another scroll!” he stormed.

But I was reading on, idly skimming the fine, flowing script. “Wait!” I said. “This is curious.” I began to pick out phrases from the story, reading them aloud. “The lady of the dream told this tale and bade me mark it for future times. The days of the Vampyre kings will come again, and the knight Ashrael will find the sword that was lost … Great shall be the grief within the city … from the depths of the earth Ashrael will rise … mighty will be the king who strides the land … Ashrael will light the torch that guides the ancient hero home … Rabain shall appear at the last battle, his armor gold, his stallion white, his cloak a cloud, his sword lightning.”