Oathen (41 page)

“What in the grog-filled bladders of the gods
possessed you, wench?” he asked, true curiosity in his
voice.

Rhona shrugged and shook her head, and Ruel
raised his eyebrows. “Nothing’s turning out like it should,” she
whispered, feeling desperately alone in the dark and the cold of
the dirtwalkers’ world.

“That’s what makes the
Lays of the
Worthy
so poignant.”

Rhona frowned and looked over at her cousin.
“I fail to see what’s heroic about this situation,” she said,
though a small smile lifted the corner of her mouth in acceptance
of his compliment.

Ruel put his hands on his hips and shook his
head. “You’ve come all this way of your own accord to help Meena
and Geret with this book-destroying plan because you felt your Age
Quest wasn’t fully completed. You bested six of your mother’s
finest captains and sailed for weeks through new and treacherous
waters, stealing all the maps you needed, dealing with hurricanes
and storms, raiding Aldib for Kemsil’s Circuit and trouncing
Swordfish with one hand tied behind your back!” He smirked, pride
in his captain’s accomplishments written across his face. “If
that’s not heroic, I don’t know what is.”

Rhona scowled and began to speak, but Ruel
wasn’t looking at her. “Gods above!” he exclaimed. “You’ve done all
that, and then you treat yourself like flotsam. And for a
dirtwalker.”

“You’re oversensitive, Ruel,” Rhona said, her
voice gentle. “Your mother was a dirtwalker.”

“This isn’t about me! It’s about you, and how
you’re letting him treat you. He’s tugging you about like a fish on
a line.”

Rhona wasn’t sure if he meant Geret or Salvor.
But in spite of her lapse with Salvor, or perhaps because of it,
she began to see that Ruel had a point: she had been wandering far
from Clan ways, and despite her love for Geret, even she was
starting to notice. “You may have a point, Ruel. Salvor’s not Clan
any more than Geret is, and I haven’t been—” she began, but broke
off at a small sound nearby. Frowning, she looked into the dimness
near the stables.

“Did you hear something?” she
asked.

Just then the heavy door to the main hall
opened, and Ahm poked his head out. “We’re ready below, if you’d
care to join us. Have you seen Sanych?” he asked.

“No,” Rhona said. “She might be with Meena, up
in Kemsil’s room.”

Ahm nodded, and the three of them returned to
the warmth and light of the castle.

~~~

With a faint shimmer of rippling light, Sanych
appeared where Rhona had been standing moments before. Her breath
came in confused heaves.

She’d come out to the yard to try her latest
idea: wrapping her body in a light-bending shield, and using it to
slide herself between the shadows.
Blinking
, she called it,
not having learned an official name for it from Curzon. In the few
minutes she’d been outside, she’d
blinked
to the stables,
the garden, the castle’s topmost, fern-covered crenellations,
and—briefly—back to the cliff top above Curzon’s cave, where most
signs of the day’s battle were obscured by falling snow. The thrill
of such an incredible feat made her skin tingle with
glee.

A moment after she had returned to the yard,
Rhona and Ruel had come out, mere feet away, and Sanych’s euphoria
had faded. She had stayed inside her invisibility shield and
eavesdropped on them, against her better judgment. She had drawn
Rhona’s attention when she accidentally dropped her pebble from the
hoodoo, and only a quick
blink
away and Ahm’s timely
interruption had kept the pirates none the wiser.

Now, Sanych was alone with her confusion.
She’d assumed that the two pirates had been discussing Rhona’s time
with Geret aboard the
Princeling
, and had been prepared to
dredge up her old anger and jealousy once more. But at the last
moment, Rhona had said Salvor’s name.

Sanych wasn’t sure exactly what Rhona was
talking about, but she began to wonder if, in her emotional state,
she might have missed a few pertinent facts over the last few days.
Where does that leave me, though?
she wondered
. I know
what I heard through the cabin wall…or do I?

Before she could pursue that line of thinking
anywhere, the outer door opened once more, and Ahm looked out. “Ah,
there you are,” he said. “I’m afraid we’ve no time to waste,
Sanych. Come below; the ritual awaits.”

~~~

Oolat paused at the far wall of the black
stone chamber. Green torchlight flickered from several sconces
behind him. Among the elaborate textual carvings on the wall before
him was a large circle devoid of any decoration or inscription
whatsoever, as if the words that had once been carved there had
been pressed flat by the thumb of an earth god. He slowly placed a
hand against the smooth surface, feeling its warmth.

“Yes,” he murmured, heart pounding. “I knew I
would be the one who freed you.” He retrieved the key from a
magically protected pouch at his belt. “All my life,” he mused, “I
have dreamt of this moment. Anticipated it. Bent reality to my own
will, shaped the world itself in order to bring me here. I will
have my glorious future. Starting now.”

Behind him, the dozen cultists who had
survived the descent into the Green Dragon murmured their
eagerness. No thought was spared for those who had fallen to the
tricks and traps of the ancient stronghold of the Shanallese
royalty. All that mattered was witnessing this moment, the ultimate
Dzur i’Oth achievement.

Oolat’s mouth salivated as he raised the
small, blood-filled orb to the center of the blank spot in the
wall. He had such plans; the world had never seen their like. The
new, magic-based empire he would bring forth would require slaves,
gold, and a sea armada to protect its shores and bring in tribute
from far-off lands. He had spent decades refining his fantasies,
fine-tuning his plans in intricate detail.

And now he was moments away from making those
fantasies into a reality he could share with the world. Everyone
would soon see, as he saw, that those with magic gifts were
destined to rule the lives of those without them.

He placed the surface of the key against the
blank wall. The area around the orb flashed to molten red, then
yellow. Oolat jerked his hand back, feeling the burning heat on his
fingers. The wall sucked the key from his hand and closed over
it.

Oolat stepped back, invoking a thin glassy
shield to block the heat. The smooth stone circle on the wall
flashed away in a burst of ashy smoke, revealing a cavity that
exuded a blue glow. The light and heat faded abruptly. Oolat
dispelled his shield and saw a waist-high stone platform within the
hole. On it lay the prize that Dzur i’Oth had sought for nearly
four hundred cycles.

The
Great and Dire Tome of Ages
was his
to claim.

He reached in, breathless, exhilarated, and
picked up the large black-bound book with both hands, feeling
ancient scale-marks on the strange, delicate leather.

And froze, as the
Tome
’s consciousness
awakened and uncurled, reaching out and touching his mind. It used
no words as it communed with him, just images. Oolat was
overwhelmed by the crushing level of detail each image gave
him.

FLASH—A blind man in a shadowed
corner opens his eyes and sees for the first time. The images that
meet his eyes do not make sense, and he craves
understanding.

FLASH—A woman arrives on a
familiar shore, yet cannot understand the strange city around her.
Those around her go about their daily business, appearing familiar
yet unknown, and she senses that they are far different than those
she remembers.

FLASH—A shepherd stands on a windy
hilltop, his staff in hand, shading his eyes against the brightness
of the afternoon sun. He strains his eyes over the close-cropped
grassy hills, desperately seeking his lost flock!

“You have found us,” Oolat managed to say. His
nose began bleeding from contact with the magical
juggernaut.

FLASH—A prisoner, unfairly
condemned, finds sudden freedom at the hands of a sympathetic soul.
Once free, he wishes to wreak revenge on the one who condemned
him.

FLASH—A king sits at the head of
many lesser rulers. They do not understand that he is their
superior, yet he does not know how to communicate his plan for
mutual benefit to all; he longs for an ambassador to convey his
words to others.

FLASH—A queen, desirous of
conquest upon those who do not know their true worth, sends forth a
summons, requiring those loyal to her to gather under her
leadership, forming her army, her right hand of power.

“We are y-yours to command, Great One,” Oolat
gasped, feeling his body breaking within under the strain of the
Tome
’s communication. His ambitions forgotten, he sought
only to survive his encounter with the mystical object he had
searched for all of his adult life.

FLASH—Dozens of lesser lives are
sacrificed in a village square as their chieftain vows success or
death. He will follow his god’s divine path, and nothing shall
dissuade him from his goal.

“T-take these that are with me, G-great One,”
begged Oolat, collapsing to his knees, the
Tome
clutched
against his chest. “Take them as m-my willing gift.”

Sudden screams reached his ears, and he heard
bodies striking the floor behind him. The familiar scent of fresh
blood reached his nose. He fell forward into a bow, pushing the
Tome
ahead of him, leaving his fingertips along its edge as
he prostrated himself before it.

“Great One…your servant d-dies…” he gasped,
coughing blood onto the dark stone floor.

FLASH—A god reaches down from the
clouds, his mighty hand raising up an injured, loyal servant. If
the servant is willing to serve a larger role, the god is willing
to imbue him with extraordinary powers. But will the servant
accept? Or will he choose death?

A spark of greed flashed in Oolat’s dying
mind.
Power
.

“Save me…and I…am yours…”

Cool liquid sensations flowed along his limbs,
reaching his torso, filling his head. All his agony washed away,
replaced by a warm awareness. He had energy to spare now; he might
never tire again! The world would be his after all! Oolat laughed
into the puddle of his own blood and raised himself up on his
hands, reaching for the
Great Tome
.

His hand didn’t make it that far.

A violent yellow force wormed itself into his
mind, and he was helpless against its vicious power. It took over
his bodily functions and shoved his consciousness into a small dark
corner of his skull, where he watched, horrified, as his own arms
picked up the
Tome
and his body got to its feet.

FLASH—The god’s avatar strides forth to do the
pure, unadulterated will of the divine; none can stand before him
now.

Too late, Oolat realized the trap he had
fallen into: distracted by his own agony, he had given the
Great
Tome
the lives of his minions, and the book had used their
blood to fuel its possession spell, which it used on Oolat
himself.

As the
Tome
’s avatar began the journey
back out of the Green Dragon, Oolat scrabbled and shrieked inside
his own mind, frantic to regain control of his body and his dreams
of power.

But the
Great and Dire Tome of Ages
had
returned to the world, more sentient and chaotic than at any other
time in its millennia-long existence. This time, it would not be so
complacent as to submit to the will of a mortal.

Especially not one who had been so foolish as
to free it from its prison.

The treasury doors burst open just as Runcan slipped the ring
bearing the Magistra’s seal onto Anjoya’s finger. She looked over,
feeling the weight of the new tiara nestled in her
curls.

Count Aponden led the other Dictat members
into the royal treasury room; his face was dark with anger. “There
she is; arrest her.”

Runcan, still holding the jeweled box that had
contained the Magistra’s ring, stepped forward, closing its lid.
“Welcome, gentlemen. May I introduce you to Anjoya Meseer Branbrey,
Lady High Magistra of Vint. She will now accept your
fealty.”

Anjoya held out the royal ring toward the
newcomers.

“Magistra?” echoed Count Thelios, halting in
surprise.

“Lies,” said Count n’Hara. “The Magister has
been dead for a day.”

Imorlar stepped from the shadows, holding an
official marriage license. The Magister’s fox seal was imprinted on
the wax at the bottom.

“I assure you,” Anjoya said, “I do not make a
habit of marrying the dead. Count Runcan was kind enough to perform
the ceremony. In all the recent confusion, we’re just now getting
to the formalities.” She wiggled the ring at them.

“Impossible! Guards!” Aponden called, nearly
stomping the floor in his rage.

Imorlar, still silent, held out a folded blue
cloth, unfolding it to reveal a glass vial. A smear of yellow
liquid streaked its inner surface. His nose wrinkled in
distaste.