The Beggar King (28 page)

“I'll find us another entry,” and she took Jordan's hands in hers and began to sing a slow and tender song.

Lay your cares upon my shoulder,
soft the wind is blowing.
When you rise, you will be bolder,
soft the moons are glowing.

He thought of Ophira, who was gravely ill because of him.

“Jordan,” said Arrabel. She had stopped singing. “You must empty your mind of worries or we won't be able to pass.”

He shut his eyes and as she sang once again he tried to focus on her voice, which was like a river flowing past a sweet meadow of sasapher, past horses grazing peacefully in the early morning sun. When finally he opened his eyes, he stood before the blue and yellow potion bottles with their otherworldly glow.

“How did you . . . ?”

“There is a good and true magic in the Holy City too, remember?” Arrabel placed her hands around a tall blue bottle, lifted it to her lips, and drank from it. “Wisdom,” she said, handing it to Jordan. “Drink. You, too, will need this.”

Jordan took a sip. It was cold, and the liquid inside sweet but with a bitterness that made it hard to swallow.

“We must go,” said Arrabel, and they left the potions room and crept towards the brass door. The halls were empty. As they passed a large window whose shutters hung off its hinges, they heard a man cry out and then saw a black-clad Landguard rise from the ground and charge at his Cirran attacker. They moved on reluctantly.

“Are there enough of us?” asked Jordan. “Do you think we'll overpower them?”

It was a moment before Arrabel looked at him. “We have surprise on our side, and that's one thing. Their leader is dead, and that's another. But then there is you, and that's something else altogether.”

The halls grew narrower and darker, and only their footsteps and breathing sounded in the damp silence.

When at last they arrived at the door a chill broke out on Jordan's skin.

Arrabel stood very still. “The Beggar King came to me, too. When I was your age, and waiting for my gift. He sensed my connection to the Great Light long before I did. That is what's required, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anyone capable of great goodness is also capable of great evil. The Beggar King is no fool. You must not underestimate him. He sees farther and more sharply than most folk do.”

“I don't have any connection like that to the Great Light.”

“Are you certain of that, Jordan?”

He picked at the sheen of frost on the walls. “He tried to persuade you to come to him, then.”

Arrabel nodded. “He wants a partner, the willing participation of a good and decent soul. That's what means everything to him, that you choose to follow him.”

“But you didn't go,” said Jordan.

“I came to this door, just like you did. But what I read upon it frightened me. Lucinda wrote those words a thousand thousand years ago. Never has there been a man or woman more infused with the Great Light than she. The light of her moon has guided me on many a dark night. She knew him — the Beggar King. She gave her life to warn folk away from him and his sorcery.

How could I dismiss that?” She fixed Jordan with her severe blue eyes. “And he frightened me.”

“What did he offer you?”

“He could have offered anything, I wouldn't have gone. But no one has faced him with a need as great as yours was.” She bowed her head. “Do you understand what we're about to do?”

Jordan didn't reply. He removed his Uttic headdress and then took a deep breath.

Arrabel reached into the pocket of her robes and brought out a bundle of purple velvet cloth that she carefully placed between them on the stone floor. Jordan clenched his fists. Inside the cloth was his candle. He could see the glow at one end.

“Before you open this door, I must tell you,” said Arrabel, “I am loathe to lead you back to this place. But the candle was given to you. You're the one who must return it.”

“But the bigger candle, the one he holds — how will I ever get it from him?”

“You'll find a way. You must. Everything depends on it, Jordan.” She grasped his arm and in a flash he saw Ophira, her pale face, her lips now tinged with blue. “Remember the Light — always.”

Jordan's brow furrowed. “I don't know what you mean by that.”

“You will.” She held out a trembling hand toward the door. “Do it now — before I lose my nerve.”

He fell to his knees and leaned against the brass door, dreading what was to come. And yet, when its power surged through his body he relaxed into it and the door clicked open beneath his weight.

Arrabel picked up the velvet bundle and gave it to him. She drew one last breath from the living side of the world and then took his arm, and he understood that she would not be able to come into the darkness unless he escorted her. They stood close together in the black space as Jordan reached into the air and drew it aside like a curtain. When the sound of wings filled the area around them, they stepped out of the world and onto the path that now glowed with the steady light of thousands of unearthly candles.

Jordan had not seen this many vulture people before. Where had they all come from? They stood shoulder to shoulder as far as he could see. Arrabel's grip tightened on his arm.

They set off on the long walk towards the River of the Dead where the Beggar King had established his throne. The mud was slick beneath their sandals, and the vultures along the path had begun to chant in an indecipherable babble.

“They are announcing our arrival to their king,” Arrabel explained.

“Why must they carry candles?” Jordan asked.

“It's the only light they have left,” said Arrabel. “That is the exchange they've made, their souls for power.”

As they came to the river, Jordan couldn't help but remember what the Beggar King had said. “So this is the mystery of death,” he murmured.

“Is that what you think, Jordan?” said Arrabel.

“You've come at last,” cried the Beggar King. His hair was combed and neatly tied back, his robes a grand black velvet, his throne golden with a crown to match. And in his hand, the great candle that Jordan had won for him.

“I had hoped you would come back, carver's son. And I see you've brought a guest. A friend, as it were.”

“I am no friend of yours,” said Arrabel.

“No need to be rude, Priestess. We might have been better acquainted in your younger days if you had willed it, though I believe there will still be ample time for that. Now,” said the Beggar King, “what are we inclined to want today? World peace? A cure for death by magic? It is fortuitous that you come to me, for that crack in the darkness you call your Great Light does not seem quite as forthcoming.”

Jordan felt Arrabel tense beside him.

“Do you like my throne?” asked the Beggar King. “You could have one just like it. The Holy City could be yours, Jordan Elliott, if you wanted it. She won't have a choice in the matter,” he flicked his chin towards Arrabel. “Cirrans would worship you. You could live forever. Glory at last, for the boy who pined for it.”

“Look behind him,” Arrabel said to Jordan. “See what he's paid for it.”

There was a shadowy simpering figure lurking behind the Beggar King's throne. “Who is it?” Jordan asked.

“The soul of his best friend,” she said. “Son of a butcher. A dabbler in the dark arts.”

“He didn't have the blood for it,” said the Beggar King. “But I do. And so do you, boy.”

“The guilt weighs heavily upon the Beggar King,” said Arrabel. “He'll never admit it, but nor will he ever be free of it.”

Far, far away on the horizon Jordan saw a pencil-thin line of what might have been sunlight. “That's it?” he asked. “That's the light I'm supposed to remember?”

“Stand away,” said Arrabel, with authority. She closed her eyes, put her arms straight out in front of her and spoke an incantation.

“Come out, conjuring of darkness. Flee savagery, and reveal the true beating heart of our world.”

Jordan staggered, and had to catch himself to keep from falling. The darkness slid away, as if it were shedding its skin. The river became clear and shimmering blue, lined with rocks, and upon them were beautiful pink-shelled creatures, green barnacles, and yellow-headed snails. Through the water Jordan could see the tips of glorious flowers, their long white petals streaming past him.

The muddy ground upon which he stood was now a meadow of yellow sasapher flowers. Their rich lemon scent filled the air. He was enveloped in a gentle light.

Jordan was incapable of speech. Behind him were the vultures with their pitiful candles — such a paltry light it now seemed — and there was the Beggar King gloating on his throne.

“Listen,” and Arrabel put her hands over his ears. Jordan could hear singing coming in waves and he recognized the voices of the Seven Seers of Cir — Manjuza's coming from the prison, and Arrabel's, too — and he saw Ophira lying upon the couch with the covers pulled to her chin, her body wrapped in a glowing light.

“The undermagic is not the only way, friend,” said Arrabel. “In order for shadow to exist, there must first be light.” She unfolded the velvet cloth and bid him to take the candle. “You must go to him.” She embraced him quickly. “Remember the light,” she whispered. And then she pushed him towards the Beggar King's throne.

“Carver's son!” cried the Beggar King. “You've come to kneel before the one you serve at last, eh? We've come to the nub of it, boy, haven't we? I told you. We all serve something. Whether you realize it or not, it hardly matters. We all make our choices.”

“I haven't come to kneel,” said Jordan. “I've come to return the candle that was given to me. And then I'll take back the one you hold.”

The Beggar King laughed. “What do you fancy this is, boy, a library? Did you think you could give me the undermagic on loan? Are you a man? If so, you're a foolish one. But I'll teach you your place before long. I didn't choose you just to let you go.”

Strong wet hands grabbed him and forced his arms behind his back. The candle he'd been holding fell to the ground. He gazed into the vacant eyes of the vultures, and his mouth went dry. A wild energy made his limbs jitter and there was that pulsing again in his chest
. I could be prince of this glorious
darkness.

The vultures holding him forced him to face the Beggar King.

“You've developed a taste for the undermagic,” said the sorcerer.

Jordan focused on the thin line of light on the horizon. At first the sound he heard was faint, but then it grew clearer, the Seven Seers of Cir speaking the prayers for a desperate situation — for him. He could hear his name, could feel a new strength rushing into his arms. In the distance, the river glowed and the line of light shone like a beacon. The vultures loosened their grip on him and backed away.

The Beggar King was on his feet. “What have you done? What sort of power do you call upon? Kneel, or I shall force you to your knees.”

“You couldn't do it if you tried,” shouted Jordan, and he leapt forward to grab the candle from the Beggar King's hands but the sorcerer was quick, and the heavy candle came slamming down hard on Jordan's back.

Jordan yowled in pain.

“You will learn to kneel!” roared the Beggar King, and he fell upon Jordan, throwing him to the mud. The blows rained down on him and Jordan struggled beneath the weight of the man.

Jordan heard someone calling from very far away. “Drown him in the River of the Dead. You must drown him, Jordan! That's the only way.”

He edged towards the river, his feet slipping in the mud. All the while the sorcerer thrashed at him with the heavy candle. When at last they were beside the water, Jordan clasped the man's legs and they fell together into the frigid river with a splash. Jordan landed on the Beggar King and held his head under the water, but it bobbed up again. Jordan went under with him, his eyes filling with black water. The man's hands seemed to be everywhere.

Jordan thrust himself up into the air and landed hard on the sorcerer, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest. He coughed, winded, and for a second he lost hold of the man. The Beggar King came up for air and Jordan went for his head again, holding him under longer, and longer. The sorcerer kicked and thrashed, and at last went limp underneath him.

The candle!
There it was, floating, still unnaturally aglow, in the river. He swam towards it, struggling in his long Uttic robes.

The vultures crowded together along the riverbank. As Jordan climbed out of the water, the candle in his fist, they shrank away from him.

“It's gone out,” Jordan said quietly, staring at it.

“He's dead, he's dead, the Beggar King is dead,” the cry went up, yet the beaked faces closest to Jordan were silent and blank with shock.

“Long live the Beggar King,” screeched others in response.

One by one the vultures turned from him and shuffled away, and all Jordan could see for miles was a line of candlelight receding into the darkness.

“The world was hard on him,” said Arrabel. She'd startled Jordan. He hadn't realized she was beside him. “He was a sin-eater once. You have to have the vocation for it now, of course.”

You have to have the blood for it
.

“For whatever he did wrong, we must have mercy,” said Arrabel. She put out her hand and Jordan gave her the heavy darkened candle. “Let me dispose of this.”

As she moved away from him, Jordan sank onto one of the nearby rocks, his back to the river, feeling the weight of all that had happened. Above him shone the twin moons. Had they been there all along? If so, he hadn't noticed them until that moment. He gazed up into their light the way he once had from his rooftop patio.

But now Jordan had the peculiar feeling that he could see the sisters themselves in the moons. There was the darker Maelstrom with her long black hair, her eyes furious slits. He heard someone say, “It will find a way to come back, boy. The undermagic always finds its way.”