What Remains of Heroes (12 page)

“Come,” said Gamghast, gesturing for Bale to open the door. “I am a practical man, and have no need for false flattery or pious pretense. Our Lector has been murdered, in a place far from his home. I need to know what could have driven him there, what information he could have discovered, and whether such information could have placed him in peril. I need to know if anyone heard his confession—his last words—and where that person has gone. Assist me in setting a course to track those answers, and you will be free of me.”

Gamghast’s quarters reflected his practical nature. A small bed, two squat chairs crowding a small table, a half-burned candle, a reading glass, a washbasin, and a wardrobe. There were no trappings of his station, no baubles or lacquered scrolls lauding his rank of prefect.

Perhaps the man is not all bad
.

Gamghast gestured to one of the chairs with a nod, and brought the two stacks of books down upon the table with a heavy thud and a puff of dust. Bale assumed his chair and the prefect eased himself into the other. Bale took a moment to study the titles etched across the spines of the books, and recognized them all as banned. He’d read many of them, but the last copies of the others were rumored to have been burned long ago, by order of the High King.

“Tell me what you know of the Sentinels,” the prefect asked.

This is a dangerous discussion
. Bale folded his hands in his lap and let his eyes wander the room. He’d always been a terrible liar.
Best not look the man in the eye
. “The Sanctum regards the Sentinels as guilty of betraying their sacred pact with Illienne. They sought to usurp the throne and rule the Kingdom rather than protect it. That is why the Sanctum proclaims High King Derganfel the Purer was righteous in banishing them from Rune, and why we have helped rid the holy places of their remembrances and our books of their references.”

Gamghast stroked his white beard. “Yes, yes, yes. But my question did not seek the Sanctum’s
official
position on the Sentinels, but rather what you know of them. Let us not waste each other’s time, Bale.”

Bale regarded Gamghast. The prefect’s face was stern, but not unkind. Yet, Bale was reluctant to place trust in anyone. He’d discussed these things with the Lector, but reckoned all other members of the Sanctum thought such conversations to be blasphemy. “It is sacrilege to deny doctrine.”

Gamghast slapped the table. “Damn it, man! You sound just like that pompous fool Kreer.” He gazed out the small window above the table and inhaled deeply. “The Sanctum is waning, our influence diminishing. The rest of the world thinks of us as charlatans who do naught but proclaim childish fairy tales and hoard useless old secrets. We’ve become a mere whimsy of royalty, an order asserting the divine right of a High King whose bloodline seems to most no nobler than that of ordinary men. Is such the extent of our faith? Is such the limit of our purpose?”

Bale looked on earnestly. He was always comforted to find another who shared his concerns.

Gamghast leaned across the table and peered over the stack of books. “Do you wonder, Bale? Do you ever wonder if we stand on the wrong side of things? If the Sentinels were the righteous ones, and it was the High King who betrayed
them
? Perhaps the time approaches when we will need to reassess the tenets of our faith.”

Bale examined his hands and picked at a hangnail. “Erlorn and I—or rather I should say the Lector and I—spoke at times about such things. A dozen or so years ago he caught me in the courtyard reading
The Shadows of the Warduren
.” Bale pointed at one of the volumes in the stack before him. “That one. He asked me why I’d be reading such a thing, and whether I agreed that such books should be burned. I posed to him nearly the same questions you just posed to me. He just smiled and nodded, and from then on he tutored me in more potent spellcraft, and granted me access to his collection of outlawed histories. Many of these,” he said, making a wide sweep with his hand, “and more.”

“Very well,” Gamghast said, nodding deeply. “Unlike others in these halls I do not declare such studies to be blasphemy. Yours or the Lector’s.” He stared long at Bale. “I assure you, this discussion is ours and ours alone.”

Bale smiled. He knew the prefect spoke truth.

“So, I will pose again my original question. What do you know of the Sentinels?”

“The historical accounts differ on the events leading to their banishment. The popular histories, of course, recite that Thaydorne, the greatest hero of the War of Fates and the most powerful of the Sentinels, grew jealous of the High King. It is said he marshaled men loyal to his purpose and attempted to overthrow the High King. Some of the Sentinels stood loyal to the Crown, but others united under Thaydorne’s banner once the battle was joined. It is said Derganfel the Purer met Thaydorne and his warriors on the battlefield, and routed them. And it is said he was merciful, and in consideration of Thaydorne’s great service to Rune he spared his life. But, he knew Thaydorne and the rest of the Sentinels—even those who’d been loyal—would never remain content to serve mortal men. Thus, he banished them from Rune, whereupon the Sentinels were stripped of their divine gifts and lived the rest of their lives as mortals. It is said they died.”

“And what say the unpopular histories?”

Bale found himself smiling again. “I’m certain you’re aware most such histories were ordered burned, often in great piles in the garden of the Bastion.”

Gamghast nodded toward the books. “It’s a fortunate thing we don’t heed every edict of the Crown.”

“Indeed,” Bale said, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “Those histories say it was Derganfel who grew mad with jealousy, and he desired glory above all things and despised sharing the citizenry’s adulation with the Sentinels. Many then regarded the Sentinels as the great saviors of Rune and the vanquishers of Yrghul. People thought of them as gods, and Derganfel would suffer it not. He grew mad in his lust for power, and cast all the Sentinels from his sight. Thaydorne and others resisted, but ultimately accepted the banishment.”

“And what became of them?”

Bale pressed a finger to his lips. “The histories are less specific on that point. Very little is known of who or what the Sentinels were, to begin with. The accounts agree the Sentinels and the High King were granted measures of divinity by Illienne. But what power was imparted, precisely? The High King and his line are said to be the only mortal men who can touch the Godswell, and thus they have long claimed possession of divine righteousness and infallibility in their rule… They may be able to touch the Godswell, yes, but do they possess divine righteousness? Rubbish. Even the most faithful among us should view such claims with great skepticism.”

“But what of the Sentinels?”

“These banned accounts hold firmly that they retired to quieter lives, but lived on, in some form of immortality. Some of the more persuasive scholars posit that the ‘measure of divinity’ manifested in different ways among them. Some were granted an ability to survive death, in a manner of speaking, by imparting their memories or abilities to another. Others, chief among them Thaydorne, were said to be truly immortal. Each was said to possess a unique and profound power, portraying a separate aspect of Illienne’s godliness. Thaydorne was known to possess great strength of arms. Lyan was just. Valis was ever watchful. Castor was—”

“Castor was said to possess great wisdom, and to receive the ongoing instruction of Illienne as it echoed through the black void of oblivion. That,” said Gamghast, his eyes piercing, “is why he’s served as the Sanctum’s Lector for these many centuries.”

Bale’s jaw dropped and he shook his head. He paused and was about to resume speaking as though the words had not been spoken. They were too jolting to be true.

“Our Lector.”

Bale paused again, glaring at the stacks of books.
More secrets untold, and not even a whispered hint of their existence
. “But… How?”

Gamghast eyed him for a long moment before continuing, as though waiting for the concussion of a blow to subside. “Castor was immortal in one of the senses you described: in the sense his wisdom would pass to another vessel upon death, and that vessel passed that wisdom on in turn. This cycle has continued for nearly a millennium.” Gamghast grimaced slightly and pulled at his beard. “It is a secret known to very, very few. Myself, Borel, Kreer, Dictorian Theal, and now you. It is a secret confided only to those he most trusted. Such a thing could never become known to the High King, you understand.”

Bale was dumbfounded. “That one of the Sentinels has lived here for centuries, in the very shadow of the Bastion, in defiance of the banishment?” He shook his head, the strands of his gray hair forming a veil across his face. “I cannot comprehend this.”

“I felt much the same when I was told, many years ago. But it was described to me thus: those Sentinels who’d remained loyal to the High King would not break those oaths they swore to Illienne. They felt bound by those oaths to protect the kingdom of Rune, and even the betrayer who sat on its throne. So, they served in secret. And the Sanctum was formed as part of that effort. We were loyal to the High King in word and deed, but all the while we have preserved a secret history, kept alive a secret flame. We serve two masters. Often their ambitions are conjoined. And when they are not, we keep our efforts discrete.”

“I cannot believe this.” Bale said, rubbing at his eyes.

“Erlorn saw fit to trust you. He was giving you keys to unlock the true secrets of the Sanctum. The powerful magics we hoard and, more importantly, the
truth
.”

“But he’s been murdered! Can it be a Sentinel has died? Is such a thing possible?”

Gamghast’s face knotted. “These are questions I cannot answer, not yet. His spirit passed by virtue of the utterance of his confession, his last words of wisdom. We don’t know whether anyone, or no one, heard the confession and thus was chosen as Castor’s vessel, his successor. These things trouble me.”

“What must we do?”

“You will fetch your walking staff and don your traveling cloak.”

Bale pulled his face from his hands, his heart welling with apprehension.
By the dead gods, please do not cast me into the world, among people! I am a miscreant, a misanthrope!
“Where would you have me go?”

“Find his resting place. The Lector seemed bound for Arranan, a nation with which we are on the very brink of war, for reasons he did not disclose. We know not the identity of his killer. Worst of all, we know not the words of his confession, nor have we detected the manifestation of Castor’s soul in another. Answers, Bale. I want you to deliver answers. Use the ways Erlorn taught you.”

“I am no horseman, and my stiff knees will not permit a long walk. Certainly there is someone else?”

“Nonsense. A strong purpose makes an easy road.”

“But—”

“I will hear no more. I’ve arranged your passage by sea, all the way to Riverweave. You leave in three days.”

Bale awoke the next morning at the sixth hour, the belfries loudly announcing the time. He studied the bricks of his ceiling for a while, lost in his thoughts. The world was different this day, as though all things had been upended.

My suspicions have been confirmed. The Sentinels live. Why then am I so plagued with
doubt?

He pulled himself out of his bed and stretched his creaking frame with a groan. He eyed for a moment his reflection in his small mirror, his lanky limbs a frail support for his bone-colored nightshirt, and wondered how he could manage the task that’d been asked of him.

He moved closer to the mirror, noticing the crow’s feet lining his hazel eyes. How long it had been since he’d ventured beyond the walls of Ironmoor? Nearly half of his forty years had been spent as a member of the Sanctum, and the vast majority of that time had been spent sequestered within the halls of the Abbey. He felt safe here. Protected. Beyond the walls he would be vulnerable.

What will become of
me?

Gradually he set about readying himself, washing his face and hands in the small basin of lemon-scented water. His hands were delicate. The most work they’d performed in years was turning the pages of books. He imagined his hands growing white knuckled while desperately grasping the rough ropes of a galley at sea, trying not to be pitched overboard. He became nearly seasick at the thought of it.