The Soothsayer, page 12
“My queen, your beauty remains unfettered, even in the—”
“Out with it!” she commanded. “Why does this mob broach my door?”
The advisor straightened himself and bowed again. “The recent commotion in the market has provoked them. Also, they feel the levies placed on them in the last year are unjust. They demand to see the king.”
“Impossible. The king is indisposed, sick beyond aid.” Mariselle brushed him off with a wave.
“As I have pointed out to them, yes, m’lady. But still they insist. Perhaps if you came out on the dais and spoke to their concerns. You are their queen, and your promises carry weight.”
Mariselle mused over this. If Dagon were to give the kingdom to her in the coming hours, she would need to address her slaves. Perhaps kindling love in them now would ease their complaints later.
“Fine. I shall do what you and the rest of my court cannot.” She tossed Samuel’s note onto the smoldering coals exposed by the cauldron’s absence and headed for the door.
“A wise choice, Your Highness,” the advisor bowed. “Forget the old man’s schemes. You have power over many; perhaps in time, over Dagon himself.”
“Yes.” Mariselle smiled. “Yes, you’re right. I’m glad to see you take the initiative. Let that old bastard Samuel scribble his notes. I’ll deal with the mob myself.” She motioned him to follow her out the door.
As the pair left, flames continued to lick the edges of the paper but did not progress to the center as if some unseen cover was preventing it.
A strong breeze blew in from the open window, snuffing out the coals and lifting the paper in a whirl before pulling it out into the night.
chapter 20
An Outside Hand
SAMUEL SAT UNDER A BUSHY olive tree high on the bluff and looked out toward the sea. A slight breeze played with his hair. His unseeing eyes no longer brought him the view, but he still favored the spot. The smell of the salt air and the breeze reminded him of happier times. Even in these dark days, some beauty remains, he thought as he heard the waves crash on the rocks far below.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and the breeze picked up. Samuel raised his head, waiting for the telltale drops to fall. “Rain, now? Well, old friend, you’ve been long absent.”
Samuel pulled himself up by his staff and headed down the well-worn path toward his cottage. His feet knew the way. Every pebble and curve of the slope served as guideposts. As he opened the door to his hut, he immediately sensed a presence within.
“Who’s there? Who troubles an old man before he sleeps?”
“You’ve done well, Samuel, but I have need of you again. Your work is not yet complete. I’ve sent a final message, and it must be read,” a deep voice replied.
“Who are you?” Samuel reached out with his hands.
A hooded figure stood just out of reach and watched the old soothsayer momentarily as a father would gaze at his child. Samuel would not have been able to recognize him even if he could see, for the figure took many forms; no one in this world, save Colin, would have known his face.
A sudden flash of light encompassed the room, and Samuel fell to his knees. The darkness from his vision cleared, and Samuel saw his own weathered hands for the first time in a decade. He looked around desperately, but the room was empty.
“Who? Where are you? Who are you?” he cried, but the presence was gone. Samuel slowly stood and went to his bed. On the cot lay his scroll, and woven into its end seamlessly was the page of text Colin had brought with him.
“I see.” Samuel kneeled before the scroll. “The Potter has given me back my sight and restored his word. His one true word.”
Samuel traced his fingers across the lines of characters on the new page. And as the Logos became clear in his mind, he steadied himself with his staff. The prophecy read differently than he expected. It was at once more beautiful and terrible than he had imagined.
“Maker . . .” Samuel said as he studied the words with his renewed eyes. “What have I done?”
Balaam stood sleeping in his stall within the castle’s stable. His locked knees kept his body from swaying, and the warm fire from the simple hearth near the back of the livery gave some comfort. His lips shuddered as he snored a little, and bits of hay fell from his teeth. His snort suddenly woke him, and his eyes opened wide as he realized he had dozed off.
After Mariselle had sent Colin and Alexandra to the dungeon, guards had shoved him from the temple to a squire who pulled with even more force as he led Balaam to the king’s manger. “Ah, you reek!” The pimple-scarred youth spat. He held his nose and quickly kicked Balaam’s flank, making the donkey jump forward with a start. The boy slapped Balaam’s rear with a stick, spurning him on.
As he trudged into the castle courtyard, he wondered if the guards would spear him down if he kicked back at the brat.
“In you go! You’ve caused enough trouble for the night. I wouldn’t be surprised if they send you to the knackers in the morning.” The boy laughed as he whipped at Balaam’s haunches again, forcing the donkey into the stall.
The sting of the stick had throbbed for some time, but Balaam had resigned himself to rest as best he could. The mission was a failure. No doubt the princess and the boy would be swinging by the gallows before long or fed to Korah’s Maw as the queen had promised.
Click.
Balaam turned and saw the latch to his stall had unlocked, and the gate was slowly opening. He gingerly peered out to the walkway between the stalls. A wizened man in brown robes and a cowl stood near the doorway to the courtyard. The dark hood almost entirely obscured his face. The livery squire lay at his feet, unconscious, breathing deeply.
“Hello, again,” the old man said.
Balaam’s eyes widened. “It’s you! I remember you! You’re the wizard that cursed me!”
“Yes, and no.” The robed figure smiled. “I am many things, Balaam. Tonight I am a messenger. And now you must be part of that message.”
“I should kick you, and it’d be less than you deserved! This bloody punishment has gone on for long enough!” Balaam said as he glared at the stranger. “Of course, you’d probably turn me into a toad next.”
“Be at peace, Balaam. You are not cursed. Your path will be straightened in time. I mean no harm.” The old man adjusted his hood haphazardly.
“And yet here I stand on hooves instead of feet,” Balaam huffed, “shunned by all, a feckless fool for others to burden.”
“Your burden is greater than you know.” The old man said solemnly. “For what you carry is at the very heart of the Dark Lord’s plans. Yet you will usher it away, right under his nose.”
“That old conch? In my saddlebags? He can have it.”
“The conch and scroll are the axis of both what is and what is to come. You are the wheel, Balaam. In fact, your presence is vital this night. Go down to the eastern gate and wait for Samuel. Do not tarry,” he said and vanished.
Balaam snorted and shook his head. “Potter preserve us, this day is strange.”
He stepped over the squire and paused. Quickly glancing this way and that, he gave a swift kick to the boy’s groin, instantly sending the squire into a fetal ball, moaning. Satisfied, Balaam moved from the doorway back out into the city.
chapter 21
Evil Unleashed
EGAN’S SIDE ACHED AS HE raced up the final steps inside the Lion’s Maw and through Gilead’s western gate. His hands trembled as he tried to draw his sword and finally let it slide back into his sheath. The image of Salain’s body, the slaughter of his men, and the massive thing screaming for his death were too much. Egan fell to his knees and gasped. In his moment of fending off the darkness, he had failed. Bitter tears rolled down his cheeks. And his father’s voice echoed in his mind.
“Stand up, damnit,” Egan whispered to himself. “Do your duty.” But for a moment, his legs refused. He wanted only to die. He hadn’t seen the attack coming soon enough, hadn’t drawn back when he should have, and now nearly half his men were rotting in the sand. He felt like a boy again—timid, terrified, and utterly unworthy.
“There’s still more to lose,” he mumbled as he stood. He’d account for his failures after dealing with this crisis. He looked around the Ambassador’s Square and knew the calmness here would be destroyed. Sleepy homes and shops lining the large green space of uncovered sod would wake to battle cries, thirsty blades, and flaming arrows. At the far end of the square, a patrol of guards made their way down the market road, which curved out of sight, leading to the city’s center.
“They’re too far. Has no one heard the watchmen?” Egan scanned the high walls. None of his sentinels were present. The initial call of alarm never resounded. Egan hurried to the nearest guard shack. A pool of blood lay within. Egan’s stomach dropped. He drew his sword and crept around the side. Just beyond the torchlight were three bodies. The western watchmen’s throats had been cut, terror sliced across their frozen faces.
A patrol of guards interrupted Egan’s racing thoughts.
“Chief Warrant Officer? We heard your call . . .” a guardsman started and then looked down at the bodies. “Maker.”
“Have you not heard the explosions? Close the gates! We’re under attack! Their agents are already within our walls!”
“Yes, sir!” his man called, and with a yell to the other guards, the men ran to the archway and worked the winch, slowly closing the massive wooden doors and drawing down the iron lattice in front of it.
Egan looked around the square.
“Where’s the rest of the city guard? Why is no one at his post?” Egan yelled at the guard.
“Apologies, Chief, a great commotion occurred not two hours past in the market, and now protesters rally in the castle’s courtyard. All hands have been called to quell the people.”
“I sent men to handle the market problem, not break up a rally.”
“Chief, it’s much more than a drunken row. Half the city is racing to crack open the castle doors. Those you sent would be hard-pressed to pacify such a mob.” The soldier looked down.
“The watch corrals the people when barbarians are at the gate? Who made the order?”
“Well,” the guard said, shifting in his boots nervously, “the queen herself, Chief.”
Egan threw out his arms. “What mire have we sunk into? What madness? Go, send messengers to the eastern gate and the castle barracks. Spread the word. The watchmen on the stair have been calling the alarm for nigh twenty minutes. Echo their warning! And reinforce this door, the demons below will not find it much of an obstacle,” Egan yelled and ran to a nearby horse, pulling himself onto its saddle.
“What about you, Chief?” the guard called out.
“I’m going to have a discussion with the queen!” Egan kicked at the horse and sped down the market road towards the castle.
The inner hallways of the castle were empty, much to Alexandra’s relief. Rustag seemed loyal, but he was also dangerous, and any unwitting servant who happened to slow their progress might become a victim to his fists. The giant was surprisingly agile and quiet for a man his size, and she almost lost sight of him as he moved ahead. Finally, after several twists and turns, they came to the king’s bed-chamber.
“Please stay near the door, I might need your protection if we’re found,” Alexandra said and rested her hand lightly on his arm.
Rustag grunted. “With my life, m’lady.”
She entered the room. Within, she saw a wisp of a man lying in bed, his face as white as the sheets that covered him.
“Father!” Alexandra ran to his side.
Braeden’s breath rattled, and he seemed barely conscious of anything, his hollow eyes staring at the ceiling.
“Father, it’s Alex! What has that witch done to you?” She slowly pulled up his head, now light as a feather.
Braeden coughed, and his eyes brightened a little. His focus shifted to Alexandra’s face.
“Daughter?” his weak voice whispered.
“Papa, I never should have left you,” she said, tears filling her eyes.
“No tears now . . . so happy to see you . . .” Braeden whimpered, his voice breaking. “Don’t mourn me. I’m nearly well. Mariselle attends me nightly with her cures. She says the pain is normal, and I’ll soon be right.”
Alexandra sighed and wiped her tears away. Her hands trembled. It was as if every nightmare she had ever dreamed had come true at this moment, and there was no one to shield her from them. Panic shot through her like a thousand icy needles until she caught her breath. And in that instant, Colin’s words came back to her mind.
“Sometimes you have to just pretend you’re stronger than you really are.”
Alexandra bit her lip. She was her father’s caretaker now. “Her cures?” She looked around the room.
“We’ll soon be together again, Daughter, in the great hall—you, your mother, and I.” Braeden’s voice wavered and drifted as if he was on the verge of sleep.
“Papa, where are these cures? Where does she keep them?” She gently shook her father back to consciousness.
“By the fireplace, there,” he mumbled, making a slight motion to the alcove opposite the chamber near the fireplace.
Alexandra moved around to see a table had been set there, and an alembic boiled a viscous green fluid on it. Across the table, she saw a burlap bag, the bottom of which was wet. She carefully opened it, and the pungent odor of rotten fruit and bitter almonds wafted up her nose.
“What alchemy is this?” she mumbled, tossing the bag off the table. A twisted root lay nearby. She picked it up and sniffed.
“Mandrake root, we were always told to stay away from it—it’d explain why you’re so thin. Still, to be so weak and delirious, no plant could do that without something more . . .”
Alexandra’s mind raced as she searched the chest under the table and found a long glass vial. A cloth membrane had been tied to the top, and a trace of yellow fluid stained its bottom. It smelled of rot. Then, in the corner, she noticed a tall basket vibrating slightly. A heavy stone was placed on the top. A chill ran down her neck. Only one living thing could fit in that container. She straightened herself and gingerly approached the container. Every inch of her knew what was within and wanted to run from it, but she needed proof of Mariselle’s scheme if a tribunal was called.
“Presumption can be questioned,” Alexandra said as she drew closer, “but the truth is under that lid.” Carefully lifting the stone and setting it aside, she removed the basket lid and stepped back.
Nothing.
She stepped forward again and slowly peered over the lip of the basket.
A black cobra sprang up from within. She screamed and fell back, knocking over the basket. The serpent slid out and coiled itself at her feet, its hood opened wide and its fangs extended.
Alexandra looked down at her unprotected feet. She could move them, but the snake’s size meant it would reach her before she could roll away. It hissed again, taunting her to try.
She shimmied back, and the snake shot forward.
Rustag’s massive hand caught it by the throat. The serpent turned and bit his arm over and over again. Rustag snarled and pulled the viper from his arm before grabbing its head and snapping its neck. He threw the carcass into the burning coals in the fireplace.
“Rustag! Are you alright?”
The big man slumped to the floor and rubbed his arm. “With my life, m’lady. It will mend.”
Alexandra looked over the wounds; the venom oozing from the bites was the same pale yellowish color as the fluid in the vial.
“I’d see you to a healer, if one were left,” she said. “We have what we need now, Rustag. Mariselle used that thing to poison the king. We can bring her before a magistrate and take back the kingdom!” Alexandra hugged the giant. Rustag gently put his hand on her shoulder before wincing.
“Can you walk?” she asked him.
“Serpent’s bite was minor. I have strength yet,” he said, lumbering to his feet.
She turned to her father. He slept fitfully.
She turned back to Rustag. “Thank the Maker. I need you to find an old soothsayer. His name is Samuel. He’s old in years, blind, and carries a staff.”
Rustag nodded. “I remember him. He served in the Hall of the Lion. He smelled of lye and dirty sheets.”
Alexandra bit her lip. “If any man can heal your wounds and bring Father back from the brink, it’s him. Leave by way of the eastern gate. His cottage is a little over a league northwest of the King’s Way, near the northern shore.” Alexandra returned to the table and drained some of the alembic’s contents into a flask before stowing it in her pocket.
“You will be defenseless.” Rustag looked down at her, his bushy brow wrinkled.
She looked around. He was right. No room off the main hall would be safe from Mariselle’s grasp. She glanced out the window to the city. A large crowd had formed in the courtyard, and in the distance, past the Ambassador’s Square and the western gate, she heard a resounding boom. She looked out to one of the crumbling spires. The nearest one loomed over the castle courtyard; its doorway was only two hundred feet from the castle’s entrance. The nearby guards had left their posts to hold back the mob.
She turned to Rustag. “I know where I can stay with him. Please help me carry our king.”
Rustag nodded and walked to Braeden’s bed. He lifted and cradled the old man in his arms like a child, and together the three crept from the room toward their freedom.
chapter 22
A Meeting of Minds
SAMUEL DROPPED OFF THE BACK of the wagon and waved to its driver as it pulled up to the eastern gate. He had been lucky to find a caravan of farmers fleeing down the King’s Way toward the city. Word had spread like wildfire about the Amorite attack, and people were clamoring for protection.
The soothsayer rushed through the gateway just as it started to close. Overhead he heard the watchmen’s alarm and pressed forward. Farmers and peasants from the surrounding countryside pushed past him to get behind the city’s walls. Samuel held his scroll tightly under his cloak as families jostled him to move faster.
