The Sage Knight Read online

  Savanest heard an undertone in those words. There was frustration and animosity there. For all that Lindercroft was a smart and discerning man, he might be blinded by that. The so-called farm boy had bested him more than once, and if ever anything blinded someone to the truth it was enraged pride.

  “What of the girl with him from Dromdruin Village?”

  “Her?” Lindercroft’s sneer returned. “She is nothing. She is a nobody caught up in events beyond her control and understanding. She is of no account.”

  Savanest felt uneasy. Lindercroft dismissed them all, but there was something disturbing about them. Yet still, he had met them both, so perhaps his word should be taken on these things.

  “Then I will leave you, Knight Lindercroft. There are no further issues to discuss.”

  The sneer on Lindercroft’s face grew. He knew that this magic was difficult for some of the knights. Savanest resented that, for he was superior in many other ways, but he felt a pain growing behind his eyes, which was a sure sign he had overtaxed himself with magic.

  Lindercroft bowed, more to hide his expression than out of courtesy, and Savanest released the magic. There was a sudden puff of smoke, and the fire in the brazier went out. Touching it, the metal was cold.

  Savanest shivered. He still felt a sense of unease. Perhaps it was because his brother knight, Sofanil, had also joined the search. He would like to know what he was doing, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. He was too tired now to invoke the magic a second time.

  But doubt was an enemy, and he cast it from his mind. Whoever killed the seventh knight would be raised above all others, and Savanest knew it would be him. He felt it to his very bones. He even sensed the Morleth Stone whisper it in his mind. But that too was a problem. He had been gone from the stone too long, and he yearned to return to its presence.

  The sooner he killed Faran, the sooner that would be.

  19. The Training of a Sage

  The winter wind howled outside. But in the main hall of Danath Elbar, although they could hear it moan in the tunnel, it remained warm despite the stone surroundings.

  Fires burned in several hearths, and cunningly concealed flutes in the stone channeled away smoke. That smoke, Kubodin had told Faran, was dispersed at several points atop the mountain. It would not create a single plume that might attract the eyes of any wanderers in the wild. This was good, because the only wanderers in the current weather would likely be searching for them and be servants of Lindercroft.

  They rarely trained outside now, which was a thing that Asana did not like. Better to train in the fresh air he had told them, and in the morning. The world was full of life then, and it was healthy for the body.

  But the cold had forced them inside. At least mostly. Asana still took them out for brief periods, especially in the snow. He wanted them to get used to fighting on all sorts of terrain and in all sorts of weather. A warrior had to be well rounded and experienced, he repeated to them many times. It was no good just being able to execute pretty patterns on level grass. Battle was often not like that. You could be caught on a narrow mountain trail fighting bandits. Or in the snow. Or fording a creek. A true warrior trained for all eventualities.

  It was after lunch now though, and they had put aside their weapons for the day. What they trained now was intended instead to sharpen their wits, and to improve their minds.

  Aranloth had trained them this way too, his discourses covering history, negotiation, poetry and all manner of things.

  But Asana had used that foundation and taken them deeper into several topics. He seemed to enjoy this even more than the weapons training. He had told them, on any number of occasions, that in his land a true warrior was also a sage – a man of wisdom and learning, and that the mind was a sharper weapon than any sword.

  Faran understood enough now to know it was true. Knowing when to fight was just as important as doing so successfully. Words could win battles. Or lose them. A leader needed more than a sword to inspire followers.

  Despite the fluted stone that removed the smoke, the scent of it was still in the room. Faran liked it, and he liked also that for these conversations everyone was present.

  Kubodin rarely spoke, but he was always there. Now, he sat on a rug on the floor beside Asana, his axe cradled in his lap while he endlessly ran a whetting stone over the blades. He grinned as he did so. Kareste was on the other side of Asana, in a chair, her staff laid down on the floor beside her and her green-brown eyes fixed on the strange man who was both weapons master and sage.

  There had been a pause in the conversation, but now Asana spoke again.

  “What is the nature of beauty?”

  Faran glanced at Ferla, then answered quickly. “Beauty makes the heart beat faster, and quickens the breath. It makes you feel glad to be alive, and that all is right with the world. It’s not a thing in itself, but an influence on people. That’s why beauty is different things to different people.”

  Kubodin looked up from where he sharpened the axe blades, and the whetstone slowed, but he did not speak. Asana nodded.

  It was Kareste who asked the next question. She and Asana often took turns at this.

  “Ferla. What is evil? Is the hawk that hunts and kills the dove a creature of the shadow?”

  Faran knew what he believed, but he wanted to know what Ferla’s view was. But she did not answer straight away. She sat still, a slight frown on her face and her head tilted just barely to one side as she thought. It was a typical expression of hers.

  “Nothing in nature,” she said at last, “is either good or evil. It just is. The hawk is no more evil than a cold wind that blows from the north and kills lambs in winter. Nor a dove more peaceful than the shade of a tree on a hot day. It is humanity, and the other sentient creatures of Alithoras, that have the capacity for good or evil. This is because they have choice. Without choice, there is just nature. With choice, good and evil evolve.”

  Asana studied her. “Do you really think then that freedom of choice is the origin of evil?”

  “And also of good.” She held the master’s gaze.

  Asana gave a curt nod of approval. His question had seemed to indicate he did not agree with her answer, but he often acted so in order to put pressure on them to see if they would bend their beliefs under duress. At least, that was why Faran thought he did it.

  The penetrating gaze of the master turned on him. Those eyes seemed remote, but Faran had caught glimpses of deep emotion behind them. Asana’s expression was a protective mask, as much as a helm was armor. Kubodin had once said that the man had been bullied as a youth. It had marked him, making him wary and distrustful of showing his feelings.

  “What,” the master asked, “is the purpose of the universe?”

  It was a big question, and the Faran that had been a simple hunter in Dromdruin Valley would have struggled to find an answer. But Aranloth had changed him, and he replied at once and with confidence.

  “That’s a flawed question, for it seeks to impose a stricture on the answer and deny a free response.”

  Asana raised an eyebrow, but he did not look displeased.

  “How so?”

  “The question supposes as a fact that the universe was created. Only a created universe can have a purpose. A universe that grew from chaos into order by random chance has no purpose. It just is.”

  “But nothing comes from nothing. And isn’t it the state of nature that order gives way to chaos rather than rising from it?”

  Faran thought on that. “Again, the framing of your statement tries to direct my answer. You say that nothing comes from nothing, yet if the universe was not created then indeed all that we know came from nothing. Likewise, the cycles of nature are from one extreme to the other. Chaos leads to order. Order leads to chaos. They are faces of the same coin and need no creator.”

  Asana sat back in his chair. “Do you deny then that there is a creator?”

  “I don’t deny it. Nor do I see any evidence to
support it. There are various nations spread all over Alithoras. Some believe in a single creator. Others in many. Some believe the universe really is random chance. Who is right? Who is wrong? That’s a matter for their personal faith and no man can say they have no right to their beliefs, whatever they are. But as to the purpose of the universe, the better question is this. What purpose does humanity give itself? What do we strive for? Surely, even if we are created, we have the freedom to choose that ourselves. Otherwise we are not alive but merely objects. Does the blacksmith’s hammer have a purpose? Does it have a choice? No. The blacksmith uses it as he will. The hammer is merely metal and wood. It has no choice or purpose. To be alive is to choose, and in the choosing we show our purpose.”

  The wind howled, and the scent of smoke in the air grew strong as it was momentarily forced backward by some eddy in the air currents outside. Asana’s dark eyes glittered, but again he did not look displeased.

  It was Kareste who asked the next question. “Have either of you yet worked out the secret of the knights?”

  Faran looked at Ferla. He saw in her gaze that she had no answer, and neither did he. It seemed to him that he had no way of knowing the answer, yet if that were so why did she ask the question?

  “We don’t know,” Ferla answered.

  “It will come to you, one day,” Kareste answered. “It comes to all the knights, eventually.”

  Kareste had spoken softly, and there was some meaning in her words that Faran was trying to fathom, but Kubodin stopped sharpening his axe blades and grunted.

  “This is all horse dung. Every one of you thinks too much. You can’t think your way through life – that’s not how it works.” The little man drew himself up, the axe forgotten. “What more is there to life than this? Eat when you’re hungry. Drink when you’re thirsty. Feel your heart pound when a girl you like smiles at you. And put a knife in the belly of those who wish you harm! That’s all the philosophy you need, and everything else is just a game of shadows played in your mind.”

  The little man slumped after that and went back to sharpening his axe. Faran glanced at Asana. If ever two men were more different, he had never met them. Yet a smile hovered over the master’s face, and it was not condescending. There was a deep friendship here between these two despite their differences. Perhaps because of them.

  20. Captured

  Menendil sat on the bench near the entrance to The Bouncing Stone. He liked it there, especially of a winter’s morning when the early sun warmed his aging bones and felt like a balm to his skin.

  This was one such morning. He was drowsy too, for there had been noise during the night. Wild yells and galloping horses and the rattle of a fast-drawn carriage had woken him from sleep, and he had not rested well after that.

  Something had happened. But what? The street was a good place to learn. The inn was not yet open, but if the right passerby came near he might learn something of interest. So far, he had seen only strangers, and those that he did know he did not trust. So he sat and enjoyed the sun, whiling away a bit of time.

  The inn was ready to open, and it was cleaned inside from yesterday’s customers and food was cooking. He could see the plume of smoke rise from the chimney at the back of the building, towering high before some tiny movement of air bent it like a broken tree in his direction.

  He had almost gone to sleep when he felt a shadow pass in front of the sun. He jerked his head up, his hand going to the hilt of the knife concealed beneath his cloak.

  “Easy, Mender,” a voice said calmingly.

  It belonged to a young man, and Menendil recognized him by his voice alone. He was still hard to see, for the sun was behind him.

  “You startled me, Balan.”

  The young man sat down on the bench next to him. “Folks startle easy these days.”

  That was certainly true. Menendil sat back on the bench and rejoiced in the warm sunlight. Balan was exactly the sort of man he hoped to meet this morning. He was young, but softly spoken and not given to outbursts. He was as steady as an oak, despite his youth. And he was a patriot. All of which were good reasons why he was a member of the Hundred. In addition, he was in the army, and heard, from time to time, rumors of the king’s plans.

  “What was last night’s commotion about?” Menendil asked.

  Balan rubbed his hands together for warmth. While he did so, he glanced up and down the street to ensure no one was close enough to hear anything they said.

  “It was a bad business. Rumor is, and I heard this from a friend who was involved, that they at last captured Caludreth.”

  Menendil stifled a groan. This was bad. Very bad indeed. So far as was known, Caludreth was the last knight alive, other than the current six. Not that he was a knight anymore, having been cast unfairly out of the order by the king.

  “Apparently, he was the leader of a group of rebels.”

  “Aye. They call him Lord Greenwood, for he had become a forest bandit. At least, the king’s law calls them bandits, but many of those outlaws are just and true men, cast out as was their lord from a land they were loyal to.”

  “Was he really a threat?” Balan asked. “The king spent much gold and many resources to capture him. It’s said he was betrayed by one of his own.”

  That might be true. But Menendil was not so sure. It was the sort of lie the king would spread to encourage distrust among his enemies. If they dared not cooperate with each other, how could they unify to threaten him?

  “I don’t think he was a threat. Not as Lord Greenwood, anyway. He and his men kept to the forest, I hear, and they’re strong there. But out in the open, they would fall swiftly before a small regiment.” Menendil closed his eyes and sighed. “But as Caludreth, last knight alive who has not fallen to the shadow, who can say. He could have rallied many men if he came to Faladir.”

  Balan smiled ruefully. “Well, he has come to Faladir now. But he’ll rally no men in chains. Even if he could speak. But I’m told he was badly beaten after the capture. He was unconscious most of the way back, his eyes swollen shut and his face blackened by many blows.”

  Menendil no longer felt the warmth of the sun. Inside him, a hot rage boiled to the surface, but he held it in check.

  “That’s no way to treat a man. Prisoner or otherwise. Yet they haven’t killed him yet, and there’s hope in that.”

  Balan glanced at him, his eyes narrowing. “Do you intend to try some rescue attempt?”

  The fury in Menendil turned suddenly cold with fear. To attempt a rescue was folly.

  “It’s something to think on. Imagine what we could do if we had one such as Caludreth among us?”

  He could not believe he had said those words, especially calmly.

  Balan looked away. “You had better think fast then.”

  “Why?”

  “Because for now, he’s close to us. He’s held in the barracks just down the road.”

  Menendil knew what the other man meant. It had nothing to do really with Caludreth being held close to them.

  “You think they’ll take him to the tower?”

  Balan nodded. “Tonight, I hear. And in the Tower of the Stone, in the presence of evil, it’s said a man can be turned to the shadow. The rumor I hear is that it’s been done before.”

  Menendil had heard the stories too. There might be truth in them, or there might not. Stories ran wild in the streets, these days. But the man had not been executed yet. Better for the king to have killed him out in the wild lands than take him prisoner. Executing one such as he was a two-edged sword. It could quell unrest in the populace by fear. Or it could rouse them into action. But if he were to be executed, he would have been taken to the gaol in the palace. Taking him to the barracks near the tower was suggestive.

  The decision was made before Menendil knew it, welling up from deep inside him.

  “Caludreth was once a knight. Who knows? He may be so again. We have to save him, or at least make the attempt. He is the last alive of a once-great orde
r, at least the last alive that has not turned to the shadow. We must help him, and all the more so because the royal bloodline is now gone.”

  The sun was rising higher and the street was getting busier.

  “You would make him king?” Balan asked.

  “If we win this struggle, then we’ll have need of one. Who better than someone trained in the old ways of the knights?”

  Balan did not answer. An old man hobbled down the street before them, his eyes wary and his head swiveling from side to side looking for potential threats. There were many such in the city lately, and not all walked on two legs.

  When the old man had passed, Balan spoke. “You think big thoughts, Mender.”

  “Someone has to think them.”

  “And someone has to act them out.”

  “That’s the hard part,” Menendil agreed. “And the dangerous part. But isn’t that why the Hundred was formed?”

  Balan did not reply to that directly, but Menendil could read in his clear gaze and the set of his jaw that he agreed.

  “Tonight isn’t so far away. Once Caludreth is brought to the presence of the stone atop the tower, it may be too late. That leaves very little time to plan and think.”

  It also left less time for fear and better sense to change his mind, Menendil knew, and less still for the Hundred.

  “Spread the word,” Menendil instructed him. “I’ll pass it on to all I can as well. Even though there’s so little time left, we should still be able to gather most of them. Tell them to meet at noon in the warehouse of the wool merchant Nadrak. The side door will be open, but no one will be there. And tell them to come hooded. Best to keep our identities hidden.”

  “Is Nadrak one of us?”

  “No. That’s why we’ll meet there.”

  Balan smiled grimly. “You could bring destruction down on his head if we’re caught.”

  “That may be, but better him than one of our own. He’s known to be a king’s man, so he should be safe. If not, he won’t get anything he doesn’t deserve.”