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It was hewn of stone, the same living rock as the walls, and intertwined roses snaked around it, carved into its frame. Perched high upon its lintel, looking down on them, was an alabaster falcon, wings half-spread, a triangle clutched in its talons.
They stared at the door in silence. Cathan felt no surprise when he saw it had no latch.
“What now?” he asked.
Beldyn studied the scroll a while longer, then nodded and tucked it into his belt. “Now we open it.”
Cathan snorted a laugh, then stopped. As he watched, the monk pushed back his bloodstained sleeves-he still had not changed clothes-and studied the door.
“The Miceram lies in an ancient fane beyond this,” he said. “Pradian put it there, then sealed the door shut. The geas he laid on it will be broken when one fit to wear the crown comes to claim it So it is written. After that, we have only to face the guardian.”
“Guardian?” Cathan asked, his voice rising. “What kind of guardian?”
Beldyn spread his hands. “The scroll does not say.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Cathan muttered. Gritting his teeth, he checked his sword to make sure it was loose in its scabbard, then, thinking better of it, drew the blade. “Well, we’ve come this far.”
Smiling, Beldyn reached out and pressed his hands against the door. It was smooth, marred only by a small crack near its top. Licking his lips, he bowed his head and murmured a prayer.
“Palado, ucdas pafiro,” he intoned, “tas igousid fo. Lob tis foro polam bidein unfifid, to Ceram ibin torpid. So polo fat cifir. Bebam anlugud!”
Paladine, father of dawn, I am thy chosen. Long has this door awaited the time foretold, when the Crown is needed again. That time is come. Let the way open!
He squared his feet on the floor, closed his eyes, and pushed.
Nothing happened.
Cathan watched, his heart falling, as Beldyn tried again and still a third time. He leaned into it with all his might. His face grew red, cords of muscle bulged in his neck, and sweat beaded on his brow, but still the door refused to budge.
“Damn it,” Cathan muttered. “Don’t tell me we’ve come this far, only to-”
“Cathan!” Beldyn hissed through clenched teeth. “Help me!” Cathan stepped forward, eyeing the door suspiciously. “What-what do I say?”
“Nothing! Just push!”
Setting his sword down on the dusty floor, he stepped forward to take his place beside Beldyn, who was heaving with his shoulder now, grunting with the effort. Holding his breath, he set his hands on the door as well, and shoved as hard as he could.
All at once the air around them shivered, and sparks of red and gold poured out of the cracks where door met frame. With a deep growl the stone gave way, pivoting of its own accord and sending Cathan staggering to his knees. Beldyn stumbled too but stayed upright as, still streaming sorcerous cinders, the door rumbled open.
Snatching up his sword, Cathan sprang back to his feet. Images of dragons flashed through his mind, and the guardian became a black wyrm with fangs bared and flames leaping up its throat.
Several heartbeats later, after nothing had attacked them, he let the tip of his blade drop. There was no monster on the other side, only more cramped tu
Smiling, Beldyn stepped through the opening into the passage beyond. Cathan paused, took a deep breath, and followed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lord Holger’s breath smoked in the air as he stood outside his tent. He tried to hold still while his squire buckled on his shining, armor, but it was difficult. The lure of the fight sang in his blood, as it hadn’t in years. He’d spent too long in Istar, serving at the Kingpriest’s court, growing soft. That would soon change.
About time, he thought.
His squire, a gangly, dark-haired boy with a tuft of fuzz where a Knight’s long moustache would one day grow, finished buckling Holger’s greaves about his shins, then turned to strap spurs onto his master’s metal-plated boots. However, when he reached for the old Knight’s shield-an old battered thing engraved with the Solamnic kingfisher-Holger waved him off.
“No, lad. I won’t be needing that yet.”
The boy bobbed his head but kept the shield ready anyway, picking up his master’s sword as well. Holger nodded with approval. They were not going into battle yet, but it was a squire’s duty to be prepared, and the lad had learned his lessons well. He felt a certain sadness that the boy’s tenure would end before long, but also a certain pride. When he returned to his family’s castle in the spring, he would go with full commendations. Young Loren Soth would make a fine Knight one day.
It was after midnight, and the highland sky was clear, the stars glittering like chips of ice. That was better than the snow of the night before. There was nothing like a good snap of foul weather to muck up a battle. The camp stood in a rock-strewn valley east of the River Edessa, just off the main road to Govi
He made his way across the camp, Loren dogging his heels. Several sentries raised their torches as he approached, then saluted when they recognized him. Finally, he reached the camp’s northern end, where the ground rose to the valley’s rim. He climbed the crumbling slope easily-city-softened or not, he still had a young man’s vigor-and stopped at the crest, looking down into a bowl-shaped depression beyond. Below, barely visible among the ash trees and night’s shadows, waited the army’s advance riders.
They were only a small part of his forces, just a thousand strong, but they were enough for his purposes. Unlike the slumbering Scatas in the vale behind him, they were awake and armored, their horses ready to ride.
“All accounted for, milord,” said a young Knight of the Crown, clambering up the hill to meet him. Sir Utgar, his name was, as fine a horseman as any in Holger’s force. His blond moustache curled above a proud smile. “They await your orders.”
Holger nodded. “Well, then,” he replied, starting downhill.
The riders moved swiftly at his approach, scrambling to fall into order, their blue cloaks turning violet in Lunitari’s ruddy light. A black-bearded, barrel-chested man, wearing a surcoat over matching scale armor-both gold in color, burnt copper in the moonglow-stood before them, waiting. He wore no robes, and a sword hung from his belt. Such was the field garb of the clergy of Kiri-Jolith. Unlike Paladine’s priests, the Jolithan order had no compunctions against edged weapons. He raised his hands in greeting, curling his fingers to sign the battle god’s horns.
Holger returned the gesture in kind, then looked to his men and cleared his throat. Amid the wind’s muttering and the whickering of horses, the riders fell silent. Looking out at them-a sea of wind-weathered faces, watching him expectantly-he raised his voice to speak.
“You will ride north,” he said. “At a fair pace, you’ll reach Govi
The riders shifted, nodding. A thousand was too few to capture a city, but they understood that wasn’t the intent. Most had served a while in the imperial army, long enough to understand that first sorties were for scouting and testing the enemy’s strengths… and weaknesses. The true fight would come later.