The Lord of Frake's Peak (The Bastard Cadre Book 4) Page 11

  “We think we remember, but every time we tell ourselves a story or remember an event we introduce minor inconsistencies and over time they get baked into the story, changing things ever so slightly. Until eventually, the memory and the event are so far apart that the thing we remember, never even happened,” Sorros said. Or maybe they just want to be certain we don’t wander off.

  “That sounds like a problem for immortals,” Vincent said, getting the hang of having two conversations at once. Trapped and not wandering off are the same thing.

  “The problem is more pronounced in immortals,” Sorros said. “I once had dinner with two men I swear I fought alongside a very long time ago. One of them claimed we fought as enemies, and the other claimed never to have seen either of us before.” Sorros started to walk along the long room, and Vincent followed.

  “Maybe your dinner companions were both lying to you,” Vincent said.

  “Maybe, or maybe they both just forgot. Or maybe I forgot, and we really were enemies. Or maybe it was a combination of all three.”

  “Maybe,” Vincent said and rubbed his forehead. Keeping track of two conversations would be easier if we talked about less interesting things.

  You’d like me to be boring?

  Out loud, Vincent asked, “Do you think the Gods have the same problem keeping everything straight?” Then, If they were worried about Gordon’s cadre skimming they would have sent me away as well. They must know who I am.

  “It’s possible. Who knows what happens inside a God’s head,” Sorros said. Unless somebody changed the records so that instead of being Vincent d’Rhyne you’re Vincent Noland.

  Why would somebody do that?

  To make wandering off easier.

  “Does that explain immortals?” Vincent said.

  Looking confused for the first time, Sorros asked, “Pardon?”

  “The inability to talk straight. I can’t figure out if you and Fahlim are deliberately vague or if becoming immortal scrambled your brains so that you think you’re being clear and helpful when in reality you’re not. Perhaps every time you’re deliberately vague it builds up a pattern that gets reinforced, until eventually being vague seems like an appropriate way to communicate.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sorros sounded genuine. He turned his attention to the room around them and asked, “Do you know much about Turintarian architecture?”

  “It must be immortality,” Vincent said. “No, I don’t know anything about it.”

  Sorros took Vincent’s arm and led him toward the far end of the room.

  Necessity, Vincent. Security cameras are usually manned by AIs which are easy enough to fool, but there is always a chance a real human being might be watching and listening.

  “The palace is the oldest building in Turintar,” Sorros said. “Of course, the original building is little more than an outhouse on the north wing, but—”

  “I’m really not interested,” Vincent said. Tell me how you plan to use my talent.

  One minute. Be calm. We have time.

  “I’d like to show you something.” Sorros pointed at the wall along the back of the room.

  A series of arabesque tiles ran the length of the wall. Vincent had noticed them when they entered the room but paid them no attention. Frake’s Stronghold was full of similar artwork. Each tile contained an image and put together the tiles told a story. This set looked to be about the True Gods driving the Dragon Lords from Newterra. At Frake’s Peak, the tiles told the story of how Frake single-handedly defeated the Dragon Lords.

  Sorros steered Vincent to the corner of the room where the last tile concluded the story. “Delan, Turin’s first Chosen. Turin took a Chosen much later than the other True Gods.”

  “I know the story,” Vincent said. “Rhysin was the first of the True Gods to take a Chosen. Turin was the last. In Rhyne, people say it took Turin so long because the best Chosen was already taken.”

  Sorros said, “In Turintar they say it took so long because Delan and Turin haggled over the contract for years.”

  “Contract?” Vincent scoffed.

  “They’re merchants,” Sorros said with a shrug. “Of course, the people of Rhyne and Turintar are both wrong. It took so long because Turin is sly and it took Delan years to find him.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Turin chose Delan.”

  Sorros stepped into the corner and pointed at one of two figures depicted on the tile. One tall and upright, his left arm held aloft victoriously with a God’s heart emblazoned on his wrist. The other figure knelt with his back to the viewer.

  “Delan,” Sorros said as he tapped the tile. “Perspective is a funny thing. Viewed one way with one set of preconceived ideas these tiles tell one story, viewed another way with a different set of preconceived ideas, the story is entirely different.”

  Intrigued, Vincent stepped forward to examine the tile.

  “This figure here,” Sorros pointed at the kneeling figure.

  “A Dragon Lord,” Vincent said. Art from the beginning of the True Gods’ reign followed a familiar pattern. The True Gods elevated a mortal champion who with their help, evicted the Dragon Lords from Newterra. Vincent had seen it so often he didn’t even really need to look at the tiles to know what they showed.

  “The Dragon Lord in this set is Sah Torvan,” Sorros said.

  Vincent wandered down the wall to examine the Dragon Lord. There were three figures in all the tiles except the last one. All of the figures were carved the same way with only one distinguishing feature to mark them apart from each other. Torvan always rode his dragon. Turin was depicted with lines radiating out from him. Delan always had the bracelet on his left wrist, though it wasn’t until the last tile that the bracelet contained Turin’s heart and lines radiated out from it.

  “Torvan is defeated here.” Sorros tapped the penultimate tile. He turned to the final tile and the figure kneeling before Delan. “The Dragon Lords never submitted. They were given the chance, but they refused to kneel to Newterrans, Chosen, or True God.”

  “Artistic license,” Vincent said looking at the two figures in the final tile. “A vanquished foe must submit, even if it’s only in the history books.”

  As a child, Vincent had questioned the histories depicted at Frake’s Peak, as an adult he was more inclined to blame the inconsistencies on the artist’s laziness or the ulterior motives of the person commissioning the art.

  “That would explain it,” Sorros said. Silently, he said, We’re in a blind spot. The cameras can’t see us.

  Vincent looked up. They were directly below one of the cameras.

  So?

  In sixty seconds there will be a brief power outage. The cameras will cut out, and we will skim through this wall into another room.

  Vincent deliberately wandered back into the camera’s line of sight. “How do you explain the story? Why is Turin missing from the final tile?”

  Vincent, please. Forty seconds.

  Vincent approached the tile and looked again. The kneeling figure might have been any one of the people from the story: Delan Chi’Turin Chosen, Sah Torvan the Dragon Lord, or Turin the True God. None of the distinguishing marks that had been used in the other tiles were present.

  Twenty seconds.

  Vincent examined the tile again. The only person the kneeling figure couldn’t be was the Chosen, Delan, because he stood in front of the kneeler.

  Five seconds.

  Vincent gritted his teeth and went back into the blind-spot. He grabbed Sorros’s arm. An instant later the lights went out and he skimmed through the wall. He couldn’t see where they were. He listened intently but couldn’t hear anything. The lights came back on. Vincent scanned the room, prepared for trouble, but they were alone. The room they were in was a storage area with crates and boxes and disused furniture.

  “Won’t they be suspicious about the blackout?” Vincent asked.

  “Yes, but we have to risk it,” Sorros said.

  “How did you know tha
t would happen?”

  “It was arranged. Come on.” Sorros crossed the room and pressed an ear against the far wall.

  “What about Turin and Delan? Was that Sah Torvan kneeling in front of Delan or wasn’t it?”

  Sorros looked at him from where he leaned against the wall. “What do you think?”

  Vincent didn’t know. Was this just an immortal’s trick. A diversion to pass the time, twisting the truth for his own amusement. “I think you had an ulterior motive for telling me that story.”

  Is it that obvious? Vincent wondered. Can everybody who came on this damn trip see it. Obdurin wants me to take a God’s heart. I won’t do it. Sorros needn’t have bothered with his story.

  “Why did you tell me all of that?” Vincent asked.

  “I needed a pretext to get you to stand in the blind-spot,” Sorros said.

  “You’re like them,” Vincent gestured over his shoulder at the conference room they had just left. “They all think I’m connected to a God because my father was Lord Benshi. They all think I’ll take a God’s heart if I get the chance.”

  “Will you?”

  Vincent shook his head. “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?” Vincent asked.

  “Yes. The Gods are not what they seem. The more people understand that and resist them the better.”

  Annoyed and looking for a way to channel his frustration Vincent demanded, “Why bother with the blackout if there was a blind-spot in the room?”

  “We need to skim through this wall. We don’t have a lot of time,” Sorros said. “I’ve answered enough questions for now.”

  “You’ve got all the time in the world,” Vincent said.

  “Lord Obdurin doesn’t,” Sorros said.

  Vincent didn’t move.

  Sorros exhaled, and the lines of his body softened. “I’m sorry. The blackout was a distraction. By moving into the blind-spot just before the blackout, we should have tricked the AI that was tracking us. There’s a bug in the security AI’s software—“

  “A bug?” Vincent asked.

  “A single line of code. It looks like it does one thing, which it does do, but after a blackout of more than ten seconds and less than a minute, it causes the AI to lose track of the objects it’s tracking.”

  “It must have a fallback,” Vincent said.

  “It does. It compares the current footage from the cameras with the last frame from before the blackout. As we were in the blind-spot, it won’t know we were there.”

  Vincent thought about that. “How do you know about the bug?”

  “Because I put it there.”

  “How will we get back in?”

  Sorros smiled. “We’ll cause another blackout. We need to skim through this wall.”

  Vincent still didn’t move. “Why?”

  “We really don’t have a lot of time.”

  “I don’t even know you,” Vincent said. “We’re playing a high-stakes game, and for all I know I am helping you betray Lord Obdurin.”

  “I saved Lord Obdurin this morning,” Sorros said. “If the plan was to kill him I could have done it twice by now.”

  “Perhaps just killing him doesn’t get you what you want. Tell me what you what. Why are you doing any of this?”

  “We don’t have time, Vincent. Later I will tell you anything you need to know.”

  Vincent nodded. “Okay. I’ll tell you why I’m here. Lord Obdurin saved me. He gave me a life I never could have had if my father had lived. There was a woman. Kilara. I loved her very much, but I hid it from everybody when my father was alive. If he’d learned about her, he would have used her against me. When he died I married her, and we had a baby girl together, and for six years before the Cleansing we were happy. Obdurin saved my father too. I think Lord Benshi could have been a good man instead of an angry tyrant if he hadn’t taken Rhysin’s heart. I don’t remember much before he became Lord of Rhyne. I was just a child, and he was still intense, but I remember his laugh. As a child, before Rhysin, I loved his laugh more than anything in the world. After he’d taken Rhysin’s heart, his laugh turned cruel. Rhysin corrupted him.

  “I came here today to repay my debt to Lord Obdurin, but now I wonder if Rhysin corrupted my father, what has he done to Obdurin? I’m starting to ask myself if it wouldn’t be better just to leave. Leave the Chosen to their games. Be done with them and their Gods. Leave you to your games too.”

  “Obdurin isn’t like the other Chosen,” Sorros said.

  “Go on.”

  “You’re right. The Gods corrupt the Chosen. When they take a God’s heart and place it on their wrist they are bound as surely as any cadre of bondsan, but the bond to a God goes deep and they are changed by it. They become more like the God they are bound to, and they set about playing their God’s game.”

  “So why help one of them?”

  “The Gods have been playing with Newterra for a long time. I’ve fought them and the Dragon Lords. They need to be stopped.”

  Vincent repeated his question, “So why help one of them?”

  “Because Lord Obdurin isn’t playing the game the Gods think he’s playing.”

  “He told you that?”

  “No, of course not. How could he? If he tells anybody, Rhysin will hear. Obdurin’s cursed, he can never tell anybody what he’s up to. People must always believe he serves Rhysin completely. The minute people stop believing that, he’s doomed.”

  “Then how do you know?” Vincent asked.

  “Like I said this morning, I’ve been watching.”

  Vincent said, “So you don’t really know? Obdurin might be playing a different type of game. His aspect is different to Benshi’s. Perhaps he is just a subtle tyrant who is better at using people than the others. Maybe now that there are fewer people after the Cleansing, the Chosen have to get better at using us in their Gods’ games, and Obdurin is just ahead of the curve.”

  Sorros conceded, “Perhaps.”

  “He is using all of us to get what he wants today.”

  “And what do you think he wants?” Sorros asked.

  “I don’t know. I thought I did, but Fahlim—”

  “Ah. Immortals have their games just like the Chosen. In many ways, they are worse. Be sure that any doubts you have are your own.”

  “You’re immortal.”

  “Yes, I am. Now, can you help me get through this wall?”

  Vincent nodded. “How far?

  “Just to the other side. We’re expected, so it will be clear.”

  Vincent had more questions, but he was tired of asking them. He gripped Sorros’s left arm and skimmed through the wall.

  13

  The Varied Paths to Peace

  Peace? Obdurin asked himself again. Is it possible two brutes like Warwick and Rarick can establish and hold peace?

  The answer eluded him. It seemed like a contradiction, but many truths did until they were viewed from the correct angle.

  He’d been so confident in his actions and so certain of his intent when he left Frake’s Peak earlier that morning.

  I hold a God’s heart. I shall fear no man. The mantra had lost some of its resonance.

  Peace? Is the answer this simple? Give Rhysin’s heart to Warwick. Will it work? Can it work?

  Warwick’s assertion that Rhysin was compelling Obdurin had left him shaken. It was entirely possible.

  Is it true, Rhysin? Is this what you want?

  The God Obdurin was bound to, did not answer his questions.

  Rhysin?

  Obdurin could, of course, still feel Rhysin through the stone on his wrist. Rhysin’s presence never truly left him. Even when the God’s attention was elsewhere Obdurin felt him at the back of his mind, the slither of a sleeping snake’s coils shifting, but it was rare that the God didn’t answer him. The bond between them was not trivial.

  Does he choose not to answer or is he unable to? Am I too far away? Obdurin couldn’t know.

  Rhysin had spoken to
Obdurin once during the battle in the throne room. Do not leave Turintar, was all the God had said.

  Rhysin! Obdurin called silently in his mind, but the God still did not answer.

  Obdurin glanced at Doran. Was it her? Was Rhysin only able to communicate with me because she took us into another realm?

  He dismissed the question. It wasn’t important now.

  Peace? He tried to chase the thought down. He’d never had trouble focusing on problems in the past. It was simply a matter of paring everything back and shutting out distractions to get to the central question, but even that eluded him today. Was the central question whether or not Rarick and Warwick could achieve peace, or whether or not Obdurin himself was in the way of peace. Will it work? Are all of my plans unnecessary? Am I in the way of peace?

  Is it arrogance to believe I must be the one who reshapes the world?

  The lights went out, and the conference room was completely dark. Obdurin tensed. From which direction will the blade come and who will hold it?

  The seconds dragged out, but nothing happened.

  Obdurin told himself, It will happen one day, but who will hold the blade? One of my enemies? A trusted lieutenant grown jaded? A fortune seeker or an adventurer?

  He glanced around the conference room at his companions. Will it be one of them?

  Vincent d’Rhyne, his predecessor’s son, was not where he had been. Obdurin searched the room for him, but he wasn’t there. The center of his back itched, and he turned slowly, expecting to see Vincent approaching, knife in hand, but Vincent wasn’t there either.

  Gone then.

  He’d known Vincent might not serve as truly as he claimed, but Obdurin hadn’t expected him to balk, if balk he would, until he went to Damar with Walden and by then it would be too late.

  Events in Turintar had taken an unexpected turn and forced everybody to take a closer look at their motives.

  Obdurin glanced around the room again, and this time he noticed Sorros d’Shan was also missing. He cataloged the possibilities: they’ve both abandoned me, they left together or separately, they’re working in my favor, they’re working with Valan.

  Obdurin stopped pacing, pressed his hands together and touched the index fingers to his lips.