Halfstone: A Tale of the Narathlands (18 page)

13

THE SYNOD’S
SANCTUARY

The outer wall of the city loomed forebodingly. He had long
remembered it as a wondrous spectacle, but now he felt only dread for what
might lie beyond. How ruthless had Malath and his followers been?

After having travelled along Old Capital Road for the entirety of
the way here, Jon now veered off. He did not wish to be seen approaching the
main gate. Though there was no sign that it was guarded, he couldn’t take any
chances. Aeras could be stationed there, or lurking nearby. He had to enter the
city different way. He dismounted at a farmer’s stables then continued on foot
across fields to the base of the wall, a few hundred paces from the gate. After
a quick glance to ensure no one was about, he drew his staff and touched it
against the rough stone. He closed his eyes and summoned his storm. It coursed
within him and began to flow with ease. He felt wafts of heat as the stone
began to melt before him. Slowly, it ran like honey to the ground. Soon a dark
street came into view.

When the fissure was large enough to fit through, Jon cooled the
stone, stooped and cautiously made his way to the other side. He peered around.
This street he remembered well. An old friend had once resided in the lodging
ahead of him. He looked for signs of occupancy but there was no light beyond
the windows. A number of the surrounding dwelling’s windows were lit but fewer
than was comforting. People feared that promoting their presence would provoke
invasion. The city was grasped by a silent unease. With his staff at the ready,
Jon proceeded up the street.

Before he reached the grand marketplace, he made a right turn onto
a narrow walkway which led between stores to the sprawling Nobelia district.
Its prim streets would see him to the steps of the Synod’s tower. Sinin had
said that last he knew, Devéna and fellow members of the Synod were taking
refuge in the sanctuary of the tower’s tallest turret. He must reach it. He
needed to know that they were safe, that they were strong and ready to confront
Malath.

Jon arrived at the tower in due course, having passed only two
citizens on his way, both of whom had eyed his staff warily and let him go by
without words. No doubt they feared he was one of Malath’s cowardly followers.
This was good—it meant that they would be less inclined to pronounce his
presence. His anonymity was invaluable.

The tower stood as tall and magnificent as ever it had, though its
prestige was marred by the corpses of two sentries outside the entrance. They
must have lain there for days; a foul whiff hung in the air. Squinting up, Jon
saw light emanating from a window somewhere at the summit of the tower. He was
cautiously hopeful. Somebody was up there.

As his gaze fell, an ever-so-slight movement in the darkness of a
nearby street seized his attention. He froze. The beast’s eyes gave it away. It
was a ka-zchen. He turned, as calmly as he could, to face it. It was crouched
low, slinking silently toward him—a shadow in the shadows. In the instant Jon
lifted his staff, the beast leaped at him. Though it came down upon him with
tremendous speed and strength, the beast’s claws fell short of their target.
His warding wall was unyielding. It reeled back, scowling. Jon seized this
brief moment of reprieve to wield a shard of ice at the head of his staff.
While the beast braced itself for a second attack he sent the shard hurtling
through its thick skull.

The ka-zchen collapsed to the ground, dead. Jon stooped and took a
succession of deep breaths. As brief as the battle was, it had almost been too
much for him. Many years had passed since he last strayed upon one of those
vile creatures. Its presence in this city he recalled as vibrant and peaceable
was most unsettling.

After lingering a moment to be sure the confrontation hadn’t
alerted any other nearby enemies to his presence, Jon proceeded up the steps
into the tower. The golden antechamber was dim and deserted, as was the
stairwell. The many candles that lined the circular walls were unlit. Signs of
disruption were all around. Large book cases and parchment cabinets had been
toppled. Various ornaments lay strewn across the ground. The most prominent
wall paintings had been either slashed or burnt where they hung.

With his staff before him, Jon cautiously began to climb the
twisting maroon stairs. It would be foolish to presume no one skulked in the
shadows above, waiting to strike. This proved not to be the case, however. Soon
enough he had reached the Chamber of Deliberation. He paused and took several
more deep breaths. The stairs had almost bested him too. His back ached
terribly.

The door to the chamber was slightly ajar. After healing himself, Jon
pushed it open from afar. It creaked loudly. He froze, fearing he had
compromised his position. Nothing stirred. He kindled a flame and went forth.
In front of him, the lelylan-wood chairs of the elder wielders’ stood empty.
Upon the carpet at their feet, bodies lay. There were three, all of them
wrapped in drapery from the wall. Jon felt fury take him. Malath was to pay for
this villainy!

It was a small comfort knowing some caring soul had sought to rest
the bodies in what respectable way they could.

He had to go on. The sanctuary was one level higher. He made
toward a small stairwell which led to it but found a warding enchantment
blocking his way. This was an encouraging sign.

“Devéna, are you up there?” he called out.

There was a moment of silence before a stern male voice replied.
“Who approaches?”

“My name is Jon. I have come to assist the Synod.”

There was another pause, then shuffling. Jon found he was now free
to proceed. Smears of blood stained the indigo stairs, diminishing his optimism.

“That is quite far enough.” A tall, willowy wielder stood at the
head of the stairs, brandishing a staff.

Jon stopped and coolly lay down his own. “Peace, friend. I am on
your side. I am no follower of Malath the Wicked’s.”

The wielder cautiously lowered his staff and stepped aside. “Very
well. You may enter our sanctuary… unarmed.”

“So be it.” Jon left his staff on the stairs and continued.

As he walked through the doorway, Jon was glowered at through
large, round spectacles. He recognised the face from many years ago but could
not recall a name.

The sanctuary appeared before him as a lord’s living quarters. To
the left was a roaring fire, set in a wall of polished marble. Before this was
a spacious seating area of the most eloquent armchairs and daybeds. The pelt of
a ka-zchen lay sprawled on the ground at their feet. Ahead of him was a grand
dining table, upon which were many empty wine bottles and platters of half-consumed
roast meals.

Jon’s eyes fell upon two figures at the far end of the table. One
of them was Devéna. She was safe. He felt a heavy weight lift from his chest.

“Devéna, dearest.” He strode to her with open arms.

Her companion swiftly stood and blocked his way. “Who are you?”

“It is all right, Frade,” said Devéna, rising. “Jon here is a long
lost friend to us all.” She looked upon Jon warmly and opened her own arms. “Oh
Jon, how many years has it been?”

They embraced.

“Many more than too many,” he replied, holding her close. Her body
felt frailer than he remembered. Of course, it would have been foolish to
expect otherwise; her hair was greying when last he saw her, all those years
ago.

“Are you well?” he queried. “I saw blood on the stairs and feared
the worst.”

“I am fine.” Devéna gestured to the tall wielder who remained by
the door, watching him. “Ferven was wounded when Malath visited last week but
is healed now.”

“Malath.” Jon gritted his teeth. “What he has done is unspeakable.
I travelled here with haste.”

Devéna smiled.

“We are thankful,” she said, gazing upon him. “It seems news does
not escape you, even far south in your remote dwelling.”

“Aeras brought with them a first-hand account of his presence in
Galdrem.”

Devéna looked puzzled. “Aeras?”

“Yes—come for young Aldrick.”

Her eyes brightened. “Isobel and Gilthred’s child! It is splendid
to hear he is guarded. I had feared the aeras would not find him.”

“Am I to suppose you have news of this wielder, then?” inquired
Ferven. “Has he accompanied you here?”

“No, he…” Jon paused. Not everyone here he knew, or trusted.
“Young Aldrick is attending to matters,” he said tersely. “He may come or he
may not. I would not pressure him.”

Ferven glared at him. “Are you mad?! You should not have offered
him choice when his ability is paramount for any hope of victory. This should
have been overseen by one more competent than yourself.”

Now Jon was mad. “You speak as if you stand in Devéna’s stead. You
speak as if you are the Reverend Wielder!”

Ferven’s glare turned into an acutely smug smile. “Actually, I
am.”

Jon turned to Devéna in disbelief. “What? Him? He is the Reverend
now?!”

Devéna nodded. “Yes, I have long since given up the title. Ferven
was my obvious replacement. He is a most distinguished member of the Synod.”

Jon rounded on Ferven. “Much of this makes sense to me now. It was
your decision to barricade yourselves in this sanctuary. Tell me, how many days
have you been here, letting evil skulk through your city? You should be
ashamed!”

“It was hardly my decision,” Ferven retorted. “It is written in
the old scripture that the elder wielders are to remain here in the event of
such ruinous circumstance…”

“And do nothing?! Would you stand idle and see the world collapse
around you?”

“No, I would not. I have been spending time diligently considering
the most appropriate course of action.”

Jon flung his hands in the air. “Oh, so that’s what you’ve been
doing all this time—considering things! Do you not realise that the
only
reason you still breathe is because Malath hopes you will align yourselves with
him?” He pointed a finger at Ferven’s staff. “Your little warding enchantment
would not have stopped him entering this sanctuary had he wished you dead.” He
heaved a sigh. “I am afraid Malath is playing a very devious trick on you, and
you are playing straight back into his hands.”

Ferven didn’t offer a reply. His jaw was firm, his nostrils
flared. Jon didn’t care for what the fool was thinking, so long as he had
absorbed some small sum of reason.

“What is it you think we should do?” Devéna asked Jon calmly.

“I think we must face Malath—gather whatever strength we have and
storm Delthendra. We must use this time for retaliation, before it is too late.”

Ferven began to laugh.

“Face Malath!” he exclaimed. “You wish death to befall us all,
don’t you wielder?!”

“No, I simply wish for those who have the power to do something,
to do so.” Jon strolled to the window and looked down at the city below. Death
and despair would soak its streets if nothing was done soon. Truthfully, he
hoped Aldrick would abandon all plans to confront Malath, whether he had found
the Halfstone or not. It wasn’t his responsibility. It was the Synod’s… it was
his own.

Jon turned. “I am going to Delthendra tonight, with or without
your aid.”

“Jon.” Devéna came to him and seized his hand.

He looked upon her with affection. “What else is there to do?”

She stared into his eyes for a moment, then sighed and rested her
forehead against him.

“I will accompany you,” said Frade, rising from an armchair. “I
have been held up here too long, and not for any good reason.”

Jon nodded. “I appreciate it.”

Ferven was fuming.

“Fine!” he snapped. “Go with this wayward wielder if you wish, but
you won’t be welcome back. This sanctuary is for those who want to live.”

Jon ignored Ferven’s words.

“What will you do?” he asked Devéna. “If you wish it, you should
flee this city and take with you those you hold dear.”

She shook her head. “No, I will follow you, Jon. You were always
wise and I think you are quite right—we should use the time we have to fight
back, not hide. Tonight may well be our last opportunity to do so.”

“Very well,” said Jon. “We must leave right away. Do not forget
your staffs.”

Ferven watched them with a deadly frown as they walked past him.
There were no words of farewell. It was apparent that Devéna and Frade had also
resented the Reverend Wielder’s handling of this calamity, though they had
refrained from expressing it. They were relieved to now be turning their backs
to him. There was no rejoicing as they made their way down the tower, however.
Devéna shed tears over the bodies which lay in the chamber. It was she who had
covered them. One was her younger brother. Ferven had declined a traditional
burial as it would have required them to leave the tower.