Faith Of The Dragon Tamer (Book 2) Page 4

  “How did you know what I needed before I asked?”

  “What would compel a king to come alone, in the dark, dressed as a beggar, other than something as mystical as magic?” Ramie heard the smile on Presario’s lips. He smiled himself. What else indeed?

  Ramie opened the book. A shade of a figure only a finger’s length in height leapt from the pages. Ramie bounded back a step.

  “You’ve opened the patoi of the Quy,” the figure said with balmy smoothness. The accent was so eccentric Ramie had to concentrate to make out the words. “I’m Omar, First Calvet and founder of the Alcazar. I’ll be your guide. Before you turn to the beginning I need to cover the rules.

  “First, you must not turn a page until mastery of the emotional weave held therein. Proceeding onward is dangerous and insensate. If you disobey this rule the patoi will know and it will lock itself from you forever. Second, don’t let this be a teacher to those of lesser knowledge. Warnings aren’t given, only what needs to be done to culminate the emotional weave. It’s for one of long learning and study.”

  The small figure smiled and cocked his head to one side. Ramie could feel the humility and love emanating from the mien, but he also felt power. His mind tingled. He took another step back.

  A troubled expression crossed Omar’s features. The small specter rubbed his chin and hovered to Ramie. Ramie remained frozen in place as Omar tapped his nose.

  “Not of Calvet quality.”

  Ramie blinked at Omar’s statement. Presario’s wry laughter rose from the chair. Ramie was too flustered to be irritated, but his anger took residence just below his startlement.

  Omar tapped Ramie’s nose again. His brows drew down over sharp hazel eyes. “State your lineage.”

  Presario spoke before Ramie could reply. “Omar, he’s the one I spoke to you about. He’s the king.”

  The specter turned to the chair. If it was possible, its frown deepened. “No, Presario. This can’t be allowed. There is too much anger in him. He’ll try to learn too quickly.” Omar’s eyes wavered back to Ramie. “He’ll close the book for his generation.”

  Ramie drew in a breath. When Omar said the book would be locked from him forever he hadn’t realized it would be locked away for as long as he lived. Once again he felt humiliation. It had crossed his mind to read a page and keep passing it to another, then another, until the entire book was read, in order to expedite the learning process.

  Omar read the verity of Ramie’s thoughts and snorted. “I don’t choose to go with him.”

  “You have no choice, Omar. You’re the words in the book. The Alcazar no longer exists. There’s no Calvet to pass you to. I own you. I bequeath you to the king.”

  Omar’s sharp hazel eyes regarded Ramie once again before releasing another snort. The minuscule figure twisted in the air, hovered back to the book, and dissipated over the pages. The leather cover closed with an acute slap.

  Ramie stood stunned. Had Omar rejected him? No, Omar hadn’t rejected him. Omar just wasn’t happy Presario had given him the patoi.

  He stepped back to the book. It was cold now, not tingling with the warmth he had felt before. He thought of what Omar had said. He would have to keep his anger at bay. There was no one else he could trust with the book. He would just have to master one page before he went on to the next.

  The thought was almost jocular. Patience wasn’t something he possessed. He knew he would soon close the book to his generation. Although his impatience was a weakness, that weakness made him a good king. He would stand for neither idling nor delay.

  Ramie felt his one ray of hope wink out. Whom could he trust to use the book with swiftness as well as patience? The etching on the cover seemed to mock him. A familiar snort came from inside. He refrained from opening the book and strangling the little mite within. If the book was aware why couldn’t it just keep him from turning to the second page if he hadn’t mastered the first? Why did it have to close itself to him, to his generation?

  When he turned to ask Presario, he froze in place. A piece of wood drifted through the air to replenish the fire.

  As the implications manifested, Ramie stepped toward the chair. “Presario, you have the Quy. You heard what Omar said. You already know the book. You’ve read it from cover to cover before magic was alive to awaken its specter. You could come with me and teach my men far more quickly than I. Presario, I can’t stall any longer. Many people are crossing the border against my command. The longer I delay the more powerful she’ll become.

  “You already know the Quy. You’re the only one in the Lands who has studied it for years, who’s read the words from generations of Calvets. Please, Presario, help me train my men. Help me liberate Newlan from the threat that could soon consume us all.”

  His supplication sounded strange to him. He had never pleaded with anyone in his life, but it took all he had to remain standing and not get down on his knees to beg. The music droned on, the fire crackled and popped, but no reply came.

  When Presario’s cynical laughter finally wafted through the air, it sounded as if he had repressed it for some time. “My king, surely you jest. You knew my answer before you asked the question. I intend no disrespect, but I am where I am and this is where I’ll stay.”

  Ramie knew he was about fight a losing battle, but he had to try. “Presario, please. The book will give us some knowledge but learning won’t come fast enough to defeat Ista. We’ll be dead men, fighting a battle we can’t win. You’re the only one I can trust. You’re the only one who can give me the edge I need.”

  “No, only the Chosen can do that. I’m a grain of sand compared to him. He’s the mountain, not I.”

  “But one grain of sand can tip the scales,” Ramie said. “One grain of sand can cause a blister to form on the foot of a monster. One grain of sand in the right position can make or break a battle because one grain of sand can help the one man who can make a difference.”

  “I’m not that grain of sand.”

  Ramie’s temper flared. Didn’t Presario understand the Lands were at stake, that his own precious stronghold would be subject to Ista’s rule? Was Presario so egocentric that he would turn his back on humanity?

  Ramie exploded. “You’ve wallowed in self-pity and denial for years! Can’t you see the world is now in need of your knowledge? Will you allow innocents to die in this war when you have the unique opportunity to save them?

  “You’re well-known throughout the Lands, not for your shard castle or your deformity, but for your knowledge.” Ramie trembled so violently his vision blurred. He put his fingers to the bridge of his nose and took a breath, trying to calm. “You need to put the past behind you and go on as my brother has. Nigel may die in the process, but that won’t stop him from helping the Lands.

  “What about you, Presario? Will you sit in your haven and never see daylight again, never see the smile of a child, never feel the love of another human being, never feel the joy of witnessing how your intellect has saved thousands around you? If that’s what you choose then you truly disgust me. Is your appearance so important you’ll put it in front of countless lives? Are you vain enough to think it matters?”

  Ramie was about to say more when Presario rose from the chair. The firelight cast his body in shadow, shielding his features from view. Presario was a large man, much larger than Ramie had first imagined, and if the fire had burned him, it hadn’t weakened him. As Presario approached his appearance began to manifest.

  The skin outside his long brown robe was fraught with ridges and crevasses, like a pot of boiling water that had never cooled. One eye was seared completely shut, the skin dripping down to cover the fissure for eternity. The other eye was the piercing blue Ramie had seen in the picture, but there was none of the winsomeness left, only profound sorrow, anguish, and currently, rage.

  Although Presario was broad, he was bone thin, and the scant hair growing on the motley skull was just a reminder of his former self. Ramie wasn’t prepared for the sight, but
he didn’t recoil. If he balked Presario would never again allow another near him.

  “Would you ask me to do as you say now, my king?” The smooth voice sounded strange coming from the molten face, but Ramie didn’t turn. Instead, he stepped closer.

  “Yes, I would. I place no emphasis on beauty. You’re the only one who can help me defeat a woman I know to be sinister. You’ve said my heart is true. If it is, you know I’m right. How can you deny me your intellect when you know good and well I’ll fail without it!”

  “Control your anger, my king,” Presario hissed. “It will be the end of you. I have foreseen it.”

  “So you claim to be a seer, Presario? A seer? And still you choose to wallow in the dark and shun the world?” Ramie threw up his hands and stalked to the door. Enough of Presario and his demented mind!

  He stopped with his hand on the knob. When he spoke his voice was a harsh whisper. “A seer is no seer if he isn’t seen. A prophecy is no prophecy if it isn’t read. You’re a sorry excuse of a seer if that’s what you claim to be. You’re just a deformed man who will never be whole.”

  Ramie withdrew the statue from his pocket and placed it on the bookshelf beside him. It was the reason he had come. It was only a small relic of his father, but it meant more to him than all the gold in the Lands. All the lessons his father had given had always ended with him holding up the statue, challenging him to be the face on the right, beautiful and pure.

  Ramie knew part of him had become the face on the left. He had failed his brother, and he had failed in other areas he was unwilling to admit. Presario saw through some of those, and perhaps Presario’s understanding was the reason Ramie felt so disturbed. The one who lectured on actions and judgments hid behind a mask, using it as an excuse to disregard what the Maker had bestowed on him.

  All anger drained away. Ramie didn’t understand Presario’s actions, but he couldn’t condemn Presario for them. Presario was a man who had been burned both emotionally and physically. Although Ramie didn’t know the reason, he did know Presario only injured himself by denying himself life.

  Ramie traced the statue with his finger. “My father left me this statue when he died. I’ve cherished it because of what my father used to say. He said we needed to strive to be the man of beauty and not the man of deformity. He said with every action we need to reach for excellence. When I was young, I heard about the fire in Mintree and how a young man destined for greatness was burned beyond recognition. The same day my father gave us a lecture about being the man on the right. I asked in childlike stupidity if you were the man on the left. My father looked at me and said, ‘No, son, that man is more beautiful than even the one on the right. You’ll see. He’ll be one to admire for years to come.’”

  Ramie opened the door and walked down the corridor, shoving past Arri who was standing watch. When he reached the main passage, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he looked into Arri’s uncanny white eyes. Arri waved him onward as he glanced back down the hall as if he could see. A familiar chill passed down Ramie’s spine as he followed Arri to the main door.

  White eyes regarded him. “Thank you for telling him what you did. I’m in your debt. He’s truly a beautiful man, my king. He just won’t allow himself to be. There’s much pain in him, even now.”

  “Why so long?” Ramie asked, concerned he had left Presario with ill words. Although he felt Presario was wrong he didn’t like to burn bridges.

  The old man looked toward the charred cavity of the castle. “The night of the fire he had returned home from the Advisor Covenant to choose where he would serve. He found his mother in tears, entreating his father to stop seeing his mistresses.”

  Ramie already feared where the story would lead. At one time it was perfectly acceptable for men of influence to have concubines. Now only kings were allowed to give in to their dalliances, and sometimes even kings were shunned if an illegitimate child was born. Affairs still happened but all were kept well hidden for Oldan law frowned on such promiscuity. If a man was caught in the act his wife could take half his possessions. If a woman was caught the husband could discard her and strip her of everything she owned. Most women were forced to prostitution afterwards, which was how many of the harlot houses had begun in the first place.

  Arri continued. “Presario’s mother was one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing, and her love for his father was unbounded. All thought he matched her love. That wasn’t the case.

  “A year before Presario’s return she was thrown by a horse. Her ankle caught the stirrup and the horse inadvertently crushed her jaw and shattered one of her legs. Her beauty was marred and Presario’s father rejected her, fulfilling his desires with other women.”

  Ramie closed his eyes. It was the one excuse for a man to seek pleasure elsewhere. If a woman’s beauty was damaged it would be lawful for him to have others. Ramie vowed to change that law.

  “When Presario came home he overheard his parents arguing: his mother imploring his father to love her, his father refusing to listen. Presario’s father quoted the law, saying it gave him the right to deny her, to choose others to satisfy his needs. It was only right, he argued. She was now a cripple and not as she had once been, not the same person he had married.”

  Arri sighed, white eyes filling with memories. “You should have seen Presario, my king. He was blinded by rage. He burst through the door and yelled at his father. Words turned into shoves and soon a torch was overturned. A tapestry covering an entire wall ignited like dry grass and began to fall. Presario’s mother was directly underneath and her leg didn’t allow her to move without assistance. Presario dove, covering his mother’s body and taking the flames. Only after he had broken a window and hurled her to safely did he douse those flames.

  “Presario could have followed his mother out the window. Although he was burnt he wasn’t as he is now, but a beam fell on me.” Arri shook his head as if he wanted to die. “The boy jumped through a wall of fire to save me. While his own clothes were burning he pushed me out the nearest window, saving me from greater harm. That was when the house seemed to ignite on its own accord. The fire swept the bowels, collapsing the inner shell and trapping Presario.

  “When we found him it was almost too late.”

  The old man’s voice broke. Ramie put a hand on his shoulder, trying to give what little comfort he could. Now he understood why Presario tested every man who came through the city.

  “What of his mother?”

  Arri blinked as if confused as to who stood before him. When a flash of remembrance crossed his features he herded Ramie out the door.

  “When she heard her husband was dead and her son trapped in the flames she took her own life.”

  Ramie’s breath caught. Presario had said his anger had led to destruction. Presario and Nigel were very similar creatures indeed. Nigel blamed himself for the deaths of Sherri and Megglan. Presario lived with the weight of his parents’ deaths.

  The door began to close but Ramie stopped it with his hand. Somehow, he had to convey his sympathy.

  “I’m sorry,” Ramie said. “That’s why you’re blind?”

  Arri straightened, eyes wide. “Oh no. I’m blind because Presario wanted no one to see him. I burnt my own eyes long after the fire so Presario would let me serve him.”

  Ramie was stunned enough to release his hold on the door. It closed, iron hinges fastening from the inside. Ramie banged on the door, pleading with Arri to let him speak to Presario one last time.

  He was desperate. He didn’t want to leave Presario without some token of understanding, without telling him he would change the law. But Arri didn’t answer, and soon Ramie knew it was futile.

  Ramie started down the stairs. When he reached the fence he turned and glanced up at the window. The curtains were parted. A small flicker of firelight glimmered in the pane. Heartbeats later the curtains dropped, betraying a shadow that quickly turned away.

  Chapter 3

 
Ren stumbled down the steps as the Oracle collapsed behind him. White dust and pieces of stone came at him from every direction. He shielded his eyes and dove for the nearby trees just as the Oracle’s edifice began to sway and the columns beneath it crumbled. With a paralyzed soul, Ren watched the complete destruction of the building before he collapsed on the ground.

  He wanted to rest but the commands of the Oracle kept twirling through his mind, condemning any hope of sleep.

  He grabbed a rock and threw it. It hit a nearby tree, nicking its bark. The light wound stood in stark contrast to the gray knots of the tree: light and dark, love and pain.

  As he thought about the charges before him, he shivered: kill his mother, deny his love, and destroy his soul.

  How could virtuous beings, lecturing of love and pain, ask him to do things bordering on the very emotion they had warned him against? He felt his anger begin to rekindle. He clung to it.

  The third element rose inside him like a deprived monster. It wasn’t a pure hate, a complete hate, but it was enough to shield him from the anguish, enough to shelter him from the torrent of agony that threatened to swallow him alive.

  He caressed his anger, forming it into a steep culmination inside his soul.

  Then he thought of the words written in the Oracle, the Quy’s enchanting song, and the two men he would have to become. He released the darkening corruption, recoiling as the pain rekindled.

  Light or dark, they said, one or the other. He wanted the light. He desperately wanted to help the Quy live in the light. He couldn’t allow hate to swallow him or the Lands would become darkness. What was it the Quy had said? Love was strong but the pain of love was stronger. She had also said the two together, love and love’s pain, could crush the darkness.

  But would the pain ever go away?

  He forced his body to move. Every muscle cried out for him to rest but he refused to heed the cries. He surveyed the rubble of the temple. It rose before him, mirroring his shattered heart. Ren ascended the pile of glimmering white stone, catching glimpses of words and occasional bits of paintings. Under one hollow he saw his face, or Barracus’ face, staring up at him. White dust coated his features, further blurring them into Barracus’ own. He looked at the painting without emotion. Why did it matter? The Oracle said he would become both men. There was no escaping that end.