Legend's Cipher: The Aegis Series, #4

By Rhobin Lee Courtright

Magic makes you different, makes others look upon you with suspicion. Many think those having such strangeness are dangerous, threatening, and also, somehow underserving of such a 'gift.'

What Bertok had not related when the bishop gave him this mission was his greatest, most buried secret—he possessed such an unnatural ability. Now, as a minstrel bard, he travels the four provinces of Kaereya, forced to use his magic against others to expose them, and hopefully, he will not be caught.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613090183

Book preview

Dedication

To Christopher, the only one in my family who can hold a tune.

One

Bertok sat across the table from three examiners, his hands clasped on the table in front of him, and wondered why he had been summoned to Vincenne University on Acolyte Island, the home of the head bishop of the Holy One’s church. Three clerics silently stared at him from the other side of the table. One chair remained empty.

This couldn’t be about any immoral activity, could it? Yes, they could find cause, but my carousing has never led to another’s harm, has it? Is this a tribunal? The thought of burning briefly terrified him, causing him to quickly regard the other men seated in the room. No, those types of illegal inquisitions stopped generations ago, didn’t they? Besides, he knew no secrets, and he tried whenever possible to avoid such awareness.

Bertok compressed his shoulders while he twisted his neck, cracking the bones to relieve his tension. What had he done? A complaint sent to the Bards’ Guild at Queen’s University could result in expulsion from the guild. That notion shook him. He had a dual calling as both storyteller and musician. What would he do? He loved being a bard; the work suited his wanderlust, and his talents. He didn’t want to labor in fields or be beholden to some shopkeeper, or worse, some aristo.

A few inescapable reflections exposed situations where his actions had been less than ethical. These situations arose mostly through mischance or miscalculation. He was not as pure in body and soul as the priests demanded, but surely none of his misdeeds rose to punishable offences? His only other secret he kept twisted tightly shut. How could they possibly know of that?

His short, well-worn leather jack felt buttoned, too tight even if only at the waist, and to unbutton it would be far too casual for whoever was coming to talk to him. Besides, the jack hid stains on his shirt he did not wish to expose, even if the shirt’s frayed cuffs escaped the end of his jack’s sleeves.

Unlike many bards, I claim no coat string relation to any aristo, and I look like what I am, a powerless itinerant bard—someone with no influence. Perhaps even a worthless sacrifice for some religious goal? He shivered.

The closely woven texture and slight sheen on the three examiners’ gray robes of common clerical service, while plain, displayed fine quality. Their cowls, arranged in careful folds around the clerks’ necks, probably kept the chill-laden drafts away while Bertok’s knees knocked with nervousness and the winter drafts chilling the room. The fireplace’s burnt offerings failed to warm the room to more than bearable cold.

His mind returned to his ponderings. Why was I called to the Bishop’s School? He had graduated from Queen’s College, so if he was to be disciplined for any incorrect language or behavior, would not the oral rhetoric professors of his own school handle the matter? Not the prelate’s teaching center? Did they know his secret? With applied effort he prevented himself from unseemly squirming in his seat, but the clasp of his hands grew tighter.

The leaded panes of the tall, arched windows let drab winter light filter into the paneled chamber and made the ancient walnut paneling appear all the darker. He wondered if the prelates preferred such somber surroundings. The click of the latch of the door drew his attention.

His eyes widened, and his mouth dried as His Eminence the Bishop entered. If he didn’t know the man’s face, he’d have never recognized him. The bishop also wore general clerk’s dress rather than the ornately rich robes of his office. Bishop Hedrick settled his ascetic’s frame in the empty chair across the table. His gaze settled on Bertok. His eyes were the most innocent blue Bertok had ever seen. The bishop smiled, gentleness lining his face.

Bard Bertok, it was kind of you to travel so far at my request.

Bertok hesitated, wondering what to reply, but took the safe route. Your holiness, I am at your service, only curious as to the reason for your request.

The bishop’s smile changed his austere expression to one of an ordinary man. That certainly eases my conscience. Before I embark on my reason for calling you hence, I would like to ask you a few questions.

Bertok nodded his agreement while his stomach boiled in tension.

Would you please tell me your knowledge of the Fall of the World?

Stunned, Bertok sat back in his seat. Bard College taught three semesters on the topic. There is so much...

The bishop waved his hand. Not every detail and date, just the basic facts as you know them.

Bertok swallowed, changing his position while his mind raced in thought. Clasping his hands on the table, he focused on his thumbnails. What few known facts told of the ancient world often contradicted with the church’s approved version of what happened. Am I about to be caught in a heresy trap? Be brief and general.

The truth of what you know, please, not what you’ve learned from religious dogma. The jibbing humor in the bishop’s voice drew Bertok’s attention. The man beneath the holy title’s blue eyesparkled, full of friendly humor. Bertok relaxed marginally.

The ancient world had fallen into chaos by the end of the Cataclysmic century. We do not know all the reasons, except many of the weapons and technologies practiced by the ancients changed the very world—and not for the better. What we’ve labeled the golden civilization ended with the loss of many of its great achievements in science and technology, weaponry, art, learning and law. Only fragmented information, forgotten languages, and demolished cities remain. All was lost; except somehow the ancients set the protectors in place, to stop mankind from practicing the prohibitions established before their world’s end. For generations, the protectors have enforced those bans. Today some believe the prohibitions are by the Holy One’s order. Others believe ancients placed these protections in place.

Does it matter? the bishop asked.

Taking a deep breath, Bertok answered honestly. No. Whatever the cause, retribution fell on those reckless or rash enough to use the forbidden technologies and weapons.

Rightly so—they led to the great civilization’s destruction, one of the three unnamed prelates said.

Such heresy from a prelate astonished Bertok.

Times have changed, Bard Bertok, the bishop said with a wave of his hand. Please continue by telling us what you know of Kaereya.

A little less tense, but no less wary, Bertok gave a very brief summation. Four provinces from the old world clung together through their common faith in the Holy One, who gave man numbers of revelation. Those four provinces, Wessure, Norsure, Easure, and Kennetsure, united under the name of their leader, Emanuel Kaereya, the first ruler.

True, the bishop said with a faint sigh. However, some things never disappear entirely, and others are taken for granted or vanish all together. Man seems to naturally contain lust and greed, feelings of rage and desire for vengeance. From history it appears the pursuit of power remains a constant in our existence. The Protectors no longer punish perpetrators. Perhaps they were a myth all these many centuries, but the remnants of long-lost knowledge often remain hidden until unforeseen abilities and afflictions passed from generation to generation in the very fiber of the body begin to reemerge.

You speak of the Aegis of Kaereya and his seer wife? Bertok tried to control the shake in his voice.

The bishop nodded. Yes. Once their gifts were labeled tainted magic, or freak-producing birth abnormalities. Now they have emerged as mind gifts such as the aegis and his seer wife possess. Gifts they used to help save all of Kaereya during the recent war with Pertelon. My curates are asked daily about such traits and besiege me with requests for guidance.

A prolonged silence engulfed the room before the bishop continued. It now seems prudent to address the public’s awareness of the new Aegis of Kaereya and those who possess other magic forms not seen in seven or more generations. What will they bring a world unchanged for so long? How can we reassure our parishioners that this change is nature’s way and acknowledge these gifts were never really gone?

Bertok nodded in agreement, not mentioning that the four ancient aegis families had gone into hiding or died. While most laud our Aegis, many remain frightened that their children, or worse, their neighbor’s child, might contain some unexplainable power.

The bishop’s gentle expression changed to one of fervor that captured Bertok’s strained regard, and Bertok spoke without thinking, Holy One, I don’t—

The bishop’s expression instantly changed to deceptive mildness. I know, Bard Bertok. Emotion drained from his face. We have heard of the stories you tell, written by you, which are outside those of the usual folk array told by itinerate bards.

My stories? Is that why I’ve been called? The Guild Master said they were permissible, as long as they didn’t refute standard teaching. They are just stories, Your Eminence. I never proclaimed them teaching ballads.

But far beyond the scope of many bards. You are well known for these stories, and from what I’ve learned, much in demand. Your stories seem to soothe our people’s concern in a manner failed by my priests.

Bertok bowed his head at the flattery and kept it bowed to avoid the bishop’s gaze. I have been extraordinarily lucky.

And we will pray your luck continues, for we have a use of your storytelling abilities.

Whatever the bishop had in mind gave Bertok the gravest misgivings, which he quickly concealed. He flicked a look at the bishop. The bishop didn’t seem to notice because His Eminence now stared out the window.

The bishop suddenly turned his head and caught Bertok’s gaze. The head of the Bards Division at Queen’s College agrees with me. I would like you to meet my exarch, Roelf. The bishop glanced at the prelates and indicated one with his hand, a middle-aged, short, thick man with intelligent umber eyes. Roelf nodded at Bertok.

He will act as our liaison, bring you my orders, and return to me with your offerings.

My offerings? Bertok asked, puzzled.

Stories. As I’ve already pointed out, yours excel.

Why me? Bertok questioned. I am sure there are many better story creators just as able to soothe the parishioner’s fears as I. He knew there were. I can even name a few.

The bishop’s smile widened. In my youth my mother told me about crows, calling them the shinning black messengers of the Holy One, so your name called to me. Bertok is crow, is it not?

And if I decline this honor?

The bishop smiled. "You will find most villages and towns will no longer request your service.

My choice is to become the bishop’s cipher or be blacklisted. Be the church’s bard or be nothing.

BARDS ARE NEARLY ALWAYS welcomed with a bed and meals anywhere they go in exchange for their gift of gab and gossip, the entertainment of their music, or the messages found in their stories. However, at the manors of some of the country’s most elite citizenry this was not always the case. So the warmth of his welcome to the Aegis of Kaereya’s Montoren Manor surprised Bertok. The aegis himself was absent, on progress with the king. This also gave Bertok relief.

The aegis and his wife had brought magic back to Kaereya, and now some citizens tried desperately to prove they held such magic, while others desperately tried to hide the fact they held those weird abilities. Bearers soon learned magic was no gift, but qualities that made a person different in a significant way and made others look on one with suspicion. Those who held such strangeness were seen as dangerous or threatening and, at the same time, somehow undeserving of such a gift. People along his bard routes told him of their fear. This had driven him to create his new stories.

What Bertok had not related to the bishop was his greatest, most buried secret: he possessed such an unnatural ability. Now he must use his magic against others, expose them, and hope he would not be caught.

The snowstorm that followed Bertok’s arrival created a good circumstance, forcing him to extend his stay. Each evening he entertained by playing his guith and singing well-known verses. During the days, feeling every inch the despicable spy, he watched the seer, Vesper. The bishop wanted a story to show the seer’s character and her problems to his parishioners, to make her like each of them. Bertok thought that impossible.

His mission left Bertok feeling like a hypocrite. To visit on false pretence made him uneasy, as did his persistent scrutiny of the seer. Because of the bishop’s desire for a story of the seer, Bertok shamefully watched Vesper in moments of privacy. His scrutiny left him feeling sullied and hoping no one noticed. Still, late into each night he crafted his story.

Although gossip spoke of the love between the aegis and his seer wife, Bertok could only sense sadness, even with the close advent of a child birth upon her.

Late one morning she stopped and stood in the courtyard while he crossed the space. While others were rushing to her, he was the closest. Can I help you, Lady Vesper? he asked, presenting his arm.

She placed her hand on his arm. Thank you. I am not usually so sluggish, but the door just seems further away today. You are the bard, are you not?

Yes, Lady.

I enjoyed your stories last night. We are lucky the snow has trapped you with us. Your efforts have helped relieve everyone’s winter doldrums.

She did not look happy or entertained at all to Bertok; matter of fact she looked as if she had recently cried. She gave him a wan smile at the entrance to the manor hall as he heaved open the single large wooden door and let her pass through. Several women stood on the verge of exiting but instead helped their lady. As the door closed, Bertok noticed the unicorn carved into the door’s lintel. One, the number of individuality, determination and free will, a perfect symbol for the Aegis Drew and his Lady Vesper.

It’s easy to forget the odds this family fought against to survive the last few generations.

Bertok turned to the voice. One of the clansmen stood there. Bertok had not noticed the man following him, but the residents’ protective nature of the lady became oppressively apparent.

Bertok smiled. I often relate one to the Holy One and the number of man but forget it contains the qualities of both male and female. Your lady shows both the strength and creativity of the number.

As one represents the sun and its life-giving light, our lady brings light both to Aegis Drew and to all of us who are privileged to live here at Montoren.

Unsure if what the man said was only comment or threat, Bertok nodded with a slight smile and bow. I wonder, he thought as he walked away, if her people know the emptiness and sadness their lady feels, or the damnation it could bring to this pleasant manor.

DARK VISION

Vesper felt that her spirit hung as frigid as the frozen air. Only sitting next to the keep’s fireplaces could warm her. The late winter nights lasted too long, and no number of candles seemed capable of dispelling the darkness. Overcast mornings arrived too late, and evening’s darkness fell too early. All creation seemed shadowed, a muted version of summer’s life and vividness. The gray days matched her mood.

Where did you go that you could not take me? Do you seek another—someone younger, prettier, not pregnant? Her latest letter held these questions, or more accurately, accusations. The words not written entered her mind: I do not care if you come back or not. I hate you.

Her hateful lies filled her letters.

She stopped and, with her hand against her back, arched backward to relieve the ache. Something she seemed to do frequently. Wood smoke deadened the air with its heavy scent of wood ash, and the cold penetrated every layer of cloth, causing shivers to run up over her skin. Still, whenever possible, she sought the bench in her garden refuge. Snow and ice covered the broken remains of last summer’s growth. Sometimes she imagined she saw the shadowed motions of Fair Folk inside the garden’s walls, but none ever sought her company.

In the dull late-morning light she waddled into her walled garden holding her very full belly. She sought rest and respite, settling gingerly on the hard seat of a stone bench, and hugged her thick, woolen cloak around her. Her breath formed clouds of vapor. Looking over the garden’s stone wall, she looked at the surrounding tree’s black branches lacing the leaden sky. A few gulps of air helped slow her labored breathing.

Even in her garden, the world seemed bleak and made her wish the sun would shine. Looking closer she saw fattened buds lined every twig, predicting spring’s approach. The sight did not cheer her. The wet-dark stone walls behind the shrubs imprisoned her retreat. Today frost glinted on the branches, and the stone walkways shined with icy danger for every footstep. Everything else remained white from yesterday’s heavy snowstorm. She tried to compose herself, but one barking sob broke the silence, and another followed as she failed to control her pent-up misery.

Several minutes later she wiped her eyes on the edge of her cloak. She heaved one last gasp before recovering. Her sorrow had destroyed her concentration, but worse, she realized, she had nothing to be sad about. During her first pregnancy she had been so happy, sure in Drew’s love. Even through her difficult second pregnancy, she had been sure of his undivided interest. This time, he would not allow her to travel with him, not even when she begged.

The last few months he’d been away more than at home, drawn away by aegis business with the clans or by King Warrick’s command. Letters arrived regularly, but weeks after whenever he found time to set pen to paper. It was not enough. She wanted him here, but he had left her alone. How could he have abandoned her?

She clasped her hands tighter. Does love always turn bland, or worse, to nothingness? After our argument the night before he left, I refused his touch. I didn’t even offer him a stirrup cup for safe journey the next day, nor did I say good-bye. Does he take that as permission to seek another woman? The thought sliced through her heart and caught her breath.

I hate him... I hate him. If he were here, I’d show him how much! A fierce longing belied her words, dicing her already sliced heart. She sniffled once more.

Now, when she sought her visions, none came, as though Drew had taken more than her heart when he’d left. He’d taken her courage, too. All her training to decipher her visions was useless if no vision came.

Only horrible dreams dwelt within her in sleep—dreams of Drew’s death, or his infidelities, or calamities to her children, or to the baby she carried. It was more than she could bear. She had come to fear sleep. Are these nightmares true visions? Or just her worst imaginings played out in the dream world? She was an acclaimed seer, known for her visions, regardless that some visions never made sense until they became reality. Why did the weaver, seen before in so many of her visions, no longer appear?

Is Drew really seeking other women? Real memories of the royal court provided ample evidence of Drew’s desirability. A face remembered from court flashed before Vesper’s mind, a face as beautiful and elegant as it was predatory. Vesper had seen the woman cast her lures at Drew, heard her flirting words. How could he resist such temptation, such invitation?

Shouted laughter broke her reverie, so she sought to pull on a happy facade. Vesper rubbed her face, gave an inelegant snuffle, and wiped her nose on her cloak’s hem. The ice-lined, rough woven fabric chafed her cold nose.

Her sons, Rhys and Maxen, ran into the garden, shrieking, Mama, Mama. Clanswoman Berneta followed them. Vesper saw Drew’s mark in both boys’ faces and builds, although their hair was her own russet-brown. Child’s hugs showered love on her, and for a brief spell, her darkness lightened.

Good morn, Vesper. I didn’t mean for them to disturb your privacy.

Good morn, Berneta. She smiled. Privacy isn’t as important as they are. Are the boys behaving for you?

They’re always good, Vesper, only sometimes too active. However, they interrupt your rest, and the healer said you needed rest.

I’ve had more than enough rest. She rose, taking each boy’s hand. Come, Rhys, Maxen. Let’s go see the new puppies.

No wind blew through the stables, making them much warmer than outside. One of Drew’s prize bitches had whelped two weeks before, and the puppies, when not sleeping, were stumbling around making high-pitched yipping noises. Vesper knelt near the mother dog, a large gazehound, and petted and praised her. Four-year-old Rhys picked up a puppy, putting his cheek next to the puppy’s head. Just turned three,