Valkeen's Vault

By GJ Kelly

Yarmian Eventyde, incognito as the Sultan of Boroka's official Emissary, Armin Traven, boards the Al Graud and sets sail for his final destination: The Isle of Sinnock.

There, he knows, he'll be up against the entire Beldane Council, possibly even every Wizzen on the island. Once he sets foot ashore, he knows there'll be no turning back. He'll be alone, facing who knows how many Masters of the Beldane Robe ensconced in the Citadel, and maybe every Sinnithan and student in Cloisters.

Is he ready for the final confrontation with the Philostrate of all Wizzenry? Yarmian believes so. Does he have a plan? Well, of a kind. Will he find allies on the Isle? He hopes so. One way or another, it'll end on the Isle of Sinnock.

Kurster's had it coming for a long time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GJ Kelly
• Release date: Apr 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224347254

GJ Kelly

GJ Kelly was born near the white cliffs of Dover, England, in 1960. He spent a significant part of his early life in various parts of the world, including the Far East, Middle East, the South Atlantic, and West Africa. Later life has seen him venture to the USA, New Zealand, Europe, and Ireland. He began writing while still at school, where he was president of the Debating Society and won the Robb Trophy for public speaking. He combined his writing with his technical skills as a professional Technical Author and later as an internal communications specialist. His first novel was "A Country Fly" and he is currently writing a new Fantasy title.He engages with readers and answers questions at:http://www.goodreads.com/GJKelly and also at https://www.patreon.com/GJ_Kelly

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Prologue

Did your master not teach you the legend of Valkeen’s Vault?

Never heard of it.

Ah. It’s probably nonsense, but all such nonsense tends to spring from the germ of truth. Happy am I to elucidate. It’s said that there is a vault, created by one of the first Wizzens to settle on the Isle of Sinnock. Valkeen’s Vault. Legend has it that only a Philostrate may open it, and it contains an ancient book describing a thing called Valkeen’s Triangle, a method whereby wisdom, power, and knowledge may be melded together to form a pure combination, in perfect harmony and proportion. It is supposedly the means by which the first Wizzens to settle on the Isle were able to bring peace and stability to all Carpidia, along with the founding of the Beldane Council, the Cloisters, and all the teachings of Wizzenry which survive to this day.

You’re right. It does sound like nonsense.

*

Run, Kurster! I screamed. "Run for your fucking life!"

And to my surprise, he did just that, and with a turn of speed I hadn’t suspected in a man of his age! Through the gap between the outhouse and the bathhouse he ran, towards the woodland in the north.

Yes, run you bastard. Vengeance and retribution are coming your way!

oOo

1. A Certain Hardness

August 7th, a Saturday, three days since the MBR and Beldane Councillor Norridus found himself in a decidedly sticky situation… on the end of my little sticky-stick and struck off my ‘to do’ list.

The bright afternoon sunshine found me standing by the window of my sumptuous quarters in the Sultan’s Palace, Boroka, hefting a weight clutched in my left hand while admiring the deep blue of a sky unbroken by clouds. But for its flattened base, the weight was a substantial sphere of solid silver, a heavy and decidedly expensive paperweight which usually adorned the leather-inlaid top of the walnut writing-desk in a well-lit corner of my room.

It was time to leave Boroka, and the freedom with which I could so easily curl and flex my left arm testified to that fact. The deep cut of a wound inflicted to the back of my arm by that poor Borokani, Haffiz, killed by The Black Rose adept Kahri in Warehouse Four, had been well and truly healed; first through the attentions of the Sultan’s physicians, and then of course by Norridus himself and his final wielding before departing this world.

I really had no excuse to remain here in Boroka any longer.

Captain Jayaddin of the Sultan’s Guard had half-heartedly protested against my leaving so soon after my destruction of Kahri and the Mother of The Black Rose, Fareena, but both he and I knew that His Excellency, Chandarran III, the Sultan of Boroka, would feel no small relief at my impending departure for the Isle of Sinnock. Thus it had been arranged for a small Borokan ship to carry me the seventy-five miles across the Carpidian Sea, east and slightly south to the Isle, tomorrow morning.

A letter of introduction had also been prepared, bearing the Sultan’s seal, announcing me as an Emissary of Boroka, bearing as a gift for the Philostrate, Beldane Council and the Library of Sinnock a copy of what we were now generally calling ‘The Book of the Rose’, that ledger previously maintained by the so-called ‘guild of assassins’ (the death-cult which now consisted of only four living adepts still at large in Carpidia, though not for very much longer). It would serve as proof of the destruction of The Black Rose death-cult. It would also serve as proof of the Beldane Council’s corruption in hiring the murderers, and not just to do away with me.

My plan was a simple one… perhaps not surprisingly given it was me who’d come up with it… but simplicity was usually the key to success for all good plans, or so I think someone had told me; I just had to hope it had been a more reliable source than my old boyhood chum Porky Norm. And the plan? I would step off the boat at the small dock on the Isle, introduce myself as Armin Traven, Emissary of the Sultan of Boroka, hand over the sealed letter serving as my credentials, and require to be taken at once to deliver the sultan’s gift personally to Philostrate Kurster.

Simple indeed.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, voice. You’re thinking about the precautions the Beldane Council have implemented to prevent a Black Rose assassin infiltrating the Wizzens’ island, precautions which had promptly been put in place when the Isle’s spies within the Slaver’s Guild had sent word that Jumtuk had hired the Rose to kill Kurster.

Of course, it hadn’t been Jumtuk at all, but little old me who’d hired them, or pretended to, as part of a mostly-successful plan to reveal the location of the Rose Chamber in the catacombs of Boroka. Mostly? Alas, Kahri and Fareena had escaped destruction, unlike the rest of them in that chamber, but my ploy had enabled me to discover their underground lair and kill almost all of ‘em.

Well, I had to concede that the Beldane Council weren’t entirely stupid. Corrupt, yes, but stupid, not really. They’d sent word to the sultan here in Boroka about the precautions they’d taken against the Rose assassins; it had been Captain Jayaddin himself who’d conveyed to me the content of the message sent to the ruler of this nation state:

It seems that the Beldane Council is taking seriously the threat to their Philostrate, and are imposing strict security measures on all vessels putting in to the Isle. Passengers from other ports around Carpidia are to be scrutinised before leaving for the Isle, and they will be scrutinised by an Inquisitor immediately on arrival. This advice is being sent to all port lords on both coasts.

Well hopefully my credentials would get me past the Inquisitor without the wretched creature sniffing the Izen and detecting my ‘scent in it. But even if the fellow did detect that I’m a Wizzen (and a decidedly powerful one at that), it would take time for registers to be checked in order to determine my official rank and qualifications… time which would of course serve me very well.

You hope.

Shush. Besides, I had it on good authority that traffic to and from the Isle of Sinnock was little more than an intermittent trickle at the best of times. The island itself was quite large, some twenty-five miles long and around thirteen miles across at its widest (northernmost) point. Almost an inverted triangle, or perhaps an upside-down teardrop, though to be fair that might just be the result of Albionus’ crude drawing skills when he’d produced the map of Carpidia from which he’d tried to teach me geography.

The northern (and thus the broader) end of the island faced the great northern ocean, and so was frequently pounded by huge rolling waves. The cliffs up that end of the place were inhospitable; no safe anchorages to be found there, nor any parlous ones, come to that. Those waves washing down the eastern and western sides of the Isle gave rise to treacherous currents, and only a fool would try to navigate such waters close to rocky shores in search of a beach or other safe landing (and there were none of those either).

But those currents sweeping down the sides of the island simultaneously created a region of relatively still waters at the southern tip of that small land mass. Consequently, it was there at the south end of the island that the harbour was to be found. The facts of Sinnock’s geography explained why all those ancient barbarian warlords of yore, rebelling against the Isle’s civilising force, had never once been able to invade and conquer the island... It wouldn’t take many Masters o’ the Robe to defend the only safe (and small) harbour there in the south against a seaborne force.

I’d see it for myself the day after tomorrow. On paper, the journey should take around twenty hours; alas, ships don’t sail on paper and seldom along straight lines drawn on a map, either. I’d leave on Sunday morning, tomorrow, and probably arrive some time on Monday afternoon, all being well.

It was the all being well which had me folding my arms and gazing down at the little swirling dust devils below the window; the journey from Farakand to Boroka should have been simple too, but it, like too many other times in my life so far, had ended up becoming really rather complicated...

One of those dust devils down there might be Norridus...

Teehee, yes true, that. And hopefully soon to be joined by his mates Arrapthane and Kurster too, though ‘mates’ might be too strong a word; I suspect there’d been no love lost between those three who’d struggled against each other to become Philostrate, the titular head of the Beldane Council and all Wizzenry.

I still really couldn’t see the point of all that contention, all that plotting, planning, manoeuvring, and all for what? To sit in a chair a little larger than the others around that council table? What power did it actually represent?

From what I understood of the politics of the Isle, the Philostrate could direct or influence the course of Wizzenry by shaping or moulding policies which would see the Sinnithans in the Cloisters, those teachers of Wizzenry, shaping and moulding the students of the Permanentus in their charge. Big deal. As Albionus had told me, it takes years of study, decades in some cases according to a student’s abilities, to qualify as a master of the Permanentus.

But then, I recalled something else Albionus had said:

If you should turn your boyish fantasy into reality and leave this house to study the Permanentus on the Isle, they will try to make of you something else, and the freedoms you enjoy under my tutelage, though you doubtless yet don’t know or recognise what those freedoms are, will be taken from you, and you will be bound by invisible chains to the Isle. Chains which took me the best part of three hundred years to break.

Politics; Alliances. Friendships. Enemies. Feuds. Wheeling and dealing and treachery and backstabbing, lying, cheating, stealing, weasel-worded half-truths and all for what? A bigger chair, a larger desk, an office with a window and a view, more power over others? These were Wizzens! Masters o’ the Robe! They weren’t vying for power over lands or kingdoms or peoples! They already had it in their power to claim that for themselves, as the WarWizzens of old once had, back before the Isle of Sinnock’s founding!

What something else might the Sinnithans have made of me? Perhaps an Inquisitor (as Beardy himself had suggested), or a Retributioner, or merely a humble Permanentus dwelling in a tiny house with a blue door and a staff mounted on the outside wall, wielding for a living somewhere in Carpidia while secretly harbouring whatever alliances and enmities might have been subtly inculcated during my years in the Cloisters… It would take a strong will indeed to remain as independent and impartial as my old friend Master Fennet of Wenneck had been after his leaving of the Isle.

No, I couldn’t see the point, and maybe that was what my father, Albionus, had been trying to teach me all along, and what he’d meant with his warning about those invisible chains which had taken him the best part of three hundred years to break. He’d been doing the right thing, and had seen the writing on the wall, and taken himself away from the world to live alone in a cottage on a distant hill up the bottom of the world, where he’d intended to live out his days far from the politics of the Isle of Sinnock.

But then had come others, criminals in their huts hiding out from the law, and in time, a village had sprung up there, and become a small town, dull as ditchwater Dulluston, where I’d wandered ashore off a barge or a boat, a snot-nosed and wailing child, until Albionus had taken me in. And he’d taught me not simply to do the right thing, but how to do the right thing. For fifteen years (or was it sixteen? It was so long ago…) he’d trained me not simply as a Sinnithan of Cloisters might train an apprentice to become a Master of the Temparus, but as a master sergeant might train a soldier for combat, or as a Retributioner might train an apprentice WarWizzen to go up against a corrupt council of Robes.

And the freedoms he’d given me? Free will. Freedom of choice. Perhaps the greatest freedoms of all.

The freedom to choose whether or not to continue my studies, or to forsake them as my old friend Sumner had done, and as I myself might’ve done had I met Dayna Reyalis of Coldharbor earlier in my life than I did.

The freedom to enjoy nights out down at The Peacock’s Feather, with my mates and drinking buddies, and of course with the girls… The freedom indeed to have gormish mates, and to live and laugh amongst them instead of spending years or decades in the dry and dusty cloistered realm of the Sinnithans, on an island where no women are permitted to tread.

I could’ve turned back at any time since leaving home, after Albionus had been taken from the world by a Retributioner who’d been trained by the Isle to do the Isle’s will… and to do the will of MBR Kurster who, during the purge, wanted Albionus and all his former apprentices dead. For why? For fear of what Albionus knew, and for fear that Albionus might’ve taught his apprentices about the misdeeds both of Kurster himself and those others who sat around the highest table of Wizzenry.

Of course I remembered well what Paracellus, WarWizzen of Tuksmount, had said, given that it was only a matter of weeks ago, in the middle of June, when the insane MBR had spoken of my father thus:

Yes, I knew Albionus. He and I were of an age, though he was far more studious than I in the early days. Old school indeed, was Albionus… a splendid fellow, through and through, but he clung to the old ways, the old teachings, and the old and oh so righteous philosophies and thinking which saw his ending.

Dead. Murdered, on Kurster’s orders, by Retributioner Evrard. Albionus knew only too well Kurster’s qualities, or lack thereof. One does not get to a certain age without witnessing such deeds as others would wish to be kept a dark and dusty secret. I told you, Cloisterling, that the Beldane Council has done and is doing still, deeds which would turn the stomach and the staff of a man like Albionus Eventyde. It is why he left the Isle and took himself off into the wilderness. He knew the time might one day come when Retributioners would be sent for him, and for all his former apprentices.

That time had indeed come.

And now the time was coming for this former apprentice, Yarmian Eventyde, to wreak just retribution upon those who had offended against Wizzenry, and those who had offended against me.

I turned away from the window, and set down the heavy silver paperweight atop the sealed envelope bearing my credentials as Boroka’s emissary. Yes, I was indeed satisfied that my left arm was now working as well as it had been before Haffiz and his jambiya had collided with me. That collision had almost cost me my life when the Rose, Kahri, advanced upon me.

I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror there in the closet close to my bed. The posh jillaba, with its equally posh kamarband, the decidedly posh but thin purple band of piping stitched around the top of the waist belt marking me as a high official of the Sultan’s Court… the jambiya, razor-sharp and jewel-bedecked, a gift from the Sultan like everything else I wore, including the ornate fan tucked into the kamarband beside the jambiya. With the long-tailed turban, my tanned face and my nearly three week’s old growth of beard, I did indeed look the part of a high-ranking Borokani emissary.

There was a hardness about the eyes though, which even I noticed. Perhaps it was the journey ahead of me, fraught with perils as it was, which evinced that flinty gaze. Or perhaps it was all the months and years of high adventure and yes, perils overcome, which had led me to this place, this brink, this final step towards my last great reckoning. Kurster had it coming, and so too did the entire Beldane Council; the greenwood entity had been quite correct about their corruption. The evidence for their guilt was contained in the well-kept Book o’ the Rose, the ledger containing details of all the contract killings bought and paid for by the council on the isle.

Of course I might fail, I knew that. Maybe, after Tuksmount, Kurster had recognised my description and the use of the name ‘Ye’, the name which had resulted in him sending word to that Thellesene ganglord, Bruud Hawgarth, to have me quietly disposed of. Maybe I’d step off the boat, the gimp with three legs, straight into a maelstrom of Izenballs loosed by the entire Beldane Council. If he had recognised me, then my planned ruse of acting as an emissary of Boroka to get close to him would more than likely end on the docks of Sinnock.

Yes, I knew that this was no Black Rose council of aged murderous beeshes I was going up against. But I also knew why Albionus had spent all those years training me for combat, gormish as well as wizzenish. Training which only a rare few Retributioners underwent; Retributioners chosen from amongst the alumni of the Black Onyx Chapter of the Cloisters of Sinnock. I glanced at the ring on the little finger of my left hand, the ring Albionus had given me on the occasion of my eighteenth birthday, and at last understood its full significance.

He’d known, that wise old man, he’d known what I’d eventually have to go up against, given his raising of me in the path of righteousness. It’s why he’d named me Yarmian. It’s why he’d given me his own name, Eventyde. It’s why he’d gifted me that black onyx ring. And it was why tomorrow I’d board the small ship bound for the Isle, and I’d do it for his name’s sake.

There was indeed a hardness about the eyes in the mirror, and now I knew why it was there. I was going to the Isle of Sinnock to face Kurster and the Beldane Council.

They had it coming, and had done for a long, long time.

oOo

2. Spectacular Colours

After a magnificent dinner of pan seared grouper with lemon caper sauce, I checked my backpack for what I was sure would be the last time before leaving Boroka. This time, I would be carrying little in the way of spare clothing. Apart from a handful of keepsakes which I clung on to for purely sentimental reasons (and yes, that included the flamewood pendant Dayna Reyalis had made for me which I still wore), I had my best pair of boots inside the pack, together with a canteen of lemon water, the telescopus, a package of Farakandian beefsticks, and a package of dried spiced and diced Borokani goat meat. I really didn’t fancy the latter much, though to be fair I hadn’t yet tried any of it yet. Spare socks and underwear, and a spare jillaba.

Why had I packed my best boots instead of tying them to the bottom of the rucksack as usual, and why was I leaving the other pair behind? Because I was supposed to be a traditional Borokani emissary, and apparently all such officials wore open-toed sandals. Stomping about in my hiking boots would certainly draw the attention of any Inquisitor worth his salt who might meet me off the boat at the wharf on the Isle. I’d be leaving my ‘southern garb’ behind too; the Wizzens on the island would all doubtless be wearing the jillaba-like robes with which they’d long been associated, and which Norridus had been wearing when he’d arrived here in the Sultan’s Palace.

I tied down the flap of the backpack after making doubly certain that the letter of introduction, my official credentials, was secure in a side-pocket. Then I left the pack on the bedside table and turned my attention to the copy of the Book o’ the Rose. It would be carried over my shoulder in a custom-made leather satchel whose flap was embossed with the seal of Boroka.

Little fabric bookmarks had been inserted between the pages of that heavy tome; bookmarks inserted by me to mark the pages containing the ‘client’ initials BCIOS… Beldane Council Isle of Sinnock. One of them alone would have been too many, but the number I had cut from an old cheesecloth shirt of mine ensured that the entire council would understand the reasons for my subsequent actions… assuming of course I gave them enough time for the realisation to sink in before I incinerated all of ‘em.

And yes, I know, that presupposed I’d be given admission to the council chamber and that all of them would be gathered there. I’d been lu… circumstances had resolved themselves in my favour where the Rose council had been concerned, but serendipity could be fickle and I knew I couldn’t always rely on it.

Yet, there was always the possibility that my simple plan would work, and that I’d be escorted to the high chamber and introduced to Kurster and all the other MBR Councillors there. It wasn’t altogether too ridiculous a scenario, after all… Fraternal Greetings from His Excellency the Sultan of Boroka… bzzapp frazzz bloosh and that’s for my father, you bastards. Except I probably wouldn’t waste any time talking before I threw open the Izengate and cremated them all on sight.

There was a knock on my door.

Come in!

The door opened to admit Captain Jayaddin, and the crisply-dressed officer, smiling, bowed with a slight flourish.

Good master, His Excellency wishes me to ensure that you have everything you need before your journey tomorrow, and to impress upon you his good wishes for a safe journey back to the Isle of Sinnock. The weather-seers have assured His Excellency that conditions tomorrow will be fair and warm, with following winds for your ship.

Thank you, captain, I appreciate it. In fact, I have just been making a final check of the belongings I intend to take with me on my return to the Isle. Those items I shall be leaving behind, I will place on the table over there. Perhaps they can be disposed of, or given to the needy?

"It will be taken care of, good master. The ship to carry you is small but very well provisioned, and the journey will take little time. However, if there’s anything else His Excellency can provide for you… this is your last night here in the palace."

No, thank you captain. I have all I need. And please do give my profound thanks to His Excellency for his unparalleled hospitality. Both he, and you too, captain, have been kindness itself.

Jayaddin smiled, and gave that little bow of his again. I think he was still a tad ashamed at having tried, along with his men, to hack me into little pieces before I’d revealed myself as a Wizzen when I’d burst Fareena apart with a white-hot Izenball.

Will you be escorting me to the docks, captain?

I shall, good master, with several of my men. A carriage will be waiting, and I shall come for you after you have had breakfast; it shall be brought to you as arranged.

Thanks. I’ll be availing myself of a hot bath before breakfast, too. I know the winds are favourable for mariners again, and that His Excellency’s weather-seers have foretold good conditions for tomorrow, but I’ve been stuck on a ship and obliged to bathe in seawater too often for my liking.

I shall instruct the servants to prepare hot water, good master.

No need, I can heat it for myself.

Ah, of course. Thousand apologies.

No need for any, captain.

There was a slight pause while the officer gathered his thoughts before speaking again:

His Excellency has not spoken of the matter, good master, but I believe he remains concerned that Boroka may yet be seen in a poor light, by the Philostrate and his council on the Isle…

Please do reassure His Excellency that I shall make it abundantly clear that Boroka assisted me, in every way, The Black Rose to find and to destroy. I shall of course drive the message home to both the Philostrate and the Beldane Council, that the threat to Philostrate Kurster’s life was removed in no small part thanks to the resources and good will provided by His Excellency.

You are kind, sir. I shall convey this to His Excellency.

"Please tell him he needn’t worry about Philostrate Kurster, and that as soon as word is received from Boroka’s agents abroad that the last of the surviving Rose adepts have been… disposed of… he may, if he so wishes, announce to the people of Boroka that the cursed cult of The Black Rose been eradicated once and for all time. If it’s made clear that Boroka and the Isle worked together to achieve that end, there’ll certainly be no denials from the Philostrate or the Beldane Council. Indeed, I’m sure once I’ve given them the ledger in that satchel, they’ll be reluctant to speak of the Rose at all."

I shall tell him.

Is there anything else, captain?

No, good master, unless there is something more I can do for you before you retire?

No, thank you. I’m ready to leave, though I shall miss the luxury of the hospitality I’ve enjoyed of late.

Then I shall return in the morning, sir. Good night.

Good night, Captain Jayaddin. And thank you again.

With a final bow, the officer charged with my care by the sultan himself, took his leave of my splendid quarters.

With nothing now to do but wait for a respectable hour before turning in, I gathered everything together I would be leaving behind and arranged it all neatly on the table as I told Jayaddin I would. There wasn’t much, and I didn’t suppose anyone would be interested in it.

I did, however, keep the lightweight trousers whose legs I’d cut off at the knees. These ‘shorts’ I would wear beneath my jillaba; the pockets came in very handy for my quartz crystal, penknife, and those old brass knuckles of mine. I picked the knuckledusters up and tried them on, pretending to punch some gormish assailant on the jaw…

Why had I kept them all this time? After all, I’d only acquired them in a game of cards, back home in Dulluston, one dreary midweek night down at The Peacock’s Feather. Corky had laughed when I’d won them… I tried but couldn’t remember who it was who’d lost them to me… But I did remember Corky’s guffaw, and the lads joining in the laughter…

Haha Yarmy! You’ll be able to bust Shonky Harbeck’s jaw with those!

And then Whistlin’ Ferg had added to the jolly japes by declaring ain’t no point bustin’ Shonky’s nose with ‘em, faggin’ thing’s been busted every Saturday night since he joined the guard!

I sat at the table, toying with the tarnished brass weapon, my mind floating back to Dulluston on rolling waves of unexpected nostalgia. Not since I’d been ejected from Greenwater Island had I felt gentler emotions like this, and I wondered why I felt them now. I’d left Ditchwater behind me a little over thirteen years ago, yet here I was, sitting in a sultan’s palace and harking back to times spent in a place that I and all the other lads couldn’t wait to leave… or at least, that’s what we’d told each other. I was probably the only one of us who actually had sailed away from Dulluston.

I suppose that’s why I’d kept the brass knuckles. As a Wizzen, I doubted I’d ever need to use them for their intended purpose. But I remembered that night in the Peacock’s playing cards when I’d won them (and no, I had not used Wizzenry to cheat!), the laughter, the unmistakeable beery smell of the place, the furniture, the long nights spent in the bar at the table we’d designated as ‘ours’, and the nights spent in one of the back rooms… though I didn’t dwell on those and hadn’t thought of the girls at the Peacock’s in a very long time.

Albionus had had his memories too, more than three hundred years of them, and yes, from time to time something would happen, a scent or an odour or a sound or a word would carry him back in time to some memory or other, and his eyes would water, and he’d reach for the bottle he kept in that trunk under his bed… I understood why he’d done that now, too.

It wasn’t that I was feeling emotional, not in the way Albionus sometimes had. The knuckledusters had simply seen me thinking about my old home and the people in it, but still I felt detached from those memories, as if watching them from afar. I was fairly certain that the greenwood entity, Marragus, had something to do with this feeling of remoteness; after all he’d told me mystics have long memories, after all. You will always remember my teachings, however…

Most of those teachings only seemed to emerge into my memory when I needed them; I believed much remained dormant until circumstances evolved which served to trigger them, perhaps in the same way that the brass knuckles had triggered my memories of The Peacock’s Feather. I’d been numb when I’d arrived in Farakand and set out for Tuksmount with Jok and Spud, only slightly less so when I’d arrived here in Boroka. I hadn’t seen any greenwood trees since my arrival, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any growing hereabouts…

I am old, Yarmian. So very, very old. And I am everywhere. The seeds of these trees travel far, by wind and by bird, and where they grow, there you’ll find my eyes and my ears…

Yes, it was eminently possible that the entity might have a tendril or two here in Boroka, watching, listening… the immortal and indomitable creature being entertained by the antics of ephemeral and fragile little people… us. It was also eminently possible that he influenced my senses still, and that the hard and flinty-looking gaze of mine I’d seen in the mirror had been the result of Marragus steeling me for the task I’d yet to accomplish.

Why was I now thinking of Marragus? I looked at the brass knuckles, and then slipped them into the pocket of the shorts I’d wear in the morning. Nostalgia really didn’t have a place where I was going in the morning, but still I couldn’t part with the old keepsakes I continued to carry with me. As for the greenwood entity, I’d long since given up trying to understand the motives behind its actions. Who could ever understand such a creature, except perhaps another immortal, invincible being? Not even the Tripitane, Kallamallakaya, possessed the greenwood entity’s qualities (that was why she was dead, after all).

The best I could come up with was that somehow, for some inconceivable reason, the Beldane Council’s offences against Wizzenry offended Marragus as much as it offended me, and so the nebulous green creature had subdued those of my emotions which might otherwise prevent me, or in some way hinder me, from carrying out the deeds I felt sure Albionus, and Marragus himself, had been preparing me for.

With a shrug, I stood and finished the preparations for my early morning departure, making certain everything I needed was in pocket or pack before I crossed to the windows again, there to admire the orange-red sky which heralded the imminence of sunset. It would be the last Borokan sunset I’d see, at least for now. I almost heard Albionus telling me I’d never see it again, in fact, since the river of time flows always… and to my surprise I smiled, folding my arms and silently acknowledging that yes, father, no-one will ever see this Borokan sunset again. This time, I didn’t hear him chiding me in his own inimitable way for the use of the f- word.

I was here, I knew, in this very moment, for this very moment was my life, and everything which had gone before had led me to this window, this sunset, this warm Borokan night. Many lives had been touched by me, and many had been ended by me too, in order that I might find myself standing here on this precise spot, at this precise time, gazing at the spectacular colours as the sun sank out of sight in the west.

I owed it to them, as well to myself and all Wizzenry, to finish the job I’d set out to do, and for which I had been made. I felt I would sleep surprisingly well this last night in Boroka.

And I did, too.

oOo

3. All at Sea

Captain Jayaddin came for me in the morning after breakfast as arranged, and given his prompt arrival after a maidservant had taken away the breakfast tray, I imagined he’d been waiting close by my quarters and had seen her leave.

Good morning, sir. I hope you enjoyed your hot bath and breakfast?

I did, thank you captain. Is everything ready?

The carriage is waiting, sir. His Excellency regrets that he cannot bid you farewell himself, but there is a small trade delegation recently arrived from Maharra which must occupy His Excellency’s full attention this morning. He has, however, asked me to assure you of his best wishes for a safe and speedy journey back to the Wizzens’ Isle.

Thank him for me would you, captain?

I shall.

I slung the satchel containing the Book o’ the Rose over my left shoulder, picked up my backpack with my free left hand, and with my trusty Bayham blackthorn in my right, I surveyed the spacious and luxurious quarters for the last time. I had everything, and yes, I confess I’d checked the contents of my pack yet again after my bath and before my breakfast had been delivered.

"Best not keep the men waiting then, captain. But before we go, I’d like you to have this, as a memento of our brief but interesting association."

I put down my stick, and then handed the surprised officer the sheathed Arpane long-knife which had been lying on the foot of my bed; I didn’t need it where I was going.

It’s been with me a long time, ever since my first visit to Arpane, where I found myself in danger from Izenjaws sicced upon me by Maharis, the Portlord there. It’s almost as well-travelled as I am, and has been a reliable companion. It’s not exactly a jewel-encrusted jambiya, I know, but it has seen valuable service and might make for an interesting conversation piece hanging on your dining room wall.

Jayaddin took the weapon, wide-eyed, and hefted it. Sir, I do not know what to say… I and my men tried to kill you…

Then accept the knife as a sign of friendship, if nothing else. We mystics may indeed have long memories, but I’m not really one to hold a grudge where a decent fellow who was merely doing his duty is concerned.

Then, good master, in friendship, I accept this gift, which is fitting for a practical man such as I am, being but a humble servant of the Sultan’s Guard.

I picked up my stick again. You may have heard of a deal of trouble down in Wenneck some time ago, and other trouble in Holbonne too… that Arpane blade saw service there. Just something you can mention to anyone who asks about it. Shall we go?

Jayaddin bowed low and with the long-knife held in two hands, lifted it to his forehead briefly, before standing erect, and leading the way from the room. He seemed genuinely touched by the plain and very serviceable weapon, which I felt probably would later adorn a wall or a sideboard in his home. I followed him out of the room, down long and airy corridors, through an atrium (where he and I attracted a little attention from small groups of Borokanis gathered there), and out into a cobbled street where a two-horse four-wheeler carriage stood waiting.

I was shown into the back seat, the captain sitting beside me, with two more of the red-sashed Sultan’s Guards sat in front, one of them the driver. One other guardsman mounted a horse to the front, and a second to the rear. A fine escort indeed for a young man who’d left home thirteen years earlier nothing but a humble Temparus, paying for passage on a battered brigantine using mostly Temparus coins. Now here I was, wearing purple, albeit a very thin fabric-wrapped cord stitched around the top of my kamarband, the symbol of royal affiliation here in Boroka. A fellow could get used to this, if he weren’t a Master o’ the Robe bent on sailing to the Isle of Sinnock to annihilate the entire Beldane Council and its Philostrate.

The journey to the docks was swift, straight up the northern avenue in fact, and then the wheels were grinding to a halt on the wharf which was of course familiar to me. At Berth Three there was a small sloop, looking very much like the pirate vessel I’d sunk on my way to Boroka back in July; this one though was gaily painted in Borokan colours, with pennants and a flag, the latter bearing the sultan’s seal embroidered in it, flying from the spars and stays.

That is the Al Graud, Jayaddin announced. The name means The Leopard in the Sultan’s tongue. The name of the captain is Abbas, and that is he there on deck, waiting for you to board. To all aboard, you are His Excellency’s Emissary, Armin.

They don’t know me as a Wizzen?

No. They are accustomed to sailing swiftly, bearing letters, couriers and emissaries from His Excellency’s Court. Though they are excellent sailors, His Excellency did not wish for them to become confused at your being a master Wizzen while dressed as an official emissary of Boroka.

I’m sure His Excellency knows best.

I will introduce you to the captain, sir, and then I shall leave you in his care. The Al Graud will sail immediately.

I nodded, and we clambered out of the carriage onto the wharf, striding slowly and with great dignity towards the gangplank