The Masks of Sentinel Chapter Three (part 1 of 2)

  
          "Why does your king wear the silver mask?"
          Falk, Wolf and Hawk followed a castle servitor along a corridor lined with coloured friezes depicting the foliage of divers regions and climes. Globes of tinted glass, set into the stone, shone among painted leaves and branches. Serpentine forms, carved out of crystal and jet, intertwined overhead.
          Their guide, little more than a boy, was clearly embarrassed by the question.
          "We of Erastor are fortunate," he stammered, "in having a ruler who is also a savant. Decline has been stemmed; great advances have been made. Sadly, our king has paid a terrible price. There was an accident during some hazardous experiment .... The king wears the mask to spare the feelings of his people."
          "Thank you," said Falk, smiling at the young man's earnestness.
          They came to a suite of rooms decorated with exquisite, though whimsical, taste.
          "These are the king's private apartments," the guide explained. "I was instructed, most explicitly, to show them to you."
          The first chamber was pyramidal, white-walled, with swansdown drapes and ivory ornamentation. The next was identical, except for hanging lamps constructed of weird prisms, slowly turning, splashing chamelionic colours over the glacial surfaces.
          A hall filled with jewelled icons dedicated to the God of Symmetry opened into a room blighted by a thousand masks of the Demon of Disorder.
          Portraits and sculptures of past rulers lined a tall, narrow passage. Proud, grave faces gazed into empty space. Gems and gilding flashed and gleamed among the motionless folds of stately robes. Crowns glowed like rings of dying stars.
          "The dynasties of Erastor are rooted in forgotten times," intoned the serious boy.
          The corridor of kings opened into a room decorated with onyx, malachite and jade, suggesting cool deeps and caves of ocean. Beyond lay a chamber panelled with silver and steel, teeming with light, in dull counterfeit of the starsea's brilliance.
          "Impressive," murmured Falk. "But not to my taste."
          "The royal apartments were completely redecorated by King Xaltoran when he assumed the throne on the death of his brother, Jethuran. The Tower of Masks, and the garden beneath the Tower, are also major works of his reign."
          Falk recalled seeing the Tower of Masks during the course of Hawk's inland flight.
          "And does the king possess a wife?" Falk asked.
          "It is the custom to take five." The guide coughed gently. "But his wounds were extensive, you understand."
          A maze of cells, each dedicated to the glory of a rare and precious mineral, dazed and confused them. A hall draped with black velvet and hung with tapestries of sombre hue and vague subject-matter filled them with thoughts like shadows.
          At the entrance to a brightly lit passage, the servitor bowed and said, "I must leave you here." He turned and walked back the way they had come.
          Statues of warriors lined the corridor. Weapons of unorthodox design, held forward in hands of white marble, formed a deadly trellis. This shining barrier of razor-edged steel appeared impassable. Then, in unison, the arms of the stone guardians retracted, and swords and axes and lances fell back with them.
          Falk was apprehensive as they walked along the passage. If the hands of the warriors should extend once more, the results would be distressing to say the least. They came to the end of the corridor unscathed, however.
          Ponderous, ornate double doors hinged open with no visible aid.
          Falk, Wolf and Hawk advanced into the audience chamber of Castle Erastor.

          The room was long, high, comparatively narrow, with a raised dais supporting a throne at the far end.
          There were no guards, human or mechanical, in sight.
          At the heart of the floor stood a small table, at which sat two black-robed, raven-hooded figures.
          A game of chess was in progress.
          As mysteriously as they had opened, the great doors closed behind the watchful newcomers.
          A gleam of silver escaped from the cowl of the player on the left: Xaltoran, Falk decided. The face of the king's opponent was completely hidden.
          Under the table, an albino panther with blazing red eyes leapt to its feet. A collar and harness studded with rubies glittered against the nacreous fur. A fine steel chain constrained the cat, one end linked to the collar, the other to an iron slave-ring in the floor.
          Raising his head, Xaltoran signalled the three to approach; his companion pulled back the concealing hood.
          As they advanced, Falk's golden eyes focused on Xaltoran's guest.
          A profusion of shining red hair had spilled free of the restraining cowl. It framed a high-cheeked face, pale and ivory smooth. Eyes green and lucent as aquamarine sparkled beneath narrow, arched brows. The nose was small, delicately moulded. Painted with some unusual cosmetic, the full mouth gleamed like copper, matching the hair. The chin was peculiarly broad and strong, with a perceptible cleft.
          This was the second woman that Falk had seen in this new land, but the first at close quarters. He trusted that she would prove to be less deadly than the dark huntress.
          The panther hissed and spat as they came and stood before the table. The woman admonished the beast with a few low, soft words. Her voice was musical, but commanding.
          Being untutored in the ways of the court, Falk had no idea how he should react to a lady's presence; he managed a stiff bow and a tentative smile.
          The king's eyes flashed as he turned to his opponent.
          "This is the stranger I mentioned to you."
          She regarded the living triptych. "Ah, yes, the man called Falk. And his fascinating ... entourage."
          "Falk," said Xaltoran, "there are three facts concerning this lady which are of great importance. She is the finest chessplayer I have ever encountered. She is first in line of succession to the throne. She is the most beautiful woman in Erastor."
          "An intriguing combination," Falk commented.
          The woman laughed. "Your tone indicates a suggestion often made, that it's a combination conducive to intrigue. And you should note the order of my attributes. The king's mind is always subtle, his observations never falsely gallant."
          "Since my unfortunate accident," Xaltoran said, "my scale of values has shifted considerably. To me, chess has become the ultimate sensual, as well as intellectual, experience .... But I'm forgetting myself. Falk: the Lady Kaihima Rosk Rav'Altur."
          Falk bowed again, a little more fluently than before.
          "You need remember only the first part," Lady Kaihima said, rising. "I would that I could stay, but I know that the king wishes to speak with you alone. There'll be other opportunities, I trust."
          Falk noted a hint of pungency in her voice. "I guarantee it," he said.
          "Good."
          Deftly, she untied the shining leash. The panther bared its fangs and strained towards Falk. Calmly, Wolf moved to face it. The cat regarded the lupine guard with baleful eyes.
          Kaihima chided the panther once more, then glanced intently at Falk. "We seem to have in common an unusual taste in pets."
          "Mine are somewhat better trained, I think."
          "So I observe. When we meet again, you must explain your methods to me."
          "That may be difficult, my lady. I don't fully understand them myself."
          "I know that falconers have their secrets, but - "
          Xaltoran cut in, "Human beings, of course, are most difficult animals to tame and train."
          Kaihima's mouth tightened for an instant; then she laughed. "And words can be as effective as whips. Please forgive me."
          Falk's eyes followed her as she left. From his shoulder, Hawk scanned the chessboard.
          Gambits ....
          "A remarkable woman," said the Masked King.
          "Aye."
          Xaltoran indicated the now empty seat. Falk slid into it; Wolf stretched out behind it; Hawk found a perch on the high back.
          Falk noted that the king's hands were sheathed in tight leather gloves. They lay in front of the chessboard, fingers loosely interlocked, motionless as carvings of black stone.
          Erastor's scarred lord looked up, light flowing like water over his mask. "Are you acquainted with this game?"
          "I believe so," Falk said, thoughtfully. "Yet I've no memory of ever playing it, nor even of learning the rules."
          "Interesting ... but I meant the specific, not the general. This is not an original contest, but one of great historical import."
          "The disposition of the pieces means nothing to me. Should it?" Falk's eyes hardened. "I've an endgame of my own I'd prefer to discuss."
          "All in good time. You are too impetuous to make a good chessplayer, I fear."
          "All in good time .... A strange phrase, that. Time is neither good nor bad. It simply is." Falk sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Moments of repose are rare, and I should wallow in the luxury."
          His host's temporizing aside, Falk's enjoyment of the situation was genuine.
          Xaltoran, seen in the flesh (Falk smiled to himself as the phrase entered his mind), inspired pity more than anything else. The cold, bright mask, stamped with frozen perfection, was a caricature. He appeared to be of medium height and slight frame. His flowing robe of black homespun resembled the habit of a monk.
          If the meeting was informal, however, the meeting-place was not. Walls, ceiling and floor were of seamless blue-grey marble. The sides of the chamber were pierced by lancets filled with panels of stained glass depicting scenes of Erastor's past glory. Morning light hit the windows, lent burning life to the flat scenes and shapes, pulsed through in shafts of misted colour, streamed down into pools of muted fire.
          On the walls hung weapons and pieces of armour, fashioned in steel and silver, banded and chased with copper and gold, crusted with precious stones. Light-globes hung from the vaulted ceiling; between them were banners of fine silk, trembling like the wings of giant dragonflies. The dais and throne were of crystal, yellow as topaz, and overhung with a canopy of sapphires and amethysts in a net of gold.
          Falk reached forward and ran his finger along the edge of the board: the carving was old, intricately figured. "What I don't understand is why the Lady Kaihima should play dead men's games. If I judge her correctly, she's entirely absorbed in the present."
          "And therefore wise enough to learn from the past."
          "I can sniff a parable ten leagues away. A game within a game. Not all gambits are concerned with chess." Falk waved his hand over the board. "Regale me, then, with the story behind this equation of ivory and jet."
          The king looked Falk in the face; motes of blue light brimmed like tears within his lifeless eyes.
          "Centuries ago, in an empire of the east, there lived a pair of extraordinary twin boys who absorbed the rules and stratagems of chess before they could speak, and who became acknowledged grandmasters long before they could read and write. They played contests of complexity and wit and beauty every day of their youthful lives.
          "Rumour of the twin prodigies spread, and fame and riches quickly accrued to them ... they were fortunate to dwell in civilised times. In later years, however, an evil chance - the details have not come down to us - gave rise to great bitterness between them. Whatever the cause and nature of the conflict, the twins determined to play one final game together to decide the issue, the loser to drink straightway a cup of poisoned wine set beside the board.
          "So it occurred, that the contest was entered into, and progressed for many hours. And when the had reached the stage you see here - there were many spectators, grandmasters all, to note the configuration of the pieces - the twin who had drawn black declared that he could not win, toppled his king, and drank the wine before anyone could prevent it."
          Xaltoran paused in his narrative. Inevitably, the silver mask made it impossible to gauge his thoughts and emotions. He bent over the board; reflected in his tilting face, the ornate chessmen loomed and shrank like spectres in a dream.
          "Ironically, the surviving twin believed that his brother would have won within five moves, and had himself been considering a resignation. Consumed by guilt and self-doubt, he forgot the original dispute, and spent the rest of his short life trying to prove that he could indeed have been the victor, and that his brother had been right after all. Madness and death overtook him before he could achieve his goal."
          Falk smiled politely. "A merry enough tale, though the point of it eludes me. Presumably, the fascination lies in succeeding where the winner, if such he can be called, failed?"
          "To my knowledge, only two have solved the problem." A black hand picked up the black king. "Myself, and one other." Gently, he replaced the piece. "Remember this story. It holds a particular significance."
          "I'm not one to be seduced by enigmas," Falk said coldly.
          "I never deal in riddles," Xaltoran countered. "Only gambits. Kingcraft, like chess, depends
on - "
          Falk was puzzled by Xaltoran's abrupt lapse into silence; but not for long.
          A tocsin sounded. Even Wolf had failed to detect it before Xaltoran. It came from no particular direction.
          The bell's silver murmur rapidly grew to a wild, incessant clangour.
          "Why the alarm?" Falk asked.
          "Each carillon has its own meaning. This one betokens strangers from the sea."
          With quick, fluid motion, the king reached out, pressed a motif at the edge of the table top. In response, the chessboard rose from the scalloped surface on four spindles of polished brass, revealing a disk of pale blue crystal. Wavelike lines crossed and re-crossed the azure surface.
          Seven long, evocative shapes appeared at the heart of the disk.
          Black fingers darted over patterned veneer: one of the narrow objects trembled, grew, evolved into a recognisable image, froze. It was a ship, its prow carved in the likeness of an eagle's head, its sail black and blazoned with the image, white like ice, of a winged axe.
          "Falk," Xaltoran murmured, "did you bring these birds of prey ravening to my kingdom?"
          "These raptors are unknown to me," Falk assured him.
          "But known to me only too well."
          Xaltoran pressed the decoration once more, and the board lowered back into the table.
          The king's eyes glittered like frost on steel. "This changes all my plans concerning you. Conflict approaches, full scale war most like. You would make a powerful and welcome ally."
          "So." Falk smiled grimly. "A new game begins. If you need to recruit pawns, look elsewhere."
          "Such aid as I require may be given freely or grudgingly, it matters not. But help me you will."
          "No man fights without the possibility of some prize."
          "The ties of forgetfulness bind your soul. Become my mercenary, my champion, and I'll break them and set you free."
          "A promise brittle as wax."
          "Can you afford to be so certain? Weigh the odds before you decide."
          "Excellent advice." Falk pushed back his chair. "The balance tilts - " Wolf leapt up and hurtled across the marble floor, making for the dais; Falk rose, loomed over the Masked King; Hawk soared into the vault. " - and tilts again."
          Wolf covered the shining steps in a brazen leap, jumped into the topaz throne, then turned half-circle, tongue lolling, eyes glowing.
          Hawk flew down and perched on the edge of the golden canopy; blue sparks flared in the dormant jewels.
          Falk walked to one side of the great chamber and paused before a stained glass window depicting a coronation: all red and purple and gold.
          He drew his sword and faced King Xaltoran.
          "I accept the commission," Falk said. "But understand this: if you fail to keep your half of the bargain, the penalty will be absolute."
          His tall figure now spiked with light, his hair and skin metallic, his gaze like brass, his torque and armbands aflame, his blade flashing like a mirror, Falk seemed more war god than warrior. Laughing, he walked through the zones beneath the windows - through a grid of xanthic yellow, a shimmer of polar white, a mist of luminous red - then ascended the dais.
          Six golden eyes regarded the king of Erastor from his own place of authority.
          Falk thought: "One way or another, my sword, Thief, will have a fine baptism!"

          Starkad Frostmane strode down the Rimedawn's deck, bronze- nailed planks thrumming beneath his feet.
          The lodestar's light glanced from him as though from a wave.
          His armour, constructed of steel lozenges, invisibly hinged, was as flexible as lizard skin. Over it he wore a surcoat of white leather, blazoned with the image of the winged axe, done in silver leaf. His boots were also of white leather. A sword hung at his waist, its pommel a round diamond, its hilt of carved ivory, its scabbard decorated with thin-beaten platinum feathers; the belt was of bleached hide, its buckle of finely worked silver.
          As he advanced along the ship, he traded a few words with each of his men in turn as they leaned on their oars. He knew all of them by name; many were members of his own clan. He knew that these warriors would, without exception, follow him to the rim of the world if need be.
          Pinned to the mast was an icon depicting the chief Skarnyr deity, the Sun-Eagle, gold flames radiatiating from its godlike head, gold glyphs trailing from its brazen claws.
          Like the roots of a petrified tree, the coils of an enigmatic machine extended from the base of the mast. Starkad made ritual obeisance to the Sun-Eagle, then bent to examine the black, shining mechanism. All appeared well.
          He walked on until he came to the galley's imposing prow.
          His sister was there. She was holding a hand-mirror in front of her face. All on the Rimedawn knew that this had nothing to do with vanity: that it was not her own image she sought in the glass.
          Although a decade older than Starkad, and wise beyond her years and his combined, her small stature and doll-like features lent her an air of girlish innocence.
          Her name was Ulainn.
          Quietly, Starkad moved to stand behind his sister.
          In the mirror, he saw her oval face, no less swarthy than his own, framed by strands of hair fine as silk thread. Her nose and mouth and chin were tiny, elfin. Only her eyes were large, dark blue, almost black. What they gazed at in the glass was beyond reality.
          To Ulainn, the speculum was red as the facet of a huge ruby. Errant images flitted across its surface: tides of restless movement, suggestive of vast armies; banners flowing as clouds at sunset; weapons trailing fire; shadows tinged with blood; faces like rotting fruit; eyes like crimson stars.
          Ulainn did not always see the world as others did. Her mind had eyes that roved haphazardly through space and time. She had learned to interpret what she saw like a runecaster the scattered futhark stones.
          The mirror was not essential to the process, but she found it useful: part catalyst, part prop. She sighed and lowered the glass, which was attached to her belt by a black cord. She was accoutred in much the same way as her brother. A Skarnyr princess was expected to be a warrior, and Ulainn had proved herself often on the field of battle.
          "What did you see?" Starkad asked.
          "A maze of possibilities. War mainly."
          Starkad laughed. "Nothing new in that."
          "No."
          "There's more," Starkad urged.
          "That southland captain, Tarush ... he had something lodged in his mind like a bright flaw in dark crystal. A man, plainly, though I never saw him clearly. It seemed unimportant at the time. But I sense him again ... yonder, in Erastor. There's power inside him ... seething, impatient ... like a dam about to break."
          Starkad considered the dragon-wall, blinking on the horizon like a row of heliographs.
          "Somehow," she went on, "this man and the one we seek are linked."
          Starkad frowned. "Will they join forces against us?"
          "Perhaps ... but it'll be an uneasy alliance, easily broken."
          A gust of wind set the golden feathers on the figurehead in motion; a ripple of light quickened the eagle's figurehead.
          Starkad narrowed his gaze. "Our ambassador to the court of the Masked King should be back soon."
          "He dare not refuse you an audience." Ulainn lifted the mirror once more.
          Her brother raised his right hand before his face. On the middle finger, a platinum ring gleamed. Set into the white metal was a curious stone - black, flat, cut into the shape of a five-pointed star.
          "No," Starkad murmured, "he dare not."
          In the glass, Ulainn saw a vast metal sphere, as reflective as any mirror, falling from the starsea, capturing and distorting its ambient as it plunged to earth. The glass blinked like an eye - From the ancient cicatrix of the globe's landing place (Ulainn knew this without knowing how she knew) a black citadel erupted, thrusting like a massive jet-gauntletted fist. Again, the scene abruptly changed, time collapsing upon itself .... And a great shaft of darkness, bursting from the heart of Sentinel, piercing its mantle as easily as a javelin piercing flesh, engulfed the black citadel and its environs, then reached with godlike assurance to the sky, to the planet's outermost limit, to the close-clustered stars beyond ....
          Despite the sun on his armour, Starkad turned cold at Ulainn's expression.
          "That which sleeps," she intoned. "That which sleeps under Challun-Tioch struggles to wake."

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