Of course, rumors abounded of the place: of arcane rituals, of chained monsters, of witchcraft and warlockry. Kepenhill’s teachers sought to allay such stories. They insisted the keep beneath the school was merely a monastic hermitage of deep study and scholarly pursuits. The Shriven—those rarified few who achieved the Highcryst in both alchymy and religion—continued loftier arcane studies down there. They pursued dangerous inquiries, involving deep meditations and herbal-induced trances. They delved into cabalistic experiments and sought paths beyond all boundaries of horizon and history. To ensure secrecy, their labors had to be buried away from the common eye, even from the oversight of Kepenhill’s alchymists and hieromonks.
It also didn’t help with the gossip-mongering when the Shriven themselves were rarely seen. No one quite knew how they came and went from their keep. Whispers of secret passages and hidden doors kept students wary to be alone, lest they be whisked to some bloody sacrifice. Compounding this, students had disappeared, vanishing without a trace—though, Kanthe suspected those missing few were merely malcontents who sought the freedom beyond the school’s walls.
I certainly appreciate that desire.
Whether any of the stories of the Shrivenkeep were true, Kanthe did not have any particular desire to find out. Still, he continued after Frell down the steps.
The alchymist slowed as they reached the first tier of the school. The staircase spiraled even deeper. Frell paused before leading Kanthe down into the dark roots under the school. He glanced back over a shoulder.
“Prince Kanthe,” he warned, “perhaps you should return to your rooms. I will do my best to argue my way into the keep’s librarie. Though permission is rare, it’s not unheard of. In addition, I know several Shriven who will at least consider my plea.”
Kanthe waved for Frell to continue their descent. “When it comes to prying open the Shrivenkeep’s doors, you may need more help than a couple of friends on the inside. If you truly wish to gain entrance, a prince at your side is far better than a wind out your arse.”
Frell sighed and continued down. “Perhaps you’re correct.”
Kanthe followed. He was certainly not above using his station to help Frell in his cause—but such generosity was also self-serving. Hopefully his mentor would spend many days in the librarie, or at least long enough for Kanthe to devise another way to keep Frell from bringing portents of doom to the king.
With things settled, they passed under the first tier and descended even deeper. The stairs wound another five turns before they ended at an ebonwood door strapped and studded in iron. The sight of it sent a shiver down Kanthe’s back, especially the emblem carved into its lintel. It was a book yet again, bound not in chains or nettles, but in the grip of a fanged viper. Such a symbol warned of the poisonous knowledge found beyond this threshold.
Frell stepped forward, removed a key from his pocket, and undid the lock. As he pulled the door ajar, Kanthe stopped him with a palm against the ebonwood. Frell scowled in consternation, but Kanthe shook his head.
Don’t.
Voices reached them both—faint at first, then clearer with the door peeked open.
Kanthe had no trouble recognizing the gruff authority of his father. He also knew from long experience that it was best not to catch the king by surprise. He also feared Frell might use this sudden opportunity to blurt out his fears right here and now.
I can’t let that happen.
Keeping his palm on the door, Kanthe motioned Frell to the side so they could spy upon the proceedings in the next room. Four figures clustered in the center of a cavernous space that had been carved out of glassy black stone. The walls and roof had been cut into large facets, each mirroring the movement in the room. A score of ebonwood doors, identical to the one they hid behind, lined the walls, each with a different symbol carved into its lintel.
Where do all those lead to?
Kanthe remembered the rumors of the Shrivenkeep’s secret passages. Certainly, one must lead to Highmount, especially as the king was here without his usual retinue of guards.
He studied his father, who had come dressed in polished kneeboots, silk leggings, and an embroidered velvet doublet. A thick dark blue cloak draped from shoulder to ankle, as if any garment could truly hide the grandeur of Highking Toranth ry Massif, the Crown’d Lord of Hálendii, rightful ruler of all the kingdom and its territories.
His father’s pale and stony countenance was reflected a hundredfold in the polished facets of the walls. His features were all sharp-edged but softened by a halo of white-blond hair, the curls of which had been oiled nearly flat. A scowl of disappointment—an expression well familiar to Kanthe—currently marred his lips.
“You lost the bronze relic?” Toranth boomed. “An artifact that could assure our victory in the war to come. Is that why you flew all the way back here, to lay your failure at my feet?”
“A setback, I assure you, Your Majesty. One that will be duly corrected once we find the escaped prisoner who stole it. All of Anvil is being tossed and turned over. The thief cannot keep such strangeness out of sight for long.”
Kanthe knew the man down on one knee, recognizing the gray robe, the black tattoo banded across his eyes, and the silver hair braided around his neck. It was the Shrive who was always whispering darkly in his father’s ear. The man kept his head bowed, trying his best to soothe the fury before him with determined obeisance.
Frell hissed under his breath, “Wryth.”
The single word held enough disgust to fill a thousand-page tome.
So, I’m not the only one who knows this bastard.
“I will return on the morrow’s wyndship back to Guld’guhl,” the Shrive promised. “I will personally see to the artifact’s return. My entire life has been devoted to the search for ancient magicks born of lost alchymies. I will not let this godling in bronze slip our nets.”
“It must not,” the king ordered. “Liege General Haddan fears your thief may try to ransom this great weapon to the Klashe to buy his freedom. He believes it’s the cur’s only recourse.”
“Indeed. We have already taken such a possibility into our accounting. Klashe spies—those known to us—have been rounded up and questioned under torture. In addition, the docks of Anvil are watched through every bell. There is no escape. The godling will be ours again.”
The king’s shoulders shifted away from his ears. “Make it happen,” he finished with less fire. “In the meantime, I have another problem to address. A plea from a second cousin across the bay. Trouble out in M?r.”
Wryth’s eyes narrowed at this last.
But Kanthe’s father dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. “Attend to your search in Anvil. Haddan and I will address this other matter. If we’re successful, we might not even need ancient magicks and godlings to ensure our victory.”
The interest in Wryth’s face sharpened, but he simply stood and backed a step, offering a humble bow that from the Shrive came off as mocking.
The king missed this as he turned to the tall youth standing in light armor at his side, another figure all too familiar to Kanthe. “Mikaen, it seems in short order we’ll find a use for your younger brother yet.”