Realms of Valor - James Lowder [60]
of the Purple Dragons and the tales told by old warriors around the fire are the truth of your 'crusade.' Yamun Khahan never called it a crusade; he never tried to make it more than it was-a war. Neither does King Azoun. He knows what the war cost.” I stop packing. I am tired and do not want to do anything more this night. Closing my eyes, I chant a prayer to Furo for strength. “I have written what I know, and no one wants to read it.” “As a priest of Denier I'll read it, master. You know that.” Perhaps thinking he can change my mind, Foxe begins unpacking what I have prepared. 'To put it away in your secret vaults with all the other volumes your faith has collected.“ ”Our libraries are open to all.“ Foxe does not fail to defend his church, but his scowl softens. He is more concerned for me, 1 believe, and that is why I will miss him. ”There are always others besides the duke.“ ”Foxe, I am tired of begging from city to city. There is no more reason for me to be here. I am going back to my homeland.“ I rub wearily at the stubble of my shaved head. Foxe's hands stop in midair, holding a ream of ink-traced parchment. ”You're leaving?“ I nod. Foxe sets the paper down and carefully smoothes his nightshirt. He speaks with great sorrow. ”There's no need for you to go. Everyone at the temple will agree. Even the high scrivener praises your knowledge and wisdom.“ ”No, Firstborn Foxe, there is nothing for me here." He sees that I am resolute and gives up. For a time he stands just watching me, until at last, with great reluctance, he passes over those things he has unpacked. We work in silence, feeling the bond that can sometimes be built between a scholar and his secretary. I thought him rude and rash when we first met, but it was only his way of trying to help me. I have learned more about the West from him-less about kings and more about common people- than I ever learned in Suzail. In exchange, I have tried to teach him proper manners, but Foxe can only become whatever he is fated to be by his karma-my influence is pre-ordained within it. I, too, must accept the fate I have earned from previous
lifetimes. We have done little more than organize the sheaves of yellowed parchment and tied a few in corded bundles when the stairwell rumbles with the distant clap of the temple's door knocker. A twinge of irrational dread chills me. Have I offended Duke Piniago more than I know-enough that he might send thugs against me? The thought passes as quickly as it came; assassins would never pound on the main doors. “Quickly, let us see who it is before the entire temple is roused.” I look to Foxe; even through the sleepy gape that gives him a double chin his curiosity shows clearly. “Nothing but trouble and surprises all night,” my companion moans as he looks at his bare toes, barely visible from beneath the curve of his nightshirt, and hurries to his cell to clothe himself in more proper attire. Hastily dressed, Foxe follows me down the coiling stairs, belting his robe as he goes. The knock resounds again as I hustle across the main hall, still lit by the votives on the altar. A tall figure stands by the door. At first I mistake it for our caller, then I note it is nothing more than Sister Deara's failed copyist. At Foxe's command, the clanking golem draws back the ponderous door to admit our caller. Without a word, a man steps in and bows deeply to Foxe and me. In the luster of candlelight his clothes are silken, dyed deep blue, but cut like the robes I wear-Khazari in design. His hair is black and braided. No mark of office or heraldry does he wear, yet from his poise there is no mistaking the dress as servant's livery. “Lama Koja of the Red Mountain,” the servant says politely. His voice has the familiar accents of home. “My mistress has heard of your travails this night. She hopes you will honor her by attending a late dinner.” How could anyone have heard what happened and act so quickly? Sorcery possibly, but who would bother to waste such magic on me? “Dinner? Mistress? Explain yourself,” I demand out of caution. The servant smiles.