David Gemmell - The King Beyond the Gate

'What do you say, Balan?'

'It is too early for judgements. The man may just be rash,' answered a taller, slimmer man with a shock of dark curly hair.

'Katan?'

The last man was slender, his face long and ascetic, his eyes large and sorrowful. He smiled.

'Were it my choice, I would say yes. He is worthy. He is a man of the Source, although he knows it not.'

'Then we are — in the main — agreed,' said the leader. 'I think it is time we spoke with Decado.'

'But should we not be more sure, Lord Abbot?' asked Balan.

'Nothing in life is sure, my son. Except the promise of death.'

It was an hour past curfew and the streets of Drenan were deserted, the vast white city silent. A three-quarter moon hung in a clear sky, its reflection glinting from a thousand rainwashed cobbles on the Street of Pillars.

From the shadows of a tall building came six men in black armour, dark helms covering their faces. They walked swiftly, purposefully towards the palace, looking neither to right nor left.

Two Joinings, armed with massive axes, barred their path and the men stopped. Six pairs of eyes fastened on the beasts and they howled in pain and fled.

The men walked on. From behind shutters and heavily curtained windows eyes watched their progress and the marchers felt the stares, sensing the curiosity turning to fear as they were recognised.

They moved on in silence until they reached the gates, where they waited. After several seconds they heard the grating movement of the bar beyond, and the gate opened. Two sentries bowed their heads as the black-armoured men marched forward across the courtyard and on into the main torchlit corridors lined with guards. All eyes avoided them. At the far end the double doors of oak and bronze slid open, the leader raised his hand and his five companions halted, turning on their heels to stand before the doors with black-gloved hands resting on ebony sword-hilts.

The leader lifted his helm and entered the room beyond.

As he had expected, Ceska's chief minister Eertik waited alone at his desk. He looked up as the warrior appeared, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes fixing on the knight.

'Welcome, Padaxes,' he said, his voice dry and faintly metallic.

'Greetings, counsellor,' answered Padaxes, smiling. He was a tall man, square-faced, with eyes the grey of a winter sky. His mouth was full-lipped and sensual, yet he was not handsome. There was about his features a strangeness — a taint hard to define.

'The emperor has need of your services,' said Eertik. As he stood and moved round the desk of oak, his dark velvet garments rustled. Padaxes registered the sounds, considering them not dissimilar to a snake moving through dry grass. He smiled again.

'I am always at the emperor's command.'

'He knows that, Padaxes, just as he knows you value his generosity. There is a man who seeks harm to the emperor. We have had word that he is in the north and the emperor wishes him taken or slain.'

'Tenaka Khan,' said Padaxes.

Eertik's eyes opened wide in surprise. 'You know of him?'

'Obviously,'

'May I ask how?'

'You may not.'

'He is a threat to the empire,' said Eertik, masking his annoyance.

'He is a walking corpse from the moment I leave this room. Did you know that Ananais was with him?'

'I did not,' said Eertik, 'although now you say it, I understand the mystery. Ananais was thought to be dead of his wounds. Does this intelligence pose a problem for your Order?'

'No. One, two, ten or one hundred. Nothing can stand against my Templars. We will ride in the morning.'

'Can I aid you in any way?'

'Yes. Send a child to the Temple in two hours. A girl child under ten years. There are certain religious rites which must be performed. I must commune with the power that holds the universe.'

'It shall be done.'

'Our temple buildings are in need of repair. I was considering a move to the country and the commissioning of a new temple — something larger,' said Padaxes.

'The emperor's thoughts exactly,' said Eertik. 'I will have some plans drawn up for your return.'

'Convey my thanks to the Lord Ceska.'

'I will indeed. May your journey be swift and your return joyful.'

'As the Spirit wills it,' answered Padaxes, replacing his black helm.

From his high tower window the Abbot gazed down into the upper garden where twenty-eight acolytes knelt before their trees. Despite the season the roses thrived, the perfume of their blooms filling the air.

The Abbot closed his eyes and soared, his spirit rising and flowing. Gently he descended to the garden, coming to rest beside the slender Katan.

Katan's mind opened to receive him and the Abbot joined the acolyte, flowing within the fragile stems and capillary systems of the plant.

The rose welcomed them. It was a red rose.

The Abbot withdrew and, one by one, joined each of the acolytes in turn. Only Balan's rose had failed to flower, but the buds were full and he was but a little way behind the rest.

The Abbot returned to his body in the high tower, opening his eyes and breathing deeply. He rubbed his eyes and moved to the southern window, looking down to the second level and the vegetable garden.

There, kneeling in the soil, was a priest in a dirty brown cassock. The Abbot walked from the room, descending the circular stair to push open the door to the lower level. He stepped out on to the well-scrubbed flagstones of the path and descended the stone steps to the garden.

'Greetings, brother,' he said.

The priest looked up, then bowed. 'Greetings, Lord Abbot.'

The Abbot seated himself on a stone bench nearby.

'Please continue,' he said. 'Do not let me disturb you.'

The man returned to his work, weeding the soil, his hands black with dirt and his fingernails cracked and broken.

The Abbot looked about him. The garden was well-tended, the tools sharp and cared-for, the pathways clean and clear of weeds.

He gazed fondly on the priest. The man had changed greatly since that day five years ago when he had walked into the monastery declaring his wish to become a priest. Then he had been dressed in garish armour, two shortswords strapped to his thighs and a baldric belt across his chest bearing three daggers.

'Why do you wish to serve the Source?' the Abbot had asked.

'I am tired of death,' he had replied.

'You live to kill,' said the Abbot, staring into the haunted eyes of the warrior.

'I want to change.'

'You want to hide?'

'No.'

'Why did you choose this monastery?'

'I… I prayed.'

'Did you receive an answer?'

'No. But I was heading west and after praying I changed my mind and came north. And you were here.'

'You think that is an answer?'

'I don't know,' answered the warrior. 'Is it?'

'Do you know what order this is?'

'No.'

'The acolytes here are gifted beyond other men and they have powers you could not comprehend. Their whole lives are given over to the Source. What do you offer?'

'Only myself. My life.'

'Very well. I will take you. But hear this and mark it well. You will not mix with the other acolytes. You will not walk to the upper level. You will live below in a crofter's hut. You will put aside your weapons and never touch them again. Your tasks will be menial and your obedience total. You will not speak to anyone at any time — only when I address you, may you answer.'

'I agree,' said the warrior without hesitation.

'I will instruct you each afternoon and I will gauge your progress. If you fail in any way, I will dismiss you from the monastery.'

'I agree.'

For five years the warrior had obeyed without question, and as the seasons passed the Abbot watched the haunted expression fade from his dark eyes. He had learned well, though never could he master the release of the spirit. But in all other things the Abbot was pleased.