The Crown of the Conqueror

I

The mountain wind flapped at the tent walls and howled over the rocks. Braziers lit the inside of the pavilion with a ruddy glow, the white fabric dancing with shadows as Lakhyri and Ullsaard entered. Outside, two companies of legionnaires stood guard watching the pass that led down towards Magilnada. They huddled around their fires, quietly wondering what their king and the High Brother were doing, yet reluctant to speculate too much.

Rugs had been spread over the ground, and a plain chair stood in the centre of the pavilion. Ullsaard sat himself at Lakhyri's invitation, dread and excitement warring within him. The high priest had explained nothing of the ritual he was about to undertake despite the king's persistent questioning. Even now, Ullsaard was not sure of Lakhyri, yet for the many days it had taken to travel from Askh the king had not come upon another means to secure his family's release.

It was this more than his life that occupied Ullsaard's thoughts; not that he was willing to die just yet. The helplessness that ever hovered on the edge of his mind returned as he settled back into the chair, and as before his anger at the situation swept away the doubts.

Lakhyri stood before him, a small canvas bag over his shoulder. His spindly fingers delved into the sack and pulled forth a handful of dried leaves.

"So that you understand the bargain we will make, I must tell you that what I offer is a chance, not a guarantee," said the high priest.

"I understand," Ullsaard replied with a nod. "That doesn't mean I won't kill you if you fail."

"If I fail, you will be in no position to kill anybody," Lakhyri said, his expression solemn. "Even if I succeed, there will be a price to pay, a physical toll upon your life. Do you agree to consent knowing this?"

"What sort of toll?"

"It varies," Lakhyri replied with a sight shrug. "A few years from your life at best; crippling at worst."

"How can I make such a decision? Both the terms of success and the price to be paid are uncertain. Only a fool would agree to such a thing."

Lakhyri shoved the leaves back into his bag and stepped away.

"I cannot offer you any better assurance," he said. "Yet it is not the final decision. First I will show you what is possible. It is then that you must decide if you wish to proceed further. You will have one chance to change your mind, but before that you must still place your life in my hands."

"In the spirit of honesty, I should tell you that the second captain of my guards has orders to slay you if I should die." The king smiled at Lakhyri's reaction. "Perhaps that is the extra incentive you need. Whether he will actually do it or not, I cannot offer you any better assurance."

Ullsaard gestured towards the priest's bag.

"What's with the leaves? Is there going to be much chanting and such?"

Lakhyri brought forth the bunched leaves again and placed them in Ullsaard's hands.

"This is not some primitive ceremony of superstition, Ullsaard," said the priest, showing repulsion at the thought. "This is a precise ritual, honed over a hundred lifetimes of mortal men. There will be no chanting or dancing or other nonsense. The leaves are a drug to ease you into a deep sleep. When you are there, I will join you in your dreams."

Ullsaard was becoming less keen on the plan the more he heard of it. It was no wonder Lakhyri had not offered any earlier explanation.

"So it'll be like when Askhos invades my dreams?"

"He does?" The priest could not hide his astonishment. Ullsaard had been aware of Lakhyri's casual yet constant inquiries regarding the exact nature of Askhos's state for the whole journey; inquiries that Ullsaard had met with the same silence with which Lakhyri had answered the king's questions.

"Sometimes," Ullsaard said, wishing he had said nothing. "If I'm going to do this, we might as well get started. How long will this drug take to work?"

He stuffed the leaves into his cheek and almost retched at the bitter taste.

"Do not chew," warned Lakhyri. "Let the juices mix with your spit, absorb it through your gums and mouth. It will not take long at all."

Within a few heartbeats Ullsaard was already feeling numb in the face. His pulse and breathing slowed as Lakhyri took the king's hands in his, for a moment looking like a parent standing over a child. The edges of the king's vision darkened, the red of the braziers deepening, the gold of Lakhyri's eyes growing brighter and brighter.

His whole body was limp and the world had disappeared to a tiny patch filled with the priest's rune-etched face. He could not feel Lakhyri's grasp, or the rug beneath his feet, or the chair he sat on. Ullsaard wanted to say something, give voice to the fear that he was dying, poisoned. Yet the dread was as dull as every other sense. He could not even hear his heart and the wind was a distant memory.

Greyness covered everything, a mist inside and outside of him, neither warm nor cool, until even that slipped away.