Distant worlds touch — the world of Sarah Walker, High King's Shadow, assassin, and the world of Chuck Bartowski, CIA scientist, inventor. Will the link between them spell happiness or unhappiness?
Linked?
Chapter Four: Audiences?
Sarah shut the blue box, the gemstone cold inside it, and wiped at the cut on the heel of her palm, the blood that dripped from her fingers.
It had failed. Nothing. She had risen at dawn, shook the heavy dew from her blankets, and tried to contact King Larkin.
She had bled for nothing.
The stone seemed inert. It simply sat, heavy, cold, and opaque, in a warm palmful of her blood, linking her to nothing. Explanations defied her — other than the obvious: that somehow the man who had seen in the stone before had dispelled the stone's magic, the ancient dweomercraft that had made the stone a Link stone. That dweomercraft had been lost long ago, and Sarah's Link stone was a piece of the last known magic stone, the one that stood in a heavily guarded, reinforced room near High King Larkin's Throne Room, the Master stone.
She had mixed feelings about the failure, she realized. She had tried the stone secretly hoping to see the man she had seen before. She had been unable to shake him or the feelings he had created — or unearthed — in her. She was not supposed to have feelings, mixed or unmixed — a weapon had no feelings and she was the High King's weapon, his sharpest blade.
She certainly had little experience in having feelings. She was not sure she liked having them. She had been trying to forget them, ignore them, but they were insistent. She had pushed herself and her horse hard, hoping to outrun them before she slept, but she had failed. She dreamt of him, the man, of the Link stone warm in her hand, pulsing, and of his face.
"Are you okay?" — No.
She wrapped the box and returned it to her saddlebag. She sighed. Not a sound she was used to hearing from herself.
— No, I am not okay. But that does not matter. I do not matter. Only obedience matters.
She tried to find conviction in those words but she failed at that too. The words seemed inert — like the Link stone, they seemed to have lost their power.
She finished breaking her spartan camp and wondered what King Larkin would make of her silence. He would not be happy. How would she explain it? She could not. She could only present the inert stone and let him make of it what he would. Disobedience by omission.
She shook her head, trying to dispel the feelings in her heart.
Cassion John squared his shoulders, stood straight. Straighter. He would not show his exhaustion.
The High King was intolerant of any weaknesses but his own. For his own, Larkin had infinite, loving patience.
One of the two soldiers posted by the gold-laced doors to the Throne opened them. John strode into the massive, opulent room: the gold-lacing on the doors was a mere preamble to the cloying richness behind them.
The room was long beneath a ceiling painted with lavish murals depicting the history of Prima. The murals immediately above the door depicted the beginnings of the kingdom, with each successive mural depicting another crucial moment in the kingdom's history, leading to the mural depicting the ascension of the Larkin, just above the throne.
John ignored the murals. He had seen them all, studied them all, many times in the past while waiting for audiences with King Larkin. But his walk to the throne took beneath Larkin's favored history of Prima: the walk was a passage of time.
The murals were recently done. King Larkin commissioned their painting shortly after his ascension. Collectively, they presented a re-telling of Prima's history that made Larkin's ascension seem inevitable, destined, the happy culmination of history.
Larkin's ascension was anything but that, John knew, despite the murals. Larkin had become High King as a result of hard strategem, shameful compromise, blackmail, and murder. But that had all happened years ago, long before John had ever set foot in Castle Prima.
"His Most Royal Excellency, Determiner of Fates, Captain of the Universe, and High Regent of Prima, King Larkin!"
The High King entered as the shout of Court Master ended and the tall man then kneeled. King Larkin acknowledged the announcement and the prostration with a small lift of one eyebrow. Everyone in the room, including John, joined the Master in the kneeling.
Lord, those titles — John grumbled internally — a little much? But John kept his look obsequious.
Larkin mounted the steps of the throne, climbing them quickly. He wore his typical attire: a white silken shirt, soft, red leather pants, black boots, and his heavy scarlet cape. On his head was a plain circlet of gold. He was handsome, his dark hair showing little gray, his form athletic, if short.
As he fluffed out his cape and sat down on the throne, he gestured theatrically and the Master spoke: "All rise!" The kneelers rose and Larkin crossed his legs and gestured specifically at John.
"Cassion, I have an urgent need for news. Approach."
John stepped forward.
The throne room was not crowded, although many petitioners were standing in two groups near the great doors. The soldiers from the doors entered and began to force the petitioners out of the throne room. John walked between the two groups, moving in the opposite direction, and along the plush scarlet carpet that led to the throne. Larkin watched John as he walked, the foot of the King's crossed leg tapping the air impatiently.
John could hear muted complaints from various of the petitioners, many of whom had probably waited hours for a cause or case to be heard, but none complained loudly enough for the complaint to carry to the King's ear.
John reached the end of the carpet and stopped. He bowed. "My Lord."
"Do you have any word of my Shadow?"
Larkin's tone, insistent, pointed, clashed with his relaxed posture. John wondered again about the King's Shadow and the King. Shadows were celibate: it was required of them, a tradition, proof of the singleness of mind they were expected to show, their unwavering devotion to duty. Purity of heart, willing one thing.
Yet, John knew, the King looked at his Shadow with a lurking, lustful hunger, a hunger the King thought invisible but which was not — at least not to his Cassion, and, perhaps, (or so John wondered) not to his Shadow. Were the Shadow ever to couple with someone, the Link Stone would fail her, as would her fighting prowess, and the King would require a new Shadow. John believed the King wanted his Shadow and also wanted his Shadow. All hands agreed that Sarah was the finest Shadow ever to serve a High King of Prima. The King was sharply pinched between his desire as a man and his desire as a monarch.
John had never been able to decipher the Shadow's reaction to the King. She seemed to register the banked lust that tinged his interactions with her — but she did not acknowledge it or respond to it. She had always done her duty, to the last degree, but the King's subdued but prurient interest never seemed to interest her. She seemed ignorant or indifferent. John suspected that unreaction galled Larkin, and it was among the reasons John had come to like Sarah.
John played dumb. "You have not heard from her, my Lord?"
Larkin's mercurial temper flashed: "Would I be asking you, Cassion, if I had?" He uncrossed his legs, leaning forward, his face coloring.
"No, my Lord, I am sorry. I saw her last two days ago. She was planning to contact you in the usual manner."
"She has not. Do you know of any reason why that might be?" There was a slight strain buried in Larkin's high-handed tone.
"Well, my Lord, there was an army encamped nearby. When I left her, we had just clashed with a scouting party. She was not hurt and she seemed in no immediate danger. But she was where she was, and…"
The King broke into John's comment. "Are you suggesting that my Shadow might be dead, dead by Minock hands?"
John swallowed, trying to decide how to answer. "No, at least I reckon that as highly unlikely. Your Shadow," he tried not to give 'your' any particular inflection, "is too skilled, too deadly. Is it possible that her Link Stone could...fail?"
The King leaned against the ornate, bejeweled dragon carved into the back of the throne. "It is...possible, but even more...unlikely than that my Shadow might fail a mission. There must be another explanation."
"As you say, my Lord. If she is returning to Prima, then she will likely arrive soon — perhaps this evening or tomorrow."
The King nodded slowly; he prepared to change topics by once again crossing his legs. "Well, since I have not heard from her, I have had no reliable intelligence on the Minock army. What can you tell me?"
"They are on the move. It will take them time to reach us. Their supply lines were stretched a few days ago. As a result, I predict that they will slow, allowing the supply lines better to catch them. We aren't going anywhere; all we can do is wait. But we need to be on our guard. They may send scouts or even spies. We want to be sure we look like we can hold out for a long time, endure whatever siege they design."
Larkin heard this with a slow frown. "Can we endure, Cassion?"
"For a time, my Lord, but not for long. We have too few men; we will have overcrowding in Prima as our people flock here hoping for safety, and our stores are limited. We are lucky to have a spring in the city but a city cannot live on water and no bread. "
"I see. I suppose I knew the answer but I appreciate your candor." The High King's face did not match his words. "You have made all the preparations possible, Cassion?"
"I made many before I left, Lord King, and I will make more today. I will do everything in my power to hold the city. All the soldiers will do the same."
Larkin smiled. "Yes, my men are dedicated to me, are they not?" He did not give John time to answer. "Let them know that I am grateful to each one."
"What of the army, the plains of Salludum, my Lord?"
"Nothing changes. I would accuse the Salludum High Priest of playing with himself, except that is impossible." Larkin laughed and waited for John to join. "I believe they keep my army there to expose us here to Minock, to that bitch, Marr."
"Perhaps it is so, my Lord. But each runs a risk if they cooperate. Salludum must face the Prima army; Minock must lay siege to Prima itself. I suppose each could be hoping the other weakened enough by its role in the plot to conquer the other along with Prima."
Larkin nodded, scowling. "Yes, and I simply cannot imagine Marr and the High Priest striking some kind of deal, hatching a plot together. But perhaps it has happened. I need my Shadow. I have another mission for her."
"Lord King?"
"I will explain that to her — and you — when she has returned and explained herself."
The King gestured to the Court Master, readying him. "I have other matters to attend to now. When next you return to Prima after travels, I will expect you to report to me immediately, regardless of whether you are dirty or tired."
"Yes, Lord King." John bowed.
The Court Master signaled Larkin's exit by running through all his titles again. John knew it was likely the other matters that required the King's attention were his current favorites among the courtesans.
Bowing once more although the King could not see it, Cassion John turned and walked from the Throne Room.
The marble floor with the inset CIA logo had intimidated Chuck each of the two times he had visited the Director's office. It was now three-for-three. With Morgan trailing, Chuck crossed the logo toward the desk of the Director's Assistant.
She reminded Chuck of the original Miss Moneypenny, M's secretary in the old Bond films. Except Moneypenny liked Bond, maybe loved him. Ms. Brownell, Director Graham's Assistant, seemed to dislike Chuck and to loathe Morgan. Luckily, the Director was expecting them.
Ms. Brownell saw them coming, watched them as they crossed the logo, and frowned as if their very steps were a profanation of it. But she forced a smile as they reached her.
"Ah, yes, the Basement Boys. Director Graham expected you sooner." She clearly delighted in the implied correction. "Let me tell him you have finally arrived?"
She picked up her phone with one hand while readjusting her perfect red wavy hair with the other. "Yes, sir, they are here."
Without looking up at them, she shrugged. "He says to come in."
They walked to the door and Chuck opened it. Morgan already looked nauseated. If he was supposed to be eye-candy, he was an ocular Sour Patch Kid.
The Director did not stand to greet them. He rocked back in the massive leather and oak desk chair behind his yet more massive and yet more oaken desk. Pencil in one hand, holding it by its eraser end, using the other end to tap his index finger on the other hand, he stared at first Chuck and then Morgan.
He held the silence out for an extra few seconds.
"Gentlemen," he said, pronouncing the word with a just-audible irony, "please, enter, be seated. You have good news for me?"
They sat. Morgan looked at Chuck; Chuck looked at the Director. "Um, well, sir, I'm sorry about this, um, sorry to tell you, that we haven't gotten as far as I expected. We're close, mind you…"
Morgan echoed, peeking up at the Director: "Close…"
"...But we're not there yet. Soon, I think. We think."
The Director sighed and his sigh had a Zen sound, a collapsing structure of air. "Well, well, well. I'm disappointed. I admit I dressed today expecting the day to have a big finish, an upsurge of good news from the basement. But you are close?"
"Close," Chuck said, forcing himself to sound eager, promising.
"Close," Morgan added, "so close."
The Director stopped tapping his pencil. "I suppose you can have a little while longer. But keep in mind, funding for this may soon run out."
"We know," Chuck said, glad to say something true, "we've worked with that threat — not that I mean you are threatening us — for a long time. We'll get it to you soon."
"Soon," Morgan said, nodding too eagerly.
"Fine. Schedule another appointment with Ms. Brownell as you leave. Say, one week?"
Chuck nodded, his relief making him seem a bobblehead to himself. "Sure, one week."
They left the office.
The Director picked up the phone and made a call.
"Carina, you were right. They're stalling me. Do visit Bartowski tonight. Call me with what I want to know." He listened. "Use any means necessary."
The High King's Shadow pulled her horse to a stop. She could see the Motte, the lookout tower of Prima, in the distance.
Her horse blew and panted. Sarah was tired and confused. She had thought that nearing Prima would push the memory of the man she saw from her mind, but it had not. He had been with her for the entire ride.
And now she would have to face King Larkin and tell him about the Stone, all the while full of that memory, the warmth of that memory.
But the Shadow was no coward. She spurred her horse gently and rode to face her King.
Carina looked at herself as she stood at the door of Bartowski's apartment in the twilight.
She'd dressed with deliberate care. Too sexy, and Bartowski might literally run from her. Too frumpy, and she would confuse him. She had managed to hit the mean, she thought, slow burn — with emphasis on burn.
She wore a fiery red dress that was short, but not too short, exposing her long, fit legs, her show-stopping ankles, and commercial-worthy feet. Her toes shone red in her delicate red high-heeled sandals, their shine the product of a late afternoon pedicure.
Around her neck hung a delicate gold chain on which was suspended a small gold cross. She hoped that the cross would create a false sense of security in Chuck even as it provoked him to attend to the dress's not-quite-plunging-but-still-deep neckline.
Her perfume was the heady best she had and she could smell it as she stood. She knocked on the door.
Bartowski's door opened and his jaw fell. It took him a minute. "C-C-Carina?"
"Hey, Chuck, I was sitting at home, all dolled-up, hoping you would call and when you didn't, you know what I did?"
She fought back a laugh as he shook his head. "I came. I came all the way to you. Here I am!"
"C-C-Carina?" He said again, exactly as he said it the first time. She saw him look at her, red head to red toes. His eyes went wide in fear. "I'm just here, you know, hanging out."
He glanced down at himself. He had on a grey t-shirt with old food stains, khaki shorts, and a pair of dark socks.
He had not dressed with the deliberate care she had.
She did not wait for him to decide what to do. She pushed her way into the apartment. She walked to the couch, sat down, and crossed her legs, displaying them and her shining toes to full advantage. Chuck tried not to look at her legs but failed for a moment, then succeeded. She recrossed them and he failed again for a longer moment before succeeding.
"So, Chuck, what should we do?" She patted the couch cushion beside her. "C'mere and tell me about what you've been doing lately?"
A/N: More eventually.