by Kevin Hearne
“He’s going to get reinforcements.”
“And so will we. I think we should request them now and not wait for the sway to suggest it.”
“You don’t seem to realize that you’ve quite possibly provoked a war.”
“They were hunting us, ben Kor, trying to prevent us from reporting their presence. The provocation was all theirs—we acted in self-defense only. And now it’s up to us to inform the Canopy and let our diplomats try to find a solution before anything else burns.”
He seethed, knowing I was right and hating me for it. And now that we were out of immediate danger, he was ready to twist events to spite me. I don’t think he honestly disagreed with anything I said; he simply couldn’t stand the fact that I was correct and he was wrong; it was a poisonous mindset. And that is what happens to people who do not put the Canopy first.
“Come. Let’s report as agreed.” The roots of my silverbark lengthened and dipped into the soil of the forest, and seeing this, Pak Sey ben Kor had no choice but to join me. He dismounted and his own roots snaked into the ground, and we spoke through root and stem to all of Forn. By dawn, even the greensleeves in Keft would know what happened here, and they would spread the news to the Raelechs and Brynts and Kaurians. Gorin Mogen’s sneaky invasion would soon be simply an invasion, and the world would not let him get away with it.
Fintan waved to the crowd. “Tomorrow we will find out what happened to Abhinava and the bloodcats!”
When I returned home after the tale, Elynea was sitting up straight in a chair and obviously waiting for me.
“Good, you’re here,” she said. “Kids, go outside and wait for me. I’ll be out directly.”
As they filed past me to the door, Tamöd waved and said, “Bye, Dervan.” Pyrella said nothing but gave me a brief hug. And after the door closed behind them, I turned to Elynea with a question on my face, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Dervan, you’ve been so kind to let us live here, and we’re so grateful,” she said. “And I know it’s not your fault, but this isn’t the best place for my children anymore. We’re going to move in with my friend Garst du Wöllyr.”
“You mean your new employer?”
“Also my employer, yes. He has room for us, and since he’s in the furniture business, he has, well … furniture. Real beds for the kids instead of cots.”
I forced a smile onto my face. “Of course. I completely understand.”
She stood and clasped her hands together before her, finally looking up at me. “I wanted to tell you in person and not leave a note.”
“That was nice of you,” I said. “I might have worried. I wish you all good fortune and happiness, and of course please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”
“You’ve been a blessing to us as it is. Thank you.” She stepped forward until she was directly in front of me, her eyes downcast again. Then she placed her hands on top of my shoulders, stretched up on tiptoe, and quickly kissed my cheek. “Goodbye.”
I stood there dumb as she exited and the door clacked shut behind her. The house seemed especially empty now even with me inside of it. I was alone again, a prospect I had in the past weeks looked forward to with relish, but now that it had happened, I recalled the stark fact that it is truly horrifying to be so alone. I still missed Sarena, and now that Elynea and her kids were gone, now that I couldn’t lounge in the palace and chat away the time with mariners and longshoremen, now that I had nothing but bare walls to look at and four cots and four chairs for my use only, my home felt like the Mistmaiden Isles, a place no one ever visited, populated entirely by ghosts.
Shuffling to the kitchen, thinking that food might distract me, I opened the pantry without enthusiasm and saw no comfort there. There was none to be had. I closed it again and announced to the walls, “I’m going out.”
Locking the door, I strode briskly to the Randy Goat, the sagging and practically derelict inn where Fintan had spent the previous night. It was dark inside, the weak light shining in the oil lamps dirty somehow, and it smelled of urine and grease and bad decisions, but it was full of loud unwashed people ready to talk and share a joke, their tongues loosened by drink and their senses of humor in keeping with the inn’s name. I paid for a room and a round for everyone and thereby ensured that for one night at least I would not feel like the old man in the stories about Blasted Rock who grew so lonesome in his lighthouse that he went mad and became four different people in his head.
Fintan was in a much better mood than I when we met the next day at a bacon bar, the invention of a Brynt businessman that was becoming popular in both Rael and Kauria. The idea was simple: You could order tea, bacon, eggs, cheese, and bread, all of the highest quality, or nothing. You could order a plate of shark shit before you could order fruit, and they were always out of shark shit.
The bard owed his fine spirits to his stay at the Coral Reef, an establishment that bordered on the luxurious, and unlike me, he had enjoyed a restful night’s sleep.
“Apart from the usual nightmares,” he said, though I didn’t inquire further. He was solicitous about my obvious hangover and turned out to be a patient companion, not feeling it necessary to fill up silence with talk while I recovered. We slurped tea and inhaled bacon and egg sandwiches until I felt closer to human, though I’m sure I didn’t look it. Perhaps I could use that to my advantage, catch Fintan off guard. Might as well get around to asking what Rölly wished me to.
“Who’s on the Triune Council these days?” I asked him, breaking the silence. “I don’t even know.”
A single eyebrow hiked up his forehead for a better view, then slid down as he leaned back in his chair. “Well, the senior member is Dechtira, who will be missed when her three-year term ends this year. In the middle is Clodagh, and—” He halted, blinking his eyes a couple of times and then deliberately clearing his expression. “Well, I suppose I don’t have much to say about her. The newest member is Carrig, and he seems a decent sort. Tough to predict where he’ll throw his vote, though. Sometimes he’s with Dechtira, sometimes with Clodagh, which I suppose is a good thing. Provides some balance.”
“So that means Dechtira and Clodagh are often on opposite sides of any given issue?”
A furrow appeared between Fintan’s eyes. “You wake up with a hangover and the wrangling of the Triune Council is what you want to talk about?”
“No.” I shook my head and chuckled somewhat sheepishly. “Desperate for conversation, I suppose. Though I am genuinely curious about something else.” I took a sip from my tea, which had begun to grow cold, and set it down with some disappointment. “Do you ever miss Numa?” I asked him.
“Every day.”
I nodded. “I understand that completely. Your heart is a harp string, and every day the memory of your love plucks at it. So here’s what I want to know: How do you bear it, being alone?”
He thought in silence before answering. “I don’t think loneliness is a thing that can be borne: it’s so heavy and crushing for something that is essentially emptiness. It’s like being trapped beneath a boulder, this immovable weight that presses your ribs and slowly steals your breath. And so it must simply be endured, and you do that by looking away. I hope you will not be offended if I admit that I am looking away right now. Every minute she’s out of my sight, I am looking away. But never fear—that boulder of crushing emptiness will still be there when you look back.”
I snorted. “That’s the least of my fears.” But his advice was well taken. I pulled out my paper and ink. “Think I’ll look at my work for a while. We have a lot to write down from yesterday. Ready?”
“Absolutely. Let us look elsewhere together.”
My fingers had begun to ache by the time we finished, and I was grateful when Fintan assured me that the day’s tales would not be quite so long this time. The bleacher seats below the wall were packed an hour before he arrived, and I doubted many of them moved when he gave them the quarter-hour warning.
; “This song is a rather grisly one that Nentian parents sing to their children. When I’ve heard it done, they try to make it cute—the tone is delightful, it’s a catchy melody, and there’s usually some tickling at the end to make the child laugh. But the lesson sticks with the children as they get older. Or if it doesn’t, they most likely won’t get older.”
Sleep on the ground and die
On the plains of Ghurana Nent!
Your body is a meat pie
To the eels of Ghurana Nent!
Chew and chew, chew and spit,
Flesh eels can’t get enough of it!
Tasty meat, tasty meat,
Just lie down and they will eat …
You up!
The grin on the bard’s face was wicked as he retook the stage. “We’ll begin today with the scheming of Viceroy Melishev Lohmet.”
Chumat set sail with a troop of lackeys to discover where Gorin Mogen’s people had gone, but he’s not far over the horizon when I receive two different people telling me precisely where the Hearthfire is: squatting on my land in territory I’m supposed to defend, just as I both feared and hoped.
The pale, whimpering Fornish ambassador tells me first, shrouded in green robes and moving in an almost visible cloud of florals. Her name is Mai Bet Ken, and she might have been pretty if she weren’t so deathly white. Her voice might have been pleasing were it not so soft that it could almost be bruised if I coughed. She projects weakness, and it annoys me that she represents my strongest ally at the moment. No one else is close enough to render any assistance. The capital would move slowly if it got around to moving at all; I’ll have to do what I can with the resources I have for now.
“Viceroy Lohmet,” she says in a breathy whisper, “the Canopy wishes to inform you, should you not already be aware, that a sizable force of Hathrim have landed on your southernmost shores, almost on our border.”
“A military force?”
“Partially. We know that they have lavaborn and houndsmen since our scouts were attacked by them. We think—”
“Wait a moment. What were your scouts doing in my territory?”
“Forn has a vested interest in keeping the lavaborn away from the Canopy, and it also has an interest in enforcing treaties. We sent a small scouting party—a mere eight people—to find what happened to a fleet sailing north after the eruption of Mount Thayil, and they found the survivors of Harthrad camping on your land. They were discovered by a patrol of houndsmen and immediately attacked.”
She provides precious few details on the settlement: her people ran at the sight of houndsmen as any sane person would. But they had accounted for themselves quite well; they lost three against a total of six monsters and their riders. Put my army in the field and I’d probably lose twenty men or more for each houndsman and count it a bargain.
We could use more intelligence for sure. And if a Fornish party of eight could take out six houndsmen, then I wouldn’t mind them sending in a few more scouting parties like that. Let them get chewed up and turned into epic piles of dog shit and do our work for us. That would give us a fighting chance, perhaps. I paste an expression of sincere gratitude on my face and clear my throat to make it sound warm.
“Ambassador Ken, Ghurana Nent appreciates your information and would welcome more. You have my permission—now and retroactively—to cross our borders for purposes of scouting the Hathrim invaders. It is in both of our interests to purge them from the plains. I must communicate with the king, of course, before agreeing to anything else, but you can be sure my attention is fixed on solving this problem.”
She bends at the waist and whispers that she’s glad to be of service to Ghurana Nent. She assures me that she will relay my desires back to the Canopy and will no doubt have much to discuss with me again soon. Then she floats out of the room—or seems to, since her long robes conceal her feet and drag on the floor—but leaves the stink of her perfume behind her. I order the room aired out while I climb the tower to think again, but as before, I’m interrupted. It’s clear I’ll never have another moment’s peace until we kick Gorin Mogen back into the sea.
Dhingra answers my scowl at his entrance first with a smirk and then with a wide grin; he is often amused whenever I am not, and he looks highly amused.
“Back under the skylight with you, Viceroy,” he said. “We have two Hathrim who urgently wish to speak to you.”
“Hathrim? Are they Mogen’s people?”
“I think they might be.”
“How delightful. Make them wait a moment, and when you show them in, offer them tiny little chairs to sit in.”
Dhingra snorted. “It shall be as you say.”
“And make sure there’s a couple of squads of men in there with crossbows.”
“Oh, yes, they’re already waiting for you.”
And so they are: twelve leather-faced and ornery men on either side of the throne, a dozen for each giant. Dhingra knows how I like things done. Incredibly, even with the stink of soldiers lining the walls, the floral scent of the Fornish ambassador still lurks in the reception hall. And when the Hathrim duck through the double doors at the other end, their heads scraping against the ceiling and then the skylight, I can see their massive nostrils twitch at the smell. Their eyes dart uncertainly among the crossbowmen, wondering which one of them might be responsible for the perfume.
The planks of the floor groan under their heavy booted feet, and Dhingra, true to his word, comically offers them simple wooden chairs that would instantly splinter to kindling if they sat on them. They look down at him in disbelief, wondering if he’s joking, but he keeps a magnificent straight face and so do I when they turn to me.
“Thank you, no,” one says, and the floorboards squeak in protest when they take one knee in front of me and still remain taller than anyone in the room. They both have large, bushy beards, one blond and one red, and eyes as blue as the famous waters of Crystal Pond upriver. They look half wild and disheveled, though I discern after speaking with them that this is probably intentional. They are doing their best to look desperate and in need.
The blond one’s cheeks are flushed and fat, and he might have eaten four whole hogs for breakfast. He introduces himself as Korda Belik and does all the talking; the red beard just nods and tries to look somber while his companion spins a story.
“Thank you, Viceroy, for seeing us,” Korda says. His Nentian is accented but perfectly understandable. “I won’t waste your time. You may have heard already about the eruption of Mount Thayil. Most of Harthrad died within the first hour, and hot molten rain and ash fell out of the sky to the south, forcing the few of us who could make it to boats to head north and land in the safest place we could think of: Ghurana Nent. We now throw ourselves upon your mercy and your famous generosity, hoping you will allow us time to regroup and perhaps aid us with a shipment of grains so that we may not starve.”
I stare at him, astounded at his gall. I let the silence lengthen until he clears his throat, uncomfortable.
“I have questions, Korda,” I said. “And I want you to answer as quickly as possible. Just facts. No embellishing.”
“Understood.”
“I am saddened to hear about the loss of so many Hathrim, but I know not how to gauge the depth of this tragedy. You said your numbers are few. How many of you, precisely, are now occupying my land?”
“I cannot give you a precise number—”
“Then give me your best estimate. Give or take a hundred, I won’t mind.”
“Viceroy, I was sent here instantly by Hearthfire Gorin Mogen upon our nighttime landing, and we had no time to count heads before I left.”
What a pile of yak shit. “I will need a number if I am to estimate how much grain to ship you, Korda.”
That traps him. “Say a thousand, then, Viceroy, though that is most certainly high.” The red beard nods vigorously.
That means that number is most certainly very low. Hundreds of starving giants sounds manageable. Thousands of gi
ants sounds like a recipe for panic, and they do not want me to panic yet.
“Very well. And where am I sending this grain?”
“The southern edge of your coast, just north of the Fornish border. We were too exhausted to travel any farther, and we also had no wish to alarm your citizens with our sudden appearance.”
I give him a cheerless smile. “My thanks. And how long does Gorin Mogen plan to stay in my country with his thousand giants, Korda?”
“Just until the ash clears away and we can safely return to Hathrir. I believe all the cities are suffering now.”
“Again, help me with a number. How long?”
He shrugs massive shoulders. “Two months, perhaps three.”
“Two months should suffice for the dust to settle. So two months’ grain for a thousand giants, is that correct?”
“Yes, Viceroy.”
“Dhingra, I will want to discuss the specifics of that with you after this.”
He dips his chin. “As you say, Viceroy.”
“Korda, you will remain here as my guest. Your friend there will go back with the shipment of grain and some of my men to deliver my personal condolences and promises of continued friendship to Hearthfire Gorin Mogen.”
I pause to let Korda respond to my bald statement that I’m effectively taking him as a hostage. He’s a smooth one: he only blinks once.
“Of course, Viceroy.”
I turn to the red beard. “You will inform Gorin Mogen in the very plain terms that I am using now that he and all other Hathrim must be out of Ghurana Nent in two months’ time regardless of how much ash and molten rain may be ravaging Hathrir. After two months you are no longer welcome guests and the sad victims of fate we are happy to succor in your most dire hour. At that point you are trespassing and will be treated as trespassers. Is that clear?”
The shoals of Red Beard’s facial hair mash together in the space where his mouth is supposed to be. He’s biting back an angry retort. But Mogen has them trained well. After a moment, he gives a curt nod and says, “It is.”
