The Sixth Strand

by Melissa McPhail

  “Of course.”

  “Val Rennon stole a sword from a guard and attacked that foul travesty of a man. The demon just stood there...laughing as the captain’s sword shattered against his blackened flesh. He sent us all off then, down into some airless room...left our officers moaning in the mud of their own lifeblood.”

  “Shade and darkness.” Gideon’s hands were fists at his sides.

  Lazar turned him a look that said clearly, And you thought you had it bad at my fortress.

  “But we knew—” a spell of coughing wracked the lieutenant, forcing a pause to his report.

  Madaam Chouri exchanged a look with Trell, and his heart broke at what he saw in her gaze.

  “We knew...” Jasper continued once he’d recovered his breath, “you were coming, Your Highness. It filled those dark days with a bit of light, speculating on where you’d been and how you’d survived.”

  He winced with pain as he summoned more breath. “See...they let us out twice a day to relieve ourselves and fill our lungs with air that didn’t reek of death. They always had at least threescore guards watching a dozen of us at a time...but Saldarians have loose tongues. They couldn’t stop talking about what you did at Khor Taran. As time went on, they spoke of the skirmishes with your army...and always with vinegar in their words. We knew you were winning those battles...knew you were coming to rescue us.”

  A smile lit Jasper’s face upon this last. “You have to know what it meant to us, Your Highness. That His Majesty sent his treasured son to retrieve us from this black fate?” Tears came to his eyes.

  Jasper laid his head back and gazed up at the shadowed ceiling. “But the warlord was...crazed at the news. We saw him across the yard, parading back and forth, skin so black that pitch would look grey beside it, spitting and cursing your name the while, saying you couldn’t be alive—cursing his orders to keep you that way...almost like it was personal to him—”

  Abruptly, Jasper focused hard upon Trell. “You can’t go, Your Highness.” These words came emphatically with a vigor renewed by desperation. “He won’t let you live, no matter what he claims, and the way he would...” the lieutenant shuddered and rested his head back again, breathing shallowly.

  Madaam Chouri gave Trell a concerned look.

  Trell held up a low hand to beg a moment more. “Jasper, know you anything about the lay of the fortress?”

  “I saw only the room where they kept us, Your Highness, and the yard—” He coughed again, a wracking, dry sound, as of wind through dead limbs. He finally continued in a rasping voice, as if fighting for every inch of breath to fuel his words, “...but the guards talked of places...in those ruins they don’t dare go. Rooms where men have turned to dust...just walking inside. Rooms even the warlord avoids.”

  He licked dry lips. “I heard one say, pattern traps for the fifth.” He closed his eyes and finished faintly, “Mayhap those words mean something to Your Highness.”

  Trell placed a hand on Jasper’s shoulder. “Thank you, lieutenant. You’ve done my father, our kingdom, and myself a great service.”

  Jasper’s bloodshot eyes lifted to meet Trell’s. “Annihilate the bastard, Your Highness.”

  Trell held his gaze a moment longer, then he nodded.

  Ideas swarmed Trell’s mind as he headed back to his study, firefly thoughts flashing in and out, recollections of recent conversations....

  Something’s changed? But what?

  This is a message for you, A’dal.

  DEPTHS TO DIE PRIN

  He sat down at his desk and pulled his dinner over while the others helped themselves to some liquid encouragement from his stock of spirits.

  They were all subdued, absorbed in their thoughts, disturbed by what they’d seen and heard. In the absence of conversation, Trell could hear the more distant sounds of men upon their normal tasks about the camp. He found those sounds strangely reassuring.

  Rolan, Raegus and Lazar each took a seat. Tannour assumed his usual position beside the brazier, arms crossed, ice-blue gaze distant. When Trell viewed him out of the corner of his eye, Tannour had a shimmery refraction about his person that indicated he was holding his power around him.

  “Well,” Raegus growled as he sat, “that was about as unpleasant as it gets.” He set a decanter of bourbon on the little table beside his chair, downed the shot he’d poured himself and immediately poured another. “Not that we needed more proof of the fethen lunatic’s insanity.”

  Gideon appeared in the opening between rooms. “Jasper is sleeping now.” He crossed the room and sank down onto a low camp chair beside Raegus, resting elbows on knees. “The Healer says she’ll do all she can, but he may not make it.”

  Raegus handed Gideon a drink.

  “I’m sorry, Gideon,” Trell said.

  Gideon took the drink from Raegus and stared at the caramel liquid, his expression ragged. “We’ve got to get them out of there.”

  Rolan adjusted his scimitar as he shifted in his chair. “Well, we all got the bastard’s message, clear enough. A’dal, what’s our strategy? Surprise charge on the barricade?”

  Trell began eating his stew. “We’re not going to rush it.”

  Raegus scrubbed at his beard. “You want to blow it then? That’ll take some craft, but we still have the powder we’d planned to use...” he spared a glance around the room. “Shouldn’t n’Abraxis be here for this?”

  “Yes, where is n’Abraxis?” Rolan asked.

  “He’s been conspicuously absent all night,” Gideon muttered.

  “He went to inspect the perimeter fortifications,” Lazar said, “but he should’ve been back by now.”

  Trell lifted his gaze to Tannour. “Where is Loukas?”

  Lazar turned a confused look between Trell and Tannour. “How would Valeri know where n’Abraxis is? Valeri’s been with us all night.”

  Rolan chuckled into his drink.

  Tannour answered, “He’s by the river, A’dal.”

  “Fine. You can brief him later.” Trell scanned his gaze across his commanders. “We’re not going to do anything about the barricade.”

  Raegus shifted in his chair. “If you’re thinking to assault the fortress, A’dal, we really need n’Abraxis for that discussion.”

  Trell looked to him. “We’re not going to assault the fortress—yet.”

  Something in Trell’s tone must’ve clued in Raegus to his intentions. He surged forward in his chair. “A’dal, you’re not seriously considering surrendering to this lunatic!”

  “My army? No. Myself?” Trell sat back in his chair and exhaled a lengthy sigh. “Yes.”

  A deafening uproar met this statement.

  Raegus and Gideon both jumped to their feet, shouting rebuttals. Lazar embarked upon a litany of muttering in an obscure dialect—probably obscenities. Tannour stood in the corner, holding Trell’s gaze.

  When the storm of their protest had blown itself out against the granite wall of Trell’s determination, the men looked around at each other and then retook their seats.

  Trell pushed his empty dinner tray aside, clasped hands before him and leaned elbows on the table. He looked to each of them in turn. “Your protests are duly noted.”

  “Send one of us, A’dal—I beg you,” Gideon pled. “Send me—I could pass for you from afar. I—”

  “Am not expendable,” Trell said quietly.

  “And you think you are?” Gideon shot to his feet again. “For Epiphany’s sake, Your Highness, you’re His Majesty’s heir!”

  “We’re all expendable in the eyes of the gods,” Lazar said broodingly.

  “Send Lamodaar.” Tannour aimed a faint grin at the Nadoriin. “He’s blessed of Inanna, after all.”

  Rolan shifted his scimitar to a more comfortable angle. “I would proudly lead the charge if the A’dal wills it. Beneath Inanna’s grace, I know no equal.”

  “Your fethen blasphemy knows no equal.” Raegus muttered disagreeably. “I agree with val Mallonwey. If one of us were
to meet a swift and unfortunate end,” and his tone made clear that said end might be sooner than Rolan thought if he didn’t support him in this, “the rest of us would shed our tears in private and move on with our lives somehow, but we aren’t even a we without you, A’dal.”

  “A fair point,” Lazar noted.

  Trell looked them over soberly. “Every one of a thousand men witnessed Naiadithine’s mirror in the waters of Khor Taran. We should all be united in purpose.”

  “Behind you, we are,” Raegus agreed. “Without you...?” he shrugged.

  “A truth,” Rolan admitted. “Mayhap they’d be disobeying the River Goddess, A’dal, but there’s not a man wouldn’t prefer to take that up with Inithiya when their time comes rather than take one step towards Tal’Shira without you leading them.”

  “Then I guess I’ll just have to come back, won’t I?”

  “A’dal—” Raegus protested heatedly.

  Trell leaned towards them. “I would ask you all to remember that this is not our end game. This madman is merely a river to be crossed on our way to Tal’Shira, and on the other side of this river, we’ll be five hundred stronger.”

  Lazar shook his head. “Tal’Shira is a fantasy, Trell of the Tides. Forgive me, but you cannot take the city with so few men.”

  Rolan scratched idly beneath his chin. “And how many men would they have said were necessary to take Khor Taran, al-Amir?”

  Lazar turned him a stony look.

  “I, too, must challenge this notion of conquering Tal’Shira, begging Your Highness’s pardon,” Gideon admitted. “His Majesty directed us to join him at Nahavand and—”

  “My father’s throne will remain imperiled so long as Radov sits in power, Gideon. Radov has been in league with the Duke of Morwyk for upwards of a decade. You don’t move on and leave the enemy still alive behind you.”

  Trell rose from his desk and walked around to the front of it. “But the first enemy we must deal with is the one demonizing this region from that fortress across the moor.”

  Tannour said from the corner, “A’dal, you cannot think this man will honor any contract. You’ll be sacrificing yourself for zero gain.”

  Trell hooked a leg over the corner of his desk, settled clasped hands in his lap and a decisive smile on his commanders. “Actually, I’ll be providing the diversion we need to gain everything we desire.”

  Whereupon he told them his plan, to the accompaniment of ever-widening eyes.

  Twenty-two

  “There is also San’gu’alir—the Blood Path—

  but anyone can walk this path.”

  –Imperium of the Ghost Kings, a sacred text of Vest

  Loukas n’Abraxis leaned against a tree, arms crossed, staring out over the dark waters of the River Taran. He told himself he’d volunteered to go to the river in order to check the perimeter fortifications, which obligation he’d dutifully carried out; yet in truth, he’d sought the river for its isolation, for its reminder of better days, happier times, before—

  “Why do you blame me when I’m as much a victim of their malice as you are?” Tannour stood nose to nose with him, chest heaving.

  Loukas shouted back, “I wouldn’t be a victim if not for your involving me in it!”

  “You don’t choose the path, Loukas.” Tannour’s voice was tight, while his hot gaze made clear that he wasn’t talking about the Paths of Alir.

  Loukas couldn’t bring himself to believe him, no matter what his words implied. He refused to acknowledge that path even existed—had ever existed—

  Loukas exhaled a slow sigh into the quiet night.

  So much had changed between that moment and yesterday, between yesterday and now. What he’d learned of Tannour—ironically from talking with Trell—had altered the fabric of their relationship again.

  Loukas gazed at the dark water, but he was seeing a very different river in a very different kingdom...

  %

  Loukas scrambled down the Devil’s Horn behind the Vestian, heart pounding, the river rising faster than his hands and feet could propel him down the rock face. “Fiera’s ashes, how is it rising so fast?”

  “Must be a storm upriver.” The Vestian pushed out from a ledge, dropped five feet and caught himself on another outcropping below. He slung dark hair from his eyes and aimed a look up at Loukas. “Hurry.”

  Loukas clenched his jaw and continued spidering down the Horn’s chimney. “I am hurrying.”

  “Not enough.” He dropped again and then hung by one arm, feet dangling a pace above the rising waters while he studied the river with an intense gaze. “If only your body moved like that brain of yours.”

  “Fethe, I should just slide down the rope of your condescension.” Loukas reached the bottom of the chimney and hugged the stone as he slid the last of the way into the water. The usual mid-calf depth was already above his knees.

  The Vestian dropped beside him in a splash, still staring upriver. “Link arms.”

  “What?”

  With a frustrated look, he shoved his arm through Loukas’s and started tugging him towards the Vestian side.

  “What are you doing?” Loukas spun a stare over his shoulder at the Avataren side. His side.

  “Saving your life.” The Vestian shoved one foot after the other through the rising waters, dragging Loukas per force with him.

  “My life is on the other side of the Ver.”

  “Not today it’s not. It’s already too deep on that side of the Horn.”

  Loukas spared a look and saw that the Vestian was right. Whitewater was already appearing on that side of the river.

  He trudged through the rising water linked with the Vestian and giving silent thanks for his anchorage—though he never would’ve confessed to it. The rocks beneath his feet were uneven, and the current was getting stronger. To their left, the sound of the falls had grown into a roar.

  By the time they were ten feet from the riverbank, the muddy water was at thigh level and pushing up around their hips. With every step, Loukas feared the current would sweep them both away. The roar of the falls was so loud it was drowning out even his pounding heart. The Vestian was cursing continuously.

  Then it happened.

  Loukas planted his foot only to find nothing beneath it. The current grabbed him, and in an instant he was down and under, the Vestian half-dragged down with him. Loukas had no idea how they didn’t both get swept over the falls, but somehow the Vestian managed to keep his feet beneath him.

  Loukas could barely get his face above the raging water. Choking, he clung to the Vestian’s elbow with both hands and begged the Fire Goddess to spare his undeserving life.

  Those last ten steps felt like an eternity. But finally they were in an eddy and Loukas got his feet under him again. They both dragged themselves onto the grassy bank, breathless and shaken.

  Well...at least Loukas was shaken. The Vestian took barely two seconds before he climbed out and held a hand to help Loukas up. Then they both stood staring at the raging waters separating their kingdoms and said together on a forceful exhalation, “Fethe.”

  Loukas felt dread in his bones. He had no idea what his father would say when he found out about this, but it wouldn’t be pleasant.

  The Vestian turned and looked him over. “Well...I guess you’d better come with me.”

  Loukas followed his friend away from the river, through forest and marshland, until they came upon a large stone hunting lodge with glittering windows and a sharply peaked roof, softened by moss. A sunny clearing to one side hosted an herb garden.

  It seemed incongruous, this affluent cabin in the middle of the wood, with no roads or pathways in or out and nothing to mark its location. Magical, even.

  Loukas asked as they were heading up the steps, “What is this place?”

  The Vestian paused with his hand on the latch. “Refuge,” he said without looking at him. Then he pushed inside.

  A dim interior greeted them beneath the lodge’s buttressed roof.
Shaded windows trapped the forest’s murky half-light within the space, perpetuating that sense of magic. The Vestian walked to a large fireplace and started stirring the coals to life.

  The open great room held few furnishings, yet each piece was unique. A sculpted ebony bed occupied one corner against some windows. A supple leather armchair lorded over the hearth. A long wooden table, beautifully carved, doubled as both work counter and eating space. Though the furniture had its own elegance, it all possessed a practical simplicity.

  Except the pots.

  Long shelves along one wall hosted an assortment of pots, bowls and vases in stunning colors and designs. They practically hauled Loukas across the room for closer admiration.

  Some bowls shimmered as if formed of nacre, while others were glossed in the richest of hues. A potter’s wheel sat in a windowed alcove beside a barrel, ostensibly filled with clay, and shelves of jars.

  “Glazes,” the Vestian said from close behind.

  Loukas hadn’t heard him approach. “These are all your work?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Like them?”

  “Pottery seems a little,” he looked the Vestian over, “...benign for you.”

  “You have your schooling, I have mine.” His pale eyes traveled across the shelves and their contents, then settled on Loukas, reflective of a smile. “Come on. You’re getting mud all over my floors.”

  Only then did Loukas notice that the Vestian’s clothes were damp but completely clean, while his looked like they belonged to something that had crawled out of a bog. “How did—” he began, but the other was already off down a hallway.

  Loukas followed him to an outdoor shower. A rain barrel hovered above the ceramic-tiled walls with a limp sack attached beneath it.

  “Wash up. I’ll get you a change of clothes.” He was gone before Loukas could ask him any of his compounding questions.

  The chain with a silver ball on the end more or less shouted pull me! so Loukas stood beneath the sack and did so. A slot opened in the barrel, water gushed into the sack and showered out again through a myriad of holes.

  Hot water.

  Loukas stripped down and scrubbed himself clean while pondering the mystery of how the Vestian got steaming hot water straight out of his rain barrel.