“We’ve yet a long way to travel to the hold, itself, and night will be approaching soon. Perhaps, it would be better…”
Emma cut off Harivor with an imperious gesture. A strangely comfortable motion of late. “No, we will meet now.”
“As you wish, my lady. If you would all care to mount your horses, we will begin our trek.” Not a sign of bitterness from the servile, cunning man.
Emma pulled up her black velvet hood against the cold wind with a shiver and looked forward toward Farrow’s Hold. Whatever happened this evening, the place would at least be fucking warm. There was nothing, right now, more appealing than the thought of a hot meal and a soft bed.
***
How could the interior of a building be so much fucking colder than the outside?
The ancient hold, the namesake of the city, had aged about as well as a kerena-smoking whore, and little effort had been made to modernize the great fortress. Though it still loomed mightily over the city, whole sections of the stone-walled structure were cordoned off, no longer in use because the cost to maintain it was too high. There were specks of former glory here and there—an exquisitely carved column, a statue of some great lord of yesteryear, a magnificent, deadly sword collection hanging over the length of an endless hallway—but signs of decay were more pervasive.
Even in this audience chamber, where lavish splendor was flung about with abandon and gaudily-dressed courtiers milled about, the failing light of day illuminated old, damaged stone facades and ill-fitting glass in the malformed windows. Which was probably where the constant, chilly breeze and mild, irritated wailing sound was birthed.
“Lady Emma Breen,” Lord Brox Unael greeted her with a curious, but friendly, tone. He rose from his red-padded chair and offered a lavish bow. No small feat, given his plentiful stomach. He was not strictly flab, however. Harivor had spoken—at exhausting length—of Unael’s military past, and his successful campaigns against the Alganian encroachment twenty-five years before especially, not to mention the expansion into disputed territory with Carnofstra. And, his subjugation of the Oshwon peoples living within the borders of Jecusta.
“My Lord Unael. I am humbled by your generosity in allowing us sanctuary during this trying time,” Emma said with her own polite curtsey, though she went no lower than exactly what was required by decorum. A lord he might be, but Unael was no monarch.
“Of course, my lady. Escamilla placed her trust in you, and hopefully with good reason.” He flashed her a quick smile, revealing a set of opal-white teeth standing in stark contrast to his weathered face. Though at least two or three decades Emma’s senior, his open, compassionate face and authentic mannerisms leant him a handsome appeal. “And, we have certain obligations to Florens.” His eyes went to the side, away from Emma. “My boy, I am sorry to hear about your father. He was one of the few good men left in Rostane.”
Eric Malless started, not having expected to be addressed. His eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, and he reeked of more than just the road.
“Thank you, my lord,” he muttered, having little to say on the topic.
Unael peered at him and frowned briefly. “I am certain that you are famished from your long journey, and the comfort of a warm bed and warm food would be welcomed. Not to mention a comfortable place to sit.” Unael nodded to a table in an alcove, laden with fruits and cheeses, where servants bringing out glazed meats elicited an instant reaction in Emma’s mouth.
“With respect, my lord, I would like to speak briefly before taking respite,” sEmma said, hearing a muffled groan from Nail just behind her. But, Escamilla had always said: Business before pleasure, lest you negotiate from a place of weakness or comfort. Stuffing one’s face with warm food at the table of a tenuous ally might not be the best course of immediate action.
“So much like Escamilla,” Unael murmured with a raised eyebrow, echoing her thoughts. “Very well. You are at my doorstep with an army of several thousand, including mercenaries of dubious reputation. You have no consistent source of supplies, and word has it that Escamilla’s lands and assets have been seized by the Rostanians. That said, what would you have of me?”
The boldness, somehow, came easy. “We require the use of Jecustan military forces in retaking Ardia from the traitorous and malicious rule of the Rostanian Council. Fifty thousand soldiers should be sufficient in accomplishing this task, but only if we mobilize before Hunesa falls to Rostane.”
Unael stared at his, lips slightly parted in amused astonishment. One of the advisors, or one of the handful of notables lurking about Unael’s chair, broke into a loud, scoffing laugh that echoed throughout the frigid, drafty chamber. The sound lingered, and Emma fought her urge to cringe. Keep the mask in place. Just a little longer.
“My lady, you can’t be serious. Even Escamilla, in all her confident arrogance, would never make such a request. Or did you term it a requirement?” Lord Unael asked, appraising Emma and her small entourage of officers one by one.
“I am indeed serious, my lord. Allowing Rostane complete control of Ardia would be a misstep on your part.” There was a snort from one of the notables, a whip-thin man of advanced years. “I do not mean to insult you, of course. But you know not what we faced. The Rostanians sent forth abominations, human-like creatures that tore through our camp with base ferocity and savagery that no one had ever seen. Feral, they are called. Hundreds of them killed thousands of my soldiers. If Rostanians are willing to unleash such creatures on our army, do you think they will stop at the borders of Ardia?”
A low murmur began in the room, various nobles and courtiers reacting to her words. Emma clenched her crippled hand, the omnipresent pain helping her maintain her mask. It was a challenge, given the insulting scraps that reached her ears.
“…is insane. Why do these men follow her?”
“…Feral? A fairy-tale.”
“…crippled half-wit…”
“…ginger bitch.” This last comment echoed above the others, emanating from the whip-tall older man.
The murmur was rising, as was Emma’s rage, becoming a great, boiling cauldron of yellow bile. Just as she opened her mouth, lips curling back, a vaguely familiar figure pushed through the courtiers. A man who was maybe in his forties, with eyes like a maelstrom, taking in everything.
“If I could interrupt, my lords and ladies.” Emma caught a hint of a sneer in the man’s voice, and her memory assembled the pieces. Iolen, senior Savant at the Enlightenment, recently made High Strategist for the Rostanian Army. Emma had once seen Iolen, smirking as always, administer a potion to keep the late Baron Erlins conscious while having his fingers chopped off, bit by bit.
Emma’s hands and feet grew cold and clammy, and a solitary drop of sweat traced its way down her back.
“Lord Iolen. I would welcome your council in this regard,” Unael said, his booming voice bringing order to the uneasy crowd. “Lady Breen, this is Lord Iolen, ambassador from the Rostanian Council. He arrived here only yesterday, so we’ve yet to hear what story he has to tell. We might as well make it public. Everything here always is.” A hint of resentment in his voice. A military man, probably unsuited to or unhappy with the political maneuvering of the royal courts.
“Thank you, my lord.” Iolen strode, confidently, to Lord Unael’s side. A violation of protocol, but it immediately gave the Savant Strategist a clear view of everyone in the row. His hands were at his sides, palms facing the crowd. Escamilla had taught Emma that this posture was one of honesty and openness, signifying the he was most likely trustworthy.
Or an excellent liar.
“I come to you from Rostane, but not as an ambassador. Rather, I travel as a defector, a traitor, an apostate.” The murmuring began again, a buzz of angry hornets. Unael took two steps away, eying his black-cloaked guards.
“I’m afraid I misled you in order to gain access to your noble ears, your noble minds. And, your noble protection.”
“We trust not men who come to us under false prete
nses, particularly those who are admitted liars,” spat the whip-thin man, one hand secreted under his lavish amarillo coat. Unael took an audible deep breath.
“Patience, Lord Rential. Lord Iolen…. Well, it sounds like you are without title. Iolen, this promises to be an interesting narrative. But you must forgive my guards for being cautious.” Two of the black cloaks drifted within a foot of Iolen.
“‘Lord’ has indeed been stripped from my name, but Savant is etched into my soul. I gave myself to knowledge long ago. Now, where was I?”
“Betraying your country?” offered Rential, still a falcon perched to attack.
“Ah yes, betraying my country. Though, I would rather say that my country betrayed me and all of its citizens. I served in the Enlightment—the great library at the Plateau—for many years, studying everything from military strategy to the most efficient way to drown a cat. My knowledge was well sought after by the various nobles across the four duchies, and I had a bit of a reputation—”
“For drowning cats?” mocked a voice from the crowd.
“For understanding of all things military. So, when the war surfaced, my services were sought by the late Duke Penton.” The Little Duke. The bastard who Fenrir had somehow managed to kill, likely having died in the attempt. Emma wished, for some reason, that Fenrir were there now. He’d have something witty to say to disarm this cocky Savant. And, his presence would just be reassuring.
“I was made High Strategist, and the beast of war marched south to Florens. Our victory was inevitable, as we outmanned the forces gathered against us by a large margin, with that margin growing all the time. We had great engineers, Savants who had studied the mechanical sciences and created siege engines that would ensure that no walls could stop us. And, the little duke had managed leverage over most of the duchies, ensuring that they would fall one at a time. Even with Lady Breen’s interference…” The Savant nodded at her. Could a nod be sarcastic? “…we should have been victorious.”
“I wouldn’t be so confident, Savant,” she said. “You haven’t seen all that we have to offer.” A bluff. If Escamilla and her officers had any more tricks, they certainly weren’t forthcoming about them.
“Oh, certainly,” intoned Iolen, oozing condescension. “And perhaps the little duke and Lord Faris believed the same, for it was them who sent the Feral.”
“You expect us to believe that such creatures exist?” This from another lord, an annoyingly handsome man with a perfectly trimmed goatee.
“You can believe what you wish. It does not change the truth. Feral are not creatures, monsters from children’s tales. Now, are all of you familiar with maenen? Pasnes alna? Or, as it is termed in this part of the world—magic?”
Emma expected a gasp at this utterance. There certainly would have been in Rostane among the nobles in the Plateau. But, here there were nods and sneers.
“We are not the superstitious chawbumpkins of Rostane,” Rential said. Nail, Emma’s brave Rotten Apple Knight, growled from over her shoulder. He could be intimidating and had strong nationalist tendencies. Rential stepped back and cleared his throat. “We do not share the biases of the Yetranians.”
“I thought Yetra was worshipped widely in Jecusta,” Opine commented, his first words since arriving.
Lord Unael smiled. “This is true, but perhaps the leaders aren’t the most devout. Suffice it to say, we have had some small experience with magic.”
“Well, you should have some rudimentary understanding of how it works. To simplify it, some pasnes alna can draw power from humans and animals. You call them leeches, while the educated know them as pasnes maenen.” Restrained anger marred the expressions of many in the crowd, at least the ones who were smart enough to recognize the insult. Iolen certainly had a way about him. “A human, or animal, having enough maenen drawn from them over time, will lose their ability to fully regenerate this power. They will become ruled by their basest instincts, anger and hunger. They will become stronger, faster, more vicious, unrestrained by the bounds of the rational mind that so often limit our abilities. They lust for violence and lust for blood. In short, they become Feral.”
The name rang out like a hammer on an anvil, sounding over the heavy silence that finally permeated the chamber. Emma fought to restrain a visible shiver as goosebumps rose on her flesh.
“You say that they leeched the magic from these men. For what purpose?” Emma managed through her clenched teeth.
“Observant girl. At this juncture, I am not certain why they were harvesting magic in such a way. It needs further study—”
“Enough of this charade. Clearly, this man…” Rential sharply gestured at Iolen, “… and this woman…” He stabbed his finger toward Emma,“…are colluding together for some nefarious purpose. Perhaps they seek for us to mobilize our forces in order to leave our other borders unprotected, or to secret an army to Farrow’s Hold.”
The annoyingly handsome man was quick to take up Rential’s sentiment. “Aye, House Hanthor will not stand for such a mockery. We will not allow these… foreigners to embarrass us with such obvious lies. My third cousin is pasnes alna—a leech, no less—and he would not be capable of such a feat. Pasnes alna are harmless charlatans—”
“Harmless?” Iolen’s eyes flashed, and he reached toward the nearest black cloak. The man stumbled backwards, but not before Iolen grasped his hand, bringing the man to his knees in an instant. The second guard had drawn his sword, but the man and his weapon clattered to the ground at a glance from Iolen.
“Harmless? Let me show you what harm maenen can wreak!” His voice rose, and a circle of blue flame rose around him, just barely capturing the transfixed black cloak. The gathered lords and ladies sought to flee, but tumbled back from the audience chamber’s entrance as a second pillar of blue flame rose to block off escape. Black cloaks stumbled forward uneasily, leveling swords and spears at the circle of flame. Two wielded crankbows, but they seemed unwilling to fire into the blaze.
Iolen pointed at each window with his free hand—the hand not gripping the pale black cloak—and needles of power launched into the glass, showering the room in shining, infinitesimal shards of dust. He reached toward the long table laden with food and, as if it were being closed like a book, the table folded in half with an earsplitting crunch. The panic rose in the room as Lord Unael tried to keep order, shouting commands as he rushed toward his seat to retrieve his own impotent sword. Rential had begun pounding on the locked door of a servants’ entrance, shouting at the top of his lungs.
Emma’s own retinue pushed her to the back, officers and Nail coming between her and the mad pasnes alna defector. Above her palpating heart, she felt a touch of pride at the show of loyalty.
“Using this man’s life, I could wipe out every person in this room with ease. Every petty ruler and scrumming merchant could be burnt to ash at a flick of my fingers.” He snapped his fingers, and half the crowed ducked. “But, that is not my goal.” With a wave, the blue flames vanished, leaving no trace of ash or discoloration on the stones. Leaving the fearful notables wondering whether the fire had ever really existed. Iolen released the black cloak, and he tumbled to his hands and knees, breathing like he had just fought a battle for his life. Which, Emma reflected, he may have done.
“You did not come here for protection,” observed Unael, leaning forward on his greatsword. Rential, red-faced and with his lips pursed in anger, stalked back to the center of the audience chamber. He shot such a look of hatred at Iolen that Emma was surprised he didn’t throw himself at the Savant that very second.
Meanwhile, the guard that the Iolen had leeched from staggered to his feet, stumbling away from Iolen with an expression of wide-eyed terror. His companion still lay unconscious on the cold stones.
“No, I came to give a warning. The Rostanians are coming. The Feral are coming. And that is the least of Jecusta’s—no, all of Saiwen’s—problems.”
“There must have been a less dramatic way to give that warning,”
Emma growled, pushing back to the front of her retinue, mask back in place. It may have just been his caustic, biting manner—or the flames that had just filled the room—but Emma could not envision trusting this arrogant, powerful man. Certainly, he might have the power to end everyone in this room, but that would be a short-term gain for his purposes. Whatever they were. No, this Savant pasnes alna, whoever he was, had some motive in mind. Emma just needed to find it.
Iolen grinned. “Oh, certainly. But, now my lords will be forced to fix those windows and get rid of this godsdamned draft. Plus, I certainly have everyone’s attention now.” Rential’s, especially, judging from the way he glared at the Savant.
“Indeed, Savant. You have our attention. But, like I mentioned, we are not unfamiliar with your particular brand of magic, though you may have caught us off-guard in this singular situation. Know that it will not happen again,” Unael said, standing tall and draping his greatsword over his broad shoulder. He shot a fierce look at an unassuming, simply-dressed Rafónese woman leaning against one of the pillars.
“Apologies, milord. There was no feeling about him. If there’d been more than just illusions and showing off, I would have intervened.” She had a thick accent, and Emma had had trouble following her words. But, by the gods, those were supposed to have been illusions? Emma had felt the heat from the fire!
“A cautaton,” Iolen mused with an arched eyebrow. “How very rare.”
“And know we have other resources at our disposal. But, you can consider your warning heeded. You will, however, forgive that we must corroborate your reports with our own intelligence. And, even then…” Unael was thoughtfully scratching at his beard. “Regardless, you will remain our guest for the time being. For your own protection, of course.”
“Of course, though I would not delay for long, my lords and ladies. Any postponement could be disastrous. As both the old and new Lady Breens have learned.” Iolen nodded again in her direction. Unael glanced at her, too, a frown creasing his weathered face.
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