by Carol A Park
Which was entirely true. They didn’t. That didn’t mean there wouldn’t be.
Bherg gestured widely to their group. “I’ve ordered refreshments while we wait for those who are to be in attendance to assemble; I’m sure you would welcome the chance to rest for a while, yes?”
“Indeed, Holiness,” Nahua said.
“Then follow me.”
Refreshments turned out to be a limited spread of salted meats and cheeses sheltered in a large tent arranged with two opposing lines of chairs, but there was wine at least.
From the latter, Driskell regretfully abstained—following the example of Nahua, who graciously declined anything stronger than cider.
Bherg was over-generous in his estimation of the amount of time they would have to rest. “A while” turned out to be not more than a quarter of an hour, when he returned to the tent with two more priests and two soldiers—officers, by their uniforms.
All in all, the assembled company consisted of five from the Setanan side and four from the Donian—if Driskell didn’t include Danton and Yasril, which he didn’t, because they were supposed to be sneaking about the camp by then—or the rest of Nahua’s guards, who were outside the tent.
Driskell didn’t like being outnumbered. It was foolish, of course. They were vastly outnumbered by the thousands of men arranged about their central position in the camp. Even so, it felt like a deliberate move on the part of Bherg. A way to have the advantage over them from the start.
Bherg moved to the middle of the chairs. “I count this meeting as a success already,” he began, offering a diplomatic smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “since you showed up.”
The other priests and the officers chuckled politely.
Nahua gave a brief, polite smile.
Bherg gestured to the group. “Please. Have a seat.”
Nahua and Driskell were already sitting, but he pulled out his notebook and pencil.
Her two guards stood behind her.
Likewise, the two other priests sat, and the two soldiers stood behind.
It felt like a standoff to Driskell. He didn’t like that feeling, either.
He made a quick note of his trepidation, as well as his earlier observation about the number of people there.
Bherg introduced his associates—the older officer, Commander Natryk, was one of the commanders of this contingent—and then rambled on about the necessity of cooperation in troubled times.
It was a pretty speech, obviously written ahead of time, and obviously a load of manure.
By the time Bherg got around to presenting Nahua with their terms, Driskell was hot, sweaty, and desperate for an excuse to escape the stuffy tent.
Bherg made a great show of excusing their half of the party for a break while Nahua “thought it over.”
Once they had left, Nahua held out the parchment so Driskell could see it. “Thoughts?” she asked softly.
Driskell studied the document. “It’s not a draft. It’s official,” he said. “Even has lines for signatures.”
“Yes. This isn’t a negotiation, but that much was clear before we set out.”
They would eject the Xambrian ambassador immediately upon returning home. They would consent to a representative from the Conclave being present during all meetings from now on. Said representative would be given complete access to all records and files.
Said representative would only serve in an advisory capacity, of course, and would only serve until the Conclave was satisfied that Donia intended no trouble.
Said representative would accompany them back.
It was outrageous. Never had Setana meddled so directly in the affairs of its outer regions. Oh, the Conclave had its eyes and ears, but under the old regime, they had no official role, and so could be legally kept out of local government business.
As long as the outer regions paid their taxes, upheld the Conclave’s admittedly pervasive religious restrictions, contributed men to the United Setanan, maintained their arm of the ubiquitous Watch—and generally caused no trouble—they had relative freedom to order themselves the way they wanted.
“I wonder if they’ve presented a like document to the other regions,” Driskell said.
Nahua shook her head. “All indications are that we’re the test,” she said. “If we comply, I’m almost certain the rest of the regions will be similarly served.”
She stood and placed the parchment back on the table. “That I’ll sign it is a foregone conclusion, of course, unless we’d like an army four-thousand strong chasing us back to Marakyn.” She gave him a wan smile.
Both of them knew that her signature on the document was meaningless. Tanuac had no intention of doing anything the Conclave wanted. They had bought Donia a few weeks—perhaps more, depending on how long they could successfully feign compliance.
“Shall we get some fresh air? I find this tent rather stuffy,” Nahua said.
Driskell couldn’t agree more. He also could use a trip to the latrines.
His trip to the latrines was unfortunately delayed by a sudden voice in his ear.
“Keep walking. Act natural. Don’t speak.”
It was Danton’s voice, but Driskell couldn’t see him. Regardless, the voice kept pace with him.
“There’s something you need to see, but your escort will almost certainly prevent you from going where you need to go.”
Driskell refrained from looking back at the soldier who was trailing him. They had no intention of letting Nahua or himself roam freely, of course.
“So when you come out of the latrine, your guard will be different. You won’t recognize him, but that’s all right, because it’s going to be me. Just follow him.”
Danton didn’t speak again, and a few moments after Driskell walked behind the hastily erected wooden wall that served as privacy for those using the pits in the ground—thankfully, leaving his escort temporarily behind—he heard voices on the other side.
He couldn’t make out the words, but one was Danton’s, he was certain.
When he walked back around, his guard had indeed changed.
Driskell swallowed and wiped his hands on his tunic. This was a bit too risky for his liking, but what else could he do but follow the new guard?
The guard led him down another path and then stepped into a small tent.
Driskell halted, uncertain, but no one was around, so he, too, ducked into the tent.
Danton and Yasril were both inside.
Driskell blinked. “What’s going on?” he whispered. “I need to be back with Nahua soon.”
“This won’t take long, I promise,” Danton said. “But you can’t be seen waltzing over to the part of the camp we need to go to, so Yasril’s gonna have to take you.” He pulled out a pouch and extracted a silvery chunk. “I’ll take care of myself, but I’ll be with you.”
Yasril held out his hand. “Just take it,” the older man said. His face was pale and his hand trembled, but he seemed to know what he was doing, so Driskell did as he asked.
Danton disappeared.
“Don’t let go of my hand,” Yasril said, and then he ducked out of the tent, dragging Driskell along.
“I thought you said you didn’t want me to be seen?” Driskell whispered.
“You’re invisible,” Yasril said. “We both are. Now be quiet. It doesn’t mask sound.”
Driskell looked down at himself, but all of himself appeared to be there, as did Yasril. But as the man pulled him through the camp, Driskell had to admit the veracity of his claim. Not a single person looked at them. Even once when they had to dodge a man who suddenly exited a tent in their path, the man didn’t even glance their way.
They walked for about five minutes to reach the other side of camp. There, it looked like a smaller secondary camp had been set up on the outskirts of the first. And within that camp wandered not soldiers, but priests.
Lots of them.
Driskell blinked.
There had to be another hundred men there�
�all in robes like Bherg, all bearing the symbol of the Conclave.
But Yasril pulled him on, skirting the edges of the camp until they ended up hiding behind a tall stack of crates and barrels. Yasril pointed to a man dressed in neither battle-robes nor the leathers of the soldiers, his back to them. His hair was black and hung to his waist, tied back at the nape. His hands were clasped behind his back. No one spoke to him. In fact, any passersby appeared to go out of their way to avoid him.
He said and did nothing. Just stood there.
Yasril appeared to be waiting for something, and despite being invisible, he hunkered down, out of sight, and peered through a crack between the barrels.
Driskell did likewise, watching the man.
Then the man turned his profile to them and walked forward. But before he went too far, he glanced in their direction.
Driskell ducked down instinctively, even though they were both invisible and hidden, but kept his eyes on the man.
Driskell’s eyes widened.
The man’s skin had the pallor of a corpse, and his eyes were white. Pupil-less. Just like a bloodbane. He shrank as far down as he could.
“It’s gone,” he heard Danton whisper, and Yasril tugged him up. They hightailed it out of the camp and back to the latrines, where Danton reappeared—briefly—before he turned himself back into a Setanan soldier again—and Yasril let go of his hand and disappeared.
“Who in the abyss was that man?” Driskell asked, his voice hoarse.
Danton shook his head. “An apt choice of words, but later,” he said. “I just wanted you to see. I’ll take you back to the negotiations.”
Those in the meeting had already returned by the time Driskell slipped back in.
“Ah,” Bherg said. “Dal Driskell. Excellent. We were waiting on you.”
Nahua looked at Driskell as he settled back into his chair and picked up his notebook. He splayed his hand on the paper, trying to stop it from trembling.
Nahua’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.
Driskell could hardly pay attention to the rest of the meeting. Nahua wordlessly signed the parchment and handed it back to a triumphant Bherg, who gave another pretty speech about future cooperation, and at some point Nahua begged off staying longer in the camp, citing the need to get back home as soon as possible. His aching bones were back in a saddle far too soon, and this time they had to be on their best behavior under the watchful eye of their new Conclave minder.
Beyond that, all he could see was the image of that thing haunting his mind.
Dread chilled him, remembering that face, those eyes, and he felt he saw it hovering in the shadows of the trees the entire trip home. He didn’t know what it forebode, but Danton and Yasril seemed to think it a critical discovery.
He only hoped it was a critical discovery that would allow them a victory, because within a few weeks’ time…
Everything was about to go to the abyss.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Marakyn
The sun was creeping toward noon when Vaughn and Ivana crested the final rise of the southern Fereharian pass.
Vaughn inhaled deeply as the city of Marakyn became visible in all its glory to the south, eight concentric tiers nestled into the mountainside. There was nothing else like it in all Setana. There was also nothing like being able to take full breaths again.
Their progress out of Ferehar and toward Marakyn had been slow, partially because of Vaughn’s injuries. But even once his injuries had mostly healed—more quickly than they would have without bindblood aether—they had abandoned the main road in favor of slinking through rocks, fields, and forests, in case Airell decided to pursue them.
But they’d made it at last. The southern end of the Fereharian Mountains wasn’t as high as the northern side, and the mountains ended rather abruptly in a steppe of rolling hills. Even so, at this altitude, Marakyn stretched out below them.
Not that they hadn’t seen signs of the city before now. Unlike the northern plateau, which was primarily controlled by Ferehar, the southern pass was primarily controlled by Donia, and there were guard towers evenly stationed from about the midpoint of the much narrower passage. There was no sneaking by through that pass—unless, of course, one could literally turn invisible.
Ivana stopped beside him, also gazing at the city.
“When Yaotel had some of us gather here, it was only the second time I’d been to Marakyn. The first was long ago, before I had to flee home. You?”
“Twice,” she said but offered nothing more.
Probably jobs. He didn’t ask her to elaborate.
It took them another hour to pick their way down to the city gates. Vaughn fingered the little lightblood he had left, waiting to be tested at the gates—but the gates, while under guard, were open to all traffic, and no one questioned them.
“Refreshing,” he muttered to Ivana.
“From what I remember,” Ivana said, “Marakyn simply seems more civilized than what we’re used to.”
She remembered correctly. The streets of Marakyn, even in the lower tiers, were clean, the buildings well-maintained, and it felt overall more safe. Even so, most people would still turn on a Banebringer—and the guards still wore the standard-issue Setanan Watch uniform.
“Have you been to Ipsylanti?” Vaughn asked. He had never made it that far south and east.
“Yes. It’s not as bad as, say, Weylyn City, but it’s also enormous and sprawling—and thus not nearly as easy to keep in order.”
He supposed that was fair. Marakyn, unlike most Setanan cities, was built like a fortress. The city stopped at its formidable walls, and what its walls contained was limited in space. There was no urban sprawl, there were no unaccounted-for abandoned buildings in crooked back alleys—and it probably helped that its prime location for trade with Ferehar and the nomads to the south kept the city reasonably affluent.
They wound their way back and forth through the tiers until they reached the seventh tier: the government tier. They entered the tier itself with no trouble, but at a second set of gates that led to the consulate and civic hall, they were stopped.
A single Watchman stepped forward. “Please state your name and business.” He didn’t seem concerned—just doing his duty. He flipped open a slim book, pencil at the ready.
Vaughn exchanged a glance with Ivana. “My name is Vaughn. We’ve been told to meet Dal Yaotel or Lady Nahua in the consulate.”
The guard flipped a page in his book, made a mark, and then looked at Ivana. “Name?”
“Ivana.”
The guard frowned and then shook his head. “I don’t have your name down.”
Uh-oh. Vaughn had neglected to mention to Yaotel that Ivana was with him, and apparently Danton hadn’t informed him, either.
“Guest of yours?” the guard asked Vaughn.
“Yes. She’s with me.”
The guard made another mark. “I’ll let you through for now, Da, but please be aware I’ll have to send word on ahead to double-check. If you’re not cleared, you’ll have to wait outside with the others.” He inclined his head to Ivana.
She returned the gesture. “Of course.”
“I’ll need you to leave any weapons with me. They aren’t allowed beyond these gates.”
Vaughn held out his hands. His bow, quiver, and, sadly, even his weaveblood-made bowstring had been lost when he had been captured by Airell; purchasing a new bow had been at the top of his list of things to do when they reached Marakyn. The guard patted him down and then turned to Ivana.
Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could almost feel the wave of tension beating out from her. Her face, however, remained perfectly calm. She unbuckled the dagger, sheath and all, from her belt, removed a small knife from her boot, and handed both to the guard.
He took them, set them aside, and patted her down as well. Then he rummaged quickly through their one remaining bag, and, finding nothing more, waved them both through.
“‘Others
’?” Ivana asked once they were out of the guard’s hearing.
Vaughn shrugged. “I have no idea. I don’t know what Yaotel’s been doing or how he’s managed to get himself admitted to the consulate. He didn’t tell us much before we left on our expedition to the shrine.” He squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun. There were two large buildings ahead of them, separated by an ornate garden. The one on the left was a square stone block three stories high, while the one on the right was a single level and sprawled across a greater area. There was a smattering of smaller buildings as well.
Vaughn slowed, uncertain. “Maybe we should have asked which one is the consulate.”
But as it turned out, he didn’t need to. A familiar figure came out of the door of the single-level building and turned in their direction.
Vaughn recognized his goofy grin at once and stepped up his pace to meet him.
“Danton!” he said, gripping the young man’s arms. “When did you get here?”
“Almost a month ago originally and only yesterday, from…well. You’ll hear all about it soon.” Danton rubbed the back of his head and smiled at Ivana. “Ivana.”
“Danton. Sanca make it okay?”
He nodded. “Huiel contacted me about a week ago to let me know she’s integrating well.”
She returned Danton’s smile. “Good.”
Wish she’d smile at me that way. Vaughn cast Danton a side eye. “So…you don’t have to wait with the ‘others’?”
Danton laughed. “Oh, no you don’t. Yaotel will explain everything. It’s a good thing you arrived when you did—we only have a few hours before the council meeting this afternoon and I’m sure you’ll want to settle in, freshen up, and be briefed.”
Vaughn groaned. “I don’t know what’s happening, but if it involves a meeting important enough to be called a ‘council,’ I may go wait with the ‘others.’”
Danton slapped him on the back. “Sorry, friend. You’re not getting out of this one. Now that he knows you’re not dead, Yaotel’s been frothing at the mouth that you’ve been out of touch for so long.”
