by Carol A Park
“And…you’re all right with this?”
Ivana shrugged. “I don’t care, except inasmuch as eventually it’s going to mean having to deal more and more with the Ichtaca. I’m sure I slipped away far too soon for Yaotel—before, at least, they were able to draw a few pints of my blood. Fortunately, he’s a bit preoccupied right now.”
“He still holding a grudge?”
“Like a bloodbat holds its prey.” She laid the skirt of the ciuhan out on her pallet, then the shirt next to it, and then the sash that tied it together. She crouched down and rubbed the fabric of the skirt between her fingers. It had been a long time since she had worn one of these. The last time, if she recalled correctly, had been at a wedding for one of the townsfolk in her hometown. In lieu of the latest Setanan fashion, traditional clothing sufficed for such occasions.
Aleena joined her at the pallet. She touched the fabric as well. “Soft. You doing okay?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I mean, back in Ferehar and all. Last I left you, you seemed a little…off.”
Last Aleena had left her. That seemed like eons ago.
Off. As she recalled, she’d gotten drunk. Well. That wasn’t an option anymore. Banebringers couldn’t get drunk.
That year of ignorance before Vaughn had tracked her down again had been blissful, hadn’t it? It had been nice believing she could leave everything behind and move on, just like that.
It had been a lie, all of it. Like her entire life.
Why this line of thought now? “I’m fine,” she said. The words sounded hollow in her own ears. They would certainly sound hollow in Aleena’s.
“Uh-huh,” Aleena said. “You want to talk about it?”
She straightened up. “I’m tired. It’s been a long couple of weeks.” Try a couple of months. A couple of years. Damn, it’d been a long life, hadn’t it?
It was starting to wear a little thin.
Vaughn and Danton walked Askata back to the palace in silence, all three invisible. They avoided the main thoroughfare, which ran from the southern gates at the river, straight through the city, and out the northern gates. Instead, they detoured through less busy streets, circling around the hill below the palace where the wealthiest nobles had their city estates and through the smaller, eastern gate in the palace wall that led to the extensive gardens behind the palace.
Danton was going to be her new “guard.” They had needed to have one of their own on the inside before attempting to, essentially, seize the palace—in addition to Askata and Aleena’s contacts. Someone to unlock doors, guide people away from where they shouldn’t be, and make sure Airell stayed put.
The plan wasn’t without risks. There were five of them: Vaughn, Danton, Aleena, Thrax, and Ivana. Vaughn had to stay hidden until the last moment, Thrax had to be cautioned not to accidentally burn the whole place down, Aleena wasn’t a fighter, and Danton would overuse his magic in the wrong place at the wrong time in order to be helpful if he wasn’t thinking.
And Ivana? Ivana had to be kept away from Airell.
She would kill him if she had an easy opportunity, and he had to be kept alive long enough to have their election. Otherwise, this was just one more violent coup in Ferehar’s long history of violent coups.
It was still essentially a coup, but Vaughn didn’t want it to be violent, and the election had to be real.
At least, that was what he told himself. If Airell won…
He shook his head. If Airell won, after all the trouble he went to in order to make this a legal transfer of power, he’d have some difficult decisions to make.
No, this plan was not without risks, and the weaknesses of their team were, frankly, the least of their concerns.
They were also relying on information that everyone at the palace hated Airell so much that they wouldn’t resist, and they were relying on his mother, who was siding with one son over another. In the end, would she be able to carry through?
He wished he were more certain of anything.
He left his mother and Danton in the garden where Ivana had retrieved her a few hours ago.
“Teyrnon,” Askata said before he let go of her arm.
He turned to face her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He blinked. “For what?”
“For never doubting your father’s word. For not seeking you out once I knew you were alive. For…” Her throat constricted. “For the fact that, even had I known…I don’t think I would have been ready to accept you as you are until now.”
The confession stung, but he schooled his face. “Then I suppose it was just as well that you didn’t know.”
She hesitated. “I…I don’t pretend to understand Banebringers. But I’m willing to learn. I’m willing to try. And I will help you do this.” The hand on his arm tightened. “But promise me…if it is at all within your power to find a way to do this without hurting Airell…” Her face tightened. “I can’t lose another son.”
He studied her face. “If it’s within my power,” he said. “And that’s all I can promise.”
She nodded. “Then good luck.” She let go of his arm.
The look on her face changed from astonishment to wonder as, having broken contact, Vaughn no doubt blinked out of sight right in front of her.
Danton, who had been standing at a discreet distance, moved in closer at Askata’s reappearance.
Vaughn, however, moved away. But he stopped at the edge of the area to study his mother. The eleven years since he had left home had been kind to her in some respects; she looked younger than her age and still carried herself with all the grace and even slight arrogance of a woman molded to be a noble. If she wanted to remarry, she would have no trouble finding willing suitors, even though she was an older widow.
And in other respects, the years had been unkind. The slump of her shoulders, the tremor in her hand, the wary look in her eyes.
The bruises on her arms.
He clenched a fist. No, he wouldn’t hurt Airell. But that didn’t mean Airell wouldn’t pay.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Marching Orders
Driskell patted the packet in his pocket one more time. He had just spent more money at one time than he ever had before—on a custom-made pendant he would give to Tania at their wedding. It had been tempting to use his powers to negotiate a better deal, but he had resisted. It simply wasn’t right. His constant low-burn of aether he kept going any time he was around strangers probably made the jeweler more favorable to him anyway.
Even so, Tania would kill him if she knew how much he had spent. He wanted to get the pendant back to his room and safely hidden away.
Raised voices in the square he was headed toward caused him to slow.
A man stood on the raised stone edge of a fountain, and a crowd had gathered around him.
Uh-oh. A protest?
“Ri Tanuac is a good man,” the man on the fountain said, his voice raised to be heard above the general commotion of the street. “He’s given us a chance to be out from under the Setanan thumb.”
Or…not?
“My sister’s family lives in one of the towns around Ipsylanti!” another man shouted from the crowd. “What is Tanuac’s plan for keeping those people secure?”
There was a general murmur of agreement.
“I am certain the Ri has plans—” the man on the fountain began.
“Easy for us to say, safe behind Marakyn’s walls!” a woman called out. “How do we know he’s not clinging to power at our expense?”
“You’re too used to the way Setana does things,” the man on the fountain said earnestly. “If he rolls over and lets the Conclave put someone in charge, that’s the end of it!”
There was another murmur, some nods, some shaking of heads.
One man in the back caught Driskell’s attention. His eyes gleamed, his lips turned downward in a snarl of disgust.
Silver flashed then disappeared into the palm of the man’s hand, and t
hen he moved around the edge of the crowd.
What? Oh…no.
Driskell glanced around desperately, looking for a Watchman, but there were none around.
So, heart pounding, he moved to intercept the man.
He grabbed him by the arm when he reached him.
The man turned to him angrily—and Driskell began burning more aether and expanded his bubble to encompass both of them.
“You don’t want to do that, friend,” Driskell said.
The man spat on the ground. “Why don’t you mind your own business, friend?”
Driskell waved a hand around the area. “Will you turn the inside of Marakyn to violence when there hasn’t even been any on the outside yet? What do you think will happen? You’ll chance inciting a riot and end up at the end of a hangman’s noose, and for what? To prove a point to yourself?”
The man hesitated.
Driskell projected calm. Don’t be foolish, he thought at the man. This is a foolish man’s path. Think, friend, think.
“You’re…right,” the man said at last. “I was being foolish in my anger.”
Driskell blinked. It worked? It actually worked?
The man put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you. You saved me a lot of trouble.”
“I’m, uh, certain the Ri would be happy to hear a petition,” Driskell said.
The man nodded. “I’ll go to the palace to lodge a complaint tomorrow.”
Then he turned away.
Driskell watched as the man left the crowd, which was now calmly dispersing, still taken aback that his little stunt had worked.
So far, they had been lucky. No riots, a few non-violent protests, but generally the morale of the city was high.
That would change the longer the siege went on.
There would be more of the malcontents, more restlessness, more fear.
“Dal Driskell!” a male voice called from behind him.
Driskell spun, searching for the person who had called him amongst the press of people and spotted Deloro, his friend and a clerk from the civic hall—waving to him from across the square. Sweat trickled down his temple.
Driskell glanced around and then hurried to meet him.
“I’ve been all over the city looking for you.” Deloro dabbed at the sweat with a handkerchief. “Tanuac needs you.”
Driskell frowned. Had he missed a meeting on Tanuac’s calendar he was supposed to be at? He had thought he had a few minutes to take care of picking up the pendant. “I’ll be right behind you,” he said.
Deloro nodded and dashed off.
Driskell found Ri Tanuac sitting at his desk in his private study, which was curious in and of itself. Typically, he didn’t call on Driskell there.
But more than that, Driskell was surprised to find Yasril, the moonblood, there.
Driskell bowed to the Ri. “Your Excellency,” he said, then nodded at Yasril.
Driskell’s hand drifted to the pouch where he kept his notebook and pencil, but Tanuac stopped him. “No, Driskell. No notes today. I have a task for you both.”
He stood, rounded his desk, and leaned against it. “Yasril has been in and out of the Conclave camp several times now, providing me intelligence on numbers, makeup of troops, and so on. As Yaotel feared, that bloodbane abomination they’ve brought with them has started gathering bloodbane in the vicinity. They’re hiding in the forest and are mostly docile—which Yaotel tells me must mean they’re under the control of that thing.” Tanuac passed a hand over his face. “This isn’t unexpected, but it is concerning. A normal assault, Marakyn can withstand. But bloodbane that can fly—and carry those that can’t—right over the walls, among other possible uses for them?” Tanuac shook his head.
Driskell imagined dozens of bloodhawks harassing people on the streets. Hundreds of bloodbats finding their way into homes. Bloodhawks dropping bloodcrabs or bloodwolves. Bloodspiders climbing right over the walls. Mass panic, Driskell thought. And certainly, mass bloodshed and destruction.
The strength of Marakyn’s defenses was in its walls and tiered structure. If those were essentially nullified…
He shuddered.
Tanuac acknowledged his reaction with a nod. “However, Yasril’s discovered something else in his spying. Their troops are restless. Some are merely bored, tired of waiting. Some are nervous about the possibility of assaulting Marakyn. But in hushed conversations when they believe no one is listening, Yasril’s also heard mutterings about the bloodbane. They terrify the average soldier, and many have reservations about using them at all. The Conclave has not done well—at least in this army—at selling their mission.”
Tanuac pushed himself off his desk and looked directly at Driskell. “So. Driskell. This is where you come in…”
Chapter Forty-Eight
The Ri of Ferehar
Vaughn clenched the reins of the horse tightly in his right hand and let his left rest casually at his thigh. At least he was trying to make it look casual.
Try as he might, he couldn’t loosen his grip on the reins. And it wasn’t because he was nervous about maneuvering a lotli, the small chariot nobles and other important persons used in Ferehar.
No, what he was nervous about had nothing to do with his mode of transportation and everything to do with the fact that hundreds of eyes were watching his progression through the city and up the wide boulevard that led to the palace.
Not just hundreds. Thousands. And the number was increasing as many curious onlookers decided to trail behind the procession to find out what was going to happen.
At some point, a runner broke free of the growing crowd and sped up the street ahead of them. A messenger to warn Airell of impending guests, no doubt.
“Relax,” Thrax whispered from where he walked at his right. “You look like you’re about to vomit.”
“Easy for you to say,” Vaughn retorted.
“Just be thankful you’re not the one sweltering in armor under the summer sun,” Thrax said.
It was true.
They had decided to make a visual statement with their arrival, and not only by arriving at the palace in a lotli. Thrax was dressed in traditional Fereharian armor, a full suit of which was called a “xixchpil.” The xixchpil wasn’t used at all by Setanan regulars but was occasionally donned by Fereharian reserves when they were called upon by the United Setanan army. It consisted of quilted cotton two-fingerswidth thick and hardened with brine underneath a thick one-piece, long-sleeved leather shirt that buckled in the back, topped with a colorful and highly decorated cotton tunic. Vaughn could only imagine how hot Thrax was.
There was nothing ceremonial about the sword at Thrax’s side, but that wasn’t his real weapon anyway.
Vaughn, however, felt exposed in nothing but his fine Fereharian clothing. Frankly, he couldn’t remember a time when he had donned the traditional garments for men: a knee-length skirt, sleeveless vest—worn unbuttoned—and a short cape. While the garments for women had evolved only a little over time and continued to be worn side-by-side with Setanan fashion, the garments for men had all but been discarded except on special occasions.
The outfit kept him cool; he would give it that.
He kept his eyes on the road ahead of him, ignoring the whispers behind him. He ought to be smiling and waving and ingratiating himself to the people, but there was only room for one goal in his mind right now, and that was manipulating his brother.
He wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. He didn’t know how to play these games.
He was supposed to be the third son, an archer in the United Setanan.
Vaughn and his “guard” stopped at the gates to the palace, which were open to allow the easy flow of workers about their business throughout the day.
“Breathe,” Thrax muttered, then he stepped forward to meet the gatehouse guard. “Lord Teyrnon would speak with his brother, Lord Airell,” Thrax said, pitching his voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.
Vaughn had to stop his eye f
rom twitching at the title Lord.
The guards at the gatehouse—whom Askata had made certain were men sympathetic to their cause and loyal to her—didn’t need to respond because Airell himself was already striding toward the open gate. “Ri Airell.” He sneered. He stopped just outside the gate and then looked Vaughn up and down. “Teyrnon,” he said. “You have nerve, showing your face around here again.”
“Airell. You have nerve, being here at all,” Vaughn replied.
“I beg your pardon?” Airell asked, one eyebrow raised.
“You have taken on the mantle of Ri unlawfully,” Vaughn said. “Or did I miss the elections?”
Airell’s face, which previously had been rife with arrogance, flickered with a bit of uncertainty, and then disbelief. But the look was gone in an instant, and his face darkened. “You will address me as ‘Your Excellency,’” he said. “Now get out, or I’ll toss you out.”
“Do you really wish to treat the laws of Ferehar with such flippancy?”
“Bah,” Airell said. “The Conclave approved my position here.”
The horse harnessed to the lotli stamped its foot, swished its tail, and tried to bow its neck to graze on the bits of grass that had straggled through the gaps between the paving stones. Vaughn handed the reins to Thrax, stepped down from the platform, and walked up to his brother. “In front of all these people,” he said, turning his profile to the crowd and waving his arm expansively in that direction, “you dare to spurn the laws of Setana in favor of the Conclave? Do you come at their beck and call now, a dog to dogs?”
Airell surveyed the silent crowd behind Vaughn, and then any trace of the anger that had been building in him melted away. Instead, he favored Vaughn with an indulgent smile. “You have no right to speak to me of the laws of Setana. By their laws, you should be in an irreversible coma right now…demonspawn.” He added the final word casually, but there was a hint of triumph in it, as though Airell believed identifying Vaughn as a Banebringer would quell any doubts Vaughn might have been raising.
