The floor of the chamber cleared. Everyone skirted under the cover of the double colonnade that encompassed the room. As the last councilors took their seats, the only people who remained beneath the arch of the central dome were Evelyn and her two advisers, standing atop a sigil of the tri-rays that was emblazoned into the marble floor with moonstone tesserae. Evelyn sucked in air, trying to gather her confidence. After having sacrificed so much, Disias and Waymire needed her to play her queenly part.
Lordess Farsidian gaveled the council into order with a piece of uncut adamant as large as her fist.
Evelyn curtsied awkwardly. She inwardly cursed her mother for not training her in the ways of the court.
“Lady Manherm,” began Lordess Farsidian in a sonorous voice. “Do you have the authority to act as regent for the Capernican State?”
Her stomach fluttered with trepidation, and she nervously fingered aside a tress of jet black hair that had come loose from her carefully knotted bun. “I do, by birthright, and by blood,” said Evelyn, reciting the words just as Disias had instructed. Her declaration sounded small in the grand hall.
A titter of laughter resounded from the gallery.
“An heir with neither a crown nor a kingdom,” lampooned one of the councilors. “Pray tell, where are your lieges?” The man’s face dripped with apathy.
“Let the lady speak, Lord Hayne,” said Lordess Farsidian with a sweet tongue. She turned her gaze slowly upon the pretentious councilor. The man noticeably quailed under the lordess’s venomous gaze.
Evelyn stepped forward and spoke in a loud clear voice that echoed in the cavernous chamber. “I am the daughter of Rudlif, son of Edlynne, sister of Johan. I am the only living heir. I inherit all of my great-uncle’s holdings and retain all oaths of vassalage.”
“May your reign be long and fruitful,” said Lordess Farsidian, granting her a nod of blessing. “Yet well wishes alone will not impart upon you good fortune. What number of forces do you retain at your disposal?”
Evelyn froze, she had no reply. She looked at her feet, suddenly feeling like a foolish little girl making play as a grown-up.
Waymire cleared his voice loudly, drawing the judging eyes away from her. “I will address all matters concerning the men-at-arms,” said the gruff old general, saving her from embarrassment. He stepped next to her, leaning heavily upon a sheathed broadsword he always kept at hand.
The old general did not look well. His whiskers were unkempt, and he possessed an overall disheveled appearance. His normally burnished epaulettes had begun to tarnish. His waistcoat was too large, and his belt overlong. His leather, typically oiled to a sheen, was dry and creased. She wondered when last he slept. Still, when he spoke his voice was commanding, and she noticed even the councilors regarded him with respect. “Much of the northern garrison has been decimated and divided. I know nothing of the fate of Westerhip, but if Lord Mithrir still stands, he stands alone. There are eight armies sworn to the king stationed in Emotria and Hedrotria, plus the vassal kings of Karu and Watsoto. I’ll wager all of these lands are still free. They will heed Lady Manherm’s call to arms. I would be better able to address your question if we could get a messenger to the south, but all of the roads are blocked.”
“Select twelve of your men who can ride,” instructed an elf who sat alone at the foot of the dais. He was perched upon a stool behind an ornate marble table with parchments strewn before him in a disorganized mess. He looked much like the half-dead elf they had carried in her cart. Lean-faced, with hungry eyes that seemed to take everything in with a quick sharp glance. “I’ll offer two score as an escort...”
“I will not allow a soldier to be wasted escorting these vagabonds through my land,” interrupted Steflan Vis. His sons grumbled audibly from within the crowd.
The lone elf waved at the councilor dismissively. Evelyn couldn’t help but smile. He seemed to be the only one not playing the agreed upon game. In fact, he looked downright perturbed to be here at all. He glowered at the councilor with a face that teetered between disinterest and contempt. “Ignore the old spitfire,” said the elf, giving no deference to the councilor. “I will see to it that your cavalcade is guided east around the Fir’re mountains.”
“Thank you, Prince Desperous,” said the general, giving a name to the man Disias had failed to mention.
Evelyn looked at Disias queerly. So this was the high lord’s elder brother, the true heir. She looked circumspectly at the prince. Desperous fidgeted in his court attire, pulling at the silken robe in discomfort. How was this the man who had beaten back her uncle’s grand army again and again?
“Please set upon this task immediately,” said Lord Tener with a congenial tone. He looked to General Waymire, ignoring Evelyn completely. “What can you tell us of this carrion menace?”
They went on like this for some time. Waymire was never known for brevity, and he belabored every truth and theory he held about the carrions. Evelyn stood in the center of it all, frozen in her awkward pose, doing her best to appear regal despite the tedium. From time to time Lordess Farsidian looked to her with an approving smile. Evelyn couldn’t help but feel like a pretender juxtaposed to so magnificent a beauty. Lordess Farsidian was serene, she was stern. She was precisely what Evelyn imagined a queen should be, and Evelyn dourly realized she possessed not a single one of those traits.
With the discussion coming to a close, Lordess Farsidian turned her attention to the prince. “And pray tell me, Prince Desperous, how much longer will you be in our company?”
“Rancor is mending well,” reported Prince Desperous, clearly lying through his teeth. “He should be back on his feet before the new moon.”
That was certainly untrue. Evelyn had spent an entire day next to the half-dead high lord while they bounded frantically toward Luthuania in her iron carriage. She had thought Rancor looked oddly gallant in his death throes, seeming to welcome his fate without fear. The Luthuanian soldier that accompanied the high lord knew nothing of healing, taking one ineffectual action after the next. She wished desperately to save the man, but as if he could read her intention, Lord Disias would shake his head, and whisper in her ear. “Not here, Your Grace. What will the elves think, Your Grace.” She sensed Disias had an ulterior motive.
She abided Disias’s command until he had fallen asleep. Then she touched the sallow cheek of the high lord with just the tip of her finger. His flesh was like ice, but soon she had breathed new life into the man. His breaths steadied, and his fever broke. She gave him just enough to live, nothing more.
Farsidian stood, and all of the councilors followed her cue. “I will adjourn this meeting. We have our tasks laid before us. Perhaps by our next meeting we will be able to shed more light upon this carrion menace.”
The councilors rose to their feet and began to leave the hall, speaking quietly amongst themselves.
The two copper doors parted as they were about to exit, and a cohort of halberd carrying guards entered. The burgundy capes of the tower wardens swirled as they parted the grumbling audience with the hafts of their weapons, creating a path for an elderly elf to pass.
“Lord Nochman, Your Grace,” whispered Disias in her ear.
The former high lord stood brazenly at the head of Desperous’s table and watched with a loathsome countenance as each of the councilors walked by. Nochman’s guards busily shuffled everyone out of the chambers, save Evelyn, Waymire, Disias, and Desperous. As soon as the doors were sealed he spoke. “Our foe is a singular being. A necromancer,” reported Nochman, without bothering to introduce himself.
“How did you come to this conclusion?” asked Waymire.
“I may no longer serve as high lord, but the eyes of my court are still far-reaching. I have known this information for a few days, but was not yet ready to share it. The truth is, I could not make sense of one magic wielding such power. I have spent the intervening time in study.” He pulled a large tome swaddled in soft leather from a satchel and laid it on the table.
All gathered around to look at the book, save Disias, who remained outside of the circle, his face curled in contemplation. Nochman carefully parted the folds revealing the book within.
Evelyn’s eyes widened. It was a copy of the Paserani Haote. She had possessed her own dog-eared copy at Stone Keep. The image of it smoldering within the ruins brought a smile to her face. She wondered if any fire could burn hot enough to destroy that cursed text. When she looked up from the book, Desperous’s keen eyes were studying her face. She bashfully looked away, hoping he did not catch the hint of recognition in her glance.
Nochman quickly flipped to one of his many bookmarks. “Associated Necromancy,” called out the former high lord, enunciating the phrase as if it spelled some great doom. “It is a tricky piece of magic, but it would explain what you experienced at Manherm.” He pointed to a line of archaic text that no one in the room could read, save Evelyn. “Think of the Sundered Soul as a tree, and each individual essence as a limb. We shift in the wind, sometimes touching one another, sometimes branching, and sometimes breaking and growing anew.”
“The Sundered Soul wants always to converge,” said Waymire.
Nochman nodded in agreement. “The branches of the dead remain in the tree alongside the living. And this is why necromancy is such a foul art. When a necromancer raises a soul from the dead, he causes the branch of the deceased to intertwine with his own.” Nochman knotted his arms for effect. “Their souls become eternally bound, and if the necromancer chooses, he may strip from the soul its freewill, turning the body into a vessel that the necromancer alone directs. This is the root of all necromancy.
“Now, consider the oath of fealty given by a subject to his lord. An oath is a pact made before the Creators. It, too, causes the souls to become intertwined. When a necromancer binds his soul to that of a dead lord, he also becomes bound to all those who have ever sworn fealty to that lord.” Nochman shook his head, clearly disgusted by the implications. “By raising King Johan as a wraith, the necromancer did not raise a single man, he raised an army.”
Waymire’s eyes widened. “There must be tens of thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands.”
Evelyn couldn’t help but think of the plague that had burned across the land like wildfire a few years earlier. How many from her household had died? Twelve? Fifteen? Did her servant take the oath of fealty? Did her parents? The thought of her mother’s bone dry fingers scraping at the lid of her sarcophagus made her blanch.
“King Johan’s reign was unduly long,” said Nochman, with a bitter twist of his lip. “It seems his greed for life will continue to curse us all, even in death.” He let the scathing indictment of the king’s quest for eternal life hang in the air. It was no secret. Johan should have died years ago, but a whole entourage of alchemists and magics had kept him alive well past his wasting years.
“Any place where Capernican soldiers were laid to rest in catacomb vaults is likely under the control of the necromancer,” said Desperous solemnly.
“Who do you suppose this necromancer is?” said Waymire. “A Taper Magic? A Nexian Phirop?”
“Only one who has studied the way of the Paserani, the magic of the old gods, could wield such power. There are few alive who have such knowledge.” Nochman thwacked the book shut.
Waymire looked to Evelyn with a disconcerted look. Evelyn wanted to hide her face.
“His name is Demetry,” said Disias from outside the circle. All eyes shifted askance to look at the king’s former adviser. “He was a pupil at Taper,” continued Disias, unapologetic that he had hidden the truth until now. “A young magic who showed some promise in the arcane arts. He was imprisoned in Coljack after a misguided experiment resulted in the death of his patron. King Johan hoped to use the man, and he had Demetry placed within the cell of Jeremiah of Brothlo.” He paused letting the name sink in.
“Johan’s old court magic?” scoffed Waymire. “A dangerous man. I’ve never heard of something so foolish.”
“Jeremiah possessed knowledge he would not willingly share with the crown. The good king hoped the intrigue of having a protégé might wrestle from Jeremiah some of his secrets.”
“King Johan was turning him into a weapon,” said Desperous, bluntly getting to the truth.
“Not exactly, but that is precisely what happened in the end.” Disias shrugged. “Johan needed access to the Old Magic. The magic that was lost with the Sundered Gods. Jeremiah possessed the knowledge, but he would not share it with another soul.”
Evelyn hid her hands within the folds of her dress, as if they might expose her. “Why did Johan wish to know the Old Magic?” she asked timidly.
“Simple,” replied Disias. “Because the Old Magic is the only way to unlock the Orb of Azure.”
A disquieting shudder ran through the room. Desperous threw his hands up in disgust. Nochman nodded his head as if he had suspected all along. And Waymire looked to Evelyn with defeated eyes. She felt ill. To think that they had conspired all these years, while her great uncle was plotting his own scheme.
“If the necromancer possesses the Orb there will be no stopping him,” said Waymire. His voice was weak, as if the full futility of the situation was finally settling in.
“For now the Orb is not the chief matter of our worries,” said Nochman dismissively.
“Then the Orb is no longer in the Nexus!” called out Waymire. “You have it here?” Realizing he had overstepped in his zeal, he raised his hand. “Don’t tell me, I need not know anything save that it is safe.”
“The last of the Guardian Stones is safe,” said Nochman, eyeing the general with distrust. “But we must ensure it stays that way.” Nochman checked the door to his rear, making sure it was shut, then leaned forward and explained his plan.
Evelyn hardly listened. She could feel her heart palpitating in her chest. Never before had she heard such splendid news. Not only was the Orb not in the possession of the necromancer, it was here in Luthuania. Now that she knew it was nearby, she could almost taste its presence. Disias was right, she still did have a part to play, and the Weaver had granted her the central role.
CHAPTER
VIII
THE PROCONSUL
The flail struck with a wet smack. The flesh had long since parted, and the braided coils were greedily accepted into the sinew of his body. Demetry felt the warmth of blood flowing down the backs of his bare legs. He listened to the steady drip, curling his toes in the tepid blood pooling about his feet. He wasn’t evil, Demetry told himself. He didn’t enjoy any of this. But he had to remember. If he forgot, if he let the seed of his hatred wither, he would falter.
“Again,” he ordered.
This was where he used to succumb when he was imprisoned in Coljack. Purification through atonement is what the sadists called it. To survive he would think of King Johan sitting upon his ebony throne, condemning Demetry for a crime he could hardly understand. He allowed his rage to build until it blinded him from the agony. But now King Johan was just another pet in his menagerie. It was becoming harder to revile the man. It was becoming harder to find purpose through hatred.
“You must not forget.”
The flail sung. Leather cut to bone. He rode the wave of agony forward into a higher state of being. He fell to his knees, slipping on his own pool of blood. His wry face looked back at him in the red reflection, slaver dribbling from his lip. He had bitten his own tongue so hard he tasted blood. He tasted fire.
Now I remember.
“Enough,” snarled a voice.
Demetry lifted his head to discover Tyronious’s pet commander standing at the entrance to the hall. Korre was little more than muscle and death. He effortlessly wore armor plate that would cripple an average man with its weight. He had allowed the hammer-forged iron to rust to the color of blood. A born killer, his body was adorned with dozens of ribbons from his victims. He was a true misanthrope, despising the creatons with the type of zeal only a dark child could possess.
The dragoon
advanced on Demetry, his clawed toes clacking against the marble floor. His lip curled in disgust, displaying dagger-like teeth.
The Yanish brother who had been exacting the purification began to frantically coil the flail, while his companion looked about nervously, his pale skin turning green. Their terror-filled eyes shifted between Demetry and Korre as they tried to fathom which foe they feared more. Demetry smiled at their sudden sheepish nature. The Yanish brothers were sadistic when it came to atoning, but complete cowards otherwise. Demetry released them with a wave of his hand. Let them fear the dragoons more. One day they will have to call me king.
A young handmaiden came forward and offered Demetry a white robe. He accepted the token graciously, smiling warmly at the girl. She wouldn’t make eye contact.
“They will hate you for now,” reminded a voice.
He had known that at the start, but eventually they will all see. The true tyrant was dead. Demetry was their unsung savior. In time. In time.
He put on the robe, covering his nakedness. He could feel the lines of crimson suck through the silk threads, pulling the robe so close it felt like a layer of skin. He leapt atop the Seat of Caper, and examined his surroundings with a smirk. The throne room, situated high within Yasmire Tower, was a scene of absurd decadence. Silk tapestries hung from the columns that flanked the central aisle, depicting hunts, kings upon the backs of caparisoned horses, and everywhere the blazoned image of the white tower. Rosewood paneling veneered the outer wall, polished to a mirror-like sheen. Statues in the likeness of the Guardians flanked the throne. Demetry toyed with a ruby he had pried from the eye socket of one of the statues, turning it over in his hand.
“Why have you disturbed my penitence,” pressed Demetry, genuinely perturbed by the interruption.
“Another man has come to take the oath.”
Demetry had been accepting oaths of fealty all day. Most men knew when they were defeated. Those who didn’t would soon meet Tyronious. With the northern territories of Capernicus soundly within his control and an army of carrions at his disposal, the war felt all but won. Yet Demetry took no pleasure in these accomplishments. The Orb of Azure had not yet been found. With each passing day that it eluded them, Tyronious seemed to grow in fury. He had rounded up every scholar and Capernican official he could find, and was torturing them one by one to gain news of the Orb’s whereabouts.
The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2) Page 8
