by Alex Lang
“You forget your place, Jantyre, and one day you will overreach.”
“But not today.”
Her steely stare eventually broke into a slight smile. “No, not today.”
He’d been a ward of House Curunir for close to thirteen years now. Well past the norm. The whole point of such guardianships was to marry the scion into the family, strengthening the bloodline. He was prime breeding stock as such things went. Naturally handsome with the strong features so favored, fit, and certainly no dullard. But, of course, those were just extraneous benefits, for what truly mattered was that he was a scion, and one of considerable strength. Unfortunately for the matron, Jantyre hard proved himself rather prickly and uncooperative. He’d driven three Curunir women away in tears thus far. The only reason Daratrine hadn’t taken more drastic measures forcing a match was because she knew he would refuse any physical coupling out of spite. Also, because he was useful to the house in other ways. Given recent events, however, that could no longer be enough. The thought was troubling.
He met the gaze of the woman who had raised him since he was twelve. There was no affection in those eyes, or if so, it was the affection one had for a useful tool. But there was respect, for perhaps he was more similar to her than any of her true children.
Matron Daratrine spoke. “I will send Corvales on an errand tonight. If it bears fruit, then we might locate the assassin before the leashers. If that is the case, then it will be your job to capture the killer.”
Jantyre twisted his lips in distaste. “I am not very good with… apprehension.” He much preferred dispatching, having had ample practice over the years.
“I am sure you can manage if you apply yourself. However, this effort is far from a certain thing, and it might take some time before we see results. In the interim, I want you to investigate the other Sartis houses. Talk to your… contacts.”
Jantyre smiled.
“Talk, I said. Don’t think I am unaware who your contacts are, or what you’ve been up to with them. You think you’re being rebellious, but should one of them… Well, let’s just say, should such activities also bear fruit…” Her genial expression fell away like the mask it was. “I would be very upset. I didn’t bring you into this house to strengthen our rivals. Make sure it never happens or there would be repercussions the likes of which all parties involved will rue.”
Jantyre cleared his throat. “Of course, my matron. How persuasive do you want me to be?”
“As persuasive as you need to be.” Then, thinking better of it, she added, “But start no wars, Jantyre. Not yet.”
“As you command.”
Chapter Nine
“I have the day’s council agenda and missives, my lord,” Gilvys said from within the chamber.
Standing out on the balcony peering through a telescope, Velledon gave a wave of his hand for his attendant to continue. He swiveled the instrument a bit to the right and found the source of movement his naked eye had spotted. It was a trade caravan leaving Vigil, trudging along the western highway. At this distance the long train of wagons were indistinct shapes, even with the aid of the telescope. They were approaching the Fork. A seemingly short stretch of road took long minutes for the wagons to traverse. Velledon watched as the lead wagon veered right, due west towards Celenbrith’s Watch. He knew it would. Ninety-nine out of a hundred caravans continued west, instead of heading north towards the fortress at Tesra.
Velledon straightened and let out a wistful breath. From his balcony, built high within the cliff side of the Bluff, he had an expansive view of the rocky landscape that extended to the western horizon. Broken, jagged, fragmented stone as far as the eye could see, and well beyond, said to be the result of the momentous final battle between the First and the Nightbringer, over twelve hundred years ago.
What would it have been like to witness such power being unleashed? To see with his own eyes a struggle between the first children of the Tesrini gods and the Ar’Razi dark god, Mezu Vos. It was a thing he had imagined countless times growing up with this view.
He glanced back to Gilvys. “Well, anything of note?”
His aide sat at a writing desk just inside his chamber, papers spread in front of him. The man unfurled a sheet of parchment, placed weights on the corners so the wind would not claim it, and adjusted his spectacles before reading. “Ah, the latest report from the Frontier.”
As Gilvys studied the report, Velledon swerved the large telescope towards the left, towards the spot, the center of the broken land, and put his eye back against the lens. On a clear day such as this one, he could make out just a hint of white. The bleached bones of the ruins of Tesra, the city built by the gods for their firstborn, the cradle of the Imperium, and the very site where the dark goddess, Mezu Vos, was defeated and driven back to her perch in the sky, or so said the preachers of the Path. Velledon had never been within.
Even as governor of Vigil, the seat of the Imperium, he was not allowed to enter the ruins, relegated to peering from the outskirts as if he were just another highborn. Access to the holy site was restricted to those within the Path of Divine Flame. Even for the son of the archon an exception would not be made. His father was too devout to breach protocol and tradition.
“It appears Lord Lathian’s campaign is going well. He sends almost three thousand captives back, a hundred beastmen among them,” Gilvys said. After a short pause, “The lord plans on pushing farther into the Frontier, beyond where any campaign has gone in quite some time.”
“Yes, my brother was always one eager to please.” He’ll push too far one day, Velledon thought but did not voice. He walked to the railing, directing his gaze down near fifteen hundred feet. A thrill ran through his legs, and he gripped the banister. No matter how many times he had done this, it never ceased to affect him. As a boy, he had been too scared to even approach the edge, and it wasn’t until Lathian had braved it, earning their father’s approval, that he’d managed to do the same. But, too late to earn the same regard.
The ruins might be considered holy, but the same thought did not extend to the lands surrounding it, as there was a wealth of stone and ore to be had. A great many quarries and mines were scattered throughout the jagged landscape, all labored by criminals and slaves from the Frontier and other conquered lands.
Velledon gazed down at the ever-expanding stain of huts, shacks, and tents in the distance. Quarrytown, it was called, but given the size and how long it had been around, it could surely be considered a district of Vigil unto itself. Another three thousand would be added to their numbers soon. The thought troubled him. He turned away.
“Oh,” Gilvys said, reading what looked to be a missive. “Our request… the Artificers of Falduin’s latest request for prisoners from Urkenol has been denied.”
“What? Was there a reason given?”
Gilvys shook his head.
“Who gave the order?”
A slight delay. “The archon.”
Velledon muttered a curse under his breath. He crossed the balcony and stormed inside. “Come, the council meeting draws near.” Gilvys fell in step beside him as they left his private chamber.
“It's pure folly, Gilvys,” Velledon said as they traveled through the shaded pavilions of the White Citadel.
“My lord?”
“We have made so much progress, and yet instead of allowing us more freedoms to conduct our trials, my father would shackle us. He obsesses over archaic rituals. He squanders resources on pointless ceremonies or in the arena to sate the base desires of the masses. There is value in the latter, I will grant you, but a balance can be struck. He has always been a stringent man, but with age has come a rigidity of the mind.”
“Yes, my lord. Your father has always been a man of… tradition.”
“Tradition,” Velledon said with distaste, “will not reverse the Waning. Only we can do that for ourselves.”
Gilvys shot furtive glances at passing servants, and though Velledon was the son of Archon Lothande
r, perhaps his attendant had the right idea. It was no secret that Velledon and his father did not share the same ideology, but it was still unwise to speak thus in public.
The conversation moved to the agenda of the day’s High Council meeting, then to the current states of the various projects of the artificer organization. Velledon, besides being governor, was also a leading member of the artificers, a group of Loddan smiths, primarily, until he’d joined and transformed it to what it was today. It was with his research and influence that the recent strides and discoveries were possible.
A short carriage ride later, they arrived at the Hall of Law, where the High Council met.
It was an imposing building made with blocks of stone salvaged from Tesra, as was everything atop the Bluff and within the White Citadel. Most felt nothing could compare to the architecture of the Tesrini gods, with its smooth, unbroken lines and arcs, but Velledon preferred the aesthetic of Imperium craftsmen. It was strong and solid. He knew how the hall was constructed, block by block. It was familiar and comforting.
The Spire, on the other hand, resembled a gigantic fang piercing the sky. Near the top, the uniformity of white split, creating two prongs, and suspended between was a gigantic floating orb of silver hallowfire, Allithor’s Glory. It certainly inspired awe… But it was crafted by divine hands, by minds so foreign that gazing upon their handiwork at times made him uncomfortable, though that was a thought he buried deep and would never give voice to.
Velledon stepped out of the carriage into the shadow cast by the sunshade Gilvys held for him. The light of the Silver Sun was unforgiving so close to the source. He spared a moment to smooth out his white high-necked robe and adjust the blue sash tied across the chest, then proceeded up the steps of the great hall. The guardsmen outside, wearing wide-brimmed helms, opened the set of large double doors when they saw Velledon approach.
“After the meeting, we will meet Lord Rexam at the facility. We’ll discuss solutions for acquiring more subjects,” Velledon said.
“Of course, my lord.” Gilvys bowed, then headed back to the carriage to wait as Velledon went through.
The chamber where the council met was huge, able to accommodate a thousand, though the councilors numbered only a dozen. Tapestries as large as sails depicting glories of the Imperium hung from the high ceilings and along the walls. At the center of the cavernous space was an oval table and seated around it were the councilors representing the different prominent organizations of Vigil. The Sisterhood of Rumathil, the Hammers of Lodd, the Order of Menders…
The chatter amongst the councilors died down as they caught sight of him, with each organization head rising to give him a small bow. Velledon nodded his greetings to colleagues and rivals. He took his seat at one end of the table to the right of a high-backed throne, an intact salvage of Tesrini stone, that reminded him of interwoven tusks.
It was the archon’s empty seat. The supreme ruler of the Tesrin Imperium, the Speaker of the Sun, the First Keeper, did not bother himself with the trivialities of running an empire, especially when he believed that devoutness and hearkening to the past were the only means of salvation, and the solution for the Waning- the crisis of fewer and fewer godbloods being born each generation.
He only ever appeared to override the council when some ruling did not align with what the Path wished.
To the left of the empty seat was an exarch from the Path, acting as the archon’s proxy, to report and oversee. Behind her was a scribe to record all for posterity.
Seeing all parties were present, Velledon knocked the stone-sphere upon the table twice, commencing the meeting.
Chapter Ten
Mannahar rode ahead of the wagon, his anger simmering. The makors had led them to a stretch of the Ryles not far from the Curunir estate, confirming that their quarry had escaped on the water. He had expected as much. They now headed west, returning to the huntsmen’s compound to get their… special hound, much to his irritation, though this, too, had been anticipated. Treven’s little outburst during the meeting, when he’d already told the leasher not to speak unless given leave or directly addressed, was yet another little nudge. He and Timmin continued to push, testing what they believed to be their newfound leverage. What was most galling was that they were right.
Any one of those things would have put him in a foul mood, but what truly stoked the fire was that Curunir hag and her lapdog of a son. Oh, she appeared the regal lady, but it was all the work of the menders. The signs were there, if one knew where to look. And the son so high on his station. The other one, the ward, hadn’t spoken, but the smugness reeked of self-importance.
Mannahar had been once like them, a highborn of House Altor. A venerable house tracing its lineage to paragons of Allithor and Lodd. Now, a destitute, forsaken line, striped of titles and lands due to poor business ventures by his father. Such minor offenses would be forgivable, except their house hasn’t produced a scion in two generations. That was the true crime in the eye of the Imperium. Denied his house name, he was now treated no better than the servants, no better than the Bound he commanded. Until the old debts were settled.
To that effort, he had to admit, it was a tremendous amount he was being paid, assuming they were successful. But of this he had little doubt, given that he’d been handed the key to their success. He should be joyous. The portion of tals he’d received just to retain their service was more than most completed assignments, but the Curunirs had made it seem as though it was charity.
He’d let the insults go unanswered for now, but they wouldn’t be forgotten. None of it would be.
Hours later, with the first-sun low on the horizon, the group trotted and rolled through the wooden gates of the huntsmen’s compound. It was an expansive area, a collection of thirty-nine, at last count, camps and clapboard structures, each home to a huntsmen band. Large banners hung limp at present, but all knew the black hound head upon the red background, matching their armband. The compound was laid out atop of a plateau that overlooked the quarry towns. It was a not-so-subtle reminder to those chained below, that, should they manage to break free from their shackles, such freedom would be short-lived.
The towns and compound alike were in the shadow of the bluff, however, where the white light of the Silver Sun was but a distant beacon.
Mannahar sent the band on ahead to return the hounds to the kennel, with instructions to meet back at their camp. All aspects of handling makors were strictly controlled, from breeding to housing. The same went for their leashers.
He, in turn, paid a visit to the overseer’s office, reporting to the scribe the details of this latest accepted task. Records had to be kept so that all parties received their proper share, the Imperium the majority of it. He and his leashers were not so different in this; all worked to remove the shackles of debt.
The scribe’s eyes bulged at the amount. Huntsmen tracked runaway slaves, but they were allowed to contract out to highborn houses in special cases. Mannahar and his band had earned a reputation, along with a fortune, in such tasks the last year.
Mannahar returned to the camp to find his men gathered around the fire. Pran, the wagon driver and cook, had something stewing in a pot hung over the flames. Timmin and Sepp were regaling the grandeur of the Curunir estate to Ladis, who had stayed behind to safeguard their guest. Called Old Lad by everyone, he was a veteran well-past his hunting days.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Mannahar said to the group. “We’ll be heading back out soon.” To Treven, he said, “Bring the sword.” He then walked towards the stables.
“Another job for the little monster, eh?” Timmin called, leaning back in his chair with a cup in hand. “Don’t need us if this keeps up.” The fat man laughed at his own remark.
Mannahar pivoted on his path, marching towards the leasher.
Timmin didn’t notice his approach until it was too late. Mannahar kicked out, snapping a wooden leg and sending his hefty weight crashing to the ground. Timmin scrambled upright
surprisingly quick, glaring murder at Mannahar.
The two stared at each other, and the group held its breath, waiting.
Timmin eyes darted to Mannahar’s hand gripping the hilt of a long knife, then the man dropped his gaze completely. “Sorry, boss. I forgot. Won’t happen again.”
Mannahar wasn’t eager to forgive, but Treven joined him with the wrapped sword. There were more pressing matters to attend to, he decided after a long pause.
They walked passed the horses and wagon to the farthest corner of the building, where a single large cage resided. Big enough for even Mannahar to walk in without stooping. It was a cage used by the kennel master to hold the hounds, and Mannahar had managed to procure one for their own use. All that could be seen within the lone cage was a pile of rags on the floor. A single chain snaked out from beneath the pile, secured to the bars. Mannahar pulled a ring of keys from his belt, and at the sound of jingling, something within the mound of fabrics stirred. Finding the proper key, he unlocked the cage. The two huntsmen entered.
“Come on out, we know you’re awake,” Mannahar said.
There was more movement under the rags, but nothing emerged.
Mannahar grabbed the chain and yanked hard, pulling a small figure free from the tattered nest. It was a young boy in appearance, no bigger than a child of five or so by Mannahar’s estimation, though he wasn’t very good with such things.
The boy’s hair was pale, near white and short, hacked and chopped almost bald in places. Treven, his minder, was no barber. With a dirty face and threadbare clothing, the boy would appear to be a normal street urchin if not for the mask that covered his mouth; a muzzle, really.
Treven knelt and unwrapped the saber. The boy’s glassy gray eyes immediately focused on the blood upon the blade. “That’s right, you know what we want.” Treven unlocked and removed the mask, then held the tip of the blade towards the child.
Mannahar watched, thinking that Treven treated the boy like one of the hounds.
