“And you would like me to explore these Mounds?”
“Absolutely not. I would much rather you stay right here and remain safe, where I can find you at any time. But that is no longer an option. I need you to explore the Mounds, to see for me everything that I cannot afford the time to see for myself.”
Tega walked away from him and even without seeing her face he knew she was worrying her lower lip and that her eyebrows had knitted into a knotted frown. He said nothing. The Sisters were likewise quiet, understanding all too well what he was asking and that he would never demand anything of that magnitude from one of his apprentices. They had walked where Tega walked now in their own times.
They understood the dangers.
Finally she nodded. “I will go.” She did not turn to look at him.
“I’ll do everything I can to protect you, Tega. You know this.”
“Of course.” She cast her eyes in his direction but did not meet his gaze. “When should I leave?”
“Immediately. I’ll have a horse and an escort for you. And supplies, of course.”
“I’ll want to see my parents.” She hesitated to say the words.
“Of course, Tega. See them. But not a word of where you are going. Tell them you’re going to Trecharch. Tell them I’ve sent you to study the Walking Trees and to ask questions of the Mother-Vine. That should keep them from worrying too much.”
A moment later the girl was leaving the room and heading to her chambers. Directly after that the Sisters looked to him with questioning eyes. “You are both needed elsewhere.” He hated that his voice carried a defensive tone. “There are missions that require instinct and there are missions that require a properly devious mind. Tega is many things, but devious is not yet among them. We’ll start working on that when she gets back.”
If she gets back, he thought, but did not say.
“For now, my ladies, it is time for you to leave here as well.” He sighed and shook his head. “And time for goodbye speeches about good men.”
Merros Dulver ate without tasting, chewed and swallowed. He was not alone. There were a great number of people in the room and many of them sat within ten feet of him, but he might as well have been by himself for as little as he cared about them at the moment.
The sort of people who, only a month earlier, would have had him sweating through his clothes, surrounded him. Some of the most powerful people he had ever met were present and most of them were wearing enough finery to pay the salary of his entire military career with ease. Diamonds, gold, silks, fine leathers and dress-swords of every possible make.
Bite. Chew. Swallow. Even the wine, which he knew, intellectually, was a very fine vintage, tasted like ash. Also, every bite reminded him of the new scar along his jaw.
Wollis March should have been at his side, making snide comments under his breath and reminding Merros to at least try to enjoy the moments when the finer things in life were offered up. Instead Wollis was gone. Dead. His body was ashes, and those ashes were waiting for his family to arrive; the family that was expecting to be reunited with the man, not with his memories and a jar of gray dust.
How was he going to face them? He’d never met Dretta March, but he’d heard many stories of the woman and seen her and her son Nolan alike when last he rode to the far north, the very edge of the Wellish Steppes, and gathered Wollis for their expedition into the hellish Blasted Lands.
He could not quite be surprised that Swech killed Wollis. He’d been witness to her abilities, had seen her kill or break a few men before they made their way to the palace in Tyrne. Thinking her incapable of violence was rather like thinking a bonfire incapable of causing a few burns. It made exactly no sense. Still, he hadn’t expected her deception.
He couldn’t say he’d fallen in love with her, but he had very much enjoyed her company. And having her gone, having her be the one that had killed poor Wollis, well, that merely added to his sorrows.
His sorrows. He bit back a snort of derision at that. He was mourning the loss of a good friend and feeling wounded because his most recent lover was the cause of his grief. The people around him were mourning the loss of their Emperor and their family member. If nothing else, he’d have to respect their loss because they outnumbered him.
His eyes flickered to Nachia Krous, who sat straight-backed and held her grief tightly locked away. Her eyes shone with unshed tears and her mouth pulled down with a desire to cry out, but she held her own. Surely her loss was as great as his. She had lost a cousin after all, and according to the rumors they had been very close.
Of course she stood to become the Empress in a few days at the most, so he supposed that was a reason to celebrate. Or at least it would have been if not for the current insanity running through the Empire.
War. There hadn’t been a war in Fellein for hundreds of years. There had been skirmishes, to be sure and he’d been on the front line of a few of them, but the simple fact was that the Fellein Empire was the most powerful nation in the known world and no one in their right minds would consider getting into a long fight with the sort of forces now at Merros’s command.
At least that was what everyone believed. Having seen the state of the Imperial Guard, the very finest soldiers that Fellein had to offer, Merros had his doubts. Their armor was lovely, quite shiny and remarkably well-kept – now that he’d demanded repairs – but the men wearing that armor were more show than substance and that was a very sincere problem, because the Sa’ba Taalor were easily the most dangerous fighters he had ever seen.
No. He was being unfair because he was worried to the point of nausea about the idea of a war. The Imperial Guard were good fighters and well trained. But next to the coming enemy he was unsure of their skills.
His hands trembled just the slightest bit at the knowledge that ten of the people from the Seven Forges had killed over a thousand people in one evening. He had borne witness to their actions.
Well, to part of the fight. He’d been sneaking in for a closer look when he got caught by one of their enemies. The ten had crept past and never been seen. He’d been spotted. Luck or not, he had failed where the ten had succeeded. He’d managed to defend himself and end the life of his attacker.
Wollis would have told him he was being far too hard on himself. Wollis had been good that way.
And if he had been bragging, Wollis would have been the very first to slap him back down into his usual reserved state of mind.
Cut. Chew. Swallow.
A very large man with too many rings on his fingers was picking at his roast and staring silent hatred in the direction of Desh Krohan. He was a hard man, by the look of him, and likely a skilled fighter by the way he carried himself, but he was softening and growing fat. The look on his face meant he was likely a Krous who was not going to ascend to the throne, and just as likely a very foolish man. No. He knew the man’s name. Laister. He was one of the people who thought he should be the next Emperor.
He did not need or want to know more about the man just yet, but he marked him in his memory, because at some point he knew he’d need the knowledge.
Wollis was dead. Over a fortnight had passed and he was still having trouble getting past that simple fact.
Desh Krohan was talking with passion about Pathra Krous and he envied the man his oratory skills. He had never been a speaker. He was a soldier, pure and simple.
Well, except that now he was a general in the Empire’s Army. The thought made his head hurt.
Applause exploded from around the room and Merros looked left and right before focusing on the sorcerer. Apparently he had finished his speech. He moved solemnly back to his seat near the future Empress and took a long sip of his wine.
Anger bounced through Merros. It was irrational, but it was real. The problem was that he was sitting down and eating a very fine meal – tasteless to him currently, but that was not the fault of the chefs – and the people around him were applauding moving speeches and the entire Empire was sitting
on its laurels and waiting for an invasion.
To the north and west the Sa’ba Taalor would be gathering their forces soon, if they had not already started. They had to cross the Blasted Lands, yes, but he had no doubt that they would find their way home faster than any of the Empire’s people ever had. Why? Because they were traveling on those damned mounts of theirs and the great beasts were much faster than horses. And when he had been with them, the very air seemed to bend to their needs when they traveled. Maybe that was his imagination, it was hard to say, but they seemed to traverse the desolate wasteland far faster than he had managed before meeting them.
To the south, Roathes was seeking his help. The kingdom that had chased him and several of the gray-skinned warriors from their palace after the Sa’ba Taalor had decimated – Gods, could it really have been over a thousand people? – the Guntha invading their lands. The Guntha were apparently gone now, destroyed when their islands erupted into a great volcanic mass and from the remains of those islands? Well, several people had seen large black warships circling the newly formed land mass. Those ships were either piloted by the Sa’ba Taalor, held by an unknown enemy or mirages created by the smoke and fear the eruptions caused.
Roathes was in chaos and the King there, Marsfel, was desperate for help from the Imperial Army.
Somebody should do something about that.
The part that made him angriest?
That somebody was him.
The Princess Lanaie moved to his table and sat in the seat next to him. The seat had been empty the entire time, not because there were seats to spare, but because, as was tradition, a place had been set to his left in honor of Wollis. The setting was present, a platter, a knife, a goblet and a fork. But in this case the cutlery faced in the wrong direction. He was a soldier. He knew the tradition too well.
The woman apparently did not. He knew her immediately. He had seen her sisters at her father’s side not all that long ago and thought that they were truly some of the loveliest women he had seen. He had met her later, when she clarified the half-truths that her father had been telling the Emperor in order to gain assistance against the Guntha.
She had dark hair, dark eyes and skin several shades darker than his. Her features marked her as a Roathian as surely as they marked her as a daughter of King Marsfel.
Merros stared at her for a few seconds. He wasn't trying to be rude – she was already doing that by sitting in the place reserved for his dead friend – but he was damned if he could think of any reason why she would want to speak to him.
“I am Lanaie, Princess of Roathes. My father is King Marsfel and I would speak with you, General Dulver.” Her lower lip trembled and her eyes were moist. She was nervous and he sincerely doubted it was his presence that caused her so much distress.
Then again, her father had tried to have him killed recently, so that might just be a cause for dismay in her opinion.
“I know who you are. We’ve met.” That wasn't what he meant to say. He meant to ask how he could help her, but currently the wine and his grief were working against his better judgment. “You are sitting in the seat of my dead friend.” He spoke calmly and made it a point to look her in the eyes. He might have overlooked the offense, but at the moment he was remembering the fight he’d had had with the men her father had sent after him.
“I don’t understand.” She looked worried for a moment her face pinched in concentration and then her eyes grew wide with horror. “I am so sorry.” Her voice broke and he could tell by the tone that she was restraining herself from making a scene.
A flash of guilt crept through him. It was one thing to scold a soldier being foolish and another entirely to chastise a distraught woman, forget the fact that she was also royalty. It seemed a day for catastrophic social mistakes.
“Never mind,” he said as gently as he could. “What can I do for you, Princess Lanaie of Roathes?”
“My father has sent news. The ships. The ones they heard of. The black ships that the Guntha spoke of. They have been spotted. My father. The King. He saw them with his own eyes.”
Ah. She wanted his help.
“I am not the person you need to speak with. You should be speaking to the Regent. Desh Krohan is currently the official head of the Empire until such time as the new Empress is crowned.”
“He has not taken the time to see me.” Her voice broke.
“He is a very busy man.” Merros wanted to be gentle. He did. He also wanted to be left alone. “He is also far likelier to help you than I am at the moment.”
“But you are the head of the army…”
“I am a soldier. I fight wars. I do not choose which wars I will fight.” And if I did, I would most assuredly not run to the aid of your father. He did not add the last, but he certainly considered it. He was human after all and currently not enthusiastic about assisting the man who’d tried to have him murdered.
She won the argument not with words but with actions. Instead of throwing accusations at him or pleading for his interference, she looked down and her lower lip trembled. Merros started to look away because he knew what would happen next.
Wollis always said women were his weakness and the man was not wrong.
Princess Lanaie looked back up at him and tears fell from her large, dark eyes. She looked so damnably lost and afraid and he had always been raised to believe that a woman in distress needed to be a gentleman’s first priority.
“Damn me. Fine. I’ll arrange for you to see the Regent. Just, please, stop that crying.”
That didn’t work as well as he’d hoped. She just cried more.
Not ten feet away Laister Krous was looking on with a scowl on his wide face. Either he had not been raised as a gentleman or he felt left out. Either way, Merros didn’t much like him. He kept that opinion to himself. A wise man knows when to keep his mouth shut.
Three
The winds were still roaring around him, but Andover Lashk did not feel them. The bitter scent of ash was still present, but the air that should have been cold was instead warm and there was a scent of roasting meat that made his stomach roar.
Andover opened his eyes and saw that someone had managed to build a shelter over his head. It was a nice surprise, as the last thing he remembered clearly was being hurled through the air by the monster he’d just maimed.
He tried to take a deep breath and immediately regretted it. Pain washed through his ribs and he winced.
“You’re awake.” The voice was deep and friendly enough. He looked to his left and saw Drask Silver Hand’s massive form not three feet distant. “We were beginning to wonder about that.” The man was sitting on a bedroll and looking directly toward him, his eyes alight in the gloom of the shelter.
Andover sat up very slowly, wincing the entire time. He was having trouble breathing.
“You have broken ribs. Bromt bound them for you.” Andover looked around and saw both Bromt and Delil, the other two people he was traveling with. Well, he had been traveling with them before they disappeared. Only they were back now, weren’t they?
“How did you find me?”
“We were never far away. We were watching.”
Anger flared in his chest and, despite the pain, he turned to look hard at Drask. “Then why didn’t you help me?”
“Are you alive?” Drask’s eyes gave off that odd glow his people’s eyes all seemed to hold inside.
“Of course I’m alive.”
“Yes.” Drask leaned back and shrugged. “Then you did not need our help.”
Andover opened his mouth to say more and then closed it. Being angry with Drask was foolish and would get him nothing but dead.
Delil moved through the small shelter in a crouch and squatted next to him, looking at his chest and moving her hands over the tight bandages there. He’d have noticed them before but he was too busy recovering from being alive. “These are tight but you can breathe. Do not move too much. It will only hurt.”
She turned away from h
im for a moment and her arms got busy over the fire in front of Drask. When she turned back there were several slices of roasted meat on a small wooden plate. “Eat. You need to gain your strength. Tomorrow morning we travel again.”
Her tone was not kind, nor was it harsh. It was simply perfunctory. Still, her eyes managed what he thought was a small smile, as he took the offered food. As always, the damned veils hid their faces away too well for him to see much beyond their eyes.
The entire shelter rattled as ice and dirt lashed against it. Delil cut more slices from the slab of roasting meat and folded them over on themselves before sliding them under her veil. For a moment he saw her chin through the fabric. It looked like a perfectly normal chin, well-rounded and shapely enough. At least as shapely as a chin could manage to be without anything around it but cloth. He couldn’t understand the secrecy any more than he could understand the strange quality of the Sa’ba Taalor’s voices.
“How far away from the Seven Forges are we?” He took the time to ask the question only after he’d rammed the first cut of juicy meat into his mouth and chewed it into nothingness. His hunger did not abate in the least and he intended to eat as much as he could manage in a single sitting. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. The meat was gamey, and heavy with enough fat to make it tender. His stomach fairly roared for more.
Drask shrugged his broad shoulders. “We could be there in a week or less. We will probably take much longer. The storms will not abate for at least another day or so, if I am right.” He shrugged again. “I am normally right.” Bromt nodded his agreement.
“Why will we take longer?”
“You are not healed yet, Andover. You must be mended before we head through Durhallem’s Pass. There will be challenges for you there and you must be ready to face them.”
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