Ashes of the Tyrant

by Erin M. Evans

  Dokaan looked at Anala. “Most live in the barracks at the peak. That’s included.”

  In all her days, Havilar had never imagined anything like this conversation coming to her—the very idea that a person could make coin just telling people how to be better with their weapon seemed so peculiar that she might have dreamed it up.

  “Would,” Havilar asked carefully, “I get to ride a bat?”

  Dokaan frowned at her. “You’d … you’d have to take some lessons. But it could be arranged. Your father probably recalls how it’s done. A pity he’s not here. The Lance Defenders could easily find a place for Verthisathurgiesh Mehen.”

  Anala’s smile never warmed. “Where did you say he’d gotten to?”

  Havilar realized everything they hadn’t told Anala yet. “Um, he’s gone to tell the other clans about the maurezhi.” She wet her mouth. “We found what killed your son.”

  “WE DON’T HAVE to stay,” Mehen told Farideh. She tapped her fingers against the arms of the chair, looking up at the frieze of dragonborn, riding, attacking, dismembering three white dragons. Blue chalcedony, red jasper, and pale citrine marked the dragons’ eyes, setting them apart from one another as they struggled and died under the onslaught.

  “Anala won’t be happy if we leave, will she?” Farideh asked. “It would be rude?” And I want to know what this is, she thought. I need to. She already had more than enough mysteries hanging over her.

  “She won’t be happy we got ourselves caught here either.”

  Farideh studied a dark blue dragonborn, posed with one end of a chain knotted around the the yellow-eyed dragon’s neck. “You’re curious, aren’t you? I mean, if they wanted to talk to you, that would be one thing, but me? Why should they want to talk to me?” She wet her mouth, and tried not to think about the dark powers twining up her nerves. “Do you think they know?”

  Before Mehen could answer, the doors opened once more. Kepeshkmolik Narghon entered first, bearing a case about the size of Havilar’s scepter’s and a ferocious sneer. Mehen stood swiftly, and for a moment Farideh feared he would pull his falchion out. Narghon’s eyes never left Mehen as he set the case down on the table.

  Behind him came Uadjit, leading a very elderly dragonborn woman, her moon piercings loose along her pale, coppery brow, the ends of her plumes white. She moved slowly, Uadjit pacing her with mincing steps all the way to the chair opposite Farideh, but her eyes held Farideh’s—one dark as night, one silvered by a cataract.

  “This is Kepeshkmolik Ashoka,” Uadjit said. “Daughter of Thymara. Honored among elders.” Ashoka smiled and squeezed Uadjit’s hand.

  “My great-great-grandniece,” she said, patting their shared fist. She settled her hands in her lap, considering Farideh in a puzzled sort of way, before turning to Mehen. “So you’re Pandjed’s boy? The pugilist?”

  “There’s no reason for you to be here,” Narghon started.

  Mehen’s nostrils flared. “You want to talk to my daughter, Kepeshkmolik, then that’s reason enough.” Narghon started to retort, but Ashoka waved a hand at him.

  “Narghon, hush.” Ashoka leaned forward, smiling at Mehen. “Our patriarch is ever ready for battle. A good trait, but one that costs him at times.” She turned to Farideh and the row of moons across her wrinkled brow shifted. “Do you know what an ancestor story is, hatchling?”

  Farideh glanced at Mehen, but her father only folded his arms grimly. “Yes,” she said, cautiously. “My father told them to us as children.”

  “Good boy,” Ashoka said, nodding at Mehen. “Did he ever tell you of Kepeshkmolik Thymara and the Gift of the Moon?”

  “It’s Kepeshkmolik’s story,” Uadjit reminded her great-great-grandaunt gently. Ashoka waved her off.

  “It belongs to all of us,” she said, her dark eyes on Farideh.

  Farideh felt a shiver run up her back. “Thymara was your mother.”

  Ashoka gave a solemn nod. “Mine was the last of her clutches. The ancestor stories are the lessons of our past, the path that leads to the Vayemniri’s present, the path to our future. I would tell you this one, so you understand why you’re here.”

  Farideh glanced at Mehen, Uadjit, and Narghon again. None seemed eager for Ashoka’s story. None seemed ready to stop her. “I would like that,” said Farideh, unsure of whether she should be afraid of where this was going. The powers of Asmodeus were a constant hum in her veins. Mehen sat again, and took her hand in his.

  Ashoka rubbed her hands together and began, crooning the tale as though it were half song, the way Mehen had told his ancestor stories when they were small. Farideh shivered down to the tip of her tail.

  “Let me sing of one who gave home and hearth to the Vayemniri, cast into a strange land, the praise and promise given the fallen warrior, the steps we took into Toril. Let me sing of the voyage that nearly broke us, and the rise of the Fortress of Thymara, the bastion of the Vayemniri, and the debt of Kepeshkmolik.

  “It was not long ago by the count of stones that the Blue Fire came and tore our fledgling kingdom from the breast of Abeir.” Ashoka’s hands spread, the worlds splitting apart. “The sky burnt the color of an ulhar tyrant’s scales, the titans’ artifacts ignited like beacon fires with this strange power, as though all the strength and magic would burn out of them. The earth shook, the air vanished, and Tymanchebar was no more.

  “In those days, each clan kept its own djeradi—clanholds ready to fight for their fellows, united against the tyrants, but caring foremost for their own. When the Blue Fire came, there was no warning, no foe to fight, and so the djeradi were thrown across the planes and shattered against the face of Toril. They were ruined to a one and many died, such was the violence of the Blue Fire.

  “We were scattered. Elders could not find their hatchlings, warriors could not find their holds. The Blue Fire burned on the strange new plane, giving rise to monsters and other terrible things.” Her hands made claws as her wrists twisted, like strange beasts rising from the ground. “We fought and we survived.

  “Kepeshkmolik Thymara, daughter of Kharadin, of the line of Shasphur, arrived from a smaller holding, heavy with eggs and near to her time. The Blue Fire had spared her, but not her kin—all had died or been deformed by the wild magic. She fought her own blood, and survived to sing over their bones. Alone, she surveyed this new world, wondering what would come next.

  “You walk, said a voice in Thymara’s heart.”

  Ashoka smiled in a strange, knowing fashion, and Farideh shivered again. There were no strange voices in ancestor stories. There was so little magic as to make people assume that dragonborn could not touch that sort of power. This was something different.

  “Now, Thymara had heeded the stories of her ancestors. She knew that the dragon tyrants could whisper into a person’s mind. But the burning sky dimmed for a moment and the sphere of the moon appeared.

  “Walk, the voice said again. I will give you shelter.

  “Thymara walked until she was certain her legs would sink into the ground below her, but wherever she went, the moonlight left a path that led her past the worst dangers of Toril. Soon she came to another ruin, an enormous granite structure partly collapsed. Thymara knew that nothing of this kind lay so near to her holding—this place came from the new world. Sword in hand, she entered the ruin.

  “The stone made a safe place, and more, magic worked upon it drove away the terrible monsters. At its heart lay a tomb, revealed by the broken stone. A bearded man, twice Thymara’s height, a human by his look and freshly dead by any indication. Across his chest lay an axe as black as the inside of a vutha’s skull. Thymara knew a warrior’s rest when she saw it, and sang the dirge for the lost in gratitude for the shelter. Her eggs she laid that very night, the firstborn of the Thymari, warmed in the dust of newborn Tymanther.

  “She woke again the next night and stood at the entrance to ruins, considering again the moon. ‘You have my thanks as well,’ she said to her strange rescuer. ‘But I do not wish to be
in debt, especially to one I do not understand. What may I do to earn the balance?’

  “Thrive, said the gentle voice. And it told Thymara to claim the warrior’s black axe. ‘Who was he?’ Thymara asked. Myself, the voice said. My son. My comrade. It is hard to understand. The axe, the voice said, would lead Thymara to the other Vayemniri, who could make this place into a new djerad, a fortress to protect the Vayemniri in this new world.

  “ ‘Again, my thanks,’ said Thymara, ’but this does not even the scales, only creates more debt on my heart. What must I do?”

  “Hold the axe, said the moon. Pass it down, until its true bearer arrives to guide you.

  “ ‘Many might claim that title,’ Thymara said. ‘How will I know?’ ”

  Ashoka fell silent, the last words of Thymara’s question trembling as she spoke them. Farideh found herself holding her breath and exhaled too noisily.

  “What did she say?” she asked finally.

  Ashoka’s tongue fluttered behind her teeth a moment. “My dear,” she asked, “how is it you came by your silvered eye?”

  16

  23 Nightal, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR)

  Kepeshkmolik enclave

  Djerad Thymar, Tymanther

  WITH EVERY WORD OF THE ANCESTOR STORY, MEHEN’S PULSE SEEMED to quicken, the phantom taste of peril filling his mouth. As Ashoka, Last Daughter of Thymara, waited for Farideh to answer, he felt dizzy, breathless. Desperate for enemies he could cut down.

  “I think there’s been a mistake,” Farideh said. “Selûne isn’t … I’m … I’m not a god-worshiper.”

  “Neither is Kepeshkmolik,” Narghon said severely. “We are merely fulfilling a promise.”

  Kepeshkmolik is like a nest of vipers, Pandjed’s voice echoed in Mehen’s thoughts, masquerading as a warrior. That’s why you will marry Kepeshkmolik Uadjit.

  “You were born with it, weren’t you?” Ashoka said. She tapped her own silvery eye. “I was too.”

  “That means nothing,” Mehen said, nearly shouted. “Do you think she’s the only child born with a silver eye since you hatched?”

  “She nearly is,” Ashoka said mildly. “The only living one.”

  “And not Vayemniri!” Mehen said. “It’s a mistake.”

  Polish on the outside, Pandjed had said, venom on the inside. They play at honor but they’re slippery, gutless. Dangerous.

  “Believe me,” Uadjit said, “the possibility’s been discussed.”

  That is why you will marry Kepeshkmolik Uadjit.

  “It’s just …” Farideh drew a deep breath. “I’m not the sort of person Selûne would … appreciate, I think,” she said. “And I don’t particularly need more gods in my affairs.”

  “Be grateful,” Ashoka advised. “Insofar as deities go, she is a generous one.”

  “And better suited to your kind than ours,” Narghon said.

  Farideh laughed, a little wildly. “You’ve got that all wrong.”

  Narghon stood and retrieved the long casket from behind the elder’s chair. He set it on the table between them and opened it.

  Inside lay a jet-black axe, its long, tapered blade as glassy as a mirror. A trio of jackal heads were carved in the stone along the back of the axe head. Strange glyphs marked the haft, strange figures of animals, wide-eyed human men and women embedded in gold along its length. Mehen had never seen its like.

  “What …” Farideh faltered. “That’s it?”

  Narghon held the weapon out to her, and Mehen fought the urge to knock the axe out of his hands. “The Black Axe of the Moon’s Champion. Take it.”

  “It’s not mine,” Farideh protested, holding her hands up. “You have the wrong person.”

  “No we don’t,” Ashoka said firmly. “Tell her we have fulfilled Thymara’s covenant, and we will honor her aid in our symbols.”

  “I don’t talk to the moon goddess …” Farideh’s protest fell away in a helpless sort of way. “What am I supposed to do with an axe? You can’t think I’m supposed to guide you?”

  “No one thinks that,” Uadjit said gently.

  “Hatchling,” Ashoka said, “one doesn’t have to worship the gods to acknowledge their existence and the things they claim to be gifts. Sometimes a power cannot be denied—titan, god, or tyrant. Sometimes a gift is only a gift. My time is far past when it should have ended. If you’re not the true bearer, then you have only to guard it until another one comes who is meant to be.”

  “Kepeshkmolik sees to its debts,” Narghon said, thrusting the artifact at Farideh. “Take it and fare well.”

  Mehen yanked the axe out of Narghon’s hands. “There,” he snarled. “You’re through.”

  Narghon eyed Mehen coldly, but the transfer seemed enough. “Give Anala my regards, and kindly tell her I won’t be available for her to vent her inevitable ire at for the next few days.” He swept from the room. A younger dragonborn slipped in and took Ashoka by the arm, to lead her from the room.

  “Very nice meeting you, dear,” she said, as though they’d done no more than talk about the weather. She smiled at Mehen. “And you I wish well, even if you make some terrible choices.” Leaning on the staring young dragonborn’s arm, she hobbled from the room.

  Mehen considered the axe. Blacker than the dead of night and polished to an edge so keen it looked as if it could split a mountain without the slightest hesitation. More like the weapon of the Chosen of Asmodeus than the Moon’s Champion, he thought with distaste.

  And yet …

  He wrapped both hands around the axe. At a glimpse, it was darkness and death. The humans gilded into its haft looked ordinary, the animals unfamiliar but quiescent. The jackals along the butt of the axe head looked fierce and stern, not wild. He turned the blade, shifting the reflection from his own face … to Farideh’s stricken one. To her silver eye.

  “Should sink fast enough,” Mehen said.

  Uadjit folded her arms. “That’s your answer? Take a priceless artifact, a well-loved weapon, and chuck it in the Kuhri Ternhesh?”

  “It’s not your grandmother’s greatsword, it’s the gods’ karshoji yoke!”

  “It’s payment for a favor done. ‘Never lay in debt to one who might crush your clan.’ ”

  “Don’t you quote omin’ iejirkkessh at me like we’re at karshoji lessons.”

  “Stop cursing at me and lower your voice, if you please.”

  Farideh stood swiftly, crossing to where they stood. “Give me the axe.”

  Mehen broke off and turned to his daughter. Farideh held out her hand with a grim expression. “There’s no reason—”

  “Yes, Mehen, there’s a reason.” Her voice had the faintest tremor to it, but she meant what she said. “You can say it’s a mad one, you can say you don’t agree with it, but you cannot say that the gods are acting at random.”

  Mehen’s nostrils flared. “So you’re arguing this one’s like the other one? Nothing to worry about, just a little favor. Is that it?”

  “I don’t know,” Farideh said. “You won’t give me the only clue about this one that we have.” She dropped her voice, switched to Common, for all the good it did. “And as for the other, that should tell you clearly enough that I’m not taking this lightly.”

  A retort was on his teeth—she was taking it all too lightly—but Mehen crushed it. He thought of his daughter, burning by the riverbank, solemn as a statue. He thought of how hesitant she was to seize those powers, how fearful she was when Havilar began to use hers. How determined she was to coax the truth from the mad wizard, who called her a viper, who wanted to crush his daughter for something she was trying so hard to control.

  Mehen tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Better—”

  “Better I should ignore them all, I know,” Farideh said. “But I don’t get that luxury, and I need every weapon afforded me. Give me the axe. Please.”

  Uadjit snorted. “Verthisathurgiesh Mehen has a daughter indeed.” Mehen glowered at her, but Uadjit only
smiled and nodded at Farideh. “She may not be you, scale and breath, but she has the breath close enough. Only she says ‘please.’ ”

  Farideh flushed, which made Mehen bristle. “None of this is your business anymore. Your debt is paid, as I recall.” He handed over the axe.

  Like most weapons, the great black blade looked lost in Farideh’s hands. His daughter had a way of taking hold of a blade in the same way she took hold of curious branches or mislaid ladles. With the axe laid across the flats of her hands, she frowned, studying the runes.

  “Well?” Mehen asked.

  She shrugged. “Just an axe.”

  Half a weight came off him—maybe the thing was nothing more than an old family heirloom, Ashoka’s failing memory twisting it into something supernatural and cursed. But there was still an obligation attached to the weapon, another hook in his baby girl. She turned it, scrutinizing the shining head.

  “Have you used an axe?” Uadjit asked. Farideh looked over the blade at her.

  “I-I’ve chopped wood,” she said. “But not as a weapon, no.”

  “She uses the short sword,” Mehen said. “And as we have a lot to do—”

  “You don’t want to carry it loose.” Uadjit pulled a belt from the case. She helped Farideh into it, and slipped the axe into the loops. “Watch your thumbs,” she advised, before turning to Mehen.

  “I would help you,” Uadjit said, her chin high. “This concerns Kepeshkmolik as well. It concerns me,” she added, “and my son.”

  Mehen tapped his tongue against his teeth. Once upon a time, he would have counted Uadjit among his closest allies. Once upon a time, he thought grimly, you were an idiot. But here, at least, was a matter he felt sure that she and he could be steadfast on—they would not let their children fall, not for clan, not for elders, and that was where Uadjit’s slipperiness would come in handy.

  “Shestandeliath,” he said finally. “The last time I called on the patriarch, it didn’t go as planned. But someone needs to get in there quickly, to warn them about Zaroshni and lock down their enclave.”