“But you do work together.”
“Discretely.”
“I need someone who is discrete, who speaks Nuna and Kasdin.”
“Tyrus speaks Nuna fine.”
“He is more prisoner than I. Everyone wants to cut off his head.”
“You cannot learn the language if you do not practice.”
“All I do is practice. The language makes no sense. Syllables dropped depending on the sounds before and after them. What is the point of an alphabet if you ignore it half the time?”
“Nuna is the language of Cadgar Foespear.”
“I need a place of my own.” Einin spoke from her heart, and Annrin’s coldness melted a little. “I’m tired of this cage. I’m tired of lessons and lectures. I attended an empress, and here I change diapers. I can do more.”
“I must go. You are safe here, and things will get better.”
Einin carried Marah out to the ramparts and studied the horizon. As Marah grew bigger, the child attached to her hip. Climbing all the stairs became a chore. Einin had to admit that she had been a soft and spoiled noblewoman, but now she had the legs of a farmhand. No one could see the shape of her calves under her dress, but they had filled out.
Tyrus stood at the ramparts with his eyes closed. A strange hobby, listening to the mountain wind, but he was a strange man. Einin reminded herself not to underestimate him. She approached, concerned about startling him, and dismissed the silly thought. With all his runes, he had to know he wasn’t alone.
Tyrus asked, “How is the little one?”
“Grows more stubborn by the day. Hates naps.”
“She is Ishma’s child. That woman made an art of stubbornness.”
“Dura says she is more like Azmon, too clever to be left alone.”
“The rune blocks?”
“You know about them?”
“Not much, but Azmon had a knack for them when he was younger.” Tyrus brushed a strand of Marah’s hair out of her face. The wind whipped it back around, and he pushed it aside again. “I had hoped she would not be a sorcerer. Some of the Reborn aren’t.”
“I didn’t know they had toys.”
The wind replaced the conversation. Einin endured the chill as she sought a way to ask Tyrus what they were doing. They had to plan an escape, but she feared his oaths. If Dura took Marah away, Tyrus would follow the child.
“How is your Nuna coming along?”
“Dura makes me read Cadgar Foespear.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Have you read him?”
“No. He talks pretty about war; everyone quotes him, but I doubt he ever fought. People that have fought don’t talk like that.” Tyrus backed away from the ledge, breathing heavily. “You could do worse than Dura teaching you.”
“She has no titles.”
“Neither do you.” Tyrus raised his hands. “Neither do I. Not here.”
Einin had served Empress Ishma, the woman who had stood beside Emperor Azmon when they conquered the continent of Sornum. The Five Nations bowed before them. Dura, by comparison, was a commoner with a talent for sorcery but no titles. In Narbor, sorcerers of royal blood held important positions. Commoners were kept at an apprentice level.
Einin said, “In Narbor, she would never be a master.”
“She has tutored kings and emperors. I think she can teach you.”
“I want to be free of this place.”
“Careful what you wish for.”
“I know; the wilderness is dangerous.”
“No. Dura plans to travel into the Deep, to talk to the dwarves about opposing Rosh.”
“What language do they speak?”
“Gimirr.”
“Do you speak that?”
“No. If you struggle with Nuna, Gimirr will drive you mad.”
“Brilliant.”
“They speak Nuna fine.”
“But not Kasdin?”
“Some might; continents mean little when you live under the oceans.”
That gave Einin pause. The idea of cities underneath the oceans was too big to imagine. As her gaze swept across the horizon, she wondered how many warrens the dwarves had. Digging into the ground, they could fill the world with their race. The mountains, and all that they hid, made her feel insignificant.
She asked, “Dura means to take us with her?”
“Marah more than us, but I assume we go too. She will try to use the Reborn to goad them into joining the league.”
“And you will follow her?”
Tyrus mumbled something about oaths. He had grown moody of late, and Einin worried about angering him. She could not forget his days as Azmon’s enforcer. When the Prince of the Dawn had wanted nobles removed, Tyrus made the arrests with the Imperial Guard. Once arrested, most prisoners disappeared.
She asked, “What about Marah?”
“You want to go west. Dura says it isn’t safe. And so does Klay.”
“You believe them?”
“The Gadarans pride themselves on defending these ranges. The stories of half-giants and animal men are true. I’ve seen scars on the men. Animal claws. And no caravans come in from the west. There is no travel at all.”
“They let you near the gates?”
“I watch it from here. I don’t understand the politics, but I know the guards’ schedule, and I know the streets. The Gadarans are worse than the Roshan, a handful of families fighting over little fiefdoms.”
“Tyrus, these people don’t deserve our loyalty. We should run while we can and leave them to their fate.”
He held her gaze for a long time, daring her to dream. If he were at her side, she could trust him to hire mercenaries and keep them honest. He understood violent men and spoke Nuna. No one would double-cross the Butcher of Rosh. Her hopes soared until he shook his head.
Einin asked, “What is it?”
“If Azmon claims the White Gate, there won’t be anywhere to hide. The shedim will rule all of Creation. We might… do the most good beside Dura. If she unites the league, we won’t need to run.”
V
The next day, Einin stood in a room at the base of the Red Tower. Desks had been cleared away, and she twirled for Dura and her students because they draped her in blue silk while a seamstress made last-minute alterations to her gown. Tyrus stood nearby, wearing layers of plate armor in the Gadaran fashion with a blue cloak. He looked ready to lead a charge. Even Marah was swaddled in blue fabric.
“I think I have it,” the seamstress said through a mouthful of needles.
Dura held Marah and gestured for Einin to twirl again. Afterward, she handed the child to Einin and stepped back to study her more.
“Will it please the king?” Einin asked.
“The king doesn’t care about fashion. We seek to appease Bedelia and her war priests. Traditionally, they perform the claiming, and they have petitioned to take Marah from me. Oh, relax, no one is taking her away. As long as I’m alive, she stays in the tower.”
“I thought the claiming was tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, everyone will be drunk and dancing. Today, we make an entrance.”
Einin hoped Dura knew her business. Inviting the Butcher of Rosh, and Azmon’s child, to court would cause more problems than it solved. Dura seemed bitter. Einin had been around her long enough to get a sense of her moods, and the tightness in her lips was similar to when she lost a champion on the etching table.
Einin asked, “What is wrong?”
“We are ready to leave.”
“That is a bad thing?”
Dura pointed her staff at her students. “Inform the men that we are leaving.” She waited until her students left. “The league exists in name only. It is a pleasant idea that costs no one gold or men. They will all preen about like fools, making empty pledges. Seeing the Reborn might push them along. Tyrus might convince as
well, but on their own, they’ll bicker for months.”
Einin asked, “How long have you been negotiating?”
Dura waved away the question. “I’m tired, very tired, of cajoling nobles into doing what’s best for Gadara. They delay and barter for more runes. They blame their failures on me while all of them build their little armies.”
“Tribal chieftains,” Tyrus said.
Dura nodded, but Einin didn’t understand.
Tyrus told her, “In Rosh, the Imperial Guard are professional soldiers. Here, the champions are more like the clansmen, following the strongest or wealthiest leaders. They pledge to nobles who pledge them to the king.”
“The king asks for warriors?”
“Oh, he can conscript them,” Dura said, “but he wants volunteers, and the nobles wait to see which families offer the most men. It is a game of sending some to war but keeping the best at home for feuds.”
Einin said, “But Azmon will come for them next.”
“So I’ve told them, but these are old traditions.” Dura headed for the door and gestured for them to follow. “Come, we make an entrance. Another tradition. Follow my lead, and speak when I tell you to.”
Einin asked, “This is how you fight wars?”
“This is how we afford them—spread the lost gold and sons among the most families. The biggest families stay big by sacrificing less, and the smallest ones struggle to survive.”
They followed Dura out of the tower into the crisp mountain air. Clear skies hinted at another cold night. They marched down staircases into the upper levels of the fortress. Dura’s staff struck stones, marking a cadence. Tyrus and Einin flanked, and a procession of mercenaries and sorcerers followed. Their party, totaling twenty-one people and a baby, snaked its way from the tops of the fortress through the many staircases and hallways to the king’s throne.
They passed the king’s guards and the Soul of Shinar, knights, champions, and mercenaries clustered in their own little groups, marked by their different armors and weapons. Einin internalized Tyrus’s comments, recognizing the disconnection in the armed men. Each group had different styles of armor and weapons as though Ironwall were a dozen smaller kingdoms. An obvious problem once she knew to look for it, reinforcing her doubts about the city’s defense.
They waited at the throne room for a herald to announce them. Einin shifted Marah from one hip to the other. She had hoped her back and shoulders would stop aching from carrying her around, but the little burden kept growing bigger.
“Watch and learn,” Dura said. “Gadara is not that different from Rosh.”
“I won’t understand what they’re saying.”
“You understand politics. The language will come in time; for now, learn their faces, their personalities, and note their tabards.”
Oak doors, taller than two men, swung open on oiled hinges, and a humid smell rushed out. The throne room, a large space with vaulted ceilings of gray stone, burst with people, colors, armors, silks, and textures. Einin saw guards in steel suits and women in flowing gowns and men in flashy outfits meant to pass as military in style but comical if worn in a real fight. They followed Dura to the throne, adding more bodies to the cramped space.
She had nothing to fan herself with. That had never been a problem in the tower, with all the wind and the chill nights, but she was self-conscious of the blue silk she wore. The gown had too many layers. In a crowd like this, she would sweat like a farmhand.
Dura bowed before King Samos, speaking in Nuna, and Einin caught a few words. She bowed when Tyrus bowed and kept a calm face. How could she learn personalities if she didn’t understand the language?
Dura gave a speech. Einin caught fragments, her own name and Marah’s and Narbor. Dura gestured at her once with a sweeping wave but spent her time pacing before the nobles who stood in a semicircle around the king’s throne. King Samos appeared bored, leaning into an armrest and propping his chin on a fist. Dura focused on the heads of the families present, stalking them in a strange fashion. Her aged frame shuffled, and there was a slight arch in her back, but her staff struck the stones for emphasis.
Einin edged closer to Tyrus. “What is she saying?”
Tyrus bent at the knees. “She argues for action against Rosh. Azmon is weak after Shinar. That’s why the invasion stopped. And she says that’s how Marah escaped the demons.”
Einin studied the nobles, who did little to hide their dislike of the sorceress. Dura finished her point, and what looked like the leaders of the Gadaran families shouted. They played a game of speaking over each other to score points when the audience laughed. She did not understand the words but had seen this before.
“What are their complaints?”
“They hedge. The tall one asks why they must fight when the elves have not fought back yet. Another wants more time to prepare. The fat one thinks Dura has no place sending his sons to war.”
Einin looked at King Samos, who had not moved. He deferred to Dura, and she argued with a dozen nobles. Einin had not heard a familiar word in a while and realized she had not studied the vocabulary of war as much as she should have if she wanted to hire mercenaries.
Tyrus said, “They argue about treaties with the elves and dwarves, old agreements. Dura says it is their duty to defend Telessar. Gadara is the Western Defense.”
“And the nobles argue that Azmon isn’t attacking it yet.”
“That is good.” Tyrus glanced at her. “Your Nuna is coming along.”
“I don’t understand a word, but politicians are all the same. Do you think we should attack?”
“If the dwarves, elves, and the rest act together, they could defeat Rosh, but if they let Azmon defeat them one at a time, it will be no different than Sornum. Dura argues that now. Those three, the ones by the fat man, they won’t risk their men to liberate Shinar.” Tyrus waited as the room listened to the fat man. “He claims that the elves have abandoned the Norsil plains, and now they need more men to defend the walls. They need to man the walls. He uses pretty words, but that’s the essence of it.”
The crowd echoed the man, a call and response. Einin thought he must be saying names—either enemies or past battles or something solemn—because at each utterance, the audience murmured the word. Heads nodded. Einin watched the king and caught him rolling his eyes in Dura’s direction.
Dura pointed at Einin and said something. All the heads turned to her. She froze, wondering what they expected her to do.
“She spoke to me,” Tyrus said. “I am to tell them of the bone beasts.”
Before she could thank him for translating, he stepped forward and spoke against catcalls. He spoke with soft words and a hard glare. The crowd calmed. Tyrus said his bit, and a ranger stepped forward to speak. On one wall, she spotted Klay and Annrin, but their leader, Broin, did the speaking.
Einin busied herself with keeping Marah happy. The stuffy room made her dress cling to her shoulders. She could feel the silk sticking to the middle of her back and wondered how long it would be before the sweat worked its way to the surface. Marah was intent on Tyrus for some reason, and that was a small blessing. How long must they listen to gibberish?
Dura approached with Tyrus in tow. “How is Marah?”
“She’s fine. I don’t understand it.”
“Never complain about the easy days. Come, we are done here. This was a waste of time.” Dura prodded Einin to turn her into the crowd. “They’ll make way for Marah; we can reform in the hall.”
Einin worked past a few people when she heard a young man’s voice ring above the chatter. Einin had no idea what he said, but he had a beautiful voice and pitched it over the din. Everyone quieted.
Dura grabbed Einin’s elbow. “Wait.”
The crowd gathered around the throne again, intent on the young man speaking. He was a knight, tall and blond. Einin felt shocked when she placed the familiar face: Prince Lior Baladan, wh
o resembled his late father, Lael the Dauntless. Einin followed Dura and stepped close to Tyrus.
“What is he saying?”
Tyrus said, “He is leading the Soul of Shinar to Paltiel, to aid the elves, with or without the Gadarans. He pledges what is left of his inheritance, and the crown of Shinar, to King Samos if the Gadarans honor their oaths to defend Telessar. He says something… it means… like their duty to the seraphim is more important.”
“He shames them?”
“I don’t think so. It sounds different. He sacrifices himself and asks others to serve Archangel Ithuriel. That noble accused him of liberating Shinar, and he claims to follow the Ashen Elves.” Tyrus waited for a comment and laughter to pass. “Lior has challenged any who call him a liar to a duel.”
“Why do they laugh?”
“They mock his last duel.”
Einin waited for more. She knew Tyrus had defeated the princeling a year past and did not understand why Tyrus danced around details. He stopped translating. King Samos spoke, appearing more interested. After an exchange between the king and the prince, the young men in the back of the crowd shouted and stepped forward.
Einin pulled on Tyrus’s arm. “What is going on?”
“King Samos declined the crown of Shinar. He agrees… about the old oaths to Telessar. The men pledge to the prince.”
“No,” Dura said. “They wish to become holy knights. They pledge to the Soul of Shinar. Look at the priests.”
Einin found the high priestess, Bedelia Kollo, standing next to the throne. A white cowl hid her hair, but she had a plump face and appeared pleased with herself while three of her priests hovered nearby. They conferred with a Shinari knight and looked to be taking bids at an auction as they collected the names of the men. Meanwhile, angry nobles joined the crowd. A few whispered through clenched teeth at their retainers and yanked their hands down.
Dura said, “They declare a holy war, in Ithuriel’s name.”
“How powerful are the priests?” Einin asked.
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