“How many?” she asked again. “They ask for refuge; how many are they?”
“Fewer than we were,” Arak’Jur replied in the Sarresant tongue; his command of it was broken, but she understood it well enough. “But we are strong. Help us, and we help you.”
She needed more time, more information. Even the most foolish general couldn’t make a tactical decision with so little to work from. Need had already exceeded her expectations, allowing a connection to go on so long without shattering in her face. But even then, her supply wouldn’t last forever.
Gods, but Voren would be less than pleased. First her promises to the Gandsmen, and now this.
“You’ll have my protection, then, so long as you speak true. Move your people onto our land. I’ll ride north to meet you in person, and we can settle terms.”
ELSEWHERE
INTERLUDE
DON GONZALO
Bartoleme Plantation House
Felipa-Tuscaigne, the Thellan Colonies
The sting of Dalusian tea warmed his throat. He’d learned to tell the difference between authentic Dalusian leaves and their imitators, more to the detriment of his grandchildren’s inheritance. True Dalusian Gray grew only on the heights of the Kastaandr ranges, and it cost fifty times its weight in gold to import it here, across the Endless Ocean. A luxury, one of the few his gold could buy that gave him any true satisfaction.
“Don Bartoleme,” his visitor said. “My sincerest thanks for granting the audience. I know you are a busy man.”
“Call me Gonzalo, and please, sit.”
He didn’t rise to greet his visitor, nor did he gesture with the magnanimity he might have done, twenty years before. Certain allowances were made beyond the bounds of etiquette for men of advanced age, and he took full advantage. The Veil knew there were plenty enough drawbacks, in aching bones and a reflection that bore only token resemblance to the man he still thought of as himself.
“I’d heard of your travel to our island, Don Revellion,” he said as his visitor took a place opposite him, overlooking the waves rolling in, where children splashed and played below. “What business can the Sarresant ambassador have visiting an old man waiting to die?”
His visitor, the Marquis de Revellion, cleared his throat. Was the man nervous? A strange affectation, for a diplomat, though he supposed the political situation was uncertain, at best. A rebellion, or a revolution, if the new Republic stood, to the north. Enough to put even the most steadfast man on shaky ground.
“You have heard tell of my overtures to the Cadobal families, the Ruiz and Lugo-Aviera.”
“I suspect you think me better informed than I am, Don Revellion. I am a grandfather twice removed. I have more pressing concerns weighing on my soul than any affairs of state or trade.”
“Nonetheless, you have surely heard of my attempts, and my failures. They say no ship docks at Porta Fernanda without the Don of Bartoleme’s approval. I am here at the end of my ventures, and only now do I suspect I should have come here at the beginning.”
Don Gonzalo hid a smile behind another sip of his tea. “The Don of House Bartoleme is my grandson, now, Don Revellion. If they say such things still, it is a point of pride to him, not to me. Tell me, do you have children?”
“A son,” the Marquis said. “He fled the madness in New Sarresant, and arrived safely on Sarresant shores. A better fate than many got, faced with the prospect of rebellion.”
“Tragic, so I hear it told.” And telling. He noted that the Marquis made no mention of the two bastards all but certain to be his. A point as to the sort of man he was. Not worth dwelling on it now.
“Beyond tragedy, if you will permit me the correction, Don Gonzalo. A lawless bloodbath, and I have been rebuffed in my attempts to persuade His Majesty my King to act on behalf of my claims. But I have been given assurances. A Thellan contingent alongside fresh conscripts from the southern Sarresant colonies would be enough to find victory against a New Sarresant Army worn and weary from fighting against Gand. Gand herself might fall—and His Majesty has suggested we would return our claims and fivefold more, if it is a Thellan hand that tips the scales toward us.”
“Politics, Don Revellion. As I have said, I am too old for such fare.”
“Please. It can be done, Don Gonzalo, I’m certain of it. Two fresh armies in the field, against two depleted by better than a year of fighting. At your word, the right men and women will be brought to reason. They say yours was the voice that rebuffed Prince Emerich, that kept Thellan neutral in the Old World. I give you my assurance: Gand is weakened, and the time to strike is now. First here in the New World, to secure what Sarresant lost to these rebels, then across the sea. We are natural allies. Do not let yesterday’s politics shape the future.”
The last dregs of tea went down his throat, as sweet and pungent as every sip that came before. A latent magic in the leaves, he would swear it, though Thellan’s binders insisted the plants had no especial connection to the leylines.
“What you say may be of interest to my family,” he said at last. “I will speak with my grandson on your behalf.”
“Thank you, Don Gonzalo.” Revellion rose. “I cannot ask for more. I will remain here on the island another two weeks. I sincerely hope I will depart as your ally, in this and all other things.”
“I hope you will find time to swim on my beach, Don Revellion, and sample my granddaughter’s polvorones. She bakes them for me, and insists she be allowed to kiss my cheek as the price of each batch.”
Revellion showed him teeth—he’d never call such a gesture a smile—then bowed and withdrew from the balcony.
The waves crashed below, and children squealed. A reminder of what it was to be young. He’d imagined old age would bring a return to carefree convalescence, a doddering excuse to pinch pretty girls’ bottoms and say crass things at parties. But the world went on, unchanging, and if his body had long since failed him, his mind had yet to slip.
A sad truth, that Don Gonzalo in his ninety-fifth year had more wits than most men of position and influence a quarter of his age. He’d already treated with representatives of New Sarresant, and accepted Anselm Voren’s bribes to stay out of the conflict, in the New World and the Old. Trade to enrich his grandchildren, levers over the right men and women, in his and other houses. Fools such as the esteemed Marquis de Revellion imagined they could implore him with grand dreams, of rightness and future gains. The world was run by ten, perhaps twelve men and women who understood the subtleties of power, and not one of them styled themselves an ambassador, minister, or King.
Would it serve him, to string Revellion along with promises, or was it best to let the man down firmly? The ambassador would continue his crusade with Don Portega next, or perhaps Portega’s daughter, if he had sense enough to know whose hand held those strings. An undecided question. He could leave it for tomorrow.
“Don Gonzalo”—his manservant bowed, hovering in the doorway leading to the balcony—“I have three more visitors, come to see you. They claim the utmost urgency.”
“Not today, Enrico.” Fatigue crept upon him with little warning, at times, but he had an inkling of it now. “Brew me another pot of Dalusian Gray, and I will watch the children until sundown.”
“Of course, sir.”
Enrico left the balcony, to settle in the latest visitors to become tomorrow’s business. A true luxury there, the sort more precious than gold: Time. Every second was precious, at his age. He relished the brine on the air, the whooping cheers as a brave boy dared to race the tide. He had been that boy, once. He’d run harder, farther than any others, and returned to kiss Donna Marchesa when he was sure the grown-ups weren’t looking. What a fool he’d been. What a joyful, glorious fool. All the gold in his estates couldn’t buy that sort of foolishness. Now there were half a dozen Marchesas on the beach, so named for their late great-great-grandmother, an honor deeper than they could know. She would have loved to watch them play.
A crack and thud star
tled him.
It was a sound that didn’t belong in the Bartoleme house. He tried to twist in his long chair, to catch sight of the door to the balcony and what might have produced the noise. Instead his hips ached, the pillows tucked against him all but confining him in place. He stopped and fought for a breath, and heard footsteps broach the wood of the deck. Three pairs.
“Don Gonzalo, I’m afraid we must insist you see us now.”
A Gandsman came into view midsentence, sandy-haired and blue-eyed, with a neat-trimmed beard and clothing of their latest styles. Just the sort of ambitious young man who frequented his balcony, the sort who thought themselves alone in daring to pit their fortunes against the world. But his companions were different.
One was a man, tall and thick-muscled, with long black hair shaved at the sides. He wore Gand styles, too, but he was no man of the isles. A tribesman; Gonzalo knew their look. The third, a woman, had it as well, though she made no attempt to hide it in her dress. She wore furs stitched into something he might have described as formal wear; he’d certainly never seen the tribeswomen wear anything like it, in the times they’d come to treat at his estate. She was older than the other two, but with a timeless ripeness he’d come to recognize as the peak of a woman’s beauty.
“You have injured Enrico,” he said, feeling a pang of guilt. It was ill done, violence. A thing for lesser men and women. Yet he feared he’d have to order these three skinned alive, perhaps burned or impaled for their imprudent act.
“A regrettable thing,” the Thellan man said. “But your servant insisted we not be admitted to see you, and this simply will not do.”
“Do you plan to do violence to me, sir, if I likewise do not grant your wishes?”
“Not to you,” the woman said.
The children squealed as another wave hit the beach, and his blood went cold.
“You will be leaving now,” he said. “And praying I forget this insult. I hope for your sake Enrico recovers, or you will find my family to be most unpleasant enemies.”
“We are here for your loyalty, Don Gonzalo Bartoleme.” The Gandsman walked to the edge of the balcony, looking down on the sand below.
Don Gonzalo laughed. “Do you imagine this is how loyalty is won? Shows of muscle, threats? Fools who think so will rise to be lords of a city block, never dreaming their associates plot to kill them when they leave a room.”
The woman came to sit on the edge of his chair. It felt like an invasion, a gesture of familiarity when her garb suggested she should be foreign and strange.
“I have found obedience serves,” she said. “When loyalty is not attainable.”
He went quiet. “What is it you want?”
“A simple thing,” the Gandsman said. “Accept Arak’Inu into your service.” He nodded toward the third of their number, the tribesman in Gand clothing. “He will remain behind, and aid you in things to come.”
“And what is to keep me from ordering him strangled while he sleeps?”
This time the Gandsman laughed. “You are free to try, Don Gonzalo. I suggest you employ an assassin you consider expendable, for that task.”
“Do we have your agreement?” the woman said. “Arak’Inu may remain behind, in your service?”
His mind worked, trying to untangle the puzzle they’d put in front of him. He could make little sense of it. Coming to his house to threaten him would do little more than engender his wrath, whether there was some tribal warrior sleeping under his roof or no. They couldn’t possibly imagine their efforts would bear any fruit. At best they would kill him, or do some other sort of violence. Neither would spur him to act in furtherance of their goals. But there seemed little choice for what must happen next.
“By all means,” he said. “Your thug will be provided the finest chambers I can spare.”
The woman stared at him, as though waiting for something more.
“Is there more, then?” he said. “Are you not satisfied with—?”
Golden light flooded through him, and his senses wrenched themselves from his grasp.
A line, a thread of gold, binding him to someone else, someone far away. He’d never understood the mysteries of the leylines, no more than he’d had to know for politics’ sake, but now a terror gripped him that should have had him retching, screaming for help. Yet no sound came from his lips. It was as though another pair of eyes had conquered his, forcing his vision to step back, though he could still see. His ears, his nose, his skin, all redirected elsewhere, while his consciousness fell into darkness. He felt it all, every sensation, but somehow knew he was no longer in control.
“Ah,” he felt himself say. “You took too long. It may be too late, even with the old man’s influence behind our cause.”
“Forgiveness,” the woman said. “It took time to find the right lever to move the mountain.”
“Don’t quote Axerian to me. I’ve heard it all.”
“There is time, Great Ones,” the Gandsman said. “Even with our influence waning in Gand, Thellan is ripe to rise.”
“I am not here for your ascendant, Paendurion,” the woman said, meeting his eyes. “I offer this one service; the rest must be your doing. I mean to travel north, and west.”
“Time is short,” he said. “And already you risk too much. See that you succeed.”
“I know what is at stake.”
“Be well, Ad-Shi.”
“You as well.”
INTERLUDE
BAVDA
The Starfield and the Strands
Soulless Eternity
Pain still lingered behind her conscious mind. Part of her could feel the needles boring holes in the base of her skull, piercing through the tissue of her chest between her ribs. She’d ordered her attendants to suspend her body by leather straps, and she hung there, leaking blood down her naked skin. But her mind was elsewhere. Her mind was here.
She’d done it. She’d returned.
The old man reclined in his reed chair, his form blurring as her senses recovered. Behind him an endless void stretched, as though the night sky had swallowed them both, blackness filled with thousands of points of light. He wore simple garb, the sort a fisherman might favor, gray linen tied by hemp rope, and his skin was pruned and dry, with wisps of a pale white beard growing from his jaw. The first time she’d come here she’d expected splendor: a jade throne adorned with gold, a mighty King floating on golden clouds and flanked by celestial dragons. Yet now she knew the old man for what he was, and she wept, falling to her knees to be in her God’s presence once again.
“Lady Khon,” the old man said. “It brings me great joy to see you.”
“My lord,” she said, struggling not to mumble. For reasons unknown to her she wore her robes here, though she’d been naked in the physical world. It gave her the comfort of her veil to hide her emotions. She’d scarce gone without it, and certainly not in meetings with outsiders, since her induction into the Great and Noble House of the Heron.
“You are in pain,” the old man said.
“Great Lord,” she said. “I return bearing news of victory. You bade me secure a place close to the Imperial Throne, and I have succeeded. The Emperor listens to my counsel, and I have urged him along the path you have ordained.”
“This is good,” the old man said, showing her a sorrowful look. “Yet I fear for you, and all of yours, in what is to come.”
She remained silent, keeping her eyes level with the blackness below their feet. She’d never call it the ground—it appeared to be empty space, extending downward as far as she could see.
“Your desire is still the same, is it not?” he asked.
“It is, Great Lord,” she replied.
“Power,” he said, and she nodded, keeping her eyes low. Power. All she’d dreamed of, since she was a girl. She’d been five when her father had tried to strike her, and she found the gift within herself to turn the force of his blow, to magnify it, shape it, redirect it into a strike of her own. The news of his death
had carried far enough from her village to bring the magi in the orange veils, to see her tested and taken away. And she’d clawed for it since, for every scrap of her potential. It had brought her to the top of the Tower of the Heron. It had brought her here, into the presence of God.
“You will have it,” he continued. “The Herons are promised a place in this cycle, and so long as you serve, I will keep faith.”
“Anything, Great Lord,” she said, and meant it. “Guide my hand, and I will serve.”
“Our world is dying, Lady Khon,” the old man said, his voice filled with sadness. “You have secured your House a place in the Emperor’s Councils, and this is good. But we have need of more. The time has come to set aside secrecy, and act in the open. Your order must prepare for war. Raise an army, and see your acolytes placed at its head. The time will soon be upon us, and you must be ready to pay whatever price is asked, when it arrives.”
Her heart thrummed. War. The Great and Noble Houses had abstained from politics for generations, yet here was God himself telling her to violate that taboo.
“Yes, Great Lord,” she said. “I will.”
He seemed content. “You have great skill,” he said. “Ascension may be yours, if you seek to claim it.”
She struggled not to show emotion. Even the most ancient texts spoke of such a thing only in rumor. And here it was.
“Ascension,” she said.
“Yes.”
“What is it, Great Lord?”
“A chance,” he replied. “A chance to stand at my side, when the moment arrives to cleanse the world. If you are worthy, you will be granted power enough to see it done.”
“How will I know, when it comes?”
He smiled. “You will know. The Soul beckons to all those worthy of the Master’s call. You will hear His voice, and be judged. You will …”
Blood of the Gods Page 17
