Telloren was Dae, not daeborn, and a lord at that, but he had sired a daughter one Moonstide, and the girl had been slain during the winnowing of her sixteenth year. A high bard with dreadful power at his command, he rode in Jian’s train as if he were some lowly camp follower. Jian did not know how he could have managed without him.
“What does my father say of this?” he asked. “Did he promise that I would meet with these people, or tell them to go piss up a mountain?”
“The king,” Tello replied with a meaningful glance at Jian’s other followers, “told the delegation that Tsun-ju Jian de Allyr is a grown man and no longer needs his father to speak for him. They await your pleasure, Highness.”
Jian’s throat clenched and he stared skyward lest surprised tears fall from his eyes. “In that case,” he said finally, voice a little rough, “we should continue without stopping. Tell the troops that we will not camp this night. If the wounded need to stop and rest they may, and the medics with them, but those of us who can, will ride on.”
“Your will, Highness.” Telloren’s eyes flashed bright blue with approval, and his smile was wider and sharper-toothed than a human man’s would have been. He wheeled his stout gray horse and rode back to give the captains their orders.
“Tsun-ju Jian de Allyr is a grown man and no longer needs his father to speak for him.” It seemed that some time in the past five years, during which Jian had endured countless battles, terrible injuries, and the loss of beloved friends, his father had grown to trust and respect him.
He lifted his face to the morning mist, let it kiss away his fatigue and tears. A new day, a red day, and his doom had come to call at last.
* * *
In the end, they had not ridden to the palace; the palace had ridden to meet them. They came with lutes and dancing boys, with banners and horns and laughter—
—most importantly, they came with food.
The Sea King himself came, splendid in his moonscale armor, with a crown like starslight and his arms held wide to receive his son. He showered the daeborn with words of praise and with gifts both magical and practical—six-legged horses from the Nether Isles, swords and halberds bound with glyphs of luck and warding, mail armor and black arrows and scrying glasses. Those soldiers who were newly come from the lands of men and had never experienced the splendors of the Twilight Lands were wide-eyed and stupefied. Those who were hardened campaigners rushed through the ceremonies and fell upon the food train like starvelings, knowing that a king’s true wealth is kept in his kitchens.
Thus feted, fed, and hastily bathed, Jian rode with his father grim-faced at the head of a massive and formidable force down to the sea’s edge.
On this side of the veil the sea was darker and, to Jian’s mind, more beautiful than it appeared upon the shores of man. It glistened not with the sun’s light—for Akari Sun Dragon did not venture into those gray skies—but with starslight and moonslight and magic.
The stars were different from those that lingered in the skies above Sindan. There were more of them, brighter and more colorful, clustered together in constellations so detailed they might have been paintings. Yet the moons were the same, hanging low and lovely in the never-bright, never-dark skies. During Moonstide, which lasted one night only in the human world, the waters seemed darker and angrier than ever.
The Sea King signaled his armies to a halt. He and Jian dismounted, and signaled that their troops should remain as they were.
This created an outcry. Though the Dae and daeborn were loyal to the death, this did not translate into cowed deference, as it might among men.
“Nonsense!” Hounds milling about her feet, the Huntress’s dark horse pushed through the wall of cavalry and she glared down at the king and his son. “You would go alone to face these honorless rats on their own soil, and not expect treachery? This stinks of a trap!”
“Of course it is a trap,” Jian’s father replied, expression unperturbed but eyes gone as gray as the storming sea. “We are going to see what kind of trap it might be.”
The Huntress was joined by Maug, whose pied crest was raised in agitation and whose birdlike black eyes glittered as she glared at the king. Her wings were folded and dragged on the ground behind her like a glossy black robe.
“And if you do not return, brother, what then?” the Huntress demanded. “Who will lead the ladies and lords, when your blood has been sucked up by the dry lands?”
“Dear sister,” the king said, laughing, “you will lead them, of course!” Many of the host laughed. The worst-kept secret in this kingdom of gossips was that the king’s sister feared nothing so much as the thought of being forced to rule.
“If you get yourself killed,” she rasped, “my crows and I will peck out your eyes and hang your head to rot upon the Gates of Yosh.”
“I love you too,” he said, and he winked. “Come, Jian. Telloren, if you would?”
Telloren dismounted as well, pulling an urchin’s-bone flute from its leather case.
“Majesty,” he said, and his eyes flashed scarlet.
The Sea King and his son, the Prince of Red Tides, walked slowly along the moonlight path, over the foaming waves. Bard Telloren played a sad song, a mad song, firming and calming the waves so that the waters did not so much as lick the soles of their feet as they walked across the water to the veil and, beyond that, to the shores of men.
* * *
Jian reached the distant shore sooner than he had expected, though that in itself was hardly surprising. The moons-path sometimes took weeks to traverse, but other times only a few strides, and there was no predicting the length of a particular journey. Suddenly the night sky was too bright, the air too thin and filled with the stink of dying things.
“Jian,” his father warned as they neared the pale shore, “do not leave the sea. Stand in the shallows.”
“Yes, Father,” Jian answered, bowing his head.
When they were still some distance from landfall, he could see that there was, indeed, a delegation from the emperor waiting for them. It was a large enough party to be called respectful, though not so large that it might be threatening. Colored silks and threads of gold winked like saucy stars in the moonslight, and a constellation of cookfires sent up a savory smell that recalled to Jian memories of his own childhood. Unless his nose deceived him, they were preparing the special hot-sweet spiced goat stew that was a specialty of Jian’s province, fragrant cinnamon rice, and goose-heart dumplings.
“Ugh.” The Sea King wrinkled his nose. “They are ruining good meat.”
“Humans like their food cooked and spiced,” Jian said, without mentioning that his mouth was watering at the thought of stew and potatoes. He had come to appreciate the savor of tender, raw flesh, but human fare still appealed to him.
“And their women veiled?”
“No, why… oh.”
As they halted near the water’s edge, Jian could see that among the throng there were indeed two women, both veiled, one in white and the other in a dark blue that rivaled the midnight sky for its beauty. A new fashion, perhaps. The one in white stiffened as if she had seen them, then bent hurriedly toward the other woman, who also went still.
Curious, Jian thought. I wonder who…
The notion died unfinished as one of the cookfires blazed suddenly bright, revealing the white armor and antlered brow of a man Jian had known well.
“Mardoni,” he whispered. “What is he doing here?”
“The Sen-Baradam of whom you spoke?” The Sea King frowned, and frothing waves pulled at their feet. “I thought you said he was one of those who wished to diminish the emperor’s power? What would he be doing here, with the imperial troops?”
“I do not know,” Jian answered, “but we are about to find out.”
Horns sounded up and down the beach as their presence became known to the emperor’s delegation. Mardoni rose from his seat by the fire and strode toward them, bathed in moonslight and firelight, looking for all the world like s
ome felldae from a hearth tale.
“Jian?” the figure called as he came closer, arms outstretched to show that he bore no weapon. “Daechen Jian? Praise the emperor, it is you! Welcome home, my old friend!”
“Home,” Jian’s father snorted.
“Old friend,” Jian echoed, every bit as skeptical. “We will see.”
“It is good to see you, Daechen Jian,” Mardoni said, his voice as hearty and bold as if they were village youths challenging each other to a drinking game, not seasoned veterans of forces at odds with one another. “You have been missed.”
“Is it?” Jian asked. “Have I?”
“Do not use the title ‘Daechen.’” Jian’s father spoke in a voice like sea rocks, hard and unforgiving. “There are no half-children, only Dae and others.” His tone left little doubt as to which group he believed Mardoni belonged.
The general brushed it off. “Forgive me, your Majesty,” he said, bowing deeply, “but that is not entirely correct. Certainly there are the Dae, and then there are humans. I would not argue this point with you. However,” he added, standing proud and straight once again, “there are ‘others,’ and it is to these outsiders we should turn our minds and swords.”
“You speak of Atualon,” Jian guessed.
“I do,” Mardoni agreed, and his face was as earnest as any suitor’s. “Come, sit with us by the fire, and we will speak of these things.”
“Yes,” the Sea King said, “we will do this.” Jian lifted an eyebrow in surprise. Behind them, Telloren’s flute raised in pitch like an angry mother’s voice, warning them away from danger.
“It is all right, Tello,” Jian called over his shoulder, even as he stepped from sea to shore. “If they try anything, I will kill them all.” His father chuckled. They walked some way toward the fire, and Mardoni turned.
“Do you really think you could defeat all of us, Daechen Jian? I have over a hundred men here, and more within earshot were we to blow our horns.” He seemed curious, not threatening, but Jian’s hackles rose at the suggestion of treachery. He stopped, held Mardoni’s eyes, and allowed himself a long, slow smile.
“If you tried to betray me, I would kill you all,” he said, “and I would eat some of you afterward. Starting with you… ‘old friend.’” Mardoni looked shocked for a moment, but then shrugged it off and resumed walking toward the fire.
“It is a good thing I do not intend to betray you, then,” he said. “My wife would be very disappointed.”
* * *
The son of the Sea King and the Voice of the Emperor— so Mardoni styled himself—sat upon logs near a fire on the beach, swatting at ants and slurping goat stew.
“I did not think I would like this,” Mardoni confided. “Simple village fare is so…”
“Simple?” Jian said.
“Yes,” Mardoni agreed, “but filling, too. Wholesome, I guess.” He grinned. “Like village girls, I suppose.”
The Sea King snorted and shook his head.
Jian did not take the bait. The night was becoming long, and Telloren, though powerful, could not hold the moons-path open for them forever.
“Say what you have brought us here to say, and we will be gone.”
Mardoni raised his eyebrows in surprise and glanced at the Sea King, who paid him no mind. This was his son’s world, his son’s war.
“As you will,” the general said at last. “The emperor has a gift for you, Dae… Jian, and a proposition. Which would you like first?”
“A gift and a proposition.” Jian glanced at him from the corner of one eye, but Mardoni’s slight smile betrayed nothing. “Which would you take first, I wonder?”
“Well,” Mardoni answered cheerfully as if he had been expecting the question, “when I was a small boy, I used to take my medicine first, and then the spoonful of honey. But we are not boys anymore, so,” he shrugged, “it is up to you to decide, I guess.”
Jian pursed his lips. He did not glance at his father, though he would have given much to know the older man’s thoughts. Neither did he look again at the Sen-Baradam—it seemed to him that Mardoni was playing some kind of riddle game, and Jian had not been told the rules. Then again, even as a child Jian had known that life was not fair.
He was no longer a boy, either.
“Both at once,” he decided.
“Both at… hm, interesting choice. Very well.” Mardoni held up a hand and gestured. The two veiled women strode toward them unhurriedly. “The Red Tide Prince wishes to have both offers presented to him at once,” Mardoni told them, “so I guess it is up to you to figure it out.”
The white-robed woman moved first, drawing back her veil so that Jian could see her face. He nearly gasped with surprise when he recognized Giella the White Nightingale, looking as if she had not aged a day since last he had seen her.
Of course she does, he scolded himself. Time moves differently for them than it does in the Twilight Lands. Years have passed for me, while here they have seen but a few moons roll by. He had used this to forward his campaign of terror against the forces of Daeshen Tiachu, letting Jian and his armies seem to be attacking everywhere at once.
“You look well,” he said, composing himself quickly.
She snorted. “I look like gull’s shit,” she countered. “I did not have time for a proper bath before this son of a goat— herder—dragged me from my rooms and told me that I could either deliver a message to you or lose my head.”
“Ah.” Jian shot a dark look at Mardoni, who shrugged.
“Have you ever tried to hurry this woman from her bath?” he asked. “Our kingdoms might have crumbled to dust before that happened.”
“What is your message?” Jian asked. He tried not to stare too curiously at the second woman, the one covered head-to-toe in dark blue. What gift does she bear? he wondered.
“The emperor wishes to strike a new treaty with the twilight lords,” Giella answered.
“A new treaty?” he asked, and he suppressed a laugh. “Why would the Twilight Lands sign a treaty to end a war when we are winning? Unless Tiachu wishes to surrender his throne to us, we do not wish to hear what he has to say.” He made as if to rise.
“Wait,” the White Nightingale said, her voice so urgent it gave Jian pause. Why did she care, when she had been forced to deliver this message in the first place?
If she has been forced, a voice whispered in his mind, but he would not believe that she had been untrue to him. Besides Perri, this girl had been the closest thing he had to a friend in the lands of men.
Even if she was an assassin.
“There is a new king in Atualon,” she told him, “and rumors of others besides him who can wield the power of dragonsong. If they raise an army of gold-masks and march upon Sindan… it might be better, Jian, for you to set aside what differences you have with the emperor. Side with him instead, so that we might stop this new threat before it takes hold. Daeshen Tiachu is offering to cease all hostilities with the Dae, and put an end to the winnowing, if you and the twilight lords will join with him and throw your combined might against the fortress of the Dragon King.”
“They would stop the winnowing.” Jian sank back down. Staring into the fire, he saw not flames, but wagons loaded with dead boys like so many lengths of firewood. It was not a believable offer, and yet—
“If we march upon Atualon while the country is embroiled in internal war, and seize the power of atulfah from the Dragon King, we might rejoin our two lands as one,” Mardoni added, leaning forward as if by sheer force of will he could persuade the young prince to believe his words. “Wielding the power of atulfah and of the Twilight Lands, the emperor of Sindan would be as bright and glorious as Akari Sun Dragon himself, exalted above all others in history. Join us… join me,” he coaxed. “I have put aside my grievances with the emperor—so have all the Sen-Baradam—as we face this new threat from the west. Are we not brothers? Should we not unite against our common enemy in Atualon?”
“What exactly does the empe
ror want from me?” Jian asked bluntly. “Simply to cease hostilities against Sindan? Or does he expect me to urge the twilight lords and ladies to cross the veil and spawn a bigger army of daeborn for the emperor? The Twilight Lands are not Sindan—I cannot simply tell the people what to do, and expect them to bow and obey me.
“Nor would I, if I could.”
“The emperor wishes to have you at his side, Jian. You would be his advisor and honored guest—a high warlord, set above all the Sen-Baradam. Moreover, as the emperor has not yet been blessed with a living child, he has sworn that, should you aid him thus in destroying our enemy in the west, he will name you as heir to the Forbidden City. In time, you might unite three lands—Sindan, the Twilight Lands, and Atualon—and usher in an age of peace. Is this not a thing worth setting aside our differences? Is this not a thing worth dying for? Such a world we could leave to our children—”
“Our children.” With those words Jian was dragged back to reality, and to his decision. He stood up abruptly. “You side with Tiachu, who killed my wife and our child, and speak to me of our children?” Such was the fury in his voice that Mardoni moved away from him. Even the White Nightingale stepped back.
The woman in the dark veil, however, did not. She strode forward as Jian spun to leave, blocking his path.
“You have heard the emperor’s offer,” she said, soft voice wounding him as no sword of man ever could. “Will you accept his gift?”
The voice was one which sang to him in his dreams. With one slender hand she drew back her veil. Eyes round as Jian’s, deep as the seas, looked into his. Teeth white and sharp as a sea-bear’s smiled up at him. Tsali’gei stood before him with her feet planted wide apart as a warrior’s, a daring gleam in her eye—
A tiny infant, black-haired and beautiful, was asleep in her arms.
Jian fell to his knees.
The trap snapped shut.
SIX
Think, girl, think. Mother escaped from this shitforsaken place before she was a dreamshifter. Before she was anything, really—how did she do it?
Hunger gnawed a hollow in her belly, but she had been hungry before. Thirst scoured her throat, as well, but she had been thirsty before. The bite in her shoulder and not-quite-healed bones in her arm throbbed and itched, but she had felt pain before. These things were nothing to a warrior, and it was high time that Sulema Ja’Akari remembered who—and what—she was.
The Seared Lands Page 5
