Rot with Beloth, Shadrael thought, and closed his eyes.
The next thing he knew, Urmaeor was kneeling beside him. “What’s happened to you?” the priest asked quietly. “Shadrael? Do you hear me?”
There was almost kindness in his voice, but Shadrael knew better than to trust it. Turning his face away, he could not bring himself to answer.
“Shadrael . . .” The priest’s hands touched his limbs, his clammy face. Suddenly his long fingers tightened on Shadrael’s head, tightened as though they meant to crush his skull. “What have you done?” His voice was hoarse with surprise. “What ails you? What have you done?”
Shadrael tore his hand from his face. “My soul,” he gasped out. “I must have it now, before I die.”
Urmaeor backed away. “Did she do this to you? Did she?”
“What does it matter?”
“You are not of shadow now.” Urmaeor’s voice held revulsion. “You are something . . . something . . . How much power has she? Quickly! What else does she command besides element magic?”
“In Beloth’s name, Urmaeor, carry me to the place where I may receive a soul.”
The priest turned away, staring at Lea, who was still lying unconscious in his minion’s arms. “We must rethink our plans for her. Lord Barthel will be most interested in this. We must not underestimate her again.”
“We made a bargain, damn you!”
Without answering, Urmaeor strode away.
Fury clawed through Shadrael. He forced himself to his feet, although the effort left him shaking and dizzy. This, he recalled, was how he had felt after that fateful day of shul-drakshera when he’d lost his soul. Lying on his cot, wracked in horror, he’d first known the touch of madness before Urmaeor saved him. The priest had the power to help him again, and by the gods, he must do it.
“Urmaeor!” Shadrael called out weakly, panting in an effort to speak. “Damn you. I brought you the usurper’s sister, as agreed. I brought her!”
The priest spun around to face him. “At what cost, Commander? You have no magic left.”
“I have enough.”
“For what?” Urmaeor almost spat the question at him. “What good to us are you, if you are no longer donare, no longer strong? She has crippled you, destroyed you. You were a fool to let her!”
“You’ll pay my price, damn you. If I have to spit at you from Faure’s hell and haunt your dreams, I’ll see payment rendered to me.”
“Why should I bother? You cannot force me,” Urmaeor said. “You cannot even withstand the smallest flick of my power. At our last meeting you withstood me but now I could make you kneel, even eat soil, if I chose.”
“And is that reason to break our agreement?” Shadrael asked. “To refuse to honor our—”
“Honor?” Urmaeor laughed without amusement. “She has corrupted you, rendered you useless. Why should I honor you?”
“Because I’m not as useless as you believe,” Shadrael said, twitching his wrist so that his sleeve knife slid down into his palm. “What I’ve given you, I can take back.”
Urmaeor gestured impatiently, and the knife in Shadrael’s hand blazed white hot as though made of Choven-forged steel. Feeling his flesh blister and sting, he dropped it.
“Have done with your threats and false bravado,” Urmaeor said scornfully. “Would you rather I crushed you like an insect beneath my heel? Begone!”
It was exactly the reaction Shadrael had maneuvered him to make. With the priest focused on taking the knife from him, Urmaeor’s attention dropped from suspending the spell that held Lea unconscious. Shadrael gathered himself, but Urmaeor threw up his hand.
“Don’t,” he commanded. “Haven’t you realized that without a donare’s quickness your intentions are easy to read? It’s pathetic, like watching a blind man swing a sword.”
Humiliation burned through Shadrael. He clenched his fists, ready to physically knock Urmaeor down, but he feared the attempt would collapse him flat on his face. His helplessness, his failure, left him raw with frustration.
“Hear me. Your task is not finished.”
When Urmaeor pressed the length of Lea’s silky hair into Shadrael’s hand, he almost flinched, yet found his fingers closing on it while he shivered.
“Take this to Warlord Vordachai as proof that we have her.”
“What?” Shadrael stared in astonishment. “After—”
“You will persuade him to give us his army, to stand ready to attack the usurper when he comes.”
“Vordachai won’t join sides with you.”
“It’s now your job to see that he does. We need his army. You will get it for us.”
“Be d-damned!” Shadrael said.
“You serve me now as surely as though I put my mark on you,” Urmaeor said coolly. “Now you will atone for your blunders.”
“I—”
“You let her beguile you, suborn you. Where do your loyalties truly lie, Commander? When I gaze into your mind, I see confusion and . . . compassion. To pity her is to defy us. No, Commander, if anyone’s broken faith here, broken our agreement, surely it is you.”
“You hired me to abduct one Imperial princess,” Shadrael said, barely controlling his temper. “I brought her to you. That’s all I will do.”
Urmaeor moved quickly, suddenly gripping Shadrael’s head as he had before. His fingers burned icy cold against Shadrael’s skin, yet before Shadrael could pull free, the priest was inside his mind, digging deep.
This time, there could be no severance, no resistance. Shadrael felt the mad whispers stop raging in the back of his mind, felt the fire in his veins flicker and cool down, felt the knot of throbbing pain in his chest loosen and fade. A sense of well-being flooded him, a healing of the wound that had gaped deep inside him for years, a restoration of all that had been missing for so long. It was as though he were sixteen again, newly commissioned into the army, young, strong and vital, and filled with ambition to be the best soldier among the emperor’s legions.
And it felt . . . it felt good, so good he could not imagine it, almost could not endure it. Had he been able to remember what tears were, he would have wept for the blissful pleasure of what he was experiencing. He felt reborn. What did Lea know? What need had he for light, when shadow brought him such delight as this?
Something inside him, something gnarled and bleak and hard, softened and unfurled. Hope filled his heart.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Urmaeor dropped his hands from Shadrael’s face and stepped back. Abruptly the feelings of joy and completion vanished. Bleak emptiness of heart, the corruption of spirit, the barren waste of shattered dreams and hopes . . . all came back, colder and harsher than ever before. His pain returned, clawing his chest. If he could have drawn sufficient breath, he would have cried out for the loss.
Urmaeor watched him. “What you are. What you can have,” he murmured, his words slurring slightly together as though the effort to walk Shadrael’s mind had tired him. “You want your youth back. You want to be strong and vital.”
Craving burned inside Shadrael. “Yes.”
Flames suddenly blazed in Urmaeor’s eyes. “Liar! You want a soul to gain her affection. You have foresworn shadow and your oaths to Beloth, all for her. You are a coward, unworthy of shadow and its notable gifts to you. And now you crawl and cringe, fearing death, mewling for mercy.”
“I—”
“Lord Barthel wants to be vital and whole again, Shadrael,” Urmaeor said harshly. “We all want it. Why should we reward you with a soul first, while the rest of us continue to suffer?”
“Then we are through!” Shadrael shouted. “Carry your messages? Never! I’ll warn—”
“Enough! You will serve my master, as I serve. You will do his bidding as once you swore to obey Beloth.”
“Barthel is not Bel—”
“You are shadow sworn, Commander. You will remain so, no matter how your loins yearn for that witch of light. And no one will be healed before our m
aster. No one!”
Shadrael’s feet were rooted to the ground, keeping him from simply striding away. He could not believe he had been such a fool as to forget the ways of shadow, especially the wiles, tricks, and stratagems of the Vindicants. Never trust; never believe; never hope, he thought bleakly, repeating the old motto of his training.
His gaze strayed involuntarily to Lea, still unconscious, her face bathed in moonlight. He knew he had been a far bigger fool than even Urmaeor claimed. He never should have brought her here. Never should have accepted the Vindicant offer.
As though you had so many other options, he thought harshly. Regrets were a waste of time. He threw them away.
Urmaeor watched him in silence, no doubt reading his mind and fully aware of all that was flooding Shadrael’s thoughts.
I can reach him, Shadrael told himself. One plunge of my sword, and he is dead.
But what would it gain? What would it gain?
“Nothing,” Urmaeor said aloud, staring fearlessly at him. “I am legion, and my master’s reach is long. Do you think you’ll warn the usurper against us? You won’t. Do you think you’ll persuade your brother not to side with our cause? He’ll never listen to you, not after your betrayal. Crawl into the wastelands,” Urmaeor said, pointing toward Broken Spine country, “and die there alone, as you deserve. The demons will feast on your bones gladly. And when you are dust, who will praise your name or speak your laurels? A disgraced officer, broken from service. A blight to your family’s name. A traitor to your god. A betrayer of your word. A coward to the very last . . .”
As he spoke, he flung a slender bolt of magic at Shadrael, and knocked his medal away. It landed on the ground, gleaming in the moonlight. Praetinor ad duxa . . . the highest distinction an emperor could bestow on a legion officer. It had been his talisman for years, his one remaining piece of honor. Praetinor for life. No one could take that away from him.
Urmaeor laughed, and spoke a word that made the air crackle. Tiny flames erupted across the surface of the medal, making the edges blacken and curl.
Shadrael could no longer restrain his temper. With a shout, he drew his sword and lunged at Urmaeor.
He was slow; he was weak, but his rage carried him forward despite a roaring in his ears and the taste of blood in his throat. He heard Urmaeor shout a defensive word of magic, one that should have knocked him back, but Shadrael used his anger as a shield. He fed it with old resentments, hatreds, and bitterness, focused into one last, glorious thrust, one final plunge of his sword through Urmaeor’s vitals. The priest would die, and so would Shadrael, equally damned together.
Urmaeor shouted again, and the tip of Shadrael’s sword wavered. Sweating, Shadrael held the weapon with a grip like death, feeling Urmaeor’s magic vibrate up the blade into his hand and wrist. With teeth gritted and bared, ignoring the thundering agony in his chest, Shadrael drove himself forward.
A stone thudded into his skull, glancing off his temple and making the night explode with stars and vivid color. As though from far away, Shadrael heard himself grunt. Another stone hit his armored shoulder with a clang. He staggered, half-conscious from the sucking blackness in his head, feeling a chill flow from the top of his pate into his limbs. His sword suddenly weighed twice what it had before, and he seemed to be moving in deep mud.
Another rock hit him, and another, more striking his face, head, and legs. His knees buckled, and he went down. The Vindicants closed in, surrounding him. Grim faced and merciless, they stoned him like a peasant caught stealing. No sword thrust of honor. No beheading after trial. Nothing worthy of an officer. Just this beating of flesh and spirit as he lay on the ground with his hands shielding his head, tasting blood and dirt in his mouth, his mind and body on fire with agonized humiliation.
A beggar’s execution, he thought, knotted with hate. Damn them. Damn them. Damn them . . .
Chapter 7
The market town of Kanidalon might be a famous crossroads of important trade routes; it might be a notorious black market center; it might even be a bed of iniquity, vice, corruption, and depravity. To Thirbe, riding in on a cold afternoon, wind knifing his back and dust stinging his eyes, it was the first sign of real civilization he’d encountered in weeks and a welcome sight for sore eyes.
The moment he slid, bone weary, off his horse, someone tried to pick his pocket.
He turned, spitting an oath, and slugged the thief. The man went down in a heap, a bundle of filthy rags, and Thirbe whirled back to grip the accomplice’s wrist before the second thief could slice his purse strings.
Howling, the man writhed in an effort to break free. Thirbe held him long enough to make sure he hadn’t stolen anything else, then released him with a kick to the backside to speed him on his way.
Across the crowded street, couple of soldiers lounging about on their spears laughed at the show. Thirbe dusted himself off, hitched up his sword belt, and sent them a sour look.
“Thanks for the help, you lazy swinegullets,” he muttered.
After he’d stabled his horse and taken a room at an inn costly enough not to steal his possessions while he was out, he headed for the legion camp and approached the gate sentry on duty.
He flashed his pass. It was a thin rectangle of bronze engraved with his name, rank, present duty assignment, and service stamp. “Requesting admission to speak to your legion commander on Imperial business.”
The sentry wasn’t interested. “You and a hundred others every day. Try tomorrow.”
Thirbe bristled. Maintaining camp security was one thing, but denying entry to an Imperial Protector was another. “You want to rethink that answer?” he barked. “I’m here on official—”
“Heard it before,” the sentry said indifferently. “Every tramp at the gate has an Imperial pass, is here on Imperial business.”
Thirbe held up his pass again, and the sentry shrugged. “See a dozen or more of ’em every day, forged over on Kettle Street, behind the plaza. Try tomorrow.”
Tired, saddle galled, filthy, and aching, Thirbe had not crawled his way across Ulinia to be thwarted now by a slow-witted sentry swelled up with his own sense of importance.
“So you can’t tell the difference between a forged pass and an authentic one,” he said, putting more bite in his voice than before. “You can’t recognize service armor from civilian—”
“Bought and sold, all the time.”
“Can’t tell real insignia—”
“Copied.”
Thirbe saw a decivate and his ten approaching from behind the sentry, and raised his voice: “When the Imperial Eagle comes in, you salute it! You don’t question it, you step aside! Who in Faure’s hell trained you to think for yourself, soldier?”
“Go buy yourself an ale, old man, and stop blocking the gate.”
Waving him aside, the sentry motioned for a pair of dusty messengers to ride through. They did so, the horse of one jostling Thirbe almost off his feet. The decivate veered over to speak to the messengers, without glancing at Thirbe once.
Having enough, he bared his wrist and stuck it under the sentry’s nose. “How many forged tattoos like that do you see every day?”
The man blinked. “You’re Twelfth? Old Twelfth?”
“That’s right. Pre-Reform, cheating, lying, dirty-minded Twelfth,” Thirbe said.
Planting the butt end of his pike in Thirbe’s chest, the sentry shoved him back. “We get old cankers like you crawling around the gates, wanting to reenlist, begging for free brew and a hot meal. Move along, old sot!”
Thirbe knocked the pike aside, and was reaching for his sword when the eager gleam in the sentry’s eyes brought him back to good sense. Struggling to master his temper, he knew that if he attacked a sentry he’d end up in the guardhouse with execution scheduled for dawn, and no questions asked. Even so, his frustration was so great he could barely force his hand off his weapon.
Grinning, the sentry gave him another poke. “Lost your nerve? An old veteran like you?”
>
“You cloth-headed, itty-witted dunce, if it’s a bribe you want, you can stand there until your case of pox burns you blind. I have an Imperial pass, and I’m here on the emperor’s business. And if you continue to block me, the blood of Her Imperial Highness will be as much on your hands as—”
“Problem, Sentry?” asked a voice. It was the decivate, his attention captured at last.
“No, sir! Just an old reprobate trying to cause trouble.” Thirbe, however, had his identification ready and held it so the decivate could see the sunlight flash across the mark of the Imperial Stamp. He shoved open his cloak, flinging it back over his shoulders to fully reveal his protector’s insignia, already ignored by the sentry.
The decivate drew in an audible breath, suddenly snapping alert. “Your name, sir?”
“Thirbe, protector to Her Imperial Highness—”
“Lady Lea?” the decivate asked. “Light Bringer’s sister?”
“Yes.”
“By Gault you’ve been quick. This way, sir. At once!”
Snapping a salute, the decivate gestured for Thirbe to step through the gate before turning on the sentry. “Dolt! You were told to be on the watch for any news of Her Highness. Obviously you slept through the briefing.”
“Decivate, I—”
“I’ll deal with you later.” With a glare at the crestfallen sentry, the decivate turned to Thirbe. “And your men, sir? Quarters for how many?”
“I’m alone,” Thirbe said.
The decivate’s frown told him how that sounded. For a moment Thirbe thought the young officer might push him back through the gate.
Instead, he said, “Come, sir. I’ll escort you to the commander’s office.”
Legion Commander Pendek Drelliz was a tall, slab-shouldered man, with a long, broad face and the slightly tilted eyes of a Chanvezi. His skin was tanned by the harsh Ulinian sun, as brown as his hair. Only his eyes, small, and a startling green, gave his face any color or distinction. Although on duty, with orderly little stacks of vellum arranged in precise rows across his desk, he wore no armor. He had the spatulate ink-stained fingers of a clerk.
The Crown Page 6
