by Marc Turner
So why am I still alive?
The question had plagued him throughout his imprisonment. Even if his captors were ignorant as to his identity—and doubtless they were, since no one had bothered to question him—why take the risk of keeping him alive? Why not kill him and be done with it?
Of course, that could be what was about to happen.
The balding officer—a Storm Guard, Senar supposed, if these were indeed the Storm Isles—came to a staircase, and the Guardian followed him up into blistering sunshine. Shielding his eyes against the glare, he stepped onto the roof of the corridor he had been walking along moments ago. He was on a terrace overlooking the sea. The terrace stretched for hundreds of paces in either direction, ending to the east in black cliffs and to the west in a rocky shoreline. Its tiles were slick with spray. Immediately to the south Senar saw the roofs and courtyards of a sprawling building complex. Beyond lay a hill, its lower slopes crowded with white-plastered houses that gave way to trees near the hill’s summit.
To the Guardian’s left stood five figures, all staring down into a courtyard. They turned as he approached. At the center of the group was a woman with skin so pale she might never have set foot outdoors before. Her hair was gray—a curious detail, since she looked only a few years older than Senar. Her blue eyes were as cold as glacial pools, and perhaps ice ran through her veins as well, for her face showed not a bead of sweat in spite of the crushing heat.
To her right stood two young women, identical twins. And a handspan taller than Senar. He disliked them instinctively. Each wore a sword strapped to her waist, and one of them was holding Senar’s scabbarded blade. To the other side of the gray-haired woman was a bearded man wearing a brown shirt and trousers. The whites of his eyes were gray, marking him as an oscura addict. Beside him stood a one-eyed old man with the olive skin of a Remnerol. Like all Remnerol, he was missing the little fingers of both hands. In his left hand he held a black bag. When a gust of wind tugged at the bag, its contents made a clacking noise. Bones. A shaman, then, for the elders of the Remnerol tribes were said to be able to read the future in the cast finger bones of their kinsmen.
The Storm Guard officer bowed to the gray-haired woman. “The prisoner as you ordered, Emira,” he said, raising his voice to make himself heard above the sound of a wave striking the seawall. The spray thrown up cooled Senar’s skin.
The emira inclined her head, and the soldier retreated.
So this was Imerle Polivar, leader of the Storm Lords and reputedly the most powerful water-mage ever to have sat Olaire’s throne; the woman who had brought to an end an ancient dispute between the Storm Isles and the city of Hunte by draining Hunte’s harbor and diverting the river that ran through it; who had destroyed the stronghold of the notorious pirate lord Kapke Kar in the Uscan Reach by pummelling the fortress with waves of water-magic until it slipped into the sea. Of the woman behind the legend, Senar had heard nothing, but all the clues as to her temper were there in her thin mouth and wintry gaze.
The emira studied the Guardian with the same scrutiny with which he regarded her. Then she turned to look down into the courtyard. Senar followed her gaze. At the center of the yard was a wooden post. Tied to it was a stocky man with gray-green skin, naked but for a loincloth. His hands and feet were webbed, and there were gills on his cheeks. An Untarian. Beyond the prisoner, another figure entered the courtyard. Senar did a double take. The man was a giant, half again as tall as the soldiers standing guard along the walls. At first Senar thought he was wearing armor, but when he looked closer …
Matron’s mercy. Years ago, in the Tresson Mountains, Senar had encountered an Uddin tribe who mixed molten iliafa ore with rose blood to create a metal that could be spun into threads as supple as string yet as strong as steel. For every enemy defeated in single combat, the tribe’s warriors would stitch one of these strands through the skin of their upper arms. The giant below Senar, however, had woven the threads across his entire body from the bottom of his ankles to the top of his neck to form a metallic skin that shimmered as he walked. Over his arms, legs, and chest, black hairs sprouted from between the strands. The hilt of a sword was visible over his left shoulder.
He halted beside the Untarian and looked up at the emira.
She nodded.
Senar glanced from Imerle to the prisoner. It seems a show has been put on for me.
The Untarian must have known what was coming, for he started pulling against his bonds. The giant placed a paw on his right shoulder before bending until his face was level with the other man’s. The prisoner gabbled in a language Senar did not recognize. His words had a pattern to them, as if he was chanting some mantra.
On the giant’s left hand was a metal gauntlet with long curved talons. He lifted the gauntlet to the Untarian’s chest and drew its claws across his skin. They left threads of blood in their wake.
The prisoner’s voice grew louder, his eyes bright with defiance.
The giant bared his lips in a snarl.
Then he pulled back his gauntleted hand and plunged its talons into the Untarian’s chest over his heart.
Senar’s expression tightened. The prisoner’s gasp was barely audible above the sound of cracking bones. Blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth, and he slumped against his bindings. He managed another few words of his mantra before his voice abruptly faded as if he’d run out of breath. Five metal claws in your chest would do that, though, the Guardian supposed. Poor sod, Senar thought. What crime had the man committed to warrant such a punishment? Perhaps no more than to be brought before Imerle on the day Senar was released, for the spectacle had clearly been intended as a warning to the Guardian of what would happen if his answers to the emira’s questions failed to please.
When the emira spoke, her voice was as sibilant as the sea. “We are Imerle Polivar, emira of Olaire and first of the Storm Lords.”
We? The woman referred to herself in the plural? But then doubtless she had an ego big enough for two.
The emira nodded toward the oscura addict and continued, “This is our chief minister, Pernay Ord, and beside him”—she indicated the Remnerol—“is our seer, Jambar Simanis.” She paused as if expecting Senar to introduce himself, but when he kept silent she glanced at his halfhand and added, “And you are Senar Sol, member of the Guardian Council of Erin Elal and former apprentice of Li Benir. A diplomat, a spy, an assassin. Which of those three are you here, we wonder?”
Senar rubbed the stubs of his missing fingers. So it was his halfhand that had given him away? His mouth twitched. With the aim of hiding his identity, he had spent countless bells during his captivity inventing an alter ego with a history as rich and detailed as his own. Now, within the space of a few heartbeats, Imerle had rendered his efforts redundant. He had to smile, though. People who couldn’t laugh at themselves were missing out on a rich vein of humor. In response to her question, he gave his best bow and said, “Here, Emira, I am naught but your prisoner.”
“Why were you sent through the Merigan portal?”
So that was the end of the small talk, apparently. Senar was silent, considering. He didn’t want to volunteer information unnecessarily, but neither did he want to be caught being economical with the truth. “If you know about me, you will know of the history between the Guardians and Emperor Avallon Delamar—”
“We did not ask you to tell us what we already know,” Imerle cut in. “We are aware of what happened on the night of the Betrayal. We are aware of your opposition to the emperor, and the reasons why Avallon chose you to travel through the gateway. Our question is, why were you sent here?”
“I was not sent here. I was sent to wherever the portal took me.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the emperor has been trying to rid himself of the Guardians for years. The opportunity to pluck a few thorns from his flesh by sending us through the gateway was too tempting to pass up.”
“You are saying Avallon has no interest in navigating the portals
?”
“I am saying his professed intention of using the Guardians to decipher the portal’s code is incidental—”
“A moment.” It was the chief minister’s turn to interrupt. “The code? You mean the symbols on the gateway’s architrave?”
The Guardian nodded.
“What is the symbol for Olaire?”
“I do not know. As I stepped through the portal, the symbol was hidden from me by Avallon’s pet mages.”
“And the symbol for Amenor—the city from which you traveled?”
“If I knew that, would I not have used the gateway here to return to Erin Elal when I was confronted by your soldiers?”
Pernay threw up his hands. Yes, how dare Senar bring his logic and good sense here? “This is absurd!” the chief minister said. He looked at the emira, then pointed a finger at the one-eyed Remnerol. “He plays you for a fool!”
The Remnerol smiled inanely. “Your barbs strike at my heart, yet my bosom is armored in the steel of righteousness.”
Pernay shook his head in disgust. To Imerle he said, “You would place your faith in this … this—”
The emira silenced him with a look.
There was plenty going on here that Senar did not understand, but before he could think on it, he noticed a flicker of movement in the courtyard. The dead Untarian had begun thrashing against his bonds once more. And since there was no question of the man still being alive, that could only mean … dragon blood. The claws of the giant’s gauntlet must have been dipped in the poison. Dragon blood was said to scar not just the flesh but also the soul, ensuring the victim’s suffering extended beyond his passage through Shroud’s Gate.
A reminder, as if one were needed, that Senar would have to be on his best behavior.
Imerle said, “You say it was Avallon who ordered you through the portal.”
“Correct.”
“We were of the understanding the Guardians served the empire of Erin Elal, not its emperor.”
“To Avallon the distinction has ceased to have any meaning.”
“And you value his opinion above your own?”
Senar frowned. “Your point is well made. A few years ago his view would have carried little weight with our Council, but the Guardian order has fallen far in that time. The emperor has made sure of it.”
“You hold him accountable for your losses?”
Damned right he did. “He has never acted openly against us, but neither has he passed up any opportunity to whittle down our numbers.”
“Even if by doing so he weakened Erin Elal?”
“The emperor cares not if his horse dies under him, so long as he remains in the saddle.”
“So we understand. In the last two years over a hundred Guardians have been lost, yes? Including your master, Li Benir.”
Senar felt the familiar anger bubble up inside him. He took a breath and let it out slowly. The emira was trying to provoke a reaction in him, but he could not afford to let her succeed. Best behavior, he reminded himself. And at least his spell in captivity had given him time to grieve properly over Li Benir, and Jessca, and other friends lost.
Imerle said, “And yet in spite of Li Benir’s death, when the emperor orders you through the portal, you obey. Why?”
“The word ‘no’ is not one Avallon recognizes.” In hindsight, Senar should have been suspicious of the emperor’s intent when he was summoned to Amenor, but then Senar had long thought himself too important for Avallon to try strong-arming him through the portal. Maybe he still did. Conceited, perhaps? To that charge he had to hold up his hands. Or a hand and a half at least. Thirty of the emperor’s Breakers had quickly disabused him of his pretensions.
The emira said, “Six Guardians were sent through the Merigan portal before you, is that not so? Considering your enmity toward Avallon, you must have known he might make you the seventh.”
“You think I should have run? To where? To do what?”
“The Guardians are all you know.”
“The Guardians are all I have known, yes.” After the death of his father thirty years ago, the Guardians had become the only family Senar had.
“Then you must be anxious to return to Erin Elal.”
Senar was under no illusions on that score. Trapped as he was on an island of water-mages, the chances of him escaping to the mainland were slim at best. More to the point, whatever Imerle’s reasons for keeping him alive thus far, they would count for nothing unless he could convince her his old allegiances were dead. “Return, Emira? So the emperor can send me somewhere else through the portal?”
“So you can avenge Li Benir’s death. So you can help the Guardians regain their preeminence.”
“The Guardians are finished.” It was hard for Senar to say the words, but he couldn’t let any sentiment show in his voice. Even though he feared it might be true. What had happened back home in the months he’d been away? Somehow he doubted the emperor’s campaign against the Guardians had stopped just because Senar was out of the picture. “Even if Avallon does not disband the order, he will make sure its numbers never return to what they were.”
“And you are just going to stand aside and let that happen?”
“There is nothing I can do to prevent it.” He paused. “That does not mean, though, that I will forget the part the emperor played in the Guardians’ demise.”
Imerle turned back to the courtyard. The Untarian’s body had been untied from the post and was now being dragged away by two soldiers. The executioner stood to one side, staring at nothing.
“If revenge is what you seek,” the emira said, “you have come to the wrong place. We have no quarrel with Erin Elal.”
“Not yet, perhaps.”
Pernay sneered. “Would you have us believe Avallon has set his sights on the Storm Isles? Is he in the habit of confiding his plans in you, then?”
Senar caught the man’s gaze and held it. “If you’ve done your homework on me, you’ll know I was sent to Balshazar three years ago to sound out the city’s Ruling Council on the possibility of joining the emperor’s Confederacy against the Kalanese.”
“Balshazar is not a Storm Lord city.”
“But it is part of the Sabian League. It pays you tribute. If Avallon were to gain a hold on the city, do you think he would continue paying? And if Balshazar refused to pay, would that not set a dangerous precedent?” Senar turned to gauge Imerle’s reaction to his words, found her expression as blank as a slab of ice. “But whatever plans the emperor has concerning the Storm Isles, there is one thing of which you can be certain. He is not a man to settle for what he already has.”
Into the silence that followed came footfalls, and Senar looked across to see the balding Storm Guard officer approaching. He halted a few paces away.
“Forgive my interruption, Emira. Mazana Creed’s ship has just docked at the harbor.”
Mazana Creed? A name Senar had heard before, but where?
Imerle had gone still. “Mazana Creed. You are sure, Septia?”
“That is the message I was given.”
When the emira exchanged a glance with Pernay, Senar noticed with a start that a smoldering flame had kindled in her eyes. And not the sort of flame that left him feeling any warmth, either. He’d thought it a reflection of a fire behind him, but no, the flame was actually within the orbs themselves. When she looked back at him, he knew the time of his judgment was upon him. He scratched at the stubs of his missing fingers. What could he say to sway her decision? In an effort to persuade her of his usefulness he had exaggerated the threat posed by Avallon, but the longer Imerle’s gaze bored into him, the more he suspected she was no more taken in by his deception than she was by his feigned indifference to the Guardians’ plight.
He looked at his sword in the hands of one of the twin sisters and saw she was holding it by the scabbard, not the hilt. Did she know he could use his Will to summon the blade to him? Li Benir, the consummate diplomat, used to say that if you had to draw your sword
you’d already lost. And the reality was, there was no chance of Senar fighting his way clear of this terrace—when you were standing a handful of paces from the sea, you didn’t take on a water-mage of Imerle’s repute and expect to walk away from it. But there were different types of losing, Senar reckoned, and any death at the hands of the emira or the twin swordswomen beat losing a lump of his chest to that metal giant in the courtyard.
You had to take your consolations where you found them.
His look at the weapon had not gone unnoticed by Imerle. She smiled faintly. “Perhaps we should adjourn to the throne room to greet Mazana,” she said. “Join us, Guardian.”
It took a heartbeat for her words to sink in. Was he to be spared, then?
“Emira—” the chief minister began.
Imerle waved him to silence. “Do you know,” she said to Senar, “why we kept you imprisoned for so long?”
He shook his head.
“How many months has it been since you came through the portal? Nine? Ten?”
It was Pernay who answered. “Ten.”
“A man could travel far in that time; is that not so, Guardian?”
“He could,” Senar said cautiously.
“Aside from the Storm Guards who saw you arrive, the only people who know how you came to be in Olaire are those here now, and they can be relied on to keep the information to themselves. We trust the same can be said of you.”
Senar paused, thinking. There was a certain logic to Imerle’s reasoning. When Avallon discovered Senar was in Olaire, all he would know for certain was that the portal to which the Guardian had journeyed was within ten months’ travel of the Storm Isles. Yet if Senar were to reveal the truth of what had happened here … I’m missing something. It was clear the emira didn’t trust him, so why was she taking a chance on his silence? True, she could prevent him from leaving the island, but how could she stop him sending a message to Erin Elal if he chose to do so?
