by John Marco
‘You don’t want them,’ he told her. ‘They’re tainted.’
Everything was tainted now. But it was no more than he deserved, Simon supposed. If the fishing boat made it to the mainland, Simon planned to flee to Doria. He would go underground, just as he had hoped to do with Eris. He was still Roshann. There were tricks he could use to avoid being discovered. Even Biagio wouldn’t find him.
After a life of spying and assassinations, Simon wondered what it would be like to be a farmer. Perhaps he would work as a stable hand, or try to find employment in a coopery. Dorians often hired mercenaries, but Simon sniffed at the notion. He had already thrown his dagger overboard, too. Convinced that he had spent enough time killing, he decided to forgo such bloody employment. Simon Dark-Heart was dead.
‘Hello,’ he said to the little girl next to him. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Numa,’ replied the child. ‘What’s yours?’
Simon considered the question. ‘Simon,’ he told her. ‘Simon Jadiir.’
In the tongue of Vosk, where his mother had been born, the name meant ‘barrel-maker’.
Forty-Six
Emperor
After destroying the Prince of Liss, the Fearless waited before returning to the Black City. Because he wanted the protection of additional ships, Biagio arranged a rendezvous off the Naren coast, finally sailing into the city’s harbor four days after leaving Crote. Accompanying the Fearless was a contingent of ships recalled from battling the Lissens, including the dreadnoughts Shark and Intruder, and the cruisers Conqueror, Angel of Death and Furious. Together they dominated the harbor, and all Naren eyes fell on them and wondered if the world was coming to an end.
Count Biagio knew he had many enemies in Nar. But he had already annihilated the bulk of them. Kivis Gago, Claudi Vos, and all the others who had so foolishly aligned themselves with Herrith were dead now, fallen under Lissen scimitars. The Naren Empire was leaderless, completely. And the people of Nar, who had never been able to function without a strong ruler, looked on the arriving Count of Crote with apprehension.
Biagio explained to them how Liss, their great enemy, had invaded his homeland during the peace talks, savagely murdering the other Naren noblemen. Because he had barely escaped with his life, there had been no way for him to save the others. And Liss was on the prowl, he told the citizens of Nar, and had sinister designs on the Empire. With the Lissens firmly on Crote, only the Black Fleet could protect Nar City now.
There would be politics and enemies still, Biagio knew – and maybe feeble attempts on his life, which would all certainly fail – but he was home again and immensely happy, and when he sat himself down on Arkus’ Iron Throne, an unimaginable thrill went through him.
He was emperor.
He had struggled for the title, as Nar would struggle, still. Herrith had left him a land in strife. Like the rubble of the great cathedral, the Empire needed rebuilding. Goth was a wasteland, and Dragon’s Beak was torn by civil war, as ambitious lords scrambled to fill the void left by the twin dukes. All across the fractured land, kings and princes questioned the authority of the capital, wondering what Biagio and his new Black Renaissance might bring. And rumblings out of Talistan were worrisome, too, as King Tassis Gayle made very clear his feelings about the foppish new emperor.
But Biagio had time. Time, at least, to rest. Tomorrow there might be war, but today he had won the Iron Throne. For him, that was enough.
After a week as emperor, Renato Biagio called a meeting of his Roshann agents, a secret gathering that took place in the highest tower of the Black Palace. A winter wind ripped through the walls, chilling the air and sending the great hearth into ripples. A giant, circular table rested in the center of the chamber, seating Roshann members from around the Black City and the outlying Empire, all of whom still adored their master and loudly reaffirmed their pledges to serve him until death. Emperor Biagio thanked them all with gold and kisses, and gave them lands for their loyalty and the beautiful slaves he had purchased with the remains of his private fortune.
After rewarding them, Biagio turned to business. He had only two remarkable orders for them. The Jackal of Nar was never to be hunted again. Neither was Simon Darquis. The peculiar command made the agents murmur, but none of them questioned the edict or looked disapprovingly at Biagio. He was their master; that was all that mattered.
After their meeting, Biagio returned to his quarters. He had set himself up in the old rooms Arkus had enjoyed, with a peerless view of the magnificent city and all the old emperor’s clutter around him. The trinkets and baubles connected Biagio to Arkus, and he liked the memories they evoked. At last, his grief was fading.
And Biagio thought of Dyana Vantran often too, and the things she had said to him. Her scathing accusations had started the new emperor thinking. He wondered how true it was that the drug had warped his mind.
Biagio sat alone by his window, well past midnight, contemplating these things. The wind howled around the tall tower. There was much for him to do, and Nar needed him sound. It had been over a week since he had taken the drug, and his cravings were enormous. But he knew that Herrith and Vorto had both been able to endure the withdrawal, and he was determined not to be bested.
Forty-Seven
The Jackal at Rest
The Naren dreadnought Black City had indeed returned Richius and Dyana to Crote, leaving them off where the Lissen schooners could not see them. From there they walked across the tiny island, astonished at the things they’d seen.
The Lissens had devoured Crote. It was theirs now, just as Prakna and Jelena had always wanted, the perfect base from which to continue their violent mission against the Empire. The slaughter had not stopped at the mansion, but rather had carried over to the surrounding farmlands and villages, until at last the army of orphans had come to their senses and began occupying Crote without killing it. Richius supposed Shii had something to do with their change of heart. He had seen her before leaving, aboard a Lissen schooner. She looked vacant and afraid and not at all young, and Richius knew she had murdered her youth during the campaign, trading it for vengeance.
A Lissen schooner with the dubious name The Dolphin took Richius and Dyana back to Lucel-Lor. It was an uncomfortable journey. The Lissen sailors mostly avoided Richius, embarrassed that they had betrayed him. Apparently, ‘Lord Jackal’ no longer existed. He was merely Richius Vantran again – not a king, and certainly not a hero. And when at last he and Dyana arrived at Falindar, the world seemed a wholly different place.
Falindar smelled a little sweeter than it had. The winter was cold and the wine was strong, and Dyana and Shani were happy again. And Lucyler had returned from Kes. The master of the citadel was no less preoccupied than when he’d left. There was still trouble brewing between the warlords Ishia and Praxtin-Tar, and Lucyler worried endlessly about the tenuous peace he had arranged. But Richius didn’t think about those things. He thought only about being alive and about his miraculous luck, which continued to save him from death. He didn’t want to be troubled any longer with talk of war. More than ever in his life, he craved peace. Even Aramoor seemed a distant memory. It was lost to him, that was certain, and he had no plans to break his bargain with Biagio. The Empire was Biagio’s now. And Richius had all of Lucel-Lor to occupy him. He would make his life here, among the Triin.
Or die trying.
A week after returning to Falindar, Richius set off with Lucyler to hunt and came upon the place where he and Simon had felled the ancient oak. It was just a stump now. The grass around it was trampled and littered with snapped branches. Richius recalled the tree with melancholy. It had been remarkable. At the time, he had not understood Simon’s hatred of it. He lowered his bow as he stared at the stump, wondering about Simon. Prakna had told him that Simon had fled the mansion. Apparently, Eris had been killed. Now no one knew where Simon was, or even if he was alive.
Richius sat down on the stump, forgetting the hunt, and invited Lucyler to sit beside
him. His Triin friend relaxed gladly, weary from stalking through the woods. Neither spoke for a very long time. Lucyler had the gift of silence. He hadn’t even asked Richius the obvious, impossible questions, like why he’d gone to Liss and abandoned his wife and child, and why he had been so profoundly unhappy in Falindar. And he wouldn’t ask, either. Lucyler knew Richius’ heart well enough.
Then, after several long minutes, Lucyler finally spoke.
‘Cold,’ he remarked.
Richius nodded. ‘Yes.’ The cold felt good. It reminded him of Aramoor.
‘Ishia worries,’ said Lucyler. ‘I do not know what I should do.’
Another impossible question. Richius shrugged. ‘Is it really your concern?’
‘I am Master of Falindar,’ replied Lucyler. ‘These things are expected of me.’ He sighed. The light caught his eyes, revealing sadness. ‘I am riding a wildcat, and I cannot control it. Praxtin-Tar is a madman.’
Richius grimaced. He’d had his fill of madmen recently.
‘The warlords need to fight, I think,’ Lucyler continued. ‘I am not sure I can stop them.’
‘If it’s their nature to kill, you won’t be able to stop them, Lucyler. Don’t kill yourself in the process.’
The Triin gave a black laugh. ‘Is that your wisdom now, my friend? Is that what you’ve learned? I could use more than silly prophecy.’
‘That’s all I’ve got these days.’
‘I was thinking that perhaps you would come with me to speak with Praxtin-Tar,’ said Lucyler. ‘He remembers you from the Naren war. He knows that Tharn respected you. If you speak to him, he might listen.’
‘No,’ said Richius. ‘He will not listen.’
‘You are so sure? You should try, at least.’
Richius shook his head. ‘Sorry.’
‘You will not do it?’
‘Can’t do it,’ said Richius absently.
The promise he had made to Biagio extended past the borders of Nar. It was a promise to himself, really. As Lucyler watched him questioningly, Richius studied the sky, enjoying its grace. Suddenly the sky seemed more important than anything.
John Marco has worked in various industries including aviation, computers and home security. He now writes full time. He lives on Long Island in the USA.
