by Marc Turner
He was used to sitting at Isanovir’s right hand in the place now occupied by his brother, Rendale, and while his new vantage point offered only a slight change of perspective, it was telling in its import. A few paces in front, steps led down to the chamber’s main floor. At the end of the room, a stone’s throw away, were double doors of black steel that stretched up to the ceiling. To Ebon’s left and right, Pantheon Guardsmen lined the walls. Above them, in the hanging galleries where the lesser domens and other dignitaries were seated, not a chair remained unfilled, and even the stairs between them were crammed with expectant onlookers. Judging by the babble of their conversation they were looking forward to seeing their new king’s mettle tested by the Sartorian consel.
The Serrate Crown felt heavy on Ebon’s head.
His gaze was drawn, as ever, to the skeleton near the eastern wall of the chamber. In the shadow of one of the galleries, the skull of some vast creature rose from the floor as if the rock had once turned molten before solidifying to imprison the beast. As a boy, Ebon had climbed into the jaws. Each of the beast’s teeth was as long as he had been tall. Not even Mottle knew what manner of creature it was, still less what fate had befallen it. The Currents, it seemed, held no answers—the ripples were too faint to be deciphered.
A khalid esgaril. The name leapt unbidden into Ebon’s mind. Dragon’s bane.
The whispering of the spirits grew loud, and the throne room began to darken. No! Not here, not now. Ebon tried to fight the visions, pressed his back into the throne’s imperial crest until he thought he must have drawn blood, but it was all slipping away. Flickering images overlapped the chamber, as if he were seeing double. A scene was forming: the same room, yet different. Rugs covered the floor, and a collection of skulls of all sizes, human and animal, were affixed to the walls. Looking up, Ebon saw the tops of trees through the windows above the now-empty galleries. Was this a vision, then, of the throne room from centuries past? Had the Forest of Sighs once extended this far east?
A spectral figure hovered at the edges of his sight—a pale-skinned woman in a coat of chain mail that reached down to her knees. Her image was too blurred for him to see her face, yet still he felt he should know her. Her mouth was opening and closing, but Ebon could not make out her words. He wanted to shake his head to clear it but didn’t dare, lest he draw the attention of his kinsmen in the “real” throne room. Get away from me! he silently commanded the spirit, but from her lack of reaction it seemed she could no more hear him than he could her. Tearing his gaze away, he found himself looking again at the khalid esgaril. The creature’s cavernous mouth appeared to be smiling, and there was movement in its eyes …
With a start the king came to, his chest heaving. The images of his second-sight faded to reveal Mottle sitting in one of the skull’s eye sockets. He was swinging his legs back and forth. He must have sensed Ebon’s regard, for he looked across and winked.
The last vestiges of the king’s vision fell away.
To his right a voice was speaking; the chancellor, standing behind the throne, had bent over to whisper in his ear. Ebon concentrated on his words. Tamarin was explaining—slowly and deliberately as if he were talking to a child—that the delegation from Mercerie would not be joining them. It seemed a messenger had been sent ahead to convey the envoy’s apologies—something about being struck down by ill health on the road to Majack. The chancellor added, unnecessarily, that he thought this a fabrication. The Merceriens clearly shared Ebon’s suspicions as to the reason for the consel’s visit and had chosen to stay away for fear of being drawn into a conflict.
As Tamarin’s voice droned on, Ebon looked to his left. His mother was perched on the edge of her throne, her hands gripping the chair’s armrests. Beside her, General Reynes sat stroking the cinderhound on his lap. Next came Vale, and beyond him a dozen domens, drawn up according to rank. Switching his gaze to his right, Ebon scanned the faces of the Council members on that side, relieved to see Domen Janir had heeded his order to stay away.
There was a booming knock from the end of the chamber, and all conversation died away.
So it begins.
Guardsmen hauled on ropes, and the doors swung open. A score of figures were visible in the gloom beyond, but Ebon resisted the impulse to lean forward for a closer look. The Sartorian party moved through the doors and into the hall. At the front was a man with the rust-colored skin of all Sartorians, who walked with the grace of a swordsman—Consel Garat Hallon, Ebon presumed. Flanking him, two on each side, were four giant warriors, each half as tall again as the consel and covered from head to toe in plate-mail armor. They wore horned helmets and carried double-headed axes in their gauntleted hands. The dull beat of their metallic footsteps kept perfect time as they marched.
From Ebon’s left, General Reynes’s cinderhound gave a growl. It was followed by a murmur from the galleries as Mottle jumped down from the khalid esgaril and scuttled to intercept the Sartorian party, smoothing his crumpled robe all the while.
“What’s the fool doing?” Rosel said.
Ebon did not respond. The consel had halted. He exchanged a few words with Mottle, but Ebon was too far away to hear them. The Sartorian folded his arms, then looked left and right at the ranks of Pantheon Guardsmen.
The tension in the room stretched taut as a bowstring.
“I trust you have good reason for this, Mottle,” Ebon whispered, knowing the mage would hear him.
Even as he spoke the words, the consel shrugged and waved a casual hand. The four armored giants detached from the group, swung round, and retreated to the rear of the chamber. Garat cocked his head at Mottle, his lips moving soundlessly, a hint of a smile on his face. In response the mage stepped back, one arm moving in a sweeping gesture.
Ebon could see the consel more clearly now. Tall and heavily built, he looked only a few years older than Ebon himself. His brown hair was oiled back in the style of Sartorian warriors, and there was a scar above his left eye where the eyebrow should have been. A longsword was sheathed at his hip, the pommel and scabbard adorned with the rearing flintcat of Sartor. The chancellor had noticed this too, and he started whispering again in Ebon’s ear. A bold statement indeed of his ambition.
Garat Hallon halted at the foot of the stairs leading to the throne. He met Ebon’s gaze for an instant, then glanced up at the Serrate Crown. His raised eyebrow indicated surprise, but the king was not fooled—on the consel’s way here, he would surely have heard about Isanovir’s abdication.
“Consel Garat Hallon,” Ebon said. “Welcome to Majack.”
“My thanks … your Majesty,” Garat replied. “Forgive my bluntness, but was not your father king when I set out from Camessil?”
“The honor is now mine.”
“I see.” The consel’s tone suggested Ebon had just confessed to something unsavory. Then, raising his voice to carry to the watching galleries, he continued, “I was saddened to hear of Isanovir’s decline. To lose a man of his experience at such a difficult time must be a grievous blow.”
Difficult time? Was that meant as a warning? Ebon had hoped to avoid the posturing and point-scoring, but if Garat was intent on taking them down that road then Ebon’s kinsmen would expect him to give as good as he got. “I’ll be sure to pass on your sentiments. Clearly, though, you have not traveled all this way just to inquire after my father’s health. I presume you bring tidings from the Patrician.”
Garat’s smile faltered as Ebon’s barb struck home. “I am no one’s messenger,” he said. His gaze slid away to take in the throne room, lingering on the skeleton of the khalid esgaril. “A remarkable place, you have here. Constructed in the First Age by one of the elder races, I’m told. My scholars have unearthed little else of consequence, though not, I assure you, from any lack of endeavor.”
“Indeed. And what is the nature of your interest in the fortress?”
“Purely academic, of course. I consider myself a student of history, yet the building’s architecture i
s unlike anything I have seen before. The sheer scale of it defies comprehension. No doubt the city’s entire population could shelter within its walls should the need arise?”
“No doubt.”
“Is it true there are levels below ground?”
“We believe so, though as yet we have been unable to access them.”
“Because they are shielded by sorcery?”
Ebon nodded.
“And the palace’s defenses? Formidable, of course.”
“Of course. For them to be tested, though, an enemy would first have to breach the city’s outer walls. And that will never happen.”
A murmur of approval from the galleries greeted Ebon’s words.
Garat laughed again. “Ah, careful, your Majesty. I might take that as an invitation to try.” He looked over his shoulder and beckoned to someone at the rear of his retinue. A red-faced man in a servant’s livery advanced. He was carrying a sword. “I’ve brought you a gift,” Garat said to Ebon. “A broadsword forged in the fires of Oskirrin itself. The weapon of your father, I believe. Of course, not everyone has his prodigious strength…”
The comment was left hanging in the air like a challenge. Ebon felt all eyes on him. He studied the consel for a moment, then rose and descended the steps. Accepting the sword from the servant, the king hefted it in both hands. His weapon of choice was a saber, not this monstrous blade that must have weighed as much as he did. As he examined the jeweled scabbard, he whispered, “Mottle, a little help if you please.” Then, placing his right hand on the hilt, he unsheathed the sword in one smooth motion. The weapon was suddenly feather light in his grip, as if it rested on a cushion of air. Ebon took a few practice swings before meeting the consel’s gaze. “Nice balance.”
Garat Hallon recovered quickly. “I’m delighted you approve.”
Ebon resheathed the sword. “I fear I cannot match the distinction of your gift, Consel, but perhaps you would accompany me to our stables later. I know you have long been an admirer of Galitian stock. My stablemaster has chosen a stallion that I trust will not disappoint.”
The consel’s tone was dismissive. “Later, yes. For now, allow me to introduce my party. This is my brother, Falin.” He ruffled the hair of a spotty youth trying to effect a stern expression. “Beside him is my sorceress, Ambolina Alavist.” The woman he indicated was dressed in blue robes with a white trim. Her long black hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her fingernails were half as long as the fingers themselves. Her steely gaze stared straight through Ebon. “To my right is First Adviser Pellar Hargin,” the consel went on, pointing to a fat, lazy-eyed man whose skin appeared to be melting in the heat. “And next to him, Tarda Gen Sulin, the commander of my Guard…”
There followed a list of names that Ebon forgot as soon as Garat spoke them. The king then introduced his court. Only when he came to Vale did the consel show any interest. “Ah yes,” Garat said. “The Endorian. I’ve heard a great deal about you. It’s said your people can alter the speed at which they move through time.”
Vale did not respond.
“I came across one of your kinsmen outside Villandry,” the consel continued. “He was fast.” He paused. “But not fast enough.”
Vale’s voice was gruff. “Then he was weak.”
“You believe you would fare better? I look forward to a … demonstration.”
Ebon spoke before Vale could accept. “Some other time perhaps.” He turned away from the consel’s party and climbed the steps to the Iron Throne. The chancellor, clutching his scepter of office in one hand, was trying to catch Ebon’s eye, but the king ignored him. He handed the broadsword to Rendale before sitting down again on his throne. “I understand congratulations are in order, Consel, for your campaign in the west. I am told the city of Villandry has fallen.”
“Villandry?” Garat shook his head, smiling. “Ah, your Majesty, your intelligence is sadly out of date. Villandry fell more than two months ago. Since then, Melandry, Geradry, and Amadry have also been taken.”
Ebon mastered his surprise. The enmity between Sartor and the Almarian League went back centuries, yet the consel had crushed his enemy in a single campaign? “Impressive. And yet, after so much bloodshed the Sartorian people will doubtless crave peace.”
Garat nodded with exaggerated gravity. “Of course. I know our two nations have had their differences in the past. As it happens, the very purpose of my visit here was to begin addressing them. But what do I discover on my journey south? A kingdom preparing for war.” He spread his hands. “You can imagine my distress.”
“You are referring, I take it, to the buildup of Galitian forces in the northlands?”
“Unless there is something else you think I should know about.”
“I can assure you, Consel, our troop movements are not directed at Sartor. The Kinevar are increasingly a cause for concern. Our scouts report their numbers massing—”
“So I argued with my first adviser,” Garat cut in. “Pellar Hargin’s geography is much better than mine, however, and he reminded me that the Forest of Sighs extends not just to the north of here but also to the southernmost provinces of your kingdom. Strange, then, that your forces seem to be mustering exclusively between the Sametta and Amber Rivers.”
“That is easily explained. We have reason to believe the Kinevar are migrating north.”
“Toward Sartor? And you didn’t think to warn us?”
“A messenger was dispatched over a week ago. Perhaps you crossed on the road.”
Garat did not respond. He was listening intently as his first adviser leaned close to speak in his ear.
“In any event,” Ebon went on, “if we wanted a war, surely we would have attacked while you were fighting the Almarian League.”
Hargin had now finished talking, and Garat looked at Ebon again. “I’d be inclined to agree, but for one fact. Your father was in command then, now you sit in his place. My people will be asking, ‘What are the new king’s plans?’ There will be those in his entourage—they will say—who seek to exploit his inexperience to further their own ambitions.” Garat was looking up and down the ranks of domens to either side of the throne, his gaze settling here and there as if to suggest he knew who the conspirators were. “What if the new king declares war in an attempt to unite a divided court?”
Ebon would not let himself be baited. “It is fortunate, then, that you are here. I will have the opportunity over the next few days to put your mind at rest.”
“As you say. I have always been of the view, though, that words should be backed by actions. I must therefore insist on the immediate withdrawal of your forces from all lands north of the Amber River.”
There was a rumble of unrest from the galleries. Ebon lifted a hand and waited for the noise to die down. “I see we have much to discuss.”
“Indeed we do.” Once more Garat raised his voice to carry. “One other matter in particular comes to mind.” He made another show of scanning the domens. “I could not help but notice Domen Janir Calidar is absent today.”
We come to it at last. “Unfortunately so. He has other business to attend to.”
Garat’s smile was knowing. “If you say so. Surely Janir must realize, though, that he cannot hide from me forever. It is time he answered for his crimes.”
“The events you are referring to took place five years ago. Are we to rake up all the troubles of the past?”
When First Adviser Hargin spoke for the first time, his chins wobbled. “Is an atrocity any less an atrocity, your Majesty, simply because a few years have gone by?”
Garat spread his hands again. “You see the difficulty I face?” he said to Ebon. “Pellar Hargin never ceases to remind me that I am a servant of my people”—there was a snort from someone to Ebon’s right, but Garat ignored it—“and the mood of the people is for vengeance. I trust Janir is now ready to offer himself up to justice.”
The throne room had fallen perfectly quiet. Were the domens expecting Ebon to throw his u
ncle to the wolves? Would they even protest if he did? “Justice, yes. I expect Janir would demand the same if he were here.”
Garat’s eyes glittered. “How so?”
“Must I remind you of the facts, Consel? A handful of brigands attack a heavily guarded company in the forest near Linnar. A single arrow is fired, not at one of the soldiers but at Domen Janir’s wife. The only brigand apprehended takes poison rather than submit to questioning. You forget, Consel, I was there.”
“And were you also there,” Garat asked mildly, “when Janir attacked the Sartorian village and butchered every man, woman, and child in it?”
Ebon’s expression tightened. “No, I was not. There are, however, still questions to be answered. Why, for instance, did the bandits’ tracks lead to the village Janir attacked? Then there is the arrow that killed Irrella. Its fletching was made of gelin feathers woven together. A technique, I believe, exclusive to the Sartorian military.”
“You are suggesting Sartorian troops were involved?”
“I am suggesting we reserve judgment until we obtain all the facts.”
“And how do you propose we do that? Janir conveniently slaughtered any witnesses.”
Ebon glanced at Mottle. “I will leave that to my mage. Vale, too, has some skill at manipulating time. They would, of course, need your permission to visit the village.”
The consel’s gaze flickered to his sorceress. The woman was examining her long fingernails. In reply to Garat’s unspoken question, she shrugged. The movement set her robes shimmering. “An interesting notion,” the consel said. “You will allow Ambolina to witness?”
“You do not trust me, Consel?”
There was a glint of amusement in Garat’s eyes. The Sartorian was plainly enjoying playing to his audience, and Ebon suspected he had witnessed only the first act in his performance. “Ah, your Majesty, trust takes time to earn. And in light of recent developments…”
Ebon’s eyes narrowed. “I have already explained—”
“I was referring,” Garat cut in, “to your ambassador in Camessil.”
