by Marc Turner
“Domen Fillon Bett? What of him?”
“You had not heard? He has been arrested.”
Another angry murmur erupted from the galleries, and this time Ebon did nothing to quell it. “On what charge?”
“Conspiring against the state. We have seized messages passing between Bett and the Chameleon priesthood in Camessil, detailing a plot to overthrow the Patrician. There can be no question as to the ambassador’s involvement.” An idea seemed to occur to Garat. “He is a friend of Domen Janir, is he not?”
“A friend to us all.”
“Yes, yes, such a distressing fall from grace. What could have caused such an honorable man to lose his way, I wonder?” The consel paused, then added, “Perhaps the reasons will become clear during his … interrogation.”
Ebon felt the blood rise to his face. As if in response to his anger, the whispering of the spirits in his head swelled, and for a heartbeat the ghostly images of his second-sight overlapped the throne room. He fought them down.
His mother was on her feet. “You dare question him without a member of this court present?”
“Sadly that was deemed necessary,” Garat said. “You will appreciate the need to root out any treachery before it spreads. It will be interesting to see who the ambassador implicates in his schemes, yes?”
Chancellor Tamarin spoke. “Nevertheless, Consel, this is most irregular. Perhaps one of the King’s Council should attend him.”
“You are welcome to choose someone to accompany us when we return.”
By which time it will all be over. “No,” Ebon said. “Now.” He looked to his right. “Domen Jeniver, will you go?”
From among the seated domens, Jeniver rose. “Gladly, your Majesty.”
“General Reynes,” Ebon said. “Arrange a suitable escort. As many as you think necessary.”
Garat’s eyes twinkled with humor. “Is that wise? The road to Camessil is long and dangerous, and there are—so you now tell me—Kinevar raiders to consider. I would fear for the safety of your party.”
Ebon took a breath and let it out slowly. The consel had clearly anticipated his move. Jeniver would be walking into a trap. Yet when the king met Jeniver’s astute gaze he saw only determination there. Turning back to face Garat, Ebon said, “Domen Jeniver knows what to expect. You have made that abundantly clear.”
The Sartorian’s answering smile was cold.
It was the chancellor who eventually broke the silence. “Consel, you must be tired after your journey. Rooms have been prepared—”
Garat cut him short with a raised finger. “That will not be necessary. I have decided to make camp outside the city.”
He does not trust us, Ebon thought. He thinks us as unconscionable as he is.
“As you wish, Consel,” Tamarin said. “I should warn you, however, that the gates to the city are closed at nightfall. The Kinevar—”
“I think we can take care of ourselves,” Garat interrupted him again. “Now, if you would excuse me.” He inclined his head to Ebon. “Your Majesty. I look forward to continuing our discussions tomorrow.”
* * *
The hills had been reduced to rubble. Parolla trudged across shattered fragments of stone that slipped and settled beneath her. Some of the rocks glowed softly red, and she could feel heat through the soles of her boots. That heat, though, made a welcome change from the earth-spirits she’d been sensing underfoot for the past few days. Only yesterday the Ken’dah Steppes had been swarming with the souls of the dead shamans who had once served the clans that infested these plains. Those spirits had dogged Parolla’s every step through this land, their anger at her presence evident in the keening of the wind, the way the long yellow grasses fouled her stride. Now, though, the spirits were gone—driven off, most likely, by the sorcerous duel Parolla had witnessed from afar last night.
It was a night she would long remember. Huddled in her cloak, she had watched fountains of energies light up the sky to the east, demonic magic warring with interwoven layers of earth and air. Parolla had been leagues away, yet still the ground had bucked more violently than during any earthquake she’d experienced, and the wind had gusted so strongly it threatened to lift her from her feet. When at last dawn broke, the devastation revealed to the lands ahead of Parolla had been a stark reminder of the dangers that lay in wait, for the sorcerous clash had surely taken place at the site of the Merigan portal she was now heading for.
And yet it was too late for her to turn back from her course, even if she’d wanted to. From Xavel, it had taken her three days to reach Folar on the Inland Sea, two more to find a berth on a trader ship bound for Enikalda, another three before the vessel finally docked at its destination. But Parolla’s real troubles had begun when she set out across the steppes toward the still-distant source of the threads of death-magic. Every league had been contested by clansmen, no doubt alerted to her presence by the earth-spirits underfoot. Each time Parolla drove the savages off, they returned in greater numbers.
Her horse had been killed in the last encounter, shot in the eye by an arrow she hadn’t even seen coming. That was two days ago. Since that time the clansmen had broken off their assaults, content to pursue her at a distance while they waited for her strength to fail. It would not be long now. Parolla hadn’t slept the last two nights, knowing her tormentors would attack the instant she closed her eyes. In this wretched land there was no place she could hide, no settlement in which she might take shelter or replenish her supplies. Her eyelids now weighed heavy as headstones, and her pace had slowed to a stumble. Exhaustion stalked her as relentlessly as the clansmen did, and it wore Shroud’s baleful grin.
A cawing sound came from overhead, and Parolla looked up to see redbeaks circling. She wet her lips with her tongue. For an instant she had mistaken the birds for dactils. Since leaving Xavel there had been no sign of the Huntsmen, but Parolla doubted their Lord had given up the chase. The high priest, knowing he was outmatched, would have sent assassins to track her. She looked over her shoulder. For now her only pursuers were a dozen clansmen, watching her from a hill half a league away. How soon before the Huntsmen joined them on that skyline? How far behind would the assassins be?
Parolla allowed herself a grim smile. What did it matter? She was about to go where even the Antlered God’s servants would not dare to follow.
Reaching the top of a ridge, she stared down into a bowl-shaped depression tenscore paces across. The basin was shrouded in blackness, like a pocket of night the sun could not burn away. The Shades. In this place, Parolla knew, the world of the Kerralai demons overlapped the mortal realm. The shadows were deepest at the center, fading to gray at the sides. At the edge of the darkness, the roots of a smoldering tree rose from churned earth. A few paces beyond was a stone archway—the Merigan portal—surrounded by a ring of seven obelisks, only one of which remained upright.
Within the circle of stones, a man wearing yellow robes lay facedown in the dirt, his long blond hair fanned out round his outsized cranium. A Fangalar. One of the elder races. To his left were the remains of a horse, its snowy white coat spattered with blood, and crouching over the animal’s corpse was a black-skinned Kerralai demon, almost invisible in the gloom. After the fireworks last night, Parolla had been resigned to finding the basin guarded, yet still the demon’s presence was a setback—no chance now of her passage going unnoticed. Even as the thought came to her, the Kerralai raised its head to stare at her with its huge red eyes. Its muzzle and fangs were smeared with gore.
Parolla descended the slope, sending stones clattering down into the depression. Her power was drawn about her. She halted at the edge of the shadows, ten paces from the demon. Ten paces? It felt a lot less. Even sitting back on its haunches, the Kerralai towered over her. One of its wings hung uselessly by its side, the skin shredded, the bones broken. The demon’s breaths made a wheezing sound.
Parolla inclined her head. “Glesha,” she greeted it.
The Kerralai seemed unsurp
rised that she knew its language. When it spoke, its voice was a throaty growl. “Welcome, angella.”
Parolla’s skin prickled. Angella. Angel of Darkness. “Why do you call me that?”
“Death walks in your shadow. Are you not a harvester of souls?”
“I’m not one of Shroud’s disciples, if that’s what you mean.”
The demon tore another chunk of flesh from the horse’s corpse and chewed noisily. “Then why have you come? As you can see, the battle here is done.”
Parolla waved a hand at the wall of darkness an armspan away. “When I last traveled these lands, the size of the rent was a fraction of what it is now. The Merigan portal lay beyond the edge of the shadows.”
The Kerralai’s smile revealed rows of gleaming fangs. “The fabric of your world is torn. The magics unleashed here last night will only hasten its dissolution. Every day the rent grows larger.”
Parolla looked at the corpse of the Fangalar. “No doubt this man was unaware of that fact when he chose to use the portal.”
“He is ignorant no longer.”
“Nevertheless, his trespass in your realm was doubtless unintended. You do know, sirrah, that the Fangalar’s kinsmen will sense what took place here. They will come seeking vengeance.”
The demon’s long forked tongue darted out to lick blood from its fangs. “Then perhaps I will destroy the portal. It matters not. There can be but one response to violating the borders of our realm.”
“You are fortunate we of this world are not as … sensitive … as you in such matters.” Parolla gestured to the basin. “This ground is, after all, as much a part of our world as it is of yours.”
The Kerralai’s eyes narrowed with animal cunning. “I see where you are going with this, angella. You seek permission to enter the rent so you may use the portal.”
Parolla shook her head. “The gateway is of use to me—I know of no other portal close to where I am heading. No, sirrah, it is your realm I mean to enter.”
It was not a decision she had taken lightly. By her estimation, the source of the tendrils of death-magic was still scores of leagues to the east—if she kept to the Ken’dah Steppes. Distances, though, worked differently within the Shades. A journey of weeks across the plains would take Parolla but a handful of bells in the demon world. And there was another rent such as this just a short distance to the west of the Forest of Sighs.
In response to her words, the demon threw back its head and laughed. The sound was like rocks grinding together. Parolla felt an urge to step back. It would take only a heartbeat for that massive head to lunge forward, for the jaws to snap shut …
“Has the fate of the Fangalar not touched you at all, angella?” the Kerralai said. “True, my wounds prevent me from opposing you, but others of my kind will give answer to your intrusion. No one who enters our realm leaves alive.”
“I have done so before.”
“You lie.”
“No, I do not. At the time, I knew nothing of your people’s hostility to intruders. Your mekra, Mezaqin, took pity on me. I left your world through this very rent.”
The memory was still sharp in her mind. She had entered the rent near the Forest of Sighs, hoping it would lead to Shroud’s realm. Instead she’d found herself in the Shades. Oblivious to her danger, she had wandered lost for a bell until she was confronted by the demon lord himself. It was Mezaqin who had informed her of the punishment for trespass, before proceeding to question her at length on her reasons for entering his world. In the end he had spared her life on a whim, she suspected … although her parentage might also have played a part in his decision.
The Kerralai had gone still at the mention of Mezaqin’s name. “And did my lord give you permission to return?”
“He said he would kill me if I did.”
The demon stared at her.
“I was hoping he meant it as a joke.”
“Mezaqin is not known for his sense of humor.”
“Perhaps I should ask him first, then.”
The Kerralai snorted. “And how will you do that? You think you can just summon him to this place to hear your request?”
“No more, I suppose, than I can ask you to carry a message for me.”
The demon bared its teeth.
Sighing, Parolla peered through the rent. The darkness in the Shades was deeper than in the basin, and she could see only a few paces into the gloom. Who knew what might be waiting for her if she entered the demon world? Would she even remember the way through to the rent near the Forest of Sighs? She looked over her shoulder. And yet, what choice did she have but to try? For while the clansmen pursuing her were momentarily hidden by the rim of the depression, she knew they would not be far away.
Turning back to the demon, she said, “It seems I will have to take the risk.”
CHAPTER 8
ROMANY TOOK a sip of white wine and let it linger on her tongue before swallowing. Pure nectar! Rich, silky, yet bursting with fruit, and wonderfully refreshing against the heat of the day. Yes, it was a little on the pricey side, but the priestess could think of no worthier way to spend temple funds. On reflection, perhaps the fall from grace of her old wine merchant had been a blessing. Imagine thinking he could top up her bottles of Koronos white with cheap Maru dishwater and not get caught! Absurd! She would have to think of a suitably fitting way to get even with the scoundrel beyond the loss of her custom.
Sitting back in her chair, she gave a contented sigh. Her gaze swept the cloister. The gardens round her were an explosion of color, though she noticed with a frown that some of the flowers were wilting in the heat. The air was suffused with the scent of maliranges and cavillas from the trees that surrounded the square. Romany wondered idly if the maliranges were ripe enough to eat yet. She would have to ask one of the gardeners.
Had it really been two weeks since the Spider brought her back from Estapharriol? Romany was only just beginning to recover from the ordeal. On her return to the temple she had spent a whole day in the bath trying to scrub the forest from her skin, and the memory of Mayot’s gaze on her flesh still left her looking for the nearest bar of soap. The Spider had not spoken to her since her return, and the priestess was not going to be the one to initiate contact. With each passing day, she told herself, the likelihood of her having to return to the Forest of Sighs receded. Perhaps the Spider’s attention had moved on to bigger and better things. Perhaps Mayot had recognized the hopelessness of his cause and surrendered the Book to Shroud. Who knows, perhaps the old man had simply died of his own ego. Whatever the truth of it, Romany wasn’t about to let thoughts of the mage spoil her afternoon any further.
She became aware of something intruding upon her tranquility. A noise … Faint above the rustle of the trees, and the shouts of the lockkeepers working along Lepers Canal … Crying. A girl crying. The sound was coming from an open window in the wall to her left. Ah, that explains it. The new initiates’ quarters.
Romany closed her eyes and tried to rediscover her serenity. The heat in the cloister was growing, and she mopped her brow with her sleeve, then took another sip of wine and spent a moment considering its provenance. The higher, east-facing slopes of the Koronos Hills without question. Two years old, if she had to guess. The more recent vintage was a touch more elegant …
It was no use. The girl’s crying continued—soft, choked sobs. Not the weeping of someone seeking attention or pity. A private grief. She is lost. The child was not an orphan, then, for the urchins in Mercerie had been known to put out their own eyes for the opportunity to be taken in by the temple. The priestess sighed. As the memories of the girl’s old life receded, her hurt would fade. Fade, but not disappear completely. No, never that.
A scolding voice rang out, and the window to the initiates’ quarters slammed shut.
Romany cradled her glass in her hands.
“I’m imprrressed, as ever, by your ascetic zeal, High Priestess,” said a familiar voice from behind her.
Romany scow
led as the Spider stepped into view. Once again there had been not even a ripple along her web to warn her of the goddess’s coming. She is doing this to spite me. “I would offer you some wine, my Lady, but sadly I have only one glass.”
“No matter.” A flutter of the Spider’s restless fingers and a glass materialized in her left hand.
Romany paused just long enough to make her annoyance clear. Then she retrieved the wine bottle from the shade beneath her chair and poured for the goddess. Not a full glass of course, just the amount that propriety demanded. The Spider sniffed the wine before taking a cautious sip. “Not bad.”
“It is an acquired taste. If you wish, I can ask one of the acolytes to bring you something less challenging.”
The goddess raised an eyebrow. “Less challenging? Ah, you mean water. An excellent idea.” Her fingers flickered again, and the golden color faded from the liquid.
It was a moment before Romany could speak. “I had assumed it would be a while before I saw you again,” she managed at last.
“Assumed or hoped?”
“Well, since you disappeared last time without explanation…”
A casual wave of the goddess’s free hand. “Something came up.”
Something always does.
Behind the Spider a priestess emerged from one of the doorways leading off the cloister. On seeing the goddess the woman dropped to her knees and touched her forehead to the ground. Romany looked away in disgust. Such an outrageous show of obsequiousness! Had the woman no shame?
The Spider had not even noticed. “I’m pleased to see you’ve been putting your time to good use, High Priestess,” she said. “I trust you are fully rrrested.”
Romany made no effort to cover her groan. “I am to return to the Forest of Sighs, then?”
“Of course. It’s taken longer than I expected for Shroud to marshal his forces, but he’s now assembled an impressive cast of players to take part in our game. Even as we speak, some are drawing near to the borders of the forest.” The Spider smiled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Shroud’s nose has been well and truly put out of joint by the loss of his knight. You will have your work cut out.”
