Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades

by Brian Staveley

  44

  Dawn will come.

  All night Kaden had repeated the mantra to himself as they fled through the darkness beneath a moon pale as the belly of a fish. Tan led the small party up treacherous streambeds, through narrow defiles, and along ledges a pace wide where the cliff face threatened to shoulder them into the abyss. Pyrre appeared a few miles from the monastery, as promised, at the base of the towering granite spire known as the Talon. The entire side of her once-fashionable coat had burned away, and splattered gore, black and glistening in the moonlight, coated her left arm to the elbow.

  “You monks really know how to move,” she gasped, falling in beside them.

  Kaden wondered how the woman could still walk, let alone run, until he realized that much of the blood belonged to soldiers dead on the slopes below. When three Aedolians burst from the shadow, threatening to block their path, Pyrre killed two without breaking stride while Tan knocked the third screaming from the ledge with his naczal. The old monk seemed strong as a bull, and the merchant—she’s not really a merchant, Kaden reminded himself—moved smoothly and silently as a shadow cast by the moon.

  Dawn will come, Kaden told himself as he labored up the steep grade, Phirum tugging at his belt and wheezing with exhaustion and terror the entire time. The monk was slowing him down, there was no question about it, but leaving him behind was unthinkable. Too many people had already died. Ruthlessly, Kaden thrust the visions of Pater from his mind, forced down the thoughts of the Shin lying slaughtered in their cells, of Akiil hiding somewhere or bleeding slowly to death, shoved away everything until there was only the steady heave of his chest, the burn in his legs, and the gray blur of the rock beneath his feet.

  Dawn will come.

  And yet, when the sun did finally rise, wan fingers of rose and russet coloring the sky, the nightmare persisted.

  Tan led them east, always east and upward, stabbing deep into the heart of the peaks. The decision made sense—without the burden of weapons and armor, Kaden’s group would move more quickly than the Aedolians. The problem was, Phirum was having trouble keeping up, just hauling his own bulk along the broken path. Tan and Kaden had taken turns towing him through the night. (Triste was too small to help, and Pyrre just laughed at the suggestion.) The fat acolyte had stumbled countless times already, twice dragging Kaden down with him. The whole situation was untenable, but there was no other choice, and so Kaden gritted his teeth and ran on.

  The sun climbed and the air warmed. He started to sweat beneath his robes. All at once, the defile opened out in a small bowl, where Pyrre pulled up short. Kaden thought briefly that the Aedolians had somehow managed to get ahead of them, to cut them off, and he craned his neck, steeling himself for the sight of helmed men with drawn swords. Only there were no soldiers—just a sparkling mountain lake, small enough that he could throw a stone across it, and a few patches of crag grass. The trail, if it could be called a trail, circled the lake, then knifed up a horribly steep ravine.

  “Up again?” Kaden asked wearily.

  “Just a second,” Pyrre replied. “They left most of the soldiers to mop up at the monastery, but I want to know just how many are following. I think from here I can see part of our backtrail.”

  “You can’t,” Tan said curtly, but Kaden and Phirum were already turning to look.

  As Kaden tried to see past a stand of priest pines in the middle distance, the fat monk at his side let out a quiet sigh and dropped to his knees. Kaden surpressed a moan. If Phirum couldn’t even stand, it was going to be almost impossible to drag him up the steep climbs that awaited.

  “Come on,” he said, reaching down to grasp him by the robe. “It’ll only be harder to start again if you sit down now.”

  The monk didn’t respond.

  Kaden turned to him, sharp words on his lips, but as he tugged at the robe, Phirum’s head lolled to one side, and Kaden realized with shock that blood was trickling from his lips, pouring down his fleshy chin in a crimson stream.

  “Tan!” he shouted. “Something’s—”

  The words died on his lips as he found Pyrre wiping her blade calmly on the leg of her trousers, then slipping it back into its sheath.

  For a moment, no one did anything. Kaden stared at Pyrre, Triste stared at Phirum, and the fat monk stared at nothing as his eyes glazed over. Then Tan was sliding between Kaden and the merchant, hefting the naczal in both hands.

  “Get back,” the older monk said, his voice flat, hard.

  Pyrre spread her hands inquisitively. “Aren’t you Shin supposed to be great observers? I’ve saved Kaden’s life four times in the last half a day—I would think my goodwill would be clear by now.”

  “Goodwill?” Triste demanded, her voice quivering with anger and disbelief. “You murdered Kaden’s friend and you want to talk about goodwill?”

  Pyrre shook her head as though she’d had this conversation a hundred times before, and to no effect.

  “Why did you kill him?” Kaden asked finally, hearing the hollowness in his own voice.

  “He was killing you,” Pyrre replied. “He was slowing you down, sapping your strength, making it ever more likely the Aedolians would catch up.” She sighed extensively. “I know I’ve been making this look easy, but saving your life has already proved more … interesting than I anticipated.”

  “We haven’t heard the Aedolians in hours,” Kaden replied. “They could have given up already.”

  Pyrre widened her eyes in amazement. “You think Ut and Adiv crossed a thousand leagues only to give up after one night? They are still chasing you, and Phirum, may Ananshael look over his fat soul, was slowing you down enough that they would catch you. Then they would have killed him and you.” She frowned speculatively. “And incidentally, the rest of us. I gave him a quick death—no pain, no fear. We should all be so lucky.”

  “Who are you?” Triste demanded, shouldering past Tan and advancing on the woman until she stood inches away from her, glaring up into her face. Pyrre was older and taller, Pyrre held the knives, but Triste appeared undeterred. “Who are you to decide which people get to live and die?”

  Pyrre looked like she was considering the question, but it was Tan who responded.

  “She is Skullsworn,” the older monk said. Kaden felt the muscles of his back and shoulders tighten at the word. “She is a priestess of Ananshael,” the monk continued, voice like a file rasping over stone. “Her god is the God of Death.”

  Triste took an abrupt step back, and Kaden shook his head. “No,” he said slowly, trying to work the thing through the way he had been trained. “No. It doesn’t make sense. The Skullsworn only kill. She saved my life.”

  “If she saved you,” the monk ground out, “she was well paid to do so.” He rounded on the woman. “Tell me I’m wrong, assassin.”

  “No,” Pyrre replied calmly. “You’re not wrong. And at any other point, I’d be delighted to spend a sun-filled spring morning learning about my fellow travelers on the path, but Ut is still alive.” She grimaced, as though the fact galled her. “It’s been a long time since I killed men in full armor, and I’m afraid my skills have softened. Unless you want to end up like Phirum, I suggest we move.”

  “You’re not coming with us,” Tan responded, his voice flat, hard.

  Pyrre raised an eyebrow. “The only question,” she responded, “is whether you are coming with us. I was paid to rescue the Emperor. No money changed hands for the life of a middle-aged monk or an underdressed whore.” She glanced at Triste, then added, “Begging your pardon, of course.”

  “Who paid you?” Kaden demanded.

  “No idea,” she replied with a shrug. “Clients pay Rassambur, and Rassambur sends someone. Neater that way. Now, who’s coming and who’s dying?”

  Tan flexed his fingers on the naczal, and though Pyrre didn’t even seem to notice, Kaden had the sudden, overwhelming premonition that violence was about to erupt, brutal, fatal violence.

  “We all go together,” Kaden said
firmly, looking Pyrre in the eye, then Tan. “She may be a priest of Ananshael, but she’s on our side.” He forced himself not to look at Phirum’s crumpled form, not to think about that dark steel parting the boy’s soft flesh. His stomach was churning with guilt and fear, but if he failed to convince his umial to go along, someone else was going to get killed. Maybe all of us are going to get killed.

  “A few hours ago, the imperial embassy was on your side as well,” Tan growled. “Don’t be so eager to count a man your friend.”

  “Or a woman,” Pyrre added.

  “I’m not saying she’s my friend,” Kaden responded, trying to keep his voice level. “I’m just saying we can go with her for now. Once we’re free, we can decide what to do.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with her,” Triste said. Since Tan had uncovered Pyrre’s real identity, Triste had been staring at her as if she were a viper poised to strike, and now Kaden noticed that her knuckles were white where she gripped the shaft of the candlestick. “I’ll go on alone before I go with one of the Skullsworn!”

  Pyrre waggled a knife at her. “Evidently, I was not as clear as I had hoped. Your continuing on alone is not one of the options. If you leave us, they will take you and you will tell them who I am, which will diminish our chances of escape. I’ll go over it again. Please try to follow along this time: You come with us, or I deliver you to the god.”

  Kaden snatched Triste by the wrist, worried that she might try to dart away. “And if we all come with you,” he asked guardedly, “you won’t hurt them?”

  The assassin spread her arms guilelessly. “I’ve said as much, have I not? Besides, I never hurt people; I only kill them.”

  Tan shook his head. “You can’t barter with her. You can’t negotiate. The priests of Ananshael have no loyalty to anyone but their blood-spattered god. This savior of yours has no pity, no compassion.”

  “It sounds like you’re describing an obscure sect of monks I recently had the misfortunate to come across,” the assassin replied, an eyebrow arched.

  “The question is not one of emotion,” Tan replied, “but of loyalty.” He turned to Kaden. “Did you see this woman hesitate when we told her her husband had fallen?”

  Pyrre said, “Jakin was not my husband—that was only a story—but we worked together many times. He was honest, kind in his rough way, and deadly with that crossbow. I will miss him, monk, but I will not weep for him. The god comes for us all.”

  Kaden took a deep breath. “Your contract instructed you to save me. So you won’t kill Tan or Triste if I tell you not to.”

  Pyrre seemed amused by the idea. “I was paid to keep you alive, not take your orders. Emperor, butcher, peddler: all men die in much the same way, and the god’s ministers tend to them all equally.” She paused. “However, the monk seems to know these mountains, and the girl … the girl may have her uses yet. I have no quarrel if they join us, at least for now.”

  Kaden turned to Tan. “What is it Nin was always saying? ‘Truth is just the straightest line between two points.’ Right now the straightest line is all of us together, straight up that ravine.”

  Tan considered this, dark eyes hard and impossible to read. “Up,” he said finally, turning toward the path.

  “Up,” Pyrre said, shaking her head in bemusement. “Why does it always have to be up?”

  45

  Valyn had seen some forbidding terrain during the course of his training—the icy Romsdal peaks south of Freeport, the blistering sands of the Seghir Desert, Hannan jungles north of the Waist—but nothing so vast and daunting as the Bone Mountains. The peaks were aptly named: white shards of granite stabbed into the clouds like the bones of the earth itself, shattered and thrust up through the thin soil. Where the white of the rock ended, the white of snow and ice began, glaciers and seracs, sharp cornices edging the highest ridgelines, bowls of dirty snow leaking into frothing white rivers. They went on forever, these peaks, rank after serrated rank, etching the frigid blue sky.

  It had taken them four days, stopping only an hour at a time to rest the bird, to reach the southern foothills. Aside from the fatigue, which was standard Kettral fare, the flight was easier than anything they’d done in training. If Valyn could have forgotten what precipitated the journey, forgotten what lurked ahead, it could have been a pleasant training exercise in a remote corner of the world. Except it wasn’t an exercise. After what they’d done, there would be no more exercises.

  Traitors. That’s what they were now. That’s what they’d been since the moment they raided the armory and loosed Suant’ra from the roost. Valyn had been shocked at his Wing’s willingness to follow him north into lawlessness and disgrace. After all, if they’d remained on Qarsh, if they’d obeyed Shaleel’s orders and submitted themselves meekly to Kettral justice, the chances were good that they could have exonerated Annick. At the very least, the other four members could have cleared their names and, after finding a new sniper, gotten on with their duties.

  On the other hand, meek and obedient were not the first words he would have chosen to describe his Wing. He realized with a grim smile that the same stubbornness that made them question his authority day in and day out had probably caused them to kick back against the injustice of Shaleel’s inquest. The Flea’s words came back to him, calm and confident: Thought they’d make a good Wing.

  Only, they were the Flea’s enemies now. That was a sobering thought, one that scrubbed the smile right off Valyn’s face. In the history of the Eyrie, only two Wings had ever turned their coats—all cadets learned the stories—and they were both hunted ruthlessly into the ground. The commander of the Silent Stoop ended up slitting his own throat, while the Wing leader of Darkness was captured, tortured, then executed on the Qarsh muster grounds. Even as Valyn and his Wing flew north in pursuit of Yurl, others would be following, veterans, professionals. Maybe Fane. Maybe the Flea. It didn’t much matter. If any of them caught up to Valyn before he reached Kaden, the fight was likely to be quick and horribly one-sided.

  Almost there, Valyn reminded himself, scanning the peaks to the north. Almost to Ashk’lan, wherever that is.

  The Eyrie had the most comprehensive maps in Annur, maps detailed enough to show the alleys and sewers of a dozen cities on two different continents. Unfortunately, there was no reason to chart a sprawling mountain range at the northeastern perimeter of the empire. Aside from a few mining camps and a smattering of hardy goat hearders, the Bones were too high for settlement. In terms of military strategy, they might as well have been an impregnable wall or a vast ocean—an army wouldn’t make it through the lowest of the passes, and from what Valyn could see from the bird’s back, even well-equipped men on foot would have trouble crossing between the highest peaks. The range was far too wide and rugged for anyone—Annurians, Antherans, Urghul—to think about crossing, and so, aside from a few impressionistic scratches on the parchment and a blotch indicating the approximate position of Ashk’lan, he didn’t have much to go on when it came to finding his brother.

  As Suant’ra approached the peaks, Laith brought her down to within a few hundred paces of the jagged summits, just below the building cumulus clouds, into the systematic flight plan they’d agreed upon at the last stop. He’d climb a thermal in a low, lazy spiral to gain height, sparing ’Ra the effort, circle a few times to scout the mountains below, then glide down the far side in a rush of frigid wind that numbed the fingers and threatened to rip Valyn off the bird’s talons.

  The land comprised a maze of defiles, ravines, box canyons, and frothing white rivers as bleak and desolate as anything he’d seen. They quartered it for the better part of the morning, sketching out the standard grid search pattern one painstaking square at a time, finding nothing larger than a fairly impressive crag cat. According to Kaden’s few letters, Ashk’lan wasn’t much of a compound—no more than a few stone buildings nestled against the cliffs—and Valyn was starting to worry they’d fly right over it without noticing. It’s just one ’Kent-kissin
g stone piled on another down there. Some of the piles of scree and rubble looked so much like dilapidated buildings that he had no trouble believing he might mistake an actual building for a rock slide. His eyes stung from the strain of scanning the ground below, but he refused to look away.

  Gwenna was sharing a talon with him, her bright hair whipping in her face as she studied the ground below. After a while she leaned over to shout in his ear. “How high up the peaks?”

  Valyn shook his head.

  “How many buildings?”

  He shook his head again, and Gwenna rolled her eyes.

  For the hundredth time, he found himself wishing his brother had written in more depth about his life with the Shin. There had been letters—brief notes arriving via ship from Annur, sometimes years out of date—but the little “training” Kaden described sounded as bizarre as it was pointless. Evidently, the monks spent their days crafting pots or painting or just sitting around, admiring the mountains. As his eyes flickered over another rock-strewn valley, Valyn realized that, for all his anxiety, he didn’t really know his brother anymore. They had been constant childhood companions, but as their father used to say, different soil yielded different fruit, and it was hard to think of any soil more different from the Qirins than these hard, unforgiving peaks. Kaden the boy had been quick to laugh, eager to explore, but Kaden the boy was nearly a decade gone. For all Valyn knew, he could have thrown away his training, maybe even his life, in order to rescue an imbecile or a tyrant.

  Gwenna’s elbow jarred him from his thoughts. Dusk was gathering, the sun sagging toward the western steppe, but his demolitions master was pointing off to the northeast at what looked like one more notch in another file of peaks. Valyn couldn’t make out much of anything at that distance, certainly not the indistinct hue of stone huts against a stone background, but then, just as he was about to look away, a bright flash caught his eye. Setting sun on steel, he realized, then tugged a quick code on the signal straps leading to the flier’s perch above.