“We wouldn’t have held half as long as we did without Hadan’s army.” Tain motioned to the hundreds of tents working their way up the rise behind them, surrounding improvised pens that had been set up to hold the Cutaran prisoners.
Grith sighed. Tain still didn’t know about Hadan’s death, no one did outside of the Emperor’s inner circle. There was still no word on the succession, which worried Grith more than anything. Kareen had implied there were measures in place, but she had also said there were difficulties.
“A lucky break, that,” Irrin said. He turned to Uche. “We’ll be stationing our armies here for the time being. The Emperor will undoubtedly want to speak with us.” Irrin grimaced and lowered his voice slightly. “Especially now that I know he won’t be putting a knife in my back.”
“I’d like to talk to him as well,” said Uche. “Find out how he knew about the Cutaran army.”
Grith refrained from giving voice to the singular thought that played across his mind: that Hadan was dead. He had made a promise, and that was something that he would not go back on, not without good reason.
“First I’d like to rest,” Irrin said. “We’ve been driving ourselves hard these past few days to reach here.”
Driving yourselves hard? Grith considered, watching the soldiers milling about behind them. Not half as hard as your men. Most looked ready to drop from exhaustion, tents and bedrolls be damned. He did a quick search of the faces he could see, but even in the Deepening, there was no way he could make out a few Shaleese amongst the thousands of Selivians and Linsgravi.
“High Lord?” Grith began as Irrin turned to leave. It was the first time he had used the man’s honorific in as long as he could remember. “There are things we need to discuss. The men from my village-”
He nodded. “Tonight. For now, I think I will take lunch, and a drink, if there’s any to spare.”
Thirty-Six:
Kareen
The succession was going to kill Kareen, she just knew it…
It had been two days, and still Hadan’s advisors argued. There was a never ending stream of proposals, retorts, and counter-proposals. Oranhur wanted to release a public statement, telling the lords, the soldiers, and the world of Hadan’s death. Renna on the other hand, wanted to keep the succession as quiet as possible. And Loen thought they should reach out to Ytan Tylis and attempt to work with him.
“The man can’t be trusted,” Renna said. “I’ve met him on a few occasions. He is a mercenary, a bloodthirsty opportunist who somehow got in the Emperor’s good graces.” She placed her hands on Hadan’s old planning table and let out a long sigh. “He was a bodyguard, nothing more. And then this? He must have found a way to manipulate the Emperor-”
“Are you implying we should go against his wishes?” Loen interjected, seemingly aghast. “I may not like the man, but blessed Tirrak, Renna, look at what you’re saying!”
“Regardless,” Oranhur interjected. “The men have to know. They’re already suspicious as it is. Much longer, and we’ll have to start worrying about desertions.”
Renna shook her head. “I just wish there was another way. Every moment we sit here, is another moment Tylis can use to secure his position back home.”
“Wait!” Oranhur exclaimed, stepping around the table. “Tylis knows? How?”
“The Emperor and his successor share a… bond of sorts.” The general looked confused, but Renna didn’t seem ready to elaborate on the statement. “Tylis would have known His Highness had passed from the moment I opened the Signet Ring.”
“Do you have any other secrets you’d like share with us?!” Oranhur turned, slamming his hand on the desk. “Next I guess you’ll tell me Tylis can fly and shoot lightning from his fucking fingers!”
“This still doesn’t answer anything,” Kareen said, speaking up for the first time. “Do we accept the succession or not?”
Renna drew in a deep breath and turned, walking to a serving table in the corner that held an assortment of refreshments. Even out on the plains, they were never far from a drink. She poured a glass of wine, a strong red from the look of it, and took several testing sips before downing its contents. “Tylis is scum,” she said with disdain. “Nothing more. He doesn’t deserve the throne, no matter how legitimate his claim.”
Loen shook his head. “That attitude sets a dangerous precedent, Renna. The succession of the Empire will no longer be dictated by tradition and ritual, but by who is the strongest. Is that something we are prepared to do?”
“To keep that snake off the throne,” said the old woman, “maybe.”
“Who exactly is this man?” Kareen asked. She had never even heard of this Ytan Tylis before. Was he really so dangerous as to illicit thoughts of rebellion?
“I met him when he was a boy, an orphan from Whitestone,” The advisor looked peeved. Talking to the daughter of a country noble, such as Kareen, always seemed to have that effect on her. “Normally, his kind would have been put in the Highlanders where they belong, but Hadan saw something in Ytan he didn’t see in the others. A fire, I would guess. Fire of that kind always scared me. But always it intrigued him.”
“He thought Tylis could better serve the Empire if he went to El’kabal and trained with the monks there. I thought the training might temper that fire, but it seemed that if anything, it only served to stoke it.” Loen opened his mouth to say something, but Renna cut him off. “You haven’t seen him before, looked into his eyes. The idea of that man leading the Empire… frightens me.”
Kareen felt suddenly chilled. Renna, normally so full of fire, looked small and even older than her years let on. Who was this man, to sow so much fear?
“You want a rebellion?” Loen demanded. “A civil war? Because that is all you will get following this line of reason.”
“That man cannot sit on the throne, Loen. You have to realize that?”
Oranhur sighed. “And who would take Tylis’s place?” He fixed the elderly advisor with a hard stare. “I hope you don’t mean to propose yourself.”
Renna waved a hand in the general’s direction. “Foolishness. Even if I was younger, I would never presume to take the position. Too much responsibility. Not enough rewards.” She suddenly turned to Oranhur, and squinted, as if as an idea, long buried, had chosen that moment to resurface. “You spoke of that boy once. What was his name?”
“Loron Kabris,” Oranhur replied. “A genius, if the reports I’ve been getting from his tutors are anything to go by.”
“And seventeen,” Kareen reminded him. “You said it yourself, general. Another twenty years and he might be ready, but should he really be running the Empire at that age?”
“There have been younger rulers,” Loen added, “in the days before Hadan.”
“And we should be basing the quality of rulers on the pre-imperial kingdoms?” Renna demanded, her voice quickly taking on a sarcastic edge. “Ah yes, the glory days when Hadalkir was divided into a hundred warring states. What a lovely time to return to. I suppose you want us to start hanging villagers from trees while we’re at it?”
“Kabris’ men love him,” Oranhur said. “And that is saying something for the Heranans. They don’t normally take well to mainlanders, even those with whom they share blood.”
“This Kabris?” Renna asked. “He is a general? At seventeen?”
“A general in training,” Oranhur assured her. “But brilliant. A good leader.”
“I would like to meet him,” she said. “If I wasn’t on the other side of the world, that is.”
“Listen to what we’re saying.” Loen looked like he was ready to snap. His eyes darted from Oranhur to Renna and back again. “We’re committing treason! We could be sent to the gallows for simply having this conversation!”
“Are you sure of this, Renna?” Oranhur asked, ignoring the old man for the moment. “Is Tylis really a tyrant?”
>
The advisor paused for the briefest of moments, as if considering her next words carefully. “Yes. And even if he was not, he killed Hadan to take the throne. Under no circumstances can a man like that be Emperor.”
Oranhur nodded. “Good. Then I’ll send a letter to Herana. Loron won’t receive it for weeks yet, but it will give us time to prepare.”
“Are you sure he’s the best choice, general,” Kareen asked. Tirrak! She could hardly believe what she was saying. Loron was right, they were talking treason! Regardless, the words just seemed to spill from her. “You said that Emperor Hadan had thousands of descendants. Don’t they all have legitimate claims to the throne?”
“Aye, they do. But I don’t know a tenth of them. I know Loron. I even took part in the boy’s early training. We can trust him.”
Renna sighed and glanced down at the map of Fanalkir. “Send your message then, Oranhur, and be quick about it. It seems we have a rebellion to plan.”
Thirty-Seven:
Tain–Grith
Tain stepped through Irrin’s camp on quiet feet, rubbing at his partially healed ribs and trying to ignore the grinding pain that came with each footfall. He passed a group of guards wearing the High Lord’s colors and nodded. The men gave crisp salutes in return and went back to their positions at the entrance to Irrin’s complex of tents. They needed to be watchful tonight.
Tain returned to scanning the darkness past the torchlight. The camp was well patrolled by the rank and file soldiers, but what good would they be if the Highlanders tried to make another attempt on Irrin’s life? And what if this time, they were successful? He’d seen the brown cloaked men and women amongst Hadan’s retinue. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, he still couldn’t trust them, not after the events that had transpired in Toashan.
Tain gritted his teeth and did another circle of the tents, scanning the shadows cast by Tirrak with senses enhanced by his Delving. Nothing, always nothing. Dammit! If the bastards were going to attack, he would rather have them just go ahead and get it over with. At least then he would get some relief. This anxiety, this constant feeling that there were assassins in the shadows, knives sharpened and ready, was starting to get to him.
They’d be moving in a few days. They’d have to be. Going back to Ytem would make the most sense. It was the closest city to the Divide, after all. From there, Tain didn’t know. Home perhaps. His job would be easier back in Selivia, where he knew the land and the people.
Irrin needs to be gotten off the world stage, Tain thought. Then at least we’ll have time to catch our breath, plan our next move. Even after the violent blur of the past few days, the battle at Erno was still fresh in his mind. He might have killed dozens of Cutarans only yesterday, and watched as his student sent their leader into the abyss, but he still didn’t feel safe.
A commotion somewhere in the darkness drew Tain’s attention, but it didn’t sound threatening. Just an argument between soldiers, if he had to guess. Such things were so common in an army camp that after a while you hardly even noticed. Except…
The sound wasn’t coming from the camp. It was coming from behind him! From inside Irrin’s tent!
Tain turned and ran, ignoring the ache of his ribs as he pushed himself harder and harder. Irrin’s guards were already in motion, but they were weighed down by heavy armor. They wouldn’t be fast enough.
Tain slid into the Deepening as he approached the entrance to Irrin’s complex of tents. He burst through the flap, not even breaking stride as he took a left towards the High Lord’s sitting room. Grith should be there with him. They wanted to talk, after all. Unless…
No! He wouldn’t even consider that. He and Irrin had both agreed the secret would be kept until they were sure how Grith would react. That secret: if they weren’t careful it would destroy the young man.
There was a crashing sound from ahead of him, and suddenly everything went silent, dreadfully so, quiet as the tomb he had discovered in El’kabal so many years ago. Tain came to the entrance to the sitting room and placed his hand on the fabric screen that obscured his view of the interior. He stopped. Something had happened, something that gave him cause to hesitate…
Somehow, he knew what he would find even before he pulled back the flap. Whether it was instinct, or premonition, he didn’t know, but it did precious little to quell his shock upon seeing the body.
Irrin, High Lord of Selivia, had been pinned, pinned, to his chair by a long dagger. He stared sightlessly at the ceiling with glassy eyes, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth to mix with the greater part on his chest where the blade had been driven in with force only a Delver could have mustered.
Tain’s breath hissed in gasps between his teeth as he approached the body. He’d done it! By all Tirrak and the Stars, Grith had done it!
This is where secrets got us, Tain thought as he cautiously placed a hand on Irrin’s neck, impotently feeling for a pulse. There was none. The High Lord was truly dead then.
Tain turned as the first guard entered the room. The man stopped in his tracks, a look of horror crossing his face. “The High Lord is dead!” Tain told him. “Fetch the lords and alert Uche!” He rose from where he had knelt beside Irrin’s corpse. “The assassin can’t have gotten far! I’ll give chase!”
Tirrak! Bloody fucking Tirrak!
* * *
Grith waited on the plains to the east of the camp, watching the light of the last cook fires wink out as the soldiers prepared for bed. He let out a shaky breath and set himself down on one of the rocks that dotted the desolate landscape. He held his right hand up to the Sky Father and watched as the dark silhouette shook. In the blue light, he couldn’t see the bloodstains. He tried to enter the Deepening, hoping to calm his frayed nerves, but for the first time since fighting the Ignean back in Erno, the trance eluded him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Grith could see a figure approaching from the direction of the camp. He was alone, thank the Spirits, and was taking his time. It seemed that Tain would hear him out at least.
“I didn’t enjoy killing him,” Grith said as his teacher came to within easy speaking distance. “But…” He gritted his teeth and tried to stop the shake that entered his voice. “But I couldn’t let the crimes he committed go unanswered.”
“Grith-” Tain tried to interject.
“Crimes you were complicit in, you bastard!” Grith rose to his feet, the rage exploding from him in a great torrent—the rage of months spent in service to these vipers. “I trusted you. Trusted you when you told me my friends were alive. Trusted you when you told me they were somewhere in this Spirits forsaken army!”
“Grith,” Tain repeated, holding up a hand. “We can talk about this…”
“I know what happened,” Grith breathed. “I made Irrin spit it out before I killed him, killed him with his own fucking knife.” He took a step forward and let his hand stray to his belt where Irrin’s longsword lay, the one he had used to protect the High Lord back in Erno. He felt sick even carrying the thing. But he’d needed a weapon, needed a weapon if this came to blows.
“But I want to hear the story from your mouth too.”
“Grith, please. Don’t make me do this.” There was pain in Tain’s eyes, emerald green, reflected in the light of Tirrak. Did he really feel something, after all he’d done? How could he? The jovial fop, the man that Grith had taken to so easily—he was a lie, a mask. What lay underneath, he still didn’t know.
“I…” He opened his mouth and closed it again. He shook his head and edged forward, holding his hands up to show he was unarmed.
“It was right after you were knocked unconscious, when we fought in Kuul.” He gave a shaky sigh, but continued forward anyway. “Two men, one short by your people’s standards, the other tall, came rushing forward. They shouted that they’d kill us for what we’d done to you. The taller one grabbed his belt knife, tried to atta
ck.” Tain shook his head. “I cut him down before he could get within ten paces of Irrin.”
A knot formed in Grith’s stomach. He had heard this all before, from the High Lord’s own mouth, but Tain was different. Grith had put so much trust in the man. Now, it all fell away, sloughing off like the molted skin of a snake. The mask was gone. He had killed Yiven, a crime in itself, but what about Itte?
“We made an example of the other, to make sure your people would never stand up to us again. I wasn’t the one to put the knife in the short one’s neck, but I watched.” He balled up his fists, and for the first time, summoned up the strength to look Grith in the eye. “And I did nothing. I can’t apologize for what I did, for the lies I told.”
“You’re right,” Grith said. “You can’t. You can’t forgive oaths like the ones you gave. Do you remember, back in the cart, the day after we fought? You told me my people were safe.”
He put his hand on the hilt of Irrin’s sword. He thought of Shull, her brother and husband both dead, alone in her mourning, without even Grith there to help share the burden of her grief. “I ought to kill you. You don’t deserve anything better.” Strangely, Tain didn’t move for the saber at his belt. If I ran him through right here, Grith thought, he wouldn’t even try to stop me.
“Perhaps.” Tain took another step forward. “And perhaps it was justice, what you did to Irrin. When I told you he wasn’t a good man, I didn’t lie.” There were some five paces separating them now, close enough that either could strike the other down with impunity.
Grith reached down with his other hand and with a flick of longs fingers, undid the clasps that kept the sword tied to his belt. He threw the fine weapon at Tain’s feet and turned to gather his pack, laden with enough food to reach Ytem. “I’m going home,” he told his former teacher. “The next few months will be hard for the Empire. My people will need my help to get through unscathed.”
“Hard on the Empire?” Tain sounded confused. So he still didn’t know?
The Argument of Empires (The Corrossan Trilogy Book 1) Page 44
