Murmurs rippled among the High Council.
Mangeurs. No mystery veiled the fates of the captured livestock and villagers. Attacked by a horde of enemies offering no terms of surrender, making no demands, standing twenty feet tall and hungry, the villages had faced only slaughter.
Tor exhaled slowly. “Considering the losses, even if we do send more men, their morale will be very low, and there’s no certainty of victory. But if Espoire is lost, the march might not survive the winter. And there’s no telling if the mangeurs will stop with Bisclavret.”
And it’s my responsibility.
“We need more allies to combat this menace,” Derric interrupted, his honey-brown eyes intent. He swept out a hand. “A marriage tie to a country willing to provide soldiers would benefit us most.”
Jon placed both of his hands on the table, staring at them, clean and smooth. It had been too long since he’d been out in the wilds, dispensing Terra’s justice where it was needed. Here, he’d grown useless, his roughness dulled, his greatest skills unneeded. His attention moved to his Sodalis ring. As a king, his uses were few, despite his power. Soon, duty could require the last thing he wanted to bargain away.
“That is our boldest démarche,” Pons intervened, “but we can only take it once. It is best saved for the direst of situations. We are not yet at that crossroads, Derric. There is another way, something unconventional, but…”
Derric lowered his voice, and the pair whispered in lively tones. More than one Grand leaned closer.
The words sank in while Jon stared at his hands. Another way… “You mean the Earthbinding.”
Leigh scoffed. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, that is nothing but a legend,” he said, with a small, contemptuous smile.
“And you prove yet again, Master Galvan, that you do not, indeed, know everything,” Pons replied with a sigh. He looked back to Jon. “Your Majesty, nearly a millennium ago, it was one of Your Majesty’s ancestors who last performed it.”
Jon nodded. It had been King Tristan Armand Marcel Faralle, who’d married the Lothaire pirate queen.
But a devout Terran and former paladin performing a pagan ritual…
Dancing under the moon, naked. You know, black arts stuff. Rielle’s playful voice caressed his thoughts. The firelight in her sky-blue eyes, she had smiled that captivating smile of hers in camp, just a couple days from the Tower.
A hollow formed in his throat. It widened to his chest. When would he see her again?
No. He couldn’t think about that now.
“Your Majesty?” Tor’s voice cut in.
Jon blinked, sucking in a deep breath. Letting his mind wander that road would only render him useless here. “I won’t rule it out, but we are not yet so desperate.” And he glanced at Derric. “Marriage would bring an alliance, true, but not in time to save Espoire.”
He looked at Leigh. “You will work on securing an alliance with Vervewood, so that we may have some support in the future to face these threats.” He turned to Olivia. “In the meantime, send to the Emaurrian Tower for an elementalist. Pay whatever the Proctor wants. It’s time the Divinity helped. I want a mage working with our forces to stop these attacks. Arrange for their agent to meet us as soon as possible at Castle Brugière in Bisclavret.”
“Us?” Marquis Auguste questioned. “You mean to go to the castle for the battle, Your Majesty? After over a hundred have been killed by these—”
“One hundred and forty-eight.” Jon and his cousin often disagreed, and despite being the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, the man was a blatant isolationist, but Jon required a High Council capable of more than saying yes. And although Auguste often challenged decisions in closed sessions, he supported them when they were final.
Alliances with Immortals, blasphemous rituals, political marriage… Before he could agree to any of these things, he needed to assess the Immortal threat with his own eyes. “And I don’t mean to stay in the castle. I mean to fight.”
A few stunned faces contrasted with unsurprised glares from those who knew him well.
“Your Majesty, this is an ill—” Derric began.
“It’s brilliant,” Tor cut in. He leaned back in his chair. “With their king leading them into battle, our forces’ morale will be high.” He glanced at Derric. “And regarding Parliament stalling on the legitimization, perhaps His Majesty should remind them that he isn’t a soft diplomat whose greatest prowess is warming chairs. He is a warrior king. A paladin king. Exactly what a land in turmoil needs to lead them.”
Speechless, Jon raised his eyebrows at Tor, who nodded in reply. “Thank you, Lord Constable.” Indeed, while Parliament didn’t act on the legitimization, Princess Sandrine Elise Faralle El-Amin’s claim to the throne remained. Instead, they wasted time on objecting to the funeral costs for the recently deceased Faralles. Disrespect. And a not-so-subtle clue as to their estimation of his own worth, too.
“Coordinate with Paladin Grand Cordon Guérin. Let’s not take chances with numbers—a full company,” Jon commanded.
Tor nodded and gestured to his clerk.
“I’m coming, too, Your Majesty.” Pons raised his head.
At seventy-two years of age, even the few days’ travel to Bisclavret through the snow would be difficult for him. “Lord Chancellor—”
“Your Majesty, I am an old man,” Pons declared, his words sucking all the air out of the room, “but I am a magister. I will be of greater use to you there for a few days than here.”
A sober-faced Leigh nodded his respect.
“Very well. Thank you, Lord Chancellor. It’ll be an honor.” Jon inclined his head. “We’ll leave as soon as the Paladin Grand Cordon can muster the forces.”
After the topic of the raids, the officers of the High Council raised a few more subjects. It was well past midnight by the time the meeting ended. Eloi and the other clerks would have a long night ahead of them, overloaded with work, assembling experts on agriculture, history, culture, and other key areas of interest; amassing lists of items, their inventory, and their value from the Grands for negotiation with Vervewood; and drafting documents for the diplomats departing for the elven nation in the morning.
And Leigh, as promised, would get his… specialists.
As Valen, yawning and asleep on his feet, was leaving the dining room, Jon caught him.
“A moment, brother?” Jon tilted his head toward the study.
Shaking off the drowsiness, Valen accompanied him there, blinking his jade-green eyes sluggishly. “What’s wrong, Your Majesty?”
Jon grabbed the leather-wrapped portrait of the courier off his desk. “I need you to look into something for me,” he said, unrolling the portrait. They’d grown up together, fought together, bled together; Valen was family and utterly trustworthy. “Personally. At the carriage house in Chevrefeuils, at Monas Tainn, and at Partage, discreetly ask whether this man was seen, where he was going, what his habits were. Anything you can learn about him.”
Valen accepted the portrait and studied the face there. “Who is he?”
“His name might be Gerard, based on our current intelligence. A courier.” Jon crossed his arms. “For the one who hired Gilles.”
Valen’s thick eyebrows shot up. “Does the Order—”
“No.” Jon straightened. “I want this kept to as few people as possible. That’s you, me, the man who described this courier, a junior paladin, and Olivia.”
Valen’s head bobbed slowly. “I take it she was the one who found him?” When Jon nodded, Valen pressed his lips together and sighed. “Good head on her shoulders.”
“Talk to her before you go. Tell no one the purpose of your travel, and take whatever you need.”
Valen rolled up the portrait. “Maybe we’ll finally bring the monster responsible for all this to justice.” He lowered his gaze. “Maybe even find your lady love.”
Jon swallowed, his throat parched. “Terra willing.”
Once Valen left, Jon entered his
bedchamber, where a large painting graced the wall over the hearth. Rielle.
He stopped.
It had arrived at last. He’d asked the Duchess of Melain to send it to the palace on loan, and she had acquiesced.
Rielle coyly smiled down at him, and he fell into bed, his body aching with fatigue that did not even approximate the exhaustion of his mind. Thinking about her was a dangerous proposition, but at least with her portrait here, there was some hint of her presence. Enough to soothe the berserker inside that wanted to cast off everything and go after her.
At least he’d be out in the field again. It was a sad state of affairs when what he most looked forward to was staring death in the face. But he could be useful there, keep busy, do something about the mangeurs. Or at least try.
He’d fight them and pray it was enough. If the Immortals could be routed through conventional warfare, then there was hope yet for a normal life as king. If not, the Earthbinding, marriage to some princess, and any manner of solutions became not options but necessities. Necessities he needed to avoid.
Tomorrow he’d make for Bisclavret with Pons, a company of paladins, and Emaurrian soldiers, and he’d finally see the Immortal threat for himself.
Chapter 12
Rielle squinted against the bright sun. A large blur loomed in the distance.
A city? Which? Was House Hazael here? Her heart raced. This could be it. Would it truly be better than the stable?
It had to be. She trudged closer with the rest of the chained line.
A massive fortified wall enclosed an intimidating metropolis, the sandy shades of its peaks matching the desert it was situated upon. At its heart was the largest building, a huge cylinder with a domed roof, at its apex the universally known symbol for infinity—representing the union between anima in humans and anima in everything, the infinite, and the Divine.
The Divine’s most splendid temple.
It had to be Xir. Rumored to be a city of excess, where every desire could be bought, it was an architectural marvel, larger than every city she’d seen but Courdeval, with defenses that had been maintained for a thousand years.
From the guard towers, watchful eyes searched the horizon beneath kaffa and halla in white coats—mages. Sonbahar readily employed mages everywhere in their society, forsaking the useless suspicion still present in some countries, like Emaurria, for pure practicality.
She squinted. Two mages per guard tower. Likely enforcers—the most useful for military applications. Accompanying the mages were teams of archers, with pikemen guarding the gates and likely the guard towers’ ground level.
The entrances and exits were heavily guarded. Even if she could overcome insurmountable odds by killing her masters and escaping, there would be no getting by the mages alive without paperwork.
Could Jon arrange such a thing? She breathed deeply, slowly. Perhaps it wasn’t too much to hope that kingship would come with some connections through the High Council.
Ihsan led their caravan closer to the gate and pulled out some documents.
The woman defied categorization. She bought slaves but spoke to them like people; she forced them to traverse a desert on foot but healed them; and she commanded the authority of armed guards but did not punish the impudence of slaves. Why?
Did Ihsan Pleasure-Born of House Hazael struggle with her divergent parentage? Despite being a free woman and a child of a noble, perhaps Ihsan still carried the burden of her father’s slave status and so, expressed leniency where none was expected.
Or maybe it was something more sinister? The puzzle’s solution could prove useful, whatever awaited at House Hazael.
They passed through the gate without incident, and within the city’s walls, the market’s atmosphere was decidedly relaxed. Stores, stalls, and tents stood amply spaced from one another. A dense crowd perused wares while strolling lazily between them. Small oases with wells, trees, and flowers punctuated the buildings, a pacifying whisper of nature among the man-made surroundings. The smell of spiced food and incense filled the warm air, and somewhere beyond it all, slow and rhythmic drumming.
Throughout the narrow city corridors and beneath its peaked arches, Sonbahar’s caste system was clearly represented among Xir’s populace. The nobles were, despite the heat, clad in colorful thiyawb from head to toe and adorned in jewelry. The warrior caste wore black. Free men and women wore long robes in neutral tones. And casteless or slaves wore next to nothing, exposing their backs or brands, respectively.
Laborers wore little more than modesty demanded while house servants wore upper and lower robes with bare midriffs. Pleasure slaves wore the least of all, their garments small swaths of silk, transparent gossamer exhibiting every inch of the human body or, most shockingly, fine golden chains alone, sometimes linked to piercings in various uncomfortable places.
It was difficult not to look.
And the city didn’t seem perturbed in the least.
The caravan slowed. Ahead, gold gleamed in the sun’s radiance. An arch ornamented in an intricate kaleidoscope of river blue, burnt orange, sand yellow, and blood red framed a massive set of gates.
They drew open.
Lush green plants and trees and bright flowers bloomed in a stunning array.
A gasp escaped her lips. Paradise. Someone before her gasped, too—a dark-haired woman, one of the people she’d arrived with: the woman who’d tried to steal her food. Tall, shapely, and olive skinned, she was the picture of Sileni beauty, but her slender frame suggested she’d been at the stable some time, if not as long as Rielle had. She turned her head and widened her dark eyes.
This place was awe inspiring to see, even enslaved, even in chains.
The Sileni woman faced forward again as their entire line entered on a mosaic tile path. It ended in a courtyard surrounded by flora, bright tiles arranged in an enormous, thorned blue rose design. Around and above her, the lilting sounds of songbirds carried on the breeze. A pair of colorful parrots soared from a pomegranate tree to a flowering tree.
Beyond the courtyard, a grand villa graced the property, several stories high, with peaked doors and windows, its balconies and walkways sheltered by latticed screens carved with beautiful patterns. The sun shone through them, casting shadows, flowers that danced on the walls.
Somewhere inside, the ever-present sound of flowing water relaxed the atmosphere to bliss, complemented by the slow strumming of a lute and meandering music of a southern oboe.
Ihsan took them around the side of the villa in a long walk that led out to a smaller courtyard with a pool at its center, its mosaic and white marble bottom visible through the clear water. All around, tall palm trees cast some shade over the water, their lush green fronds swaying in the light breeze, lending a distinctly pleasant sweetness that mingled with the fresh scent of water.
Beneath it all, the faint, resonant clash of metal rang in quick succession.
Blades.
Two men dueled on the white flagstones, their rapiers colliding. One wore a reddish-purple thiyawb—Zeharan red—a most expensive dye. Twelve thousand rock snails off the coast of western Sonbahar produced enough dye for a single garment. She had seen its like only once before.
The other wore the black thiyawb of the warrior caste. They moved so fast she struggled to follow their movements. A quick strike, and the Zeharan-red duelist drew blood from his opponent’s shoulder.
That was it, then. Won.
But the duel continued.
A group of men reclined on large cushions off to the side, well-muscled like the guards of the warrior caste but wearing the bright colors of the nobility. Blood spattered onto the white flagstones at their feet.
A rapier clattered to the ground. The warrior-caste duelist grabbed his arm. Blood seeped through. The Zeharan-red duelist leveled his blade at his opponent’s heart.
She glanced at the reclining men for their reactions, but a strained cry came from one of the duelists.
The Zeharan-red duelist had impale
d his opponent. The warrior-caste man’s shocked eyes widened as they faded. He fell to the ground, the blood a slow bloom around his body. The victor pulled his rapier free, wiped it clean on the deceased’s body, and sheathed it.
He faced them, unperturbed. A dangerous man. A deadly man.
Fit for his medium build, he had a princely face and shining shoulder-length waves of black hair. As he drew closer, his dark, cool eyes sent a chill up her spine. Blood spatter blotted his otherwise unblemished golden-dark skin. He sauntered toward Ihsan with a wry smile.
“At last you return, half-sister,” he said in High Nad’i.
The reclining men rose.
“Farrad,” Ihsan greeted, her voice firm, deeper than before. She stood a little taller. Her eyes shifted to the dead man. “What was it this time?”
Farrad’s eyes danced, rich like mahogany obsidian. “He offered to purchase Samara.”
“And you killed him?”
He smiled. “I asked him to choose between flogging and dueling. He chose poorly.”
Ihsan looked away. “Is Grandfather around? I have brought the ten slaves he requested. They are ready for training.”
“No.” Farrad clasped his hands behind his back, standing with his feet shoulder-width apart. “He’s away on business.” His gaze wandered to the slaves, moving from one to the next until he reached the last, the boy. “I count not ten but eleven, half-sister.”
Ihsan approached her.
No. Why? Rigid, she hid under her mess of hair, shrugged her shoulders inward. As small as possible. A guard unlinked her chains from the rest of the group and handed them to Ihsan.
Singled out. No, no, no. What would happen to an eleventh, unrequested slave?
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 12
