Kiara exchanged a glance with Balaren, who gave a slight shake of his head, indicating this was also news to him. “I thought you were the last surviving warlord?”
A cold smile touched Olek’s lips. “The key word is ‘surviving.’ I am the only one of the last eight warlords who still walks among the living. But the spirits of the other seven never left the lands they fought so hard to claim. We are not infrequent visitors to each other.” He shrugged. “I have long outlived my contemporaries, save for some among the vayash moru. As time passes, I find that I have few interests in common with the living, and the dead become very good companions.”
“Are their spirits nearby? Can you find out if they would join us in stopping the Durim?”
Olek looked amused. “They are quite nearby, and they already know of the Durim’s rise. In fact, they called to me from their crypts right before Balaren arrived with your royal summons. They are interred in the necropolis beneath Aberponte.”
“To keep the Nachele from waking, we need to defeat Temnotta’s dark summoner, and it would help a lot if the Durim weren’t causing panic behind our lines.” She met his eyes. “Would you like another chance at the Durim?”
Olek smiled so that the points of his eye teeth were plain. “I think I would enjoy that, and so might my fellow lords.”
Kiara hid her smile. “I believe Isencroft would rally around the warlords, even though, in recent months, they will not rally for flag and crown.” She met Olek’s gaze. “Do you realize that every Crofter claims to trace lineage back to one of the eight old warlords? It’s a point of personal pride and family heritage that runs deeper even than being of the kingdom itself.”
Olek chuckled. “I will leave them their pride, but I truly doubt all the lineages claimed are, shall we say, legitimate?”
“No doubt you’re right. But in this case, belief matters more than fact.” Kiara let out a long breath and squared her shoulders. “I’ll be frank. Isencroft is in a bad spot. Invaders on the coast, traitors among the people, and the Shanthadurists working their blood magic—most probably in support of the invaders. Alone, I don’t think I can rally them. Together, I believe we can.” She paused. “Will you help me? And do you think the other warlords would be willing to help as well?”
Olek looked at her in silence for a moment as if taking her measure. Finally, he nodded. “I will help you, Kiara of Isencroft. As for my fellow lords, I can’t promise, but I will give you my word to plead your cause to them.” A sad smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Old loyalties run deep. And if there was one thing every one of the warlords loved more than life, wealth, or family, it was this land. Even in death, that remains unchanged. I’ll bring you their decision by tomorrow night.”
The next evening, Kiara paced in her room. Cerise and Royster watched in silence while Kiara smoothed her dress down over her cuirass. The gown had a wide, full skirt that did a good job of camouflaging the armor. Cerise chuckled. “Don’t worry. You’ll be up on the balcony. From where the crowd is, the dress will look fine.”
Kiara raised an eyebrow. “That’s the least of my worries. What if the spirits won’t come?”
Cerise chuckled. “Having second thoughts?”
Kiara sighed. “Tice would certainly like it if I did. He and Allestyr had quite a row last night when they thought I couldn’t hear them. But I don’t see another way to stop the Durim, and maybe even the Divisionists.”
Cerise held out a platter of cakes to Kiara, who stopped her pacing for a moment. “Then stop second-guessing yourself. Trust your instincts.” She smiled. “Besides, you’ve always loved Sohan. It would be a shame not to enjoy your first feast night as queen.”
Outside in the courtyard, Aberponte glowed in the light of bonfires celebrating Sohan night, the Feast of Changes. Even from a distance, Kiara could hear the music and revelers. While the war had diminished the number of jousts and skirmishes, not even the threat of an invading fleet could deny Isencroft its ale on this feast night.
Sohan was one of the more lighthearted celebrations. In celebration of the change from autumn to winter, changes of all kind were embraced, with a preference for the silly, the ribald, and the extreme. Musicians played popular tunes but sang different and often bawdy new lyrics. There was no shortage of noblemen disguised in the garb of soldiers, farmers, and tradesmen, while the ladies of the court played at being shepherdesses or milkmaids. Children powdered their hair and chalked their faces to look old, while elders relaxed their dignity and indulged in youthful pursuits. In years past, Kiara had seen farmers dress pigs as sheep and pretend horses were milk cows. It was a night for hidden identities, as rich young men were often known to go about in disguise as beggars, and nearly everyone pretended to be someone they were not.
Even the food was changed for the feast night. Flower dyes were added to ale and liquor to turn the drinks unusual colors, and breads, cakes, meats, and vegetables were cut or twisted into the appearance of animals, plants, and other objects. Games and wagers abounded, and Crofters of all walks of life were encouraged to wish on the Sohan moon for changes they desired to see in the next year.
A knock sounded at the door. One of the guards opened the door. “Brother Felix to see you, Your Majesty.”
“Let him in.”
Brother Felix stood in the doorway, looking harried. “Allestyr sent me to let you know the ceremony is ready to begin. You’ve studied the ceremony so you know what to expect?”
Kiara nodded. “I just hope I’m not so nervous that I forget the words.”
Brother Felix smiled. “I’m told there’s room for ‘creative interpretation,’ if such a thing occurs.” He paused, and his smile faded. “There are a brace of palace guards here to escort you, and Balaren, Patov, and Jorven are already in place in the crowd below the balcony, where they’ll be on watch. Tice said to tell you that every guardsman in the barracks is on duty tonight, some in uniform and some spread among the crowd. I wish the Veigonn were here, but they’ve gone to the front lines with Cam. Even so, we’ve done everything to assure your safety.”
Kiara managed a smile. “Then let’s go.”
The aroma of roasting meat and freshly baked bread filled the castle as Kiara made her way down the stairs. Cerise and Royster stayed behind to watch the proceedings from another balcony. That was just as well to Kiara, who was happy to have them out of harm’s way.
The guards escorted Kiara to the large ballroom at the front of the palace, where a huge balcony opened out of the second floor. It was designed to enable a monarch to speak to a crowd gathered in the courtyard below, and Donelan had often used the setting for feast day greetings and major announcements. Count Renate was waiting for her, as were Tice and Allestyr. Two guards took up their watch outside the room, while two others went to stand just to the side of the open balcony.
“Is Olek here?” Kiara asked, looking around the room.
“I am.” Kiara startled as Olek appeared just behind them, without benefit of warning footsteps.
“And your ‘friends’? Will they join us?”
Olek gave a cold smile. “Yes. There is no lure for a soldier so sweet as the opportunity for a final victory.”
Kiara moved around the guards to where Allestyr stood behind a screen that kept the crowd in the courtyard from seeing beyond the balcony and into the room. “Is everything ready?”
“As ready as we can make it. Beyond the courtyard, there are large crowds in the streets tonight. I guess everyone’s decided to forget the threat of war for a night,” Allestyr said with a sigh.
“Well, then, let’s get started. I’d hate to keep the crowd away from their feast night ale.”
Trumpets blared as Count Renate stepped out onto the balcony. The autumn night was cold, but that did not seem to have tempered the crowd’s appetite for revelry. A bonfire just in front of the balcony served to illuminate the regent’s entrance and to cordon the crowd at a distance. A cheer went up from the assembly, though Kiara at
tributed its enthusiasm more to alcohol than to any true excitement over the crowning of a new monarch.
“Good feast night to you all,” Renate said, with the aid of one of the court mages to project his voice over the noise of the crowd. “I would like to wish you all a happy Sohan night.”
Again, the crowd roared its approval, tankards held high.
“I have served as regent in the trying weeks since the death of King Donelan. Now, it is time for me to step aside, time for Isencroft to crown a new monarch. I am honored to present Kiara, daughter of Donelan and Viata, to be crowned Queen of Isencroft.”
Squaring her shoulders, Kiara stepped forward. A cheer rose from the crowd, but it was notably less enthusiastic than the response to Renate’s feast day blessing.
Standing in the center of the balcony where Kiara knew most of the crowd could see her clearly, she looked out over her skeptical new subjects. “I wish that I could join in the celebration, but tonight, Isencroft faces invaders from the north who would take this land and this crown by force,” Kiara said, feeling her passion rise to the occasion. “Our armies have gone to fight, but there are traitors among us who would welcome both the invaders and their bloody ways.”
The crowd had begun to stir restlessly. If they had expected a wave and a smile, they were now beginning to wonder just what was in store, Kiara thought.
“These traitors would not only challenge this crown, but they also invade the lands for which the warlord fathers of the eight clans fought and bled. The same enemy that the clan lords fought now seeks to return, the very same murderers who were driven out by the lords of old. Black Robes walk among us, Durim, the followers of Shanthadura, the Destroyer. You know what I say is true. You have heard the rumors, seen the tombs that were desecrated. It is time to end this, once and for all.”
At her nod, Olek stepped onto the balcony beside her, and the crowd quieted nervously. “I am Olek, son of Olek, last of the eight warlords, ruler of the Clan Kirylu.” Olek’s voice carried across the cold night air, and the crowd fell silent. “And I am not alone.”
At Olek’s words, the temperature in the courtyard plummeted. As Kiara watched, a chill blast of air swept into the yard, and with it, a blue haze that glowed independent of the light of the bonfires. As the crowd murmured and drew back, the haze hovered over the yard for a moment and then slowly rose to the balcony, enveloping Kiara in the mist. Figures began to take shape in the haze, until the forms of seven men dressed in antique armor stood, ghostly swords in hand, a line of spectral defenders behind Kiara.
“Leksandr, of Clan Dunlurghan.” Cheers rose from those scattered throughout the crowd who claimed Clan Dunlurghan as their own. The ghost of a tall man with shoulder-length dark hair stepped forward to stand beside Kiara and Olek.
“Gavrill, of Clan Finlios.” This ghost was shorter than Olek and Leksandr, but with powerful arms and broad shoulders.
“Illarion, of Clan Skaecogy.” Another spirit stepped up beside Kiara. Medium height, solidly built. What caught Kiara’s attention was the glint of intelligence in Illarion’s ghostly eyes.
“Ceshilban, of Clan Dromlea.” The fourth spirit carried the ghostly image of a huge war hammer. Long, light-colored hair hung shoulder length around a square face, and Ceshilban’s eyes shone with implacable determination.
“Luka, of Clan Tratearmon. Minya, of Clan Veaslieve. Pyotir, of Clan Rathtuaim,” Olek called, and each name was greeted by scattered shouts and cheers as the crowd showed its pride in their warrior ancestors. When all eight of the clan lords stood in a semicircle around Kiara, Renate turned to Allestyr, who handed him the crown. Renate lifted the crown for all to see.
Renate turned to the crowd. “In light of the fact that the clan lords honor us with their presence, I defer to Lord Olek,” Renate said, ceremoniously passing the jeweled crown to Olek.
“People of Isencroft,” Olek said. “Kiara of the House Sharsequin is your rightful ruler, as the daughter of King Donelan and the blood heir to the lands of the eight warlords.” He placed the crown on Kiara’s head. “Behold your new queen.”
The crowd roared and clapped, but Kiara could see some among the revelers who did not look pleased and who remained still and watchful.
Olek bowed, and one by one, the ghosts of the eight warlords also bowed in tribute. Kiara swallowed hard, overcome for a moment. Olek’s back was to the crowd, and he caught her eye and winked, letting her know that every movement was planned for its effect on the audience.
Kiara took a deep breath and stepped forward. Olek and the ghosts of the warlords formed a semicircle behind her. “Sons and daughters of Isencroft, your fathers have risen from their slumber to destroy the Durim and those who aid them.” Kiara’s voice carried over the exclamations of the crowd.
Behind the screen, in the ballroom, Kiara heard hushed voices. Tice peered around the screen, his eyes wide. “The guards just reported that thirty dead Black Robes have been dumped in the outer courtyard. The guards didn’t see anyone, but suddenly, the bodies were there.”
Olek’s lips tightened in a chilling half smile. Kiara met his eyes, and she nodded approvingly.
Kiara had drawn the sword that the spirit queen had given her in the crypt. Now, she held it aloft. “Tonight, the ancient warlords have killed thirty of the Black Robes that trouble our land. The bodies of the traitors lie in the outer yard.” The crowd gasped, and festivalgoers began to turn and strain for a look beyond the courtyard gate.
Kiara held the sword so that it gleamed in the torch light. “The dead have begun the work, but shall we leave it to the dead to do the work of the living?”
A roar went up from the crowd, even as some nervously eyed the queen and the ancient clan lords.
“Shall we leave it to the dead to protect us?” Kiara challenged. Another roar rose from the crowd, louder now.
“The Durim were not alone in their treason. They and the Divisionists murdered King Donelan, and they would hand Isencroft over to an enemy army and a traitor lord. We have seen the mettle of the dead. Do the living have the same courage to drive out the destroyers of Isencroft?”
The crowd found its voice, and the roar grew louder. “The clan lords have brought me the Durim. But we will not be strong enough to fight the invaders until the Divisionists who burn our city and threaten your families are brought to justice.” Kiara brought the sword of the clan lords down so that it pointed out to the crowd, and she held it in a two-handed grip.
“I ask no coronation tribute save this: Bring me the Divisionists. Bring me the traitors who would challenge the throne, the ones who murdered my father. Let their bodies be your tribute, and banish the flames from our city. For Isencroft, and for the eight clans, I bid you fight!”
“I-sen-croft! I-sen-croft!” The chant spread throughout the crowd until it rang from the walls of the palace and echoed in the streets beyond. The crowd cheered and shouted, and Olek gave Kiara a nod of approval. But the mood of the feast day crowd had shifted. The cries and cheers now sounded angry, and some among the crowd grabbed wood near the bonfires and lit torches, rallying into groups ready to storm the city in search of Divisionists.
There was a scuffle in the crowd, and several men emerged, holding two other men by the arms as they shoved the prisoners forward. “Here are two for you, right away, Your Majesty. These two be Divisionists. That I can state for sure.”
Kiara looked down at the two prisoners. One of them had a growing bruise near his eye, while the other sported a split lip. “Is this true?”
“Death to the whore of Isencroft,” the first prisoner spat. The second man said nothing, but nodded his assent.
Kiara moved to demand that the prisoners be taken to the guards, but before she could speak, the cold wind and its blue haze swept through the courtyard again. When the wind stilled, two of the ancient warlords stood in front of the terrified prisoners and their equally fear-struck captors. Before anyone could move, the ghosts surged forward, plunging their spectral s
words deep into the chests of the prisoners. The Divisionists screamed and their captors shouted in alarm. Quickly as they came, the ghosts vanished. The Divisionists sagged in the grip of the men who held them.
“They’re dead,” one of the captors said, raising his head to look at Kiara with an expression of fear and awe. “But there’s not a mark on them, no sword wound, nothing.”
For a moment, it seemed as if the crowd held its collective breath. Then a voice shouted from its midst: “Death to all traitors to the clans!”
“Death to Divisionists! Death to the enemy!” The crowd took up the cry. Holding their makeshift torches aloft, the crowd surged toward the gate, spilling out of the palace courtyard and into the streets. The mob swarmed down toward the city, leaving behind them the litter of the feast and the two dead Divisionists.
Kiara paused for a moment, watching the torches of the mob head down the road toward the city, before she allowed Allestyr to guide her back into the ballroom. Kiara looked to Olek and the ghosts of the other clan lords.
“Thank you,” she said, looking to each lord in turn. “I’m grateful for what you did tonight.” She met Olek’s gaze. “Have the clan lords really destroyed the Durim?”
Olek shrugged. “We were mistaken once before. We may again be mistaken now. But I would wager that, like long ago, any Durim who escaped the punishment will shed his black cloak and think twice about joining this battle.” He smiled, revealing his eye teeth. “We discovered that the Durim’s allegiance to their goddess came second to their desire to protect their own skin.”
Kiara sighed and collapsed against the high back of the chair. “Goddess! What a night!” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the emotion of the night’s events tempered into exhaustion. She opened her eyes and looked from Allestyr to Olek. “We’ve set the mob on the Divisionists, as we intended to do. But I fear the justice of a vengeful mob. There will be innocents who die, as well as the guilty. We may pay a high price in blood for what we gain this night.”
The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two Page 33
