Takhbarre said, “Only Empyrjurin feast like that before conflict. It supposes triumph before that triumph is earned.”
Dierá assumed the barb was for her benefit, but its hearing did not please her. She wiped the wetness from her cheeks as she sat up. She focused herself on Élvemere and the rebirth of her people, became again a queen of queens. “You could have taken your freedom just now.”
Takhbarre made a soft mournful sound. “Athania Dierá Steorra, you think you are at your best when you take on regal airs yet it is quite the opposite. To be the thing you want to be you must cast back the walls.”
“I think I’ve opened myself to you quite enough,” Dierá said. “You are not my ally, so don’t pretend to play the part of one.”
“Likely you’ll never know what part I play,” Takhbarre said half to himself. “I’m not here as outlet to your pain. Rather, to tell you of new whispers. It is time. You must begin.”
“And I’m to—”
“In The Abundance, there is discord. To wait until the morning would be too late.”
“And I should what? Interrupt the festivities of G’rkyr, Zanük, Jdes, and the whole of the Morkurhedwa?”
He said aloud, “A queen of queens would,” while whispering to her in thought. Isn’t that the thing you most want to be?
Dierá fled the sitting room, going to her bedchamber and closing the double doors behind her. Her haste was not because she trusted the Prince of Praxix, but rather because she could not be certain he was not telling the truth. Perhaps he had looked into the Path and seen their victory. Just as easily, though, he could have seen their defeat. Either way, a decision was needed.
She changed out of her finery and into the servant’s garb that was laid out for the morning. The two gold armbands she slipped up her right arm to her bicep told of her service in an important house. The red armband that followed told that she was the head of that household service. The final black armband gave her free passage in the slaveways and limited passage beyond.
G’rkyr’s garb as personal champion and protector was more tenuous. Few Drakón kept Jurin servants even before the Hundred Worlds War began. Fewer still did now, primarily only those who served in posts where Jurin assaults were common. Dierá did not fully understand the reasoning behind it, but it was what it was. More important was the fact that Praxix was not one of those posts. Takhbarre had never before kept Jurin.
In choosing the guises, Dierá had asked the prince many pointed questions. All the answers pointed to the choices she had made. There was no time now for second guesses. Action was needed. She swept up G’rkyr’s things, rushed from the room.
The halls were empty. She took the grand stairs, raced outside to the review platform.
She hurried past the dwindling piles of roast luven. She was disgusted, but resolved. Her focus was on what she must do.
G’rkyr, Zanük, and Jdes were inside one of the hastily erected pavilions feasting and drinking. Empyrjurin did not drink strong spirits before battle; they left that vice to those they conquered. Their drink was watered and mostly of a fiery substance that helped their eum flow. Eum was the wellspring of their power. It gave them fire and strength.
Dierá bowed and kneeled when she came to stand before G’rkyr. She did not speak, nor did she look at him. Instead, she held out the clothes as if to remind him that it was time. She meant the gesture as one to steal him away quietly. G’rkyr, not one to understand subtlety truly, stood abruptly, upsetting the table and knocking over his chair in the process.
Eyes that had not seen Dierá’s entrance now did. It was Zanük who came to her aid, sweeping her up and pulling G’rkyr away before Jdes could say anything. Outside beyond the pavilions and fires, Zanük set Dierá down. G’rkyr spoke first. “The luven,” he said, “I know it upsets you. The razing is custom. None now can speak our secrets. I told you of the luven’s purpose. The hive will be reborn. It is the way, and even Nostik will be Nostik once more, though he will not know all things of this life.”
G’rkyr’s words were as close to apology as his nature allowed. Dierá looked beyond Zanük and G’rkyr and saw plenty who could give away secrets. She started to throw her anger at him, thought better of it. She had not come to argue. “That Praxin says we must go now. That morning will be too late.”
Both Zanük and G’rkyr knew Dierá referred to Takhbarre. It was understood. She did not say his name because of the perceived power it gave him. Zanük and G’rkyr asked the same question at the same time, “You trust him in this?”
Dierá could not honestly say that she did, but waiting until morning seemed more wrong than acting now. “I trust only that we must do something now. Either he has seen our destruction or our salvation. Moving now seems to be the right choice. Waiting seems more wrong.”
“We move,” G’rkyr said without hesitation, raising a fist to show his resolve.
Zanük showed that he concurred by raising a fist to his brother’s. Within a half toll, the Morkurhedwa were formed up and waiting. They were one hundred strong, dressed in black steel and blue helms. Dierá stood beside Takhbarre. Zanük and G’rkyr said wordless goodbyes, clasping shoulders and thumping fists. Jdes opened a way portal for them, pulling the power from the earth at their feet and wrapping it with precision until the way opened.
The Morkurhedwa poured into the gate, fought their way out the other side, and then secured the area as needed. G’rkyr, Dierá, and Takhbarre followed. Jdes was last. He rode the final weaving of power out of the gate as the way closed behind them.
The first transition point was Ferfothin, a Trykathian world. G’rkyr expected little resistance. It seemed to Dierá that was what the Morkurhedwa found. Six transitions remained.
Chapter 23
1
Dierá bled and defended. It seemed the closer they got to the Drakón homeworld, the more resistance they encountered. This was not how it was supposed to have been. The way was supposed to take them through remote places and not into populated zones. She did not understand why they exited the gates in increasingly populated zones.
To her it seemed that either Jdes was incompetent or they were compromised. G’rkyr assured her otherwise as he defended himself with a two-handed stroke of his græsteel blade. “Five transitions on a direct line for Cevis al’Der, where my father’s armies begin their strike.”
It was not the plan she had agreed to previously. If true, why was she fighting for her life and bleeding on the purple rocks of Megris Dahwan? Where were the Morkurhedwa? Where was Takhbarre?
Jdes arched lightning directly at her. She dodged it but her attacker did not. The blue-white bolt caught the sæjurin full in the chest. He collapsed in agony at her feet.
With one long sweep of his blade, G’rkyr gutted his foes, a trio of Gnog pikers clad in a peculiar honey and rose colored armor. G’rkyr, Dierá, and Jdes regrouped and ensured there were no more foes. “My father’s armies strike while we move on. Two transitions on a tangent to Cyvair.”
“That was not the plan,” Dierá countered.
“It is as much of any plan as any Alv should know,” Jdes said.
His voice reminded Dierá of her place. She took three steps back and to the right, putting G’rkyr between herself and Jdes. In G’rkyr’s shadow she healed herself, thankful the blood had not soiled her clothes.
She squatted down, took in deep breaths. It had been a long time since she defended with a weapon other than words. She had almost forgotten the feel of steel in her hands and the taste of blood on her lips. The early days after Karthold had been all steel and blood. She had earned G’rkyr’s esteem with the same.
In the daypack at her side, Dierá found a clean cloth. She wet it using her waterbag; used it to clean herself. She washed G’rkyr next, removing the muck, blood, and guts from his arms, face, and neck while he cleansed his blade using a whetstone and fire. Jdes mocked her when she turned to him next. His scorn-filled laughter was abridged as much by G’rkyr’s cutti
ng stare as by her healing touch to a deep cut in his arm.
Dierá did not expect gratitude. Her act was not one of kindness or of need. It was one of pretense. Normally an Empyrjurin would have sealed such a wound with fire and taken the scar as a tribute to a contest won. Her purpose was to be seen. If plans had changed, she wanted Jdes to know her uses. She had proven herself apt in combat, purposefully taking on sæjurin over Gnogs; now she proved herself apt in wolskill. Jurin knew little of the healing crafts so she hoped the statement she made was clear.
Finished, she returned to her place in G’rkyr’s shadow. She felt Takhbarre’s absence as keenly as she felt the absence of the Morkurhedwa. Silently she battled her misgivings. She had misjudged G’rkyr; never credited his intellect or his ability to deceive. Were other betrayals ahead? Or had he simply put his people’s needs first as she would soon?
2
Martin stood beside Gerhold in stunned silence. Makhatar gave him Gerhold’s leash as if the other was a prize. Martin took the leash; he had no other choice. Any act that he did not perform of his own volition, Makhatar compelled him to do.
Constant struggle against the compelling was draining. Martin lost track of time. It had been some days since the sorting, but he knew not the exact count. The first execution had been the hardest. He had not expected it to occur in the colosseum but it had. Makhatar passed judgment and he as her executioner delivered it. It was a new twist to the games and the gathered throng reveled in it.
Each day brought something new. He was beginning to understand the microcosm of Makhatar’s entourage. They were of many peoples, including titan and Drakón, but not Jurin or Gnog. At first glance they seemed to be free to come and go as they chose. In truth, not a one was truly free, and they might as well have worn the same leashed collars that he and Gerhold wore.
The pecking order was defined mostly by rank and race. Drakón and titans were at the top, followed by S’h’dith. For the most part, these seemed to be royals of some sort or another, even among S’h’dith. Martin had not known that the snake people served any purpose other than as warriors and magi. He wondered if S’h’dith were newly elevated as Jurin once had been.
A Wërg, a Fedwëorg, and a Fhurtroll at the next rung were oddities, but also particularly valued prizes. The fourth rung, and the one he aspired to, included Alvs and Dwëorgs. He was the only Kingdomer, and the others lamented this greatly. His frailty was their doom. He would die a ghastly death if any of them forgot themselves for a moment, and then they would never hear the end of it. He guessed then that what Makhatar had said about him dying only when she wished it was more likely to be whenever she became bored with him, or allowed his death because of benign neglect.
The Drakón and titans had their own pets. These mostly were Trykathians, as they were considered heartier than Kingdomers and Goeks. There was some sort of odd power struggle between Gerhold and these Trykathians. Martin did not understand it, and was too busy trying to figure out the new rules to pay particular attention. Understanding the dynamics of the group and their rules was the key to carving out his place within it.
Moving the gaggle that was the entourage was a logistical nightmare. Makhatar did not care how the feat was accomplished, but when she looked for the entourage it must be present and formed exactly as she expected it to be. If she had a certain type of witty or sarcastic comment, her closest titan was expected to be at hand. His expected response was a haughty cackle and a compliment to her wit. If she was being petty and vile, her Drakón had best be close. They were expected to echo her acrimony. For other moments, her favored pets—the Wërg, Fedwëorg, and Fhurtroll—must jostle for her eye. It was all a grand theater; its purpose seemed to be to keep Makhatar and her inner circle from boredom.
Makhatar did not take Martin everywhere with her. At times, he and Gerhold spent many long tolls in the dark rooms where lesser members of the entourage slept at night. The rooms were several floors removed from Makhatar’s own rooms. At these times Martin hoped Makhatar had become bored with him and forgotten about him, yet this thought also caused him great distress.
He and Gerhold had no way to leave the dark rooms. If Makhatar should go off world or beyond the city and forget about those in her rooms, they would all starve and die. Only at Makhatar’s request did the doors open. Only in Makhatar’s presence was there food, drink, and light. It was as if they existed only when she said they existed.
This day, however, was different. Makhatar kept him close from the day’s earliest light. He knew not why, but the chatter was all about the coming entertainment. The expected spectacle was all anyone could talk about.
3
Jdes prepared a gate. Threaded magics began their spiral, opening the way. G’rkyr prepared to enter. Dierá walked behind him. She was certain all was lost.
Moments before they stepped away the miraculous happened. The Morkurhedwa returned with Takhbarre. He was bound and chained, which seemed to please Jdes more than the sight of the Morkurhedwa. Dierá knew then that his hatred of Drakón was even keener than hers. Useful information.
“Cevis al’Der was not part of the agreement,” Takhbarre shrieked.
G’rkyr struck Takhbarre and scoffed. “You were given a choice.”
“I’m Prince of Praxix,” Takhbarre replied. “I’ll not proceed until our terms are clear.”
G’rkyr indicated to the Morkurhedwa that they should remove the chains, and they did. Takhbarre was pushed through the gate against his will. G’rkyr and Dierá went next. Jdes pulled himself through on the final weaving of power.
They emerged not on a world or moon, but in a nexus. Much like Dierá’s shadow-created hollows, this place existed outside of the ordinary world. It was a place between places; it connected paths of several gate clusters. Arrival here gave Dierá a glimpse of how Jdes opened gates so easily. It made his aura as radiant as a star, and the dull tracings between him and the Morkurhedwa visible. Her lesser aura and lesser tethers to G’rkyr and Takhbarre were visible as well, but masked by his far greater luminosity.
She was careful to keep to the shadows behind G’rkyr and Takhbarre. Jdes did not need to know her inner strength.
Takhbarre continued his protestations even as Jdes showed G’rkyr the way out. The Morkurhedwa exited with G’rkyr, Takhbarre, and Dierá. Jdes did not. He kept the exit open until the Morkurhedwa had secured the exit point and returned, closing the gate and leaving G’rkyr, Takhbarre, and Dierá alone in a dark tunnel.
G’rkyr did not need to speak the word on his lips for Dierá to know this was Cyvair. Takhbarre had already told her this by his demeanor. The Drakón seemed to know immediately, either by scent or sense. It also could have been his brief embrace of The Abundance. Dierá felt him reach out to it, but she thought she blocked him before he touched it. For long moments afterward, his complaints stopped and his eyes never left Dierá’s.
“You want this thing,” he told her. “I no longer trust them, but I trust you. Give me your word on what we agreed to and that you had no part—”
“—My word,” Dierá said. G’rkyr started to say something; she cut him off with an icy stare. “That was between G’rkyr and his. I am as betrayed as you.”
“Then I’ll do this thing for you, Athania Dierá Steorra. When I’m done, you’ll return to me what’s mine.” Takhbarre regarded Dierá, but he did not wait for her to respond. “This tunnel is for one of the old off-world gates. Disused now but still connected. If we continue along it, we’ll come to the central thruway.”
Dierá turned to G’rkyr. “You are the prince’s champion and protector in this place. Nothing more. Don’t forget that.” Her words carried her annoyance. Her hold on G’rkyr seemed less than she thought. She wondered what report Jdes would give Nük T’nyr. Not that it would matter; nothing would matter soon. His disloyalty was nothing compared to what was ahead.
4
Martin settled into the holding area below Makhatar. In contrast to her viewing area fill
ed with posh seats and wide aisles, this area was bare and little more than an expanse of washed stones. Gerhold was at his side. The other could do little else. Martin still held the leash of his collar and dared not release it.
Those in Makhatar’s entourage seemed to speak their minds plainly and openly. Now they complained loudly of this or that perceived slight. It was all about the view, the seats, the food, the drink. The pecking order applied here as well. Those at the top were the most vocal; each rung below, successively less so. Martin spoke only in quiet whispers and only when he was certain Makhatar’s eye was not on him. He missed Tandy, the books they shared and the simpler life in hearth service.
His place in the order was unclear. It seemed he and Gerhold were part of a new sixth ring. It also could be that they simply had to establish themselves in the fifth ring—that of the Trykath pets of the first ring Drakón and titans.
The confusion was due in part to their sharing rooms with Trykathians, Alvs, and Dwëorgs alike. Clearly, the Alvs and Dwëorgs were a rung above the Trykathians. They were treated better, given more opportunity.
The crowds in the stands were dividing into cheering and jeering mobs. More and more poured into the seats and viewing areas. The stomping of their feet and clapping of their hands rose to a deafening roar. Wager papers traded hands. Vendors hawked their goods.
Makhatar’s titans and Drakón placed many wagers. Most were against one they called the Soulless. There was no shortage of those in other high-placed viewing areas willing to take those bets. Attendants ran the wager slips back and forth by the handful.
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