“I’ve seen the Caradorii fight.” Fiorenta wiped at his mouth with a grease-stained handkerchief. “They are skilled, but not many as strong as our Blades. They claim the other western kingdoms are better. Apparently, the other four engage in a battle once every few years over a stretch of land called the Fringes. The contest determines who earns the right to send a warrior into the western Pillars of Dissolution. The Caradorii chose to war with us and the Heleganese because they wished to hone their abilities for it.”
“Why would they choose to send anyone into one of the Ten Purgatories?” Leroi asked.
“They do not believe the Pillars lead to the Hells, but instead to other lands, lands here within Mareshna.”
“Faithless beasts.” Hagarath pushed away his plate in disgust. “We’re faced with these blasphemous sons of whores and Ainslen chooses to squabble with our own kingdoms.”
“Some good has come of the king’s decision to venture off to the Dreadwood.” Fiorenta nodded toward Leroi. “Ainslen made him Lord Marshal, which means he speaks for Kasandar. We can approach the other counts, drum up more support.”
Leroi shook his head. “With the king’s resources, going to them would be a mistake. Ainslen named me to make it appear as if he’s fulfilling his bargain. I’m certain he suspects some type of treachery, and by doing this he’s giving me just enough rope to hang myself.”
He gave their entire plan some thought. A united Empire would most likely dispatch the westerners, but the succession they intended meant a war with the Farlanders. Facing them worried him more than this western threat that hadn’t quite materialized as yet. The Farlanders were here to conquer, and once they’d had a taste, stopping them would be difficult, if not impossible. Perhaps when he took the throne he could meet with them, make promises and direct their attention to the western kingdoms. No. It would take more than a promise to appease them, and I have nothing to offer. The Empire needed all its peoples. His mind whirled as he tried to discern a path out. And then he found it.
“We will need the Order for more than just their influence or their melders against the west,” Leroi said. “We use them to destroy the Farlanders. Of all our people, the wisemen are the only ones allowed freely among them. Along with the spirit assassins, we use them to be rid of the Farlander leaders.”
Brows drawn together, Fiorenta nodded. “It could work, but what do we offer the Patriarch and Matriarch for their support?”
“Whatever they ask within reason. But that too will be after we’ve handled Ainslen.”
“It just might work,” Fiorenta said. “It just might.”
Hagarath raised his glass. “Here’s to a bold new Empire.”
As they toasted and continued to work on the details of their plan, Leroi still had that sinking feeling in his gut.
28
A Ride
“This is where you will find them.” Ainslen tapped a finger on the map.
The location was directly south of Kasandar in a relatively small leg of the Treskelin Forest. Small in comparison to the rest of the massive wood that spread west from the River Coser, past the River Ost, all the way to the Blooming Coast, and then northwest past the Rivers Derin and Pesca, before ending hard against the unclaimed plains between the Empire and the western kingdoms. It was a dark, brooding place. He hadn’t liked the forest when he and Jemare slaughtered the Kheridisians during the Red Swamps, and he hated it now. When he’d dealt with this threat from the west he would crush the upstarts once and for all, and strip them of their precious treasures.
“How many of them do you think are there?” Shaz asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s best to use caution. Allow the Blades to engage. You’re only there to collect information on what’s left of our enemies. Make certain the Blades have portraits of the boys in case Hazline shines on us.”
“As you wish, sire.” Shaz bowed. The Marishman had changed much since his new appointment. Gone was his flamboyance and his way of testing Ainslen’s patience. He’d settled into his role as if born to be a noble, so much so that one could overlook his thick drawl.
Ainslen indicated another area, this one in the Whetstone Mountains. “According to Tomas, what is left of the guilds and those who escaped the Smear are here, in the old mines. I will deal with them on my way to the Dreadwood. In my absence Count Shenen will be Lord Marshal.” He held up his hand before Shaz uttered a word in protest. “I know, I don’t trust him either, but this is part of the bargain I made to win his support.”
“There’s no longer a need to recognize those terms,” Shaz said, scowling.
“What man would trust my word if I am seen to break it on a whim?”
“You’re the king, what does it matter?”
Ainslen smiled. “Oh, if only it were so simple. I could not possibly stand against all the counts if they were to band together. This way, he has a chance to plot, and in so doing he gives me a reason to be rid of him and his coconspirators. A reason that will not be questioned.”
“What if he doesn’t take the bait?”
“Then I keep him under watch, and I can claim that I at least tried to find Winslow. That should appease him.”
“If I do find your son?”
“Take him to the Grey Fist and keep him there. Let no one know.” Ainslen again found himself wondering if Shaz knew of Winslow’s origins. The man always had this look in his eye, a slight tilt to his lips when referring to the boy.
The question brought him to the fight with Jemare and the dead king’s revelation of the deed Ainslen had committed. How had the king known? No one was there when I discovered Marjorie and my stillborn child. No one saw me kill Kenslen. He’d been certain of that last, but Delisar’s words niggled at him. That night was such a muddle, much of it lost in the soul craze. If only he and Jarod had discovered Marjorie and Kenslen sooner. He paused, frowning. For what seemed like the thousandth time, he relived the sequence of events that led to the Night of Blades. He tried to analyze each bit meticulously, but once the memory of the soul craze began, his thoughts grew disjointed.
“Sire?”
“What is it?” Deep in contemplation, Ainslen tapped his finger to his lips.
“I asked what is to be done with Elaina’s child.”
“You did?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, it’s just a few rumors about little Jaelen. Count Shenen will learn to handle those. If it develops into a larger problem I’ll have you arrange for an accident.”
“Very well. Any further instructions?”
“None.” Still mired in his thoughts, Ainslen waved the count off.
Soon after Shaz left, Ainslen strode out onto his balcony. He stared toward Cortens’ Shrine. For a moment he considered visiting the chantry there before dismissing the idea. He had other matters of more immediate concern. He turned away from the city and headed toward the doors.
Terestere met him in the long hall at the castle’s entrance, dressed in a velvet gown, gold and silver scrollwork flowing down the arms and coiling around the bulge of her bosom. Her long dark hair, with its hints of silver, fell past her shoulders to rest above the scrollwork. Skin like tanned silk, amber and green eyes intoxicating, she watched him, lips slightly parted.
He felt himself rise to the occasion. She pulled on a waist-length coat of dark grey derin fur, not once allowing her gaze to wander from him. At a loss for words he faltered a step as he made his way to her.
“Your Majesty,” she said with a slight dip of her head.
“You’re gorgeous,” he replied, clearing his throat.
“Thank you.” A hint of color rose in her cheeks. A darker skin-toned color accented her eyes, giving them a Marish slant.
“Do you think you’re ready for this?” he asked as they walked side-by-side out into the c
old to the waiting carriage. “If it’s a bit soon …”
“I’ve lived politics for the majority of my life. Dealing with the Thelusians will be as simple as breathing.”
Inspired by her confidence, he couldn’t help but to smile. “The Stonelords can be brutal and intimidating, perhaps more so now that we are at war with them. You will have several squads of Blades for your protection.” The attendant opened the door. Ainslen helped Terestere into the carriage, and then climbed in.
She smoothed her dress, before regarding him with unyielding eyes. “The Stonelords and I are quite familiar. My question for you is what do you intend should they be unmoved by my words? I know them, and how they value what they see as theirs. The feud with Marissinia over the melds the Thelusians invented for building is a perfect example. To this day they shun the Marishmen. Of more concern is the Farlander propensity for slavery. The Thelusians have sworn never again to serve another in such a fashion.”
He smiled, thinking of his intentions. “They will agree to peace one way or another.” The carriage wheels clattered over the flagstoned streets. Ainslen peered out the curtain. The Golden Spires dwindled behind as the carriage headed east across the city to the harbor.
“And the Marishmen?” she asked. “I heard their armies are divided, a little less than half hiding among the mountains and forests, wreaking havoc on your men whenever they can.”
“Once the Thelusians fall in line, so will they. Then I’ll have one of their own return to lead them as necessary.”
“Who?”
“Count Shaz, of course.”
“You have that much trust in him?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why he was here? To know of this plan?”
“For that and to lead a search for my son or the man I think holds my son.”
“Fair enough.” She shrugged and then her lips curved into a mischievous smile. “So, since the announcement and the loss, you’ve mostly avoided playing Dragon Gates with me, or venturing to my apartments at all. People will begin to say our pending marriage is a sham.”
He gritted his teeth. He’d hoped to avoid any conversation concerning the game. “Your victory was luck.”
“Was it now?”
He glared at her.
“Come now, my love, don’t be like that. Would you rather a stupid woman? One who couldn’t challenge you? Push you to be better?”
She was right. Although upset by the loss, he kept thinking of the game. On more than one occasion he had forced himself not to approach her chambers, choosing to deal with matters of the Empire. “I prefer you as you are. I … I enjoy it.”
Her laugh was low and throaty. Heat flushed across his face, and he felt like a young man again. Not even Marjorie had made him feel like this.
Terestere leaned over to touch his hand. “I promise not to change.”
Her scent was thick and strong, a flowery fragrance that suited her. He could spend days drinking it in and never grow tired. He placed his hand over hers, and they rode in silence down to the docks beside the River Ost.
29
Semblance of Truth
Queen Terestere found it odd that their trip was to Gartos and yet the king chose to take a ship up the River Ost. He would only smile and say he had a surprise in store and begged for her patience. Directly north loomed the Whetstone Mountains, rocky giants with grey-green mantles and white crowns.
In another few hundred miles the river would become too narrow for the abnormally large Farlander vessel with its abundant sails. A hauler, they called it. The ship made the biggest Darshanese war galleys or great Farish Isle lidahunters appear small in comparison. Three flags flapped in the wind: the Star of the Dominion, the scaled Hand of Soul, and a Farlander standard that bore a strange four-legged beast with tusks. The same animal adorned the main sail in an elaborate design.
Although the smell of brine permeated the air, an underlying musky animal stench made the queen frown. Try as she might, she couldn’t place the stench. Belowdecks the strange Farlanders yelled orders and would occasionally surface from the hold. From her books, she could discern the differences in each of their numerous races.
The Egini were short and squat, none taller than five and half feet, and most with either shaved heads or shiny dark hair that fell to their waists. The ones with shaved heads had mustaches that circled their mouth, ending in a long beard at the bottom. Those with long locks had faces like a courtesan’s bottom, smooth and oiled.
Vailonders had either white or blond hair, regardless of their age, and were lithe of form with flattened foreheads that could not be natural.
Allonians were of a size to match Thelusians, their skins polished sandalwood, forearms like logs, thick fingers that could easily span a man’s neck, hair the color of flames.
Jophites kept mostly to themselves, thick robes, bald heads, and smooth faces making her think of wisemen. Their robes buttoned up the sides from feet to neck.
Some twenty to thirty Blades kept watch on her and the king. Their studious gazes took in everything, and a few of them scowled in the direction of the Farlanders. Another four squads of mounted Blades, perhaps a hundred altogether, churned through the snowy plains to the west, following the riverbank.
A structure jutting out into the river caught Terestere’s attention. As they drew closer she saw it was a pier. She frowned. The only piers this far north of Kasandar would be part of the small fishing and trade towns. This was one solitary pier, wide enough to fit ten wagons aligned from front to back. Another group of Blades and laborers waited on its dark planks. Off to the side was a huge timber building that could pass for a warehouse.
The ship rocked gently as it maneuvered on the sluggish, deep green water, and soon it was in position alongside the pier. Laborers heaved up a ramp as wide as the pier, connecting it with the ship’s deck. When all was secure, the men stood on either side, heads bowed.
She and the king disembarked with their contingent of Blades and strode up a path through the snow to a small incline a few hundred feet from where the pier began. Ainslen called for them to stop. Half the soldiers on horseback dismounted, passing their reins to the closest man. The wind swirled, kicking up snow. Blades murmured to each other, breaths misty. She was on the verge of inquiring why they were waiting when a commotion on the ship drew her gaze.
The ship’s crew helped to open the hold’s massive doors. Frowning, she watched, curious to know what they could be unloading that required a pier away from other ports or towns.
From the hold, four bulky Allonians strode up the ramp, flame-colored hair tied in ponytails, bare-chested despite the weather. Over their shoulders they pulled four ropes the width of a man’s arm, each a taut line that disappeared through the doors behind them. The ropes slackened for a heartbeat, allowing the Allonians to surge forward, before snapping tight with audible twangs. The men stopped short, muscles bulging, bodies straining, legs striving to take another step. Soul sprung to life around them; their legs and arms enlarged. They managed to take an additional step and then another, teeth gritted as they struggled to drag out what lay on the other end of the ropes.
Stepping backward up the ramp came a baldheaded Jophite. The still taut ropes bypassed him. Arms extended, his attention was focused downward. The glow of a meld encompassed his body. He and the Allonians inched onto the deck in this fashion.
A form near the size of a wagon, slate-grey like the cloudy skies, edged up the ramp. It took a moment for Terestere to grasp that what she saw was only a head. A massive eye rolled, slobber flew from a mouth filled with yellowed teeth, and a giant round ear flapped. One white tusk jutted at least a foot past the lower jaw on the side to Terestere, its twin poking below the opposite side. Two horns the length of a man stood out atop the creature’s head, a head pointed down like a stubborn horse pulled by
its rider.
The wispy glow of soul around the Jophite increased. A baying noise issued from the beast’s mouth like a great war horn, a last defiant trumpet. And then the creature seemed to give in. It walked up the ramp on four legs like ash tree trunks, gargantuan body stretching behind it, ropes connected to a manacle of grey metal around its neck.
At its full height, the beast measured some twenty feet, possibly more. A canopied basket stood on its back. One more hung on each flank, several times larger than the first, attached to each other over its back like a saddle. Rope ladders were connected to them, lying flat against the creature’s body.
“What is it?” she asked, breathless.
“An ereskar.” Ainslen’s reply rang with pride.
“How? They’re long dead. And if you let some tell it, they never lived, they’re myths.”
“Every myth carries a semblance of truth. Ereskars are very much alive and common in the Farlands.” Ainslen nodded toward the Jophite. “Henezuma there is a Mesmer of some renown, as are any of the ereskar handlers. It takes an exceptionally strong mind to control the beasts.”
“I thought Mesmers could only affect sentient minds?”
“Who is to judge what is sentience and what isn’t,” Ainslen replied. “When hounds bark, howl, or whine, are they not speaking? Birdsong, is that not language? Language we do not understand, but language all the same. Who is to say our speech isn’t the true primitive communication? Perhaps the animals all around us laugh at our so-called heightened civilization.”
Terestere had not pondered life in such a fashion, but the king did have a point. As she watched, the Jophite strode up to the ereskar, one hand held out to reveal something in his palm. The man stretched his arm up to the creature’s maw between the two tusks. The beast snorted, and a moment later, a long tongue snaked out to snatch whatever morsel the Jophite offered. Mewling sounds of contentment ensued.
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