After the ruined buildings on the grounds and stark, square-cut rooms within the keep’s outer walls, I struggled to believe this chamber belonged in the same fortress. The builders had taken everything else which hinted at life—that or looters had visited the stronghold in the centuries since. I understood why the chairs and table remained; they were too heavy to move. But why leave the polished stone spheres? The colors were among the most beautiful I’d seen.
The slap of a palm against the stone tabletop startled me back to attention. At the near end of the table, around twenty Shard leaders looked like children sitting at a holiday feast. It wasn’t just that the scale of the room dwarfed their small group. Looking closer, I realized that the chairs were over-sized. Either they’d been carved for people half again as big as an ordinary Atal or Prov, or the builders of the keep had wished those who sat at their table to feel small.
The situation didn’t seem to bother the Shard leaders though. Especially not Joran, who sat three seats down from the empty throne. He turned to me with a grin that said everything I needed to know about the conclave’s decision.
My wonder at the immense chamber drained onto the polished slabs of its stone floor. My guts were full of cold mud. They’d already decided I was guilty. Now all that remained was for me to stand at attention while the conclave made my judgment official.
Straightening my shoulders, I fixed my gaze on the far end of the table. Along its length, three fires burned in stone bowls so big my arms wouldn’t have encircled them. I focused on the farthest blaze, willing my face to remain still. If nothing else, Joran wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing me upset by the judgment.
From the seat nearest me, Sirez stood. If anything, the march through the mountains and the preparations for war had made the Jalisswoman even more imposing. Despite my distant gaze, her silhouette seemed to fill my vision. She was strong without bulk. Hard without losing her obvious femininity.
“Savra Padmi,” she said as my escort left me and stalked to a seat at the table.
“I’ve come as summoned,” I said.
“The conclave has convened to address your actions within Steelhold on the night of the new Emperor’s Ascension.”
I kept my eyes straight ahead. There was nothing to say. I just wished she’d get on with it.
“I’m sorry, Savra,” Sirez said into the silence. “The decision was not unanimous, but the majority has chosen.”
She paused, shoulders raising as she drew breath. In one of the stone baskets, the fire snapped, releasing a curl of sparks.
“We’ve concluded that your actions were unforgivable. Stormshard has declared you a betrayer and traitor.”
My jaw trembled, but I kept my eyes on the fire. From my bracelet, Lilik and Raav extended dual tendrils of comfort and strength. Their support scarcely seemed to register. I was guilty and now waited only to hear my punishment.
“Because we were not in full agreement on your verdict,” Sirez continued, “We’d like to offer you a chance to speak before we decide how to proceed.”
So now they wanted to hear my side? Now that it was too late and my only choices were exile or execution? I clenched my teeth to stop my jaw from shaking and snapped my gaze to Sirez. Anger roared through me, so sudden I feared it was plain on my face. What could I say? They’d intended to kill a man who I believed to be innocent. I’d done what I thought was right. Even if I could bring myself to lie and say I regretted saving Kostan, I had no illusions they’d believe me.
I pressed my fingernails into my palms and drew breath to speak. My words died when running footsteps slapped the stone floor of the corridor outside the chamber.
Half the conclave stood, eyes wide, as my father ran into the room. Sweat trickled from his hairline, and his chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. For just the briefest moment, his gaze flicked to me before returning to the leaders.
“Evrain?” Sirez asked. “What is it?”
My father shook his head. Only then did I notice the gash on the back of his neck. The blood had dried, mostly, but not before soaking the back of his woolen vest.
“Gather your Shards,” he said. “We have little time.”
“Why? What’s going on?” another leader asked.
Father swallowed before he spoke again. “It’s far worse than we thought. Nightmares—that’s the only way I can think to describe them. They’ll be here within the half-hour.”
Chapter Seven
Parveld
A switch-backing trail approaching Steelhold's Sun Gate
WITH EVERY STEP Parveld took up Steelhold’s ascent trail, he tried to imagine new reasons for Savra’s sudden absence from the aether on the day of the Emperor’s Ascension. It had been like this for weeks, him constantly searching for an explanation while fearing the worst. Finally, he’d decided his best hope was to visit the last place he’d sensed her. Yet with each step he took, the more he worried his hopes would be dashed. Savra was dead, gone, and with her the last chance for the Empire’s—and quite possibly, the world’s—survival.
For weeks, his heart had grieved for the lost future of this place, even if his stubborn mind continued to seek alternatives. More sharply, his heart grieved for the flame-haired young woman who’d had no choice in her destiny. Fate had chosen her for trials she’d had no hope of passing. Knowing this, Parveld had waited centuries to guide her. Lilik and Raav had chosen imprisonment over the peace and communion of the aether.
It had been arrogance to think they could stand against fate’s cruelties.
But you don’t know for sure, Parveld thought to himself yet again. After so many years spent researching and planning, awaiting Savra’s birth and her eventual arrival in Jaliss, he owed himself this effort to discover her fate. And so he climbed the ascent trail, the morning sun baking the dark stone of the spire and drenching him with sweat. In Steelhold, he would find answers. The outcome would determine whether he continued to fight or whether he’d find a quiet place to wait for the end of the world.
In his centuries of life, Parveld had visited many structures built by people or magic or both working together. Palaces, gardens, cities in the trees. Still, Steelhold impressed him with its sheer scale. The seamless granite walls soared, unassailable, over the treacherous approach trail. At the Sun Gate, steel slabs a foot thick levered open over empty space. Only sorcery could explain their motion. Within the walls, more buildings had been sculpted from the mountain, some rising impossibly high with flutings and crenellations to rival the serrated spires of the Icethorns at the fortress’s back.
Yet for all the tremendous architecture and stout defenses, Steelhold exuded a sense of desperation. A need to appear strong in the face of unconquerable forces. If the Maelstrom roiled at the foot of the continent, pulling so hard at the earth that chasms increasingly shattered the landscape, any construct built by man represented nothing but bluster. Innocent bravado made evil by the throne’s brutal attempts to keep the illusion of power.
Or so it seemed to Parveld.
At the Sun Gate’s threshold, he stopped before one of the protectors assigned to guard the entrance. “I wish to speak to the seneschal,” Parveld said.
“Your purpose?”
“I’m a wine merchant from Ioene,” Parveld said. He lifted the bulging wineskin that hung from his shoulder. “Foremost, I wish to offer the new Emperor of Atal a gift of my finest vintage. While I’m here, I thought the seneschal might care to enlighten me regarding the Hold’s preference in wines. That is, if the cellars are in need.”
As Parveld spoke, he raised a brow conspiratorially, playing the part of a trader hoping to capture the taste buds of a newly crowned ruler. The deception fit poorly over his honest heart; at least Lilik wasn’t here to laugh at the attempt.
In any case, the guard evidenced no emotional response. Of course not, Parveld realized. The soldier’s mind did not belong to him, but rather to a vow pressed upon his will b
y argent magic. Curious, Parveld allowed his perception to extend to the protector’s thoughts. The man’s every notion fixed on his Emperor, weighing Parveld’s request in light of how it might threaten or benefit his liege’s safety and desires. The man considered Parveld’s foreign garb, the dusky hues of his skin. Neither Prov nor Free Tribesman, Parveld presented no immediate threat.
Yet a brazen request to leave a gift for the Emperor himself might cover a hidden plan for subterfuge. The assassin who had attempted to murder Emperor Kostan had not yet been caught.
As the loyal protector turned his gaze to Parveld, the man considered the possibility that Parveld had been involved in the conspiracy.
Ever so gently, Parveld sent calm through the aether to soak into the man’s mind. He couldn’t alter the guard’s thoughts; not only was Parveld incapable of such compulsion, the argent magic binding the guard’s will would be difficult to overcome. But he could soothe.
“Wait here,” the guard said after a moment. He nodded to his partner, a woman with a face cut from stone, and stepped to the small kiosk where a palace messenger waited. At a few words from the guard, the messenger leaped up and dashed toward the center of the Hold.
Parveld clasped his hands behind his back, standing at ease while he waited for a response. The day still tiptoed through the morning hours, and though the rising sun had baked the southeasterly-facing approach trail, the shadows within the Hold’s walls remained chill. The coolness sank through his merchant’s clothing, a fine linen doublet decorated with silk piping and the silhouette of the volcano, Ioene, embroidered on the breast. At his hip, a coin purse tugged heavily on his belt.
After a few minutes, the messenger returned. “Follow me,” he said.
Nodding, Parveld fell in step behind the younger man. As his feet scuffed over the bare stone alleyway, he pressed his awareness into the aether. A tumult of inner voices crowded his mind, the thoughts of nearby workers a mix of confusion over Emperor Kostan’s Ascension, fear for the future, and ordinary thoughts of the day’s chores. Even with his years of experience at probing others’ minds and emotions, Parveld struggled to keep awareness on his surroundings with such a din in his mind. His toe snagged a ridge of stone, and he forced a deep breath into his lungs.
Focus, he told himself.
One by one, he began to sort through the voices, examining recollections along with their current thoughts. Sometime during the night of the Ascension, Savra had disappeared from his perception. She’d been near or within the Hold when her spark had simply vanished. Someone here must have spent time with her that day. But none of the individuals he searched remembered her, at least not actively.
At the center of the Hold, a wide courtyard opened. The messenger raised a hand for Parveld to halt. With his mind trenched deep into the aether, Parveld missed the signal and collided with the man’s back. The messenger whirled, alarm on his face.
“Apologies,” Parveld said, quick-stepping back as he returned his perception to the physical realm. “I was merely admiring the architecture.” He swept an arm to indicate the three soaring towers of the Hall of Mages, each crowned with the Maelstrom-metal which supplied its order’s power.
The messenger, a dark-eyed man in his early twenties, kept his face even. His glance flicked to the side, Parveld’s only warning that someone else approached. Parveld’s brows raised in surprise at the armored woman who had stepped from the shadows. With that much armor and weaponry upon her body, her ability to move silently was impressive.
Parveld sketched a bow. “Parveld of Ioene,” he said in greeting. “And you are, my lady?”
“I am the Prime Protector of the Empire,” the woman said flatly. She gestured at the wineskin. “Hand it to the messenger.”
Parveld slipped the strap from his shoulder. The contents of the skin sloshed as he extended it toward the young man.
“Drink,” the Prime Protector said.
“Now wait,” Parveld said, raising his hands. “Am I to assume you’d accuse my finest vintage of being unsuitable? I assure you, it’s in substantial demand.”
The Prime’s eyes narrowed. “Am I to assume you protest my desire to protect my liege from would-be poisoners?”
Parveld forced a gasp of affront from his throat. He sputtered, cheeks heating with embarrassment over putting on such a ridiculous act. He hoped any color that had risen in his face would look more like anger.
“Of course not, but I assure you, madam. My wines are—”
“Drink,” she said again, staring at the messenger.
The poor young man. Parveld could see the terror in his eyes.
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Here,” he said, snatching the wineskin away. “I’ll drink first.” Of course, any determined assassin would inoculate himself to the effects of a poison he wished to administer in such a brazen fashion, but the messenger didn’t know that.
The wine flowed over his tongue, tart with hints of honey. Ever so faintly, the aroma of kivi blossoms colored the bouquet. A wave of nostalgia swept through him, surprising in its strength. No matter how many years he spent away, Ioene would always be his home. Parveld inhaled a deep breath of the stone-scented air to recover his focus.
With a nod, he extended a tendril of confidence, wrapping it around the man’s spirit as he returned the wineskin. As the man lifted the skin to his lips, Parveld turned to the armored woman. “Have you a given name, Prime?” he asked. “In the islands, we forgo titles. We find a sort of openness and trust in calling one another by the names our parents chose for us.”
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “My duty is my life. I abandoned my name and former identity the moment I accepted the responsibility.”
The messenger swallowed audibly, perhaps to make sure the act was noticed. Rigidly, the Prime Protector turned to him and waited. After a minute or two without the man falling into convulsions, she nodded. “Present yourself to the aurums,” she instructed. “Tell them to look for signs of slow-acting toxins.”
Parveld squawked. “But my lady, haven’t I assured you—”
A hard stare from the Prime Protector cut him short. “You merchants are all the same. False as a mummer’s act yet lacking the necessary skill. You know as well as I that rulers must use tasters to defend against poisoners. I’ll allow the wineskin to remain within the Hold. The head cook can decide whether it’s worth serving to his eminence.”
“Perhaps I might leave an address where I could be contacted for further requests…”
Parveld trailed off, his attention immediately seized by the blazing spark—or as Savra would have said, the blazing aura—which entered his perception. Across the courtyard, a tall man strode, head bowed in deep conversation with a woman who struggled to keep up. Rising from his spirit, anger buffeted Parveld. Frustration. Determination. And buried deep, his thoughts returned over and over to a woman with auburn hair.
Savra. Parveld’s heart leaped.
“Who is that?” Parveld asked.
The Prime Protector’s lips thinned. “No one of consequence.”
As the Prime spoke, the young man drew ahead of his companion. The woman hurried her steps. “Your eminence, please,” she called out, extending some sort of black-iron trinket. “Don’t be a fool.”
Your eminence. Only the Emperor would go by that title. Parveld nearly shoved the Prime Protector aside for a better view before he realized how poorly that would be perceived. As casually as he could manage, he leaned around her armored form to watch.
The man whirled on the young woman, cloak splaying with the motion. A storm flashed on his face, quickly submerged beneath an impassive expression. Parveld threw his perception toward Emperor Kostan, questing for more hints on Savra.
“Please, Kostan,” the woman said again. She wore an azure silk tunic. If Parveld remembered correctly, that marked her as an apprentice metalogist. A ferro mage. “You need the protection until we sort friend from foe.”
/> With a deep sigh, the Emperor accepted the trinket. The moment his fingers pinched the metal, Parveld’s awareness was hurled away, recoiling through the aether to snap home inside Parveld’s mind. A headache exploded behind his eyes.
“Well?” the Prime Protector said, gesturing impatiently to the messenger. “See to it the wine is delivered to the kitchens.”
The stabbing pain in his skull blurred Parveld’s vision. Across the courtyard, it appeared as if the Emperor was pinning the trinket to his collar, but Parveld couldn’t be certain.
“I’ll escort you back to the Sun Gate now,” the Prime said, clamping his arm in a vice grip.
Parveld stiffened. He couldn’t leave now. Not when he’d found Savra’s trail. As he stumbled forward, urged roughly by the Prime’s steely grasp, he cast about for an excuse to remain. He couldn’t seek employment, not after introducing himself as a foreign wine merchant. He couldn’t ask for lodging with dozens of guesthouses hosting foreigners in the city below. He couldn’t run and hide with the Prime Protector gripping his upper arm.
At the final turn before the Sun Gate, he reached for her spark in hopes he could gentle her opinion of him. But that wouldn’t be enough. And besides, his awareness hit a wall as solid as the sudden steel gates that had expelled him from Emperor Kostan’s thoughts.
Only a few paces remained before the gate. If he returned to the Hold after being escorted out and leaving a contact address for further wine orders, he would simply be turned away. He couldn’t lose this opportunity.
Parveld allowed his knees to buckle, sagging so suddenly the Prime was pulled off balance. She released his arm, and he fell to the ground. Rolling his eyes back, Parveld moaned and then began to convulse. The Prime was looking for a poisoner. If it meant remaining in Steelhold, he’d give her one.
“Protectors!” the Prime yelled. “Get this man to the aurums! Tell them they may not let him die. Not until we find out how he’s connected to the attempt on your Emperor’s life.”
Rise of the Storm Page 5
