And yet, despite all those warnings, nothing could have prepared him for what he saw now.
Behind and before him, lining the road for as far as the eye could see, a forest seemed to have sprouted overnight. Trees like nothing he could have ever dreamed of, their sharp, needlelike leaves ranging in color from dark green to twilight blue, towered upwards to hang staggered overhead. The ground around Raz’s clawed feet was a kaleidoscope of shadows and tumbling patches of light. The wind here was still dry, but it didn’t drain the body with oppressive heat. Instead it bit playfully, a cool, crisp whisper that snuck into the folds of his clothes.
Apart from the grass and twin dirt wheel-paths of the cleared road, the ground was covered in a webbed foliage of earthy moss. Overlaying this was a thin blanket of spiny leaves, a rust-colored coat that seemed to have fallen right from the trees. Every few feet were odd, almost-oval objects, smooth and scaly in appearance, some old and dry, others green and heavy. Stepping off the path, Raz stooped to pick one up, rolling it in his hand.
Pine cone, he remembered, and he looked up at the great expanse of woods around him. Pine trees.
His father had told him stories of the North, and with every second Raz’s eyes took in the sights around him he could recall more and more of what the man had said.
“I fall asleep for a few hours, and this is where I wake up,” he chuckled, pulling the hood of his patchwork fur cloak over his head. The old man who’d smuggled him out of the Miropa had prepared the skins for him, mostly small rodents and the like, and Raz had spent the week putting old merchant skills to use. He’d fashioned himself a decent set of warm clothes, complete with a—if poorly done—fur-lined mantel and long britches. Winter was coming, and while Raz didn’t know exactly what to expect, he did know that he didn’t do well in the cold. He doubted the hasty work would do much when the freeze took full hold, but he hoped it would be enough to last until he could find somewhere to weather the next few months, or at least procure more suitable apparel.
The fact that winter, a strange idea in and of itself to him, was nearing didn’t much bother Raz. On the contrary, he felt strangely elated, glancing over his shoulder southward. He was leaving behind everything, cutting all ties he might have had. On one hand, he really had little choice. By now runners would have been sent out to every fringe city by some of the Mahsadën’s lesser officers, pleading for help. If he’d given it a week, Miropa would have been overrun by assassins and sarydâ out for blood. Within the month a new Mahsadën might already be in place, probably just as powerful as the previous one, and the šef would stop at nothing until Raz’s head was on a spear strung atop the Cages.
It was another reason the change in season was less inconvenience than advantage. Even before Raz had managed to escape the city, dispatch riders were thundering constantly through Miropa’s gates, gathering information from every direction. It was only a matter of time before someone realized he’d fled the fringe cities altogether, and from there he had only three options: catch sea passage to the West Imperial Isles from the ports of Acrosia, make his way south for Perce or the Seven Cities, or flee northward. Trouble was, the first two options generally involved crossing the Cienbal, an impossible feat on one’s own, even for Raz. In the end, the reality was that he’d been left with only one option:
The North.
The coming winter would hopefully buy him enough time to find shelter as he figured out what his next step would be. In a few weeks or so the roads would hopefully become too icy and snowed-in to travel by, and for the next eight to nine months the North and South would be almost entirely cut off from each other.
For a time, Raz might be safe.
“At least somewhat, huh, Ahna?” He smirked, shifting the dviassegai so that she sat more comfortably over his shoulder. A heavy traveling bag, containing his armor, some spare clothes, flint, and enough food and water for a week, hung from the top of her haft. Her twin blades, wicked things not to be kept in the open in unfamiliar land, were covered by the same old leather pouch Raz had been using since the day Allihmad Jerr forged him the weapon. He felt a pang as he thought of the old blacksmith, but pushed it aside.
The few friends he’d had would be better off without him.
Taking a deep breath, Raz began walking, marveling at the sights and sounds around him as he followed the road. Songbirds chirped from the hidden nooks in the trees, sometimes flitting above the road in flashes of red and blue wings. More than once Raz’s sharp eyes caught slim, four-legged creatures with small white tails and horselike ears leaping away through the forest, frightened off by his appearance. High above, through the spaces in the entwined branches, a clear sky smattered with clouds hung like a tent over the world. Every so often one passed over the Sun, and the pattern of light that swept the ground with every gust of cold wind would fade in and out of sight.
Raz couldn’t help but smile. This place was so different, so far gone from the arid lands a week’s hard ride to the south. Even the Cienbal couldn’t bring to life the land in the way this new place could. Though the chill still bit him through his furs, and the hard-packed ground hurt his clawed feet, Raz took in every detail, marveling.
If the rest of the North was anything like the forest around him, he thought he might like this realm very much.
After a half hour on foot, something caught Raz’s eye along the road ahead. Two small obelisks, carved from old, dark granite about knee high, stood on each side of the wide path. Reaching the closest one, Raz bent down to get a closer look at it. On one side, facing the direction he’d come from, was engraved a single large S. On the other, in the direction he was going, was the letter N.
Straightening up again, Raz stood over the border marker for a long moment, staring at the S, following its curving form. It reminded him of the sand dunes and the waves of the Garin when its waters were caught by the desert wind. In his mind’s eye he could see the infinite, beautiful, empty vastness of the Cienbal stretching out to the horizon in every direction, an entire world cut in two by red sand and blue sky.
Then Raz took a step forward, leaving everything he’d ever known far behind.
II
“What is for the best? To live a sheltered existence in the infinite confinement of these cursed mountains, or to seek out a way to better the lives of our people? The latter, you say? I agree, but what if the hunt for that better life meant putting them all in harm’s way, or putting yourself in harm’s way? What if it were a gamble regardless, with so much to lose and so little chance to gain…?”
—SHAS-RONAH RHAN, LAST-QUEEN
“HE IS no longer within my sight, Hana.”
“Which means what? He leaves? He dies? I swear upon the light of the First-One, Uhsula, if the boy is not returned to me, I will—!”
“Calm yourself, child. Your hatchling yet lives, and as strong as ever. No, he merely passes into the Cold. My sight does not extend beyond the sands. I can see nothing now.”
Shas-hana Rhan sat hard on the stone dais that surrounded the dark throne carved directly into the wall of the cave. Her tail snaked nervously over the ground, clawed fingers rubbing her temples. The slim crown of black obsidian glass, a glittering circlet that usually rested comfortably over her brow between her webbed ears, suddenly felt as though it carried the weight of the mountain above her head. Pulling it off and placing it gently on the stone beside her, Shas-hana sighed in frustration.
“So he’s actually done it…”
Beside her, Uhsula nodded slowly. The old seer had not taken the recent years well. If she’d been ancient before, she was practically defying death now, almost half again the age of the average female when they passed. Her eyes, once pale and opaque, were now orbs of a watery white, so distinct in the dim light of the Under Caves that Uhsula often opted to have her acolytes cover them with a long piece of dark cloth that wrapped around her head. The membranes of her ears had caught the rot long ago, leaving only tattered fragments to cling along their bo
ny spines so that it often looked as though a great spider were hugging the back of her skull. She could no longer walk on her own, requiring the aid of two other females who had been tasked with watching over her, but even with their help short trips left her weary, and everyone but the Queen usually went to her rather than forcing her to come to them.
As much as it pained Hana, though, she could offer no such kindness. Sassyl Gal, the royal spymaster, was reporting more than a little disgruntlement within the Under Caves of late. There were only so many eyes and ears they could risk pervading the world of man, and a lack of news meant nothing good. The atherian had no way of knowing what was happening in the world above, no way of knowing how Hana’s plan—already frowned upon in certain circles—was unfolding.
“Thank you, Uhsula,” the Queen breathed after a moment. “And I’m sorry I keep getting upset with you. Recently I’ve started to question this idea of ours…”
From where she sat on the steps at the base of the stone dais, facing away from Hana, the old seer laughed wheezily.
“Child, if your first doubts about this come twenty summers into the process, I’d say there is little to bear worry for.”
Uhsula picked up the wood-and-bone staff at her feet and tapped it against the ground. At once her handmaids appeared out of the dark, dressed in black loincloths that modestly covered the only parts of their bodies the atherian felt needed to be covered. They helped Uhsula to her feet gently, desensitized to the creaking and popping of her weary limbs as she stood.
Taking a moment to catch her breath, the seer turned to look with blind eyes at Shas-hana.
“Stand firm in your decision. It has been a long time coming, but finally we see hope that something may come of this great gamble of ours. Do not falter now. There is nothing we, or any of our people, can do to change what is to come. If you hesitate, Hana, there are those who will take the opportunity to shake your foundations until they see you crumble. Be strong, and the rewards for your years spent planning and worrying might just be reaped.”
Then she nodded to her acolytes, and the pair led the old female gently out of the chambers, disappearing into the shadowed tunnels of the mountain.
For a long time Shas-hana stayed put, her mind turning over a hundred different things as she picked up the obsidian circlet and toyed with it aimlessly. As usual, Uhsula’s visit had left her feeling odd, both partially sated and more discontent in the same space of time, like a child promised a toy but having to wait for it to be made.
The seer’s last words rang true, though, and the Queen looked up at the dark ceiling, that cursed prison of roughhewn stone.
Now was the time to be strong, if ever there was one.
III
“Above all other actions come from our faith, it is often the great projects undertaken by the Laorin Priests and Priestesses of each new generation that gain us the appreciation, respect, and trust of the people of the vast North. Temples are a means of shelter and safe haven for the good of heart, the faithful a source of protection and guidance for those who need them most, and Laor an entity of comfort and spiritual warmth to the ones lucky enough to stumble into his arms. And yet, above all this, it is the broader ways in which we seek to improve life that the masses appreciate most. Eret Ta’hir did everything in his power to extend the Lifegiver’s benedictions as far as they would go, even encouraging expeditions into the South and lands beyond. Talo Brahnt—my cherished partner—fought to end the oppression and exploitation of the poor and unlucky within the desperate valley towns here in the North. And Syrah, well… Syrah Brahnt has no need for expounding. Her conquests—once she found her own better half—outmatch anything I’ve managed to dig up in the great archives here in the Citadel, and certainly outdo anything in recent history.”
—STUDYING THE LIFEGIVER, BY CARRO AL’DOR
… it is therefore with some desperation, my dear friend, that I’ve sent you this letter. The temple here in Azbar is a small one, and with only a few dozen of the faithful at my disposal I regret to say that we do not have the influence required to maintain order in this torn place. The town’s Chairman, Tern, has reopened the Arena under the guise of attracting travelers and coin, and in many ways I cannot say I blame him. While we do not suffer the attacks of the mountain clans that the communities closer to the ranges do, this past freeze took a great toll on us, and we are hardly recovered. By the time this message reaches you, I hope to have made some headway with restocking our supplies and getting the Chairman and his council to see sense, but with every passing day more blood is spilled in that pit than I bear to think about.
In truth, I do not hold high hopes for my success. Tern is not his father, and he does not share the man’s distaste for the Arena.
I may be attempting to coax reason from a man who has no intent or desire to see it.
I beg your aid, Talo. I understand that you have suffered your own losses in the past months, and that Cyurgi’ Di is in process of preparing for the coming winter, but if you have any help to spare it would be desperately appreciated. I fear for the people of this town, for as the prisons empty and the volunteers dwindle, where will the council look to fill the Arena if not from within its own borders? I do not mean to prod at old wounds, dear friend, but I’m sure you recall a time when those slain were guilty only of substantial debt or minor crimes.
I can no longer do this alone.
Yours,
Kal Yu’ri
Talo sat for a long few minutes, rereading the letter in his hands. The candle he’d lit almost an hour ago was burning dangerously low, but he didn’t bother taking flint to a fresh one. His fingers shook as he put the parchment gently down on the desk at long last. He leaned back in his chair, turning to look out the diamond-paned window set into the round wall by his bed at the edge of the room.
His life’s work was coming apart at the seams.
He’d long known it had been bound to happen. It had taken a great number of his younger, fitter years to make even the slightest headway with the Arena Doctores and the towns that profited richly from the gladiator fights they offered, and a deal longer before he’d managed to push through a universal ban of the pits altogether.
He’d been a middle-aged man by the time that happy day had come, in fact.
The prohibition of bloodshed had been a tentative thing, though, and if he was being honest with himself, Talo was surprised his work had lasted this long. In a place like the North, any means of survival was a good means when the brutally bitter months of the freeze took hold. The Arenas offered men an opportunity to make a name for themselves, to win purses that would feed their families, to revel in glory that actually had its uses if they made it long enough to retire from the fights. Gladiators who fought well often came to be recognized, and upon leaving the Arena were often offered jobs as private escorts for traveling merchants, or even officer positions in the mercenary groups hired out to protect the valley towns every winter.
Essentially, on paper the Arenas had their benefits.
But it was the other side of the story, the results that the documents rarely showed, that made Talo sick to his stomach. The Arena, in reality, was a business that fed off a city, a place where desperate men were pitted against each other until one or both lay dead. Farmers who’d lost too many crops to the winds and snow signed their lives away with little more than a pitchfork to protect themselves. Criminals—yet people despite their convictions—were used as fodder for the enjoyment of a bloodthirsty crowd, thrown into the rings as a distraction, often unarmed. When the dungeons and prisons were empty, though, when the lines of willing recruits died away, the Arenas did exactly what Kal Yu’ri, High Priest of Azbar’s Laorin temple, had made mention of:
They started finding excuses to round up the citizens of whatever towns surrounded them.
Damn it all, Talo cursed silently, leaning forward again and resting his forehead in the palms of his mammoth hands. His straight waist-length ponytail, long since tu
rned more gray than brown, fell across his shoulder as he thought.
What was he going to do? It was too late to send significant aid to Azbar. The magics had already warned the Priests and Priestesses of Cyurgi’ Di that the freeze was promising to be as brutal as the previous year’s. Within a week the temperatures would plummet, and the snows could start anytime within the month after that. The Citadel needed all the bodies they had available. There was little enough time left as it was to finish stocking the cellars with enough food to make it through the next ten months.
But maybe there was another way…
While it wasn’t impossible to make the journey to Azbar through the winter, it would certainly be more difficult a trek than it would have been had Kal’s letter arrived even a single week earlier. Still, it was a feasible idea, especially if the group remained small.
Say… two people?
Lifting his head from his hands, Talo extended a finger and started moving it in small, concise circles. As he did, the air began to glow, and within seconds a thin, silky wisp of vibrant white light appeared, twirling around his finger until he sent it off with a gentle flick of his hand. He watched the graceful trail of light zip away, splitting into three identical bands that disappeared beyond the room’s only door in a flash, two under the base and one through the keyhole.
The Warring Son (The Wings of War Book 2) Page 2
