The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy

by R. T. Kaelin

  Chapter 10: Cabal

  10th of the Turn of Luraana, 4999

  Raela was bored.

  With a sigh, she shifted her body, assuming a new position in the richly cushioned chair in which she sat. She peered around the dark, cavernous room, searching out anything that might hold her interest while she waited.

  Darkened torches lined both sides of the long room, cold and extinguished for two days now. The only light in the room streamed through a cracked-open door to Raela’s immediate right. Beyond lay a caved-in hallway, pummeled by one of the massive boulders hurled during the assault. The light quickly diffused only a few paces in, however, leaving most of the chamber gloomy and gray.

  Raela could have lit the torches to brighten the hall, but there was no need to do so. The mortal body she currently inhabited had no issue with seeing in low light.

  Her gaze settled on the one thing with any color in the drab hall. A ten-foot wide, lush red rug ran the length of the long room, leading from her chair, down four, wide steps, and all the way to a pair of towering doors on the opposite wall. Polished sandstone floor spread out on both sides of the runner.

  With an exasperated sigh, she let her head fall backward, making a soft thud as the cushion softened the blow against the wooden back.

  “Where are they?”

  As she absently eyed the wide beams of hardwood crisscrossing one another, supporting the domed, stone roof overhead, the acrid scent of charred wood filled her nose. The wind had shifted, bringing fresh smoke into the room. Raela let her head fall to the side, staring out the broken door. The faint screams of the unfortunate souls still alive were snaking their way into the chamber.

  “—him alone. Take me instead! Please—”

  “—swear to you, I will do whatever you—”

  “—High Host! Protect me from these foul—”

  Raela shook her head, a frown on her lips.

  What was happening outside was artless. Inflicting such blatant misery on others was heavy-handed and inelegant. Great things could be achieved without conflict and pain. It took time and careful planning, but the fruits of subtle chicanery were infinitely sweeter.

  Raela was musing on the manner in which she would have gone about things when the sound of ripping fabric filled the empty hall. Glancing to the center of the room, she spotted the telltale fluttering flaps of reality.

  “It is about time…”

  Sitting up a bit taller, she adjusted her gauzy dress and checked that her hair—light brown and perfectly straight—was in place. Content, she faced the port just as a dark-skinned man emerged from the rip in midair. Bald, with dark brown eyes sunk in deep sockets, a wide, globular nose, and lips that seemed too thick for his face, the man was not by any means pleasing to the eye. A richly adorned, deep purple tunic draped below his waist, loose black breeches hung over the tops of leather boots.

  As soon as he was through the port, he stopped short, and let out a quick, whispered curse.

  “Blast!”

  Raela began to chuckle lightly, the lilting sound wafting about the chamber. The man’s head swiveled around, searching for the source.

  “Raela? Is that you?”

  “Were you expecting someone else?” asked Raela.

  Squinting about the shrouded room, he asked, “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  “Is it dark? I had not noticed.”

  The man’s eyes finally locked onto her, narrowing in an instant. He was still straining against the gloom, but he was able to see her. Drawing himself up, he ordered, “Get out of my chair!”

  Raela raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised.

  “My, my, Vanson. Your chair?”

  Someone had become a little too comfortable in the role he was playing.

  The man whom mortals knew as Duke Vanson, the sovereign ruler of the Borderlands, released his hold on the port—sending a soft pop through the hall—and began striding toward her, arms to his side with fists clenched.

  “The Sovereign’s Chair is still mine, Raela.”

  She eyed the man, choosing not to respond. There was no point. The moment Vanson opened his ears, he would lose interest in her.

  He was halfway to her when he stopped suddenly and tilted his head to the half-open doorway. His lips curled up into a cruel smile. Raela rolled her eyes and let out a short, annoyed sigh. He was so predictable.

  His gaze on the cracked door, Vanson asked softly, “Do you hear that?”

  “It’s hard not to,” muttered Raela.

  He took a few steps toward the ruined hall, drawn by the sounds of distress as a nightmoth is to a candle, his eyes wide and alight with excitement.

  “Is it not glorious?”

  Raela shook her head in disgust, muttering, “Not the word I would have used.” She hoped the others would arrive soon.

  Vanson’s gaze flicked to her.

  “Do you think I have time to go down to—?”

  An abrupt, metal clang cut his question short. Raela stared to the far end of the hall as the left side of the tall doors cracked open a few feet, letting a second, long shaft of light into the dark room. A tall, lithe figure dressed in flowing robes passed before the backdrop of light, entering the hall and plunging back into the shadows. The individual’s elongated arms and legs removed any doubt as to who had just arrived, as did the cool, calm voice that leapt across the hall.

  “Not now, Vanson. Perhaps you can indulge later.”

  The quiet curse that slipped from Vanson’s lips prompted a slight smile on Raela’s. Was it anyone else, she might have wondered how the figure striding though the dark now had heard Vanson’s question through the thick, wooden doors. However, as Tandyr was in the body of a saeljul, there was no mystery. Ijulan hearing was superb.

  Remaining seated in the Sovereign’s Chair, Raela called, “Nice of you to show. I was beginning to think I had the wrong ruined city.”

  “I have been busy,” Tandyr replied dryly. “I apologize for my tardiness.” He was close enough now that Raela could see his long blond hair was pulled back, tightly bound.

  Vanson asked, “Did your beasts truly have to ruin everything, Tandyr?” He was glancing around the room, peering at the destruction, a frown on his face. “This seems excessive.”

  The saeljul reached where Vanson stood and, without breaking stride, said, “I fail to see why it matters.”

  Vanson glared at Tandyr as he passed.

  “My hall was glorious!”

  Without looking back, the ijul replied, “Your assessment of what is ‘glorious’ is much different from mine, Vanson. You have been trapped here too long.”

  Vanson continued to stare at Tandyr’s back, but remained quiet. The saeljul stopped at the stairs that lead to the Sovereign’s Chair and eyed Raela.

  “Greetings, Raela.”

  She nodded.

  “Hello, Tandyr.”

  She wondered which of them trusted the other less.

  As the two eyed each other silently, Vanson moved from the center of the red rug to approach where Tandyr stood, tripped on an overturned urn, and stumbled forward.

  “Blast it!”

  He steadied himself and looked around the room. Raela felt the soft, faint crackling of the Strands as reddish-orange strings of energy danced dimly before her eyes. Fire was not one of her strengths, but she could still sense it. The two dozen torches still bolted to the walls lit up simultaneously, flooding the room with enough light that Raela was forced to squint against the sudden brightness. Tandyr shut his eyes briefly, as well.

  A satisfied Vanson mumbled, “That’s better.”

  Vanson moved forward to stand beside Tandyr, all the while studying the disheveled room and shaking his head in obvious disgust.

  “We can begin,” announced Tandyr. “It will only be the three of us today.”

  Vanson muttered, “Good.” He sounded relieved.

  Raela agreed with the sentiment, happy the fourth member of their group was not attending. W
hile Vanson’s infatuation with misery disgusted her, Cardin’s behavior made her ill.

  Addressing them both, Tandyr said, “To start with, I wish to report that nearly the entire Borderlands west of Gobas has been secured and the Dust Men rendered useless, while our army has suffered only minimal losses.” He glanced at the duke of the Borderlands. “Thank you, Vanson.”

  The God of Strife waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and let out a disappointed sigh.

  “I wish I could have been here for the actual attack on Gobas. It would have been glorious to watch.”

  Raela shook her head, pointing out, “The confusion caused by your absence made the city that much easier to take.”

  Tandyr nodded. “I agree.” Looking to Vanson, he added firmly, “And so did you beforehand. Raela should not have needed to remind you of that.”

  A day before the attack, she had visited Vanson, ensuring that the God was going to leave as planned. It was a good thing she had. Vanson had seemed content to sit and watch the city fall around him, reveling in the collective misery of the populace.

  Shrugging, Vanson said, “It is difficult to suppress my nature.”

  The muscles in Tandyr’s face tightened.

  “If I can do it, you certainly should be able to.”

  “I did,” snapped Vanson. “For thirty years, I sat in that blasted chair—” he jabbed a finger toward Raela “—fighting what I am meant to do.” His head swiveled to face the cracked door and the faint screams wafting through it. “I simply felt I was owed some enjoyment after so long.” The bald duke alternated his gaze between them both, a wicked smile spreading over his lips. “Perhaps you two can provide me a taste of what I missed.”

  Raela recognized the look on his face and did not like what it portended.

  “What happened?”

  “Something that I am sure neither of you will like. Something that you, dear Raela, caused.”

  Raela sat a little straighter, suddenly tense. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Me?”

  “Had you not rushed me to leave, perhaps I might not have made such a terrible error.”

  His delaying was distressing her, which was exactly what he wanted of course.

  “I have no patience for your games. Speak.”

  A soft chuckle slipped from Vanson as his smile widened. Raela glared at the man, digging her fingernails into her thighs, trying hard not to show her irritation. Tandyr, on the other hand, managed to remain surprisingly calm. Expressionless, he swiveled his head to stare at Vanson, his long blond hair—pulled taut and constrained with three black cords—draped over his right shoulder.

  Raela marveled at Tandyr’s tranquility. She had known him in his previous forms, most recently the divina Norasim, and he had never been able to remain as at peace as he appeared now.

  After a few seconds of quiet staring, Tandyr spoke, his tone even and calm.

  “What sort of ‘error?’”

  The former duke met the saeljul’s composed stare with a disappointed frown, evidently displeased he had been unable to upset Tandyr.

  “When I left the castle, I brought a number of loyalists along with me. After moving through the port I had opened a few miles north of the city, I sent them away with instructions to meet me at a prearranged location while I attempted find a decent place to observe the battle.”

  “Hold,” muttered Raela. “You opened a port in the middle of your lands? That was brainless. What if someone had seen you step from a port?”

  The longer people believed Vanson was nothing more than the weak, ineffective Duke of the Borderlands, the better.

  Vanson shook his head, saying, “I may have a few short-comings in your eyes, but being witless is not one of them. I scouted a small gully three turns ago and have had men guarding it since. Trust me, it was empty when I arrived.”

  “Then what was your error?” asked Raela.

  “Well,” muttered Vanson. “As this city is built on what I am convinced is the flattest land in all of Terrene, short of marching with the unwashed masses of the Sudashians, I would never be able to find a suitable vantage point to watch Gobas fall.”

  Raela glared at him.

  “Which explains why I found you standing in the Dust Men’s tower.”

  Vanson shrugged and said, “It was as—”

  “The mistake, please.” interjected Tandyr. “What was the mistake?”

  The duke’s gaze flicked to the ijul. For a brief moment, undeniable trepidation filled his expression. Raela steeled herself. If Vanson was ashamed or afraid, this was bad indeed.

  “Before I sent my loyalists from here, I gave them a number of documents and valuables to carry for me. I made the mistake of putting everything together, and handing it to a rather feckless baron to carry. When I eventually arrived at the camp, I discovered that four men had waylaid him—”

  Raela sat upright, fully alert. Her voice was tight with accusation, she snapped, “You didn’t!”

  Tandyr held up a hand, motioning for her to remain quiet. “Allow him to finish, please.”

  Raela glared at Vanson, but remained silent for the moment. Slipping her hand beneath the folds of her own thin robes, she felt for the small pouch strapped around her waist. Pressing it against her right hip, she felt the oblong, finger-length stone contained within the purse. She never let hers out of sight.

  Vanson’s gaze shifted between Tandyr and Raela, he was hesitant to continue. After clearing his throat, he said, “The bandits—Marshlanders by all accounts—took the baron’s coin and valuables.”

  “And what was with those valuables?” asked Tandyr.

  Vanson paused a moment.

  “Ah…Suštinata na pori.”

  Raela pushed herself from the Sovereign’s Chair and advanced on the sovereign, her bare feet brushing through the thick, red rug as she demanded, “Does that body you inhabit have an illness of the head?!” She halted at the bottom of the wide steps, mere paces from the pair. “Perhaps I should strike you down right now and force you to find another mortal to infect with your stupidity!”

  Vanson tensed, his eyes wide and alert. He was waiting for some signal that she was reaching for the Strands. She would never be so predictable. The poisoned dart she had hidden in the broach hanging from her dress would kill him within four breaths.

  Vanson said in a hushed tone, “You wouldn’t dare. You need me.”

  “Do we?” she shot back. “Your role is complete, is it not?” She jabbed a finger at the half-open door nearby. “Gobas has fallen and the Borderlands are in our hands. Tens of thousands of refugees have already flooded into the Marshlands with more crossing the border every day. Duke Rholeb’s ability to form any sort of effective resistance diminishes with each Borderlander that shows up at his gates. The Marshlands will fall even faster than this forsaken land!”

  The God of Strife’s expression hardened.

  “Duke Everett and I can—”

  Waving a hand in the air, Raela interjected, “You can do nothing! Everett will do whatever he is told to do. By Tandyr or by me! He’s a simpleton, a shield to protect us from the north. You’ve served your purpose. You are a duke without a duchy!”

  Vanson shot back, “I am a God!”

  A derisive laugh leapt from her lips.

  “Fine. You’re a God. In present company, that means little. What you are is a fool! No! You are worse than a fool.” Taking a swift step forward, she peered up into his eyes and whispered with thick, hot vehemence, “Even the biggest fool in all of Terrene would not have lost one of the Suštinata!”

  For just a moment, shame filled Vanson’s eyes. It was fleeting, but Raela had seen it. With a final, derisive snort of revulsion, she stepped backward.

  “Idiot.”

  She glanced at Tandyr to see what he thought of Vanson’s momentous gaffe and found the ijul standing extraordinarily still, hands clasped together at his waist as he stared at the ground.

  Raela shook her head.

 
“Blast it, Tandyr! If this doesn’t get you upset, what will?”

  A few moments later, Tandyr asked softly, “You have more to share, do you not, Vanson?”

  Raela glared at Vanson.

  “There’s more? What else did you do? Report our plans to the High Host?”

  Withering under the combined intensity of her burning stare and Tandyr’s eminently cool one, Vanson uttered, “I admit to the gravity of my error. However, you have made one yourself.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Duke Rholeb is indeed beset by the exodus of refugees. And if he were the only one we had to worry about, we could feel secure about the situation.” He paused and licked his lips. “Unfortunately, that is not the case.”

  Raela shook her head, muttering, “I enjoy riddles as much as I do your company at the moment. Speak clearly.”

  The unexpected sound of soft laughter drifted through the empty hall. Surprised, she turned to stare at Tandyr and found the saeljul still staring at the ground while shaking his head, a slight smile on his lips.

  Confused, Raela asked, “What about this is humorous?”

  Tandyr sighed and said with mirthful resignation, “It was only a matter of time, I suppose.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Raela. “What was only a matter of time?”

  Baffled as well, Vanson stared at Tandyr and asked, “Do you know what happened with the First Council? How could you? We haven’t spoken in—”

  “I know nothing for a fact,” snapped Tandyr. His mirth vanished as quickly as it appeared. “However, your mediocre attempt at being cryptic is as transparent as a pane of newly spun glass.” The saeljul walked away from them and headed up the stairs.

  Raela watched him for a moment before asking, “I don’t suppose you’d like to share?”

  Upon reaching the Sovereign’s Chair, Tandyr faced Raela and Vanson, sat down, and pressed his back into the chair’s cushions, letting out a soft sigh of approval.

  “This is a nice chair, Vanson. I can see why you grew used to it.”

  Speaking with a quiet intensity, Raela said, “One of you had better tell me what has happened.”

  Tandyr’s eyes flicked up sharply and stared at her, saying, “You know, for one who preaches the efficacy of a good lie paired with quiet restraint, you exhibit a stunning lack of patience.” The flickering torchlight lent a maniacal quality to the saeljul’s eyes. Of all the Cabal, Tandyr was the most dangerous. The others were predictable. Tandyr was not. Behind his current façade of calm and control bubbled a cauldron of anarchy.