The Zi'veyn: The Devoted Trilogy, Book One

by Kim Wedlock

  "Good night, Rathen."

  Chapter 23

  Malson slammed the report on the cluttered desk top, sending a stack of papers wafting away with the force, and stared Salus fiercely in the eye. "The information your operatives gathered was false!" He roared, but Salus did not flinch. "General Moore fortified the north-west as your 'intel' suggested, but Skilan attacked from dead west. Not only that, but every single one of your people failed to pick up on any movement in the east! The military cannot have eyes everywhere, Keliceran, so it relies on you and your grass roots for exactly this kind of information! And now there are three towns and cities occupied in the east, and another in the west, and we're in no position whatsoever to reclaim them!"

  "That intel was correct," Salus replied as calmly as he possibly could, his eyes aflame as he held his gaze with equal fury and spoke through barred teeth. "The agents that gathered it have never once made a mistake."

  "There's a first time for everything." Malson took a half step back and straightened, his superior air only enraging Salus further. "Regardless," he continued flatly and with a great degree of disapproval, "the Crown wants more operatives out there to help clean this up. The Arana and the Order will be quicker to arrive than the military, so it will be up to the both of you to do what you can while Moore reroutes a division."

  Salus's lip tried to curl into a snarl, but he managed to compress it into a twitch. "I'm not happy about having more of the Order involved right now."

  "Quite frankly, I'm not inclined to entertain what you are and are not happy about. Just get it done!"

  Salus stared at him, biting his tongue so hard he thought blood might bubble from his mouth. "Of course, my Lord."

  "Good."

  And with that, the sour old man turned and left, slamming the door closed behind him.

  Salus stared after him, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt. He punched the desk.

  War had thundered down on them out of nowhere. Skilan's force had barely even arrived when the attacks and occupations had begun, and a small but persistent voice in his head which just wouldn't shut up wondered if his efforts to scatter the western military hadn't played right into their adversary's hands - or if his focus on the Order's activity hadn't distracted the Arana from this relocation of Skilan's forces.

  But that would imply tactics far more clever than they were capable of. No military movements had been seen, and no one within Skilan's ranks or listening from the edges had heard of any such plans.

  But they could have had allies; they'd likely forced Kalokh into their service and sent small groups of them through Ivaea and on through the mountains to attack from the east while Doana's back was turned, occupied by their own matters across the sea.

  He slammed his knuckles into the desk again, but this time found enough self-control to keep himself from sweeping everything away. It had taken far too long to re-organise everything the last time.

  He had to get people out there. The western force was broken; Moore could spare a division, but Malson had been correct in assuming that the Arana could get there quicker. And the Order.

  He smiled grimly. Though he had yet to get anything of substance out of the mage in the cells - little more, actually, than close and calculating stares, and Nolan, his top interrogator and head of the breaker division, hadn't personally managed even that - at least they hadn't noticed that one of their mages had been missing for almost two weeks. Which was strange, but Salus was willing to accept it as a blessing. Vastal, it seemed, had heard him this time. It was just a shame that the mage was so determined to stretch that blessing to its limits.

  He pushed himself away from his desk and managed a deep, steadying breath, and though that unyielding voice continued to berate him, he found the strength to ignore it and headed purposefully towards the door. There were agents stationed in the east, one even in now-occupied Bowden, and it was imperative that they be given their new orders. He needed to find out just exactly what had happened, and who was responsible.

  He covered the corridor, engrossed in thought, and descended the three staircases to the estate's modest atrium, respectfully disregarded by all as he went. Upon reaching the foot of the final and grandest, he swung around and behind it to a small hatch concealed in the floor. It was old and stiff, and took a slight jerk to open to reach the ladder beneath. He followed it down, dropping the hatch back in place above him, then started along a short corridor lit fully by just one torch, until he reached the single heavy, wooden door.

  He knocked, and after a few shuffling steps on the other side, it opened onto an old man. He didn't look at Salus directly, having recognised the impatient pattern of his rap, though Salus was sure he knocked no differently to anyone else, and stepped aside to let him in.

  "Didn't expect to see you down here, Keliceran," he mummed as Salus slipped through the fine mosquito netting draped just behind the door and into the small, cramped room. Like the corridor, it took only two torches and the occasional daylight that might creep inside to light it, though the high and meagre window was more suited to a prison cell than a workspace. Stranger still were the abundance of fine mesh cages; some stood along the ground, others hung from the stone ceiling, but all were filled with large, fluttering insects, and the smell of ink, parchment and rotten fruit permeated the air. But as cold and unpleasant as the old cellar seemed, the old man was quite happy down here. He had to be, to have been the master lepidopterist for the past twenty years.

  "Can I get you a cup of tea?"

  "No, thank you, Tom," Salus replied, a small and curious smile touching his lips as it always did at the old man's ability to remain both respectful and familiar at the same time. It came with age, he'd decided, and he'd also noticed that he liked it. "I just have orders to issue."

  "And you're wondering if anything has come in that I haven't passed on." He shook his balding head as he stooped over one long cage that stretched the length of the room, opened the lid and set a plateful of fruit inside it. The fist-sized moths swept towards it immediately. "I always pass on everything as it comes in, Keliceran, you know that."

  "I know you do," he replied, "and I thank you."

  "Mhm." Tom gestured towards the small, cluttered desk in the far corner. "Everything is in its usual place."

  Salus reached it in three steps, and as he leaned over the desk he felt, not for the first time, like a giant. Every sheet of paper was no wider than half an inch and no longer than two, and the quill and inkwell set within reach were also peculiarly small. He'd often wondered if Tom hadn't chosen them as a joke when he'd taken the position, but the quill tip was extremely fine and quite necessary for such small script. Still, he would have found it all amusing had he not been so tired and frustrated.

  He found a grip on the half-sized quill and began noting out his orders while the old man muttered behind him to his moths.

  Salus shook his head to himself. His day simply couldn't get worse.

  Skilan had attacked in the early hours; they'd taken the three most strategic locations in the east and one in the west while their inhabitants were still asleep in their beds, and Turunda was only just beginning to scramble to try to do something about it. He'd received word himself before sunrise, but it had not been obtained primarily by his own people. Instead they'd gained the intel by following a messenger sent to the Crown from the invaded region itself, and that fact had only agitated him, as though there was already a substantial weak link in his supposedly solid chain.

  But they had attacked from the east! The east! Their eyes - the eyes of every authoritative body - had been turned towards the west, and they'd come up from behind them! And his people should have seen it.

  His teeth grated. It was his accursed fault. He'd underestimated Skilan, he'd assumed they were too bold and arrogant to ally with anyone, and that they would be too fatigued for anything more than simply charging straight in themselves, fuelled only by their recent winnings. Because of that, he had focused the Aran
a's resources on the Turunda-Skilan border, completely ignoring that of Ivaea and Doana because they were far from present threats. And he'd been watching the Order.

  No, that was a decision he stood by. Even now. In fact he'd been in the cell with his captive mage when Malson had summoned him for an ear-bashing, and before that he'd been frantically juggling his people around, trying to balance reassignments in order to regain solid footing without sacrificing too much. And he had managed - just. But it meant he would be blind to a handful of matters for a few days while those reassignments fell into place, and though he deeply resented it, that included the activities of Karth and his mage friend. Elran's skills were needed elsewhere - but another, equally capable operative would be sent to shadow them in his place.

  And of course the elven relic was yet another headache. Drassa had been contacting collectors for a week and a half now and, by Salus's reckoning, was getting nowhere. He'd had no word from him since he'd begun, not even a whisper of uncertainty or of false hope, and now that chaos was already beginning to spread through the city and beyond by war's arrival, everything would be that much harder. People would close themselves off, shut their doors, stop socialising, and that would impact Drassa's pursuit - and with the Arana's resources so thinly stretched, their own search for the artefact, as fruitless as it had been, would have to come to an end. He would be putting all of his faith in one man.

  One man who was not bound to the Arana. One who didn't even know it existed.

  Which was as it should be, of course, but he had little trust for anyone outside of his ranks and less, even, for Tem Drassa in particular. Karth's consistent movements concerned him. Why was Drassa carrying out his research in his living room while Karth was running around in the Wildlands?

  Salus dipped into the inkwell with little care, and growled sharply as he flicked little black spots onto the next tiny scroll. His hands were shaking, and his eyes stung in the weak light. When had he last slept? Two nights ago? Three?

  He pushed the ruined parchment aside and took up a new strip. It didn't matter. He was thinking straight enough; he didn't need to waste time sleeping. He couldn't afford to, not now everything had come crashing down around him. He had to fix this damned mistake - his damned mistake - immediately.

  He needed to locate all of Skilan's forces, pick them off and block the stragglers who had yet to find their way into Turunda. He had to identify their allies, keep tabs on them, work out their precise intentions and find out what indentured them to Skilan and break it, because it certainly wouldn't be loyalty. He needed to find out how Skilan had managed to attack from due-west while still appearing to be to the north, because magic alone surely couldn't conceal or suggest such movement, and find out how his own people hadn't caught on. He also needed to uncover just how much of it was magic and why none of Turunda's mages had noticed it, the Arana's own included.

  Or, rather, his operatives needed to. He was stuck behind his damned desk.

  Lately he felt like a guard dog chained to a stake in the garden, unable to use the powerful legs or long, sharp teeth he'd been chosen for, and so barked wildly instead at anything he thought might have been a threat whether it was a churl or a chimney sweep, because there was nothing he could do about any of it himself.

  And it would all take time - something that seemed to be slipping through his fingers faster and faster each day. Nothing would happen soon enough; in the time it took to address the present problems, more would have cropped up in their place. He couldn't just simply remove the invaders, block the borders, build a wall a mile high all the way around the country.

  But how easy his job would be if he could make even just one of those oh so simple ideas a reality. If he could just transport the villains away in the blink of an eye, raise walls or raise the ground - move the country itself away and out of danger for good.

  Magic could do it. Some of it, at least, he was sure... So why hadn't the Order already done so? Why had no such order ever been given? Had it truly never occurred to anyone?

  No, surely, surely the idea had come to someone, but it had been shut down or locked away. But why? So the mages could do precisely this? Allow chaos and then take advantage of it for their own means?

  Salus felt his heart race and the quill began to jitter in his hand. He set it down and leaned upon the desk as sweat trickled down his temple.

  Why would his mind tease him like this? Conjure such childish ideas and hang them in front of him like a carrot on a stick? Was it trying to work against him? Even in his dreams, his mind, his imagination, continued to taunt him, creating a sanctuary he was eternally doomed to be torn away from, one in which he could never remain.

  He could swear he felt his mind begin to unravel. Perhaps he needed rest...

  No. He was fine. He could manage. He didn't need sleep. He didn't want sleep.

  Another idea sprung to mind, and this one he didn't entertain with any consideration. He lifted his quill, took another scroll and immediately began writing. His lettering was steadier than before, and his mind had fallen quiet, satisfied with this spontaneous decision, and once he was done he was able to write out the remaining orders on other lengths of parchment without distraction. He dusted and dried the ink, rolled them tightly and tied them off in fine, leather thread. He turned towards the old man and announced his completion.

  Tom said nothing, merely grunting in response, and turned to the nearest cage to coax out a number of large moths, all of which obediently fluttered out and landed along the length of his arm. Then, with a delicacy that belied his frail and shaking hands, he affixed the scrolls to their flossy thoraxes one by one as he muttered to each their recipients, though not in any tongue Salus recognised.

  When the last moth danced away, out through the small, high window, apparently unhindered by the additional weight, Tom gave Salus a single, final nod and returned to tending his swarm, leaving the Keliceran to see himself out.

  Half an hour later Salus sat again behind his infernal desk, drumming his fingers and penetrating the wall with a wide-eyed stare, ignoring the urgent papers stacked on either side of him. He felt irritated, frustrated, desperate, helpless - but above all else at that moment, nervous.

  What had he been thinking, summoning her like that? He'd acted on impulse, sparing no thought nor sense, and though she'd been working within the city anyway, her work was not unimportant. None of the Arana's work was unimportant.

  ...But...hers could wait. She was far from the only pair of eyes and ears he had working in Kulokhar. The capital city could never be left to just two or three.

  But...what had he been thinking?!

  A knock came at his door, shattering the silence and jolting him out of his fretting. He stared at it for a moment, his heart skipping a beat, then swallowed it down and called for her to enter in as calm a voice as he could muster. Taliel stepped in readily, dressed in plain, civilian clothes, and closed the door quietly behind her before standing as rigidly in the centre as usual, her eyes fixed on the wall behind him. She seemed in a bad mood - closed off. Or perhaps it was just formality...

  Of course it was formality. She was expecting orders directly from the Keliceran himself.

  Realising his whole body had turned rigid at her arrival, he forced himself to relax in the additional hope that she might also ease. But, no, she didn't. She was a model subordinate. She wouldn't react to any atmosphere in the Keliceran's presence.

  It took him a moment to realise he hadn't said anything yet.

  "I'm sorry," the words tumbled out, "I...don't know why I summoned you..."

  The slightest flicker of a frown passed over her brow, but it was so fleeting he may have imagined it. "It's all right, Keliceran," she said, of course, with no hint of inconvenience, "I'll return to the trade district."

  "Very good." But he felt a wave of disappointment the moment she turned away. "Wait."

  What was he doing?

  She stopped and turned back, frowning again,
though this time it was a little more persistent. "Keliceran?"

  He blinked in his own confusion, then, slowly, his shoulders sagged in defeat. He leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at the desk, only to find his mind had vacated him, and when he glanced back up in search of a clue, their eyes locked. His heart jumped as hers flicked away.

  "Forgive me."

  "No," he frowned, "no, it's all right..."

  "Is there something wrong, sir?"

  "Well nothing's right," he replied drily, but she didn't look back at him.

  "What can I do?"

  He blinked. "What do you mean?"

  "You summoned me, sir," she reminded him carefully, finding the fine line between formality and insubordination, "for one reason or another, which suggests that there's something I can do, even if you've yet to decide what it is."

  He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, and sighed in defeat once again. "I suppose...I'd like to talk."

  "Talk, sir?"

  "Salus."

  "Pardon?"

  "Never mind." He gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. "Please, sit down, Taliel - and drop the formalities, if you could. For now...for the moment, I..."

  "You need to talk to another person, not a subordinate."

  He looked at her in surprise.

  "Forgive me once again, Keliceran, but would Teagan not be a preferable choice?"

  "He isn't here at the moment, but I'm not sure he would be very helpful anyway..."

  "Because he is portian. I understand." Finally, she took the seat, and though she turned her eyes heavily upon him, sending his chest fluttering again, it clearly took her a great deal of effort. She seemed only increasingly uneasy.

  "This was a bad idea," he said, suddenly rising from his chair as he fought the returning disappointment that tried to pull his lips downwards.

  "You look tired."

  He hesitated at the statement, and when he looked back at her he noticed immediately that, though something within her was clearly telling her to break her stare, she didn't. She held his gaze, fighting against all she'd been taught, for his personal sake. He lowered himself back down. "...I suppose I am."