Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle)

by Siana, Patrick

  “The Dashin. Where is it?”

  “All this for a sword.”

  “No mere sword, as you well know,” Slade spat, trembling with excitement. “Where is it?” He held out his hand between them. Oily tendrils of magic snaked out from his shirtsleeve and coiled around his wrist and hand. “I will bind myself to my words. Your children for the Dashin.”

  “Where’s the rest of your Hand?”

  “This is a personal mission.”

  Padraic looked pointedly at the smoking archer. “You want the sword for yourself.”

  “It belongs to the Scarlet Hand. It belongs to me!”

  “The Dashin is an heirloom of House Senestrati, crafted before they fell into shadow.”

  “You’re stalling.” Slade held out his hand, tendrils of dark magic writhing toward Padraic. “Your children for the Dashin. What say you!?”

  Padraic closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt his resolve cracking. He thought of his wife as the life leaked out of him. Edora would tell him to have faith, and he did—in his son. The time had come for someone else to take up the sword and shield, and as much as he had tried he could not pull his children from the tide of their destiny.

  “The Dashin is warded from you and yours, which is why you can’t sense it,” said Padraic. “Even if it were a foot away you wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on it, or even detect its aura. But, then, you knew that. Thus the charade.”

  Slade stepped back and Padraic felt the rage and madness pour off him. “Die a fool then. It matters not. Your son will want vengeance for you and his woman. That, and the thought that his sister may yet live will ensure he comes for me. I’ll keep her alive for bait but, oh, how I will make her sing. Yes, your son will come, and he will bring the Dashin to me.”

  “He brings only your destruction.”

  Slade raised his scimitar. “Any last words?”

  Padraic found himself glad that the banter had come to an end, for he had grown weary. He looked past Slade as a twinkle caught his eyes in the distance. At the edge of the Lurkwood stood an ethereal woman clad in gossamer.

  His wife looked like she did on their wedding day: resplendent in ivory, wearing a garland of wytchwood, dark hair springing capriciously about her throat and face. Padraic blinked away a tear to discover a host of figures had joined her, wreathed in alabaster, blue, green, and rose spirit fire. Many of the shades he knew in life, while others remained unknown to him, yet they seemed somehow familiar.

  Edora beckoned to him. Slade swung his scimitar, but the Marshal did not see it or feel its sting. Padraic Duana died with the name of his wife on his lips.

  Chapter 5

  Bishops, Queens, and Pawns

  Sarad Mirengi offered an exaggerated nod to the man kneeling at his feet, his countenance a well-practiced mask of concern.

  The supplicant before him, a philandering noble with a taste for young flesh, looked up at him expectantly with wet eyes. Sarad favored him with an indulgent smile and sat back in his satin lined chair, which resembled nothing so much as a throne.

  “My son, there is no question that your carnal appetites are an affront to God,” Sarad said, savoring the moment as Duke Vachel Ogressa’s face turned ashen. “Be that as it may, none may say that they are perfect in the eyes of the One God. Through your urges, he tests you, preparing you for his divine light. Your suffering shall purify your soul, my child. If you give unto him, he shall give unto you and cured of your base afflictions shall you be.”

  The color returned to Vachel’s face. “Thank-you Prelate, your words have not fallen on deaf ears.” He wiped at tears with a sleeve, and produced a coin purse from his tunic. He held it up in both hands as if offering a relic. Sarad indicated his tea-table with a nod, as if above the profanity of material wealth.

  “You are pardoned, my child. May His light illuminate the dark corners of your soul.” Sarad held out a hand and spoke in the tongue of the ancient prophets of Aradur, his words charged and resonant, as if they emanated from a vast distance, echoing from outside the constraints of this world. A golden aureole of light encircled his hand and fanned outward.

  Vachel closed his eyes against the vivid glow, and a smile spread across his face as he basked in the warmth of Sarad’s blessing. A sense of contentment washed over the kneeling Duke. The clerics of the One God had been pardoning sinners for decades, but he had never heard tell of anything like this. Rumor had it that Mirengi was favored by God, but Vachel never guessed that the prelate was gifted with such miraculous power.

  Suffused with renewed energy, Vachel sprung to his feet, the heady sensation of the preternatural ritual coursing through his veins with all the fire and potency of a strong Galacian whiskey.

  “Go now, my child. It would please me to see you again, Vachel. Next time you are at court do stop by for a visit.”

  “You may count on it, your Holiness.” The Duke genuflected and then swept out of the room.

  As Sarad watched him go a crooked grin crept across his face. He could use a man like Vachel. Having leverage on a man who was both a Duke and High Lord of House Ogressa would prove most advantageous in the months to come.

  With each pardon he performed his renown grew—as did the number of men in his thrall. The ritual was little more than a light show, save for a little twist. Sarad wove an invisible charm, planting a seed in Vachel’s unconscious mind. The suggestion would firm its hold over the ensuing days, and the supplicant would find his mind drawn back to the Prelate of the Church of the One God. He would remember Sarad with admiration and reverence. After the hypnotic suggestion took root, with little effort Sarad would be able to subjugate the Duke’s will entirely should the need arise. In the meantime, he had guaranteed another loyal supporter.

  He reclined in his chair, relishing in his new, opulent chambers. It had only been a few short weeks since his predecessor had gone to his great reward. The stubborn old bastard had hung tenaciously onto his vitality into his eighties, and Sarad had already wasted enough time waiting for the pious fool to expire.

  Getting close enough to kill his predecessor without being detected proved to be a near impossible task, what with the throng of the One Guard milling about and the myriad wards wrought in time beyond record when Galacia yet boasted wizards of merit, which is why he had waited as long as possible for nature to take its course. Yet Sarad’s timetable for advancement to the Church’s highest office in Galacia had run out and he had been forced to take matters into his own hands.

  It had been quite the challenge, for employing even his not inconsiderable magic proved difficult. Aside from having to avoid tripping any of the wards, many of which would trigger in the presence of even the weakest of cantrips, if the Prelate died suddenly there would be an investigation. If a discernible residue of magic remained, the wizards from Arcalum would know there had been foul play.

  In the end Sarad settled on a devilishly simple plan. Consulting an ancient grimoire acquired through black market dealings, he discovered a spell that detailed a clever way to bring death to ones enemies with a small investment of power, and, more importantly, one which would allow the arcanist to cast the spell off site.

  Safe in his own chambers, he wove the spell without fear of detection, for while wards were placed outside the cleric’s dormitory and in the keep proper, there were none inside their modest bedrooms. The ritual required one black spider and a fingernail, lock of hair, or any other part of the victim’s body.

  It had been easier than expected to procure the components. The vain Prelate wore his hair to the shoulders in a silver mane, and was fastidious in matters of personal hygiene. His predecessor had a habit of combing his hair before audiences, so when Sarad made an unscheduled visit, the Prelate hardly had time to give his locks the proper attention, and as such left his comb out. When the opportunity presented itself, Sarad adroitly plucked a hair from the comb, the aged patriarch none the wiser.

  Once ensorcelled the spider’s bite became de
adly and, thanks to the totem, the insect unerringly homed in on the victim. The poison stopped the heart within mere minutes, and the cause of death would be virtually undetectable. He had engineered the perfect murder. As Sarad congratulated himself a toothy grin erupted on his face that was anything but holy, for now there was but one man who outranked him in the Church and that was the Holy Father himself, the Shining One, who dwelt in far off Aradur, half a world away.

  Sarad was snapped from his reverie as he felt a familiar pull in the back of his mind, like the chime of a low-pitched, resonant bell. An electric tingle swept up his spine. His Lord summoned him. The wolf-like grin melted and his face became a stoic mask, empty of emotion. He rose and strode with slow, deliberate steps toward his study.

  He locked the door and then spun his hands, fingers splayed, over one another in a circular motion. His pale blue eyes narrowed as he focused his will and cast a spell. Sarad summoned a ward, as a failsafe, to prevent anyone from barging in on him. The ward would make it virtually impossible to break down the door by any mundane means.

  That done, he waved his hand cursorily over the floor in the center of the chamber and spoke a single word: Ikoro. The floor wavered and shimmered, like the heat wave distortion in the air above a torch, and then cleared to reveal a spell-circle rife with arcane runes and sigils, which were etched into the floor in silver and intersected by long, sweeping lines.

  Sarad used an illusion to hide his Wizard’s Circle from view, lest anyone entering his study discover the true nature of their nascent Prelate.

  With the illusion that obfuscated the circle dispelled, Sarad readied himself to commune with his masters. He sat in the center of the circle between a series of intertwining lines, closed his eyes, and began to chant. The words he spoke would be indecipherable to any listener, save one of his order, as a coherent language. Rather, they sounded like a discordant, sibilant song pronounced in phonemes instead of words.

  The circle began to emit a scarlet light.

  He could feel the heat leeching from his body, as if an icy fist held him fast it its grasp. Sarad opened his eyes. A shadowy form coalesced in the scarlet blaze. The figure sat cross-legged, suspended in mid air. His body was wreathed in waves of scarlet energy that clung to him like liquid fire. His eyes, however, were an inky void, as depthless and as devouring as a starless, moonless night.

  “Sarad,” the figure said simply.

  “Greetings, my Liege. I humbly await your direction.”

  “You have done well by securing the office of Prelate. We are pleased. How go your efforts at subverting the court in Peidra?”

  “I have made progress, faster than anticipated. As we discussed, it is too early to begin posturing for political influence. However, my blessings have ingratiated me to many members of the court and gentry, and the number of those who seek the sacrament is growing exponentially.”

  “Excellent. Before long they shall seek your counsel, and be as clay in your hands to be shaped to our will. When House Denar is at its weakest, the Hand will strike and you will open the door for our return.”

  “So shall it be, my Lord.”

  “Long have our agents been abroad in Agia, and long have they waited for this moment. Hitherto, they have remained hidden, masquerading, but soon shall they reveal themselves as the servants of a power long-forgotten but not gone.”

  With that said the ephemeral figure nodded once, and the scarlet bindings that wound about him frayed, then dissipated. The lambent threads lashed and snaked in the air like a taut sailor’s line abruptly cut. A preternatural wind swept through the chamber. The arcane light spun into a vortex, churned into a ball, then a pinprick before disappearing completely, leaving an exhausted Prelate of The Church of the One God in its wake.

  †

  Elsewhere in the capital, a careworn Eithne Denar, Queen of Galacia, resisted the impulse to rub her aching head.

  She remembered the most valuable lesson her father had taught her—never let the gentry see you rattled. She heard his voice even now. They are jackals, Ith. If you prick your finger and let slip a single drop of blood, they’ll take your whole hand, so eager will they be for a taste of it.

  The queen wished for nothing more than to throttle the reedy man who lectured her in a tone thick with condescension. Her tenuous grasp on the favor of the court, however, stayed her hand. At thirty she was a relatively young sovereign in the eyes of the gentry—a fact that Lord Geoffrey Oberon was all too happy to remind her of. She could ill afford to alienate House of Oberon as she had need of their ample resources and familial ties with the royal house of neighboring Phyra. As the breadbasket of the continent of Agia, Galacia long suffered a precarious position, and had need of all the allies she could muster.

  “Lord Oberon,” she said, “I sympathize with your concerns, however, I feel they merit further consideration before any action is taken. We will wait until more intelligence is gathered.”

  “But, my Queen,” Oberon said, glancing around the room to indicate that he addressed the entire assembly, “It is unthinkable to allow Ittamar’s trade treaty with Aradur to go unopposed. By allowing the savage North to engage in commerce freely with our allies, without even so much as a formal complaint, we are condoning their infringement into southern lands, and a possible alliance with a nation that has long been known for its litigiousness. Furthermore, competition with the North could drive up the price of Aradurian goods.”

  “Dear Lord Oberon,” Eithne said with a warm smile, “I know how much you enjoy curried chicken, but I don’t think you have need for worry.” She paused a moment to allow her other advisors to chuckle at her joke. “Aradur’s vast deserts do not allow for much fertile ground. They will always need our grain.”

  Oberon’s face colored and his lips pressed together in a scarcely concealed grimace, which gave her a small rush of satisfaction.

  “We’ve had two decades of peace with Ittamar,” Eithne continued, “and I will take no action that could be construed as hostile unless absolutely necessary.”

  Lord Geoffrey Oberon nodded stiffly. “Yes, my Queen,” he said and then took his chair, joining the other High Lords at the ovular mahogany table that sat Galacia’s High Council.

  “That,” said the queen, “concludes the Council of the Six.”

  The five Lords, each the head of one of the original five ruling houses of Galacia, stood and waited for their queen to exit the audience chamber before filing out themselves.

  Though a few may have shuddered involuntarily, as if walking through a patch of cold air, their subconscious minds perhaps registering what their physical senses could not, none noticed the invisible presence that hovered near the door, watching them intently.

  †

  Eithne enjoyed a rare moment of solitude in her private chambers. She raised a glass of wine to her lips with a delicate hand and sighed deeply. After a heavy draught of the potent red, she placed the glass down on her gilded, ebony dressing table. Eithne removed the slender circlet of platinum that served as the symbol of her office with care, so as to avoid snagging her chestnut tresses.

  A knock sounded at her door. Eithne closed her eyes. “Who is it?” she said, affecting her most regal tone.

  “It’s Ogden, Your Grace,” a familiar voice announced.

  A smile lighted her delicate features. Ogden had been her father’s Steward, favored advisor, and confidant, so few found it surprising that he fulfilled the same role for Eithne. As much an uncle as advisor, she relied heavily on the venerable Ogden’s counsel. She rose and opened the door. “Come in Ogden. What brings you to me?”

  “A matter of some importance, I’m afraid. This has just arrived via Aradurian messenger.” He held out a letter in his gnarled hand.

  Eithne took the letter gingerly, as if it were a coiled viper. The envelope read in a spidery hand For the Eyes of Eithne Denar, Queen of Galacia. She turned the envelope over and her eyes widened. The letter may have been delivered by an Aradurian
courier, but it bore the seal of the royal house of Ittamar. Galacia had not received official word from Ittamar for some twenty years, since the tenuous peace treaty had been drawn.

  Eithne led Ogden into her sitting room. She looked her dearest friend in the eye. He met her gaze and nodded. Though aged, his eyes still smoldered like the blue steel of a Marshal’s Shield. Galvanized, she broke the seal.

  Eithne Denar, Queen of all Galacia:

  I write to inform you that my father Istvan Rachman, High King of Ittamar, is dead.

  Through our history we have ever been at each other’s throats, involved in one border conflict after another, in an antagonism that culminated during my father’s long reign. I hope that with his passing so too will the lingering vestiges of animosity between our nations.

  It has been twenty winters since the last blood was drawn between our peoples—one year of peace for each year of blood. I hope that this has been sufficient time to heal our mutual wounds.

  It is my hope that we may put our violent legacy aside and begin diplomatic relations. In good faith, I wish to send an emissary, mine own cousin Agnar Vundi, and some few kinsmen to accompany him, to initiate a friendship between Galacia and Ittamar.

  You are doubtlessly aware by now that we have engaged in trade relations with Aradur. It is my desire that we negotiate a trade treaty as well. The children of Ittamar are hungry and have need of your ample grain. In turn, we have deep reservoirs of ore and precious metals in abundance.

  While we can continue to acquire Galacian grain from our dealings with Aradur, trading with you directly and cutting out the intermediary would be beneficial to us both, for it means more grain for me at a better price, and more coin for you.

  My emissary and his party will wait at the central standing-stone on the Sheer for your reply. Your men may approach without fear of reprisal. On this I give my word. We ardently await your reply.

  —Baruch Rachman, High King of Ittamar.

  Eithne handed the letter to Ogden. His eyes darted back and forth as he read, his brow furrowed. After he finished with the letter Ogden sat back. He tapped a finger thoughtfully against his lips and his bushy eyebrows drew down over his eyes like a cowl.