“I have failed you,” Tin-Tsu said aloud to the empty room.
The physician and his attendants had left Tin-Tsu to his funerary prayers after finally declaring Rin-Lahee to be dead. Her family had departed shortly thereafter, out of respect for the man who prayed beside their daughter for hour after hour as she died. Rin-Lahee had lasted far longer than anyone expected. At first, Tin-Tsu took this to be proof of the efficacy of his devotional prayer. As her skin turned darker and darker and her heartbeat more erratic, he refused to admit that a miracle of grace could not save her. Even now, he did not wish to acknowledge his impotence in arresting her slow decline into a cold death. He took his only comfort in knowing that she had been unconscious throughout the ordeal, and that she had not suffered in any outward manner.
However, she had died, no matter the endless stream of prayers he offered up to his god. How could that be? How could his prayers move Ni-Kam-Djen to spare an entire hall of strangers from the falling stones of a collapsing ceiling yet not purify the blood of a single woman felled by a poisoned arrow? Only one answer came to him as he considered the question, but he did not want to confess its truth.
The failure rested with him, not The True God. He had changed since that earlier event. He had done what he had sworn not to do. While he had bent his oaths to assume the ascendancy, he had broken them to wed Rin-Lahee. He had listened to his councilors and his family and let them cloud his moral certainty. Ni-Kam-Djen would not answer his prayers, because he had abandoned his oaths and severed his tether to The True God. He had failed his bride, because he had failed his god in an attempt to appease those who wished to guide his ascendancy. By following a council of men rather than the counsel of his heart, of his god, he had distanced himself from that which might save him, might save the entire dominion.
“I have failed you, my bride, as I have failed my god.” Tin-Tsu stood as he spoke. “I cannot reverse the fall that has allowed your death, but I can, in your name, correct the path I follow, and turn my feet back to the light and divine wisdom of Ni-Kam-Djen.”
Tin-Tsu bent to kiss the forehead of the woman who would have been his wife. He had not loved her, had barely known her, but he had felt a strong kinship with her. Someone, like himself, thrust into a world of complications and dangers that their upbringing ill prepared them to face. He thought she would have made a magnificent consort and companion. As he stood up, he offered a silent promise that the tragedy of her death would not go unanswered.
He walked from Rin-Lahee’s rooms and down the hall, two guards falling in behind him, leaving the attendants to reenter the room and prepare the body for the funeral ceremony. He strode the halls with an energy undaunted after days of wakeful prayer, leaving his guards struggling to keep up. He did not slow until he reached the door of his study, opening it to find Tonken-Wu, lit by lantern light, standing at attention by the desk, waiting for his return.
“How did you know I would not return to my sleeping chambers?” Tin-Tsu asked as he crossed the room and sat behind the wide polished frame of the desk.
Carved as a single piece from a massive poda tree some five hundred years prior, it held a dark stain more from age than oil. He had always admired it as a child, but never desired to sit behind it.
“I did not think you would wish to sleep yet, my zhan.” Tonken-Wu did not relax his posture.
“You are correct in this.” Tin-Tsu did not wish to sleep. He did not know what he wanted to do, but he could not imagine rest as a reward for his ignorance and error.
“My zhan, I wish to submit myself for discipline for my utter failure.” Tonken-Wu lowered his head as he pushed his shoulders back.
“You have not failed, Tonken-Wu.” Tin-Tsu sighed and placed his elbows on his desk, resting his chin in his fingers.
“The future consort is dead because of my deficiencies, my zhan.” Tonken-Wu frowned.
“Rin-Lahee is dead because of a murderer’s arrow and because I departed from the path I am meant to follow.” Tin-Tsu’s voice sounded weary in his own ears. “You, Tonken-Wu, saved my life.”
“I should have saved both your lives, my zhan.” Tonken-Wu raised his head, the frown on his face only deepening.
“You nearly did. The arrow only scratched her arm.” Tin-Tsu looked away from Tonken-Wu. The man had failed, but not through ignorance or incompetence, merely by being a second too slow. Compared to his own ineptitude, he could not hold the commander culpable.
“That was my error, my zhan.” Tonken-Wu’s eyes filled with anger clearly directed at himself. “When I pushed you and the future consort, I intended to shove you clear and suffer the arrow blow myself. I did not anticipate that you might not be the target of that arrow.”
“I do not understand.” Tin-Tsu narrowed his eyes at Tonken-Wu.
“It is simple, my zhan,” Tonken-Wu said. “The fact that the arrow struck the future consort in the arm closest to you indicates that it had been intended for her heart rather than your own.”
“Are you certain of this?” Tin-Tsu ground his jaw as he sat back in his chair.
“I cannot be entirely certain, my zhan, but I do not doubt my suspicions.” Tonken-Wu looked down again.
“Why would someone wish to kill Rin-Lahee?” Tin-Tsu looked up at the ceiling as he considered the question.
“The intention may have been to kill you both, my zhan.” Tonken-Wu looked ill as he raised his eyes to Tin-Tsu. “The murderer may have intended to strike her first and then you as you moved to protect her. I cannot speculate as to why, and I have begun to question the evidence that indicates who might be responsible.”
“I thought the body of the archer had been found?” Tin-Tsu leaned forward in his chair again.
“Yes, it has, my zhan,” Tonken-Wu said. “We found one of our own sentinels with a broken neck and a broken bow at the bottom of a ladder leading to the portal in the temple dome through which the late tahneff was targeted. We found a bag of Tanshen gold coins on his waist and a search of his quarters revealed a coded letter hidden behind a loose brick.”
“And the assembly of this evidence does not suggest to you the hand of the Tanshen zhan and his councilors?” Tin-Tsu put his chin in his fingers again, realizing as he did so how often he assumed that pose while sitting behind the desk his father and grandfather and ancient ancestors had commanded. He wondered if he did it to project the confidence he had often seen his father assume while in that chair.
“It appears more as evidence assembled rather than evidence discovered, my zhan,” Tonken-Wu said.
Tin-Tsu could not decide if he agreed with that assessment. It would suggest a hand more local behind the plot to kill either himself and Rin-Lahee or her alone. And who would benefit from such a strategy? One who wished for a more aggressive war footing with the Tanshen in the south? An event that would likely become inevitable with his death and a clear Tanshen connection. Even having survived the attempted murder, it would be nearly impossible for him to ignore the calls for vengeance from the council, not to mention Rin-Lahee’s family and the other tahns. He heard that call resounding loudly within his own mind. Those responsible for Rin-Lahee’s death must be held to account. But whose hand had truly loosed that arrow? The same person who sent those false wardens to kill him in his sleep, or the one who somehow set the ceiling of the Grand Hall to fall upon his head? Someone close to him, or someone far afield? Tigan Rhog-Kan, constantly calling for an escalation in the war, now standing to marry his sister, would certainly benefit from Rin-Lahee’s death and from Tin-Tsu’s demise. Or did that stand true? Had Tin-Tsu died before Rhog-Kan could marry Dju-Tesha, there might be calls from the high tahns for her to marry someone more suitable to the seat of royal consort. Would Rhog-Kan try to kill him simply to clear the throne for another?
Or did he misjudge Rhog-Kan? The man seemed genuinely to love Tin-Tsu’s sister. Might it be someone else in court? Kao-Rhee, for instance? Or another of the councilors or tigans or a high tahn with a lust for sta
tus? How to know? Hin-Waa’s blade of discrimination, perhaps. When little information existed upon which to base conjecture, the simplest answer usually proved correct.
Tin-Tsu realized he had been silent for too long. Tonken-Wu still looked at him, his eyes filled with unspoken worry. As he opened his mouth to speak, a knock came at the door.
“Enter.”
Tin-Tsu turned as an odd sensation flooded him, similar to the feeling one had when waking from a dream to find one’s self in yet another dream. Prime Tigan Rhog-Kan entered the room with Prime Councilor Kao-Rhee behind him.
“Please pardon the intrusion on your grief, my zhan, but we believe you will wish to hear immediately our sorrowful news.” Kao-Rhee looked to Tonken-Wu, clearly indicating his preference that the warden should leave.
“What?” Tin-Tsu did not bother forming more words and ignored the suggestion that Tonken-Wu depart. He could trust only one person not of his own blood, and he had no intention of turning that man from his council unnecessarily.
“I regret to inform you, my zhan, that our armies have been routed in all three battles by the Tanshen forces.” Tigan Rhog-Kan lowered his head, shame tinging his voice, leaving it raspy.
“All three? How?” Tin-Tsu placed his hands on the table to steady himself. He had not expected such dire news, nor the sense of dizziness and nausea that accompanied it.
“We are not entirely certain, my zhan.” Kao-Rhee dipped his head as he spoke.
“Tigan Yan-Lo captured some of the Tanshen soldiers as he retreated, my zhan.” Rhog-Kan looked up, his eyes angry. “They claim to use a new form of rakthorian steel. I have heard no rumors of such a metal. I fear we must consider the possibility that the Tanshen army has magnified their heresy by using The Sight to augment their weapons.”
“Is that even possible?” Tin-Tsu’s mind reeled at the notion. To break the covenant of Kam-Djen and use The Sight to win a battle, much less a war, undermined the very authority the Tanshen zhan claimed to fight to uphold.
“They could have hired seers from the heretic academy in Juparti or outcast priests from Punderra, my zhan,” Kao-Rhee said. “It is also possible that the rakthors truly do possess a superior steel. If so, we may be able to procure it or the manner of making it ourselves. I shall speak with our rakthorian ambassador.”
“Please do.” Tin-Tsu fell backward in his chair more forcefully than he intended, a consequence of both exhaustion and the feeling that his choices had been winnowed to but one. “Tigan Rhog-Kan, I wish to see your plans for a full scale invasion of the Tanshen heretics when I wake in the morning. Assume you may conscript every able-bodied man in the dominion.”
“Yes, my zhan.” Rhog-Kan bowed, his voice expressing the smile his face refused to display.
“I will assemble the council to meet at dawn, Your Ascendancy.” Kao-Rhee bowed as well.
“Good. You both have much to do, and I must rest before we meet again.” Tin-Tsu inclined his head as a gesture of dismissal. The tigan and the councilor both bowed and retreated from the room.
“What do you think, Tonken-Wu?” Tin-Tsu raised his eyes to his personal warden.
“I do not know what to think, my zhan.” Tonken-Wu seemed pained by the admission, as though he took it to be another form of failure.
“Then we are of one mind.” Tin-Tsu sighed. “You are dismissed. The guards will see me to my chambers.” When Tonken-Wu did not immediately move, Tin-Tsu knew the cause and spoke before the other man could bring words to his mouth. “And do not let me hear you again mention the words discipline or failure in reference to recent events or I will be displeased.”
“Yes, my zhan.” Tonken-Wu bowed and left the study.
Alone for the first time in days, Tin-Tsu realized how badly his body ached for sleep. How his mind craved the oblivion of dreams. He forced himself to sit up, not wishing to doze off in his chair. It would not set the proper tone for the coming war if the zhan were found asleep at his desk. The coming war. While he knew the war had never really abated, the new expansion he intended, that his councilors and tigans demanded, would be unlike those of the past. He could not allow the war to continue. He must see it to an end, even if that meant an end to his own ascendancy and the fall of his nation. The two dominions could not continue as they had for the last twenty years. The war needed a decisive conclusion. He realized that now. He also saw there would be no peaceful resolution with his southern counterpart. Not if they had truly broken the most sacred of strictures and used The Sight. With the death of Rin-Lahee still stinging at his pride and his compassion, he understood the costs of abandoning Ni-Kam-Djen, and he would not do so again.
As he looked to the desk, his mind filled with questions about war and god, he noticed a letter that had escaped his attention. He picked it up. The red wax that sealed it bore the insignia of a Kam-Djen temple. Curious and cautious, he broke the waxen seal and opened the letter to read it by the flickering light of the lantern on his desk.
Your Ascendancy, please forgive this intrusion upon your most joyful wedding celebration. I wish to convey to you my heartfelt hopes for a long marriage of many children and many years of happiness. I hope you can accept these well wishes with the utter depth of sincerity they are intended. It has been many years since the golden days of our friendship, yet I have never wavered in my affection for you, nor my wish that you find the joy from life that you so deserve.
I did not have the opportunity to wish you well when I departed the palace to return home to my appointment after your coronation. I hope that you enjoyed our brief reunion as much as I did myself. My journey back was arduous and filled with rain, but the occasion to speak with you once again filled my heart with an enduring warmth.
May your reign be long and prosperous. I have no doubt you will rule wisely. You were ever the wisest man even in your youth. If you will forgive the impertinence, may I convey the advice I received from my master — Cling to your love of Ni-Kam-Djen and his grace, and all will be well.
Yours in unending devotion,
T
Tiang-Rhu.
He had not had time to think of the man in the bustle of wedding preparations and the pallor of gloom following Rin-Lahee’s murder. He stood from his desk, holding the letter as he walked to the nearest window overlooking the gardens. In the sky, he saw the new star, burning a bright blood red, beckoning fallen heretics across the land to follow its light. The dream still came to him some nights, but he had learned to wake himself from it, to deny its power over his slumbering consciousness. He did not know the source of the dreams, but he would not let his heart be swayed from his god, regardless of their origin.
He did, however, find his heart influenced by the letter in his hands. It elicited in him an indescribable assuredness knowing that Tiang-Rhu held him in such high regard, providing a well of confidence he knew he could draw upon in the coming days. Days when he would need to know that someone believed in him, even as he doubted his abilities and his judgment.
He folded the letter and slipped it into his robes. He would carry it with him. And, if time and circumstances allowed, he would fashion a reply.
THE WITNESS
ONDROMEAD
STILL AIR and still grass. A black nose pressed to tender leaves. Ondromead watched the deer as it rooted in the loam of the forest glade, sunlight making the fine dew-mist sparkle across its antlers — tiny gems alight with amber on its branched horns. The boy sat beside him at the base of a tree, eating an apple that had fallen to wake them not long ago. Ondromead ate an apple as well. A perfect break of the night’s fast. Simple and delivered without fuss.
It had been two days since their ordeal in the Daeshen palace and not once had they needed to pass through a doorway, a fact for which he remained grateful. He did not know if the woman, Meraeu, had been responsible for him and Hashel getting separated, but he had spent much time thinking on her words. Did he put the boy at risk by keeping near him? Should he not find a family to look after t
he boy? It made some sense. But had he not provided for the boy perfectly well until Meraeu meddled in things? He gave the boy food and shelter and companionship and, he thought with pride, an education that few others could provide. And he cared for the boy. And the boy appeared to return his affection. The lad had certainly seemed excited upon being reunited in the palace.
The arrow that struck the deer through the neck and felled it to the ground startled him from his reverie. He blinked as the deer dropped sideways. He had seen a deer struck in the heart run for countless spans before collapsing to shivering death. This deer shook on the low, wet grass of the glade, its spinal cord severed by the arrow still sprouting from its fur. The familiar song trilled in the back of his mind, telling him to grab his writing materials, even as he sensed Hashel’s hand upon his arm. He looked to see the boy passing him the satchel. He, too, had begun to perceive the small signals indicating that something important was about to transpire.
A tall woman in a leather vest and trousers exited the trees nearby, holding a bow in one hand and pulling a blade from her belt with the other. She had long, ash-gray hair, although her pale face held few wrinkles to mark her actual age. A strong jaw balanced her wide set blue eyes. Two men followed her.
“An excellent shot, my kimpadess,” one of the men said as he held the neck of the deer for the woman.
“Thank you.” The woman cut the deer’s throat with practiced efficiency.
Ondromead recognized the title and the woman. He had seen her many times, but never in such a particular setting. Teyett Tujara Anravez, ruler of the Atheton Dominion. Those within her inner circle referred to as kimpadess, the Easad equivalent of the Shen zhan, an aspirational title indicative of her desires to expand the limits of her rule to encompass the entire realm.
“Gut it and give the meat to the local village.” The kimpadess wiped her blade clean on the fur of the dead deer. “They looked like they could use a good meal.”
The Dragon Star (Realms of Shadow and Grace: Volume 1) Page 80
