Authors: Deborah Chester
Feeling isolated
and more vulnerable than before, he stepped over the stream and continued,
keeping to cover as best he could. The farther he went, the hotter it became.
The air smelled of ashes, and the ground grew unpleasantly warm beneath his
feet. Here and there, the earth broke open to let steaming mud bubble out.
Something screamed
in the distance, and Caelan jerked himself up tight against a tree. He stood
there, tense and listening, his mouth open to gulp air, his heart pounding out
of control. The outcry had been too brief for him to guess whether it belonged
to a man or wild animal. But something out there in the darkness was hunting.
Hunting ...
him.
His hand grew
sweaty and tight on the sword hilt. Again, he cursed himself for having come to
this godless place. But he could not retreat now. Caelan pushed himself
forward, his breath coming short and fast.
Ahead, past a
stand of charred trees and new saplings, a hut loomed in the shadows. Its
windows were shuttered tight, permitting no light to escape. Yet Caelan could
hear the restless snorts and shifting about of horses, as though the animals
were inside. His keen ears picked up low murmurs of voices, punctuated
occasionally by a sharper exclamation.
Caelan circled
about in search of a sentry, and found none. Only then did he approach the hut,
from the back, and with great care. His feet moved soundlessly over the hot
ground until he could press himself against the wall. Back here, there was only
one window. Its shutter was warped, and Caelan could peer inside through the
crack.
He saw a single
room littered with straw and rat trash. The walls were crude daub and wattle. A
fire burned on the hearth, smoking as though the chimney was blocked. In one
corner the horses stood tied. Weapons, including Tirhin’s fashionable rapier
and jeweled dagger, lay in a small stack near a water pail. In the opposite
corner Prince Tirhin, Lord Sien, and two other men stood clustered about a
tiny, crude altar. Warding fires burned in tiny bronze cups, emitting green
smoke as protection against whatever spirits lurked in this place of ancient
evil.
The prince looked
very pale, angry, and uncertain. Sien spoke and Tirhin shook his head
violently. He broke away and began to pace. Doing so gave Caelan his first
clear look at the other two men.
One stood in worn
battle armor, tall and grizzled, missing one ear and badly scarred across the
face. He was Madrun, no mistaking it. The other man, younger and well dressed
in a foreign style, was also Madrun.
He spoke Lingua
persuasively: “Please listen to the rest of our proposal, Lord Tirhin.”
“No!” the prince
said, casting a furious glare at Sien, who stood impassively with the green
smoke floating across his face. “I will not betray my own people, not for gain,
not for anything!”
“It is not a
question of betrayal,” the civilian Madrun said. “It is a question of helping
each other. This war has drained us severely. We are an exhausted people. We
are a starving people. Our men die in the battlefields, and who is left to
raise crops and father children? Help us, Lord Tirhin, by giving us a way to
end this war. And we shall help you to take your father’s throne.”
The prince barely
seemed to hear. He was still glaring at the priest. “You brought me here to
listen to this? What were you thinking?”
Sien’s yellow eyes
gleamed in the torchlight. “I was thinking your highness needs allies and
support.”
Tirhin clenched
his fists. He was white about the mouth, and his eyes were blazing. “I have
support—”
“From the army?”
Sien said softly. “The way you had its support before?”
Red stained Tirhin’s
cheeks. “That was—”
“Need real army,”
interrupted the Madrun soldier, his voice gruff and guttural. “Need fighters to
tear throne from dying emperor. Wait too long already.”
“I see,” Tirhin
said, clipping off his words. “I am to let you into Imperia, let you pillage
and destroy my city. And what assurances do I have that you will leave when
your work is done?”
“Our word,” the
civilian began.
Tirhin uttered a
short, ugly laugh. “The word of a Madrun? No.”
The soldier
bristled, but Sien lifted his hands. Gowned in saffron with a leopard hide worn
across his shoulders, his shaved head gleaming with oil, he stepped between the
Madruns and the prince.
“Let us speak
openly of our needs and how we may help each other. Sir,” he said first to
Tirhin, “you have need of armed support, substantial enough to subdue civil
unrest. Without an army, you cannot hold the empire together. We have already
seen enough evidence to warn us that the provinces will split from each other
if given the chance.”
He frowned
slightly at Tirhin, as though conveying an unspoken message, and turned to the
Madruns. “And you, sirs, have need of peace.”
The soldier
growled.
“An alliance
between our empire and yours would allow you a chance to recover. Once your
resources were rebuilt, perhaps with the help of advantageous trade agreements
between us, you could then wage new wars on your other enemies.” Sien lifted
his hands. “It is such a simple solution, and satisfies so many things for both
sides. Come, sirs, put aside old grievances and traditions. Consider the future
and new ways.”
“We are willing,”
the civilian Madrun said.
All of them stared
at Tirhin, who still looked pale and tense.
His eyes sought
only Sien’s. “There has to be another way.”
“You have been
loyal to your father,” Sien said persuasively. “No one could argue that. You
care about your people. Yes, they are yours, by right! You are the true heir to
the throne, not that woman. What will become of you, of your steadfastness all
these years, of your work, of your service when he gives his empire to
her?
She cannot rule this land. She lacks the strength of will, the knowledge, the
ability. She is only a woman, foolish and weak. Her training comes from the Penestrican
witches, and you can imagine what they have implanted in her mind. She will
lose the empire. She will let it crumble into anarchy. She cannot hold it. You
know that.”
“Yes,” Tirhin
whispered. His face held bleak bitterness and resentment. “I know.”
“Be bold. Seize
what belongs to you now, while the chance is in your hand. At least listen to
what the Madruns propose. They are not the first enemy to be turned into
friends. Let them help you, and then help them in return.”
Tirhin frowned and
turned his back on the priest. In doing so he faced the back wall, and Caelan
could see his face clearly. There was torment in the prince’s eyes, torment
overladen with anger and a dawning look of purpose. Caelan could see the
decision in his master’s face long before Tirhin drew a deep breath and squared
his shoulders.
The prince swung
around and faced the other men. “Very well. I agree.”
The Madruns
grinned and slapped each other on the back. Even Sien permitted himself a faint
smile of intense satisfaction.
“Now,” he said in
his deep voice, “you become the ruler you were born to be.”
Tirhin shrugged
angrily, still visibly tense as he accepted the assurances of the Madruns. The
civilian crossed to the horses and took down two bulging saddlebags. He flung
these on the altar, and gold coins spilled from beneath the flap of one.
“Here is our first
way of giving you support,” he said eagerly. “Bribes for officials. Bribes for
officers. Bribes for the palace guards and those who protect the woman. Our
army will stand ready. Prepare an order for those who man the post towers at
our border—”
“My priests can
persuade the soldiers to let you cross the border,” Sien said.
Tirhin threw him a
sharp look, but the Madruns smiled.
The soldier leaned
forward. “Give us that, and army will stand at Imperia’s walls in these days.”
He held up his hand, all five fingers spread wide. “We help you take city.”
Tirhin gestured in
repudiation. “You move too fast. If you think I will let you through the city
gates, you—”
“There have been
too many delays already!” the civilian Madrun said fiercely. “Had you accepted
our proposal last year, there would be no empress in the way now.”
“A mere detail,”
Tirhin retorted hotly. “First you want the border, and our strategy plans, then
the palace, now the city. What next will you demand from me?”
“Gently, gently,”
Sien said in quiet warning.
Tirhin looked as
though he might choke, but he silenced himself.
“We do not beg
you,” the soldier said with gruff dignity. “We offer deal. You take it. Or you
not take it. You decide now.”
Tirhin looked ill.
“I have already given you my decision.”
The soldier shoved
the saddlebag at him so that the coins spilled in a heavy golden stream to the
floor. “Then take! And give what we ask. Do not wring your hands like woman, moaning
about honor. In war, there is no honor. Only victory, or defeat.”
Cocking his head
to one side, he glared at the prince.
Tirhin drew a
folded piece of parchment from inside his tunic and handed it over. The Madruns
fell on it eagerly, and Tirhin turned away. He walked over the coins
unheedingly, his face bleak and empty.
Sien spoke very
quietly to the Madruns, who laughed, but took their horses and weapons and
left.
Caelan grimaced to
himself and stole to the corner of the hut. Watching unseen, he saw the two men
mount up and ride away into the darkness.
Torn, Caelan
wondered whether to run after them. With luck and the element of surprise, he
might be able to slay them and recover the plans the prince had given away. But
the Madruns galloped away, too fast to catch.
That left his
master the traitor.
Caelan’s frown
deepened. He felt sickened by what he’d witnessed. His former admiration for
Tirhin now felt like cheap delusion.
To betray Imperia
to its direst enemies, out of spite and ambition ...
Disgust filled
Caelan. He vowed to put a stop to Tirhin’s plots, but how?
Uncertain of what
to do, Caelan returned to his spyhole and peered in just as Sien lifted a
smoking pot from the fire and poured its dark liquid contents into a cup. He
proffered this to Tirhin, who was sitting dejectedly on a stool.
“Here,” the priest
said. “It is time to finish what you have begun.”
The prince waved
it away without glancing up. “Do I poison her or merely stab her in the throat?
Do I bribe my way into her chambers and smother her in her sleep? Any
suggestions for how this infamy should be conducted?”
“You are tired,”
the priest said soothingly. “Do not think of those details now. There are other
matters that should come first. Drink this.”
“One of your
potions?” the prince said. “No.”
Anger crossed Sien’s
face. “This is a gift. Not from my hands, but from he whom I serve. It will
give you strength. It will make you greater than any other man. It will start
you on the path to immortality.”
Reverence filled
his voice. He held the smoking cup between his hands as though it were
something to be worshipped. “The cup of Beloth,” he intoned, his face radiant. “The
gift of life.”
Tirhin glanced up,
his interest caught at last. “My father’s drink,” he said. “What my father
bargained with the shadow god for, and won.”
Sien smiled. “Yes.”
Tirhin’s face
hardened. “Once again I walk in my father’s footsteps. Am I only to follow?
Never to forge my own path?”
“You have begun
your own path tonight,” Sien assured him. “Your father’s road is ending.”
“And all I have to
do to live for a thousand years is drink this?” the prince asked, his voice
harsh with disbelief. “Don’t I have to go before the god and make my own
bargain?”
Sien put down the
cup and frowned. “You fool! You jeer at what you do not understand.”
“I am not an
idiot. I know nothing is that easy.”
“You are mistaken,”
Sien said angrily. “The path to Beloth is very easy. Once fear is put aside—”
“So I am afraid,
am I?” Tirhin said with equal heat. “Why? Because I am a skeptic? I am not of
the same superstitious, primitive era as my father. What did he do to awaken
the shadow god?”
“That, you may not
know,” Sien said. “But I brought him the first cup, as I have brought it to you
tonight. If you spurn this, then you are not worthy of—”
Tirhin jerked to
his feet, knocking over his stool. “It is not for you to decide that!” he
shouted. “You are no kingmaker, for all your power. You do not rule the empire.
You never will. Get that clear, for I will not be your puppet.”
“Events are
already set in motion,” Sien said. “You cannot undo them now.”
“No, but I shall
control them as I wish. Not as you wish.” As he spoke, Tirhin took the cup and
dashed it to the floor.
The dark contents
splashed out, hissing before the tamped earth absorbed them.
Sien cried
something, but it was lost in a loud rumble that shook the earth.
Caelan scrambled
upright and clung to the outer wall of the hut for support. This sudden
violence from the ground was terrifying. Caelan found his heart slamming against
his ribs. If Beloth did indeed live inside this mountain, then the prince’s
defiance had angered him.
Ash and smoke
belched from the top of the mountain. The ground went on shaking violently, as
though it would split open. Part of the hut’s roof began to fall in. Caelan
could hear the horses neighing in terror.
Racing around to
the front of the hut, he shouldered open the door with a slam that nearly broke
it off its hinges.
“Get out!” he
shouted. “If you don’t want all of it coming down on your head, get out now!”
Seeing freedom,
the horses bolted past him. Caelan grabbed at one’s bridle, but it knocked him
spinning. Winded and stunned, Caelan struggled upright. By the time he regained
his feet, the ground had stopped shaking, but the prince was standing over him.