Veiled Empire (13 page)

Yandumar grimaced, half turning away. “I . . . had to be sure.”

“Of what?”

The aged face seemed almost ancient in that moment. Perhaps it was. The weight of a nation, and centuries of its traditions, rested on his shoulders. Yandumar sighed. “Of the resolve of the revolution. Of finding Mevon.” He paused. “Of you.”

Gilshamed couldn’t stop the rising bubble of fury from entering his voice. “Me? Why ever would you doubt my resolve? Have I not proven, by my very persistence, my dedication?”

“Never said I doubted that. Just had to make sure all of this at least had a chance of success. I won’t invoke our vow lightly. If I do, and we fail, the mierothi will hunt us to extinction, and this land will lose its best hope for freedom.”

Gilshamed waved a hand towards Yandumar, indicating his acceptance. His companion seemed to breathe a little easier.

He considered the implications. He had machinations in place around the continent, movements he had set in motion that would provide ever-increasing pressure and distraction upon the empire. Having a hidden force of efficacious warriors would provide an enormous enhancement to his plans. He smiled, thoughts forming for their eventual use.

His friend pulled him up short, however. “But that’s not the real reason I didn’t tell you,” said Yandumar. “I actually hoped you’d never find out.”

Gilshamed whipped his head around. “What?”

Yandumar ground his teeth a few beats, seeming to mull over his thoughts. “What will you do, Gil, once this is all over? If we win, that is.”

“I . . .” He forced his face to appear introspective. In truth, he knew exactly what he would do. The endless years he had spent wandering the world, searching for a weakness in the Shroud, had given him ample time to fantasize about his eventual victory.

He could not give his true answer. He suspected that it would set Yandumar against him. Perhaps permanently.

“Once I am satisfied the land is in good hands, I will depart.”

“Truly?”

“I would have no reason to stay.”

“Ah, but what about your people?”

Gilshamed furrowed his brow. “What of them?”

“The truth will get out eventually. Once, they were settled here. If they learn about the demise of the mierothi, and about the way in, do you really think they will stay away forever?”

“Perhaps not. But why should that distress you? What about the return of the valynkar has you troubled?”

Yandumar grunted. “Because while my people may have had a part to play in the rise of the mierothi, your people set the stage for their victory.”

“What the abyss are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your scorching arbiters!”

Gilshamed frowned. “They maintained peace among the lands. I don’t see—”

“How, Gil? How did they maintain peace?”

He cleared his throat. “We maintained a policy of intervention against any invasive use of force, which was quite successful. There was not a single full-scale war in the first three hundred years I sat on the council.”

“Yes, because the nations stopped defending themselves. And why should they? They had you to do it for them.”

“And you consider that a bad thing? Kingdoms were allowed to spend resources on other advancements instead of pouring all they had into defending their borders.”

“And when the mierothi came, all were helpless to stop them. Your arbiters didn’t make a lick of difference then.”

Yandumar’s pronouncement drove a spear into Gilshamed’s soul.
By Elos, could he be right!
Why have I not seen that possibility before?
Perhaps his true plans regarding victory would have to be altered after all.

It was a half a mark before Gilshamed replied. “I see. I take it you seek . . . assurances?”

Yandumar deflated. Whatever anger he had been saving for this encounter seemed spent. “It’s not you, Gil. Scorch me, at least you’re
doing
something about all that. I just want to make sure we don’t trade one set of tyrants for another.”

Gilshamed felt a chill at these words. “Of course, my friend. Of course. But let us not count our scars before the battle. I think we should be focusing ourselves on the tasks right in front of us rather than one in the murky fog of could-be.”

“Ha! Right you are.” Yandumar exhaled loudly. “Sorry, Gil. Just had to get all that off my chest.”

Gilshamed clapped him on the shoulder. “Worry not. It is these tunnels, I think. They weigh on your soul.”

“Heh. I’m glad we’ll soon be out of them.”

“Yes.” Something caught his eye over Yandumar’s shoulder. A figure, hunched and cloaked, had suddenly turned around. Gilshamed tracked his movements a few beats, but as they were headed in opposite directions, the distance soon became too great to maintain visual contact.

Odd.

But he thought no more of it. Here, among his followers, Gilshamed had no reason to fear.

O
NCE
FAR
ENOUGH
away, Mevon shed the cloak and straightened his back, marching towards the rear of the snakelike column. Everyone gave him a wide berth. None dared to actually glare at him—at least not where he could see—but he sensed their disdain anyway. Before being trapped, his Elite had carved a chunk out of their hide. Many had lost friends. Most weren’t yet sure of his allegiance.

The fact was, neither was he.

He knew how to follow orders. He’d done that his entire life. But, being told how to carry them out was different. And he surely didn’t like being left uninformed. He could endure, for now, if he had to, but only for his father’s sake.

Father. . .

Strange to even think that word. Stranger still being around the man. Mevon had never had a father, never needed one, and alien emotions kept rising to the surface whenever they talked. It felt . . . good. They had much in common, which made their conversations far more comfortable than Mevon thought possible. Yandumar reminded him of Kael.

Kael, you crafty bastard.
His old mentor had betrayed him. Next time they met, Mevon meant to genuinely thank him for that. Somehow, Gilshamed had been in contact with him, and Kael had shared with the valynkar how he thought Mevon would attack. The old Hardohl had, after all, taught Mevon everything he knew. Lucky, now, that his guesses had been close to the mark.

Things would have turned out quite differently, otherwise.

Mevon strolled past the last cluster of rebels. He found himself alone, in a gap between the main body and the rear guard.

A score of beats later, Mevon came upon his Fist. He turned and began walking forward with them.

Idrus, Tolvar, Arozir, and twenty-five others all turned out to be more than just brothers in arms. They were blood. Ragremons. His people’s old warrior mentality still held, and a large percentage of the populace entered into military service, preparing for the day when their vow would be invoked.

He’d told them everything. They deserved the truth. It hadn’t taken long to convince them. His kin nearly jumped at the chance, and the others were fully swayed after a few days. They were loyal to Mevon above all, and after hearing his history, became filled with nearly as much rage as he. Mevon was glad. He didn’t know what he would have done if some had elected not to defect.

Unbidden, his captains came to him. They all had business to discuss.

“What did you find?” said Mevon.

“Morale seems high,” said Tolvar. “Nothing but victories so far, and astonishing ones at that. For now, they have every confidence things will continue this way.”

“Good. Arozir?”

“The organization is solid. They have twice the materials they need and planned resupplies already in place. Also, there is a cadre of skilled craftsman along with enough raw goods to make and repair anything that could be needed for an extended campaign.”

Mevon rubbed his chin. “I figured they would. Idrus?”

“Total troop count tallies up to six thousand one hundred and nineteen, not including us. Almost twenty-nine hundred of that are recently recruited Imperial soldiers. Two thousand are bandits. The rest are part of the original movement, a group calling themselves ‘Shepherds of the Sun.’ They’re a mix of people, mostly farmers and ex-soldiers, but I should note that there are ninety-one casters among them.”

“That many?”

Idrus shrugged. “Sanction is rather harsh on their kind. I’m only surprised there aren’t more already a part of this movement.”

“There likely are.”

His captains gave him questioning stares.

“Gilshamed,” said Mevon, ignoring their looks for the present. “What do you know of him?”

“He’s straight out of the scorching legends,” said Tolvar.

Arozir grunted. “It’s still hard to believe it’s him. The same person.”

“Anything useful?” Mevon asked.

Idrus cleared his throat. “By all accounts, he was a leader among the valynkar, and personally led the armies that stood against the mierothi. It’s likely he sees this revolution as a way to redeem his past failures.”

“I agree. I only wonder why he’s here alone rather than at the head of a valynkar army.”

“Who knows?” Tolvar said.

“The world beyond the Shroud is a mystery,” Arozir said. “Could be the valynkar don’t have the capacity to wage war anymore. Maybe all they can do”—he waved a hand forward—“is this.”

Mevon considered a moment. He reviewed what he had learned so far, and the words overheard most recently between Yandumar and Gilshamed.

He breathed deep. “We’ll have to stay alert. This Gilshamed is hiding secrets.”

His captains all nodded without hesitation. They had seen it, too.

“So,” Idrus said. “What do we do for now?”

“For now?” Mevon paused. “We follow orders.”

“Aye,” they said in unison. That, at least, they knew how to do.

They wandered back to their places among the Fist. Mevon walked alone with his thoughts. There was one thing he hadn’t told them. One thing he couldn’t. He didn’t want to share his suspicions with anyone else until he knew for sure.

But Gilshamed wasn’t the only leader of the revolution harboring secrets.

Father, whatever it is, don’t let it stand in the way of our justice.

Chapter 8

D
RAEVENUS
DROPPED
THE
straps of the litter carrying the injured boy and held out his hands. The relief he first felt at seeing the village turned to stress as its inhabitants surrounded him with wary, militaristic movements. He remained silent, not wanting any trouble. He’d let them make the first move.

The biggest man of the lot was at their center. Burnt-orange hair, fading to gray in places, rimmed a bald pate and swept down into a full beard. He wore well-fitting clothes, drab and stained as those of a lifelong farmer, yet a frame of bunched muscles could be seen beneath. He motioned for the rest to halt a dozen paces away, then gestured, sending some into flanking positions. Others ventured farther out, as if scouting the surrounding woods.

The big man spoke first in a commanding voice. “Who are ya’ and what are ya’ doin’ with that boy?”

Draevenus forced his stance to stay relaxed. “Just a traveler, sir. Just passing through. I found the boy caught in a . . . a trap of some kind.”

“He’s injured?”

“Yes. I did what I could to keep him alive and get him here quickly.”

The big man rubbed at his beard while examining the boy. After ten beats, he nodded, then turned to a trio of men standing close by. “Go to the search groups and tell ’em we found the boy.”

“Aye,” they replied in unison. They dashed off in different directions without a moment’s hesitation, sparing only one last curious glance at Draevenus.

The mayor turned to a stout, middle-aged woman. “Kaera, will ya’ look after the boy until his folks get back?”

The woman said, “ ’Course I will, Abe!” and snatched up the two nearest men. They approached and relieved Draevenus of his burden, each muttering a “God bless ya’,” which he accepted as humbly, if awkwardly, as he could.

The big man waved the crowd off, and they all turned to head back to their homes, though most first threw a grateful nod in Draevenus’s direction. Draevenus walked up to the man. “If you’ve the time, sir, I was hoping to share a few words? In private?”

The man squinted at him, trying to see his face most likely. After a moment of scrutiny, which lasted just long enough to make Draevenus uncomfortable, he made a sound that was half grunt and half cough. “Aye, stranger. We can talk.” He turned, waving Draevenus after him.

He followed the man through the small village. He saw perhaps a hundred longhouses, walls of dark timber and roofs of thatch. The homes meant for extended families all glowed cheerfully with evening hearth fires. The smell of cooking food, which wafted from each open door and window, set his stomach to rumbling, reminding Draevenus that he’d had nothing but dried trail rations for weeks.

They came to a blocky building near the center, much smaller than the houses. A wooden sign with the words
MA
YOR
’
S
OFFICE
was nailed over the threshold. He followed his host inside. A layer of dust covered a chamber furnished with only a desk and a few chairs, and a single door led to what appeared to be a jail cell. No fire burned, giving the space a slight chill. Draevenus was glad for this detail, for it gave him an excuse not to shed his cloak.

The man extended a welcoming hand. “Abendrol Torn.”

Draevenus shook it. “Nice to meet you.”

Abendrol frowned and began muttering to himself. Finished with the obligatory greetings, the man cleared his throat. “Caster or herbalist?”

“Excuse me?” Draevenus said.

“You fixed that boy up somehow. So which is it?”

Draevenus gritted his teeth. “Caster.”

“Hmm. Not very good at it, are ya’?”

This one is sharp.
“At healing? No. My skills lie elsewhere.”

“Ha! I can see that.” Abendrol scooted sideways behind the desk and sat in its wooden chair. He gestured for Draevenus to sit across from him, which he did.

They mayor cleared his throat again. “You ain’t a Sanction runner, now are ya’?”

A burst of laughter escape his lips, but Draevenus composed himself in a blink. “Ah, no, good sir. I am not.”

Abendrol stared a few beats, an eyebrow raised. “Good to hear. We don’t need that kind of trouble round here. We’ve had enough in recent times.”

Finally.
“Oh?”

The mayor waved a hand. “Bah! You don’t wanna hear our small-town woes. I just wanted to thank ya’ for bringing back Enod—that’s the kid. He’s a cousin of mine. Of sorts. Abyss, go back a handful of generations, and everyone in this village is related.”

“I take it family is important to you?”

“Ain’t nothing more. Folks take care of each other round here. After all, nobody else is gonna do it. Not in this empire, anyway.”

“It must be nice, being able to rely upon one another. Keeping each other safe. Not at each other’s throats all the time.”

“I take it your family ain’t the same?”

Draevenus sighed. “No—not anymore. They were, once. Long ago.”

The trapdoor in his mind creaked open, and he fell into the void beyond.

Memories sprang forth, each an image but so much more than that. Draevenus felt the cold water as he and his sister played in a stream, smelled the woodsmoke and seared meat as father cooked their evening meal, heard his mother’s voice singing him to sleep, tasted his own tears as all the fighting men left the village armed with their spears and bows, their faces already those of the walking dead (but at the time he had not recognized it for what it was), and how he wished he could go with them but he was just too young and someone had to look after the women and children, and the march afterward that soon became a desperate flight into strange and dangerous swamplands, and all the village elders arguing about what to do night after night, and when all hope was lost, a voice coming to them, carried on the wind, promising salvation, whispering the truths (lies) of a god embracing his chosen (forsaken) people, then the change and the pain and the wonder and the power and the glory and what followed . . .

Blood.

So much blood. Staining his hands, splashing hotly across his face, flowing and pooling, breaking him over and over. He told himself he didn’t mind. It was for his people, for his family.

But then his people broke his family. Broke themselves. Called it progress. Called it necessary. Called it—

Something moved towards his face. Draevenus reacted on instinct.

He grabbed the wrist, then wrenched down and across. His other arm pushed on the man’s shoulder, doubling him over. He kneed the man in the face, hearing the nose snap, smelling blood. He swept a foot behind the man’s knees and yanked back on the shoulder. The mayor sprawled backwards onto the wooden floorboards with a thud.

Draevenus shot out his hand, aiming for the throat as he threw himself down upon the man’s chest.

Something in the eyes stopped him. Not fear—that had never given him pause—but resignation.

Draevenus froze, hovering over him, a breath away from a killing blow. Their noses were nearly touching. And he had no idea what to say or do.

Abendrol coughed, holding his hands open beside his face. “Apologies. I meant no disrespect. I didn’t know. Please . . . honored one. Please.”

Draevenus sighed.
So much for avoiding notice.
He swept back his hood. “No need. It is I who should be apologizing.” He stood halfway, extending a hand.

The mayor looked askance at the hand a full half dozen beats. Finally, he grasped it, allowing Draevenus to pull him up. He shuffled to his seat again, holding one hand to his broken, bleeding nose and keeping his eyes on his guest. He couldn’t seem to put words to his lips.

Draevenus resumed his seat, folding his hands over his lap. “I could do something for the nose. It’s nothing, really. A simple casting, even for me.”

“I’d not have ya’ expending yourself on me, honored one.”

“I said that’s not necessary. Call me Draevenus.”

Abendrol jerked in his seat. The assassin sighed.

“You’ve . . . heard of me,” Draevenus said.

“Only by reputation.”

“Yes.” Draevenus lowered his eyes. “It seems I may never escape it.” And what he planned to do would do little to change things. Would make them even worse if his fears played out. But it was . . . necessary.
Peace may come, someday. But not before something changes. Not before
I
change it.

He only wished he could see the end of his road. Catch a glimpse, at least. Instead, he kept seeing the start of the journey, of the memories that had led him down this path.

Draevenus became aware of the scrutiny given him by the mayor. He met the man’s gaze.

“You brought the boy back,” the mayor said. “You brought back a part of our family. You didn’t have to.” He paused. “You’re different than the others.”

Draevenus nodded. “A change is coming. I’m sure you’ve heard the whispers. Ready your people. Your vow . . .”

Abendrol shivered.

“Remember me, though,” continued Draevenus. “Remember that not all of us are . . . monsters.”

“I will.”

Draevenus stood. “There is one more thing. I’m following some people. A large group. Thirty daeloth and about three hundred men. Have they passed through hereabouts?”

The mayor let out a sound nearly like a growl. “Yes. They were here.”

“How long?”

“Departed about a week ago, I think.”

“Seven days!” He was farther behind than he thought. Saving the boy had delayed him more than he could afford. Was it the right choice? He didn’t know. His goals always seemed to conflict with each other.

Redemption, after all, was not an easy road to tread.

Nor should it be.

He left the village without another word.

V
OREN
SAT
IN
a cramped alcove on the second floor of the library. The stone structure was one of a half dozen outbuildings along the road that led from the main gate of the palace grounds. Though it boasted the largest collection of written works in the empire, Voren found it lacking. He remembered the floating cities of his people, each holding a score of libraries all containing a hundred times as many books and scrolls, tablets and tomes.

As a youth, he had spent a lifetime’s worth of days among those rainbow shelves, lounging by the quicksilver fountains, devouring histories and mythologies and folk legends and fictions. Sunlight would illuminate the endless pages by day, and the glowing bulbs of the evervine by night. It was a simpler time. Peaceful.

Gone now. Swept away like a child’s sandcastle before the tide.

Voren chuckled. The sound held no humor. He had been fifty, just off his mother’s breast, the last time he had seen an ocean shore. His eyes had still been full of wonder then, for he had not yet learned the true nature of the world, and of that which that hides in all men’s hearts—

Darkness.

“Don’t worry,” Kael said. “He’ll come.”

Voren sat up, rubbing the glower from his face. He nodded. “I am not worried about him showing. He is a slave to habit, as are we all. The cages we craft for ourselves always prove the most comforting. And the most difficult to escape.”

Kael grunted.

Voren reached a hand, patting Kael’s forearm. “Thank you for this. Without your help, I would not even know where to begin.”

“Yeah. Fine. Just don’t try to drag me into anything . . . questionable.”

Voren curled up a lip. “I shall endeavor to abstain from mischief.”

The snow-haired man grumbled but turned back to perusing his book without further comment.

Voren raised his eyes, searching for their quarry. It was early still, and the man was nowhere to be found. There were about fifteen other people in the library, mainly off-duty daeloth and other guards, but a few others were likely members of Mecrithos’s wealthy society, of those merchant families rich enough to afford passage into the palace grounds.

One figure ambled through the rows of shelves. A minder trailed in his wake. The mierothi male’s face was glued to a brightly colored picture book, the kind drawn for children. Drool fell down his cheek, which the attendant periodically wiped clean. His eyes were wide, glazed, empty.

Voren shivered. He hated seeing one of them. “Enlightened,” they were called. The story circulated that their minds were elevated to another realm of thought, a higher plane of existence. Voren, however, knew the truth.

He peeled away his gaze and redirected it to the open book in his lap. He read for some time but soon found he could not concentrate on the words, so he turned to peer out the window by his shoulder.

The day promised rain, and an icy one at that. With fall in full swing, the days continually grew colder. A hundred leagues south, the Agoritha plains had already seen its first snow. Voren hoped it would not cause a change in their target’s plans.

Squads of darkwatch guard, mixed humans and daeloth, marched in formation up and down the broad avenue. One of the Blade Cabal stood sentinel bisecting the palace gate, the diamond-shaped edge of his
Andun
poking up over a shoulder. Archers and crossbowmen by the hundreds occupied vantages along the outer wall and atop the other nearby structures.

Voren sighed.
It seems all I do is look out through windows.

They surrounded him: in his chambers, his memories, his art. Even the written word was a kind of window, a view into the mind of the author, a glimpse into the untempered schism of the soul.

I have had enough of simply looking.
He smiled as a mierothi, the one they had been waiting for, walked through the entrance of the library.
Time to start opening some doors.

Voren brought his book near his head, feigning absorption in the text. A few beats later, he heard a throat being cleared.

He looked up. “Chronicler Truln?” he said.

The mierothi stared at him blankly. “That’s my spot.”

“It is? My apologies.” Voren stood. “We will make room for you, of course.” He flapped his hands at Kael, who shifted to the next seat with a grunt. Voren took the seat just vacated by the Hardohl. He smiled at Truln.