Veiled Empire (22 page)

Tolvar, who had been with him since the beginning. A great warrior. An even better leader of men. Gone now. Dead because he had followed Mevon.

And twenty others. Mevon had never lost so many in a single encounter. Not even close.

“You led them into the thickest fighting?” said Mevon, only half a question.

“Aye,” said Arozir. “There was no other way to thwart their assaults.”

“And how many were saved by your actions?”

“Thousands,” Yandumar said. “Had your men not turned back those initial waves, they would have trampled right through us. Just like you planned to do the night we captured you.”

Mevon bobbed his head absently.
Another failure that I should have been able to prevent. The best men in this land, doomed by their own bravery. Doomed by me.

Yandumar moved to stand in front of him, less than half a pace away. “We lost over three thousand tonight. It could have been much worse. Your Fist made the difference.”

Mevon frowned.

His father stepped even closer, laying hands on both of Mevon’s shoulders. “What you have to realize, son, is that every man and woman in this revolution is our responsibility. Mine, Gilshamed’s, and yours. We each did what was necessary for the good of all.”

“I know. But those men can never be replaced.”

“ ’Course not. We don’t forget the fallen. We honor them by continuing to fight for our cause.”

Mevon nodded. “I suppose you’re right.” He swept his gaze over the Elite prisoners and settled on Ilyem. “One question remains, however. What are we going to do with them?”

R
EKAJ
’
S
HEAD
SERVANT
gestured towards the antechamber couch after taking his coat. Voren obliged, seating himself as the deaf-mute man—dressed in brightly colored livery—retreated, leaving him alone.

From the emperor’s room, raised voices could easily be heard.

“I said pull them back, Lekrigar. All of them. Even your creatures and the slaves.”

“Rekaj, surely this threat cannot be all that serious?”

“It is.”

“But that’s no reason to put the invasion on hold. You know how Ruul dislikes such setbacks.”

“
I
am the voice and will of Ruul. No one else. Need I remind you of the cost of disobedience?”

There was a pause.

“No.”

“Good. I trust your forces will be on their way back to our lands before dawn?”

“Y-yes, emperor.”

Another pause.

“Your predecessor, though brilliant at her job, suffered from severe insubordination. I would think twice about following in her footsteps.”

“Let me assure you, then, that I have no intention of doing so.”

A chuckle. “Smart of you. I don’t think you would handle exile well.”

Voren heard something that sounded liked choking, or a chortle of pain—he wasn’t sure. He had no time to contemplate, for the door opened, and the high regnosist stepped in. The reedy mierothi looked down his beak-like nose at Voren, sniffed, and exited the antechamber’s opposite doors.

Voren remained seated, unsure whether Lekrigar’s departure indicated an invitation to enter. Not that he had any desire to. Apprehension gripped him, for he still had no idea why he had been summoned, and he was fairly sure he didn’t want to find out.

“Get in here, Voren!”

Sighing, Voren rose to his feet, put on his best demure expression, and shuffled into the emperor’s presence.

The odor hit him—urine and feces and blood and bile—and an involuntary glance revealed its source: three women, kneeling and chained, covered in the aforementioned matter. Voren cringed as he absorbed the cuts marring their once-fine faces, the dead look in their eyes.

Somehow, he peeled his gaze away, trying to hide his shock and disgust as he approached Rekaj. He stopped five paces away and bowed, eyes trained on the fine scarlet carpet. “You summoned me, emperor?”

Rekaj, his back to Voren, stood at his open window, which let in an icy breeze and occasional flurries of snow. The city spread out down the gentle slope of the mountainside, glowing softly as a million souls warmed themselves by their nightly hearth fires.

The emperor waved his hand across the sight. “Look at them all. Living their lives in peace. Many, even, in luxury. Safe and protected. By
me
.” He turned, fixing Voren with a stare. “Yet so many still defy me. Still spit in my face with their whispers and their schemes.”

Voren nodded. It took him a moment to realize that Rekaj wanted some kind of response.
Tread carefully.
“They do not understand our kind. They are brief upon this world, and cannot comprehend the grand nature of our struggles and purposes.”

Rekaj sighed, turning back to face the city. “You are right, of course. Such small-minded souls can’t be expected to fathom the very will of the gods. It is difficult enough for us.”

Voren gulped, not knowing how to respond.

“I asked him once, you know, about Elos. Do you know what he told me?”

Voren, eyes wide, shook his head.

“Ruul called your god impotent,” Rekaj said, bursting into laughter. “How absurdly ironic.”

Ironic? Shade of Elos, what have you learned about your god to think so?
“I am in no position to argue his assertion,” Voren said. “After all, if Elos had any true power, you think he would have figured out how to undo your god’s work.”

“Such as?”

“The Shroud comes to mind.”

Rekaj let out a puff of amusement. “You assume too much.”

Voren lifted an eyebrow. “But if not Ruul . . . ?”

The emperor’s scowl halted the voicing of his thoughts. Once again, Voren found himself perched on a precipice far too precarious for his liking.

“The Shroud,” said Rekaj, “was a mistake. One I have failed to fully correct. At least a way around has been recently found.”

A way around?
Suddenly, the argument with Lekrigar he had overheard made sense. He shivered, thinking about mierothi influence spreading beyond the confines of this continent.

Then he remembered how shaken Rekaj had sounded. How afraid. The revolution had the man worried, enough so that he risked Ruul’s ire to bring more forces to bear. Voren suppressed a smile at the thought.

“Tell me, Voren, when you look upon the face of your god, what do you see?”

“I . . . I have never . . .”

“No? I thought all your kind gazed upon his face?”

“Yes. Normally. Once every hundred years we are allowed to bask in the presence of Elos. To hear his words of wisdom and reason. To see, with our own eyes, proof to validate our devotion.

“I was ninety-seven when I was . . . when I came to be in your service.”

“Ah. How peculiar then. Here we are, you and I, on opposite ends of the fulcrum. I, the only one of my people to have actually seen my god. And you, the only one of yours not to.”

Voren furrowed his brow, looking away.

The edge of Rekaj’s lip twitched outward. “You disagree?”

Voren shut his eyes.
Too late to hide it now . . .
“We both know that isn’t true. You’re not the only mierothi—”

“The others,” Rekaj snapped, “are dead. Or as good as dead, anyway.” He smiled. “And it was no accident things turned out as they did.”

Voren cringed. “I know.”

Rekaj studied him for several moments. He moved his jaw in tiny circles, and the sound of his teeth rasping against each other put Voren on edge. “My kin,” he said at last, “do not. If they did, my rule would be threatened. I wonder . . . can you be trusted with this secret?”

And so, we come at last to why I was brought here.
“I have known since the day of the Cataclysm what kind of person you are. Among all the mierothi, living or dead, there are none more ruthless. This secret”—Voren shrugged—“it keeps itself.”

Rekaj laughed again, a sound devoid of amusement. “Ruthless. Yes, I suppose I am at that. But my actions, are they my doing? Or Ruul’s? It was he, after all, that set our people on the path to conquest, even if he never used such specific words.”

“Never used . . . ?” Voren frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Conquest was . . . implied. Or so thought our first emperors. A tradition I maintained after their deaths.

“Ruul, however, had . . . other things in mind. Things that, to this day, make little sense.”

“Why . . . ?” squeaked Voren, working moisture into his mouth. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You were able to keep one secret. Let us see how you handle another.”

Fighting against the urge to shake his head—vigorously—Voren said, “As you wish.”

The next moment stretched. Voren couldn’t say how long it lasted. The sound of his shallow breathing and the thumping of his heart seemed to play over and over, countless times, becoming a nightmare of rhythm. And yet Rekaj stood rigid, unblinking.

At last, the emperor’s lips parted. “Ruul,” he said, dragging the word out the length of two breaths. “Ruul has gone . . . silent.”

Pinpricks blossomed on the surface of Voren’s skin. “How long?”

“Attempts at communication became labored and broken almost two hundred years ago. It has been more than half a century since I’ve heard even the faintest whisper.”

Voren nodded. “That must be difficult.”

Rekaj waved a dismissive hand. “My people continue to believe I operate solely on the word of our god. Suffice to say, were this knowledge to be revealed, it would end me far more quickly than would the other secret you are privy to.”

“Yes.”

Rekaj narrowed his gaze. “I will not allow that to happen.”

Voren swallowed the lump in his throat. “Of course.”

The look in the emperor’s eyes was that of a boy watching an animal caught in a trap, wounded and helpless. Voren shook. He closed his eyes, and he summoned every fiber of his will to hold back his tears.

Rekaj stepped past him, stopping in front of one of the women. He picked up a pair of bloody pliers from a metal tray and forced open her jaw with a firm grip. A single tooth could be seen. Rekaj gripped it with the pliers and slowly twisted it free. The woman choked in pain, whimpering feebly.

“Sleep well, Voren,” Rekaj said as he began to undo the front of his robe.

Voren walked rigidly to the antechamber, shrugged into his coat, and fled.

He closed the door to his chambers and immediately headed for his recently replenished wine rack. He knelt in front of the display, passing a hand over the ’79 Taditali red—he had no time to savor such a fine vintage—and selected a cheap bottle without even the prestige of a maker’s label. He popped open the stopper and filled a glass almost to the brim. Voren lifted it to his lips, tilted his head back, and emptied it in a series of gulps. He refilled and repeated the process.

After his third cup, he set down the glass and began making his way—slightly unsteadily—towards his bathing chamber. He kicked off his boots as he went, then tugged off his coat. He tossed it to the side, where it landed with a crunch.

Voren made it as far as the threshold, eying the porcelain tub with a smile, before he turned around.

What was that sound?

He stepped back to the coat, inspecting it with curiosity. Finally, he bent down and picked it back up, and began squeezing in various places until he heard the crunching noise again.

It did not take long. He reached into the inner pocket and withdrew an envelope.

The front simply read “Voren.” He flipped it over. Red wax held it closed, and pressed into it . . .

Ruul’s light!

. . . the seal of the High Council of the Valynkar.

Voren’s heart began pounding. He tore open the letter.

Voren,

Make your peace with Elos. I am coming for you.

—Gilshamed

Voren fell to his knees.

PART III

Chapter 11

T
HE
WINTERS
WERE
harsh this far south, and Draevenus had not made it as far as he wished to before it became too dangerous to travel. Less than fifty klicks from where he’d left the men he’d rescued, he was forced to hole up in the inn of a small town to wait out the snowstorms and ice storms that ravaged the land.

Though he kept the rest of his body covered, even he knew that wearing a hood indoors at all times would draw far too many questions. Questions that might lead to a whisper in the ear of the local garrison commander. So, instead, Draevenus wore a thick wig, which sent black hair tumbling past his shoulders. He also applied a paste to his face that darkened it enough to hide his pale complexion.

The weather would soon begin warming. The first thaw was but weeks away. He was glad that the need for such hiding, such stagnation, would soon be over.

Time to get on with it.

Verge. He didn’t want to think about that place. About what took place there. He’d done all he could throughout the winter to keep himself distracted, focusing on securing provisions for the trek and keeping his body in peak condition. And returning his mind to the place it had been all those centuries ago. A place ready to kill at a moment’s notice. A place that didn’t think about the consequences and didn’t hesitate.

He thought he was nearly there.

Draevenus shoveled the last bite of food—mutton again—into his mouth and pushed the plate away. Within beats, a serving girl came to clear his plate, offering him a smile and a refill on his ale. He declined the latter but returned the former, which caused a spot of pink to blossom on her cheeks. He gulped the last of his ale and set the mug down just as an icy wind blew in from the open front door.

Draevenus studied the lone man who entered. He was tall, with a girth that indicated an appetite a shade north of healthy. The man shook snowflakes from his cloak and from the grey hair he kept tied in a ponytail. He carried a pack with a fiddle case strapped across the top of it.

As he made to sit, he pushed back the flaps of his cloak, and Draevenus saw the unmistakable outline of a sword sheath.

Draevenus tensed up. Only two kinds of civilians were allowed to carry swords: retired darkwatch, and retired Elite.

Instinct gripped him. He’d been staring at the man since he walked in but had not received the barest of glances in return. And the man had not been conservative with the cast of his eyes.

Bad move, friend. You might as well have announced your interest in me.

The only question was why? No answers came to mind that did not leave a sour feeling in his gut. He was not about to stick around to find out which it was.

Draevenus stood and made for the stairs. His room was on the second floor. Not easily accessed from the ground, yet, if he had to exit quickly, not too far a fall. As he put his hand on the banister, his gaze left the man for the first time.

From the corner of his eye, far past a normal person’s edge of perception, he saw the man look his way.

He took the stairs three at a time.

He reached his door, silently padding the last few paces, and leaned his ear against it. He listened for several beats, holding his breath until sure that no one was inside. He pushed his key in the lock and swept in, closing it behind him with care not to make a sound.

He exhaled. “Foolish, Draevenus. Foolish to think you could trust those men. Gold fast loses its allure when an adjudicator has his blade at your throat.”

Draevenus should have known what to expect. He had founded their order, after all.

He threw on his cloak and shoved in the few things he had that were not already in his pack. He was ready to go in less than a dozen beats. It was early yet to travel, but he had no choice. If the listeners were already this close, staying in place would only lead to a confrontation. Such would draw far more attention than would the small uses of sorcery required to keep him alive in the wilderness.

Draevenus cracked open the windowpane and peeked up and down the alley. Clear. He dropped his pack, then swung his legs out and lowered himself. With just four fingers gripping the sill, he reached with his free hand to close the window.

He released and landed softly in a crouch. He slipped his arms through the pack straps, lowered his hood to cover his face, and marched out of the alley.

He rounded the corner and stopped cold. A squad of guardsmen crowded around the front of the inn’s main door.

The man with the fiddle stood in their midst.

Draevenus averted his gaze. He walked, step unchanging, doing his best to appear not the least bit interested. His right hand grazed the hilt of the dagger hidden up his sleeve.

Maybe they’re just checking his certifications?
Draevenus had never been very convincing, least of all to himself. His pace quickened.

South was where he needed to go, but the eastern gate was closer. He needed to get outside the town walls as fast as possible. It would be easier to disappear in the woods, and his pursuers would have to be sure of their quarry if they were to chance following in this snowstorm.

In three marks, he came to the gate. No one had looked twice at him on the way, but the guards now eyed him with open suspicion.

“You crazy or something?” the sergeant said. “Don’t know if you noticed, but there’s half a blizzard under way.”

Draevenus gave an exaggerated shrug. “The old lady wants more firewood.”

“And she thinks this is the best time to gather?”

“She claims this storm gonna get worse before it gets better. But it’s not like we don’t already got four days’ worth stockpiled.”

The sergeant grunted. “Women, huh?”

“You got that right.”

A flip of his hand, and one of the sergeant’s men lifted the bar and pushed open the gates. Draevenus gave a nod full of sincere gratitude. He looked back once, saw no one watching or following, and ambled out of the town.

“We’ll keep an eye out for you, friend,” said one of the guardsmen.

“Don’t bother,” Draevenus called over his shoulder. “I’m gonna circle around and come in a different gate. But thanks anyway.”

It wasn’t long before the town walls had disappeared behind a sheet of falling snow. Draevenus, at last, released the knot of tension that had gripped his belly since the fiddler had walked into the inn.

Still, I’m not out of danger yet.
Feeling invigorated by a full stomach, and a seeping flow of adrenaline, he burst into a jog. He needed the exercise and, more importantly, to put as much distance between himself and those he knew were now on his trail. And to draw closer to his destination. He could almost hear the sands siphoning away, a countdown that he could not afford to let outpace him.

Verge awaited.

Despite the sweat starting to form beneath his attire, Draevenus shivered.

J
ASSI
DE
RAN
THROUGH
the camp, smiling at each patch of newly thawed ground and grateful for the modicum of warmth gifted her by the midday sun. Her patrol had just come in when she heard the news. She didn’t want to be late.

Red-faced and sweating, she burst through the ring of onlookers just in time to see it begin.

Mevon stood in the center. All he had on was a pair of breeches. Had she not already been out of breath, it would have been taken away by the sight. Scores of pale scars crisscrossed his frame of rippling muscles. His eyes were closed. Only the faint expansion and compression of his chest let her know he was even breathing.

Three men circled him warily, each fully armed and armored. At a slight nod, they all lunged at once.

Jasside couldn’t follow what happened next. Mevon moved too quickly. Two of the men ended up sprawled on their backs, and the third fell to a knee, wincing in pain.

One of the downed men rolled onto his stomach, then pushed himself up. “Check!” he called. “By Ruul, I swear I drew. Check!”

Mevon took on a wide stance and lifted his arms as his captains came forward. Idrus started on the right side and Arozir the left. Ropes, newly promoted, knelt and inspected Mevon’s feet and legs.

A moment later, Ropes stood. He lifted his finger, lips twisted in what might be taken for a smile. “Take a look,” he said.

Mevon peered down. He grunted. The end of Ropes’s finger was slick with blood. He looked past his captains to the three combatants. “Welcome to the Fist,” he said.

A cheer rose from the small crowd. A few casters moved forward to attend to the Elite. These men had once belonged to Ilyem’s Fist. They were part of the threescore Ragremons among those Elite who had attacked them, all of whom had defected upon Mevon’s speaking one simple phrase.

Ragremos remembers.

This was the last bout. Mevon’s Fist was again at full strength.

Jasside waited patiently while the men did what men do: grunting, slapping each other’s backs, boasting loudly. She knew not to intrude at a time like this.

The winter had been strange between them. Letting go of her hate for Mevon had allowed something else to take its place. She didn’t know quite what it was yet. She didn’t know what she
wanted
it to be. But to say what lay between them was better than before would be an understatement.

At first, she thought it enough that his humanity was beginning to overcome the monster she’d first taken him to be. But more than that, his passion for justice let her know that, perhaps, he might be capable of passion in . . . other areas.

At last, the crowd began dispersing. Jasside moved forward to congratulate Mevon.

“Five,” said a voice behind her, stopping her cold. “Five is the usual number.”

Jasside turned slowly. Ilyem stood, flanked by a pair of shepherds as escort. Though she had no weapons or armor on her, Jasside still knew how dangerous the woman was.

“What do you mean?” Jasside asked.

Ilyem stepped forward, sunlight glinting off her freshly shaved head. “The trial for new Elite. It is usually five applicants at once, not three.”

Jasside raised an eyebrow. “What are you trying to say?”

Ilyem gave her half a smile. “Three indicates that the Hardohl either has no confidence in himself or that his standards for the men he allows in his Fist are much higher.”

“I see,” Jasside said. “And which do you think it is?’

Ilyem stared past her. Jasside followed the gaze to where Mevon was squeezing into his combat suit. “I always wondered why he kept his Fist so small.”

Jasside could only shake her head in wonder.

Ilyem turned to march away.

“Wait,” said Jasside. Ilyem paused midstep and craned her neck around. “Our offer . . . won’t you reconsider?”

The Hardohl stood so still for so long that Jasside was afraid she would never answer. At last, the woman sighed, and slowly shook her head. “I cannot.”

Jasside nodded.
One Hardohl on our side has given us unfathomable momentum. If we could have two. . .

She closed her eyes. It was not to be. Ilyem had made her choice.

“But,” Ilyem said, “I will keep my word. You shall not meet me on the battlefield again.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow, I and my Fist will depart. Not including, of course, those who have elected to stay.”

In a surge of insanity, Jasside pounced upon an idea that had sprung up in her mind. “It must have been a shock when your men chose us over you?”

Ilyem eyes narrowed, lips pressing together. Jasside thought she saw the woman’s cheek begin to quiver and was reminded that she was less than ten paces from a Hardohl whom she did not consider an ally. Out of fear, she almost began energizing. Almost.

“Yes.” Ilyem’s voice had become like a mirrored pond. “It was. But not nearly so great a shock as was your unique . . . ability.”

Jasside’s eyes flashed wide. She realized, upon closer examination, that the Hardohl was not in an aggressive stance but a defensive one.

Ilyem was afraid of
her
.

Jasside felt her spine firm up a bit. “There is one thing I would ask, then.”

“What is it?”

“Spread the word among your peers. Let them know what you’ve learned. Maybe—if at all possible—get them to follow you.”

“Follow me in doing . . . ?”

“Nothing.”

Ilyem appeared troubled.

“You owe us,” Jasside said. “For your life, and those of your Elite. You owe us.”

The Hardohl ground her teeth. “No, I do not.”

“But after everything we’ve told you? Everything we’ve
shown
?”

“Your claims are . . . convincing. But I considered the lives of myself and my Elite forfeit the moment we surrendered. Passive treason is the best I can give you.”

“Understood. But wouldn’t you say the rest of your peers deserve an end to the lies? Shouldn’t they get to make their
own
decision based on the truth the mierothi have kept from them?”

Ilyem turned away, and Jasside thought she could almost hear a frustrated growl. “Very well,” said Ilyem. “I will consider your request. But I make no promises as to the response of my peers should I even mention it to them.” She marched away before anything more could be said.

Jasside breathed a sigh of relief as she watched the retreating back of the Hardohl. It was not quite a yes, but it wasn’t a no, either. For the first time in her life, Ilyem might actually think for herself, and maybe—when she realized her life has worth outside the orders of the mierothi . . .

It would be a small miracle, but sometimes that’s all we can ask for. I have a feeling we’ll need every last one.

Y
ANDUMAR
CAUGHT
THE
cask in the cradle of his arms as it rolled off the wagon bed.

“Fresh from the Taditali vineyards,” Paen said. “My father’s finest for the esteemed leaders of the revolution.”

The smooth-skinned young man smiled down at him. Yandumar tried not to grimace. “Any trouble?”

Paen arched an eyebrow while straightening his silk cloak, a gaudy shade of purple with silver embroidery. “My family does not have trouble.”