Veiled Empire (3 page)

Gilshamed pulled back his power and recharged. He pressed forward again, but delicately, probing. With thin tendrils, he brushed against it, like the tickle of a feather. There had to be a weakness somewhere. Nothing crafted by the hands of men was without flaw . . .

There you are.

It was a hairline crack, nothing more than the space between mortals and their gods. It was enough. He honed his power into razors of will and shoved it into the fracture.

And something pushed back.

Gilshamed recoiled. It
was
alive. More than that, it was aware. Aware, and startled by his intrusion. No, not startled.
Terrified.
He could use that, exploit it. He would not let it get away, not when he was so close.

He charged forward, pressing against the presence once more. This time he did not pause but forced his way deeper. The entity writhed and raged, but its fear made it weak. Gilshamed sliced and scraped and hammered with his power.

The being strained, shook, and finally . . .

The voltensus burst, a million molten fragments careening in all directions.

The concussion threw Gilshamed from the tower. The dying soul lashed out, striking deeply, seeking to drag Gilshamed down with it into the abyss. Even as he fell, his physical state forgotten, Gilshamed fought with desperation to withstand this assault. He wrestled for control of his own life, his own soul, all against a being with nothing to lose.

Somehow, he held on.

With one last scream, like the horrified cries of a legion of tortured children, the entity tore away into death. Gilshamed felt himself immediately revived. Whole, once more.

And then he slammed into the ground.

The air fled from his lungs, and darkness closed in around his vision.
Hold on . . . just a little longer. This is a moment of triumph. I can’t . . . I won’t. . .

Pulling on his last reserves, he forced his mind to stay active, his eyes to stay open. He sucked in one breath. Then another.

Someone was shouting. A face floated in front of his, indistinct. Over time—he knew not how long—his senses sloughed towards coherence once more.

Yandumar hovered over him, his beard hanging down to tickle Gilshamed’s face. His friend patted him gently and called his name.

The sky above swirled with strange swaths of darkness. Gilshamed shook his head, thinking them black spots in his vision from the blow to his skull. But no, they lingered still.
Ah, darkwisps.
Thousands retreated in all directions from the empty husk of the voltensus.

A chill shot up his spine, and he knew then what the voltensus truly was.

By Elos! What have the mierothi done? What has Ruul?

All his careful planning, the years of scouring this continent for knowledge and allies—none of it had prepared him for this.

“Gil? You all right?”

Gilshamed blinked up at Yandumar. “Fine,” he croaked. “Just fine. Help me up. Please.”

Yandumar obliged, hefting him into a standing position with welcome tenderness. “You sure you’re all right? You took a nasty fall there.”

Gilshamed clung to his companion for balance. “I am well, Yan. Truly. The injuries to my body are the least of my concerns now.”

Yandumar furrowed his brow and studied him. Slowly, he shook his head. “If you say so.”

Gilshamed looked over the prisoners. Awe and wonder clung to each rapt visage. A good start. But the voltensus . . .

“Never again, Yan.” Gilshamed lowered his eyes. “We must revise our plans.”

“Of course.”

One voltensus destroyed. It would have to be enough. They had the empire’s attention now and would make use of this opportunity as best they could. Other portions of his grand scheme were in motion, not least of all Jasside’s task. It could still work. It
would
.

Ideas floated about, unformed. He left them to stew. There would be time later.

“Yandumar?”

“Yes?”

“Help me to a bed?”

“Right.”

V
OREN
’
S
BRU
SHSTROKES
BEAT
a steady cadence against the canvas, pausing only to dip into globs of vibrant paint to be renewed in color, in life, in power. Power to translate reality into dream, dream into emotion, and emotion—transcending comprehension—into its own newly expressed reality.

He sat back on his padded stool, satisfied, for the moment, with his work. He was balanced upon a round ledge that thrust out towards the center of a hemispherical glass window twenty paces in diameter. Through it, he viewed the landscape south of this place: palace, fortress, and—to Voren—prison. It sat at the crown of Mecrithos, the heart of the empire.

Having mastered the style of perfect representation centuries past, Voren was attempting a new technique. He played both artist and observer, both inspiration and interpretation, soaking in and squeezing out, simultaneously.

Thus, the western horizon, where the mountains had recently swallowed the sun, became a maelstrom of fire into which jagged boulders wept tears of stone. The eastern sky, faded to night, became needles stabbing through black waves. The ochre plains became a wellspring of blood. The cliffs nearest—just outside the palace grounds, where darkwisps had begun emerging for their nightly revelries—became a web of ghostly chains.

Something new emerged on the scene, drawing Voren’s attention. It was a pinprick of yellow light dancing on the cliff’s edge. Curious, he narrowed his gaze on the object.

A brightwisp? Here? By Elos, where did you come from?

He had not seen one since—gods, it must have been half again a millennium, not long after the mierothi had eradicated the last sorcerer carrying vestiges of his people’s valynkar blood.

How had this brightwisp survived all this time? It must have drifted alone, scared, avoiding all contact, a journey worthy of its own grand telling, he was sure. The creature grew brighter as it approached. Voren’s breath caught in his throat.

Have you something to tell me? Some last secret to share? Have you been carrying it all this time?

But then he saw the darkwisps. In their cavorting, a mass of them had drifted into the brightwisp’s path.

They were intertwined now, swaying in a most macabre dance. The two disparate entities repulsed from each other, the brightwisp bouncing back and forth as darkwisps, each in turn, drew closer. But the lone point of light was surrounded, with nowhere left to retreat, and the hovering clouds of darkness, despite flinching as they neared, spun inexorably into a tighter and tighter circle.

It was only a matter of—

The darkwisps surged forward, spitting arcs of black-purple energy between them. And yet, the brightwisp . . . expanded. Not content, it seemed, simply to fall prey, it exploded in a shower of sparks, sending tendrils of a familiar power through its assailants.

Voren blinked against the sudden flash. When his vision cleared, two darkwisps fled the scene of destruction. All others, as the brightwisp, were no more.

A stone took hold of Voren’s gut, and tears carved rivers down his cheeks. He shook, wondering why he felt so deeply for such a creature.
It is scarcely alive, much less sentient. Why, then?
Was it the loneliness of its journey? The despair of its death? The symbol of a past best left forgotten?

How much it reminded Voren of himself?

Metal on wood rattled against his ears from behind. Voren swung his waist-length hair, midnight blue and silky, around and quickly dried his face. He breathed deeply, composing himself, as the main door to his chambers—his cell—opened.

A single figure entered, wrapped in a dun-colored cloak.

“Voren,” the figure said. “It is good to see you.”

“Draevenus?” Voren said. “I did not think you would be here so soon this evening.” He descended the stairs holding up his perch and strode towards his guest. Of all the mierothi, this was the only one Voren did not mind paying him a visit.

Thumb-sized scales of deepest purple framed a pale, boyish face. These scales, Voren knew, encompassed the whole of every mierothi body, granting them an appearance more akin to fish than men. Deep crimson irises and whites that were anything but—green or blue or silver, depending on which way the light hit them—gazed up at Voren amiably. Fingerless gloves ended in thick, sharp claws.

“I can go if you are busy,” Draevenus said.

“Nonsense. You are always welcome to what pitiful hospitality I can offer.”

Draevenus smiled, revealing pointed teeth. He snatched a bottle off the wine rack near the entrance. “Yes, you have only the
third
best wine in all the empire. Pitiful indeed.”

Voren couldn’t help but laugh, amazed at how quickly his tears were forgotten. He stepped up to his cabinet, extracting a pair of glasses. “A drink before we begin?”

“Need you even ask?” The mierothi handed over the bottle as if presenting gift. Voren took it and poured.

They settled into padded chairs across from each other at Voren’s table and raised their cups. “A toast,” Voren said. “To the least offensive mierothi I know.”

“And to the most tactful valynkar
I
know.”

Sharing a grin, they each drank deep.

“Now,” said Voren, “what questions do you have for me?”

“Tonight, only one. But I truly don’t know how long your answer will take.”

“It’s to be
that
kind of question, is it? In that case, I demand you tell your story first.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I’ll be forced to take drastic measures.” Voren leaned forward. “I’ll only serve you the empire’s
fourth
best wine.”

Draevenus’s eyes widened in mock alarm. “Well then . . . a story it is.”

They both burst into laughter.

When they had composed themselves, a feat aided by several long sips each, Draevenus waved an arm towards Voren. “What kind of tale would you like to hear?”

Voren smiled. “Tell me about innocence.”

The mierothi paused, taking a few deep breaths. “I was in the Agoritha plains a few years ago. A bit of a bland-looking country, but peaceful all the same. I was walking through some nameless town looking for supplies. Out of nowhere, I felt something collide hard with my leg.

“I glanced down to see this little girl flat on her bottom in the middle of the lane, rubbing her forehead. Poor thing was dazed enough, but when she looked up to see who she had run into, her face took on a look—and I’ll never forget this—that was both confused and angry at the same time, like I was something from a dream and had no right to be in the actual real world.

“Her mother snatched her up in an instant, of course, apologizing as much with horror as she did with reverence. I almost told her not to worry, no harm done. I’m not sure if it would have made any difference.”

“What happened next?” Voren asked.

Draevenus waited several long beats before replying. “You asked for a story of innocence, Voren. If I continue, the tale will no longer fit that criterion.”

The pleasant tingle he felt from the wine evaporated in an instant. Voren knew that death was the least of the punishments given for striking a mierothi and that most town guards would, in order to prove their zeal, enact such sentences before the offended party could even blink.

Voren set down his wineglass. Draevenus’s orations were the only window he had to the outside world. He’d had enough of stories for one night. “Tell me your question.”

Draevenus stared, clicking his claws against the table. Moving with all the speed of a man on his deathbed, he grasped his wineglass, brought it to his lips, and drained the remaining liquid. Voren felt dread welling up, stronger with each passing moment that remained in silence.

At last, the mierothi licked his lips. “You’ve told me just about everything that you know about the valynkar over these last few months. All that is left to know is this: If your people gained the ability to return to this empire, what would they do?”

Voren closed his eyes, struggling not to succumb to the depths of his youth, of the time before he had become a prisoner of the mierothi. It was not difficult. Such memories were few.

“I do not know,” Voren said. “It seemed I understood my people little, even back when I was among them. With nearly two millennia to set us apart, I cannot even begin to fathom what they might do.”

Draevenus tightened his jaw into a humorless grin, exhaling loudly through his nose. “I see.”

“I am sorry. I know that was probably not very helpful.”

“No, no, it was a truthful answer, which is more useful than baseless speculation. To be honest, I did not know what I was expecting.” He stood.

“Leaving so soon?” Voren asked.

“Yes. And I am afraid this will be my last visit for quite some time.”

“Why?”

Draevenus sighed. “It is difficult to explain. Something has begun, and I must now be about . . . other tasks.”

“I trust all is well?”

Draevenus ground his teeth. “We shall see.”

“I am sorry to see you depart,” said Voren, surprised by the truth in those words. “I have grown fond of these visits of yours. You, out of all your people, at least have the wit to carry on a decent conversation. And you have made a most . . . peculiar student.”

“True enough. Sadly, my education regarding your people is at an end. Though it was enjoyable while it lasted.”

“Well, I hope you learned enough to satisfy your curiosity. If I may, what was it, exactly, that you were hoping to discover?”

The question was tame enough, by Voren’s estimation, but seemed to impact Draevenus more thoroughly than intended. The mierothi’s eyes glazed over, looking through Voren into a world of introspection that could only be guessed at.

After a half dozen beats, Draevenus shook his head. “I tend to take the long view of things, Voren.”

Voren waited patiently for more. When it became apparent that no further explanation was forthcoming, he ventured softly with, “Our kind often do.”

The austere visage now facing him reminded Voren that, despite his youthful appearance, Draevenus was nearly as old as he. And the weighted throwing dagger, which Draevenus danced absently across the back of his knuckles, reminded Voren that he used to be the most feared assassin on the planet.