Veiled Empire (32 page)

Yandumar shook his head. “You’re right to think we have little hope of victory. As we stand, I doubt we’ll even make it inside the walls of Mecrithos. But the rise of our people may just tip the scales in our favor. And let me assure you, this land will not see a better opportunity than this for a thousand years.

“This is not just the right time to invoke the vow. It’s the
only
time.”

Abendrol Torn stepped towards him. He paused, staring in silence for several beats, arms crossed. Finally, he said, “Before we decide anything, you gotta prove yourself worthy.”

“What? That was never a condition of invoking our vow!”

“Oh? So you’ve been inducted as an elder then? Learned all about our most secret laws?”

Yandumar growled.
Forgot about that little detail.
“What do I gotta do?”

Torn pulled his greatsword from its scabbard. “You and me will fight. To the death. The winner will lead our people wherever he chooses.”

Yandumar slumped, a knot forming in his stomach. “Is there no other way?”

“No.”

He slipped off Quake, patting the horse’s neck, then stepped towards the empty space between him and Torn. He closed his eyes, filled his lungs, and exhaled, looking around the circle of his kin, pausing a beat at each set of eyes his gaze fell upon. Everyone seemed expectant, with an edge of fear. He didn’t know what to make of that.

Yandumar peered at Abendrol. “God views all sins equally. But man does not. And the title of ‘kinslayer’ is not something I wish to carry for the rest of my days. Nor,” he said, as Torn began objecting, “would I force it on anyone else.”

He drew both of his bastard swords in one swift motion. He stepped forward, then slammed the tips down into the ground, leaving them quivering.

“If this is the price for our people’s soul, then I refuse.”

Slowly, Torn slipped his greatsword back into its scabbard. He smiled. “That, my friend, was the right answer.”

Yandumar frowned.
What . . . ?

He looked around at his people again. The fear and tension were gone, replaced by . . . joy?

“I don’t understand,” Yandumar said.

Abendrol stepped up, patting him on the shoulder. “I said you had to prove yourself, and you just did. Only a true leader would refuse to shed his own people’s blood to get his way.”

Yandumar blew out his lips, letting his anxiety run out with his breath. “So . . . that’s it?”

“Almost,” Torn said. “This is just one village after all. We’ll have to get the word out to the rest of us.”

That will take too much time—time we don’t have.
His people had no casters among them. They rarely married outside of fellow Ragremons and never allowed outsiders to settle near their towns.

Torn whistled. “Hey, Celar! Your boy ready with them doves?”

“ ’Course he is, Abe!” the woman shouted back. A boy, maybe ten or eleven, stepped up next to her, limping slightly.

“Doves?” asked Yandumar.

“Birds, Yan. We’ve trained them to carry messages between towns. After your son was born, we knew we’d have to start preparing for this.”

Message-carrying birds . . . genius!
“Wait. You’ve been getting ready for thirty years? Why?”

“Mevon was something special. First void from our blood. When Harridan told us what had happened to you, we knew that you would come back someday, and that finding your son would be your top priority. We didn’t know how it would all play out, but we figured this was an opportunity that only came around once in an age.”

Yandumar nodded, head whirling with all the news. He still couldn’t believe he had gotten what he came for.

He stepped towards Celar and her son. “Hope you’re good with your letters, kid,” he said.

Yandumar was stopped by a tug on his sleeve. “Excuse me?” said a voice.

He spun to face the man. “Yes?”

“Sorry, yes. I was wondering if I could draw you?”

“What? Who are you?”

“Oh,” said Torn. “This here is our historian. Be nice to him, Yan. He means well.”

“Historian, huh? Well, nice to meet you . . . ?” He stuck out his palm.

“Thress,” the man said, shaking his hand vigorously. “Sarian Thress. I’d love to get your story down, if you don’t mind?”

“Uh, sure. What’s this about a drawing though?”

“Oh, that. Well, I try to include illustrations in my chronicles. I think it’s important to capture the true essence of a moment.”

“I’ve really got to be going. Lots to do. A war to fight . . .”

“No problem, I can ride beside you. I’m quite adept at working on the move.”

Yandumar glanced at Torn, who merely shrugged. “Ah, I see. Well, that’s fine I guess.”

“You must leave nothing out.” Sarian Thress pulled a blank journal from the pocket of his robe. “Now, start at the beginning . . .”

Yandumar groaned.

M
EVON
SNIFFED
DEEPLY
as the scent of woodsmoke hit his nose. He pulled back the hood of his cloak and shifted his gaze about the expansive plain, searching for its origin. He did two full circles before realizing where he was.

Mecrithos lay only two days away, directly south from here. He knew this land. He’d spent many a day sweating with exertion from dawn to dusk—and often beyond—right . . . there.

He spotted the depression hidden between two mounds too low to be called hills. The haze of smoke drifted up from the spot. Mevon shifted his pack straps and left the game trail he had been following to head towards it.

Memories of his final year in training lifted to the forefront of his mind. It was here that he endured the final lessons a Hardohl would ever receive, training his body and mind to kill. His reflexes sharpened to razors. His skill burgeoning from endless sparring bouts with the masters. Most students received one-on-one training. Mevon got a bit more than that.

Kael, as ever, was present. But the old man convinced a few of the other masters, and even some active Hardohl, to join their training. Kael matched Mevon up against several others, including himself, at the same time. Mevon would never forget how many near-death defeats he suffered in the first few months.

But he did get better. Two at once quickly became easy for him, and when facing three, he could often fight to a draw. Kael didn’t let up, though. During the month before his eighteenth birthday, he was fighting five of the best warriors in the world at once . . . and getting thrashed regularly.

Mevon smiled to himself.
Some lessons, you never forget.

As he approached the entrance, the smell of woodsmoke grew thick—too thick—and he heard the chatter of many voices emanating through the simple wooden door. He only hesitated a moment before pulling the handle and, back straight, thrusting himself inside.

The chatter ceased before the door had even shut behind him. He blinked rapidly, forcing his eyes to adjust to the suddenly dim environment. In three beats, he was able to make out nearly threescore figures staring at him. Some were strangers. The others . . .

“My brethren,” he said to his fellow Hardohl. “It is good to see you.”

Their responses varied. Some smiled or stood slowly, with shock on their faces. Others spat in the dirt or simply glared. At least none drew steel. That would not have ended well.

“Mevon,” said a familiar voice. He turned, noticing a figure crouched on the far side of the nearest fire pit. Logs were stacked up within the circle of stones, but it had yet to be lit.

“Ilyem,” he said, moving slowly towards her. “I see you kept your promise.”

“As much as I could. Not everyone agreed to stay out of this fight.”

He sat down on a log next to her, dropping his pack. All the others took their cue and resumed whatever they were doing before he had intruded. Mevon watched the smoke from half a dozen fires drift up through a gap in the roof of the enclosure. “Cave” wasn’t quite right because the space was carved from between two hills and had no true ceiling. Still, it kept out most of the elements.

“How many in total?” he asked.

“Most of our peers in the eastern and northern territories, and all in the central. Minus, of course . . .”

“The Blade Cabal. I wouldn’t have expected you to even try for them.”

“I didn’t.”

Mevon nodded. “It should be enough. I . . . hope.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Hope.”

Mevon sighed.
I don’t know anymore.
“Of course I do.”

“Then why are you here?”

He studied her face. “Would you answer that question if you were in my place?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On why you’re here.”

Mevon grunted. “Fair enough.” He looked into the unlit logs in front of him, which were built over the embers of a previous fire. He wished it were blazing. He could have used some of its warmth right now.

“Well?” Ilyem said.

He sighed. “I . . . I don’t know. They wanted me to lead, but that ended in disaster. We were never trained for that. Only for killing.”

She nodded. “So, you . . . ran away?”

He opened his mouth to refute her, but stopped.
That’s exactly what I did.
He pressed his lips together and remained silent. He could feel her eyes on his face, but refused to meet them. He didn’t want to see their accusation. Instead, he said, “She’s dead because of me.”

“She? Oh. The convincing one. The two of you were . . . ?”

“Maybe. I think so. Beginning to anyway. Now we’ll never know.”

“How did she die?”

Mevon told her everything. When he was done, Ilyem remained quiet for a while, appearing to contemplate. At long last, she replied. “She was a soldier, Mevon. She knew what the stakes were when she got involved.”

He nodded. It was almost exactly the same answer Bellanis had given him, and the kind of answer he had expected from her . . . and not at all helpful.

“You know,” she said, “you’ve put all our kind in a difficult place.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whether your cause is successful or not, there will be severe consequences for all voids in the empire. If the mierothi win, we’ll never be trusted again, and I wouldn’t put it past them to try to hunt us all down.

“But if the mierothi lose? Then, our kind will become—”

“Obsolete,” Mevon said. “I know.”
I’ve known for a while. Why did I ever think this could end any other way?

“There may be an alternative, though.”

Mevon locked his eyes on her, raising an eyebrow. “Alternative?”

“You said your father came from beyond the Shroud. If that’s true, then there must be a path. If there is a path, then all of us can escape the empire. For good.”

Mevon’s eyes widened. He’d never even thought of escaping.

“Think of it, Mevon,” Ilyem said. “I’ve accepted the fact that the mierothi took our lives away from us, molded us into weapons for their wielding. By some miracle, you still have your father, but he is no Hardohl, and if your revolution presses on, he will likely die. Wouldn’t it be better to find someplace new? Somewhere we can start fresh, without being someone’s tool?”

Mevon pictured a life away from the empire. A life of freedom. Where his father could live out his final years in peace, and Mevon himself could do whatever he pleased. Not answering to anybody. Traveling the world. Seeing the ocean up close. Sailing.

He almost found himself smiling.
A good dream . . . for a normal man. Could I really leave the empire behind, knowing how many mierothi had escaped justice?
He shivered as he contemplated the answer.

Ilyem rubbed her arms. “I’m cold as well.” She stood and raised her voice. “Hey, who built this fire but didn’t bother to light it?”

When no one answered, she sighed and began rummaging through her supplies. Mevon assumed she was looking for a flint and tinder. “Is it so much to ask,” she said, “for people to just nail the last plank on the bridge?”

Mevon froze, his gut twisting at the words. As it always did, the final part of the catechism sprang into his mind.

Too faintly for anyone to hear, he said, “Even when it’s burning.”

Ilyem called after him, but she was too late. Mevon was already out the door.

“K
AEL
!” V
OREN
SAID
. “How good to see you.”

“Whaddya want?”

Voren smiled. He had already known the old Hardohl was immune to any sort of charm, but a little civility never hurt to smooth the path for a difficult request. “I am glad you came. To be honest, I was not sure if you were still in the palace, what with the termination of your current assignment.”

Kael glared at him.
Or is that just his normal look? I cannot tell anymore.
“Yeah. I’m still here,” Kael said. “Something tells me I may still be needed.”

Voren shrugged. “I hope not. Rekaj is many things, but I have not known him to break his word lightly. When he says my tether will be cut, I expect that it will be.”

“Whatever you say. Now, tell me why you called me here, so I can get on with my day.”

Voren sighed. Too much was riding on this. He could not afford to fail. “By now, I am sure you have heard of the little trap we are preparing for Gilshamed?”

“Not exactly a secret.”

“Yes, well,” Voren gulped, “I do not think it will work. Not the way Rekaj has planned. Intentionally or not, I am being put at great risk, and there are far too many ways for Gilshamed to slip out of the trap. I need your help, Kael.”

“Help with what?”

“Nothing you have not already done before. I would do it myself, but I am ordered to stay here until after the trap has closed. If you could just—”

“No.”

Voren’s head rocked back. “But, I have not even said—”

“I know what you want, Voren. I won’t do it.”

“I assure you, this is for the good of the empire.”

Kael puffed out his lips. “Right.”

Voren stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I never did tell anyone about your insider information on the revolution. About your
true
loyalty. And I will continue to keep my lips sealed. All I ask is a little cooperation.”