The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two) (8 page)

Melovar put his hand to his face, feeling bumps and crevices in his cheek where there never were before. "Bring me a mirror."

Zavros tilted his head to someone outside the Primate's vision. A moment later a templar entered, a silver mirror with gilt edging held in his hands. The man looked terrified.

"Hold it up," Melovar said.

Zavros nodded to the templar, who hoisted the mirror, and Melovar regarded his new self.

Everything was where it should be, at least he had that much. But it was as if Melovar was made of wax and had been held too close to a flame. His nose had sunken, and was now barely more than two holes in the centre of his face. His cheeks and his chin were withered, lined with countless deep cracks, and his eyes were little more than almond slits. Melovar's lips were cracked and thin; they bled when he parted them, and they pulled in towards his mouth, which was little more than a triangular hole.

He looked down at his hands, and the flesh of his forearms. He still had the complete use of his fingers; in fact aside from the pain, his body felt quite functional. He turned his hand over to display the palm, confirming that the fissures covered every surface of his skin.

Melovar chuckled.

"You can leave," Zavros said to the shaking templar. He waited until the templar had left, and then turned to the Primate. "Primate, what are you doing?"

"I'm standing."

"But the pain!" Zavros said. "Primate, the fluid in your veins is like acid right now. Look." Zavros held up a bandage. Where the fabric was bloodied it was eaten away,

Melovar felt the fire pulsing through his body, regenerating the tissue, feeding him strength, even as it sent waves of agony coursing through his veins. He shook his head. "What do I care? My work is unfinished, and my body might have little time left in this world. And, Templar Zavros, pain is ethereal. The Evermen Cycles — perhaps you should read them sometime."

~

M
ORAGON
made his report in his usual dispassionate tone. The commander of the Black Army and newly-made Tingaran High Lord had shown no reaction at all when he saw the Primate's disfigurement. Perhaps life as a melding had made him less shocked by what could be done with the human form.

The two stood high on the summit of Stonewater, where previously they would have been bathed in the light of the Pinnacle. The cool wind soothed the Primate's constantly burning skin, and he sipped from a golden goblet, feeling the bitter liquid slide down the back of his throat.

"Go on," the Primate said.

"Altura is bottled-up, but with essence running so low it's proving difficult to take the battle to them. If we had more support from the Petryans I'm confident we could establish a stronger front and drive through to Sarostar, but there are rumours that Raj Petrya's patrols in the south are being harried by the desert tribes, which is tying up more of their strength than we think High Lord Haptut Alwar is admitting."

"The desert tribes? What business do they have in Petrya? They're generally too busy fighting each other to be a threat."

"They've always harried the southern trade routes, taking caravans and stealing from villagers, but this is something different. I'm getting reports that they have a new leader, and a new lore."

"A new lore?"

"They're just tales really, told second-hand. Warriors, riding out of sandstorms on those beasts they call horses. That sort of thing."

Melovar snorted, a strange sound coming from his ruined nose. "There's no new lore. And it's barbaric, using animals like that. What of this leader?"

"He is a prince, they say, and with his father, the Kalif, he has united the tribes. They have taken a name, Raj Hazara, and the colour yellow, like the sand of their home. Their
raj hada
is the symbol of a desert rose. They're a warlike people, and this prince is their leader in war."

"It sounds like you're giving this more credence than I had originally thought," Melovar said.

"The tribes are fierce, and this man must be a strong leader to unite them. They even say these Hazarans are building a city in the desert, but these are all rumours, remember."

"It comes down to the question of their lore. Without their own lore, they cannot call themselves a house. Raj Hazara indeed. I'm sure the Petryans can handle them. What else?" the Primate asked.

"In Halaran the people are getting restless, particularly in Ralanast. I want to go to Halaran and take control of their capital. We've established a camp for the prisoners now, just outside the city, so quelling the Halrana should be no problem, provided the correct methods are applied."

"Good, good."

"But we still need a plan for the conquest of Altura. With the enchanters out of the picture, the resistance in Halaran, Vezna, Loua Louna and Torakon will crumble. We can finally bring about the new order."

"Never fear, High Lord Moragon, I have a plan," Melovar said, gazing out from the mountain top. "I will share it with you in time."

"There is one more thing," Moragon said, licking his lips.

Primate Melovar turned, assessing the tall man with the shaved head and the arm of metal. He hadn't heard the melding use this tone before. "What is it?"

"The elixir," Moragon said carefully. "Have you spoken with Templar Zavros? How much remains?"

The Primate smiled and his lips cracked, blood dripping down his chin. Where the fluid touched his skin he felt it burn as it trickled down. "I understand, my friend. Never fear. Every crisis is an opportunity."

Moragon grinned without mirth. "If you see the opportunity here, Primate, you are more clever than I."

"I was always more clever than you, Moragon," the Primate said. "There has just been an attempt on my life. Supplies of elixir are low, but not exhausted. And why are we running so low? Why, because of the many dependent on us to stave off the pain of withdrawal. Am I correct?"

"Yes…" Moragon said slowly.

"So let them feel the pain. Let them vie with each other to show their loyalty. I will start by purging the Assembly of any who knew this priest, Sabithe. Any templar who even spoke with him, who even knew his name, shall be sent to the prison camps, whether he has the taint or not. Those dependent on the elixir will die, and those without the taint, well, they'll die soon enough anyway. I will then have my templars compete for my favour. After a few days without the elixir, they'll be falling over each other to denounce those whose hearts aren't fully behind our cause. The most loyal, the fiercest fighters, the most influential, we'll let live. The rest will go to the camps to experience the exquisite pain of withdrawal. I will purge the Assembly, Moragon. And, like the honing of a blunt edge, what is left will be stronger, sharper, than ever before."

Moragon bowed his head. "This is why I follow you, Primate. And then?"

"When we are done purging the Assembly, we will move onto the houses. There are those, even in Tingara, who are dependent on the elixir but whose loyalty might be in question. There are those like Tessolar, the former High Lord of Altura, who once we had plans for but now are next to useless. We will purge, Moragon."

Moragon nodded. "It is a good plan."

"And when the time comes," the Primate said. "I will reveal my greater plan. The Evermen have shown me a way, Moragon, a way for us to get more essence, more elixir, and to crush Altura once and for all."

8

A
MBER
held the child's emaciated body close to her breast as the boy's lips turned blue and his shivering subsided. His eyes glazed, and then he was completely still.

She didn't cry; all her tears had long ago been cried out. Huddled in her group of about twenty prisoners, she just continued to stroke back the boy's hair in the same way she had when he was alive. It was all she could do.

"Give him to me," Lorenzo said. Amber turned dull eyes on the stocky Halrana. Who had he been in his former life? Did it even matter? "Here, yes, that's it. Let go. Give him to me."

Lorenzo took the child away, and Amber looked around her little group. Finally she stood, shakily, feeling light-headed with hunger and privation. Amber looked around the prison camp and wondered how she was going to get out. Would she be walking? Smiling and laughing as the camp was liberated? Or would she be on her back, carried like a sack of grain, yet another casualty of the terrible conditions? Yet more prisoners arrived, always more than were taken by sickness and starvation.

Amber put her hand over her belly. She was more than a month pregnant, and there was only the tiniest of bumps on her abdomen, but it served as a constant reminder. She couldn't afford to die. She owed her unborn child that much. She needed to live.

She again cast her eyes over the camp. Without shelter, the prisoners had formed groups, most consisting of a dozen men, women and children, but sometimes more. In the distance, she could see the steel fence that bordered the camp on four sides. Between Amber and the fence huddled group after group, with barely space between them to walk to the latrines. Some had erected makeshift shelters from a blanket and a few sticks; others had formed a circle of warmth, with the weakest of their group in the middle.

There were so many of the groups she couldn't even begin to count them.

Not far away Amber saw a group of just two, and she frowned with distaste. The pair sat a little further from everyone else, and one, an old man, had his head resting in the other's lap.

The younger man, Prince Leopold, former commander of the armies of Altura and Halaran, was in a world of his own. Leopold had been here since the beginning; he had arrived with Amber when the camp was built, not long after the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta.

As Amber heard it, he had fled before the battle even began, looking for his uncle, Tessolar. Like Amber, he had been rounded up in the aftermath of the battle, and here they were.

Leopold was despised even more than the prison guards. He had led the allies to defeat, and then left them at their hour of greatest need. Occasionally the Torak and Louan prisoners spoke with him, but all of the Alturans and Halrana shunned him. Amber was almost surprised he hadn't been murdered in the night, another body with little questions asked, but who here had the weapon or the strength? It was hard enough just staying alive. Looking at Leopold, Amber remembered the handsome face and flaxen hair of the dashing prince. Now, he was just another sad man.

Leopold had been granted his desire when, just the previous day, Tessolar, his uncle, had arrived at the camp.

Amber barely recognised the man who had once been the High Lord of her house. Tessolar was a broken man, shrunken and withered, with most of his hair fallen out and eyes sunken into his skull. The two legionnaires who brought him in had unceremoniously dumped him with the other prisoners and then left without a word.

Leopold had immediately gone to his uncle's side. Tessolar had some kind of strange disease; his eyes were yellowed and froth sputtered from his mouth. Amber had watched Leopold try to speak with his father, but Tessolar was past communication.

Now Amber looked on as Leopold sat disconsolately, his uncle's head in his lap. Tessolar moaned and writhed, but none of the prisoners paid any attention. They could hear, and they could see, but they had their own problems, and in any case, the two traitors deserved each other.

Amber looked down at her own cluster of prisoners and her eyes met Beatta's. The Halrana woman stared intently back, and Amber knew that here was a will that matched her own. Beatta's hair was darker than Amber's, brown to Amber's auburn, but like Amber she would do anything it took to escape.

The two had formed a bond one night when Amber had seen Beatta smile coyly at one of the prison guards, a nasty Tingaran named Hugo. Hugo was a bully, but Beatta was attractive, and he wasn't immune to her touch when she laid a hand on his bicep. Beatta ate well that night, and Amber's respect for her grew, if anything. This was a woman who had the strength to survive.

Amber resolved to try herself, and after discovering Amber's state, Beatta felt for the younger woman and gave her some tips. She first asked Amber if she was prepared to do whatever it took, if it came to it. Trepidation set like a stone in Amber's belly, but she assented, and Beatta told her what she needed to know.

Amber had lost some weight, but if anything her slim waist emphasised her curves, and with her soft brown eyes and full lips, she knew she was considered pretty. Her first time, she didn't even have to let herself be touched; she simply smiled at the guard, a young Tingaran growing his first stubble.

She received frowns from some of the other women, but that night, she ate better than she had in weeks. Amber didn't care. She wasn't doing it for herself. She was doing it for her child.

Beatta had her own reason to live. The Halrana woman had been separated from her husband and child at the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta and was desperate to be reunited with them. She spoke constantly about her son, and Amber reassured Beatta that her family would be waiting when they both escaped to Altura. Amber didn't feel bad about potentially giving Beatta false hope — determination had to come from somewhere.

Amber knew now that Miro was alive, and had been in command at the Bridge of Sutanesta. Amber had also heard that an enchantress, a young woman barely out of the Academy, had created the bridge of light that saved so many lives. It was the last time Amber could remember smiling. It could only be Ella.

She pictured Miro and Ella now, remembering the last time the three of them had been together, the day Amber and Ella had graduated from the Academy of Enchanters. Amber remembered sitting close to Miro, their legs touching, both knowing it but neither moving away.

Thinking of Miro was the only thing that kept Amber going. In the darkest days, when hope was at its lowest, she would remember his face, and the things he used to say.

"Mistakes are there to teach you," she could almost hear his voice. "You learn from them, and you move on."