The Black Star (Book 3) (69 page)

Foul-tongued Merria was seventy if she was a day, but decidedly female. As was Pinya, a heavyset woman in her early forties. Bitter politics among the monks had reduced her to the station of their chef, but after the Council vacancies following the war, she had applied for one of the openings. Highly irregular—nominations were the province of the Council, and nominating
yourself
was looked on as uncouth—but after speaking to her, and seeing her in action, Dante had backed her all the way.

Last and most recently added was Wellimer, a defector from Setteven in his early thirties. One seat remained open; they had decided to wait until the proper talent appeared instead of rushing to fill the spot with a questionable choice.

Dante moved to his seat at the head of the table beside Olivander. The others fell silent, waiting to take their chairs until he'd done so.

After a hasty blessing, Olivander leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. "The Minister has Cellen. He hates Narashtovik from the pit of his heart. I have only two questions. How and when will he move against us—and how will we fight back?"

The questions sounded open to the table, but Dante knew he was expected to respond first. "My best guess is the Minister will open the mountains in the spring."

"And follow with his army?"

"If he intends to invade, yes. But he won't be concerned about preserving our citizens or resources. I wouldn't be surprised if he angles the channel straight at Narashtovik and floods us, softening us up before sending in his troops. We'll have to build levees; I'll handle that." Dante rested his palms on the table. "There's also a chance he'll forgo the invasion in favor of conjuring a mountain beneath us instead."

The others glanced between each other. Tarkon's thick brows twitched. "He can do that? How close will he need to be?"

"I couldn't guess."

"We'll set up pickets in the foothills," Olivander said. "Post men on every road and hilltop. Equip them with loons. At the first sign of foreigners, we'll ride out to capture them."

Merria scowled. "So this 'Minister' can blow our balls to the stars? Where they'll hang forever as the thirteenth icon of the Celeset?"

"If he wastes Cellen destroying our outriders, at least we'll die knowing Narashtovik's intact."

"That's why he won't take that route." Somburr's eyes darted across the table, avoiding the others. "He won't chance getting intercepted on the most obvious, direct path to Narashtovik. If he wants to destroy the city outright, he'll come at us from our blind side. He'll take the Five-Meddenlan Way. A year or two from now, he and a few of his finest will stroll within sight of Narashtovik, and that will be the end of us."

"That's a little prophetic," Hart rumbled.

"
If
that's his path," Somburr said. "I don't think it is. I think he intends to retake this city. Enslave us. Accomplish what his ancestors never could while unleashing centuries of bitterness upon us."

Olivander turned to Dante. "Do you agree?"

Dante bulged his tongue against his lip. "Yes. The Minister's soldiers were drilling everywhere. He wants Narashtovik."

"Is there no hope for a diplomatic solution?"

Dante and Somburr met eyes and laughed. Somburr opened one palm. "What would we offer? What could we give him? He hates us, Olivander. There is no appeasing his wrath."

"This is confounding!" Olivander bellowed, looking surprised at himself. "A couple of months ago, I didn't know this man existed. But it's been his life's work to destroy us? We've done nothing to him. I say we send a delegation. At the least, it may buy us some time. Maybe we'll learn he's more reasonable than we think. Unless he's a lunatic, he can't truly believe we're responsible for whatever happened in Weslee."

"He does." Minn moved through the open doors, trailed by Blays and a couple of mortified servants. They grabbed at her elbows, but she yanked her arms free. "And he's right to do so."

Shock rippled through the chambers. The servants looked to Olivander for direction. He rubbed his hand down his beard, confounded all over again.

"I think you'll want to hear this," Blays said.

Dante stood, a chill of foreboding shooting through his body. "Let her speak."

34

Minn smoothed her sleeves and drifted toward the table. Blays watched her from near the door. A moment ago, she'd forced her way into the room, but under the combined gaze of the Council, she now looked as confused as if she'd wandered in from the docks.

"You really don't know?" she said, casting among them. "We did our job that well?"

"Out with it," Dante said. Blays gave him a hard look. Dante rolled his eyes and gestured for her to continue. "We're in the dark. Please tell us what you came to say."

She moved toward the open chair. "Should I sit?"

"Whatever will be most comfortable."

She nodded vaguely and sat down. Despite being a common guy with a sword, Blays used to attend all the Council meetings, but he presently felt more than a little awkward. What the hell, he decided: Minn was about to drop some serious wisdom on these old bastards. As the one who'd brought her here, Blays deserved credit. Lots of it. He walked around the table and stood at attention behind her chair. That ought to lend her a little more authority. People always paid attention to you when you had armed men around to look tough.

"What I'm about to say can't leave this room," Minn said. "If it becomes known that I told you, I will be killed. Pass it to future Council members, if necessary for Narashtovik's safety, but I won't speak another word until each of you swears before Arawn to bear my secret to your grave."

"I so swear," Dante said.

"By Arawn!"

"Beneath the judgment of Arawn, and on the life he's seen fit to give me, I swear your secret won't ever leave this Council."

Minn nodded once, then glanced at the others. "You too. All of you."

One by one, they repeated Dante's promise. Blays tried not to smirk. Good to see these power-mongers humbled for once. He found himself surprised by his own resentment. He didn't even know some of these people, and considered others friends, such as Olivander and Tarkon. Hart, too. As Minn drew in a breath, he realized he'd missed them.

"You at least know that Narashtovik has a war-torn history," Minn said dryly.

Tarkon chuckled. "Hadn't noticed. Would you care to buy one of the ruins on the outskirts? We've still got a few left. Charming little places—all they need is a roof, some new walls, a foundation, maybe a well..."

She smiled, put at ease by the old man, then grew somber. "It goes back longer than you know. Some twelve hundred years—and the old wars were worse than any of the last few centuries. In those days, Narashtovik was much smaller, the wilds much bigger. Even then, however, the city was a center of nethermancy, the heart of Arawn's worship; it grew and it prospered.

"But that prosperity drew attention from those who lacked it. At that time, the Woduns were a fraction of their current size. They bore a few ranges and high peaks, but most of the land between here and Weslee was open fields and rolling hills. This was the homeland of the Elsen. Nomadic horsemen, for the most part. They too worshipped Arawn, but they resented Narashtovik, its temples and fields and easy life. They began to raid it. They were good at it, darting in and out on their horses.

"This went on for decades. There wasn't much Narashtovik's priests could do—the Elsen had nethermancers, as well. So Narashtovik began to study the earth. They taught themselves to move it. They staggered the eastern plains with ramparts and hidden pits. For a while, this slowed the Elsen. As they withdrew and regrouped, adjusting to the new defenses, Narashtovik thought their enemy's strength had faded, and struck back. They intended to wipe the Elsen from the plains."

She gazed at the wall across the room. "That was a critical mistake. Their entire force was slaughtered. Only a handful made it back to tell the others. Narashtovik's army had managed to stomp out a few villages, but the Elsen remained. And they were much stronger than Narashtovik had guessed.

"Outraged by the massacres of their villages, they resumed their raids with redoubled intensity. They started to take less and burn more. Narashtovik's years of wealth were long behind it. The way the story is told, it was certain that the city would soon fall.

"But that's when they heard about the lights in the norren lands to the south. Narashtovik dispatched an expedition. That expedition returned with Cellen. As soon as they figured out what they had in hand, the Council forged a plan. One that would ensure the Elsen never threatened Narashtovik again.

"A small group traveled into the eastern hills of the enemy's territory. They took Cellen with them." She lifted her hands high, then swept them to the sides. "And thus, in a span of minutes, the Woduns were born, and the Elsen died."

The chambers were so quiet you could hear the wind whistling from the balcony.

Dante leaned forward. "How do you know all this?"

"For the same reason I swore you to secrecy: because the People of the Pocket were once from Narashtovik."

The Council exchanged another round of looks. Olivander tipped back his head. "We have no record of that."

"Of course you don't," Minn said. "The nethermancers underestimated Cellen. They never thought the mountains would be that big, that total. They sent scouts across the Woduns, but what they found was even worse than they'd feared. Tens of thousands were dead. The guilty and the innocent alike. Faced with the horror of their own actions, a civil war erupted in Narashtovik between those who wanted to build on what they'd just done and those who wanted to renounce it. Many died. That's when most of your records were lost. Anything else was taken by the earth-movers when they left for Pocket Cove.

"We took our knowledge with us. Knowing nothing like the Woduns could ever be allowed to happen again, we vowed to teach no one the skills that had allowed us to decimate the Elsen. Over time, we built our walls, ensuring we'd be left in peace, and would never again have anything to do with the world." Minn lowered her gaze. "Until now. Because I've betrayed my people to tell you this."

Blays put a hand on her shoulder. "Given how many other things we've done to piss them off, I doubt one more crime will matter."

"And the Minister blames
us
for this?" Olivander pressed his palm over his mouth. "We didn't even know such a thing had been done. How can we bear its responsibility?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter who did it," Tarkon said. "Things like that don't just go away."

"Time erases everything. Unless you keep reopening them, all wounds heal. Do you know how many spats, skirmishes, and wars Narashtovik has weathered over the years? How many of these former enemies are we still hellbent on putting to the sword?"

The old man scrunched up his face, wrinkles deepening. "None of them?"

"Correct," Olivander said. "I don't know when an atrocity becomes inert, nothing more than another piece of history. But I do know that even the most befouled stream eventually runs clear. Once the poison has passed, civilized people can return to the river and drink together."

Somburr scowled at the table's rich grain. "We'll send a peace envoy anyway. Purely as a delaying tactic."

"We can't send anyone to see the Minister," Dante said. "He'll execute them on the spot."

"Then be sure not to send anyone important."

Olivander closed his eyes, lowering his voice so much the others had to hush to hear him. "That's just a a ploy. What we need is a
strategy
."

"They're going to have logistical problems." Dante pinched his temples between his forefinger and thumb. "If they open a passage through the Woduns, we can use that against them. Fortify it and fight them for every inch. Meanwhile, we raid their supply lines from behind."

"Not a bad idea. But we're going to face a significant problem with personnel. Our standing army won't be an issue, though it's still depleted from the last war. But it will be hard hoeing to convince citizens to join a defense against an enemy they've never heard of. In the meantime, if Moddegan senses weakness, he might strike while our back is turned."

"We'll need scouts and spies," Somburr said. "Equipped with loons. We should send them to Spiren immediately."

"Son of a bitch has put himself in one sweet position," Merria said. "He can hit us whenever he wants, but we've got no way to hit back."

Tarkon stuck up his head and peered around like a rooster. "He'll be thinking the same thing, won't he? Snug as a bug behind his miles-high walls. If we could get just a few dozen raiders over there, there's no telling how much panic they could stir up."

"No part of that is feasible," Dante said. "Crossing the Woduns requires nethermancers, but the Woduns are infested with man-killing kappers that are impervious to nether." He narrowed his eyes at Minn. "Which can't be coincidence. One more thing we have to thank our forebears for, don't we?"

"That's beyond my knowledge," she said.

Dante turned back to Tarkon. "Even if we got people across, after our first attack, the enemy will fortify the other trees. You'd need an army to fight your way up the stairs of a fortified loren. We'd only have one shot."

"Okay," Blays said, his head buzzing with light. "So we take it."

Dante frowned. "We do the thing I just said was impossible and stupid?"

"That's the one."

The scorn in Dante's face retracted. He was watching Blays closely now, the way a fox and a badger might regard each other at dusk. "What have you got in mind?"

"Know what, nevermind. It sounds like you think it would be dumb."

"Given what we're up against,
every
idea is dumb. Why don't you spit it out and add it to the crowd?"

Blays thumbed his nose. "Well, my feelings are hurt. So why don't you beg me for it?"

Everyone was watching them now. Dante leaned back in his little throne. "Quit this nonsense. Tens of thousands of lives hang in the balance."