The Blasted Lands (18 page)

“Then how’s this for a reason? The Sa’ba Taalor have only been in one city. This one. They know where it is and they will surely strike here when they attack.”

“If they attack.”

“Ask Merros Dulver if he thinks they’ll forgive the slight against their king.” Desh kept his voice calm. Anger would only fall on deaf ears and she would not listen to anything else from him at the moment. She was as stubborn as ever, just smarter about listening.

Nachia nodded. “I will. And while I’m doing that, you find some proof of these troubles. Anything I can use to justify moving tens of thousands from their homes.”

Desh nodded his head.

Nachia waved a hand in his direction as she headed for her secret passage. His secret passage, which she had gleefully usurped. “And clean yourself, wizard.” Her voice took on the faintest note of teasing. “You still smell like a slaughterhouse.”

For once Desh had no additional words. He moved toward his bath and disrobed, desperate to be clean.

***

Every morning Merros Dulver rode past the red brick wall surrounding the palatial home of Wollis March and stared at the closed gates in front of it. It had become a part of his routine, a path he rode to let himself think in relative privacy.

This time, for the first time since he’d started his ritual, the gate was open. The sight was enough to stop him in his tracks. He did not stare with his mouth hanging open. He had more control than that, but he was decidedly surprised.

And when the woman stepped past the threshold of the gate and looked at him he still kept his calm, but inside he felt a river of frost spilling into his insides.

He had seen Dretta March only once before. She looked much the same, but the angles of her face seemed harder. Her eyes, dark as her husband’s had been, assessed him for a long moment and she nodded her head.

“You are Merros Dulver.”

Merros nodded his head and slipped carefully from his saddle, dismounting with practiced ease. His knees wanted to shake but he did not allow them that luxury. Instead he walked stiffly toward the woman and laid one hand on the hilt of his sword. He had no intention of striking her, and certainly no desire to attack, but old comforts are often the ones we seek when confronted with uncomfortable situations. The pommel was familiar in his grip and he needed that, if only for the moment.

Merros Dulver dropped to one knee before the woman who looked back with mild surprise. His eyes wanted to look down, but as he could not let a soldier flee in fear without penalty he did not allow that. He stared into her eyes and forced his voice to remain calm.

“I can never take back Wollis’ death. I would if I could. He was the finest man I know and he was my friend. I miss him.”

Dretta March looked at him for a long moment and then shook her head. “Stand up, you damned fool and come in here with your oversized horse.” She turned away from him and called over one shoulder, “We have much to discuss.”

Merros listened, though the ice in his guts tried to fill his very soul at the notion.

Despite the intimidating wall the house beyond it was not overly large. The land was cleared and the grass in desperate need of a proper grooming, but that was to be expected. No one had been there to care for the place since Wollis’ death.

Merros made a note to send a few soldiers to handle the matter. There were plenty on his list who needed a reminder that he was still watching them and expected improvements.

Dretta led him and his horse to the front of the villa, where a table had been set with chairs and freshly baked bread and meats. Two servants looked at the general and nearly quaked to see him. Still, they recovered quickly enough and began pouring wine and water into goblets.

Dretta gestured to the closest seat. “Sit and eat with me. Tell me how my husband died.”

Merros sat and stared at the freshly prepared foods. He should have been ravenous, but looking at the widow before him he found his appetite faded completely.

She brushed away the hands of the closest servant, a man trying to cut into the roast still steaming in the early morning air.

Merros had no idea what to say and simply stared as she carved into the meat, skillfully slicing thick pieces away.

“You’ve come past my home every day since I got here,” she said. “Likely since before then. In all that time you’ve found nothing you wanted to say to me?”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“I’ve already told you. Tell me how Wollis died.”

He nodded and swallowed. “He died, bravely, trying to stop the woman who murdered two generals and very possibly the Emperor.”

She merely nodded and stared, and then she waited as he slowly told the tale of how Wollis had saved his life when one of the Sa’ba Taalor had a knife aimed at him.

“So you see, he saved me,” Merros finished.

“Well then, that would be a fine end to my husband’s life.” Dretta’s voice was low and soft and looked at her expecting hatred or contempt but found none of that.

“How do you mean?” His own voice was soft and broken with grief.

“Wollis considered you a good man and a good friend. He died saving you.” She eyed him carefully. “What can be more noble than saving the life of a good person? He died a good death.”

“I would rather he still be alive, myself.” Merros looked at her and felt his insides finally begin to thaw.

“Oh, and I’d prefer the same, Merros Dulver.” Her eyes looked at his calmly enough, but he could sense what Wollis had spoken of so many times when it came to his wife, a deep and abiding strength. “I’d very much prefer my husband alive, even if it meant your death. He was away from me for too many years and several of those were spent with you. That is not something I have forgotten. But if he had to die, there are worse deaths he could have suffered.”

“I am so very sorry, Dretta.” The man who commanded the largest army in the world heard his voice break and tremble and could not stop it. His vision shattered into hot tears. “I could not save him.”

There was silence from Wollis’ widow as he cried. A distant part of him burned with shame. Soldiers do not cry and men do not cry before women, but still it happened and he could not stop it. He lowered his head and made fists of his useless hands and let out great, braying gasps of grief.

And when he was done with the worst of his unexpected grief, he looked up to see Dretta March looking at him with a calm face. Of the servants there was no sign.

“You could not save him.” Dretta nodded. “But he saved you. And you, Merros Dulver, you are supposed to save us from these Sa’ba Taalor when they attack. That’s what I keep hearing. That you are a hero and will keep us safe from the people that killed my husband.” Her voice was calm as she looked away from him to layer slices of roast and bred on his plate.

When she looked up at him again her eyes were dry. “Keep us safe. Keep me safe. And while you are doing that, I want you to find the bitch that murdered my man and I want you to carve her head from her body.” Her voice was still calm; as if she were discussing the crops she might plant on the last lands of her villa. “Bring me her head and prove to me that my husband made the right choice in dying for you.”

The northerners were known for being a harsh people. That was true in the past and if her words were an indication it was true now.

Merros did not respond, save to pick up his knife and to cut into the sections of roast his hostess had set before him.

He was hungry. That had not happened in quite a while.

The next morning when he headed for his offices, Dretta March was waiting outside the gate and they had breakfast again. It was not long before he realized a new ritual had become a part of his routine.

***

Goriah tended to her duties as she always had, with a meticulous attention to details. That was necessary at the present time, as she was handling the work of three. Pathra Krous was buried in his ancestral tomb, placed next to the remains of his father and his father’s father. When he had been settled and sealed in his location, she carefully set the wards that would keep the bodies of the Krous bloodline safe from prying eyes and greedy hands.

And then she got to the business that had brought her to the City of Wonders.

Old Canhoon spread out before her, a sweeping series of structures that seemed to have grown from the very ground. The appearance was deceiving, of course. The city had been built, but over such a vast span of time that many of the buildings had acquired a layer of dust the same color as the ground they were built on.

Of course, in some places the appearance was exactly what it seemed.

The palace looked nearly identical to the Summer Palace, but seemed larger still and was surrounded by concentric rings of walls, ancient barriers designed to keep out invaders that never showed themselves. Unlike in Tyrne, however, the walls were well kept and still guarded. The military forces in Canhoon made sure of it, as the city was where the largest number of soldiers were trained and lived. As she set the wards several hundred soldiers stood at formation around the tomb, silent and somber and armed and waiting.

As the vault was sealed again, the orders were given, and in slow procession the battalions of armored men passed before the great doors to the tomb and saluted before returning to their duties.

And while the military leaders in the area said their goodbyes, Goriah looked to the dignitaries waiting with her. They were leaders of the vast city, the commander of the City Guard, the men in charge of the vast universities and colleges that gathered within the oldest city in the Empire, and the men who were charged with making sure that the Gem of Fellein remained well polished in the absence of the Empress.

In the absence of an Empress to impress they were doing their very best to catch the attention of one of her personal advisors.

In the absence of the First Advisor, they were perfectly glad to suck up to Goriah, who was one of his personal assistants and to the illusions she’d created of her sisters. Tataya and Pella seemed distant, but that was rather common, really. None of the Sisters had a reputation for being easy to know.

Goriah remained suitably unimpressed, but listened to the dignitaries just the same.

There were endless questions, of course. Who were the Sa’ba Taalor and what had started the conflict? What was being done about the murder of the Emperor? Why had the Imperial Highway not been better tended north of the Lishter Gap? Would the Empress be approving a request for more soldiers along the Imperial Highway? Was there news of what had really happened in Roathes? The list went on for nearly as long as the funeral march to bring the Emperor’s corpse to the city.

Goriah did her best to answer a few questions and promised to bring many more questions to the attention of Desh Krohan and thus to the attention of the Empress.

Three faces she had hoped to see where woefully absent from the final farewell. She would have been surprised if any of the wizards had shown themselves, but still she had hoped.

As soon as she could, she sent her illusory Sisters on their way. Pella bid farewell first, offering her formal smile and courteous bows to the men who were doing their best to get to know her better. Not long after Tataya left as well, and when they were both gone and Goriah could finally allow herself to relax a little, took stock of her situation and decided it was time to leave for real.

When she had made the proper goodbyes and promises to convey messages, Goriah slipped away from the large crowd of dignitaries, leaving more than a few wondering exactly how she had vanished so easily.

Desh Krohan had taught the Sisters the secrets of sorcery. She never quite understood why so many people forgot that fact.

The universities and colleges around Canhoon were vast things more often than not, old and well respected and in some cases among the largest structures within the city.

The sorcerers did not advertise their school. There were no signs pointing the way and if one asked around the requests for directions were likely to be met with blank stares and puzzled expressions.

Goriah did not need directions. She found her way back with ease and entered through the front doors without bothering to knock. The structure was built of stone and better kept than many places. Despite the warmer weather outside, the interior would have been chilled if not for the fires burning in several hearths.

No alarms were raised by her presence and no one came to see if she needed assistance. She walked the long corridors and drank in the atmosphere of a place that would always be home in many ways and then she found the offices of the headmaster, well hidden though they were.

The chambers where Jeron studied were as large as the throne room at the palace but nowhere near as well kept. The walls of the room were paneled in dark wood and decorated with shelves that held more books and scrolls than most people would ever see in their lives. A total of ten sets of heavy doors were placed along those walls, none of them seeming to fit where they were, rather as if they’d just wandered into the room and then decided to skulk along the walls in the hopes that no one would notice them. In the center of the vast room was a table of immense scale. That table was covered with more books and more scrolls, often stacked in precarious heaps and occasionally set into cleared areas as if that space was destined to hold that one volume and nothing more.

Roughly at the center of the chaos was a large and very comfortable chair. The arms and seat were covered in soft leathers and stuff well with padding. The man who sat in that chair leaned heavily to his left and studied a manuscript written before the Fellein Empire had been even a distant thought in the first Emperor’s mind.

Jeron looked up from his studies as soon as she entered the room. He was a solid man with arms nearly as thick as her thighs, and though when last she had seen him he’d been sporting a beard and a mane of hair, he was currently bald and clean-shaven. His jaw looked better with a beard but she said nothing of that. Instead Goriah smiled and gave an informal bow.