Authors: John Marco
The Jackal of Nar (69 page)
“Not precisely,” answered Richius in a shrinking voice. “But I know what he is.”
Lucyler was lost. It seemed that everyone knew what was happening but him. “Well?” he asked impatiently. “What is he then?”
“He is a Shadow Angel. A messenger of Arkus of Nar. And I’m certain he has business with me.”
Now Lucyler stepped forward, moving between the strange soldier and his friend. “What business have you with the king?”
The Shadow Angel gestured to the chest at his feet. “I am the emperor’s humble herald. I bring a gift for the king of Aramoor.”
Richius moved to get closer, but Lucyler held out a hand. “What is this gift?” he asked. “How did you get here?”
“To the first question, it is a gift between the great Lord Arkus and Aramoor’s king. I know not what it is. To the second, I have come by ship to deliver His Majesty’s present.” The Shadow Angel slipped a hand into his black vestments, moving slowly so as not to alarm the armed warriors. Kronin eyed him coldly but didn’t stop him. An envelope of crisp parchment appeared in the messenger’s hand. He held it out past Lucyler for Richius. “For you,” he said, bowing his head slightly. Lucyler snatched the envelope away.
“Give it to me,” said Richius rigidly.
“No. It is nothing good, Richius, I am sure.”
Richius touched his friend’s shoulder. “Please,” he said softly.
Lucyler thought to argue then stopped himself, seeing the determination in his comrade’s eyes. He passed the envelope over.
“You will find a key inside,” offered the Shadow Angel. “It will open the lock for the chest.”
They all watched as Richius slid his finger under the wax seal
of the envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper and the promised key. He held the key in one hand and the letter in the other as he read.
“What is it?” asked Lucyler anxiously. Richius dropped the letter. It floated to the floor. “Richius,” Lucyler pressed. He was agitated now, near panic. “Richius, tell me.”
Richius walked past Lucyler to the chest. The Shadow Angel backed away. Kronin and his warriors moved to subdue him, but a terse order from Tharn stopped them.
“Leave him,” spoke the cunning-man in Triin. He struggled to his feet, balancing himself precariously on his cane. “Not yet.”
Richius knelt before the chest, fumbling with the key and finally fitting it into the lock. The mechanism sprang open. Richius pulled the chains away. He was shaking visibly now, his hands hardly obeying him as they worked the latches. Sweat beaded on his forehead and cheeks and his breathing came in great, labored pants.
The box creaked partially open, revealing a sliver of its dark recesses. Lucyler craned his neck over Richius’ shoulder. He could see nothing.
“Dear heaven,” Richius whispered. “Oh, heaven, no …”
He flung open the chest, the lid flying backward and crashing against the floor. Lucyler tried to see but Richius was standing. His hands went to his head and his voice rose from his throat in a tortured cry.
The cry became a scream. Richius collapsed, scrambling backward away from the box, his legs flailing, trying desperately to be away from the thing in the chest.
Commotion erupted in the chamber. Kronin raised his jiiktar. The Shadow Angel straightened for the blow. Tharn lurched toward Richius, his palsied hand outstretched. Lucyler looked into the box.
A face he barely recognized stared back at him, mottled with decay and topped with a filthy mass of blond hair. Its eyes were open in perpetual death, blue and horror-stricken. Lucyler felt a rush of nausea. He reached down and grabbed the open lid, slamming it shut and roaring out to Kronin, “Kill him!”
Kronin’s jiiktar flashed. The Shadow Angel’s helmeted head toppled from his shoulders. And Richius’ screams went on and on.
• • •
When Richius had at last quieted and had been escorted from the banquet chamber by Lucyler, Tharn stepped over the decapitated body of the soldier from Nar and painfully stooped to retrieve the strange letter from the floor. Kronin and the warriors watched him inquisitively, as curious as their master about the contents of the correspondence. Tharn’s crimson eyes squinted as he read the scratchy penmanship.
To the Jackal of Nar,
The girl was everything I’d hoped. Sleep lightly. We are coming for you.
With great hate,
Baron Blackwood Gayle, Governor of Aramoor Province.
From the Journal of Richius Vantran:We were married by a church neither of us believed in, on a wintry but beautiful day. Sabrina was the loveliest bride in the Empire. Her white gown had been specially made for her by the dressmakers of Countess Elliann, and when she first appeared in the cathedral everyone fell in love with her. I was a lucky man that day. She was perfect. But I never told her so.
Count Biagio stood in for Sabrina’s father. I remember how proud he was to do it. I don’t know if he has children of his own, but Sabrina didn’t mind and it seemed to make Biagio happy
—
something we all agreed was a good idea. Arkus wasn’t there, and I was glad for it. Except for Biagio, his wife, and the bishop, only my friends witnessed our wedding. Patwin stood by me the whole time, and though I missed Dinadin it was good to have Patwin so near.
After the wedding, Sabrina told me she wished her father had been there to see her married. I don’t know why she always cared so much for that cold bastard, but his absence affected her deeply. She was right, of course. He should have been there to see his daughter wed. Now he’ll never see her again.
I have been wondering how Arkus will explain all this to Sabrina’s father. He is not such an important duke, nor is Gorkney a very important place in the Empire. Perhaps Arkus will simply say nothing, or perhaps her father just won’t care. He never cared for her while she lived, and I doubt her death will impress him. But does Arkus have heart enough to realize what he’s done? For some reason this question perplexes me. I am in awe of his brutality now. He is not a man to me anymore.
But it’s not Arkus who has ruined me. Would I have ever believed it possible before? It seems so obvious now, I cringe to
remember my blindness. Jojustin’s story never made sense, yet I suppose I loved him too much to question it. The garden gate was locked, that’s what he had told me, and the assassin had climbed over the wall to reach Father. But the garden gate was never locked. Father wouldn’t have it that way. To him it was everyone’s garden. He would open it to the servants and the stable-boys. Not even the threat of a Drol assassin would have made him lock those gates.
So I am left only with Jojustin to suspect. Only he would have dared speak of my journey here. Only he was so enamored with Aramoor as to see my love as treachery. And only he loved Aramoor enough to kill its king. I would hate him for it if I could, but I think I have no hatred left in me. We have all killed for stupid ideals, and all our murdering only makes us suffer more. If my uncle still lives, then he is already punished beyond anything I could do to him. He is living in an Aramoor he always dreaded—one ruled by Gayles.
Still, I may be wrong about him yet. Dear Jojustin. Could you have done this to me?
All my loyal friends are gone now. I have seen how Arkus builds his Empire. I know that those who would not renounce me have been killed. Most likely Patwin died first. He was always loyal to a fault, and I’m sure he did his best to save Sabrina. As for Gilliam and the others, I suspect they were executed. The servants, too, probably, unless they had the sense to forsake me. If God is good he will have given them such insight. Except Jenna. Women do not do well in Talistan, and she is better off dead than sharing Gayle’s filthy bed.
And perhaps that is what frightens me the most. At least I know Sabrina is dead. Whatever monstrous things Gayle did to her are over. But I can only guess at the tortures the rest of my people must now endure. Somehow, be it through Jojustin or some other fiend, Arkus has found out about me. He knows that the same taint that ruled my father has ruined me for Nar. He will not be so merciful with Aramoor this time. By giving Aramoor over to the House of Gayle he has destroyed us, possibly forever. Aramoor has only me for a champion, and I am in no circumstance to fight. Now they must endure the cruel governing of Blackwood Gayle, the very thing Jojustin sought so desperately
to avoid. And so we have both failed our kingdom, and we are damned for it.
I have not seen Dyana since that day. I cannot bring myself to see her. If I didn’t love her so foolishly I would never have made this trip, and Sabrina would still be alive. Dyana has sent messages to me through Lucyler. She wants to speak with me, to comfort me I suppose. But it all seems so pointless now. I should never have come to Falindar, and now that I’m stuck here I don’t know what my place is. Tharn has been gracious. He has given me leave of the citadel, and has told me I may stay as long as I wish. As of now I see little choice. There is no home for me to return to, and though I am loath to accept his hospitality, I am a man without a country now, and would be a vagabond if not for this majestic roof I have made a mockery of my father’s throne, and now our enemy sits upon it in my stead. Someday maybe I will oust Gayle from my place, but that day is far away and I no longer command armies to make it happen. Today Gayle is the victor.
But I will have my vengeance on the baron from Talistan. For Sabrina alone I will see him slain, and he will rue the day he made us part this way
Tharn has started to rally his people for another war. Its inevitable now, and he knows it. Amazingly he has asked me for help. He thinks my knowledge of Naren tactics can be useful. How poorly he knows me. These days I can handle a sword and little else. I just don’t trust my instincts anymore, and my advice would only lead his warriors to a routing. But Tharn has been adamant. It seems he’s not used to being refused, and he has a way with his people. Already Kronin’s men are chafing for this fight. I pity them for their ignorance. For all his education and books, Tharn doesn’t realize the machinery Arkus will mass against him.
Nor does he understand the emperor’s inhuman thirst for life. The Drol speak of death as a doorway, an arch one passes through to reach another world. They don’t fear death the way we of Nar do, and they cannot comprehend Arkus ’desperation to cheat it. I’ve tried to explain this to Tharn but he doesn’t hear me. He talks only of beating back the Naren tide. He gives pretty speeches and everyone adores him for it, but they don’t know of
the weapons of science or the emperor’s fanatical legions. They remember us of Aramoor and Talistan and think that we were Nar’s best. If they knew better they would be afraid.
The Shadow Angel that brought me Sabrina arrived here by ship. To me that means Arkus has finally ended his siege of Liss. There will be dreadnoughts on the shores of Lucel-Lor soon. They will surround this land like a noose and they will strangle it. If Tharn is as wise as everyone believes he will make the pact the Lissens want. Perhaps their navy can protect these shores, and let the fighting take place on land, where I know these Triin are best. I see little hope for their cause, but they are strong and they are many, and if the Lissens ally themselves with Tharn this may yet be a war to challenge Arkus and his legions.
I
t was the dress that made Dyana realize Richius wouldn’t talk to her. Or more precisely, it was the note pinned to its sleeve.
For seven straight days Dyana had sent Lucyler to Richius, offering her condolences and begging him to come see their child. Lucyler always returned with polite refusals, explaining that Richius had nothing to say. Then, three days ago, Lucyler had come to her with the dress, a lovely brocade of scarlet silk that looked valuable even crumpled from the saddlebag. The note on its sleeve was from Richius. In that odd way men often have of being senseless, Richius had decided that staying in Falindar would be much more tolerable if they never saw each other again, and if he could accept that she belonged to another man. The dress, the note went on to say, was an apology. Dyana accepted it reluctantly.
But she thought of him often anyway, and she thought of him now as she put her infant daughter to her breast, fearful that the babe would grow up without knowing the father who lived just a flight of stairs away. He was a peculiar man, she decided, full of all the strange Naren idiosyncrasies her own father had warned her about. It distressed her that he would not speak to her. This was his way of acting strong, she knew, and yet it seemed uncharacteristically weak. At first she had been sure he would come to her once the shock of his wife’s death had passed, but as his refusals mounted she realized there was something more in his silence. For some unknown reason, he suffered from the same lovesickness as Tharn, and it was making him foolish.
She opened her shirt and let Shani latch on, smiling at the
pinching discomfort. This was their quiet time together, the late-afternoon feeding when the chamber was cool and all her attendants were busy with other tasks. Now that she was accustomed to feeding her daughter she enjoyed this time, and would look out of the window toward the sea as Shani gently suckled and cozied up against her breast.
