Veiled Empire (30 page)

Bellanis took a step forward. Mevon stopped her with a single, firm look. She stiffened. The look in her eyes instantly became a glare.

“Was there something else you needed?” Mevon asked. Polite, but professional. She was no fool. She knew her chances had become nil.

She sighed. “She was a good woman. A brilliant caster. But in the end, she was a soldier. Like you. Like me. We all knew the stakes when we started playing this game, her most of all.”

“I know.”

She hesitated a moment longer, as if searching for something else to say. Apparently coming up blank, she turned and marched away.

The sun was nearly set. Mevon made for his tent.

He pushed through the flap. It was small, not nearly as roomy or ostentatious as the one Gilshamed occupied. He kept nothing in it, normally, but a bedroll and a small sack containing emergency provisions. Those were now pushed to one side. Dominating the cramped space was chest a pace long and half a pace wide and tall. Mevon knelt in front of it, unlatched the lock, and flipped open the lid.

A gasp rose from inside.

Mevon inhaled the scent of blood and old sweat and the man’s stale, ragged breath, which was infused with the scents of sage and cinnamon.

“Come to give me my evening draught, then?” the daeloth spat. “Or is it more questions? Or just torture for its own sake, as you seem to enjoy.”

Looking down into the eyes of the man who had killed Jasside, Mevon shook his head. “Not tonight.” Mevon knew then that he had made his decision. “Tonight begins our reckoning.”

He reached down a hand to the daeloth’s throat and squeezed, gripping until long after the thrashing had stopped. He stood, not bothering with the lid.

Mevon moved to the side of the tent and knelt, rolling up the bedroll. He affixed it to his pack, cinching down the straps to secure it. Food and water were already in the ruck, and he could find more as he needed.

It seemed quick, but Mevon had always been ready for anything. And for this, he had been ready for a long time. Now that he was sure the army was taken care of, there was nothing holding him back.

“I am not a leader of men.”

He sighed. Saying it out loud helped make it real. He had known what he was—had always known. But being thrust into a position of authority, finding himself suddenly among people who shared his blood, a father who had sacrificed so much to find him—all of that had make him forget.

“I am a killer.”

The mierothi had forged him into an instrument of death. Even though he now turned his talents against them, nothing could change the fact of his existence. His purpose. His only true usefulness. Playing at leader had gotten too many killed already. Had gotten
her
killed. Mevon knew, for the good of everyone, he had to stop pretending.

There was only one thing left. He had only done it once before, and that time was only to ensure it worked.

Mevon pulled Justice into his hands. Now, more than ever, he realized how true the name was. His fingers and thumbs slid along familiar grooves, finding ten individual notches on the rod. Each a thorn. His fingers squeezed, his hands twisted and pulled.

His
Andun
slid apart.

Mevon folded the two halves together and tied them to his back. He put a cloak over himself, covering it up completely, then shrugged his arms through the straps of his pack.

He stepped out of his tent. Night had fallen, and no one paid any attention to the hunched figure walking out of the camp alone.

“I
T
’
S
WORKING
,” V
OREN
said to the council members gathered around the war table. He pointed to markers on the map that he had placed indicating Gilshamed’s position. They formed a straight arrow aimed for Mecrithos. “It appears he was trying to head north. We still do not know why, but we do know that he is alone.”

Rekaj nodded. “Jezrid?”

“I can confirm Voren’s report. My men have been following him for days, keeping out of sight as you requested.”

“It’s for their protection,” said Voren.

“So you’ve said. But he is only one man, and even valynkar have to sleep sometime.”

“He’s more useful to me alive,” Rekaj said. “When we hang his body from the city walls as their armies approach, whatever spine they may still have will break.”

Jezrid bowed his head, withdrawing from further argument. The emperor turned to the supreme arcanod. “Give me some good news about our forces.”

Grezkul stiffened. “We have fewer than I’d like in any position to be a factor. The loss of an entire host was . . . unfortunate. But I am confident the city walls will repel any attack.”

“How many are stationed there?” Rekaj asked.

“Twenty thousand, along with three hundred and twelve daeloth. We can double both those numbers if we move men away from the inner walls and foot patrols inside the city.”

“Do it. And add sixty of our kin to your list of assets.”

“What?”

The corner of Rekaj’s lip curled up. “I’ve recalled our brethren serving at each of the territory capitals. Those twenty will link with two of the enlightened each and stand the outer city walls.”

“That will be . . . most helpful,” Grezkul said. “Their darkwatch, too?”

Rekaj shook his head. “Their guards will augment our own at the palace. A thousand darkwatch should be enough to protect us from anyone thinking to slip in during the chaos.”

Voren saw what the emperor was doing. Sowing division among even themselves by proclaiming those in this room more valuable than the rest of their kin. He could tell that none of the others liked the notion. It meant that Rekaj alone had the power to decide which of them was worthy of life itself and that falling out of his good graces meant they could become like the rest: expendable.

I do not know what great purpose you and your god strive for, but shattering the already tenuous unity of your people is most certainly not the best way to go about it.

Voren smiled to himself, thinking he had discovered another dangerous side effect of absolute power—absolute blindness.

Rekaj turned to the high regnosist. “I trust your ‘forces’ will soon arrive?”

“Just in time,” Lekrigar said. “Though I still don’t see the need—” He bit his lip, choking off an argument he’d made before and knew he couldn’t win. “I leave tonight to meet them.”

“Make sure you hasten their steps. If they miss the battle, I would find it most . . . disappointing. It’s long past time that we tested the effectiveness of your little experiments.”

Lekrigar fought a scowl. “They wouldn’t miss it. Not even for the world.”

Truln, standing at Voren’s side, muttered under his breath, “Stop trying to be so clever.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Rekaj. He turned to the mother phyzari. “Anything to report?”

Voren realized that she had been quiet, not speaking during the entire meeting so far. She practically jumped when Rekaj called on her.

“No.” Kitavijj shook her head as if waking from a dream. “I have nothing to say.”

Rekaj gazed at her sharply for a few beats but said nothing further to her. “Well then, we’ll meet here tomorrow at the same—”

“Wait!” Truln said, risking a glare from the emperor for the interruption. “Isn’t anyone going to talk about the revolt of plantation workers on the Agoritha plains? Or the sudden and complete drop-off of bandit activity in four out of five territories? And why isn’t there mention of our Hardohl assets?”

Voren laid a hand on the chronicler’s shoulder. “Questions for another time, I think. Once more pressing issues have been dealt with.”

“But . . . the Chronicles . . . I need accurate, timely information.”

“And you’ll get it,” Rekaj said. “But not today.” He looked around the room. “We’ll convene in the morning.”

Everyone muttered their acknowledgment and began filing out of the room.

“Voren,” said Rekaj, wagging a finger at him.

Voren sighed and followed the emperor to the balcony. He shivered as the night air hit him, longing for his bed. Even throughout the night he was required to make a report every toll on Gilshamed’s whereabouts. The disruption of any kind of sleep pattern was beginning to wear on him, and he had learned to savor the few moments of rest he could get. A yawn crept up as his thoughts lingered, and he failed to suppress it.

Rekaj eyed him sideways, seemingly amused. “In need of rest, Voren?” He chuckled. “Worry not. Soon, Gilshamed will be dead, and this rebellion will be swept away. We’ll all be able to sleep better then and get back to more important matters.”

“Like conquering the world?”

Rekaj grinned, revealing his pointed teeth. “So, you figured it out, have you?”

Voren shrugged. “It was not hard. Especially considering that you wanted me to find out.” Voren studied Rekaj for any sign that he was mistaken. He saw nothing. “The only real mystery is why?”

“Why I aim to conquer the world? Or why I wished you to know?”

“Both, actually.”

Rekaj paused, as if gathering his thoughts. Or, perhaps, just giving Voren time to conjure the worst possible explanation. If so, it worked.

“Before my communions with Ruul became exercises in silence, he made plain what he expected of me, of all the mierothi. I intend to fulfill his final guidance to us. It is . . . all we have left of him.”

Voren’s breath caught in his throat as realization dawned. “You actually miss the presence of your god.”

“Of course. As do you, yes?”

So that’s why I’ve become your confidant these past few months. You expect that I feel the same about Elos, that we share the same sense of loss. Well, I’ve got news for you, Rekaj—I don’t even remember my god. He doesn’t care about me in the slightest, a sentiment I return.

Of course, he could not tell Rekaj all this. Not and expect to live much longer. Their recent familiarity was tenuous at best. Voren knew it could all be shattered by a single wrong word.

Instead, Voren nodded, turning out to view the palace grounds far below them and the city beyond. “I understand,” he said. “So, what was it?”

“Ruul’s final guidance?”

“Yes.”

“It was the same thing he said to us when he first created my people. When he first turned us into what we are today. He guided us in the construction of the first voltensus, then told us to cover the world in them.”

“The sensor towers? Why?”

“He said they were needed for our protection. I always took that to mean the protection of the mierothi, but perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he meant to guard
all
life on this world.”

Voren suppressed the urge to scoff.
Altruism from the god of darkness? Right.

Rekaj continued. “He actually apologized about them. About the sacrifices necessary to create them. Can you imagine? A god saying ‘sorry’ like he was answerable to his mere creations?”

“That must have been . . . confusing.”

“Indeed.”

Voren found himself tapping his fingers nervously on the stone railing. It seemed Rekaj was about to get to the point, and Voren was not sure he wanted to hear what was about to be said.

“I intended to use you, eventually,” Rekaj said. “A bargaining chip with the valynkar. Keeping you and the others alive had its uses, but I knew one day you might become valuable to keep your people from our throats while we fulfilled our purpose.”

“You wish to avoid conflict? That’s wise, I suppose. After what happened the first time, war between our peoples would likely tear this world apart.”

“Perhaps. More importantly, it would undo all of Ruul’s work. That, we cannot have.” Rekaj sneered at Voren. “Recent events have given me a new perspective, however. I believe Gilshamed will be far more potent in your place. To that end, we must capture him. Alive.”

Voren gulped. “I see.”

“The question then becomes, who will he come for first? You, or me?”

Voren chortled, expelling the nervous energy within him. “Do you really need to ask that?”

Rekaj shook his head. “I’ll supply you with fifty darkwatch. When he comes for you, get to your chambers and stay there. The wards will render him impotent, and the guards will apprehend him.”

“I understand.”

Voren walked back to his chambers and fell into his bed, exhausted. But his mind would not turn off.

I understand perfectly, Rekaj. Even now, even after all my service, I am still . . . expendable.

Chapter 15

H
ARRIDAN
C
HANT
APPEARED
in the road ahead of them, a ceaseless grin plastered across his face.

“Good news?” Draevenus asked.

“All gathered and awaiting your arrival,” Chant said.

Draevenus dipped his head. “You have my thanks.”

“What’s all this about, then?” Angla asked.

Draevenus turned to his mother, who marched at his side. Her face, pale as all mierothi, was pinched and smooth, with a narrow nose and pointed jaw. It was good to see it again after all these years. “A surprise, mother. You’ll see.”

“Oh.” Her eyes fell to the dirt ruts paving their way.

Draevenus smiled at her, but inside he grimaced. The old Angla—the one he knew from childhood and the early days after the transformation—would have risen to his cryptic response, either showing mock delight over the very idea of a surprise or smacking the back of his head for not answering to her satisfaction. She showed none of that now.

His cleansing had done much to restore her but it could not completely undo fifteen hundred years of rape, poison, and endless pregnancy.

Draevenus glanced over his shoulder at the three hundred mierothi women walking behind them. It had taken him most of three days to heal them all. The spell was complex, requiring large amounts of concentration and power. He almost thought about asking some of the first ones he had cleansed to help him with the rest but decided against it. None, so far, had even tried to touch their power. He wasn’t sure if they remembered how.

“You never answered my question, you know,” Angla said.

Draevenus raised an eyebrow. “Which question would that be?”

“The first one I asked.”

He thought back to when she first reawakened, replaying the scene. “Ah. That.” He sighed, trying to think of the best place to start . . .

“Well?”

Impatient, aren’t we?
He smiled. It was a good sign. “As we speak, there is a revolution under way.”

“Another one?”

“Yes, but this one is different.”

“How?”

“Gilshamed leads them.”

“Gilshamed?” Her face went blank as she accessed her ancient memories. “Oh. Oh! So it’s not just your usual band of bloodthirsty fools.”

“Indeed.”

She tilted her head, peering off into the distance for several beats. “Do you think they have a chance? Can they actually succeed?”

Draevenus shrugged. “Nothing is certain, even now. But their actions have drawn Rekaj’s attention fully. It was only because of that that I was finally able to break you free.”

Angla fell silent, twisting her lips in thought. “I . . . did not mean to be harsh with you, son. They were poor first words for our reunion. It was a long, trying time, and despite your best efforts, I’m afraid I’ll carry scars—physical and otherwise—the rest of my days.”

“I should have done better, mother. For you, at least, I should have—”

“No. You came. You did what you could, when the rest of the world had forgotten about us. Thank you.”

Draevenus put an arm around her shoulder and hugged her to his side for a moment. When he looked at her face, she seemed to be holding back tears.

“So,” said Angla, turning her head away. “How is your sister?”

Draevenus nearly teased her for changing the subject so abruptly, but thought better of it.
We’ll get the old you back someday.
“Alive, last time I communed with her. Still seeking knowledge. Still thinking she alone carries the fate of all worlds on her shoulders.”

Angla opened her mouth in a sneer, but rather than spout the retort he was getting ready for, she merely pursed her lips for a moment. “I am . . . glad she is well.”

“Don’t be angry with her, mother. Please.”

“I have every right to be. She obviously doesn’t care one whit about me!”

“She does, though. She’ll never admit it, but she cares a great deal. She just . . . spreads it too far, too thin. I’ve had to look hard, but I’ve learned to see the greatness in her, and even, on occasion, some goodness too.”

“So she’s a saint now?”

Draevenus looked at her crookedly. “I didn’t say that.”

The walked in silence for several marks. Finally, Harridan turned, and said, “Just up past the next bend in the trail.”

Draevenus called his thanks.

“Is this your mysterious surprise?” asked Angla.

He nodded. “Listen, mother. Things are happening in Mecrithos. Events of dire import. I need to be there. I
must
. I can . . . travel faster alone.”

A pained, frantic look entered her eyes. “You’re leaving?”

He spread his hands, palms up. “I’m sorry. Don’t worry, though. I’m not leaving you unprotected.”

She stared at him quizzically until they rounded the curve and came to a moss-covered amphitheater nestled just off the trail. The stone benches were crowded with men. Draevenus watched his mother’s face as she took a quick count of them. Three hundred. Just as many men as mothers.

Angla turned a sharp gaze on him. “Bodyguards?”

“Maybe. In time. Just plain guards for now. I’ll let you get to know each other. When each of you is ready, you can choose a man to be your own.” He smiled. “The first step in restoring your darkwatch.”

She scoffed. “They don’t look like much. And how do we know they can be trusted?”

“You are mierothi. I’m sure you can think of some way to form a mutually beneficial relationship.”

She stared blankly at the men. After half a dozen beats, a smile began spreading across her face.

Draevenus remained stoic, but inside he was beaming. Asserting themselves, after so long a slave and prisoner, was a crucial step in their recovery. Based on her response, it was moving even more swiftly than he could have hoped.

Angla stepped into the center of the amphitheater and waved the rest of the women forward. She quickly explained the situation to them, taking the lead as Draevenus hoped she would. The other mierothi, though timid, seemed to take comfort that one of their own had hope for their future.

A pile of wood had been stacked in the fire pit but not yet lit. Angla stepped up to it, pushed her hands out in front of her, and took several deep breaths. The wood ignited.

“Still got it,” Draevenus said.

Angla raised an eyebrow. “Was there ever any doubt?”

He shook his head.
Not anymore.

The blaze soon became a roaring bonfire, and some of the men piled on even more logs. Others brought food and passed it out, firstly among the women. Draevenus saw no small amount of smiles as those long chained were finally able to experience the simple pleasures of life—a warm fire, a shared meal, and people who wished to spend time in their company without demanding anything of them.

Harridan soon unveiled his fiddle. Draevenus sat down next to him as he played and sang. Most of the men joined in the singing. Some even taught the words to the women, who had never heard the tunes. Someone brought out a set of skin drums and beat out an accompanying rhythm. The sun set, but the singing and swaying and smiling continued until deep into the night.

As Chant began to put his fiddle away, Draevenus spoke up. “You’re a Ragremon, right?”

Harridan froze in the act of closing the case. Slowly, his movement resumed. “Aye.”

“Do you . . . remember?”

Chant grunted. “That I do.”

Draevenus nodded, losing his gaze in the embers. “Will your people rise for this?”

Chant remained silent for half a mark. Finally, he leaned back, exhaling loudly. “I have a nephew, Idrus. Good lad. Best eyes I’ve ever seen. Joined the army at sixteen along with several other boys from our village. By eighteen he was asked to join the darkwatch but refused. By twenty, all his fellow soldiers called him crazy for not trying out for the Elite.

“He was waiting, you see, for one particular Hardohl to graduate. The son of the best man I’ve ever known, and the first void in history to possess the blood of our people.”

“Mevon Daere,” Draevenus said.

Harridan nodded. “Idrus was just one of many. Will our people rise, you ask? The answer is no.” He paused, chuckling. “We have risen already.”

Draevenus shuddered, chills shooting up his spine. “I see.” He stood, reaching for his pack. “Take care of my mother, will you?”

“ ’Course.”

Draevenus energized and ran off into the night. Taking the trail until it met the main road, he began shadow-dashing, often reaching as far as a klick per jump if the path ran straight. All souls were converging in Mecrithos. He could almost feel the pull, like a beacon of destiny drawing him in, as history wove itself into the annals of time, playing out in the lives of so many blazing souls.

And I will be there—I
must
. After all, who else is willing to contain the chaos? Who else can?

C
ONSCIOUS
NESS
RETURNED
IN
minute, painful increments. Pain and darkness were the first bubbles to surface in the sea of awareness. Confusion quickly followed.

Where? When? Who, even?
Panic rose as the answers to such simple questions eluded her.
Why can’t I remember?

A dull ache throughout her body and tingling numbness on skin pressed into a hard surface let her know she had been lying for a while. Days, most likely. The sound of her breathing grew louder as the fog cleared from her ears. She struggled to wiggle toes and fingers, stamping down her fear as her body refused to respond.

No. I am
not
paralyzed. I. Will. Move!

She felt a flush wash through her at the thought. She smiled, loosing a tear, as her limbs shifted in response to her mental commands. She briefly thought about trying to sit up but discarded the idea. It was only a matter of time now. Recovery was certain. She remembered . . .

I remember falling. . .

Her eyes popped open, vision swimming in shapeless, ever-changing objects on a backdrop of pure blackness. She blinked, trying to banish the images, but they persisted. The place she was in was truly dark.

Falling. Then . . . nothing. . .

She pressed her arms down and managed to shift her hips a few fingers to one side. Her whole body groaned at the motion, then seemed to exhale in relief. She counted it a victory.

No. Not nothing. I . . . I did something. The ground came up and I. . .

Thought. Motion. Remembrance. She focused on these things as the beats ticked by into marks. Tolls? Time seemed strange, a jumble with no clear beginning or ending, and no way to tell where on its wheel she fell.

Power flooded into me, through me. Outward. Down. I . . . I pushed. . .

Cold. Stone. The words drifted up, giving meaning to the object upon which she lay. Her fingers explored its edges. Smooth, right angles greeted her touch. Not natural, then. Something crafted.

I pushed . . . but it wasn’t enough. I didn’t even slow. No hope. No chance to survive. Had to try something crazy. Something impossible. . .

Her hands reached out to her sides. The right met only emptiness, but the left stopped short as it came to a vertical surface identical in feel to what was beneath her. A wall, then. A wall and a bed. She was in a room.

I made a barrier. Round. Hard. In the center was only air, but I knew I could change it. Make it something else. Don’t ask me how I knew. . .

“It usually happens this way. Go on.”

If she was in a room, then someone had brought her there. How many? Who were they? Were they still here? She held her breath, straining to hear. The sounds of multiple people breathing came from somewhere close. Her eyes were beginning to adjust, and she could just make out the shape of the room—low, square, featureless.

Air is not emptiness. I felt it then, as I fell. More importantly, I understood it. It’s so full, bulging with energy, just like everything. I saw below me a million million million tiny specks, and around each, spinning so fast and tinier still, as many more.

“Few ever have the privilege to see as we do. Marvelous, is it not?”

Sorcery. Magic. Caster. Fire. She grunted in effort, recalling what she was capable of, and shaped her will into a ball of flame hovering above her hand. The enclosure sprang forth into her vision. Four walls, the stone glistening in the flickering light, and there . . . a doorway. Through it, she saw . . .

It was simple, really. I just had to pull the specks apart, reshape them as I needed. Simple, but draining. The power required was far beyond what I thought myself to be capable of. Still, the air changed, thickened. No longer air at all, really. I slowed.

“Efficiency will come with practice. And power? Well, something can be done about even that.”

. . . three figures. Two stood in doorway, one man, one woman. The third sat in a chair beyond them. Despite the stern visages and diamond-shaped blades poking up from the backs of the two closest, she felt her gaze inextricably drawn to the small figure enfolded in robes, the cloth as dark as the void.

I hit the ground, but not hard. I tried to stand but felt light-headed, feverish, disoriented. Heat and darkness overtook me then. . .

“Enlightenment comes with a price. Even when it is woefully incomplete.”

Recognition hit her like a hammerblow between the eyes. She knew them. She’d seen them before. The dark one years ago, when she’d learned something important, something useful. And all three much more recently—at the village eaten by darkwisps. She had looked through time, viewing past events. These three had been there . . . collecting . . .

The next thing I remember is waking up here. Clever, this place. Handy, too, having a shelter or barricade available at the flick of a wrist.

“Another bad habit I will have to break you from. That is, if I decide to let you live.”

She cracked open her lips, surprised at how moist they were. Had they been giving her water? Her first attempt at speech resulted in a faint squeak, followed by hoarse coughing.