Jepaul

by Katy Winter

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Autumn came and went. So did winter. And the travellers now reached the outskirts of the city where the Doms knew a certain individual resided as honoured confidante and guest of the Cynas called Grone. They also knew, from Knellen and Jepaul, that the city was fortified and the Varen readied, their writhlings newly inserted. The Red Council waited with anticipation like spiders at the edge of their webs. They especially awaited Jepaul.

  Knellen wondered whether any of the Varen of the city had escaped writhlings, but suspected not, unless they were lesser Varen who obeyed the behests of their seniors and were not considered to be at risk of disaffection or disobedience. Those may have been spared. He hoped so, not just for those with him but for the city Varen themselves. He thought of the writhling inserted into himself and gave an uncharacteristic shudder at the recollection of the instant of intense pain and knowledge of helplessness as the writhling burrowed deeply into its unwilling host.

  A halt was called for and camp set, this done in such a way it was evident it would not be an overnight stay. Knellen ordered latrines be dug, something that made travellers look at each other without comment. Campfires were constructed and shelters set out in orderly formation around them, all done under the direction of Lisle who was a most efficient commander, one who was instantly obeyed by every Varen. Rotations for duties were drawn up and were posted to be visible to all. To his amusement, Jepaul found himself rostered as well as the Grohols and the Companions. Knellen only spared the older Doms, a fact that didn’t escape them.

  The had long discussions about Grone’s city. The land about it was abundant and rich so they could camp there indefinitely, but all the Doms had a sense of increased urgency which made their quest for the individual, who gave Grone and Harnath the information about the whereabouts of the key, take priority. They wanted the one who betrayed Dom Ashken. So did Jepaul. The Elementals also wanted to know who had captured and tortured the Dom.

  The best way to approach this was still unresolved when Jepaul’s jewellery began to flare, then stayed steadily bright. The Doms regarded him fixedly. Knellen, phlegmatic as ever, merely pursed his lips and sought out Cadran who rested after a strenuous and enervating bout of wrestling and sparring with a more skilled older man. Knellen looked down at the sleepy young man, noticing, as he did, how Cadran’s jewellery also flared, not as brightly as Jepaul’s but noticeably enough. His own heightened premonition made him uneasy. He sensed danger and a possible trap. Returning to the Companions and Doms, he spoke decisively.

  “Doms, there is real danger here.”

  “We know, Knellen,” responded Ebon.

  “We all sensed it,” confirmed Dancer, stretching.

  “The sense has been heightened the closer we’ve come to Lethwyn,” added Sapphire meditatively. “Some nasty surprise awaits in that city.”

  “Probably,” agreed Knellen dourly. “Jepaul?”

  “Quon and I’ve been talking about it, Knellen. The jewellery is active and the staff speaks clearly too so that’s all warning enough.”

  Javen turned his head to Quon.

  “So, Dom? What now?”

  “I’m thinking,” came the brusque retort.

  Javen grinned at him and addressed Knellen.

  “Cadran’s jewellery?”

  “Same as Jepaul’s. Not as bright.”

  Quon twisted fingers through his beard, a frown gathering as he glanced round at the Doms and Companions.

  “We can’t make a frontal approach then, can we? We’re all agreed on that?” Heads nodded.

  “Then we need to think through exactly how we’ll deal with this.” Saracen sighed and curled into a cross-legged pose. “I think we’ve been fortunate to this point, but we don’t want to cause more harm to ourselves or give undue warning of ourselves to those we seek.” Saracen glanced at Belika and Javen. “You two are hurt enough.”

  “Especially Javen,” murmured Belika.

  “Agreed,” murmured Quon, still pulling fretfully at his beard. “We will find a way though now we’ll all be looked for. Our descriptions will be out to all city-states so even subtle disguises won’t be effective. Not entirely.”

  “Except for me and mine,” said a deep voice behind Quon, so unexpectedly that the Dom jerked his head round, startled. Dral stood behind him with a smile.

  “The demons, man!” uttered Quon. “I forget how quietly Grohol move!”

  “Maybe one of my men could go with me, Dom, simply mixing in with those allowed into the city. Traders must come and go so mingling among them should present no difficulty. That way I can find out all I can. Grohols are completely unknown so will occasion neither speculation nor comment though we’re shorter than most.”

  “What will you pretend to trade?” asked Sapphire with an admiring glance down at Dral.

  “No pretence, Dom.”

  Dral put his hand in his pocket, only to withdraw it with sparkling gems in his hands, some made into exquisite necklaces and bracelets. Dral looked across at Jepaul.

  “We also wear jewellery that flares at danger, Jepaul.”

  Quon looked dubious but the other Doms and the Companions were enthusiastic. Jepaul saw Quon’s disquiet and crossed to him.

  “Quon?”

  “I don’t like to send Grohols into danger, Jepaul, not without support.”

  Dral heard and knelt beside the old man.

  “Maquat Earth, if I promise you we will do nothing other than offer to trade jewellery, will that ease your mind?”

  Quon looked up tiredly.

  “If that is all, you’ll not be seen as a threat, but what if Grone decides to keep you there?”

  “Maquat,” chided Dral gently, “I take but a very small sample. On our journey here we’ve heard how rapacious Grone is. He’ll want more.”

  “And could keep your man as a hostage to more?”

  Dral was contemplative, then he simply shook his head in a determined manner, much in the way Saracen did.

  “You’re right, Maquat. I go alone.”

  Quon went to protest but Dral was gone.

 

  Dral had to wait a day until he saw a large group of what looked like travelling traders approaching the city from a more northerly direction. Grohols had reluctantly learned to ride, so he was now mounted on one of the smallest and lightest horses Knellen could find for him. He was very lightly armed. It made him appear innocuous and as if he had the few weapons for the self-defence of any ordinary traveller who came alone or rode rather than travelled by conveyance.

  He rode through the gates of Lethwyn without difficulty, hard pressed among other traders who jostled for position, demanding to be taken to the Cynas to display their wares. Dral shoved with the best of them so found himself near the head of a train marshalled for an audience. He noted what was traded and it was considerably rich wares. Lethwyn oozed conspicuous opulence. Dral noticed that like Castelus and Arrain-Toh it was serviced by emtori and some drones he guessed were bred from Varen stock. He took due note of the very menacing elite and guard Varen at every point of entry to the city. The train was soon on the move, urged along by an official who demanded to see what each trader had to show. Some were then removed, protesting indignantly, from the line, they and their wares roughly shoved back to the main entrance. Dral found himself propelled forward in the line. The Cynas awaited them.

  He was a small, spare man with lips so thin they were almost non-existent. He had a thick shock of hair swept back from his forehead, prominent features with a beak of a nose, but the eyes were daunting. They were cold and calculating and the expression in them and on the face was pitiless and bleak. You would get nothing from this man. There was a merciless strength about him that belied the small frame.

  Dral knew this man wasn’t in the mould of either Jamir nor Harnath. He wasn’t self-indulgent as they were. He was controlled. What Grone enjoyed was power and the wielding of it. How he got it didn’t matter to him as long as he had it and his Red Co
uncil, acknowledging this desire, fed it continuously in whatever way Grone wished. It was most often wishes expressed for possessions, including the offspring of those he considered rivals so any challenge that might have been considered was stillborn. So Lethwyn had a whole wing dedicated to the imprisonment of sons and daughters who lived in various degrees of servitude for as long as Grone chose it to be so.

  Anything Grone saw that pleased him, he would have. If not freely given it was taken with full measure of blood. Those chosen to serve him did so in considerable fear because if thwarted Grone was singularly cruel and spared none. Even his family members had met grisly fates. So those about him were fawning sycophants who pandered to his every whim, even abasing themselves as he desired from them from time to time, his feet resting contemptuously on their backs or shoulders. Grone had respect for no one. He even, in his colossal arrogance, believed the Red Council served him. They were content to encourage this belief as they bound him ever closer and began to absorb parts of him. Like Jamir and Harnath, Grone was the servant of the Red Council.

  Dral was the fifth in line to present himself at the throne. He bowed low and waited.

  “I haven’t seen you before.” The voice was high.

  “No, Honoured Cynas. I have not traded this far before.”

  “Why do you come now?”

  “It’s come to the ears of traders that the Cynas Grone enjoys beautiful objects. That draws me.”

  “So you have beautiful objects, do you?”

  “I can certainly bring them to you, noble Cynas.”

  “Do you not have them upon you?”

  Now Grone leaned forward with predatory anticipation, the hooded eyes like birds of prey and as calculating.

  “Only a very small sample, noble Cynas. I wish to be sure you have any interest so this is all I bring.”

  Dral stepped closer to the Cynas who held out an imperative hand. Quietly Dral withdrew his hand from his pocket and laid a sparkling necklace across Grone’s fingers and a small group of gems that winked in the light. They were beautiful but the necklace was breathtaking. Grone’s hand shook. Fingers caressed the gems and necklace.

  “These are exquisite objects, my man. What is your name?”

  “I answer to Daran, noble Cynas.”

  “And you can bring me more?”

  “Certainly, if that is your wish.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as you wish.”

  Grone sat back on his throne and eyed Dral thoughtfully, before he turned his head to those about him and held a conversation with them while Dral waited calmly, aware of Varen eyes watching his every move. The wait continued until, abruptly, Grone waved those about him back and he turned his attention back to Dral.

  “You interest me. I will keep these as gifts. That will encourage you to bring me more for which you will be paid. You will be wined and dined before you leave. I expect to see you very soon.” He indicated a pale young woman who stood silently behind him. “She is my concubine. Put the necklace about her neck so I can see it being worn.”

  As Dral went to obey he felt his jewellery become warm and knew treachery hedged him about. His senses prickling, he took the necklace.

  “If the woman would step forward?” he invited.

  Grone frowned. Clearly he wanted Dral closer. However, scowling, he again gestured at the woman who stepped down from the dais and obediently approached Dral. Close to him she whispered,

  “Silklip has writhlings ready for all who have goods Grone covets. That includes you.”

  She saw Dral’s lips tighten, but bent forward so the Grohol could place the necklace about her throat.

  “I thank you for the warning, Lady.”

  “I’m his prisoner too,” she murmured, retreating back onto the dais.

  Grone signalled to a man beside him who immediately responded.

  “Silklip, you will take this man and entertain him appropriately in appreciation for his trouble in coming here and bringing us such enchanting gifts.”

  The man addressed simpered, then turned to Dral and curtly beckoned. He looked the quintessential courtier. Dral and he withdrew from the audience room, Silklip not pleased at his dismissal: his stilted conversation in high, sycophantic tones rang unpleasantly in Dral’s ears as they walked.

  Dral was taken to a room where a repast was set out for him. He was attended by emtori. Silklip talked inconsequentially and in a way that was intended to flatter and set Dral at his ease, as he, too, drank steadily. Dral’s goblet was constantly refilled. Dral wondered at what point Silklip would try to overpower him and insert the writhling. He could tell, without looking, that the man watched him covertly as he looked for any sign of relaxation or unpreparedness in his intended victim. Outwardly, Dral stayed imperturbable, but inwardly he plotted how he was going to best handle the situation. That he was actually with the one the Doms sought was sheer good fortune, but how to turn that situation to his advantage required careful thought.

  He knew no emtori would dare to react to any unusual event and would simply ignore anything they saw as untoward, but the Varen were another matter. Dral knew he was close to the entrance. From there it would be an easy matter for Silklip to send him swiftly on his way, without fuss, after the Grohol was plied with food and drink and with the writhling inserted. A subliminal command to it through the Red Council would make it immediately active.

  Dral steadily drank. He had a very hard head but knew he couldn’t hold out indefinitely and would have to act soon. It was Silklip who made the first move. He stretched and yawned, then rose, pretending to be a little uneven on his feet. His eyes were narrowed and watchful.

  “Come, my friend, let’s join arms and I’ll take you to your horse,” he offered, an arm out in a friendly gesture.

  Dral rose too, but as Silklip neared him, he grasped the man’s wrist as Silklip dived his hand into his pocket and withdrew it. Silklip squeaked. Dral tipped the courtier’s hand so the writhling slipped up the man’s arm and was lost in his sleeve. Silklip went white and began to flail wildly around as he desperately tried to shake his arm to release the writhling. It slithered back into his hand and at that instant Dral, with considerable power, crushed Silklip’s hand round it so it was squashed and began to burrow avidly into its host. With his other hand Dral clamped Silklip’s mouth shut so he couldn’t scream as the writhling did its horrid work. Fascinated but revolted, Dral watched as the writhling delved deeper, then he chose a utensil from the table that he used to crush the skeleton onto the skin. This spread the last of its juices. He smeared it carefully as he knew was done. He felt nauseous. His grip on Silklip had to tighten as the man tried again to scream with the agony of it, his head jerking in an effort to dislodge the clasp across his mouth. He gasped for breath.

  Dral felt the shudders that repeatedly rippled across Silklip’s body. The man now swayed helplessly in his grip, a second steely Grohol arm holding him rigid against a powerful torso as Silklip still writhed, wheezing through the hand across his mouth and uttering moans of sheer pain. Dral held him until the struggles ceased. Silklip went limp and slumped against him, the man unable to vocally respond as the pain continued to deepen and he felt the full force of the writhling inexorably activate itself. In sheer terror and horror, he stared at Dral, his mouth working.

  Dral considered what he’d do next. He decided he had to act decisively and he’d attempt to take Silklip with him. He knew the Doms wanted him. He considered the man. At this moment Silklip was too stunned and in pain to be aware of very much, as well as physically incapacitated. Easing the man into a chair he strolled to the door, casually opened it and called to a Varen who stood at the entrance. The Varen glared aggressively.

  “Could you please direct someone to get my horse?” asked Dral politely. “As you see I have had my trade audience with your noble Cynas, I have received food and drink and am now ready to leave. This courtier has been chosen to escort me so he’ll need a horse.”

&n
bsp; The Varen considered Silklip dispassionately.

  “He looks too sick to be on a horse.”

  “Well then,” conceded Dral, on an amiable smile, “he can ride close to me so I can lead his horse. He drank rather a lot.”

  “So I see,” came the uncompromising remark. The Varen looked harder at Silklip. Then he shrugged. “Follow!”

  Dral went back to Silklip who was now on his feet and weaving rather drunkenly, much to Dral’s gratification. Inebriation looked entirely plausible. He also appeared agitated and increasingly belligerent and angry. Dral hit him, hard. Silklip reeled, not knocked out, but bewildered, disoriented and in no state to protest about anything as Dral draped what looked like an affectionate and tolerant arm about him to keep him upright.

  “Come along, friend,” he urged encouragingly as the Varen, impatient, arrived at the door.

  “I said to follow,” he growled.

  With an eloquently raised eyebrow Dral gestured at Silklip, the Varen shrugged again and quickly strode off to the main entrance. Dral half-carried, half-dragged Silklip along with him, the man becoming a heavier weight by the minute and beginning to mumble incoherently. Dral was relieved to see the Varen had his horse at the bottom of the step, because he hadn’t described which of the trade delegation horses was his. He noticed another larger horse was saddled waiting beside his own. He mentally thanked the Varen for comprehending his would be the smallest horse. Dral tried to get Silklip up on the larger horse but the man kept slipping and falling until the Varen, annoyed at the performance and the waste of his time, picked Silklip up and tossed him roughly into the saddle. He sharply bent the man’s head forward so he slumped against the pommel. He nodded at Dral to mount, gave him Silklip’s reins and waved them away.

 

  Dral was toasted that evening by all, even the Varen delighted to see him safely returned though what his mission to the city was remained a mystery to them. The Doms eyed Silklip, saw what Dral had done with the writhling, and waited for the man to regain his senses. When he did, he found he wore chains and he saw Jepaul come in front of him, a cup in hand. There was something in Jepaul’s expression that made Silklip take the cup, see the curt nod and down the contents in one gulp. When he did, the cup dropped from his hand. He felt what he thought was a knife cut layers away, slowly, from his mind. He couldn’t speak or move. His agony was intense. The writhling was nothing to this.

  It was a slow and painstaking process as Silklip was forced to re-live, in its entirety, his betrayal of Dom Ashken, right through to his showing Harnath and Grone where Ashken was so he could be taken. Jepaul travelled with Silklip to the cave, and, though Silklip took no direct action against Ashken to force the oath and binding to release the key, he was there as Harnath and Grone’s men did their work. Jepaul heard and felt the old man’s unutterable agony until, almost dead, the words his torturers wanted came through faltering lips. It took time as Ashken fought. And Jepaul saw the gloating look on Silklip’s face as the key was wrenched from the book which was flung contemptuously to one side.

  The awful horror for Jepaul was his realisation that Silklip was one of Ashken’s acolytes and had broken sacred oaths in betrayal of his Master, the one who chose and trained him and was a father figure to him. Sickened and shaking at the horrors and appalling brutality he’d witnessed, Jepaul staggered to his feet as Silklip collapsed on a scream of utter anguish.

  The Doms were there, supporting Jepaul who felt deeply sick. He retched, the Doms still with him, their minds united with his in an effort to hold him until he could bring himself back into focus and balance. They guided him to the fireside where they let him down, still in silent communion with him as Belika tenderly pulled him close and rested his head on her chest. The Companions and Dral watched and waited. Eventually Jepaul lifted his head and looked at the Doms.

  “You don’t want to know,” he managed.

  “Easily, young one.” It was Quon who knelt beside him. “Just tell me this. Is he guilty of betrayal?” Jepaul nodded wearily. “And was he of the Order?” There was another nod.

  “Acolyte?”

  “Yes,” whispered Jepaul. “A senior one.”

  “Demons,” muttered Dancer. He stooped low over Jepaul. “Jepaul, we know you invoked the right to retribution. It is our right now, young one. Do you understand? Ashken was one of us and a most ancient gifted scholar. He was deliberately chosen as the Keeper for very good reasons not known to you but known to us. It is our duty to see he is avenged.” Dancer stared down at Jepaul’s white face and haunted eyes. “You have suffered enough, young one. Belika, stay with him.”

  Dancer straightened. He nodded at the Doms who solemnly nodded back.

 

  Silklip no longer needed chains. What the Doms did to him the Companions never knew. They just knew he suffered perpetual pain. He was helplessly subservient. He was torn between obedience to the writhling and enforced submission to the Doms that almost seemed to tear the man apart at times, because the Doms encouraged the writhling to feast upon its host yet answer to them at the same time.

  Silklip was given to Lisle. What orders Knellen gave Lisle as regarded the man no one knew either, other than that Lisle expected the man to obey him and serve him. Silklip did. He was allowed to know what was done to him. It tormented him as he struggled to deal with the betrayal he was forced to re-live over and over and the insertion of the writhling, that experience enhanced and reinforced. The Doms refused to let the man’s mind rest. Retribution for Silklip had only begun. He hoped he might find a way to return to Grone but he knew he was watched. He didn’t know who Jepaul or the Doms were but he was desperately afraid of them.

  Once he tried to get away but a Varen saw the slinking figure and rounded him up. Shivering, he confronted Lisle. Lisle ordered him flogged and stood emotionlessly as it was done. Shackles and chains were once more applied, the ankle chains so short Silklip was unable to run and he found walking difficult because the length of his footsteps was so shortened he easily tripped. And to add to his humiliation he found himself chained at nights. He was shown no mercy.

  His days passed. The travellers had broken camp some time since and Silklip walked resentfully behind Lisle’s horse week after week. Once a tall man who held himself proudly erect, he now stumbled and stooped as he shambled along, the chains lengthened for travel. His once coifed hair was long and unkempt and his elegant clothes were replaced with emtori attire. His painted nails were now bare. His expensive boots were soon worn through so he was given serviceable ones. All that was left of the fawning courtier was his jewellery. No one bothered to remove it.

  The once painted face began to look haggard. The fear in the eyes deepened as did the despair because it only began to dawn on Silklip what his future would be. He began to wish for the pain and the nightmares to end and he knew the writhling, encouraged by someone, began to very slowly consume him from the inside. It was excruciating. Knellen could have sympathised but Knellen had no interest in him. Silklip felt the writhling all the time and knew it would ultimately defeat him as it slowly but inexorably devoured its host. He soon wished for death. The Doms, remembering Ashken and how he would have longed for death to end his truly dreadful cruel agony, intended his betrayer’s end would be no less so.

  Lethwyn was soon left far behind as the travellers began to move further south again. No Lethwyn Varen followed them, so Lisle and Knellen assumed none escaped the writhling insertions and those Varen would, in time, be sent to seek them out. Jepaul wondered if Grone missed Silklip. Jepaul’s wand glowed and pointed, so the travellers simply followed it.

 

  Back in Lethwyn, Grone enjoyed the last of the traders. Most he dismissed. Only two, who had goods he valued, were forcibly inserted with writhlings and were then sent from the palace and city by the Varen. Their cries of pain and suffering were ignored. It was later that Grone sent for his most assiduous flatterer and obsequious courtier who pandered to him in ways he found
delightful. Grone wished to know that the writhling Silklip inserted in the gem trader had been done satisfactorily so it would enable him to track the man to his home. There the trader could be forced to disclose the source of his wealth. Grone intended to acquire it. He let Silklip do many of the forced insertions because he knew the man enjoyed it and it was just one of his rewards for leading he and Harnath to Ashken.

  Grone assumed the gem trader came from a vicinity in reasonable proximity to Lethwyn. It would be an easy matter to send Varen to enforce compliance of the inhabitants of whatever town it was and thus enable Grone to exploit the sites the gems came from. He could even ensure the gem cutters and jewellers were his too. A few judicious whippings and a dozen or so executions usually brought about immediate submission and appropriate homage to one such as the Cynas of Lethwyn. The people would be subject to him and would be speedily brought to lower caste emtori. It was a pleasing prospect.

  When Silklip couldn’t be found, Grone was mildly annoyed. He made enquiries. They led to the Varen guard who was carefully interrogated both by himself and the Red Council before he was summarily executed for dereliction of vigilant duty. The Red Council suggested another Varen should acquire Silklip’s scent from his quarters and be sent to hunt for him. Grone, amenable to Red Council wishes, agreed. A Varen was summoned and told what he was to do. He bowed to both Cynas and the Red Council.

  “There should still be enough of the trader’s scent for you to follow as well. He was fed in emtori dining quarters at the palace entrance. Find it.”

  “Yes, Honoured Cynas.”

  “Trace them. Bring the trader to me but you know what to do with Silklip. He’s served his purpose. He won’t be given the opportunity to betray me or any other, something he’d do to save his skin. Do you fully understand my requirements?”

  “Entirely.” The Varen took a step back. “I obey.”

  “And take this. Use it regularly.”

  Grone stretched forward, a hand extended. The Varen took the proffered qual shard, bowed again, turned on his heel and left the room.

  Grone stared at the Red Council who huddled together, their wheezing audible, before they turned as one and an individual stepped forward. Grone reflected he never knew which member spoke to him.

  “The group we anticipated from afar have not come to the city?”

  “No.”

  “We wonder why.” There was a long drawn out sigh. “Maybe they came only to find Silklip.”

  “Why come for him?”

  “Why indeed, Grone. It suggests someone, who we don’t know, may have guessed Silklip is responsible for the betrayal of his Master. If they suspect that Ashken’s disappearance is down to him, then we may be looking at a case of acolyte revenge and nothing more. If not…”

  The speaker swayed. There was a long silence. The Red Council hissed among themselves then glided swiftly from the chamber. Grone was left coldly angry. He was a dangerous man to cross.

 

  The Red Council gathered in their quarters where they again grouped themselves in a gently weaving and undulating motion punctuated by whistling exhalations as they communed, then they broke the circle.

  “Do we think it’s just an acolyte?”

  “Possibly. The trader’s appearance isn’t known.”

  “Why didn’t the group come to the city?”

  “Maybe only one among them sought Silklip?”

  “Grone says it was purely fortuitous he directed Silklip to accompany the trader.”

  “Maybe, maybe.”

  “We’ll see if there’s another approach we don’t expect.”

  “A synthesis may be useful.”

  “Command it.”

  Immediately a reddish glow encased the Red Council as they became quite motionless and stayed that way. Disembodied voices filtered about the room, as if they strained to be heard.

  “We are all in synthesis. Speak the ones who called.”

  “We answer you. This is what occurred at Lethwyn.”

  The silence was only broken by reedy breaths that occasionally hissed.

  “Listen to our full account of Harnath,” came a breathy whisper.

  This was followed by a louder wheezing before another voice spoke.

  “We are Castelus. This is our account likewise.”

  After the last speaker there was a very long silence, then a cold voice spoke more clearly.

  “Possibly coincidences. No one has been directly threatened and there’s been no hint of Elemental activity anywhere. The Progenitor’s line interests Sh’Bane from syns ago. He says nothing about it now. The young man has power and enforces our superficial obedience but we believe he could subject us to his power in time. That he doesn’t come to Lethwyn may suggest he’s exhausted the residual power he has from his progenitor for the foreseeable future. That is good for us. We must assume that’s so.”

  “But it also means we need to be alert and ensure our Cynases are fully obedient and responsive to our commands should they need to be issued.”

  “Indeed. Castelus?”

  “Jamir behaves as we wish. We have absorbed much of him.”

  “Arrain-Toh?”

  “Harnath remains affected by what the woman did to him. He walks and sits now but is universally uncomfortable. He responds with gratifying alacrity to our bidding in all things.”

  “Lethwyn?”

  “Grone is an intelligent man but, despite himself his greed destroys him and we have exploited that. With each surge of his wants we drain and absorb him.”

  “Rhume?”

  “Robat is obedient. We’ve encouraged his envy of all around him, so he now has few friends as we’ve heightened his mistrust as well, even of his loving wife and offspring. He lives in a constant state of uncertainty. He has learned he can only trust and rely upon us, so he’s firmly bonded. We ensure he is sated with all that his envious heart could desire.”

  “Clariane?”

  “Adon isn’t easy to manipulate. Though he listens to our advice and allows himself to be guided by us, he still makes his own decisions and hasn’t fully implemented our instructions for the running of his state. He is too kind to emtori for one thing.”

  “He has a son?”

  “An only son, yes.”

  “Then it becomes time where Adon learns that if he’s not fully compliant with your wishes, something unfortunate may happen to his son.”

  “You suggest a writhling?”

  “We suggest the threat of same in his son will have the desired effect and will bring the Cynas into line. Do it.”

  “We want no Cynas not to respond suitably.”

  “The threat will be made. Adon will quickly obey us, implicitly.”

  “Strame-Helt?”

  “The same as Clariane. Barok is like Adon. He actually has a kind heart and shrinks from harming others. It’s a problem.”

  “He should be broken of that by now. Have you power over him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he have a weakness?”

  “Yes, his wife.”

  “Then apply the same tactic as for Adon. Will it break him to complete obedience? We do not want a weak link.”

  “It will. Be assured of that. He will comply immediately.”

  “And lastly, Wrandal.”

  “It’s taken a very long time to bring Rule to conform with our wishes, but he now obeys us since he learned we can inflict suffering on him and his, something he dreads from experience of it. He’s not weak but is cowed. We watch him and will turn the screws as appropriate to keep him malleable and compliant. He will obey us.”

  “So now we await the return of the Varen sent to find Silklip?”

  “We do.”

  “We remain alert but untroubled.”

  “Jamir was easy to calm. His fears are deeply rooted from his training long ago. We work to completely erase them.”

  “Harnath got what he deserved from a vengeful woman. She didn’t appear to have any pow
er of any kind, so we can assume it was a personal attack.”

  “And we track Silklip and seek an answer to his taking.”

  “Probable revenge from a single, rogue escapee of the Order. He may suspect Silklip’s disappearance coincided with Ashken’s and he, an acolyte, was not executed with others. We oversaw the disbanding of the Order that still existed and its practitioners were eliminated.”

  “In an appropriate manner as an object lesson to any who may have escaped, we hope.”

  “Entirely. No opportunity to recant on their beliefs and scholarship was granted them, their ends exquisitely complete and enjoyed by many.”

  “Eminently satisfactory.”

  “We need not join a synthesis again if what is suggested is carried through.”

  “It will be,” came a loud sighing chorus.

  “Then the synthesis is satisfactorily dissolved.”