The other draoi nodded to Orla silently if they happened to pass her; she could feel their stares on her back afterward, appraising and curious, and she could hear their whispers, if not the actual words they spoke about her. When they did speak to her, they carefully avoided mentioning Voada. It was as if her name was forbidden to be spoken here, especially with the title of ceanndraoi she’d usurped once she’d left Onglse.
Orla wondered if they all felt the same as Ceiteag and Greum Red-Hand.
If Ceanndraoi Greum had transferred his anger with Voada to Orla, that wasn’t immediately evident. He trained her hard and diligently. A few weeks after her first lesson with him, he gave her a bronze torc to wear around her neck, an oak leaf sigil stamped in the smooth, cool metal: the same torc that all Onglse-trained draoi wore. Those in Bàn Cill now called her “Draoi Orla.”
For more than two moon cycles, Greum Red-Hand tutored her, guiding her hands through the various spell shapes that allowed a draoi to handle the power an anamacha could lend her, as well as the words required to summon and release the spells. The overwhelming exhaustion that came from using those spells slowly started to recede with continued practice, though Greum never allowed her to enter the chaos of Magh da Chèo alone; he was always with Orla when she called the anamacha to her.
Until one day . . .
“Call your anamacha,” Greum told her. The morning was cold with the sky spitting rain, dark enough that both of their anamacha were visible. Both Orla and Greum wore oil-soaked hooded cloaks against the wet. They were standing at the edge of the south garden of Bàn Cill, looking out to where an ancient and massive standing stone adorned with carved spirals and glyphs had fallen in the meadow beyond. “I want you to pick up that menhir and place it upright again. We’ve allowed it to be down too long, and it’s disrespectful to the old gods.”
Orla waited for Greum to extend his hands to her as he always had before, but they remained at his sides. Under the shade of his hood, his face was unreadable. Orla blinked back a spray of wind-driven rain. “Ceanndraoi?”
“Do it,” he said. “You know the shape of the spell and the words needed. Do it. I will only watch this time.”
Orla felt her stomach churn. “As you wish, Ceanndraoi,” she told him. Even as she thought to summon the anamacha to her, she felt their cold presence at her side, and the stormy landscape they inhabited quickly overlaid the meadow and the standing stone. The voices came to her:
The anamacha mocked her as she worked, and Orla wasn’t sure if it was only one of the draoi inside or all of them.
she repeated.
They laughed as she completed the shape and spoke the final word. “Neart!” Strength! With the command, a wild blue energy formed in the center of the knotted spell cage she had made before her, and she could feel it pulsing and pushing against the bars she’d woven in the air. She brought her consciousness back to the real world, focusing on the stone lying in the grass. Greum had taught her that she didn’t need to say a release word any longer, that she could control the spell with her mind alone. She allowed the power to snake out toward the great stone, wrapping the energy about the menhir with her mind and lifting it. Slowly the massive block rose and turned, floating in the air. When it was properly aligned, she pushed hard at it with the remaining power, slamming the menhir into the soft ground.
She felt the concussion of the impact through her feet; the standing stone, the height of two men, was upright once more, the spiral carvings on its face visible. Orla sighed. She looked at Greum Red-Hand; grudgingly, he nodded. He said nothing to her but only turned and began walking back to the temple.
Orla could feel the cold presence of the anamacha at her side as she looked out at what she’d just done. Satisfaction banished any exhaustion she might have felt.
In her head, she thought she heard faint answering laughter.
5
Killing a God
COMMANDER SAVAS: THE EMPEROR will address the populace at the Great Temple tomorrow. You are to ensure that there will be no trouble.
The order had come from Great-Voice Utka by messenger. Altan had immediately requested an audience with the Great-Voice or with Emperor Pashtuk himself, hoping to convince them that having the emperor appear in such a public and difficult-to-secure venue was a mistake. Both requests had been denied: the Great-Voice’s secretary had responded that the Great-Voice felt his orders were sufficiently clear; the emperor’s secretary had simply sent a message that the emperor was too busy with imperial affairs and that if the commander had concerns, he should take them up with the Great-Voice.
Altan slammed down the parchment roll on his traveling desk. “Idiots!”
“Commander?” he heard Tolga ask from a chair across the room. The two were in Altan’s chambers in the Great-Voice’s palace. Tolga smelled of horse, just back from the stables after checking on the geldings for Altan’s war chariot.
Altan shook his head. He yearned to be back at one of the army encampments or back in the field. “I wasn’t born for this,” he said. “The incessant bowing and scraping . . . Give me my army and my cohorts, not this infernal political dance.”
“You mean you hate not being the one who gives the orders—like those you’ve already issued without the Great-Voice’s knowledge.”
For a breath, Altan felt a surge of irritation, then he saw Tolga’s raised eyebrow and satisfied himself with simply scowling at the driver. He had become a friend over the last few years, if not the lover that Tolga’s predecessor had been. What would Lucian tell me if he could? I swear I sometimes hear him at night, saying, “Altan, you’ve grieved for me enough. It’s time for you to move on, and Tolga is there with you. Go to him; he’s a good man, and he’s waiting for you. . . .” But is that truly Lucian speaking or just my own selfishness and loneliness?
“Are you going to tell me how wrong I am?” Tolga asked Altan, breaking the reverie. A smile lurked on the man’s lips.
Altan’s scowl collapsed. “No,” he said. “You know me too well. But when I’m ordered to do the impossible . . .” Altan gave a sigh. “How can I protect the emperor if he won’t listen to me?”
“Perhaps in the same way you protected the emperor’s holdings here when Great-Voice Vadim wouldn’t listen to you, or with what you’re already doing without Great-Voice Utka’s approval. You’ll do what’s necessary because if you fail, your head is lost anyway. Better to do what’s right than to simply obey.”
“Perhaps I should let you give the orders, since it all seems so simple to you.”
Tolga managed to look abashed at the rebuke, ducking his head. Altan sighed. “I’m sorry, Tolga. That’s my irritation with the Great-Voice and the emperor talking, nothing more. You should never be afraid to talk honestly with me—in private, at least. I trust you. Forgive me.”
Tolga shrugged. “There’s nothing to forgive, Commander. I should be the last one to question you or pretend to give you advice.”
“Altan, not Commander,” he told the driver. “Here, when we’re in private, you should call me Altan.”
That caused Tolga to smile. “Altan, then.” Altan took a long breath. “I should go,” Tolga continued. “I want to make sure the stable master has properly oiled the livery for tomorrow. Have a good evening, Comm— Altan.”
The decision came to Altan suddenly, fierce and quick. “Tolga,” he growled. “Let the stable master wait for a turn of the glass. Stay. And perhaps you should take off that lovely entari of yours. It’s very attractive, but . . .”
Altan watched the younger man’s eyes widen, then relax again. Tolga undid the bronze clasp at his throat and let the heavy brocade cloak slip from his shoulders to pool at his feet, standing before Altan only in his white léine and loose salvar trousers. “Better?” he asked. Then, with a raise of his eyebrows: “Altan?”
“For the moment,” Altan told him. He sat up straighter in his chair, leaning forward. “Now, come here . . .”
* * *
Unlike what Altan had seen in most of the towns and villages in Albann, the edifice in which they stood wasn’t a repurposed Cateni temple with four windows aligned to the sun-paths of the equinoxes and a central altar on which the statue of the Cateni mother-goddess, Elia, had been replaced by a bust of Pashtuk.
No, the Great Temple at Savur had been constructed from the ground up as a proper Mundoan structure: a tall and massive dome set over a three-story facade studded with balconies, surrounded by taller minarets that seemed to pierce the lowest clouds. The entire structure gleamed in the sunlight: polished white marble facings and decorative gold leaf that covered the dome and sparkled on the friezes and architectural supports. An expansive, intricately tiled plaza spread out in front of the building, now filled with the poorest residents of Savur who had been unable to gain entry to the temple itself. The imperial banners hung on either side of the Great Temple’s main doors, three men tall and just as wide.
Well above the crowd, the dome was painted with murals depicting the emperor as the representative of the One-God, the First Maker who had created the world. Altan knew that the mural had been repainted several times over the long decades of Mundoan rule in Albann Deas. First it had borne the face of Emperor Beris, whose armies had originally subjugated the Cateni tribes south of the River Meadham. Later his figure had been replaced by that of his son, Hayat, then briefly by the image of his granddaughter, Empress Damla—wearing her required false beard—before she was deposed and executed and the young Pashtuk was placed on the throne. Altan could see the faint outlines of the previous rulers in the murals, surrounding Pashtuk’s likeness. A bust of the emperor also adorned the niche behind the dais on which Great-Voice Utka now stood. Altan also stood on the dais, well to one side and staring out into the space before him. The area beneath the dome was huge and filled to overflowing with those who had come to view the emperor, considered to be the mortal avatar of the First Maker.
Altan had set a line of soldiers three paces out from the entire perimeter of the dais with strict orders to keep the crowd back. The only people permitted closer were the cluster of black-robed sihirki to the Great-Voice’s right, the Mundoan magic-users who—as Altan knew all too well—were far less impressive and powerful than the Cateni draoi.
Great-Voice Utka had nearly finished his introduction of the emperor, his voice echoing from the dome overhead. As he waved his hand and spoke Pashtuk’s name, the curtains to the rear of the stage lifted, and Emperor Pashtuk strode out onto the dais to a roar of praise and adulation from the onlookers. Even a few of the soldiers tasked with controlling the crowd craned their heads back to look at the emperor; Altan glared at them, and they quickly looked outward once more. Pashtuk was dressed as befitted the earthly manifestation of the One-God: his entari was floor-length with deep, flowing folds, sewn from the deepest blue cloth and brocaded with golden thread and studded with sparkling jewels. Beneath it was a shimmering under-robe of yellow satin. His head was crowned with gold, rays like a sunrise lifting behind his oiled hair. Expensive rings adorned every finger. He spread his arms as if to embrace the crowd, his bearded chin lifted, and his eyes closed as he basked in their praise.
The cheers and chants continued for several breaths before finally fading. Emperor Pashtuk brought his arms back down as his head lowered. He looked out upon the throng. “The One-God’s blessings be upon you,” he proclaimed loudly, and with the words, the sihirki stepped forward to the edge of the dais, tossing handfuls of silver coins minted with Pashtuk’s likeness into the crowd as more coins were released from the rear balconies onto the throngs underneath. Altan was pleased to see that none of his soldiers moved, but the crowd responded, dropping to their knees to snatch up the money.
But not all of them. Altan saw a group of two hands or so who remained standing near Altan’s side of the dais, only a few strides from the line of soldiers stationed there. His eyes narrowed, noticing their more angular and paler faces: Cateni. Even as he gestured to Musa and Ilkur—his sub-commanders stationed on the temple floor—and started to call out to his troops, the cluster of Cateni rushed forward. None of them had true weapons; a few had walking sticks they wielded as cudgels, others had small knives they’d manage to conceal from the temple guards tasked with making sure no one was armed, while some had only their fists. Altan saw a guard go down from a blow to the head, but the other soldiers surged toward the disturbance quickly, even as Pashtuk himself noticed it and backed away. Great-Voice Utka gaped in distress.
One of the Cateni stayed back, not attacking with the others. He was standing alone, and Altan saw his hands moving and his lips mouthing silent words. His cloak was collared, rising high on his neck, but Altan thought he glimpsed a glint of metal underneath it: a torc. A surge of fear stabbed at Altan, knowing that he was seeing a draoi. None of the soldiers or officers appeared to have noticed the greater danger.
Altan didn’t allow himself to think. He muttered an obscenity even as he started to run toward the front of the dais, gauging distances and hoping he had enough speed and sufficient strength in his legs. He leaped outward over the crowd, reaching for the draoi but fearing that he would see the man finish the spell and release it even as he was in midair.
He came down on the person in front of the draoi, the impact nearly taking the breath from his body. But the force of the blow sent the man stumbling backward and into the draoi, who also went down, his torc glinting under the cloak as he fell. Altan forced himself up from the floor and onto the draoi, reaching for the Cateni’s hands to stop the motion of the spell. A few breaths later, his soldiers arrived. “Take him!” Altan ordered as they helped him up. “Tie his hands and gag him—he’s draoi. Bring him to the palace and hold him there.”
Altan shook off the soldiers’ hands and nearly fell, his right knee collapsing under him as pain shot through his leg. His right shoulder ached as well. On the dais, the Grea
t-Voice and the emperor were huddled together. All the other Cateni were down, most of them evidently dead given the amount of blood spilled on the tiles. Two soldiers were sitting up, cudgeled but recovering. Altan nodded to Pashtuk, and the emperor stepped forward to the edge of the dais. “Bring that man to me, Commander!” he said, gesturing at the draoi, his stentorian voice hushing the calls of distress from the audience in the temple, still confused as to exactly what had happened. Altan nodded to the soldiers holding the draoi.
“Do as the emperor wishes,” Altan said. “Just keep a good hold on his hands. He can’t do anything unless he can make the spell shapes.”
The soldiers dragged the draoi roughly over to the dais. Two soldiers had already vaulted up to take him, the Cateni grimacing but silent as they pulled him up by the arms. Altan’s officers were reforming the line to keep back the crowd while other soldiers started to haul away the bodies of the dead Cateni, trailing bright red smears across the tiles.
Altan limped over to the dais; it was nearly the height of his head and he wondered how he was going to get back up, but Tolga and another one of his men were already moving toward him. They lifted him onto the platform as Altan struggled not to cry out at the agony radiating from his knee and shoulder. He forced away the pain, locking his knee so he could walk stiff-legged as the emperor gestured for him to approach. “This is one time I don’t mind that you didn’t wait for orders, Commander,” Pashtuk said softly. “This man, the torc he’s wearing—he’s a Cateni draoi, then?”
“Yes, my Emperor. A draoi, and he was preparing a spell against you.”
Pashtuk nodded slowly, the golden crown dipping and rising again. His dark stare moved to the Cateni, sagging between the two men holding him. Altan could see blood flowing down the side of the man’s head from a deep cut on his forehead; Altan wondered when that had happened, or if he had somehow done it himself.
A Rising Moon Page 5