Tristan turned back to look at Scars. “You will serve as the Ephyra’s captain until our mystics can empower the ships through the sky. Make arrangements for a warrior to fly you there right away.”
He then turned to look again at the bloody shoreline. “We must somehow find a way to leave here,” he said. “Something tells me that we haven’t seen the last of that Vagaries bastard.”
As Tyranny walked up beside him she sighed and tousled her hair again, causing Tristan to raise an eyebrow. He knew that look—it always brought bad news. “If there’s something else on your mind, you’d best tell me right now,” he said sternly.
“I’m sorry to report that our instruments don’t work here,” Tyranny said. “They just spin crazily, as though they are being affected by the craft. Even the enchanted one that Shailiha and I used to find our way to the Citadel won’t function properly.”
After everything else that had happened, Tristan wasn’t surprised. “What about the sextant?” he asked.
Tyranny shook her head. “We should have realized back in Tammerland that our instruments might be useless on the Azure Sea. There is no sky here, Tristan—only radiance stones, and they show no discernible pattern. Even Faegan’s enchanted sextant needs changing points of reference to confirm our position. Even if we escape this channel we can navigate only by line of sight. I don’t like it any better than you, but there it is.”
“Then line of sight it is,” he answered.
Tristan turned to look down the strange channel. The air was motionless, ensuring that the ships would be going nowhere. Moreover, the twin walls that hemmed them in rose straight up and seemed impossible to land on.
Just then a strong offshore wind freshened, and with it the waves became restless. Whatever force had been holding the ships in place suddenly set them free, allowing them to drift across the waves. Recognizing the coming danger, Tristan quickly turned to look at Tyranny and Scars.
“Get the sails up so that we can maneuver, or we’ll crash into the walls!” he shouted. “Take the only course available to us—straight down the channel while the wind remains astern! If it changes direction it might blow us back to the beach!” Wanting to use Tyranny’s spyglass, Tristan quickly relieved her of it before sending her on her way.
Tyranny immediately ran to carry out the orders while a warrior picked Scars up and flew him over to the other ship. As the Minions hurried to unfurl the Tammerland’s sails, Tristan held his breath as he watched her drift ever closer to one of the deadly rock walls. Then her sails caught the breeze and she heeled over at the last moment, missing the rock wall by only yards. With Scars finally taking control of the Ephyra’s wheel and her sails starting to appear, she too narrowly avoided the other wall, then heeled over and began following.
Only once the great vessels were finally sailing down the mysterious channel and away from the bloody beach did Tristan’s frayed nerves begin to settle down. Finally alone with his thoughts, he started the long walk toward the Tammerland’s stern. As he passed by wounded and exhausted warriors they attempted to stand and pay their respects, but many simply could not. Giving them reassuring smiles, he walked on.
On reaching the stern deck he stood against the curved gunwale and looked toward the bloody shore. Thousands of vipers still milled there in joyful celebration.
They think they’ve scored a victory, Tristan thought. And in some ways perhaps they have. Many warriors died, but in the end we gave as good as we got, and the subtle matter and the Black Ships were spared. For those things we can be truly thankful. But what caused this strange channel, and where will it lead us?
Then he saw a dark speck on the beach. Raising the scope to one eye, he twisted its cylinders, bringing the faraway scene into focus.
Khristos stood on the shore watching the Black Ships make their escape. The right shoulder of the wizard’s robe was bloodied and partly burned away. The Jin’Sai smiled at that.
Tristan already knew why Khristos had led his vipers into the caves. The Pon Q’tar had ordered him to do so in an attempt to kill him and the Conclave and to destroy the subtle matter and the Black Ships.
He grimaced as he realized that this probably also meant that the Pon Q’tar was watching Shailiha, causing his worry for her to grow. Her task of destroying Khristos and his servants would not be an easy one, and he must use his medallion as soon as possible to inform her of the danger. But many unanswered questions remained about Khristos and the Blood Vipers—questions that only Tristan’s mystics might answer. As soon as Wigg was strong enough, Tristan would press him for details.
Tristan raised the glass once more to the retreating shoreline. Khristos still stood there, silver staff in hand, angrily watching his prizes slip away. Despite the day’s horrific events, the Jin’Sai remained optimistic. All his Conclave members were alive and his ships were finally on their way, despite the strange arrival of the rock walls and the narrow channel they created. As he watched Khristos’ dark form recede from view, he decisively closed the scope cylinders.
Your Pon Q’tar masters will not be happy to hear of your failure to destroy my expedition, Khristos, he thought. But don’t worry.
The Afterlife willing, we’ll be back.
CHAPTER XXIX
“WE CAN AFFORD NO MORE FAILURES, GRACCHUS!” BENEDIK Pryam shouted.
The incensed cleric could scarcely control his emotions. He and the others could see no end to the troubles this latest defeat might cause. Rising from his seat, he started anxiously pacing the room.
“You told us that the Jin’Sai would be stopped in the Caves!” he went on, venting his fury. “Now you bring us word that Tristan, part of his Conclave, and two Minion phalanxes sail the Azure Sea in his Black Ships! Moreover, the sea walls have risen! Surely we needn’t remind you of this campaign’s importance—the same campaign that you said would bring an end to all our troubles! Who knows what might happen should the Jin’Sai reach Shashida! Tristan and his twin sister must be destroyed once and for all!”
Pausing for a moment, Benedik stopped pacing and glared angrily into Gracchus’ eyes.
“The state of our treasury is such that this campaign must succeed!” he added, his tone deadly serious. “We waited for aeons for the Blood Royal to be born, just as the current mystics living on the world’s other side waited for their reigning Jin’Sai. I also needn’t remind you that despite their lesser prowess in the craft, Tristan’s mystics are not so different from us. Vespasian is perfect for our needs, and his like might never be seen again. But the same can be said for Shashida and the Jin’Sai! Admittedly, the depleted state of the treasury and the Blood Royal’s coming of age are unfortunate coincidences. Even so, our course has been set. Our primary concern was once the taking of the Shashidan mines, not the killing of the reigning Jin’Sai. But with every step that brings Tristan closer to Shashida, we are no longer certain which struggle is more important!”
Gracchus fumed as he watched Benedik pace and rant. How could they possibly doubt him? he asked himself. He was the most learned and powerful of them all. Had it not been he who launched the successful revolt against Shashida, ensuring that the cause of the Vagaries would survive? Had he not succeeded those many centuries ago, the hated Shashidan Vigors worshippers would still rule all the land west of the Tolenkas. Their pompous self-righteousness would to this very day stifle the craft’s admittedly more chaotic but infinitely more appealing opposite side, refusing to allow it to flower. The revolution he brought forth had been unprecedented, earth-shattering. Rustannica owed its very existence to him, and no one here could deny that. Characteristic of his vaunted ego, he considered the failure to stop Tristan a temporary setback rather than an outright defeat. But of even greater import was Gracchus’ other plan—the one that involved destroying Shailiha. And this time he would not fail.
The camouflaged tent in which the Pon Q’tar convened sat far away from the main body of Vespasian’s war camp. Like the Oraculum Tempitatum, it too was shrouded in invisibi
lity. This was not a full meeting of the Suffragat, nor was it meant to be. Only the twelve clerics were present, and by meeting in secret this way they were breaking one of Rustannica’s highest laws.
Called the Vetare Secretum, the Law Prohibiting Secrecy, it forbade the Pon Q’tar, the Tribunes, or the Priory to meet in secret for the purpose of conspiring. The penalty for violating the law was death. Proposed more than ten centuries ago by an emperor named Polydorus, the law was quickly passed.
Like Vespasian, Polydorus had become suspicious of the Pon Q’tar. Also like Vespasian, Polydorus had been greatly admired by the military, birthing like-minded concerns of eroding influence among the paranoid clerics. Like many ad hoc laws formed by struggling governments, the Vetare Secretum was ratified more out of personal need to retain power than from an altruistic desire to help the nation.
Truth be known, the scheming Pon Q’tar had violated the law from the start, despite the harsh punishment they would suffer should they be discovered. Given Vespasian’s powerful command of the craft and his close ties to the Legionary Tribunes, violating the Vetare Secretum under his rule was far riskier than during the reigns of previous, weaker emperors.
Because they were the most experienced craft practitioners in all the land, the Pon Q’tar were immensely powerful, to be sure. But even they realized that should they be caught violating Vetare Secretum, with a snap of his fingers Vespasian could command the military to execute them all, and do so lawfully. If the Pon Q’tar chose to fight, the ensuing battle would be monumental. But in the end the military wing would triumph because of their overwhelming numbers. And so the future of the imperial monarchy always tilted on a strange fulcrum that was the reigning emperor, weighted on one side by the Pon Q’tar mystics’ secret schemes and on the other by the military’s overwhelming might.
The war tent in which the Pon Q’tar met this night was uncharacteristically small and conspicuously missing the elaborate trappings usually accompanying the clerics’ lofty stations. They sat on simple wooden stools, and a single oil lamp hung from the rafters. The tent’s canvas sides and top were dyed black to match the night that surrounded them, should for some reason the craft cloak be broken.
Each member had traded his or her white and burgundy robe for a drab one, in case they should be found conspiring in the night and need to escape quickly. But that likelihood was not great, for not only was the tent shrouded by the craft, but the clerics’ words were enchanted to travel no farther than the canvas sides and roof that entrapped them. Even so, far greater risk prevailed in this canvas house afield than in Ellistium. There such traitorous meetings could be held in hundreds of secret places, safely contained by far sturdier walls and far from prying eyes, roving centurions, and eavesdropping ears.
Gracchus had communed with Khristos only hours ago. When he reached out to touch the Viper Lord’s mind he had desperately hoped that the Jin’Sai was dead, his ships burned, and his Conclave and Minions killed to the last. But then Khristos told him the bitter truth.
The news had been far worse than Gracchus had anticipated, but even so he would tell the Pon Q’tar the unvarnished facts. Despite how easily he might betray and manipulate Vespasian, Persephone, the Tribunes, and the Priory, he was always honest with his fellow clerics. Seated before them in much the same way that Vespasian presided over the Suffragat in the Rectoris Aedifficium, Gracchus suddenly felt naked and alone as he endured their harsh stares.
Even so, he refused to be intimidated. Rising from his seat, he grasped the shoulder folds of his robe in one hand and looked Benedik squarely in the eyes.
“You overstate the threat, my friend,” Gracchus answered. “While the best strategy was to stop the Jin’Sai in the Caves, he and his forces remain a long way from Shashida. Just as we have the Borderlands, the Ones have their Azure Sea. Moreover, they cannot be sure whether their long awaited Jin’Sai is truly sailing those waters, because their seer is no more adept at viewing what happens in the caves than is our Oraculum. Simply put, the dangers of the Azure Sea will conspire against the Jin’Sai just as if we were crossing rather than he. He has but one course available to him. He will not survive the journey—of that we can be sure.”
Another cleric rose from her seat to address Gracchus. Lowering the hood of her robe, she showed herself to be Cynthia Flavanius, one of the Pon Q’tar’s most powerful craft practitioners. As he looked at her, Gracchus felt a pang go through his heart, just as he always did when he found himself in her presence.
More than any other cleric, Cynthia Flavanius had supported Gracchus during the dark, early days when Rustannica split from Shashida. Her counsel had been invaluable, her allegiance to the Vagaries unshakable. She had fought beside him, given him hope, and later shared his bed.
As the centuries passed, Rustannica developed into a powerful nation and the capital city of Ellistium became secure from attack. The Pon Q’tar was formed, and Gracchus and Cynthia became members. Not long after, they were married. Their only child, a son named Ajax, soon followed.
Because of the high quality of his fully endowed blood and the prominent positions of his parents in the Rustannican hierarchy, Ajax seemed destined for great things. Some said that he would become emperor one day, despite the many misgivings voiced by the other factions of the Suffragat that the direct descendants of serving members should never rule the nation. Unlike now, during those early days there had been no law prohibiting nepotism.
But in his inimitable way Gracchus had anticipated those obstacles and soon plotted to overcome them. When he came of age, Ajax would take military training and become a legionnaire, Gracchus decided, and later a Tribune. If Ajax could garner enough support among his fellow Tribunes, the anticipated vote in the Suffragat to declare him emperor would be far more assured.
But like any mother faced with the prospect of watching her son march off to pursue a military career, Cynthia had her misgivings. She first asked, then pleaded, then finally demanded that Gracchus alter the course he had set for their only child. But Gracchus would not be dissuaded, nor would their young son, whose head soon became filled with tales of Rustannican military glory and honor. When Ajax entered his training, then attained the rank of Tribune some years later, Gracchus could not have been prouder. But Cynthia’s worried heart trembled even more for her only child.
Knowing what was expected of him, Ajax understood that being an ordinary Tribune would not be enough to achieve his father’s plan. To one day become emperor, Ajax must also become a national hero. And so time after time he volunteered for the most hazardous duty, for only that would secure his needed fame. With that duty came many successes and the growing loyalty and admiration of his fellow Tribunes, some of whom were older than he and serving on the Suffragat. His path seemed certain, and with his father’s guidance the once looming obstacles in his way were easily devoured.
Then one day came the shattering news. As Gracchus read the scroll, his hands trembled and his heart broke.
During a campaign to take some Shashidan high ground, Ajax had been killed. There hadn’t been enough of his body left to send home, adding to Cynthia’s and Gracchus’ inability to properly mourn. The shocking news sent Cynthia first into hysterics, then into grief, and finally into rage at Gracchus for so cruelly manipulating their only child. Even Gracchus finally saw his mistake, but by then it was too late. He extended an olive branch by offering to adopt a child, but Cynthia had become too bitter, and her heart had fallen into too many pieces to be repaired. With her love for Gracchus irreparably shattered, she petitioned for divorce.
Save for service in the legions, from the beginning of the Rustannican Empire women enjoyed the same rights as men in all things. The right to petition for divorce was no different, and there was no social stigma attached to it. Moreover, when a divorce was granted, the woman could demand the return of her dowry, helping to ensure that she would have financial independence and not become a burden to the state.
This was esp
ecially true of the krithian class, in which dowries could reach fantastic sums, making divorce very expensive for the husband. Paying back a woman’s dowry was seen as a matter of honor. Any husband who refused or could not do so was socially ostracized, and his further advancement in Rustannican society remained unlikely until proper restitution was made. Even then the stigma remained, and few such recalcitrants saw their fortunes improve. Cynthia’s dowry had been huge, and its subsequent return from Gracchus’ coffers helped make her one of the richest women in Rustannica. With such wealth added to her great command of the craft and her membership in the Pon Q’tar, she was a force to reckon with.
Gracchus watched as Cynthia lowered the hood of her robe. To this day she took his breath away, and he again felt his heart ache not only for the loss of his son, but for the loss of her love. That had been many centuries ago, and neither of them had remarried.
Granted the time enchantments at the young age of forty-three, she looked as lovely now as she did then. Her eyes were blue and wide-set; graceful eyebrows arched over them, lending them an exotic look. A mass of dense blond curls reached to her shoulders. Her graceful jawline was firm and strong, her lips full and inviting. Her form was seductive, its alluring shape only partly hidden by the ill-fitting robe.
Because of her many obvious attributes, it was said that over the centuries hosts of suitors had asked for her hand, but not one was chosen. It was also rumored that she had taken many lovers in an attempt to dull her grief, but not even Gracchus knew for sure.
As he looked again into her lovely face he wondered what she might say. Would it be a further condemnation of his failed plan? he wondered. Or would it be some other way to hurt him again for his mistakes of so long ago?
“You are forgetting something, Gracchus,” she said. “You are right when you say that because the Jin’Sai sails the Azure Sea, we can no longer take direct action against him. But there is something more to this puzzle that you have avoided. I was wondering whether you might address it, but since you haven’t, I feel the need to do so in your stead.”
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