The doors closed with a soft boom. Khorel Jornath’s gaze swung to Theroun, empty as a barren winter night. “She gave me everything, Theroun. Everything I wished to know. Everything she spied upon, everything she held in her mind. Everything she feared and hated. Everything she tried to deny, so she could be hard and survive her bitter life. Pretending her conscious will was stronger than her darkest desire – to love and be loved. But none of us are stronger than our darkness. We all embrace our shadow-will in the end, one way or another.”
Still affected by the emotions of the ritual, Theroun had no words. At last, he managed to growl, “In the throes of it – did you love her?”
Jornath’s gaze was so empty that it shocked Theroun, unassailable. “Yes. Because of what I worked today, because of how Scorpion-wyrria works, some part of me does love her now. The gift we wield is a poison, Theroun, though we practice against poisoning ourselves. Invading someone’s mind by the power of your will... you cannot entirely prevent yourself from feeling what they feel. When you open enough to truly possess someone, to take their mind and body that last final bit... some part of you is at the mercy of that union as much as they. You ask why our Brethren are a holy order? Because sharing such a thing is holy. Even when we kill with it. You must excuse me now, I have a warrior to consecrate. You were right, she was a formidable adversary, but she was also weak – because she never had our teachings to show her how to conquer her deepest darkness.”
With that, Khorel Jornath turned, drawing up his hood and leaving the hall the way Adelaine’s corpse had gone.
CHAPTER 22 – DHERRAN
The day of the Commoner’s Audience with the Vhinesse dawned early. As the first light began to simmer in the sky, Grump rose and dressed, taking off by himself on some final errand. A brisk breeze chilled the air, though the autumn day would be hot later, in classic Valenghian style. Dherran dressed in his new outfit, tan trousers and a white shirt with a fitted hunter-green leather jerkin that made the most of his brawn. Khenria wore similar attire – though hers came with a cinnabar brushed-wool corset and well-heeled russet boots. With leather bracers at their wrists, they both looked like Cennetian fighters, which was what Grump had intended today, and wore blades at their hips and in their boots.
Shouldering out of their inn after a quick breakfast, Dherran and Khenria took to the streets. The Obelisk Quarter near Delennia’s manor teemed with hawkers, the streets already filled with an early throng. The oldest part of Velkennish, the Quarter was well-built, quarried from ancient alabaster stone. Moving into the thickest part of the crowd, Dherran and Khenria threaded their way into the commons at the center of the Quarter. A massive white obelisk rose up in the middle of this sprawling plaza, the plaza divided into tight alleys with thousands of merchant stalls. Four- to five-story buildings ringed Velkennish’s trade-center, ornately carven out of alabaster blocks, lending the city an aura of grandeur beneath the autumnal sun.
Silk banners in vibrant colors caught the crisp breeze as the cacophony of early trade slit the air. The plaza surged with people, a festival atmosphere. Merchants shouted their wares as Dherran and Khenria threaded down a tight alley of garish tents and stout booths selling everything from fresh river-trout to ornate lapis jewelry to dark sweet figs. Dherran and Khenria’s attire was fine enough that sellers accosted them, thinking they had money to spend. Dherran shouldered through the throng, waving hawkers away as Khenria stepped quickly behind.
Men and women of five nations moved through the crowd, from copper-haired Cennetians to swarthy Ghreccani with their dark ringlets and heavy-lidded eyes. A troupe of spry Cennetian jugglers in garish motley did fire-tricks in a cleared area. A whole section of alabaster cobbles had been roped off for a horse-auction, sleek steeds from Praough, attended by merchants in fine velvet. The air smelled of roasted meats, fruit chutneys, and caramel-nuts, the bounty of Valenghia famed. As Dherran pushed his way through, he couldn’t help but marvel at the trade-hub of the continent. A wealthy land of grape and grain, Valenghia seemed somehow untouched by the endless war upon its western border.
Up ahead, Dherran fixed his gaze upon the natural pillar of alabaster surrounded by the sprawling fountain that marked the center of the Quarter. Pristine, the Obelisk of the Vine – also known as the Stone of Milk and Honey – was taller than anything else in the city. Levels of humped white crystal flowed down from the pinnacle, cascading with rivulets of cloudy water that emanated from natural fissures in the crystal, flowing down into the fountain’s ornately-carven basin. The Obelisk was the reason Velkennish had been chosen as the seat of power in Valenghia, and as Dherran stepped to the fountain’s rim, he felt the hairs lift at the back of his neck. Ancient wyrria seemed to breathe from the pillar. Tendrils of power seeping through the air that Dherran could almost see – misty flows that reminded Dherran of Delennia’s ability. The hairs on his arms stood up as he stopped at Grump’s meeting-point, staring at the mineral-rich water that flowed down into the fountain’s basin.
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
Dherran turned toward the commanding voice that had spoken from his left. In a new disguise even finer than his previous attire for the fight-rings, Grump was barely recognizable. A trim, rapier-brisk lord stood at Dherran’s elbow in a deep plum Cennetian-style doublet, its buckles rich with plated silver. His shirt was fine silk, his trousers a soft black leather that spoke of money. Grump’s hair had been cut in a short militaristic brush – a style favored in Cennetia – his beard impeccably trimmed to a sharp point. A silver hoop graced one ear, and the silver chain of a jeweled amulet dove behind his rakishly-unbound shirt collar.
“Who are you?” Dherran breathed. Realizing his mouth was hanging open, he shut it.
Grump lifted an eyebrow, imperious and far too like Arlen den’Selthir for Dherran’s comfort, his persona as Grump entirely gone. Looking every bit the lord of mercenaries, and every bit like Grunnach den’Lhis, the Greyhawk, he strode up to the fountain. Dipping his fingers in, he brought them to his face, wiping mineral-rich water over his brow and cheeks. A ritual for good luck, to take the water and anoint the face, it was an action that people of all nations performed around the fountain’s basin. Flicking water from his fingertips, Grump’s gaze was flinty as he combed water through his newly-trimmed beard, then gestured north.
“Today, I am Lord Cebo Discanni of Scovira Province in Northern Cennetia,” the Greyhawk spoke in flinty tones. His voice was low and resonant, without any trace of Grump’s reedy warble – a lord’s cultured accent running through his words. “And you are my indentured fighters, seeking their freedom. Which I am not inclined to grant you, even though your contracts have been successfully fulfilled. Time to go. Our audience begins in less than a bell, and if we miss it, there isn’t another for two weeks. Plus, a lot more bribing that I’ll have to do. This way, step lively.”
Dodging through the crowd, Grunnach angled toward the north side of the plaza. Dherran noticed that his pace had a studied ruthlessness to it – as if the forest mouse had been eaten alive by this sword-honed Cennetian lord. Grunnach kept a hand on the ornate rapier at his side. Any jostle was met with a formidable scowl until the populace began to shrink back from him and his retainers. Reaching the edge of the plaza, they arrived at a thoroughfare free of booths – an elegant avenue that led directly to the White Palace, lined with gargantuan estates.
“Avenue of the Vine – the Valenghian royal houses,” Grump murmured as they broke free of the crowd onto the ancient tree-shrouded thoroughfare. “Step lively now, and don’t meet any eyes.”
Dherran saw the wisdom in this, as crimson-liveried guards stood sentinel down the wide avenue, with one hand on a spear and the other upon a sword at their hip: Red Valor, the most elite fighters in Valenghia. Steely eyes watched their progress. Not Grump with his Cennetian lord’s attire, but Dherran and Khenria. As they walked the avenue, Dherran found his interest in Grunnach’s manner piquing. Bold, confident, he wasn’t acting but pers
onifying a Cennetian lord – as if he had always been one. This cleaned-up lord got alluring looks from noblewomen in horse-drawn carriages, and cordial nods from high-silver Valenghian lords out for a stroll. He was no less cordial, nodding in a brusque militaristic manner as he moved on.
With Dherran and Khenria pacing slightly behind to keep up the illusion of a lord and his retainers, they moved on toward the massive wrought-iron gate of the White Palace, set in a high alabaster retaining-wall at the end of the avenue. Grunnach moved toward the gate and the twenty Red Valor who guarded it, exuding an aura of a vicious fighter who was every bit the lord he’d dressed as today. Gone were his flitting mannerisms as he presented papers admitting them to the Commoner’s Audience. This hard, ready warrior waited with regal attitude as the guard perused their papers and glanced at each of them – then finally waved them on.
They moved through, seeing enormous siege-doors drawn back behind the ornate iron grille. The fanciful gate of twining vines and blooming flowers was as lovely as the White Palace beyond, with its soaring turrets, domes, and minarets. The siege-gate was fully functional, though, and as Dherran glanced up at the portcullis it dwarfed his mind.
They were in. Grump led them east toward a topiary garden full of grape arbors and quince trees. Here, they found commoners and lords biding their time upon alabaster benches, waiting with fans in the sun or shrugging shawls in the shade for their audience with the Vhinesse. Grump gestured to an empty stone bench, far from any shrubbery or prying ears. He sat on the end of the semi-circular bench, Khenria next to him with Dherran at the other end.
Khenria crossed her knees in her well-heeled boots, eying Grump warily. “Are you ever going to tell us who you really are?”
Grunnach held Khenria’s gaze a long moment. At last, he sighed, something of his old persona showing through at last as he smoothed his grey mustachios. “Don’t look at me like that, little hawk. I did what I had to, to keep you safe. Becoming Grump for the time you knew me kept us both out of notice. The Khehemni who hunted me at the Vhinesse’s command knew Grunnach, a warrior and a high lord of Valenghia from an almost-forgotten House. I’ve lived many lives in many guises over the long years, and this most recent persona was done for your safety.”
“By lying to me?” Khenria hissed, her eyes flashing.
“By obscuring the truth,” Grunnach was steady, though he did glance around to make sure no one was nearby. “Grump is the man I always wanted to be. Kind. Nurturing. Simple and without complication, but now that I am returned to Valenghia, the time has come for me to cease that persona. For what it’s worth... I have loved every moment I’ve had with the both of you, as Grump. A life I thought I could have longer, until the Khehemni Lothren came hunting me again. Who are the least of my enemies, as I’ve said before.”
Dherran crossed his arms. “Arlen recognized you in Vennet.”
“He did.” Grunnach’s lips quirked, a shadow of the humor he’d had as Grump. He stretched his fine boots out upon the gravel. “But even so, when Arlen saw me at the tavern, he barely recognized me. I have changed from twenty years of living in the woods. A man gets old, and the muscles fail, but the heart remembers.”
“Remembers what?” Dherran’s voice was icy in the bright autumn day.
“Remembers being the Greyhawk, not a forest-mouse.” Grunnach’s grey eyes were flat. Dangerous. Yellow linden leaves fluttered down around them as a breeze whisked through. “And now that we are back in Valenghia, I must be the hawk once more. I cannot tell you both everything of my past, no matter how you push. Accept it or do not – but know that once again, I do what I do for your safety. In my current guise, the Vhinesse will think she is seeing a double of my old self – a different man who echoes one she used to employ. It will rattle her, which is what we want.”
“Why?” Dherran murmured.
“Because Aelennia makes mistakes when she is rattled, Dherran,” Grunnach’s gaze was piercing. A leaf fluttered to the shoulder of his jerkin and he flicked it away. “Trying to control too many men with her wyrria. You are the one who will feel what she tries to do, and whether you can break free of it.”
Dherran breathed slowly, trying to still his unrest. It was a risky plan. “What if she recognizes you for who you really are and sends her guards in?”
“There is always that possibility,” Grunnach murmured with a nod. “Though if Arlen hardly knew me from twenty years of living rough, Aelennia will know me less.”
Dherran glowered, crossing his arms tighter. “Talk, Grump. How do you know all these high-level players in Valenghia?”
“I was raised Khehemni, that much you know,” Grunnach sighed, “born right here in this valley. In Valenghia, the Khehemni are sworn to the Vhinesse, like the Alrashemni in Alrou-Mendera. They are the Red Valor, and answer to Valenghia’s Lothren, the pinnacle of which is the Vhinesse herself. In any case, the Valor have a Captain-General.”
“You. You were their Captain-General once,” Dherran murmured.
“Leave intrigue to your betters, Dherran.” Grunnach gave him a pitying, Arlen-esque look. “No. I would never hold such a position. My talent is quiet-work.”
“Spying. Shifting who you are to sneak around in the shadows.” Khenria growled it at him, her pretty brows in a line.
“Yes.” Grunnach nodded, acceding to it. “And during my time as a spy, it was my duty to report to two parties – the Captain-General of the Red Valor, and to the Vhinesse herself.”
“Who is Captain-General of the Valor?” Khenria’s arms were crossed like Dherran, though her head was cocked as she listened.
“That’s where we’re in luck,” Grunnach’s eyes twinkled, almost like Grump. “Once, the Captain-General was a man I vehemently opposed, but now it is High General Merkhenos del’Ilio. He’s an old associate of mine from wet-work in Cennetia, and he’s been ordered to serve the Vhinesse by his Cennetian Lothren, but he abhors it. So he’s willing to help us, which is how we received our opportunity today.”
“You were the Lothren’s assassin?” Dherran’s voice was cold, and he didn’t try to warm it. Leaves fluttered down, as if stirred by Dherran’s rage.
“Spy and assassin, yes,” Grunnach gave a nod. “I went where they sent me. Cennetia. Praough. Ghrec. Alrou-Mendera. Which is how I met Arlen. He was the first person to ever capture me.”
“You were sent to spy on the war-front by the Valenghian Lothren,” Khenria murmured.
“I was sent to cause the war, my dear.” Grunnach’s gaze was dire.
“What?” Dherran blinked.
“Thirty years ago,” Grunnach continued, stretching his boots out upon the gravel and crossing his arms, staring off toward the palace, “the Vhinesse secured the allegiance of Cennetia and Praough via a hammering series of border invasions. Disorganized city-states historically without central rule except for a few brief periods, Cennetia was unable to gather a united front, so it collapsed. Praough wasn’t long behind, though they fought bravely until their King had a one-on-one meeting with Aelennia. They fell under the Vhinesse’s leash – and then she turned her greedy eyes to Alrou-Mendera, working with the Menderian Lothren. The Lothren’s aim has always been to kill off Alrashemni in every country, and when the Vhinesse proposed to start a war between Valenghia and Alrou-Mendera, to let the Alrashemni kill themselves off during the fighting, the Lothren went for it. A rather ingenious, if diabolical idea. So, the Vhinesse sent my quiet-faction in to start skirmishes, in Quelsis and the neighboring regions, to fan flames that would eventually lead to war. Our targets were Menderian noble houses along the border. Which is when Arlen caught me, in one of those initial raids.”
“You were murdering border nobles to start the war?” Khenria’s words were bitter.
“And it was successful.” Grunnach’s gaze was level. “Next came retaliation from King Uhlas den’Ildrian, only recently stepped to the throne and still green in his Kingship. With the help of the Kingsmen, his generals coordinated with Arlen de
n’Selthir and quelled our attacks. But the Khehemni Lothren pushed back, raiding hard, slaughtering in the night.”
“But how did the coup against the Vhinesse come about eighteen years ago?” Khenria asked, her brows knit.
“Ah.” Grunnach sat up. “It was Arlen who convinced me to join him. I was a talented spy and assassin with underground contacts in Valenghia. There were factions on both sides that wished the Vhinesse deposed, and I was unrestful in my position, tired of being a blade in the night. Arlen wanted to protect his people at Vennet. Purloch, a Vicoute from Quelsis, wanted his borderlands to stop getting pounded constantly. And Delennia wanted her sister stripped of the throne.”
“So you joined forces,” Dherran murmured.
“We did. Quietly.” Grunnach spoke. “I turned coat, spying for Arlen, Delennia, and Purloch. Helping them organize through the Heathren Bog. Forming the drive that lanced to Velkennish and right through these very gates. Blasting open the throne hall doors and surrounding the Vhinesse. Which, as you know, failed. Colossally. But our drive earned a nickname – both for what it was, and for how it failed.”
“The Bitterlance.” Khenria sat up with interest.
“Arlen and Delennia fell in love during the planning of our coup,” Grunnach spoke. “They were strong together, a cutting drive of purpose and passion. After the coup failed, the forces of the Bitterlance died and so did their love. Arlen abandoned us after his shame and subsequent humiliation as a Falcon of the Vhinesse. She allowed him to live, strangely enough, to take what was left of his Kingsmen back home. Purloch fled to the Heathren Bog, his lands near Quelsis razed to ashes. Delennia was stripped of her armies and confined to house arrest before Khenria was born, and I spirited her away at Delennia’s request. In the years that followed, I lived in the Heathren Bog with Purloch. But then the Kingsmen Summons happened and I had to go – to find Khenria or die trying.”
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