The Cycle of Galand Box Set

by Edward W. Robertson

  "This is the end of it," Dante said. "Once the snows come, we're heading home."

  Olivander sighed. "I wish I could believe you. But every time you make a promise to return, the next time I hear from you, someone else needs saving."

  "What are you, my wife? I give you my word. We'll be back in Narashtovik before the new year."

  ~

  The next few days were spent rebuilding. In the mornings, Dante used most of his power to grow crops, which were quickly harvested and brought up to the city. Whatever nether he had left, he used to raise ramparts or dig ditches for the defenses Cord was building around the town at the base of the butte.

  One morning on his way out to the fields, a messenger ran him down. The Keeper had news. Dante climbed back up the road and found her waiting beneath an awning in the plaza.

  "There is trouble at Kaline," she said. "Senator Alder refuses to commit his town to the war."

  "So what? Why don't the other senators overrule him?"

  "Some won't commit until he does. He owns much of the land around the nearby canals. The senators fear that if they oppose him, he'll raise their rents to intolerable levels."

  "Get me a guide and a horse," Dante said. "I'll sort him out."

  Within an hour, he and Blays were riding out from Collen in the company of a young woman named Salya, a warrior recommended by Cord. Salya said nothing that wasn't directly related to the way forward. They rode north, trailing dust behind them, the air thick with the scent of sage. Low hills and small buttes interrupted the dry plains.

  It took a day and a half to reach Kaline. Along the way, Dante grew a crop of grapes from a wild vine he found, which Salya marked on a map she kept. Kaline was arranged much like Collen, though scaled down in every way: a pint-sized plateau with a village at its base and a town at its top. When they ascended, a canal sparkled in the sunlight. Green fields lined both banks. Presumably, these belonged to Senator Alder.

  Most of the buildings on the butte were simple wattle and daub structures with thatched roofs and hides stretched over the doors—wood was always at a premium in the basin—but a few were elegant things of fired clay bricks. Salya took them to one of the largest of these. Inside, she waited in the foyer while Dante and Blays were brought upstairs to a room with a large window overlooking the desert below.

  Half an hour later, an older man entered through a side door, giving a glimpse of a cluttered study. The man's silver hair was slicked back from his forehead, a salt and pepper goatee bracketing his mouth. A paunch was visible beneath a blue silk shirt. Silver rings clicked on his knuckles.

  "You must be Galand." He gave Dante a faint nod, then turned his attention to Blays. "And he is?"

  "My advisor," Dante said. "We've worked together for a decade."

  "He will remain outside."

  Dante raised an eyebrow, but Blays only shrugged. "You will regret this once you've seen what I've done to your kitchen."

  He left, closing the door behind him. Senator Alder strolled toward the window and gazed out at his holdings. "Is your arrival supposed to frighten me?"

  "That depends," Dante said. "Have you done something to fear for?"

  "That depends. Should a man be afraid to stand up for the well-being of his home?"

  "The Code of the Wasp insists you join the fight. I'll assume you heard what the Mallish did to Collen?"

  Alder didn't turn from the window. "It sounded like the typical treatment of occupied lands by a hostile army."

  "Typical? I've been through several wars. I've never seen someone try to eradicate the population by feeding them to demons."

  "Demons. Swords. Starvation. When the outcome's the same, what does the method matter?"

  "Why won't you commit to supporting Collen?"

  Alder met his eyes, arching a brow. "That's just it, isn't it? Whenever troubles come to the basin, it's Collen that needs aid. So we send soldiers. Food. Coin. It's as much of a tax on the six towns as all the levies of the Mallish."

  "If Collen needs aid, I imagine it's because they've taken the brunt of the damage. Would you rather Mallon besieged Kaline?"

  "Yet they never do. Always, they strike the city of Collen. Why? I could only speculate. All I know to be true is that the towns give and Collen takes."

  Dante's left cheek twitched. "What do you want?"

  "You're here because you believe the Mallish will return. When they do, I want Kaline protected."

  "You just said that they only go after Collen."

  "There are times when they assault a second target as well. Besides, after their loss, they might rethink their strategy."

  "Mallon won't deplete their forces on the towns. They'll come straight for Collen. Once it falls, they'll regroup and pick you off one by one."

  Alder laughed airily. "If you can scry on King Charles' mind, then we have nothing to fear!"

  "The basin's army will be deployed wherever we can stop the enemy. If that means making a stand at Kaline, then we'll make a stand at Kaline."

  "And if it means protecting Collen, you'll be happy to sacrifice us. I want a garrison. Two thousand men."

  "That's far more than you'll contribute. If every town made that demand—"

  "Then you could deny us. But they didn't think of it. I did. Thus, I get the rewards." He turned back to the window. "Speaking of such, I hear rumors that the canals are to be expanded. Not for crops, but for commerce. I will require a share. Ten percent seems reasonable."

  "We're discussing the ruin of the Collen Basin, senator. This isn't the time for negotiation."

  "On the contrary, this is the only time Collen is vulnerable to the needs of Kaline. That means now is the only time you'll listen."

  "Here is my counter offer," Dante said. "Assist the war effort like the Code of the Wasp insists, and before I leave Collen, I'll spend five days making improvements to Kaline. New canals. Fortifications. Whatever you want."

  "Or?"

  "Learn the price of betrayal."

  The senator examined him for a long moment, then broke into a smile. "No. With ten percent of the new trade revenues, I can buy all the canals and fortifications I please."

  "Canny," Dante said. "All right, you have a deal. I presume you'll want a contract guaranteeing your share?"

  "Oh, indeed. My study is this way." He opened the door he'd come in through. The room beyond held a desk the size of a door. It supported a number of quills, parchment pages, trimming knives, and documents. "You'll be involved in the expansion of the canals, yes? May I ask what Narashtovik's cut will be?"

  "One senator." Dante plunged a knife of nether into the man's heart.

  3

  As soon as Raxa freed her kids from the Citadel's dungeons, she headed for Herrick's. The walk through the city felt like it took half a day. Every time she passed a guardsman dressed in black and silver, she expected the cry to go out. She drew a few looks, but none more suspicious than would be extended to the average young woman leading a school of six children behind her.

  Herrick's yard was quiet. So was his house. Raxa's heart went cold. When Gaits had kidnapped the kids, it would have made sense to kill the parents. None of them were anyone special. None would be missed. Leaving them alive would only make it easier to tie him to the crime.

  She told the kids to wait outside, then searched the house. Herrick was tied up under the bed. Blindfolded. Gagged. Was a wonder he hadn't suffocated.

  "I'm sorry," he said once she'd cut him loose. Tears brightened his eyes. "I was working in the yard. Splitting wood. Didn't even hear them come up on me. Next thing I knew, I was under the bed and Fedd was screamin' with all his lungs."

  "This wasn't your fault." She jerked her head toward the front room. "Fedd's outside. Along with five others like him. I'd keep them at my house, but it's going to be too dangerous."

  "I'll take them. 'Cept I don't know how it'll be any safer here."

  "It won't be. You're going to take them into the woods. The only people who'
ll know where you are will be me and my runner."

  Not that she had any idea who that runner would be. After what Gaits had done, she didn't know who she could trust. Not with something this important. No matter. If she had to, she'd do it herself.

  "Tell me where," Herrick said. "I won't let you down."

  The eight of them struck out for the woods. The pine forests were lousy with abandoned cabins and shacks. Most were too ruined to serve as a shelter, and some were occupied by vagabonds, but Herrick spent plenty of time coming out to hunt or cut wood. He led them to a house big enough to fit them all.

  "You follow Herrick's orders," Raxa told the children. "I'll let your parents know you're okay. And I'll be back as soon as it's safe."

  That much was a lie. She'd be back soon enough. But she wasn't sure that it would ever be safe again.

  ~

  Once she was back in the city, she called Anya into her office. And explained how Gaits had sold them out.

  "He betrayed the entire Order." The wonder and loathing in Anya's voice was the most emotion Raxa had ever heard from her. "I hope you made his death a slow one."

  "Faster than he deserved," Raxa said. "But I had to make sure his schemes couldn't do us any more damage."

  "What are we going to do about this?"

  "Call another meeting with the Little Knives. Gaits might be dead, but that doesn't mean the Citadel's done with us."

  She sent a messenger to Vess. The letter was enough of a tease that Vess demanded to talk that same night. As before, they met in the garden courtyard of the temple of Urt. This time, rather than Gaits, Raxa took Gurles with her.

  Vess eyed the heavyset bouncer. "Where's your other man? The smirky one?"

  "Gaits is dead," Raxa said. "He was working with the Black Star."

  "Traitor under your own roof. Nothing hurts worse. You kill him yourself?"

  Raxa nodded. "And tracked down the Black Star. A woman named Cee. She works for the Sealed Citadel."

  "All the sons of all the bitches. The Citadel?"

  Raxa explained. As with Anya, she left out all the parts involving her own abilities in the shadows, sticking to Gaits and his betrayal.

  "We'll have to work together," Raxa concluded. "Neither of us can fight the Citadel alone."

  Vess rocked with laughter. "Whole gods damned Gaskan Empire couldn't fight the Citadel. We can't declare war on them."

  "Why not?"

  "Same reason the fleas don't declare war on the dog."

  "We bite much harder than fleas," Raxa said. "If we do this right, they'll never know it's us."

  Vess tipped back her head and stared at the branches hanging above them in the courtyard. Fall was coming and the first of the leaves had started to turn.

  "No," she decided. "Ain't doing. Fighting soldiers is one thing. But the Citadel, they got sorcerers. Long as they got the monopoly on magic, they got the monopoly on victory, too."

  "I suppose you're right. Then we'll have to back off…after one last heist."

  The woman frowned. "Of what?"

  "You've heard of the Cycle of Arawn?"

  "I heard of rain, too. Ignorant me even heard of dirt and fish and wind."

  "There's a copy in every temple in the city," Raxa said. "But rumor has it that when Galand came to Narashtovik, he brought the original copy with him."

  "Think it'll fetch a pretty good price, huh?"

  "Think bigger. Rumor has it that, when someone with the talent reads the original copy, it unlocks the nether within you."

  Vess thrust out her jaw and beetled her brow. "You believe it?"

  "I don't believe it," Raxa said. "I know it."

  "You want to put an end to their monopoly. This is how you mean to take revenge, ain't it? And you don't care if it takes ten years."

  "As long as they can wield the nether and we can't, we'll always be vulnerable to them." Raxa stared into Vess' eyes. "This is about more than revenge—it's about survival."

  The stout woman thought a moment, then chuckled slowly. "I would ask what they'd do to us when they learned we was playing with shadows. But they already tried to kill us all, eh? What we got to lose? Let's steal ourselves a book."

  ~

  He left Collen behind him like the hive that it was.

  For hours, he was incapable of sustaining a thought for more than a few seconds at a time. Walking in the guise of a common soldier, trudging through dust and sagebrush and yellow grass that flung its unwanted seeds at his trousers like a mother delivering her tenth child to the steps of a monastery, he grew worried about his mind's lack of command. He had donned the look of a common man. Had he donned the wits of a common man as well? With sunset coming, and no report of pursuit from the scouts, Gladdic dropped his disguise.

  Instantly, he felt better. Of course, much remained wrong. Disaster had unfolded in Collen. One that ran as deep as any of the fears he harbored in the midnight hours. Not only had he lost the city, and the entire basin with it, but he'd lost the only tool he had to recapture these places: the Andrac.

  It felt impossible. It was impossible. This had to be a fever dream—a test laid upon him by Taim. Yes: he was lost in the throes of a vision. One of utter disaster. If his faith faltered, it would prove that he was not worthy to lead Taim's banners across Collen.

  Yet the ground beneath his feet felt real. The night smelled of the desert. The men around him looked weary, their gear clunking in the most mundane rhythms. His defeat was real.

  His duties rabbled before him like a legion of devils. There seemed no way past them. His failure ran so deep it was possible the king might see fit to execute him. The thought gave him a horrible thrill. To have it done with!

  Yet to end one's life—even to wish for death—was a crime against Taim's law. With a shudder, he imagined a boot. Then, he pictured the boot stamping the thought of suicide to a bloody smear.

  He had many tasks, but his first was to ensure his survival.

  "Horstad," he said to the stocky young man who moved to attend him. "Prepare to take a letter."

  "My name is Liam, Ordon," said the man. His eyes shifted. "Horstad never returned from the city."

  Gladdic jolted with discombobulation. Had he known that? "Does it matter who records the words I speak? Fetch parchment, man!"

  Liam's eyes widened. He retrieved writing implements from his saddlebags, including a board to back the parchment. Gladdic cleared his throat and began a missive to the Eldor.

  By the time he concluded his speech, he couldn't remember more than a fraction of what he'd said. It was as if Gladdic's memories belonged to someone else. Panic seared through his veins—and then he remembered that he was a lord, and simply ordered Liam to repeat what he'd just transcribed. Gladdic feared his words would be babbling madness, but they sounded like every other report of a sudden defeat: surprise; dismay; anger at one's foe; but mostly, the conviction that one had only lost the day due to a stroke of poor fate. One that could be overturned by a second effort.

  For there would be a second attack. Wouldn't there? Hadn't everyone in the palace doubted his ability to take Collen in the first place? His initial success had been nothing short of a miracle. Undeniable proof that he bore the will of the gods with him.

  Yet what could it mean that he had now lost the basin? Did that mean he had lost Taim's favor as well?

  They marched on into the darkness. As the night deepened, the soldiers diverted from the road to make camp in the cover to be found between two hills. Gladdic's mind and body were exhausted, but after an hour in his bedroll, even the common victory of sleep still eluded him. His teeth had been clenched for so long his jaw was stiff. He removed himself from his tent, ignoring the glances of the sentries as he walked into the brisk desert night.

  Thousands of stars shined down from above. The air was so still he felt sure he could hear a whisper from ten miles away. There were crickets, yes, and the furtive rustling of mice in the green grass that had sprouted here and there since th
e rains.

  He breathed the cold air through his nose. Sage. Dew. Dust. If the desert was a temple, then these scents were its incense. The constellations were the murals of its ceiling. Gladdic had no love for the voluptuous lushness of the woods. Nor the inconstancy of the sea. The severity of the high mountains carried an austere appeal, but their size and height seemed to embody a form of immodesty.

  The desert, however, claimed to be no more than it was. And while it could be every bit as harsh as the mountains, those who devoted themselves to its ways could find revelations beyond mortal knowing.

  He walked for some time. With each ridge he crested, he grew angrier that the Colleners, blessed with this landscape, had allowed themselves to grow so twisted and foul. He had thought he'd found the answer to their profanity, yet his efforts had evaporated like all water that fell on the desert.

  So many others had found visions in lands such as this. He knew many in Bressel itself who claimed to have heard the voice of Taim, or the other, lesser gods. Gladdic suspected they were lying—he himself had never heard a clear word from those above—but the idea these people were telling the truth gnawed him to the bone. At last, surrounded by nothing, miles from the next living soul, he stopped in a field and tipped back his head to the stars.

  "Father Taim," he whispered. A breeze hissed through the thorns of the tumbleweeds. "I am your servant. Your dog. Your hand and your blade. I beg you: put me to use."

  For a moment, he felt as though a hand was reaching down from the sky, as if to touch his face. He closed his eyes. Then, for feelings were traitors, the sensation passed, as did they all.

  He opened his eyes. Lowered his head. He wept. His tears fell to the greedy dust, absorbed without a trace. So even this was taken from him. Why had the gods let this happen? How could it be just? Was it proof that they weren't? He looked up again. The stars twinkled on, but there was nothing else there. What if there were no gods?

  The same thrill shot through his spine that he'd felt on thinking about an end to his life. He gazed on the idea with a raptness that was, ironically, almost holy.