The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  Her hand shook as she reached out. She needed to breathe for several seconds to find her center before she could continue, touching the blood of her husband for the second time this night and using it to seek his fate.

  “Blessed Everam, Creator of all things, give me knowledge of the combatants, Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji, and Arlen asu Jeph am’Bales am’Brook. I beseech you, tell me of the fate that has befallen them, and the fates yet to come.”

  The power throbbed in her fingers and she threw, staring hard at the pattern.

  When questioned on things that were, or had been, the dice spoke with cold—if often cryptic—assurance. But the future was always shifting, its sands blowing with every choice made. The dice gave hints, like signposts in the desert, but the farther one looked, the more the paths diverged, until one became lost in the dunes.

  Ahmann’s future had always been filled with divergences. Futures where he carried the fate of humanity, and ones where he died in shame. Death on alagai talon was the most common, but there were knives at his back always, and spears pointed at his heart. Those that would give their lives for his, and those waiting to betray.

  Many of those paths were closed now. Whatever happened, Ahmann would not return soon, and likely not at all. The thought set a cold fear writhing through Inevera’s gut.

  The others held their collective breath, waiting on her words, and Inevera knew the fate of her people lay upon them. She remembered the words of the dice so many years ago:

  —The Deliverer is not born. He is made—

  If Ahmann did not return to her, she would make another.

  She looked at the myriad dooms that awaited her love, and plucked one from the rest. The only fate that would let her hold power until a suitable heir could be found.

  “The Deliverer has passed beyond our reach,” Inevera said at last. “He follows a demon to the abyss itself.”

  “So the Par’chin is a demon after all,” Ashan said.

  The dice said no such thing, but Inevera nodded. “It would appear so.”

  Gared spat on the ground. “Said ‘Deliverer.’ Din’t say ‘Shar’Dama Ka.’ ”

  The Damaji turned to him, regarding him the way a man might look at an insect, wondering if it was worth the effort to crush. “They are one and the same.”

  This time it was Wonda who spat. “Core they are.”

  Jayan stepped in, balling a fist as if to strike her, but Renna Tanner moved to interpose herself. The wards on her skin flared, and even Inevera’s impulsive eldest son thought better of challenging her. It would not do to be beaten down by a woman before the very men he must convince to let him take the throne.

  Jayan turned back to his mother. “And the spear?” he demanded.

  “Lost,” Inevera said. “It will be found again when Everam wills it, and not before.”

  “So we are to simply give up?” Asome asked. “Leave Father to his fate?”

  “Of course not.” Inevera turned to Shanjat. “Find the trail again and hunt. Follow every bent blade of grass and loose pebble. Do not return without the Deliverer or reliable news of his fate, even if it take a thousand years.”

  “Yes, Damajah.” Shanjat punched his chest.

  Inevera turned to Shanvah. “Go with your father. Obey and protect him on his journey. His goal is your goal.”

  The young woman bowed silently. Ashia squeezed her shoulder and their eyes met, then father and daughter were off.

  Leesha turned to Wonda. “You have a look as well, but be back in an hour.”

  Wonda grinned, showing a confidence that filled Inevera with envy. “Wan’t planning to hunt till my hair turns gray. Deliverer comes and goes, but he’ll be back, you’ll see.” A moment later she, too, was gone.

  “Goin’ too,” Renna said, but Leesha caught her arm.

  The woman glared at her. Leesha quickly let go but did not back down. “Stay a moment, please.”

  Even the Northerners are afraid of the Par’chin and his woman, Inevera noted, filing the information away as the two women moved off to speak in private.

  “Ashan, walk with me,” she said, looking to the Damaji. The two of them stepped away as the others remained dumbstruck.

  “I cannot believe he is gone,” Ashan said, his voice hollow. He and Ahmann had been as brothers for over twenty years. He had been the first dama to support Ahmann’s rise to Shar’Dama Ka, and believed in his divinity without question. “It seems like a dream.”

  Inevera did not preamble. “You must take the Skull Throne as Andrah. You are the only one who can do it without inciting a war and hold it against my husband’s return.”

  Ashan shook his head. “You are mistaken if you think that, Damajah.”

  “It was the Shar’Dama Ka’s wish,” Inevera reminded him. “You swore an oath before him, and me.”

  “That was if he were to fall in battle at Waning, with all to see,” Ashan said, “not killed by a greenlander on some forgotten mountainside. The throne should go to Jayan or Asome.”

  “He told you his sons were not ready for that burden,” Inevera said. “Do you think that has changed in the last fortnight? My sons are cunning, but they are not yet wise. The dice foretell they will tear Everam’s Bounty asunder vying for the throne, and should one climb to the top of the bloodied steps and sit, he will not rise on his father’s return.”

  “If he returns,” Ashan noted.

  “He will,” Inevera said. “Likely with all the Core behind him. When he does, he will need all the armies of Ala to answer his call, and have neither time nor desire to kill his son to regain control.”

  “I don’t like it,” Ashan said. “I have never coveted power.”

  “It is inevera,” she told him. “Your likes are irrelevant, and your humility before Everam is why it must be you.”

  “Be quick,” Renna said, as Leesha led her aside. “Wasted enough time already waitin’ on you lot. Arlen’s out there somewhere and I need to find him.”

  “Demonshit,” Leesha snapped. “I don’t know you that well, Renna Bales, but well enough to know you wouldn’t have waited ten seconds on me if your husband was still unaccounted for. You and Arlen planned this. Where has he gone? What’s he done with Ahmann?”

  “Callin’ me a liar?” Renna growled. Her brows tightened, fingers curling into fists.

  For some reason, the bluster only made Leesha all the more sure of her guess. She doubted the woman would really strike her, but she held a pinch of blinding powder and would use it if need be.

  “Please,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “If you know something, tell me. I swear to the Creator you can trust me.”

  Renna seemed to calm a bit at that, relaxing her hands, but she held them palms up. “Search my pockets, you’ll find no answers.”

  “Renna,” Leesha struggled to maintain her composure, “I know we had an ill start. You’ve little reason to like me, but this isn’t a game. You’re putting everyone at risk by keeping secrets.”

  Renna barked a laugh. “If that ent the night callin’ it dark.” She poked Leesha in the chest, hard enough to knock her back a step. “You’re the one got the demon of the desert’s baby in your belly. You think that ent puttin’ folk at risk?”

  Leesha felt her face go cold, but she bulled forward, lest her silence confirm the guess. She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “Who told you that nonsense?”

  “You did,” Renna said. “I can hear a butterfly flap its wings across a cornfield. Arlen, too. We both heard what you said to Jardir. You’re carrying his child, and setting the count up to take the blame.”

  It was true enough. A ridiculous plot of her mother’s that Leesha had foolishly brought to fruition. It was doubtful the deception would last past the child’s birth, but that was seven months to prepare—or run and hide—before the Krasians came for her child.

  “All the more reason I find out what happened to Ahmann,” Leesha said, hating the pleading tone that had slipped into h
er voice.

  “Ent got a notion,” Renna said. “Wastin’ time should be spent lookin’.”

  Leesha nodded, knowing when she was beaten. “Please don’t tell Thamos,” she said. “I’ll tell him in time, honest word. But not now, with half the Krasian army just a few miles off.”

  Renna snorted. “Ent stupid. How’d a Gatherer like you get pregnant, anyway? Even a dumb Tanner knows to pull out.”

  Leesha dropped her eyes, unable to keep contact with Renna’s intense gaze. “Asked myself that same question.” She shrugged. “History’s full of folk whose parents knew better.”

  “Din’t ask about history,” Renna said. “Asked why the smartest woman in the Hollow’s got wood for brains. No one ever tell you how babes are made?”

  Leesha bared her teeth at that. The woman had a point, but she’d no right to judge. “If you won’t tell me your secrets, I’ve no reason to trust you with mine.” She swept a hand out at the valley. “Go. Pretend to look for Arlen till we’re out of sight, then go and meet him. I won’t stop you.”

  Renna smiled. “As if you could.” She blurred and was gone.

  Why did I let her get to me? Leesha wondered, but her fingers slipped to her belly, and she knew full well.

  Because she was right.

  Leesha had been drunk on couzi the first time she’d kissed Ahmann. She hadn’t planned to stick him that first afternoon, but neither had she resisted when he moved to take her. She’d foolishly assumed he wouldn’t spend in her before marriage, but Krasians considered it a sin for a man to waste his seed. She’d felt him increase his pace, beginning to grunt, and could have pulled away. But a part of her had wanted it, too. To feel a man pulse and jerk within her, and corespawn the risk. It was a thrill she’d ridden to her own crescendo.

  She’d meant to brew pomm tea that night, but instead found herself kidnapped by Inevera’s Watchers, ending the night battling a mind demon by the Damajah’s side. Leesha took a double dose the next day, and every time they had lain together since, but as her mentor Bruna said, “Sometimes a strong child finds a way, no matter what you do.”

  Inevera eyed Thamos, the greenland princeling, as he stood before Ashan. He was a big man, tall and muscular but not without a share of grace. He moved like a warrior.

  “I expect you’ll want your men to search the valley,” he said.

  Ashan nodded. “And you, yours.”

  Thamos gave a nod in return. “A hundred men each?”

  “Five hundred,” Ashan said, “with the truce of Domin Sharum upon them.” Inevera saw the princeling’s jaw tighten. Five hundred men was nothing to the Krasians, the tiniest fraction of the Deliverer’s army. But it was more men than Thamos wished to spare.

  Still, the princeling had little choice but to agree, and he gave his assent. “How do I know your warriors will keep the peace? The last thing we need is for this valley to turn into a war zone.”

  “My warriors will keep their veils up, even in the day,” Ashan said. “They would not dare disobey. It’s your men I worry over. I would hate to see them hurt in a misunderstanding.”

  The princeling showed his teeth at that. “I think there’d be hurt enough to go around. How is hiding their faces supposed to guarantee peace? A man with his face hidden fears no reprisal.”

  Ashan shook his head. “It’s a wonder you savages have survived the night so long. Men remember the faces of those who have wronged them, and those enmities are hard to put aside. We wear veils in the night, so that all may fight as brothers, their blood feuds forgotten. If your men cover their faces, there will be no further blood spilled in this Everam-cursed valley.”

  “Fine,” the princeling said. “Done.” He gave a short, shallow bow, the barest respect to a man who was a dozen times his better, and turned, striding away. The other greenlanders followed.

  “The Northerners will pay for their disrespect,” Jayan said.

  “Perhaps,” Inevera said, “but not today. We must return to Everam’s Bounty, and quickly.”

  CHAPTER 1

  THE HUNT

  333 AR AUTUMN

  Jardir woke at sunset, his mind thick with fog. He was lying in a Northern bed—one giant pillow instead of many. The bedcloth was rough, nothing like the silk to which he had become accustomed. The room was circular, with warded glass windows all around. A tower of some sort. Untamed land spread into the twilight, but he recognized none of it.

  Where in Ala am I?

  Pain lanced through him as he stirred, but pain was an old companion, embraced and forgotten. He pulled himself into a sitting position, rigid legs scraping against each other. He pulled the blanket aside. Plaster casts running thigh-to-foot. His toes, swollen in red, purple, and yellow, peeked from the far ends, close, yet utterly out of reach. He flexed them experimentally, ignoring the pain, and was satisfied with the slight twitch that rewarded him.

  It harkened back to the broken arm he’d suffered as a child, and the helplessness of his weeks of healing.

  He reached immediately to the nightstand for the crown. Even in day, there was magic enough stored within to heal a few broken bones, especially ones already set.

  His hands met empty air. Jardir turned and stared a long moment before the situation registered. It had been years since he had let himself be out of arm’s reach of his crown and spear, but both were missing.

  Memories came back to him in a rush. The fight atop the mountain with the Par’chin. How the son of Jeph had collapsed into smoke as Jardir struck, only to solidify an instant later, grabbing the spear shaft with inhuman strength and twisting it from his grasp.

  And then the Par’chin turned and threw it from the cliff as if it were nothing more than a gnawed melon rind.

  Jardir licked cracked lips. His mouth was dry and his bladder full, but both needs had been provided for. The water at his bedside was sweet, and with some effort he managed use of the chamber pot his searching fingers found on the floor just underneath the bed.

  His chest was bound tightly, ribs grinding as he shifted. Over the bandages he was clad in a thin robe—tan, he noted. The Par’chin’s idea of a joke, perhaps.

  There was no door, simply a stair leading up into the room—as good as prison bars in his current state. There were no other exits, nor did the steps continue on. He was at the top of the tower. The room was sparsely furnished. A small table by the bedside. A single chair.

  There was a sound in the stairwell. Jardir froze, listening. He might be bereft of his crown and spear, but years of absorbing magic through them had remade his body as close to Everam’s image as a mortal form could be. He had the eyes of a hawk, the nose of a wolf, and the ears of a bat.

  “Sure you can handle him?” the Par’chin’s First Wife said. “Thought he was going to kill you out on that cliff.”

  “No worries, Ren,” the Par’chin said. “He can’t hurt me without the spear.”

  “Can in daylight,” Renna said.

  “Not with two broken legs,” the Par’chin said. “Got this, Ren. Honest word.”

  We shall see, Par’chin.

  There was a smacking of lips as the son of Jeph kissed his jiwah’s remaining protests away. “Need you back in the Hollow keepin’ an eye on things. Now, ’fore they get suspicious.”

  “Leesha Paper’s already suspicious,” Renna said. “Her guesses ent far from the mark.”

  “Don’t matter, long as they stay guesses,” the Par’chin said. “You just keep playin’ dim, no matter what she says or does.”

  Renna gave a stunted laugh. “Ay, that won’t be a problem. Like makin’ her want to spit.”

  “Don’t waste too much time on it,” the Par’chin said. “Need you to protect the Hollow, but keep a low profile. Strengthen the folk, but let them carry the weight. I’ll skate in when I can, but only to see you. No one else can know I’m alive.”

  “Don’t like it,” Renna said. “Man and wife shouldn’t be apart like this.”

  The Par’chin sighed. “E
nt nothin’ for it, Ren. Bettin’ the farm on this throw. Can’t afford to lose. I’ll see you soon enough.”

  “Ay,” Renna said. “Love you, Arlen Bales.”

  “Love you, Renna Bales,” the Par’chin said. They kissed again, and Jardir heard rapid footsteps as she descended the tower. The Par’chin, however, began to climb.

  For a moment Jardir thought to feign sleep. Perhaps he might learn something; gain the element of surprise.

  He shook his head. I am Shar’Dama Ka. It is beneath me to hide. I will meet the Par’chin’s eyes and see what remains of the man I knew.

  He propped himself up, embracing the roar of pain in his legs. His face was serene as the Par’chin entered. He wore plain clothes, much as he had when they first met, a cotton shirt of faded white and worn denim trousers with a leather Messenger satchel slung over one shoulder. His feet were bare, pant and shirt cuffs rolled to show the wards he had inked into his skin. His sand-colored hair was shaved away, and the face Jardir remembered was barely recognizable under all the markings.

  Even without his crown, Jardir could sense the power of those symbols, but the strength came with a heavy price. The Par’chin looked more like a page from one of the holy scrolls of warding than a man.

  “What have you done to yourself, old friend?” He had not meant to speak the words aloud, but something pushed him.

  “Got a lot of nerve callin’ me that, after what you did,” the Par’chin said. “Din’t do this to myself. You did this to me.”

  “I?” Jardir asked. “I took ink and profaned your body with it?”

  The Par’chin shook his head. “You left me to die in the desert, without weapon or succor, and knew I’d be corespawned before I let the alagai have me. My body was the only thing you left me to ward.”

  With those words, all Jardir’s questions about how the Par’chin had survived were answered. In his mind’s eye he saw his friend alone in the desert, parched and bloodied as he beat alagai to death with his bare hands.