The Black Star (Book 3)

by Edward W. Robertson

  All the while, Dante had been putting off informing Nak about recent events in the Woduns. This delay wasn't something he could explain. He knew he had to warn them, to give them as much time as possible to prepare. Yet he couldn't bring himself to open the loon. Perhaps doing so would cement the reality of the events. Or maybe he just didn't want to confront his own failure.

  Giving mental voice to that thought made his spine go straight at last. He owed Narashtovik better. It didn't matter that he thought it would make no difference whether he told Olivander now or waited until he was there in person. Olivander would want to know as soon as possible.

  That evening, as they encamped in the woods, the smell of pines and snow thick in the air, Dante moved away from the group and climbed up on a boulder where he had a good eye on the forest. He opened a line to Nak.

  "We lost it," Dante said. "I had it in my hands, then the Minister took it away."

  Nak gasped, choked on his own saliva, and coughed, heaving. In time, he composed himself. "How did that happen?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "No, I suppose not." Silence. "What should we do?"

  Dante shook his head at nothing. "Let Olivander know. We'll be back in a week. Make sure the entire Council is present."

  "We recalled them weeks ago, just in case. Funny thing, though. All this time, I assumed it would never come to anything. That you'd take of it. Like you always do." Nak drew in his breath sharply. "I'm sorry. I know you did all you could."

  "And failed nonetheless," Dante laughed. "Which raises the question: what good is it to be noble and dutiful without the competence to back it up?"

  He shut down the connection. Someone or something was crunching toward him through the snow. He called forth the nether.

  Blays walked up beneath him. "Who was that?"

  "Nak. He's in charge of the loons now. I got him promoted to the Council."

  "I bet that's further than he ever thought he'd make it," Blays laughed. "Good choice."

  Dante breathed into his hands. "He was a more obvious pick than you'd think. Narashtovik has lost a lot of talent since we showed up."

  "Citizens, too. Think it's been worth it? What if we'd just stayed in Mallon?"

  "Samarand would have invaded it, killing thousands. The norren would still be the tributes and slaves of the Gaskan Empire. And while Samarand focused on Mallon—where we, being homeless trash, would likely be conscripted and killed—the Minister would find Cellen and drive a knife into Narashtovik's turned back."

  "Yeah, maybe so." Blays squinted, smiling without humor. "Even so, you have to wonder if we'd have been better off being farmers."

  He wandered away. It was a fair question. Everything Dante had done had felt right, or at least the best choice in a multitude of bad options, but at that moment, with Cellen in the hands of the Minister, it felt as if all of it had added up to nothing. He realized he'd forgotten to tell Nak about Lew. How old had Lew been? Twenty? No more than 25. Not that much younger than Dante, in any event, and yet he was gone, returned to the netherworld that awaited them all. Perhaps Dante's rule was over before it began, and the Minister would bring Narashtovik to the ruin that centuries of regional warfare had never quite managed to complete. The only thing Dante was sure of was that the killing wasn't done.

  And that he could kill the Minister before it was done.

  The fastest path to Narashtovik carried them many miles north of Soll. Dante knew the people had to be warned, but there was no time for that. They found a village in the foothills and, after a brief argument that Dante concluded with a display of nether as proof of his authority in the Citadel, requisitioned six horses.

  Two days later, they were in Narashtovik. Snow rested on the peaked roofs, churned grimy in the streets, but after the mountains, it was no more imposing than a spell of frost.

  As soon as they entered the square in front of the Cathedral of Ivars, the Citadel gates cranked open; somehow, word had raced through the city faster than their mounts. Gant, as always, was waiting in the courtyard. For once, he looked surprised.

  "Master Buckler," he said. "Should I prepare your former room? It has been left untouched."

  "That's a little odd," Blays said. "Whatever's easiest. I won't be here long."

  A phalanx of soldiers moved in to take their horses—Dante let them know the animals were to be returned to the village he'd appropriated them from as soon as possible—and to attend to the needs of the travelers, who were hungry and extremely dirty. Inside the Citadel, servants strode up and down the halls, delivering news of their arrival. Dante and Somburr were separated from the others. As Dante was fed and cleaned up, he was made aware the Council would like to meet at his soonest convenience.

  He didn't delay. He let his servant know to summon the others to the chamber. He dressed in the black and silver of his station, fixing his cloak with the sapphire brooch of Barden. Finally alone, he sat down for a full minute, letting his mind grow still. Once he was ready, he walked into the hall.

  The double doors of the Council chambers stood open. The other ten chatted around the round table. In previous years, they had almost exclusively been old men. Some such as Tarkon and Joseff remained, but the last decade had seen so much death and upheaval that their human male seniority had become the exception. Olivander, Somburr, Ulev, and Nak were all middle-aged. Hart was plenty old, but he was a norren, his white hair and beard swirled about his head like clouds. Between that and his thick stature, he looked like a statue of Taim come to life.

  Foul-tongued Merria was seventy if she was a day, but decidedly female. As was Pinya, a heavyset woman in her early forties. Bitter politics among the monks had reduced her to the station of their chef, but after the Council vacancies following the war, she had applied for one of the openings. Highly irregular—nominations were the province of the Council, and nominating yourself was looked on as uncouth—but after speaking to her, and seeing her in action, Dante had backed her all the way.

  Last and most recently added was Wellimer, a defector from Setteven in his early thirties. One seat remained open; they had decided to wait until the proper talent appeared instead of rushing to fill the spot with a questionable choice.

  Dante moved to his seat at the head of the table beside Olivander. The others fell silent, waiting to take their chairs until he'd done so.

  After a hasty blessing, Olivander leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. "The Minister has Cellen. He hates Narashtovik from the pit of his heart. I have only two questions. How and when will he move against us—and how will we fight back?"

  The questions sounded open to the table, but Dante knew he was expected to respond first. "My best guess is the Minister will open the mountains in the spring."

  "And follow with his army?"

  "If he intends to invade, yes. But he won't be concerned about preserving our citizens or resources. I wouldn't be surprised if he angles the channel straight at Narashtovik and floods us, softening us up before sending in his troops. We'll have to build levees; I'll handle that." Dante rested his palms on the table. "There's also a chance he'll forgo the invasion in favor of conjuring a mountain beneath us instead."

  The others glanced between each other. Tarkon's thick brows twitched. "He can do that? How close will he need to be?"

  "I couldn't guess."

  "We'll set up pickets in the foothills," Olivander said. "Post men on every road and hilltop. Equip them with loons. At the first sign of foreigners, we'll ride out to capture them."

  Merria scowled. "So this 'Minister' can blow our balls to the stars? Where they'll hang forever as the thirteenth icon of the Celeset?"

  "If he wastes Cellen destroying our outriders, at least we'll die knowing Narashtovik's intact."

  "That's why he won't take that route." Somburr's eyes darted across the table, avoiding the others. "He won't chance getting intercepted on the most obvious, direct path to Narashtovik. If he wants to destroy the city outright, he'll come at us
from our blind side. He'll take the Five-Meddenlan Way. A year or two from now, he and a few of his finest will stroll within sight of Narashtovik, and that will be the end of us."

  "That's a little prophetic," Hart rumbled.

  "If that's his path," Somburr said. "I don't think it is. I think he intends to retake this city. Enslave us. Accomplish what his ancestors never could while unleashing centuries of bitterness upon us."

  Olivander turned to Dante. "Do you agree?"

  Dante bulged his tongue against his lip. "Yes. The Minister's soldiers were drilling everywhere. He wants Narashtovik."

  "Is there no hope for a diplomatic solution?"

  Dante and Somburr met eyes and laughed. Somburr opened one palm. "What would we offer? What could we give him? He hates us, Olivander. There is no appeasing his wrath."

  "This is confounding!" Olivander bellowed, looking surprised at himself. "A couple of months ago, I didn't know this man existed. But it's been his life's work to destroy us? We've done nothing to him. I say we send a delegation. At the least, it may buy us some time. Maybe we'll learn he's more reasonable than we think. Unless he's a lunatic, he can't truly believe we're responsible for whatever happened in Weslee."

  "He does." Minn moved through the open doors, trailed by Blays and a couple of mortified servants. They grabbed at her elbows, but she yanked her arms free. "And he's right to do so."

  Shock rippled through the chambers. The servants looked to Olivander for direction. He rubbed his hand down his beard, confounded all over again.

  "I think you'll want to hear this," Blays said.

  Dante stood, a chill of foreboding shooting through his body. "Let her speak."

  34

  Minn smoothed her sleeves and drifted toward the table. Blays watched her from near the door. A moment ago, she'd forced her way into the room, but under the combined gaze of the Council, she now looked as confused as if she'd wandered in from the docks.

  "You really don't know?" she said, casting among them. "We did our job that well?"

  "Out with it," Dante said. Blays gave him a hard look. Dante rolled his eyes and gestured for her to continue. "We're in the dark. Please tell us what you came to say."

  She moved toward the open chair. "Should I sit?"

  "Whatever will be most comfortable."

  She nodded vaguely and sat down. Despite being a common guy with a sword, Blays used to attend all the Council meetings, but he presently felt more than a little awkward. What the hell, he decided: Minn was about to drop some serious wisdom on these old bastards. As the one who'd brought her here, Blays deserved credit. Lots of it. He walked around the table and stood at attention behind her chair. That ought to lend her a little more authority. People always paid attention to you when you had armed men around to look tough.

  "What I'm about to say can't leave this room," Minn said. "If it becomes known that I told you, I will be killed. Pass it to future Council members, if necessary for Narashtovik's safety, but I won't speak another word until each of you swears before Arawn to bear my secret to your grave."

  "I so swear," Dante said.

  "By Arawn!"

  "Beneath the judgment of Arawn, and on the life he's seen fit to give me, I swear your secret won't ever leave this Council."

  Minn nodded once, then glanced at the others. "You too. All of you."

  One by one, they repeated Dante's promise. Blays tried not to smirk. Good to see these power-mongers humbled for once. He found himself surprised by his own resentment. He didn't even know some of these people, and considered others friends, such as Olivander and Tarkon. Hart, too. As Minn drew in a breath, he realized he'd missed them.

  "You at least know that Narashtovik has a war-torn history," Minn said dryly.

  Tarkon chuckled. "Hadn't noticed. Would you care to buy one of the ruins on the outskirts? We've still got a few left. Charming little places—all they need is a roof, some new walls, a foundation, maybe a well..."

  She smiled, put at ease by the old man, then grew somber. "It goes back longer than you know. Some twelve hundred years—and the old wars were worse than any of the last few centuries. In those days, Narashtovik was much smaller, the wilds much bigger. Even then, however, the city was a center of nethermancy, the heart of Arawn's worship; it grew and it prospered.

  "But that prosperity drew attention from those who lacked it. At that time, the Woduns were a fraction of their current size. They bore a few ranges and high peaks, but most of the land between here and Weslee was open fields and rolling hills. This was the homeland of the Elsen. Nomadic horsemen, for the most part. They too worshipped Arawn, but they resented Narashtovik, its temples and fields and easy life. They began to raid it. They were good at it, darting in and out on their horses.

  "This went on for decades. There wasn't much Narashtovik's priests could do—the Elsen had nethermancers, as well. So Narashtovik began to study the earth. They taught themselves to move it. They staggered the eastern plains with ramparts and hidden pits. For a while, this slowed the Elsen. As they withdrew and regrouped, adjusting to the new defenses, Narashtovik thought their enemy's strength had faded, and struck back. They intended to wipe the Elsen from the plains."

  She gazed at the wall across the room. "That was a critical mistake. Their entire force was slaughtered. Only a handful made it back to tell the others. Narashtovik's army had managed to stomp out a few villages, but the Elsen remained. And they were much stronger than Narashtovik had guessed.

  "Outraged by the massacres of their villages, they resumed their raids with redoubled intensity. They started to take less and burn more. Narashtovik's years of wealth were long behind it. The way the story is told, it was certain that the city would soon fall.

  "But that's when they heard about the lights in the norren lands to the south. Narashtovik dispatched an expedition. That expedition returned with Cellen. As soon as they figured out what they had in hand, the Council forged a plan. One that would ensure the Elsen never threatened Narashtovik again.

  "A small group traveled into the eastern hills of the enemy's territory. They took Cellen with them." She lifted her hands high, then swept them to the sides. "And thus, in a span of minutes, the Woduns were born, and the Elsen died."

  The chambers were so quiet you could hear the wind whistling from the balcony.

  Dante leaned forward. "How do you know all this?"

  "For the same reason I swore you to secrecy: because the People of the Pocket were once from Narashtovik."

  The Council exchanged another round of looks. Olivander tipped back his head. "We have no record of that."

  "Of course you don't," Minn said. "The nethermancers underestimated Cellen. They never thought the mountains would be that big, that total. They sent scouts across the Woduns, but what they found was even worse than they'd feared. Tens of thousands were dead. The guilty and the innocent alike. Faced with the horror of their own actions, a civil war erupted in Narashtovik between those who wanted to build on what they'd just done and those who wanted to renounce it. Many died. That's when most of your records were lost. Anything else was taken by the earth-movers when they left for Pocket Cove.

  "We took our knowledge with us. Knowing nothing like the Woduns could ever be allowed to happen again, we vowed to teach no one the skills that had allowed us to decimate the Elsen. Over time, we built our walls, ensuring we'd be left in peace, and would never again have anything to do with the world." Minn lowered her gaze. "Until now. Because I've betrayed my people to tell you this."

  Blays put a hand on her shoulder. "Given how many other things we've done to piss them off, I doubt one more crime will matter."

  "And the Minister blames us for this?" Olivander pressed his palm over his mouth. "We didn't even know such a thing had been done. How can we bear its responsibility?"

  "Oh, it doesn't matter who did it," Tarkon said. "Things like that don't just go away."

  "Time erases everything. Unless you keep reopening them, all wou
nds heal. Do you know how many spats, skirmishes, and wars Narashtovik has weathered over the years? How many of these former enemies are we still hellbent on putting to the sword?"

  The old man scrunched up his face, wrinkles deepening. "None of them?"

  "Correct," Olivander said. "I don't know when an atrocity becomes inert, nothing more than another piece of history. But I do know that even the most befouled stream eventually runs clear. Once the poison has passed, civilized people can return to the river and drink together."

  Somburr scowled at the table's rich grain. "We'll send a peace envoy anyway. Purely as a delaying tactic."

  "We can't send anyone to see the Minister," Dante said. "He'll execute them on the spot."

  "Then be sure not to send anyone important."

  Olivander closed his eyes, lowering his voice so much the others had to hush to hear him. "That's just a a ploy. What we need is a strategy."

  "They're going to have logistical problems." Dante pinched his temples between his forefinger and thumb. "If they open a passage through the Woduns, we can use that against them. Fortify it and fight them for every inch. Meanwhile, we raid their supply lines from behind."

  "Not a bad idea. But we're going to face a significant problem with personnel. Our standing army won't be an issue, though it's still depleted from the last war. But it will be hard hoeing to convince citizens to join a defense against an enemy they've never heard of. In the meantime, if Moddegan senses weakness, he might strike while our back is turned."

  "We'll need scouts and spies," Somburr said. "Equipped with loons. We should send them to Spiren immediately."

  "Son of a bitch has put himself in one sweet position," Merria said. "He can hit us whenever he wants, but we've got no way to hit back."

  Tarkon stuck up his head and peered around like a rooster. "He'll be thinking the same thing, won't he? Snug as a bug behind his miles-high walls. If we could get just a few dozen raiders over there, there's no telling how much panic they could stir up."