“You should have killed him, Cullen.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you let him live?”
“There’s enough death here. I can smell it on the wind.”
“What if they come back for you?”
“I guess you’ll just have to warn me, Deltrea.”
“You know I’m dead, right?”
“And yet here you are, still talking to me.”
Because part of her saw the wisdom in Deltrea’s concerns, Cullen walked faster and, when the road took her past a collection of trees that hid where she had been and she was certain no one could take it as a weakness, she started to run.
She ran for a long while, moving at a pace that should have left her gasping for breath after only a few minutes but didn’t. She ran until the sun began to descend, and she did so effortlessly.
Cullen did not consider the impossibility of that any more than she considered the burning ache that the Mother-Vine left inside of her. Possibly she was slightly mad by that point, as those who suffer great loss can become if they think too much. Cullen did not think that was the case. She simply accepted that the fire the Mother-Vine had lit inside of her wanted to be in Canhoon and that she needed to get it there before it could burn her away completely and leave nothing but ashes.
She could not have said how far she would have to go to reach the city, but she knew she was heading in the right direction by the trail of discards cast along the sides of the road.
* * *
Inquisitor Darsken Murdro stood before the assembled members of the Imperial Family and smiled pleasantly. He had been doing exactly that for over an hour, not speaking but merely looking from one to the next while they fussed and straightened their immaculate clothes, very likely considering the best way to get out from under his gaze without being punished for their actions.
He was not in a hurry.
Silence can tell a great deal about a person. Most people fail to see that. They think that words are the end of all that a person can learn. Darsken knew better.
Darsken learned as much from what was not said as he did from what was.
He finally walked forward and looked at Brolley Krous. The Empress’s brother was a boy, but he was working toward being a man. It had taken remarkably little to find out about his misadventures with the Sa’ba Taalor. His actions since then had been exemplary.
“You are Brolley, yes?”
The young man looked up from his hands and nodded. He had deeply wounded eyes. It took no real effort to see that he tortured himself mercilessly over his past actions.
“I am sorry for your loss. Please, go now, and mourn properly.”
The young man rose, nodded once more and then looked at his kin before leaving the chamber.
Several of the family members had thought to leave the room when the earlier disruption had occurred. The guards took care of that very quickly. Darsken had handpicked them, because they had worked with him in the past. They knew what he expected and they were quick to follow his orders.
His knuckles creaked and cracked as he worked his thick fingers over his staff. Most of the Krous family looked at him, hoping that they, too, would be released from his presence.
He looked to Danieca Krous and frowned softly. “You as well, Milady. I am filled with sorrow for your loss.”
She smiled but did not move.
“I am fine here for now. I wish to know what you discover.”
He’d have bet coins on that being her answer.
Darsken lowered his head momentarily in a sign of respect. One by one he offered his condolences to a great number of the family. This was the town where the Krous clan held the most sway and that was saying a great deal. Even the lowliest of them had wealth and power. They were the ones he released first. He knew exactly who he wanted. He knew precisely who Losla Foster worked for and currently he was the only man who knew exactly where Laister Krous’s assistant was resting his head.
He also knew that Laister wanted that information himself.
The catch when dealing with powerful people is that they must never be allowed to see you grow nervous. That was one of the many things that was driven into the Inquisitors. Like patience, it was a very significant part of the examination process.
He smiled softly and looked at the remaining people. “I will leave you now. I will return soon. In the meantime, food and wine will be provided for you.”
It was Laister who stood and shook his head. “This is unacceptable! What if I need to relieve myself?”
Bluff and bluster. The man needed to show Darsken who was in charge. Unfortunately for him, the Inquisitor already knew the answer to that question.
“There is a chamber pot in the corner. I made that arrangement earlier.”
Laister Krous puffed out his chest and fairly swelled with righteous indignation.
Darsken smiled calmly in the face of the man’s outrage. He locked eyes with the man he knew had ambitions for the throne. Eventually Laister looked away, uncertain how to react to a man who stood up to him without even breaking a sweat.
Empathy, Observation and Patience. It would not take much longer.
* * *
The weather in Louron remained unchanged by the volcanic eruptions. The swampy region was hot, humid and still.
To hear the Roathians speak of Louron was to hear of a green hell. The land was half submerged; the waters stank; the people were savages, cowards and very likely guilty of sorcery. What land there was teemed with massive trees that dripped a heavy moss, and the insects in the area seemed to have a special love of human blood.
Whatever the people of Louron might think of the Roathians remained a mystery. Very few of the locals willingly left the area for long, and those that did tended to be the sort that wiser people actively avoided.
The stories of the sort of sorcery that the Louron performed were dredged up from the worst kind of nightmares. To hear a good number of the religious leaders speak, Louron dealt with demons (no one could say exactly what a demon was, but they all agreed the things had to be bad), raised the dead with great regularity, and could tear the soul out of a person with a single word and a drop of blood.
Desh Krohan would have been the first to admit that at least two of the rumors had a foundation in truth. As he had never in his long life encountered a demon he was willing to concede that there might be some exaggeration in that category.
The great black ships of the Sa’ba Taalor were allegedly peopled by demons. Grayskinned monstrosities with ferocious bloodlust and a penchant for death. Desh Krohan might have allowed a certain truth to that, too, but would have pointed out that “demon” was excessive.
When the three ships came for Louron they floundered in the shallow waters. The vast structures could move through rivers if the waters were deep enough, a fact that Fellein had recently learned, but the shallow depths of the coastal flats surrounding Louron were too much. After several aborted attempts, the Sa’ba Taalor were obligated to lower smaller boats to work their way toward the shore.
There was little consideration about whether or not leaving their ships abandoned was a wise thing to do. They were at war and the Sa’ba Taalor were warriors.
Fully three days later, when no communication had come from the followers of Wheklam that had made their way to the shore, five more ships were sent.
Understandably, they proceeded with much more caution.
After first examining the three abandoned ships, the captains consulted and decided to proceed together under the leadership of the most seasoned of their group.
The head of the second invading party was a woman named Truatha. She was an excellent tracker – having hunted a great deal of prey through the Blasted Lands over the span of her life, a task that few would willingly undertake – and noticed the signs long before she would have moved forward.
Truatha called a halt and those behind her obeyed. She summoned the other captains to her and they consult
ed together about what she saw.
“Look there.” She pointed to an area where the footsteps of the previous Sa’ba Taalor could clearly be seen. So, too, the tracks of their mounts. The area was a broad, sandy expanse and, after consideration, two of the Sa’ba Taalor walked slowly and carefully across that area, looking for any signs of struggle or traps. There was nothing. The land was solid under their feet and the tracks of their predecessors moved across the terrain in an orderly fashion before disappearing. There were no dropped weapons. There were no telltale signs of bloodshed or even attacks from the closest copse of trees.
The tracks of over a hundred Sa’ba Taalor and a dozen or more mounts simply vanished.
“How is this possible?” The speaker was Lor, who was sometimes Truatha’s lover and always a trusted ally. She crouched low to the ground and examined the tracks carefully. “The weather has been good. No rain. The wind has blown some of the sand but not much. They have either vanished from the world or someone has brushed the sand so perfectly that I cannot see a single trace.”
Truatha looked at her friend and walked closer, moving with the same caution. Curiosity was an excellent way to get killed if one did not apply the necessary observational skills.
They took their time and studied the area. There was no indication of what had happened to their predecessors.
Truatha asked for ten volunteers. She then picked from the hundred and seventy-three that offered themselves.
Ten hard, skilled warriors walked across that sandy plain and continued on unchallenged. They struck the ground with spears, they fired arrows into the closest copse of trees, but nothing happened beyond what one would expect in those situations.
The ten continued on until they reached the other side of the sandbar and the waters began to fill in the low areas again, all of them puzzled and ready for combat.
“What is this then? Where is the enemy we would fight?”
The only answer came in the form of one old man, stoop shouldered and carrying a small net filled with fish in one hand and a short staff in the other.
None of the Sa’ba Taalor with them spoke the language of the Fellein. They had not expected to encounter anyone. They had been waiting for a battle on the seas, not for an expedition across salt flats and marshlands. They would adapt, of course, but communication would be a challenge.
Still, one had to try.
“Old man!” Truatha called out to him and pointed to him, lest he be confused about the matter.
He looked her way with a puzzled expression and after a moment shrugged his shoulders and moved toward her.
Despite the heat and humidity he was dressed in a cloak over his baggy pants and open-toed shoes.
As he approached he tapped his stick against the sands occasionally. Finally he made his way past the ten, who watched him without acting, and stopped in front of Truatha. He was a short man, as seemed the case with many of the Fellein. He was also thin and older than any man she had ever met in her life. The Sa’ba Taalor who could no longer fight did not live for long.
When he smiled he bared a total of four teeth. His facial hair and the hair on the top of his head was a light gray with occasional darker hairs to remind anyone seeing him that the lighter colors were signs of age.
When he spoke it was in her tongue, though with an accent. “How may I help you this day?”
Truatha managed to hide her surprise. Several others did not.
“We seek some of our people who came here a few days ago. They have disappeared.”
“Oh, yes. They were here.” He nodded and continued to smile.
“Where are they now?”
The old man looked around and scratched at the scruff of beard on his chin. “They are not here any longer.”
“Yes, I see that. Where did they go? Do you know?”
“Ah. I believe they tried to attack some of the people here. That is forbidden.” He nodded his head, his smile continuing. Truatha wondered if she had come across a simpleton. There were a few among her people who were not very bright but could fight well enough to live through that flaw.
“What do you mean? Why is it forbidden?”
“The rulers here. The Council of the Wise, they do not permit invasion by force.”
“How do they stop it?”
“I am not a member of the council. I could not say.” He shook his head. “I must be on my way. My dinner will spoil if I don’t cook it soon.” He waved the fish to make his point.
He waved one hand and started on his way and Lor came closer, looking on as he resumed his trek.
“He is so old…”
“Yes.”
“Do you intend to let him go?”
“Yes.”
“What are we to do now, Truatha?”
“He says that fighting is forbidden.”
She gestured to one of the ten, a young boy she had never met before. He was eager to show his worth.
With a simple hand signal she sent him to kill the old man.
Either he would succeed, or she would know why.
As is often the case with the young the boy tried to prove his worth with as much flair as he could manage. The knife he threw cut the air flawlessly and passed through the old man as if he were made of shadows.
The old man turned back to look at his would-be attacker and smiled. “You see? Forbidden.”
Truatha had followed the blade’s progression. When she looked back to the young attacker he was gone.
“Where did he go?” She couldn’t have told you exactly who that question was directed at, but it was Lor who answered.
“He faded away.” Her voice was strained.
“What do you mean?”
“He was there. I saw him throw the knife and as it left his hand, he faded. Like mist.”
Truatha gestured to another of the ten. This one was older and possibly more cautious. She moved toward the old man and drew her sword, a long, sharp affair with a curved blade.
The old man looked at her as she came closer and shook his head. “I would not.”
The girl’s name was Hrua. She was a skilled fighter and moved in quickly, aiming a blow that should have severed the old man’s head. The blow never reached him. Truatha saw it this time: as Hrua attacked, her body blurred out of focus and then vanished completely.
“What did you do?” The words were roared at the old man, who continued on his way, a soft and sad smile on his wrinkled features.
“You cannot attack us. The Council of the Wise does not permit it.” He tapped his stick in the sand and water of a low spot. “There is no way around this law. If any of you attack, you will fade away.”
“Where have they gone?”
“There is a place.” His smiled slowly changed into a frown. “It is not a place you want to go. There is no way back from it.”
After only a few moments’ consideration, Truatha called back her forces and headed for the ships.
“Where are we going?” asked Lor.
“We cannot fight this.”
“We are surrendering?”
“No.” Truatha shook her head. “There is no one here to surrender to. We are simply not going to fight this.”
“I don’t understand.” Sometimes she wondered about how smart Lor was. She often overlooked the times when the woman had trouble with thinking things through because she was a brilliant fighter and fun in bed, but now and then it hurt her to admit her friend was not stubborn, merely stupid.
“There is no point in fighting someone we cannot hurt or attack without hurting ourselves. I will fight a warrior. I will not fight a rock. I will fight an army, but I cannot fight the winds of the Blasted Lands. I will fight a ship of enemies, but I will not fight a wave that will crush my crew.”
She paused a moment. “Should we attack these people, we become as smoke in a hard breeze. I saw this with my eyes and you did, too. And so we will no longer fight them.”
Lor nodded her head. There were plenty of sail
ors and warriors among the Sa’ba Taalor. Though the crews would be working longer hours they divided their forces and regained control of the other three ships.
Truatha was wise enough to know that she was not the king. Donaie Swarl would decide what happened next. Had Wheklam spoken to her at that moment she would have obeyed her god, of course, but barring that, she deferred to her king.
There are many reasons that people are afraid of the Louron. The Sa’ba Taalor learned one of them that day.
* * *
“We haven’t spoken much of late.” Nachia’s voice was soft and bordered on cautious. That meant she was worried about him, so Desh put on his brightest voice and smiled reassuringly.
“No, we haven’t. That pesky business with the Sa’ba Taalor keeps getting in the way.”
She smiled obligingly. The problem with people who are close to you is that they can often tell when you’re lying, whether or not that lie is made with words. She could tell. There was nothing he could do about that.
Rather than dwell on the obvious, Desh deflected the worry with a question. “Has your Inquisitor discovered the guilty party yet?”
“Oh, he knows. He’s known for quite some time. He just wants to give my dear cousin every chance to confess before turning him over to me.”
“And what do you intend to do about the situation?”
“Laister was planning to have me assassinated. I know that’s a traditional manner of handling the internal problems in my family, but I don’t particularly appreciate it in this case.” She walked around Desh’s private chambers as if she owned the place, which to be fair, was technically true.
Nachia plucked an apple from a bowl of fruit and commenced eating it. “I believe I’ll have him executed properly.”
“Really? What a novel idea.”
“Do you disagree?”
Desh smiled. It was the sort of smile that had made more than one person pale when dealing with him.
“You have an interesting quandary. On the one hand, you have every reason to have Laister executed. Doing so could, depending on who you talk to, even cement your position as a ruler who will tolerate no nonsense. On the other side of this debate, many would argue that solidarity within the Imperial Family is a must in times of war.”
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