Born Of Fire And Darkness (Book 2)

by India Drummond

  I can teach you to love. I can free you from pain. Or, if you prefer, I can give you such rapture that your satisfaction becomes torment.

  Graiphen was saved from having to answer by their arrival at the inner sanctum. It was positioned similarly in this temple as Braetin’s was in hers, but there the likenesses ended. The door which bore a sigil of a turtledove was unguarded. The interior was opulent and luxurious, bursting with pure white light and covered in comfortable, pale carpets.

  In the farthest corner of the room, he saw a soft, white bed draped in beige furs. At her urging, he went to it and ran his hand along the coverlets. I am enjoying the sensation of humanity. I had forgotten how gentle and supple this world could be.

  Month after month of deep meditation practice in the service of a harsh mistress allowed Graiphen to keep his mind clear. He felt a ripple of Pang’s pleasure, and he sensed she enjoyed his discomfort and resistance.

  Before long, Vono reappeared, followed by dozens of women, all wearing robes of pure white, marking them as priestesses.

  “Qardona Betina has been a loyal servant for more than two decades,” he said. The woman who stood next to him was handsome, to be sure, but did not appeal to Graiphen personally. She had long brown hair, streaked with white at the temples.

  “No,” Pang said flatly through Graiphen. She rejected dozens just as quickly, some even before Vono had a moment to extoll her virtues, much to his dismay. As she did so, Graiphen gestured for each one to depart, continuing on until there were none remaining.

  “Are there no others?” Pang demanded. Graiphen felt the first stirring of her temper. He breathed through the uncomfortable constriction in his chest.

  “Only acolytes, young girls in training. They would not serve you so well, I think, Mistress. Surely someone of experience is better suited. I can bring the others back for a second look, or if you would reconsider, the men. Even myself, as I said earlier—”

  “No.” Pang’s voice thundered and Graiphen could not help but feel a thrill at the sheer power that coursed through him.

  “Forgive me, Mistress,” Vono said quickly. “I will bring in the acolytes.”

  He left and a few moments later returned, followed by dozens of girls dressed in the sheer pink or yellow robes of those aspiring to become priests.

  Graiphen walked along the line of them, and Pang evaluated each one. She dismissed those who were too young to have curves, those who were plain or shy or with an awkward demeanor. Her voice resonated in his mind. Less than a dozen left. Who would you choose?

  “My lady?” Graiphen said quietly. “What matter is it who I would choose?”

  I wish my children to be beautiful.

  Graiphen turned the thought in his mind, but resisted the urge to question. Instead, he did as he was instructed, reminding himself that by enduring this nonsense, he was serving Braetin. He gestured for those remaining to line up in front of him. Ten young women. He spoke thoughtfully to Pang. “Your vessel should be beautiful but look strong. Beauty on its own is not enough if she looks dull of thought.”

  Choose.

  One after another, he pointed at five young women. “Go.” They departed quickly. He looked at the remaining girls’ bodies, the structure of their faces. He took his time and evaluated them carefully. He stepped in front of one. “What is your name?”

  “Sonnella,” she said quietly and lowered her eyes.

  “No.” He pointed for her to go. He felt Pang’s curiosity stir, but she did not voice a question. He stopped in front of another. “Yours?”

  “Kiarana,” she said, giving him a half-smile.

  He hesitated. Her cheeks were rounder than he usually found appealing and her hips were wide and her breasts heavy. He’d been about to dismiss her, but something in her bright blue eyes drew him in. She stared back at him brazenly.

  “This one,” Pang said to Vono. “The others may go.”

  The priest waved the others away.

  Kiarana licked her lips and cast her eyes down, but Graiphen recognized it for a coy gesture. She glanced up again and met Graiphen’s eyes. “You honor me, Mistress,” she said to Pang. Slipping her fingers to her own neckline, she pushed back her robes, letting them fall into a puddle at her feet. She stood in front of Graiphen, naked. “I am yours to command.”

  Take her, Pang commanded Graiphen. Take her, and I will leave your mind. Take her, and give me a son.

  “Vono,” Graiphen said. “My robes.”

  “Yes, Ultim Qardone.” Although they were technically of the same rank in their respective temples, Vono expertly attended Graiphen, unwrapping the older man’s clothing, layer by layer.

  Chapter 4

  The emperor of Talmor, Jorek Jabrilion Tareq Musalik Khourov the Eighth, named for several grandfathers and men of note in his line, did as his father before him: he lived a life of service to the empire, but left the running of the empire to the senate. He stepped in from time to time, when it became clear that the politicians were close to disaster or when they needed someone to make a decision that could not be argued with. Their relationship was symbiotic, but he knew many of their number wouldn’t mind if the royal family simply vanished from the lives and memory of the citizens.

  But the Khourov line served a deeper purpose in Talmor, one few remembered or perhaps even understood, but an important one nonetheless. Politicians came and went. As members of noble families, they were landowners and employers—yes, the generators of wealth and the strength of the nation. But the people viewed the emperor as more than a man. He was a symbol. He was eternal and incorruptible. Senators had more influence in the people’s day to day life, perhaps, but when a soldier laid down his life for Talmor, he did it in the name of the emperor, in the name of an ideal.

  Senators could think about their own needs, the needs of their province and those they directly represented, the needs of the nation, even. But Jorek had to represent and be faithful to the ideal.

  When he heard of the resurgence in influence of the temple of Braetin, his first inclination was to think little on the stories. Men jockeyed for position, and although there were old tales of incredible power wielded by servants of all eight temples, stories he knew better than to dismiss, the old days were gone.

  But much had changed in the past year that altered that thinking. In centuries past, the imperial family was in some ways an arm of the temple. Now they had a senate to give the people a voice they’d not had before. What would have been unthinkable in the days of Jorek the First was now a reality in Talmor. And now Jorek’s seventh namesake, the current emperor, was in the unenviable position of determining how to respond to this revival in religious fervor. It was only a matter of time before the temples set their sights on controlling the throne, on once again shaping the ideal.

  The man who had led the resurgence in Vol, Graiphen Ulbrich, once a senator himself but now the highest priest in the service of one of the Spirits of Shadow, waited outside while the emperor sat quietly amongst a select handful of his advisors and four of his older children and considered. His advisors were there to ask and answer questions; his children to learn. The imperial family no longer led the country politically, except in cases of necessity; however, they bore responsibility for the soul of Talmor, for its spiritual and everlasting well-being. Such a thing could not be left to politicians, and the temples were separate, each having their own needs and desires.

  Jorek raised his hand and silence fell over the room. He lifted an eyebrow to his eldest son Nassore, who nodded.

  “Show in our guest,” Jorek said to the Master of Keys, his head steward.

  When the servant pulled back the immense carved door, the wood groaned loudly. The man who strode down the center of the aisle, a former senator with great presence, was someone Jorek had met several times before. Interestingly, the newcomer seemed changed since their most recent meeting. Graiphen had always possessed what one might call charisma, but the pull was so much more than mere charm or even
the carriage of one who expected his will to be carried out. Jorek was long accustomed to such men.

  “Your imperial highness.” Graiphen bowed, then rose and glanced around the room. “An esteemed assembly. Thank you for receiving me.”

  “Of course,” Jorek said. “Your temple has aided us greatly in dealing with the criminal Seba. The empire is in your debt.”

  “Forgive me if I disagree. As does the senate and indeed the imperial house, the temple of Braetin serves the people of Talmor.”

  Jorek nodded. “We all agree the criminal was a menace to our nation’s peace. That’s why I was surprised to hear that you wish to move him to Vol. Although his trial was swiftly carried out and we have already heard the appeals of his advocates, he has not yet been sentenced. Given his nature and the grievous attacks on members of the senate including yourself, I would not be surprised if the senate choses to see him burned.”

  “Perhaps.” If Graiphen was surprised that the emperor already knew his business, he didn’t show it.

  “And yet here you are.”

  “Indeed, your imperial highness. I serve as my Mistress commands.”

  Jorek paused a moment. “So you confirm that the temple of Braetin wishes to take possession of the prisoner?”

  “Yes. It is widely known that Braetin herself has returned in living form. She has commanded me to make this request. You yourself witnessed her power when she worked through the… conduit… Octavia in putting a stop to Seba’s nefarious activities.”

  Jorek paused at the unseemly emphasis on the word request. “It is widely known that the temple makes many claims about what happened that day, yes.”

  “Do you doubt my Mistress’s power?” Graiphen met Jorek’s eye boldly.

  “The house of Khourov has long upheld the Spirits of Light and Shadow, Ultim Qardone,” Jorek said in a low voice. “I trust your question is not borne of doubt in my power.”

  Graiphen bowed his head. “We are but men, and even the first amongst us must recognize the will of our gods.”

  “Many men petition me, each purporting to speak the will of the Spirits. It is my duty to observe the will of all of the temples and their representatives and balance their disparate aims with the good of the entire population.”

  For a moment, Graiphen looked as though he had a response to that, but he shook his head as though he had changed his mind. “Of course,” he said. “As you observed previously, the temple of Braetin is uniquely able to protect any and all from Seba’s influence. This must, I fear, be done before it is too late.”

  One of Jorek’s advisors, Dul Facime, leaned forward. “Too late?” The man’s bushy eyebrows met in the middle as he frowned.

  Graiphen acknowledged him with a nod. “Yes, Dul. These foreign witches, these conduits, were able to insidiously infect the highest persons in Vol’s Council of Eight. We simply do not wish for Durjin to suffer a similar fate. Now that his trial is over and his guilt assured, we are offering to take the prisoner back to Vol, to contain him and his foul power.”

  The old Dul scratched his white beard as he considered. “But would not executing him achieve the same end?”

  “It would,” Graiphen said thoughtfully. “However, I fear the senate will not wish to execute one of their own, no matter his crimes. His advocates spoke of how he was out of his mind with grief for his wife, how the attacks were made of deep sorrow, not wickedness. Despite the evidence of months if not years of planning of his crimes, I fear these arguments hold some weight, especially here, far from the setting of the horrors of last winter.”

  Jorek leaned forward. “Why did you petition me on this matter rather than the senate itself? Surely your former brethren would listen to your arguments and give them the appropriate weight, considering your own substantial sway. Your not-inconsequential experience as a senator tells you I only interfere in matters of legal procedure when the need is great or the interests of the empire are at stake. Although I observed Seba to be a wicked man, he was, after all, just a man, one who has been tried and convicted of his crimes. Surely his influence is now at a minimum.”

  “As one who felt the sting of the power of these conduits firsthand, your imperial highness, I cannot overstate that merely locking Seba away is insufficient. Allow the temple to assume this burden and rest assured that you need never hear the convict’s name again.”

  “Thank you, Ultim Qardone Graiphen.” The emperor lifted a hand in a gesture of dismissal. “I wish to speak to others on the matter, but your words deserve notice from me, and I will consider them.”

  “As it pleases your imperial highness.” Graiphen bowed low with one hand over his heart. He walked a few steps backward with his head down before turning and leaving the room.

  Once the Master of Keys shut the enormous door behind him, Jorek turned to the others. “Thoughts?”

  “Letting them do what they want with the man does save everyone some trouble,” said Dul Facime.

  “There is that.” Jorek picked at the tapestry cover on his chair as he thought.

  “What is your hesitation, Father?” Jorek’s eldest child, Nassore, asked. At seventeen, the boy was practically a man, nearly ready to assume more responsibility. Even though he was handsome and broad-shouldered, with his mother’s dark eyes, Jorek had always thought his best quality was his patience and deliberate way of thinking.

  The emperor stood and stretched his back as he considered. He glanced at the door. “In truth, I’m not certain. I simply do not trust that man. I never have, even when he was a senator. My father never trusted his father either.”

  “Ah, his arrogance is a family trait, then?” Nassore chuckled.

  Jorek considered. “You have given me an idea, son, because no, what you suggest may not be true. I met Graiphen’s son, if you recall. He did not have an air of self-importance.”

  “Of course. You told us of him and the Kilovian woman Octavia.”

  “Now Talmoran,” Jorek corrected him.

  “Yes, Father,” Nassore bowed his head. “She turned down your request to come here, did she not?”

  Jorek eyed Nassore. Everyone in this room knew full well that was the case, but he didn’t detect any insolence in the question. It served merely as a reminder.

  “Yes. But now we have even more reason to consult with her. Because she is a victim and witness, I intended her to speak at Seba’s sentencing. The senate would likely not call her without my prompting. But now, I wish to know if what Graiphen claims is accurate, that only his temple can contain Seba’s power. She is trained in the same arts, so she will know the truth of it.”

  “Can we trust her?” asked Dula Merria, another of Jorek’s advisors, a round, middle-aged woman with keen intuition and an even keener mind. Her white hair was pulled back into a severe bun and, as always, she had ink stains on her fingers.

  “At this point, I think I trust her more than I would Ultim Qardone Graiphen. I always advocate getting a wide range of opinions. We will hear her words, then decide whether to grant Graiphen’s request.”

  “And what of her refusal to come here?” Dul Facime asked.

  Jorek snapped his fingers at an attendant. “Fetch a scribe.” He turned to Nassore. “I will write to Korbin Ulbrich this time. He has influence with her, and I suspect he also has a unique perspective on both the powers of these conduits as well as insight into his father. I will have both of them here.”

  “And if he refuses, Father? Will you send imperial guardsmen?” Nassore asked.

  “I think I can compose a request they will not refuse.” Jorek smiled at his son.

  Chapter 5

  Korbin waited half the day at the community hall in the immigrant quarter. He knew he might simply have gone to Octavia’s flat that evening, but he wanted time to think, and sitting for a while amongst the petitioners had the added benefit of giving him a place to hide from his other duties.

  He hadn’t seen Octavia in a couple of weeks. The dinner she’d promised to atten
d at his house had been cancelled. One of her people was having a difficult birth and needed her help. Although Talmoran healers and hospitals did not turn away immigrants, Kilovians relied on their conduits. They were healers, herbalists, spiritual leaders, and so much more for their community. And now Octavia was the only one left in Vol, a huge city home to thousands of Kilovian immigrants.

  Korbin believed Octavia’s excuse but grew more thoughtful about the situation when she ignored his attempts to schedule for a different night.

  The minutes and hours ticked by. Korbin sat with the others. He tried to engage them in conversation, and most were polite but not friendly. The rest ignored him completely. Back when he was living as a commoner and working as a Talmor Rider, he’d had a small room off an alleyway in Chelotti Strand. He’d lived, drunk, and gambled with all kinds of people, been accepted as one of them.

  As Dul Korbin Ulbrich, he wore an expensive shirt with ruffles on the sleeves, polished shoes, and a brocade tunic just as any other man of his station would do. He was too well-known to go back to his old job and to Chelotti Strand, no matter how much he wished he could erase his family name from everyone’s memories.

  He was still himself, the same man who’d played stones till the wee hours of the morning, who’d sung raucous songs and tended his own horse. Now if he tried to do those things, those he’d recently called friend responded with awkward silence.

  Korbin sighed. How he missed Eliam. Through it all, Eliam had been a genuine friend, the only one who’d seen him for his true self, regardless of how he dressed or the name he used.

  One after another, Kilovians were called and taken to another room. He realized after a long while that only Talmorans were left. They were no more interested in conversation with him than the Kilovians had been. Finally, the young woman with golden-brown hair who had been popping in and out of the room all day returned. “Dul Korbin Ulbrich?”

  He stood. “That’s me.” Every eye in the crowded room turned to him with open curiosity. How he hated that his name could hush complete strangers and draw their curious stares.