He remembered running through the field and roaring, screaming like a man running into his first battle. The fire had swept through the dry plain, though swords and pikes had also done grisly work.
His two strongest surviving memories were finding the animals burned to death in their cages, and an old woman—to this day Killian had no idea who she was—telling him someone from the crowd had reported Marney for spreading sedition against the emperor. Killian could only remember Marney saying something about helping Seranthia’s street urchins.
Killian and Carla didn’t find Marney’s body, or the fire-eater twins, or Jak the mime and several others. They raced back to Seranthia, arriving outside the Wall just in time.
The emperor’s men had them lined up on top of the Wall.
Killian saw they’d been cut by the whip, Marney worst of all. He remembered Carla sobbing beside him, and then Killian’s colleagues—his family—were pushed.
Marney was last, and Killian could swear their eyes met, and then the only man who’d ever been kind to him fell from the impossible height. Like the others, his body made a little puff of dust when he hit the ground.
It was the last time Killian saw Carla. He didn’t know if he helped her in her grief, or was too stricken himself to be of any use. The memories simply weren’t there. He knew he’d carried the bodies back to the forest and spent days burying them all, even the animals.
Killian never sought Carla out. He went back to Salvation.
And there he met Primate Melovar Aspen and heard about a plan to end the emperor’s rule.
Killian forced himself to let go of the iron bars as the memories came rushing back. He now stared at her; she’d changed, but then he supposed so had he.
“Hello, Killian,” Carla said with the same lopsided grin she always had.
“Hello, Carla,” Killian whispered.
“Are you going to invite me into your palace?”
The rushing guards finally caught up to Killian. “Open the gate,” he ordered.
The iron drew apart, and Carla stepped through.
Killian’s lost love had returned.
6
Flurries of frigid air dashed themselves against the window, almost causing Miro to flinch, as if some ghostly enemy rattled at the glass. He wondered when this cursed cold weather would end: warmth would make things much more difficult for a revenant army.
Unfortunately, Tingara’s cold spell had carried through Torakon and the Azure Plains, to Mara Maya and even all the way to Ralanast. Winter was reluctant to give way to spring. Miro and Amber’s journey overland from Seranthia to Ralanast had been an ordeal of constant shivering.
As he paced the length of High Lord Tiesto Telmarran’s private dining hall in Rialan Palace, home of the Halrana high lord, Miro wondered what had transpired back in Sarostar and the free cities in his absence. He’d left people back home he could count on: Amelia, Bartolo, and Deniz, to name a few. But he itched to get back home to Altura. He’d scanned the missives from Sarostar, but there was still no word of the enemy. Even so, no message was instantaneous, not with the signal towers still being built. Miro could only hope the enemy had yet to be sighted.
He was basing so much on hope.
Miro clenched and unclenched his fists as he thought about Ella, wondering if she’d arrived in Agira Lahsa. He hoped she was safe.
He hated having to use the people close to him, but whom else could he trust?
And with his arrival in Ralanast, he was now about to give Amber an impossible task, when all she wanted was to go home to their son, Tomas, currently being looked after by Rogan’s wife, Amelia. With Amber gone, Miro knew he would feel like he was missing a limb.
Miro’s pacing took him back to the window, and once more he looked through the glass, seeing Ralanast, capital of Halaran, spread out before his eyes, stretching in all directions. His eye was drawn to the magnificent Terra Cathedral, and he remembered spending his first night with Amber near the great dome, after the liberation of Ralanast.
Lord of the Sky, that felt like an eon ago.
Miro glanced at Tiesto. He would once have described the Halrana high lord as fresh faced, though his frequent worried expression made him look older than he was. Yet Tiesto had grown into his position and looked every inch a high lord. Perhaps it was that Tiesto’s worried face had grown tighter still.
“I fear it won’t be long now,” Miro said to Tiesto. “It will have taken Sentar Scythran time to gather the essence he needs, and the ships, but he’s in a hurry. Are your constructs ready? And your men?”
“I’d like another week . . .”
“We might not have another week.”
“I realize that, Miro, but . . .”
“We need you now!” Miro glared.
Tiesto flinched as if Miro had punched him.
Miro dropped his gaze. “My apologies, High Lord. My plea at the Chorum was an utter failure. We still have many cities to connect to the signaling system, including Sarostar itself. No one will pledge assistance. I wonder if the essence cost to build the system is worth it at all.”
“We voted for you,” Tiesto said. “But they think it’s more fair . . .”
“Fair?” Miro’s tone was bitter. “What’s not fair is that Loua Louna is protected on all sides. Vezna is protected by us. Yet if we fall, so will they.”
“I’m sorry,” Tiesto said.
Miro sighed. “No, Tiesto. I should apologize. You’ve supported us every step of the way. I’ve heard the rumors; some of them say I’ve invented all this. It doesn’t matter what we did in the war against the primate.”
“A few stupid people . . .”
“Yes, but some of those people have power.” Miro tried to force himself to relax. “How soon can your forces be ready? Please give me some good news.”
“Is anyone ever ready? You know better than anyone that war takes time and is as much about logistics as brave hearts. The best I can give you is two days.”
Miro breathed with relief. “Two days?”
“In two days we’ll take the bulk of our constructs and fighting men to Altura. I’ll give the order tonight.”
Miro turned to Tiesto and spoke with sincerity. “High Lord, thank you. With the other houses worrying only about themselves, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your support.”
“My people owe you an eternal debt. We’ll fight with you to the end.”
“I just hope that isn’t what happens,” Miro muttered.
He wiped a hand over his face, feeling a level of tiredness he’d never felt before, not even in the last war—and the real struggle hadn’t even started yet.
“The Veznans will appreciate you sending your wife. It’s a strong statement,” Tiesto said.
“Yes, but will they promise aid?”
“We can only hope.”
Miro pondered. Amber would soon leave to connect Rosarva, the Veznan capital, to the signaling system, with her most important objective being to convince the isolationist Veznans to support whoever called.
Whoever called.
Miro was the only man in the Empire who’d spoken to Sentar Scythran at length. While in the lands across the sea, he’d been captured and beaten, and he’d heard the Lord of the Night’s plans.
He knew it was going to be Altura.
Back in Seranthia, Ella’s friend Shani had promised to do her best to convince Petrya to help, but Miro had heard the apprehension in the elementalist’s voice. The war was over, wasn’t it? No one wanted to think about a new one.
“He’s coming,” Miro whispered.
“What did you say, High Lord?” Tiesto asked.
“I said he’s coming,” Miro said. “It won’t be long now.”
“High Lord, can I give you some advice, much as you won’t appreciate hearing it?”
Miro smiled wryly. “Go on.”
“Get some rest. We’ve gone through the plans a dozen times. You’re desperate to get back to Altura, I can see,
but unless you have a few horses from the desert tucked away, you can’t run all that way. We’re in constant communication, and we’d have heard if a fleet had been sighted. Let tomorrow worry about tomorrow.”
Miro grinned, realizing he was getting advice about worrying from Tiesto Telmarran. “Thank you, High Lord. I’ll take your advice in the spirit it was given. What time is it?”
“Four hours before dawn.”
“Perfect.” Miro smiled. “I thank you for your hospitality. A warm bed and a good Halrana meal in my belly. A solid night’s rest for once. We’ll leave at dawn, and I’ll see you in Sarostar.”
Ella and Jehral drew up as they reached the heights just below Wondhip Pass. Behind them, harnesses jingled and the swarthy men who made up Jehral’s guard called out to one another.
The air was dry and cool up here, high in the mountains, and the view, all encompassing. In the north, Ella could now see glimpses of the forests and farmland of Altura. Behind the company of guards, to the south, the rugged red land of Petrya gave way to the yellow expanse of the Hazara desert. To the east, the peaks of the Elmas formed an indomitable barrier, stretching as far as the eye could see. Looking westward, the blue ocean filled her vision, as unbroken and unchanging as the sky.
“We’re nearly there,” Ella said. “It’s not much farther.”
Jehral grunted as he kicked his gelding forward, but this final leg to Wondhip Pass, the precarious route connecting Altura and Halaran to Petrya and the Hazara Desert, was treacherous and strewn with loose rubble.
“I’m going to have to dismount,” Jehral said. “Your horse might be able to keep going, but Burin here does not like carrying my weight while rolling around on the rocks.”
“Yet another thing women are better at,” Ella said, grinning. “We’re lighter and make better riders.”
“You sound like my sister,” Jehral said. “She also insists on riding like a man.” Jehral slipped off his horse as he called back to the company of desert men. “Dismount!”
As she waited for the Hazarans, Ella looked back the way they’d come. They’d covered an incredible distance in the past weeks; horses gave the Hazarans a decisive advantage when it came to travel. Ella had now built her towers in a long line from Agira Lahsa through the desert, keeping each in sight of the next but able to space them far apart because of the lack of intervening trees and mountains.
Making a detour east, she’d also connected the Petryan capital, Tlaxor, to the chain, and when she built this final station high in the Elmas, at Wondhip Pass, Jehral would return home, having escorted Ella to Altura’s border. Ella’s task with the reflectors was nearly done.
Ella wished she could have spent longer with Shani in Tlaxor, but she was still pleased to have been able to see her friend. Shani was doing all she could to convince the Petryan high lord to promise aid. Shani seemed determined, but not hopeful.
Ella patted the letter she carried in a pocket of her dress, for Bartolo, currently training soldiers at the Pens in Sarostar, from his wife. Ella knew Shani was sad that the two of them were apart. They regularly traveled back and forth, but both had strong ties with their homelands. She wondered if they’d ever choose to live together in either Altura or Petrya.
Jehral and his troops now led their horses by the reins as they picked their way over the rocks, and the company’s journey into the mountain pass continued. Soon the path leveled off to enter a cleft in the rock, with high walls rising on both sides. Ahead Ella saw more of the green land to the north revealed in the view. Drinking in the sight of the emerald forests and blue ribbons of the Sarsen’s tributaries, she felt an intense longing to return to her homeland. Turning and checking her position, she made sure she could still see the red earth of Petrya behind her.
She was at the absolute middle of the pass.
“This is the place,” Ella said.
Jehral nodded and ordered his men turned out in a defensive formation. Ella reached into her satchel and removed three thin rods, as thick as her wrist and as long as her arm, placing them on the ground.
She reached into her bag again and took out one of the triangular prisms. Keeping the reflector covered by her body, Ella whispered a series of activation sequences and watched with satisfaction as the prism cycled through one hue after another. When her tests were complete, she took out a triangular piece of flat metal and fitted each of the rods into holes on the corners of the steel base.
Ella placed the pyramid-shaped prism on top of the metal triangle. The prism now stood on three legs.
When she was just a young girl, Ella had seen an enchanter rescue her brother from certain death when Miro fell through a platform of thin ice. This enchanter, as some did, carried a staff, and he could lengthen and shorten it using a series of activation runes. The enchanter used his staff to rescue Miro, and from that day Ella had wanted to become an enchantress.
Ella had applied a similar concept to the legs of the reflector’s tower. She’d chosen a good place; she was high, with a view of both Altura’s south and Petrya’s northwest, and there were no trees or other obstacles in the way. Even so, the tower should be tall, and she began to chant softly to the legs, speaking to each in turn, lengthening them evenly, watching the rune-covered metal grow longer.
When the legs were as long as three men were tall, Jehral and his men helped Ella mount the tower at the center of the pass. They stuck each foot of the three legs firmly against the walls so that anyone passing this way would have to pass under the prism. Ella used her wand to fuse each foot to the surrounding rock. It took some time before she was satisfied: This tower wouldn’t go anywhere, not even in the strongest storm.
“There,” Ella said, looking at Jehral. “The tower is complete.” Sadness hit her with sudden force. “I suppose this is where we part ways.”
Jehral opened his arms and they embraced.
“I don’t know why,” Ella said into his chest, “but I don’t think we can win.”
Jehral pushed her away and looked into her eyes. “Have hope.”
“If we call, will you answer? Please, Jehral, you’re closest to him. Make sure he comes.”
“We will come.”
Jehral glanced away and then turned back, his expression anxious. “Ella, I know about the kalif’s desire. I wish to say: do what your heart demands. I will always be your friend regardless, and the kalif will help your people if you call.”
Ella knew that to Jehral these weren’t just words. The Hazaran’s strong sense of honor gave weight to the statement. She stammered a reply.
“My orders are to turn back now, but I don’t like leaving you like this,” Jehral said.
“I’ll be fine,” Ella said. One of Jehral’s men held Ella’s horse. “Thank you for the horse. It’s hard being out of touch.”
“Fare you well, and salut, Ella,” Jehral said. He called to his men. “Draw up! We’ll lead our horses back down the mountain until we’re past the rocks.”
“Wait, Jehral,” Ella said. “I almost forgot.”
She once more reached into her workbag and took out the scabbard lying beside the rods. Walking over, she handed it to a surprised Jehral.
“This is for you.”
A sword rested snugly in the long scabbard like a hand in a glove. Jehral held the hilt of the curved scimitar in one hand and the scabbard in the other as he drew the blade six inches, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw the symbols on the shining steel.
“I had Ilathor find the blade for me. He said it’s as fine as his own. Do you know the Larbi word for the desert rose?”
Jehral opened his mouth.
“No, don’t say it now,” Ella said.
“Al-maia,” she knew he’d been about to say.
“Say this word to activate the sword. To deactivate it, say the Larbi name for the dust storm.” Ella grinned. “Some Larbi words are derived from the runic language. I hope that it keeps you safe. I don’t know when we will next meet, but I hope it will be unde
r favorable circumstances. Farewell!”
Ella inserted a foot into her stirrup and grabbed hold of the pommel to pull herself up onto her horse’s back. She looked out over her forested home and past; the distant ocean filled her with dread.
Ella kicked her horse forward and waved.
As she rode, Ella pictured the devastation of Shar and recalled Miro’s vivid descriptions of the fates of Veldria and Gokan. The enemy would come with an armada of ships. They would have black powder, and they would have revenants.
It had been too long since Ella had been to the Academy of Enchanters. She’d been busy building the new machines at Mornhaven and then in Seranthia for Killian’s coronation and the Chorum. Though she wasn’t on the best terms with High Enchanter Merlon, she looked forward to once more seeing the Green Tower and the Great Court.
It was time for Ella to do her part and to create some weapons of her own.
7
Tapel ducked a blow from the son of a prosperous merchant and then countered with a clumsy thrust. He tried to shut out the calls of encouragement and derision from the boys circled around him but was conscious of their watching eyes. Tapel was desperate to make a good impression.
All the boys training at the Pens in Sarostar knew Rogan Jarvish was married to Tapel’s mother. He couldn’t think of anything worse than embarrassing himself, but these boys had all been training ever since they could hold a sword. If it weren’t for Bladesinger Bartolo’s private instruction, he wouldn’t have lasted as long as the four blows struck so far in this spar.
Tapel took a step back, shifting one foot behind the other in the way he’d been taught. His opponent came forward to meet him and raised his sword as if to strike. Tapel lifted his practice sword to parry, but instead of striking, the merchant’s son kicked Tapel hard in the side of his knee.
Tapel winced but managed to stay on his feet. Another feint then became a real blow, and Tapel’s arm numbed at the shock of the two wooden swords colliding. Tapel couldn’t believe the strength of the blow. His opponent was three years younger than him.
The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) Page 6