In her nightgown, Thrace looked almost like the girl from Dahlgren, but there was something different about her—akin to sadness yet lacking even the passion for that. Often she would sit and stare at nothing for hours and when she spoke, her words were dull and emotionless. She never laughed, cried, or smiled. In this way, she appeared to have successfully transformed from a lively peasant girl into a true empress—serene and unflappable. Yet at what cost?
“It was late like this,” Thrace said, looking out the window. Her voice sounded disconnected, as if in a trance. “I was having a dream, but a squeaking noise woke me. I came to the window and I saw them. They were in the courtyard below. Men with torches, as many as a dozen and they wheeled a sealed wagon. The men were knights, dressed in black and scarlet armor like those we saw in Dahlgren. They spoke of the man inside the box as if he was a monster, and even though he was hooded and chained they were afraid. After taking him away, the wagon rolled back out of the courtyard.” Thrace turned to face her. “I thought it was a dream until just now. I have a lot of unpleasant dreams.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“Three months, perhaps more.”
Shivering, Arista sat up. The fire had long since died, and the stone walls did nothing to keep the chill out…the window was open again. Regardless of the time of day, or how cold the temperature, Modina insisted. Not with words—she rarely spoke—but no matter how often Arista closed the window Modina quietly opened it again.
“That would coincide with Gaunt’s disappearance. You never heard anything else about this prisoner?”
“No, and you would be surprised how much you hear when you are very quiet.”
“Thrace, come—”
The empress halted her by the sudden tilt of her head and the curious look on her face. “No one calls me that anymore.”
“A shame, I’ve always liked the name.”
“Me too.”
“Come back to bed. You’ll catch a cold.”
Thrace walked toward her, looking at where the mirror once hung. “I will need to get a new mirror before Wintertide.”
***
Dawn brought breakfast and morning reports from Amilia and Modina’s tutor. Nimbus was bright-eyed and cheery, bowing to both—a courtesy Amilia refused to extend to Arista. The Imperial Secretary looked haggard. The dark circles under her eyes grew deeper each day. Holding her jaw stiff, and her fists clenched, she glared at Arista eating breakfast in Thrace’s bed. Despite Amilia’s obvious contempt, Arista could not help but like her. It was not hard to recognize the same fierce protectiveness in Amilia that Hilfred exhibited.
“They’ve stopped the search for the Witch of Melengar,” Amilia reported, looking coldly at Arista. “They think she’s either headed to Melengar or Ratibor. Patrols are still out, but no one really expects to find her.”
“What about where Degan Gaunt might be held?” Arista asked.
Amilia glanced at Nimbus who stepped up. “Well, my research at the Hall of Records is inconclusive. In ancient imperial times, Aquesta was a city called Rionillion, and a building of some significance stood on this site. Ironically, several parchments refer to it as a prison, but it was destroyed during the early part of the civil wars that followed the death of the last emperor. Later, in 2453, Glenmorgan the First built a fortress here as a defense against rebellions. That fortress is the very palace in which we now stand.
“None of the histories mention anything about a dungeon—odd given the unrest. I’ve made a detailed search of nearly every section of the palace, interviewed chambermaids, studied old maps and plans, but I haven’t uncovered a single mention of any kind.”
“What does Aquesta do with criminals?” Arista asked.
“There are three jails in the city that deal with minor offenses, and the Warric prison in Whitehead for harsher cases that don’t result in execution. And then there is the infamous Manzant Prison and Salt Mine in Maranon for the most severe crimes.”
“Perhaps it’s not a dungeon or prison at all,” Arista said. “Maybe it’s merely a secret room.”
“I suppose I could make some inquiries along those lines.”
“What is it, Amilia?” Thrace asked catching a thoughtful look on her secretary’s face.
“What? Oh, nothing…” Amilia’s expression switched to annoyance. “This is very dangerous. Asking all these questions and nosing about. It’s risky enough ordering extra food with each meal. Someone will notice. Saldur is not a fool.”
“But, what were you thinking just now, Amilia?” Thrace repeated.
“Nothing.”
“Amilia?”
The secretary frowned. “I just—well, a few weeks ago you talked about a dark hole…”
“You think I was there—in this dungeon?”
“Don’t, Modina. Don’t think about it,” Amilia begged. “You’re too fragile.”
“I have to try. If I can remember—”
“You don’t have to do anything. This woman—she comes here—she doesn’t care about you—or what might happen. All she cares about is herself. You’ve done more than enough. If you won’t turn her in, at least let me get her out of here and away from you. Nimbus and I—”
“No,” Thrace said softly. “She needs us…and I need her.”
***
“Dirt,” Thrace said and shivered.
Arista looked over. She was in the midst of trying to determine how to finish her latest letter to Hilfred when she heard the word. The empress had knelt before the open window since Amilia and Nimbus left, but this was the first she had spoken.
“Damp, cold—terrible cold, and voices, I remember them—cries and weeping, men and women, screams and prayers. Everything was dark.” Thrace wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock. “Splashing, I remember splashing, a hollow sound, creaking, a whirl, and the splash. Sometimes there were distant, echoing voices coming from above, falling out of a tunnel. The walls were stone, the door wood. A bowl—yes, every day a bowl—soup that smelled bad. There was so little to eat.”
Thrace rocked harder, her voice trembling, her breath hitching.
“I could hear the blows and cries, men and women, day and night, screaming for mercy. Then I heard a new voice added to the wailing, and realized it was my own. I killed my family. I killed my mother, my brother, and little Hickory. I destroyed my whole village. I killed my father. I was being punished.”
Thrace began to cry.
Arista moved to her, but the girl jumped at her touch and cowered away. Crawling against the wall and sobbing, she rubbed the stone with her hands, wetting it with her tears.
Fragile? Arista thought. Thrace took a blow that would kill most people. No matter what Amilia believed, Thrace was not fragile. Yet even granite will crack if you hit it with a big enough hammer.
“Are you all right?” Arista asked.
“No, I keep searching but I can’t find it. I can’t understand the sounds. It is so familiar and yet…” she trailed off and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I wanted to help. I wanted—”
“It’s okay, Thrace. It’s okay.”
The empress frowned. “You have to stop calling me that.” She looked up at her. “Thrace is dead.”
Chapter 16
The Village
It was perpetually twilight. The jungle’s canopy blocked what little sunlight managed to penetrate the rain clouds. A hazy mist shrouded their surroundings, and intensified the deeper they pressed into the jungle. Exotic plants with stalks the size of men’s legs towered overhead. Huge leaves adorned with intricate patterns and vibrant flowers of purple, yellow, and red surrounded the party. It left Hadrian feeling small, shrunken to the size of an insect, crawling across the floor of a giant’s forest.
Rain constantly plagued them. The sound of water danced on a million leaves, sounding like thunder and when actual thunder cracked—it was the voice of a god. Everything was wet. Clothes stuck to their skin and hung like weights. Boots squished audib
ly with every step. Their hands wrinkled like old men’s.
Royce rode on the back of a Gunguan, what the Vintu called the pack ponies. He was awake but weak. A day had passed since the attack, because Wesley had insisted on burying Staul. Their new captain proclaimed he would not allow the beasts to have a taste of any of his crew and insisted on a deep grave. No one complained at the strenuous work of cutting through the thick mat of roots. Hadrian doubted Wesley really cared about the fate of Staul’s carcass, but the work granted Royce time to rest, kept the crew busy, and affirmed Wesley’s commitment to them. Hadrian thought once again about the similarities between the ex-midshipman and his famous brother.
Royce traveled wrapped in his cloak, the weight of the rain collapsing the hood around his head. It was not a good sign, at least not for Thranic and Defoe. Until now, Royce had played the part of the good little sailor, but with the reemergence of the hood, and the loss of his white kerchief, Hadrian knew that role had ended. They had spoken little since the attack. Not surprisingly, Royce was in no mood for idle discussion. By now Hadrian guessed his friend had imagined killing Thranic at least a dozen times with a few Defoes thrown in here and there for variety. Hadrian had seen Royce wounded before and was familiar with the cocooning—only what would emerge from that cloak and hood would not be a butterfly.
Thranic, Defoe, and Levy traveled at the end of the train and Hadrian often caught them whispering. They wisely kept their distance, avoiding attention. Wesley led the party, along with Dilladrum who made a point of not taking sides or venturing anything remotely resbling an opinion. Dilladrum remained jolly as always and focused his attention on the Vintu.
Hadrian was most surprised with Derning. When Royce was most vulnerable, his shipboard nemesis had come to his aid rather than taking advantage. Hadrian would have bet money that, on the subject of Royce’s guilt, Derning would have sided with Thranic. Wyatt never had the chance to find out his reason for volunteering, but now more than ever Hadrian was convinced Derning was not part of Thranic’s band. Antun Bulard was part of Thranic’s troop—of that there was no doubt—but lacked the ruthlessness of the others. He was merely a resource and, having shown an interest, Hadrian became Bulard’s new best friend.
“Look! Look there.” Bulard pointed to a brilliant flower blooming overhead. The old man took to walking beside Hadrian, sharing his sense of discovery along the way. “Gorgeous, simply gorgeous, have you ever seen the like? I dare say I haven’t. Still, that isn’t saying much, now is it?”
Bulard reminded Hadrian of a long-haired cat; his usually billowing robe and fluffy, white hair deflated in the rain leaving a remarkably thin body. He held up a withered hand to protect his eyes as he searched the trees.
“Another one of those wonderful long beaked birds,” the historian said. “I love the way they hover.”
Hadrian smiled at him. “It’s not that you don’t seem to mind the rain that amazes me, it’s that you don’t seem to notice it at all.”
Bulard frowned. “My parchments are a disaster. They stick together, the ink runs, I haven’t been able to write anything down, and as I mentioned at our first meeting, my head is no place to store memories of such wonderful things. It makes me feel I have wasted my life locked in dusty libraries and scriptoriums. Don’t do what I did, Hadrian. You’re still a young man. Take my advice, live your life to the fullest. Breathe the air, taste the wine, kiss the girls, the never forget that the tales of another are never as wondrous as adventures of your own. I’ll admit I was, well, concerned about this trip. No, I will say it truthfully—I was scared. What does a man my age have to be afraid of, you wonder? Everything. Life becomes more precious when you have less to spare. I’m not ready to die. Why, look at all that I have never seen.”
“You have seen horses before, and known women right?” Hadrian asked, with a wry grin.
Bulard looked at him curiously, “I’m a historian, not a monk.”
Hadrian nearly tripped.
“I realize I don’t look it now, but I was quite handsome once. I was married three times in fact. Outlived all of them, poor darlings. I still miss them, you know—each one. My silly, little mind hasn’t misplaced their faces, and I can’t imagine it ever will. Have you ever been in love, Hadrian?”
“I’m not sure. How do you tell?”
“Love? Why, it’s like coming home.”
Hadrian considered the comment.
“What are you thinking?” Bulard asked.
Hadrian shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Yes, you were. What? You can tell me. I am an excellent repository for secrets. I will likely forget, but if I don’t, well, I’m an old man in a remote jungle. I’m sure to die before I can repeat anything.”
Hadrian smiled then shrugged. “I was just thinking about the rain.”
***
The trail widened, revealing a great, cascading waterfall and a dozen grass-thatched buildings clustered at the center of a small clearing. The domed-roof huts rested on high wooden stilts accessed by short stairs or ladders depending on the size and apparent prestige of the structure. A central fire pit occupied the very center of the clearing surrounded by a ring of colorfully painted stones and wooden poles decorated in animal skins, skulls, and strings of bones, beads, and long vibrant feathers. The inhabitants were dark-haired, dark-eyed, umber-skinned men and women dressed in beautifully painted cloths and silks. They paused as Dilladrum advanced respectfully. Elder men met him before the fire ring, where they exchanged bows.
“Who are these people, do you suppose?” Bulard asked.
“Tenkins,” Hadrian replied.
Bulard raised his eyebrows.
The village was familiar to Hadrian, though he had never been there. Hundreds of similar ones were scattered across the peninsula, mirror images of each other. The rubble of Eastern Calis was the last standing residue of the first empire. After civil wars tore apart the west, Calis still flew the old imperial banners and for centuries formed the bulwark against the advancing Ghazel horde. Time, however, was on the Ghazel’s side. The last of the old world died when the ancient eastern capital of Urlineus fell to the goblin hordes sweeping through the jungles. They might have overrun all of Avryn, if not for Glenmorgan III.
Glenmorgan III had rallied the nobles and defeated the goblins at the Battle of Vilan Hills. The Ghazel fell back, but were never driven off the mainland. Betrayed shortly after his victory, Glenmorgan III never finished his work of reestablishing the kingdom’s borders. This task fell to lesser men who squabbled over the spoils of war and were too distracted to stop the Ghazel from digging in. Urlineus, the last great city of the Old Empire, remained in the hands of the Ghazel, and Calis had never been the same.
Fractured and isolated, the eastern half of the country struggled against the growing pressure of the Ghazel nation in a maelstrom of chaos and confusion. Self-appointed warrior-kings fought against each other. Out of desperation, some enlisted the aid of the Ghazel to help vanquish a rival. Ties formed, lines blurred, and out of this tenuous alliance the Tenkins were born—humans who had adopted the Ghazel’s ways, traditions, and beliefs. For this, Calians ostracized the Tenkin, forcing their kind deeper into the jungles where they lived on the borderlands between the anvil and the hammer.
Dilladrum returned. “This is the village of Oudorro. I’ve been here many times. Although Tenkin, they are a friendly and generous people. I have asked them to let us rest here for the night. Tomorrow morning we will push on toward the Palace of the Four Winds. Beyond this point, travel will be much harder and unpleasant, so we will need a good night’s rest. I must caution you, however, please do nothing to offend or provoke these people. They are courteous but can be fierce if roused.”
The physical appearance of the Tenkin always impressed Hadrian. Staul was a crude example of his kin, and these men were more what he remembered. Lean, bronzed muscles and strong facial features that looked hewn from blocks of stone were the hallmarks of the Tenkin warrior.
Like the great cats of the jungle, their bodies were graceful in their strength and simplicity. The women were breathtaking. Long dark hair wreathed sharp cheekbones and almond eyes. Their satin-smooth skin enveloped willowy curves. The civilized world never saw Tenkin women. A closely guarded treasure, they never left their villages.
The inhabitants showed neither fear nor concern at the procession of the foreigners. Most observed their arrival with silent curiosity. The women showed more interest, pressing forward to peer and talking amongst themselves.
“I thought Tenkins were grotesque,” Bulard said with the casual manner and volume of a man commenting on animals. “I had heard they were abominations of nature, but these people are beautiful.”
“A common misconception,” Hadrian explained. “People tell tales that Tenkin are the result of interbreeding between Calians and Ghazel but if you ever saw a goblin, you’d understand why that’s not possible.”
“I guess you can’t believe everything you read in books. But don’t spread that around or I’ll be out of a job.”
When they reached the village center, the Vintu went about their work and began unpacking. They moved with stoic familiarity. The party waited, listening to the hiss of rain on the fire and the mummer of the crowd gathering around them. With an expectant expression, Dilladrum struggled to see over their heads. He exchanged looks with Wesley but said nothing. Soon, a small elderly Tenkin entered the circle dressed in a leopard wrap. His skin was like wrinkled leather, and his hair gray steel. He walked with a slow dignity and an upturned chin. Dilladrum smiled, and the two spoke rapidly. Then the elderly Tenkin clapped his hands and shouted. The crowd fell back and he led the crew of the Emerald Storm into the largest of the buildings. It had four, tree-sized pillars holding up a latticework of intertwined branches overlaid with thatch. The interior lacked partitions and stood as an open hall lined with tanned skins and pillows made from animal hides.
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