by Alec Hutson
Nel guided him slowly through a simple sequence, turning aside an imaginary slash and then thrusting out with the other arm. “A second rule: don’t throw your knife unless you have another ready.”
“You threw your dagger in the catacombs.”
Nel slipped around to stand in front of him again. “I did,” she said, pulling up her long sleeve to reveal a blade strapped to her forearm. “And I had this if I couldn’t recover my dagger quick enough.” She grinned, her cheeks dimpling. “Actually, I also had this,” she touched her other sleeve, “and this,” she bent down and tapped her shin, then her boot, thigh, and waist, “and this and this and this. I rarely run out.”
Nel snapped off the tip of a low-hanging branch and tossed it to Keilan. “Let’s see what you’ve learned.” Stooping, she picked up one of the longer lengths of wood that littered the manse’s walled courtyard. “A small test.”
Nel settled into the knife-fighter’s crouch she had taught Keilan, and he mirrored her. With a disgusted sigh she lunged forward, quick as a striking serpent, and tapped him in the chest before he could move. “Well, you fail. What should you have done?”
“Knocked your knife away?”
“My knife? Look at its length, this is a sword! You’re supposed to run, remember?”
“Oh,” he said, feeling his face redden.
She laughed again and reached up with her branch to rattle one of the bird cages suspended among the yellow and orange fruit of the persimmon tree. An indignant squawking burst forth, accompanied by the frantic beating of wings.
“I wonder which of these little bastards was the one warbling last night during the witching hour.” Nel gestured to a small arched window on the sprawling manse’s third floor. “That’s where they’ve put me. See how that bower almost brushes the ledge? When that damn bird wouldn’t stop romancing the moon I was sorely tempted to climb out onto this tree and start opening cage doors.”
Keilan smiled, imagining her doing just that. “I don’t think Count d’Veskan would have been very pleased.”
Nel shrugged. “The birds belong to his wife. He’d probably be secretly happy if a few took wing.”
There were certainly enough of them. When Count d’Veskan had received them yesterday in this courtyard, Keilan had tried to count the silver and gold cages hanging in the branches of the huge persimmon tree, losing track at around twenty, when he’d been formally introduced to the Dymorian merchant prince. The count was a large man, well past fifty, his belly straining beneath a doublet of red silk and his impressive forked black beard streaked by fingers of gray. He had clasped Keilan’s arm like he was an equal, or a friend, which had been shocking. In the Shattered Kingdoms, nobles would never degrade themselves by even acknowledging someone from the lower classes. The count had noticed his surprise and chuckled.
“You’re no longer a fisherman’s son, boy. You’ll be an apprentice soon, and if what Magister Vhalus told me the first time he passed through here is true then you should be a magister yourself before long. He said he was on the trail of someone with a great natural gift.”
A magister before long. A sorcerer. Keilan was still having trouble accepting the idea that he could ever wield the arcane powers Vhelan had shown. But he had offered a weak smile and tried his best to match the Count’s iron grip on his arm.
“And I’m very interested to hear about what happened in the south. My man who met you at the gate told me that you brought a wounded paladin to the temple of Ama. I’ve never heard of such chivalry being extended between such ancient enemies. It sounds like you all have a tale to tell.”
They did, and it was a tale Keilan could scarcely believe. What would Sella think of such a story? From touching a sleeping god to being welcomed at the estate of a Dymorian merchant prince in Theris, he thought she’d scoff at nearly every twist and turn. You be tellin’ me one of the stories in your books again, aren’t ya, Kay? she’d have said from under raised eyebrows. Perhaps she could have accepted the last few days – at least, nothing too outlandish had happened since leaving the cursed ruin.
They had fled as soon as the worst of the wounds among the rangers had been bandaged. For the Pure they had quickly lashed together a sled that could be pulled by one of the larger horses, and Nel, being the lightest, had crouched beside him while they rode, making sure that the jouncing did not split open his hastily dressed cuts. The paladin had not awoken, muttering and moaning in a fever dream as they raced north along the Black Road. Keilan had been worried that the spiders would prove venomous, but the others who suffered bites showed no signs of poisoning, so he supposed that the Pure’s condition was simply from blood loss, coupled perhaps with exhaustion due to channeling whatever power he had wielded within the temple of that dark god.
The rangers had spoken in some awe of how the paladin had approached the sealed secret door while they’d all been clustered around trying to figure out how to open it again, holding up his empty hands to show that he came in peace. He’d told Captain d’Taran that he had been following them and had felt a great stirring of dark sorcery beneath the temple. After a hurried council, the rangers had welcomed his help, and the Pure had proceeded to lay his hands on the carving, which resulted in the secret panel sundering with a great crack into dozens of smoking shards of stone. Then he had joined the rangers as they rushed beneath the temple, and the memory of his fighting prowess had made Keilan thank the Deep Ones that he had not resisted the Dymorians when he had been ambushed on the road near Keilan’s village.
After arriving in Theris they had left the still-unconscious paladin with some very surprised mendicants at the temple of Ama. That had been a few days ago, and Keilan hoped that word of the Pure’s condition reached them before they departed the city.
“Someone comes,” Nel said, plucking a persimmon from the tree.
A servant in the red-and-gold livery of Dymoria’s royal house was approaching, and when he stood before them he pressed his knuckles to his brow and bowed slightly. Keilan hastily returned the gesture, and then had to jump aside as Nel lightly tossed her persimmon at his head.
“You shouldn’t give such respect to servants. The higher castes don’t do such things in Dymoria, and it will only make the servants uncomfortable.”
“But I’m a fisherman – I am from a lower caste. And anyway, you were a thief!”
Nel sighed. “And now we’re the personal guests of Count d’Veskan, second cousin of the Crimson Queen and seventeenth in line for the throne. Soon you’ll enter into the Scholia, which will put you on equal footing with almost everyone in Dymoria. Magisters are considered to be a noble caste – you won’t be granted any lands or titles, but the queen does provide chambers in the palace and a small stipend, provided you swear fealty to the Dragon Throne. Keilan, your days of being a commoner are finished.”
Nel turned back to the servant, who had been studiously ignoring this exchange. “Yes, what news?”
“My lord and lady, the count wishes for you to attend him in his solar.” The servant made a sweeping gesture for them to follow him.
“Lead on,” said Nel, jumping up to snatch another persimmon to replace the one she had thrown at Keilan.
They followed the servant through the manse’s large ebonwood doors, elaborately carved with twisting dragon-shapes in the style of Dymoria, then down corridors covered with thick, colorfully-patterned Keshian carpets, and up several flights of curving stairs. Along some of the passages the heads of strange beasts adorned the walls, mouths roaring and glass eyes flashing in the light from the wall sconces. The count had been a passionate hunter in his youth, and he had named each creature when he’d first led them through the manse, though only a few had lodged in Keilan’s memory. There was a northern tiger, which was famous for stalking the dark, cold forests of Dymoria; there a snarling sable wolf from the Frostlands; there a russet-scaled wyvern, which Keilan had read about i
n one of his books, A Tinker’s Bestiary. Wyverns were the lesser spawn of true-blood dragons and some of the only evidence that somewhere in the wilds great wyrms still lived. For every hundred eggs a dragon laid, ninety-nine would hatch a wyvern, stunted and near-mindless compared to their vast and terrible parents.
Finally, the servant ushered them into the solar, a room which conveyed the count’s fondness for dark wood, books, and over-stuffed armchairs. Tapestries depicting mythical hunts hung from the walls, and dust glittered like specks of gold in the light pouring through a great bay window. Beyond the estate’s high walls, the red-tiled roofs of Theris spread like a blood tide until they lapped against the city’s mighty keep, the Warding. For such a large and imposing fortress, the Warding changed hands with startling regularity. Such was life in the Shattered Kingdoms.
The count was seated in a high-backed chair carved to resemble a lion, its paws the arm-rests. Vhelan was beside him on a much less impressive cushioned stool, and between them was a tzalik board on a small table – from the looks of it, the sorcerer had chosen the water side, and he had been backed onto the edge by his opponent’s imps and efreets.
“Welcome,” Vhelan said, turning to them as they entered. Keilan thought he looked pleased at getting a reprieve from his imminent defeat.
Nel bowed slightly from the waist, knuckling her brow, and Keilan hurried to copy her. The count did not look at them, continuing to stare intently at the board as he stroked his forked beard. Eventuallyhe picked up one of his efreets and waved it vaguely in the direction of an empty armchair.
“Sit, sit,” he said, then set the piece down with exaggerated care in a space occupied by one of Vhelan’s naga. The sorcerer made a small, strangled sound as the count leaned back in his great chair.
“Well, magister, I believe you’ve lost again,” d’Veskan boomed, smiling broadly.
Vhelan hesitated a moment, his eyes flickering around the board, then with a sigh tipped over the jagged malachite piece representing his fortress.
“Congratulations, my lord,” he said, dipping his head slightly. “I haven’t lost that badly since the queen herself invited me to join her in a game.”
The count chuckled. “Runs in the royal blood. We’ve always been uncommonly good at tzalik – legend has it that one of the first d’Karas to sit the Dragon Throne traveled in disguise to the Cinnabar Palace and played the padarasha himself to a draw.”
“You called for us, my lord?” Nel said, perched on the edge of a chair, her hands resting prim and lady-like in her lap. She looked terribly out of place, Keilan thought.
“Indeed,” d’Veskan said, moving to refill his and Vhelan’s cups from a crystal decanter filled with a muddy brown liquid. “Some news you and the boy might find interesting. We just had a messenger from the temple of light here in Theris. The Pure you brought them has awoken, and the mendicants think he will live. He sends his thanks for saving his life and bringing him to this city. My ears in the temple tell me that he has mentioned nothing about being rescued by a sorcerer, oddly enough. Oh, and particularly he wishes to express his gratitude to you,” the count inclined his head towards Nel, “as apparently he remembers you caring for him most tenderly during the flight from Uthmala.”
Vhelan glanced at her with raised eyebrows. “Well, he did save our lives,” she said defensively. “Perhaps this is the start of a new era between sorcerers and the Pure.”
“Ah, interesting you should mention that,” the count said, swirling his drink. “Because there’s other news. Tidings that might make you regret the mercy you showed the paladin.”
Vhelan picked up his fallen fortress and rolled the piece in his hands. “What is it?”
“D’Kelv.”
Keilan noticed Nel and Vhelan both stiffen at the name. “Who is that?” he blurted, momentarily forgetting his place.
The count ignored his impropriety; instead, he sipped his drink and grimaced. “A relative of mine. One of the first with royal blood to declare for the queen when d’Palan named her an imposter. He passed through Theris about six weeks past, heading east, leading the first official delegation to Menekar since Cein ascended to the Dragon Throne.”
Vhelan set the malachite fortress down with a clink. “You told me he was overdue when last we stayed here.”
“Aye. Nearly a fortnight. The delay could have been anything: bandits on the plains, an avalanche while crossing the Bones, a sickness that forced them to stop and rest until they recovered. But now we’ve had word.”
“And?”
Keilan was surprised by the strain he heard in Vhelan’s voice.
“Dead,” d’Veskan said bitterly, then drained his glass. “Slaughtered like dogs by the Pure in the imperial audience chamber while the emperor looked on. A great crime, murdering an ambassador and his entourage. Even the Skein would never do such a thing.”
“Dead,” Vhelan repeated numbly. He looked shaken. “And his companions as well?”
D’Veskan eyed the sorcerer shrewdly. “The same fate,” he said, pouring himself another glass. “The story I heard of what happened . . . I cannot believe it. My source told me that one of our countrymen used sorcery in the Selthari Palace, and this is what brought down the wrath of Gerixes. A wizard, only steps away from the alabaster throne! If the tale is true, then I expect the winds of war will rise before long.”
Vhelan was quiet for a long moment, staring at the pieces littering the tzalik board. Finally, he slowly shook his head. “We were so sure. The process had worked before, we’d brought a sorcerer in front of the Pure without them batting an eye. What happened? Ah, Benosh . . .” With shaking hands he lifted his glass and tossed back its contents. “Farewell, old friend.”
“You knew of this?” the count asked, leaning forward intently.
Vhelan nodded. “I did. The queen . . . she has discovered a way to hide sorcery from the Pure. We had tested it a dozen times, even had a wizard dressed as a serving girl deliver a paladin his dinner, and the chosen of Ama hadn’t suspected a thing. But they must have sensed something in the palace; there must be some flaw that hadn’t yet become apparent. Benosh was among the best of us. Magister of the first rank, one of my own teachers when I first arrived in Herath. A true friend.”
D’Veskan tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You think your magic to hide the sorcerer failed? Perhaps it never worked to begin with.”
Vhelan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
The count leaned back and clasped his hands across his large belly. “I’m considering this as a lifelong hunter. There are two ways to conduct a proper hunt. The first is direct: using hounds or falcons you flush your prey from hiding and run it down. You get your trophy, but every other beast within leagues has heard the commotion and fled. The second way is more subtle: you find a place where the animal feels safe, such as a watering hole, or its den, and then you settle in a nearby spot where you are hidden and wait. The animal’s guard is down, and it suspects nothing. The trick is to make the ambush quick and quiet, so as not to alert anything else in the area. While not as exciting or glorious, the second method yields far more kills if conducted skillfully, as the hunter can lure many more unsuspecting beasts out into the open.”
Vhelan drummed his fingers on the table. “So Gerixes is a brilliant hunter? That doesn’t conform with what our informants in his court have told us about him.”
The count shook his head emphatically. “Not the emperor. He is just a figurehead. I doubt very much his advisors keep him well-informed. His black vizier, though, the captured spider-eater Wen – he is a cunning snake. And despite the best efforts of you magisters to keep up the appearance over the last few years that the Scholia is merely a collection of scholars drawn by the queen to rival the Reliquary, there are simply too many in Herath who know the truth. Wen certainly is aware that Dymoria is gathering sorcerers and exploring magics long since abandon
ed. My men have heard the rumors themselves at taverns here in the Shattered Kingdoms.”
“So you believe d’Kelv’s murder was the hunter finally breaking his cover?”
The count shrugged. “I cannot be sure. But, by Menekar ignoring what has been happening out west, the magisters have grown more brazen. If the Pure had moved against them five years ago, it would have driven the wizards underground and made them much more difficult to ferret out. Now, the true nature of the Scholia is almost an open secret in Herath. The magisters have become comfortable – beasts at the watering hole, ready to be slaughtered.”
Vhelan plucked absentmindedly at the embroidery hemming his sleeves. “And here I was worried that my rescue of the boy from the Pure was too brazen. Little did I know that the first move may already have been played in Menekar.”
“And what will your counter be?”
Vhelan’s response was quick and decisive. “We must return to Dymoria at once. The Kingdoms are too close to Menekar; half of the lords here now wear the sunburst of Ama and allow the Pure free rein in their holdings.”
D’Veskan nodded in agreement. “Lucky for us the Iron Duke in Theris is no zealot. Otherwise we might have already had a few lightbearers backed by the city watch come looking for you.”
“Still,” Vhelan said, rising to his feet, “I don’t want to bring any danger down upon your household. We can’t know when the paladin we brought here will inform his masters about us, and if you were known to be harboring a wizard even the Duke might have trouble tamping down the anger of a mob when their fear and hate is fanned by the preaching of mendicants.”
D’Veskan heaved his bulk from the chair, nearly upsetting the gameboard, and clapped his hands together sharply. “Don’t fear for me, I’ve plenty of friends still in the Kingdoms. But I appreciate your concern, and I agree that a quick retreat to Dymoria is the best plan. Whenever you can sense a storm brewing, best to get behind some stout walls. And I have a feeling this storm will shake the world to its foundations.” The count slipped with surprising grace from behind his desk and went over to a side table scattered with paper. He found a scroll bound with red ribbon and turned back to Vhelan. “There’s a large caravan preparing to leave for Herath in the next few days. The merchant leading it is an old friend; he and most of the guards are Dymorian, and when you show him my seal on this document he’ll obey you in all matters – if you ask to leave immediately, he will, and protect you on the journey as if you were my own blood.”