Once he felt strong enough, Krudah gestured for his caliphs to gather around. With their rapt attention, he wrote a name in the dirt.
Zor.
The caliphs stared. “Zor,” Arvad said. “The cult north of Skor-Rek. What of it?”
Krudah tried to speak and could not. Aelida spoke for him. “They prey on our northern colonies. Convert colonists against their wills.”
“They took Koera’s family,” Zethyr said. “Months ago. I remember you telling us the tale.”
“She wanted the High Priest to go to war,” Arvad said. “He wouldn’t. She wanted you to make him.”
“I remember when she went before the High Priest,” Zethyr said. “In the cathedral with a hundred watching from the pews. I had never seen her so incensed. She stirred my desire for battle and justice in Skor’s name as much as you ever have, general.”
Krudah nodded emphatically, tears blurring his vision. He pounded the ground with his fist, then dragged it through the name he had written, striking it from existence.
Arvad took a breath. "You want us to kill him. In her name."
Mourisiel II
The Villain Rises
In a subterranean tavern underneath Harivaz, Aris slumped against a table, hands on a tin mug half-full of strong drink. A single torch fought back against the darkness; a battle it seemed to be losing. No fire roared in the fireplace, the chimney long since given over to krippers and other pests that thrived in the soot. All the tables sat empty save one, where a pair of naked young slaves in chains writhed against the huge, greasy patron who had paid for their company, his laugh a half-choking gasp of phlegm.
The tavern's manager, a decrepit old woman who acted as madam and barkeep, stopped by to fill Aris’ mug, then left without a word. Aris sat up, thinking to take a sip, but the demonic presence inside him took partial control of their shared body as it was sometimes wont to do and it defiantly refused to move his arm. He gritted his teeth and fought to control it, but instead the demon won the day and extended its reach to his neck, where it forced Aris to turn his head and look at the clepsydra counting time at the end of the bar.
"I see it, you fuck," he muttered.
The demon relaxed. With a sigh, Aris downed the mug in a single drink and went to the bar. The old woman squinted as he counted out his coins. "You going to do something about it, ain't you?"
Aris laid down his payment. "Maybe."
He turned to leave but the old woman reached across the bar, faster than he would have thought possible, and grabbed his wrist. "Cut them to pieces." The slaves paused in their gyrations and, along with their client, watched with wide eyes and open mouths. "You gut those Mourisiels and leave them bleeding. Let them die slow. Do it for your daughter, sure, but do it for me too. Do it for all of us who used to know the sunlight but now got to make their way in places like this."
Aris pulled away. "I don't do that kind of thing for free. You want someone dead, you leave all the coin you've got in a dead drop like everyone else."
"But your daughter!" The old woman paled.
"You want me to make exceptions? Maybe I ought to start with you." He brought up the wrist she had held and the old woman shrank back into the stone wall behind the bar. "Never touch me again."
Aris took up his weapons from the wooden bin beside the door and strapped into the four-blade harness as he ascended the stone steps just outside the tavern door. The labyrinth of stone tunnels with nary a flame to light the way proved no challenge, as Aris was well-practiced in the route. He walked with his head bowed and his fingers sliding against the walls, leaving tracks in the frost, until at last he slid under a gap in the wall. In the room beyond, the very edge of each stair glinted narrow like a blade in a haze of White Star light that flowed down through the rotting panels of the wooden building above.
In the near darkness, Aris took a deep breath and sought to clear his head before he went up. Doubts emerged from the shadows, reminding him of all he risked by showing his face and the protection the labyrinth offered. Over the last dozen cycles, he had only ever briefly emerged from hiding to perform the occasional assassinations that kept him in alcohol. Otherwise, he had hoped to live out the rest of his life underground. Only his daughter had kept him from actively seeking an end to his life, and now she had gotten herself into the kind of trouble that only he could free her from, if he could bring himself to chance a return to the prison that had been his home for half his life.
He emerged from the decrepit and abandoned shack into one of Harivaz' many busy streets. Throngs of men and women bundled up in furs passed without a sidelong glance, clouds of breath at their lips. The city's outer stone walls rose stories taller than any of the ramshackle wooden buildings lining the street, impenetrable and inescapable as fate. Shopkeepers and tradesmen called out their wares to dirty and smelling passersby, mostly ignored. Only the taverns were filled with patrons, and music and shouting spilled into the streets. Eyes peered out from the dark alleys between buildings, and the occasional flash of sharp steel warned others away.
Aris moved among the crowds like a stone rolling through a river; traveling the same direction, perhaps, but not a part of it. He was no taller than the common man and though broader in the shoulders and thicker in the arms than most, it was the determination of his stride and the confidence of his gaze that set him apart. Harivaz's citizens shambled, threadbare shawls over their shoulders and tattered hoods over their heads, but Aris went with his head held high. They buckled under the strain of their lives; nothing could buckle Aris.
In the Harivaz palace plaza, a hundred Mourisians gathered to fling curses and stones at four naked prisoners set upon the stage, heads bowed and hands tied. A perimeter of armed guards kept the crowds at bay, though it was not a difficult task. The citizenry knew the prisoners had been caught during an attempted assassination against their king, whose life few of them held in high value. Had the assassins been successful, they would have been cheered by the same citizens now striking them with rocks, but the desperate possibility that the royal family might look favorably on those who excoriated the would-be assassins had them playing the role of happy denizen.
Aris pushed his way through the throng, eyes on the blonde female prisoner second from the left. The demon moved through him, and it took all Aris’ effort to keep from allowing it to draw a blade off his back and cut a swath through the crowd of innocents.
One of the stage guards saw the citizens as they parted before Aris' determined stride and his eyes went wide. Pointed his blade, the guard cried, “Aris! It’s Aris! The Villain is coming!”
The crowd gasped and tittered. Guards drew their swords and formed tighter ranks, and the executioner who stood at the rear of the stage took up his axe. Men and women scattered as Aris surrendered to the spasm and drew a single sword from off his back, its steel shining cold Kovah blue and leaving trails of soft white frost in the air.
The closest guard held out a trembling hand. “Don’t! Please..."
Aris stopped. Gaze passing from one guard to the next, he set them shaking and sweating. Finally, he focused his attention on the executioner. “Let her go.”
The executioner scoffed and tossed his long black braid. “You’re dumb as stone, Aris. Dumb as hollow stone.”
Aris tightened his grip on his sword. “Do it, Orgaryn, you ugly brute. Release her or so help me...”
“I literally can’t.”
“Villain!” The Crown Prince Vakara looked down from an overhead window, his royal siblings and the old Lord Qataga flanking him. Glowing with pride, Vakara shouted, “You may show him, Orgaryn.”
The executioner stepped up beside the chained girl and pulled her head back by a handful of yellow hair. Aris sucked in a breath; it wasn't his daughter after all.
“Theina is already dead, stone-brain,” Orgaryn said. “She died in the attempt.”
The world spun. Aris saw images of his daughter; a babe wrapped in a blanket, a girl in heavy winter f
urs playing with invisible friends, and a young woman training with blades in that same plaza. She had been all that had made his pitiful life worth living, and despite his career of murder and larceny, the idea that he might outlive her seemed more unjust than anything he had yet encountered.
The spasm crawled down his spine and Aris broke from his reverie. Gritting his teeth and forcing the spasm under control, he fired a glare at Orgaryn’s smug face. “No.”
“We thought you might poke your head out if we let you believe Theina was among the conspirators to be executed today,” Vakara called down. “And here you are.”
Citizens in the crowd drew weapons, revealing themselves as Mourisiel guards in disguise. Aris ignored them. “Where is her body, then?” Vakara’s smile faded slightly and Aris’ heart leapt. “If she lives, I will find her.”
“She is dead, Aris,” Vakara said. “One of Qataga’s personal bodyguards put her down.”
“You lie.”
“Why should I? We caught a killer in our home and we punished her with death. You would have done the same. If you want justice for your daughter’s death, it isn’t my life you'll need to take. It’s those that put her up to her foolish assault on the palace. It’s the very same people that we want to bring to justice.” Vakara grinned. “We’re on the same side this time, Aris, and I trust you know it.”
“I take no sides,” Aris said.
“Not without recompense, no, but you needn’t serve me to help me. Nobody in my charge has been able to hunt down these criminals who conspire against my family but none of them inspire the same fear that you do, not even my dear Orgaryn. You are free to go, Aris, because we will all benefit when you do what needs to be done.”
Aris clenched and unclenched his fist, thinking. “Theina wanted you dead, Vakara. Maybe I'll finish the job.”
Vakara paled visibly but forced a smile. “If you thought that could be done, you would have been among those infiltrating the palace. No, you are smarter than your daughter. I am better protected than any of your past victims. You’ll never come close to me.” He paused. “Theina fell in with a rogue element, Aris. They convinced her to attempt the impossible and she died for it. They took her from you, not me.”
Aris wrestled with the spasm. It wanted him to lash out at those nearby, and fed him visions of moving through the crowd, cutting down all the men and women gathered in the plaza who had sworn themselves to the Mourisiel family. The daydream ended with Vakara’s shocked look as Aris held up Orgaryn’s head and let the blood run down his arm.
Gritting his teeth, Aris once more regained control of his mind and body. The crowds parted for him and he went without looking back, all his attention focused on denying the spasming sentience its bloodthirst until he could think things through.
In a far corner of the courtyard, an old man in white robes and a young man with tears in his eyes watched Aris go. The old man sighed. “Razhier, this is either the best or the worst thing to ever happen to us.”
Camarei III
A Party Forms
While the Lady Verden met with her advisors, Erona waited alone in a sitting room in a separate wing of the Verden palace. Windows overlooked vast gardens full of yellow and red plants she had never seen, and the countless books lining the walls promised stories she had never heard, but Erona couldn't muster the interest to explore them. She gripped the seat of her plush chair and stared at the floor, imagining what might be happening in the Lady Verden's audience chamber.
When Shavyn entered and avoided her gaze, Erona knew that her plea for help had been rejected. She took up her shawl off the back of the chair and went for the door, anger leaving her speechless, but a tall gentleman in fine clothes beside Shavyn blocked the way.
“Erona," Shavyn said, "this is Commander Valkil.”
Valkil clasped his hands behind his back and bowed slightly from the waist. “Milady."
Erona found her voice, though it trembled. “What happened?”
“As a representative of the Verden Court, I have come to offer condolences for your mother," Valkil said. "She would be very proud to know that you made it here, that you brought your story to be heard.” He paused. “I’m sorry to say that aid will not be forthcoming. The therill, you must understand…”
“They are real,” Erona said..
“I can see that you believe so but your word and a handful of spines were not enough to convince the Lady.”
“Do you believe me?”
Valkil tilted his head to the side. “Honestly, no.”
“I do,” Shavyn said.
“Will you come, then?” Erona asked, fists clenched. “Will you come back with me? No, of course not. You walk with Awadi, a loyal little guardfield, stuck in the ground wherever they place you. You know my story. You believe the therill are back. The therill, by Tey’s mind! Yet you will sit in your watchtower and wait for them to slaughter my people, to kill us all. My mother died for this. She died to protect me so I could come get your help. I told her it would be worth it. I told her you would help. It was because of me that she came. It’s because of me that she…” She fell back into the chair, fighting to breath.
Valkil knelt before her, hand on his knee. “Tell me what happened.”
“He knows,” Erona said, indicating Shavyn. “Ask him.”
“I have heard what he remembers of your story but I would rather hear it from you. His memory is not the best.” Valkil smiled. “I know, for I am his teacher.”
“What is there to tell? A therill has been preying on my people. When at last our leader saw it, he sent me with my mother and a boy named Mir to show you the spines. One night, the therill came and…”
“You saw it?” Valkil asked. “What did it look like?”
“Like a man covered in spikes, but huge.”
“What happened when it came?”
“Mir saw it. We ran. It hit my mother with those spines. Mir fled back to the village. I don’t know if he made it.”
“Why didn’t it get you?”
“It went after Mir and I got away.”
Valkil raised an eyebrow. “All this despite the legnds of the therill that tell of relentless, remorseless hunters. It pursued you all that way, miles and miles, and yet it let you go? If the therill were real, I imagine this one would not rest until all those that knew of its existence were gone.”
Erona's face went hot. “You still don’t believe me.”
“No, I don’t.” Valkil went to the door where Shavyn still stood, arms crossed. “See her out.”
“Must I go?” Erona asked, voice breaking. “My village could be gone by the time I get back. I know you don’t think that’s true but it is. Even if the therill leave us alone, I have no family left. I have no reason to go back.”
“Do you have family here?” Shavyn asked.
“No. I have no family at all.”
Shavyn and Valkil shared a look. “What would Ahlaha say?” Shavyn asked in a whisper, and Valkil rolled his eyes. “What would she think if you sent a girl away, a girl who has nothing?”
“Sometimes, Shavyn, we must surrender things that we want in the name of duty,” Valkil said. “The Lady Verden gave orders. See to them.” He stormed out and left them.
Shavyn shook his head at the floor. “I’m sorry, Erona. I did what I could.”
Erona pictured herself returning to the village and telling Calcondre that no help was coming. Then she pictured returning to an empty village, all the inhabitants taken by the therill. A vision of her mother's pale face flashed before her eyes and a stifled sob shook her shoulders.
Shavyn sat and put his arm around her. Erona leaned close and cried against his chest while he whispered condolences. She didn't how long she stayed there but it felt an eternity, as if she had ceased to be, floating on a river through space outside of time.
When her tears were spent, Erona pulled away and wiped her cheeks. Shavyn put his hands in his lap as if unsure of what to do with them. “I will go with
you.”
Erona’s heart leapt. “You will?”
“It will mean deserting my post but I believe you that the therill have returned and that is more important than my duty to Verden.”
Erona put her hand on his. “Thank you. You are making the right decision. You’ll see when we get there. You’ll hear it from the others. Then we can come back and make them believe. You are a soldier, aren’t you? Trained to fight?”
“Yes.” Shavyn nodded toward the empty door. “Valkil is my trainer. He was a war hero.”
“I know his name,” Erona said. “There are stories told in the village. Orch tells one of Valkil, the Verdant Knight. He holds a pass against a thousand Mourisian Fel Riders. All but a dozen of his soldiers die but they win the battle.”
“There are many stories like that.”
“And he trained you? Are you better with the blade or the bow? How would you bring down a therill?”
Shavyn squirmed. “I don't know that I'm particularly talented with either. Much of our training is focused on command and strategy.”
“So you’re not a knight at all.” Erona couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice.
“I can fight," Shavyn insisted. "You must be one of the best in the company to command the respect of your soldiers.”
“I think the important question is whether or not you can help us kill a therill.”
☆ ☆ ☆
The long hall to Valkil’s chambers was empty when he entered from the stairway at the end. Doors on either side all stood shut. The window at the opposite end shone with White Star light, looking out across a cloudless sky.
White Star Phase: Book One of the Ascendants Chronicle Page 4