Cheers and applause—predominantly goblin applause, an open hand slapped against the chest—filled the throne room. The guards gripped the burlap cradling Makka’s corpse and dragged it back up the aisle. The nearest warlords leaned out and spat on the corpse as it passed. Cheers and applause settled into the buzz of any crowd.
Ashi’s hands clenched into fists. Tariic looked up at her from the throne. “Well done, Ashi,” he said in the human tongue. “Be patient.”
For anyone else in the great hall, the words would have been a command. Tariic held the Rod of Kings, braced casually against his knee, in his right hand. Ashi felt the power of the artifact try to take hold of her—and felt it skitter aside like a blade against armor as it encountered the power of the dragonmark that patterned her body. Maintaining the power of the mark that shielded her from the rod’s influence had become her new discipline. On each of the four days since Vounn’s death—and, very nearly, her own—she’d risen with the sun, reached into herself, and drawn up the clarity of the mark’s protection.
She gave Tariic a thin smile. “You can convince everyone in this room that what happened was Makka’s fault alone, Tariic,” she said quietly, “but Breven d’Deneith is beyond your reach.”
Tariic’s ears just twitched, and he looked back out to the waiting crowd. He lifted a hand, and half the warlords, thinking he was pointing to them, started calling his name. He indicated Ashi, and there was a smattering of renewed applause. In the gallery above the hall, the envoys of the dragonmarked houses and the ambassadors of the nations beyond Darguun looked down on her with nothing but pity. Pradoor’s voice rose in an ear-pinching cackle unmoved by Makka’s harsh death.
“They would welcome the Fury’s kiss if you suggested it, lhesh!”
Ashi’s stomach twisted, but she kept her face still. By rights those in the throne room should have glared at her with hatred or at the very least mistrust, not offered her applause. Only six days ago, she’d been part of an attempt to kill a king. Every one of them had witnessed it. In any other nation, she would already have been executed as an assassin. The Rod of Kings had changed that.
The rod—and Vounn’s murder and her own near death at Makka’s hands. She could still feel the sword, her own grandfather’s honor blade, in her chest and the weight of Vounn’s body against hers. She suppressed a shudder.
Tariic had needed an explanation for what had taken place. Why had former friends attempted to so publicly assassinate him? Why had a member of his entourage attacked and killed two highly placed members of House Deneith? The answer to one question would have revealed the powers of the Rod of Kings to the world; the answer to the other would have destabilized any confidence other nations or the dragonmarked houses might have had in his reign. And yet, Ashi had to admit, Tariic had brilliantly turned both events to his benefit.
The rod’s powers of command could be subtle, it seemed, as well as overwhelming. Tariic had spoken, the Rod of Kings in his hand, and earlier reports rushed out of Darguun by means magical and mundane were recanted. In the minds of the warlords, envoys, and ambassadors, Geth and the others had become traitors intent on upsetting the fragile reign of the new lhesh and destroying Darguun—never mind that they’d all been hailed only weeks earlier as the saviors of the nation. Makka had become one of the traitors, trying to destroy the vital relationship between Darguun and House Deneith. Ashi—her role in the attempt virtually erased—was a lucky survivor and Vounn an unfortunate martyr.
Makka’s execution in the dungeons of Khaar Mbar’ost had been as much about reinforcing Tariic’s lie as it had been about honor or justice. She should have felt satisfaction at the bugbear’s death, but all she felt was a sharp fear. Every morning when she renewed her own protection against the Rod of Kings, she offered a silent prayer to unnamed powers that Geth, Ekhaas, Chetiin, and Tenquis were far from Tariic’s reach.
Soon she would be too. Tariic might hold her as a “protected guest,” but even he wouldn’t dare keep her in captivity if the patriarch of House Deneith, Darguun’s greatest ally among the nations and powers of Khorvaire, demanded her return. No matter what false reports emerged from Darguun, Ashi knew that Breven d’Deneith would be suspicious. Her house would look after its own, and she would be free to take the truth out of Darguun. The powers of Khorvaire would learn of Tariic’s ambitions and the danger he posed to them all.
She lifted her head, raising her chin defiantly. It only earned her more applause from the warlords and even a bit from the ambassadors. Ashi couldn’t think of a time she’d ever felt more isolated.
Yet there were a few who understood the situation, even if they didn’t dare speak of it. Senen Dhakaan looked down from the gallery, though never directly at Ashi. The ambassador of the Kech Volaar had risked much to deliver a message of hope—Ashi had woken one night to whispered song, the magical communication of the duur’kala, and the news that Ekhaas and the others were on their way to Volaar Draal. Out in the crowd of warlords, Dagii of Mur Talaan stood in a place of honor. The gray-eyed and gray-haired—in spite of his young age—warlord hadn’t tried to speak to her, and Ashi knew he couldn’t without sacrificing his own freedom. He understood the effect of the rod and probably hated every action that its influence forced on him, but there was little he could do. Even if he hadn’t been directly involved in the attempt on Tariic’s life, Tariic knew that he’d been involved in the plot to substitute a false rod for the true Rod of Kings. But Dagii was also a hero, victorious in battle against the elves of Valenar. The warlords and people of Darguun loved him. Even with the power of the rod at his command, Tariic would have been hard-pressed to find a good excuse to execute a popular hero. Dagii lived—so long as his loyalty never wavered. Friends who stood close at hand, but they might as well have been in distant Sharn.
She thought of the changeling she knew both as Aruget, a hobgoblin guard, and Benti Moran, a half-elf, but who was actually an agent of Breland. He’d vanished after the assassination had failed, saving his own shifting skin. Maybe he’d made his way back to Breland. Maybe news of the danger brewing in Darguun was already abroad in the world.
Then why did the ambassador of Breland laugh and chat as if there were nothing wrong?
“Do you see something that interests you, Ashi?” asked a voice from her left.
She was staring, she realized. She forced her gaze away from the gallery and down to the speaker, a gnome with bright eyes and a shock of pale hair. Midian Mit Davandi had once been a friend, a scholar of the great Library of Korranberg joining them on their quest for the Rod of Kings, but then his true nature had shown itself. An agent for the gnome nation of Zilargo, neighbor of Darguun across the Seawall Mountains, he was the true assassin of Haruuc, a crime widely laid at the feet of Chetiin. Midian’s many treacheries were also the reason that their attempts to keep the Rod of Kings from falling into Tariic’s hands had failed. He’d paid the price, though. When Ashi had returned to consciousness after Pradoor’s prayers had healed her, she’d found Midian was also Tariic’s captive.
Unlike her, however, the gnome had no protection against the Rod of Kings. Later that night, Tariic had made her watch as he demonstrated his mastery over the rod’s power. He’d broken Midian with words. The agent of Zilargo had become a loyal servant of Darguun, and Tariic knew everything that Midian knew.
Officially, Midian was Tariic’s royal historian. Unofficially, he was Tariic’s assassin—and the sharp blade at Ashi’s back. Her dragonmark could block the rod’s influence, but it wouldn’t stop a poisoned dagger.
“Vounn should be up there,” she said, nodding to the gallery.
“If Vounn were up there, you wouldn’t be down here,” Midian replied without a trace of irony. Ashi wasn’t sure he even remembered his former allegiance to Zilargo. For a moment, she considered reaching out and touching him. With an effort of will, she could channel the power of her dragonmark perhaps twice in a day, but no more. Surely it would break the hold of the rod over Mi
dian, at least temporarily.
And if it did, what then? She was surrounded by enemies. Even reaching for Midian could be a risk. The friendly scholar was only a mask. Midian was like a cornered rat. Just putting out her hand could provoke him, and her act of protection would result in a slash from Midian’s poisoned dagger. Ashi kept her hands to herself.
“Have you spoken to Esmyssa lately?” she asked instead. The ambassador of Zilargo stood near the front of the gallery.
A smile flickered across Midian’s face. “I tell her what she needs to know.”
Tariic’s assassin and his mouthpiece to Zilargo. Ashi glanced at the lhesh and found him watching her with glinting, clever eyes. She looked away again just as Razu, the old hobgoblin mistress of ceremonies who stood by the throne room door, rapped her staff on the floor. The crowd fell silent.
A human man appeared in the wide doorway and walked with a measured pace down the throne room’s central aisle. Ashi knew him: Viceroy Redek d’Deneith, a thin and leathery man whose long service to House Deneith in Darguun had been supplanted by Vounn’s arrival as special envoy to the court of Haruuc. Normally his place was at the Gathering Stone, the Deneith compound and training center two days’ journey outside of Rhukaan Draal. With Vounn’s death, however, he’d once again become the most senior member of the house in Darguun. He stopped before the dais and bent his head to the lhesh.
“Who comes to the court of Lhesh Tariic Kurar’taarn?” asked Tariic, returning to Goblin as he raised his voice.
“Redek of Deneith, son of Kain, comes. He brings a message for Lhesh Tariic from Baron Breven d’Deneith.”
Tariic sat back in his throne. “Speak,” he said.
Ashi felt a prickle across the back of her neck. Tariic was calm. Too calm for someone on the verge of losing his prized prisoner. Her eyes darted back to Redek as he produced a folded piece of heavy paper. Holding it high so that all could see, he broke the seal. Pieces of blue wax, the color favored by Breven, scattered across the floor and Redek read in Goblin:
“To Lhesh Tariic Kurar’taarn—greetings.
“Since the time of Cail d’Deneith, House Deneith and the dar of the territory that is now Darguun have enjoyed the strongest of relationships. House Deneith values the support of the lhesh of Darguun and hopes that the lhesh values our support as well.
“In the wake of the tragic death of our envoy, Vounn d’Deneith, we thank you for your condolences and what we trust will be the swift delivery of justice to the one responsible. We thank you also for the care that you have shown members of our house remaining in Rhukaan Draal. Violence is a regrettable danger in our world. Vounn d’Deneith served her house with honor and in her last days worked to bring Deneith and Darguun closer.
“We do not wish to see her legacy wither. It is our wish that Vounn’s aide, Ashi d’Deneith, remain with your court—”
Ashi stiffened and drew a sharp breath. In the attentive silence of the throne room, the sound was loud. Redek paused to look at her, but Tariic gestured casually with the Rod of Kings. “Continue,” he said.
Redek’s eyes went immediately back to his letter.
“It is our wish that Vounn’s aide, Ashi d’Deneith, remain with your court as a sign of the faith we hold in the relationship between our house and your nation. Redek d’Deneith will be responsible for the operations of House Deneith in Darguun, but it will fall to Ashi to see that the bond between Darguun and Deneith grows ever more cordial and profitable.
“May your reign be long and glorious—Breven, patriarch of Deneith.”
Redek folded the letter and bowed low to Tariic, but Ashi barely registered the gesture. One thought filled her mind. Tariic had known what Breven’s letter would say. No wonder he was calm. No wonder he’d allowed Redek to read it openly. Somehow he’d been in communication with House Deneith.
Then a second revelation broke over her like a blow to the head: She wasn’t leaving Darguun. Breven wouldn’t be bringing her home. Her belly clenched. She felt sick.
While she stood, stunned, Tariic rose. He wore a smile, his sharp teeth bright against deep red-brown skin. “We acknowledge Breven d’Deneith for the honor and respect that he shows Darguun. I mourn the death of Vounn but embrace Ashi as Deneith’s new envoy.” He turned to her. “How do you greet this news, daughter of Deneith?”
Deep inside Ashi, the part of her that had once been a savage hunter of the Bonetree, the most feared clan of the Shadow Marches, rose up. She wanted to strike Tariic down. Tear open his throat with her bare fingers. Snatch the Rod of Kings from his grasp and beat his face in with it.
But she didn’t. Another part of her, the part that had been Vounn’s reluctant student in the ways of civilization, pushed her anger aside. Attacking Tariic would solve nothing—she’d be dead before he was. Ashi bent her head.
“It is an honor,” she said, her voice tight, “that I did not expect.”
Tariic’s smile grew just a little wider, and he spoke through his teeth at a pitch only she could hear. “Of course you didn’t.” He looked out over the gathered warlords and up at the watching ambassadors and raised his arms. “Hail to Deneith and Darguun!”
Shouts and applause filled the throne room. Ashi watched Redek bow again, face shining in innocent triumph as if he had just achieved the pinnacle of his career.
There was another message, one just for her.
I know what happened. I do not want to know why it did.
By your actions you have cost House Deneith the life of a valuable servant in Vounn d’Deneith and nearly severed the connections that she worked to strengthen. The bonds between Deneith and Darguun are not just pretty words to be spoken at ceremonies. The mercenaries hired to Deneith by the lhesh of Darguun are worth more than the life of any member of this house—including that of a bearer of the Siberys Mark of Sentinel.
You are fortunate that Lhesh Tariic understands the demands of politics and economy and sees that Darguun benefits more from fighting with Deneith than fighting against us. He is more understanding to accept your continued presence in his court than I would be.
Remain in Rhukaan Draal. Carry out Vounn’s mission to Darguun and you may be redeemed. If you are found beyond the borders of Darguun before that day, however, you are excoriated.
—Breven
Ashi ground her teeth together so hard they hurt. To be declared an excoriate was to be exiled from a dragonmarked house, the worst punishment the members of the great houses could inflict on one of their own. In the distant past, it had been both a symbolic and a literal severing of connections; the offender’s name would be stricken from the rolls of the house and the dragonmark that swirled over her skin cut away. Ashi had heard rumors that a secret gallery in the heart of Sentinel Tower held grisly relics of those nameless excoriates who had been expelled from Deneith in ancient times. Excoriates were no longer flayed alive, but for many dragonmarked, to be cut off from their house, the source of much of their identity, was still a terrible punishment.
Ashi had lost her identity before, when she abandoned the Bonetree Clan for House Deneith. The threat of taking away her connection—already tenuous—to Deneith held little power over her. What hurt more was Breven’s accusation. By your actions, you have cost House Deneith the life of a valuable servant in Vounn d’Deneith.
He might as well have written, You killed Vounn.
Ashi raised her head to glare at Tariic. “What did you tell him?”
Seated in the best chair in the chambers she had, until only a few days before, shared with Vounn, Tariic gave a thin smile. “The truth, of course. That when Geth and Chetiin moved to seize the Rod of Kings, you were with them. That in a misguided attempt to protect you, Vounn put herself in the path of Makka’s blade as he tried to defend me—”
“That’s not the truth!” Ashi snarled. The heavy paper crumpled in her fist, and she drew back her arm to hurl it at Tariic.
A massive hairy bugbear hand caught her wrist and squeezed. Ashi h
issed in pain. The paper ball fell. The bugbear—one of three who surrounded her, loyal servants who had been deafened to preserve secrets spoken in their presence—glanced at Tariic, who gestured casually. The bugbear’s grip eased. Ashi slipped her hand free. Her wrist throbbed, but she refused to give Tariic the satisfaction of seeing her rub it.
He ignored her discomfort anyway. “It’s all the truth that Breven wants to hear. He knows that by blaming poor, faithful Makka, we preserve the fiction that Deneith is blameless. Kings make their own truth, Ashi.”
“Breven isn’t a king.”
“He holds your life and obedience in his hands. He has the power to command armies. He brokers deals with nations and places envoys in the courts of monarchs.” Tariic’s ears twitched. “Breven could seize power with half-a-dozen commands. I guarantee you that he’s thought of it. He probably thinks about it every day. Breven and I are more alike than you think.”
The crumpled letter had rolled close to his boot. He stretched out and kicked it back at Ashi. “You’re to stay at my court under pain of excoriation, yes?”
Ashi clenched her teeth again. “How did you talk to Breven?” she asked through them.
“The gnomes of House Sivis—unlike the gnomes of Zilargo—take their neutrality very seriously. They were happy to relay my messages to Sentinel Tower for their customary fee. As you’ve seen, the dragonmarked houses generally listen when money talks.” His ears twitched a second time. “Although, it was your friend Pater d’Orien who opened the channels to Breven. Did you know that when he used his mark to teleport away from Khaar Mbar’ost after Vounn’s death, he went to Deneith instead of his own house?”
Anger flared again in Ashi as she realized there was one friendly face she hadn’t seen in the gallery of the throne room. She would have lunged for Tariic, but the bugbears reacted swiftly. All three of them grabbed her, leaving her struggling against thick, muscular arms. Tariic just sat back. “Calm down, Ashi. You don’t have to worry about Pater. I … talked to him when he returned to Rhukaan Draal, that’s all.” He tapped the Rod of Kings against his knee for emphasis. “I know he had nothing to do with your plot.”
The Tyranny of Ghosts: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 3 Page 3