“How do you even do that?” She kept her voice down, but the group of women were too preoccupied to notice the scarred young woman by the fountain. And their daughters didn’t count. Nora grinned at one of them who hadn’t turned her head away quickly enough.
“In your blood.”
Nora waited for more to come, but obviously that made sense to Owen and he didn’t care to explain. She sighed and rubbed her hands over her face. He flickered, a frown on his brow.
“I still don’t understand what you’re saying, even when you’re speaking it directly in my head,” Nora muttered. “Where the hell are you?”
“We are two, maybe three days behind you.”
We.
“Well, shit.”
Three days was a slim corridor of time left to reach the empress somehow. Nora’s rumbling stomach sank. She had to try. For Shade.
“If we willed it, we could pull down all these walls,” Owen said. “Bring the towers of the palace to topple, erase even the Rod of Arrun to dust and ashes, Nora. Dust and ashes.”
Why don’t you erase it, then? That temple’s fucking ugly enough. The remark lay on the tip of her tongue. But she held back, congratulating herself on her self-discipline, and formed a tired question instead.
“What shall I do now, Owen? What do you want me to do?”
“Foooooollow the light.” Owen’s voice delayed, then broke, torn into a higher pitch.
Follow the light?
A sharp outburst of red-hot pain erupted in her palm. Nora ripped her eyes open. The last time she had felt something like this, she had accidentally hurled fire at Shade. Before her eyes, though, the world grew dim, the sunlight wavered, then died, her vision dulled to shades of gray—the mother and her daughter pale like ghosts. Crisscrossing along the road before her, an electric blue thread of spun light gleamed far too bright, making her eyes water. Her head reeled at the sight. The proximity of the raw magic stung and prickled under her skin. And yet—at least she had a direction now. She steadied herself against the water fountain, feeling the reality of the hard but porous stone beneath her fingertips. One last look at the young daughters, a wave, and she was off. Following the trail of light only she could see, hand in hand with her brother.
When night fell, the city changed slightly. The district she passed through, tired feet dragging, was richer, cleaner. The houses stood off with high walls surrounding them. And the crowds changed, too. More men than women. The streets were full of ornate carriages and curtained sedan chairs instead of oxen carts and donkeys. There were more shops and taverns than living quarters, and from every open doorway came music and laughter and the smell of good food. In the entrances, men stood and called out to the passersby, praising the beer or the food or the wenches. Others walked along with torches and lanterns fixed on metal poles, illuminating the broader walkways and squares in soft taperlight, leaving the alleys swallowed by the dark. No one cared to go to sleep in this city.
Above her head, Nora could always make out the large domed roof of the temple, and she threaded her way through the people, ever onward, until she reached a huge square. Every twenty paces or so stood the lanterns and between them rose sky-high statues of heroes of old, maybe even of the gods themselves. It was hard to tell in the dark night, and her sight was still fixed on the blue thread pulsing before her, leading her on. The statues’ stern faces were shrouded, but they formed a columned ring around the square, like guardians. In the middle stood a building, a grand structure with an open entrance so high that one of the statues could easily have walked through had it come alive. Whispering water flowed through a canal surrounding the building, so deep that even little boats could pass under the delicate bridges across the gold-speckled surface. Even within the heart of the city, before the walls of the Esquelin, she heard less commotion here; there were fewer people, which in turn made the vast space seem even larger. Nora’s own steps rang on the flagstones as she walked toward the entrance lit by a thousand candles placed on the wide stone steps.
Nora stopped before the first step and sat down unceremoniously on the cold stone. She stretched her aching legs and leaned back, elbows resting on the next highest step. Owen’s hand slipped from hers, yet his presence lingered. She’d rest now. Before her the colonnades of statues spread out, all with their backs to her, silent watchers over the city. Not that they would help anyone.
The night breeze carried the scent of oranges and lemons, and a heavy, rich fragrance wafted down the steps. For a moment Nora closed her eyes and pretended she was far away from this place, back in the north. But that fragrance hit her hard. It reminded her of Shinar, and her conjured fantasy of herself and Diaz in a different life shriveled up in the onslaught of myrrh.
Chanting voices flooded the stairs, and she half rose to see behind her. The doors of the temple had opened wide and the chanting grew louder as a group of young men and women clad in white raiment came down the steps, barefooted and each bearing a small white candle poised on what looked like the petals of a large water lily. The song was eerie, yet not sad. The words were in Kandarin, and Nora couldn’t fully understand what was being sung. She stood as the youths passed by, their clean, fresh faces flushed by candlelight sparkling in their eyes. A few of the girls turned their heads toward her and nodded in greeting without missing a beat of their song. They were about the same age as she was, perhaps two or three years younger. Yet to Nora’s travel-weary eyes, those rosy-cheeked girls seemed so innocent. What did they know of life? What did they know of death, rather? Death and sorrow that were heading toward them in the form of the Living Blade?
A young man came behind the chanters and as he saw the small crowd gathering around Nora, he drew near, holding his pilgrim’s staff in his left hand, waving his other in blessing. He looked a little like Owen. He wore his hair as Caleddin had, the tonsure of the pilgrims, a warm smile on his face. She felt the bile gathering at the back of her throat. It was always easier to be angry than to be sad. Like it was easier to run down a hill instead of up—you only had to watch out that your feet didn’t overtake you.
“Step back a little,” the pilgrim said. “Make way for the empress.”
Instead, the people pressed in tighter, and Nora felt herself carried along with them farther up the temple steps.
“Make way for Her Majesty,” his voice rang out behind her, nearly drowned in the commotion and babble of the people streaming to the entrance. Bells began to toll from nearby towers. Guards emerged from the door. Behind them a stream of footmen bearing pikes, dressed in black and silver, marched onto the wide steps, carving an opening lane. They assembled, as the chanters had, in two lines, arms presented, chins lifted, eyes wary of the common folk now clamoring for alms and blessings.
A palanquin was carried out by four strong men, the candlelight reflecting on their glistening naked torsos. Obviously, the empress could appreciate beauty. Nora jostled her way through the supplicants, toward the black and red palanquin, slowly unwrapping the bandages around her wrecked arm.
The veils of the palanquin were slightly opened on one side, and occasionally a dainty hand passed out two or three silver coins to the outstretched arms. Most of the men called out that they had served her father in the imperial guard. Veterans of one fight or other. They received some coins. A few women held up their children and called out for blessings or coins. Both were given. When they fell to the feet of the carriers, the children held up high, the dainty hand touched their hands and the brows of their children.
“Empress Vashti,” Nora called out when she was level with the carriers, trying to touch the curtains of the palanquin. “Empress! I battled your brother Bashan.”
No reaction. The hand was still dispensing coins. Nora pushed harder, knocking an old man to the side. “Empress! I battled Bashan at the Shrine of Hin. He’s coming this way with the Living Blade.”
That drew a few murmurs of outrage and disbelief from the bystanders, who now gave way, wary of the strange gir
l. Nora tried to keep up with the steady progression of the palanquin, but whenever there was a small space, it filled with other people begging for attention. The process was orderly. The guards on either side made sure it was.
Well, fuck this.
Nora fought against the knot of beggars and made her way to the front of the royal seat. She stopped directly in front of the palanquin and waited, watching the guards clear the path, methodically shoving people out of the way. Their eyes were clear, scanning those who thronged around the empress for the glint of daggers or the hint of nervous faces. Let’s give them something to see, then. Nora smiled. She took a deep breath.
“Behold, Arrun!” she yelled, thrusting her blackened, charred arm to the skies. “Behold the destruction of the Living Blade. Behold the pain it will cause you, folk of Arrun, as the exiled prince Bashan draws ever closer to this city, even as you beg for alms from his sister.”
Those around her tried to make room for the crazy person who had erupted in their midst. Good! The attention of the guards was all hers now. Nora fell to her knees, gripping the elbow of the damaged arm as though she couldn’t hold it upright any longer. It looked hideous, even in the soft candlelight, burned black in places, raw flesh still an angry red, the tendons still pulling her palm toward her forearm, making claws of her fingers.
“I beg the gods for mercy. I beg you save us all from Bashan and the Blade, Empress Vashti! Behold how he has disfigured me, and slaughtered many, and I alone survived to tell the tale.”
Nora wondered whether she should work up a bit of froth on her lips. The crowds were gasping and sighing now, all eyes on her grisly arm. Two guards came to pull her to her feet and drag her out of the way.
“Please, mercy!” She made herself heavy, but the guards were about to carry her off anyway, her boots scraping on the stone. “Behold the work of the Living Blade!”
She closed her eyes and inhaled, concentrating on a blue speck of magic, reaching out for it, and then opening the floodgates of fury.
A burst of red fire illuminated the night. She aimed it far above the heads of the crowds, who were suddenly very interested in getting away from the palanquin. Shrieks pierced her ears as the guards dropped her unceremoniously, the tips of their pikes cold against Nora’s collarbone.
“Bring her to me.” A quiet voice rang out across the hush. The palanquin had stopped.
Nora let herself be guided toward the veils that were now drawn back.
For a moment, Empress Vashti eyed Nora icily, her eyes as cold as Bashan’s. There lay the family resemblance, along with the raven-dark hair. Vashti had an angular face, sharp in the nose and chin, her eyes just a bit too large, disturbing the symmetry.
“Your Kandarin is atrocious,” she said in perfect Moran.
“You speak my language?” Nora was genuinely surprised.
“I grew up on my uncle’s lands near Moorfleet.” She had Bashan’s haughty drawl, too. “You sound like you’re from Dernberia?”
“No.” Nora shook her head. “But close by. It doesn’t matter. My home doesn’t exist anymore.”
“So what do you want? Are you here to protest my decision to withdraw the imperial troops from the north? Let me tell you that—”
“No.” Nora cut the empress short, impatient. “I came to save your life from your brother’s hand.”
Vashti’s mouth opened and shut a few times. She gritted her teeth together and raised her chin.
“How?”
Damn, the hardest question first. Nora scrunched her forehead together.
“Your brother tried to kill me through the Blade, but I have absorbed some of its power and can use it against him.”
“I saw your magic.” Vashti regarded Nora, taking in the scars on her face, the arm, the travel-worn clothes. “How could you withstand the Blade’s power?”
Nora’s scowl returned. Magic, duh. I’m a simple coaler from the north. What do I know about magic? She searched for better words.
“Bashan remade the Blade by means of the blood of my twin brother.”
“Ah. Twin magic.”
Nora nearly rolled her eyes.
“So you want revenge, and by doing so you’ll heroically save my life,” Vashti spoke slowly. “What do you want for that?”
Nora lifted one shoulder in nonchalance. “Nothing.”
“I see.” Vashti looked down, taking a moment to think. “So what do you want for it?”
“There is nothing I want that you can give me.” Nora’s thoughts strayed to Diaz. “I’m just trying to do the right thing here. Protect the innocent. Guide the lost. And all that…stuff.”
“The pilgrim’s code. How quaint. You must understand, though, this is not how the world works,” Vashti said.
Nora eyed the young woman.
“You’re right. This isn’t how the world works. But maybe it should. I’ve walked through your empire, Your Highness. I’ve seen the well-kept roads, the clean streets, the industry, the trade. I wonder, how much of that comes directly from decisions you made?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“All this ruling—you do it all yourself, then?”
“No, of course not.” Vashti sulked. “Every emperor has had a privy council that deals with—”
“Of course. A council. Old, fat lords, rich men all, landed, each with their own private armies. Their sons captain your guards, your army. Their daughters are your maids-in-waiting. They keep the empire running, and all the while they need a figure at the helm, someone they have a close eye on. Someone without real power. Someone the people can look up to. Like a pretty young girl, smart enough not to embarrass herself in public, and smart enough to keep her mouth shut at the council meetings. I dare say you can give impulses here and there, bring in a few ideas, and they applaud you, then half-heartedly put up a show of carrying out your wishes. Am I right?”
Vashti said nothing, but pressed her lips together.
“Yeah, you know I’m right. Wouldn’t it be nice if I weren’t, though? You know your privy council would ditch you in a second, deliver you up to Bashan if it were in their profit to do so, if they thought they could get away with it. Keep the empire running, no matter which puppet is pretending to hold all the strings. Now here’s what I want in return for saving your life: I want you to fucking do something with it. I want you to rule. Proper. Let’s change the world, you and I. Or die trying.”
“What an odd thing to ask for. You are a very strange girl.” Vashti had gathered herself quickly. This conversation was obviously not going the way she had expected it to. “Why? Why are you really doing this?”
“Because I’m sick and tired of people telling me to follow when I want to go my own path. How about you?” Nora took a deep breath and squeezed her burning eyes shut for a moment.
Vashti shot her a calculating look, and Nora wondered whether the girl would see beyond her ragged exterior.
The empress nodded. “Deal.”
Chapter 11
The city of Arrun sat on a bend of the River Arrun. Like the bottom of a fat lady on a dainty chair, the city squeezed through the firm arms holding it in, some districts sprawling on the other side of the banks. From a distance, the river seemed to sparkle silver in the weak sunlight, only shadowed where the Rod of Arrun loomed high above the houses. But the closer they got, Diaz knew, the more the waters would turn into a thick brown sludge, carrying the red silt from the mountains surrounding Shinar’s desert into the bay on the turquoise Nessan Sea.
His horse sidestepped nervously, and he leaned forward to pat it on the neck. But it felt the tremors of excitement, the power radiating from Bashan.
“We could just pull it all down, you know?” Bashan said. “Pull down the walls, pull down the temple, let it sink back into the earth where Arrun, the Great Shepherd, took it from. Just be rid of it all.”
“You could,” Diaz answered, wondering whether Nora had reached the city in time. Wondering where she was. “But in doing so, you w
ouldn’t have a throne on which to sit. You wouldn’t have an empire to rule. Wait for the delegates to come, Bashan. Talk to them, and make known what you want. And remember what you really want is the empire to prosper under your reign.”
“We will make them see glory as bright as the sun.” A gleam entered Bashan’s eye, hard and cold. Darkness shrouded his features. Diaz shivered and looked up to the sky, though there were no clouds passing overhead.
Bashan spat. “What’s taking them so long?”
Diaz shrugged. It didn’t seem long to him, but it was merely a rhetorical question. Bashan was staring at the gates. The road to the main gate before them was empty, travelers and merchants safe behind the walls, the bridge over the river hastily made impassable through barricades of crates and timber. Hastily erected, but still well made. Besides, the river itself was a formidable obstacle. If the city rulers grew anxious, they could easily destroy the bridges and trust in the safety of the deep waters with their powerful undertow. In truth, the city of Arrun had never been taken by siege or storm in the past, and it was unlikely it would happen now. At this point, there were two scenarios before them, Diaz reckoned. Either the empress gave in to Bashan’s demands, and the Blade would allow Bashan to kill her and her council lords and take over power in a more or less bloodless fashion. Or she would refuse. At which Bashan would probably obliterate the entire city with a few mad slashes, killing everyone in it.
Or—he eyed the prince warily, as Bashan twiddled with the signet ring on his index finger—Bashan would do the latter anyway.
Diaz looked toward the Temple of Arrun, the mother temple of the pilgrim order. He had stayed there a few years on his pilgrimage decades ago, but he wouldn’t be too sorry to see it destroyed if he could be sure it were empty of people. He wondered whether Nora was at the temple, rallying support there, and he briefly indulged in the fantasy of her cursing and slapping her irreverent way through those hallowed halls. The masters there were a different sort than those on the road, idle, complacent, settled, with a love for politics and esteem. They could do with a touch of Nora.
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