But then the gates opened, and Bashan snapped to attention. Diaz’s horse quivered.
The gates opened slowly, because why have such impressive gates if opening and shutting them were not a deliberate act that took a long time? Nine lords and three pilgrim masters approached on horseback. They waited for the guards to dismantle the barricades, then rode up to where Bashan was waiting. One of the lords seemed a good horseman. He wore white scale armor that dazzled in the sunlight as the waters did. His helmet was silver and crested with gull’s wings, ruffled by the small wind. It looked like decoration and not like protective gear. Diaz clicked his tongue in disapproval. Bashan’s smile grew wider. Maybe he recognized some of the lords. Diaz recognized none of the pilgrims. Bashan jerked his head at Diaz, and he followed the prince to meet the delegation halfway down the gentle slope. None of the horses liked standing on the hillside and they all shifted nervously, though it might have been due to the agitation of their riders.
“Lechmar,” Bashan greeted the man in the winged helmet. “Better take off your stuffed bird before I stamp on it.”
Lord Lechmar scowled at the two banners flying in the breeze above Bashan’s head. One showed the imperial three blue dragons, the other was a shining white blade on black cloth, Bashan’s new self-chosen symbol. The lord took off his helmet, revealing a ring of sweat on his crushed hair. He gave Bashan a grim nod while avoiding his gaze.
“Where’s the Living Blade?” he demanded.
Convention dictated that the leaders of armies conferred before any battle was waged, but it mostly involved insulting, a testing of strength. That Lechmar hadn’t addressed the banished prince and contender for the throne as an equal was an insult. Bashan took it surprisingly well. He smiled.
“The Blade is here,” he declared airily, “and everywhere. You may confirm the trueness of the rumors to my darling half-sister, and tell her that if she surrenders herself to my justice, declaring herself a usurper and me the rightful successor to my father’s throne, I will be merciful and give her a swift death by it.”
Lechmar’s gaze swept across the two of them.
“I don’t see the Blade,” he said finally.
He held Bashan’s stare for a moment. The wind blew a handful of almond blossoms between them. Nothing could be heard except the chirruping birds in the trees, the distant stressful lowing of cattle in the meat district of the city below. Then, like heat, Diaz felt the waves of power radiating from Bashan, making his skin crawl. The horses grew even more skittish. Diaz’s horse danced from side to side and looked as though it wanted to bolt. Bashan released the reins on his own black stallion, and the frightened horse quieted beneath him, became docile. Or maybe petrified.
Bashan snatched a deep breath and started laughing. “Funny, you. I forgot how dumb you are. That’s why you’re here, I guess. Smart move on Vashti’s part, I’ll give her that. Send the dispensables first.”
Lechmar’s expression became grimmer. He spat at Bashan’s feet, but did not reply. Instead, a pilgrim master stepped forward, bowing low, making a sweeping gesture with his staff. He was an elderly man, flashing a very white smile at them. He looked like a man looked after a certain time in office, plump, soft, well dined on rich food.
“Master—?” Diaz had spotted the symbol of the order tattooed on the back of the man’s hand. It was faded beneath the wrinkles, but still recognizable with its blue ink.
“Master Enani, at your service, Master Diaz. I’m a master, you’re a master. Let’s pretend we know the formalities and just skip all the ritual words, shall we?”
Diaz inclined his head at the respectful greeting. Master Enani continued with a nervous glance at Bashan.
“I fear there has been a misunderstanding. The Empress Vashti may be young in years, but she is wise beyond their actual count. We have come with her offer of peace. Will you hear it, my Lord Prince?”
“Peace?” Bashan’s face grew cold, his expression world-weary. “The only true peace is Lara’s embrace.”
Master Enani glanced at Lechmar, as though worried the spokesman lord might say or do something inappropriate. His gaze then flickered to Diaz, who was worried that the Blade had spoken, not Bashan. Enani licked his lips and was about to start over, weighing his next words carefully, when a younger master intruded.
“The Empress of Arrun commands you—”
At a flick of Bashan’s wrist, the younger master’s head exploded, spattering a warm blood rain on the men standing close by. Shuddering inwardly, Diaz touched his cheek, and his fingertips came away red. A dull white gleamed among it, a sharp piece of skull.
“Command me.” Red gore covered half of Bashan’s face. “Go ahead.”
Master Enani, the brave soul, pointed a shaking finger at Bashan. “You killed a representative of the order of pilgrims on a diplomatic mission. You have no right to do that. Not even the emperor has the right to sentence a master pilgrim to death.”
Bashan’s eyes narrowed. “The Living Blade has every right.” His voice dropped to a near whisper.
Lord Lechmar wiped the remains of his delegation comrade from the spoiled feathers of his helmet, then put it back on.
“The Empress Vashti has understood the folly of standing against the Blade and awaits you in the throne room, Lord Prince. She has commanded us to escort you through the city so that she may abdicate the throne before you in person.”
“Oh. Good.”
Lechmar didn’t seem to think so. He turned down the corners of his mouth in distaste and gently steered his nervous horse away from the human wreckage.
“She does this so that you may spare the citizens of this oldest and grandest city of the world.”
“Of course, of course, the humble good folk need to be spared.” Bashan waved his hand dismissively. “Who would we rule if not for the humble good folk?”
Diaz fell in behind Bashan’s black stallion and leaned forward. “Perhaps it would not be wise to ride into the city covered in blood, Lord Prince.”
Bashan looked over his shoulder and wiped his face. He held up his crimson hand and grinned.
“They’ll get used to it,” was all he said.
Chapter 12
As they walked across the inner plaza of the Kandarin palace, beneath the endless row of marble stone pavilions, their footsteps echoing in the vast space, Bashan made a minimal effort to clean up. He dabbed a neckerchief over his blood-red face. The fear he put into his subjects riding up the causeway of the main street could not be gauged, Diaz feared, but many had turned their heads away, aghast. Children started to cry as their mothers pulled them back into the houses. A deathly quiet followed in Bashan’s wake. A somber realization of the entire city that this was not a man anyone would want to have as ruler. Maybe he was not even a man.
The shadow of the inner palace fell across the prince’s face as he looked up toward its golden portals. Maybe that was just a trick of the light. Diaz hoped so.
They climbed the steps to the great doors, manned on each side by watchful guards holding ceremonial pole-axes. The doors themselves rose to the heights beneath the carved portico, the history of Kandar and the Blade etched into the veined stone, copper details worked into the display. The faces of the figures were near lifelike, and Diaz wondered whether wight artisans had helped build this palace. He didn’t know and had never asked. The right door opened, symbolically. The left would be for petitioners. Both doors would be swung open wide only for the exit of the ruler. The right door, as the right hand, denoted action and purpose, and thus was only opened for the ruler to enter his or her throne room.
Bashan looked pleased.
Vashti was doing a convincing job so far. Perhaps she really did want to surrender, sacrifice herself for her subjects. Obviously Bashan wouldn’t let her become a martyr for the people to look up to, to hold in reverence, for resistance to build against his rule. He would know that, wouldn’t he? Diaz gave him a glance. But how much was still Bashan, and how much had the
Blade already taken over? Diaz shivered but not with cold. The blood in his veins boiled at the thought of Nora, his insides clenched tight. Maybe she had failed her mission and run afoul somewhere. The acid in his stomach churned at the thought of her dead or dying, alone. Or maybe—he felt sick—he had failed her mission. Maybe he had arrived here too early, having let Bashan push so hard, so impatiently. Perhaps he should have delayed him more. Maybe she hadn’t made it to the capital in time. Or maybe she had, but who in their right minds would believe a raving girl?
The effect of stepping into the throne room was the same as stepping into the inner plaza. It had the same feel of open airiness, a vast space intentionally not filled, but squandered because one had the means to fling away so much. Far above their heads a domed ceiling was illuminated by crystalline chandeliers, showing off the beautiful artwork that leapt with bright colors and swirling patterns. Thick pillars held the stone heavens aloft, but it was the front of the room that commanded Diaz’s full attention.
On a dais stood a large rosewood throne, a grandiose backdrop for the figure of Empress Vashti. She was small in form, and young, but knew how to impress. Her gown was a dark crimson; jet-black spars rose high above her shoulders to spread a dark fan behind her elaborate hairstyle. A necklace of jet rested on the skin of her chest, painted stark white in contrast. Only her upper lip and the middle of her lower lip stood out among the artificial paleness in a shade of red to match her gown perfectly. She looked out onto the world with huge, storm-cloud eyes, dispassionately staring at her approaching death, at once graceful in demeanor, as well as solid like a rock-mass. Nothing soft about her; she stood like a pillar. She spoke one word:
“Release.”
At her command, archers, hidden on concealed balconies under the painted dome, rained down arrows. For a moment, even Bashan’s forceful step faltered a little, watching death speed at him in many iron points. He caught himself quicker than Diaz did and whipped his hands up. The arrows clattered uselessly against an unseen barrier, a dome of power Bashan held upright by the power of the Blade.
“Bitch,” was the one word he spoke.
As Vashti stepped down from the dais, slightly bowing her head to her half-brother, a shadow departed from her side and ran toward them. Diaz’s heart missed a beat as Nora held his gaze.
One hand held high above his head, Bashan conjured a silver ball of destruction in his other in a matter of seconds. He hurled it in the direction of the young women, careless as to which of them he’d hit. Nora caught the blow of the Blade and with a single fluid move dispersed the power into a burst of dancing blue specks.
It cost her, though. Both of her forearms smoked, wisps rising from the blackened right arm, curls of fresh red burns on the left. The scent of grilled meat hung in the still air.
“Why won’t you just fucking die?” Bashan asked her as she stumbled, unbalanced from the pain.
Nora’s chin rose. She was grinning.
“You can’t kill me, Bashan. The Blade won’t allow it.”
“Some of them want you dead, you know?” Bashan’s voice dropped to a manic whisper.
“But some of them don’t.” Nora circled Bashan warily. “And that’s our problem right there. What if, in destroying me, you destroy it?”
“Shut up and step aside!” Bashan raised a hand and summoned the Blade into it. “I have the Living Blade. I have the right to rule.”
“No. You don’t. You’re not fit to rule. You never were. Look at you!” Nora tossed her head, taking another step forward. She pressed her bleeding hands against his invisible barrier, leaning against it. “You spent your whole life obsessed with finding the Blade instead of figuring out for yourself how to become the ruler your empire needed. But go ahead, and fail again. Take up your mythical sword, Bashan. But know this: every time you do, it will take you more and more, until nothing’s left of you but a memory.”
Bashan screamed incoherently, both hands pressed to the sides of his head as though he were in pain. As he doubled over, Nora mirrored his actions, anguish etched in every line. Panting, Bashan rose and pointed the tip of the Blade at his half-sister across the room. “You think she’s fit to rule? Who appointed you judge? My father rutted with some wench, and that thing came out unexpected. Unwanted. He sent both mother and child as far away as possible, though I’m sure he’d have been happier if they had died in labor.”
“And how many more illegitimate children do you think our father had? You cannot be so dumb as to believe I am the only one with a claim to the throne?” Vashti spoke calmly. “There are others, as the privy council is never too weary to tell me. Or did you think it was an accident that I was chosen as the heir? A young girl, pretty enough, marriageable. Good for making alliances, nothing but a womb to be squabbled over in the fight of which noble house gets to inherit the empire in the next generation. Wake up, Lord Prince. We are both pawns.”
“No, I’m—”
“You are.” Nora cut him short. “You are the Blade’s pawn. You’re Suranna’s pawn. All she wants is the Blade’s power to bring back the gods, and she’s spent centuries moving all the pieces until it finally all fits her purpose. Breaking the power of the empire is just one of her ploys.”
Bashan flinched.
“Well done,” he then said with a laugh. “A nice shot across the bow, that was. I very nearly believed you.”
“Believe what you will. It’s the truth,” Vashti said coldly. “The so-called Southern Queen Suranna has been encroaching on our territories for decades.”
“Not good enough.” Bashan strolled toward Nora, letting the tip of the Blade trail on the floor. A deep cut appeared, the clean edges dripping, congealing, as though the stone were melting under the force of the Blade.
If Nora saw it, she gave no sign of fear. She remained where she was, never backing away, both hands pushing against the invisible wall. Diaz moved with Bashan within the barrier, though he was unsure what to do. The hum of gathered power grew so great he had to bend his knee under its force. The Blade was hungry for release.
Bashan cut down.
The blow uncoiled like lightning against Nora.
She caught it with gritted teeth and deflected it against one of the mighty stone pillars, which crumbled, covering the throne room with clouds of dust and debris. Vashti gave a high-pitched shriek, already encompassed in the gray fog veiling the fighters.
Diaz jogged forward, guided by the flashes of blue light crackling over the grunts of effort. Sparks ran through his hair to the back of his head, down his spine. A blast like a gust of wind tore the veil apart for a split second, and Diaz saw Nora.
Staggering.
Raising a hand one more time, her face screwed up in pain.
Bashan before her, both hands on the Blade raised high above his head.
Diaz felt the hot kiss of the Blade’s maelstrom sweep him off his feet.
For a time he lay hurting, deaf and blind. Then his lungs finally remembered how to work, and he took a deep breath of fine dust and coughed. He sat up, ears ringing, then pushed himself up to his feet.
He saw Bashan first. A tall shadow rising out of the settling dust, the prince was trembling, his face wet with cold sweat, his fine armor cracked and dented, while he gulped air. Diaz stumbled toward him. Then he saw Nora.
Her eyes were still opened in surprise, but broken. As was her body. Rent in two by the power of the Blade. Her chest was split open, a long tear beginning at her collar bone and reaching down to her navel. Her blood…pooling under her and spattered wildly across the cool floor. Her forearms burned, blackened, and smoking.
He could feel the heat himself. Nothing but the heat boiling through him, no room for a clear thought in his head as he dropped to his knees next to her.
But she was gone.
Chapter 13
Nora was dead.
A falling piece of pillar disturbed the silence.
“I-I—” Bashan stammered, staring at his empty hands. “
The Blade?”
Diaz pretended not to hear. He felt weak as he carefully pulled Nora’s arms across her waist. It was hard to lift her body as broken as it was. A hot angry wave rolled over him as her head flopped from his arm, the wide rent in her body gaping at him with a red, wet smile. He could rage at the futility of it all. Scream and puke and cry. Punch Bashan. Kill him maybe, just to fill the ache in his chest, to fill the void. He managed to gather Nora into his arms and carried her behind a pillar, unsure what he would do next. He closed her eyes, shut her mouth, kissed her unburned cheek—the soft skin supple under the touch of his lips. One hand ran through her hair. It still smelled of woodsmoke and charcoal.
He leaned against the pillar, pressing his forehead against the stone.
He had failed her.
She had died.
The words lashed at him, leaving livid marks across his heart and mind.
No, I saved her life again and again.
She needed you, and you failed to help her.
But she never asked for my help.
Fool! She wouldn’t. The words echoed in the chasm of his soul.
You failed. Again.
“It’s quiet. So quiet.” Bashan spoke slowly. Incredulously.
It was quiet in the throne room, though.
“Where is it?” Bashan yelled.
Vashti’s voice snapped through the settling dust and silence, her tone of habitual command only wavering slightly. “Guards!”
Diaz struggled to his feet, only to slide back down. He took a deep breath. It was all he had left inside him. No more strength to stand up and make them stop fighting.
You took the right to judge others.
I judged myself the harshest.
You failed.
I know. I’ll own up to it.
All those secrets, never to be told.
I know.
On the Wheel Page 29