by Phil Tucker
"You could kill me." He shrugged. "Though, perhaps not. With World Breaker and your own Kiss, I might resist long enough to take off your head. But I have a new stratagem, and I must confess, it pleases me not to have to mince words."
Tharok ignored the shamans, though it was hard to do so; their burning, fevered gaze made his hide itch. "We have less than three weeks before we march on Abythos. I need to change the fifteen thousand kragh under my control into a fighting force that will crush the Empire. I cannot do that without your help."
Kyrra swayed back, her serpentine hair hissing softly. "Go on."
"I wish to divide them into fifteen tribes, some old, some new. Many warlords must be convinced to either step down or be killed. Clans will be broken and merged. I need the full support of each chosen warlord, and they in turn need the support of their underlings."
"And this in three weeks." It wasn't a question, but rather a wry statement of fact.
"Yes. You will bestow the Medusa's Kiss on each of my chosen warlords. You will do the same to ten of their chosen underlings. They will then enforce my new laws."
Black Raven shifted his weight at the forefront of the shamans. Was his conscience stirring within him? Some vestige of Golden Crow, screaming in protest?
"And in exchange?" Kyrra's tone had become dangerously light. "Why should I dispense such favors at your command?"
Tharok leaned forward, baring his tusks in enjoyment. "In exchange, I shall make worshipping you the official religion of the horde. I will turn over my shamans to you, and all who hide will be declared the enemy of the kragh."
Kyrra's eyes widened a fraction and then grew heavy-lidded with pleasure. The hundred small serpents growing from her scalp hissed loudly. "A full return to the old ways?"
Tharok nodded grimly. "You will oversee the spiritual care of the kragh as you see fit. But know this: I am the warlord, and I will monitor your words, your message, and your power. If I see you overstepping your role, I will call down death upon you without hesitation."
Kyrra's lip curled.
Tharok pressed on. "But I know you to be of sufficient intelligence to await my death before incurring my wrath. Why risk provoking me when I shall no doubt die in combat within the next few years? Even if I live the full span of my life, another twenty years or so, what is that to an immortal such as you? Build, sow your field, so that when I die, you may reap full measure." He smiled. "Am I not right?"
"Oh, you are a canny one, Tharok of the Red River."
Kyrra moved forward, pushing past her shamans to rise up before his throne, close enough to touch. She gazed down upon him with her bronze eyes, and he sensed once more the potential for destruction that burned behind them.
She reached down and cupped his chin in her warm hand, her skin burning his much like the circlet did, a pain that was one shade shy of ecstasy.
"You seek to partner with a goddess. Such ambition. Such hubris. It is a delight." She traced his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, then swayed back. "I accept, because you are correct. Your death would sow only chaos. It is much easier to ride your success and depend on your death. Though I admit, I may miss you once you are gone."
Tharok shuddered. "Very well. We will need to find accommodations befitting your new role in my horde. A suitable stage on which you may perform."
"And your shamans? Those you have hidden from me? When will they be delivered?"
"Tomorrow at dawn. We will consecrate your new temple with their deliverance."
Kyrra laughed, and the sound stirred up dread in his soul. Then she turned and began to slither away, her great snake's body catching the braziers' light and glinting in the shadows. "Very well, warlord," she said over her shoulder. "You will find in me a most willing ally. And your kragh will discover the joys of worship once more."
The shamans folded behind her, all but Black Raven, who remained where he stood, staring up at Tharok. Was there a glimmer of something else in his dark gaze? A hint of Golden Crow? No, Tharok decided. He watched as the black-robed figure turned and followed Kyrra out of the hall, and after they had gone, he sat down, taking hold of World Breaker's hilt to benefit from its surge of strength.
This was his means of success. This had to be done so the humans could be defeated. This had to be done so the kragh could rise to preeminence. And once they had accomplished Tharok's goals? He would cut Kyrra's head from her beautiful neck and display it for all to see, for all to understand that there was no power greater than his, that there was nothing and no one worth worshipping more than their own triumphant warlord.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Iskra was sitting by herself in front of the fireplace in Mythgraefen's Great Hall. Servants were moving in the shadows behind her, and guards were standing at the door, but for the moment she was enjoying an island of tranquility. Chin resting on her fist, she stared into the leaping flames, hollowed out by grief and pierced by regret.
She should have returned to Agerastos by now. She was no longer merely herself; she was betrothed to an emperor. It wasn't fitting for her to remain here without the accoutrements of court, but she found she didn't care for the fineries and fripperies that were hers by right.
What she needed was to devise a way to change the emperor's mind, to bring him around to her way of thinking. After dedicating his life to the ruin of the Ascendant, he would be slow to come around, if he came around at all.
She heard footsteps approach her high-backed chair and straightened, stifling her annoyance as a familiar form stepped into view.
"Asho!" She rose and took his hand in hers even as he lowered himself to one knee, pushing his sword out behind him so it wouldn't catch on the carpet. "I didn't expect you back so soon. Is all well?"
"My Lady Iskra," said Asho, and then he stopped, frowning as he studied her face. "What has happened?"
Iskra released his hand and sat down, motioning that Asho should take the closest chair and do the same. Then, staring into the flames, she told him of Roddick's death. How she had cut Wyland's throat, then sought out Tiron, only to dismiss him from her service. How she had pulled Audsley down from Aletheia to lead her attack on Laur Castle, and a massacre had ensued.
Asho sat straight-backed through all of it, hands on his knees, listening intently without interrupting. When she had at last recounted her final conversation with Audsley, she turned to him, a sad smile on her face, her grief threatening to spill over once more.
"All is changed, Asho. Through my foolishness, my blindness, my stupidity. Tiron is gone, and I don't know where to find him to apologize. Audsley – poor Audsley. And Roddick." Her throat tightened, and she clutched the arms of her chair. This grief – it was like being swept overboard and assailed by monstrous waves. Just when she thought the worst was over, another wave crashed down upon her and sent her tumbling down into the depths.
"Oh, my lady," said Asho, slipping from his stool to one knee before her.
She watched him search for the right words and prepared herself to thank him, but instead he clenched his jaw, looking profoundly distraught and dissatisfied, and shook his head.
"I'm learning that there's often nothing I can say to make things better. Even apologies can be useless. So I won't. But I still have faith in you. I am still yours to command. I believe in our quest. And while I grieve for Roddick, I know the best thing I can do is continue to serve you well. This, I vow to do."
The intensity of his stare and the burning commitment in his eyes sobered her, helped rouse her from her melancholy. She forced a smile. "Thank you, Asho. You are my truest knight. I don't deserve such service." She raised a hand to forestall his denial. "No, enough. I am so glad to have you here by my side. I've made so many mistakes, lost so many loved ones. All I have left is my sense of duty, my desire to do some good in this world before I leave it. Though of late, I question whether I even know what that means."
"Undoing the Empire is good, my lady. Seeing my people slaving away in the mines has brought tha
t back to me like never before. Their slavery is evil. What we're doing is right."
"Yes." Iskra gestured for him to rise and return to his seat. "But Laur Castle has opened my eyes. We are dealing with faith, Asho. Not reason, not politics, not money. Faith. It cannot be argued with; it cannot be forced. Hundreds died in Audsley's fires, but there was nothing we could do or say that would have stayed their hands. If we depose the Ascendant, cast down his Virtues, and declare Ascension destroyed, what do you think will happen?"
"The Bythians will rise up and praise your name for eternity."
"Would they?" Iskra felt a wounded kindness, a gentle pity. "Would they really? Think of your conversations with them. Kanna followed you out of the dark, but what of the others?"
Asho looked away.
"You see what I mean. From the highest to the lowest, everyone has their place in Ascension. It is their reality, their faith. We cannot destroy it with a sword. Doing so would only lead the people of the Empire to rise up and declare holy war upon us. We would become embattled on all sides. We would lose, and in our place anarchy and chaos would reign."
"My lady," said Asho. "Speaking of chaos. The reason for my visit – the kragh are rising. They are uniting under a new warlord. They plan to assault Abythos in less than a month's time."
Iskra's head reared back. "Are you certain?"
"Yes, my lady. I heard it from my own sister. She's been sent by this warlord to stir the Bythians into open revolt so that the Ennoian forces will be tied down when he attacks. I tried to change her mind, but I failed."
Iskra turned to stare into the flames. "A kragh invasion. Word will no doubt soon be reaching the Aletheians. They will have to pull their forces from the field and send them to Ennoia. They cannot risk another Ogri the Destroyer."
"What would you have me do, my lady? I am arranging to speak with my people. I was planning to follow the emperor's orders and convince them that Ascendancy isn't real, convince them to raid the Gate Stone cache to distract the Empire while you launched your attack. Do you wish me to continue?"
Iskra tapped her lips, still staring into the fire. She could almost hear the screams of Laur's soldiers as they writhed and burned. "No. We no longer preach the destruction of Ascendancy, especially not with an Ogri marching upon us. Change your message, Asho. We will improve Ascendancy, change it for the better, remove the rot that has infected it."
"But, my lady, Ascendancy is a lie," said Asho, moving to the edge of his seat.
"It may very well be. I don't presume to know, not anymore. And, to be honest, I'm not sure I care." She smiled at him, amused by his shocked expression. "If it is real, we will be judged when we die. If it is false, then we won't. Regardless, I plan to occupy myself with one thing only: improving the quality of people's lives. If they let me without demanding my head."
Asho sat back, absorbing her words, staring down at the floor as he mulled them over. "We Bythians won't remain slaves," he said at last.
"No," agreed Iskra. "That is one of the fundamental changes that must take place. The Bythians will be allowed to leave Bythos if they desire, or stay if they wish. They will be offered wages, as will anybody else who wishes to take their place." Iskra fought back her overwhelming sense of inadequacy. "I haven't yet detailed the entirety of every step, and will no doubt consult with Noussians and Sigeans galore as I seek to understand the Empire's economy and how not to wreck it – but certain changes are non-negotiable. The freedom of the Bythians is one."
Asho relaxed a fraction, then sighed. "So we don't destroy Ascendancy. And perhaps you're right. Maybe we could never have done so to begin with. I will change my message. But to what end? Should I still seek to capture the Gate Stone?"
Iskra realized that her shoulders had rounded forward, that weariness was pressing her head down. She sat up. "Yes. We need that Gate Stone. But, most importantly, we need to prevent your sister from gaining a following. Preach this change. Gather Bythians to your side if possible. We cannot allow this Ogri to garner a fanatical following within the Empire."
"As you command, my lady," he said.
"And one thing more. Before you leave, I would appreciate your connecting with the Vothaks who operate the portal to Agerastos from within Starkadr. Identify and show them how to open new portals to the cities of Aletheia and Ennoia. They cannot divine the names without your help."
"Ennoia, my lady? The capital?"
"Yes. We must be alerted when the Empire moves against this kragh horde. We must time our strike carefully, and it is only by watching their movement through Ennoia to Bythos that we may be certain."
"Very well."
"Oh, Asho." Iskra felt the tears come again and rose to her feet. He immediately did likewise. "You have my blessings and my thanks. Please, take care of yourself. I cannot afford to lose another good friend."
He hesitated. "And you, my lady? Who is going to take care of you?"
All Iskra could do was hold onto her smile and shake her head. The tears in her eyes refracted the firelight like prisms.
Asho's jaw grew hard. He stepped back, bowed low, and was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Kethe had sent instructions that her cohort was to be assembled on the training grounds at dawn. She knew that her command would prove unpopular, but something told her she had to break the bonds of familiarity, push them and get them to see her differently. She was no longer Kethe, the new arrival, but Makaria, the Virtue of Happiness and one of the most lethal warriors in the Empire.
Even if she didn't quite believe that herself.
She then made them wait ten minutes, deliberately arriving late to see how they were behaving. Stepping out through the archway that led to the Virtues' quarters, she paused, hands on her hips, and studied the six people awaiting her.
Dalitha was doing a handstand, and as Kethe came into view the lithe young woman swayed over onto one hand and laughed, raising her other arm to parallel. Gray Wind was off to one side with Khoussan, while both Sighart and Wolfker were seated on the cold stone, arms locked around their knees. At first, Kethe thought that Akkara was missing altogether, and then she saw the young Bythian by the weapons rack.
Sighart nudged Wolfker with his elbow and stood. The blond Ennoian did the same, prompting Dalitha to crane her neck and spot Kethe, at which point she flipped onto her feet.
Kethe walked up to them with her heart hammering. She was wearing a new outfit of white trimmed with gold – elegant and functional, and clearly speaking of her new station. It was tight and loose in all the right places. She stopped in front of them, watching Akkara as the Bythian walked hesitantly to rejoin the group, looking as if she might spook and run at a moment's notice.
No one else was out this early. The sun was only just starting to lighten the underbellies of the dark clouds into a luminous gray. The air was bitingly cold, and a steady wind was gusting into the training ground and circling there as if trapped in the form of a cyclone.
Everyone lined up, shoulder to shoulder. They all studied her, taking in her new outfit. Everyone was serious except for Dalitha, who gave Kethe a little wave.
"Hi, Makaria! Or is it Kethe? Kethe-Makaria? You look great!"
"It's Makaria," Kethe said, fighting to own the name. It didn't matter if she thought of herself as such; it only mattered that they did.
Dalitha's eyes went round at Kethe's tone, and she covered her mouth in an exaggerated apology, then ducked her head and snuck a look at Sighart to see if he was amused. The Ennoian ignored her, and instead watched Kethe, half-guarded, half expectant.
"Good morning," said Kethe after the silence had dragged out long enough. "You are my cohort now. Your training and survival are my responsibility. I mean to take that responsibility seriously."
She could see questions in their eyes, but they held their tongues. Kethe fought to keep her expression grave, to keep up this charade; fought to look stern and forbidding and not dwell on the fact that until a few days ago, they
had shared meals and jokes, and she had striven to be part of their group.
"I saw you all fight during the Quickening. Some of you are good. Others need more work. All of you need to deepen your understanding of how to weave your power into your attacks and defenses. So, we'll begin with an examination. Everyone but Sighart, sit down over there. Sighart, fetch us two single-grip blades."
After their initial surprise, the group did as they were told. Sighart remained as still as a tower, then nodded and marched to the weapons rack and returned with two gleaming swords. Kethe took hers and examined it, sliced it a few times through the air and stared down its length.
"Now, come at me. Don't hold back." She lowered herself into the middle guard, blade held at her hip, point raised toward Sighart's face.
The Ennoian rose to a high guard and approached. Kethe felt a warm flicker of anticipation and was surprised at how quickly she felt the infusion of the White Gate's power. It was as if it had been waiting for just this moment, this summons, to pour itself into her frame.
Had something changed after the Quickening? She'd not noticed any difference, but now, with Sighart approaching and live steel in her hands, she felt a thrill at the liquid power that ran through her limbs. Had she somehow widened the channel between herself and the White Gate?
She remained still until Sighart attacked with a sudden but expected downward blow, which she sidestepped, rising and parrying with a diagonal block and easing into a flurry of blows, testing Sighart's defenses and allowing him to strike her in turn. She moved around, circling him as they fought, causing him to remain rooted in one spot and constantly shuffle his feet as he fought to keep her in front of him. All the while, the White Gate sang inside her, so that after five minutes she felt barely taxed while Sighart was sweating and panting for breath.
"Enough." She lowered her blade. "Take a seat. Well done."