The guard shook his head sadly. “You just insulted the regent and admitted you don’t respect Her Ladyship all in one breath.”
James’s face drained of color.
“What’s your name?” she asked the other guard.
“Higgles, milady.” He swallowed hard and bowed again.
“Why don’t you answer my question, then?”
“We takes the soup to the north tower. You know, the one ’tween the well and the stables.”
“How many prisoners are there?”
The two guards looked at each other. “None that we know of, milady.”
“So who is the soup for?”
He shrugged. “We just leave it with the Seret Knight.”
“Soup’s done,” Ibis declared.
“Is that all, milady?” Higgles asked.
She nodded and the two disappeared out the door to the courtyard, each holding one of the pot’s handles.
“Now, let me make you something,” Ibis said, wiping his big hands on his apron.
“Huh?” Amilia asked, still thinking about the two guards. “No thanks, Ibis,” she said, getting up. “There’s something I need to do, I think.”
The lack of a cloak became painfully uncomfortable when Amilia was halfway across the inner ward. The weather had jumped from a friendly autumn of brightly colored leaves, clear blue skies, and crisp nights to the gray, icy cold of pre-winter. A half-moon glimmered through hazy clouds as she stepped through the vegetable garden, now no more than a graveyard of brown dirt. She approached the chicken coop carefully, trying to avoid disturbing the hens. There was nothing wrong with being out, no rules against wandering the ward at night, but at that moment she felt sinister.
She ducked into the woodshed just as James and Higgles passed by on their return journey. After several minutes, Amilia crept forward, slipped around the well, and entered the north tower—the prison tower as she now dubbed it.
Just as described, a Seret Knight, dressed in black armor with the red symbol of a broken crown on his chest, stood at attention. Decorated with a red feather plume, the helm he wore covered his face. He appeared not to notice her, which was odd, as all guards bowed to Amilia now. The seret said nothing as she stepped around him toward the stairs. She was shocked when he made no move to stop her.
Up she went, periodically passing cells. None of the doors were locked, and she pushed some open and stepped inside. Each room was small. Old, rotted straw lay scattered across the ground. Tiny windows allowed only a fraction of moonlight to enter. There were heavy chains mounted to the walls and the floor. Some rooms had a stool or a bucket, but most were bare of any furniture. Amilia felt uncomfortable while in the rooms—not just because of the cold, but because she feared she might end up in just such a place.
James and Higgles had been correct. The tower was empty.
She returned down the steps to the seret. “Excuse me, but what are you guarding? There is no one here.”
He did not respond.
“Where did the soup go?”
Again, the seret stood mute. Unable to see his eyes through the helm, and thinking perhaps he was asleep while standing up, she took a step closer. The seret moved, and as fast as a snake, his hand grabbed hold of his sword and drew it partway from its scabbard, allowing the metal to hiss, a sound that echoed ominously in the stone tower.
Amilia fled.
“Are you going to tell her?” Nimbus asked.
The two were in Amilia’s office, finishing the last of the invitation lists for the scribes to begin working on. Parchments were everywhere. On the wall hung a layout of the great hall, perforated with countless pinholes from the shifting of guest positions.
“No, I’ll not add to that witch’s arsenal of insanity with tales of mysterious disappearing pots of soup! I’ve worked for months to put Modina back together. I won’t allow her to be broken again.”
“But what if—”
“Drop it, Nimbus.” Amilia shuffled through her scrolls. “I should never have told you. I went. I looked. I saw nothing. I can’t believe I even did that much. Maribor help me. The witch even had me out in the dark chasing her phantoms. What are you grinning at?”
“Nothing,” Nimbus said. “I just have this impression of you slinking around the courtyard.”
“Oh, stop it!”
“Stop what?” Saldur asked as he entered unannounced.
The regent swept into her office and looked at each of them with a disarming smile.
“Nothing, Your Grace, Nimbus was merely having a little joke.”
“Nimbus? Nimbus?” Saldur repeated while eyeing the man, trying to recall something.
“He’s my assistant, and Modina’s tutor, a refugee from Vernes,” Amilia explained.
Saldur looked annoyed. “I’m not an idiot, Amilia, I know who Nimbus is. I was thinking about the name. The word is from the old imperial tongue. Nimbus, unless I’m mistaken, means ‘mist’ or ‘cloud,’ isn’t that right?” He looked at Nimbus for acknowledgment, but Nimbus merely shrugged apologetically. “Well, anyway,” Saldur said, addressing Amilia. “I wanted to know how things were proceeding for the wedding. It’s only a few months away.”
“I was just sending these invitations to the scribes. I’ve ordered them by distance, so those living the farthest away should have couriers leaving as early as next week.”
“Excellent, and the dress?”
“I finally got the design decided. We’re just waiting for material to be delivered from Colnora.”
“And how is Modina coming along?”
“Fine, fine,” she lied, smiling as best she could.
“She took the news of her wedded bliss well, then?”
“Modina receives all news pretty much the same way.”
Saldur nodded at her pleasantly. “Yes, true … true.” He appeared so grandfatherly, so kind and gentle. It would be easy to trust him if she had not seen firsthand the volcano that lurked beneath that warm surface. He brought her back to reality when he asked, “What were you doing in the north tower last night, my dear?”
She bit her tongue just in time to stop herself from replying with total honesty. “I bumped into some guards delivering soup there in the middle of the night, which I thought odd, because …”
“Because what?” Saldur pressed.
“Because there’s no one in the tower. Well, besides a seret, who appears to be standing guard over nothing. Do you know what that’s all about?” she asked, pleased with how she had managed to reinforce her innocence by casually turning the tables on the old man. She even considered batting her eyes but did not want to push it. Memories of Saldur ordering the guard to take her out of his sight still rang in her head. She did not know what that order had really meant, but she remembered the regret in the guard’s eyes as he had approached her.
“Of course I do. I’m regent—I know everything that goes on.”
“The thing is … that was quite a lot of soup for one knight. And it vanished, pot and all, in just a few minutes. But since you already know, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
Saldur studied her silently for a moment. His expression was no longer the familiar one of condescension. She detected a faint hint of respect forming beneath his wrinkled brows.
“I see,” he replied at length. He glanced over his shoulder at Nimbus, who was smiling back, as innocent as a puppy. To her chagrin, Amilia noticed that he did bat his eyes. Saldur took no apparent notice of his antics, then reminded her not to seat the Duke and Lady of Rochelle next to the Prince of Alburn before withdrawing from her office.
“That was creepy,” Nimbus mentioned after Saldur left. “You poke your head in the tower and the next morning Saldur knows about it?”
Amilia paced the length of her office, which allowed her only a few steps each way before she had to turn, but it was better than standing still. Nimbus was right. Something strange was going on with the tower, something that Saldur himself kept careful watch over. She
struggled to think of alternatives, but her mind kept coming back to one name—Degan Gaunt.
CHAPTER 19
GALENTI
The corridor outside the great hall in the Palace of the Four Winds was deathly silent as the small band remained huddled in the niche. All of the Emerald Storm’s party now held swords salvaged from slain Tenkins, each one made from Avryn steel. Warriors took strategic positions, armed with imperial-crafted crossbows, while the bulk of the Tenkin fighters moved back to allow them clear lines of sight. Clustered in a tight group, Hadrian’s party made an easy target.
Erandabon stepped forward, but not so far as to block the path of the archers. “Erandabon did not recognize you, Galenti! Many years it has been, but you have not lost your skill,” he said, looking down at the bodies of his fallen warriors. “Why travel with such creatures as these, Galenti? Why suffer the humiliation? It would be the same for Erandabon to slither on the forest floor with the snakes or wallow with the pigs. Why do you do this? Why?”
“I came to see you, Gile,” Hadrian replied. Instantly there was a gasp in the hall.
“Ha-ha!” the warlord laughed. “You use my Calian name, a crime for which the punishment is death, but I pardon you, Galenti! For you are not like these.” He waved his hand, gesturing vaguely. “You are in the cosmos with Erandabon. You are a star in the heavens shining nearly as bright as Erandabon. You are a brother and I will not kill you. You must come and feast with me.”
“And my friends?”
Erandabon’s face soured. “They have no place at the table of Erandabon. They are dogs.”
“I’ll not eat with you if they are ill-treated.”
Erandabon’s eyes moved about wildly in random circles, then stopped. “Erandabon will have them locked up again—safely this time—for their own good. Then you will eat with Erandabon?”
“I will.”
He clapped his hands and warriors tentatively moved forward.
Hadrian nodded, and Royce and the others laid down their weapons.
The balcony looked out over the bay from a dizzying height. Moonlight revealed the vast fleet of Ghazel and Tenkin ships anchored in the harbor. Dotted with lights, the vessels bobbed on soft swells. Distant shouts rose with the cool breeze and arrived as faint whispers. Like the rest of the castle, the balcony was a relic of a forgotten time. While perhaps beautiful long ago, the stone railing had weathered over centuries to a dull, vague reminder of its previous glory. A lush covering of vines blanketed it with blooming white flowers the way a cloth might disguise a marred table. Beneath their feet, once-stunning mosaic tiles lay dirty, chipped, and broken. Several oil lanterns circled the balcony but appeared to be more for decoration than illumination. On a stone table lay a massive feast of wild animals, fruits, and drink.
“Sit! Sit and eat!” Erandabon told Hadrian as several Tenkin women and young boys hurried about, seeing to their every need. Aside from the servants, the two were alone. Erandabon tore a leg from a large roasted bird and gestured with it toward the bay. “A beautiful sight, eh, Galenti? Five hundred ships, fifty thousand soldiers, and all of them under Erandabon’s command.”
“There are not fifty thousand Tenkin in all of Calis,” Hadrian replied. He looked at the food on the table dubiously, wondering if elf was somewhere on the menu. He selected a bit of sliced fruit.
“No,” the warlord said regretfully. “Erandabon must make do with the Ghazel. They are like ants spilling out of their island holes. Erandabon cannot trust them any more than Erandabon can trust a tiger, even if Erandabon raised it from a cub. They are wild beasts, but Erandabon needs them to reach the goal.”
“And what is that?”
“Drumindor,” he said simply, and followed the word with a swallow of wine, much of which spilled unnoticed down the front of his chin. “Erandabon needs a shelter from the storm, Galenti, a strong place, a safe place. For many moons the ants fight for Drumindor. They know it can stand against the coming wind. Time is running out, the sand spills from the glass, and they are desperate to flee the islands. Erandabon promises he can help them get it. He could have fifty thousand, perhaps a hundred thousand ants, Galenti. They are everywhere in the islands, but Erandabon will make do with these. Too many ants spoil a picnic, eh, Galenti?” He laughed.
A servant refilled the wineglass Hadrian had barely touched.
“What do you know about Merrick Marius?” Hadrian asked.
Erandabon spat. “He is dirt. He is pig. He is pig in dirt. He promise weapons … there is none. He promise food for the Many … and there is none. He makes it hard for Erandabon to control the ants. Erandabon wish he was dead.”
“I might be able to help you with that, if you tell me where he is.”
The warlord laughed. “Oh, Galenti, you do not fool Erandabon. You would do this for you, not for Erandabon. But it matters not. Erandabon does not know where he is.”
“Do you expect him to visit again?” Hadrian pressed.
“No, there be no need. Erandabon will not be here long. This place is old. This is not good place for storm.” He rolled a fallen block of granite from the balcony. “Erandabon and his ants will go to the great fortress, where even the Old Ones cannot reach us. Erandabon will watch the return of the gods and the burning of the world. You could have a seat beside Erandabon. You could lead the ants.”
Hadrian shook his head. “Drumindor will be destroyed. There will be no fortress for you and your ants. If you release me and my friends, we can stop this from happening.”
Erandabon roared a great laugh. “Galenti, you make big joke. You think Erandabon is dumb like the ants? Why do you try to tell Erandabon such lies? You will say anything to leave here with your dog friends.”
He finished off the leg by ripping the meat from the bone and chewed it with an open mouth, spitting out bits of gristle.
“Galenti, you offer Erandabon so much help. You must see how great Erandabon is and wish to please. Erandabon likes this. Erandabon knows of something you can do.”
“What is that?”
“There is a Ghazel chieftain—Uzla Bar.” He spat on the ground. “He defies Erandabon. He challenge Erandabon for control of the ants. Now, with no food for the Many, he be big problem. Uzla Bar attacks caravans from Avryn, stealing the weapons and the Many’s food. He do this to weaken Erandabon in the eyes of the ants. Uzla Bar challenge Erandabon to fight. But Erandabon is no fool. Erandabon knows none of his warriors can win against the speed and strength of the Ba Ran Ghazel. But then the stars shine on Erandabon and bring you here.”
“You want me to fight him?”
“The challenge is by Ghazel tradition. Erandabon has seen you fight this way. Erandabon think you can win.”
“Who will I be fighting with? You?”
He shook his head and laughed. “Erandabon does not dirty his hands so.”
“Your warriors?”
“Why should Erandabon risk his warriors? Erandabon need them to control the ants. Erandabon saw those dogs with you. They fight good. When choice is death, all dogs fight. If you lead the dogs, they will fight well. Erandabon has seen you win in the arena with worse dogs. And if you lose—Erandabon is same as before.”
“And why would I do this?”
“Did you not offer to help Erandabon twice already?” He paused. “Erandabon can see you like your dogs. But you and them kill many of Erandabon’s men. For that you must die. But … if you do this … Erandabon will let you live. Do this, Galenti. The heavens would be less bright without all its stars.”
Hadrian pretended to consider the proposal in silence. He waited so long that Erandabon became agitated. It was obvious the warlord had nearly as much riding on this fight as Hadrian did.
“You answer Erandabon now!”
Hadrian remained quiet for a few moments longer and then said, “If we win, I want our immediate release. You won’t hold us until the full moon. I want a ship—a small, fast ship—fully provisioned and waiting the moment the battle i
s won.”
“Erandabon agrees.”
“I also want you to look into finding an elven girl who is called Allie. She may have been brought with the last shipment from Avryn. If she’s alive, I want her brought here.”
Erandabon looked doubtful but nodded.
“I want my companions freed, treated well, and all of our weapons and gear returned to us immediately.”
“Erandabon will have the dogs you fought with brought here so you can eat with them when Erandabon is done. Erandabon also give other weapons you might need.”
“What about the others? The men that did not fight with me in the hall.”
“They no kill Erandabon’s men, so they no die. Erandabon have deal with them. They stay until deal is done. Deal goes good, they be let go. Deal no good, they be food for the Many. Is good?”
“Yes. I agree.”
“Excellent, Erandabon is very happy. Erandabon get to see Galenti fight in arena once more.” Erandabon clapped twice and warriors appeared on the balcony, each reverently carrying one of Hadrian’s three swords. More approached with the rest of their gear. Erandabon took Hadrian’s spadone and lifted it.
“Erandabon has heard of Galenti’s famous sword. It is weapon of the ancient style.”
“It’s a family heirloom.”
He gave it to Hadrian. “This …” the warlord said, picking up Royce’s dagger, “Erandabon has never seen such a weapon. Does it belong to the small one? The one who fought next to you?”
“Yes.” Hadrian saw the greed in Erandabon’s eyes. “That’s Alverstone. You don’t want to think of keeping that weapon.”
“You no fight if Erandabon keeps?”
“That too,” Hadrian told him.
“That one is a kaz?”
“Yes, and as you saw, he’s a good fighter. I need him and his weapon.” Hadrian strapped his swords back on, feeling more like himself again.
“So, the Tiger of Mandalin will fight for Erandabon.”
“It looks that way,” Hadrian said, then sighed.
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