“What do we do, then?” Curatio asked, just as light flickered in the corner of the tower. The three of us turned, guards up. I held my dual swords before me, unsure of how to use both at once.
The light faded to reveal Stepan, along with a Protanian clad in a deep red tunic. The Protanian took one look at the scene before him and cast a spell, disappearing in a blaze of green light.
“That … will probably not aid our cause,” I said as the silence held in the wake of his departure.
“What in the name of the ancestors has happened here?” Stepan asked, standing there, mouth agape, looking at the three of us standing over Chavoron’s corpse.
“Death,” I said, lowering my weapons. “Death has happened here.” I stared at him for a moment, taking in the look of him. He was well-dressed and clean, his beard shaved away. “What news from Enrant Monge?”
Stepan deflated, the tension that had filled him at the sight of us standing over the body of the First Citizen of the Protanian Empire apparently a lesser concern than what had been on his mind before. “I come bearing word of ill times.” He blinked, hesitating. “Your father is dead.”
I stood there next to the body of Chavoron, and felt a strange detachment, as though in the moments before this news I had already mourned the death of my father. “When?” I asked.
“A day past,” Stepan said, “but he has ailed for months. I delivered your message, and he took hope in your return a wiser man, but …” Stepan swallowed. “The vultures circle. Syloreas, Galbadien, and Actaluere were sitting upon our borders with armies when I left, like carrion birds waiting to peck at the dead. You must return immediately, and even that might not be swift enough to prevent calamity.”
I stood there cold, in the tower, and now torn. I had work, I had a purpose, and that was to finish the job at hand and somehow prevent the fall of the Protanian Empire. My loyalty to my old home seemed a far-off thing, and my attachment to the last duty given me by the dead man at my side was here, now, urgent and important.
Which would I choose? A kingdom that was mine by right, that once I would have betrayed as I groped blindly for power and the throne? Or an empire that I had helped ruin by my action, that stood right here, right now, and was slipping into the abyss as I watched?
“I cannot go,” I said, “not yet.”
Stepan stared at me. “The bridge is complete. It lies finished to the east. All we need do is cross it, on horse, and we could be at Enrant Monge in weeks. You can save your kingdom and rule it at last.” He put a hard, grasping hand on my shoulder, as if to shake me out of foolish action or stupor. “It is all you have ever wanted, now for the taking.”
“I cannot leave these people,” I said, feel the tug of desperation. “I cannot find such … mercilessness in me any longer, Stepan.” He flinched slightly at my use of the word. “You, of all people, should appreciate that.”
“There is blood loyalty before you,” Stepan said. “Obligation you need to take up.”
“I agree,” I said. “But here first. This empire will fall, and people will die in countless numbers.”
“That is not your problem,” Stepan said. “Your duty lies over the sea—”
“My duty lies where the need is,” I said, discovering something that rang true in me. “This land needs help. I will make right what I have helped do wrong here, and then we will depart.”
“And if it is too late?” Stepan asked. “If you have to return and conquer your way through Galbadien, Syloreas and Actaluere?”
“Well, then, my old words might at last come in handy,” I said, and nodded to Jena and Curatio. “We will need help if we’re to stymie the endeavors of the anti-slave portion of the council.”
“What help did you have in mind?” Curatio asked shrewdly.
“I need my men,” I said, glancing at Stepan, who stared back sullenly, as though I’d betrayed him. “And after that …” I sighed, not sure what to say. “I don’t really know.”
“We need more than that,” Jena said, stepping forward, voice firm. “We need to speak with my father. He has an understanding of this conflict clearer than our view from here. We need to know what is going on before we can act in good faith, with assurance that we won’t make terrible things even worse.”
I stared at her, and she stared back at me. The intensity in her eyes burned up the space between us. “She’s right,” I said. “If this is a war of division, we know one side is against us. If we mean to preserve this empire and save all we can, perhaps alliance with the other side—however loathsome—is our best option.” I nodded to her once, and then turned to look at Stepan. “And you?”
“And I what?” Stepan asked sourly.
I looked evenly at Stepan, feeling the dissolution of the loyalty we’d found in the common cause of a return to our homeland. “Are you with me in this? Or do you wish to return to Luukessia?”
Stepan closed his eyes for just a moment. “I cannot return without you. I gave my word that you would come back to them there in their hour of need, and to leave you here, unaware of when or if you might come back … it would be a betrayal of my word.” His eyes opened again, and I could see the brooding dissatisfaction in his glare. “I will come with you.”
“Then let us be off,” I said, nodding to Jena, “and visit the Yartraak to seek his council.” I lowered my voice. “And let us hope that in seeking his guidance, we don’t damn ourselves to make worse a war already bad enough.”
79.
Cyrus
The grey wastes lay endless in all directions around them, and Cyrus shielded his eyes against the bright sun that pierced its way through the thick clouds above. He looked down at the dirt and ash that stood below his feet and took in a breath of air. It stank of smoky dust, of something burning in the far distance, and it gave his tongue a gritty feeling. “I hate this place,” he said aloud.
“Then why did you drag me here?” Terian asked. They stood alone in the middle of endless grey, stretching all the way to the horizon, hilly in places and flat in others, but lacking the distinct geography of greener lands like the Plains of Perdamun.
“You know damned well why,” Cyrus muttered. There was not so much as a rock to sit on, and he feared to drop to the ground without something to separate his arse from the earth. The sandy grey powder upon which they stood looked as though it would search out any crevice in his armor and worm its way into his greaves and boots.
Terian made a frustrated grunt. “I can’t believe I’m here. Again. With you.”
“You just keep following me,” Cyrus said, “like a dog following a man with bacon in his hand.”
“You don’t have bacon,” Terian growled, “or else I’d have justification for following your long arse. You carry death instead.” He froze, and Cyrus saw the Sovereign’s expression soften. “I’m sorry, Cyrus,” he said, “that was callous of me.”
Cyrus stood still then shook his head. “It was honest. I can’t fault you for it.”
“If it held a ring of truthfulness at all,” Terian said, a little more cautiously, “it’s because you keep daring mighty things while others live pedestrian lives. Better to die in grand spectacle of battle than to have your throat slit in the alleyway behind a whorehouse.”
Cyrus cocked his head as he looked at the dark elf. “Given it some thought, have you?”
Terian shrugged. “It seemed likely for a time, given the way I lived my life.”
“But no longer,” Cyrus said. “You’ve gone from lecherous dark knight to virtuous paladin, from whore-wrangling drinker to the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar. Quite an impressive climb.”
“Well, I had the name of Lepos to aid me,” Terian said. “That was no small advantage given my house’s position when I began life.” He stood very still for a moment. “But honestly, it was the faith of Alaric in me that most aided my cause.” He made a soft hrm-ing noise and kicked at the dust at his feet. “If it weren’t for Alaric … I’d be dead in that alleyway somewhere.
He led me out of that life, one slow step at a time.”
“If not for Alaric …” Cyrus said, voice trailing off as he considered the thought. “I’d likely have died in that first dragon raid. But because he put together Sanctuary, someone saved me.” Cyrus drew a deep breath of smoky air and coughed at the taste. “Or, I suppose, if I were very lucky, I might still be struggling as the poorest warrior in Reikonos to this very day, if I hadn’t died as an applicant to some guild.” He stared into the distance, looking at the grey skies. “I would never have met Vara. Or any of you.” Cyrus brought his hand back against the pommel of Praelior, and it clanged loudly. “A different life, indeed.”
They trailed off into silence, and Cyrus looked up at the sun, still hidden behind the low-hanging clouds. Terian spoke first. “How long do you want to wait? I think we’re past the time.”
“How can you tell, with the sun hidden so?” Cyrus asked, trying to figure out its position in the sky. Things were different here, in any case. “Besides, I’ll wait until nightfall and beyond if need be.” He settled both hands on his waist. “This is help we need, Terian.”
“Any help we can get is help we need,” Terian muttered, but then he shifted, looking off into the distance and slightly up. “I think … I think they’re coming.”
Cyrus turned and looked along the dark elf’s line of sight. He could see shadow there, in the distance, but it was too soon to tell whether it was the ones they were waiting for. “Let’s hope so,” Cyrus said, letting his hand rest easy on Praelior’s hilt—just in case—as he waited, the shadows drawing closer and closer to them, as they stood in the midst of nothing but dust and ash.
80.
Alaric
We appeared in the cool depths of the Yartraak’s domain, stepping out of a small closet-sized room into a palace hallway. Curatio looked unsurprised, and I intuited that this was the portal he had used to visit me earlier, the one he had bribed someone to obtain the spell for.
“This way,” Jena said, hustling us along the stone-lined corridor. The Yartraak had ordered much work done in this place to make it look like an interior of a building made of stone rather than what it was, a warren of tunnels that used to be mines. I wondered if he had employed craftsmen to do the job or somehow simply used magic to make it to his own specifications.
Jena pushed through a door at the side of the corridor without knocking, and I followed, Curatio and Stepan a few feet behind. We entered a room that was lit as bright as if the noonday sun hung overhead. I noted one of the Nessalima’s magical conjurings hanging in the air over a map table, and saw the Yartraak’s gaunt, skinny body covered over with his robes leaning over it, another figure next to him pointing with an unnatural hand. It was the Mortus with his four arms, intentionally using one of the new ones as if to show it off.
Both of them looked up as we entered, and a flicker of surprise showed across the Yartraak’s grey face. Someone of the blue seemed to have leeched out of his complexion, leaving him with a more ashen look. “Daughter,” he said, almost a challenge, as we entered.
“Father,” she said, walking to his side, hobbling slightly as though carrying a heavy burden, her long dress dragging on the stone floor. “I come with grim news.”
The Mortus stood up straight across the table. “If it is about the events in Sennshann and elsewhere in the empire, be assured we already know and are planning.”
“Chavoron is dead,” I said, causing the Mortus and the Yartraak’s heads to snap to me immediately. “The Drettanden has struck him down. He nearly killed me in the process, and they are killing slaveholders and marching the slaves elsewhere.”
“Chavoron,” the Yartraak whispered, stunned, his mouth a grim line. “They are finished with any pretense of peace, then.”
“This is war,” the Mortus agreed. “Fully declared. I think we can be certain now that the Vidara and the Pacem were not killed in the slave revolts.”
“The Vidara and the Pacem?” I asked, stepping closer to the table. “Almost certainly not, no.”
“They will come for you,” Jena said, sounding more worried than I might have assumed given her strained relationship with her father.
“They will have great difficulty digging me out of the ground,” the Yartraak said, his small frame puffing with pride. “My soldiers stand on guard, ready to fight, and a more significant force they shall not find outside of Sennshann.”
“I will be forced to close my realm,” the Mortus said, thinking out loud, his voice like a rattle in his lungs. “But this puts our other news in a different light, does it not?” He brought his arms together, templing his fingers on every hand with their opposite. It was a strange sight.
“What other news?” I asked.
The Mortus grimaced slightly, as though being addressed by me gave him an ulcer. He did answer, though. “I received a report from a trader leaving Zanbellish for my realm. He saw a red light in the sky, magic employed on a massive scale.” He licked his thin lips. “I believe our foes have decided they will sacrifice the lives of those they so hate, and that they have done so there first.”
“Zanbellish is a slave city,” Jena whispered. “If they employed this magic you speak of—”
“I have not been there to substantiate the rumor,” the Mortus said, a little huffily, “but I expect if true … it is now a dead city.”
My head spun, mind whirling. “This is beyond … beyond freeing slaves,” I said. “The Drettanden spoke of … removing the stain of sin from the empire—”
“We have been divided amongst ourselves for so long,” the Yartraak mused, “I expect he would find it difficult to separate those that believe as he does and those that do not.”
“And even if you could,” the Mortus said, sounding slightly gleeful, “how to explain that almost all of those sympathizers take no action against this practice they abhor? Why, they are nearly as complicit as the rest of us, sitting in silence. Argument is not action, after all.”
“It would appear that they have veered into the arena of action,” Curatio said mildly, drawing every eye in the room. “If this is to be believed, what cause would they have for destroying the entire city of Zanbellish, save gross overreach in this ideological war of theirs? Erasing all those lives seems … foolish.”
“There is a second motive at work here,” the Yartraak said, and the Mortus sneered behind him. He fixed his gaze on Curatio. “You would not understand.”
Curatio blinked. “I would not understand? I find that grossly insulting, especially given that you stand in the presence of a human and seem to believe he might.”
I stood there, stunned at how swiftly Curatio had turned and insulted me. “I—”
“You would not understand because you are true elf,” the Yartraak said, waving him off. “Not the half-breeds your people have made with the humans you’ve taken.” He had a gleam of triumph in his eye, as though he’d stabbed Curatio right in the belly. Curatio, for his part, did look mildly horrified at the cavalier way in which the Yartraak had just slashed at him, outside of the point he was making. “You will live forever. Your immortality is something you take for granted. We Protanians do not have it, but our highest spend their days coveting it.” He put his hand on the table, leaning against it, and the table squeaked. “The Mortus here discovered a … a new branch of magic … one that has enflamed the sensibilities of this divided council.”
The Mortus shifted on the other side of the table, and suddenly I got the feeling he was quite glad to have it between him and us. “I am not proud of this discovery, and you are wrong to mention it so freely, my old friend.”
“It is important,” the Yartraak said.
The Mortus hesitated. “Very well,” he decided after a moment. “I have … communed with the magics between life and death for many years. My fascination with elven immortality is well known, but fails to take into account other paths I have studied in my time.” He slumped his shoulders, as though he were collapsing in on h
imself, and his manner reminded me of an insect fighting the urge to scuttle off. “In my studies I crafted a spell … one that can capture life energy from one living being and transfer it to another.” He seemed almost guilty as he stood there, looking at the table with beady eyes. “I never intended it to be used in this way, and certainly not on this scale. Entire cities? Of our own people?” He shuddered. “This is not a righteous thing to do, it is madness. I experimented with prisoners, with criminals, and with the dying, so that we might capture their vitality and harness it rather than see it wasted at the moment of death. This thing, though …” He shook, all four hands going to his shoulders, as though he needed reassurance and could find none but from himself. “It is an atrocity. The spell the trader described … it sounds very much like my lich spells turned loose on a city.”
There was a pause of silence as the Mortus’s confession sunk in on all of us. “You have found a way to drain life?” Curatio asked, his voice brittle. “Truly, you have gone mad with your spell-lust, taking what was a natural phenomenon that could be channeled and turning it into something … unnatural.” He said the last word like the bitterest curse.
“It has good uses as well,” the Mortus said, puffing up defensively. “The dead, when they go, are lost, of no use, their energy flown from this plane. Someone who could channel that, capture it at the moment of departure, could harness an unbelievable source of magical energy akin to that which … some of my fellows,” he looked jealously at the Yartraak for a moment, “have at their disposal in their own realms, their seats of power.” He shuffled about for a moment. “For example … Chavoron,” and here his eyes grew hungry with lust, “his soul was a powerful one. Imagine it, turned free of his body. If you could channel it, you could make his power your own, add it unto you—”
“This is despicable,” Curatio said, echoing the sentiments I could not form with my mouth.
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