The Dead God's Due (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 1)

by Matt Gilbert

  Sadrina sneered. “Please! I have listened to you fools spout about invisible gods and demonic forces since I was born. There is no denying you have power, but I see no special enlightenment in you.”

  “How can one as blind as you expect to see anything?”

  “Go on, witch! Tell the rest of your fairytale, so we can all laugh at you.”

  Polus stamped a boot against the floor. “You humiliate us all, Sadrina, with your petty jealousy.”

  “You are a fool,” Ariano declared. “The Dead God has always lurked, waiting for the right moment. The Fallen prophesied his return long ago! Amrath wrote of it in his book!”

  “Amrath is dead, as are all the other founders!” Sadrina shouted. “And they were superstitious fools! There are no gods.”

  “It would be the height of irony to see Tasinal return and rip your traitor’s heart from your breast,” Prandil told her.

  “Ignore their threats,” Kariana said. “With your vote, I will be empowered to break a tie. You will be on the victorious side.”

  Sadrina jammed her hand into the air, glaring at the Meites. “I care nothing for the outcome, here!” she told them. “I simply stand against you and your bullying!”

  “Then die for your pride!” Ariano shrieked, her voice once again multi-harmonic, her words solidifying as she spoke them. Maranath and Prandil, however, sensing her intent, were already moving to restrain her, hauling on her arms in an attempt to disrupt her aim.

  “Bitch!” Ariano shrieked. The single word shot from her mouth, a dagger of glassy, pointed sound. It impacted the wall inches from Sadrina’s head, leaving a smoking crater the size of a man’s fist. Sadrina screamed in terror, as Maranath and Prandil struggled to restrain Ariano.

  Maranath slapped her face. “Control yourself!” he demanded.

  Maralena, secure in her victory now, tried to be magnanimous. “I understand it is an emotional issue, for some, but it is settled now, unless the Meites intend to destroy a thousand years of tradition and defy the council.”

  Prandil cracked his knuckles and cast a withering glare at her. “If that were our intent, we would have simply done away with you out of hand.”

  Kariana cleared her throat and rose. Do I dare? Oh, who am I kidding. Of course I dare. “There is one tiny matter of procedure. The vote is a tie. I do still need to cast the tie breaking decision.” She blinked innocently at the rest of the council. “Just to be official.”

  Prandil looked at her, a mixture of contempt and curiosity on his face. “Ah, yes. Just to be official.”

  Kariana smiled. She’d made a bargain to vote with Maralena. She’d said nothing about breaking any ties. You shouldn’t have pushed me, bitch. I would have been on your side if you hadn’t. “I have reconsidered my position. I vote to break the tie in favor of the opposed.”

  The courtroom erupted with shouts of surprise, some of victory, others of defeat. Such lovely chaos. Kariana felt herself slipping into near drunkenness. She felt as if she could pass out. Maralena was right. The irony was quite delicious.

  Maralena and Sadrina were looking at her, fury and terror in their eyes. Kariana gave them a leer in return. She sat back in her chair, feeling pleased with herself, when she saw the old woman, Ariano, looking at her. They locked gaze for a moment, and the old woman gave her a faint smile, a nod of recognition. There was something so terribly familiar in those green eyes of hers.

  And something so terribly, frighteningly young.

  Chapter 9: Fallout

  Sandilianus woke with a start. Someone had opened cell door. Was it morning so soon?

  He was surprised to see not the stern, square face of his hateful guard, Caelwen, but the wrinkled features and burning green eyes of the sorceress Ariano. Prandil and Maranath followed behind her.

  Sandilianus leapt to his feet and stood at attention. They were enemies, true, but they had honored him. He would return their respect.

  Maranath waved him off. “Relax, Southlander. This is no court room. Sit.”

  Sandilianus assumed a parade rest stance, spreading his legs and clasping his hands behind his back.

  Maranath grunted at this, then shuffled past him to take a seat on the tiny cot that filled most of the room. “Fine, I’ll sit, then. We are too old to be so formal. We have some questions.”

  I am surrounded now. He pressed his back against the wall, facing them all as well as he could, and said, “I am Sandilianus Abu al Khayr, Centurion in Prince Philip’s legions, serving under Tribune Brutus Samir, and loyal servant to Ilaweh. I can say no more.”

  Maranath was staring down at his robe, picking at it, and didn’t bother to look up when he spoke. “Oh, don’t think for a moment that we lack ways of changing that. It’s just that we were hoping not to have to resort to them.”

  “I do not fear your torture.”

  “Well, I certainly fear watching it. So lets spare me the grief, shall we?”

  Sandilianus shook his head in consternation. These were very strange people. “A soldier does not give information to the enemy!”

  Prandil’s face grew bright with humor, and a broad grin spread on his lips.“Then our problem is solved!” He raised both hands, showing he had no weapon. “We’re not here as enemies, Southlander. At least hear our questions before you refuse to answer, hmm? Where are your manners?”

  Sandilianus looked back and forth at them, weighing their expressions, but if they had ulterior motives, they hid them well. “What kind of questions?”

  Ariano offered him no smile at all. “Religious questions. You are not barred from speaking about your religion with ‘enemies’, are you?”

  Sandilianus considered a moment, looking back and forth at them, trying to gauge their sincerity. There were plenty of ways an enemy might try to trick information from him. “You are not believers. You are kafir.”

  Prandil’s humor vanished as quickly as it had come, his gaze as intense as Ariano’s now. “Oh, that is where you are wrong, Southlander. We are very much believers.”

  Maranath laid back on the bed and shifted about, testing it for comfort that his expression said he did not find. “There are few of us left in Nihlos. This city is weak, as your eyes have seen, and she grows weaker with each passing day. We rot from within.”

  Ariano stepped toward Sandilianus, her green eyes almost hypnotic as she looked up at him. These sorcerers have a powerful presence. I must take care they do not charm me. “Why came you here, Southlander? In the courtroom, you said you followed a holy man seeking an ancient evil. Had it to do with a prophesy? A prophesy of Elgar?”

  Sandilianus tried to hide his shock, but he could feel his eyes widening. The trio of sorcerers nodded at one another, satisfied, and Sandilianus cursed himself for a fool. They had pried information from him, even though he had not spoken!

  Ariano pressed her face closer. “What do you know of it?” Sandilianus forced his face into a stone mask, refusing to give away anything else, but she was having none of it. She poked a bony finger at his chest. “Fool! You know full well that we are not interested in military information. This is larger than all of us, and you have pieces we lack!”

  Sandilianus licked his lips, uncertain of what was acceptable to say. “Why do you need to know this? You sound like Yazid.”

  Prandil nodded. “With good reason. We’ve read a summary of Tasinalta’s interrogation, though we’ve no idea how much is true. Yazid stepped forward as your commander, but he claimed no military title. A non-combatant, then?”

  They were getting to him. Did it even matter if they did? What damaging information could he even reveal? Xanthia could crush this city at will. Any information he could possibly reveal would simply make them more aware of that, and was it not good for an enemy to fear? “There are no Xanthians who do not fight.”

  Ariano’s eyes grew wide at this, and she stepped back with a slight gasp. “No civilians? Even children?”

  “I do not remember a time that I did not carry a sword,
” he answered with a shrug.

  Prandil shot Ariano a glare of annoyance, then turned back to Sandilianus. “This Yazid, he called himself Prelate. What is a Prelate to you?”

  Sandilianus found himself at a loss for words. A prelate was, well, a prelate, but what exactly did the word mean, when it came right down to it? “Prelates fight for Ilaweh directly. They do not recognize earthly authority.”

  Maranath sat up on the bed, a broad grin of triumph on his face. “I told you it was religious.”

  Ariano’s eyes were brimming with curiosity. “Free wandering holy men,” she mused. “Have you more organized structures, churches and temples, or is it all informal?”

  Prandil cleared his throat and snapped his fingers briskly. “Can we please save the anthropology studies for later? If you really need to know all of this, then go with him when we release him. We need to hear what he knows of the prophesy!”

  Release? Sandilianus eyed Prandil, trying to decide if the comment was a genuine slip or a clever ruse. Their arguing certainly seemed very natural, as if it were their normal method of relating to one another. “What do you mean by that? I am to die in the morning.”

  Ariano swung a fist to punch Prandil in the shoulder, but he dodged the blow and grinned at her. She was in no mood for humor, though, and for a moment it seemed she might resort to something more violent, but Maranath intervened, rapping his cane against the floor with a loud crack. The entire cell shuddered, and dust filtered down from the ceiling. He scowled at them a moment, then offered Sandilianus a grin. “I see we once again have your attention.”

  “You have a talent for that, sir, there is no doubt.”

  “I had intended to present it with a bit more panache, but yes, that is our intent,” Maranath said. “We need people to believe you were killed, but as for the actual killing, it doesn’t much matter.”

  Ariano shot Prandil a final glare, then turned back to Sandilianus. “You are here to fight something dark, yes? We need not be enemies, Southlander. We are, in fact, quite natural allies for your cause.”

  Sandilianus nodded. “Yazid had done much research. I am just a soldier, so I don’t pretend to know the whole of it, but I know what he told us.” Sandilianus sighed, still uncertain as to whether telling the Meites his mission would be a betrayal. The Meites said nothing, giving him time to come to a decision. “There is a prophesy,” he said at last. “Made by Carsogenicus.”

  Prandil waved a hand in a circling motion, gesturing for him to continue. “Odio Sinistera, the Left Hand of Hate. We know him. Go on.”

  “Xanthius and Amrath had him burned at the stake for his evil. It is said that as the flesh melted from his bones, he laughed and prophesied, until he was nothing but ash. One of the prophesies was that Elgar would a thousand years hence walk the earth, and his scion would rise from the blood of Tasinal, in the city of nothing.”

  “Built on nothing,” Prandil said absently, his eyes clouded and distant.

  Maranath clenched his jaw, nodding. “Tasinalta.”

  Ariano’s eyes glittered with purpose. “We must slay her at once.”

  “We dare not!” Prandil exclaimed, alarmed. “Not without knowing the details!”

  “Indeed,” Maranath agreed. “It could be that her death at our hands is a necessary component of some ritual. The Fallen would have found such a thing the height of wit.”

  “Then what do we do?” Ariano asked.

  Maranath rose to his feet. “We watch her. And we wait. We thank you for your tale, Southlander.” He turned to the others. “Shall we release him?”

  Ariano seemed far away in her mind as she answered. “How can we not? If we fail here, his people would be the last bastion.”

  Maranath nodded. “Do you understand what we are saying, Southlander?”

  “Aye,” said Sandilianus. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. And who is not Elgar’s enemy?”

  “Just so. Now, as for your fate, we’ll need another corpse to show in your place. I presume you’ve no problem if we substitute one of your fellows? No one here will be able to tell the difference.”

  Sandilianus smiled. “It honors the dead to allow them to save a life.”

  “Well said. Now, be patient and wait here. Old men walk slowly, but we’ll have you on your way in an hour or so.”

  Maralena Prosin sat at her desk in her private study. It was an austere place, almost monastic, her one concession to a world where everything else must be dressed up with artifice. Here, in her private place, the world was true, a place without lies, deception, or vanity.

  She poured a stiff drink and leaned back in her chair, considering. The liquor burned in a pleasant way, as opposed to the acidic sting of her humiliation in court.

  At some other time, Maralena would have shrugged it off as simply business. She would have set to work looking to repair the damage, to gain leverage, to find new handholds. She would have held no grudges. Grudges were for fools. They were barriers to seizing opportunities. Vengeance was not something she had ever had the inclination, much less the luxury, of indulging.

  But this was different, somehow. Perhaps it was because she had so favored poor Marissa. Yet she had weathered similar losses in the past and maintained her composure. One did not play at power. Blood was occasionally spilled, often enough one’s own.

  No, it was something else entirely, something so trivial that looking directly at it was decidedly unpleasant. It was no monumental thing at all that made Maralena cast practicality aside. It was nothing more than the tone of Tasinalta’s voice, the sight of her petulant smirk, a childish, petty thing to which Maralena had, until now, fancied herself far above.

  But it burned like acid, and it would have to be addressed.

  Maralena took up a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write.

  Lara:

  You do not know me, and I shall offer no name, but I am a good man, and I see much. Know that your husband is not truly imprisoned. He is where he is by his own choice, the better to spend all of his time with Tasinalta. It is too cruel a game they play with you, and I will no longer stand by and watch. It is my duty to intervene.

  She admired her handiwork for a moment. It was difficult to be certain if the words matched the pattern of a man who rarely spoke his mind, and yet if she could not tell, no one else could, either. She set the letter aside and began another.

  She had no idea how it would play out. She was merely lobbing a bomb into a crowd. Whatever the result, it should be quite explosive. For the moment, that was just fine.

  Kariana had some trouble giving Caelwen the slip, but for all his vaunted duty, he was still human. She had simply waited until nature called, and then fled. No doubt, he was furious and frantic, and he would certainly locate her before long. How long, she didn’t know, which made time of the essence.

  Negotiating House Noril had been surprisingly simple. She had expected a chilly reception or an outright refusal, but the slaves had simply ushered her in without comment. Davron himself had nodded as she passed, as if they were actually on good terms. He must have visited his goat. She was lucky that Maranath had remanded the prisoners to House Noril rather than House Luvox, or this would have been a much more difficult proposition.

  House Noril’s ‘holding facilities’ turned out to be little more than a section of the house with doors that could be secured, four rooms that joined a common hallway. The only guard stood outside a fifth door that gave access to the hallway. Kariana eyed him as she approached. He seemed strong enough, but fairly bored. Well, it’s not as if Aiul is such a threat, but the Southlander might escape at any moment! She shuddered at the thought, took a deep breath, and approached the guard. “I’m here to see the traitor.”

  The guard’s bored expression did not change as he handed her a logbook. “All visitors must sign in.”

  Kariana could not help but notice the signatures just above her own. The Meites had been here within the hour. Why? She filed the point of informatio
n away for later. She would find out soon enough. She scribbled something unintelligible. No need to duplicate their mistake, after all.

  The guard accepted the log, then took keys from his belt and began unlocking the door to the common hall. For a brief moment, Kariana feared he intended to come with her, but he swung the door open and went back to his station. “Scream if you need help,” he said with a chuckle.

  Kariana scowled at him and said in a deadpan voice, “I’ll do that.”

  As the guard turned to unlock the door into the hallway, Kariana began to count in her head just how many times she had made a fool of herself of late. I don’t think numbers go that high. Of course, the previous times, she had at least imagined she had the right of it. This? This was idiocy. This was some kind of trick. How could it not be? It was simply too much to hope for.

  She reached into her pocket and clutched the letter it contained as if it were a talisman. She didn’t need to read it to feel its power. After at least twenty readings, she knew it by heart.

  It is not that I could not love you, but that I have my pride. You cannot shame me so in public and expect me to submit to you. If I must bend a knee, let me do it without cruel eyes upon me, mocking me.

  And so here she stood, without Caelwen’s “cruel eyes”, or anyone else’s for that matter. She had been humiliated enough for several lifetimes of late. How could she blame anyone for wanting to avoid it? It was horrible.

  She reached for the hallway door warily, on guard. What if the Southlander has escaped somehow, and is waiting behind that door for me? She stepped back, terrified. “Are you certain the Southlander can’t get out?”

  The guard gave her a quizzical look. “I am certain you are in no danger from him.”

  “Well how can you be when you don’t even check to be certain?”