Fesele’s voice caught him off guard. “It is good to see you again.”
Glimdrem turned with a bow. “Lord Chancellor, to what do I owe your invitation?”
“I am concerned.” Her floating steps led her to a table, and she poured two glasses of wine from a decanter.
“Not with the fate of the Silone, I hope?” Too many people were too worried over senseless humans.
“My sister for one. She was well the last you saw her?” She offered Glimdrem a glass and he sipped. The vintage was supple, earthy, with a hint of black currant.
“Exquisite.” He raised his glass in toast. “She was well as I would expect while away from the Eleris, better perhaps. She never lost her skill with Motu Ensa.”
“This pleases me.” But there was an inflection that denoted irritation. She danced around something. “This Solineus Mikjehemlut and his demon blades. Your thoughts?”
The real concern? “Facts or impressions?”
“Whichever you feel is more relevant. Both.”
He took a mouthful of wine. “I like him, but he makes me uneasy. If ever a human could be a match in arms with Inslok, he is it.”
“The demon blades, no doubt.”
“I doubt.” Her look withered his resolve with the slightest wrinkle in the corner of her eye. “I mean to say, there is no doubt his swords contribute to his abilities, but I suspect the man is uncanny on his own. For lack of superior words, he has a gift for killing things.”
“I see. We’ve no record of his weapons from the God Wars. No clue to the extent of their powers. Their names. The Sliver of Star achieved a feat unthinkable since the God Wars, and yet there is no record of what it is, no history. These demon swords appear at the same time, all connected to the Touched. Did this Solineus say anything? Perhaps some word from this Touched?”
Was the Touched her real concern? Glimdrem shook his head. “No, there was no insight from either. The Touched speaks in gibberish with meaning. You will be better served reading those words after meditation to make sure they are whole. On the tundra before the Steaming Lakes we faced a Mokotu-xe—”
“You are certain?”
“Inslok’s words, not mine. The xe froze all of us, except Inslok and Solineus, and it was the human who slew the Mokotu-xe, although Inslok showed him the way.”
“A human killing a Mokotu-xe and unaffected by its powers. We must be rid of these people.”
This one man? What wasn’t the Chancellor saying? “I agree. But even Inslok appears enamored with this Silone. At the Celestial Gate, a being arrived, the Colok called it Marukane, but Inslok claims to know what or who it is, but he can’t remember. He is determined to close the gate now.”
“Marukane. I will review the history of the Shadows of Man seeking reference. So many things outside our knowledge in such a short span.” Ignorance could well be the root issue for a woman titled the Lord Chancellor of Knowledge, and this notion lent Glimdrem a private chuckle. Her next words did not. “The Volvrolane will heed Inslok’s advice, if the cause is possible.”
Glimdrem puzzled it together, but couldn’t see the picture. “You disagree.”
“I can not. If the Celestial Gate may be closed, it must be.”
“I see, then what do you want of me?”
“You will recount your journey for our histories, spend time recouping. I will summon you when I need you to travel again.”
She left so much unsaid, but he recognized her dismissal. He turned to leave but hesitated. “Lord Chancellor, I have a peculiar request, seeing as the one thing agreed upon is closing the Celestial gate.”
“Ask.”
A risky gambit, but he’d never get a second chance. “Uvin’s chambers. Something of my last visit haunts me, though I can not put a name to what. I would like to revisit, see if I can find a clue to the location of the Oxeum Codex.”
Fesele blinked. “After journaling your histories, you have my permission.”
“Thank you.” He bowed and strode from the chamber with a smile, heading straight for the Hall of Remembrance. The desk and chair awaited him, Lifeshaped living oak, its rounded seat polished by thousands of days of Trelelunin sitting in its comfort and recounting the uncomfortable. Glimdrem eased into its curve and glanced to a vine growing in a bowl filled with soil from the Eleris.
He lifted a watering vase sitting nearby and poured into the vine’s base, then leaned into the seat’s slope, closing his eyes as a song emanated from the plant’s cupped leaves. Hums and whistles, different but melodious, a beautiful tune without a name, at once familiar but unique. Meditation and memory came easy under the enchantment of its song. His spirit drifted, and he found himself on the tundra, fangs dripping molten Latcu… the world blurred and the Touched laughed as he plunged an icicle the length of a spear through Glimdrem’s chest. The memories were perfect and clear, but they weren’t memories at all.
A whistle among the dozens of whistles and hums spoke to him: Have you dreamt of the dragon’s maw?
Glimdrem’s eyes opened, staring at the vine and its quivering stems, its leaves dancing to nature’s song. He’d awakened on the Day of Forgetting, his first new memory a dream, a dream of gazing between the teeth of a dragon to witness the flames brewing in its gullet. You know I have.
Have you ever dreamed of what lays beyond the fire?
What rests beyond fire is death.
What lives beyond fire is rebirth. Become what you once were.
I have never been more than me.
But you have been more than what you have become. Breathe again.
Glimdrem leaned forward, dipped a quill in ink and recounted the first moments of sailing for Kaludor. He neglected to note the whistling vine’s words, knowing deep down the Edan would never allow him to become what he once was, even if he didn’t remember what these words meant.
50
Winter Home
Power, the sniff in the flower,
a pleasant smell or bad, a sneeze or a sting.
Everyone seeks it, but not everyone knows what or why.
Political power. Sexual power. Military power.
Power over the living, power over the dead,
power over your children or over your own head.
The power to make a smile, the power to make a kill,
the power over the rank and vile, or the power to thrill.
The power to live, the power to die,
the power to overcome our fears and try!
Alas, the power to overcome failure having tried.
–Tomes of the Touched
They were a dozen riders when they departed New Fost the next day. Ivin, Solineus, Polus, and Meliu, as well as Tudwan Ravinrin, Danwek Bulubar, Stugin Mulharth, and Budothe Tuvrikt to round out representation from the Seven Clans. Limereu and three Trelelunin warriors finished the party.
Solineus spent the first two days trying to convince folks the Hidreng weren’t a threat, but the Edan presented her own proof on the third day. They were passing a group of Silone from the Clan Bulubar, who walked and pulled carts, when a string of Hidreng riders appeared on a hill’s horizon, whooping a frenzied battle cry. The Edan heeled her horse, riding straight toward them with her glow bright, and twenty horses turned tail in silence. Only nineteen returned to the crest of the hill mounted; the last dropped with an arrow in his back and drug himself the final twenty strides.
When Limereu dropped the Tek priest to stop a battle, Solineus figured he’d witnessed her finest, but he was wrong. The range was shorter, bur her ability to judge speed was uncanny. He didn’t need to convince anyone of how safe they were after this display.
Seven calm days in the saddle followed. If they weren’t passing hungry and exhausted people on the trail to Winter Home, it would’ve been easy to let the dire threat of the Hundred Nations slip to the back of their minds.
Day eleven they arrived, and Solineus’ body was so used to exhaustion and sores that there wasn’t a pinprick of pain. Besides,
compared to the Treaty Lands this was a heaven of beautiful weather and easy travel.
When Solineus had first heard of Winter Home, they said it housed a thousand Silone. Now, tents stretched as far as his eye could see along the Delhen River, people swarming the broad valley and its waters, the once tall grasses trampled. It wouldn’t be long until they’d fished the river out, if they hadn’t already. “Forges be damned… How long ‘til we’re starving?” It was good to see so many people alive, but with more coming, how the hells to feed them all?
Limereu said, “Many of the grasses growing here carry edible seeds, like wheat only smaller. Pastes and breads. The Eleris will also do its best to assist, but you are right. In time.”
Ivin said, “First, we must live long enough to starve.” He nudged his horse east along the ridge and Solineus reined in on his left, while Meliu settled to his right. It appeared he’d moved on from Eliles without Solineus’ help.
“Still think Iro’s out there?”
“If he isn’t, someone else is.”
Meliu said, “I hope you’re wrong, but I fear you aren’t.”
Solineus said, “I’d like to kill that son of a bitch, Iro.”
Meliu grinned. “You’re pleasant as an ice storm today.”
“All these days in the saddle make me testy.”
The number of Silone thinned along the river and disappeared behind them before they found their answer. A massive tent stood on a high hill flying the banners of five of the Hundred Nations. It rose into the horizon just beyond posts marking the border of the Blooded Plain.
Solineus glanced to Limereu. “You see a one-armed Hidreng?”
“No, but there are men of the Hundred Nations as far as the hill behind this one.”
“Shits. That’s a lot of people to kill.” He grinned at Ivin, winked, then turned back to the Edan. “Glow for me lady, let’s go see if we can stir up an explanation.”
“I can’t guarantee they won’t kill you… all of you.”
Solineus adjusted the Twins riding on his back. “Guarantees of living to see tomorrow are for coaxing children to sleep through the night.” He spurred into the lead along the ridge before zigging a trail down the steep hill to the river. Clear waters over colorful rock, and not so deep as he’d expected. They reined to a stop and dismounted. “The river’s the border here?”
Limereu said, “For a short stretch, according to my map.”
Ivin strode to him. “You sure this’s a good idea?”
“Hells no. But it’s an idea. If Iro’s here, he won’t be able to resist a meet.”
They ate salted pork and waited for over a candle, but patience paid off. Too well for comfort. Forty riders on armored horse, every man covered in steel except one, sauntered down the hill. Iro wore a fox-hide cloak pinned to cover his missing arm, and his horse stopped at the river’s edge.
“Mikjehemlut.” He squinted, and an awkward smile spread on his face. “And Ivin Choerkin, with blackened hair, if my eye doesn’t deceive. The Ravinrin boy, good to see you again, lad.” He looked at Meliu, but didn’t say a word.
Solineus said, “What’s the meaning of this army? The Bishop wanted rid of you so bad she sent you into the wilderness?”
“I mean to make sure none of your Rot infested people cross into our border again.”
“By killing us all?”
“I would never break the Treaty of the Blooded Plain.” His smile lacked conviction.
“Damned big army to guard against women and children. Tell me, how do you plan to kill us without breaking the treaty?”
Iro’s saddle creaked as he leaned over his horse’s mane. “It will be slow, unless your people show courage enough to seek their ends. They can attack us, or plead for us to take their heads. It makes no matter to me how your people meet their end, so long as they do. Ask Ivin, he spent time enough in the tower, beaten, to know the attraction of dying.”
Solineus grew hotter with every word from the man’s snarling lips. “If I reckoned you a courageous man, I’d invite you to the middle of the river to see who rides from here in one piece.” He spit in the water, and his hands rested on the Twins. The voices were quiet, but intense, and they fed his anger. “But, there’s already more’n one piece of you. And you’re a coward.”
Iro smiled. “Ho ho! See! Already one wishes to cross and die. Come, Mikjehemlut. We are glad to kill you.”
“I want your blood.” Solineus strolled to the edge of the river. “Let’s you and me play a game.”
“Please!”
“Your people turn and ride a hundred paces, I cross the river, and you send a man to die. You send more than one, cheat in any way, this Edan puts an arrow through your eye.”
Ivin said, “Solineus, don’t be a fool.”
“Hush, Choerkin.” Iro rocked back in his saddle with a grin, and Solineus studied his eyes. The bastard was too cautious, no matter how much he wanted it.
Tudwan stood in his saddle. “I’ve four weights in gold on the Mikjehemlut! Takers?”
Solineus waved the Ravinrin down. “This game’s for blood, not riches! Kill me now, or one day I’ll cut my way through a hundred of your bastards, I won’t kill you… I’ll cut your prick off and carry it all the way to Thon to feed the Virgin Whore. I hear she enjoys the shriveled tidbits of Hidreng men.”
The man’s face burned red, his chest puffing. “Done. Iokrine Gaermar!” Iro wheeled his horse and rode away before circling back, stopping a hundred strides or more up the hill. “I wait!”
Solineus turned to Limereu. “Arrow through the eye?”
The Edan smiled. “Pick an eye.”
Solineus shrugged. “I ain’t choosy.”
Ivin said, “You’re a crazy son of a bitch. Don’t get yourself killed.”
“Everybody dies one day, but this isn’t my day. Today, I show this bastard we ain’t laying down to die.” He took three strides into the river, then turned and winked. “Angry son of a bitch, not crazy.”
Trout scattered and disappeared as he traipsed across the Delhen, and he found it deeper than it looked, reaching to his waste. He raised the Twins from the waters but didn’t slow until he clambered onto shore. He raised a halting hand to Iro, sat on a rock and pulled his boots off, dumping water back into the river, then pulled them back on his freezing feet.
Exhausted, saddle sore, and soaked to his waist, it was the perfect time for a fight. He turned to Iro and held his arms wide in welcome. The Hidreng who dismounted was a big bastard, or at least he must’ve been under all that armor. He wore double mail over a padded gambeson, and plates of articulated steel covered his arms and legs. With a great helm on his head, he looked more like a lumbering sculpture than a man. In his left hand, a large round shield covered in leather and iron banded with a bulbous boss in its middle.
“I’m underdressed for this party.” Double mail and leather gambeson, but his helm was open-faced. The advantage was vision and mobility and instilling confidence in the enemy.
At ten strides the Tek drew his arming sword, heavy and straight-bladed with little taper; he killed some air with several strokes meant to intimidate.
Solineus drew the Twins in a blur, sweeping them in figure eights as he side-stepped to circle. The voices were calm, quiet, nothing of what he expected. The warrior hesitated for a flicker, maybe confused by what he saw, or didn’t see, in the whirling blades. Solineus switched direction and at the same time reversed the figure eight to sweep up. The Hidreng’s footwork was solid, but going left he had a hitch in his stride.
You’re the herd’s old bull, wounded but still powerful.
The soldier barreled forward and Solineus parried with a Twins’ flat while stepping into the man’s shield with a draw-cut. The Latcu scored the leather face, but it was wood beneath, less vulnerable to the Twins than if it were steel. It limited the advantage found in the man’s stride.
Solineus stepped back, drawing the Tek forward, then stepped into the shield side again,
the right Twin catching the man’s sword coming low; the Twin screeched down its length, a twist of steel curling and falling from its edge. A flicker later the second Twin struck the shield’s rim, severing the iron clean and gouging a hand’s length into the wood.
He danced back, smiling as the warrior watched the band fall from his shield; he didn’t notice his shaved sword. He drove forward again and Solineus stepped left, spinning from his sword and striking the shield’s edge with trailing strikes. Spruce slivered and split, leaving a third of the shield dangling.
The Hidreng bulled forward, swinging high and Solineus stepped under, directing it over his head and sweeping low with his second blade. The Latcu sang as it slid into plate steel. Solineus stepped back, blades in a square block pose. The Latcu scored the steel, but he’d need a second strike to the exact same location to reach the man’s thigh.
Latcu arrowheads focus energy to pierce the finest steels. Inslok’s words came back to him, and he realized he was going about killing this man all wrong.
Solineus drove forward this time, low, slamming his shoulder into the broken shield. The Tek would’ve been better served spinning from the blow, but his mentality was a bull’s: Push back. The man grunted against Solineus’ leverage, and failing, he swung his sword, missing Solineus’ head, the dulled blade skinning down his mail and throwing himself off balance. Solineus drove his feet into the dirt and shoved.
The Tek stumbled back, shield flailing wide for balance. Solineus strode forward with what his memory called a Sun-side Lunge; the man’s sword caught the Twin, but his feet tripped him backward and Solineus drove forward with a Moon-side Lunge.
The Twin slid clean through the mail links covering the man’s chest to puncture his right lung with the resistance of a loaf of bread. Solineus yanked the blade free and danced backward, the Tek coming at him as if never struck. Solineus killed the Tek, but he had to stay alive long enough for the other man‘s body to realize it.
Trail of Pyres Page 47