War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy

by D. S. Halyard

  Jecha blinked in surprise. “You don’t have such authority.”

  “Indeed I do, Madame Entreddi.” He assured her. “I am Rashad Ibn Al-Hijab, and not a drop of water is drawn in Araquesh without my permission. You are speaking to Derbas-Al-Dhulma. Perhaps you have heard of him as well?”

  At her age she had thought that little could surprise her, but the two men sitting at table with her were men of legend, even if only the legends of distant lands. The two were cousins, it was said, and were known to serve the King of Araquesh directly, and were famous in that far desert country. In certain circles it was rumored that they had been instrumental in driving the Brizaki armies out of Tolrissa and Hulmin in the last war.

  “What under the sun are you doing here?” She asked quietly, forgetting both her threats and her caution.

  “We are looking for a certain man.” Derbas-Al-Dhulma said. “A man we once knew called Eskeriel. He is a full-blooded Cthochi Aulig who sometimes works for Mortentians. He is of average height and …”

  “I know him.” She interrupted, waving his description aside. “And also where he is. Why are you looking for him?”

  But Derry leaned forward and looked significantly at her. “Oh my.” She said with a rueful look drawing new lines in the map of her face. “I’d almost forgotten. We have your men in our custody. Your two moustaches. My apologies.”

  “You haven’t hurt them, I hope.” Rashad said. “They cost quite a lot of money to hire.”

  “I will give them back to you unharmed. But again I ask, why are you here?”

  Rashad smiled warmly at her. “Well, surely you know of Derbas-Al-Dhulma. Why else would he be here? We seek to save the world of course.”

  Chapter 88: The Suzerainty, Latter Leath, Early Arianus

  Anrealla Bishota was no prettier in whore’s clothing than she’d been in her ugly black dresses, and Dejon Blaise wouldn’t have fucked her with his worst enemy’s cock, he decided. Still, the bitch needed fucking to let her know her place, so he had the king’s exchequer do it. It was her own fault, really. It wasn’t as if Dejon had been the one who decided where to install the changelings in the Suzerainty. It wasn’t Dejon who dressed up like a maid and went around pretending to clean houses so that she could install the nasty little things among the rich and the powerful. That had been all her own plan, so if she wasn’t happy getting fucked by the king’s exchequer, she had nobody to blame but herself.

  Dejon was as happy as he’d ever been, he decided. Sure, he’d gone through all seven of the hells to get here, but here was pretty fine. When the tree died and freed him, the first thing he’d done was to look for Anrealla, the hard-faced black haired witch who had killed him, raised him from the dead and then enslaved him. The fool woman had the cheek to try to boss him again, but it had taken nothing more than a brush against her mind to let her know who was boss now.

  She slept in the cellar chained up with the dogs, and every morning her first job was to make the place spotless, cleaning up their shit and scrubbing down the floors. It wasn’t as if Dejon needed the cellar clean, or even needed the cellar for that matter. It was just his way of having a little fun with her. He hadn’t needed to take her over like he had the exchequer, and truthfully he couldn’t hold too many people at once without one or two of them starting to drool.

  He’d asked her about her original plan in sticking all of the nasty little things among the influential houses of the Suzerainty, but her explanation had all been about politics and sowing distentions or assention or some other shite he neither understood nor gave a decent crap about. He thought the plan was shit, so he abandoned the little things to make their own way in the world, not really caring much about what kind of havoc he was unleashing. He knew they were survivors, and terribly cunning little fuckers, too. They’d do all right. The responsible thing would probably have been to kill them outright, but doing the responsible thing had never really been any part of Dejon’s plans.

  As for him, he’d kept only the one in the exchequer’s house, the House of the Fahallis family, and he’d used it to get hold of the exchequer, his fat and dumpy wife, five live-in servants and a live-in cook. He’d moved into the house right away, and he’d made Berrin Fahalis fire everyone else who wasn’t one of the six slaves he’d grabbed. The cook was still a damn fine cook, even if he didn’t know why he cooked or for whom, and the servants kept the place clean.

  Anrealla Bishota, whose name sounded quite a bit like unreal bitch, now that he thought about it, provided him with amusement. He liked to put the little beast he called Edo on her, for the thing delighted in inflicting pain. There was something fucked up about a changeling with a four-year-old’s body raping a middle-aged woman, but you have to take revenge where you can find it, Dejon supposed.

  When the thing’s heat was really on it, sometimes it was a bit hard to control, but Dejon was its master and it knew it. It could be defiant, but Dejon knew how to tame it with fire, if need be. Living in the mansion was worth it.

  Dejon enjoyed plundering the servant girls, and sometimes he’d let them have their minds back just as he was really getting into it, and they would scream and cry and once in a while try to kill him, and that was good for a laugh. He wasn’t really very killable these days.

  The exchequer had been a gold mine, and Dejon meant an actual gold mine. Through Berrin Fahallis he’d learned that the dead king Falante had stashed an enormous stack of gold in the King’s Town keep, rather than at the palace, and it had been an only slightly complicated job to do away with the guards and every other person who knew about it. Falante had kept a pretty tight little circle knowing about that gold, and each one of them was dead now, at Dejon’s hand. Well, not his hand, but the hands of those he’d grabbed up for the purpose. His powers got the job done for him, of course, for Anrealla had never really understood their potential.

  In a locked room in the stables fifteen talents of gold lay stacked, and in the house another twenty-five. Still another fifty talents still sat in the keep, hidden away in a vault that only he and the exchequer knew the location of. Not even the new king knew about it, which was just hilarious, in Dejon’s mind. Dejon had only recently learned what a talent was, which was about two thousand gilders, or fifty weight in gold. Two thousand gilders was eighty thousand silver marks, and he’d lost a finger over five marks’ worth of silver once. He was richer than he had the math for, and quite satisfied with himself.

  His union with the tree had fucked him up a bit, and he knew it. He’d lost some things, although he didn’t really remember what they were. There had been that initial moment, when the tree drowned and he thought he was drowning also, when he’d reached out for help. Far to the north he had felt another presence like him, another seeker, as Anrealla called them, although that was such a limiting word. It was like calling the ocean that wet thing. That presence had been so much farther along in the process of becoming like the tree that there was no point even trying to communicate with the thing, so he’d let it go ahead and make its change. In less than a day he’d felt it die.

  He wondered if his drive to inflict pain had been something he got from the tree, but then decided it had probably been there all along. With the substance in his veins that wasn’t really blood and wasn’t really sap either, Dejon knew he would live a long, long time, and he wondered if his life of wealth and ease would get boring.

  Probably not, he decided. He went to look for the witch again.

  Chapter 89: Cthochi Camp on the Ruins of Western Northcraven, Latter Leath

  “I heard a story once.” The old woman said, and every eye turned in her direction. She did not see them, for the long years had taken her sight, as well as her teeth and most of her hair. What she had left was a bit of thin white drift, and in the slightest breeze it would tangle and blow about. Really she looked little different from the old men who sat beside her, crossed legged in the elder’s tent.

  She had been beautiful once, so beautiful that a so
ng had been made about her, and sometimes even now she would hear the tune hummed and smile a little bit. Even though the words had been forgotten by most, she remembered that they had been about her, and her heart would quicken just a bit at the memory.

  She remembered the words, of course. She remembered just about everything, and she spent her days in quiet reflection, thinking on stories she had heard in distant days and sharpening her memory of them. To the Ghaill she was a repository of knowledge, for the Cthochi did not write books or record their stories. They wrote them in the minds and passed them down from generation to generation, and a story heard today might be little different than it was heard five hundred summers before.

  Her name was Walks Under the Moon, a fitting name for a beautiful young Cthochi princess or an ancient woman who was thought to be a bit mad, and she had been one and was now the other, so it was a good name. Every voice stilled in the elder’s tent, for she was the only woman allowed there, and she very rarely spoke at all. They met at least twice every moon, the elders did, and although they had no authority at all, and no right to issue commands, somehow when they all agreed that something must happen, that thing was done.

  “I must have been no more than nine summers old when my greatmother told me this story.” She continued. “I was a pretty child.” Several of the old men smiled then, for they were old enough to remember what a beauty she had been in middle age, and this was an easy thing for them to think about. It was like her to mention how beautiful she had been, for she had been a proud woman and difficult to love.

  “The story is from the land of the hundred kingdoms, in a place called then Valkaz, a kingdom of the stonecutters. It was a dark time for them, before they had kings or even castles, and they walked in the land like the Cthochi do, hunting animals and gathering berries and roots. Only a few small villages there were, and Marten’s ancient roads between them, but there were even then some who sought to grow and prosper.

  “But when a town grew rich the reavers would come, and all of their things would be taken, for that was the way of it, then as now, although now the reavers call themselves dukes and barons and earls, and they don’t take so much.

  “The village of Valkaz was a rich place, and many people came to dwell there. They built houses of wood and they worshiped the many gods in proper fashion and they were a right and proper people. Their land lay right upon the edge of the great white forest, and as the people came the village grew, and they had a need of wood to build homes better and stronger.

  “So they went into the forest and they cut the trees for wood, even the spirit trees from ancient times, for their need was great. One morning the woodsmen discovered that all of their wagons had lost their wheels, and they could not go into the forest to cut wood. They made more wheels and went to the forest again, but discovered that a thick bramble now grew around the spirit trees, and it took them all the day just to cut through it.

  “On the next day they went to cut the trees, for their chief had demanded that they do so, but all of the oxen that pulled the wagons had run off during the night, and they were not recovered until nightfall. They went and told their chieftain all that had happened.

  “The chief spoke to them. ‘Some enemy does us mischief.’ He said. ‘I myself will go to the great white forest with my warriors, and we shall do what the woodcutters cannot, for I must have wood to build homes.’

  “The chief went to the forest with all of his warriors, and they began to clear the brush and to cut the trees, but suddenly among them stood a beautiful maiden, a princess of the Hidden People, and more beautiful was she than even I was in my youth, perhaps.”

  Again the old men smiled.

  “She walked up to the chief of the men from Valkaz, and he was amazed at her beauty, for she was fair and fine, and they did not have so many beautiful women then as we do now. ‘Why do you cut the spirit trees?’ She asked him.

  “He did not know what to say to her, for he had never heard of spirit trees. This is how he explained himself. ‘I cut wood so that my people can have walls. We are a wealthy people, and when the reavers see how much we have, they will come and try to take it from us. We cut the large trees because they make the finest walls and roofs for our homes.’ So he said, but she was not pleased with his explanation.

  “She turned to a pile of wood and pointed at it. ‘Will this not burn? Will not the reavers simply come and burn your walls and take what they will?’ She asked him, and he did not have an answer, for what she said was true.

  “She said much to him. ‘These are ancient trees, hallowed of the gods. See how they reach for heaven and yet their roots lie far beneath us? We have watched the people of Valkaz, and we know you to be a virtuous and reverent folk. How can you cut the spirit trees of heaven?’

  “The chief of Valkaz did not know what to say, but nor could he let his people live without walls to protect them, for the people of the hundred kingdoms are a hardworking people, as all folk know, but they are neither warlike nor strong. ‘I must cut the trees to build my walls.’ The man said.

  “But she had been sent of the Hidden People, and it was her part to prevent the cutting of the spirit trees. ‘I shall make a compact with you, chief. If you agree not to cut the spirit trees, and to cut no full grown tree in the great white forest, I shall teach you how to cut stone. You can build your walls of stuff that does not burn, and you need have no fear of reavers. Furthermore, I will give to you fruit trees that do not die, trees that will feed your people in years of hunger, and these trees will be a wergild against the life of the spirit trees. The trees will sustain you through illness and your people will be healthy and strong, and the reavers will not come again to trouble you.’ These were the words she spoke to the chief.

  “There was more, however. For the princess of the Hidden People was wise, and she knew that among the people of the hundred kingdoms the fruit trees themselves would be coveted, and that wars might be fought just to obtain them. ‘The trees that will seal our compact may not be taken from the places where we plant them, and they must always be tended by those of our blood, for they are a great treasure to us, and we would not see them stolen and taken away.’ These words of warning she spoke, and when the chief looked at her, he understood.

  “He smiled at her. ‘When you say tended by the people of our blood, you mean to say our very children. The children of mine and of yours.’ And his heart beat happily.

  “She also smiled. ‘Yes.’ She said. ‘I shall take you for husband, and down the long years our daughters shall tend the trees. And all of the people will prosper in this place, and it will be long before the reavers ever threaten us again.’

  “But when she said this, he grew unhappy. ‘You say our daughters. What of our sons? Will we not have sons to protect this land and our people?’

  “She saw that he understood, and she saw that he was saddened. ‘This is the price you must pay, chief. There will be other families with sons who will defend the people, but it shall be our part to nurture them and protect them from other ills.’

  “And so it was done, and for many long years the people of Valkaz prospered.”

  Snowhouse the Brave stood from his place around the fire and crossed behind Walks Under the Moon, and he kissed the top of her ancient head. His knees never quite straightened, for he was old, although not as old as she, and his feet hurt when he rose in the cold morning, and he ached until he had walked about a bit. She allowed him to kiss her, for although she had been a difficult woman to love, still she had loved, and she liked to be reminded of it.

  “Your words are wise.” Said Fell From a Horse from his place at the fire. He was nearly as old as Snowhouse, but much more vain, and he wore as many beads and bits of jewelry as any woman. “I have a story also for this meeting, although it is not nearly so beautiful in the telling as one of yours, Walks Under the Moon.”

  She smiled and nodded. Obviously nothing these men could do would rival the beauty that still resided wi
thin her, a hundred summers after her birth.

  “There was a very clever hunter, and he was very hungry. He went into the forest, and he made a snare out of wood and rope, and he placed it beneath a whiteberry tree. This was the greatest of the whiteberry trees in those days, and many deer were wont to eat from it. Before long, a doe came into the forest, and she was hungry, for a famine was on the land, and all were hungry in those days.

  “Her great buck had commanded her to go to the whiteberry tree and to bring him back a great store of them. She sensed the man smell on the snare, and she feared a trap, but she was a very obedient doe. She ignored the smell, walked up to the whiteberry tree, and was caught. She made a very fine dinner for the hunter, and also for his children.

  “But the buck was unhappy, for he had not got his whiteberries, and he cherished such things very much. So he sent another doe to bring him back whiteberries. Now the hunter had been surprised at how easily his snare worked, and there was famine in his village, as it was everywhere, so he had set it again, and again he caught the second doe. His children went to bed without crying that night.

  “Still the buck insisted on his whiteberries, so he sent another doe the next day, and every day thereafter, and every one was captured by the hunter who became famous for his venison. The buck was very angry, and he gathered his does together. ‘You are feckless and lazy!’ He said to them. ‘You do not accomplish my will!’ And so he sent half of the does and half of the fawns at once to fetch his berries for him, but none of them returned, for the clever hunter had set many many snares, and for those who escaped them, he had his bow and spear.