The Winds of Strife (The War of the Veil Book 1)

by John Donlan

  The loremaster was seated at a tiny wooden desk beside the door. He jolted upright in surprise when she entered, almost scattering the parchments he had been studying.

  Kindrey Lolsk was an old man. Far older than Lysena's father had been when he died. She was not sure of his exact age, but she was sure he had to be over seventy, and likely much older than that. He had served as loremaster for the entirety of her father's reign, and for years before that, under the rule of her grandfather. He looked frail and weak, but she knew he had the vigour of a man ten years younger, and he was surprisingly agile. The heavy cotton robes he wore were scuffed, moth-eaten and shabby, bunched around his bony old frame like drapes. A thick shock of pure white hair stood up from either side his head as though he had been standing out in a gale for hours.

  “My queen! What a fright you gave me.” He held a hand a hand against his chest and moved slowly around the gnarled old desk. “I get so few visitors these day, I am afraid I have become quite used to being alone. Forgive my shock.” He bowed his head, and the bald patch at the very top of his skull gleamed in the dull glow of the candles.

  “There is nothing to forgive, master Lolsk. I am the one who should offer apology. I should have made it known of my intent to visit.”

  “As it is, your majesty. But if I may ask, why are you here? I have been preparing your request, as your captain demanded, but such a collection requires time to gather.”

  “I know, and that is why I am here. I am afraid that my patience is not what it once was. Have you set aside many volumes so far?”

  “Yes, my queen, most of what you seek has been found. Most, but not all. It will be a day or more yet before I have it all ready for you. Your father’s collection is vast, and I am afraid that not all of it has been catalogued. I will have to search the stacks for those books that remain to be found. If you would but...”

  “I will review what you have currently,” she said. “Please, show me.”

  He bobbed his head then shuffled forward, leading the way into the rows of bookcases. Lysena was overwhelmed by the sheer number gathered here. There had to be thousands of books alone, not to mention the scrolls, the ancient vellum parchments, the leather bound journals. Some of them were old enough that she feared they might crumble to dust if they were ever lifted from their place. All of them looked to be stacked haphazardly on the shelves, but Lysena knew that Loremaster Lolsk had a system of organisation that she was not privy to. What that might be, however, she could not guess. She knew that he had still to archive a great many of the books. It was a task he was highly unlikely to complete in his lifetime.

  At the back of the chamber, near the far wall, was another desk, this one slightly larger. This was where her father would come to peruse the old tomes. When he had been well enough to do so, of course. It was stacked at one end with a pile of perhaps a dozen books. All of them were at least as thick as her fist.

  Lysena felt suddenly overwhelmed. The heaped stack would take her weeks, if not months to read through. And this was not the entire selection she had asked for. She turned to the loremaster in despair.

  “How many more?” she asked.

  “A handful, my queen. Perhaps four, maybe five more volumes.”

  She groaned quietly and lifted the first book from the pile. It was incredibly dense. She opened it . The words inside were neatly written, flowing across the page in ordered lines. Tightly packed. She shut it again with a sigh.

  “It is hopeless,” she said, mostly to herself. “But I do not see any other way. Master Lolsk, you may delay finding the other books I asked for until I have finished with these. I see no reason to burden you with that task while I have months of research ahead of me already. I am not sure when I will find the time to sleep.”

  “Thank you, my queen.” He bowed slightly, then turned to go, but hesitated at the last moment. “If I might make one point, your majesty. I served your father for many, many years. These books have been my life for as long as I can remember. I have read many of them, know things that few people living know. If you would deign to share the subject of your search, I may be able to narrow it down for you.”

  Lysena hesitated. What he was saying made sense, but she was not sure she wanted to share her experience in the witch's cabin with anyone else. Already she was regretting telling the captain about it. He had looked at her as though she was insane, sliding inexorably down the same well her father had fallen into. She was not entirely certain that he was wrong, either. If she told the loremaster of what she had witnessed, she was just digging her own hole deeper.

  On the other hand, the thought of spending all her hours down here, in the cold, musty dimness of the archive was a soul-crushing one. Nor was she sure that she could spare so much time. She looked at the pile of books, then back to master Lolsk. She sighed.

  “I will tell you what I am seeking, but you must swear an oath to the crown that it will not leave this room.”

  The slight nod of his head was all she needed. She told him everything, every detail of that harrowing encounter. When she was done, she studied him carefully, searching for that hint of disbelief she was expecting to see. Perhaps even for a sign that he thought her mad and was determining what to do with that knowledge. But when she looked at him, all she saw in his face was a man pondering her words, thinking hard over what she had told him.

  “I have never heard of anything precisely like what you described, my queen,” he said at last, and Lysena felt a sense of disappointment, tinged with relief that he seemingly believed her.

  “But it is eerily similar of stories and myths relating to entities of the void.”

  “The void?” Lysena felt sure she had heard the term before, perhaps in one of her father's varied and colourful tales. But she could not remember exactly where.

  “Indeed, your majesty. It is also known as the womb of the Gods. A distasteful phrase, but perhaps accurate. In the oldest myth cycles and legends, tales dating back to the time of the Candrille, it was known as the place where the Gods were born. A place between the mortal realm and the endless realm that eventually became the home of the Gods. It is described as a place of utter blackness, darkness that stretches to infinity. The Gods were created there, from the primal energies that existed before time itself. Birthed by the darkness, if you will. But, it is also said that other beings were born there, less powerful, of course, but still beyond our comprehension. Most served the Gods when the latter rose to divinity, others remained in the void, in that darkness. Formless spirits without will or thought; servants of chaos. Still others rose to power themselves, ancient, powerful beings whose sole purpose was to sow destruction and bloodshed. Those beings who did not achieve godhood we call the Frendrith.”

  Lysena shuddered. The Frendrith she was familiar with. Beings from the beginning of time who were the enemies or allies of the Gods, often both at the same time. Vast, powerful beings. They were trapped, according to the priests and the holy men, for all eternity and ever seeking to escape their prison. Some managed it, of course, though such events were rare.

  “And you think that what I saw was one of the Frendrith?” The thought made her blood run cold. Was it possible? A legend come to life?

  Master Lolsk considered her question for a moment, frowning. “It is entirely possible that you saw a Frendrith, my queen. Some have escaped their prison before. If true, then you were in fact, very lucky. The Frendrith are powerful entities, capable of killing with a touch and draining the life force of those they encounter. If it was a Frendrith, then it was likely weakened by expending the energy it needed to cross the veil that separates their world from ours. It might also have been a lesser spirit, an emissary of the Gods, perhaps.”

  Lysena had not considered herself lucky until now, and neither possibility offered by the old loremaster seemed particularly pleasant. The Gods were not known to be benign, loving deities. They could be as cruel and as vindictive as the Frendrith were often said to be. “How can we be s
ure which it is?”

  He waved his hand at the pile of books. “Through study, my queen. But now that you have told me of what you witnessed, I believe I can be of some help. It is not the old magic you need to know about, but the void itself. That is older than magic, older than anything.” He stabbed his finger down, indicating several of the stacked tomes. “I would read these,” he suggested.

  The books in question were still large, but there were just three of them. A far cry from the heap she had been contemplating. It would still take time, but not nearly as much as she had feared.

  “Then that is where I will begin. Thank you, old friend, you have been most helpful.”

  “I live to serve, your majesty,” Lolsk said, bowing his head as low as his old body would allow.

  He returned to his own work, leaving Lysena to the task ahead. She sat behind the table, in an old, dusty chair, and pulled one of the books from the stack. With trepidation and anticipation, she began to read.

  Twelve

  The sword struck deep, cutting through not just flesh, but bone as well. Blood fountained as if from a geyser, splattering on the face and the broad, muscled, bare chest of the man wielding the sword. He roared and pulled the blade free. His victim screamed once, then pitched forward into the sand of the training ground. He clawed at the air briefly and then lay still. At least until attendants came forward to drag the mutilated remains out of sight.

  Shuvani popped a peeled grape between her teeth and bit down as she reclined on the cushioned couch that had been brought for her use onto the viewing platform. Juices filled her mouth and slithered down her throat as she chewed it nonchalantly. A slave stood to one side, fanning her body with a huge palm frond, while another knelt at the table nearby, carefully removing the skins from fresh grapes. A third stood at her shoulder holding a pitcher of wine ready to refill Shuvani’s goblet should she need it. A stone awning above the platform protected her body from the heat of the sun, though it did little to offer her respite from the heat of the air itself.

  Shuvani smiled and nodded. “An awe-inspiring display, Dovus, you have done well. But show me more. One bout is hardly enough to convince me that our forces are ready for the tasks ahead.”

  The Dovus – a huge black man with a bald head and muscles where there should be no muscles – nodded to the Jagir and shook his whip in the direction of two more conscripts. They stepped forward warily. Both were bare chested, wearing only kilts of leather and soft, hide sandals. They bore curved, steel swords and small, circular wooden shields that were reinforced with iron rivets. Strong, stocky men, with skill in battle and toned physiques. After just witnessing the brutal demise of one of their erstwhile companions, however, they were nervous, and rightly so. They both knew that one of them was going to die. Only skill, determination and luck would determine which of them would survive the coming bout.

  They turned to face Shuvani and bowed. She smiled and flicked her hand towards them lazily, signalling that the fight should begin.

  They went at it in a way that only the fear of death could muster. There was never any thought of declining the order to fight; they would have both been put to the sword if that had happened. A soldier who refused to battle was useless, and a traitor.

  Shuvani slid another grape between her lips. Watching the two men trade blows was, for her, an interesting way of spending the afternoon. She saw it as a more simple, brutal form of the same game she played in the arena of imperial politics. Here, the goal was to simply kill your enemy, but for her, the prize was far greater: The throne of the empire. Failure, on the other hand, would result in the same end as it would for one of her soldiers. It would mean her death. The obvious similarities between the two were exciting, and it intrigued her. Watching their feints and slashes, their roars as they struck, the strain in their eyes, made her excited in ways that she had not expected.

  One of the men suddenly drove forward, swinging his blade in a wide, powerful arc. His opponent saw the attack coming, and brought his own sword up to block it. But he had not factored in the power of the blow. It caught him off guard, caused his leg to twist beneath him. He fell backwards with a cry of surprise, and his enemy was on him before he could do anything to defend himself.

  Shuvani leaned forward in her seat, eager to see the killing blow. It came quickly. A brutal downward strike that severed the fallen man's head from his shoulders. The stump spurted blood while the head rolled away lazily across the sand.

  The victor breathed a heavy sigh of relief and stepped back, after giving another brief bow to Shuvani.

  She was no expert in military tactics or ability, but even she could see that the soldiers had been trained well. They were ready for the war that was coming. But she was not yet ready to see the spectacle of battle ended.

  “Again,” she commanded, and the Dovus nodded.

  “My lady, you have a visitor.”

  It was one of her slaves. A full-breasted woman with a pretty face and large eyes and a slender physique. If she had been a free woman, she would have done very well as a courtesan in one of the perfumed brothels in the city. Men would have paid a lot of coin for a night of passion with her. Shuvani had no idea what her name was and had no care to learn it.

  “And who is it?”

  “Your sister, my lady.”

  Shuvani was surprised. She had not seen her younger sister, Muvesh, in the better part of two years. Muvesh had been a simpering, fawning woman when she had left the house to move to the imperial capital. She'd had no ambitions beyond landing herself a powerful husband, and her intent in moving to K'vun had been just that. Shuvani had been glad to see her go. She had given the girl money enough to settle herself comfortably, and then bid her good riddance. It was not because she feared a rival for her family’s lands and status, but because she could not bear to see a member of her own family act in such a weak and pathetic manner.

  She had learned over the intervening years that her sister had managed to gain herself husband in the form of a minor Jagir from one of the lesser houses in the capital. It was hardly a worthy catch, but it would keep Muvesh in the luxury to which she had become accustomed. Shuvani was happy for her sister, in so far as she cared about such mundane matters. More important to Shuvani, was the fact that her sister’s new husband would never amount to anything more than he already was, a lowly lord with few holdings and fewer aspirations in the imperial court.

  So why, then, was Muvesh here now? Had she fallen from grace with her husband? No, that was highly unlikely. No man would dare cast aside a member of the Madaat family so easily, especially one so appealing to the eye as Muvesh. Surely it could be nothing so simple as a familial visit? Muvesh had always cared as little about such things as Shuvani did herself.

  She rose from her seat and nodded to the slave girl. “See her inside, and arrange a place for her slaves to stay for the duration of the visit.”

  The girl nodded and hurried away to carry out the instructions.

  Shuvani mused over the surprise visit as she turned back to survey the new battle taking place. Two hulking brutes were hacking at one another. They were bloodied already, but she was glad to see that she had not missed the climax. She bit down on another grape as she waited.

  The slave returned moments later with Muvesh in tow.

  Shuvani's sister was almost as beautiful and desirable as Shuvani was herself. She had the same eyes, same hair. Her facial features were just as soft and her skin as creamy and dark. But where physical attributes aligned, personality and attitudes varied greatly. Muvesh was weak, soft, eager to please if it helped her live an easier life. She had no interest in politics, and no urge to rule. Her mind was usually focused on the latest gossip in the capital and on the idle interests of the rich and wealthy. Even growing up, she had been bored with anything other than her own shallow desires. Even her supposed interest in the affairs of other noble born men and women was a mask, meant to hide her own envy.

  So Shuvani was surpri
sed to see the startling difference in the woman before her. Muvesh had changed drastically in the last two years, it seemed. She held herself with far more confidence, poise and grace than Shuvani had ever seen in her before, and she was dressed in fine silks and golden bracelets that jangled together when she moved. Her thick black hair was woven into tight braids and then threaded with beads; it was all the fashion in K'vun, or so Shuvani had heard. More than anything though, Shuvani was taken by the keen, focused look in her sister’s eyes. Gone was the faraway, vacant look that had been there before.

  It was startling. And intriguing.

  Shuvani embraced her sister as warmly as was required then beckoned to the couch. Muvesh curled her feet up on it at the far end while Shuvani resumed her place.

  “It has been far too long, sister,” she said, waving to a slave to offer the bowl of grapes. Muvesh took one absently and then accepted the goblet of wine that was offered to her.

  “It has, which is why I made the trip now. Far, far too long to have been absent from the life of my wonderful sister.” Muvesh looked towards the fighters that were still thrashing away on the sand. She looked surprised, and rather more interested in the whole display than Shuvani would have expected. If she disapproved of the barbarity, she did not show it. That would have been seen as weak, something that had been scoured from all Madaat women since the day they were born.

  “I had heard that you were training an army, Shuvani, though I admit I had not really believed it.”

  “It was needed,” she said simply. “Even you must realise that war with the kingdom is inevitable. And the empress has been negligent in maintaining soldiers capable of fighting that war. Somebody had to make sure we were not caught unprepared.”

  “But of course,” Muvesh smiled. “You always did like to keep ahead of events, sister. It was one of the qualities I always admired about you. Your ability to see things from all sides, to choose the path that was most desirable.”