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

by John Donlan

  “It is a gift,” Shuvani replied. “One of many the Gods saw fit to bestow upon me.”

  “The Gods?” Muvesh laughed and clapped her hands together. “Oh, Shuvani, for a moment there I thought our dear mother had returned to us. You sounded so much like her. Tulvash the Poisoned Mother was her favourite, do you remember? It sometimes felt as though that was all she ever talked about. But you never seemed to show the same interest. It is quite the change.”

  Shuvani cursed herself silently. That had been a foolish slip of the tongue. Muvesh had obviously learned to be more astute in the past two years. She would need to be more careful in what she said from now on.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a scream from the sands. Shuvani turned in time to see one of the fighters hack into the shoulder of his opponent. The sound of bone being splintered reached her ears, even over the gut-wrenching cry of agony. The loser fell to the ground as his arm was severed from his torso, clutching at the mangled stump.

  Muvesh was watching intently, a gleam in her eye. That was another change that surprised Shuvani. Her sister had never been interested in the gruesome spectacle of battle before, so why the sudden attraction? Was it possible that she saw the same thing that Shuvani did now? A cunning game of skill and subtlety, just like the political game of empire?

  Shuvani was suddenly certain that there was more to this visit than a simple desire to mend old bonds. Muvesh had a reason for being here, and it had nothing at all to do with sisterly love. She narrowed her eyes slightly and bit down on another grape.

  “Let us go inside,” Shuvani said. “I have seen enough for now.” She waved her hand to the Dovus, indicating that the display was over. He bowed and began marshalling the soldiers back to their training regimen. There was an air of obvious relief among the men as they hurriedly returned to their sparring.

  Shuvani led her sister back into the house. It was pleasant to be out of the heat and into the slightly cooler interior. She liked the warmth, but at the height of the day, the desert sun was too much even for her. The slaves brought the couch back inside and Shuvani took her seat once more. She lifted her wine glass and drank deeply as her sister joined her.

  “I admit, I am here for another reason other than to spend time with my dear sister. I bring news that may disappoint you.”

  Shuvani raised her eyebrow slightly and then smiled. “The empress has decided to pursue peace with the kingdom, rather than follow my advice and go to war.”

  Muvesh did not look surprised that Shuvani already knew the truth. She nodded her head slightly. “You were aware. Of course you were. You always did have your ears to the ground, Shuvani, and even out here, I suspect you get your information almost as quickly as we do in the capital. A suspicious mind might even imagine you have spies in the imperial palace.” She smiled slightly at that, as though amused by her own attempt at a joke. Both women knew it was not a joke, however. “Yes, the empress has sent a delegation north, to sue for peace. She was undecided for a very long time, but in the end, it was the council of one she trusts that set her on this path.”

  That was something new for Shuvani. The empress had an advisor then? She would need to find out who that was. Such information could be very useful, particularly if the advisor could be bought, or blackmailed.

  “I am, however, surprised to see that you are still training the soldiers. Why continue when the chance of war is fading?”

  Shuvani laughed. “I had forgotten how naïve you could be, sister. The war will come, sooner or later. This attempt to stop it by the empress will only serve to delay what is inevitable. There is too much hatred and distrust between the Tho'reen and the kingdom for any other outcome. I intend for us to be ready to meet it when war does come.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. King Tomar desires peace as much as the empress does. We all have much to lose if it comes to bloodshed.”

  “I thought you had no interest in politics, Muvesh?” Shuvani said. She swirled the wine in her goblet, watching it ripple outwards from the centre. “I have missed much, it seems.”

  Muvesh curled her lips into a caricature of a smile. “I still have little interest in matters of politics, but it is a hard thing to avoid in the capital. It is woven into every stone of the city. The very air you breathe there is pregnant with intrigue and subterfuge. One cannot take more than a few steps without hearing whispers and gossip. It is almost intoxicating. I can see why you were always so drawn to it, Shuvani.”

  “You have changed, sister, a great deal.” Shuvani studied Muvesh more carefully. It was as though she was speaking with an entirely different person altogether.

  “We have both changed. There are rumours, Shuvani, about you. In the court and in the city. Rumours that the great house of Madaat had found its faith again. Rumours that you have been visiting the temple of Tulvash, for reasons few have been able to fathom.”

  Shuvani stiffened. She had been careful with her visits to the temple. She had been sure that nobody of any importance was aware of them. To learn that news of her trips had reached the capital, to the ears of her own sister, was disturbing to say the least. She frowned. Still, it did not mean much. In the old days, nobles would make sure to visit the temples as often as was considered proper.

  “You should know better than to listen to rumours, Muvesh. I have visited the temple, it is true, but simply to pay my respects. It was what mother would have wanted. I have no interest in the Gods, never have. You know that as well as anyone.”

  “Ah, but people change, sister. You said that yourself. Our goals and desires change, and our means of attaining them change also. The empress is most interested in learning why you feel the need to visit the temple as frequently as you do.”

  “Is that why you are truly here? To spy for the empress? That is beneath even you, Muvesh. And you are not very good at it, it seems.”

  Muvesh laughed, a sound like water trickling across the rocks in a stream. “A spy? Shuvani, it is good that you still have a sense of humour. I came to see my sister, nothing more. Well, perhaps to offer a small piece of advice. Stop going to the temple, Shuvani. It is not becoming of you, and it unnerves those who wield the power. The Gods are long out of favour, and there are whispers that suggest you are stepping beyond your bounds. It can only end badly.”

  Shuvani gripped her goblet tight in her fist. She could feel the blood pumping in her temple, increasing as her anger rose. “I will do what I wish,” she said coldly. “I do not fear the empress. She is a weak, cowardly bitch, and soon the empire will know that. She has sued for peace because she is afraid. I can smell it, even from here, wafting from her wretched body in waves. You need to think carefully about where your own loyalties lie, sister. Before it is too late.”

  Shuvani instantly regretted her outburst. She had allowed Muvesh to bait her into it, and she had fallen into the trap as easily as a fly was drawn to honey. She would need to learn to control her anger.

  Muvesh was silent for a moment. She watched Shuvani closely, and then finally nodded. “This has been most bracing, sister. But I have come a very long way, and I am tired and dirty from the road. Perhaps, if you do not mind, I might partake of your baths?”

  Shuvani took a deep breath, struggling to maintain control of herself. Slowly, the thudding beat in her head faded and she was able to smile again.

  “For my sister? Anything. I will have my slaves make it up for you.”

  “Thank you, Shuvani, I always could count on you to do the right thing.”

  Muvesh smiled before tipping back her own wine and emptying the goblet.

  Thirteen

  There was a storm on the horizon, both literally and figuratively, and Luscard Crow did not understand how he was the only one that could see them both. Black clouds were massing, and the kingdom was ill prepared to meet them.

  He was standing on a bluff looking down into the sweeping valleys and meadows of the Heartland, the vast expanse of land and territory that belonged exclusively t
o the crown. It occupied the very centre of the kingdom, hence the name. The duchies and baronies surrounded it, spread out from the middle like the strands of a spider's web. The nobles had leave to rule their own lands – within the laws of the kingdom, of course – but the king could pass edicts on all of them, and the dukes were sworn and honour-bound to obey them. Many did not like it, though few ever truly considered rebelling against the crown. The real power was concentrated here, though. Luscard and his father’s men were still days out from the capital city that sat on the western coast, but Luscard could already feel the pull of that great metropolis. It was the pulsing heart of the kingdom, and Luscard could sense it, thudding against his skull and drawing him in.

  Moments earlier he had stormed from his father's tent, blood pounding in his ears, rage eating at him. He had been arguing with his father, trying to convince the old fool that he was wrong, and that he should go before the king proudly, not crawling like a worm. Gadmar had not listened; he never listened. The old man had too much stubborn pride to ever listen to the advice and counsel of his children. He had shouted back, and what had begun as a heated debate turned into something far darker and cancerous.

  Standing alone now, the wind whipping at his hair and thunder rumbling in the distance, Luscard felt his rage start to melt away, as it always did eventually. It had gotten as bad as it ever did, back there, and for a moment, to his great horror, he had actually set his hand on the hilt of his sword, as though to draw it free of its scabbard.

  He had not intended to use the blade and he had not consciously laid his fingers on it. It was almost as though his anger had a mind of its own; he became a different person when it took hold, one who was not in control of his own faculties. It scared him, badly, which was why he had left the tent when he did. He was sure his father had not seen what he had done, but that was only because he had been angry himself. What about next time? Or the time after that? Would he have the resolve and self-control to restrain his anger?

  There will not be a next time, he told himself. He had told himself the same thing many times before, again and again like a mantra, but it never helped. Sometimes it seemed to him that his anger was slowly being forged into something else, a white hot blade that when fully tempered would be terrible to behold. He was dreading the day when that fearful thought might come to pass.

  Thunder rumbled again in the distance, and the evening sky darkened more rapidly as the storm rolled closer. Beyond the distant hills, he saw a flash of lightning illuminate the darkness, but it was fleeting and quickly gone.

  Luscard breathed deeply. A few more moments of calm, of self-reflection to ensure his anger had dissipated, and he would return to the camp and apologise to his father. He might not agree with Gadmar's decision, but he would stand by it nonetheless. It was his duty as a son to honour the wishes and commands of his father. He admired Gadmar. The man had fought in the war years earlier, he had defended his home and his people against the foreign invaders. Luscard adored him for that, but at the same time, he could not fathom why his father did not want to do the same thing again now. What was different? The Tho’reen were still despised throughout the kingdom, still threatening its security and the livelihood of its citizens.

  The part of Gadmar that desired peace with the enemies of the kingdom was a mystery to Luscard, and one he felt sure he would never come to truly understand. For him, the world was black and white; enemies and allies. The Tho’reen were enemies, and always would be.

  It was a puzzle to him, one that he could never fathom. He dreamed of the glory that a war would bring. The wondrous joy of vanquishing a foe that was hated and reviled throughout the kingdom. Surely there could be no better feeling than that?

  “My lord?”

  Luscard jumped in surprise, then turned in embarrassment to find one of the duke’s servants standing nearby, a heavy, oiled cloak in his hands. Luscard had been caught unawares, lost in his own thoughts. He scowled. “By Naedorn, can a man not find a moment's peace? What is it?”

  The servant seemed unconcerned by the outburst. He held out the cloak. “The duke did not wish you to catch your death when the storm arrives, my lord. He saw fit to send me to you with this.”

  Luscard snatched the cloak away and tied it around his shoulders. Just another small humiliation to add to the growing list. “Is there anything else? Did my father send you to order my apology?”

  “No, my lord. Just the cloak.” The servant turned to go, then hesitated and looked back towards Luscard. There was an odd look in the man's eyes. A calculating look. It gave Luscard pause for a moment, and served to throw cold water on the anger that had been simmering to the surface again.

  Luscard had the distinct impression that the servant was debating something important, something that he might consider to be dangerous to relay. He felt it clearly, as strong as the sulphurous crackling in the air from the coming storm. He held his breath, waiting to see which direction the man would lean.

  The servant turned back to Luscard a moment later. “Forgive me, my lord, but I could not help but overhear the argument between yourself and your father. It is a terrible thing, anger between father and son, but I understand it in your case. Your grievances are valid and real and should not be ignored. It pains me to note that your father cannot understand them. The kingdom is at a cross-roads, and there is only one true path to take.”

  Luscard took a shuddering breath and stepped forward. The rage had grown to a white hot point again and was almost ready to boil to the surface. “How dare you involve yourself in our business? Your place is to serve and to obey, not to offer opinions.” His gloved hands balled into tight fists. “I should have you flogged...”

  “Of course, you should do as you see fit; but I have one other small piece of advice to offer, my lord. My brother works in the capital, in the service of Duke Harrow. We communicate, when we can, and there are whispers, words spoken in silence for the moment, but growing louder. You are not alone, my lord, not alone at all. When we reach the city, you might consider seeking out the duke. He is a great man, and his concerns are just. He will sympathise with your worries, for he bears them himself.”

  Luscard fell silent, save for the pounding of his heart. He knew what this man was suggesting; it was tantamount to treason. Duke Harrow was one of the eastern lords, a man who had positioned himself in opposition to the king, a man who was determined to see war come to the kingdom. He was a loyal servant to the kingdom, first and foremost, and a man Luscard could see himself to admiring.

  “Leave me,” he said coldly. “And I will forget what you have said here tonight. Speak to nobody of this again if you value your head.”

  The man paused briefly, studying Luscard intently, before bowing low and vanishing into the darkness.

  When he was gone, Luscard let out a long, deep breath. He had come within moments of turning the man in for his treasonous words. Had been about to speak the order that would condemn the servant to death. But something had stopped him. He wasn't sure exactly what it was, but he knew that he had to consider the weight of what had been suggested. He was strong in his conviction that the Tho'reen had to be beaten, cowed, and taught a lesson that they would not soon forget. It was the only way they would ever be stopped. He would be interested to hear what Duke Harrow might have to say on that matter.

  Pondering, he made his way down the slope towards the torchlight of the camp. He had a lot to think about before morning.

  * * *

  Gadmar was still awake when Luscard entered the tent. He was leaning over the small table that had been brought along with the company for his use, studying the route ahead. It was not a difficult road to take. Travel through the Heartland was a relaxing, safe affair. Farms dotted the region, and there were numerous towns and villages and hamlets along the King's Highway, not to mention inns and taverns. Further in, closer to the capital city of West Reach, the king's men patrolled the road, ensuring it was kept safe for the citizens of the kingdo
m. While the duchies still had them to contend with, here brigands and bandits were almost a thing of the past.

  The duke looked up as Luscard entered and let out a sigh. “My son. I thought you would be in bed by now. We have but a few hours before dawn, and then many hours in the saddle after that. You need sleep.”

  “I could say the same of you, father. You can hardly lead the company if you are slumbering on top of your horse.”

  Gadmar smiled wryly. “I need only a little sleep,” he said. “You know that as well as any. But why are you here? If you have come to resume our... discussion, you are wasting your time. I have not the energy nor the inclination.”

  “I have not come to argue, father.” Luscard moved to the table and leaned against it. Outside, the storm had arrived and rain was pounding down against the surface of the tent. Luscard had dashed through the downpour, but he had not escaped a drenching. The cloak and hood he wore were soaked through and dripping onto the floor.

  “Then why?” Gadmar was looking at him, curious but wary, as though expecting another verbal attack at any moment.

  Luscard regretted his outburst earlier. Had lain awake for the last few hours thinking about it. And he had come to a decision.

  “I came to apologise, father,” he said simply. “I spoke out of turn. I have always admired you and your wisdom, but in this matter I found it hard to reconcile that strength with the decision you have made. But I was wrong to vent my anger with you, and for that I apologise.”

  “It takes a strong man to realise his error and to try to make amends for it,” Gadmar said, smiling softly. “I forgive you, my son, and I offer apologies of my own. These are troubling matters and dark times, and we are all wrestling with the black choices we must make. My anger got the better of me, but I know you were arguing from a place of deep belief and resolve. And it is a valid point. We go to the king not from a position of power, but from one of subservience. That does not sit any better with me than it does with you, but it is the only way. Tomar is the ruler of the kingdom, and sometimes, for him to be shown to be strong, others must make a sacrifice. The king is wise to seek peace, and our failure in the Southmarsh may have jeopardised that. Should we try to deny responsibility and shift the burden to Tomar, it would further weaken the king's position, allowing those who oppose him a chance to gain in strength. If that were to happen, the chance to find peace with the Tho'reen would all but vanish. And so we must make the sacrifice, and allow the dice to fall where they may.”