Adare stared. “But you’re not Csestriim. You have feelings.”
Nira snorted. “You noticed? Like I said, they tried to play at Bedisa’s work and they fucked up.”
“The beginning of your reign was a golden age,” Adare pointed out.
“And then it went straight into the shitter. We weren’t meant to live this long, to have this much power. Something up here,” she rapped at her skull with a knuckle, “can’t take it.”
“But you aren’t . . .”
“That’s because I realized it first. Quit dipping into my well. I tried to get Roshin to stop, too, but he was wrapped up in the dream. The dream first, and then the war.” Her eyes were dark, bleak. “He catches glimpses, sometimes, of what it’s done to him, but if I left him alone for a full day, he’d throw himself right back into it.”
“A thousand years,” Adare breathed, mind reeling at the thought. “For more than a thousand years you’ve done nothing but keep him drugged. Keep him in check.”
“Not nothing, girl,” Nira snapped. “Learned ta knit a few centuries back. Picked up the flute a bit.” She shrugged. “Since forgot it.”
“Why?” Adare asked quietly. “If you resent the immortality so much, couldn’t you . . .” She trailed off.
“Bash his head in?” Nira asked brightly. She turned to her brother. “Whatta ya say, Rosh? How’d ya feel about a quick brick to the brain?”
He turned his rheumy eyes on her, open mouth revealing his yellowing teeth. “If you think so, Nira . . .” he responded hesitantly. “Whatever you think is best.”
The old woman let out an exasperated sigh. “Whatever I think is best. What a pathetic pile o’ bones you’ve become.” She turned back to Adare. “I’m tempted to kill him almost every day. Seems it’d be a mercy, but then, he’s my brother. Bad thing to kill your own brother with a brick. Besides, maybe I can heal him. Maybe I can find the one who knows how.”
“The last Csestriim,” Adare said.
Nira nodded. “The smart one. The one with the ideas.”
“And you think it’s Vestan Ameredad?” Adare asked, shaking her head. “Why?”
The old woman frowned. “Nah. Not really. Been looking for a lot of years, and only had a couple of brushes ta show for it.”
“But why Vestan?”
Nira nodded, as though considering the question anew. “He’s a meddler, this bastard I’m hunting. Meddled with me. Meddled with others. Likes to be near the center of the pile of shit. We weren’t the only kings he propped up over the years, and if this Ameredad’s fixing to topple your empire . . .” She shrugged. “I’ve walked across half a continent for less. ’Sides, sounds like he more or less fits the bill—tall, dark, unfunny, smart.”
Adare stared. “There must be a hundred men who fit the description. A thousand. If the Csestriim you’re looking for cleaves to centers of power, why aren’t you in Annur? Why aren’t you in the Dawn Palace?”
Nira raised an eyebrow. “Just walk up ta the palace and batter at the door with m’ cane? Is that it?” She shook her head. “Ain’t as easy ta get in and out a’ those nice red walls as ya think. ’Sides—Oshi and I just did a couple decades in Annur. Nothin’ but burned rice and shit stink. It’s in Olon that the pot’s boilin’ over, and so Olon’s where we’re goin’. Like I said, probably ain’t Ameredad, but ya sit in one place too long, ya get old.”
Adare studied the woman. It seemed like a mad plan, crisscrossing the earth looking for the creature who had given them immortality, but then, the Atmani were mad. That was the one thing on which all the historians agreed.
“And if it is him? If the man leading the Sons of Flame is the one you’re looking for? What then?”
“See if he can fix us.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Oshi. “Fix him.”
“And if he can’t?”
“Kill him.”
“I need Ameredad,” Adare blurted. “I need the Sons of Light to overthrow il Tornja.”
“Well then,” Nira said, voice flat, hard, “you’d best hope he’s not the one I’m looking for.”
18
Olon straddled the blue-brown shallows of the northern end of Lake Baku like a gracile thousand-legged spider of stone, her body an oblong island a few hundred paces offshore, her legs the narrow quays stretching into the shimmering water and the slender stone bridges reaching toward the north bank. Even seen through the blindfold, the narrow towers and shapely domes were far more elegant than Annur’s stark angles and rigid lines, but Adare couldn’t spare much attention for the architecture, not with two score armed men blocking the bridge on which she stood.
The men weren’t uniformed, not that she could make out, anyway, but it was clear enough from the neat ranks, from the well-polished weapons and obvious military discipline that they weren’t a band of thugs out to rob pilgrims. They might have been legionaries, only they weren’t wearing imperial armor, and besides, none of the armies had a legion stationed in Olon. Which meant the Sons of Flame. Which meant the reports Adare had heard were true. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified.
She had thought, at first, that the men were just running a routine patrol on the bridge, checking carts and carriages, maybe strong-arming money out of the merchants, some sort of “levy” to support the faithful. As she approached, however, caught up in the knot of pilgrims, she realized they were waiting—forty or fifty of them, well-armed and alert—just waiting. Adare glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to find another army marching on the city, an attacking force that might warrant the presence of so many armed men, but there was no army. Only the stragglers of her own pilgrimage alongside a few local cart drivers lashing ponderous water buffalo.
“Looks as though the light lovers think they own the bridges,” Nira groused, spitting onto the flagstones.
Adare nodded nervously. She’d expected the Sons of Flame to be hidden away somewhere, holed up in alleys and cellars, not standing at attention athwart the main bridge into the city. Ameredad was either very bold, very stupid, or both. Such an open display of force risked the full retaliation of Annur, at least once il Tornja heard of it.
On the bright side, she thought bleakly, at least I don’t need to go hunting around for them in the taverns. At least they’re here.
She reached up to adjust her blindfold, squared her shoulders, then moved forward with the mass of gold-robed faithful, just another pilgrim returning to the city where the faith was born. The soldiers, younger men mostly, some with onion-pale skin, others dark as charred wood, watched the throng approach. Adare waited for them to move aside, to allow the devout into the city, but they did not move. Instead, when the first wagons reached the height of the bridge, a broad-shouldered man with a neck like a dock piling stepped forward. He must have been well into his fifth decade, though the years had done nothing to chip away at the heavy muscle of his arms and chest.
“Stop,” he said, voice loud enough he didn’t bother to raise a hand.
The pilgrimage clattered to a halt in a welter of confused questions, those behind demanding answers from their friends nearer the top of the bridge. Adare’s hands were slippery with sweat. She forced herself to leave them at her side, not to wipe them on her robes. She felt light-headed, as though she might pass out. It would be a disaster, of course. If she fell, the pilgrims who came to her aid would remove the blindfold, and then she was dead.
Keep standing, she told herself silently. Stay on your ’Kent-kissing feet.
The Sons of Flame hadn’t moved, but their commander was running his gaze over the golden-robed men and women at the front of the line, his mouth twisted in a scowl.
“Where is the Malkeenian?” he asked finally.
Ice slid down Adare’s spine. She wanted to flee and fight all at the same time. The bridge balustrade was only a few paces off. She couldn’t see what lay beneath, but if she hurled herself off of it . . .
“Keep still, ya dumb wench,” Nira murmured, voice pitched
for Adare’s ears alone. “And keep your mouth shut.”
Legs trembling beneath her, Adare stood still, heart slamming against her ribs. Suddenly, her blindfold and backstory seemed pathetic, a flimsy shield against so many ideas, so many curious minds. Of course someone recognized her, recognized or suspected that the tall young woman traveling alone, the one hiding her eyes, might be more than she seemed. Despite Nira’s admonition, Adare was ready to run, to leap into the lake below, when a strong hand took her by the elbow, the fingers like steel.
“What . . .” she cried, breaking off when she twisted to find Lehav holding her.
He smiled grimly. “Let’s go.”
“I’m not—”
“Of course you’re not,” he said, shoving her forward. “Let’s go.”
Adare glanced over at Nira, hoping, praying that the woman might do something, but Nira just watched, eyes like slits in her wizened face, then gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.
By the time Adare had recovered her wits enough to struggle, she stood in the wide space between the Sons of Flame and the pilgrims, Lehav still at her side, still holding her by the arm, his grip so tight she could feel the bruises forming. The bridge had gone silent. Hundreds of stares bored into her, most of them confused, some already angry. For a fleeting moment she thought she might be able to bluff her way through, then discarded the idea as stupidity, insanity. Somehow Lehav knew her, knew who she was. The only hope was to put a brave face on the thing, to do what she had come to do.
With her free hand she reached up and pulled the blindfold free.
“I am Adare hui’Malkeenian,” she said, “daughter of the murdered Emperor, princess of Annur, and the Minister of Finance. I have come here to set right a wrong, and to forge again a bond that has been broken between my family and the Divine Church of Intarra.”
The pilgrims stared, shocked. Even the soldiers looked somewhat taken aback. Lehav, however, just snorted.
“Nice speech. Are you finished?”
“No,” she said, squaring her shoulders, standing a little straighter. “I am not finished. I came to speak with Vestan Ameredad, not to be manhandled by one of his minions.”
The muscled soldier, the one who had first called out her name, laughed at that, a quick, scornful bark.
Adare turned on him, a queasy feeling in her gut. “You are Ameredad?” The man seemed brutish and ill-mannered, a poor combination, given what she hoped to achieve. At her question he just laughed harder.
“That’s enough, Kamger,” Lehav said.
The man’s laughter ended instantly.
Adare turned in horror, realizing her mistake, but the pilgrim she knew as Lehav ignored her, gesturing instead to the men and women he had walked alongside during the march south.
“These people have come a long way. They are tired and hungry. It seems you want to make a show, but they have not come here for a show. They have come here because of their devotion to the goddess, not for some sordid spectacle of a lying bureaucrat brought low.”
Adare rounded on the man, anger stiffening her trembling legs. “I am neither lying, nor a bureaucrat.”
Lehav studied her a moment, seemed about to say something, then shook his head, turning instead to the assembled crowd.
“My mother named me Lehav, but the goddess gave me a new name: Ameredad. I thank my brothers and sisters of the road for their companionship and piety, their quiet devotion and sacrifice to Intarra. You have given up much to come here—work and family, security—and I will see to it that this new city, this holy city, welcomes you as you deserve.
“As for this . . .” he said, jerking his head toward Adare without bothering to look at her. “You witness here Malkeenian treachery firsthand. Do not forget it.”
Most men would have said more, would have waited for the applause and the stamping of feet, but when Lehav had finished speaking he turned, passing Adare to Kamger without a glance over his shoulder.
“See that she’s brought to the Geven Cellars. Double guard. I will be along after I have cleaned myself, prayed, and made my offering to the goddess.”
Kamger saluted, but Lehav was already striding through his troops and into Olon as though Adare had ceased to exist. That was when the Aedolians struck.
At first she thought the pilgrims behind her were just voicing their confusion and outrage. There were shouts, cries that could have been accusation or anger, the clatter of hooves. Then she saw the faces of the soldiers gathered around her, the sudden surprise and fear in the eyes of the Sons of Flame, followed by the desperate scramble to draw weapons. A scramble ending in failure.
At first, all Adare knew was that two men, both mounted, both swinging swords as long as her arm, were riding straight into the mass of Intarran soldiers, cutting furiously into the men on foot. She saw a head split open and an arm severed at the elbow, watched one man raise his sword only to see the weapon smashed straight into his face. Kamger seemed as confused as the rest, struggling to pull his blade free while keeping his grip on her arm. Adare turned just in time to see Fulton lean over the pommel of his saddle, swinging his broadblade in a great arc that opened the huge soldier from his neck to his chest. Blood, hotter than monsoon rain, splattered Adare’s face, and then she was free.
“Quickly, my lady,” Fulton said, wheeling his horse to a stop, reaching down with his free hand. “Into the saddle before they regroup.”
Adare’s mind reeled, but her body took over. She seized the Aedolian’s hand, dragging herself up onto the horse even as the Sons of Flame closed around them again. A part of her, the part that wasn’t drenched in blood and terror, noted that Fulton looked thinner, older, his eyes and cheeks sunken and haggard. How long had the two men been following her? Why? The questions were irrelevant in the midst of the chaos, inane, but her mind had retreated from the blood soaking her robes, from the screaming of the injured, from the shapes of the shattered men splayed on the flagstones. For a moment she thought she might start singing, whether from euphoria or madness, she couldn’t be sure.
It looked like they would make it. Birch was holding back the Sons while Fulton spurred his horse to a gallop, charging straight back through the ranks of the pilgrims. We’re going to break free, Adare thought. The realization tasted like clean air, fresh and cold in her lungs. We’re getting out.
Then, with no warning, the horse was screaming, tumbling forward, and she was off, flying through the air, flying. Flying, then not.
Ameredad’s minions knew their work, bustling her through the ancient city’s bafflement of alleyways and side streets with businesslike efficiency. Adare could barely walk, the gash on her head throbbed, and her vision was hazy, blurry. She wanted to ask about Fulton and Birch, to know whether they were still alive, but someone had stuffed a foul-tasting gag in her mouth, and between the stench and the dizziness, it was all she could do not to vomit.
The small party turned and backtracked so often that Adare quickly lost all sense of direction, and after a short while she quit trying to keep track of where she was and paid attention to the city itself, hoping to learn something that might save her life. The reek of whitefish, turmeric, and smoke filled the twisting alleys, and the streets and windows were alive with barter and banter. Still, something about the place seemed moribund, as though it had died years earlier.
The buildings were as graceful as they were venerable, but most had begun to crumble, mortar and stone falling away, marring the sweeping curves with ugly, ragged holes. Those that had not yet submitted to the ultimate indignity of collapse were rough and battered, paint and plaster stripped by decades of storm and neglect. Half the walls in the city looked badly in need of repair. It wasn’t quite a ruin—perhaps it never would be, considering the lucrative trade that passed through it—and yet, Olon was a city with a dagger in her heart.
A dagger we put there, Adare realized grimly. A wound dealt by the Malkeenians.
Perhaps Terial hui’Malkeenian hadn’t intend
ed to gut the capital of the ancient kingdom of Kresh when he founded his nascent empire, but neither had he chosen it as his ruling seat. Money followed power, and after the government shifted to Annur, Olon began to crumble. Canal and lake trade kept her alive, along with the voracious appetite of the capital, but the once-palatial residences along the water had been converted into taverns, brothels, and flophouses for wagon-drivers and sailors weary from the rough passage across Lake Baku. A few stubborn descendants of the old aristocratic houses squatted inside familial manses they could no longer maintain, while thieves and orphans, rats and wind reclaimed the rest.
It looked like a miserable place to live, but a perfect city to defend. As she was dragged through the streets, Adare glimpsed no fewer than ten pairs of Ameredad’s guards, hard men with blades and bows lounging in the shadows or blocking the heads of narrow lanes. They wore no insignia or livery, certainly nothing to connect them to the Sons of Flame, and she might have mistaken them for common street toughs had it not been for the silent nods and curt gestures they exchanged with her captors as she passed.
The whole ’Kent-kissing city is this bastard’s fortress, Adare thought bleakly as she stumbled over the uneven cobbles, trying to keep her feet. She tried to imagine an Annurian legion taking the place, and failed. Olon’s maze of collapsing buildings and piled rubble would render legionary tactics and formations pointless. The Sons of Flame could blend with the local population, hiding in attics and cellars, sniping from open windows before disappearing into their ancient warren.
For the first time Adare realized that Ameredad’s choice in coming to this particular city might have been influenced by more than simple religious devotion. Il Tornja might be a brilliant general, but this was no city for generals. A thousand men could die in Olon’s alleyways without anyone noticing. A thousand men, or one very stupid princess.
Despite the low ceiling and stone, the ponderous walls and lack of windows, the small room—a basement below a basement beneath a basement, judging by the number of stairs they had descended—looked more like a study than an abattoir. Rolled maps and piles of parchment, letters and supply lists, waited in tidy piles on the wide table. Someone had stacked a few crates neatly in the corner, the topmost of which was stamped INK. A tattered, moldy map of Olon was tacked up on the far wall, although Adare couldn’t make out much but the bridges and the dark outline of the island itself. The place spoke of caution, deliberation, and resolve. Lehav, Ameredad—whatever his name was—the man seated across from her was clearly more than just some power-hungry, up-jumped soldier.
Chronicle of the Unhewn Throne 02 - The Providence of Fire: Page 28