Chronicle of the Unhewn Throne 02 - The Providence of Fire:

by Brian Staveley

  Valyn shifted on the canvas slowly, sliding his head and shoulders through the hole.

  Water sluiced through as he changed position, splattering the inside of the tent. Adare looked up, scowl on her face, and Valyn dropped, flipping in midair to land on his feet. She had just opened her mouth to scream when he clamped an arm across her throat, cutting off the cry and air alike. She started to thrash, but he buckled her legs with a quick knee and she folded to the damp dirt.

  “I’m Valyn,” he hissed into her ear. The rain on the canvas roof was loud enough to drown out anything but a shout, but he wasn’t taking any chances. “Adare, it’s Valyn. Your brother.”

  She went still. Then, just as he was about to relax his grip, she lunged forward, clawing at his arm with renewed fury. Grimly, he tightened his grip.

  “I’ll knock you out if I have to,” he said. “Stop struggling. I’m not here to hurt you. I need to talk.”

  Once again her muscles went slack.

  “I’m sorry I scared you,” he went on. “I needed to talk to you, and this was the only way.”

  He eased up a little more. This time she didn’t try to break free.

  “What about riding into the camp and asking for me?” she demanded. Her voice was low, but rough with both fear and anger. “The Kettral teach you how to ask?”

  “Not really, no. Besides, il Tornja controls the camp. I wouldn’t make it ten paces inside the perimeter before someone clapped me in irons.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said.

  “No, I don’t. Not about this army, or the fact that you’re marching at the head of it. That’s why I came to you. Now, can I let you go? If I wanted to hurt you, you’d be hurt.”

  It came out more roughly than he’d intended, but Adare hesitated, then nodded.

  Valyn loosed his grip and she yanked free, rounding on him, eyes blazing. He could almost feel the heat. Adare opened her mouth as though to scream, and he tensed, ready to seize her once more. When she spoke, however, her voice was quiet but wire-tight.

  “So you really have turned traitor. I didn’t want to believe it.”

  He shook his head wearily. “That’s what they told you. It’s not true.”

  “Really?” She cocked her head to one side. “Why don’t you tell me the truth?”

  Valyn glanced toward the door of the tent. He had no idea how much time Adare habitually spent in the privy, but sooner or later the Aedolians outside would start to wonder. Probably sooner.

  “We don’t have time,” he said. “I escaped the Islands to go after Kaden.”

  “To kill him.”

  “To protect him. Micijah Ut and Tarik Adiv were already there. They’d murdered the monks and were hours away from doing the same to Kaden.”

  “And you saved him.”

  He nodded.

  Adare spread her hands. “So where is he?”

  “Elsewhere,” Valyn replied. “Trying to figure out the same thing I am: who killed our father.” He watched her reaction, trying to read her face as she licked her lips, glanced toward the door, then locked eyes with him once more. He could smell her raw nerves, but also something else, something deeper. Defiance? Resolve?

  “Ran il Tornja,” she said finally. “The kenarang killed Father.”

  His heart lunged in his chest like a dumb beast. Fury ached in his veins. In the days since Balendin first named il Tornja a murderer, Valyn had felt the rage growing like a sick plant inside him, but his doubt had checked that rage, stunted it. It was impossible to trust the leach. Balendin was a liar. Valyn had repeated the words over and over to himself as they crossed the steppe, then the river, then the deep forests around the Thousand Lakes. Balendin lies. Wait until you know the full truth. Balendin lies.

  And now, like a blade to the face, here was the truth. For a moment he stood motionless, awash in the full flood of his anger, ready, almost, to burst from the tent, cut down the Aedolians, and go hunting for the kenarang in the midst of the army itself. Slowly, slowly, he brought himself under control. He would kill Ran il Tornja, but he needed more information to do it right, to be sure.

  “So,” he said slowly, voice ragged, “Long Fist and Balendin weren’t lying after all.” He shook his head. “What are you doing here, with him? What is the whole ’Shael-spawned Army of the North doing here? Why are people calling you Emperor?”

  She ignored the questions. “You were with Long Fist?”

  “He’s the one that warned me about il Tornja. I had to hear it from the fucking Urghul.”

  “No,” Adare said, shaking her head. “No, you’ve got it wrong. The situation is more complicated than you realize.”

  “What’s to get wrong?” Valyn demanded. “The kenarang murdered our father. A military coup. Seems pretty straightforward to me.”

  “Ran killed him,” Adare snapped, “because Sanlitun was killing the empire, or letting it die, at any rate. Your friend Long Fist has been plotting an invasion and now he’s invading. That’s why the army is here.” She glared at him. “Or didn’t he tell you that part when you were chatting over a cup of ta?”

  Valyn opened his mouth to retort, then stopped himself. He had expected Adare to either confirm or dispute Long Fist’s claim; the idea that she might do both at the same time had not occurred to him. His mind traveled back to that enormous camp north of the White River, to the tens of thousands of horsemen massed within miles of the Annurian border. The shaman had claimed it was a defensive force, but he could have lied.

  “Even if Long Fist is attacking,” he said slowly, “how does an Urghul threat justify treason and murder?”

  “Sweet Intarra’s light, Valyn,” Adare spat, “you think I didn’t struggle with that question? You think it hasn’t been at me like a knife stuck in my ribs every ’Kent-kissing day?” Her body was rigid, almost trembling. She looked like she might lash out at him or start sobbing. Maybe both. “I loved our father, loved him more than you ever did, off playing soldier on your tropical islands. I’m the one who talked to him about taxation, military levies, canal rights, the price of a fucking bushel of rice. I’m the one who actually knew him. I’m the one who had to see him put in the ’Kent-kissing ground, and now you presume to arrive in the middle of the night, a knife to my back, and lecture me about our father, about what we owe to his memory.” Her teeth were bare, as though she were going to rip out his throat, but her voice, when she spoke again, was quiet, tight as a bowstring. “Il Tornja tried to convince our father of the danger, but he failed. Father was a good emperor in peacetime. He was a great emperor, but he underestimated the military threat.”

  “It was the kenarang’s job to demonstrate that threat, to guard against it.”

  Adare shook her head. “Father wouldn’t let him. He said any troop movement to the north was provocation.” She stabbed a finger into his chest. “Look, the murder of the Emperor is treason. I will grieve for him the rest of my life, more than you will ever fucking understand, but our father was only one man, Valyn. How many more people will die if Annur falls to the Urghul? Your horse-riding friends are probably across the river right now, hammering south through the Lakeland. That territory is basically undefended because our father left it undefended.”

  “It’s still a military coup,” Valyn replied. “There were other ways to handle the problem. Ways that didn’t involve murder and treason. Il Tornja went after me, too, Adare. He went after Kaden. It wasn’t just about protecting Annur—he’s trying to annihilate the entire Malkeenian line.” He paused, eyeing her. “Except for you, evidently.”

  Adare hesitated, face twisted with confusion. For the first time, Valyn smelled doubt on her, heavy as forest rot after a week of rain. “That wasn’t him,” she said finally. “He told me he didn’t go after the two of you.”

  “Oh, he told you. It must be the truth. Somehow the First Shield of the Aedolian Guard and the Mizran Councillor crossed half of Vash with a contingent of soldiers, all with the express purpose of murdering the
new emperor, and somehow the kenarang-regent, the man who already admitted to murdering the last emperor, had nothing to do with it?”

  Adare took a deep breath, then straightened her spine. “Even if he did, it doesn’t matter.”

  Valyn gaped. “It doesn’t matter? Tell me how it doesn’t fucking matter, Adare! When men come for you in the night, when people paid by the kenarang kill people you love to get at you, when they tear apart your entire world, why don’t you tell me then how it doesn’t matter.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  He cut her off. “I know what you mean: it’s best for Annur; we need the kenarang; sacrifice for the greater good.” He spat into the packed dirt. “Fuck that. Fuck that. Il Tornja might be telling the truth and he might be lying. I don’t give a shit. He murdered our father. He murdered Ha Lin—indirectly, but he killed her all the same—”

  “Ha Lin?” she asked.

  “Never mind,” Valyn said grimly, reining in his rage. “He’s guilty. And I’m going to see him dead.”

  Adare’s lips tightened. “You can’t.”

  “Because of what?” Valyn demanded. “Because of this?” He waved a hand at the wide camp beyond the walls of the tent. “I spent ten years, Adare, ten years learning to get past this. Here I am, talking to you, right now. I can get to il Tornja. I can get to him, and I can put a knife into his heart.”

  “I don’t mean the army,” she said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he deserves to die, but you can’t do it now. Maybe you haven’t been paying attention, but there is a battle coming, and whatever Long Fist tells you, it is not a fight Annur went looking for. He is not just another tribal chief, Valyn. For the first time ever the Urghul are united, united and right on our border. Long Fist did that. He systematically crushed everyone who opposed him, and a lot of Urghul opposed him, at least at first. He is coming, bringing with him his blood worship, his human sacrifice . . . he is coming with close to a million warriors, and someone needs to stop him.”

  She stared at him, panting. Rain hammered at the roof of the tent.

  “Whatever il Tornja has done,” she continued finally, “the man is a genius, beyond brilliant. The best general in ten generations. The soldiers will follow him anywhere, do anything for him.” She shook her head. “You think I’d leave him alive if he was just another power-hungry soldier? He murdered our father, Valyn, cut him down in cold blood. When I thought that Uinian was responsible, I saw the bastard burned to char in his own temple, and I would do it again, but we can’t. The Urghul are here. They have the numbers. They have the horses. They have the jump on us, and all we have is Ran il Tornja. I hate him, Valyn. Only the Lady of Light knows how much I hate him, but we need him. If we don’t have him, the Urghul win.”

  Valyn stared. Whatever else she had done, Adare clearly believed what she was saying. Unfortunately, people held mistaken beliefs all the time. “There are other generals,” he said softly, trying to make her understand.

  “Not like him,” Adare replied, voice hardening. She gestured beyond the walls of the tent. “Did you see the dam, what he’s doing with the dam?”

  Valyn shook his head. “I don’t give a shit what he’s doing with the ’Kent-kissing dam. . . .”

  “And that,” she said, “is why we need him. Because people like you and me don’t think the way he does. He’s been leading men, fighting battles for . . .” She hesitated, something that might have been fear passing across her face. “. . . a long time, Valyn. I can’t let you kill him. After we’ve stopped the Urghul, all right, but not before. Not now.”

  “You can’t stop me, Adare.”

  She nodded. “I can shout.”

  “I can kill you.”

  “You’re really threatening to murder your own unarmed sister?”

  “I’m going to see this through.”

  Adare blanched at something in his expression, but she held her ground. “If you kill me, you’ll fail. The Aedolians will find my body, they’ll know it was you, and they’ll double the guard around the kenarang. Triple it.”

  Valyn hesitated. She had him there. Despite his bold declarations, getting to il Tornja was already going to be nearly impossible. Without the element of surprise, he’d have no chance.

  “Listen,” Adare said, setting a hand on his arm for the first time. “Just wait. Let the army get north. Let us fight the battle with il Tornja. Then I’ll help you take him down.”

  “Just a few minutes ago,” Valyn said, narrowing his eyes, “you were defending the man.”

  “Just a few minutes ago,” Adare replied evenly, “I didn’t know the full depth of his treachery, didn’t know that he’d come after you and Kaden. I love Annur, but I loved our father, too. We need the kenarang now. We can use him. But we won’t always need him.”

  Valyn weighed the words. He hadn’t expected his sister to be so ruthless and hardheaded, but her argument made sense, especially if Long Fist really was bringing that army over the Black. Killing the general would destroy morale, and putting an untested commander in charge could mean the difference between victory and defeat. He thought back to Long Fist, to the tracery of scar covering the shaman’s flesh, to the predatory look in his eye. Ran il Tornja wasn’t the only killer that needed watching, that much was sure. So much the better if the two destroyed each other.

  “Where is he hoping to fight them?”

  “The north end of the lake,” Adare said. “A small town called Andt-Kyl. That’s where the Urghul intend to cross the Black. Il Tornja says it’s the last chance to bottle them up before they get into the empire.”

  Valyn shook his head. “You’ll never get there in time. It’s all bog and balsams out there. Nothing even resembling a road.”

  “The kenarang knows what he’s doing, Valyn,” Adare said.

  Valyn nodded slowly. “All right then. Andt-Kyl. He fights in Andt-Kyl, and when the fighting is over, he dies there.”

  “You don’t need to go north,” Adare said. “You could wait here. Kill him when the army comes back south.”

  Valyn shook his head. “No. Battles are baffling things. Units end up dead or out of place. People get lost. The best chance to take him down will be right after, in all the confusion.”

  The insane thing was that the plan could actually work. The chaos just following the fight would give him as good a chance as any. Certainly it would be easier than killing him in the center of his own meticulously staked-out camp.

  “Just make sure you wait for the end of the battle,” Adare insisted.

  Valyn nodded. A few more days. Just a few more days until he put a blade in the kenarang’s back. He could wait a few more days.

  He stepped up on the privy, ready to climb back through the canvas, then paused, turning to face Adare. Her eyes blazed.

  “One more thing,” he said. “Kaden isn’t dead. The throne is his. And when this is all over, you’re going to give it back.”

  39

  Black suits or no black suits,” declared Trevor Larch, the massive man with a huge brown beard who served as the mayor of Andt-Kyl, “it doesn’t matter.”

  He already towered over the Flea, and, as though to emphasize both his words and his height, he took a step closer, stabbing a finger into the Wing leader’s chest. It was the last thing they needed. Long Fist was out there somewhere, driving his blood-mad horsemen across the Black, and here they were, wrangling with the head man of some no-account town on the puckered asshole of the empire. Worse, it seemed as though half the town had turned out in the central square to see the huge bird land and watch the ensuing showdown.

  “We’re more’n capable of taking care of our own up here”—poke—“so why don’t you fly on south”—poke—“back where you came from.”

  The Flea didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. “ ’Sides,” the mayor went on, puffed up with his obvious success, “don’t know what shit-eating bureaucrat decided it was a good idea to let women do the fighting, but I’ll tell you one thing and I’ll say
it once so listen hard.”

  “I’m listening,” the Flea said quietly.

  Larch frowned at the tone, then raised his voice loud enough that the whole crowd could hear. “I’ve been running this town twenty-three years, I don’t take orders from anyone, and certainly not,” he concluded, stabbing a thick finger at Gwenna, “from some wench half my age who thinks carrying a sword makes her a man.” He chuckled at the thought. “I’d fuck her maybe,” he said, spreading his arms, getting some chuckles from the crowd, “but not follow her.” He turned back to the Flea, poked him in the chest again. “You got that?”

  The Flea nodded, then stabbed him in the neck.

  Larch dropped like a sack of rocks, blood spattering the dirt of the central square. Gwenna could only stare. There had been no warning, no escalation. Just stillness followed by death followed by stillness. Then Pyrre started laughing.

  “All right,” she said, “maybe we could learn to work together.”

  The people of Andt-Kyl took a few more heartbeats to believe what they saw, and then another man, this one shorter but even broader than Larch, came at the Flea with a long knife and a roar.

  The Flea killed him, too.

  Gwenna reached over her shoulder for her blades, but Newt stopped her with a firm hand.

  “Don’t make it a fight,” he murmured.

  Gwenna stared, first at the Flea, then at the Aphorist. “He’s the one doing all the killing,” she hissed.

  “Killing isn’t fighting,” Newt replied. “These poor folks, they’ve never seen anything like this. Don’t know what to make of a man on a bird stabbing their mayor. Don’t know how to respond. If we draw, though . . .” He pursed his lips. “Starts to look like a brawl, and in these log towns, if there’s one thing they know, it’s brawling.”

  It went against every instinct Gwenna had, but she lowered her hand. None of the other Kettral had so much as twitched. The Flea glanced down at the corpses at his feet, then over the crowd. When he spoke, the words didn’t sound loud, but he pitched his voice to carry.