Path of Revenge

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  No one moved. Perhaps no one else heard the mockery. Nevertheless, it was a stain on the glory of the moment, and it filled Duon with anger.

  The Emperor spoke.

  ‘Amaqi, welcome,’ he said.

  ‘Welcome, ma great sor!’ boomed the reply. Duon shouted with the rest, drowning out the dry chuckling.

  ‘We share with you today your great joy. The Elamaq Empire is to expand fatherwards into lands rich with bounty. Our expedition is our mighty hand reaching forth to take these riches. From now on we will be greater and more glorious than any people ever known.’

  The crowd cheered madly, many throwing streamers carefully wound for the occasion into the air.

  ‘Foolishness,’ said a voice behind Duon.

  This time he could not help himself. He spun around, hand on knife hilt, to meet the eyes of a dozen startled commanders. None of them had spoken, he could see it on their faces.

  ‘Let us honour those risking their lives for us,’ said the Emperor. ‘Captain Taleth Salmadi Duon leads our great army. Step forward, Captain, that our Amaqi may see the face of their hopes and dreams.’

  A thousand subtle sounds of people shifting, standing on tiptoes, craning their necks for a better view. Duon knew he had been caught with his back to the Emperor, and turned to the man in the mask with as much dignity as he could raise. Deep breath, hands picking at the hem of his cloak as the silence deepened, another deep breath and a step forward into the open space below the balcony. A second step, then a third. He made obeisance to the Emperor, then stepped forward again. A second obeisance, then a third. Utter silence. He remained motionless, forehead to the burning cobbles, sweat running uncomfortably up his back and across his neck to drip on the ground. Then onto his feet, face up to the balcony, where the Emperor nodded. Finally Duon turned to the gathered citizenry.

  A single trumpeter blew a fanfare, and the crowd cheered again. Such an honour! Captain Duon found himself filling with pride in the face of such sustained spontaneous adoration.

  ‘Spontaneous?’ came the voice from behind him. ‘Professional cheerleaders have been practising this for days.’

  This time Duon’s muscles did not even twitch. There was no one behind him save the Emperor. And how could the speaker, wherever he was, have known what he was thinking?

  It is a jiran, he told himself in desperation as the Emperor continued to explain the purpose of the expedition to his citizens. A sprite of the desert seeking to torment me, to bring humiliation to the Emperor. But Captain Duon knew it wasn’t a jiran. The voice came from within his own mind.

  The glorious day crumbled to dust.

  The man on the balcony droned on for a long time. Lenares fidgeted in her palanquin, counting the number of stitches visible on the pillow beside her, then slid back the door still further for a better view of the square. She had resigned herself to the journey and was anxious to get it over with. She’d asked Mahudia and Nehane how long they would be away, how many days before she could return to resume her study of the hole in the world, but they had answered her evasively. She persisted with her questions, receiving a scolding from Mahudia for nagging. When Nehane admitted the expedition could take more than a week, anger had given way to despair.

  Over the previous weeks the hole had become much larger, heading off in some unexpected directions. Vectors, she corrected herself, savouring the new word. She had hoped her calculations would have been predictive, but aside from the earthquake in the Garden of Angels and its many aftershocks, so frequent she had given up warning people about them, she seemed powerless to deduce the shape or intention of the hole in the world. Yes, intention was a good word. It acted like it was seeking something or someone, reminding her of the stray kitten taken in by the cosmographers last year. Sneak, sneak, sneak, pause…pounce. Looking for her? No, looking for a number of people, she had decided, as it tore at the world in at least three different directions. Worse, it no longer expanded at a steady rate. Another week might see the damage increase until it was beyond repair. And now this fool wittered about the need for caution in all their dealings. Caution? They needed haste, not caution! Hadn’t she told the Emperor how serious the hole had become? Why did no one truly believe her?

  On and on squawked the man on the balcony, like a demented bird standing on its perch. She took a moment to set herself, to establish her centre, in preparation for leaving the city. A deep breath, then a clearing of her mind save for the imprint of the Palace before her, the three rizen towers lining up with the three great avenues, each signalling a cardinal direction. Sonwards, the direction the sun rose on the longest day of the year. Fatherwards, the sun’s zenith. And daughterwards, the place of the setting midsummer sun. Superior to the graticular systems once used by the subjugated races of Elamaq. Left, right, forward and back, four directions only. With their counters, fatherback, sonback and daughterback, the Amaqi system offered six directions at sixty-degree intervals, not four at ninety.

  Here I am, in the centre of the universe. See the three directions streaming out from me. As I count the steps I take and refer to the stars, I will retain contact with Talamaq. I will be centred. My calculations will retain their context.

  As long as nothing happens to interfere.

  Finally the man stopped his useless barking and withdrew from the balcony. The moment he disappeared, his strange numbers gone from her vision, signalled the beginning of yet another rumbling aftershock. The scaffold underneath the balcony creaked, then something snapped and a cloud of plaster dust rose to obscure her view. When it cleared the structure sagged forwards, and on the ground below it two people lay unmoving amidst a scattering of rubble and scaffolding. An official poked her head out between the silver curtains, then withdrew it rapidly.

  Lenares didn’t believe in omens, but knew that such beliefs, though outlawed by the Emperor, were still held among the Amaqi. However, aftershocks were now so common in the city that few if any citizens seemed to be making a fuss. Certainly they were leaving the square very quickly, but there was no evidence of panic.

  They would make a fuss if they knew what she knew.

  Ahead of her the expedition filed out of the square and along the Avensvala, led by the foot soldiers, ten abreast, flanked each side by camel riders. Rank after rank moved away, raising dust as they marched: she would count them as soon as she had an opportunity, but there were many thousands. She ran her eye down the ranks: an estimate flashed through her mind. Twenty thousand. Far too many for the sort of expedition she’d thought was being conducted.

  In front of her the charioteers waited, their precious horses standing perfectly still despite the provocation of dust and noise. Watching the horsemasters train these exotic beasts had been a favourite pastime before the numbers had taken over her life.

  ‘Ugly brutes, aren’t they,’ said Mahudia from the other end of the sumptuous palanquin.

  ‘I love the sound they make when you feed them grass,’ said Lenares dreamily. ‘They used to blow into my hand and make me laugh.’

  ‘I never understood your fascination for them. Camels are far nobler, far more intelligent. A proper beast for an Amaqi.’

  ‘Camels are stupid,’ Lenares said. ‘Little piggy eyes—’

  The palanquin shook, then rose at the front end, tipping a squealing Lenares back against Mahudia. The ornate door slid shut with a snap, nearly crushing her fingers. Up came the back end, flinging Lenares into the pillows. Something crashed into her head, and wetness ran down her face. She shrieked.

  Shouting came from outside. The palanquin was lowered to the ground, the doors were slid open and concerned faces peered inside. Lenares hissed at them.

  ‘My ladies, I am so sorry for what happened.’ A courteous voice, a soft fatherback accent, a beautiful face, deep brown eyes, long lashes, features almost too fine for a man. ‘Your bearers, they are untrained, they do not know how to treat their passengers with care.’ The man leaned into the palanquin, pulling silken sheets an
d pillows away from the cosmographers. ‘We will teach them, yes?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mahudia said, and brushed her hair back with her hand. ‘You are very kind.’

  The man smiled, all white teeth and dimples. ‘To me has been given the task of looking after the cosmographers. I have made a poor start, have I not? The Omerans assigned to your palanquin, they will be punished. I myself and three of the soldiers will carry you until your bearers recover from this punishment.’

  ‘Our sincerest thanks,’ Mahudia offered, and Lenares was surprised to see she blushed as she spoke.

  ‘Ah, this, this is the wonder of the Emperor’s court,’ the courteous man said, leaning further into the palanquin. Lenares looked around, then realised she was the object of his attention. She smiled nervously at him, an effort he repaid with a dazzling smile of his own, quickly replaced by a frown.

  ‘But you have taken hurt!’ he said, and took her face in his soft hands. ‘Struck by a cup of water, or something of the sort. You are wet, and you have a nasty bruise. I will attend to it myself.’ He made to draw something from his pocket.

  ‘No need,’ said Mahudia briskly. ‘I can deal with the girl. We will require fresh water and a cloth bandage to bring down the swelling.’

  ‘You guard her well, as all precious things should be guarded. Is she not to be approached?’ The man’s frank gaze swept over Lenares, making her flush despite herself.

  Mahudia smiled encouragingly. ‘Lenares may not be approached, though you might have more success with her guardian.’

  The man’s plucked eyebrows rose. ‘I will remember this should our journey afford the opportunity. Be assured I will offer you both the best of care.’ He smiled again, such a pretty smile, as shallow and calculating as one from Rouza, then withdrew from the palanquin. Lenares knew from the numbers she’d assigned to the man that he would present himself to them again and again, seeking their favours. Disgusting.

  Orders were shouted, their litter rose above the dust, and the journey began.

  Lenares took the ends of her hair, nibbled at them and wedged them under her nose. She suspected they would be gone for much longer than a week.

  QUEEN

  CHAPTER 6

  DEATH OF A KING

  THE FALTHAN QUEEN CONSIDERED it far too hot up here in the tower. Stifling, in fact. But the king loved to look out over his beloved city, its towers and tenements, its walls and bridges, its swirling crowds of people, and she saw no reason to argue with him about the heat, especially now.

  Not now.

  She stood at the east window and wished for a cool breeze. She wished for a lot of things, actually, but a cool breeze would have been something, at least. A sign, perhaps. The air stayed stubbornly humid, so unlike the lands in which she and the king had grown up together. The whole of Instruere, its half a million inhabitants, slumbered under an autumn haze. She lifted her eyes further but could see nothing beyond the Aleinus River. Not just the city. Faltha itself slumbered, rocked in the arms of lassitude.

  The sound of ragged breathing ceased. She pushed herself away from the window and was at the king’s side in a moment. He shuddered, took a great gulping breath and opened his eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’m…still here.’

  The queen found she could not reply. A Halite priest had once spoken to her of the joy associated with passing to the Most High, both for the departing one and for those left behind, but she could see nothing to rejoice about. All very well for him, young and idealistic, immersed in the fervour of his cult, to say such things with the seeming immortality of decades stretching in front of him. She could have told him a thing or two about immortality—would have, had he shown any inclination to listen to what she said. Well, that was unfair. He’d kept out of the tower as she’d commanded. Mostly, she supposed, because she’d barred the door. The Halites had been very upset by that. King Leith was, after all, the younger brother of their god.

  ‘Stella,’ the king whispered, and the love in his voice made her heart clench as tight as a fist.

  ‘Leith?’

  No answer. He’d sunk back into unconsciousness. She fussed with his bedclothes a little, then bent over and kissed his papery cheek.

  He looked so old. Was so old; the Sixteen Kingdoms of Faltha had celebrated his seventieth year of rule in an extravagant ceremony a bare six weeks ago. Even then, the signs of Leith’s terminal illness could not be hidden. He had been carried to his throne by servants before the ceremonies began, and there feted for far too long, until tears of pain rolled down his mottled face. In the end she’d called a premature halt to the evening. The kings, priests and ambassadors had understood, they’d said, but the necessity of retiring with the king meant she could no longer listen to their gossip and their arguments. So frustrating. She had to know what was being discussed. There would be a struggle for power in Faltha once Leith died, and Stella saw it as her duty to make that struggle as painless for Faltha as possible. She’d regretted having to leave, but it was proper, and the Falthans insisted on propriety.

  Seventy years. Even now she was not convinced Leith had made the correct decision in accepting the throne. Barely seventeen years as a person, followed by seventy years as a king. Ripped out of his—their—village in the far north when Bhrudwan warriors kidnapped his parents, and dragged reluctantly into the Falthan War, the great conflict of their age. He had recovered the Jugom Ark, the flaming arrow of the Most High, then led the Falthan army east to counter the might of Bhrudwo, and in the end faced the Destroyer in single combat. How could anyone live a normal life after such events? And how could becoming the Lord of Faltha have helped the boy Leith once was become the man he should have been?

  No. She shook her head; memory was so fickle. It had been Hal, Leith’s brother. Hal had faced the Destroyer in single combat, not Leith. He had taken Leith’s place, the foster brother assuming the role of the natural-born son. Had been struck down, seemingly slain, only to return—from the dead, the Halites claimed, the central tenet of their doctrine—to defeat the Destroyer at the moment of his triumph.

  So much confusion that day in the Hall of Meeting: the end of an age, the beginning of another. The Bhrudwan army had swept into Instruere, led by their cruel lord, while the remnants of the Falthan army were held outside the gates under a sorcerous geas. Hal had failed in his bid to bind the Bhrudwans by his own magic and had fallen to the Destroyer, who had bound the Falthan armies in return, his Truthspell rendering them unable to fight. All their hopes gone. The Destroyer had only to witness their surrender and sign the secession document himself, and his lordship would extend across the whole of the northern world.

  In a few turbulent moments everything had changed. From her own vantage point beside the Destroyer, just a pace from the events that saved Faltha, Stella saw little. Leith believed that the majestic carving of the Most High on the ceiling of the Hall of Meeting came to life. The carving wore his brother Hal’s face, Leith insisted, and it loosed an arrow—the Jugom Ark—at the Destroyer, severing his remaining hand, breaking the Truthspell by rendering him incapable of signing the document.

  So Leith said. But Leith had been responsible, at least in part, for Hal’s death. As leader of the Falthan army, Leith had been the one challenged by the Destroyer to single combat, but Hal had taken it upon himself, saving his brother. What would be more natural, then, than for Leith to imagine his brother coming back to life to save them all? Then to go further and interpret Hal’s death as a deliberate sacrifice?

  The more the Halites preached the doctrine, the less Stella believed it. It smacked of sophistry, of stretching a truth to fit the facts. And the few discernible facts were ambiguous: the Destroyer certainly lost his hand—she more than anyone else alive could attest to that—but whether it was before or during the melee that erupted in the Hall of Meeting she could not say. It was also true that the carved figure of the Most High now most certainly wore Hal’s face. Though even this was disputed: some of the o
ld Company—those who had set out from Firanes in search of Leith and Hal’s parents—argued that people now remembered Hal from the carving. Both Farr of Withwestwa Wood, and their own Haufuth, their village leader, maintained this until they died.

  Slim evidence upon which to build a religion. But well-meaning people—zealots—had arisen in the months immediately following the Destroyer’s defeat, claiming special insight into the ‘meaning behind events’ and proclaiming their belief in Hal. Some were telling the truth, or as much of it as they knew: the Company from Firanes had built quite a following during their stay in Instruere, and Hal had been a part of that. However, his wizardly powers had not at that time been widely known; most of the magic exercised by the Company had been attributed to Leith and the Jugom Ark. Conveniently forgotten now, or at least glossed over. It pleased people to exaggerate the truth, or more often mix it with hearsay, until it became difficult to remember what had actually happened.

  Leith could have broken the Halites’ rising power with a few words. It was entirely on his testimony, after all, that their beliefs were built. This was the largest barrier between him and Stella, and they had never successfully breached it.

  Well, perhaps not the largest.

  Stella wandered over to the east window again and leaned out, her face catching the beginnings of a breeze. Leith never understood what had happened to her after she had given herself to Deorc. That was the real reason why their long marriage had proved difficult. None of the Company had understood. She was honestly not sure that she understood herself.

  The king moaned a name. Hers? She was too far gone in her reminiscence to turn.

  While the Company were raising an army from Instruere and the surrounding Falthan lands to oppose the Destroyer, she had fallen for a man named Tanghin. Foolishly she left the Company and sought him out, only to find he had been assuming a disguise to ensnare her. He revealed himself to her as Deorc, the Destroyer’s lieutenant, who had infiltrated Instruere and intended to rule in his master’s name. He had been commanded by his master to capture one of the Company, but had desired her for himself. When the Destroyer learned of his servant’s treachery he destroyed Deorc, but not before pulling Stella through his blue fire into his terrible presence. The memories of that day, filled with fear and pain, were still too tender to examine closely, even after seventy years. From then on she had been forced to assume the role of the Undying Man’s consort. He inflicted agony on her, shared with her…gave her the gift of immortality, the curse placed on him for denying the Most High two thousand years ago. Now his eternal pain ran through her veins, a barrier between her and every other human. The cruelty of it was beyond her comprehension.