Sanctuary 5.5 - Fated in Darkness

by Robert J. Crane

  “And now you’d have us help you with the burden?” Vara asked.

  “I’d have you do what’s best for your guild,” Terian said, “and what’s best for Arkaria. And if that happens to coincide with what’s best for me … would you find fault with it?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly and then paused before speaking more fully. “But … I might perhaps be open to it nonetheless.” She released her grasp upon his gorget. “I hope you have something of worth for us other than the desperate picture you have already painted.”

  Terian rubbed at his neck, almost afraid to unlatch his gorget and rub at the skin lest she grab hold of him again, this time without the protection it provided. “I can tell you what they’re probably doing right now, the armies of the Sovereign, but I suspect you already know that. I’ve told you what they are, but that’s of little enough use.” He forced a smile, but it was grim. “I have counsel, but you won’t like to hear it, and it’s hardly the right time for it in any case. As my wife would say, all I have left is my trollery.”

  Vara’s brow puckered. “What?”

  “Trollery,” Terian said. “It’s her play on the word ‘droll,’ with—”

  “No, no,” Vara said, “you have a wife?”

  “Uh, well, yes,” Terian said. “For … years now.”

  There was a quiet in the dungeon as that one soaked in. Vara turned to Vaste, her face blank as a fresh piece of parchment. “Hear that? If that daft prick can find someone, even you have a hope.”

  38.

  J’anda

  J’anda was tired of the Sovereign’s throne room, was sick to death of seeing Coeltes hiding in the shadows beneath the throne like some lapdog laying beneath his master’s chair, waiting for scraps. The scraps of me.

  The oily scent was in the air, heavy and bitter all the way down J’anda’s throat as though he’d taken a swig straight out of a lamp. His wariness was dampened by the chill of the caves on his skin, and he stood there in his robes, hands folded in front of him in the sleeves, staring at Coeltes beneath the God of Darkness. If only the throne would collapse, it’d crush him and I could die happy. Well, perhaps not happy, but somewhat satisfied, especially if he became a hemorrhoid on the arse of the Sovereign. There would be a sort of justice in that, the two of them bound together forever …

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” the Sovereign asked, his clawed fingers interlaced as he leaned back in his chair. His belly looked slightly fat the way he was sitting, as though he had just eaten a particularly heavy meal and was awaiting digestion.

  “I thought I was called here to answer for Terian Lepos, not for anything I personally did,” J’anda said.

  “He saved your life,” the Sovereign said.

  “You saved my life,” J’anda said. “Perhaps at his urging, but … nonetheless.”

  “Do you think I will hesitate to take it now?” the Sovereign asked, getting to his feet. Coeltes scrambled back, out of the way, clearly desirous of not becoming that hemorrhoid J’anda had hoped for. A great pity, that. Coeltes’s arms pumped, and J’anda realized he did not have the staff of the Guildmaster with him any longer. Curious. When did he dispense with it?

  And why?

  “I hoped you would wait until I gave you some cause to do so,” J’anda said with a shrug.

  “And still you stand before me, seemingly fearless,” Yartraak said, the ground thundering as he stomped his foot. Not furiously, but for emphasis, J’anda thought.

  “I remember standing before you, filled with fear,” J’anda said, looking up into the face of the God of Darkness, the grey flesh clear without the shroud about him. “It was a hundred years ago, during our first meeting. Do you recall?”

  Yartraak’s red eyes honed in on him. “On the day of your award for bringing us victory in the Perdamun campaign.”

  J’anda smiled ever so slightly. “I recall it well. I stood before you on trembling legs, and you told me how proud you were. I remember being fearful to the point of near sickness that I would say something, that I would do something that would offend you in some small way.” He looked back up at the god who stood before him. “A small way, only, see, for I could hardly imagine dealing a larger slight to what I perceived as your greatness at the time.”

  “You were truly a hero then,” the Sovereign said ponderously, slowly, as he regarded J’anda with those red eyes carefully. “A flawless example of the loyalty, bravery and spirit we wanted to cultivate. I sang your praises where all could hear.”

  “And they were like music to my ears,” J’anda said. The Sovereign’s face creased in something approaching a frown. “What? I like music. I’ll admit it.”

  “How did you descend from such great heights?” the Sovereign asked. “What seed of disloyalty took root in your heart to grow to who you are today?”

  J’anda blinked and almost told him the answer. “I feared for my very life, and so I left, vowing never to come back and face my fears.”

  “But now you stand before me, unafraid to die,” Yartraak said, taking a step closer on his ungainly, long legs. “You have associated with the scum of other lands, have hidden in the bosom of mine enemies, preferred their lawless ways to my gentle guidance—”

  “I preferred to live without fear that Vracken Coeltes would have me dragged to face my death on any given day,” J’anda said, staring right into the red eyes.

  “Again you blame Coeltes for your wrongs,” the Sovereign said coldly.

  “I was a hero of Saekaj,” J’anda snapped and watched the red eyes blink in surprise, “I helped you win victories. I put down rebellions for you. I was the favored to run the Gathering of Coercers. My loyalty was unquestioned.” He let his rage pour out in a white-hot heat. “When the day came that Coeltes realized that he could never overcome me through his own skill, his own victories, he undertook a coward’s path to break me using your laws in any way he could. He cost you your best enchanter—and probably the war—at a moment when you could ill afford it.” J’anda spit in fury at the Sovereign’s feet. “What victories has he brought you? What armies has he defeated? What master enchanters has he turned out of the Gathering in my stead?” He felt the blood settled within him, leaving him cold. “What has he done for you that I could not have done better in his place, had you let me? What has he brought you of value, other than my head?” J’anda used his finger to draw a line across his neck. “Here it is, if you want it. Take it. Put it on a pike before the palace as an example of what happens to heroes of Saekaj when they come up against the ambitions of cowards and incompetents—”

  “You go too far, Aimant,” the Sovereign said, hissing.

  “Then kill me,” J’anda spat back. “Kill me and be done with it. Better that than live in fear of him always looking over my shoulder, ready to rip apart any good I can do for you—”

  “Please don’t,” came a quiet, feminine voice from the leg of the throne, “my Lord of Darkness.”

  Yartraak wheeled, the carpet beneath his feet skidding as he turned so quickly. His claws scratched across the wood floor and J’anda peered between his legs to look at the woman who waited against the foreleg of the mighty wooden throne, Vracken Coeltes’s unconscious body at her feet. A trickle of blood ran down his temple, but to J’anda’s disappointment his chest still moved subtly up and down.

  “What are you doing here, Aisling Nightwind?” Yartraak called, voice heavy with fury.

  “My name is not Aisling Nightwind,” Aisling said, striding out from under the throne with her hands before her, “not really. That’s just what Shrawn told you because he didn’t know any better.”

  The Sovereign cast a glance at her, hard, then stepped closer, his ire directed away from J’anda—blessedly—at least for a moment. “Is that so?” the God of Darkness asked. “And how did a little street urchin of Sovar keep a secret such as this from her master?”

  “Because Dagonath Shrawn was never my master,” Aisling said, catching J’anda’s ga
ze with a look that spoke volumes about the coolness of her disposition. The girl must have a heart of ice to stand there with him looking like that at her …

  Or perhaps she’s just another one of us, the fearless of Sanctuary, as the Sovereign would probably call us.

  “Shrawn is the master of all Sovar,” the Sovereign said. “All who live below are subject to him.”

  “And yet I am not from Sovar,” Aisling said, with narrowed eyes of her own, “not truly.”

  “What foolishness is this?” the Sovereign asked. “I would have your name, then, if you are a citizen of Saekaj.”

  She nodded slowly and cracked a smile. “As well you should. My name is Yalina, of the House of Tordor.” The smile grew broader. “I believe you know my father, Grimrath?”

  39.

  Aisling

  “I am surrounded by liars, fools, and the disloyal.” The Sovereign’s voice rumbled across the quiet chamber a few minutes after Aisling had made her dramatic pronouncement about her parentage. She had spent the intervening time listening to Yartraak issue orders to his guards—to fetch Shrawn, to retrieve and awaken the enchanter, Vracken Coeltes, whom she’d knocked unconscious, and to fetch her father. Two of these orders she felt certain would fall to failure, but the third she was still somewhat optimistic about, though she doubted it would do her much harm if her father also failed to show up.

  J’anda, for his part, seemed to be quietly listening to the Sovereign’s occasional mutters of irritation. She knew the enchanter well enough through their travels together with Sanctuary and had heard of his reputation before leaving Saekaj, of course, but walking in on him in the midst of spitting a very violent piece of his mind at the Sovereign had been a strange stroke of luck. She’d entered through Shrawn’s secret passage after making a circuitous travel into the caverns via Sovar before entering Saekaj, and it had involved a considerable amount of stealth. Still, the timing had been near-perfect, granting her a wonderful entrance that had probably spared the life of the enchanter.

  Not that he’ll be that grateful, in all probability, especially if he’s heard what happened at Leaugarden.

  “Liars, fools, and traitors,” Yartraak muttered again as the door to the throne room cracked open. Aisling let her eyes settled on J’anda’s, silent communication running between them. His was inquisitive, wondering at her game. Let him wonder for now, she figured. He’ll see soon enough what I’m up to—other than saving his life and hopefully mine.

  “My Lord Yartraak,” a guard stooped at the entry to the enormous hall that was the throne room, “Dagonath Shrawn is not in Saekaj at the moment. His household guard issues their apologies and is scrambling to track him down.”

  “Hmmm,” Yartraak breathed, a low rumble. “What of Coeltes?”

  “Still unconscious, your grace,” the guard said, bowing again. “He seems to have suffered quite the blow to the head.”

  And a little dose of nekref’atras in the wound to ensure he stays out for a space, Aisling thought. He wasn’t adding anything to the conversation, in any case. I could tell that much just hiding under the throne behind him.

  “You have injured one of my chief advisors, Ais … Yalina Tordor,” Yartraak said, turning his low rumble toward her.

  “He started to attack me as I stepped out to reveal myself to you,” she said with a bow of her head. “Doubtless trying to defend you against some unseen attacker as I moved out of Shrawn’s passage.”

  Yartraak’s crimson eyes narrowed. “How did you know about Shrawn’s passage behind my throne?”

  She blinked innocently at him. “He led me through it last time.”

  Yartraak let out a low, purring rumble akin to a dissatisfied cat. “You were blindfolded.”

  “I may have been blind,” she said, “but I was hardly insensate.”

  “You play a dangerous game, Lady Tordor, if that is in fact who you are,” Yartraak said, “coming before me after failing to kill Cyrus Davidon.”

  She shrugged, tossing out the information she’d picked up in the market. “I missed the heart, but he was still damaged enough that he lost the battle.” She caught a wounded look from J’anda, undisguised. She sent back a cool gaze that forced him to blink from the intensity of it. You’d better hide that loyalty of yours, enchanter, because it will do you no favors in this place.

  “You think this is an acceptable result?” Yartraak asked, leaning toward her, his enormous frame bending almost in half to address her eye to eye.

  “I would have killed him entirely,” Aisling said coolly, “but Shrawn’s pet wizard leapt into the middle of my attack and declared her loyalty to Mortus, trying to take her revenge by disrupting my attack.”

  Oily breath hit her in the face, the exhalation of a god. “How long does it take to pierce a man’s heart?”

  “Depends on the man,” Aisling said, staring right at him. “Depends on the heart. I was told you wanted this to be a slow, painful thing. My blades were coated in black lace, and I stabbed into him under that armor of his—”

  Yartraak rumbled in disgust, but she kept from flinching away. “Perhaps,” he said after a moment’s pause, “you are not utterly incompetent. His armor is a problem. Foolish mistake, that, letting him have it.”

  She caught J’anda’s perplexed look for a moment before the doors to the throne room opened once more and another man entered. He was overweight, much like Shrawn, but stooped over almost into a right angle, hurrying along on his cane, his white hair now shaded grey by time. “I beg your pardon, my Sovereign, I received your summons and hurried along as quickly as I could.”

  Grimrath Tordor was an old man to her eyes, eyes that had not been set on him in a decade. His hair looked virtually the same, and the stoop was just like she remembered. The only difference she registered immediately was the cut of his suit; it looked new, in line with what she’d seen in the markets on her last trip through Saekaj. It was just the sort of thing that all the dandies were wearing now, and she rolled her eyes to think of him taking that particular style for his own.

  “I am unconcerned about your punctuality, Grimrath,” the Sovereign said.

  “A thousands kindnesses you do me, my Sovereign,” Tordor said as he hobbled forward. She watched him move, barely daring to raise his head, walking unseeing into something that he did not understand. “These old legs simply do not move as fast as they used to.”

  “Look at me, Tordor,” Yartraak snapped, drawing the old man’s gaze upward, carefully displayed reverence in his eyes. The old man always was a savvy player of the game; he knew how to pay just enough homage to keep being allowed to play his own.

  “Yes, your grace?” Tordor asked, almost standing next to her now. His gaze was still fixed on the Sovereign, clearly paying no mind to the other visitors to the throne room. J’anda, for his part, looked at Tordor, then back to her, raising an eyebrow as if to say, This is your father? She shrugged in reply. It wasn’t as though she had chosen him for herself, after all.

  “Do you see anyone you recognize here, Tordor?” Yartraak asked, patience clearly running thin.

  She watched her father blink his eyes, start to speak, then halt, thinking over his best response. “Well, there’s you, of course, my Sovereign …”

  Not smart, Father. The Sovereign made a grunting noise of fury and raised a hand as if to strike him and finally, the urgency of the situation dawned on him. Grimrath Tordor looked first between the Sovereign’s thin legs at J’anda, peering at his face. “I … think I recognize … is that J’anda Aimant?”

  “Indeed,” J’anda said. “I owe you my apologies, Lord Tordor. I borrowed your carriage on the way down to visit the Sovereign a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, well,” Tordor said, seemingly unconcerned. “Thank you, I suppose. No harm done, I reck—”

  “Do you see anyone else you recognize, Tordor?” The Sovereign was nearly bursting with anger, his eyes redder than usual.

  At last—yet somehow fittingly, for him
—Grimrath Tordor finally looked straight at her. And she knew, a moment after he did, that he had absolutely no idea who she was. “Hello,” he said politely and looked back to the Sovereign.

  “Hello, Father,” she said, and watched him jerk his head back around fast enough to nearly break his own neck, eyes nearly rattling in his own head in wide shock. He blinked enough times to clear an entire desert’s worth of sand granules out, and his mouth moved up and down in mute shock several times before he produced a word. “Y– Ya—”

  “Yalina,” she said playfully. The fright of standing before the Sovereign in this moment was oddly diminished by watching her father, one of the most powerful men in Saekaj, and certainly one of the wealthiest, reduced to a stammering idiot.

  “Not p-p-possible,” he finally got out. “You—you went to Sovar!”

  “Well, here I am, back,” Aisling said. “A little older, a little worse for the wear—”

  “Is this your daughter?” Yartraak asked, leaning close to both her and her father, putting a hand on the ground and leaning forward on his claws like a predatory animal.

  “She—well, I—I —” Tordor stumbled to get out. He was still clearly flummoxed by surprise, unable to sculpt an articulate thought even with time and a trowel to shape the damned thing. Aisling, for her part, tried to act as though she were bored by the whole situation and a little embarrassed. Essentially, not unlike a spoiled noblewoman might when presented with such thoroughly ridiculous circumstances.

  “TORDOR!”

  “I think so, your Grace,” Tordor finally said. “She—well, she certainly looks like … like Yalina, though—much older, obviously and—it’s—it’s been some time, though, and I could be …” He cringed. “Is she in a great deal of trouble, my Sovereign?”