by Anthony Ryan
Jervia took another ragged breath. “Yes, my lord. The blade had strange markings upon it, and sometimes … sometimes Father would take it out, at night when he thought no one could see. He would draw the sword and the blade would glow with a strange, white fire. It … did things to Father, changed him, somehow…”
She faltered as I laughed, her face suddenly bleached white and eyes moistening.
“Forgive me, honoured lady,” I said. “Please continue.”
Velsus rounded on me, face twisted in anger, finger pointed in accusation “Mark well this man’s humour, my lords! See how he delights in his own evil!”
He turned back to Jervia, calming himself with an effort that made me suspect this was not all theatre. “You have seen this man before, have you not?”
“I…” She looked down at her clasped hands, white now and shaking. “Yes … Yes he came to see Father, the night before the Hope Killer was brought to the city.”
“You witnessed their meeting?”
“I did, my lord. I wasn’t supposed to, but I knew a hidden place in Father’s study where I could hear his meetings. I was worried, you see. The sword had changed him so much, and with the Hope Killer’s return I wondered what he might do. Father told Lord Verniers he intended to return the sword to the Hope Killer. Lord Verniers became very angry, calling Father a traitor, saying he would have the Emperor send guards to arrest him … But Father showed him the sword, and he became quiet. Father said with this sword the Hope Killer was sure to prevail in his duel in the Isles, if Lord Verniers voiced no objection to its use he would receive a great reward.”
“I see. And the nature of this reward?”
“Knowledge. The Hope Killer would relate the story of his life and the reasoning of mad King Janus in starting the war.”
“A rich reward indeed, to be cherished by any historian.”
Velsus levelled his gaze on me, his aspect the unwavering focus of a leopard eyeing cornered prey. “You did travel with the Imperial prisoner to the Meldenean Isles, did you not?”
“At the Emperor’s order,” I said.
“Quite so, but also, I recall, at your own request. And during the voyage did the savage keep his end of the bargain? Did he tell you his sorry tale?”
“He related what I believe to be a partially accurate account of his role in the invasion.”
“And you gave him the sword.”
“Governor Aruan gave him the sword. A plain weapon of little distinction, I might add.”
Velsus gave a dismissive wave. “The Northmen were renowned for their ability to conceal their magics. And on arrival at the Meldenean capital, having received your reward, did you feel no obligation to warn the Hope Killer’s opponent that he now faced a foe rendered invincible by unnatural means? And in doing so did you not ensure the Hope Killer would prevail in the duel, a contest that by all accounts lasted barely a second, thereby robbing our murdered Hope of all justice?”
“There was no warning to be given.” I glanced at Jervia, her head now lowered, face drawn in abject misery. “I do not know what threats have forced lies from this unfortunate woman. And it grieves me to see her distressed on my account. But if Al Sorna was made invincible that day, it was not by such a mundane thing as his sword.”
Velsus descended the steps, moving with measured deliberation as he advanced towards me. “See how he wriggles on the hook, my lords. See how he squirms and gives voice to yet more falsehood. This vile man, picked out and ascended to high station by the Emperor’s grace, and yet willing to sell himself like the cheapest whore for the words of a savage. Were that his only crime, it would be perhaps forgivable, upon receipt of due punishment naturally, for all men are weak and liable to seduction. However, my lords, it transpires this creature has an even greater crime to account for.”
He turned back to the dais, pausing to address Jervia with a few curt words of dismissal. She raised her gaze to me as the guards led her out, tears flowing freely as she mouthed, “My father,” eyes rich in appeal for understanding. I replied with the barest nod, even managing a small smile before she was led from the throne room.
“I humbly call upon the Empress Emeren I,” Velsus intoned, bowing low before the dais. “To graciously consent to bear witness in this matter.”
The Empress waited a moment before standing, an action that required all others present to kneel. I duly sank to one knee, gesturing for Fornella to follow suit. This was one piece of etiquette we could not afford to ignore, disrespect of the Imperial person being punishable by instant death.
I noted how Emeren’s eyes lingered again on Fornella, seeing the brief moment of calculation before she turned away. A wrinkle in her scheme, I decided. An unwanted complication.
“As all here will know,” the Empress began, “shortly before my Choosing, an attempt was made on my life and the life of my son. Many trusted and beloved servants died in this attack and my son and I escaped death by only the narrowest of margins. My attackers were a Volarian woman and a servant of the same fanatical heretic sect as the Hope Killer himself. It became clear to me in the course of my ordeal that these assassins had received intimate intelligence regarding my home, for how else could they gain access with such ease? Before I was rescued by the brave intervention of Commander Hevren, the woman spoke to me.” She raised an arm, the finger pointed at me, straight and unwavering. “Naming this man as the source of her intelligence. Apparently, he wanted me to know of his involvement, as befits a man mired in jealousy and hatred.”
I met her gaze, seeing only triumph. Beloved Emperor, I thought. What have you done to us?
I sighed and rose, keeping my gaze locked on hers, refusing to look away even as Hevren’s sword blade pressed against my neck. It stopped as the Empress raised a hand. “I will not spare this traitor a trial,” she said. “Our people deserve truth and the observance of law.”
“If you intend to kill me,” I said, “then do so, and spare me your farce of a trial. I only ask you first listen to my account of the conflict in the Unified Realm, to be verified by this woman, for it is of grave import to this empire.”
It was barely a smile, just a slight curl to her flawless lips, but I saw then a woman experience perhaps the sweetest moment of her life. “Lord Verniers, I have already heard far too much from you.”
CHAPTER ONE
Vaelin
As before, the first thing he noticed was the change in the air, the sulphuric taint of the mountain top replaced by something altogether sweeter. The damp chill was also gone, transformed into the warm caress of sunlight, leavened by the gentle brush of a summer breeze. But this time the sounds were different, no creak of forest branches or birdsong, but the clamour of many hands at work. The ground beneath the memory stone had also changed, carved rock replaced by smooth tiles of freshly hewn marble. Vaelin raised his gaze, finding that they in fact no longer stood atop the mountain but on a raised platform in the centre of a newly risen city.
Everywhere men worked amongst scaffolding, hauling ropes or carving stone, teams of tall shaggy-footed draught horses hauled huge wagons laden with blocks of granite and marble. The air was filled with calls and songs as the men worked, the absence of any whip-cracks or chains a clear sign these were not slaves. If anything they all seemed cheerful in their labour. His eyes alighted on the tallest structure, a narrow, rectangular tower near fifty feet high, its walls covered in scaffolding, but he could see the red marble and grey granite beneath. His gaze shifted to another building closer by, the walls in place but the roof not yet complete. It was a sizeable structure, larger than those surrounding it. A mason sat in a sling suspended over the lintel, his chisel leaving a line of symbols in the stone, symbols once ascribed meaning by Brother Harlick: library.
“The Fallen City,” he said aloud, a glance at the southern landscape confirming it. The ages might erode a city but not the mountains.
“Quite so.” Erlin stood nearby, hands enfolded in his cloak as he regarded a tal
l figure standing a short way off, head lowered as he read an unfurled scroll. “And the man who built it.”
The man lifted his gaze from the scroll, Vaelin moving to view his face, somehow knowing what he would see. He was bearded with a heavy brow, though not so aged and lined as his statue would later depict him, younger even than the painting on the Wolf People’s cave wall. But still there was a gravity to his expression as he surveyed his newborn city, eyes narrowed, occasionally flickering in suppressed frustration.
What could he find to dislike in such an achievement? Vaelin wondered, glancing around at the burgeoning elegance on all sides. “He is king of this place?” he asked Erlin.
“I doubt such a word had any meaning here.”
Vaelin gestured at the toiling workers. “But these men do his bidding.”
“And seem happy doing so, don’t you think? I see only what the stone shows me, brother. But I’ve seen nothing that would indicate this man commanded through fear or force of arms. Search the entire city, you won’t find a single sword.”
A raised voice caused the bearded man to turn, his teeth suddenly bared in a bright smile as a young woman ran to his side. Once again, Vaelin was unsurprised to note her resemblance to the woman from the cave paintings: green-eyed and dark of hair. She shared a warm embrace with the bearded man, fingers entwining in automatic intimacy as they kissed. She drew back with a laugh, turning and extending her hand, speaking words Vaelin couldn’t fathom, though her tone was rich, joyous even. A narrow-faced young man moved into view, approaching to within a few feet of the couple, smiling a tight, reluctant smile. He was subtly different from the figure depicted in the cave, younger and without the sardonic twist to his mouth, but still recognisable. The woman laughed and reached out to draw him closer, presenting him to the bearded man, who ignored the young man’s hand to enfold him in an embrace.
“Brother and sister,” Vaelin realised, his gaze switching between the woman and the young man.
“I think so,” Erlin said. “The first time all three were together. But far from the last.”
Abruptly the memory shifted, the buildings and the people gone to swirling mist around them, as if they stood at the centre of a vortex though there was no sensation of wind. Soon it slowed, the mist coalescing into the city once more, though now the buildings were all complete. Spring had come to the mountains and the air was fresh, the city lively with people; parents with children, lovers walking hand in hand. Music seemed to rise from every quarter, a man with a harp of some kind singing from a rooftop nearby, a cluster of singers a few streets away adding their own voices. There were also knots of people engaged in animated discussion, gesticulating at each other with scrolls and odd devices Vaelin took to be some form of sextant.
“Put more than one philosopher together and you’ll birth an argument,” Erlin commented. “A truism I’ve observed the world over. In fact, I once saw one argue with himself, it got quite violent in the end.” He moved to the edge of the elevated platform, extending his arm in a broad sweep. “I think that’s why he built this place. A haven for thinkers, artists, scholars. In all my travels, I’ve never seen a city like it.”
An angry voice drew Vaelin’s attention to the approach of the dark-haired woman, striding ahead of the bearded man, hands moving in emphatic, negative slashes. Her brother followed behind at a distance. They were all older than before, though perhaps by only a few years. The younger man’s timidity seemed to have vanished, the weary amusement on his face an echo of what he would later depict on the cave wall.
The woman went to the memory stone and Vaelin saw it now had a twin, identical in shape but not in colour, for this stone was black, its surface free of any flaw or vein. Something black, Vaelin recalled Wise Bear’s deep unease as he touched the space where this thing now stood.
The woman paused to regard the black stone, her face briefly transformed into a mask of confusion before turning back to the bearded man, pointing at the stone, voice raised in emphatic tones. He sighed, moving to stand opposite her with the stone between them. He spoke softly but his words were no less certain than hers, and also carried an unmistakable note of refusal. The woman began to rail at him, handsome features marred by a deep anger. She calmed a little as her brother came forward, moving close to the stone, though Vaelin noted how he put his hands behind his back. He spoke for a short time, shrugging often, his sister evidently annoyed by his apparent lack of concern. Eventually she threw up her hands in an exclamation of angry defeat and strode away.
Her brother and the bearded man exchanged rueful glances but no more words. After a short pause the bearded man extended a hand to the stone, letting it hover over the smooth surface, Vaelin seeing the involuntary shudder in his fingertips. The younger man spoke, just a few short words, but all humour had vanished from his face and the tone was sharp, almost commanding.
The bearded man hesitated, a brief spasm of anger twitching across his features. Then he laughed, withdrawing his hand and moving back, patting the young man on the shoulder before walking away at a sedate pace. He descended the steps to the street below, exchanging good-natured greetings as he moved through the throng, every face around him rich in respect and affection.
The young man watched him go then turned back to the stone, fingers tracing over his chin with brow furrowed in thought. After a moment he brightened and began to walk away, but paused on reaching the steps. His back straightened as if in response to some unheard alarm and he turned, eyes tracking across the platform until they came to rest on Vaelin.
“He sees me,” Vaelin said.
“Yes,” Erlin said. “I always wondered what made him pause at this point. Hopefully, now his next words will make some sense.”
The young man walked forward slowly, his expression one of cautious amazement. He came to within a few feet of Vaelin and stopped, reaching out as if to touch his cloak, though the fingers slipped through the material like mist. He drew back a little, his lips fumbling over a question in a language not his own. “You … have … name?” he asked in heavily accented but discernible Realm Tongue.
“I have many,” Vaelin replied. “Though I suspect you will know me by only one.”
The young man’s brow furrowed in bafflement. “I … Lionen,” the young man said. “I seee you … before.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “In dreams … In waking … Hear your tongue … Learn it.”
“You have the gift of scrying,” Vaelin said, elaborating in response to another baffled frown, “You … see what is to come.”
“Sometimes … Sometimes it … changes. You, always same.” His gaze went to the black stone. “So too this.”
“What is it?”
Lionen’s face tensed in consternation and Vaelin realised he was fumbling for words to describe something even he didn’t fully understand. “A box,” he said finally. “Box full … of everything, and nothing.”
“Your sister fears it.”
Lionen nodded. “Essara sees great danger in this. Her husband great … use.”
“And you?”
“I see you, and it.” His gaze tracked to Erlin. “And him … But he is not him when he touches it.”
His face clouded and he turned towards the city, now bathed in a faint orange glow as the sun began to descend below the western mountains. “In your time … this place is gone, yes?”
“Yes. Brought to ruin many ages before.”
Lionen lowered his gaze, features dark with sorrow. “I … hope I see it wrong.” He took a breath and straightened. “If … I see you again. Bring … happy words.”
“Wait.” Vaelin reached for Lionen as he began to walk away, though of course his hand made no purchase. “You have knowledge I need. We face a great danger…”
“I know,” Lionen replied with a shrug. “I … face danger too.”
Vaelin caught a glimpse of his face before the memory broke apart once more, his half grin returned for an instant, then sublimed into mist as the vort
ex swirled.
“What did he mean?” he demanded of Erlin.
“I wish I knew, brother,” the ancient man replied. “But I suspect we have now ventured far beyond the limits of my knowledge.”
This time the vortex coalesced into a scene of chaos, the city burnt and tumbled around them, accompanied by the screams of thousands in torment. Vaelin ducked instinctively as a thunderous tremor shook the stone beneath his feet, his gaze immediately drawn to the tower, standing tall and glorious in the night sky, but only for a moment. The ground shook again and the tower fell, its stone flanks bent like a bow as it tumbled to earth, shattering the houses beneath in an explosion of stone and flame.
Vaelin went to the edge of the platform, drawing up in shock at the horrors unfolding below. A woman staggered through the streets with a headless child in her arms, face blank with madness. A portly man in a long robe ran past her, screaming in fear, chased down and dismembered in seconds by a group of men in red armour, laughing gleefully as their swords rose and fell in a joyous frenzy.
Vaelin’s eyes roved the dying city, finding scenes of slaughter and torment everywhere, Sella’s words from years before coming back to him, They had lived in peace for generations and had no warriors, so when the storm came they were naked before it.
It raged on for an hour or more, the city tumbling down around them as its people died. The men in the red armour were inventive in their cruelties, delighting in the screams of those they raped or flayed, though apart from their laughter they were mute killers, going about their bloody work with no words exchanged.
“What are they?” Vaelin asked in a whisper.
“In time the people who will build the Volarian Empire will call them the Dermos,” Erlin said. “Imagining them the product of some fiery pit beneath the earth. When they’re done here they will cross the ocean to assail every place they can find where humanity resides, birthing legends and gods in the process.” Erlin pointed to something in the smoke-shrouded streets below. “Their onslaught will continue until the one who commands them falls.”