An Emperor's Gamble (Legend of Tal: Book 3)

by J. D. L. Rosell

  Or maybe they fear us as much as Reachfolk fear them. Somehow, the thought curdled his smile. He averted his eyes, keeping them on his surroundings, though he remained watchful for any knives that might dart across the space left in his party's wake.

  "Ah, here we are!" Pim brought Tal's attention back ahead of them. "Harmony Sacellum, home to the high pellar of Aspar."

  He'd expected a grand edifice to occupy the center of Naruah; instead, he found a squat stump little more decorated than the meanest hovel. The top of it bulged out in a grotesque bubble. The skin of the ceiling seemed thin enough to allow light through, though he wondered how it held up to the elements. Gnarled, old roots crouched menacingly around the walls as they advanced between them to the perfectly circular door set into the temple's side. There, the patrolmen stepped to either side and signaled for them to enter.

  Pim turned back to Tal and waggled his eyebrows. "Well? Are you ready for your cure?"

  "As long as that's what awaits me."

  The Extinguished smiled in a way that wasn't altogether reassuring. Facing forward, he pulled at a large iron ring, one of the few instances of metal Tal had seen in the village. The door opened outward with a groan like the dead tree awoke from a long slumber. With a beckoning wave, Pim entered, and Tal followed him in, the door closing behind him.

  The interior was partially illuminated by the porous ceiling, the light gathering an orange hue as it filtered through the thin bark. Its chamber was also brightened by lamps set all around the circle of walls. They were sorcerous lamps, he quickly realized; the light they cast off was green and lacked the flicker of flames. Though their shape was different, they seemed a variation of the werelight lamps used in Elendol. The mix of orange and green light lent the room a strange, unnatural ambience.

  An atmosphere conducive for the sacrosanct, Tal mused.

  The floor mirrored the rings seen on the top of a stump, which Tal had once heard marked the years a tree had existed. Hundreds of circles marked the temple floor, signaling that this tree had been ancient indeed before it had fallen. The rings cascaded toward the center of the chamber, where a vat with black iron walls stood, resembling something between a bath and a firepit.

  By this metal furnishing stood a woman.

  "Mater Izoalta," Pim called out merrily in the Reachtongue, striding into the temple with complete disregard for the oppressive ambience. He had shed his pack at the entrance and walked with unencumbered ease. "Wise Mother. How good to see you still standing after these many long years."

  The priestess did not turn at the greeting, but remained leaning over the wall of the metal fixture. Tal wondered if she was ill, and what that would mean for him. He didn't know what to make of what he could see. Every surface of her was decorated, skin or otherwise. Beads hung in long fringes, colored red and blue and purple. Teeth and other pieces of bone hung from bracelets and necklaces. Her skin, aubergine in the gloom, was bright with the white lines of tattoos. In places, something bright and reflective glimmered from the lines. Piercings, he realized after a moment's study. Her skin was riddled with rings of silver.

  They halted ten paces away from her. Tal waited in silence, relenting to Pim's lead for the moment. If he was honest with himself, something about the Nightelf priestess intimidated him.

  Perhaps because I mean to put my life in her hands, he thought, and her appearance is more than half-mad.

  As if she heard the thought, the high pellar snapped her neck around and glared at Tal, eyes glowing with a fell light. He could not look away from them. His blood tingled, signaling sorcery was in the air, but it did not feel like Geminia's glamour. His mind remained clear, or as clear as it ever was these days. Nevertheless, he felt enthralled by the priestess' gaze. Her iris' tendrils were so dark a violet as to almost be black like Pim's, but were edged with a lightning glow. He saw in those eyes the shadows of serpents writhing in a glowing pool, seeking to escape.

  Abruptly, he blinked and averted his gaze. If she meant to charm him, he would not be complicit in the attempt.

  "So. You do have some will, after all."

  Tal raised his head again, but stared just past her face into the tangle of thick braids that stacked atop her head. She had spoken the common Darktongue, but in simple enough words that he could follow. In her mouth, the speech lacked the harsh edges that most gave it, but gathered instead a mesmerizing cadence.

  He struggled to form his response. "I have sense, if not will, my lady."

  Her bark of laughter, cut off as if she were impatient with her own sounds, signaled his pronunciation had been off, if not downright unintelligible.

  "His grasp of your language is poor," Pim said apologetically, once more in Tal's native speech. "If you will excuse his speaking in his own…"

  The priestess waved her hand in short chopping gestures. "Enough!" she said in the Reachtongue. "I cannot stand your—" Then she said something in her own tongue Tal could not grasp, but guessed was a profanity not included in Hellexa Yoreseer's text.

  Pim was grinning, but Tal knew enough of smiles to see a cutting edge to it.

  "Never forget who I am, Izoalta," he said, also adopting Tal's native tongue. "As old as you are by mortal reckoning, you will never be more than a child to me."

  The illusion remained in place — yet Tal saw through the handsome elf then. In that moment, Pim embodied the quartz-crusted flesh of the Extinguished.

  If the high pellar was perturbed, she hid it behind another of her short, wild laughs. "Spare me, Chosen. I am a child, but I have learned enough to know you need me. What few years I hoard in these bones remain my own."

  Pim shrugged, and the dangerous air seemed to fade. "For now," he said, his tone kindly as if speaking to a simpleton. "But enough pleasantries. I am sure you have sensed my errand in this man."

  Izoalta's gaze settled back on Tal, and he was careful not to meet it. With his blood warm in his veins, he felt flushed like he had so often been with Ashelia when they were young.

  An uncomfortable feeling to share with this old crone.

  "I have," she murmured. "He is one of them."

  One of them. He did not have to reach far to understand what she meant.

  And if I am to trust her with my life, he thought, I'd best begin now.

  "You mean a drovald," he said, using the word he'd read in his old book, then adding his tongue's translation, "a Fount."

  "Ah! So he is not just a pretty face in a filthy guise." Izoalta leered at him, though perhaps for her, it passed for an inviting grin.

  Tal returned it with a smile of his own. "I've been called many things, Wise Mother, but pretty has rarely been one of them."

  She barked another laugh. "And a pretty tongue! Who is this one, Chosen?"

  "You know his name, Izoalta, though not his face. He is called Tal Harrenfel in the Westreach."

  "Tal Harrenfel." The lines of laughter smoothed from her face. "The Widowmaker. The Scourge. The Puppet."

  Tal shrugged, affecting nonchalance, even as his pulse quickened at the recognition. For the danger of it? he mused. Or for the glory?

  "So I have been known," he said aloud, his tone even.

  "But he is less than his deeds claim," Pim added, "for the moment, at least. An affliction hampers his natural gifts — karkados, a sorcerous canker."

  "If it is so," the high pellar said, "then I will say it is so. Leave us, Chosen. Your kind interferes with my work."

  "I would not wish to impose." In Pim's polite words laid potent promises. "As it happens, we have pursuers I must attend to, for I fear they are drawing close."

  Tal's heart beat quicker still. Ravagers. There could be little doubt that he meant anyone else. Once more, the divisions in the East defied his comprehension. That Yuldor's hounds would attack dwarves from the Westreach did not take much imagination. But he'd always assumed a fief of the Empire would collude with the so-called Venators.

  As soon as I can, he promised himself, I'll free myself of
their tangled webs. Even though Pim had so far proven a faithful guide, he could not be rid of him soon enough. The suspicion that he was always a moment away from being stabbed in the back had plagued their fledgling trust.

  Pim met Tal's gaze and seemed to see all the questions swirling behind his eyes. "You will understand more," his companion said softly. "Soon."

  Tal nodded, though he wasn't sure he believed him.

  The Extinguished turned and swept from the room, issuing commands as he opened the door. A Nightelf in green robes — an acolyte, he guessed — bustled in to haul his pack onto her back, then quickly left and resealed the room.

  As the echoes of the shutting door died away, a heavy silence filled the chamber. Tal looked back to the high pellar and accidentally met her eyes. For a moment, he could not loose himself from their pull — then abruptly, he tugged free, his chin snapping around painfully as if he had been physically held there.

  Izoalta barked another laugh. "Do I uval you, Puppet?"

  He grimaced. "My apologies — I'm not sure I understand you."

  Her eyes screwed up for a moment, thinking of the proper translation.

  "Turn away," she said finally. "Do I turn you away?"

  Tal took her meaning. "'Repulse,' do you mean? If so, I have never been one to be dissuaded by appearances."

  She gave him another smile, and he noticed this time that most of her teeth had been replaced by silver canines. "Pretty tongue, I said — but even pretty things can grow ugly if seen too much."

  Sensing they were moving in the wrong direction, Tal turned the conversation. "Pim called you a high pellar. You are a priestess to Yuldor?"

  Izoalta looked at him as if he were a fascinating and unusual creature. "Who else? He is the god we know, the only god to walk the surface of Mother World. Only you from the Westreach are foolish enough to worship gods who do not speak!"

  Tal shrugged, conceding the point. "I fail to see why your allegiance would incline you to help me. You know what I am. By that knowledge, I'd guess you've read the works of Hellexa Yoreseer."

  He had divined a clever tongue would drive the crass priestess further from helping, and reasoned the truth might reel her in. If her expression was any indication, his gambit had worked. Izoalta's eyes widened along with her smile.

  "Hellexa Yoreseer!" she repeated, almost hissing the name. "How long since I've heard her mentioned!"

  "Did you know her?" He thought it a stretch; after all, Blue Moon Obelisk, the tower where the sorceress had resided until her death, was far to the west of their present location, if Pim's obscure hints and Tal's vague sense of the East's orientation were correct.

  Izoalta's smile widened further still. "Pretty face, but a dull mind — so often they go together."

  He hid his annoyance in another smile. "I don't take your meaning."

  The high pellar had barely moved from her perch by the iron basin during their conversation. Now, she swiveled her body around and walked with teetering footsteps to stand within a few feet of him, one hand still steadying herself on the metal wall. He detected beneath her draped cloth and grisly ornamentation a skeletal frame. I could break her, he thought, and in that moment, the balance of power between them seemed to shift.

  "Yes, I knew Hellexa Yoreseer," Izoalta rasped. He could smell her sour breath at the near distance. "I knew her well. You see, Puppet, for many years, I lived with her."

  A supposition, too far-fetched to seem remotely true, bubbled up in his mind.

  "Your family name," he said slowly. "It wouldn't happen to be Yoreseer, would it?"

  Izoalta threw back her head and laughed, her frail neck seeming in danger of snapping. Tal watched her in growing disbelief and dismay.

  When she'd finished, she looked back at him, and for a moment fully held his gaze. "Yes. I am Izoalta Yoreseer. And Hellexa was my sister — the sister I betrayed, to her death."

  As he was drawn into the flashing pit of her eyes, Tal began to realize just how deep of a mire he'd landed himself in.

  Children of Dusk

  Garin had pondered how the Nightelves would hold Wren and him captive. But as they were hoisted high into the air, only thin, wooden slats keeping them from a deadly fall, he wondered no longer.

  "Do not attempt anything," the Nightelf guard had warned them. His gaze had primarily rested on Wren, no doubt recognizing from her slight elven features that she possessed sorcery, and assuming that Garin, as a young human, was not likely to boast the same affinity. He hoped that might play to their advantage, though he could not see how.

  No sooner had the cage ceased swaying violently than Wren leaned toward him, upsetting its precarious balance. "Any ideas?"

  He glanced balefully at her. "Don't tell me you're thinking of escape."

  "What else? Or do you like pretending to be a coconut waiting to fall?"

  He risked a look down, and his stomach lurched at the height. Even more than he had during the march to their cages, he wished he could fly as Ilvuan once had.

  "Unless you have a spell that can help us walk on air, I don't think we're getting out of this."

  "We don't need to walk on air," Wren retorted. "Just a way to lower ourselves. I've heard of charms before where you influence another person's mind so they do your bidding. Like Tal once fell prey to by that Extinguished. Kaleras didn't happen to teach you one, did he?"

  Garin gave her a flat look. "You and I learned the same things."

  "What about your devil? He's able to possess you. What if you set him upon that guard?"

  "Don't let Ilvuan catch you speaking that way." Garin felt internally for a moment to see if Wren's gibe would rouse the Singer, but he sensed nothing. "I don't know what he might be able to do, though."

  "Why don't you ask him? I haven't invented any other clever ideas."

  "Fine," he muttered. Considering how little the Singer liked being asked favors and how prickly his temper was, he little looked forward to the conversation. Nevertheless, like Wren, he could think of no other option for escape that didn't end with them smashed to bits fifty feet below. And he had another pressing question that the dragon — or former dragon, or whatever he was — might be able to answer.

  "Ilvuan," he murmured aloud, his mind willing the Singer's presence to him.

  To his surprise, Ilvuan slithered into his head at once, though he coiled his presence into a form that locked his thoughts away from Garin. You have another problem for me to solve, the Singer noted with some annoyance.

  If it's not too much trouble. Please, Garin thought belatedly.

  A snort. Manners are not what I seek. Only an end to my task.

  Yes, your mysterious task. I'll get right on that — as soon as I'm not hanging from a tree.

  "Did he answer?" Wren demanded.

  Garin held up a finger, a warning look in his eyes.

  You are as troublesome as the rest of your kind, little Listener, Ilvuan responded. But as you seek to save the Heartblood as well as yourself, I must lend you assistance.

  Garin guessed "Heartblood" must refer to Tal. Can you possess that guard? Or teach me a charm to sway him into freeing us?

  No. I may enter you because you are a vessel ready to be filled. And there is no incantation of influence that a human may cast without implements to guide him.

  But I hear the Song! Isn't that enough?

  Annoyance lashed through Garin's mind. I say it is not.

  A chilly silence met him then. He reached for another query that might accomplish the same aim, but could think of nothing. So he asked his second question.

  Tal — is he near?

  Approval radiated out from Ilvuan now, past the hard scales of his walls. He is.

  A tug pulled in Garin's mind — a tug in Tal's direction, he remembered from the last time he'd felt such a sensation, down in the uncertain streets of the Mire. He squinted up at the sky, trying to judge by the sun which way lay north.

  He lifted and pointed, keeping a watchful eye b
elow to ensure the guard wasn't looking. "Which direction would you guess that is?"

  Wren, though obviously frustrated at being left out of his and Ilvuan's deliberations, obliged his request by peering up at the sparse light through the canopy as well, head traveling back and forth across their small view of the sky. After several moments, she declared, "Northeast. I think. Now will you answer me?"

  Garin shook his head and held up a hand, ignoring Wren as she settled back against the opposite side of the round cage with arms crossed. I'll find him, as you wish me to, though your assistance would have been more helpful earlier. Still, I can't do that until I escape this tree.

  Then you had best learn to climb, Ilvuan replied, merciless and remorseless. Or to fly.

  With that, the Singer slipped free of his mind, a great yawning chasm where his presence had vacated.

  Wren, observing Garin's small shake of his head, demanded, "Can I speak now?"

  "You don't have to be so insistent all the time. You know how Ilvuan can be."

  "Do I? He's not the demon crawling around my head though, is he?" She waved a hand before her, as if to dismiss her words. "Doesn't matter. What's the plan?"

  "Nothing. There is no plan."

  She stared at him silently for a long moment. "Then what," she asked in a low voice, "were you chatting about for so long?"

  "It wasn't for 'so long,' it was—" With an effort, Garin silenced himself. Their situation was more to blame for their bickering than either of them. His head was starting to ache from the lack of food. He pushed it aside and sought a cool head.

  "If we're going to escape this, we have to work together and stop fighting," he said as calmly as he could. "Alright?"

  Wren bared her teeth at him, and for a brief instant, he imagined her pouncing on him and ripping his throat out. The next moment, her shoulders relaxed, and her expression sagged.

  "Alright." Her frustration wasn't entirely hid, but she seemed mollified. "But at least tell me you have good news."

  "A little good," he hedged. "Mostly not. The direction I pointed? That's where Tal is. He's near."

  "He's near?" Wren perked up at that. "How near?"