Splintered Loyalties

by S. B. Sebrick

  Keevan fought to hide the fear on his face. He'd left out Touric's involvement in his healing, but how much did the councilman know? He couldn't panic and end up revealing more than the Harbor Guild knew, revealing further deceptions on Keevan's part. The council could be bluffing, although the sadistic gleam in the Etrendi's eyes suggested quite the opposite.

  "To be perfectly honest," Keevan answered carefully, "I was not fully conscious the entire time. The process was incredibly agonizing, as I explained. Until Corvan got the powder out of my system, we could have been in Suada's own presence and I would not have noticed, nor cared. Even resting, I must have slept for half a day at least. I awoke in the wagon, but I suppose if necessary, they could have moved me."

  "I have here, a report from one of our agents along the east road," Councilman Soughast said, pulling a folded parchment from the bag alongside his chair. Fear leapt into Keevan's throat, but he forced himself to stare back at Councilman Soughast, unmoving. "A merchant, bearing a distinctly likeness to the exile, Touric Paverone, bought the back room of a local inn for exactly the time frame in which Keevan reports his illness."

  "Touric Paverone," Malik Morgra growled, turning on Keevan, "He's returned? It's fitting. He and Zerik were always close. Did you know about this boy?"

  Keevan shrugged his shoulders, "If Touric was involved in my care, Corvan certainly wouldn't recognize him. Every drawing I've seen of Touric are at least as old as I. If it was him, then watching Corvan heal me would provide him with a good deal of information about Outlander powers. Honestly, I hope it's not true. My mother still carries the burden of what he took from her."

  "Honored Malik," Councilman Soughast cut in, pointing an indignant finger at Keevan. "You can't seriously believe this farce. There are too many coincidences here. Corvan happens to arrive in time to heal Keevan, Touric just happens to be near the only two Outlanders on this continent, with Zerik on the verge of striking at our beloved city. Please, Malik Morgra, at the least, be cautious here."

  Every councilmen in the room stared at Malik Morgra, awaiting his response. The Malik watched Keevan closely, measuring his words as well as his posture. The air suddenly felt thick and impossibly silent, like a tomb.

  "We will keep Keevan and Falletal imprisoned for next day or so," Malik Morgra decided, drawing disgruntled looks from every Etrendi in the room. Keevan sighed, not thrilled by the Malik's decision, but understanding. Anyways, once either of the Persuaders regained consciousness, they could vouch for Keevan's words and the warning would get through. Eventually.

  "We will turn the sword and receiver stone over to the Scholar's Guild," Malik Morgra continued, waving at the tools lying before Keevan. "They will examine the weapons and if anything unusual is uncovered, then we will know Keevan speaks the truth."

  "Um, sir?" Keevan asked, raising his hand as meekly as possible. The council whispered excitedly. A flush of warmth rose up into Keevan's cheeks. He felt like he'd just broken some cardinal rule, but he couldn't put his finger on which one, so he pressed on, "If it pleases you, I can assure you this receiver stone looks perfectly normal on the surface. The sender stone must have unique properties. Here, I'll show you."

  Keevan plowed on, not fully considering the ramifications of his actions. If speaking out meant convincing the Malik to better protect the city, he'd try to convince the man once more. As Keevan reached for the receiver stone, he opened the elemental plane, eyes fixed on the Malik. He'd assumed, since Councilman Soughast sat behind Keevan and couldn't see him use his power, the offense would be overlooked.

  Then, Keevan saw the truth. The real reason the Malik insisted Keevan keep his elemental vision to himself. Thin veins of danica glowed underneath the Malik's skin, surging with power. The white cloud Keevan saw, the Malik's body, radiated brilliant shades of yellow, crimson and blue. The Malik's frame blossomed with orange energy, so hot Keevan could feel the heat of Morgra's rage on his face.

  "Keevan Stratagar," The Malik bellowed, slamming his closed fist on the armrest of his throne. The stone hummed with blood red heat, casting ebony shadows on the wall behind him. "Your eyes have betrayed you. For defying a direct order from your Malik, you will be sent to the dungeons, until such time as I see fit to address you again. Guards. Take him."

  Chapter 21

  "What exactly did you say to the Malik?" Falletal asked, reclining on a pile of straw in the corner. Thin windows at the end of the hall cast a faint light into their cell. The black stone walls hemmed them in on three sides void of danica or repulsor orbs. Iron bars separated them from the entrance. A shiny steel padlock and freshly oiled chain wrapped around the exit's bars, an extra precaution, though Keevan already knew Felletal couldn't melt iron, no matter the stakes.

  "Um, sir," Keevan repeated, pacing back and forth between one wall and the next as he mulled over his experiences with the council. The dank, cold air down here easily pierced his tunic and leather breaches. A cold drop of water landed on the nape of his neck, sending shudders down his spine. The weeping dungeon was well named, dating back to the ancient days, when the Suadan Temple acted on matters of state as much as matters of faith.

  "Well, maybe the Malik is just losing his mind," Falletal said, eerily calm. He jerked his thumb toward the straw pile next to him. "You might as well sit down. Unless you plan to wear a hole in the floor for us to escape through, you're just wasting your energy with all that walking."

  "I'm keeping warm," Keevan insisted grimly, hugging himself as a fierce shiver tickled his torso. "And no, the Malik isn't crazy. His city is under siege and the perpetrators are hiding within his own population. He's afraid and desperate."

  "You have to stay warm? That's on odd burden to bear. You Outlanders are a strange bunch.

  "We're just more stubborn than you Tri-Beings," Keevan sighed, sitting down on his pile of straw in the back corner, across from Falletal. "My body tries to maintain the same temperature no matter what, which makes extreme cold or heat very unpleasant. Tri-Beings are more like reptiles, you emulate the temperature around you, along with whatever emotions that entails."

  "I never thought of it like that," Falletal offered, watching the Sight Seeker with renewed wonder. "So, you could survive in this cell without difficulty, if you were given a blanket? Something to keep you warm?"

  "Yes," Keevan answered, patting the straw beneath him. "This helps too. The stone floor is also quite cold."

  "A blanket would do little for me," Falletal agreed, glancing up at the ceiling. Icy water dripped down into their cell intermittently. Thankfully, the floor carried a slight slant, so the excess moisture seeped into a thin trench at the edges of the hallway. "The moist cold in the air brings my most sorrowful memories to mind. Which pushes more heat away. Which brings more unpleasant thoughts. You get the idea."

  "A vicious cycle," Keevan agreed, furrowing his brow. "You have to keep your spirits up, think about anything else. You'll ice out, should you dwell on sorrow or cold too long."

  "Indeed. On that note, what did you do to get us both thrown in here?" Falletal repeated, shrugging indifferently. "I'd just like to know why I've just lost my freedom, too."

  "Perhaps they mean to reconvene when Issamere has calmed down more," Keevan offered, scratching his head. "At least we're safe down here."

  "Safe?" Falletal said flatly. He laid down, folding his arms over his chest. "No, not even close. Zerik's reach has extended throughout Issamere by now. Getting a couple armed men into the dungeons would be easy to arrange."

  Keevan paused at that new information, watching Falletal carefully. Slipping into his elemental vision, he examined the blue strands of energy taking root in the Rhetan's cloud-like form. Without a nearby source of heat, the dungeon was deep and cold enough to leach heat from the prisoners. The cold and the moisture pulled on the man's mind, leading him to the best logical source of despair.

  "I hope you're right," Falletal said, waving at Keevan. "I can guess what you're seeing. The pure logic is the f
irst stage, then comes the depression and then... it depends on the tri-being. Some just ice out, others go insane, a few manage to hang on. How does it feel sharing a cell with a dead man?"

  "You're not going to die," Keevan countered. "At the least, they need your testimony."

  Falletal's last words stuck with him though. Was this the Malik's plan? To lock Keevan in with an icing out Rhetan? Sighing in relent, Keevan took his spot on the straw pile. He sat in his corner of the cell, eyes blazing sky blue as he combed over every pebble and iron bar. He chuckled darkly. A repulsor room designed to hold Etrendi hadn't stopped him, but this cell was designed for elementally weak Rhetans. Ironically, that made his cage much more suited to holding an Outlander.

  "Only if the Malik remains in power by week's end," Falletal chuckled. A wave of cold rushed across Keevan's skin, cast by the Rhetan's declining emotional state. Thin veins of ice lined the wrinkles in the Tri-Being's eyes and neck. "We've warned the Malik of Zerik's secret, an Etrendi capable of completely possessing Tri-Beings through his receiver stone. Pity they didn't believe us. I'm sure Zerik will kill us out of spite and caution. He can't have people openly opposed to his reign living in his city."

  "That still leaves exile," Keevan offered, facing the chilled Rhetan. "Think about it, you could still see the world. Imagine visiting the southern tribes along the coast, where the sun burns so hot, icing out is unheard off, even at night."

  "Mmmmm, that would be something," Falletal echoed, stroking his chin. The icy veins on his cheeks slowly melted away. "I've heard the women there are the color of night-black tea and ink their bodies with the insignias of their Gods. It's peacetime there now, with the war against Issamere long over."

  "How would you get there?" Keevan asked. "By land or by sea?"

  "Oh, the Harbor Guild makes such journeys difficult, unless you have gold," Falletal droned one, the icy flecks on his neck receding another inch or two as he spoke. "I'd have to find some merchants already making the trip. I could offer my services as a body guard. It's peacetime down there, how much trouble could there be?"

  Keevan smiled, pulling his knees up under his chin as he wrapped his arms around his legs. There were some useful perks to elemental vision. The extra moisture down here would keep Falletal rambling on about the 'puzzle' of such a journey, at least for a while. Mild insanity was better than icing out on the spot.

  When Keevan recalled the dangerous glare he'd seen in the Malik's eyes, the Outlander's mood soured. For over a decade, Zerik's supporters insisted Morgra had cheated at the Trials, when the Temple Tribunal chose Morgra as the Malik. Such allegations were severely dealt with, if they ever reached the council's ears. Keevan thought they were just propaganda, but he'd seen the Danica grafted beneath the Malik's flesh. Now he knew why Malik Morgra, before taking power, put so many resources into Persuader Madol's future. He'd used the Haustran as his test subject for grafting Danica into bone, before duplicating the procedure on himself.

  A single truth hovered in Keevan's mind. According to the laws of Issamere, Malik Morgra did not deserve to rule. Contestants competing to be Malik weren't allowed any aid, new or ancient. A sick nausea settled in Keevan's gut. Had he spent the last year of his life serving a liar? One ruthless enough to deceive, manipulate and kill, in order to keep his power?

  Did such a man truly deserve to rule Issamere?

  Chapter 22

  "Things are spiraling out of control," Lanasha hissed, leaning against the hearth of Kade's fireplace. The fresh kindling crackled greedily in various hues of red and orange, as if anticipating the coming storm. "Morgra has actually arrested the Sight Seeker. The boy saw too much, I fear."

  "He saw what Morgra intended to show him, eventually," Pyran grunted, sitting at Kade's desk. The old warrior had replaced his black clothes with heavy chainmail and plate armor. His followers were following suit across Issamere, preparing for violence, and gathering temple stores and loved ones behind the strong walls of his temples. "The boy just saw it too soon, before Morgra was sure of his loyalties. One wrong word and the council would have no excuse for ignoring our Malik's... alterations."

  "The fact remains, the supply ships should be here any day now," Kade said soothingly, pacing along the space between Lanasha and Pyran. "We need only preserve the peace until then. Once the Rhetans have food in their bellies, things will calm down."

  "Over Zerik's corpse, you mean," Pyran insisted, snorting in derision. "There's no way Zerik will stand by, with the people so close to rioting. He's got something planned to set them off. If the people riot and we try to step in, we will be up to our ears in blood."

  "We three form the Tribunal of Issamere," Lanasha said, staring into the flames. "The people look to us for protection and guidance, but first, we must protect our own. It will do no good, in the long run, to save a few hundred Rhetans, if it means losing our priests or each other."

  "You're talking about putting your priests and acolytes before the people," Kade realized uneasily.

  "As should you be," Lanasha insisted, pointing out the open doors of Kade's terrace. "When the violence starts, it will take all the guards and priests I can muster just to keep the Rhetans out of my temples. I do not have the means to protect the city as a whole. None of us will."

  "I second her motion," Pyran agreed, getting to his feet. Orange light peeked out from his gloves and the veins around his neck. "If it comes to rioting, the temples have no choice but to lock their doors and wait it out. We can help the injured afterward. Bury the dead. That is all."

  Kade grimaced but didn't speak right away. The Death God had a surprising interest in preserving life. Even as a child, Kade had seen the temples as protectors of the people, especially when the Etrendi were too busy in their bloody games to pay the Rhetans notice. Yet now, with hundreds of priests and acolytes awaiting his orders, he couldn't argue with the fallacies of so idealistic a view.

  "If the worse should happen," Kade asked, "Would you two consent to our other option?"

  "Calling the Great Malik?" Lanasha sighed, pulling an iron poker from the wall and stirring the fire. Glowing coals seethed and shifted at her touch. "Kade, we've discussed this. The Great Malik would take one look at this mess and start over. He'd likely remove all of us from our positions and bring in councilors of his own to replace us. We will settle this matter ourselves. That's final."

  "Very well," Kade relented, shaking his head. "Return to your temples and prepare for what's coming. I'll do the same."

  "May the Gods favor you," Pyran said, nodding in farewell. Lanasha did the same. In moments, Kade was alone.

  "He'd likely remove us from our positions," Kade echoed aloud, to no one in particular. He walked out onto the balcony, overlooking the dying city. "So, protecting their positions is more important than protecting the people. To them at least."

  Kade tried not to bear them any ill will. They're temples were the center of the city's commerce. If a riot broke out, they'd need all their men just to hold the doors shut. He could leave the spiked citadel unlocked with a smoking turkey in the doorway, and still no one would enter. None would risk the wrath of the Death God. His people were therefore, more free to act than the Beletokans or the Suadans.

  Of course, if Lanasha and Pyran knew his plans, they would have demoted him on the spot. He laughed, massaging his temples. Either way, his days running the spiked citadel were numbered. All he could do was choose the best path and weather the storm. He leaned against the stone railing lining his balcony and soaked in his last night as High Priest of Raejin.

  Chapter 23

  The sun had long set by the time the next patrol walked through Keevan's corner of the dungeon. No matter where Keevan sat, water droplets falling from the ceiling always found him. For a moment, he wondered if some Suada stood behind the stone walls, frustrated by Keevan's elemental immunities and resorting to sleep deprivation instead. A foolish notion, Keevan would have seen such a Tri-Being's elemental field at work. Falletal lay i
n the same spot all night, muttering gibberish under his breath, which left his lips with thin spews of frost.

  The flickering torchlight down the hallway felt like a miniature sun, casting feeble rays across the dead walls. Keevan couldn't help but shudder at the uncertain passage of time. If the guards covered the window at the end of the hall, days would seamlessly melt into years. He thought of Corvan. To add torture to this... no wonder the Varadour didn't trust Tri-Beings.

  Two guards emerged from the darkness, walking along the dungeon's cells. A few desperate hands reached out toward them, their heat deprived bodies pulling as much warmth as they could from the flames. The prisoners sighed in relief at the guards' approach and whimpered in pain when the black-clad sentinels passed them by.

  They wore Beletokan armor, the variety reserved for soldiers who trained for years to hone their rage into a searing weapon. They stopped at Keevan's cell, watching him wordlessly. Falletal pushed Keevan aside, reaching for the torch with a pained hiss. Keevan winced from a pang of guilt. If he'd let Falletal ice out, the Rhetan wouldn't be in such pain right now.

  "You are Keevan?" The first Beletokan asked, eyeing Keevan's tattered clothes incredulously. A thin scar cut his right eyebrow into two equal halves. "The Sight Seeker?" His helmet was engraved with the head of a same massive pagoda the acrobats brought into Issamere only a day ago.

  Gulping nervously, Keevan ignored the many scenarios rolling around in his imagination, all similar to the treatment Corvan endured at the hands of guards like these. Instead of speaking, Keevan stared at them through the elemental plane. They wore heat like a Rhetan wore a shirt. Their armor, black to regular eyes, glowed faintly with restrained fire. No wonder this armor marked the elite among the Beletokans. The Danica-fused metal fed a constant deluge of heat back into the guard, the exact opposite of the weeping dungeon.

  "Nice armor," Keevan asked. "That must take some getting used to."