He realized that he had no answers to any of these questions, but that the asking of them had clarified his earlier quandary. He did not think to protect his status by eliminating the threat presented to it by the arrival of his daughter. He instead considered means of embracing her, even if only clandestinely. As cunning as he might be, he did not retain the malevolent instinct necessary to insulate his standing in court from potential scandal. Nor, he now knew, did he possess the savage treachery required to kill the zhan, nor stand idle while others did. He had tarnished the gleam of his honor in conceiving the child he could not acknowledge, but that honor still shone brightly within him. He would do what his honorable nature demanded.
And he would speak with Tigan Rhog-Kan to clarify this position.
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THE WITNESS
ONDROMEAD
BOOTS AND slippers serpentined through the palace halls — a line of ants carrying plates and cups and chairs and ornamental settings to the gardens and the small galleries beside them. Ondromead looked down on the procession of busy people from a balcony near the rooftop. He had decided the best way to find the boy would be to see as much of the palace as possible in a glance. The balcony he stood on wrapped around the upper floor, passing over the common rooms and several smaller buildings. He’d wondered why the staff prepared the gardens for a celebration rather than the Grand Hall until he’d seen what remained of that chamber and remember the stories he had heard of the zhan’s coronation. He could not imagine what caused the craterous hole in the ceiling — looking as though a meteor had crashed through the roof — nor how none had apparently been killed in the collapse. Had the zhan truly saved those in attendance through his prayers as the rumors suggested?
He followed the balcony around the garden and through several inner courtyards. Servants and various courtiers of the palace passed him, but all seemed oblivious to his presence. He’d gotten used to that reaction over the countless years. Few people would really see him and those who did soon lost interest. Two of those who showed no interest caught his own. Men walking toward one another on a lower balcony. Men he’d seen previously. When they were younger.
He slowed to a stop and stood beside a potted tree at a turn in the balcony path, tilting his head to better hear the men. If their conversation turned out to be the intended event he needed to witness, it freed him to find the boy. Then again, if the dislocations continued, it might be that he needed to witness more than one thing. He feared that further displacements might take him away from the palace entirely. This tended to happen rarely, only once every few years, but often enough to be a real concern. If he walked around a corner or through a door and ended up on the other side of the realm, he might never encounter the boy again.
Both men wore ornate robes. The first, tall and slender in purple and gold silks, bowed slightly to the second, a stocky man in robes of blue and white. The second man returned the minor bow.
“Tigan,” the first man said. “How fortunate to come upon you. I had wished to broach a subject best discussed in private.”
“Councilor.” The second man folded his arms across his broad chest. “What do you wish to say in the privacy of an open balcony?”
A councilor and a tigan. He had not seen their faces in years. Could they be involved in the plot he’d heard set in motion earlier?
“I wish to suggest that we contrive to align our efforts more closely.” The councilor clasped his hands behind his back.
“Toward what end?” the tigan asked.
“Toward the end of maintaining balance in the dominion and ending the long war,” the councilor replied.
“In all the years I have known you, I have always wondered why you can never speak plainly.” The tigan frowned.
Ondromead agreed and began to fidget. He had no time for mundane exchanges. He needed to find the boy before the plot against the zhan came to fruition and finding Hashel became ever more unlikely.
“Plainly spoken words are often the easiest to misinterpret.” A light smile touched the councilor’s lips.
Odd as it sounded, Ondromead found that he agreed. He could not number the times he had seen people elaborately state their intentions and beliefs, only to have their words twisted and used against them in the cause of chaos and carnage.
“Then please, Councilor, obfuscate at your leisure.” The tigan bowed faintly, his body clearly expressing his annoyance.
“The zhan needs our assistance and guidance.” The councilor looked toward the palace temple.
“Which we have been providing, and he has diligently ignored.” The tigan’s frown deepened.
“Not in the governance of the dominion or the prosecution of the war.” The councilor turned back to the tigan.
“How so, then?” the tigan asked.
“In staying alive.” The councilor stepped closer to the tigan.
A familiar tingle suffused Ondromead’s mind. He held back a sense of panic as he listened to the men speak. He had been intended to hear this conversation. The irresistible urge that drew him to quietly remove the black book and quill from his satchel also told him that it would not be the only event he would witness that day.
“There will always be attempts on the zhan’s life,” the tigan said. “Concluding the war is the best way to end those threats.”
“I agree,” the councilor said. “However, the threats may come from within rather than without.”
“You suspect traitors.” The tigan lowered his voice.
“No, I suspect that traitors will be suspected if the zhan should perish at the hands of a night dagger.” The councilor leaned toward the tigan.
“You are being obscure again.” The tigan’s frown returned.
“Allow me to clarify.” The councilor frowned himself. “While I am pleased with your proposed union with Tahneff Dju-Tesha, and I look forward to having a similarly minded ally within the royal family, there are those who might see, in the light of the zhan’s potential murder, a movement of the blocks particularly advantageous for you.”
Ondromead understood the intention behind the man’s words, even though he did not grasp the specifics. The councilor threatened the tigan while suggesting the threat originated elsewhere. Why would he do that? Did he suspect the tigan of an attempt on the zhan’s life. Did that explain the the ceiling of the Grand Hall and the stories he had heard?
The notion of the zhan’s life being taken and the attendance of the two men brought Ondromead’s mind to one of the previous times he had seen them, and the murder he had witnessed in their presence.
TWENTY YEARS AGO
METAL STRUCK metal, ringing through the air and echoing from the curved stones of the temple dome. Ondromead stood on the upper balcony of the temple beside a statue of a man with a long beard, a prophet of the Kam-Djen faith. He couldn’t recall which one. There were nine in all, he seemed to remember. One faith began to look much like all others after so many years witnessing so many permutations, so many conflicts, so many prophets, so many notions of what people should worship and how. He often wondered why the humans and other peoples of Onaia bothered with making appeals to various gods when, year after year, they only received silence. He suspected the rakthors and their rational abandonment of faith might make more sense. But then again, no rakthor could explain his existence with their vaunted reasoning. His life might actually be the proof the believers looked for.
The priest standing before the altar finally stopped ringing the circle-etched silver bell in his hand. A second priest stood beside him. The first priest placed the bell on a small table, smoothed his emerald-colored robes, and picked up a silver cup of wine. He handed the wine to the second priest in crimson robes. As the second priest turned to the man and woman before him, he raised the cup so the hundreds of wedding guests might see it clearly.
“As the ringing of the bell reminds us of the clarity of the teachings of the prophets, so, too, does the sharing of the
wine remind us of the blood they sacrificed to pass these teachings down to us.” The priest lowered the silver chalice and handed it to the groom, a man of thirty years in long, silk robes. “As the intended couple shares this wine, they share in the sacrifice of the prophets and commit to the sacrifices they make in joining their lives together.”
The priest looked to the groom, resplendent in red and gold. “In drinking this wine, you become of one blood.”
The groom took a deep drink of the chalice and handed it to the bride, the green and gold of her robes reflecting up to add a warm glow to her eyes.
“In drinking this wine, you become of one blood,” the second priest repeated to the bride. After she drank from the cup, she handed it back to the priest.
“And now we drink of the wine, standing stead for the prophets as they watch down upon us from the Pure Lands.” The second priest took a long sip from the silver cup and then handed it to the first priest, who also took a drink. The first priest set the cup aside and turned back to the congregation, clasping his hand before his heart, the right palm covering the left fist. The second priest made the same gesture in reverse.
“May Ni-Kam-Djen bless this union and all that issues forth from it,” the first priest said.
“May Ni-Kam-Djen bless our dominions, joined together now in man and woman, north and south, Ketolin and Zatolin, side by side for all time,” the second priest said.
As the priests raised their hands in unison, the couple kissed and the guests cheered. Ondromead sighed from his perch above the ceremony. He had witnessed many weddings in his long years, but few as momentous as the one below. Two nations, long adversaries, divided by interpretations of faith, finally joined in marriage, the husband from the northern Daeshen Dominion and the wife from the southern Tanshen Dominion, each heirs to their respective royal thrones. He wondered how long the union would last. Would it result in a reunified nation in a generation, or would the divisions of faith fray the newly woven fabric and tear the dominions further apart?
In truth, he did not care all that much. He concerned himself more with getting somewhere he could record the day’s events in the black book. His feet ached from standing so long and the pain in his lower back throbbed. Too many nights falling asleep in beds and waking up in fields. An old body, held old for all time, ached more than most. He did not remember ever having a young physique. With countless years lost to remembering the past, only vague impressions of his initial days survived after several millennia. Faded reverberations of an unremembered life.
The bride and groom began their procession down the aisle of the temple — a newly crafted ship plying a path between the opposing waves of the guests, the dual priests trailing in their wake. Ondromead watched them, wondering if they would make a good couple. If they would be happy being the embodiment of their respective nations hopes and desires. The man, Kal-Dan, brother to the northern Zhan, Fan-Tsee, carried a face that silently spoke of duty and honor. His recently wedded wife, Tem-Jee, the daughter of the southern Zhan, Kee-Vay, smiled as though she had just won a particularly long and difficult game of koris, only two blocks standing on the board, her piece triumphant in its final move.
Ondromead started to walk away, to find a bench to sit upon, when the skin along the back of his neck prickled — icy intuition making him shiver. He knew that feeling all too well. The event he had been placed to witness by unseen hands had not yet fully transpired. The apex of that incident neared. He could not look away. Now his attention mattered most.
Tem-Jee’s smile faded as she stumbled. Kal-Dan reached over to steady her as she clung to his arm and came to a halt. Her face constricted in a wince as she gasped and her knees buckled. She clutched at her stomach and fell to the ground. Kal-Dan knelt down beside her and then doubled over in obvious pain, crying out as he held a hand to his gut. Cries and shouts rang out from the crowd of guests, men from both sides of the aisle rushing to assist the moaning newlyweds. The two priests collapsed next, nearly in unison, holding to each other’s arms as the married couple had done before them.
Ondromead watched in detached compassion as a circle of family members formed around the dying bride and groom. He had seen death at weddings before, but not in such a manner. Men from both families reached down to carry their loved ones from the temple, the bride and groom unconscious in their arms, faces already blue, bodies limp. The northern zhan, Kon Fan-Tsee, helped to carry his brother as the southern zhan, Taujin Kee-Vay, bore his daughter in his arms. While Ondromead had never beheld a poisoned wedding, he had seen the effects of the particular poison that appeared to afflict the dying couple. They would be dead before they left the temple.
A crowd knelt around the two priests, offering useless ministrations to the extinguishing of their lives. Men shouted curses across the still visible aisle between the two nations. Fighting erupted as fists slammed into faces and calls of “heretic” and “blasphemer” and “murderers” rose to the domed ceiling above.
Ondromead suspected this wedding would now result in a deeper schism between the dominions rather than a reunification. As he left the balcony in search of a place to write down what he had seen, he pondered whether the leaders of those two nations would cast aspersions against one another as the guests did now, or whether they would realize there might be an unknown hand that poured the poison killing their loved ones and their hopes for a new Great Dominion. He also wondered when he would see that hand again himself. He had no doubt that he would.
A short time later, he walked into the garden, hoping to rest his weary back upon a bench and open the black book to add one more page of memories preserved for reasons he did not understand, events transcribed for an unseen reader. On the side of the lawn, he noticed a small crowd gathered in a circle. He recognized two of the men. Councilors of the opposing nations.
The councilors stood over the bodies of two other men, ambassadors by the cut and color of their robes. Daggers rested in the dead men’s hands, blood darkening and dampening the fabric that clung to their still forms.
“It would seem they died fighting one another.” The northern councilor knelt to the side of the man who had been his ambassador.
“The murderer discovered.” The southern councilor crossed his arms as he glared at the bodies.
“But which one discovered the other?” The northern councilor rose to his feet.
“The answer to that is obvious.” The southern councilor turned his hard eyes to his counterpart. “And you will have our retribution for your treachery.”
The northern councilor said nothing as the southern councilor stomped off through the garden paths, attendants rushing to keep up behind him. Another man, a tigan by the epaulets adorning his robes, approached the councilor.
“All our bright futures turned to ash in a day,” the tigan said.
“But by whose hand?” the councilor replied.
Ondromead watched the two northern men stare at the bodies in silence a moment longer, and then he sought out the soft comfort of a plot of grass beneath a tree on the far side of the garden. As he took the black book from his satchel and began to record all that had transpired, he wondered how many times he would see this palace and these people again in the coming years. He hoped, for their sakes, it would not be often.
THE PRESENT
ONDROMEAD SQUINTED at the men on the balcony below him. He had seen both several times over the years since the murder of the ill-fated bride and groom. He did not fail to notice the adversarial stance the two men took as they continued to speak.
“If the zhan dies, I would become consort to a Zhaneff Dju-Tesha.” The tigan crossed his arms as he spoke. “And this might be seen as reason to plot for the zhan’s death.”
“Moreover, it could be used as an excuse for a number of higher tahns to press claims of a bloodline more suited to the ascendancy, particularly if no heir is apparent.” The councilor’s face held a grimace.
“A civil war.” The tigan lowered his voi
ce.
“Which would grant our enemy an advantage they would surely use to destroy us,” the councilor said.
“And in the interest of clarity, you suggest what?” The tigan stepped closer to the councilor.
“That we do all we can to keep the zhan alive and on the throne.” The councilor matched the tigan’s move by taking a step forward himself. The two men now stood a foot span apart.
“I thought we were doing all that is possible.” The tigan lowered his arms and placed them behind his back.
“I cannot speak for you, Tigan, but I realized that I had allowed my displeasure at the zhan’s tendency to ignore my advice to color my efforts to preserve his station.” The councilor again matched the tigan’s movement, clasping his hands behind his waist. “I have come to repudiate the slackness of such thinking.”
“I will do all I can to assist you in this endeavor.” The tigan held the councilor’s eyes as he lowered his head.
“Your consociation is greatly appreciated.” The councilor nodded back to the tigan. “I will not delay you further. We both have much to do before the ceremony, I am sure.”
“Yes. Much.” The tigan offered a quick bow and then walked away down the balcony and around a corner. The councilor followed the tigan with his eyes until he vanished, then departed in the opposite direction.
Ondromead looked down, his hand shaking with the desire to transcribe the conversation he had heard. He knew it to be only one of many things he would need to record that day, a murder likely the last of all. Death stalked the impending wedding, inevitable as sunset. And with night would come the final opportunity to locate the boy. Where could he be? Could the unseen force that moved him about the palace be moving the boy to keep them apart? To what end? And why now? What had changed? He knew that he had been altered in some indefinable fashion by the boy. Might this be punishment for keeping Hashel at his side?
The Dragon Star (Realms of Shadow and Grace: Volume 1) Page 72