by Milla Vane
“There was no attack. There are only lies.”
Pella did not deny that. “The incident has been investigated. By alliance law, it is satisfied. All reports support Zhalen’s claim that his actions were justified—and he has also lost a son. Blood has been shed on both sides. To seek vengeance beyond the law is an affront to the gods.”
“An affront to the gods?” Maddek’s harsh laugh echoed through the chamber. “Only to your goddess. Her brother Chaliq rages with me.”
“So he does.” Her gaze was steely as it held his. “But that is the way of Justice. He serves himself. Law serves the people—and it is by alliance law that this matter has been resolved.”
“Alliance law is not Parsathean law.”
“Then by your own laws. If Zhalen set upon your parents, as you believe, then your queen and king were challenged and defeated. The council could have allowed Zhalen to take Parsathean lands for his own—a suggestion that was at one point put forth by him.”
Maddek might have welcomed that. For if it had been done, then Maddek would have soon been meeting Zhalen and issuing a new challenge.
And if it had been done, so too would the alliance council have met him on the battlefield. “You would have allowed him to take Parsathean lands?” The fury of his gaze burned into hers, and even steel could not long withstand heat of this intensity. “Parsathean lands are not the council’s lands to give. We are not a province under rule of the alliance. The alliance is an agreement between our people—and treachery breaks that agreement.” Pella and her devotion to Muda did not sit at that crescent table alone, however. Maddek met Nayil’s gaze again and could see no weakening in the older man, nothing to distrust. Yet Zhalen still lived. “You stand with this decision?”
Grim resolution lined his face. “Our queen and king wanted nothing more than a strong alliance—”
“They were betrayed by that alliance. I have no more use for it.”
“You speak in haste and rage and grief.” Admonition firmed the other man’s voice. “Your parents would still have the agreement between our people and the southern realms be honored.”
Haste and rage and grief did not change the truth that prompted Maddek’s response. “What honor is there when we stand in alliance with their murderers? Do you speak as their friend and fellow warrior? Do you speak as a Parsathean? Or do you speak for this council?”
The older man’s jaw clenched—likely holding back his own words of haste and rage. After a moment, he said evenly, “I took a vow to serve our people and to serve this alliance. And I speak for both when I tell you we cannot weaken now.”
Pella’s gold chains clinked softly as she folded her arms over her chest, her eyes tight with dread and fear. “Word is that Anumith the Destroyer is returning from across the western ocean.”
“Rumor,” Maddek dismissed. He had heard the same word. But not a day of his life had passed without hearing someone speculate upon the Destroyer’s return.
“This news has come from many sources,” Nayil said quietly. “You were a babe too young to know the terror and evil he brought upon us, but Pella and I remember well. So do Kintus and Gareth. Now with the monasteries of Toleh at our side, with the strength of Ephorn and Syssia, with Rugusian steel and Gogean seed—perhaps more might survive his march through these lands. More might live.”
Bitterness rose to Maddek’s tongue again. “What life would it be when every breath drawn is of air that Zhalen still breathes? As a son, I cannot let their murders go unavenged. I cannot be part of an alliance that will turn their gaze from truth and say that justice has been done.”
“And what of your people? You are not only a son. You will be a king.”
“Parsathe has not yet spoken.”
“They will. As one voice.” Nayil’s was certain. “You will be Ran Maddek—and we must have a king who does not put himself above the needs of the people by turning his back on the alliance.”
And Maddek could not turn his back on his mother and father. “Others could lead. Your daughter is strong. Enox would be a fine Ran.”
“She is and she would be,” Nayil agreed. “But so would many others. The tribes would argue and put forth their own candidates, and we would be divided instead of strengthened by the choice we must make. You are the only one who would have the consensus of all. You are the only one who already does. Do you think these discussions have not already taken place? They have. You are the voice we will choose to speak for all of Parsathe, Maddek, and is this how you would serve us? Is this how you would honor your mother and father—by destroying the alliance and abandoning your people?”
“It is Zhalen who destroyed the alliance when he struck my father down.”
“Not in the eyes of the law.” Pella’s response was not without sympathy, but her gaze and her tone were steel again. “And if you touch Zhalen or his sons in retaliation, the alliance will move against you as an enemy.”
Maddek inclined his head. “If that is what must be, then so be it.”
On a heavy sigh, Nayil closed his eyes, then looked to Pella with a silent request.
She answered with a bow of her head and more solemn words for Maddek. “I will leave you to speak with your advisor, Ran Maddek. I understand what a blow this must strike to your heart. But the alliance must survive if we are all to survive—and it cannot if your vengeance rips apart the agreement that binds us. No one will trust the Parsatheans to hold to alliance law if their Ran raises himself above it.”
“Your words are not unheard, Lady Pella,” was his only response. It was all Maddek could give to her now—the reassurance that he respected her enough to hear and consider everything she had said.
Upon her retreat, Nayil sank heavily into one of the bone chairs. With a gesture he invited Maddek to do the same, but Maddek could not sit. He prowled the length of the chamber instead.
“Held and interrogated for three turns of the moon?” Maddek would not lay accusing eyes upon the other man, so he looked to the ivory ceiling instead. If Nayil had known what had occurred, his mother would never have been imprisoned for so long. “How did their absence go unnoticed?”
“We knew they were journeying in search of a bride.” Weary self-recrimination filled the response. This was a question Nayil must have asked himself repeated times. “No one in Parsathe thought them missing, only traveling. I thought their silence was unusual but never suspected the truth. I believed they had simply not sent a message—or would not, until they found a bride for you.”
“What of this girl? There are no more daughters of Nyset. Are there?”
Only a woman of Nyset’s blood could inherit Syssia’s throne, which was why Zhalen would never be more than regent. Nor would his sons, despite the moonstone eyes that marked them as Nyset’s descendants. Their own children would not carry the same mark; it only passed through the female line.
Zhalen’s wife, the warrior-queen Vyssen, had given birth to five sons. But she had borne no daughters and was the last female in that bloodline. With no one to claim the throne after her death, Zhalen clung to her power and his position with an iron fist.
Nayil shook his head. “A lure, perhaps. There have been whispers of a female heir, but I know no one who has seen her with their own eyes. I’ve spoken with the girl who claimed your father assaulted her. She is a cousin to their late queen, but through the male line. Nyset’s blood does not run through her veins, and she has no claim on the throne. As a bride who would strengthen ties within the alliance, she would not have suited our queen and king’s purpose. As a woman . . . she was too weak in spirit and body to have suited your parents’ purpose. Or you.”
Another liar, then—though if weak in spirit, perhaps forced to lie by Zhalen.
“And the warriors who traveled with them?” A Parsathean queen or king was always accompanied by a Dragon—six warriors whose only purpose was to prote
ct the Ran and carry out her or his commands. As they had both been named Ran, his parents had two Dragons.
“Also sentenced for conspiring against the House of Nyset.”
Sentenced? “Silenced. So they could not speak the truth of what happened.”
Nayil inclined his head in agreement. “That is often how Zhalen quiets dissent within his city. It follows that he would do the same to them.”
“Our queen and king and two Dragons murdered.” A dozen warriors, who were also mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. Maddek stopped pacing, his chest a ragged ache, his family’s silver crest burning around his thumb. “How can I let this remain unavenged? I cannot.”
“You must.”
“The alliance has run its course if this corruption and betrayal can stand and the council stands with it, because nothing will stand if our allies cut our legs out from beneath us.”
“And what would you put in the alliance’s place? Warriors are stronger when they stand together—and Parsathe is stronger if we stand with the southern realms. Even if one of those realms is rotten.”
“Only one? With Aezil on Rugus’s throne, Zhalen’s rot will not be contained within Syssia—and some say that Aezil is worse than his father.” Not only murdering his cousin to gain his throne, but also studying dark magics and seeking power through blood sacrifice. “These are the kings we stand with?”
“If we must,” Nayil replied. “Kings rise and fall. It is not for them that we fight, but for the people who live under their rule.”
That was truth. So was Maddek’s reply. “Then it would be better for all if I took Zhalen’s head.”
“And if your vengeance destroys the alliance—”
“Then we will remake it anew.”
For a long moment, only another heavy sigh was Nayil’s response. Then the older man said, “You will be my king, Maddek. I hear your words—and I hope you hear mine when I advise you not to make any decisions in grief and rage. If you must vow to avenge them, I advise that you also do not speak an oath in haste. Silver-fingered Rani has taken your parents, so nothing can change their course; only yours can be determined now.”
And his course might determine the course of every Parsathean. Maddek inclined his head. Though his heart yearned for blood, he could not deny the wisdom of the man’s words.
“Your journey home will pass through another full turn of the moon,” Nayil continued. “Use that time to reflect upon the path you will take. That is my advice to you: think hard and well upon your next steps.”
“I can promise that.” Another harsh laugh escaped him. “I know not how I will think of anything else.”
“Nor I. I have not these many days and nights.” A rueful smile curved Nayil’s thin mouth before a grave weariness flattened his expression again. “When you are Ran, you will speak for every Parsathean. Perhaps you should let every Parsathean guide your voice—for Ran Ashev and Ran Marek were not only your parents but also our queen and king. When we gather, we can tell our brothers and sisters what befell them. We can tell them of the council’s investigation and of the lies we suspect. We will tell them the consequences of vengeance and the threat of the Destroyer. If they demand blood, I will stand with you.”
That was also wise advice. “And if there is not a consensus?”
“Then it is your place as Ran to speak for us. We will abide by your decision. So think upon what it must be. Think upon it as a son and as a king.”
He would try. But he was not a king yet. Only a warrior.
Now his warrior’s heart grieved anew. His parents, too, had been warriors—and every warrior knew death would one day come. If not by steel, then by claw or plague, or the ravages of age. Countless dangers could have befallen his parents. Before Maddek had arrived in Ephorn, he hadn’t known what danger it had been, but he could have accepted any of them.
He could not accept treachery and dishonor.
And Maddek had believed that in the council’s haste to send word, they simply forgot to tell the cause of his parents’ deaths to the Tolehi captain who’d borne the message. But now Maddek understood.
If the queen and king had sickened, or been attacked by bandits, or become a meal for the fanged beasts that stalked the Burning Plains, such information would have been passed along, too. But the council had not told Maddek what Zhalen had done because they had not wanted him to charge north with the Parsathean army at his back and with vengeance burning in his heart.
Yet vengeance burned hot, anyway—and only one thought stoked the furnace of his mind.
Someone would pay.
CHAPTER 3
MADDEK
With Pella’s blessing and the resources of Ephorn at their disposal, the Parsatheans made camp on the plain north of the walled city, where there was fresh water and ample grazing for the horses—and where the riders would be near enough to the city to enjoy its abundant pleasures.
For two days and nights, naught but music and laughter and feasting filled the camp. But the mead tasted bitter and the meat like ashes, and Maddek found no enjoyment in any of it.
He could not begrudge his warriors’ light hearts, however. A full turn of the moon had passed since the Parsatheans had left the Lave encampment, and tomorrow morning would see the riders hard upon the road again. All preparations had been made, supplies renewed, mounts rested. Around the fires, some warriors already slept. Others were intent on drinking and fucking until barrels and bodies ran dry, though the morning would come upon them doubly hard.
Those at Maddek’s fire slept. Only he was awake, sitting upon his furs and staring into the flames until his eyes stung. At the base of his first finger now rested his father’s silver crest, which Nayil had retrieved from Syssia during the inquiry into the queen’s and king’s deaths.
These crests were often all that were returned to a warrior’s kin. As leader of the Parsathean army, Maddek had collected hundreds of fallen warriors’ rings and sent them north to the Burning Plains, so their families would know that silver-fingered Rani had flown them into Temra’s arms. Even now, within his first captain’s satchel were dozens more, each one belonging to a Parsathean warrior killed while battling the Farians—and each night, as was the first captain’s duty, Enox polished those rings until they gleamed.
Nayil had cared for Ran Marek’s in the same way, but never would the silver shine bright again. Age and use had scuffed the surface and worn thin the image stamped into the metal—a firebloom’s petals, the mark of his father’s tribe. When Maddek had last seen it, Ran Ashev’s crest was equally worn, the winged dragon of Ran Bantik’s line no longer standing in sharp relief, its stamped edges dulled by time. That same dragon decorated Maddek’s own crest, its wings cradling a firebloom, and on either side of the mark was etched his parents’ names. But although his father’s ring now circled his finger, his mother’s did not lie beside it. Her family crest had not been among the belongings Zhalen had returned to the alliance council, though his mother’s sword, shield, and the silver claws she wore into battle had been.
Stolen, then. The thief-king himself would not have taken a silver crest from a warrior’s thumb, whether enemy or friend. Yet Zhalen had dishonored his mother even in that small way.
And Maddek had been forbidden to raise his sword against him.
Throat aching, he swept the pad of his thumb over his father’s crest—remembering another night, another fire, and his father’s words to him then.
Wars are fought on battlefields, my son. Yet it is in throne rooms where wars are lost—or won.
But his father had been wrong. Maddek had spent the past ten years upon battlefields. And he had won. Battle after battle, season after season, until few threats to the alliance remained, until even the savages could be held back by a small company of soldiers on the river Lave. Wars were not won or lost in throne rooms; they were won or lost upon the bloodied
edge of a warrior’s sword.
Throne rooms were where a man was told he could not wage war upon those who most deserved it.
But Maddek would have Zhalen’s head. He would hold Bazir’s wriggling tongue between his fingers.
He would have his vengeance.
And he would honor the life’s work of his mother and his father. He would strengthen the alliance. He would be the king his people needed and deserved.
Temra help him see a way to do it all. For he could not.
Heart heavy, Maddek closed his burning eyes. He opened them again at the sound of approaching footsteps. Silently came Etan, one of the warriors posted on watch. With him was the one whose feet made noise—a tall, slender woman in dark robes. Maddek knew little about women from the southern realms who were not soldiers, and he could not always recognize their origins in the differences marked by their manner and dress. But this woman wore her dark hair in two braids that started at her temples and wound around the back of her head in a crown before falling straight down her back as a single thick braid—in the manner of a Syssian.
Etan crouched beside him. “This woman claims an urgent need to speak with you. She would not give her message for me to pass on.”
Maddek studied her for another moment. It was a bold request, yet the woman did not appear bold. Instead she fidgeted, her fingers twisting together while looking all around with wide eyes, as if she expected attack to come from the darkness surrounding the camp.
Finally he inclined his head. “She may speak.”
At a word from Etan, the woman took the warrior’s place, her robes settling around her on a waft of anise perfume. Someone from within a noble house, then. A servant or a lady’s companion but not a lady herself. Her robes were roughly woven rather than of silk or fine linen.